I know where I was on the morning of 17th December 2001. I was standing outside in a factory courtyard in the City of London. The sky was an appropriate dark grey. I stood in silence, attempting to catch my breath and desperately trying not to cry. My colleagues had no idea why I had suddenly got up from my desk. The 9 o’clock news on the radio had passed them all by, nothing of note. For me though, well my world had crashed around me. Stuart Adamson had been found after being missing for some time, at least his body had been. He had taken his own life. Mine was not going to be the same. I got through the day in a haze. The train journey home was spent staring into the distance. Once home I played all of Big Country’s albums in chronological order. Friends and family called to check that I was ok. They knew.

Roll back to June 1983, I was a student at Plymouth Polytechnic. There was a new single in the charts that I couldn’t get enough of, In a Big Country by a new band called Big Country. It was their 3rd single, I liked Fields of Fire immensely but this one had really caught my mood. The sun was shining, my final exams were inbound, which meant I was just a couple of weeks away from returning home to Guernsey. Back then I was an avid reader of the NME (New Musical Express), a tour announcement caught my eye. Big Country were going on the road to promote their forthcoming album The Crossing, and they were going to Guernsey. Every Tuesday I called home from the payphone in The Patna pub on North Road West, that Tuesday I added a call to my mate Rolf. “Have you heard that Big Country are going to be playing Beau Sejour?” “Who?” “Big Country, you know, Stuart Adamson’s new band” Beep Beep Beep….”Money’s out, gotta go, get tickets”. I knew Rolf would, he was a massive Skids fan, he wouldn’t pass on the possibility of a few Skid covers.

The day of the gig arrives. I am back at work, great marks in my exams in Plymouth getting me a decent pay rise. I wander into St. Peter Port town centre at lunch time. There’s quite a commotion outside No. 19 Record Shop in The Pollet. Lots of young women, all clutching the same album, the artwork looked vaguely familiar. Of course I go in to see what the fuss is all about. Wow, there are piles of The Crossing everywhere, slightly ahead of the release date. I select the blue and silver version, take it to the counter, pay for it , turn to leave when the owner (I’d love to say his name was Martin, but my memory can’t quite reach there) said “Don’t you want it signed?” Next to me were Stuart and Bruce, I had been oblivious to their presence. Mumbled my apologies, offered my album. They signed it, I said something like “looking forward to tonight” and rushed out. Completely ignoring Mark and Tony. I don’t know how I missed them, Guernsey wasn’t exactly multi-cultural back then. After work I rush home, managed to play the album twice through, I was pumped up. The gig was superb, very hot, very sweaty. In a moment of sheer joy I take my shirt off, swirl it around a few times and hurl it away. I went hunting for it at end of play as I didn’t want to walk home half naked with the inevitable questions from my parents. Those questions happened anyway, the shirt was black with dirt, and a bit torn, and it was only 2 weeks old having been bought as a birthday present. I didn’t care, I knew that I would love Big Country until the end of my days.

It’s March 1996 Kingston-upon-Thames, my life is going down the pan. The girl that I had left Guernsey for was gone, leaving me with a mortgage way beyond my means. My mother had died in just a few weeks earlier and I was desperately unwell with a yet to be diagnosed burst gallbladder. It’s a Sunday, I head to my local The Wych Elm for the usual catch up with Chris and Jane. I walk in, “Pint of Pride please Pete” Pete replies “You like Big Country don’t you” “Yea, why?” “A mate says they are playing a couple of secret gigs in a few days” “Great, where?” “Dunno mate, they’re secret.” Even though this info was essentially useless, I dashed home (all 20 yards) and phoned Martin (Martin is my longest standing friend, a fellow Guernseyman who had also made the move to London and was a gig fiend). I relayed the gossip, and got the understandable reaction of “what am I supposed to do with that?” Back to the pub, Jane and Chris, and I would occasionally host the Sunday roast dinner. It must have been one of those Sundays because I got home late to find an answer phone message. “Hi Cack, the gigs are Tuesday and Wednesday at Dingwalls in Camden. Got tickets for Tuesday” I still don’t know how he did it. Cack by the way is a nickname I acquired in Guernsey, only Martin and Neil use it these days.

Today Dingwalls is a full on proper music venue, back in 96, it had much more of a pub vibe. So there I am with Martin and a couple of hundred other folk. 6 real ales are available at the bar, and Big Country are just 15 feet away. It’s a largely acoustic set with a large cast of supporting actors. The formidable Kym Mazelle was on backing vocals, Steve Harley did a couple of numbers, Bobby Valentino played the fiddle, and there were a couple of bongo players. For a truly special couple of hours I forgot all my troubles. Later that year the concerts were released as the album Eclectic. I’m on disc with the band I love. It won’t be the only time.

20th May 2000, I am upstairs at the Shepherd’s Bush Empire with (yep, you guessed correctly) Martin. It’s The Final Fling tour, the penultimate show. The place is rammed, hence being upstairs, it was all we could get. The Alarm got things going ( this was a heck of a bonus), then the main event. 2 solid hours of hits and album favourites. It was an emotional send off. For the record, my shirt stayed on. On our way out I turn to Martin, “End of an era” “Nah, we will be there for the inevitable reunion tour” Little did we know. This gig, and the final one at the legendary Barrowlands in Glasgow became the album Come Up Screaming. There I am again, on disc with my favourite musicians.

So why am I writing this now. Well, finally an authorised biography has been published. My sister bought it for my recent birthday. I devoured it in 4 days. I didn’t expect it to be a constant bundle of laughs, it couldn’t be given how it ends. I just didn’t fully grasp how grim it had all been for Stuart and those close to him. I want the world to know just how much Stuart and the music he created along with Bruce, Mark and Tony mean to me. I have been living in Scotland for 12 years now, my life immeasurably improved by my wife, the dear friends that I have made here and the Aberdeenshire countryside. However when I first moved up, and was slowly getting acquainted with folk I didn’t really shout out about Big Country. I felt that people would think that I was just saying that to try and fit in.One local friend I have made along the way is Paul Anderson, the internationally renowned fiddle player. We were sharing a beer or two in the Aberdeen Arms, and he mentioned that he had supported Big Country at the Millenium Hogmanay in Castlegate, Aberdeen. We’ve talked Big Country a lot since.

Why Big Country? Why of all the bands in the world are they my band? Stuart didn’t write those songs for me, but they hold a lot of deep meaning for me that it feels like he did. I can feel the hope, the pain, the bargaining, the anguish and did I mentionthe pain in the lyrics. Mercifully I didn’t plunge as deep into the abyss as Stuart, but I have peered over. The line “I’m not expecting to grow flowers in the desert, but I can live and breathe and see the sun in winter time” has got me through some pretty rough times. “Stay Alive” were the last words Stuart said that night at Shepherd’s Bush, it is a matter of great sadness to me that he couldn’t.

I think I saw Big Country 11 more times after that awakening in Guernsey. Every single time they were brilliant, every single time I came away elated, every single time I came up screaming.