When Rowland S Howard left this “planet of perpetual sorrow” (to quote his own words) two years ago he was overshadowed by the deaths of others less talented and the general new year festivities. Not for me, naturally, I was inconsolable for a few days. As much as I enjoy these festivities moping over deceased Australian cult icons is one of my hobbies I'll prioritise over anything. Now it’s two years later and I'm still a little annoyed about how it went down. Especially at this time of year, the thoughts return.
How is it that Rowland hasn't received all the posthumous garlands and “I was always into him” claims that others, less talented both subjectively and objectively, have received? While dying at 50 isn't exactly the poignant entry to the Forever 27 club vultures and hacks salivate over, his was still a tragic enough death - dying of a disease he was too poor to be treated for days before he was due to Make A Comeback. So why hasn't he received the posthumous praise that'd make me shut up, or moan about that instead?
For the last two years now I've been writing posts on blogs no one reads, eulogies to Mr Howard. See, he was my Johnny Cash, my Diana, and his death taught me something about empathy. No one wanted to be the one to tell me that Rowland S Howard had died. To recap, Rowland S Howard was one of the best guitarists to walk the earth. Objectively. There was no heads down ponytailed blues rock wanking or bursts of "Look mummy no originality" shredding. He could do divebombing art terrorist sheets of noise and feedback, though, nd he could do it without recourse to FX pedals or anything more than a White Fender Jaguar and a small amp. He could make the damned thing peal out sheets of noise as melody and melody as noise that could bring tears to a statue. Nevermind making the baby Jesus cry - his tone made the baby Jesus real.
Then there's the voice. He was, in an age of X Factor wannabes a great interpreter. A voice that made White Wedding sound properly sinister and sexy and out Lou Reeds Reed himself on a cover of the Velvets' Ocean. He turned Life's What You Make It into the cry of a man aware of his own mortality that left me sobbing - although Pop Crimes only came out after his death over here and context is often everything. He turned those clogged pipes onto songs about lust, death, love, lust, death, theft, lust, death, religion lust and death and made every cussed word as beautiful and tarnished as you could imagine.
He was also a great songwriter, writing the love songs that they play in singing greeting cards in some Bible belt nightmare of hell. No one else on the planet sounds like him, and plenty of us have had a good go at it. Even down to the looks, something that should be irrelevant that isn't - an androgynous face with a boxer's broken nose in the middle of it. Onstage with The Birthday Party the flailing and the jump backwards. When Nick Cave is going around fighting people and Tracey Pew is in leather trousers and a cowboy hat humping his bass, still being the most fascinating thing onstage is quite an achievement - but he was. Right up to the end.
I wrote the bulk of this a while ago before they'd started paying attention and realised what they'd lost but gradually it happened. There's a film about him, Autoluminescent and just seeing the trailer reduces me to a snivelling wreck - could be one to watch alone, its unlikely it'll hit any cinemas near me anyway. Australia's Homebake festival now has a Rowland S Howard stage. Two years on, though, and he's still not had proper tribute paid by the rest of the world, and he touched us too. The serious music press are celebrating either the emperor's new clothes or tried and tested coverstars ranging in age from The Strolling Bones to the Arctic Monkeys (!!!). I'm going to write a tribute to the man every year whether anyone but me reads it or not. The Horrors, Yeah Yeah Yeahs and S.C.U.M, acts the critics are dribbling over at the moment - none of them could exist without him. Nick Cave's career would definitely be different, as without him The Birthday Party would've been just another goth band. I realise its blasphemy even as I write it and they'd be a bloody good goth band, but still.....
There's no time to celebrate mediocrity. We'll all be dust ourselves at some point.
How is it that Rowland hasn't received all the posthumous garlands and “I was always into him” claims that others, less talented both subjectively and objectively, have received? While dying at 50 isn't exactly the poignant entry to the Forever 27 club vultures and hacks salivate over, his was still a tragic enough death - dying of a disease he was too poor to be treated for days before he was due to Make A Comeback. So why hasn't he received the posthumous praise that'd make me shut up, or moan about that instead?
For the last two years now I've been writing posts on blogs no one reads, eulogies to Mr Howard. See, he was my Johnny Cash, my Diana, and his death taught me something about empathy. No one wanted to be the one to tell me that Rowland S Howard had died. To recap, Rowland S Howard was one of the best guitarists to walk the earth. Objectively. There was no heads down ponytailed blues rock wanking or bursts of "Look mummy no originality" shredding. He could do divebombing art terrorist sheets of noise and feedback, though, nd he could do it without recourse to FX pedals or anything more than a White Fender Jaguar and a small amp. He could make the damned thing peal out sheets of noise as melody and melody as noise that could bring tears to a statue. Nevermind making the baby Jesus cry - his tone made the baby Jesus real.
Then there's the voice. He was, in an age of X Factor wannabes a great interpreter. A voice that made White Wedding sound properly sinister and sexy and out Lou Reeds Reed himself on a cover of the Velvets' Ocean. He turned Life's What You Make It into the cry of a man aware of his own mortality that left me sobbing - although Pop Crimes only came out after his death over here and context is often everything. He turned those clogged pipes onto songs about lust, death, love, lust, death, theft, lust, death, religion lust and death and made every cussed word as beautiful and tarnished as you could imagine.
He was also a great songwriter, writing the love songs that they play in singing greeting cards in some Bible belt nightmare of hell. No one else on the planet sounds like him, and plenty of us have had a good go at it. Even down to the looks, something that should be irrelevant that isn't - an androgynous face with a boxer's broken nose in the middle of it. Onstage with The Birthday Party the flailing and the jump backwards. When Nick Cave is going around fighting people and Tracey Pew is in leather trousers and a cowboy hat humping his bass, still being the most fascinating thing onstage is quite an achievement - but he was. Right up to the end.
I wrote the bulk of this a while ago before they'd started paying attention and realised what they'd lost but gradually it happened. There's a film about him, Autoluminescent and just seeing the trailer reduces me to a snivelling wreck - could be one to watch alone, its unlikely it'll hit any cinemas near me anyway. Australia's Homebake festival now has a Rowland S Howard stage. Two years on, though, and he's still not had proper tribute paid by the rest of the world, and he touched us too. The serious music press are celebrating either the emperor's new clothes or tried and tested coverstars ranging in age from The Strolling Bones to the Arctic Monkeys (!!!). I'm going to write a tribute to the man every year whether anyone but me reads it or not. The Horrors, Yeah Yeah Yeahs and S.C.U.M, acts the critics are dribbling over at the moment - none of them could exist without him. Nick Cave's career would definitely be different, as without him The Birthday Party would've been just another goth band. I realise its blasphemy even as I write it and they'd be a bloody good goth band, but still.....
There's no time to celebrate mediocrity. We'll all be dust ourselves at some point.
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