I love the band Low. Their songs are tricky to pin down, but they traverse a territory that’s sparse and haunting, glitchy and gorgeous. Mimi Parker co-founded Low with her husband, Alan Sparhawk. She played drums, he played guitar, and they both sang. Mimi Parker died yesterday.
When I practice with my band, I sometimes ask my drummer to play more gently. I love my drummer so bloody much, but she tends to bash her kit. The two drummers I mention most often as role models are masters of minimalism: Moe Tucker of the Velvet Underground and Mimi Parker.
Last year, I started making notes for a future novel. It would be about an intense long distance relationship during the pandemic between two women, Mimi and Shasta. Low’s music conveyed how I wanted the novel to feel, and the name Mimi is clearly a nod to Mimi Parker.
The book was tricky to structure. Finally, I found a form that might convey how the distant lovers’ lives converge and diverge, a form that might show how time can stretch and twist like taffy.
But I struggled with point of view. At first, I tried writing both characters in the first person. Then, I tried limited third person. When I interviewed Megan Milks earlier this year for my podcast, I mentioned that I’d recently diagnosed a work in progress with having point-of-view-itis. I was talking about this confounding, Low-inspired LDR novel.
I chipped away at the novel for several months before eventually realizing that it hit too close to home. It hurt too much to try writing this book. So, I set it aside.
But I kept listening to Low.
_
At one point, this was the opening of my abandoned novel:
She’d always loathed her name. It was the epitome of narcissism. Mimi. A name for a smirking girl with a perfect French braid, her arm held aloft, straining towards the ceiling, imploring her teacher, pick me, pick me. It was a name like a pendant on a necklace that dropped just above the cleavage, see me, see me.
When she introduced herself to strangers, Mimi sometimes glimpsed a suppressed snicker, as though she’d said, Hi, I’m Dumdum. Oh, they would say, Nice to meet you . . . Me-me.
Mimi learned to find sanctuary in that ellipsis. She listened and nodded at the bodies around her, hiding behind her flimsy name. She became a scholar of silence. A wisp of a woman. A cumulus cloud. A paper cone of cotton candy. A mannequin in a pink tulle dress. But behind her airy exterior, her gears were always turning. Never underestimate a Mimi.
_
On her walk this morning, Mimi saw a seagull with a starfish in its beak. The purple arms of the starfish were pristine and pointing in all directions. The seagull swiveled its head towards her – appraising her with its gaze – and flew off with its purple prize.
A while later, two ducks (buffleheads?) performed a brief synchronized routine. They landed on the water, submerged in sync, suddenly surfaced, flapped their wings, paused, turned to one another, and quacked in unison. Mimi felt a burst of joy.
I love the span of Low’s career, but I adored how their most recent albums were getting more beautiful and more chaotic, messing with our sense of signal and noise. I’m reminded of Rilke writing, “Let everything happen to you. Beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final.” So much is happening in the staticky songs on Double Negative and Hey What. There’s a moment in my next novel when the narrator is thinking about recording a new song. The guitars, she writes, needed to sound deeply distressed, almost as though the speakers were blown. Here, I was thinking about songs like “White Horses” and “More” on Hey What. There’s a too-much-ness to the distortion, but it’s also so fucking stunning and stirring.
When I met with Arsenal Pulp’s book designer to talk about cover designs for my next novel, I had a handful of book covers in mind, as well as the cover for Low’s Double Negative. It’s the perfect cover - with the perfect title.
Mimi Parker died on the same day that my favourite tree in the city shifted from yellow-green to full-on yellow. A burst of joy.
On social media, Alan Sparhawk wrote, "Friends, it’s hard to put the universe into language and into a short message, but / She passed away last night, surrounded by family and love, including yours. Keep her name close and sacred. Share this moment with someone who needs you. Love is indeed the most important thing."
The next day, he added, “Friends. Your love is perfect and overwhelming. Spread it. Thank you.”
And, of course, he’s right.
We live for a spell, and then we get folded back into the cosmos.
I love you, friends. <3