RIP ‘Throb’, Primal Scream's departed axeman

I first properly met Robert 'The Throb' Young on the first tour I did with the Scream in Japan during the summer of 1990. We'd met before while I was working at Creation Records, but it was that tour that cemented my close relationship with a man who, and others may put this more eloquently, was a complete and utter diamond.

One particular night on that tour they'd played a smash of a show in Tokyo, but as was the case over there then the stagetime was early in the evening at the very un rock 'n' roll hour of 6pm. This left a hell of a lot of hours to investigate what the neon night of Tokyo could bring us. A crawl around a series of bars inevitably led us to Roppongi and the infamous Lexington Queen.

It was infamous for being the place where musicians, artists, ex-pat models and other assorted transients, lunatics and party nuts could let off a bit of steam, and a place where it was thouroughly encouraged. So we were right at home from the off. If you were a visiting band they'd lay it all on, sushi for days and drinks without end. And as these things happen I buddied up with Throb as it seemed we were on a similar mission, going toe-to-toe on the cocktails, air guitar jams on the banquets, storming the DJ booth and, amongst the madness, a connection was made.

When the bar closed that night we were the last ones standing, something that proved to be a recurring theme over the next two decades, but there was another reason to stay up –  England were playing West Germany in the World Cup semi-final. I'd just come from Sardinia watching England in the group stages of Italia '90 and in my mind winning was a foregone conclusion.

I invited the band back to my hotel room to watch the game and one unnamed band member found and robbed the mini bar storeroom. We were swimming in booze. As history tells you, winning was by no means a foregone conclusion; Waddle skied the penalty and soon enough we're all jumping on my bed, and not much later the bed is out of the window. In the midst of this pandemonium I remember Throb saying in his soft, Glaswegian accent, "Now, wait a minute pal!" I left the room and gave the ice machine an unnecessary seeing to meaning that the damages to the hotel hit £11,000. If he hadn't said that, it could have been far more. He stopped me tearing that room apart.

This was the beginning of a lifelong friendship with the Scream. I thought it was big of them that they played a benefit show to pay for the hotel we'd fucked up and to get my passport back. They didn't care, they thought the bill was well worth it to see England get knocked out.

It's common knowledge that Throb could party hard and fast and I can honestly say that in almost 40 years on the road I've yet to see anyone match him. That's as much to do with a superhuman constitution I'd say as with him being an absolute personification of rock n roll and loving every last second of it.

Many tried to keep up and failed miserably and I've been myself known to have a good go but the nights spent with Robert getting up to mischief in locations exotic and non-exotic alike, well I'm still aching now. And hurting a lot more right now after getting that sad, sad call from the Scream camp on Tuesday, one that quite possibly shouldn't have been a shock when someone lives life to the full to the extent that that bloke did, but it doesn't make it any easier.

To only define the Throb by his good times persona would be way, way off the mark. Those close to him know that we have lost someone very special, at heart a beautiful human being, a titan of a man with such a warm all-embracing soul, and those in their multitudes that saw him perform, a bona fide rock star.

I feel so blessed and fortunate to have known him, and shared such amazing times – his influence on me was real life-forming stuff. People like him don't come along much in your lifetime and you couldn't fail to be touched by his sheer presence and indefatigable spirit. I was influenced and inspired by it and swept up in the pure force of nature that was The Throb. There certainly won't be two of that man.

Sadly we lost touch somewhat as both of us went through some difficult times in the 00s, but the joy we both shared when I found him rocking to the Scream side of stage at Brixton during the "Screamadelica 20" tour was pretty special. He was every bit as proud egging the group on and that was one of his greatest attributes – as well as putting an arm round you when you needed it, he was never short on encouragement, always a gentleman.

And boy could he play a mean guitar - a rock god in looks and swagger, the last real guitar hero in my book. His contribution to the masterpiece that is Screamadelica should never be overlooked or underplayed, nor how his energy and wall-of-guitar sound moulded and lifted Primal Scream into the white-hot live act we all grew to know and love.

I loved photographing Throb, he made my work easy – this geezer was just so fucking cool! I could fill a book on just pictures of him - but my favourite? Probably the poster I have framed at home. the Jailbird cover. He's in full effect in that shot, at the top of his game.

He will be sadly missed, not least of all by his family who must be hurting so badly right now, but if the chips off the old block carry forward just an ounce of the spirit of their father then we can be thankful for that gift to the world.

I certainly carry his spirit and I'm a better, stronger person for having known the irrepressible Robert Young. How I'd love right now to be able to say to his face - thank you. It was a pure pleasure mate.