I’m heartbroken to be writing this. But I can’t not pay tribute to one of my favourite musicians of all time. At the end of last week, it was announced that Robin Guy had passed away, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him since.

Robin and I weren’t mates, or even acquaintances. But we’d met many times, and even hung out before or after gigs on a number of occasions. And every single time, no matter the circumstances or time of night, Robin was joyfully fizzy, funny, endearingly sincere, kind and passionate. But far, far more frequent than those times were the times I got to see him drumming. Both offstage and on, Robin lived and performed with an insatiable lust and gratitude for life: he committed his life to rock’n’roll, he loved it with everything he had and it loved him right back.

If this is the first you’re hearing about him, here’s some context: although Robin played with a long, long list of bands over the years — including some of the world’s most legendary musicians (like his notorious appearance on Top of the Pops standing in for Faith No More’s drummer) — I first encountered him as the drummer for Rachel Stamp, the band that were probably the most important to me during my teenage years.

Twenty-five years ago — almost to the day — a schoolmate persuaded me to board a train from Bolton to Ashton with her, to see a band she’d read about in that week’s edition of our beloved metal mag bible, Kerrang. I was a couple of months shy of my fifteenth birthday, and although music was already my entire world — the escapist soundtrack helping me survive life as a traumatised, queer, alternative teen from a notoriously violent council estate, navigating the pressure and politics of being a scholarship kid at a snobby, rich-bitch private school — at this point I’d only been to a couple of live concerts, neither of which could prepare me for the manic, spellbinding magic of seeing Rachel Stamp in action.

Not knowing any of the songs or even anything about the band, I put my trust in my friend, letting her guide us on our public transport quest to The Witchwood, a tiny Tameside pub which had – unbeknownst to me — been a renowned rock venue since the 1960s. We blagged our way in, paying a few quid each at the door then pooling our leftover change to get one pint of cider and black that we shared between us until the band came on. That night was a revelation. I’d never seen live music so up close and personal. I’d never seen live music performed with so much commitment and energy. I’d never felt so transported. Looking like the glam-rock aliens from Velvet Goldmine but playing with a punky ferocity that felt far more modern, that first encounter with Rachel Stamp totally blew my mind.

And while I will always have a fondness for the other band members and their unique contributions to the collective, distinctive Rachel Stamp sound — Will’s blistering guitar, Shaheena’s atmospheric keyboards, DRP’s ethereal vocals and magnetic stage presence — from that first encounter onwards, it was always Robin I couldn’t take my eyes off. Robin, with his crayon-pink hair, manga-wide eyes, mile-wide infectious grin, punky ripped t-shirts and plastic jewellery, playing the drums with an unparalleled intensity and joy. He had an energy, skill-set and showmanship I’ve never seen before or since. He was the drummer who made me love the drums, and he was a huge part of why Rachel Stamp became such a massive part of my world.

The other thing: they were absolute grafters. They toured all the time. For a while, I saw them live every few months or so, going to as many shows on a tour as I possibly could. Manchester, Liverpool, Leeds, Bradford, London. I turned fifteen, then sixteen, then seventeen, still technically too young to even get into most of these venues, but nevertheless finding ways across the UK by coach or train, sleeping in stations or other dubious places, and getting to know other familiar faces along the way. Because of how much the band were on the road, the live following they’d built became a makeshift community and family, and it was through those gigs that I made friends I still hold dear to this day.

Around this time, I made another magical discovery: writing could literally open doors that would otherwise be locked against you. My friends and I started writing for fanzines, then made our own, and through that I spent many happy hours interviewing the members of Rachel Stamp and other bands, getting to hang out in the scruffy makeshift dressing rooms of music venues before shows, or in the weird portacabins they had as their temporary homes at festivals, sharing stories and feeling like I had some small part to play in contributing to their reputation, romance, myth and legacy.

When the total of times I’d seen them hit fifty, I stop counting. But I know the actual total goes way beyond that. I went to some incredible gigs, including some of their renowned shows at the Astoria immortalised in this music video (I can’t pinpoint a frame where my face is visible, but I’m in that crowd somewhere). Then various life things happened, for them and for me, and their shows became less frequent, then stopped altogether. They never officially disbanded, as far as I know, but it seemed like the band members had moved on, Robin included. He was playing more and more with other bands, touring internationally for the likes of Sham 69 and a long list of others. Across the industry, he was infamous for his frenzied, flamboyant drumming style, and for being legendary company.

When Robin first shared his cancer diagnosis back in 2018, it initially passed me by. I wasn’t on Facebook; I was still clawing my way through the grief of losing two family members in ten days at the start of that year; I was watching a close friend go through her own brutal battle with cancer. By the time it crossed my radar, months later, there was a fundraiser to raise cash for some alternative treatment the NHS wouldn’t cover. It had only been live for a couple of hours by the time someone sent me the link, and the contributions had already exceeded the intended goal by thousands. I like to think that says something about how beloved he was. Robin’s health continued to ebb and flow for the next six years, but he continued to play and tour worldwide, right up until the end, with a defiance and determination that surprised no-one who knew him.

In the pandemic, I was nostalgic for live music, and dug through my own long-buried stashes of memorabilia, unearthing countless ticket stubs, t-shirts, photos, scribbled set lists, and even a pair of pale shredded jeans that Robin once spent ages decorating with a detailed permanent-marker drawing of his drum kit (while I was wearing them). I devoured anything that reminded me of those times, including this chat between Robin and Will reminiscing about their times together in Rachel Stamp (adorably includes Robin sharing his diaries of those years, featuring what pub dinners he ate on which tour dates, some anecdotes I may have tangentially been involved in — the story he shares about an experience in Liverpool was definitely one I was there for — and assorted other cute minutiae that assembles into a musician’s life and work). I listened to as many podcasts with Robin as I could, hearing him chart his long and patchwork journey to and through a career in music, with the repeated maxim: NEVER. EVER. GIVE. UP. EVER.

In 2022, as lockdown restrictions started to lift, a long-awaited and repeatedly-rescheduled Rachel Stamp reunion show was announced. At first, I hesitated. At that point, it’d been years since I’d been to London, years since I’d even left my local neighbourhood. I hadn’t been to a live gig in years, and I’d never done it sober. But I went. My initial intention had been to loiter at the back, taking in the entire nostalgia trip from a safe distance. But the friend I was with was having none of that. Fuck that, he said. You’ve not come all this way to not see Robin, have you? And he grabbed my hand and dragged me down the front where I could see my fave play one more time. It was a glorious time travel fever-dream; the band members were different, older, maybe more subdued between songs. But hearing them play live again had that same original crackle of electricity and magic, and it meant the world.

My penultimate interaction with Robin was an exchange of mushy DMs in the aftermath of that show, where I’d messaged him saying how meaningful it was to see the band in action again, and he’d sent a typically kind and effusive series of messages back. In June this year, I shared a photo of myself at a drumkit, with a caption about how — more than 25 years after seeing Robin play the drums for the first time — I could still never be in the same room as a drumkit without thinking of him, without wanting to be him, without recognising all the ways he shaped who I was and am. In response to being tagged in that picture, Robin replied with a whole screen of hearts.

I am devastated by Robin’s death. It’s unthinkable that I’ll never see him play live again. But I’m so grateful for the times I had. And it’s been beautiful to read the tributes to him in the NME and elsewhere online, all of which showcase how universally loved he was, and how he never, ever gave up.