By Pleasant Gehman

(First appeared in BAM, 4/19/96)

Jeffrey Lee Pierce died of a brain hemorrhage on Sunday, March 31st in Salt Lake City, UT. He was only 37 years old. An LA native, Pierce lived as an expatriate in London and Europe, where he was considered a major songwriting talent as well as a bonafide rock star. Unfortunately, his own country could never seem to regard him in that same light. Here, we base our adulation more on record sales than talent and artistry. Pierce and his band the Gun Club had the latter two, to spare.

Formed originally as Creeping Ritual in 1979, the group quickly changed the moniker and put out many influential records during the early '80s, the best known probably still being the first two--Fire of Love and Miami, both of which still sound as fresh (as well as threatening and eerily catchy) as they did when first recorded. More recently, Pierce played and recorded with the woman whom many said was "the love of his life," Romi Mori, as well as doing solo work and delving into fiction writing. At the time of his death, in fact, he was working on a book for Henry Rollins's 2.13.61 Press.

On top of that, the Gun Club was back together; Triple X Records had released both new and live material (recorded in Europe); and it seemed that after all this time, Jeffrey was finally getting the attention he deserved. Sadly, his health was also failing, mostly due to years of drug and alcohol abuse. He was HIV positive and suffering from hepatitis and cirrhosis of the liver. His longtime friends Keith Morris (of the Circle Jerks) and guitarist Mike Martt (of Low & Sweet Orchestra and the Gun Club, formerly of Tex & the Horseheads) even tried to check him into rehab recently, but he left after only a few days.

"If it weren't for Jeffrey, I don't even know what kind of music I'd be playing today," says Martt. "I have no idea what my life would've been like without his influence. He changed the way I thought about singers, and he basically took my guitar away from me, physically, and taught me how to play. He really was a genius."

He also pretty much taught Kid Congo how to play. Congo had never been in a band before the Gun Club, and even though he went on to play with many others (including the Cramps and Nick Cave), he was still in the most recent incarnation of Gun Club. Jeffrey also was the person who convinced Texacala Jones of Tex & the Horseheads, to get up onstage and sing--he basically formed the band for her. And he did the same thing for me in 1978. Jeffrey kept urging me to sing, at a time when I had no interest in being onstage.

"You should be in a band," he said one night at a party.

"But I don't want to," I replied.

"Too bad," he said, "I've already put a band [the Cyclones] together for you--we're rehearsing tomorrow at my mom's house."

And we did--for a few weeks, in Jeffrey's bedroom. We then played our first and only show at Gazzarri's, with the Go-Go's and the Last (whom Jeffrey was also writing songs for). Black Flag asked us to do a gig with them the following week, but it was the Cyclone's swan song. Jeffrey went on to form the Redlights and the E-Types with Anna Statman (who now does A&R for Interscope)...and then the Gun Club. My brief stint as a singer encouraged me, and I formed the Screaming Sirens, then the Ringling Sisters. In fact, the Gun Club's final show was in December, 1995, at our last Ringling Sisters Holiday Fun-Raiser.

Most honored to be sharing a stage with him that night were the members of Possum Dixon, who cover the Gun Club's "Fire Spirit." They were more than delighted when he came onstage to jam with them--and those spontaneous rock 'n' roll moments were what Jeffrey always loved most. Although his lyrics were dark and depressing, he had a hell of a sense of humor, and always loved making a scene while making the scene. When I first met him, in 1977, he was head of the Blondie Fan Club, and he'd show up at their gigs in saddle shoes, red & white striped shirts, and horrible pimpy-looking white leather jackets covered in Blondie badges. (Later, before a Halloween Gun Club show at Otis Parsons, he pounded on my door and I was shocked to find him standing there with bleached white hair, in a gold brocade jacket. "I need your make-up and your help," he deadpanned, "I have to look like Marilyn Monroe tonight.")

"He was always a consummate showman," Martt says, chuckling at his memories. "Our first show we did back together was at the Viper Room, and we were all a little nervous. I turned to Kid [Congo] and said, 'Do you think these shades are OK?' Before he had a chance to answer, Jeffrey showed up in a full admiral's uniform, along with a pair of binoculars and a huge sword! It was great!"

A student of Japanese, Jeffrey was hoping to start yet another hybrid musical genre at the time of his death by combining rap with his newfound lingual skills--something he was dubbing "rappanese." Truly an obsessive as well as a visionary, I'm sure he would've carried that project out and probably started a new fad, had he lived. Fortunately, he made many recordings, so there is still a record of his talent. It's just too bad he died so young. Like Kurt Cobain, his songs contained true anguish, and many could relate to the words. Unlike Cobain, he never achieved the fame he so richly deserved.

The sorry truth is that more people will probably discover his life and music now, after the fact. His death is an incredible loss, but for those who were close to him in the last months and saw his rapidly deteriorating physical condition, it was inevitable.

"It's sad, but I almost feel relieved that he's not suffering," says Morris. "I think he's finally probably happy."

© 1996 Pleasant Gehman

Taken from http://www.musicuniverse.com/bammag/96wrap/14.html

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