Tony, thanks for your personal recollections. These losses become grueling, and while the eulogist in every writer must be compelled to create a lasting stanza for those artists who leave us, the job, these days, must also be one of lifting the same stone again and again and wondering if it got heavier or you got wearier. Having a close connection with Mike must make the burden worse, and I am sorry for that.
A few weeks back, a collection of old 1980s videos, filling a slot on the Pluto channel, was keeping me late night company. I looked up to see The Alarm’s video for “Rain In The Summertime.” It’s desultory, dreadful, routine, slow, and unconvincing. It’s not their idea, and it’s beneath the song, one that I never thought of, affable as it is, as one of their most convincing. But I remember, as it made a dent in the charts, being glad The Alarm got some commercial radio time at last. In the video clip, Mike Peters looked like he was on the location on a lost bet, and out of bed far before he wanted to be. Someone had dropped he and the band in some third-rate desert location, expecting Anton Corbijn-like magic, and instead got a grumpy, over-heated bus stop. The bored-looking band in the music video – one that might have been superseded by a better concept film later, now that I think of it - was not The Alarm that jumped into your face with a grin some 40 years ago. They couldn’t be. Because they were not to be pictured; they were to be felt. And what you felt, in your twenties, when that band was coming at you in person, was a spirit waking under fireworks.
I saw The Alarm twice. They hit the State Theater in Detroit two times in the same year… 1985, the head and tail of a tour, I believe. I was connected to a rep at IRS Records and it was no trouble to get in the door each time, but to make room for a second dose meant the first had to be a real jolt. I can still feel the images and hear the trill of both shows. They were blistering, reducing the space of the old hall (now the Fillmore) to a close enclave. At one point, it was like Mike was more of the crowd than of the band.
Every song seemed to be an anthem, and that caused a unique, glorious idiosyncrasy in their live resume, as I saw it. After an hour or so of their show, at least the first time I saw it, I remember thinking, “Well, that must be the last song. You can’t top that.” But another of their early career trashcan-burning flag wavers would hit you a moment later – “Sixty-Eight Guns,” “Blaze Of Glory,” “Strength,” “Deeside.” And then another and another, and I remember an awkward take on “Pinball Wizard” in an encore that came with more than enough earnestness to make up for any stumbles in its performance. Seeing The Alarm then, as a fresh headliner in the United States, was like being on a roller coaster that kept going up and up, refusing to plunge back towards earth. Their show left you thrilled, sweating and jumping around, but also disoriented: Why didn’t The Alarm, on stage, have the same up-and-down, come-and-go, tempo-changing pace as their counterparts? Because their call-to-arms catalog would not allow it, I suppose. Every song seemed an anthem alright, because that’s what they were. Most every tune carried enough crescendo for almost any other band to call it night afterwards. But The Alarm just lit another fuse until there were no more explosives in the box.
The moment that you woke up with the next morning, though, the thing that surely got me back for a second show, was Mike’s speech. As I am sure you know, he would crouch at the edge of the stage and regale the already-spent crowd of what it was like for him to be transformed into a new kind of soaring bird, into some creature that believed in himself and a limitless future, just by seeing the Sex Pistols in the previous decade. It may have been a recitation he made every night, but, man, could he sell it. Like a youthful, yet-to-sell-out evangelist or junior college basketball coach – a wide-eyed disciple. Here was someone who still could look you dead in the eye and make you believe he believed it, even if you were tethered to something that would always hold you back from the revelation Mike recalled and then morphed into the song that landed as coda to his last chorus, “The Spirit Of Seventy-Six.”
I don’t know how well Alarm songs have aged in all this time. I’m not sure the foreshortened chemistry of the air in this century supports the combustion that came from voices and hearts like Mike’s. But I can count on one hand the performers I have seen since him who were as convinced in their own mission. Time to time, I hope more of us can find something more of Mike Peters in ourselves.
So sorry, Tony. Saw the Alarm at the Paradise in Boston ca. 1984, following an in-store that afternoon at Strawberries in Kenmore Square. What an upstanding, righteous — and very tough — rocker and guy and Mike was. Your wonderful remembrance makes that clear.
I’m sorry for your loss Tony, this was such sad news to hear. As a chronic leukaemia sufferer myself, I found Mike to be an inspiration when it comes to living with the illness. I hope you can find comfort in the fantastic memories of Mike that I’ve no doubt you have. Best wishes
Hi there Paul, I am aware that you too are a sufferer and know that you drew inspiration from Mike. I trust that you still can. And thank you for your thoughts and words.
Tony--- Beautiful tribute to an extraordinary man! You can see how graceful and resilient he was- it is written all over his face in those videos you shared. I volunteer in hospice for awhile now and of the age that death is much more a part of my life. How we approach it is really all that matters. It should inform all that we do everyday yet our culture still goes to great lengths to avoid it. Thanks for sharing your friendship with us. Gives new resonance to all of their gorgeous songs!
Thank you Jane. And I do agree with your central premise. That's why I've been playing various versions of Flaming Lips' "Do You Realize?" a lot in 2025.
What a beautifully written and deeply moving tribute, Tony. I'm so sorry for your personal loss, first and foremost of a cherished friend, but also of a soul whose presence clearly had such an impact beyond the music. Like so many others, I first encountered The Alarm through the Top of the Pops performances in the '80s; those anthemic songs full of belief and passion left a lasting impression. Mike's music meant a great deal, but his resilience, optimism, and tireless work for cancer causes are just extraordinary. Thank you for sharing such personal memories and reminding us of how full and purposeful a life can be, even against the hardest of odds. His legacy will live on in both melody and mission.
beautiful piece Tony. on my next hike, I will pick a mountain to climb in honor of Mike
I am sorry for the loss of your friend and a wonderful person.
♥️
Sad news, I saw him many moons ago performing in San Francisco. My condolences 💙
Tony, thanks for your personal recollections. These losses become grueling, and while the eulogist in every writer must be compelled to create a lasting stanza for those artists who leave us, the job, these days, must also be one of lifting the same stone again and again and wondering if it got heavier or you got wearier. Having a close connection with Mike must make the burden worse, and I am sorry for that.
A few weeks back, a collection of old 1980s videos, filling a slot on the Pluto channel, was keeping me late night company. I looked up to see The Alarm’s video for “Rain In The Summertime.” It’s desultory, dreadful, routine, slow, and unconvincing. It’s not their idea, and it’s beneath the song, one that I never thought of, affable as it is, as one of their most convincing. But I remember, as it made a dent in the charts, being glad The Alarm got some commercial radio time at last. In the video clip, Mike Peters looked like he was on the location on a lost bet, and out of bed far before he wanted to be. Someone had dropped he and the band in some third-rate desert location, expecting Anton Corbijn-like magic, and instead got a grumpy, over-heated bus stop. The bored-looking band in the music video – one that might have been superseded by a better concept film later, now that I think of it - was not The Alarm that jumped into your face with a grin some 40 years ago. They couldn’t be. Because they were not to be pictured; they were to be felt. And what you felt, in your twenties, when that band was coming at you in person, was a spirit waking under fireworks.
I saw The Alarm twice. They hit the State Theater in Detroit two times in the same year… 1985, the head and tail of a tour, I believe. I was connected to a rep at IRS Records and it was no trouble to get in the door each time, but to make room for a second dose meant the first had to be a real jolt. I can still feel the images and hear the trill of both shows. They were blistering, reducing the space of the old hall (now the Fillmore) to a close enclave. At one point, it was like Mike was more of the crowd than of the band.
Every song seemed to be an anthem, and that caused a unique, glorious idiosyncrasy in their live resume, as I saw it. After an hour or so of their show, at least the first time I saw it, I remember thinking, “Well, that must be the last song. You can’t top that.” But another of their early career trashcan-burning flag wavers would hit you a moment later – “Sixty-Eight Guns,” “Blaze Of Glory,” “Strength,” “Deeside.” And then another and another, and I remember an awkward take on “Pinball Wizard” in an encore that came with more than enough earnestness to make up for any stumbles in its performance. Seeing The Alarm then, as a fresh headliner in the United States, was like being on a roller coaster that kept going up and up, refusing to plunge back towards earth. Their show left you thrilled, sweating and jumping around, but also disoriented: Why didn’t The Alarm, on stage, have the same up-and-down, come-and-go, tempo-changing pace as their counterparts? Because their call-to-arms catalog would not allow it, I suppose. Every song seemed an anthem alright, because that’s what they were. Most every tune carried enough crescendo for almost any other band to call it night afterwards. But The Alarm just lit another fuse until there were no more explosives in the box.
The moment that you woke up with the next morning, though, the thing that surely got me back for a second show, was Mike’s speech. As I am sure you know, he would crouch at the edge of the stage and regale the already-spent crowd of what it was like for him to be transformed into a new kind of soaring bird, into some creature that believed in himself and a limitless future, just by seeing the Sex Pistols in the previous decade. It may have been a recitation he made every night, but, man, could he sell it. Like a youthful, yet-to-sell-out evangelist or junior college basketball coach – a wide-eyed disciple. Here was someone who still could look you dead in the eye and make you believe he believed it, even if you were tethered to something that would always hold you back from the revelation Mike recalled and then morphed into the song that landed as coda to his last chorus, “The Spirit Of Seventy-Six.”
I don’t know how well Alarm songs have aged in all this time. I’m not sure the foreshortened chemistry of the air in this century supports the combustion that came from voices and hearts like Mike’s. But I can count on one hand the performers I have seen since him who were as convinced in their own mission. Time to time, I hope more of us can find something more of Mike Peters in ourselves.
So sorry, Tony. Saw the Alarm at the Paradise in Boston ca. 1984, following an in-store that afternoon at Strawberries in Kenmore Square. What an upstanding, righteous — and very tough — rocker and guy and Mike was. Your wonderful remembrance makes that clear.
Beautiful post, Tony. Brings back sweet memories of seeing The Alarm opening for The Pretenders at the Aragon Ballroom in Chicago back in 1984...
I’m sorry for your loss Tony, this was such sad news to hear. As a chronic leukaemia sufferer myself, I found Mike to be an inspiration when it comes to living with the illness. I hope you can find comfort in the fantastic memories of Mike that I’ve no doubt you have. Best wishes
Hi there Paul, I am aware that you too are a sufferer and know that you drew inspiration from Mike. I trust that you still can. And thank you for your thoughts and words.
Loss of a great human.
All 68 guns firing for Mike…!
Sending you lots of love, my friend. Looking forward to catching up.
A pure and powerful tribute to a remarkable human being. Thank you Tony. Sincere condolences my friend.
Thanks Chris. I believe you met Mike also back in the day?
indeed, introduced by you.
his joy was infectious.
Tony--- Beautiful tribute to an extraordinary man! You can see how graceful and resilient he was- it is written all over his face in those videos you shared. I volunteer in hospice for awhile now and of the age that death is much more a part of my life. How we approach it is really all that matters. It should inform all that we do everyday yet our culture still goes to great lengths to avoid it. Thanks for sharing your friendship with us. Gives new resonance to all of their gorgeous songs!
Thank you Jane. And I do agree with your central premise. That's why I've been playing various versions of Flaming Lips' "Do You Realize?" a lot in 2025.
What a beautifully written and deeply moving tribute, Tony. I'm so sorry for your personal loss, first and foremost of a cherished friend, but also of a soul whose presence clearly had such an impact beyond the music. Like so many others, I first encountered The Alarm through the Top of the Pops performances in the '80s; those anthemic songs full of belief and passion left a lasting impression. Mike's music meant a great deal, but his resilience, optimism, and tireless work for cancer causes are just extraordinary. Thank you for sharing such personal memories and reminding us of how full and purposeful a life can be, even against the hardest of odds. His legacy will live on in both melody and mission.
Thanks Tom, that was quite beautiful and chilling in return.