Steve Thorpe

Rip It Up, Issue 110, 1 September 1986, Page 4

Steve Thorpe

Steve died in his car on Monday, August 26, aged 25. He was best

known as the drummer from the Mockers, but he’d been a figure around Auckland well before that.

He came to this country from England with his parents in 1973 and he never lost his Cockney chirp. Settled on the North Shore, he began playing drums with Small Torqeu, one of the initial wave of post-punk North Shore bands. But it was with later Propellerites the Dabs that a lot of people remember him. The Dabs with the most broken-down van, the Dabs who’d live on a few dollars a week come bad months, who’d pile down to Brewery Lane for sausages and chips for Sunday lunch and spend the afternoon in the bar, who squatted for a while on the top floor of Brooklyn Flats, who even released an EP, Love the Army... eventually the privations became a bit much and Steve and bass-player Geoff Hayden made the shift to become the rhythm section of a rebuilt Mockers in late 1983. But the Dabs stayed with Steve and to many he remained Steve Dab, or just “Dab". The new Mockers lineup gradually brought national recognition and a higher standard of living. The band toured extensively and Steve become something of an identity with fans. Letters from Timaru, Taupo and Tokoroa would arrive at Shake! magazine singing the praises of his friendly, unsnobby approach.

The Mockers achieved about as

much fame as it’s possible to in New Zealand, without breaking out. They have now recorded two studio albums and one live (achieving the curious distinction of having two in the national LP charts at once), plus a compilation album just released.

But audiences still fluctuate and between each tour Steve would be faced with dealing with the wildly sympathetic Social Welfare people or finding a job. He even once turned his hand to work as a chef at Auckland’s yupper-middle class cafe Cheers.

Some people got the wrong idea about Steve. Touring New Zealand with a rock band tends to produce different social standards in even the most right-on young musicians, and Steve never lost his wink-nudge bottom-pinching English manner. There were also some pretty crazy things went on of a Saturday night in Auckland or a Wednesday in Wanganui. Most of those who knew him could tell you a story or two. But there was never a hint of malice in his pintsized frame, nor of aggression. There was, however, a lot of good cheer.

Steve Thorpe died having seen a lot more life than most young men. It seems some of us are reaching the age when our culture stops being a Peter Pan one and fate or nature starts to claim those around us. It seems it’s been happening a bit too often.

Russell Brown