For
nearly a decade, Sims Ellison played bass for Pariah, a local hard rock band whose long, steady grassroots
build, fanatic fanbase, and eventual major-label signing made them seem like
Austin’s next big thing. And in 1991, when the band finally inked a multi-album
deal with a label well known for breaking hard rock acts such as Tesla,
Whitesnake, and most notably Guns ‘n’ Roses, Geffen probably thought the same
thing. Unfortunately for everyone involved, when Pariah’s debut, To Mock a
Killingbird, was finally released two years later, the musical climate had
changed considerably — thanks mostly to another Geffen release,
Nevermind.
Though it was released in 1992, Nirvana’s second album nevertheless starting
cashing in the following year, and its overwhelming success probably played no
small part in Pariah’s debut dying on the vine without much help from its
label. Hard rock was, after all, dead. Still, all parties seemed to be moving
towards a second Pariah album when it was announced in early 1995 that band and
label had severed ties. Few in the local music community were then surprised
when the band announced its “indefinite hiatus” shortly thereafter. Shock,
however, was what rippled through that same community several weeks later when
28-year-old Sims Ellison committed suicide.
Ironically, Ellison chose to end his life the same way that Kurt Cobain had a
year earlier; a self-inflicted shotgun blast to the head. Yet unlike Cobain,
who had a well-known, well-publicized history of death wishes (the infamous
gun-in-mouth photo shoot and Nirvana’s “Hate Myself and Want to Die”), Sims
Ellison had never given friends or family any indication what he was
contemplating. As with most suicides, no one saw it coming.
Afterwards, local pundits began guessing that Ellison’s suicide had been
fueled mostly by the band’s split with Geffen and Pariah’s impending break-up,
even though counseling experts said there were almost certainly more
substantial reasons for an act so desperate. And yet, family and friends
readily admit they never detected Ellison’s depression before, during, or after
Pariah’s inner troubles came to a head. “With Pariah, we all started pointing
fingers at each other, when we really should have just been trying to get off
our Geffen contract,” says Kyle Ellison, who, like his brother, had played
exclusively with Pariah since high school. “And it became a really sad ending
to a good hard try. I could have handled Pariah breaking up, but Sims being
gone is a whole different issue… because that’s really forever.”
The search for a reason why may be the most obvious reaction to
anyone’s suicide, but experts warn that speculation is just that. So today,
while the Ellison family seems painfully aware they’ll never actually know why
Sims choose to end his life (a year ago this month), they also seem positively
determined to respond to suicide’s ultimate call for help with their own
productive answer: a call for preventive counseling and education. “I’ve read a
lot on depression since all this has happened, just trying to understand it,”
says Kyle Ellison. “But therapists tell me depression is the most
under-diagnosed disease there is. And with musicians, lacking a support line
they can turn to, it’s even greater uncharted territory [in the music
community].”
While killing time may be de rigeur in the music industry, the Ellison
family wasted no time at all in forming S.I.M.S. (Services Invested in Musician
Support) after their son’s death. With the help of Austin Rehearsal Complex
co-owners Wayne Nagel and Don Harvey, the ARC’s Kristal Stephens, and a team of
local counselors, they envisioned S.I.M.S. as a simple and unique concept: a
non-profit outreach hotline that matches interested Austin musicians with
professional counselors. And because S.I.M.S. counselors believe health-care
costs can be the deciding factor in a musicians’ search for help, S.I.M.S. not
only arranges for the counseling but also picks up nearly all the cost, save a
$10 minimum payment.
“The idea is for musicians taking care of themselves,” says Nagel. “Through
word of mouth, and successful musician-counselor meetings, they’re beginning to
find out there’s a place to turn to. For us, it isn’t that suicide is a dirty
word, it’s just that we want to prevent it from happening again and again. One
year later, there’s already good being done. The fact that it was Sims who took
his life is telling in itself, because on the surface he looked like he had his
life together. He was talented and well-liked, and in a band that had a deal,
toured, and owned its own van. But obviously, he had inner demons or he
wouldn’t have left us. Seeing that it was Sims, you know it could be
anybody.”
Although dozens of local musicians have used the service since last July, even
at discount rates counseling is expensive. Initially, S.I.M.S. operated on
funds from in-lieu-of-flowers donations and a pair of Sims Ellison tribute
shows at the Back Room and San Antonio’s Sneakers. A March fundraiser at
Liberty Lunch featuring Ian Moore, Charlie Sexton, and the Meat Puppets’ Kirk
Kirkwood, as well as the proceeds from a Sunday night SXSW Steamboat showcase,
also added to S.I.M.S. coffers. But it was last week’s announcement by the
National Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences (NARAS) that it would pledge
both financial and promotional support to S.I.M.S. that is proving to be the
foundation’s biggest gain yet. NARAS’ financial contribution, say the S.I.M.S.
directors, should not only alleviate overhead office costs, but may also cover
the costs of emergency, long-term treatment for musicians in need of help.
Additionally, the two organizations hope to collaborate through NARAS’ own
“Music Cares” program, a national 1-800 hotline that could soon begin to refer
regional calls directly to the S.I.M.S. Foundation.
“It’s really mind-boggling to step back and realize that within a year we’re
dealing with NARAS,” says Peyton Wimmer, a S.I.M.S. Director and
musician-turned-counselor. “To have the respect of an organization with such a
unified voice is the equivalent of starting a business and in one year going in
with IBM. Our primary concern is the Austin music community, and we’ll never
take the focus off of that and let the people at home slip through the cracks.
But at the same time, NARAS is going to need someone at this level in every
town. It’s a franchise concept, and with S.I.M.S., we already have a very good
reproducible system we’d love to see go nationally, with the strengths shown
locally.”
Yet because musicians have become so indoctrinated by the
succeed-or-die-trying roar of sex, drugs, and rock & roll, Wimmer says
counseling itself needs somewhat of an image revision within the music
industry. In fact, the local foundation says it’s hoping a 15-minute video
featuring Alejandro Escovedo, Moore, Sexton, Ellison, and other former Pariah
members will not only complement the S.I.M.S. word-of-mouth campaign, but also
use the respect associated with these high-profile local names to “normalize”
counseling — thereby reducing the fear and embarrassment that experts say
commonly stands in the way of seeking help.
“It’s very important that the musicians don’t think of counseling specifically
as something you go to when you’re over the edge,” explains Wimmer, “but rather
as a place where you can go to explore options and think things out. And it’s
not that they’re going to go and simply be told to quit whatever they’re doing;
it’s more of a personal experience where you can find out what you’re doing and
how it is you’re doing something you really may not be into.”
With the Cobain and Ellison suicides, and the recent drug overdoses of Blind
Melon’s Shannon Hoon and Sublime’s Brad Nowell (drug dependency is often seen
as a form of depression), record labels are only now beginning to support their
artist’s counseling and rehabilitation needs — mostly, say S.I.M.S.
counselors, because friends of the deceased and rehabilitated musicians have
applied public pressures. S.I.M.S.’s directors say they hope their organization
can apply similar pressure from and within Austin.
But what about artists who are successful — those musicians who seemingly
have it all? Not surprisingly, Wimmer contends that successful, major-label
musicians are often just as depressed as seemingly unsuccessful locals, and
that S.I.M.S.’s mission is to not only cater to both camps, but also to extend
services to wives, bartenders, road crews, dancers, and support players — in
short, any Austinite who might be battling the music industry’s tough
expectations and losing.
“Just how success is defined in the music world is a really important thing to
look at,” says Wimmer. “Kids look at Jimi Hendrix and how he’s bigger today
then he ever was and want to be just like that. The simple fact that he happens
to be dead [overdosed] never really registers. That stereotype needs to be
changed, just as it’s important to remember you don’t have to be clinically
depressed to be creative and you don’t have to be happy and laughing to be
satisfied with your work.
“You also don’t have to be on a major label to be successful. So often, you
can lose creative control and become real unhappy that way. It’s a matter of
stepping back and looking where you can make yourself the most happy, which may
not be as the lead singer of a band on a big label. And in that sense, what
S.I.M.S. also offers is a kind of career counseling.”
Outside of Austin, S.I.M.S.’s best promotional vehicle may just be one of its
founders, Kyle Ellison. Only five months after his brother’s death, Ellison
began touring with the Meat Puppets as their rhythm guitarist, a job that would
ultimately lead to his latest stint — supporting the Butthole Surfers in the
same capacity. He is, of course, a walking, talking example that there is life
after your band breaks up. “I think Sims would be proud,” reflects Ellison on
what his brother might have thought of his new gig. “Three years ago we went
together to see the Buttholes with Stone Temple Pilots and talked about the
show itself all throughout it. I like playing guitar, always have and always
want to. But for me now, anything I do feels like it’s for Sims and to help
other people.”
On the road, Ellison travels with a bag of S.I.M.S. promotional videos, which
he shows fellow musicians and whatever record company personnel he encounters
along the way. So far, both of Ellison’s bands, the Meat Puppets, and the
Buttholes, have promised to contribute tracks to a S.I.M.S. compilation he’s
planning. “My part has been the musical side,” Ellison says, “trying to get
this CD going. It’s hard for me to go to all the meetings, but it’s not as hard
to put together a cool CD I think other people will like.” Between tours,
Ellison has also lined up commitments for musical contributions from locals
like Moore, Sexton, Seed, and Pork. The next step, he says, will be approaching
both Geffen and new DreamWorks A&R honcho Michael Goldstone about
major-label distribution. At the same time, he’s already got another S.I.M.S.
benefit CD in the works; this one collecting re-mixed versions of Pariah’s
final demos — Sims Ellison’s final work. Meanwhile, Kyle Ellison completes his
own counseling program on the road.
“Obviously there’s a lot of memories in Austin,” says Ellison of his decision
to tour and support S.I.M.S. from the road. “Every street I drive down is a
trip down `Sims and Kyle Lane.’ So it’s kind of been good to get out. It makes
me do stuff even when I’m having a bad day and am finding it hard to be
motivated to do anything. Sims and I lived together our whole lives and played
together in the same band for 10 years, so it’s hard every day and every day
his death means something new to me. It’s an ongoing thing. I don’t have much
of choice now, and can’t help him personally now, but hopefully S.I.M.S. can
help people in similar situations.” n
For help and/or non-profit donations, call the S.I.M.S. hotline (512)
494-1007.
This article appears in June 28 • 1996 and June 28 • 1996 (Cover).