I probably heard the band Low for the first time when I lived in Austin. I was spending a lot of time hanging out at a co-op house in the University area where my friend John lived. It was this huge old place, just this side of dilapidated, with a front porch, and three or four stories with room after room after room and hidden nook spaces. The house’s cracks and crevices were filled with college kids living on the cheap. The first floor, though, was all common space with high ceilings to help with the heat (there was no central AC), thrifted furniture that was always being rearranged, dust motes floating in the air above people draped over the arms of couches (there were so many couches) with textbooks and volumes of Foucault. And from the industrial kitchen just beyond the dining room with the long, long table where the house members ate together, there was always music drifting in. Some of it I knew—your Radiohead, your Built to Spill, what-have-you—but then every once in a while, something new would come up in the soundtrack to the house that caught my ear and I’d put it in my mental pocket. Low was one of those bands. While I was at the house, I probably heard “Dinosaur Act” or “Sweet Sunflower” from their Things We Lost in the Fire album that had just been released. The clean line harmonies of the singers over these deep waves and swells of guitar and bass—it was arresting. Somehow gentle and kind of raw at the same time, but altogether beautiful. A sound I’d never heard before.
I liked the band so much that I went out and bought some of their music. It became my own soundtrack for Austin that year. John and I went to see them when they came to town at a place on 6th Street called the Black Cat (a club that about a year later was coincidentally lost in a fire). I’ll never forget that show: the Black Cat was up a flight of stairs from the noise of 6th Street. A kind of dark, divey little tree house. The band was just three people: married couple Alan Sparhawk (on guitar and vocals) and Mimi Parker (drums and vocals) and a bassist (can’t remember who was touring with them then). Alan was ruggedly good looking and I remember thinking that Mimi looked nothing like anyone I’d ever seen in a band—she looked like she might be someone’s mom, or a grade school teacher. Which made her drumming while singing things like, “When they found your body/ Giant x’s on your eyes…” somehow work on a different level. She didn’t feel like an unreachable rockstar, but like someone you knew who was telling you an important story. Low was originally known for being a slowcore band, though by Things We Lost in the Fire, they were branching out with slightly faster, more driving music. They must’ve played a lot from their back catalog in this set, though, because at some point, people started sitting down on the wooden floor with their eyes closed. A roomful of hipsters who looked like they were praying or meditating, swaying as the music filled the space with harmonies that made your heart swell and then broke it.
Maybe fifteen years later, I saw Low again at a club in Houston called Walter’s. There was no opener—just a countdown clock projected onto the gray wall as we got our drinks at the bar. (Low is apparently known for starting their shows on time.) They took the stage and mesmerized the room for what felt like a bried eternity. Mimi and Alan were older, Alan still handsome but rougher around the edges and with more lines in his face, and Mimi reminding me of a now older and softer version of my second grade teacher. I was standing right in front of the bassist, Steve Garrington, the only person who kind of looked like a rockstar, clearly inspired by Ian Curtis in his black tucked in button up and gold eyeshadow. The songs spanned a huge range of emotions digging deep into darkness and soaring way up into almost happiness. They were more driving and gritty and also more gentle. And all the things in between. These people had been through a lot and it all came out in the music. No one in the audience sat down during the show this time, but the entire room was glued to the stage during the show. And when we talked to our friends after the show, it was clear we’d all experienced something weighty and spiritual together. The band broke down their own setup—no roadies. I remember feeling like I should help them pack up the van.
When I heard that Mimi died of ovarian cancer a few days ago, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I’d been following the story of her diagnosis and treatment online.
I was on the verge of tears for most of the day. And I kept feeling kind of silly—I mean, I never actually got to meet Mimi, and though I’ve been a fan for so long, I don’t even know that much about her. Still, my heart was and is broken and I keep wanting to give Alan a hug. Say, How can I help? I felt similarly when Carrie Fisher died (I officially melted into a puddle of tears when I accidentally found myself at a lightsaber vigil when we went to see The Last Jedi at the theater right after her death). Low has always felt somehow like a really big famous-y deal—they’ve been around making music that’s influenced so many other artists since the mid ‘90’s—but also very much like you could just hang out with them. I could imagine drinking coffee with Mimi next to a fireplace, shooting the shit. That’s not something that I would ever imagine with a Thom Yorke, a James Murphy, or a Carrie Brownstein (though, uh, open invitation to any of you if you’re reading!). There’s always been a sort of humility to Low—they feel like they’re your band personally. And so it feels like a personal loss that Mimi and her amazing massive, tremulous, somehow old and new school voice are gone. And it kind of makes sense: her voice has been part of my life for nearly two decades. That she’s not going to sing anymore is a profound loss for me and for the world.
I bet there’s some older language that has a word for the feeling you have over the loss of someone you never actually knew but care about deeply. Have you ever experienced a loss like this? If so, I’d love to hear your story. Drop me a line at tinyhistoriespod@gmail.com or at tinyhistoriespodcast.com.