To those of us who'd seen him on The Politics Show recently, it shouldn't really come as a surprise. But, it has. Tony Wilson has died, and it's so shocking simply because people like him seem indestructable, somehow removed from the boundaries which contain the rest of us. So, there it is, 57 years with us and another legend to add to Manchester's unique cast of innovative, anarchic genius auteurs. As a newsreader on Granada, he was practically omniscient in my childhood, albeit in a very begrudged way (I'd rather have been watching cartoons). As a result of this, I still, to this day, can't get my head around just how significant he's been in terms of shaping the musical landscape of the UK over the last thirty years. Love or hate their bands, anybody with anything more than a passing interest in music could not fail to acknowledge the influence of Factory; its music, its vision, its ethos - its club. All of us pass through this world leaving a complex narrative behind, full of drama, intrigue and beauty - it's a Joycean philosophy (I'm being very Wilsonian right now) - but not many of us make the kind of dent in the consciousness that Wilson has. Although in every interview I've seen him in, or in every article I've read (I, possibly alone, even read his book) I've found him in equal measures an engaging, pretentious, insecure, narcissistic, erudite and paradoxically fascinating character, it is through his work with Factory that his name wil live on.
And, accordingly, Anthony Wilson's death was accredited the last Factory catalogue number: FAC 501.
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