Nearly 30 years ago I watched a man play a guitar in a band at a church. He was a good-looking dude and he played a black Stratocaster.
I was jealous – because he played better than me, and I had always wanted to own a black Strat. Mostly because that was the great David Gilmour’s weapon of choice.
I found out the guy’s name was Geoff Horne.
Years went by. I was hanging out at a concert at Auckland’s mighty Civic Theatre watching my first ever Doobie Brothers performance.
Right at the start, Pat Simmons of the Doobies pulled out a brand new, gorgeous white Gibson guitar covered in the signatures of all the band members.
“We are gonna auction this baby tonight,” said Pat. “And the money is going to help the people of Christchurch who have just been through a terrible time with the earthquake. Who’ll start the bidding?”
A few rows away from me, a guy yelled out, “A grand!” I peered across – it was the Strat- man, Geoff!
Well, the bidding went on and on, and soon it was getting stratospheric [excuse the lame pun]. In the end, the figure was $12,000. There was gasping.
Up got the successful bidder – Geoff Horne. He got out his cheque book and headed to the stage, to rapturous applause.
With a swagger in his step, Geoff shouted at Pat above the cheering: “You’ll get this cheque on one condition – you let me play that guitar with you on the opening song tonight!”
Pat beamed, handed over the Gibson, plugged it into a Marshall amp and counted them in. The glorious first riffs of Listen to the Music kicked in. Beaming like a Cheshire cat, Geoff gave that Gibson its first outing and was note perfect. We all went nuts. Jealous – again.
More years went by. I found Geoff on Facebook. I asked how he was doing. He began by telling me the years since that great concert had been fun. The Doobies had taken such a liking to Geoff, they had invited him to join them on every tour after that amazing first performance. He had had royal treatment from the band.
He hadn’t done a Doobies tour for a couple of years. Geoff’s heart was giving out. He was spending lots of time in hospital, awaiting a transplant.
Still, he would drive up from Whanganui to Auckland every couple of weeks to visit family and he was doing one-man gigs in places like Matakana, earning a few bucks.
Geoff and I became good friends. We joked a lot about who had had the most measly pay for a pub gig. I used to get ten bucks, 52 years ago at the Helensville Grand; Geoff reckoned he used to earn $30 a night at some dive in Browns Bay.
Over lots of coffees, he shared much of his life story. Some of it was sad. Around his neck he had a thing that resembled a handbag. It contained a device to shock his heart if it started to fail.
I asked if I could take him to a concert. He leapt at the idea. We bought tickets for Geoff, his partner and me to go see the Foo Fighters in Wellington in early 2024.
We had a last memorable day in Whanganui in the middle of 2023. In early November as I was driving, I got the call. The man’s big, generous heart had finally given up.
Geoff died aged 65.
Waxing eloquent, as I often attempt to do, I wrote a tribute to him. I spoke about a man with a wicked wit, the ability to compose a great song in 15 minutes, and a slavish devotion to the people and cats in his life.
The parting picture in my eulogy was the last one he had sent me. A glimpse through his window at home with two images in it. His cat, and the head of one of his six Stratocasters.
Thank you Geoff – for making me stop to Listen to the Music.