Fish Griwkowsky

Man Down | Local musician and stuntman extraordinaire Blair William Piggott died on August 17. He was 29.

As last week’s deadline approached, we’d already heard that Blair William Piggott was the latest WEM gun-range fatality. That, indeed, the famous local stunt-musician was the man who’d ducked under the shooting counter into the active target zone, thus effectively ending his life — regardless of exactly “how.” When you shoot there, armed staff make it very clear what can happen if you do anything unexpected. As soon as Blair unpredictably crossed that line into the target zone, it didn’t matter who pulled the trigger — this was his final stunt. Not so much, as the Journal insisted, an “accident” — unless that’s what you also call the Gulf War.

In the community, though, the reaction was more along the lines of “He would totally do something like this, but did he actually?” And therein was exactly what I loved most about this strange and intense rock and roll trooper, forever obsessed with the timid-upsetting antics of Jackass and Mötley Crüe. Chaos.

Blair’s curious humour — the central bank currency with which he tried to interact with others — was annoying, dangerous, inappropriate, and most of the time, to my mind, completely hilarious. On a vague suggestion that he should meet us in Las Vegas one New Year’s, Blair showed up at our hotel room door wearing only a terrifying thong and a bowtie. He asked cartoonist Mike Winters to come to his adjacent room to see his new art, then showed him a stickman he’d drawn on his penis. Mike came back wearing a sad Garfield face and we fell over laughing.

Soon after the trip, Piggott warned me — insincerely, I felt — to stop attacking George W. Bush in print or there’d be repercussions. Sho’nuff, he barged into my house at 4 a.m., dressed in an American flag outfit singing “The Star-Spangled Banner.” I grabbed him by the neck and pushed him out the door, then sat down at this computer to write him a long “fuck you,” but started laughing my head off about two sentences in. It was just too funny.

His unique mind smashed around inside the only person I could quickly forgive for tricking me into thinking I might even have syphilis, demanding an immediate, excruciating horse-needle-in-ass-cheeks cure. I wasn’t about to let the madness of King George flow through my veins for a week awaiting test results. I was stunned when, weeks later, he asked if the STD clinic had rung up after he’d named me as a sexual partner. I lied, bug-eyed, and said no. But holy fuck, to this day do I still laugh about the best practical joke. Think about the requirements to play it, its elaborate construction. He’d scored yet again, though my girl felt otherwise.

Fucking guy even made those limp zombies in Metallica roar when he gave his local band exactly the same name: Metallica. Their famous lawyers issued him a stern warning, but the story was picked up across the world. It’s obvious who won that fight. The guy who played entire songs with a flaming chef’s hat. Who jammed on the street outside the gay porn store. Who was kicked out of SUB for a guerrilla show during finals. Who loved getting in the newspapers so much, encouraging me and Sandra Sperounes to play music. Who dressed like Vanilla Ice and grew a Hitler moustache. Who lied to the guy who had sex with his ex that he had AIDS. Who showed up at my door wearing nothing but a construction hat, boots, and a saw and asked me to make him a Sunshine Boy. Who never stopped asking questions. And on and on and on.

As he told SEE a few years ago about performing onstage (though it also applies to his life of sweep-kicking the legs from under the status quo): “It’s spiritually uplifting. I feel a connection with the people at our shows, and I do it because I feel like that life is gonna end really soon. If I don’t do it now, then one of these guys might die soon. We may die in the car on the way home.”

Blair William Piggott lived on the edge, and died well past it. Respect, homie.

Checked out the tail end of the Blues Fest this weekeend, which turns out to be lots more fun when you don’t have to cover it, and can just eat gumbo and dance like you’re underwater. Charlie Musselwhite wrapped the night up with a rare encore, then packed up his own gear and left the stage — very cool. I then spent the rest of the night trying to fit the word “blues” into every single sentence, greatly annoying everyone around me.

A couple gigs of note: Roland Pemberton, Mr. Cadence Weapon, is now DJing Thursdays at the Empress. He makes his debut this week, and says he plans on “making this already popular drinking night slightly weirder for everyone involved. I have a battle plan that includes stuff that never gets played at the Empress, including bassline house, dubstep, grime, no wave, rap, and five or six Bowie songs in one night.”

Also of note: as Travis Sargent prepares to leave us on an interstellar — or at least European — journey: the Secret Fires’ last gig ever is Friday at the ARTery along with the City Streets CD release show. For more information, go to the gig and get drunk and listen to the music.