Looking Back At Me

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Always remember that all the music before punk was self indulgent and lifeless. God bless Wilko https://t.co/noA3e4wqfT The following year however, Johnson underwent an operation and declared himself cancer free, revealing later that he was told he only had 10 months to live and remarking: “I shouldn’t be here at all.” In his post-Feelgood career, Johnson formed a new band, the Solid Senders, which played at the Front Row festival at the Hope & Anchor pub in Islington, London, alongside many of the new punk acts. Johnson was surprised and gratified to discover that many punk luminaries, including Joe Strummer and John Lydon, were Feelgood fans who had seen them as an influence.

They looked like three villains from The Sweeney who’d been forced to keep an eye on someone’s awkward nephew – Johnson, who, while the other members glowered, would fling himself around the stage, occasionally colliding with his bandmates, raising his guitar to his shoulder like a gun, his mouth perpetually open, his eyes bulging with the effects of amphetamines beneath a pudding-basin haircut: “Me and Lemmy always used to have this saying that the third day you’re up on speed is the best, because it feels like your skull is full of Rice Krispies and someone’s just poured milk into your thought processes – it’s great.” Alex Kapranos of Franz Ferdinand was among those to pay tribute to Johnson. “His unique, wired playing and stage presence thrilled and inspired many guitarists, myself included,” he tweeted. “When I interviewed him a few years ago, he was bright, thoughtful and an astonishing story teller. His presence will be felt for many more years.” Johnson was diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer in 2013, saying via a statement from his manager at the time that he did not want to receive treatment or chemotherapy.Zoe: “It’s all a bit of a Jekyll and Hyde character isn’t it? They all drank a lot apart from Wilko – the drinking culture in the Feelgoods is one of the first things people think about. But I always think that if you are drinking that much and you are still a nice guy then you’re alright. The Jekyll and Hyde was more on-stage versus off-stage.” The news of Johnson’s death was confirmed via a post on his official social media accounts, revealing that he died at home on Monday (November 21).

Wilko Johnson in 2012 on Canvey Island, in the Thames estuary in Essex, where he grew up. Photograph: Martin Argles/The GuardianHe laughs again. “When I was making the album with Roger, I really thought I was at the end. I’d think, ‘Man, I can’t complain, I’ve lived to be fairly old, I’ve had a really good life and I’m making an album with Roger Daltrey! What a fantastic ending!’ It built up to this fantastic climax, and then suddenly the carpet gets pulled out from under your feet by a brilliant surgeon! It is a bit of an anticlimax in a way.” Perhaps understandably, the only thing that seems to be wrong with Johnson today is an advanced case of bemusement. As anyone who has seen Julien Temple’s 2009 Dr Feelgood documentary, Oil City Confidential, knows, Johnson has quite a speaking voice, veering between a measured drawl and breathless tumble. But today, his speech comes peppered with long silences, during which he stares into the middle distance, as if trying to collect his thoughts, to work out exactly how he feels.

Wilko Johnson as the executioner Ser Ilyn Payne in the HBO TV series Game of Thrones, 2011. Photograph: HBO In 2015, a new documentary titled The Ecstasy Of Wilko Johnson was released, focusing on Johnson’s cancer scare and featuring only two voices – Johnson’s and that of The Who’s Roger Daltrey.His plectrum-free guitar technique, simultaneously playing rhythm with thumb and lead with fingers, produced a spasmodic, chopping accompaniment to Brilleaux’s growly vocals. It was a masterful display of menace and musicianship, and Johnson rode a wave of manic energy night after night. He confessed that he thought it would be “the last thing I ever did”, but then later that year his story took a dramatic twist. Further tests revealed that he was suffering from a less virulent form of cancer than previously believed, and doctors were confident it could be operated on successfully. He underwent a complex nine-hour procedure that included the removal of a tumour weighing 3kg, and after a long convalescence was declared cancer-free. After being rushed to hospital in Southend for an unknown condition, Johnson was diagnosed with incurable pancreatic cancer in January 2013. He reacted with remarkable stoicism. Given 10 months to live, but having declined chemotherapy which might have given him a few more weeks, he talked frankly about his condition on Radio 4’s Front Row and arranged a string of farewell gigs that March. His philosophical attitude was perhaps shaped by the fact that Irene had died of cancer in 2004, and Johnson had never reconciled himself to her loss (“the only time I don’t feel heartbroken is when I’m playing,” he admitted). In the meantime, he is focused on trying to maintain a resolution he made while recovering from his operation. He was in pain and protesting that he wanted to go home, when he had a revelation: “I suddenly realised there were all these people, that I never even saw, looking down microscopes and all that, doing all this for me. And I kind of gave myself a good talking to.” He resolved never to complain about anything ever again: to be, as he puts it, “less of a twat”. I often say to journalists there is a bridge between the old times and the punk times. That bridge is exclusively the Feelgoods, it allowed us to go from one thing to another. That’s the connection, the DNA.”