In a development so grimly farcical it could have been penned by a caffeinated Kafka, the mortal remains of one Oliver Tree — a musician whose entire persona oscillated between ‘disaffected millennial’ and ‘goblin in a bowl cut’ — have been shipped back to the United States. The cause? A helicopter crash. The subtext? A karaoke machine of irony. The self-styled ‘voice of a generation’ met his end in a manner so spectacularly literal that even my gin-soaked synapses struggled to process it.
British investigators, those trusty chaps in anoraks who normally reserve their expertise for flat-pack furniture and unsolved Agatha Christie plots, have been ‘assisting’ with the repatriation. Why the Queen’s finest are involved in a chopper mishap that likely occurred in some sun-scorched corner of the American southwest is a question that tickles the brain like a feather dipped in cheap brandy. Did the wreckage land on a Union Jack? Did a stray bulldog witness the incident? Was there a particularly baffling traffic cone at the scene? The world may never know.
The deceased, a singer whose musical output I can only describe as ‘the sound of a modem breaking up with a ukulele’, had apparently been engaging in aerial acrobatics. A helicopter, that most clunky of flying machines — part lawnmower, part blender — decided to part ways with physics. And now Oliver Tree is a vegetable metaphor. A tree that has been, shall we say, felled.
The news cycle, that ravenous beast, has already begun its ritualistic feast. ‘Heartbreaking tributes’ from fellow musicians who couldn’t pick him out of a police lineup. ‘Outpouring of grief’ from fans who have never felt a genuine emotion in their lives. ‘Investigations ongoing’ from authorities who will, in a month, conclude it was ‘pilot error’ or ‘mechanical failure’ or ‘the ghost of a Victorian child who hates pop music’.
But let us pause, dear reader, to savour the sheer absurdity of the phrase ‘Oliver Tree’s body returned to US’. As if one could return a tree to a country. As if the man was ever here in the first place. He existed in that strange liminal space between Spotify algorithm and Instagram drama, a digital wraith who occasionally shrieked into a microphone. Now he is an object. A parcel. A logistical footnote in a customs form.
And the British investigators! Oh, glorious British investigators. I imagine them arriving at the crash site, tweed jackets smouldering, thermos of tea in hand. ‘Right then, chaps. Let’s have a proper look at this mess.’ They will measure the skid marks with a tape measure from B&Q. They will interview the local tumbleweed. They will file a report that uses the word ‘whilst’ seven times and ends with a recommendation for better signage.
The whole affair is a masterclass in dystopian theatre. A young man’s life reduced to a headline that sounds like a rejected Cold War telenovela. ‘Singer Oliver Tree’s Body Returned to US.’ The words hang in the air like a bad smell from a pub carpet. Returned to sender. Address unknown. No such number. No such zone.
I shall now pour myself a very large gin. A funeral toast, if you will. To Oliver Tree. May your afterlife be less mechanically complicated than your departure. And to the British investigators: may your beige saloon cars forever find a parking space. The absurdity continues.
