I was meant to write about something completely different today. The piece was already taking shape somewhere inside me. It had found its rhythm and its sentences. Then everything stopped. One sentence, one name. Taylor Kirk is dead. He died on 14 April 2026. The news reached me two weeks later...
Forty-four. That is not an age for retrospectives. It is an age for more records, for waiting, for the quiet certainty that something else will arrive and find that hidden place inside you. I was waiting. I really was.
Timber Timbre was never merely a band to me. It was a state of being: nocturnal, sticky, faintly unsettling and yet strangely safe. His voice did not lead. It drew you in. It explained nothing. It left you alone in the centre of a song and watched to see what you would do with it.
I remember Hamburg and the Reeperbahn Festival. The lights were dim, as though somebody had deliberately decided that the room should never become too bright. And there he was, almost motionless, as if he knew he did not need to do anything for everything to happen. It was one of the most beautiful concerts I have ever seen. Not because it was spectacular. Because it was painfully real.
What remains now is a feeling that resists a name. It is not only sadness. It is more like a break in continuity, as though the musical world I knew had suddenly lost one of its quiet but absolutely essential coordinates.
The last album, Lovage, will remain exactly that: closed, without the next step I was certain would come.
Perhaps what hurts most is that I never even had time to prepare for the thought that one day he would no longer be somewhere out there, on the other side, with another song on its way.
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