I heard yesterday that Greg Taylor had died. It was a bit of a shock as it did not seem so long ago we were criss-crossing paths and chatting as usual about life, journalism and music.
I first met Greg in the early 1980s when he gave me a major break as a young freelance journalist contributing regularly to the pages of RAM (Rock Australia Magazine).
He and his Assistant Editor Phil Stafford were a real dynamic duo in those days: Greg somewhat acerbic and dry, Phil always welcoming and enthusiastic.
One day I got in my brain to write what I thought was a new manifesto for a post-punk RAM. Handwritten like some madman’s diatribe, I outlined all the things I thought were wrong with the publication – and what Greg needed to do to improve things.
I reckon I was maybe 23 years old at the time. I dropped my ‘contribution’ off addressed to Greg at the warehouse office for RAM in Darlinghurst and ran away, waiting to be acclaimed by him and others at a later date.
There were no mobile phones in those days, but somehow Greg got a hold of me and arranged a time for us to meet. I arrived full of confidence to speak with him about my piece. I was fully expecting, even pretty much daring him to publish it. The fact it was nine pages long, handwritten, and somewhat arrogant, was neither here nor there to me during my temporary fit of genius.
Greg questioned me about the various points I was making. Riposted a few things. Agreed here and there. And kindly explained a few practicalities about publishing that I had no idea about.
He also let me know there was no way in hell he could publish my article, although he expressed his muted appreciation for my suggestions.
Somewhere along the way I got the impression he was viewing me from way above, equal parts amused and sceptical as I tried to reply to his queries and comments and mostly talked myself into circles.
Among Greg’s more helpful suggestions on my leaving was a recommendation to be more in the habit of using a typewriter, rather than rely on enthusiasm and handwriting alone, although my penmanship was strong and clear.
For some reason Greg gave me more work after that, trusting me with plenty of reviews, and eventually a few big feature stories too. To be honest, I’m a bit hazy on when Phil Stafford took over completely as editor, as he likewise encouraged me greatly and commissioned me too.
The truth is a heap of great music journalists owe their start to the two of them – and to the spirit of RAM founder Anthony O’Grady, who established the maverick agenda that Greg and then Phil – and others after them – all tried to follow as rock magazine editors.
It was Greg who got me to write important big features on Ed Keupper and Do Re Mi, double-page stories that were derided on the RAM Letters Page for being narcissistic and pseudo-poetic rubbish. The fact these letters were also witty was a bit unsettling, but by then there was no stopping me. I was listed in the Contributors column and I was seriously into the whole deal.
In between my features floundering, I’d front up with loose-cannon reviews like the one that pretty much amounted to a stream-of-consciousness love poem to Kate Bush on the release of ‘Hounds of Love’; or my attempt to mimic William Faulkner while on amphetamines, resulting in an incoherently drug-addled nightmare about enjoying an early Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds live show at Selina’s.
Through all this Greg was beyond patient, doing his best to both encourage, and somehow help me over the line into becoming understandable, perhaps even faintly professional. Though I always felt I was something of a creative toothache for him, he never stopped giving me work. And doing his best to edit me in a fair, but sensitive way – something I don’t think I fully understood at the time.
Looking back, he and Phil seemed to be running a bad cop / good cop operation that would open the gates for some of the best rock n roll writers and arts critics in the country. It was a very fortunate era in which to be a young journalist: given regular shots at a national audience alongside peers who were doing excellent and inventive work. Slowly, surely, people upped their game by seeing how good the others were.
One of the things Greg always tried to impress upon me was to learn more about music and to read and listen more deeply and widely too. I was strong on passion and literary ambitions; a little thin on knowledge, history and detail. I ploughed on regardless like a typical twenty something, but his advice niggled and stuck.
Many, many years later in this new century, I’d begin to repeatedly run into Greg again at music venues, in shopping aisles and on weird little back streets and alleys around Surry Hills (he was working by then at News Limited). Every time, I’d fail to recognise him. Either because of him having his glasses on or off, or my own vagueness and a lack of context to place exactly who he was.
Despite the very few photos you see of Greg – usually of him appearing somewhat glum and daunting (which is how I saw him in his RAM editor’s reign) – he was positively effusive whenever we met, forgiving my inability to know who he was (with exasperated eye-rolling), encouraging me about the poetry I had self-published online, and letting me know, with precise asides, how much he liked certain things I had written in newspapers recently.
I was surprised he kept such good tabs on me. But I also belatedly recognised something quite different to all my vain and youthful assumptions about Greg when I’d first submitted that handwritten post-punk manifesto to him at RAM so many decades ago.
What I’d missed as a young wannabe was the reality of Greg’s own artistic and highly tolerant spirit, his willingness to support wildcards (Andrew McMillan being the ace and the joker in one), and the adventurous heart inside Greg that helped keep RAM rocking into the 1980s thanks to all the writers he encouraged, on and off the leash.
RIP Greg Taylor, a wonderful human and a great rock ‘n’ roll editor. They rarely make them like him anymore.
NOTE: As I couldn’t initially find any photos of Greg, I decided to use an old cover of RAM for this remembrance. As it turned out it was one of very last that he edited back in 2004. Loads of us got lost in music between the pages. It turned out to be a lifelong journey.
After my post about Greg his sister Clare Taylor got in touch and gave permission to use any photos the family had shared online. Two appealed greatly: one that showed a young Greg playing sax before he took up journalism (apparently his musicianship could get really wild); the other taken only a month before he died from what was likely a heart attack, sitting on a beach in Wellington, New Zealand. Thanks to Clare Taylor for both photos.
Thanks so much for this, Mark. I had the pleasure of working with Greg a few years ago & he was truly one of nature's gentlemen. He told lots of great stories about those '70s / '80s days of New Zealand & Australian music. I was so sorry to hear he'd passed away. I've got a couple of photos of him, but none are great. He was very good at avoiding the camera.
RIP Greg Taylor.