Stephen Luscombe, the English musician whose keyboard work carried Blancmange into the airwaves of the 1980s, has died. He was 70 years old. His partner in the group, Neil Arthur, shared the news: “Heartbroken. RIP Stephen. Love you forever.” No cause of death was announced, although Luscombe had withdrawn from Blancmange in 2011, after suffering an abdominal aortic aneurysm.
Born October 29, 1954, in Middlesex, he came of age in London, studying at the Harrow School of Art. From those corridors of paint and print, he drifted toward music and, in 1979, formed Blancmange with Arthur and Laurence Stevens. Stevens departed quickly, but the name, borrowed from the pale, quivering dessert, remained. The duo’s first recorded work, the experimental Irene and Mavis EP, appeared in 1980 and hinted at the playful invention that would soon define their sound.
Their rise was swift. That modest debut had already found its way through the underground, preparing the ground for Sad Day to land on Some Bizarre Album in 1981, alongside the early sounds of Depeche Mode, Soft Cell, and The The. Soon after, Happy Families (1982) brought God’s Kitchen, I’ve Seen the Word, Feel Me, and their enduring anthem, Living on the Ceiling.
A second album in 1984, Mange Tout, climbed into the top ten. A third one the following year, Believe You Me, faltered, and by the following year the duo dissolved. Neil Arthur pressed on alone as Blancmange.
Luscombe recorded New Demons in 1989 with Pandit Dinesh, Peter Culshaw, Priya Khajuria, and Asha Bhosle, an album fusing tabla, sitar, and synths. He spoke often of his influences: Brian Eno, Can, Captain Beefheart, Frank Zappa. That wide field of sound guided him through projects beyond the pop charts, into places where East met West.
Blancmange reassembled in 2011 for Blanc Burn. The reunion proved brief, however: the aneurysm returned as a defining mark in his life, and Luscombe, with humour and clarity, explained his departure: “It wouldn’t have been too clever to ignore that, and not fair on the boys to have that at the back of their minds. Turns out it’s hereditary – and the latest scan recently showed no change – SOOO I won’t be coming on the next adventure, unfortunately.”
When Luscombe left, Arthur continued recording and performing as Blancmange with the help of session musicians, but the two had remained close friends.
‘Normally we text and exchange email and chat on the phone, sometimes getting to see each other, but recently Stephen has sadly been very seriously ill,” Arthur wrote when Luscombe revealed his illness. “I love him dearly, I’m just hoping he gets better very soon.” Although Luscombe could not join in, earlier this year Blancmange played their first American dates in over forty years, opening at Cruel World Festival in Pasadena.
Stephen Luscombe leaves behind a body of work that bent electricity into melody and melody into memory. In his partnership with Neil Arthur, and in his wanderings beyond, he held close both wit and wonder. He was a builder of tones, a student of rhythm, a quiet experimenter. His loss leaves silence where once there was warmth, invention, and the bright hum of keys.
Bon voyage, Stephen – thanks for the wonderful music.
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