Allan Holdsworth RIP

Holdsworth, to me, was this strange, shimmering, imposing palisade around something I was not at peace enough with myself to do more than touch with my fingertips so that I could feel its electricity course softly through me, through my heart and loin and toes. I couldn't do more not because it was too intense, but because it was too delicate; as with Schoenberg, I knew that if I were to force my way through the plasma wall, I'd end up exactly where I had always been, in Midgard, numb with bold pleasures. His sci-fi synth was a door to some ethereal realm, but all my ham-ears could do was pass over the barrier without ever travelling to that other dimension. I was always sad about this, because--even more than with Schoenberg--I felt that this other dimension is where my soul wanted to eventually end up.



It's good at least then that he's left such a rich catalogue behind, because his is music much more in my future than my past. I hope he's having fun surfing that mercury rainbow.