Black Midi’s Matt Kwasniewski-Kelvin: Inside The Tragedy That Shook London’s Rock Scene

Mia Reynolds, 1/13/2026The article reflects on the tragic loss of Black Midi's Matt Kwasniewski-Kelvin, a creative pioneer in experimental rock, highlighting his artistic journey and impact. It emphasizes the importance of mental health awareness and the need to support one another amidst grief, urging readers to take the time to connect with loved ones.

When his family spoke through Rough Trade, each word felt leaden. “A talented musician and a kind, loving man finally succumbed…” reads the statement—less PR boilerplate than a lighthouse beam, shining through the unkind haze of loss. It’s not just for him. The plea is for every quiet voice in a crowd, the ones carrying battles nobody sees: “Please take a moment to check in with your loved ones so we can stop this happening to our young men.”

Matt’s musical journey started before the London venues, back in living rooms and garages, the classic story—watching his dad’s party band rehearse, probably sneaking finger exercises between bites of dinner. By twelve, sitting in on blues standards, easing into pop jams, each solo a little braver than the last. This wasn’t overnight success, just the slow-growing restlessness that’s practically a rite of passage for any artist worth their salt.

Years later, the BRIT School—ever the cradle for British talent—set the stage for Matt to meet Geordie Greep, Cameron Picton, and Morgan Simpson. Their collective ambition was less about perfecting a formula than about cracking it open and letting the weirdness pour out. And when Black Midi first roared onto the scene in Brixton, calling what they did a gig was almost misleading. It was more like being caught in a flash flood, each member jostling for air, pushing their instruments past reasonable limits.

The early days in South London weren’t pretty, but that’s almost the point. Matt’s guitar could yank the whole room from rowdy punk hooks to impenetrable walls of noise, drifting into drone improvisations that would leave even seasoned listeners wondering what on earth comes next. The band, along with other South London players—think Black Country, New Road, Jerskin Fendrix, Shame—made the scene unpredictable. All those jagged edges and sudden silences; it was as if punk, jazz, and experimental rock had started a bar fight and everyone left bruised but wiser.

By 2019, Black Midi had something to say. Schlagenheim dropped like a gauntlet. Produced by Dan Carey—whose fingerprints can be traced across the scrappiest corners of the UK indie map—the album wasn’t content to rest in one genre’s pocket. It pressed and shuffled, layering anxiety with raw beauty. Reviewers couldn’t scribble fast enough, grasping for adjectives that halfway did it justice.

And yet, for all the heady energy, storms brewed quietly offstage. When Cavalcade arrived in 2021, Matt was absent—a brief, vulnerable message went out about his mental health struggles. Unvarnished, honest. The band answered with simple loyalty, “We’re all fully behind our best mate in his recovery,” a stark contrast to the competitive mythos that so often hounds the music industry. It’s the sort of support that, even in 2025, can still feel rare in the glare of public attention.

Maybe the industry needed that reminder, though—the myth of the bulletproof artist rarely holds up under daylight. Matt’s public step back did not erase his imprint. One-off appearances persisted—a guest spot on Wu-Lu’s Loggerhead in ‘22, pop-up gigs where, it’s said, the fretwork was as wild as ever. By all accounts, he remained a wellspring of kindness and mischief, even with the amplifier turned down.

News of his death hit London’s musical circles hard. The mix of gratitude and grief is hard to untangle; there’s a sense that, alongside all the music Matt gave, there’s a shadow of everything he might still have brought into the world. The ripples of his playing—chaotic, intricate—will be surfacing for years, sneaking up in guitar tones or a wildcard live set.

What lingers, perhaps more stubborn than any riff, is that message Matt’s family and label placed front and center: a direct call to look out for one another, to reach past the static and really listen. The reminders that circle in statements from Mind, CALM, Samaritans—they shouldn’t still be necessary, but as the years roll on, the need doesn't seem to fade. Too many still read those lines and pause, knowing someone—or maybe more than one—for whom the world has recently grown heavier.

There’s something bittersweet in the lasting memory of Black Midi’s furious energy, the band now partly defined by open-hearted concern over careerist sloganeering. “Please take a moment to check in with your loved ones,” Matt’s family urged. And in the aftermath, that simple refrain echoes far beyond press releases or social media tributes. The music lives on, as does the ache beneath it.

Sometimes, listening through the static, the fuzz, the final notes fading into an empty room—it’s the quiet that stays with you. Not always with answers, but with a memory to care for. In 2025, as crowds drift home from another wave of festivals and club nights, that’s worth holding on to.

There are stories in music that seem almost impossible to repackage, painful as an old wound: the sound of a guitar howling through the hush, the echo of something unfinished when the stage goes dark. That sort of ache runs right through the news of Matt Kwasniewski-Kelvin’s passing—a creative force behind Black Midi, gone at just 26. In a genre that feeds on chaos and innovation, Matt helped throw open the doors of experimental British rock, torch in one hand and a distortion pedal never too far from the other.When his family spoke through Rough Trade, each word felt leaden. “A talented musician and a kind, loving man finally succumbed…” reads the statement—less PR boilerplate than a lighthouse beam, shining through the unkind haze of loss. It’s not just for him. The plea is for every quiet voice in a crowd, the ones carrying battles nobody sees: “Please take a moment to check in with your loved ones so we can stop this happening to our young men.”Matt’s musical journey started before the London venues, back in living rooms and garages, the classic story—watching his dad’s party band rehearse, probably sneaking finger exercises between bites of dinner. By twelve, sitting in on blues standards, easing into pop jams, each solo a little braver than the last. This wasn’t overnight success, just the slow-growing restlessness that’s practically a rite of passage for any artist worth their salt.Years later, the BRIT School—ever the cradle for British talent—set the stage for Matt to meet Geordie Greep, Cameron Picton, and Morgan Simpson. Their collective ambition was less about perfecting a formula than about cracking it open and letting the weirdness pour out. And when Black Midi first roared onto the scene in Brixton, calling what they did a gig was almost misleading. It was more like being caught in a flash flood, each member jostling for air, pushing their instruments past reasonable limits.The early days in South London weren’t pretty, but that’s almost the point. Matt’s guitar could yank the whole room from rowdy punk hooks to impenetrable walls of noise, drifting into drone improvisations that would leave even seasoned listeners wondering what on earth comes next. The band, along with other South London players—think Black Country, New Road, Jerskin Fendrix, Shame—made the scene unpredictable. All those jagged edges and sudden silences; it was as if punk, jazz, and experimental rock had started a bar fight and everyone left bruised but wiser.By 2019, Black Midi had something to say. Schlagenheim dropped like a gauntlet. Produced by Dan Carey—whose fingerprints can be traced across the scrappiest corners of the UK indie map—the album wasn’t content to rest in one genre’s pocket. It pressed and shuffled, layering anxiety with raw beauty. Reviewers couldn’t scribble fast enough, grasping for adjectives that halfway did it justice.And yet, for all the heady energy, storms brewed quietly offstage. When Cavalcade arrived in 2021, Matt was absent—a brief, vulnerable message went out about his mental health struggles. Unvarnished, honest. The band answered with simple loyalty, “We’re all fully behind our best mate in his recovery,” a stark contrast to the competitive mythos that so often hounds the music industry. It’s the sort of support that, even in 2025, can still feel rare in the glare of public attention.Maybe the industry needed that reminder, though—the myth of the bulletproof artist rarely holds up under daylight. Matt’s public step back did not erase his imprint. One-off appearances persisted—a guest spot on Wu-Lu’s Loggerhead in ‘22, pop-up gigs where, it’s said, the fretwork was as wild as ever. By all accounts, he remained a wellspring of kindness and mischief, even with the amplifier turned down.News of his death hit London’s musical circles hard. The mix of gratitude and grief is hard to untangle; there’s a sense that, alongside all the music Matt gave, there’s a shadow of everything he might still have brought into the world. The ripples of his playing—chaotic, intricate—will be surfacing for years, sneaking up in guitar tones or a wildcard live set.What lingers, perhaps more stubborn than any riff, is that message Matt’s family and label placed front and center: a direct call to look out for one another, to reach past the static and really listen. The reminders that circle in statements from Mind, CALM, Samaritans—they shouldn’t still be necessary, but as the years roll on, the need doesn't seem to fade. Too many still read those lines and pause, knowing someone—or maybe more than one—for whom the world has recently grown heavier.There’s something bittersweet in the lasting memory of Black Midi’s furious energy, the band now partly defined by open-hearted concern over careerist sloganeering. “Please take a moment to check in with your loved ones,” Matt’s family urged. And in the aftermath, that simple refrain echoes far beyond press releases or social media tributes. The music lives on, as does the ache beneath it.Sometimes, listening through the static, the fuzz, the final notes fading into an empty room—it’s the quiet that stays with you. Not always with answers, but with a memory to care for. In 2025, as crowds drift home from another wave of festivals and club nights, that’s worth holding on to.