Jock Scot (Photo credit: Times Newspapers, 2014)
Once upon a time in a Soho that has now almost vanished, there was a small record company called Charisma. It was home to a few old hippies, such as Genesis, and to a peculiar array of highly individual recording artists.
This queer little label, established by a big fat geezer called Tony Stratton-Smith, not only employed the kind of eccentric characters unlikely to find work elsewhere, but, nestled away above the Marquee Club, it provided a kind of meeting place for all manner of misfits and troublemakers to hang about; including the punk, poet, and bon vivant Jock Scot who, sadly, died a few days ago, aged 63.
Although our paths crossed only very briefly in the mid-1980s and, unfortunately, I have no great anecdotes to share, I always remembered Jock with a pinch of fondness and so was genuinely sorry to hear of his passing.
Soon, they'll be no one left alive ...
