Remembering The One And Only Evan Farrell

Billboard was shocked to learn today that former Rogue Wave multi-instrumentalist Evan Farrell died over the weekend from injuries suffered in an apartment fire in Oakland, Calif.

I had the pleasure of knowing Evan since 1995, when our paths crossed at Indiana University in Bloomington, Ind. I was introduced to him by two friends named Mark, who went on to live with Evan in a famed off-campus house on University Street.

There was always music being played in that house, whether it was one of the Marks doing vocal warm-up exercises so loudly that he could be heard from the front lawn, Bob (a jazz guitar instructor) practicing fanciful licks in the basement or Evan and the other Mark switching on the four-track to commit to tape whatever funny fragment they'd just come up with.

The house was so noisy that it often prompted angry phone calls from the elderly gentleman that lived next door. For a time, they were so frequent that the residents of the place and all their friends had the conversation down pat: "Mark, hello, this is Peter Vaughn. I think you know why I'm calling..."

I will always think fondly of one such night when Mark and Evan were recording and venting some frustration about a female friend of ours. At one point they handed me a guitar to join in on the fun, and for some reason Evan and I both remembered the experience so clearly that we brought it up to one another almost every time we hung out in the ensuing decade.

Evan was also a member of Japonize Elephants, who were like the Marx Brothers crossed with a gypsy band. They'd often just show up, all eight or nine of them, at a house party and proceed to gloriously wreck the place. The next morning, there'd be flour, muddy footprints, about two-dozen empty beer cans and maybe one of the members strewn across the living room. They signed to Bloomington label Secretly Canadian in its infancy, ensuring local cred way before SC became the national powerhouse it is now.

One of the Marks remembers unsubstantiated rumors of something called "cess," which was "some sort of living compost that the Elephants were always working on. Basically a vat of bacon grease and refuse of the like allegedly being stored in a tub for possible dumping or even stage dressing." Luckily, it was never unleashed.

Toxic substances or not, Evan was the life of any party, and often he got a little too wild and crazy for some people's tastes. Although it took some getting used to, one of his most endearing qualities was his smell; he seemed to be perpetually unshowered and unshaven, but that's how we liked him. He was always up for a good time, and he also had an encyclopedic music knowledge. Mainly though, he was one of the sweetest people you could ever hope to know: a guy who genuinely cared about the people around him.

I lost track of Evan for a few years in the early 2000s, until one night when I went to see Rogue Wave at New York's Mercury Lounge. While I was ordering a beer in the front bar, Evan casually walked past me. I exclaimed, "What the hell are you doing here?," and he told me, "Didn't you know? I'm in the band now!"

At that point he hadn't yet recorded with the group but his presence is everywhere on their 2006 album "Descended Like Vultures": you can hear Evan's wordless sound effects during the dramatic segue at the 2:35 mark of "Love's Lost Guarantee" and also during the swirling midsection of "Are You on My Side."

Evan left Rogue Wave early this year, apparently under not the best of circumstances. I never pried, and he never exactly explained what happened. But he kept playing music, and he was enjoying reconnecting with his Japonize Elephants mates. In fact, he had gone out to Oakland to play some shows with them before the holidays.

Evan leaves behind two young sons. A memorial fund has been set up via PayPal and can be accessed by clicking here. Farewell, my friend. Your zest for life will be sorely missed. -- Jonathan Cohen