Guardian Unlimited | Arts news | Marc Almond critically injured in crash

Soft Cell was my first great love as a band. I'd got into punk, but I kind of flitted, and was too young to really make sense of some of the themes in the music. During that period, I also developed a taste for The Beatles, trudging through a 60's housing estate on the edge of Grantham every morning delivering papers in near-permanent drizzle so I could build up their back-catalogue on vinyl. I remember listening to Revolver all the way through for the first time in hushed silence after having rushed it home from Woolworths that morning and sitting in awe as it all slotted together in my head.

But Soft Cell was the point where independence, youthful hedonism and disposable income all collided giddily. Few songs have affected me on a first hearing quite like hearing Tainted Love for the first time. No. It wasn't the "ka-dink-dink" at the beginning. It was Marc Almond's voice. He sang sharp on the second note of the song: this blew me away. Let me explain.

I did a bit of singing when I was younger and I still sing now. When I was given tuition I was always told to try and sing sharp: that way you can hit the note from the top and hit it bang on. The reason for this advice is partly because it's actually very difficult to sing sharp deliberately. And here was a singer - on a record, not by accident - doing exactly that. It lends an urgent, almost deranged air to the song: perfect for the lyrical content. It drew me in; and I never escaped. I found Marc Almond and David Ball to be not just masterful reworkers of soul songs, but songwriters with impish wit, grand passion, sumptious depth and touching, tragic empathy.

Soft Cell provided the soundtrack for my transition to manhood. Some of my contemporaries back in Lincolnshire will smirk at that. The image of me walking about in eyeliner, clad all in black, does not immediately suggest manhood. But that's manhood's problem, not mine. Marc Almond's example taught me that there's more than one way to be a man, that identities are more fluid than tradition gives the lie to. I loved the idea of being heterosexual whilst still blurring boundaries, playing with androgyny.

I found out that girls like friends they can share makeup with. And somewhere in all that I found me.

That's why this news upset me so much and has continued to since. In some ways, he felt like a role model; the big brother I wish I'd had - as wilfully, stubbornly individual as my middle sister, but male like me. I hope he gets through this. He sang the soundtrack to my growing up. I'd like him to add some more to it.

I met Marc fleetingly on a couple of occasions. A really nice guy. I didn't expect him to be, to be honest: but I was utterly surprised. And my best memories of Marc are on stage. That's where he always came alive; and not just with the music. The repartee, the banter...

Then there was the time me and Big Louise from Wavertree sang the backing vocals to Empty Eyes from our seats at a Marc and the Mambas gig in 1983. The look of stunned surprise followed by indulgent pleasure on Marc's face is probably my favourite moment at any gig ever; but I will have to elaborate on that another time.

In the meantime; get well, big brother.