Adam was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar, when I met him.

In fact, Adam arrived to one of our earliest band rehearsals, a stranger in tow with Becky, our then-bassist, before we’d actually had much in the way of a rehearsal together.

Becky very honestly and foolishly introduced Adam as being “much better than me on bass”. We all sat down and plugged instruments in, and without animosity, Adam wound up being our bass-player. I’m eternally grateful to Becky for bringing him along and more than a little bit guilty that we subsequently parted ways.

Adam is one of the most talented, unassuming, hard-working musical mother-fuckers I’ve had the pleasure to work with.

He wears his influences on his sleeve, and while his tastes are more varied than mine, his love of the Cure, Placebo and New Order, passing interest in people like the Cardigans and (largely thrust-upon) appreciation for Gary Numan meant that whenever I gave him a bass-line, he would spank the fucker out in a way that was almost wholly not what I’d detailed, but almost entirely what it sounded like it should be in my mind.

Adam is the last remaining member of the original band and somewhere, in the basement of DeathBoy Towers, there is a painting of him getting older.

Despite my attempts to have sex with him while sharing a bed on tour, Adam has stuck with DeathBoy, but now demands seperate accomodation, or sleeps on the floor. Once bitten and all that.

There are, perhaps, bassists who can make your trousers flap more viciously, but few can so adeptly manage to have sex with your mother while you enjoy the thrumming low-frequencies he purveys.