Mimi Parker, drummer and co-vocalist with her husband Alan Sparhawk in the seminal Indie-band Low, passed away this last Saturday, November 5, 2022, at the age of 55, in her hometown of Duluth, Minnesota, after a two-year battle with ovarian cancer.

I learned of her passing not only from the numerous news announcements, but from my old mission trainer, who messaged me the day after, because he just so happens to attend the same Minnesota ward as Mimi and Alan. He had even served in Young Mens with Sparhawk several years earlier, and still considered him a good friend. He had only informed me of all this a few months ago, when he saw my book release announcement, went down the rabbit hole, saw I’d also written a bunch on Low, and so reached out to me for the first time since we were both students at BYU-Idaho ages ago. At the time, it blew my mind to realize that, for all the years I’d been a Low mega-fan, there had only ever a two-degree separation between us; Mormonism is truly a small world.

But, two degrees of separation is still separation. So, although one might infer that between my well-documented^[1]Including: a personal essay on Low published with Sunstone–on how their minimalist beauty creates a space for the groanings beyond utterance and the peace of God which surpasseth all … Continue reading fandom and the fact that my book also concerns how my own mother died of ovarian cancer, that I might feel uniquely qualified to eulogize Parker’s passing, but it’s actually the exact opposite. I am hopelessly inadequate to the task, and only persist out of the stubborn conviction that her passing should be eulogized somewhere in the vast, amorphous realm of Mormon Letters.

Given how central Parker’s minimalist percussion and hauntingly-piercing vocals were to Low’s sound, her passing likely means the de facto end of Low the band as well. Alan Sparhawk will undoubtedly record again, but it will likely be with one of his several side-projects (Retribution Gospel Choir, Black-Eyed Snakes, Murder of Crows) or even as a solo artist. Though I will be fascinated to see where he goes next, it will definitely not be a Low record.

As such, this is the most devastated I have been by the death of a musician since David Bowie. They are the only band besides the Beatles of whom I own (not streamed, own) every last album in their massive discography. They’re the only band I’ve seen live multiple times, in both Utah and New York. Unlike so many other aging bands who ultimately succumb to autopilot and just tour on past glory^[2]e.g. The Rolling Stones, Paul McCartney, Pearl Jam, Foo Fighters, etc. and etc., Low was still experimenting and pushing the limits of their sound nearly 30 years into their storied career. (As was David Bowie, come to think of it; perhaps that’s why both deaths hit me so hard—it felt like there was still so much to look forward to).^[3]And I cite both the Beatles and the Stones here, incidentally, because Low has before.

That is, Low was a Mormon band not just in their minimalism, but in their commitment to Eternal Progression.^[4]Remember, also, that Bowie’s 1970s guitarist and collaborator, Mick Ronson, was raised Mormon as well. It is here worth recalling that the title to their classic 1999 LP Secret Name is an oblique allusion to the LDS Temple Endowment ceremony, wherein the initiates are instructed in the series of covenants that will allow them to pass through the veil and re-enter the presence of God after death, and thereby continue their eternal progressions into the hereafter.

Indeed, not just the Temple ceremony, but the funeral shroud placed over the sacramental emblems, the burial-and-resurrection imagery of the baptismal rite, our marriages of not “till death do you part” but for “time and all eternity,” our vicarious ordinances for the dead, and even the white burial robes we wear during the endowment, all illustrate how our entire faith is imbricated in denying the final reality of death.

As is the music of Low. Consider for example the Temple imagery in their 2011 anthem “Nothing But Heart,” the song I want played at my funeral:

To the first-time listener, the song’s most notable feature is Sparhawk’s hypnotic, “Hey-Jude”-esque repetition of the song-title over a slow-burning eight minute build-up. You have to be listening carefully to pick out Parker’s counterpoint in the background that appears roughly half-way through, wherein she declares:

“As we split in two
From all the things we do
It would behoove us all
To remember that all we are is what we love
And not a fragment more
I’ve told you this before
Can’t say it any more
And as you wear the gown
That’s made of gold and white
May we someday be assured
As we walk into the night”

From the Temple gown of “gold and white” that we wear “As we walk into the night,” to Paul and Mormons’ admonition that if we have not charity we are nothing—“that all we are is what we love”—these lyrics reveal the song to be funereal in nature. Not a dirge, mind you, but a preparation, even a celebration–for if we are prepared we shall not fear.

Alan Sparhawk, in his social media announcement of Mimi’s passing, concluded with, “Share this moment with someone who needs you. Love is indeed the most important thing.” Like so many cliches, that last line, so un-exciting and inadequate on its surface, in fact communicates a great and terrible truth: if we have not love, then we are unprepared to pass through the final veil, nor be endowed with the powers of the Almighty and the riches of eternity. By all accounts, Mimi Parker was possessed of that love. She, too, was Nothing But Heart. May we go forth and do likewise, and someday be assured as we walk into the night.