Tributes: Frances Dickinson

The death of the singer-songwriter Kirsty MacColl in a boating accident in Mexico was a great loss to music. Frances Dickenson remembers a remarkable musician, mother and, above all, a mate

Under any other circumstances I would have cheered to see Kirsty's photo on the front page of so many newspapers. It was the sort of acclaim that she deserved and never quite achieved - despite her hits. But as her friend I flinch from each new headline as if it were a callused fist. I wasn't Kirsty's best friend, and I definitely was not her only friend. But Kirsty had a talent for friendship that was matched only by her talent for music. My girlfriend Caz Gorham introduced us. It was at a party thrown for another of Kirsty's mates, and Kirsty had agreed to sing. This alone was a measure of her friendship. She had a horror of performing then, that even now - 10 years later - she was only just coming to terms with (perhaps helped by the fact that her partner James, the saxophonist in her band, was with her on the stage). I remember one time asking if she'd be a guest on a TV programme that I was producing. "Do you really want a plank of wood on your show?" she said.

The music industry is famous for its early deaths but Kirsty was its least likely candidate. She survived punk, success, cancelled contracts, the break-up of her marriage, and had probably entered one of the happiest periods of her life, both professionally (her current album was perhaps her best) and personally. Not least of all, the great job she's made of bringing up her two sons, Jamie and Louis, is becoming more and more apparent. Last time I saw her she talked proudly about how Jamie had played guitar on some tracks she'd recorded.

Kirsty's mind was flick-knife sharp, but she was ruled by her passions as much as by her intellect. She had a huge appetite for new things and for underdog causes. Caz worked with Kirsty on a television documentary in which Kirsty spoke out about the way in which we in Britain needlessly pollute and squander our water supplies.

It was typical of Kirsty that this was no pop star rant but something she really knew about and acted on at a personal level. She had a reed-bed system set up in her back garden which recycled the waste water from her home so that it could be used to irrigate the garden and fill an ornamental pond. Last time I saw the pond it was filled with fish the size of squirrels.

On another occasion I remember her opening her front door and pulling me into her music room to listen to a track on an album she'd just bought. "You'll love it," she said, "unless you've turned into a plonker." It was by The Pale Saints, a little-known band from Australia or New Zealand - I can't remember which. But I remember the song. I still love the album.

Kirsty had one of the prettiest faces I've ever seen. Yet like most women I know she seemed to doubt that she was attractive, particularly as she struggled with her weight. When I picture her I mostly see her laughing. Yet she was no Pollyanna. I saw how the break-up of her marriage plunged her into despair, as did the cancelling of her record deal by Virgin.

And if Kirsty thought you were talking rubbish, she let you know. We argued once about whether I saw homophobia where there was only fatuousness. Yet soon after I heard she'd publicly berated a pop star for anti-gay remarks he'd made.

Kirsty's parties were famous. They were the sort you took champagne to if you could, and you made sure you had no plans for anything the next day. Not suprisingly, many of her friends were musicians and walking from room to room at Kirsty's home could be like rifling the pages of a pop and rock encyclopaedia.

But there were never any pop star tantrums there. As a humanising, democratising force, Kirsty was better than any revolution. She took particular pleasure in introducing you to people that she thought you'd like. And it's a measure of her sense of people that I met two of my closest friends through Kirsty.

On Tuesday night, lying in bed, trying to come to terms with her death, I berated myself for the times I'd meant to call or see her, but - in the way of friendships that you assume will go on for ever - had neglected to do so.

Last week I meant to phone her to tell her that Tower Records in Kensington had put her album on their "recomended" shelf. I even missed her birthday dinner (I had a family crisis). I've still got the books Caz and I had bought as her birthday present - Willa Cather's Death Comes For The Archbishop and Ted Hughes's book of poems, Birthday Letters. I don't know what to do with them.

This year, as always, Kirsty's Christmas card was one of the first to arrive, written in her swirly handwriting and signed by her, her sons and James. "Have fun girls," she's written. I think it will be a while before I can.

Billy Bragg in Folk Roots
Philip Chevron in Hot Press
Wes Eichenwald on his Web Site
Jan Fairley in The Guardian
Sharon McGovern on her web site The Cobra's Nose
Mark Nevin's personal memories are on his web site
Jean Newlove remembers her daughter in the Daily Mail
Dave O'Grady in Muse
Alan remembers Kirsty on his web site
James Wickham in the Croydon Advertiser
NPR's tribute is also online

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Tributes: Frances Dickinson

The death of the singer-songwriter Kirsty MacColl in a boating accident in Mexico was a great loss to music. Frances Dickenson remembers a remarkable musician, mother and, above all, a mate

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