Who is
Getting to know Frith Hilton is like swift lightning swaying you off your pell-mell feet. However dismissible its effect, a subtle rattling that lasts a minutial moment — mostly because he's as endearing as any adorable darling Hilton you'll find. He's saying, instead of appalling your erasing gut — from never finding a true source of knowledge, as he's assuming you're cautious and taciturn about these things — you, out of the blue, finally see him for who he truly is and take a chill pill. If your gene pool blessed you with loquacious errands, he assures you, he'll soon be your favourite secret to keep. This is what he hopes to achieve with this biography: Frith Hilton coming off the page, and you seeing the Musician, the Poet, just as thousands of fans — well known to be referred to as Cows and Bulls — around the free world do. You’ll come to love him for his authenticity, his ingenuity, and resilience, and you take away some swag from the vibe he passes around. Some say it's chutzpah; he calls it Hilton merit. Hilton is an X post away, any day.
“Don’t doubt your vibe because it’s you.” — Elon Musk
People haven’t always identified Frith Hilton, matched his particulars to who he truly is. Wrong ID! Whose face card? Unlike a 1911 crosshair, its target point-blank, most seemed to mistake him for some other person he’s never meeting, even in an open space. He believes the air of his presence would commute to anyone by this misinformation, someone else, and he’d be no more alive than a morgue’s resident to them. They’d need to be big on fan-love to be at such a meetup, and he must say, he’d be truly blessed if it happened… the resonance of his art breaking the grounds of snobbery, with a smudgy face in question, for uncharted grounds of common interests and dissolution of what-have-you wrong.
Skewed and distorted comments have always flown and made their rounds, and still do. It’s the reputation of the carriers to muddle his well-known, prominent character, aided by uncertainties that arise from the lapses that shadow over anyone with discreteness about private matters. But it’s not arising from his inability to keep secrets, but instead, the desire to further build up knowledge of his personal life. So, most of these fellows do it for good reasons they know much more about.
At some point, some folks thought Frith Hilton was a cleaner! Yup, a labour wage earner on janitorial duty. It’s embarrassing they thought he had such a meagre job, pushing a career that ensures securing the best cleansers and porcelain bleach, at least, if you are ever to enjoy light banter at informal gatherings. Mind you, he does, by the way, during the weekend, keep the lights on and tend to the walls that hold his sanity. He makes sure no unnoticed inching took place, as it’s a bleak distance that forgets what he fades into when the worst happens. But this isn’t the detail you need. His personas are everywhere in his art. Promise you will find him after reading this? He’s the lines of lyrics to his songs, the rhythm of the vibrance behind his hundreds of songs, the remaining rhetoric after his poetry rhymes have been exhausted. With over 330 songs and close to one thousand poems across over twenty-five books, it shouldn’t be a needle-in-a-haystack dilemma discovering him beyond this brief introduction.
Frith Hilton's life started quite quiet, like most sons raised on a lonely patch of time, a burgeoning neighbourhood of few sparsely planted homes, with breadwinners working in the city, posted in far-away cities, and in extreme cases, out of the country. He was the only male in a house of four females, with blossom pride deflated by the ego of other sons with machismo and taunting expressions. The other dudes didn’t bellow any nuance of thought in their disagreements as he warped and twisted in the nuances of his own experiences, which, mind you, were well creased by ample daunting events that left his not-so-friendly peer mates not as well represented in his child mind as you’d make of a fairy-tale childhood, but he had his moments. All of these lent him audibility, for he knew what he wanted and didn’t. He developed into a teenager who, not failing the pageant on looks and appeal, managed around with a scar he’d gotten around six years old. It was from his early football endeavours. Showered by chandelier shatters that in splinters broke his skin and left the surgeons willing to break his heart with cheesy reasons to scar him. He was young and took little notice of his new face at the time, with its little forehead scar. Now, he likes to see it as a sarcastic reminder of the need for proprietary control of the unacknowledged rights of his life. Years earlier, prior to the football accident, he had gotten stabbed in the purlicue of his palm. But that didn’t leave him scared; it left him unwilling to start friendships.
Years later, after a brief bout of personal career success as a software developer dipping his toes in the long-neglected enterprise of music making, Frith Hilton's natural parents broke everything. By everything, he means he woke up in a fractured existence where he questioned his own identity. He writes all about it in his published epic: “Bury Me in 1965”. With nowhere else to go, he remained with them. In his natural parents’ home is where he met the Hiltons, through Chantel Jeffries. It’s also where European royalty first whispered. But he had become a poet, and his previous music endeavours had grown strong tentacles to be taken seriously. This was when life began. The birth of Howard Frith Hilton.
Howard Frith Hilton, well known simply as Frith Hilton, is a musician and poet, thanks to all of the fans around the world that visit his website daily, where his songs are streamed and his poetry is read, shared, and listened to in audio format. He continues to break the boundaries of the limits of his simple tools, and AI and new tech have been indispensable.
Born to two Yorubas, Frith Hilton picked up the native language late, simply because it wasn’t fashionable, and besides, the times roared viable interests in the affairs of the Europeans. He wasn’t a broad interest enthusiast, but he remembers stumbling on a novel for the first time, barely an adolescent, and recharging his sockets and taming the raw and unchallenged, promising to use the new voice’s style he’d read from its pages for his own descriptions. He simply owned its unconventional interest for the weather, how the well-known colours could go by other fancier names — the new finds he was sold on, showing him how to experience the world. It birthed language again as lofty, and he had praise for it.
You can find me on X @frithhilton17 or write to [email protected]
Scroll to top
search
