John Balance
February 16, 1962 – November 13, 2004

In the constant stream of news, opinions, and noise of the past week, a motley assortment of far-flung people spotted a sentence amidst the usual cacophany. A simple announcement: “John Balance is dead”.

Perhaps this registered only vaguely at first (anyway, people die).

A few seconds later: John Balance is dead.

To this assorted company, little more needed to (or could) be said. The most common reaction was simply stunned silence, perhaps punctuated by a sad face. Perhaps a pointer to the details of the tragic accident on the memorial site. Commentary on the magnitude of the news. Involuntary recollection of snippets of music.

We all must be shown; we must realize
That everyone changes and everything dies
Perhaps some pondering. Would it be indelicate to mention Balance dying through loss of balance? John would have found it funny, a friend of his opines. Or rather than macabre humor, perhaps poetry? A loss of Balance. Might we add a line, who by loss of balance?

For those of us with such reactions, a eulogy is unnecessary. I attempt instead to explain to the bufuddled, in very small part, why the death of “an industrial musician” might have such an impact.

The first part of the story is the easier one, but also the less interesting. John Balance was a seminal figure in industrial music, and to varying extents in a number of other genres. The founder of Coil, and member at various times of Psychic TV, Zos Kia, Nurse With Wound, Current 93, and Death in June, among others, it is difficult to overstate the extent of his influence, a constant over the course of twenty-five years.

So, as the community of mathemeticians might mourn the death of a great figure amongst their ranks, so this community does as well.

But this account remains incomplete.

The music does provide a hint. In a scene of tape manipulation, sine waves, noise, and all manner of avant-garde experimentalism, a new component emerged by 1984: John's vocals. There was certainly no lack of experimentalism in Coil's music, and John's vocals could hardly be called conventional, but they were also tinged with an unmistakably human component, and the occasional brilliantly clear melody.

John's unique personality accounts for the part of the story that is nearly impossible to explain. He did not see the world in the usual way, filled with mundane happenings, but with what might vaguely be described as an artist's eyes. A bird sitting on a tree branch; a cloud-obscured moon; the wind through the trees; people talking; a darting squirrel; a car driving by; an argument; a chilly rain; a smile.

All see hidden meaning beneath the superficial veneer on occasion; some see it always, and deeper. Some with a more spiritual bent called him prophetic; those with different proclivities nonetheless allowed that he saw what most simply do not.

More importantly, he cared deeply about all he saw. An appreciation for beauty, empathy with suffering, and an unquenchable goodwill towards all. Through his friendship with many, and through his music with many more, he brought his vision to others.

Certainly it was not easy. David Tibet, friend and fellow musician, described him as “overwhelmed by it all: by all the beauty and by all the pain”. When faced with the world's mixture of beauty and suffering, most grow numb, but John did not.

Two of the last emails he sent to Tibet speak for both sides of the coin:

October 20:

The whoooosh shish of the scythe these days is eeeeirie.
much love to you both

balance xxxx

October 21:
loveandsongbirdies. i just keep on coming.

balance

The tortured genius; the seer of things others do not; they are not unheard of, of course. Arguably we have had them in the world's Poes, its Van Goghs, its Machens, its Nietzsches, and many others besides. But it is rare that one has the honor to see such a person up close, and perhaps rarer still that they see (and impart) such beauty in the world.

Even for those of us who never met John, it has been an honor: Watching his performances; reading his writings; hearing about his endeavors and life; astounded by his brilliance; empathizing with his pain; offering thanks and wishing him well.

Love and song birdies, he just keeps on coming—and under his unquiet skull, a white rainbow.

Mark
Atlanta, USA
November 19, 2004
4:57 am