So farewell then Steven Wells

Steven (Seething) Wells, (or Swells), was a punk poet, turned journalist, turned comedy writer, turned author, turned cancer-diarist. He was a shouting, ranting, swearing, word-hurling genius, the Shakespeare of postpunk profanity, the Milton of paradise pissed against the wall. 

His ‘writing career’, began in the punk era; he ranted angry poems on stage between bands, becoming a support act to such vaunted artistes as The Fall, Delta 5, The Mekons and Gang of Four, along with fellow ranting poets Attila The Stockbroker and Porky The Poet (Phill Jupitus).  A book of poetry followed, written jointly with Attila, containing 72 pages of Attila’s poems and 43 pages of Swells’.  It was as if his enthusiasm for the format was already waning. It was to prove his last endeavor in the poetic format.  

After moving to London, in 1983 he began to write for NME, initially under the name Susan Williams, he would contribute to the NME for another 25 years.  

It was here I first encountered him. In the 1980s and early 90s the NME was the holy book for spotty, speccy indie kids like myself, their pages dominated by the Smiths, the Pogues, the Sugarcubes, the only things that mattered in lonely teenage lives. 

 Sometimes Wells reviewed records, usually records he didn’t like, but by the time I came along he had a regular column, in which he combined commentary with swirling diatribes. His writing style was an amphetamine-fuelled steam-of-
consciousness that mixed music reviews, a frothing rage of anger directed at Margaret Thatcher, class war, random bouts of swearing, combined with weird obsessions and even weirder tangents (think Donald Trump’s ‘weave’ on acid). 

It was the best thing in the NME. In some ways, the best thing I have ever read. 

Wells adored bands he felt contained the essence of punk, be they the Sex Pistols or Kylie Minogue.  He championed socialist soul/punk band The Redskins; American hardcore punk bands such as the Butthole Surfers; British bands like Extreme Noise Terror. He hated Morrisey, the Smiths, and Smiths fans in particular, and absolutely loathed Belle and Sebastian.   

Like Shakespeare, Swells was prone to inventing words, especially where there was no existent word sufficiently damning of the band or record that was provoking him at the time – he invented the word “saddo” and thrust the word ‘soapytitwank’ into the Oblong lexicon. It was as if he had his own, personal, seething well of words, in which he would dip the blade of his pen. Or maybe he was just good at swearing. 

Wells became a sports columnist for The Guardian, wrote sketches for the Day to Day, contributed to the Quietus music website and in 1999 he founded the Attack! Books publishing house, which published his own novel, Tits-Out Teenage Terror Totty - a savage satire of the UK media. His illustrated history Punk: The Stories Behind the Songs was published in 2004. 

Swells moved to America with his wife Katherine, where he would go on to write for the Philadelphia Weekly. 

Diagnosed with Hodgkin's lymphoma in 2006, he documented his experiences of the disease and of the Philadelphia health system in the Philadelphia Weekly. His first piece began: "I'm writing these notes in the ER, blitzed off my tits on Vicodin and synthetic heroin."  

In his series of articles about his experience, his condition, his treatment and the American health system were given the acerbic diatribe he’d previously reserved for the latest Belle and Sebastian CD. Cancer has never had such bad press 

Swells recovered, but after being in remission for a short time, he was diagnosed with enteropathy-associated T-cell lymphoma in January 2009. 

Swells’ experience personified the flaws of the American health system. In spite of full (and very expensive) health insurance, Swells was, shortly before his death, presented with a bill for over $50,000.  His treatment was complicated by the intricacies of the American health system, where insurance companies frequently rule out specific doctors, specific hospitals, specific meds, often the nearest hospitals and the meds you actually need. With the treatment he needed denied and delayed, the cancer grew and would prove fatal.  

His experience contrasts with his former partner in rhyme, Attila the Stockbroker, whose Autobiography Arguments Yard describes his own cancer treatment, curtesy of the NHS. No bills, no procrastination, no lawyers, no accountants, just doctors, nurses and the treatment needed.  

Yet even on his deathbed, Swells still had the strength to fire-fight back, with his weapon of choice, ranting prose. In hospital, waiting to undergo another painful procedure, denied food for 24 hours, he writes: ”No one ever "battles bravely against cancer." This is utter bullshit. You do your chemo, take your drugs and hang on for dear life.” 

Stephen Wells died on 24 June 2009 (my birthday). 

James Brown says of Swells’ time at NME that “he was obsessed with class war, masturbation, dogs, cancer, Jello Biafra and the multiple use of the exclamation mark.” 

He was survived by wife Katharine, who was left to pay the bills.