Although it made national news in January, I only learned of the murder of the Harvey family of Richmond, Virginia last Tuesday. It was simply a case of me realizing I hadn’t ever bothered to Google one of my favorite bands, despite not having heard much about them over the last fifteen years or so, and finding out something for which I could not have been prepared.

Bryan Harvey was the singer/songwriter/guitarist of a truly great two-man guitar and drum combo called House of Freaks. Along with crack drummer and co-writer Johnny Hott, he made a different kind of sound that borrowed from folk and blues in a way that had nothing to do with the way that most bands borrow from folk and blues. There was no fetishizing of musical cliches or slavish hero worship. This was nothing less than thoroughly contemporary pop music that actually added to the grittier end of the American musical tradition.

House of Freaks was gutsy. For one thing, this was when basses were pretty much a rock and roll requirement, long before bands like the White Stripes made the guitar and drums only line-up a popular option. Removing that reliable throbbing somehow added to the drama. Less really was more.

Their first two albums, Monkey on a Chain Gang and Tantilla were notable not only for the dramatic sparness of the sound and the melodies, the raspy sweetness of Harvey’s voice, or his big, cutting, guitar sound, but also for the shocking emotional resonance and sincerity of the lyrics. Without straining to sound important, House of Freaks transcended the usual pop subject matter of romantic pain and longing and took on really big subjects in a deeply personal way that I can’t really compare with any other band or songwriters.

My favorite song from either album was, “Give Me a Sign.” It dealt with the largest issue of all, a cry for an absent God in a world that could really use a present one. It’s about a guy who’d really like to believe, but first he’d like just a little evidence. Not much to ask for. Another, “You Can Never Go Home” is simply one of the saddest and most compelling tunes I ever expect to hear.

While many songs had their share of mordant humor, their subjects included sickness, domestic abuse, nuclear war, cosmic despair, white supremacy, and other lightweight ephemera. I guess it should have been no shock they didn’t zoom up the charts during the hair-band heyday, but it was a crying shame. They should have been filling stadiums. Instead, I got to see them play for free at the Santa Monica Pier.

And it was at that show when a filthy, obviously drunk, homeless guy ascended the stage and, boogeying his heart out, started to disrobe while they performed their best known song, “40 Years,” a poigant celebration of the lack of nuclear annihilation despite forty-plus years of cold warfare. Rather than nervously eyeing the security staff or being angry at the guy for ruining their big musical statement, the guys couldn’t stop laughing.

Fortunately for everyone’s psyche, somehow the fellow was lured off the stage before accomplishing even a quarter Monty. A few minutes later, I smelled something not entirely pleasant and looked up. The homeless man, fully clothed, was holding a bottle of Jack Daniels and yelling, “They gave me this!”

It was one of too few great shows I was lucky enough to catch before Harvey and Hott left L.A. and returned to their native Virginia. I never stopped loving those first two albums, but the band House of Freaks dropped off my personal radar screen.

Before this week, I had either forgotten or been unaware that Harvey and Hott had actually recorded another four albums, two as House of Freaks, and two as part of a supergroup of sorts, Gutterball, featuring Steve Wynn of Dream Syndicate. Both groups released their final albums in 1995.

In a world where people get what they deserve, Harvey would have been at least as rich as Bono or Springsteen, or at least have have been able to live off his songwriting royalties. Instead, he did IT work and settled in for the really important work of raising a family along with his wife, who also ran “House of Mirth,” a popular novelty store in Richmond. Meanwhile, he kept his hand in with a soul-funk cover band, NRG Krysys, which must have been a hell of a lot of fun to see live.

The Harvey family were not quite world famous, but it really seems as if they were genuinely happy and beloved by just about everyone they came into contact with. And, despite the lack of vast wealth and fame, that would have been a very nice end to the story.

Maybe this could have been a brief post in which I would have written Bryan a belated fan e-mail. From what I’ve read people say about the kind of guy he was, I likely would have gotten a nice note in return. Instead I read about events that are just horribly sad and utterly senseless. I won’t discuss them here, because they’ve been dealt with elsewhere and it’s not my place.

I will suggest that you give Bryan Harvey’s work a listen. Both Monkey on a Chain Gang and Tantilla were just recently reissued in special editions with previously unreleased material by Rhino (see the links above). There’s also a new limited compiliation of Bryan’s work, which I’ve just ordered myself, including some of the best of House of Freaks and songs from other bands, available here. All proceeds go to the foundation that was established in the name of the Harvey family. You can also contribute directly to that good cause here.

This is the point when I’m supposed to make some kind of statement, tying my thoughts and feelings about all of this together. It’s not possible. However, since I began writing this article, I was reminded that Bryan closed that Santa Monica Pier show with another of my favorite songs, John Lennon’s “Instant Karma.”

More than most of us, I think, Brian, Kathryn, Stella, and Ruby Harvey shine on.