A reflection on composer Adrian Sutton, drawn from a single conversation in Blackheath last year — a brief encounter that left a lasting impression.
I can’t claim to know composer Adrian Sutton that well. We met for a podcast interview last year in nearby Blackheath.
He met me at the front door. I commented on the view over the heath, and the self-deprecation evident in the framed certificates in his downstairs toilet. He brewed great coffee in a French press. He talked warmly about East Suffolk in a way that made me pine for the county.
When someone has died it’s easy to glom on. We see a lot of it. It’s often nauseating. At the same time, in that moment when one feels the shiver that accompanies even an anticipated departure, there’s an instinct to make good. Perhaps that’s why nearly all decent human beings reach to do or say something that soothes either ourselves or others. Adrian Sutton made the act both necessary and straightforward.
In the forty-five minutes we spent together talking, I benefited from the spirit, enthusiasm and passion of a creative individual who loved his work, work that effortlessly communicated what he loved. He was willing to talk about the difficult things, comfortably talking candidly about about the unsettling inevitabilities of life.
To be admired for what you do is a statement on your craft. Something the rest of us aspire to. Sutton struck me as unapologetically committed to creating something that delighted both him and the audience. He knew what his craft was, and he wore that self-assurance lightly.
There are countless others who know him better and who have known him for far longer. But on the basis of a brief interaction I can say with honesty that his absence was cautiously anticipated and is now deeply felt.
