Biography
He was the archetypal guitar hero. Stick-thin, all flailing arms and scissor-kicks, it seemed as if he wielded an unruly alchemy whenever his fingers touched the strings. In those days, now long gone and remote as distant planets, he opted to wear a Kafkaesque grey suit—no doubt heisted from the local Oxfam shop—as a sign of his allegiance to punk’s individualist mantra. But he didn’t need to. It was obvious to anyone who ever met him that Stuart Adamson was special.
Back then, our hometown’s only concession to teenage kicks was the Kinema Ballroom, a cavernous but down-at-heel pleasure palace, redolent of stolen kisses, greasy hamburgers, and the cloying, ever-present stench of fried onions. It was here that his band roared into being, playing wild, innovative anthems of love, loss, and rage to an audience that was at first suspicious, but which would eventually become fiercely partisan. Long before The Skids reached Top of the Pops, they proved themselves in this unlikely setting.
A few minutes’ walk away from the Ballroom was Spowarts Warehouse, a crumbling wooden structure that barely made any pretence of protecting its occupants from the worst of the weather outside. This was where The Skids rehearsed when Stuart’s bandmates still masqueraded under dubious names like Jolly Jolson, Alex Plode, and Tom Bomb. Throughout the freezing winter of 1977, this was where Stuart crafted astonishing songs such as My Life and Withdrawal Symptoms, bristling with restless and inspired creativity.
Gigs were hard to come by, but every so often the band would manhandle their gear across a few hundred yards to the Kinema Ballroom, where Stuart would unveil the new songs he’d written. One of these blistering performances was witnessed by Simple Minds’ Jim Kerr. “What I was seeing was a brilliant young rock band,” he later recalled, “but the abiding memory for me was the shatteringly powerful effect from the sound of Adamson’s guitar and his skilful and inventive playing. It was blinding like a searchlight—spiralling, cascading, and even somehow chiming heavenly. Similarly violent, and yet beautiful enough to make me think that if laser beams had a sound, they would sound something like these tones.”
Photo credit / Virginia Turbett
Just a few live favourites from those gigs ever made it to record, but listening to them now underlines exactly what Kerr meant. Scared to Dance, for one, seemed purpose-built to demonstrate the unique noise Stuart could wring from the combination of his Gibson Marauder and H&H VS Musician amplifier. Based around a handful of barre chords, the song’s centrepiece is an astonishing quicksilver solo—more eloquent than poetry. There are moments when it sounds like space-age Chuck Berry, but mostly it’s vintage Adamson, full of the melodic inventiveness that was central to his playing.
Other guitarists might have been content to mine that productive seam. Stuart, however, was always eager to push himself further. On several occasions he radically overhauled his playing style, drawing inspiration from landmark albums of the time—Be-Bop Deluxe’s Drastic Plastic and Television’s Adventure among them. Before Into the Valley launched The Skids into wider public consciousness, unreleased songs like London and It’s the Summer showcased a more minimal approach, while the arrival of his coveted Yamaha SG2000 sparked a series of extraordinary guitar symphonies, including Hope and Glory, Night and Day, The Saints Are Coming, and Of One Skin.
“Stuart was a great inspiration to me when U2 were starting out,” recalls The Edge. “The Skids made such a big noise—their songs made most of the other music of the time seem mundane and insignificant.”
Across the three Skids albums he contributed to, Stuart refused to rest on his laurels, continually reshaping his sound. By 1980’s The Absolute Game, he was in stellar form, stitching melodies and rhythms into a lustrous sonic tapestry that suggested a starburst of new directions. Showing characteristic courage, however, he chose not to pursue those paths within The Skids. Instead, he retreated to Dunfermline to map out a new blueprint.
The story of Big Country—who would go on to become one of the most successful guitar bands of the next two decades—began in a local community centre. Alongside Bruce Watson, already known locally for his work with punk outfit The Delinquents and the experimental Eurosect, Stuart began working on a batch of new songs using a Portastudio. It was a match made in heaven: Bruce was not only a committed Skids fan but also a keen experimentalist, sharing Stuart’s appetite for pushing sonic boundaries.
“Stuart had his SG2000, a Fender Antigua Strat with no trem, and a little MXR pitch transposer he’d used on The Absolute Game,” recalls Watson. “I had a Carlsbro delay pedal he liked. The setup was basic—we were just recording ideas and experimenting.”
The material developed in the modest surroundings of Townhill Community Centre formed the basis of The Crossing, Big Country’s multi-platinum debut. It produced three Top 20 hits, including the iconic In a Big Country, and launched a hugely successful 19-year career that made their distinctive guitar sound instantly recognisable.
“A lot of people thought there was a huge difference between what Stuart did in The Skids and Big Country,” says Watson. “But it was a natural continuation. If you listen to Hurry On Boys and compare it to our first single, Harvest Home, you’ll hear it.”
Producer Steve Lillywhite played a key role in shaping the band’s early sound, giving them room to experiment with layered guitar parts. The interplay between Stuart’s fluid melodic style and Watson’s rhythmic flair became a hallmark of Big Country, underpinned by the rock-solid rhythm section of drummer Mark Brzezicki and bassist Tony Butler. At the group’s heart was Stuart’s seemingly limitless ability to craft classic songs—earning the band well-deserved Grammy nominations and a catalogue packed with unforgettable choruses.
Many Big Country songs began life as instrumentals. “We’d develop them as a band,” explains Watson, “then Stuart would take a tape away and work out lyrics and melodies. Everything was organic—ideas would evolve and reappear in new forms.”
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Photo credit / David Plastik
While later albums such as Peace in Our Time, No Place Like Home, and The Buffalo Skinners confirmed the band’s studio prowess, it was their live performances that forged the deepest memories. Influenced by songs like Led Zeppelin’s Over the Hills and Far Away, Be-Bop Deluxe’s Sister Seagull, and Nils Lofgren’s Shine Silently, Stuart thrived on stage. His improvised solo on We’re Not in Kansas was never the same twice—wild, fearless, and exhilarating.
“The thing you have to remember about Stuart,” says Watson, “is that he was a true original. He drew inspiration from players like Brian James and Mick Jones, but what came out was always completely his own. He was a one-off.”
Big Country’s final album, Driving to Damascus (1999), was written and recorded after Stuart relocated to Nashville. He continued exploring themes of life, longing, and hope in his later work with The Raphaels, a collaboration with songwriter Marcus Hummon. On Supernatural, released on Track Records, Stuart sounded as inspired as ever, delivering profoundly personal songs such as Simple Man, Learning to Row, and Too Many Ghosts.
Those who were privileged to share part of Stuart Adamson’s journey remember a musician whose extraordinary gifts were matched by his humanity. His generosity of spirit lives on in his music, but his passing left the world a lesser place.
Guitar magazine 2002