Another irreplaceable has left us.
An irreplaceable what exactly isn't that clear, but it's plain there will never be, really can never be, another of his like.
Kim Fowley, depending on when he was talking to you, was born in Los Angeles, the Philippines, Japan or maybe outer space. The stories changed a good bit.
It's known that he grew up in L.A., though where and with whom he spent his youth was also chimerically unclear. His biography begins to firm up in the 50s, when he began working for such rock and roll pioneers and Alan Freed and Barry Gordy. In the next decade, his reputation as a producer, publisher and music biz utility man grew, during stints with the Mothers of Invention, Gene Vincent, KISS and Alice Cooper. He was ubiquitous in the L.A. scene, somehow on the spot wherever something truly creative--and subversive--was brewing.
Perhaps his greatest commercial success came in the mid-70s, when he got the idea to introduce into the burgeoning punk scene an all-female bad girl group. He brought together a group of young, attractive, ambitious girls and wrote and produced for them, giving the world the growling glory that was The Runaways.
Kim's relationship with that band soured after a couple of years, mostly due to his demanding work habits and often-borderline-cruel communication style.
He was uncompromisingly opinionated and brutally honest, traits which turned many off to him, myself included, at first.
We first met in the late 80s, when he came to New Orleans looking for new talent and new sounds, hoping to create a fusion of classic New Orleans R&B with contemporary club rhythms. In the 90s, we ended up co-writing and producing a number of cuts in the same quest. A couple of them were pretty good, too.
What I learned in that period was that, despite being irascible, stubborn and generally weird as snake's suspenders, Kim was both astoundingly intelligent and remarkably thoughtful. While he could diss a performance mercilessly, he only dissed, not dismissed, and would take the time to explain to writers and artists why he considered their masterpieces shite, and what they could do to bring them into the realm of commercial desirability. Not everyone followed his advice, but those who did were rarely sorry.
It was from Kim that I learned the three words that I repeat to any artist or musician (or politician or doctor or whatever) looking for the secret to getting ahead.
In countless auditions, cassette rounds, open-mics and the like, I'd watch him as he listened to people play their stuff. Because of his eclectic tastes and his belief that the next big thing could come from anywhere, he would sit through the most dreadful and obscure stuff, giving it the same focused attention he gave obviously brilliant musicians and writers. Afterward, he'd ask each person what they'd done, what they hoped to accomplish and, finally, their age.
And to every one, from the 60-year-old still-aspiring country star to the 14-year-old bound-for-greatness soul singer, he would give the same response: "Better get busy."
For the last couple of years, as I've said goodbye to so many friends, family members and colleagues and striven to make real my own weird-as-snake's-suspenders visions, I've heard his voice repeating those words. "Better get busy."
Now, I can almost imagine him saying, "See? Told you."