The music industry owes Rob Partridge a huge debt of gratitude.

Editorial Paul Williams

AS, LIKE COUNTLESS OTHERS IN THE MUSIC INDUSTRY LAST WEEK, I struggled to come to terms with the death of Rob Partridge, one of the many conversations I had with him about his illness suddenly returned to my mind.

It was characteristically Rob: defiantly facing his condition head-on and with typical black humour, as he asked me half-seriously whether, when his time finally came, he could be guaranteed a decent spread in Music Week.

A nervous laugh was the best reply I could muster at the time, but it was accompanied by the thought that, were that moment to arrive, we would struggle to find the words to do him justice. Trying to write this column now only further confirms that.

Over the 12 years since I joined Music Week, Rob and I became very close, going beyond the typical relationship of PR and journalist. This bond was initially partly forged by Rob's own memories as news editor of this magazine during a period in the early Seventies when the likes of a young, ambitious Richard Branson were on his weekly list of phone calls.

We would also meet up every so often in Hastings, the town where I grew up and where he and his wife Tina had bought a house in the old town, a place that had all the hallmarks of a perfect retirement home, not that the workaholic Rob would ever dare to entertain the idea of retiring.

But, beyond these particular commonalities, it was because of Rob himself and the kind of person he was that this friendship took hold.