Mikey Wild died the other day. He made himself a fixture around South Street and Philly punk long before I came poking around the scene in the late 80s. I really knew I was back in Philly when I ran into him about three years ago at the Record Exchange, where I ALWAYS saw him 20 years earlier. He wrote songs, played gigs, recorded records, made art, and had a very supportive and protective group of friends and fans. Despite a mental disability, he was a real showman proud of the unique abilities he had. I never saw him perform, but I picked up his first single when it came out in 1988 and, I have to say, he always seemed happier than his angry punk songs would suggest. But then again, angry punk songs make me happy too. Right on Mikey.
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