FULLER UP HOME GRIM REAPER PAGE CAUSES OF DEATH SEARCH BY NAME GET IN TOUCH SHAMEFUL DISCLAIMER    Fuller Up, The Dead Musician Directory   Kevin Gilbert  May 17, 1996 Age 29 Autoerotic Asphyxiation OBITUARY  BIOGRAPHY   LINKS

OBITUARY 

Copped from The Debster                       DARK SECRETS // MUSIC:                     The death of a former boyfriend and                     incriminating charges from former                     backing musicians are clouds hanging                     over Sheryl Crow's sunny career.                                 by JOEL SELVIN                             San Francisco Chronicle                       A black hood covered his face. He wore                     a black skirt. His head was slumped                     against a leather strap chained to the                     headboard of the king-size bed in the                     sparsely furnished living room.                      Kevin Gilbert, 29, was dead. That much                     his manager could see peering in at the                     front door that morning last May.                      The Los Angeles County coroner's                     office sees four or five such deaths a                     year - "autoerotic asphyxiation," caused                     when people go one small step too far in                     depriving their brains of oxygen while                     they reach orgasm. It was a death                     without dignity, a random fall through                     the cracks of a secret life.                      Gilbert was a musical prodigy from San                     Mateo who could play any instrument;                     colleagues invariably called him "the                     most talented musician I ever met." To                     the rest of the world, though, his only                     real claim to fame lies in the credits to                     "Tuesday Night Music Club," the 1993                     debut album by Sheryl Crow.                      "I saw something in Entertainment                     magazine that said Kevin Gilbert, the                     piano player on Sheryl Crow's record,                     had died," said songwriter David                     Baerwald, a member of the Tuesday                     club of the album's name. He paused,                     sadly shaking his head. "He hated that                     Sheryl Crow record and that's all he's                     going to be known for. The piano                     player? Roll over, Kevin Gilbert."                      When Gilbert first brought his girlfriend                     Sheryl to informal Tuesday-night                     songwriting sessions with his friends, he                     played a pivotal role in shaping an $85                     million megahit. For her, the album                     brought three Grammys, stardom and an                     industry buzz that makes her                     forthcoming album one of the most                     eagerly anticipated releases this fall. But                     for him, it was hardly a triumph.                      "I don't know if I can ever forgive her,"                     he wrote in his journal. "I don't hate her                     - I'm just soooo disappointed."                      In a way it's a classic Hollywood tale:                     Gifted boy artist meets girl artist,                     mentors her to success and is left in the                     dust - equal parts "Sunset Boulevard,"                     "A Star Is Born," and "All About Eve."                      By any measure, Gilbert's career was a                     fitful tumble of brilliance and                     happenstance, a series of near misses                     and one hit that wasn't his. And his                     Tuesday night cohorts describe Crow,                     who refused to be interviewed for this                     story, as a marginally talented singer                     who exploited his skills and theirs in a                     ruthless grab for success.                      But this wasn't a movie, and so the real                     story is inevitably messier and more                     complex. As the circumstances of his                     death suggest, Gilbert had a dark side, a                     hidden face that made him an enigma to                     his friends. There was a history of                     anti-depressant use and a string of                     journal entries registering acute                     self-loathing and doubt.                      BRIGHT BEGINNING                      He had a promising start. As a teen-ager,                     Gilbert was given the run of Sensa                     Sound studio in Sunnyvale after hours;                     there he recorded tracks with his                     progressive rock group, Giraffe. In 1988                     he won the U.S. and worldwide finals of                     a talent contest run by the Yamaha                     piano company. One of the judges, Pat                     Leonard, a producer for Madonna,                     invited Gilbert to make a record in Los                     Angeles.                      That album, "Toy Matinee," sold nearly                     200,000 copies in 1991, thanks in part                     to an MTV video featuring actress                     Rosanna Arquette (whom Gilbert had                     dated). Gilbert put together a road                     version that included his then girlfriend                     on background vocals and second                     keyboard, Sheryl Crow.                      Making that album, at age 21, Gilbert                     met another record producer, Bill                     Bottrell, who became a kind of father                     figure. Bottrell brought him to sessions                     for Madonna and Michael Jackson;                     before long, Gilbert had sublet the space                     adjacent to Bottrell's Pasadena studio,                     Toad Hall. From there he set about                     recording his solo debut.                      Drawing on all his perfectionist instincts,                     along with his ingrained self-doubts,                     Gilbert didn't just work on his record; he                     suffered over it, recording and                     rerecording, polishing, tweaking,                     rethinking, redoing.                      "It was a long process," said Bottrell,                     who used to hear Gilbert thumping away                     through the common wall. "He sat over                     there endless nights."                      In August 1992, Bottrell convened a                     gathering of Gilbert and other musicians                     at Toad Hall with the simple agenda of                     collaborating for the fun of it every                     Tuesday night. "We were all good, not                     to be immodest," Baerwald said. "We                     were also all cynical, embittered by the                     process of pop music. We were trying to                     find some joy in music again."                      A party atmosphere predominated. "Bill                     would sift through (the music) the next                     morning while we were all nursing                     hangovers," drummer Brian MacLeod                     recalled. Then Bottrell introduced a                     project he thought might force a little                     focus onto the freewheeling, chaotic                     sessions.                      Crow had finished an album for A&M                     Records, but despite the $500,000 spent                     on it, nobody at the label was thrilled                     with the results. Hoping for a quick fix,                     A&M hired Gilbert to remix the album,                     which was, in the immutable illogic of                     the record industry, already scheduled                     for release. Crow's manager asked                     Bottrell to step in as well.                      On Crow's first Tuesday night with the                     club, Baerwald showed up with musical                     sidekick David Ricketts (from the 1986                     David and David album), both of them                     high on LSD, with the first verse already                     written to a song, "Leaving Las Vegas."                     Baerwald picked up a guitar, Ricketts                     the bass, and the band fell together to                     pick up where it had left off.                      "Baerwald couldn't function," Bottrell                     said. "Sheryl started to get drunk. I was                     looking for that moment when the good                     take would happen."                      For most of that year, Bottrell and his                     Tuesday crew - now working all week                     long - scrupulously fashioned and                     reshaped Crow's album. Because                     everything was a collaboration,                     songwriting credits were equally shared.                     "Everybody was equal," Baerwald said,                     "except Sheryl. She wasn't one of us.                     We helped her make a record."                      Gilbert's name wound up on seven of                     the 11 songs; he sang and played                     keyboards, guitar, bass and drums.                      His relationship with Crow was kept                     separate and even a secret from the                     group. "I'd see long conversations in the                     parking lot," Baerwald said.                      "Kevin challenged her," MacLeod said.                     "He was trying to get her to be honest                     and sing from her heart."                      Unsure of herself, professionally in over                     her head, Crow went home with Gilbert                     after sessions and listened to him rant                     about the industry's failings. "She had                     Kevin filling her with doubts," Bottrell                     said.                      When he wasn't with Crow or the club,                     Gilbert struggled with his solo album,                     playing most of the instruments on his                     supple but powerful pop-rock tracks -                     polished productions that showed the                     gleam of countless studio hours. A                     proposed deal with a major label fell                     apart, so he made do with a tiny custom                     label.                      After nearly a year of working together,                     all for one and one for all, the Tuesday                     Night musicians were shocked to learn                     they didn't figure into Crow's plans.                     Bottrell got the news when he met her to                     hand over the finished master in a                     Sunset Strip coffee shop. Although there                     had been much talk of hitting the road                     together to promote the record - bassist                     Dan Schwartz even bought a new bass                     for the tour - "she essentially told me to                     get lost," Bottrell said.                      "I add Sheryl Crow to a long list of                     people in Hollywood who told me they                     were my friend until they got what they                     wanted from me," Schwartz said.                      LIFE FALLING APART                      As Crow's relationship with Gilbert                     deteriorated - apparently she turned her                     attentions to an executive at the record                     label, Baerwald said - an increasingly                     bitter Gilbert threw himself deeper into                     his own album.                      "I think I'm a tinge jealous over her                     upcoming release," he wrote in his                     journal. "It's probably going to be huge,                     so I have to prepare myself mentally for                     that. If she gets what she wants after                     behaving this way, she'll be absolutely                     intolerable."                      For Gilbert, the final straw came when                     Crow sang "Leaving Las Vegas" on the                     David Letterman show. Afterward,                     when Letterman asked her if the song                     was autobiographical, a flustered Crow                     blurted out, "Yes."                      "I've never been to Las Vegas,"                     continued Crow, who nobody                     remembers having contributed greatly to                     the writing of the song. "I wrote it about                     Los Angeles. It's really metaphorical."                      The next day, she and Gilbert exchanged                     angry words over the phone. He wasn't                     the only one furious. Author John                     O'Brien, who wrote the novel that                     inspired both Baerwald's early song                     lyrics and the movie starring Nicolas                     Cage, was still grumbling about Crow's                     gaffe to his literary agent on the day he                     blew his brains out, a scant few weeks                     before the movie deal was complete.                      As Crow's album soared on the charts                     (her nod to Gilbert in the liner notes                     says, "I owe you big for two years of                     musical and emotional support.                     Thanks"), Gilbert's solo album, a                     masterful but underpromoted effort                     titled "Thud," disappeared almost                     immediately on release. At the same                     time, ironically, a tape he recorded for                     the Led Zeppelin tribute album, dropped                     from the disc at the last minute,                     exploded on Los Angeles radio, leaving                     his label ineptly scrambling to capitalize.                      Despite its new prominence, the                     Tuesday Night Music Club never could                     quite regroup. The members did play                     one guest appearance with Crow at an                     out-of-town club, but the record                     company made it clear they would not                     be included in the more prestigious                     Hollywood show.                      Gilbert threw himself into other projects:                     helping Baerwald produce a solo album                     by Susanna Hoffs of the Bangles,                     working with Bottrell on an album by                     Linda Perry of 4 Non Blonds (the                     Tuesday Night gang dubbed her "the                     anti-Sheryl"), writing and recording                     scores for TV shows under a                     pseudonym. He even produced a movie                     soundtrack song for which Crow sang                     vocals - a version of Steve Miller's "The                     Joker" - although they were never in the                     studio at the same time.                      In November 1994, Gilbert met                     playwright Cintra Wilson at a party in                     San Francisco; two months later she                     moved to Los Angeles to live with him.                     "He was massively depressed over the                     whole Sheryl debacle," Wilson said. "I                     was a basket case. We were perfect for                     each other."                      Despite the tension with Crow, most of                     the Tuesday Night Music Club attended                     the Grammy Awards in March 1995. To                     show irreverence, Wilson rented                     19th-century funeral regalia for Gilbert                     and her to wear: a morning coat and top                     hat for him, ostrich plumes and a bustle                     for her. Crow sat in the row in front of                     them. "They were not on good terms,"                     Wilson. "She was tensely gracious. It                     was a furtive, tense, real glitzy night."                      Crow picked up three awards, including                     Record of the Year for "All I Wanna                     Do," a Tuesday Night instrumental with                     lyrics borrowed from verses in a                     little-known volume by a poet in                     Vermont. A week later, Gilbert was still                     wearing his Grammy medallion around                     his neck like a badge of valor.                      From there, he set out to recapture the                     creative anarchy he felt was the                     authentic legacy of the club. He and                     MacLeod produced some startling                     recordings, far removed from anything                     either of them had ever done.                      They were scary, dense, pop-industrial                     recordings, with Gilbert whispering                     ominous, almost threatening processed                     vocals. "They gave me nightmares,"                     Bottrell said. Gilbert envisioned a new                     band, Kaviar, clad in fetish rubber gear.                     He pulled other musicians into the plan.                      At the same time, Gilbert could toss off                     simple, beautiful, sentimental tunes. In                     Baerwald's last memory of Gilbert, the                     pianist was noodling around on the                     keyboard, plaintively singing Randy                     Newman's "Marie." Baerwald had                     briefly dozed off. "I woke up crying," he                     said.                      Bottrell, who played perhaps the largest                     role in Gilbert's career, doesn't think he                     ever really knew him. "There were                     tremendous areas of his life I was not                     privy to," he said. "There were motives                     I could never quite figure out."                      But Bottrell's wife, Elizabeth,                     remembers sensing a powerful mood of                     peace and reconciliation in a phone                     conversation with Gilbert the afternoon                     before he died. They talked about                     attending an industry dinner together;                     Gilbert kidded her about wearing rubber.                     They never spoke again.                      One afternoon this summer, several                     hundred of Gilbert's friends and                     associates gathered for a memorial                     service at the Bottrells' Glendale home.                     Wilson, dressed white, sat next to                     MacLeod as Crow walked up to say                     hello. "I barked at her," Wilson recalled.                     Wilson knew the titles of the album's                     songs well enough. "Run, baby, run,"                     she yelped at Crow, who fled in tears.                      Although Crow is reluctant to discuss                     Gilbert, she has been openly vocal in                     interviews about the rift over the album                     with the Tuesday Night Music Club.                      "There were guys in the group who                     were feeling bitter about the record                     doing so well," she recently told                     Billboard magazine. "Maybe I should                     have called it something else."                      On Tuesday, she will release her                     follow-up album, called - not                     insignificantly, perhaps even defiantly -                     "Sheryl Crow." Clearly, this singer                     wants to prove that she's an act and a                     talent all her own - not the                     smoke-and-mirrors creation of a savvy,                     multitalented backup band.                      She did mention Gilbert to a Dutch                     journalist last month. "I wasn't surprised                     by his death," Crow told Edwin                     Ammerlaan of Orr Magazine. "Kevin                     was one of the most self-destructive                     people I've ever met. I don't want to go                     into this too much, but it wasn't a nice                     story."  Metroactive   From writing songs for Sheryl Crow to auditioning as Phil Collins'             replacement, South Bay musician Kevin Gilbert could do almost              anything, except get the recognition he deserved               By Richard Sine              MTV did a gossipy report on its news show. The              Associated Press wrote it up. And the L.A. music              scene knows all about it. But in the South Bay,              where Grammy winner Kevin Gilbert grew up and              first made his name in the music business, his death              caused barely a ripple. The San Jose Mercury              News buried a few cursory paragraphs on Gilbert              on its obituary page.               Some of his friends think that oversight is a shame.              "What upset me the most is [that] this guy, with              this much talent and all these connections, was our              shining star," recalls former KOME DJ Greg Stone              about his friend. "He was gonna make it out of this              town, and make it big."               Gilbert, 29, died at his home outside of Los              Angeles on May 18. The coroner listed the cause              of death as "asphyxia due to partial suspension              hanging."Friends and MTV more explicitly reported              the cause as autoerotic asphyxiation.               The tall and good-looking Gilbert grew up in San              Mateo, where he attended Serra High School. After              spending a year at UCLA, Gilbert moved to              Sunnyvale, where he formed the prog-rock band              Giraffe, which played gigs at clubs around the              South Bay, including the Oasis and the Cabaret.               After spending some time entrenched in the South              Bay music scene, Gilbert moved to Los Angeles in              1989, where he established himself on the fringes              of a much larger music scene. Gilbert wrote songs              for Sheryl Crow, engineered a single for Michael              Jackson, and helped to write Madonna's songs for              the Dick Tracy soundtrack. Friends say he had a              great deal of talent but just kept missing the brass              ring--always working for big stars but never quite              capturing the spotlight on his own.               "Kevin could do anything," says Cintra Wilson, a              playwright and columnist who lived with him. "The              problem was finding a niche for himself. People              kept trying to pigeonhole him, but his work was              totally non-derivative. The music industry doesn't              have a use for people who are that original."               IN MUSIC history, Gilbert may become best              known as the man who discovered Sheryl Crow,              who scored multiple Grammies for her catchy 1994              album Tuesday Night Music Club. Crow was an              unknown when she auditioned to be a keyboardist              with Gilbert's band Toy Matinee, which also              featured lead guitarist Mark Bonilla of Walnut              Creek.               According to Pat Terrell, a fan of Gilbert's who              became a good friend, Crow and Gilbert dated for              about two years. During that time Gilbert joined in              a weekly jam session known as the "Tuesday              Music Club." Eventually, the Music Club started              writing and recording for Crow.               Crow named her album after the group and              described it lovingly in the disc's liner notes. But              Gilbert did not tour with Crow, and friends say the              two parted on less than cordial terms. "The              relationship started to go south as soon as the              Tuesday Music Club started recording for Crow,"              says Terrell. "No doubt part of it was jealousy.              A&M was pouring millions into the project, and he              was essentially blackballed."               Terrell and Stone claim that Gilbert actually wrote              most of the songs on the album that are credited to              Crow and four other members of the Music Club.              "You can tell from listening to Giraffe or Toy              Matinee that those are Kevin's songs," claims              Stone.               Terrell says the other musicians and Bill Bottrell,              the producer, demanded a writing credit, and thus a              share of the royalties, in order to participate in the              project. "Kevin was willing to surrender his stake at              the time because he had no idea the album would              be such a huge success."               Terrell adds, "Kevin saw it as an example of how              people can change after a huge success. The              Tuesday Music Club went from a bunch of people              getting together to jam on Tuesday to a corporate              machine in which he was steamrolled, as were              many others. He watched A&M throw millions at              this album, almost to turn it into a hit. He realized              the record companies could turn who they want              into superstars."               Stone also says that Crow betrayed Gilbert with her              own record company. "When Sheryl Crow hit it              big, Kevin realized he had to get his own record              deal," explains Stone. "He realized he could walk              into A&M and say, 'These are my songs.' But she              told them that she was just being nice to everyone              by mentioning him in the liner notes. She said he              didn't have anything to do with these songs. That              pissed him off and got him depressed."               A publicity person at A&M Records in Hollywood              said Crow had no comment on Gilbert's death.               Ultimately, Gilbert received a Grammy for              co-writing Crow's smash hit "All I Wanna Do."              Terrell says that at the time he had gone into              serious debt to build his own studio, to the point              that he lived in it on a mattress. The royalties from              Crow's album helped him find a place to live, and              he began working on his own career.               Gilbert released a solo album, Thud, which fared              poorly on a small label. At the time of his death, he              was working on an album with ex­4 Non Blondes              singer Linda Perry. Terrell says he had also              completed an album with a group called Kaviar and              a concept album about "a boy from the sticks who              goes to the big city to become a rock star."               Gilbert was a big fan of the rock group Genesis              when it was headed by Peter Gabriel, and wowed              crowds with his performance of Genesis covers.              According to friends, he was scheduled to fly to              London the week after his death to audition to              replace Phil Collins in the seminal prog-rock group.              Wilson says that Crow played only a minor role in              Gilbert's life. "He did a lot of commercial stuff              because it was extremely lucrative. He was in such              demand, a real Renaissance man. He could pick up              any instrument and just start playing it."               Terrell says Gilbert had a moody streak that led to              frictions with the big studios. He says Gilbert had              been diagnosed as a manic-depressive. "He could              be several people in one. He had his goofy side, his              intense, perfectionist side, his manic genius side.              Other times he would just disappear for a week.              Many people in the music business ultimately gave              up on working with him because of his              inconsistency. When he was looking for a record              deal, the word got around that he was more trouble              than he was worth. But I think anybody with raw              genius has that."               "He always seemed just on the outside," Terrell              says of his friend. "He could always get work, but              could never break through completely for himself.              It was frustrating for him to always be on the edge              of success."

 

 

BIOGRAPHY

november 20, 1966 - may 17, 1996 Lifted gratuitously and gracelessly but gratefully from erotomania: What follows below is Kevin's self-written biography for the release of Thud, his 1994 solo  record from PRA Records. According To Kevin, PRA had someone write up a bio for him, but it  sounded "like every other bio ever written, times 10," so Kevin decided to write one on his own:         "My name is Kevin Gilbert. My album is called Thud. I was born with  a piece of J.C. Penny stainless steel flatware in my mouth, and I scratched  and clawed my way out of the upper middle class ghetto of San Mateo,  California to become the feared yet loved pariah that I am today. I am a   dynamic figure, often seen scaling buildings and crushing ice. I write award-  winning operas and translate ethnic slurs for Cuban refugees. I can pilot  bicycles up severe inclines with unflagging speed, and I can cook two-  minute eggs in less than a minute. I have been known to remodel subway  stations on my lunch breaks, making them more efficient in the area of   heat dispersion. Occasionally, I trade ribald jests with heads of state.       I have written number-one singles for a friend. I am an expert in glass  bricklaying, a veteran in love, and an outlaw in Brazil. I breed prize-winning   clams. I wrote, produced, and played most of Thud in an overgrown home  recording facility which I hand-built with money I earned composing innocuous  television scores under an assumed name. I pay my bills on time. I don't  perspire. I think reverb is dishonest but sometimes necessary. I, too, have  written and produced material for Madonna, and refused to have sex with her.  Using only a hoe and a glass of water, I once single-handedly defended a   small village in the Amazon Basin from an attack of ferocious army ants.   I read ancient Egyptian manuscripts in the original Sanskrit.       I am an abstract sculptor, a master archer, and a ruthless bookie. I   once engineered sessions for Michael Jackson and unknowingly offered  him a bite of my hot dog. I own many of Burt Bachrach's instrumental   recordings and periodically annoy the neighbors by playing them at a  high volume. I sleep only fifteen minutes a night and do so standing up.  It is not true that I performed covert operations for the CIA. I think Peter   Gabriel was a brilliant artist until he underwent EST training. I am an   unselfish lover, an investor in the Chinese stock market, a rabble-rousing  herdboy, and an inspiration for freedom fighters everywhere. My dad was  a respected physicist, and I changed my name from Kelvin. Children trust me.       After one listen, I can play any song on several instruments. I do not own  a television or a blues record. I was the lead singer and chief songwriter of  Toy Matinee. I can make extraordinary four course meals using only a spatula  and a toaster oven. I believed in and voted for Clinton. I have performed open   heart surgery, and I have spoken to Elvis.       But I have never released a solo record."

 

 LINKS

erotomania  ht barber tribute tribute.thud bewtifulfreak tribute Eponymous Enderprizes Joytown *The Debster*