R.I.P. Frank Moore. I loved playing with him, and I love(d) him for being someone that no one else could be. Frank had everything to lose and never gave an inch when the morality police came knocking. He was a wiggling, vibrating, squealing, giant of an artist, and he now resides in art heaven as a sainted martyr of the arts, watching over shameless lovers, free souls, and possibility pushers, where his songs are answered by the funky trumpet blasts of freaky angels. Like a lot of suburban teens, I first encountered Frank in Mondo New York, where I discovered Ann Magnuson and Lydia Lunch, the first two people I might have wanted to be when I grew up. Later, got to play with Frank twice, once at Als Bar in 1998, and again a few years later at his home in Berkeley. He radiated powerful vibes, making everyone around him feel like they were capable of way, way more than they thought they were. So much more transgression, so much more beauty, so much more life than you knew you had in you, he could see it like an aura, and coax fabulousness to the surface. I miss you, man.
Posted on: Wed, 16 Oct 2013 02:55:04 +0000