My Best Friend Mr. Sidney Darcy

Of all the moments I can deem meaningful, there are so few that compare to befriending Mr Sidney Darcy.

We were born two years and one month apart, and for most of our lives (to his stylish disdain) we have looked like twins, my mother confusing our mop-top haircuts and lanky statures. Although I'm unsure if that was her lack of attentiveness, or us sharing similar looks, regardless it was never a circumstance for shame. In fact, I indulged in the idea of sharing a look. In retrospect, I already had two older brothers, the primary of which my mother named Matthew, passing away just hours after birth. The other, Ross, the first living heir to my father's surname, and it is he we do not speak about, being a traitor to the bonds of blood. And even with these facts being so, Sidney Darcy is the brother I consider to be more than family, he is my souls home.

During our first few years of friendship, we had bonded smoking joints whilst listening to unsigned artists like Little Man Tate & Lady Fortune. And so I, having been invited to see his band-in-progress rehearse, quickly realized the talent that hid behind his mop-ish front and skilful introversion. At the time he was performing on lead guitar and vocals, doing various covers of 90's classic from Can't Stand Me Now to Golden Touch, to Teddy Picker. He was very much the face of the band, to which I believe they called themselves: The Courtesans.

The art of naming a band: allocate 'The' in front of a noun and you are now legit method (The strokes, The Courteeners, The Libertines) something which seemed to fade as the pull of the millennia dragged us into the dawn of streaming. Despite the name, their band never took off, playing two or three shows before Jake, their mountain of a bassist, discovered meth and divvied off to become his towns graveyard grass-cutter. We never saw or heard of him again.

At the time this was all transpiring (2011) I was reaching about 16, and I had still never played an instrument in my life. But for the longest time, I had dreamed of knowing how, or having someone that would offer support and knowledge and skill; Sidney Darcy was that man. I already owned a thorough passion of music, but never able to replicate it myself, I knew the language of song but I didn't have the tongue to speak it. And so in The Courtesans somewhat silent death, a new line-up and alias lay awaiting the path ahead of us.

Fast forward to the summer of 2013 - where we founded connections with like-minded Canary-Islander Mr Laforet & Blighty Yorkshireman Mr Mcginn at the Spanish Festival: Benicassim. It was this adolescent summer that we were experiencing our 'Gizmo' era. A relatively-functional three-piece consisting of me, Sidney and drummer Dave. We too had dropped the crux of the definite article from their courtesan endeavours, feeling more creative and brave than ever before. Because I had one stipulation for joining Gizmo; we would only play originals, as I refused to be just another cover act soaking in the b-light of following and not leading.

We were hemmed together by Sidney Darcy's already blooming songwriting capabilities and musical direction, writing songs like 'Everything You've Heard is a Lie' - which debuted at our first charity festival slot BigBearFest. The Festival had been set up in aid of Samson Bearman, the older brother of my very close friend Mr Barrett. Which is why the night prior to the charity festival, I was engaging my local rapscallion friends, reminiscing about Sam and drinking far too much Captain Morgan's Rum. So the morning of the Festival I found myself snuggled up in bed at the house I had been drinking the night prior and unintentionally not answering my phone to Sidney or Dave, until about 25 minutes until we were due on stage. Sidney without hesitation drove Edgar (his Peugeot 107) and picked me up, and I'll never forget how relieved he was that we got to the stage in time, and how he wasn't showing nerves but feeling them as a spur.

At this point in time, I was finding my feet as a musician, struggling as I would for the next 10 year to find my voice. But to my credit, for someone with only two years-ish experience, my skills included being somewhat able to follow Sidney's instructions and playing in rhythm, something Sidney hadn't had previously. For those interested in what the song might have sounded like, follow the link below. Where a rather scatty video lives of us roaming Braintree for two days, looking for something fun to do.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mhpiy6Je7RA

One of the most perplexing things about Sidney is that for most of his life he has lived with a perforated eardrum. Which like most sufferers, affected him with a semi-deafness. What remained however of his good ear must have given birth to some supernatural support of his note-for-note perfect interior-speaker. Affording him two salient attributes: an incomparable attunement to sound, and a medically induced disability that seemed only to strengthen his awareness of music.

As the fantasy of Gizmo's global uprising began to fade, we were among other miss timings, such as university locations and schedules. Which, despite, we seemed not to grow away, but to grow and evolve independently. So at the commune of our being, we had become even more alike alone.

Many people say that we are sort of opposites in a way, kind of like how Lennon & McCartney gave each other the variability of polarised music mixology. We too have a way of being each other's intrinsic opposites as to wear the same uniform; the coat of the dreamer. Though I would go to say that I am more like a mixture of literary Lennon and homely Star, whilst he is most certainly more Harrison with the bass skills of Mccartney. But, from all these years of friendship and adventure, I do believe that we were made for one another, in the way that a table without chairs would make for an awkward dinner.

"When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen to rather share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares." - Henri Nouwen

This letter is to you, Sidney Darcy, the man of a thousand hearts and smiles.

Warmest Wishes,

S. R. Gurney