‘oh“One of my deepest hopes is that Mimi will continue to be a light…” Alan Sparhawk throws his arms tightly around his head, shielding his face, tangling his fingers in his long curls. He keeps them there, trying to compose himself, to stave off, or at least disguise, his anguish. But no matter how much he struggles, the tears win out.
While we speak of his new music, Sparhawk’s past life casts a long shadow. In November 2022, his wife, Mimi Parker, his bandmate in the indie band Low since 1993, died of cancer at age 55. The grief Sparhawk feels is still raw and overwhelming. He regains his composure and continues: “So many people have expressed true love and grief for her, but I felt so much that no one could touch me, that made me feel so alone. I hope that Mimi can be a light and that people can draw strength from.”
Four minutes into our interview, I wonder if I should suggest we meet again another day. On the other end of the video call, from his home in Duluth, Minnesota, Sparhawk’s arms are still flailing, his voice still trembling. I don’t know if I’ll ever get through Parker’s absence, but I hope I can. I’m sure I can.
In January 2020, my wife, Jackie, died of cancer at age 56. We were a couple for 35 years. Sparhawk and Parker were together for more than 40. “You know when you fall in love, that’s what happens,” he says, taking his time with each word. “The person is so real, and then they’re gone. For me, that was a foundational thing. I’m still trying to work out what Mimi’s death means, and if there’s more I don’t know.”
Sparkhawk and Parker met in their early teens and were inseparable even before they left school. They had two children together, produced 13 albums, and organized tours around school schedules. Sparkhawk’s mental illness and drug problems were something the pair persevered through, while Parker exuded the air of someone sober, in-the-know and unyielding behind the drums. Rowe never packed out arenas, but they had a loyal, growing fanbase that felt the love between the pair. After almost three decades of making music, the band (a trio with a variety of bassists over the years) seemed as vibrant and positive as ever.
White Roses, My God is Sparhawk’s first album since Parker’s death, and it may not be what Low fans are expecting. There’s no trace of the band’s earlier glacial period, when they explored the power inherent in dramatic shifts from quiet to loud, nor of the devastatingly catchy songs of their middle period. The gap between the two voices harmonizing on songs like Just Make It Stop, What Part of Me and Try to Sleep is where sadness transforms into a kind of light.
Instead, it pays homage to the band’s last two albums, 2018’s Double Negative and 2021’s Hey What, which came out after Parker’s cancer diagnosis. On those albums, layers of distortion transformed a deceptively simple set of songs into undeniably challenging material. Sparhawk takes that strategy even further, employing synthesizers, drum machines, dance beats and shifting vocal pitches beyond recognition.
“The tools I used before don’t work anymore,” he says. “I’m trying to use my voice, but I don’t want to hear myself, so I had to find a different voice.” He pauses and wonders if there’s any point. “It was like going into the unknown, trying to figure things out. I started the machine, messed around until something happened that resonated, and then I started singing. And sometimes something comes out that I can’t stop or mess with.”
Some records resonate with sadness. When Nick Cave’s Ghostine was released in late 2019, listeners were primed for echoes of the death of his teenage son Arthur. It felt like Cave was reaching out to a community united by grief. Sparhawk agrees: “It’s a sad record, but it’s also resonant and beautiful and eloquent. I can’t read the world that way. I’m not that kind of writer.” The title, White Rose, My God, points in multiple directions, the flower symbolizing eternal loyalty and new beginnings.
Among the influences are Prince’s pitch-shifted alter-ego Camille and Neil Young’s trance-inspired vocal effects, which he uses to resemble his communication with his son Ben, who has cerebral palsy. But it’s hard not to think of Cher’s Believe. “You’re right!” Sparhawk exclaims excitedly. “There’s an ecstasy in that song that I felt at times,” he says, blending Cher’s lyrics with his own, mixing Believe with Feel Something. This is White Roses, My God’s most future-oriented song.Do you believe in life after love? I want to feel something… Do you believe in life after love? Can I feel something here? It’s the same. I’m trying to celebrate, I’m trying to believe.”
Isn’t that the key? I wonder? We have to believe to go on. We have to grow as the people they loved, to bless them. “Yes, and then you’ll be the right person for her, the person you are, and you’ll make Jackie proud.”
Really? I get the feeling she’s mostly disappointed in me, a little angry, and a little proud. And that’s fine. He laughs. “It seems like it was the same dynamic with you, with Mim being a little disappointed and making sure I don’t go off the cliff. Our parents gave us the freedom to be who we are, and we became the people they wanted us to be, and that’s really a beautiful thing. Sometimes people who need guidance find someone who says, ‘I know who you are, and I love you and I trust you.’ That was my relationship with Mim. I was just the engine, and she was the helm.”
Even without his wife’s guidance, Sparhawk has been busy making music since 2022. Encouraged by Lambchop’s Kurt Wagner, who “kindly reached out to me and said, ‘Hey, I know you’re in the making, but I’ve got some shows for you…'” he started gigging again. He played music with his daughter Hollis, formed the punk-funk band Derecho Rhythm Section, and Damien did some funky electronic experiments with his son Silas. “I was playing a little bit with Hollis and Silas at home, and music continued through my sons in particular,” he says. “I felt like the music was still there, and what was surprising was that I was also able to write songs that felt like they were born out of this experience, or at least born out of that particular phase.”
He’s also completed a second solo album, this time in collaboration with fellow Duluth natives Trampled by Turtles. “It’s a little bit of a polar opposite direction, being acoustic, but I didn’t set out to go in that direction. It’s just something I did with friends.”
Once we get past the initial stages of grief and shock, my friends say they allow us to return to our authentic selves. “Looking back on all of this, everyone was trying to be affectionate,” Sparhawk says. “Some friends would just say, ‘Come hang out with us for a while,’ while others would invite me to go to California and spend a few days in the sun.”
Will Sparhawk ever perform Low’s songs again? After a moment of reflection, he says, “Right now, it feels right to do something new. I’ve always tried to move forward and find new challenges. Maybe in the future the right time will come, but Low still feels very sacred to me. For now, I just have to trust what comes out of me, because that’s what I’ve always done.”
Faith, belief and trust (the latter was the title of Lowe’s 2002 album) are big parts of his life. In November 2022, Lowe cancelled his headlining spot at Utrecht’s Le Guess Who festival due to Parker’s illness; she died a week before the festival. Sparhawk, who was billed as a solo artist, accepted an invitation to return 12 months later. I was there, impressed by his fortitude but worried it might be too early. “It wasn’t a conscious decision that I needed to get back on the road,” he says. “It was more like, this is what you do.”
Midway through the show, Sparhawk’s emotions seemed to boil over, and he hurled his unbridled rage at the high ceiling of the 13th-century Jacobi-Kenk Church. Songs like Don’t Take Your Light Out of Me and Screaming burned with self-evident anguish; JCMF (Jesus Christ Mother Fucker) seethed with rage at the injustices that the lifelong Mormon had imposed on his world. But none of these songs make it onto the new album. “There were a couple of songs that I’d written as things went along, a couple of older songs that I’d never recorded, but for some reason it felt right to play at that point. Plus a couple of songs that I’d started working on that basically became this album,” Sparhawk says.
How does Sparhawk come to terms with his faith now? “When Mim died, my faith was a big help,” he says. “Since she passed away… I don’t know if I’m angry at God, disappointed, or disillusioned. It’s surprising. Maybe this is a test, or maybe it’s just the way it is. When you grieve, you lose your sense of spirituality and of the universe, and it takes time to get it back.”
“I’m being forced to accept the possibility that the universe might not be what I thought it was – that our souls are eternal. Maybe there’s nothing. And this is the first time I’ve had to consider that possibility. But over the past few months… I’m beginning to believe again that there is an eternal nature to our existence, and that we are more connected to the magic and mysticism of the universe than we realize.”
I asked him what his relationship with Parker is like now, because he believes his soul may spend eternity with hers. I can feel Jackie walking next to me, sitting on my shoulder. I talk to her every night before I go to sleep.
Sparhawk looked a little surprised and said, “How fast did you do that?”
Perhaps he had invaded too privately. Sparhawk took a moment to process his next response: “Just recently, I started to see Mimi’s face. I could see her hands digging into things, I could see her sense of humor, her joy. At first, it was really hard to sense her there. I thought I would feel something and I was shocked when I didn’t. A friend wrote me a letter saying he felt like he’d received a message from Mimi. I read the message and it was so vivid. I don’t know how much I can believe it, but I have to trust my instincts.”
Sparhawk perked up considerably, as if he had had a revelation. “She has something very happy going on in her life right now. I think part of her message is, ‘I’m sorry it’s taken so long.’ Sometimes you have to go through a process, and this is just the beginning. You said I could feel Jackie next to me, and now I feel Mim’s hand on my shoulder, or like this,” he said, placing his hand behind his head.
I think messages are a strange phenomenon. Sometimes I find something Jackie has written and it resonates with me. I often hear a song I don’t know and feel like she’s speaking to me through it. For example, Tracey Thorn’s “Dancefloor” describes a woman looking back at the adventures of her youth. Thorn celebrates that adventure with wisdom that makes her wish it had never ended: “All I want to be is on the dance floor/Where all my friends are by my side…” Now, Sparhawk has recorded an album that gives you that same urge. So is he a dancer?
“Yes, but for me it’s very primitive and childish, so I keep it to myself,” he says, beaming now. This is how sadness happens: you remember, you smile and laugh. Happiness may be out of reach, but contentment is. Then something triggers you – a song, a picture, a smell – and the emotions flood out. You let the tears take over, knowing you shouldn’t let them get the better of you. But do you want to stop crying, or stop missing your beloved? Do you want to feel something? Do you believe in life after love?
“When you can free your body, you have freed your mind,” he concludes. “It’s the ultimate stage of surrender. Dance doesn’t solve everything, but it acknowledges, ‘Yes, we are here.’ I don’t know what the truth is, but I know that if I keep dancing I’ll get that much closer to it.”
