- 21 Jan 02
The tragic death of Mic Christopher before Christmas came as a terrible blow to his many friends and fans (see letters page). Here our own Kim Porcelli recalls her memorable encounters with "an exceedingly generous soul".
The vision I have is this: denim jacket, black wool hat, big eyes, big smiley mouth. For me, at first anyway, he was a kind of benevolent background presence, the foreground – for two weekends early last spring – being The Frames, the band I was scarpering around the country trying to interview. Mic Christopher, the lovely bloke with the hat and the eyes and the grin, was opening for them.
I didn’t know Mic long, but sometimes – especially in the weird hothouse situation of travelling with a touring band – it doesn’t take long to work out when someone is an extraordinary individual. Mic was. He was utterly devoid of pretense or hardness, that casual everyday measure of bullshit most of us sadly employ in order to elbow through life: he operated on a quite uncommon level that seemed to be based in untrammelled delight with the world, straight dealing, and not a small amount of kindness. He was, I would learn, a great finder of adventure in the everyday, a gift and talent that most of us lose as we get older; as well as the sort of person who made you calmer when you were around him, who seemed to have a reassuring stillness at his core. Most of all, he was an exceedingly generous soul, but in an odd, invisible way: the extent to which he gently, near-imperceptibly took care of his friends – and The Frames’ frontperson in particular – took me two weekends even to notice.
One morning, over tea and toast, when there was no-one else around, having been deeply impressed by this, I bashfully told Mic how struck I was by how he looked after his mates, by all his near-invisible kindnesses. He equally bashfully laughed, cracked a joke, grinned at me, and changed the subject.