I’d planned to post this weekend about my recent trip to Atlanta for the newly discovered Shaky Knees Festival, but that got scuttled by the terrible news that Frightened Rabbit frontman Scott Hutchison had first gone missing several days ago and then was found dead yesterday, an apparent suicide. It’s stunning to an extent — like so many folks posting in the wake of the news, I’d seen him recently for the wonderful anniversary tour of Midnight Organ Fight and he was his warm, jokey self onstage — but for those who love the band, it also isn’t a total surprise. Hutchison had long battled a range of demons, whether depression and heartache or drugs and alcohol, laying his struggles bare in his confessional lyrics. It’s partly what made so many fall in love with the band — you easily identified with either those particular difficulties or the bravery and honesty it took for him to sing about them in public every night. And that’s what’s so saddening — that despite what seemed like a bedrock solid support network of his bandmates (which includes his brother Grant), fellow musicians (both in his native Glasgow and here in the States, all of whom are posting their regrets online), and the perpetual outpouring of love from fans night after night, it still wasn’t enough.
As someone who hasn’t had the sunniest backstory himself (despite my nickname and cheery demeanor), I understood Hutchison from the outset — a bearded Scotsman occasionally plagued by dark and stormy moods, but who refused to be defeated by them, taking the piss out of the situation (and himself) with a dry, at times devastating sense of humor. It was like finding you had a twin — albeit a funnier, nicer, and far more talented one. My discovery of him (and the band) came with that beloved second album, like so many other folks. It being ten years ago I no longer remember the specific song that blew open the hatches for me — “Keep Yourself Warm” or “Heads Roll Off” probably — but I clearly remember that mix of stark honesty, seething heartache, and blistering humor that filled both those songs and so many others on that album (“Poke,” “Backwards Walk,” “The Twist,” etc.) resonated like a cannon shot, being in the midst of a similarly imploding relationship at the time. It was a combination that would become the band’s hallmark and it was a connection that only deepened over the subsequent decade.
And that’s what’s been running through my mind the last 24 hours as I try to process the loss of this tremendous talent (and seemingly wonderful human) and the end of a much beloved band. It’s those moments we’ve shared over the years and seeing what this band means to me shared with (and by) so many others. It’s that first show ten years ago in the same dark, dingy room I saw them in two months ago, singing songs that made your heart soar (then and now). It’s that show back home in Chicago, outside in the park with 50 people at a festival singing their heads off after a heavy rain. It’s seeing the crowds grow from those humble beginnings to the giant masses seen at any number of shows since then, selling out far bigger venues in recent years. It’s seeing two of your best friends fall in love to (and with) this band in both their early years. It’s seeing your wife latch onto the band (something she rarely does outside Adele and Bieber), potentially identifying those similarly fetching (and vexing) traits in Hutchison that she had in the guy next to her. It’s seeing a room full of strangers come together in a moment of pure exhilaration, time and time again, clapping and shouting at the end of “The Loneliness and the Scream” like they just won the World Cup.
The constant for every one of those memories (and evenings) is their being filled with people singing along to these songs — loudly, joyfully, and without abandon. These songs of love, loss, hope — and what turns out to be just a little too much hurt, if only for the man that wrote them.
This is a really sad day and a really big loss — here’s to hoping he finally found the quiet that he needed, beyond the gaze of what bothered him here on the ground.