When Tim Bowen died in January, he left a gaping hole in Philadelphia’s multi-discipline arts ozone. Long before kids dabbled in genre-jumping and mixed-media mash-ups, Bowen leapt from making music with his pre-punk ensemble the Boneheads (who opened for the likes of the B-52s at the Hot Club, the legendary punk venue where he worked) to creating three-dimensional, locally oriented dioramas that depicted his daily existence. As time went on, Bowen’s work grew more cynical, funny and socially cutting. It didn’t win him many commissions or sales, which is why he eventually opened Falling Cow Gallery on Fourth Street off South. There he could craft highly graphic light boxes, richly sarcastic collages and multi-panel tabloid-screaming paintings. Bowen also continued making sharply sardonic albums with the Crystal Ball Breakers, music that had the same sage political rage and wit of his paintings. Yet the best way to access Bowen’s quiet wit was to sit around and talk to him. There was nothing more delightful — not just to my ears but to those of countless local artists he befriended — than hearing hateful ripostes and happy tales from Bowen. He made the good sound gloriously gloomy and the bad sound tastily desirable.