Thanks again to Jeremy Gluck for sending me this...I tried to post it yesterday but had difficulties using Facebook. Best wishes for 2015 to everyone. Dead Radio: Rowland S Howard’s Wavelengths of the Underworld Where do you begin with death? Far from an ending it is the gesture the ambiguity of which dwarfs all others, save perhaps birth. Why, after about twenty years – despite our cult legendary collaboration – should the death of Rowland S Howard matter overly to me? We spoke last on the day I broke to him the news of Nikki Sudden’s death, shared our shock, commiserated over Nikki’s lovely parents’ loss of both their sons, without the forgiveness and redemption of grandchildren to comfort them. They were dedicated artists, the four who, along with myself and Andy Bean, made “I Knew Buffalo Bill”. Already I had a young daughter, but Nikki, his brother Epic Soundtracks, Rowland and Jeffrey Lee Pierce (who I only met briefly before and during the sessions) had no children between them. I won’t pretend that Rowland and I had much personal chemistry; he once bemused me when, in rehearsal, in retort to my calling his playing “wacky” he said that if I repeated it he would impale my child’s head on his machineheads. Where do I begin to unwind this death? In ‘82 I guess my friend the legendary old school PR Chris Carr told me an amazing new band from Australia had unwashed up on these shores. I went and saw The Birthday Party and was smitten by their Down Under on the Street Stooges meets the Wall of Death routine. And there was Rowland S Howard in his suspect raincoat, casting out leads like a feral and conniving conservator of guitar souls. Of course the Party were astounding and I duly interviewed them for SOUNDS. Rowland and Nick Cave were polite, articulate and almost too smart for their onstage aural abbatoir. The wheel turned. It was 1986, autumn. Over the years Nikki and I had discussed, planned and written songs for an eventual collaboration. Nikki was working his music full-time; I was writing and raising my kid. One day Nikki calls pretty much out of the blue and says he is in Fairport Dave Pegg’s lush Woodworm Studio recording with Epic and Rowland, and do I want to tack a week on and do an album? I started packing. When I arrived at the studio one gorgeous afternoon the band had just laid down the backing track to Nikki’s remarkably beautiful “Gallery Wharf”. I was awed and enchanted. I still love that song and my good fortune in performing its only recorded incarnation is humbling. Anyhow, we broke for lunch and Nikki and Rowland were tight, joking about Rowland’s father Jock and calling each other “mate”. I was a little on the outside but it was okay. I was in awe of Rowland as a musician and we were such different people I didn’t expect more than functional contact. Standing and watching – hearing – Rowland do his parts to our songs is one of my enduring memories as an artist. He was incredible. It was more than improvisation; it was like the tearing of veils between musical realities. That he was one of the greatest guitarists of his generation is beyond question. My luck in working with him is beyond belief. Once only Rowland stopped by my place at the time, my very prim and proper ex-wife notably disturbed by his demi-monde mien. He was like that and I think he kind of enjoyed it; I may be wrong. We did a few small gigs and people would be hollering for “Shivers”, which he begrudgingly appreciated. I wanted to do more but it never panned out. We finished “Buffalo Bill” and proceeded soon to an EP, “Burning Skulls Rise”. Rowland liked the title track and eventually covered it with Lydia Lunch. And there we pretty much lost contact. I did run into him once when he told me had pickpocketed my debut novel to read. He had a perversity about him, Rowland, that was actually endearing. I never got to know, as Nikki did, who he was at depth, but the surface was always fascinating. Then two days ago or so I found out Rowland had died. I knew he was again very ill. I have gotten used to these goings, and it didn’t really hit me until the next day. I did clock the fact that of the six of us who made the album four were now dead. Myself and Nikki’s longtime friend Andy Bean survive. Over the years “I Knew Buffalo Bill” has acquired a minor cachet. The unusual combination of players and pieces, and some great production, have earned it a niche all its own. It seems unreal to me now that four of them are gone. Great artists, wonderful characters, dedicated journeymen. I don’t ask why I am still here, what would be the point in that and, in any case, I know the answer: For them. I live for the dead sometimes now. To work for them, to celebrate them. I want to record some songs Rowland wrote, covered, whatever. His small body of work is incredibly important: listen to “King of Kalifornia” or his cover of “Don’t Explain” – my favourites from his canon – and you hear a rider of his own whirlwind in sound, almost a philosopher, wisdom filtered through bewitching technical command of his instrument, and a soul in collision with more than one god but afraid of none. Rowland S Howard played brave and important music engaged by his head and heart. I never really knew or understood him, but I am privileged to be a footnote in his discography. And to survive him, if only to tell you that, as you know, there is a certain kind of artist who defies description. Can there be any higher praise?
Posted on: Wed, 31 Dec 2014 12:52:34 +0000