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Some people are pioneers, innovators. They cannot help it and no matter how much they may try to suppress their genius, their flaming intellect, there is nothing that can be done about it. Jim Shepard was just such an entity, except he didn’t suppress anything and truly answered to no one.
On October 16, 1998 this seminal artist took his life — and yet instead of focusing on that final act, I think the focus needs to be placed on the work this man did during his thirty-nine years of extreme and bombastic living. His music — his art — the steaming body of work he left for us to listen to and dance to and grind and sink to creates a jarring impact. Like a meteor, he burned his own fiery trail; made every note he played, every fretboard he scraped his own.
He changed my life and gave me every assurance that if you truly want to go down this particular lost highway, you will more than likely end up miserable — but what other choice do you have if you have any sense at all and know damn well that everything comes down to your conviction and your word and what you live for. Jim, in my opinion, lived for the music and the muse and the passion to flay himself and others with his sheer will and wrecking ball talent.
Talent is a funny thing, because there are many talented people in this burg, and yet there is a fine line between true talent and processed homogenized milk-fed talent which Columbus, Ohio has always had its fair share of. Jim’s talent was a dark hybrid; it lurked in the shadows of a metamorphosis I don’t believe even Kakfa would have been prepared for. If you don’t have a clue what I’m talking about, ask someone who was fortunate enough to catch Jim live. When I first experienced him at Apollo’s in the early nineties, all I could do was stare with mouth agape as he paced back and forth on that rickety piece of shit stage in his trenchcoat. It was like he was awaiting the end of the world— and the end did arrive when he began to seductively strangle the most manic and tenderly brilliant saber-toothed licks from that guitar – Jim’s instrument of torture. He was a caged black panther that night and so many nights when the mood possessed him —and his onstage exorcism drove him and all of us into a sweet black oblivion.
Jim Shepard’s reputation as one helluva electric guitar player was rightfully earned. He was ferocious without a hint of pretense or a note of false ego — a consummate artist who worked fearlessly at fine-tuning his art, his work, his lifeblood. He was a pioneer when he woke up in the afternoon and brewed a pot of coffee and he was a pioneer late into the night, long after last call when he was dreaming up his next motorcycle movie soundtrack.
If you have any sense about you, you’ll seek out recordings of Jim and his many bands: Vertical Slit, Phantom Limb, Skullbank, Lacquer, V-3 — as well as his novellas or anything he touched and ultimately scorched.
Charles Cicirella July 2002
charlespoet@columbus.rr.com
On October 16, 1998 this seminal artist took his life — and yet instead of focusing on that final act, I think the focus needs to be placed on the work this man did during his thirty-nine years of extreme and bombastic living. His music — his art — the steaming body of work he left for us to listen to and dance to and grind and sink to creates a jarring impact. Like a meteor, he burned his own fiery trail; made every note he played, every fretboard he scraped his own.
He changed my life and gave me every assurance that if you truly want to go down this particular lost highway, you will more than likely end up miserable — but what other choice do you have if you have any sense at all and know damn well that everything comes down to your conviction and your word and what you live for. Jim, in my opinion, lived for the music and the muse and the passion to flay himself and others with his sheer will and wrecking ball talent.
Talent is a funny thing, because there are many talented people in this burg, and yet there is a fine line between true talent and processed homogenized milk-fed talent which Columbus, Ohio has always had its fair share of. Jim’s talent was a dark hybrid; it lurked in the shadows of a metamorphosis I don’t believe even Kakfa would have been prepared for. If you don’t have a clue what I’m talking about, ask someone who was fortunate enough to catch Jim live. When I first experienced him at Apollo’s in the early nineties, all I could do was stare with mouth agape as he paced back and forth on that rickety piece of shit stage in his trenchcoat. It was like he was awaiting the end of the world— and the end did arrive when he began to seductively strangle the most manic and tenderly brilliant saber-toothed licks from that guitar – Jim’s instrument of torture. He was a caged black panther that night and so many nights when the mood possessed him —and his onstage exorcism drove him and all of us into a sweet black oblivion.
Jim Shepard’s reputation as one helluva electric guitar player was rightfully earned. He was ferocious without a hint of pretense or a note of false ego — a consummate artist who worked fearlessly at fine-tuning his art, his work, his lifeblood. He was a pioneer when he woke up in the afternoon and brewed a pot of coffee and he was a pioneer late into the night, long after last call when he was dreaming up his next motorcycle movie soundtrack.
If you have any sense about you, you’ll seek out recordings of Jim and his many bands: Vertical Slit, Phantom Limb, Skullbank, Lacquer, V-3 — as well as his novellas or anything he touched and ultimately scorched.
Charles Cicirella July 2002
charlespoet@columbus.rr.com