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Once upon a time, two young and aspiring musicians crossed paths at the Liverpool Institute for Performing Arts. This was not the garden party meet-cute of John Lennon and Paul McCartney, however, but the modern-day collegiate bromance of Stephen Fitzpatrick and Audun Laading. Fitzpatrick and Laading, self-proclaimed outsiders from small European port towns, formed the duo Her’s in 2016 after working together in a band the year prior. Their objective: to make sense of the world through indie dream pop.

I remember coming across Her’s circa 2018 as a college sophomore exploring the indie alternative landscape. I listened to the band’s grunge-tinged discography in a cherry-picking fashion. First came the slow chill of “Marcel,” followed by the funky bounciness of “Harvey.” Eventually, “What Once Was,” a moody and nostalgic piece as alluded to in the song title, assumed a consistent spot in my listening rotation. I was living in Seattle with my friend Mikayla and we had both formed a slight obsession with the song, playing it while hanging out in our apartment or driving around the city. 

In late March of 2023, Mikayla and I were in the car with our friend Alex, headed to a small “goodbye Seattle” cocktail night for the two of us. I had shuffled one of my indie playlists and the familiar lull of “What Once Was” came on.

“Isn’t this the band with the members who died?” asked Alex.

Mikayla and I both attempted to process and confirm this sudden bit of news.

“Wait, what?! Are you sure?”

A Google search quickly revealed that almost exactly four years ago, Fitzpatrick, Laading and their tour manager, Trevor Engelbrekston, were killed in a car collision on an Arizona interstate. They were en route to Santa Ana, California, the next destination on their North American Invitation to Her’s album debut tour. To discover that an up-and-coming band had quite literally been underground for years now was a nasty pill to swallow. (I’d later learn there was a running joke among music snobs about fans of Her’s finally learning about the death of Her’s.) I washed it down with an espresso martini and left the information to dissolve in a far corner of my brain. 

Earlier that same March, an unthinkable tragedy rippled from Santa Ana through Los Angeles. My younger sister, Kristin, unexpectedly passed away from lupus-induced acute liver failure. She was a frenzy of academics, creative projects, and extracurriculars at Chapman University, her clothes decorated with golden dog hair, her hair thrown up in scrunchies. A bundle of life defeated by a rogue immune system, a swollen brain, and a still heart.  

Of all the coping mechanisms and emotional processors available to me, music—songs Kristin loved, songs we bonded over, songs about life, death, and all that exists in between—has acted as one of the greatest catalysts for personal reflection and catharsis. On several occasions, I’ve found myself listening to Hot Topic bands I once held a “cringe” aversion to, seeking auditory solace for my newfound angst. I never experienced a dark season of life like the one Kristin battled in her adolescence. Hearing the lyrics that pulled her out of a deep depression, some of them handwritten on posters in her bedroom, has helped me feel more connected to her as though two planes have finally intersected. Most of the time, though, I listen to indie albums, songwriter ballads, and electronic mixes, finding comfort in sounds and unexpected messages. I cry out of sadness and fondness and reasons I can’t always explain. 

The opening lyrics to “What Once Was” are as follows: “I guess I knew this would happen to you / Inside I did, but I refuse to know the truth.” Hearing those lines, so matter of fact and nonchalant, is haunting to say the least. My mind has wandered back to them so often that I’ve actually wondered if somewhere, tangled in the weeds of my subconscious, a part of me knew that Kristin’s time here was limited. And of course, that has led me to ponder my own mortality and then that of others’, which is a rabbit hole for another day. In any case, fate and time have manipulated the song’s meaning to omnisciently eulogize its creators and hint at themes surrounding death. To represent adjusting to someone’s absence in your life:

“My friends put on their bravest face / Their tails between their legs, something’s out of place.”

To describe the constant yearning for another time:

“... And now I’m still hanging on / I was at the end of every tether waiting for what once was.”

By isolating these lines and placing external context onto their meanings, they all play into the experience of processing unforeseen loss, stitched together by the repetition of those three appellative words. 

One of the strangest phenomena I’ve observed since Kristin’s passing has been the way in which her online presence has remained generally unchanged. Albeit quiet, but still there: her various accounts with iPhone selfies, her sarcastic comments and responses, her ability to still “follow” and “be followed.” At times, I find myself getting triggered, averting my eyes as to avoid being tricked by this existential sleight of hand. The other day, Kristin’s boyfriend and my dear friend, Michael, texted me right as I was sitting in a wave of overwhelm. Kristin’s Instagram profile had popped up while I was casually scrolling, and something about seeing her face left me feeling unusually unsettled. I attempted to share my experience with Michael, blaming “the twistedness of her presence in certain areas and the upset of her not really being there” for setting me off. 

Kristin’s Instagram account has transformed into a virtual gravesite; the comments of her most recent posts are showered in heartfelt condolences and tomato-red hearts. Little squares highlight a life that appears to be well-lived, daring you to believe that all of it’s truly resting in the past. And yet, at first glance, she appears to be a master’s student at Chapman University who sells stickers on Etsy and leads a nonprofit. Just as Her’s is still an “international supersonic spectral wave Liverpool band” basking in the excitement of their first US tour. In this land of pixels and code, people are given the opportunity to say last words and to grapple with the realities of nearly unimaginable situations. “Thinking of you,” and “I still miss you,” hopeless mourners type into the void. 

I’ve thought a lot about legacies over the past few months, the physical or intangible things humans leave behind. Things of significance that represent our impact in the world. My view of a legacy has shifted, however, as I’ve realized how powerful virtual presences can be. Unsettling at times, but resolute. Those who held digital space on social media or other mixed media platforms live on through self-curated memoriams of visual, audio, and written content. And not in a weird, overly futuristic way, like being simulated and projected in a towering hologram. Simply put: The things we share to remember can instantly become the things we’re remembered by. 

On the rare occasion, as I learned in the case of Her’s, personal achievements or works can lead to the implicit (and very valid) assumption among the uninformed that the people behind them are somewhere in the world living their best lives. Similarly, a random user could stumble upon my sister’s Instagram, lightly scroll and think, “Cool, this girl loves her dog and her boyfriend and her sorority. I’ll follow her.” I’m mindblown how pristinely preserved digital byproducts of people can precede the people themselves. How bizarre to think we can unknowingly interact with illusions of existence. However, a certain comfort lies in knowing we have the option to access extensions of those who are no longer with us, and, for a split second, it’s almost as though they’re still here.

There’s a photo of Stephen and Audun sitting in a sunlit, grassy patch that’s featured on their Spotify page as well as in several articles covering their death. Its composition and colors are strangely similar to a photo I took of Kristin that was also used for her celebration of life. Despite the tragic outcomes we may associate with each of their lives, the three of them continue to lounge in these perpetually lush scenes. The sun is on their faces, and they’re just as alive as anyone else. Suspended in digital permanence, they are what still is.

who wrote this?
This is edish of culture vulture was a guest post by Emma Kumagawa who writes the . Emma is an LA-based creative who uses the internet and art to better understand the human experience. Find all her other stuff here!

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