Meeting Gil Scott-Heron: A Night When a Musician Restored My Faith in Humanity

On 27 May, it will be exactly 15 years since Gil Scott-Heron passed away, and this anniversary took me back in time and made me sit down to write this story. Gil was not simply an African-American poet, musician and writer; he was one of the most powerful revolutionary voices of the 20th century. As a central figure in the civil rights movement in the United States, he used art as a weapon in the struggle for equality. Even today, his legacy as the “godfather of hip-hop” remains alive, reminding us through his sharp, uncompromising verses how the system and social injustice must be challenged.
His messages remain as relevant today as they

were then. But for me, this anniversary is more than a historical date. It is a reminder of the night when this man, through his humanity and his art, saved my soul during the darkest moments of the war in Kosovo. This piece is a belated thank you to my dear friend.

The first time I heard Gil Scott-Heron’s music was in the 1990s. It struck a deep chord with me because I belonged to a generation that had grown up fighting injustice in my home country, or at the very least, watching it unfold in real time.

In the early ’90s, I had to flee and ended up in the West. I became stateless, a product of the Balkan wars and ethnic cleansing. It was a very difficult time. The system simply did not recognise your being. You didn’t exist, and you could not do the simplest things. You were not on a drop-down menu. It was a real “the computer says no” moment.

By the mid ’90s, I made it to the UK and settled in London. I had slowly climbed the ladder of the immigration system, from a stateless person, to asylum seeker, to a proud holder of a Leave to Remain. A simple A4 sheet of paper, issued by Her Majesty Queen Liz’s Government. It had my photograph and my name on it, and as if by magic, the system now recognised me as a fellow human being. It even allowed me to remain in the country while I was being processed, much like some dubious ingredient in junk food.

Eventually, I was granted refugee status and Indefinite Leave to Remain. I even got myself a job and started studies, a BA in Film & Video at the Surrey Institute of Art and Design.

That job turned out to be a dream one. I was managing some of London’s top clubs and entertainment venues, working for Vince Power and his company, Mean Fiddler. At the time,

Mean Fiddler was one of the most influential entertainment companies in the UK, and the Jazz Café was one of its flagship venues.

As I was finishing university, the war in Bosnia had ended, but another had just begun. This time, it was in Kosovo, my homeland.

In the spring of 1999, NATO intervened to stop the butcher of the Balkans, Slobodan Milošević, and began bombing Yugoslavia/Serbia. Despite having a dream job and completing studies in a field I loved, these were among the darkest days of my life. The everyday news coming from back home was horrible: massacres, killings, rapes. For eleven days I lost all contact with my family. I had no idea whether they were alive or dead. I was in tatters.

That spring, unlike previous years, I had to cancel all my tickets for gigs, events, and even guest-list privileges. Among others, I cancelled tickets for Underworld, Faithless, Kula Shaker,

Muse, and a bunch of others. Live music was a big part of my life, and yet I had stopped going to gigs altogether. I was depressed, to say the least.

But there was one ticket, and what to do about it was keeping me awake at night. I had tickets to see Gil Scott-Heron at the Jazz Café. I was a huge admirer of his music because it was angry, revolutionary, fearless, and two fingers up to the system. Missing that gig felt impossible.

And yet, how could I go? How could I bring myself to enjoy music while my friends, my family, and my brothers and sisters were being killed on a daily basis? How could I stand there pretending I was having fun and that everything was fine?

After days of internal debates and long monologues between me, myself and I, I made a decision. I was not going to let Milošević win this battle too. I would try, at least for one night, to live something resembling a normal life.

So in mid-April 1999, I dragged myself to Camden Town, to the Jazz Café. Because I worked for the same company and knew all the staff, I arrived earlier than the usual punters. Looking back, that wasn’t a coincidence. There was a reason for it: what we would call kismet — fate.

It was a typical misty London day with light showers. When I entered, the venue was almost empty and a bit chilly. Just to the right, in the lounge area, two people were sitting. I saw Mark, the evening manager, and he was talking to the man himself.

From the very first moment, when Gil Scott-Heron asked me in that unmistakable voice of his, “Where’s the brother from? Where’s that accent from?”, there was an immediate connection. By the end of the night, it felt as though we had known each other for years.

Physically, he looked fragile. He was skinny and not in the best of health, but his presence and his aura were colossal. He was bigger than life. He was gentle, modest, and deeply human. For one night, he took my pain away. I forgot the war. I forgot my wounds. I even laughed, genuinely laughed at his jokes. More than that, this man single-handedly restored my faith in humanity at a moment when I had completely lost it.

My late grandfather, God rest his soul, used to say, “There are good people in this world, you just have to find them.” That night, in the darkest chapter of my life, I found one of the greatest souls ever to walk this earth. I felt human again.

The gig itself was extraordinary, even though it started later than planned. Mark told me stories about how, unlike any other artist who had passed through Mean Fiddler venues, Gil Scott-Heron was something else entirely. He would do stand-up comedy between sets.

Sometimes he would get so deep into the groove that he played well past licensing hours. On one occasion, council officials had turned up to check compliance and, because he simply wouldn’t stop playing, security had to escort him off the stage to protect the venue’s licence.

The tour’s motto was “Everybody’s Got a Job to Do – Let’s Work for Peace.” One of the first things he said that evening felt like a prophecy: “The only reason we can’t have peace is because you can’t make money from peace.” In one sentence, he laid bare humanity’s worst flaw. War, he reminded us, is a business.

The crowd that night, including me and some friends, other da fugees from the Balkans, was predominantly white, with few African and Asian faces. It didn’t matter, though. People danced as if gravity had been cancelled — Whitey on the Moon style.

The atmosphere was electric. “Buzzing” was the word in the late ’90s. London was buzzing indeed, and Gil was in his element. During a break, he stood alone at the front of the stage and recited new poetry he had written that very day in London. Then he launched into stand-up comedy as if there were no tomorrow. He joked about the Balkan wars, especially Bosnia. I’ve often wondered whether that was because we’d spoken earlier. Either way, it was sharp and fearless.

His best joke was about the media. He talked about how CNN would announce an event as “happening for the first time ever” and then immediately bring in an expert to analyse it. “How long,” he asked, “does it take to become an expert?”

We all expected “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised” to follow. Instead, he joked about the Jazz Café staff serving him orange juice in those awful white Tetra Pak cartons, full of preservatives and not God-given fresh juice.

Someone from the crowd shouted and heckled him, murmuring something in a drunken stupor like, “Get on with it.” Gil, super politely, just sat himself on his piano stool, raised his hand, and pointed toward the massive sign behind the band which simply said: STFU.

The venue is so intimate that you’re only inches from the stage. You could almost feel his heartbeat. Then he went straight back into the music. With backing vocals added, the place erupted. And I remember thinking: Thank God I came. This is a once-in-a-lifetime moment. This was Gil Scott-Heron lifting you to the heavens and making you forget everything.

The gig lasted over three hours. After the crowd left, we met again backstage. Drinks followed and then more talking, very late into the night. In the early hours of the morning, I crawled home and watched the morning news, returning to the misery of experiencing war from afar.

A few days later, once the night had settled in my bones, something shifted. I came out of what felt like a coma. There was new energy in me, borrowed from that man’s presence and from Gil’s humanity.
Just a few days later, together with my boss at the time, Poorang Shahabi, I had a meeting with Vince Power, the owner of Mean Fiddler, and he gave us the green light, along with his blessing and support, to organise two major events for Kosovo: charity gigs for Kosovan refugees.

Suddenly I was very busy with no time for the news. I was helping to organise these two major events at The Complex in Islington and The Forum in Kentish Town, and to this day, apart from creating my family, it remains one of the best things I have ever done.

The line-up was insane: DJs like Carl Cox, Todd Terry, Laurent Garnier, Gilles Peterson, headlining the club night at The Complex, and bands and acts like Paul Weller, Noel Gallagher, Stereophonics, Travis, and Ocean Colour Scene at The Forum.

Together, we raised enough money for the charity Kosova Aid to build three schools in three different villages back home, villages that Serbian forces had burned to the ground. I often wonder: would any of that have happened if I hadn’t gone to Gil Scott-Heron’s gig? Probably not.

A few weeks later, thanks to God and NATO high up in the sky, and the KLA down on the ground, the war ended. Peace returned to Kosovo. And as if the universe were finally making amends, my family was flown from refugee camps in Macedonia to the UK. We were reunited. We were whole again.
For years I carried a quiet guilt that I’d never properly thanked the man who helped pull me back from the edge. Then one evening, living in North London near a Northern Line station, I was walking towards the Odeon cinema in Camden, which is opposite the Jazz Café.

Just by the entrance of the venue, I saw Mark the manager chatting to a man in a hat. I said hello and shook his hand. Then the other man turned around. It was Gil Scott-Heron himself. I couldn’t believe it.
The first thing he asked me, in that special voice of his, was: “Did your folks survive the war? Did they make it out alright?”

Two years later, and he still remembered. I was stunned. He spoke to me like an old schoolmate. He looked frailer and older, but his aura was even greater. I thanked him as best I could and told him everything: how that night had changed my life, how it led to the charity gigs, and how schools were built because of it.

I did proceed with the cinema trip, but I couldn’t tell you what film I watched. I didn’t enjoy the film at all because I was so restless. Midway through, I did the unthinkable; for probably the first time, I walked out of the cinema because I couldn’t wait to see Gil again.

I went back to the Jazz Café and had the privilege of experiencing his performance once more. It was magical.

That was the last time I saw him live. I still pinch myself whenever I tell this story, just to make sure it really happened. I will never tire of telling it.
The world, now more than ever, needs people like him. A man of peace. A giant of conscience. The great Gil Scott-Heron.

God bless you, wherever you are, my friend.