I saw Stuart Adamson and Big Country perform once, at Sacramento’s now-extinct Cattle Club. November 16, 1993, during their “Buffalo Skinners” tour. The Cattle Club wasn’t a huge venue, somewhere between Seattle’s Tractor Tavern and Showbox Theater in size. I was right up front in this packed room, and holey moley, ten years after their American debut – and their commercial prime – the band played like it was an arena show. Tight as a snare, and unbelievably talented. A sweaty, high-energy affair.
Knowing a guy who knew the promoter, I was allowed to remain as the club was cleared out. I went to the bar, ordered a drink and waited for the band to towel off. Soon, drummer-god Mark Brzezinski sat down two stools away. Between us, a female admirer. What to do, what to do… finally, I leaned over and said, “Loved your work on the ’Love’ album.”
Attention diverted. He comes over and sits next to me, asking me my opinion of the show, the sound quality… talks about drumming on that Cult record. Holy crap! When Brzezinski returns to his date, I amble backstage. Talking to a few fans, there’s Bruce Watson, Tony Butler… and one of my high-school heroes, Stuart Adamson. I was star-struck, even though half an hour earlier, I’d been standing almost as close. I waited my turn with Adamson (one of the few times in my life that I’ve asked for a musician’s autograph)… almost forgot the pen in my hand. I was Ralphie gearing up for the department store Santa. Adamson was just… the nicest guy, talking to the fans. Just as I had imagined, a regular joe. I didn’t know what to say, or ask. Finally, as he’s signing my CD, I ask, “Do you ever play ‘Winter Sky?’ It’s my favorite.” The song is an obscure B-side. Adamson looks up with a surprised look on his face, and in this fabulous Scottish burr replies, “Oh, sometimes we do! It’s one of my favorites, too.”
Eleven years earlier, our immersion in Big Country began in earnest. My little brother and I loaned cassettes and LPs back and forth, hearing the thump of an album through the wall that separated us before getting to listen the unmuffled version. Before the Smiths’ England became a contender, it was Ireland versus Scotland in a sonic World Cup. Between us, we had all the Big Country and U2 albums on cassette and vinyl… and for for a while, Big Country had the slight edge, pardon the pun. In the entertainment world beyond our boyhood home in Everett, Washington, the two bands also occupied, for a time, a surprisingly level playing field.
This deadlocked match was due largely to Big Country’s smash 1983 debut, and the career-defining (and career limiting) hits, “In A Big Country” and “Fields of Fire.” Those were the two hit songs that America allowed, one more than many of their peers humbly received.
But at the time, while it was happening, my brother and I paid little attention to the charts. The soundtrack to “Restless Natives,” the explosive Wonderland EP, and later, their third album, The Seer – those records were swapped and played to death. Heaviest in the Big Country rotation, though, was the band’s second effort, Steeltown. A genuinely passionate, beautifully written record, Steeltown was the group’s Unforgettable Fire. What was the attraction to these records? What did we know about love and loss and passion? I didn’t even have a driver’s license yet. But we were learning about such things, and these were the soundtracks. This was the background music, often brought to the fore. These were the languages we learned; better than any Pimsleur courses.
Somehow, Steeltown never got a smidgen of the airplay U2’s masterpiece received;. To this day, the record is a sentimental fan favorite; not a month goes by that I don’t play it.
Back in 1983 -1985, information on Big Country was scant around our town, pretty much limited to liner notes, MTV and the radio. A Tower records clerk never pointed me towards the Skids, Adamson’s previousto band. I had no idea, at the time, that the singer/guitarist made his bones with the legendary singles “Into The Valley” and “The Saints are Coming.” We just re-read those liner notes, and perhaps got a snippet of update via Star Hits or NME. Despite our pre-Internet lack of biographical information, we could tell that Adamson was a working man, a regular guy. Bono, also of modest roots… but the Scotsman didn’t posture. Plus, Adamson played guitar; paired with Watson, the duo was as formidable as Petty/Campbell or Koppes/Wilson-Piper. More so.
Scotland 2, Ireland 1. A nail-biter in a torrential downpour.
I could never, ever imagined, back then, that I’d meet Big Country’s endearing frontman someday, let alone imagine that on a December day in 2001, I’d learn of his death. In Hawaii, of all places. Adamson had demons, and had battled the bottle for years. The news hit me as hard as when Joe Strummer died a December later. Harder. The Edge delivered the eulogy, and according to Wikipedia, commented that Adamson wrote the songs that he’d wished he could’ve written.
Stuart Adamson, who left a family as well as so many friends and fans behind, would’ve been 60 years old today. At 49, I’ve now put in 6 more years than he did. How strange life can be. I hope that in the next world, one of my heroes found the peace that eluded him in this one. How he is missed.
http://www.mtv.co.uk/big-country/videos/just-a-shadow
On Sept 14, 2021, East Portland Blog received a lovely response to this article. It was so good we asked for permission to share it here:
Hello:
I was thinking about Stuart yesterday, as the chilly air brought back memories of my childhood and the dreams of Scotland that Stuart’s music instilled in me. I googled Stuart’s name to look at pictures and reflect on what was and what could have been and so came across your article commemorating his 60th birthday.
It read like I was reading my own journal–defining my teenage years with those first three magnificent long-players, flipping over the “Just a Shadow” 12″ to be mesmerized by “Winter Sky,” finally seeing them live and meeting him during the Buffalo Skinners tour. There was no ego in his manner; he kindly reached out his hand to me and said “Hi, I’m Stuart” as I offered him my Steeltown poster to sign. (Below)
I’m up in Bellingham, and I still think about the lads filming “Wonderland” on Mt Hood whenever I’m in Portland. It’s a gift to know I’m not the only one still affected by his haunting guitar-playing and gentle soul. RIP Stuart, and thanks to you for sharing.
Johnathan Riopelle
