I thought this was a good article by Alan Attwood, a Melbourne journalist and author.
The sudden death of a celebrated musician stirs powerful emotions,
writes Alan Atwood.
I never met him. Didn't know him personally. Yet still the death of
Paul Hester, the musician, has hit me harder than I would have
expected. I've been trying to work out why. It can't just be that,
like a great many people, I have a couple of Crowded House CDs lying
around the house.
Perhaps it's because I take the dog for a walk early most mornings
in Elsternwick Park - a tranquil place where Hester ended his life
on Friday night. He went out with his dogs and never came home.
Perhaps it's because I'm just a little bit older than Hester, who
was 46. The 40s, it is clear, can be a perilous place for an awful
lot of men.
Perhaps it's because I inadvertently witnessed the aftermath to this
personal tragedy.
It was around lunchtime on Saturday; we were driving back from the
market. Up ahead, on the road next to the park, we saw flashing
lights: a police car and an ambulance. We idly wondered why they
were there - maybe a kid injured on play equipment. I turned right
so as not to get caught up in anything.
Didn't think any more about it until Monday morning.
That's when I saw the headline: "Crowded House drummer dies".
Forgive me, my initial reaction was that perhaps there was another
one. But not Hester. Surely not the guy with the big goofy grin. Not
Hessie of the transient yet inspired TV music show Hessie's Shed,
which produced some memorable moments, including a reunion with his
Crowded House colleagues.
It was him, of course. I had only ever seen one side, the amiable
public face, of a middle-aged man as complex as the rest of us.
On Monday night I raised Hester's death with an old mate of mine. He
appeared surprised that I was brooding about it. "But he wasn't
well," he said. "He was ill. Depressed." He said this as if it
explained everything. I'm not sure it does. Reports I've read and
seen suggest that even people who knew him well are stunned that he
took this last step.
It reminds us how little we can know someone we might regard as a
friend. For this wasn't a tragic accident, like the death of another
former rock star, Shirley Strachan. And I wouldn't presume to
speculate about causes. All I'd suggest is that it's well past time
to shelve jokes about midlife crises. They're real. And not funny at
all.
It's obvious now that there's many people like me, strangers to
Hester, who have been moved by his death. A lovely notice in one of
yesterday's papers began: "Although I never knew you personally, I
still feel deep, deep loss and grief." It came from a woman who
described herself as "a lifelong fan and admirer". That's the thing
about a medium as powerful and pervasive as music: performers can
end up with a lot of fans they never meet. Yet still a personal
connection has been forged.
I've just spent some time digging out and flicking through those
Crowded House recordings. As I'd suspected, it was Hester who wrote
the loopy Italian Plastic on the Woodface CD. Call it a love-song
from left field: "I'll be your piggy in the middle, stick with you
till the end." He also wrote Skin Feeling on Together Alone,
released in 1993, his last recording with the band. A couple of
lines leap out: "I like kids when they're asleep/ Their little arms
around you." And this: "I'm looking old, I'm feeling young . . . .
My second life has just begun."
Now it is over. I can only offer clumsy condolences to his family
and friends. Perhaps they have been surprised by the ripples
spreading far beyond the lake in Elsternwick Park, where life went
on early yesterday morning: a group of guys playing hockey; joggers
puffing; dog-walkers with bags and balls.
But maybe those closest to Paul Hester knew all along how many
people he touched. For that's a marvellous aspect of music captured
in recordings and concerts. Some of the rhythm, the harmonies, and
the joy lasts forever.