All the Debris — Songs of Owls and Rabbits

Had a strange moment of connection this past weekend.  In the days running up to it I’d been intermittently listening to old Frightened Rabbit records (it had been a couple cold, rainy days, which is perfect Rabbit weather) and been thinking “you know, I should do one of the old “One You Should Know” posts about these guys — they’re underappreciated favorites,” but it wasn’t until Sunday that anything abnormal occurred.

I woke up that morning with one of their songs in my head — again, nothing odd here (the line from “Poke” was rolling around — “it’s got lots to do with magnets and the pull of the moon”) — but over the course of the day I kept thinking about the band.  Old shows I’d been to, the odd pride I felt when they played the big room on the tour for their last album, having spent years enjoying them in the smaller, more intimate venues. Mostly it was a sense of melancholy, though, and thoughts about what could have been.

Those feelings on their own aren’t exceptionally odd, often coming part and parcel whenever a song or album of theirs comes on shuffle.  The number of times they popped up over the course of the day was what was odd. It wasn’t until late Sunday night that I decided to do a search and that’s when I realized it was the unfortunate anniversary of lead singer Scott Hutchison’s death.  Which I know makes no logical sense — I (sadly) never met the man, nor anyone else in the band, so there’s no rational reason I would think about him on that day. (Unless it’s a Scottish thing and we’re all subconsciously connected by our Viking heritage, which might actually be true as evidenced by my obsession with that place when I was living overseas, going there repeatedly — the only place I did that — only to later find out that’s where my family was from…)

Except in some small, perfect way maybe it does make sense.  Hutchison often sang about the inexplicable aspects of love and life — the inability to explain one’s feelings for another or to walk away from them, to change one’s behavior and break certain cycles, to stop believing in something and accept defeat. This indefatigable romanticism and resilience (and the at times breathtakingly honest way he spoke of them) were hallmarks of his lyrics, so maybe it isn’t so strange. Maybe it makes total sense for a stranger halfway around the world to think about and lament the passing of another on that exact, unfortunate anniversary. That this hasn’t happened for anyone I’ve actually known and lost might be irrelevant.  Maybe it’s as simple and undeniable as he said — it’s got lots to do with magnets and the pull of the moon.

That unseen reality could help explain the passionate esteem so many fans (and artists) hold for this band.  To know about them almost guarantees a reverence that borders on religious. Folks tend to not just like this band — they LOVE them, and do so in a fervent, unrestrained way that Hutchison might sing about in one of his songs.  It’s the reckless, visceral feeling of your first love or of finding some sunken treasure and wanting to share the splendor with everyone around you. It doesn’t happen often and isn’t felt lightly, but it’s infectious.

It’s what made going to see the band live this incredible, cathartic experience. One minute you’re singing full-throatedly about anxiety or loss, the next about optimism and joy or laughing at Hutchison’s jokes between songs. By the time they were done they’d filled the room with so many colors and emotions it was like having gone to therapy and a wedding while Jackson Pollack painted everyone souvenirs. You’d stagger out of the club warmer, lighter, and giddier than when you arrived, whether you’d been drinking or not.

In short, it was magical. That a tiny band from Scotland could affect you so strongly, so deeply, and so regularly didn’t make logical sense, but it didn’t have to — you felt it just the same.  A large part of that was due to Hutchison’s lyrics and the uncomfortable, scathing honesty within them. The vulnerability he showed drew you in immediately, either to sympathize or to relate.

I always think about where to tell people to start with a band, what song or album to listen to if they’re going to give them a try and see everything they have to offer. There’s a dozen different places you could start with these guys, but I think the trio in the middle of their beloved Midnight Organ Fight is the place to go.  They’re three of the band’s most revered songs and I think they chose to sequence them right in a row for a reason.

In those three songs you progress from resilient optimism to anguished desperation and withering bitterness (with some humor scattered in to alternately sharpen and blunt the blows). These are classic landmarks for anyone who’s had a relationship sour and fray, but also key facets of Hutchison’s personality (I suspect) and thus a perfect triptych for what the band represents. (Hard-headed optimism, intense emotion, and cutting humor and bitterness being key traits of another beloved Scotsman I know…)

In what’s become a posthumous anthem of Hutchison’s legacy, “Heads Roll Off” represents that resilience and the need to make something of our time here on earth. “While I’m alive, I’ll make tiny changes to earth,” he sings in a song dealing with mortality and religion. After his death his family turned these words into the mission statement for a foundation focused on mental health for young folks and people regularly post pictures of stickers with the phrase/Scott’s face on Instagram, doing their small part to beautify places around the world. It’s a lovely tribute for someone who struggled so openly and honestly with this issue — and yet still seemed so determined to get past it and move on.

“My Backwards Walk” moves to a failing (failed?) relationship and another of those scenarios where you can’t seem to make progress, no matter what you try. The lyrics are among my absolute favorites, both funny and devastating, as Hutchison tries to make sense of what’s happening and which way to go. Should I stay or should I go? Are we together or are we through? Do I still care or don’t I? The duality of the situation makes it immediately recognizable and also irresistible. “I’m working on erasing you, I just don’t have the proper tools.” “I’m working hard on walking out…my clothes won’t let me close the door.” By the time he gets to the climax at the end you feel like you’ve lived the anguish yourself and are just as unsure what to do about it as he is. (“You’re the sh#$ and I’m knee-deep in it.”) Is it catharsis or sarcasm? Hopeful or hostile?

The final wing is much more unambiguous — “Keep Yourself Warm” is brutal honesty about the emptiness of pointless, meaningless sex.  “You won’t find love in a, won’t find love in a hole — it takes more than fu#$ing someone to keep yourself warm.” What makes it so interesting is you can’t tell whether that hammer is meant for the singer himself, squarely smacking him in the face as he stares in the mirror, or the previous song’s love who’s now left him behind. It’s a powerful sentiment either way, sung with Hutchison’s signature cleverness and directness.

These three songs harness everything I love about this band and miss so dearly about its singer — the honesty, the humor, the humility and hope. They’re packed full of them, as well as really good harmonies and hooks courtesy of the rest of the band. They released five studio albums in their too-short career, along with a handful of solid EPs, all of which are worth listens. (Hutchison also had a good solo album under the moniker Owl John and a side project with his brother Grant (and a few lads from the Editors) as Mastersystem.)

They’re a really special band, one that forges a connection far stronger than simple explanation (or most other acts) and that’s likely why I found myself thinking about them so much last weekend, logical or not. I was thinking about two of my favorite shows — one under the shady canopy of trees back home at Lollapalooza, standing ten feet from the band with 100 other people, wondering if they felt as lucky as I did (and if the other people walking by knew what they were missing). The other turned out to be the last time I saw them, on the anniversary tour for the aforementioned Organ Fight. The room was maybe a little more crowded than at that first show ten years prior, jovially packed into my favorite club in town, with folks exuberantly singing along to each of the album’s tracks.

It was a wonderful night, one that made the news a few months later so jarring. Scott seemed so happy that night, cracking jokes throughout the set and bantering with the crowd like I’d seen so many times before. He seemed truly humbled by the reception to the album and the band over the years, thanking us multiple times over the course of the night. To know that he was still struggling with the feelings that ultimately took him away is really sad and hard to reconcile with the person we saw onstage. I suppose that’s the cruel reality for folks grappling with suicide, though — you can feel fine one minute and awful the next, unable to tame the dark thoughts and urges no matter what you do.

That feeling of hopelessness was the last thing I was thinking of last week — how scary and sad and overwhelming it must have been to feel like leaving was the only option. The only way to get the peace that might’ve proven so elusive or to quiet the doubts and fears that might’ve plagued him. It’s such an unfortunate loss, one that leaves you with a number of unfulfilled wishes.  I wish his family and the rooms full of adoring fans around the world could have helped him conquer those feelings and kept him around. That those who might be feeling similar things are able to get the help they need before it’s too late. And that the guy seemingly moved by magnets halfway across the world could have thanked him for what he meant to him before he left.

That’s it for now — until next time, amici…
–BS

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One You Should Know — Frightened Rabbit

(Since for some reason this one isn’t on the Spots — a back-breaking listen…)