Larry Queen passed away on Nov. 7 in Greensboro, N.C. The news of his death spread quickly among his legion of friends, people he connected with across the country, from his time in Greensboro, Charleston, New York City and Los Angeles. Back in the ’90s, he attended the College of Charleston, surfed endless waves at the Washout, made thousands of authentic connections and helped establish the City Paper as its first music editor. 

To me, he was like an elf. And not just because of his (queen-sized) stature, but because there was a magical quality to him. He would just appear randomly at my office. We’d have an incredible conversation, he’d pitch a great story idea and then I wouldn’t know how to get in touch with him. 

Queen | Credit: Violeta Alvarez

Weeks would go by, and he’d just appear again, ready to start writing. He wrote his first City Paper cover story about the 1997 Wavefest, the legendary music festival put on by the independent radio station 96 Wave. That was when I learned about his writing style and his deadline-violating ways. He agonized over every word and comma. And he literally never hit a deadline. I would have to force him to sit still and write. It was a maddening process, but, lucky for him, it always resulted in a great story.

Larry, or LQ as we called him around the office, was iconic for many reasons — his size, his surfer dude lilt, his long coconut-infused curls andhis love of Jody Porter (most famously the guitarist for Fountains of Wayne) But I’d say he was most iconic for his ability to connect. He connected me personally to an entire community of musicians, artists, surfers, randomly brilliant people and even street characters, the people you’d see every day but kept your distance from. Larry not only knew their names, but he knew their circumstances and their history. He was kind and caring, treating even those most down on their luck with dignity.

Another sterling quality of his was the pride he took in his friends. When he believed in your talent, he’d shine a light of adoration your way. And it never flickered. (I wrote that last sentence just for him. Larry loved a literary flourish!)

I truly believe he was my biggest fan ever. I think that’s how a lot of his friends feel. Besides two of his most uber-talented and accomplished friends — musician Jody Porter and artist Shepard Fairey — he would talk about me and the City Paper, and a local musician whose show he caught the other night, and the guy who’s opening a new bar, and the friend who’s studying for her Ph.D., all in the same way. He was unabashed in his appreciation. What a sublime quality to have. No wonder he had so many friends. 

The Charleston that Larry introduced me to during my first few months in town guided the City Paper’s editorial point of view. We weren’t going to write about the old guard. We would focus on the vibrant music and art scene that had grown alongside the massive success of Hootie and the Blowfish. The level of talent and creativity was bursting at the seams. And who was shining a light on that? And how could we be part of that growth? Serious coverage and criticism were what I loved about Atlanta’s alt-weekly Creative Loafing, and it’s how I wanted to cover Charleston’s scene. Larry was an integral part of that. He interviewed hundreds of people, wrote profiles and reviews, and still never once made deadline.   

I wanted to include other anecdotes about Larry and the impact he had on people, but there are too many. I’ve received so many messages over the last few days from people just like me – friends who are incredibly saddened at his sudden passing at the age of 58. All of us were flooded with memories of a singular human who touched so many lives in so many ways. You are gone way too soon, my friend. RIP LQ.

West Ashley resident Stephanie Barna is former editor and part-owner of the Charleston City Paper.

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