My husband Andy Gill was a musician's musician, not a household name, but influential. Last year, as he lay in an intensive care unit, I sat with members of his band Gang of Four as they prepared a statement for release after his death. The statement would trigger an insistency of calls and messages: from friends, shocked by the headlines before I could warn them, reporters demanding quotes and, on my first morning of widowhood, an inconsolable fan, who somehow obtained my private number.
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