By JESSICA CARRASCALAO HEARD

It was 8.30am. I was doing my usual Gen-Y-ish, last-Facebook-scroll before work, when my newsfeed punched me in the soul.

Jon English was dead.

Devastated and disbelieving, I slowly sat down. How could this beloved, purple-panted, influential figure of my musical childhood be gone forever?

This grief may seem peculiar coming from someone like me. Born in the mid-1980s, I’m too young to be familiar with English’s critically acclaimed performance as Judas in Jesus Christ Superstar. Only faintly do I remember his subsequent time as an Aussie music icon.

My love for English, similar to that of many Gen-Yers, stems from a performance he gave in the mid-1990s.

In a genre far removed from his gritty musical background, English starred as the ever-memorable and hysterical Pirate King in Essgee Entertainment’s version of Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Pirates of Penzance.

Originally staged in the 1980s to critical acclaim, the Essgee Pirates was revived in the mid-1990s, televised during prime time on the ABC.

Starring English as the Pirate King, with Essgee Entertainment’s CEO and tenor Simon Gallagher as Frederic, coloratura soprano Helen Donaldson as Mabel and Toni Lamond as Ruth, The Pirates of Penzance introduced many children and adults to the world of theatre, of operetta, and the genius of Gilbert and Sullivan. 

When it aired, my family, like many others, gathered around our TV. I was initially dubious. Though I loved to sing, I, like many children, was suspicious of any television I had to watch because my parents said so.

But in the space of five minutes, with pirates bursting on to the stage in tumbles, acrobatics and flawlessly raucous singing, I was captivated.

Essgee’s approach to this often stiff and traditional genre was to keep the integrity of Gilbert’s libretto and Sullivan’s score intact, while freshening it up with more modern musical theatre styling and physical comedy, along with a dash of Australian-ness in its self-deprecatory delivery.

It was clear from beginning to end that you were meant to laugh. Through Gilbert’s witty dialogue and Essgee’s additional lashings of slapstick, even as a child who didn’t understand half of the 19^th century words used in the dialogue, I found it hysterically funny.

English’s performance was key to the show’s success, the link between the old and new, the staid and the funny, the classical and the rock, the British and the Aussie. 

Musically, while Gallagher, Donaldson and the chorus of pirates sang in prim and flawless operetta style, English ripped through each of his songs with his rough rocker belt, like a Harley through a Rolls-Royce dealership.

While Gallagher’s Frederick was earnest, shy and bound by his sense of duty, English’s Pirate King swaggered across the stage, self-assured in his iconic purple pants, which was the only thing louder and more rambunctious than him.

While all the pirates, police and maidens were tightly choreographed, the Pirate King swung on ropes, broke the fourth wall, picked fights with the musical director (and stole his baton), fainted, fell over, did multiple tricks with his rapier with painful results, randomly cartwheeled, kissed the girls, pulled open his shirt and bared his chest to wild cheering and, when the audience applauded a musical number or a joke, implored them to stop because, he insisted, “WE HAVEN’T FINISHED YET!”

A consummate performer.

By the end of the show, I believed my life had somehow changed for the better.

I could see yesterday that I was not the only one who was touched. As the day progressed, my social media feeds filled with tributes and messages from others my age and younger. Everyone from amateur and community choristers, to mid-range musicians like me, right up to up-and-coming professionals in music, had one message: Thank you.

Thank you, Jon. Thank you for being an inspiration to me and so many others my age, and for giving me a life-long love of theatre, of acting and singing, of Gilbert and Sullivan. 

And, of course, of purple pants.

Rock in peace.