by Bobby Fisher


Tim Tatman was a painter. A gifted alcoholic. The real deal. Self taught…self destructing abstractionist. If you dropped Bryan Ferry, Johnny Rotten, Errol Flynn, Pablo Picasso, Henny Youngman, Hugh Hefner, James Bond… and a 1/2 gallon of vodka in a blender, it would be Tim in cocktail form. He painted furiously. When he passed last year he left a trail, of art…40 yrs worth. He surfed 70’s era Virginia Beach on a beat to shit longboard when everyone else was surfing twin fins. In todays world this would be like riding a donkey to work with a smile, sans irony. I see him sometimes …gliding knock kneed and free. He never owned a cell phone, and electricity became a strange gift. The closest Tim got to a computer was listening to Kraftwork on a turntable. He tried to put a ciggy out on my face once…as Pere Ubu ripped through ‘Non Alignment Pact’ in a shitty southern ‘beach bar’. My fist to his chest…he crumpled. I lifted Tim…dusted him off and crowned him with a ‘shot and a draft for a dollar’ as advertised. Classy joint it was. He bought me my first bass guitar (a black Fender Mustang) from a pawn shop in war torn Norfolk Virginia…circa 1981. Norfolk, land of blacks, smack… and General Douglas MacArthur’s tomb. Tim was our Malcolm Mclaren without the english teeth and rubber clothing. His hair was perfect. I, LSD giggles…hunched outside his bedroom window in ‘the wee small hours’. He directed, donning a 1950’s tropical print bathrobe. Gitanes in mouth, Camus in hand. Jonathan Richman’s ‘Roadrunner’ is rotating. ‘Hey Bob-bob, here’s some spray paint’…’what do I write?’…my question…Tim replied, ‘Lenin wakeup, They Have all Gone Mad!’

R.I.P Timbob..xoBobbob!