So, X’Ho died.
When his death was announced, there was the usual outpouring of tributes, remembrances and regrets over the music veteran. My social media was inundated with them. Everybody who crossed paths with him, who broke bread with him, they all have a story about him. Me included.
I first saw X’Ho on the MRT train. He was instantly recognisable—tattooed, dressed in ripped military wear, that black-framed spectacles—and he was seated next to an elderly woman, frail and meek. At first, it looked as if they were strangers who, in the universe random drawings, happened to be placed together in a picture of opposites. Then, they started conversing with each other and you realised they knew each other, that the familiarity is familial. It’ll be years later that I’ll…
