See also the 2016 version (now archived) of Ask Greil.
Okay, Charlottesville. My first benumbed, irrelevant thought was that I sort of like that equestrian statue of Robert E. Lee (sculptors: Henry Merwin Shrady and Leo Lentelli).
The episode echoed the history of toppling statues of deposed leaders. I thought of lines from Wallace Stevens’s “Lytton Strachey: Also, Enters into Heaven,” which I have by heart (Berkeley English Department vet here)… “One man opposing a society/If properly misunderstood becomes a myth,” and “In this apologetic air, one well/Might muff the mighty spirit of Lenin.”
You can’t erase history with acts of desecration. Wish there were someplace to preserve these now-targeted pop statues.
On higher ground, I am grateful that Versailles, in all its transformative beauty and terror, has been preserved.
Back to the revolting horrors in Charlottesville—which I cannot process but am sure you can—your reaction, please.
– Laura Leivick
“You can’t erase history with acts of desecration. Wish there were someplace to preserve these now-targeted pop statues”—but Confederate statues are not history. They are propaganda at best and terrorism at worst. Confederate statues began to go up with the end of Reconstruction and the inauguration of the Jim Crow era—which lasted into the 1960s, and began not merely with segregation and the barring of black citizens from public buildings, public services, any form of everyday right-to-be, but with lynch mobs killing, individually and en masse, black citizens who attempted to vote and their white allies who stood with them in affirmation of rights granted by the Civil War amendments to the Constitution. The statues, previously banned, refused by the new local and state governments formed when Confederate supporters could not vote and black citizens could, or avoided out of shame, were meant to send one message: the Yankees say we lost the War of Northern Aggression. We know different: look around you. This is white man’s country; it will never be yours and you will never belong. Your Yankee rights are worthless. Try us.
There was a second wave of the erection of Confederate statues in the 1920s, when white mobs lynching black people appeared across the country, in the north as well as the south. Thousands of black citizens, men, women, and children, where hung, burned at the stake, beaten to death, mutilated—because of a resurgence of the KKK, which effectively took over the governments of several states, including Indiana, with elected officials behaving precisely as the president of the United States is doing now. The statues were meant as a defense against state and federal anti-lynching laws (which never passed, thanks to the domination of Congress by southern Democrats) and the emergence of a civil rights movement with the NAACP and other groups. The third wave of statues went up during the Civil Rights Movement of the ’50s and ’60s—again to say, the Yankees say one thing, you’ll hear something else in your bed at night: your last breath.
The statues have nothing to do with heritage, tradition, cherished beliefs. They were and are about power, humiliation, disenfranchisement on the legal and the everyday, human level. They should all be ground to dust. (And I say this as one whose great-grandfather, Jacob Greil, who is buried in Oakwood Cemetery in Montgomery, Alabama, just across the lane from Hank Williams, fought in the Civil War as a member of the Confederate Army.)
I’ve always been in awe of your stamina as a rock critic, the fact that you and Robert Christgau and a few others have maintained your interest as well as your ability to find new ways to discuss the stuff for so long. Has there ever been a time that you considered giving up writing about rock and roll?
Have you seen Adventureland or The Perks of Being a Wallflower, and if so, any thoughts on either? They’re my two favourite movies the past decade for pop music (or at least tied with Carlos).
– Alan Vint
I haven’t and don’t know anything about them, assuming the second isn’t about how cool it is to be in the Wallflowers.
I’m a fan of every Jamaican recording you’ve pointed your readers toward. However, I’ve never seen you write about Lee Perry’s 1976-1979 Black Ark period, which I love as well. I admit it’s like exploring reggae’s lost cave, but there are treasures to be found—the chanting, echoing, taunting fatalism of the Meditations’ “No Peace” chills me every time, and I wonder if Sly Stone was listening.
I think Lee Perry’s Black Ark masterpiece is the 1977 Congos album Heart of the Congos, which sounds richer and deeper, more present and fully coherent, 40 years later. You’ve called Perry a “soul man of mercurial power,” and this is where I find it (although the ghostly, floating voices deserve equal credit here).
Do you like this album? Have you gotten into any other Lee Perry music from this time (besides, of course, The Clash’s “Complete Control”)?
I don’t know that period nearly as well as I should, and will follow your lead and see where it takes me. Thanks.
Hearing a live Dylan concert is obviously a one-off experience; maybe the closest experience in history was to hear Dickens read his own work. Here’s to the trainspotters who produce setlists; sometimes I have been so excited that the moments dissolved as they passed. After the December 4, 2014 show at the Beacon I could only recall “Things Have Changed,” “Duquesne Whistle,” and the final encore, “Stay With Me.” It didn’t even register that it was the last of Dylan’s concerts for that year and he had not made plans for 2015. When I was younger, I would remember every song and write them all down after. Especially the Radio City shows he did in 1989 with G.E. Smith (then not the showboat he became). My companion at these shows was a classical conductor who knew something was happening but didn’t know what it was, so I felt blissfully alone. Generally I have the best and clearest experience on my own. The best—the only, really—companion with whom I fully experienced Dylan shows was Lloyd Fonvielle. Before he wrote up the experience with such immediacy, I was surprised to learn, he had checked his memory against the setlist.
Do you generally consult the setlist after a show (boy, can it be annoying if there are mistakes?) as an aide-memoire?
– Laura Leivick
I check web sites after shows more than I’d like to admit. Sometimes because I just want to see and hear, not take notes, sometimes because I don’t know the songs, sometimes because I can’t read my notes, sometimes because I know my memory is faulty. One more reason I love the internet.
The Mendoza Line were a great band that I never would have discovered without your writing, even though they were practically my neighbors in Brooklyn at the time. They seem to have been consigned to oblivion except for the very small number of people who heard them. I pull out Lost in Revelry at least once a year and it shows no signs of getting old. Even though their eventual bitter collapse seems written into their story from the beginning, I can’t help but wish they had managed a longer run. Do they still hold up for you? Have you followed any of the members post-Mendoza work?
They more than hold up. Their music seems more unlikely and brave under Trump than it did with Bush, and just as funny, warm, melodic and open as ever.
I’ve kept up with Shannon McArdle who I admire enormously. We’ve worked together—a great privilege.
In the history of rock’n’roll there are many interesting moments. Some that you maybe want to forget about, others that are still interesting. I bought the T.A.M.I. Show DVD a few years ago and it features many interesting or/and funny moments. The T.A.M.I. Show was recorded in 1964! Look about 40 seconds into this clip featuring the Rolling Stones performing “Around and Around”—
—I imagine that this is the moment when America realized that the Rolling Stones are not just another pop-group singing about holding hands. Just look at the guy standing to the right of the young blonde girl. What is he thinking? Maybe: what are these guys doing to our young american girls?
In a way, these few seconds maybe tell us more about the Rolling Stones conquering America than written books? Do you have any similar stories?
That’s how it all works—those moments when everything is clarified, and a thousand stories fold into one.
Speaking of “Desolation Row” [see 07/13/17], just learned that U.S. military (and diplomatic, though I think that’s irrelevant) passports are brown. It’s easy to see the connection to the era of the hanging and that of Dylan’s childhood. Like you (right?), I find great satisfaction in knowing such things. It’s like touching earth.
I also love the story behind “Delia”—my late friend Lloyd Fonvielle lucked out and heard Dylan sing it live, and also wrote a fine piece about the song, its background and Dylan’s variation on the lyrics. His apologia for every track on Christmas in the Heart is nutty but there’s nothing like it and, well, it’s sure from the heart. Were you ever aware of Lloyd’s work?
– Laura Leivick
Thanks for all of this. Sean Wilentz’s chapter on “Delia” in The Rose and the Briar: Death, Love, and Liberty in the American Ballad, which he and I edited in 2004, captures so much of the story, and the shifting feelings of the song as it’s traveled through the last hundred years and more.
To your knowledge, has Randy Newman ever commented on what you wrote about him in Mystery Train? Have the two of you ever crossed paths in person?
We met in 2003 for a long and gratifying (at least on my end) talk that I drew on for an Interview column and for the Notes in the 2015 6th edition of Mystery Train. He was expansive, emotional, demonstrative, tired.
How do you feel about Little Willie John’s music? In “Treasure Island” he is only represented by one song, “Need Your Love So Bad,” which—given his critical adulation—seems to have a deliberate point of restraint behind it. Is this an example of an artist’s “contribution to the story” being “summed up by a single record”? Or is it the only Little Willie John track that reaches you?
He was a fine artist of many parts, as Joe McEwen has chronicled. To me that was the one that put him in the circle and will keep him there.
If you were to make a Treasure Island list of comedy records, would Richard Pryor make the cut? (I assume some Firesign Theatre and Monty Python choices would be there…)
I listen to the Richard Pryor 9 CD box set And It’s Deep Too all the time as background noise when I’m writing, just as I did the Firesign Theatre and Monty Python LPs for the 9 years I was writing Lipstick Traces. And I always end up playing them straight through, over two, three days—once he gets started I can’t hear anything else.
Could you share your opinion of the Platters and their music? I have been listening to their 2-CD anthology The Magic Touch, and I an amazed at how many great songs they recorded. I noticed the only song of theirs in your awesome Stranded discography was “My Prayer.” Tony Williams had an excellent, dramatic, soaring voice that reminds me somewhat of Roy Orbison.
– hugh c grissett
The Platters were wonderful. Watch the YouTube clip of them performing “You’ll Never Know”—Tony Williams is so subtle and fluid it can make you question what you’re hearing. My number one has always been “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes”—I heard it when it came out in the mid fifties and have never really gotten over that final ascending swirl. But I put in “My Prayer” at the suggestion/insistence of the now jazz and dance critic Robert Gottlieb, who in 1979 was the head of Knopf, which published the book, because it was the essence of their style.
What are your thoughts about the quick decline of Aretha Franklin’s music between 1967’s I Never Loved A Man and Aretha’s Gold in 1969, when, as you wrote, her “career was already cracking”? In your opinion, what happened—how did her music change? Was it a matter of material, or feeling, or something else?
The material declined, but my guess—and it’s just a guess—is that it was personal. Personal in the sense of an emotional and intellectual response to sudden world stardom—and the understanding that it was both deserved and earned—and in terms of men around her, manager husband producer, who were not necessarily different people, telling her to do this or it will all vanish, do that or she’ll be broke in a year. Instead of peace of mind truly great success brings confusion, resentment, and fear. Not satisfaction but jeopardy.
As I said, a guess.
Greil, the “150 Greatest Albums Made By Women” [see 07/26/17 below] does not include any records by our hometown’s Joy of Cooking. Joy still isn’t getting the respect it deserves.
And they were so great in a small Berkeley club.
Many thanks for your time. Have read an article or so containing your thoughts on Neil Young. Was curious how you view his records On The Beach and Tonight’s The Night overall in perspective of his body of work. Also in light of the favored status those recordings have garnered in recent years. Do those albums have any highlights/moments for you?
They might be the essence of Neil Young, or the albums that most set him apart from anyone else. They’re both utterly idiosyncratic, odd, unpleasant, at times morbid. They’re scary. It’s easy to see why some people don’t like them, don’t hear them—don’t want to hear about that stuff. Or can’t take it. Tonight’s the Night takes the title from one of the sweetest and sexiest records ever made—the Shirelles—and turns it toward pure death. The whole album is a funeral, an elegy, a burial, digging up the body, saying, yeah, he’s dead, put him back. On the Beach has Charles Manson all over it—not just in “Revolution Blues,” which for me the Waco Brothers do better, or harder, and “Ambulance Blues.”
Neil Young has made I don’t know how many of my favorite records, from “Cowgirl in the Sand” to “I’m the Ocean” to something he hasn’t done yet. But these will do.
I’d be interested in your thoughts about Sam Shepard as a writer. Additionally, “Brownsville Girl” which he co-wrote with Dylan, continues to be mysterious to me despite the bombast of the musical production. What do you think of it?
– Scott Bunn
I only saw two or three of his plays, maybe in poor productions, but they didn’t set me on fire. I was never as charmed by him on screen as his directors were. His Rolling Thunder memoir wasn’t memorable. “Brownsville Girl”—especially on the outtake called “New Danville Girl,” which is different in terms of words and very different in terms of Dylan’s singing—so much more thoughtful in the midst of being so much more expressive—is a remarkable piece, but I think there’s no way of knowing who wrote what, especially when you hear Dylan changing the words and cadences between versions.
Your reverence for early Steely Dan sent me down a rabbit hole replaying many of their albums, old and new. The Nightfly, Fagen’s first solo effort, to my ears feels particularly amazing. I couldn’t find any comments by you on this one and am wondering how it has sounded to you.
It might be the most conceptually perfect album I know—because the idea behind it—
“The songs on this album represent certain fantasies that might have been entertained by a young man growing up in the remote suburbs of a northeastern city during the late fifties and early sixties, i.e., one of my general height, weight and build”
—is so completely and lovingly and self-deprecatingly followed through. It’s a cultural excavation project that in its sounds, moods, attitude, and stories says more about the time it means to address than any novel from or about the period I know, and likely any movie too. I remember first playing the record and realizing both that I hadn’t thought about the International Geophysical Year (“I.G.Y.“) in decades, and how thrilling its affirmation that anything was possible as soon as the breakthroughs it promised—all in one year—came in. That is, how embarrassing it was to remember what a colossal worldwide hype it all was, all meant to realign power from old industries toward nuclear power, extractive energy, chemical and drug corporations, mass agriculture, population control, and the Pentagon and its equivalents throughout the Western world. As Fagen puts it, positively for a 12- or 13-year old in 1957 or 1958, “the fix is in”; as someone as described above, you can’t lose.
It’s like listening to the Kingston Trio records made at the same time, but with distance. And it’s not because I share so much with Fagen. He’s three years younger, I’m from a California, not northeastern, suburb, and he’s three inches taller.
Are you a fan of boxed sets? Any in particular?
I love box sets. I love objects, especially when they involve records—beat up old LPs, odd 78s. When I moved from a big house to a small house I had to dispense with most of my LPs, but I kept all of my singles.
I love box sets that are useful, like the Elvis masters series. I like box sets that are perverse, like the monstrous Bob Dylan set, The Cutting Edge. I don’t like sets with seventeen sets of liner notes, unless it’s the Harry Smith Anthology of American Folk Music. There are some really terrible sets, like the Faces, or Mott the Hoople—they cost a lot, you feel stupid trying to sell it back, when you ought to throw it away.
I like the ZZ Top set in the form of a tin-roof Texas barbeque joint.
Have been reading your work since 1976. Speaking as a hopeless music nerd, it has been a pleasure.
Lately have been overwhelmed by the Rolling Stones’ treatment of Chuck Berry songs 1969-72—“Carol” and “Little Queenie” on Get Your Ya-Yas Out and “Bye Bye Johnny” on the 1972 tour movie soundtrack. Stones could turn it up to 11 with no loss of feeling, musicality. Breathtaking.
But the greatest live rock and roll recording that I have ever heard is Jerry Lee Lewis Live at the Star Club, Hamburg. The hardest rock and roll recording. Surprised it did not make it into “Treasure Island.”
Also surprised by absence of: Grassroots, “Baby Hold On”; Big Star; Bill Monroe, “Whitehouse Blues”; Paul Revere & the Raiders, “Good Thing”; Rufus Thomas, “Memphis Train”; Con Funk Sun, “Ffun”; James Cotton, “Cotton Crop Blues.”
– Harry Clark
I can’t argue with your list of omissions, other than to say that Bill Monroe and James Cotton were outside the scope of my “Treasure Island” tour, which was supposed to be about what we called rock ‘n’ roll in its most expansive definition, and that I like Charlie Poole’s “White House Blues” better. But look, Paul Revere and the Raiders’ “Just Like Me” is the one. I once heard a cover band in a basement bar in Aspen sometime in the 1970s announce it as “the best record Paul Revere and the Raiders ever made” and what better testament could there be?
I believe you attended one or both of Bob Dylan’s shows at the Berkeley Community Center in early December 1965. (I’ve been unable to track down my written source for this belief among my bookshelves, but I know it’s there somewhere.) It has recently been determined that the circulating electric set normally attributed to an Allen Ginsberg recording at Berkeley on 04 December is in fact the electric set performed at San Jose on 12 December which is currently archived in the digitised Ginsberg collection held at the Stanford Libraries, along with the acoustic set from that night and the complete concert from San Francisco on the previous evening. I wonder if you would be kind enough to share your recollections of the show(s) on that/those nights at Berkeley, one of which apparently included the live premiere of “Visions of Johanna” in the acoustic half, and which marked the live Hawks debut of Bobby Gregg on drums. Do you recall seeing Allen Ginsberg in the audience, and was he taping the show?
– Peter Coulthard
Ginsberg swept into the hall with a retinue of Hell’s Angels and sat with them in the front row. Whether he was taping I can’t say. During “It Ain’t Me Babe” I saw the roof lift off the building and open it to the stars in the sky. It’s the only time in my life I’ve hallucinated. I couldn’t remember anything else about the performance of the song, and didn’t understand why what happened happened until I heard the bootleg of the show and realized it was all Robbie Robertson.
Greil: Help me out here. While singing “I’ll Be Back” to myself, I was hit by: “THIS time I will TRY to show that I’m NOT TRYING to PRETEND.” I’m convinced this is, at least, a triple negative; perhaps more, if one explicates pretending—not to mention the time element. A quad negative? Much hangs in the balance.
– Kevin Harvey
I’m not a grammarian. I never learned to diagram a sentence. This reads as a declarative sentence to me, accurately capturing the somewhat confused state of mind of someone trying to confess something embarrassing, if not shameful, in an honest way.
Are you familiar with author Maury Dean’s book from 1966, The Rock Revolution? It was released in 1966, evidently one of the first books dealing with rock and roll. I have been reading his 2001 book Rock N Roll Gold Rush, and it is quite interesting.
– Hugh C Grissett
I don’t know it.
Your Stranded discography includes only a handful of instrumental singles, and it seems that, for you, non-vocal pop music often requires an extra dimension of expressiveness (compensating for lack of sung words) to stand out or really pull you inside. Does this sound accurate?
Also, can you tell us what you hear and love in your two 1970s instrumental 45 selections, MFSB’s “TSOP” and the Commodores’ “Machine Gun”?
I don’t have any worked-out notion of why to include anything anywhere. The instrumental singles I have there are simply those that struck me as leaving a hole in the tradition if left out—and I loved them. As for “TSOP,” the sweep over the drift. “Machine Gun”—I have no idea. It sound pretty cheesy now.
I don’t know if you’ve seen it, but there’s an amusing website called literature-map.com: type in a writer’s name and a “map” appears with that name at the center of it, and the names of a couple dozen other writers at different proximities around it. According to the site, the maps are part of something called the Global Network of Discovery (Gnod), and the “closer two writers are, the more likely someone will like both of them.” YOUR nearest neighbours appear to be Richard Hell and Mikal Gilmore. Farther away, but about equidistant from you are Michael Chabon (to the north) and Ward Churchill (southwest). Does this strike you as about right?
– Steve O’Neill
ps: you’ll probably be happy to know that Christopher Hitchens doesn’t appear on your map. HIS closest neighbours, however, include Thomas Paine and Thomas Jefferson.
As far as mapping goes, Michael Chabon does live a block and a half from me.
I just saw my first Phish concert last night at The Garden. I’m not a big fan of their music, but I had heard enough about the strength of their shows that I felt I needed to see them live at least once. And I was very impressed. The show was truly a SHOW: elaborate set pieces; bombastic lights and grand swooping performances; meticulous presentation and structure.
Have you ever seen Phish live? If not, do you have any desire to?
The story behind songs or the meaning of songs.
I’ve been listening to music and reading about music for many years. One thing I often find very disappointing/boring is books or magazine articles trying to explain the meaning of songs. Or the story behind songs. Mainly because the stories are often made up and not often very interesting.
Philippe Margotin and Jean-Michel Guesdon have published books describing the story behind every track (!) by Bob Dylan, the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Pink Floyd…
I have only browsed in these books at my local bookstore and did not find them interesting. There are many other books and articles of the same kind. If I listen to a song by the Beatles I don’t care if it is about Paul McCartney meeting his latest girlfriend. Because I want to make up my own story.
I often think about the following quote from your book When That Rough God Goes Riding: Listening to Van Morrison (about his song “Madame George”):
“The tyranny of tying anything an artist might do or say to his or her own life, to give it the weight of the real, and switch off the light on the weightlessness of the imagination.”
One of my absolute favorite quotes regarding music/songs!
John Irving once explained this to me: “People are afraid of the imagination, so they refuse to believe it exists.” I never buy or read these story behind the songs books. As you say, usually the stories aren’t stories at all, and whether they are or not, they’re purely reductionist. The test of any piece of art is its ability to go out into the world and make meaning, not to carry some specific meaning with it like a warhead meant to destroy the imagination of others.
How did Robert Johnson’s music reach you, and would you say the circumstances in which you discovered him were fairly typical? (I mean in the sense that, did you discover him around the same time, and through the same means, as many other people did? I’ve always been a little confused about how his recordings finally got out into the world, and how the world responded. When and how did his stature become solidified?)
– Scott Woods
I can’t speak for when “many other people” encountered Robert Johnson. He had been forgotten except among some Chicago blues players, and only stray recordings were available on country blues compilations put out by Sam Charters and others before Columbia assembled a collection in 1961, put an ineffably dramatic painting on the cover, and called it King of the Delta Blues Singers. For me, the unbearably romantic opening lines of the liner notes, presumably by producer Frank Driggs, meant as much. It was somehow alluring that the album was issued as part of the series (if there were any other examples), Thesaurus of Classic Jazz. I wonder who thought that up.
Bob Dylan found this music when John Hammond gave him a test pressing in 1961. Eric Clapton might have known of it before. Dion heard the Columbia album and it changed his life right there. Virtually everyone involved seriously in the folk revival and the Chicago blues world, black and white, was listening to it in those first years. Charters, Pete Welding, and many others wrote about the music, and what little was known about Johnson, and others, notably the late Mack McCormick, dedicated years of their lives to digging up the facts, including what was for so long the great lost treasure of the blues, a photograph. Other Johnson recordings began to leak out. The Rolling Stones were playing “Love in Vain” during their 1969 American tour and recorded it for both Let It Bleed and (far better) Get Yer Ya-Yas Out, which prompted Columbia to issue “Love in Vain” and the remaining Johnson titles on King of the Delta Blues Singers Vol. II, again with stunning cover art.
I came upon the first album in January of 1970, just after Altamont, when suddenly I couldn’t stomach listening to rock ‘n’ roll at all. I was in a tiny store called Record City on Telegraph Avenue in Berkeley, for some reason looking at the blues rack. I came across the first Johnson album and noticed “Cross Road Blues,” which I knew was the source of Cream’s “Crossroads,” from Wheels of Fire, which I loved. I also saw “Four Until Late,” which I loved from their first album, I thought it might be interesting to know where Cream songs came from. I bought it, took it home, and from there there was no turning back. For the rest of the year I listened to almost nothing but old country blues, which was easy in Berkeley. There’d long been a cult of ’20s and ’30s blues recordings in Berkeley, and Origin Jazz Library, which collected scores of 78s by dozens of obscure performers, was there, along with the Albatross, pretty much a country blues bar. By the end of the year I didn’t just know where Cream songs came from, I knew who Garfield Akers was—or, at least, I knew his name, and his stunning six-minute “Cottonfield Blues.” It was like what Dylan says in Chronicles about how in the folk world in Greenwich Village in the early sixties, only incidents from the old songs were news: if someone said what’s happening, you’d say President Garfield had been shot or the Cole Younger gang had robbed a bank in Northfield, Minnesota. Now a piece called “Old County Rock,” just a rap over the prettiest melody I’d ever heard, from the 20s, meant as much or more than the Band’s Stage Fright.
I recently spent time in a coffee shop in Buenos Aires called Full City Expresso. They played great music—one day, the Who’s “I’m a Boy” and all of Revolver. Over the coffee bar were dot paintings: a young Elvis, a naked Kate Moss, the Argentine band leader Charly Garcia, and Mr. J.
There’s no reason on Earth why you would know the answer to this question, but it’s been in my mind for decades and I thought I’d ask on the off chance: Why was there never a rap remake of The Harder They Come? You’d think the one thing you could count on Hollywood for is the obvious.
– Robert Fiore
I don’t know. You’re right. Jah has spared us.
Barbara Lynn Ozen recorded as Barbara Lynn. I was familiar with her 1962 hit “You’ll Lose A Good Thing” but I didn’t know she was the singer, songwriter, and electric guitarist, a very rare combination for a female artist in the early sixties. It’s a sublime sounding recording that’s worth a listen today. The Stones covered her “Oh Baby (We’ve Got A Good Thing Going’) on The Rolling Stones Now!
– Paul Zullo
What was truly revolutionary is that she appeared on the cover of her first album with her electric guitar. It was like, What’s that?
Any thoughts on the NPR list of 150 Greatest Albums Made by Women? Lists are mostly useful for arguing about, right? I thought it was pretty good—my personal omissions would include Dionne Warwick, the Jefferson Airplane, Yo La Tengo, and LiLiPUT. [See introduction to piece here.]
– Alan Vint
The point of a list is selection: ruthlessly, unfairly, perversely, both to start a conversation and to mock the whole idea of boiling anything in life down to a list. Dave Marsh’s The Heart of Rock & Soul: The 1001 Greatest Singles Ever Made is not really a list: it’s a long walk through one person’s taste, sense of history, idiosyncrasy, love and hate.
With a list of 150 albums—as if the great moments are there—all kinds of factors come into play that deforms any sense of what is and what isn’t. Considerations of balance and fairness—the opposite of what a list should be—in terms of eras, race, ethnicity, genre, and on and on make decisions, not what do I love, what would distort the story if it were left out (or included). And there’s too much—when there’s room for anything and everyone, who cares?
I could say that any top list that puts Joni Mitchell’s Blue over Aretha’s I Never Loved a Man or X-ray Spex’s Germfree Adolescents is a travesty, but really, you have to dive into the depths of 130-150 to grapple with the thing, and who will? The truth is, when you run through the whole thing, it’s dispiriting. The need to play fair has led to a pile of records, many of which are not really very good, and some of which aren’t good at all.
Bob Dylan seems to be cutting back year after year doing concerts. while I hope he stays “forever young” how much longer do you think he’ll continue doing concerts?
Why would I know?
Do you have strong feelings about the work of Roy Orbison? Either with Sun or afterwards?
How can anyone not have strong feelings about Roy Orbison? He was an original, nobody was remotely like him in any way: voice, looks, style, reserve, unknowableness, depth, truth. I think of Tarnation’s “The Big O Motel.” I think of the incredible mimed Spanish version of “Crying,” his absolute statement, in Mulholland Drive, and Dean Stockwell’s hideous miming of “In Dreams” in Blue Velvet. The gargling sound in “Mean Woman Blues.” The speed of the guitar in “Go, Go, Go,” his greatest Sun recording. kd lang dancing behind him in Black and White Night. Sam Phillips saying, “I knew his voice was pure gold. I also knew that if anybody got a look at him he’d be dead inside of a week.” His page in Rock Dreams. Most of all, the impossible last choruses of “Crying,” the pinnacle of pinnacles.
Is Duane Eddy’s music something you have enjoyed?
Sure. I loved all his hits on the radio, the echo of his reverb across so many decades, but most of all one single song title: “40 Miles of Bad Road.” Why hasn’t anyone made a western called that?
I was wondering if you might recommend a good place to start listening to Phil Spector productions?!?
Phil Spector Back to Mono.
Here’s a specific question: Was that you on the Houston-Baltimore flight Tuesday night? It looked a lot like you, or at least like your author photos, but by the time I realized that I was in my seat 29 rows back.
Follow-up: how often are you accosted in public by fans/etc?
– Lowell Rudorfer
That wasn’t me.
People sometimes stop me on the street to say nice things about something I’ve written. I wouldn’t call it accosting. More like a friendly wave.
A.J. Weberman has uploaded a bunch of videos to YouTube, monologues, really. He’s a genuinely creepy little guy, and his Bob Dylan fixation has become incredibly dark. Now, he explains, not only is Dylan an HIV-infected junkie (old news as far as Weberman’s concerned) but also a virulent racist, a fact that becomes clear when you examine the “subcontent” of his lyrics: “‘You used to ride on the chrome horse with your diplomat’—you used to have diplomatic relations with South Africa… chrome is South Africa’s biggest export.” And on and on. It’s batshit crazy, of course but it’s pretty disturbing in its detail and malice. Do you have any personal history with Weberman? Do you think he really believes the nonsense he spouts?
– Steve O’Neill
We’ve never met, but my impression from photos and videos is that Weberman is very much not little. We do have a history. At a certain point in 1968, I was passed a cassette of the Basement Tapes, and then a person in Manchester sent me a reel to reel of the 1966 concert Dylan played there with the Hawks—the one later known as the “Albert Hall” concert, and the most stupendous recording of anything I’d ever heard. I began asking around, and received other tapes of much earlier Dylan recordings, from Minnesota and elsewhere. I saw a little ad the Village Voice asking if anyone was interested in trading tapes of unreleased Dylan material. I got in touch—that was Weberman. We traded actively for some time; both of our collections grew. It was done with respect and trust. No money ever changed hands, even for the cost of tapes or mail. There was never any suggestion of bootlegging or profiting—something I found true among others, until I ran into an odious character, who later became just as paranoid as Weberman, asserting the same kind of ownership over Dylan, as an idea (as Dylan once said to Weberman, “I’m not Bob Dylan, you’re Bob Dylan”). At certain point we stopped communicating. Then he went into garbage.
I have long been a fan of Mystery Train and have used it as required reading in my History of Rock and Roll course at the University of Nebraska. As a fan of The Band I’m curious…did you have a sense of Robbie Robertson’s feelings about his Native background when you were writing “Pilgrims’ Progress”? He’s been living with his own history for his entire life, but beginning with Music for the Native Americans it has become more integral to his creative process. Did he express any of those feelings in your interviews with him for the book?
– Scott Anderson
No. It never came up. I don’t ask personal questions, and my biographical knowledge of Robbie at the time was vague at best. We talked about the Band—or, really, he talked and I listened. I didn’t take notes. The only specific question I remember asking was about his favorite cities, which came out of something he said. I wasn’t curious; it seemed like a way for him to talk about his view of the world as such.
How do your students react to Mystery Train?
I am really trying to figure out what Dylan is saying here about Israel. I am referring to the part about what his friend Ray says at the beginning.
– Mark Abrams
Ray has always reminded me of the cannibal-killer played by Lance Hendiksen in Dead Man. Other than that I don’t know what you’re talking about.
I recently reread your review of The Last Waltz movie and was struck by, among many things, your wonderful description of Joni Mitchell singing “Coyote”:
“Joni Mitchell, swaying her hips for ‘Coyote’ is mesmerizing; she acts out the role of a goddess on the make, an image only slightly undercut—or reinforced—by the pack of cigarettes jammed into the waistband of her skirt.”
After reading that, I looked around to see if you had any other writing on Joni Mitchell but I couldn’t find any. I’d be curious to know your thoughts about Joni Mitchell’s music or, more briefly, which songs of hers, if any, have resonated with you over the years.
I think I’ve only written about Joni Mitchell one other time, in a Real Life Rock Top 10 item from February 1998
4. Darren Starr, creator, Melrose Place (Fox, November 24, 1997) Dr. Brett Cooper, who has a real serial girlfriend-in-a-coma problem, attends comatose Megan. “Music can get through where nothing else can,” Coop says over Megan. “I’m betting you love Joni Mitchell as much as I do.” He slips a CD into a boom box, and as the camera comes in close on Megan’s face you can barely hear “Big Yellow Taxi.” “I’m awake! I’m awake!” screamed a sympathetic viewer. “Just turn off that horrible music!”
Save for a song here or there, that pretty much sums up my response to the endless self-regard and smugness I’ve found in her music—she and Leonard Cohen were made for each other.
Great songs have the ability to suspend time and place and transport you to another place. I think of them as sound paintings, with various hues, shades and colors.Are there any songs that affect you like that?
– hugh c grissett
Sure. Start with “Gimmie Shelter” and go from there.
Have any of Mahler’s symphonies resonated with you?
No. Not his fault.
Thanks for being here. I’m new to this resource, but I’ve been appreciating your work since your first Rolling Stone appearances. I recently bought the Not New Music 2CD set Be-Bop-A-Lula—great sound. The big discovery for me was “Race With the Devil” and the sound of guitarist Cliff Gallup. The 1956 recordings, produced by Ken Nelson are, to my ears, way ahead of their rock and roll contemporaries. If you’ve written about Gene Vincent and Cliff Gallup please let me know where.
– Paul Zullo
I haven’t written about Gene Vincent outside of my discography in Stranded. You’re right about Vincent and Gallup. But you must see the band as they appeared in The Girl Can’t Help It—
—and hear his “Slow Times Comin’,” from his 1970 Gene Vincent aka If Only You Could See Me Today album—nine minutes that nothing in his earlier music hints at except the attitude, the grittiness, the refusal to quit—
Years ago I attended a weekend symposium on matters dealing with Bob Dylan. The event was held at Seattle’s EMP rock and roll museum. While getting seated after a lunch break I happened to take a seat next to the “Folklore Centre’s” Izzy Young. Izzy took note of the fact I was from Canada and asked me what Canadians knew about Bob’s motorcycle “accident.” I told him we had heard the usual, well known rumours. He then asked me if I wanted to know the “real story.” I knew that Izzy had been well connected to Bob and told him that, indeed, I wanted to know more (especially from someone of his stature.) Izzy told me straight up that the event was a ruse or fabrication. He told me that Bob was exhausted, tired and needing a break to “straighten out some issues.” History confirms the following years.
What can you tell me about this explanation and (perhaps) news?
– John Clark
When it comes to Bob Dylan, there are endless people eager to tell you the Real Story, many of whom resent the possibility that Dylan might know more about his life than they do. Among these were the many who rushed into print as soon as Chronicles achieved the same status to insist that most of it could not possibly be true, since they hadn’t previously heard about the couple he described living with in his early time in New York, his collaboration with Archibald MacLeish, or his appreciation for Red Grooms. So in fact there is no fixed, true, or accepted story about Dylan’s motorcycle accident. It comes down to the people who say it never happened, and Dylan made up the story in order to get out of a punishing or even life-threatening tour, to those, Dylan included, who say there was an accident (according to various versions life-threatening, broken neck, a strain requiring brief use of a neck brace, etc.) and it was a convenient excuse to get off the road and calm down. The people who claim there was no accident are, I assume, the same people who claim Dylan as never booed at Newport in 1965, and that the idea that he was is either a misunderstanding or a plot hatched on the spot by Dylan, as he described it in interviews, and Paul Nelson, writing in Sing Out, to make him look like a martyr to his art.
All of this is a result of what Paul Williams so pretentiously, but, at the time, not off the mark, called “The Period of Silence,” i.e., the time after the accident when Dylan shut up and tended to his own garden. Rumor spread that he was dead, disfigured, a vegetable, and so on. At that time, performers were expected to issue a new album every three or four months—as Dylan came close to doing with Bringing It All Back Home, Highway 61 Revisted, and Blonde on Blonde. When six months went by, then a year, without an appearance, a show, a single, an interview, whatever it was that happened was blown up into a myth that swallowed Dylan whole. Don DeLillo catches the displaced paranoia of all this in his Great Jones Street.
So be careful of people who have the real Dylan story. They want to own it. Or him.
Are you a fan of the country great Jimmie Rodgers’s music? What is your opinion of Fats Domino and his music? Do you think he was an innovator as far as rock and roll music is concerned?
– Hugh Grissett
Sort of big questions. It’s hard to imagine anyone being a fan of the best music of the last fifty years not being a fan of Jimmie Rodgers, or considering Fats Domino as anything but an innovator. He recorded “The Fat Man” in late 1949, it came out at the beginning of 1950, and if the world hadn’t heard rock ‘n’ roll before, it heard it then.
I’ve listened to everything that Dylan wrote and sang during the Vietnam era (though he was out of commission for part of that period). I haven’t been able to detect a single direct reference to that conflict in his songs and have always been puzzled by that. I realize that Bob did not see himself as a voice on such matters, however, the silence seemed deafening. Did I miss something in his lyrics during this era?
– Ted Feigenbaum
I think you miss something by thinking the answer to your question lies in lyrics. There are references to Lyndon Johnson and people afraid of war (“chickens”) in “Tombstone Blues” (see LBJ mouthing the words on TV in Todd Haynes’s I’m Not There). In a 1968 Sing Out interview with John Cohen and Happy Traum, after a question about Vietnam, Dylan said, “How do you know I’m not, as you say, for the war?” and went on to discuss people he respected who were. But the closest thing to an answer to your question came in Jon Landau’s 1968 review of John Wesley Harding when he said, of the weight of the music and the singing, that they communicated that Dylan “has felt the war,'”and that without presupposing any position, a consciousness of the war pervaded the whole record. In the words you can hear that as a call for seriousness, reckoning: “Let us not talk falsely now.” Put up or shut up. And that was confirmed by the fact that JWH‘proved as resonant for GIs that year as The Doors had been in 1967.
Have you ever listened to Milton Berle’s cover of “Yellow Submarine”? It manages to crush everything from 1947 to 1967 with one turn of the vise. Or perhaps everything from Elvis’ first show with Milty to Monty Python, including Sgt Pepper, in to one ball of suet. A Dylan question will have to wait.
– Kevin Harvey
Uncle Miltie must have really hated that song to subject it to his old blackface minstrel routines.
How does Steely Dan´s Aja sound to you 40 years later? Do you still spin some Steely Dan (or wear your Steely Dan T-Shirt) lately?
I never liked Aja.
Just found this online: “They’re Selling Postcards of the Hanging: The Real Lynching in Dylan’s ‘Desolation Row.'” It is news to me—and makes it breathtakingly clear that history engendered Dylan’s song, but wonder if you know the source for claim that Dylan’s father told him this story. Maybe it’s the book that’s pictured but not mentioned in the piece (On Highway 61, by Dennis McNally”? Not that it matters.)
I was stunned by the partial reproduction of one photo at the top and a link to one of the postcards; I hope I have not grown afraid of the truth in the climate of fear about “trigger warnings”—which means the suppression of reality.
I remember knowing that, as Orwell said, “the power of facing unpleasant facts” is a virtue.
– Laura Leivick
I have my doubts that the story is as clean as Abe Zimmerman passing on his childhood memories of something that happened in Duluth when he was a boy. Lynchings in even fairly big towns like Duluth were community affairs. Everybody turned out, including children. If you weren’t there questions might be asked about why not.
In San Jose in 1933 two drifters, inspired by the Lindbergh kidnapping, which at the time was still unsolved, kidnapped the son of the richest man in town and demanded a ransom, though they had already killed him. It was a big mistake: Brooke Hart was a golden boy: blonde, handsome, brilliant. Everyone in town knew him. He treated everyone like a prince, and everyone loved him. The two men were immediately caught and held in the city jail. Everyone knew there was going to be a lynching. People took the train from Los Angeles to be there. Earl Warren, later the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court and then the DA of Alameda County, which then included San Jose, announced that anyone taking part would be prosecuted; Governor James Rolph all but promised to pardon anyone Warren prosecuted. A battering ram was used to break into the jail. The crowd dragged the men out of the jail and into the park across the street, stripped them naked, sexually mutilated them, and hung them from the trees.
Even though Hitler used this event as proof that democracy was a sewer and a tool of the Jews to boot—Brooke Hart was half-Jewish—as in Duluth, memory of this event was suppressed. No one spoke of it. The newspapers did not mark anniversaries. People grew up not knowing that it had happened, though growing up a few miles north, in Palo Alto and Menlo Park, I had a dim awareness of it. My grandparents were from San Jose, and my father was born there in 1917; my mother was born in San Francisco in 1923.
In 1992, a book was published about the lynching, and my parents went to hear the author speak about it at Kepler’s Books in Menlo Park. A younger man, noticing my parents’ age, asked them if they remembered the lynching. They said yes, and explained how. He asked if they knew anyone who had been there. They said yes. He asked my father if he had been there. He said no; people had asked him to go, but he said he had to study.
My father was telling me this story a few days later when my mother said, “Would you like to know who asked him to go?” “Yes,” I said, barely thinking about who that might have been—some of my father’s high-school or college buddies? “Your grandparents,” my mother said.
My grandparents were very much on the left. My grandfather, the town furrier, was the only member of the San Jose Chamber of Commerce to vote against buying machine guns to keep Okies out of town. But if they had not been present at the lynching, they would no longer be members in good standing of the San Jose business community, and their business would have suffered—or worse.
So it may very well have been that Abe Zimmerman was present at the Duluth lynching, brought by his parents. And if he wasn’t there, I’d think it’s even money that his parents were.
Donald Trump has said that his favorite movie is Citizen Kane. Do you think he’s influenced by the famous breakfast scene? When Kane tells his first wife people will think “what I tell them to think,” we are supposed to be repulsed. But Trump seems like he had the exact opposite reaction (that Kane’s a tough guy, a real killer), and based his entire campaign and now administration on the guiding principle that people will think “what I tell them to think.” I wonder how much that movie plays into his view of himself, and would love to hear your thoughts on this disturbing subject.
I wouldn’t read too much into it. It’s a great movie. It’s great to watch.
A fan of your writing on Dylan, I was curious if you have any hunches that Dylan might return to songwriting form and produce an album of original material. His most recent and past couple releases being oriented towards standards (I recall a recent piece I believe you wrote upon Triplicate‘s release). Do you think Dylan will produce an album of original material and/or suspect he has some songs to share?
I would think so—based on nothing.
Did you happen to encounter Bob Dylan: All the Songs (The Story Behind Every Track) by Philippe Margotin and Jean-Michel Guesdon? It’s a hefty, formidable book, and quite beautiful to look at, but I was alarmed by the actual writing… that is, until I started thinking of it as the work of a couple of earnest young Frenchmen who were certain that an English editor would only misrepresent their message; now I find the book charming. Some of my favorite stories behind the tracks (so far):
—“Desolation Row”: “Behind the typically American Western movie genre, Bob Dylan used untouchable irony as he found equally to blame the industrialists who built assembly lines and the critics who replied with ridiculously simplistic slogans.”
—“Country Pie”: “Dylan used the flavor of comfort food to express how country-and-western music inspired him. Eating red fruit and legumes, apples, squash or prunes gave him as much satisfaction as listening to old Joe on the sax or the fiddler when the day breaks.”
—“Man Gave Names to All the Animals”: “Throughout the song, Dylan gives one or two characteristics to each animal so that the child can easily guess which one he means.”
—Bonus info—“(Elvis’s version of “Can’t Help Falling In Love”) was featured in Norman Taurog’s 1961 film Under the Blue Sky of Hawaii.”
– Steve O’Neill
And they got this published in a book?
1. Can you tell us what your next book will be about?
2. Have you ever considered writing a history about the rise of rock and roll, a general history of 1950s rock and roll?
– Hugh Grissett
1. A still unformed idea growing out of my 2013 commencement address at the School of Visual Art about the intractability of the high-low divide in culture.
2. No, I’ve never given any thought to that. Rejection of that sort of by now completely redundant historical approach is why and how I wrote The History of Rock ‘n’ Roll in Ten Songs.
Have you heard any mainstream country music you’ve liked in the past 10 years? Do you have any opinion on Miranda Lambert or The Pistol Annies?
Not really since the country station in the Bay Area changed format.
Going back to Trump and his appeal, the Mika Brezinski tweet is a demonstration of one thing that unites Trump and his core following, and on which they are 100% congruent, and that is their complete lack of class. No small part of the promise Trump presents his flock is that you can have no class and not give up anything in the way of status.
– Robert Fiore
To me the term ‘class’ is socially classist and indicates the user considers himself better than those he describes as having no class and equal to those to whom he ascribes it. But your argument about having no class and giving up nothing in status is interesting.
In 2005 VH1 aired Kept, a reality series starring Jerry Hall, ex-wife of Mick Jagger. The show followed the basic template set by The Apprentice, but in this case the all-male cast of contestants vied for the privilege of serving as Ms. Hall’s “kept man” for a year, through challenges such as learning to play polo and figuring out which fork to use for shrimp cocktail. At the end of each episode, of course, the least worthy contestants were sent home.
An interesting touch was the series’s kiss-off line, Kept‘s riff on “you’re fired.” As each elimination was announced, the losers were reminded that “you can’t always get what you want.” The song itself served as the show’s theme, presumably knocking a few bucks off of Mick’s alimony.
A dozen years on, the star of The Apprentice is the president of the United States of America after having used Kept‘s theme song as his own campaign anthem over the tepid objections of the ex-husband of the star of Kept, and the star of Kept is now married to the founder of the network that helped get the star of The Apprentice elected president of the United States of America.
My question: would we still be in this mess if Mick had just stayed with Bianca?
– Steve O’Neill
If what did happen hadn’t happened I kind of think Bianca would be married to either Justin Trudeau or an Arab emir so it would all shake out. It’s disgusting that “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” has a better life in The Big Chill than in history.
I know you are a big fan of “Stay” and Anti. Have any other Rihanna records reached you, either when they were hits, or subsequently? Any thoughts in particular on “Umbrella” or “Unfaithful”? (Or “Don’t Stop the Music”?)
– Scott Woods
I came late. Maybe Chris Brown got in the way. Those are it for me so far.
What do you make of the resurgence of Elvis into the Cultural Appropriation debate, with reference to Kenan Malik’s recent New York Times editorial and a more recent NPR rebuttal? It seems to me that both authors should have read Mystery Train before stating their cases…
Or any number of other people. Or maybe listened to Elvis himself. I’ve been surprised at how primitive the discussion has been.
You may have already answered this, but I was curious as to your thoughts on liberals tearing down Confederate statues and memorials in the best “dustbin of history” tradition of rampaging Stalinists?
– Stan Davis
I think it’s parochial to call those who favor Confederate removal liberals. The people who raised those monuments—mostly in the 1880s and 1890s, to affirm white supremacy at the same time as blacks across the south were being disenfranchised at the ballot box and legally segregated and subjugated everywhere else after the compromise of 1877, and again in the 1920s, to sanction the resurgence of the Klan, and, as these were official acts, terrorize anyone who disagreed, with the implicit force of the state behind them, which meant the states where these statues stood legitimized and even encouraged lynching—considered themselves patriots, to their states, to the Lost Cause, to the Confederacy, to what in the 20th century would be called White Democracy. It seems to me that people in support of removing these acts of terror should also be considered patriots: patriots of what used to be called the republic. You know, the one “for which it stands.”
I just finished Rob Sheffield’s Dreaming the Beatles. It’s a fun read. My only quibble would be his characterization of “It’s All Too Much” as a masterpiece. I like it better than “Piggies” or “Blue Jay Way” but there are a lot more Harrison songs I prefer. Speaking of George, did you like any of his solo stuff? I always liked “Deep Blue”, the b-side of “Bangla Desh”. Also, “Faster” from his 1979 self-titled LP.
– Steve Canson
I liked Wonderwall Music. Most of all the great Scorsese movie. The things his wife says!
I’m kinda surprised nobody’s asked you this follow-up question yet: just what DID you tell Jonathan Richman about Scotty Moore’s amp? [see 01/21/17]
– Steve O’Neill
I told him I had no idea.
Is “Rainy Day Women #12 & 35” the most polarizing Dylan song ever? I’ve seen more than one person name it as one of Dylan’s worst, a blight on Blonde on Blonde, and in a recent commemoration of BoB’s 50th anniversary, Rob Sheffield called it “one profoundly annoying novelty song.” I don’t get it. For me, it’s Dylan at his wildest, funniest, and most brilliant—and I can’t believe they somehow snuck it onto Top 40 and turned it into a hit single.
– Alan Vint
When I first heard it it terrified me. It sounded like unleashed junkie madness. About two days later, with the radio playing it nonstop, I fell in love with it. It was completely unpredictably musically, so that it sounded different every time. There was no way to know who these people were. I listened for the shouting in the background. Everyone is having a fabulous time. But after the Blonde on Blonde sessions were over and Dylan had left, producer Bob Johnston kept the party going, and he and the musicians apparently took as much time as it takes to listen to it to record Moldy Goldies: Col. Jubilation B. Johnston and His Mystic Knights Band and Street Singers Attack the Hits, which Columbia snuck out at the same time. “Secret Agent Man” is my favorite musically, though philosophically “The Name Game” has it beat. Either or anything else on the album makes “Rainy Day Women” sounds like “She Belongs to Me.”
I just transcribed a 1993 interview between a history professor here at Gettysburg College and Kenneth Stampp, a mainstay of the Berkeley history department from 1946 on. He had very interesting stories about himself, C. Wright Mills, Frank Freidel, and Richard Hofstadter (the four of them began their academic careers together at the University of Maryland in the early Forties). Did you have any classes with Stampp? If so, what did you think of him as a teacher and historian?
Also, did you experience John Searle, the philosophy professor who was a prominent FSM supporter and who later turned neoconservative (and has, I discover, recently been sued for sexual harassment)?
While we’re at it, what did or do you think of Richard Hofstadter as a historian and political writer?
– Devin McKinney
I never took classes from Kenneth Stampp. He was instrumental in changing the nearly 100-year-old narrative (I hate that term, which gives authority to what really means “false story”) concocted by the Southern historians that the Civil War (preferred terms being the War Between the States, or the War of Northern Aggression) had nothing to do with slavery, but rather economic factors, and the need of the north to dominate the south. I took an introductory philosophy class from John Searle, but his support of the Free Speech Movement made a much greater impression on me: one of the things the Free Speech Movement was about was discussing philosophical and historical and political questions and then walking out into the open campus and seeing all of those questions acted out, fought over, and taking part in a completely congruent but different sort of class.
I don’t know if it’s because of his later turn to the right, but Searle appears in Laurent Binet’s novel The Seventh Function of Language, which is a sort of structuralists’ version of The Name of the Rose, at a philosophy conference at Cornell in 1980 where all the big names have gathered—as a murderer and suicide.
In college I found Richard Hofstadter somewhat stodgy and obvious, and preferred the more allusive and Leslie Fiedler-like Louis Hartz. But I’ve come to deeply admire his grounding, his making of distinctions, and especially the dark, poetic, and real-world tragic sensibility of his chapter on Lincoln in The American Political Tradition.
I read somewhere your thoughts on the Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers hit, “Why Do Fools Fall in Love.” My questions: 1) Do you think this song is more relevant, in their repertoire, than “I’m Not a Juvenile Delinquent”? and why? 2) What were your thoughts about the relevance of “I’m Not a Juvenile Delinquent,” at the time?
– António Vaz
I’m not sure what you mean by relevant, or if, by relevant, you mean significant in terms of important social issues, and if so, why that would be a criterion of judgement between “Why Do Fools Fall in Love” and “I’m Not a Juvenile Delinquent.” “Why Do Fools Fall in Love” is an original song by Lymon and the Teenagers that truly was original—it broke through the radio, demanding that it be heard, an authentic new sound, absolutely analogous to the Jackson Five with “I Want You Back”—which was, group and record, explicitly modeled on “Why Do Fools Fall in Love.” “I’m Not a Juvenile Delinquent” was a purely commercial exploitation record, jumping on the JD scare kicked off by Blackboard Jungle, and stiff and contrived musically. Not to mention that by the time it was made Frankie Lymon was most definitely a juvenile delinquent, at least as far as drugs went. He died of a heroin overdose at the age of 25.
As we approach the 50th anniversary of the year 1968, what are your personal recollections of that infamous time in history? For myself, I think had Robert Kennedy lived to become president, our country and the world would have become a far better place in which to live.
– Jim Stacho
I agree about RFK—I voted for him in the California primary. As long as I can remember anything I will never forget that long and sleepless terrible night.
So much happened in 1968, from Hue to Beggars Banquet, but I summed up what I thought, what stuck with me most strongly in a piece for Common Knowledge in 2009, which is on this site.
I think the what might distinguish the collapse of the United States from the collapse of the Soviet Union and the rise of the kleptocratic Russia of today is that the American legal system is more complex than that of the USSR. Specifically, the Soviet legal system was nearly exclusively a penal system, without a developed law of, e.g. contracts, torts, or any of the other areas that Western legal scholars refer to generally as “private law”. In the West if two people get together and decide they want to manufacture a product which they will sell for a profit we call this a business enterprise: in the Soviet Union (and other so-called “managed economies”) this activity is/was a “criminal conspiracy.”
– Bill Altreuter
The Soviet Union collapsed because of economic collapse, and loss of belief in the Soviet system at the top. I hate to think where we’d be if Putin or his like had been there instead of Gorbachev.
What’d you think of the musical Million Dollar Quartet? I just saw a local production. I found it disappointing, especially considering Floyd Mutrux and Colin Escott wrote it. Condensed and obviously thrown-in cultural references for a mass audience, Forrest Gump-style. Didn’t capture my sense of Sam Phillips much, let alone Elvis. Made it clear how hard it is to play guitar in true Carl Perkins fashion. But somehow Jerry Lee came off entertainingly right.
– TF Lyness
I haven’t seen it and don’t plan to. I stopped watching Sun Records after Becky announced she was pregnant again, thus apparently sidelining Sam Phillips’s girlfriend Marion Keisker, who was the best person on the show, but I hope to get back to it.
Have Dylan’s recent albums of standards made you rethink anything about his earlier “covers” projects? (Thinking Good As I Been To You, World Gone Wrong, Down in the Groove here—Self Portrait feels like it comes from a different place with much different intentions.)
I don’t think those records—except for Good As I Been to You and World Gone Wrong, which are of a piece—have much if anything to do with each other. To me they are as different as Freewheelin’ and Time Out of Mind.
What’s your opinion of Nick Cave? Does he interest you, as an artist? I like what you said about his song “Tupelo”, [in Dead Elvis], and I like that you called his 1996 album Murder Ballads “brutal and weirdly austere” [in your 1997 column “The Biblical Hillbillies“], but I couldn’t help noticing that you’ve never written about him as an artist in too much detail (you didn’t review Murder Ballads in full-length, did you?) I’m only asking because right now, at this point in my life, Nick Cave is my ultimate rock’n’roll hero, and I’d love to hear some more of your opinions about him. I know that a lot of critics consider him to be hokey—Robert Christgau had (has) extremely little patience for him—but I think he’s one of the last true Romantics in rock’n’roll.
Also, any opinions on the Fall? Have you listened to much of their stuff? And if not, why not? I notice that you called their 1988 single “Kurious Oranj” an example of “pointlessness as its own reward”, but I couldn’t agree less. What made you think that “Kurious Oranj” was so pointless? I happen to think that Mark E. Smith, the leader of the Fall, is one of the greatest rock lyricists to come out of England: a real Ranter, in the tradition you wrote about in Lipstick Traces, a rock prophet calling down hexes.
As you’ve figured, Nick Cave has reached me only in snatches. The Fall always seemed like a band I had to love—on paper—but I never wanted to listen to anything I heard.
One of my favorite observations from Sheffield’s Dreaming the Beatles is his tongue and cheek suggestion that perhaps Dylan put “4th Time Around” on Blonde on Blonde, parodying “Norwegian Wood,” to distract us from noticing how much “Norwegian Wood” is all over “Visions of Johanna.” I learned about the book from this site when you said you were reading it. Any thoughts on the book as a whole? There’s a chapter entitled “Paul is a Concept by which we Measure our Pain”. Priceless!
I wrote about it in my Village Voice Real Life Rock Top 10 column. It’s a wonderful book. Doesn’t beat Devin McKinney’s Magic Circles: The Beatles in Dream and History as the best book on the group, but easier to read and more fun.
I was just wondering if you have strong feelings about Frank Sinatra, one way or the other?
I love “No One Cares” and “I Can’t Get Started with You.” Also the novel The Death of Frank Sinatra by Michael Ventura. And the Doonesbury strips about him hanging out with made guys: “Wow! So you’re all murderers!” And that his mother was the number one abortionist in Hoboken.
Thoughts on Dylan’s taped audio Nobel speech? I liked it though he should have given a spoiler alert prior to his Moby Dick synopsis—scratching that one off of my summer reading list.
Compared to the statement read at the ceremonies by the American ambassador, and Dylan’s official acceptance speech, this sounded very rehearsed, very corny in tone, and I really could have done without that soupy piano in the background. I did like the Charlie Poole reference, though—if only because Poole himself, along with all his fans, must have woken up from his big sleep for a moment to ask, “Did I say that?”
I assume you’re watching the new Twin Peaks. What do you think of the music policy at the Bang Bang Bar?
– Robert Fiore
I’ve been traveling and haven’t had the chance to catch up (The Anericans came first). What do you think?
Just which ARE your fave live records?
I gave a flip answer at first (06/02/17) because there are just so many. The first that ever made an impression, that sounded like something different, odd, out of the lines, was the Rolling Stones’ Got Live If You Want It, which probably combined rerecorded vocals and dubbed in applause, might have been a complete counterfeit, but somehow sounded/felt/exploded more like a Rolling Stones show than a Rolling Stones show. After that—their LIVEr Than You’ll Ever Be, from their 1969 show in Oakland. Again, I was there, and it was somehow more. A bootleg, though very widely distributed and years later even reissued on CD (you can hear Mick Jagger in the movie Gimmie Shelter saying of the band’s own live mixes, “It’s even better than the bootleg”). And in some ways even stronger was a terribly recorded two LP bootleg titled We Never Really Got It On Until Detroit, from the same tour.
But the best, ever, beyond all? In their various versions, any version of Elvis’s small combo performances for his 1968 Comeback Show, otherwise known as the Singer Special. (Named for the sewing company, not him.) Some have backstage rehearsals. Some include both shows, some only one. It hardly matters. It’s the continuing attacks on “Baby What You Want Me to Do,” until they get it right, until they ride it out of town, Elvis on lead guitar like no one ever imagined, that matters.
I find your analysis of Trump’s appeal persuasive, but it brings to my mind the next question: What happens if Trump ceases to provide his followers with the vicarious sense of freedom? If he becomes as King Kong at the top of the Empire State Building, unencumbered by any concern for the safety of Fay Wray, but still flailing at fighter planes strafing from beyond his reach? Or Tony at the end of The Sopranos, systematically stripped of the support of his extended family? Will the aggressive feelings of his followers be turned against Trump’s enemies, or directed at Trump for failing to make them feel like they’re winning?
– Robert Fiore
Against his enemies. You describe well how Trump is now, and his followers believe that if not for his—which means their—enemies, everything he promised would already be achieved. Trump is the hero but far more he’s the victim—a role his followers love as much as anything.
Your two extended comments here on Trump’s electoral appeal (9 Jan & 29 May)—namely, his living demonstration of the possibility of a kind of cynical, nihilistic, destructive freedom from all constraints—are among the most right-on explanations I’ve read in this sad political season. But I don’t understand your comment about Trump’s racism—“As for racism, in all forms, stripes, depths, casualness, his promise was that anyone who supported him could be just as free as he is—even more so.” Are you arguing that racism is a red herring, that freedom is the whole story, or or you saying something else? Not to be nitpicky but I’m pretty grimly obsessed with trying to understand what’s going on.
I’m saying the freedom to be racist, to the point of writing NIGGER on LeBron James’s house or attacking Muslim women in Portland and murdering people who tried to protect them, is part of that freedom.
Are there many live albums that have caught your ear?
Would Elvis have voted for Trump?
Probably the 42-year-old Elvis, the last we got to look at, would have. Trump learned a lot from Elvis. Including imitating his hair, though Elvis didn’t do a comb-over. Elvis might have recognized himself in Trump. But it would have been 39 years after Elvis’s death, and people do learn things.
I deeply believe that the great source of Trump’s appeal—the insulating factor, which he described fairly early in the campaign as the ability to go out in the street and shoot people without losing any support—is the sense of freedom he offers to voters. If they can’t actually fuck anyone, walk up to women and grab them anywhere he liked and laugh as he walked away, treat other people like garbage, lie about anything, cheat anyone who got near him, break the law without a second thought, declare bankruptcy and stick someone else with the bill, they could vote for someone who could, and feel a little, or a lot, closer to that sense of total freedom, of contempt for all limits, laws, and other people, that is the essence of Trump’s continuing campaign. If they can’t be like him, they can be for him. As for racism, in all forms, stripes, depths, casualness, his promise was that anyone who supported him could be just as free as he is—even more so. Those two things are what made Trump, and what sustains him, and why those who voted for him have not turned away from him, and, I think, won’t ever.
All the liberal editorial writers and New York Times op-ed columnists going on and on about how people voted “against their own interests” and wow, once their health insurance goes up in smoke, their opioid treatment centers close, and their police and fire departments shut down everything will be different—forget it. People’s interests are not defined by economic factors. People vote for people who promise them the ability to live in the country where they want to live, and a lot of people want to live in the USA as Trump defines and embodies it, and they’re willing to pay for it. The people who voted for Trump have bought in. They’re invested. They can’t take out what they invested and invest it somewhere else: Trump took it as a note and he’s not giving it back. That’s why attempts to change the electoral reality by “winning back” Trump voters, or showing them how they made a bad bet, are a waste of time.
So the real question is how Elvis would have looked at all of this. He would have remembered having nothing. Having a father go to prison for forging a check. Gaining unimaginable fame and riches and still living in fear that none of it was real and all of it was undeserved. This man, he might have said, is not like me. And I don’t need him.
Views on Robert Quine’s career and influence. First half with Voidoids/Reed and hired gun for Matthew Sweet and Lloyd Cole.
– Jeff OBrien
No disrespect—he was a great player—but nothing to add.
ZZ Top: any thoughts on favourite songs/albums/moments?
Eliminator eliminates everything else, just as it eliminated everything else on the radio in 1983. It’s just shocking to realize how many unstoppable tracks there are. The guitar playing has utter force but it’s also casual: all the songs seem to be caught in the middle of some greater song, as if it was playing before the guys showed up to tinker with it and kept playing after they left.
Well, except for “My Head’s in Mississippi.” There is nothing drunker in the annals of the American imagination. Mark Twain would have loved it.
A Heat Street report the other day about Lou Reed’s great “Walk on the Wild Side” (“Student Group Apologizes for Playing “Transphobic’ and “Problematic’ Lou Reed Song“) got a gentle reply in The Telegraph piece: “Is ‘Walk on the Wild Side’ transphobic?”
Its final paragraph reads, “Holly Woodlawn, who died in 2015, spoke positively about the song later in life, saying: ‘(Film director) Paul Morrissey made me a star, but Lou Reed made me immortal.'”
What’s next in the line of fire—“Ballad of a Thin Man”? “Foot of Pride” (which Reed found “so fucking funny” and performed to a fare-thee-well at Dylan’s 30th Anniversary Concert Celebration)?
And may I add that transphobic is an egregious Latin/Greek mashup?
My question: Is there a hole for me to get sick in?
– Laura Leivick
Maybe the holes in the heads of the people who got upset and the people who apologized. Maybe it’s the “Changed her name and then he was a she”—Hey, it’s not that easy! Except isn’t it supposed to be that one is whoever one feels/says he or she is? Maybe it’s the way Lou Reed sounds somewhat sarcastic, especially if you’ve never heard anything else he ever did.
Is there any chance that you would write a book on Neil Young?
– Neil Sidebotham
No. I did an interview with him for Spin, where I learned as much as I could ever hope for. I still listen to “Cowgirl in the Sand” with absolute wonder, and then “Over and Over” and “Like a Hurricane” and “I’m the Ocean,” which just might be the one.
…I was intrigued by your comments on the superior sound—compared to the official Bootleg series releases—of actual Dylan bootlegs. Which in-fact bootlegs from the Cutting Edge and The 1966 Live Recordings era, do you recommend for better sound and/or anything else? Which bootlegs from outside this era remain favorites, and why?
– Andrew Hamlin
See the section on the Band in the Notes and Discographies part of Mystery Train for material from the 1966 tour—though many of the bootlegs I cite may now travel under different names and configurations. No complaints about the sound on The Cutting Edge (just complaints about the title).
(Editor’s note: this question/response was meant to be posted last November. My oversight entirely. The question itself refers to a response G.M. gave to a question on 11/07/16 in the 2016 version of Ask Greil.)
Did you write a book about the group The Band, titled “The Brother of Rock”? I can’t find it in any book searches.
No. The title the New York Review of Books gave my recent piece on Robbie Robertson’s autobiography was “The Brotherhood of Rock.”
Are you a fan of Rob Sheffield’s writing and what are your thoughts on his new Beatles book?
A huge fan, especially of his Rolling Stone column. He pulls no punches and he’s funny without being clever. I’ve just started his Beatle book.
You’ve previously mentioned that, while teaching, one of the items on your syllabus was a CD of the speeches of Martin Luther King, Jr. I was wondering if you could remember the title? Thanks so much!
“MLK: The Martin Luther King Jr. Tapes” currently on Jerden.
I am a French student in American Literature. I decided after reading Invisible Republic about 2 years ago to write my master’s thesis on the songs “I’m Not There” and “Visions of Johanna” to try to talk about notions of spectrality, displacement and transience in song’s language, and also what it says of the modern (tape-recorded) transmission of folk music. “I’m Not There” is especially difficult to analyze since, as most people know, the song is unfinished. I’ve been trying to work on transcripts found here and there, notably the one in the Telegraph and also the cover by Sonic Youth. I know you did analyze the song yourself in your book, providing lines that you had deciphered but I was wondering if you would give your own transcript of all the lyrics? Would that, perhaps, break the spell of the song?
“I’m Not There” has been pretty convincingly translated by both Sonic Youth and even more completely by Howard Fishman, on his “Basement Tapes” Project album. But that hasn’t broken the spell at all. You can listen to their versions or read the/their lyrics, and be convinced they deciphered it—and then you listen again and it all goes up in smoke.
Always enjoyed the line in Mystery Train about an imminent avant-garde rediscovery of the Elvis films, so it was in my mind recently when I saw a bootleged Youtube version of Beach Blanket Bingo that’d been slowed down to half-speed in transition and as a result tonally resembled, the more I watched it, some kind of mysterious hybrid between the original movie and Blue Velvet… So my question is do you think David Lynch has covertly been making Frankie Avalon-style pop vehicles undercover for years, title roles recast so as not to prematurely give the game away, and if so then for who?? Private guesses are Bruce Springsteen in Lost Highway (as which one I don’t know) and Brian Wilson listening to the radiator in Eraserhead.
This is really brilliant—Robert Blake in Lost Highway as Frankie Avalon—my God, that’s terrifying.
But Brian Wilson is the radiator.
What are your thoughts about late ’60s and ’70s rock magazines other than Creem and Rolling Stone like Crawdaddy, Hullabaloo/Circus, Fusion, and Let It Rock?
– Gary Fenrich
9:21 AM: Let It Rock was fun and innovative. The rest were junk.
4:55 PM: Actually, Fusion was often more than interesting, at least until it was taken over by Mel Lyman cultists. They ran a very abstract, collage-like piece by my old friend Gerard van der Leun (who called me up one day in 1967 or 1968 out of the blue and said, I have this very unusual Bob Dylan tape I think you’d want to hear) that was written as a contribution to a book I was trying to edit, Rock & Roll Will Stand. I turned it down because it didn’t make any sense to me—I was too square too get it—and when I saw it in Fusion it made perfect sense and I spent the rest of the day kicking myself.
When listening to albums (physical copies and online): to what extent does the cover art for an album color your perception of the music? Are there cases where the visual design has enhanced your experience, or conversely, impeded it?
I’d have to go through every album I have and try to remember a lot I don’t to come close to answering these questions. For some odd reason, the cover that keeps popping into my mind (probably blocking everything else) is for the Rolling Stones’ Let It Bleed, which I think is a stupid piece of work by a then-trendy London artist—that big cake, all smashed in a matching version inside the sleeve. Maybe that’s an example of a terrible cover not affecting the music at all.
The cover of the Clash’s London Calling was interesting in that it matched the cover of Elvis’s first album. It showed that the Clash wanted to be seen as part of the rock & roll tradition, to reenact its arrival, that they had something to live up to. Very self-conscious, and very exciting, and they chased that check.
You see? I could go on forever. The album cover I have up to stare at now—there’s usually one—takes the sleeve art from a Liliput single and makes it the cover of a Kleenex/Liliput compilation. Blowing it up makes all the difference: from a nice homage/joke to a world statement.
I always enjoyed reading reviews and articles by Chet Flippo. His coverage in Rolling Stone of the music (“Outlaw Country” they call it) emanating from Austin in the early 70’s really helped it cross over. His liner notes on the reissue of Townes Van Zandt’s Live at the Old Quarter is one of the most moving [pieces] I have ever read.
Thoughts on Chet? Did you know him well?
He was a dedicated writer. I didn’t know him half as well as I’d like to have.
Alternative Scenario Theatre, here. We go back in time to visit Colonel Parker in 1972, and tell him that in exchange for us keeping quiet about his dubious Dutch ancestry, he has to let Elvis do a “covers” album—where we pick the songs—and no hinky co-publishing deals either. You already mentioned “I Threw It All Away” in Mystery Train (an amazing choice)—I get dibs on “Night They Drove Old Dixie Down” (but maybe there’s a better one off the same Band album?)—but what are the other 10 tracks? The Wayback Machine and RCA Studio “B” await your reply!!
– Erik Nelson
A great puzzle. A great contest. Starting with Bob Dylan’s “I Threw It All Away” and the Band’s “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,” we could go forever, but I’ll go from there with having him steal from everyone else he shares my pages with:
– The Band, “It Makes No Difference”
– Robert Johnson, “Hellhound on My Trail”
– Harmonica Frank, “Goin’ Away Walking”
– Randy Newman, “Sail Away”
– Robert Johnson, “Stop Breaking Down”
– Sly Stone and the Family Stone, “Everybody Is a Star”
– The Band, “The Weight”
– Randy Newman, “Old Kentucky Home”
– Sly and the Family Stone, “Thank you for Talkin’ to Me Africa”
– plus a mash up with Bill Clinton, “Heartbreak Hotel”
Have you listened to Alex Chadwick’s Youtube video, “100 Riffs”? What did you think of it?
– Hugh Griset
I haven’t. What is it?
For me, one of your most remarkable works is your review of Albert Goldman’s Elvis. The essay is so devastating and so precise that every time I read it I wonder how Goldman could bring himself to look in the mirror, let alone write another book. I’m curious if Goldman ever responded to your review.
No. But I appreciate what you said. The piece came out as it should. I was so angry, but it was an anger that led to absolute focus.
Your recent Johnny Rivers and Bee Gees answers make me curious about songs you like by artists who otherwise might not have your affection or attention. I guess I’m fascinated by the unlikely triumph, and what that surprise exception reveals about a listener (“I’m Eighteen,” “You’re So Vain,” and “You’re the One That I Want” being some of your best-known examples).
I wonder if you enjoy—even if only on the radio—any stray favorites by the following artists (with my choice cuts added): Earth, Wind & Fire (“That’s the Way of the World”), Faces (“Last Orders Please”), Bryan Adams (“Summer of ’69”), Joe Simon (“Drowning in the Sea of Love”), Foo Fighters (“Learn to Fly”), Kiss (“Shout It Out Loud”), Iggy Pop (“The Passenger”), Cheap Trick (“Everything Works If You Let It”), Don Covay (“Paper Dollar,” as by Pretty Boy, 1957 Atlantic single), and (long shot, I know) John Denver (“Rocky Mountain High,” mostly for the guitars).
I like Bryan Adams’s “Summer of ’69,” though slightly less since I heard him explain what it was about.
Although I accept that the “new” Fleetwood Mac with Nicks, Buckingham, C. McVie, etc., sold far more songs and albums, I cannot see how they compared with the blues-based sound of “old” Fleetwood Mac, led by Peter Green. Then Play On was a smashing album and “Oh Well” is among the greatest rock songs ever. Even Kiln House, after Green left, was a tremendous work, although oriented more toward old rock ‘n roll. L.A. Pop took over with the “new” band emerging. They did produce some good music, but not even close to the original iterations of the band.
Two unrelated questions: What do you think of the music of Ry Cooder and also Dan Hicks and His Hot Licks? I realize they are (or were) very different sounds. Of course, I love that music.
The original Fleetwood Mac and the Buckingham/Nicks version can’t be compared because they were completely different. One was a country blues band, even if the country in question was British, with a lot of rock ‘n’ roll goofballery, the other was a serious rock ‘n’ roll love song band with more than a hint of Laurel Canyon. I love the Peter Green band more, but I love them both, and not just because Lindsey, Stevie, and I went to the same high school (we didn’t overlap, but I knew LB’s brothers—they ruled the school from the water-polo team).
I liked the Charlatans. Ry Cooder has his moments, but to me the story that explains why they never really stick is his complaining that he spent time in London working with the Rolling Stones as they were sketching Let It Bleed, and their stealing all his stuff for it. What they took was what Cooder took from Jesse Fuller, the difference being that they could make something of it, and he never could.
Have you watched the HBO series, The Leftovers? Co-created by Tom Perrotta, some of whose work I know you’re a fan of.
– Scott Woods
Watched the first couple. Of all his books it’s the one I liked least.
Now that interpreting the songs of others has become part of Bob Dylan’s portfolio, has your perception of Self Portrait changed? Would you have any thoughts on how Dylan compares with Willie Nelson as an interpreter of Tin Pan Alley songs?
– Robert Fiore
My perceptions on Dylan’s Self Portrait haven’t changed in terms of interpreting others’ songs, and neither has my response to the original album—as I wrote in a piece in Mojo for the somethingth anniversary of its release, going back to it only made me hate what I hated more and like what I liked more. But listening to the undubbed tapes, and outtakes, as collected in Another Self Portrait, was another story, as I tried to follow in my notes to the set.
Willie Nelson descended into pure shtick years ago. Everything he does has the same regretful, nostalgic glow,and he can sing anything perfectly. With Dylan approaching a standard, you don’t know what will happen.
What did you think of Jonathan Demme’s version of The Manchurian Candidate?
– Phil Dyess-Nugent
I thought I’d hate it, but I found it convincing and disturbing. There were some interesting touches. Making the woman who rescues the Denzel Washington character a government agent, which Janet Leigh just had to be. Having the Democratic presidential candidate who’s buried in a landslide be—in a TV news shot so short its barely there—a black senator from Alabama. I saw it twice.
Do you listen to KALX 90.7 at the university of California? Do you listen to internet radio only and where do you go to for music that you do not already own? Also, has KALX ever had you on as a guest DJ?
I hear the best stuff on KALX. I’ve had wonderful fun as a guest DJ. I always kicked off with “Shanghaied” by the (Seattle) Wailers.
WRT Real Life Rock Top 10 4/19: I’ve been waiting for years for you to say something mean about Camille Paglia. (I never understood even what was supposed so resonant about that “these fascist bodies” quote you’ve used a few times, much less what she’s doing in A New Literary History of America.) Please tell me you meant it.
Meant what? Sexual Personae is a great, brave, shocking, hilarious book. I read it while nearing the end of Lipstick Traces and felt a real kinship with her—something I wasn’t finding elsewhere. We had a very active correspondence and a few phone calls over the next year. My piece on her book is in my Dustbin of History [also: see here]. As for her piece on A Streetcar Named Desire in A New Literary History of America, I asked her to write it and edited it.
I quoted Dwight Garner’s review of her new book not because it was a put down but because it was a terrific line—about anyone’s book. And it said as much about Pat Benatar as it did about Camille.
In case you missed it, Elvis is back.
Ted Nugent tells the tale of his night with Trump and Kid Rock (Brian McCollum, Detroit Free Press, April 21):
Q: I have to say I’ve never gotten a good feel for his music tastes. He’s always struck me as a guy too focused on other things to spend much time with it.
A: You’re right, it’s not easy to pin that down, because we have no indicators. There’s never been a review or discussion of his musical tastes. But boy, he knew my songs. And he knew Bob’s songs. When I gave him this autographed guitar—I brought a red, white and blue guitar that Bob signed, too—he started beating on it, doing his best Elvis Presley impersonation. It was really rather precious. And he was able to reference Chuck Berry and Bo Diddley and Little Richard. Jerry Lee Lewis and Elvis Presley. He’s got a couple of years on me— he’s 70—and those are certainly the core influences of all things Detroit music and certainly Kid Rock and Ted Nugent, and he was aware of that. And I don’t think he did research just so he could bring up Bo Diddley’s name to me. He knew about this stuff, and he referenced it often.
The demonic killer Elvis.
He’s 70 years old. He couldn’t have missed all that if he’d tried.
I am a recent UCLA Grad working as a musician in California. I read Mr. Marcus’s book, When That Rough God Goes Riding: Listening To Van Morrison. It is a wonderful read. Though it is true that certain highlights from Them and the ’70s (solo) titles are Van’s best work, why the passionate dismissal of Morrison’s other efforts such as No Guru No Method No Teacher and Avalon Sunset, namely? I understand the trivial nature of other titles of that era. However, dismissal of namely these two seems a bit out of hand given the rationale for approval of other works and The Healing Game. Is the songwriting on No Guru and Avalon Sunset not deserving of the same appreciation (“Foreign Window,” “In The Garden,” “When Will I Ever Learn,” “Daring Night”)?
– Saeed Marandi
I said what I had to say. I’m sure there’s more to say, but not by me.
Forgive me for the length of this and if you have touched on this topic before:
As a younger music enthusiast, growing up in the “digital age” means that most, if not all of the information I receive to keep up on music comes from the internet-e.g., social media and media websites such as Pitchfork, The Needle Drop, or Consequence of Sound, to name but a few. In the mid 90’s through the 2000’s a communal voice to combat what some considered downfalls of conventional music journalism and criticism was given to anyone with a network connection and an opinion. Independent music blogs formed in an abundance. But it seems that even those outlets that were able to thrive past the blog-boom are either being diluted in a sea of cliché and “content-overload,” or are becoming just as big as the established media sources they looked to differentiate from in the first place. (It wasn’t that long ago that Pitchfork Media was acquired by Condé Nast.)
Considering your experiences being involved with a site like Pitchfork, one which has continuously been widely criticized for thriving on “controversy” and “exclusivity”, what do you think are some of the positives and/or flaws that exist with today’s standard for music publication content? Building on that, what do you think is needed or missing from the world of online music journalism and criticism? What is, in your opinion, the future for media content regarding music? What is next? What advice can you give to someone with aspirations in contributing to the canon of music journalism in forming an original voice and keeping his or her integrity among so many others?
I haven’t been involved with Pitchfork as such. They were open and gracious enough to take my column. It lasted a little more than a year. The column has always worked best in a non-music-specific publication. It will start again in the Village Voice, print and online, next month.
What’s at issue now is not different than any time before (or in the future). People unafraid of the sound of their own voices and unafraid of what they’re supposed to think. People who fall in love or get angry and say, “Why?” and then figure it out and say what it is.
Would you discuss when and how reggae first came all the way across and made its mark on you? My guess, based on “Treasure Island,” would be The Harder They Come or Catch A Fire. What was your opinion of late-Sixties Top Ten singles “Hold Me Tight” and “Israelites”? Did they sound like passing curiosities, or maybe a new form of soul music?
Finally, were you tuned in to the October 1973 Wailers KSAN live-in-the-studio broadcast, and did you like it? (This performance was later released as Talking Blues, which is how the Wailers came across to me.)
The Harder They Come, first movie, then record. But I’d well before embraced Johnny Nash’s “I Can See Clearly Now,” so the beat was open. Then seeing the Wailers at the Boarding House in San Francisco, a shockingly transcendent night. Then the floodgates opened, but especially, and still, ‘”Concrete Jungle.” The adulterated, whitened, overdubbed version.
I’m a long time Dylan fanatic and have enjoyed your writing about him. I really loved Good as I Been to You and the most of the records that followed, until Shadows in the Night in 2015. I’ve never cared about Frank Sinatra or any other music that gets shelved in the “Easy Listening” section. I was hoping Dylan just wanted to get this out of his system, and that he’d go back to more stuff like Tempest. But then came Fallen Angels, and now Triplicate. I’m starting to fear this is all he’s going to want to do anymore.
So far I haven’t paid any attention to these records. What am I missing?
– Stephen Pride
I’m not sure you missed much with the first two, but Triplicate is another story, a real story. And I’d think the last word.
Since the subject of “Just Like a Woman” came up, is there any request in popular music less likely to be honored than “Please don’t let on that you knew me when I was hungry and it was your world”? Who could resist? “Oh sure, he’s Mr. High-and-Mighty now, but you should have seen him when he came crawling…”
– Robert Fiore
I guess he saw it coming. I love the way you put it.
People want to ask you about Elvis. They want to ask you about Dylan and Van Morrison and Peter Green and The Band. But nobody ever seems to want to ask you about Steely Dan, for whom you were also once a strong advocate. Did they ever blip back into life for you after Katy Lied? I’m inclined to think their last great song was “Haitian Divorce” and their last pretty-good one was “Peg.” But I wouldn’t mind finding out I’d missed something.
I think you’re right. But I couldn’t begin to name all of their songs that not only still stand up but have yet to really make their mark, like “Dr. Wu.”
To get fairly arcane for a second—Christgau, in his 1984 Pazz & Jop essay, noted that you voted for Robin Gibb’s “Boys Do Fall in Love” on your singles ballot (which the Voice didn’t reprint). (Actually, in asking this, I may have stumbled upon that rarest of rare things: a Christgau mistake. He attributes the song to Barry, not Robin, at least in the reprint available on his website.) Is it a song that holds up for you? Do you recall what you liked about it then? And, between the Bee Gees’ “Holiday” (which shows up in “Treasure Island”) and the Gibb song, are there any other Bee Gees or Gibb Inc. songs you’ve cared about?
– Scott Woods
I like it for the same reason I love “Jessie’s Girl”—it has a fine beat and the song rides it without hitting you in the face with it. It catches your ear when it comes on the radio in the middle when you’re changing stations. In a deeper sense, it was written by John Hughes—it was made for a Molly Ringwald movie.
I liked a lot of the Bee Gees’ early singles. “New York Mining Disaster 1941”—now there’s a sure-fire pop hit title—was stranger, thematically, to find on the radio in 1967 than, say, “Memphis Blues Again.” “To Love Somebody” and “Words” had great lift. But with “I Started a Joke” I began to tune out. I think that was about the time I first got a look at them. There’s something off, not quite human, part horse, about their features.
Do you have an opinion of Johnny Rivers’s music that you would care to share with us?
– hugh c grissett
I loved Johnny Rivers’s live singles—always thought “Secret Agent Man” was “Secret Asian Man”—and “The Poor Side of Town” is a real heartbreaker, and convincing. I once saw a cynical Business School student trying to explain why the song always made him cry, though he couldn’t because he kept crying. Bob Dylan talks about Johnny Rivers producing one of the best covers of any of his songs—maybe “Positively Fourth Street”—which made me hunt up the obscure album it appeared on. I didn’t hear it.
At age 71, do you find it harder to resist impulses toward nostalgia? Do you ever feel such impulses in the first place?
Some weeks ago you answered my question, “Is there such a thing as a perfect album?” with Bob Dylan’s Theme Time Radio Hours. But do you have any personal favourite albums made by the same artist/band? What about Highway 61 Revisited or Let it Bleed?
Too many to list. But in fact the concept isn’t one that’s interesting to me.
1. Did you have any thoughts on Duke Of Madness Motors, the Firesign Theater collection with unedited versions of their Dear Friends radio broadcasts? (I recall you were not wild about the double album edited down version.)
2. The music from the Kleenex/Liliput/Slits/Raincoats axis—is there a name for this (sub)genre? There may not need to be one, but it seems strange no one ever labeled it.
– Carl Stone
I don’t know the Duke collection. As for Raincoats Lora Logic Kleenex Slits—that should do.
Thanks for your detailed reply to my question about Minglewood Blues a few weeks ago. It has several ideas I have been mulling over since then.
Bob Weir’s vocal on “New, New Minglewood Blues” is fourth-hand unconvincing. However, Captain Beefheart’s vocal in “Sure Nuff Yes’n I Do” (also released 37 years later) floats over the chasms of War and Depression ultimately delivering a very convincing rendition of the song. Clarence Ashley does the same in “Peg & Awl” (stepping over the chasms of 100+ years which include rapid expansionism and civil war).
As a songwriter and musician I find this ability to convince listeners of a performance imperative. I also view it with the utmost respect, and dedicate rigorous amounts of effort to the cause.
Dylan had a quote in “Rollin’ and Tumblin'”—“I’ve been conjuring up all these long dead souls from their crumblin’ tombs”—which resonates well with these ideas.
…So I ask of you… What elements do you believe make a performance convincing or unconvincing?
Thanks so much,
– Rich Soni
This is a question on the level of what makes life worth living. There’s no answer. Hank Williams said it was sincerity: when a hillbilly singer sings you know he means it, not as himself, but in the song, as the character he’s playing. This is a partial answer to your question, and it may explain Bob Weir’s attempt, but it may also be a lie. It could be that in certain times and places it’s the singer’s lack of sincerity, his or her contempt for what he or she is singing, his or her passionate determination to fake the song, to defraud it, the singer’s knowledge that what the song says is a lie, that makes it so convincing. Because that’s what he wants to say, but she also wants to sell records, so it all gets twisted.
Are there any artists who have been important to you, over the course of several records or a career, that you have yet to write about at length?
– Devin McKinney
Bryan Ferry. I wanted to write a “Listening to” book about him, in the vein of the Van Morrison and Doors books, but no one wanted to publish it. U.S. Publisher: nobody knows who he is. U.K. publisher: He’s a spiv. I may find a way, someday.
I was wondering what you think of Neil Young’s Americana. It almost looks like it was designed to appeal to you, but since I don’t remember you ever mentioning it, I suspect it doesn’t.
Here’s what I wrote in my Real Life Rock Top 10 column for the Believer in September 2012:
Neil Young and Crazy Horse, Americana (Reprise). Too much of what’s here, from the listless, condescending cover of the Silhouettes’ 1957 “Get a Job” to the pallid version of “Wayfaring Stranger,” a song so ghostly it’s almost impossible for a singer not to be swallowed by it, is dead air. But the opening blast of folk songs—more than five minutes of “Oh Susannah,” nearly six of “Clementine,” and more than eight of “Tom Dula,” that last simply hammering away at the standard Kingston Trio lyrics as if there weren’t so many other ways to tell the story—gives these old texts a life neither they nor anyone who’s ever sung them have remotely suggested. The Crazy Horse sound, with Young’s lead guitar snaking through it like a sardonic curse, is battering, rough, big, then bigger, then so complete you can believe the story that Johnny Rotten wanted Young to produce the Sex Pistols. But with “Clementine”—which makes it clear that when Billy Talbot, Ralph Molina, and Poncho Sampedro break through the wall of their own sound Young could sing the telephone book and make you think you were listening to the end of the world—what comes out of the old summer-camp singalong is not just a lament for the poor drowned girl, but a murder ballad. The unforgiving slam of the music leaves you as shaken as the way the singer, ending the song with a smile, confesses between the lines.
I imagine this is something he wanted to do for years. And, once the whole idea had become so marginally popular, blow everybody else away in the process.
Your 1990 Real Life Rock Top 10 entry on Bizarro by the Wedding Present (“a Leeds band whose influences seem to begin and end with the Velvet Underground’s 8:47 1969 Live version of ‘What Goes On’—and what goes on on Bizarro is a fanatical argument that true rock ‘n’ roll, or music, emerges only at that point where repetition takes on a charge so powerful not even rhythm can be heard”) changed my life: it made me rush out and buy the album, which instantly made me catch up on their early stuff and remain a fan of this almost-unknown band until the end. Today I think Bizarro is my favorite album of the Eighties, while their 1986 Peel Sessions and 1994’s Watusi are great enough to make a listener care about the arc of their music and of frontman David Gedge’s persona: a struggle between terminal shyness and tortured romantic jealousy that always wears (or masks) a smile. I hope they will not be forgotten. Have you explored any other Wedding Present music besides Bizarro?
I wrote about Seamonsters, focusing on David Gedge’s voice, and their cover of Julee Cruise’s Twin Peaks number “Falling” from hit parade 1, along with Bizzaro in my Real Life Rock Top 10 column, but I’ve loved all their records.
As someone who was prompted to listen to Rihanna by the Real Life Rock Top 10 book, what’s your favourite of her records?
– Mark Hagen
Regarding Van Morrison and the Chieftains’ Irish Heartbeat, you wrote in an early RLRT10 that it was “not as good as Into the Music, but close.” But by the time of When That Rough God Goes Riding, it’s been relegated (with the partial exception of “Raglan Road”) to the 1980-1996 streak of shapeless, tension-free disposables.
I’m not trying to call you out or anything; I’ve certainly had the experience many times of initial infatuation with a record that doesn’t hold up in the long haul. But I don’t listen as carefully the first time out as you do. Just wondering if you can say anything about how that happens for you. What happens to make you decide your initial impression was wrong? Do you ever double back again?
When I came back to it, it was flat and contrived, and I couldn’t begin to hear what I’d heard—or convinced myself I’d heard—before.
[follow-up to 03/27/17]
I believe it was in your 1979 essay on The Beatles (the one with the terrible error), that you said “Girl” is more sophisticated than “Just Like a Woman.” I know it was a long time ago but, as a fan of both, I was wondering if you recall any context on that opinion.
Since I’m on the topic, do you have favorite recording of “Just Like a Woman”? Mine is from The Concert for Bangladesh.
I don’t recall and am not where I could go through old files. But I’ve never heard anything like the ‘I’ in “I just can’t fit” in the Bangladesh performance of “Just Like a Woman.” Yes, that’s the one.
Why do you think Van Morrison hasn’t experienced a late career renaissance—both in terms of new creative output and/or greater recognition of his body of work—the way that Dylan has post-Time Out Of Mind, or Johnny Cash did with the Rick Rubin-era recordings? It seems to me that Morrison is certainly their equal and all of the raw materials should be there for this to happen. You frequently point to the greatness of The Healing Game but 20 years later it seems like a blip on the radar.
Because, right now, he has no subject: nothing he needs, is compelled, to write about, and covering old blues jazz soul has become a series of repeated gestures that don’t speak to him. Will that change? In moments, almost certainly. For a long career arc? Ask yourself the same question about yourself or anyone else you know.
It’s been a little more than a year since you began ‘Ask Greil.’ I hope I speak for many when I say it is a fan’s dream come true, and I’m so grateful for your generous direct responses. Could you give us your thoughts about what ‘Ask Greil’ has meant to you?
Lots of fun. A great distraction. Some tough questions. I try to respond to everything immediately.
I heard that Barry Jenkins will write and direct a miniseries based on Colson Whitehead’s The Underground Railroad. What are the odds that he’ll use Chuck Berry’s “Promised Land ” on the soundtrack?
– Kevin Bicknell
Given that African slavery was likely introduced to what would become the United States in 1609 in Norfolk, Virginia, where “Promised Land” begins—Berry might not have known that, but he was researching the song in prison when he wrote it, and I would bet that he did—who knows? If you look at the acknowledgments to The Underground Railroad you’ll find thanks to the Misfits, David Bowie, Sonic Youth, and Prince, so if Whitehead has anything to say about it—maybe “Expressway to yr Skull”?
At the time, how closely were you following the story and development (Fall 1966-Spring 1967) of the Beach Boys’ SMiLE? Were you hopeful? Did Pet Sounds make you lose interest? Did Brian Wilson’s breakdown drama become a tiresome subject, or were you intrigued? And finally, do you enjoy any of the SMiLE sessions released in 2011?
Let’s see–1) Not closely 2) No 3) Yes 4)Tiresome 5) Liked the bits and pieces that came out officially over the years more than the Real Thing (but I doubt it).
Wow, I can’t resist—have you seen this piece? Thoughts?
– Scott Woods
I hadn’t seen it. But I noted an Atlantic piece on “Donald Trump, Sex Pistol” in my column last year. It’s proof of two punk maxims: No more heroes, and sooner or later any real punk will make you uncomfortable.
With the “Trumpcare” repeal-and-replace debacle (apparently) behind us, do you believe that sheer incompetence might, if not exactly save the day at least prevent the entire operation from exploding? Is it naively optimistic to suggest that we may simply be in store for four years of political gridlock? (Which I know ignores, among other things, continuing questions of Russian collusion.)
No. Obamacare will be subject to death by a thousand cuts, legislatively, administratively, through the IRS, through the public secret that no rules, penalties, taxes, sanctions essential to the clockworks of the Affordable Care Act will be enforced. The Trump people are not incompetent, given that their goal is to destroy public government and replace it with private government: a state devoted to advancing corporate rule over all aspects of economic and private life.
I’ve been reading you since I was a teenager (now 57). Your prose on the first few pages of The Invisible Republic are unforgettable in their description of Dylan and the “Judas” moment.
Question: You say that “Girl” is more “sophisticated” than “Just Like a Woman”. Would you elaborate on this assessment?
– Tim Hermes
When and where did I say that? The Beatles’ “Girl”?
Just wanted to thank you for recent revelations about Bob Dylan’s Theme Time Radio Hour shows, which (as you surely know) are available for free download with good audio. Sounds like the ideal travel companion—makes me want to drive all around our country.
I’ve done it (live): driving around the country is the way to go. He’ll historicize where you are right into the present and where you are will sing the songs.
[In reference to question/response 03/24/17]
Not really a list or ranking person? See Stranded, Treasure Island list. Great list by the way, I still refer to it.
– hugh c grissett
Well, you got me there. I suppose what I couldn’t so to speak list was “the most/best/worst” etc. of this that or the other. I could easily make up a list of 20 or 40. And what’s overlooked? Nobody seems to ever mention Bo Diddley’s “Say Man.” It seems to have gone into the ether. But it was #20 in 1959. The Great Society’s 1966 “Somebody to Love” wasn’t a hit—it was barely released—but it has achieved at least a kind of cult status because it’s obscure and wonderful—does that count?
What was the perception of Creedence Clearwater Revival in the Bay Area during their recording career? I find it hard at this remove to picture them as a working band, as opposed to something that’s on the radio all the time. Part of it is a band with that many hits seldom stops cold turkey so early. (Well, there was the Beatles, but they left a pretty strong impression before that…)
– Robert Fiore
All you heard from other Bay Area musicians (and their fans) was “Anybody can play that shit” or “It’s so simplistic”—as opposed to their sophisticated children-of-the-future last-forever stuff. Barry Gifford in Rolling Stone, reviewing Creedence’s first album, praised John Fogerty and dismissed the rest of the group as borderline cretins: “Fogerty’s a gas but Creedence Clearwater may not be worth it.” They had bigger hits than any Bay Area group except for Sly and the Family Stone on Top 40 (and Billboard never let them get to #1), while their betters ruled hip FM KSAN. So they toured out of town. The band rebelled and said they had to write and sing too. But they couldn’t. And though Fogerty could play everything and be a one man band he couldn’t be Creedence. Doesn’t “Lodi” sound true today? Doesn’t “Up Around the Bend” feel like utopia?
I feel guilty I haven’t read John’s book.
Found another mind-blowing fact about Chuck Berry’s “Promised Land: that you probably know. In 1609, the first African slaves used in the USA were forced to work on the tobacco plantations of…the Tidewater area of Norfolk, Virginia, to where the Poor Boy puts in his call to the folks back home. Holy shit. A badass genius…and all of the great American songwriters after him knew it.
– John Evans
That’s amazing. Scary. He saw all around the world.
Is there such a thing as a perfect album?
Once upon a time record companies/artists really started to make the vinyl LP not as just a collection of hit songs plus filler, maybe sometime in the middle of the sixties. With vinyl it was not so easy to jump from one track to another which meant that you often had to listen to all the tracks on at least one whole side of an LP. Then you had to flip the LP over and listen to the other side. We had the same “problem” with cassette-tapes. When CDs arrived you could listen to an whole album (even with up to 80 minutes playing time) or you could select (program) just the tracks you wanted to listen to. Nowadays you can make your own playlists, for example on Spotify.
If you are forced to listen to all the tracks on an album, do you have any favourite “perfect” albums (i.e. albums with no bum tracks)? (My own perfect albums are actually live albums or compilation albums)
Most of Bob Dylan’s Theme Time Radio Hours, assembled into CDs or whole downloads, make perfect albums.
Speaking of tribute albums (03/07/17), did you ever soak in Gotta Serve Somebody: The Gospel Songs of Bob Dylan (Columbia, 2003)? If so, was it any different from being accosted in an airport by a remnant of the Jesus Freak movement, a la your review of Slow Train Coming?
– Scott Marshall
Gotta Serve Somebody is even more pious and unbearable than most tribute albums, but the last track, with Mavis Staples just wandering down the road and showing up at Bob Dylan’s house while he’s cooking breakfast to duet on “Gonna Change My Way of Thinking”—a version of the Jimmie Rodgers Meets the Carter Family 78s Victor put out in the 1920s—is wonderful. And not as simple as it seems.
Does Mr. Marcus still answer readers questions? If so, I would like to ask him what singles does he think are the most underrated singles of the 1950’s and 1960’s? My own personal choices would be Larry Williams’s “Slow Down” as the most underrated ’50s single and the Choir’s “Its Cold Outside” as the most underrated 1960s single.
– hugh c grissett
I’m answering questions all the time but I’m not really a list or ranking person.
I’m a magazine junkie, and since I first discovered your book review columns in Rolling Stone and New West back when I was in high school, I’ve always been especially grateful for all the invigorating literary magazines I’ve latched onto thanks to your recommendations, or just from following your byline. Are there any current favorites you’d care to call to readers’ attention?
– Phil Dyess-Nugent
Not since Radio Silence went silent and the Pitchfork Review closed shop. They’re worth searching for. I know Dan Stone of Radio Silence hasn’t given up the ghost.
The story of “Minglewood Blues” and its variants is mingled (pun intended) with mystery and ambiguity. What are your thoughts/speculations about this song?
– Rich Soni
It’s a deep song with such a tangled history. Cannon’s Jug Stompers of Memphis made it in 1927, a song about not letting women rule their men. When harmonica player Noah Lewis of the Jug Stompers cut “New Minglewood Blues” in 1930 it couldn’t have been more different. The meandering, hesitating rhythm of the first version was now brighter, quicker, and it opened with a 19th century brag as tough as any in the language: “I was born in the desert, raised in a lion’s den.” When, thirty-seven years later—which is not like the distance between 1980 and today, but a line from one world to another, the two separated by the chasms of the Great Depression and the Second World War—the one time Menlo Park jug band the Grateful Dead took it up as “New, New Minglewood Blues,” the vocal was fourth hand and unconvincing (it sounds like Bob Weir, who went to Menlo-Atherton High School two years behind me, and he sounds like he’s saying “I was born in Modesto”), the guitar playing fun, but ultimately it was a throwaway. It didn’t have to be that way—at the same time or earlier, in the Jim Kweskin Jug Band in Cambridge, Geoff Muldaur was singing the Lewis version. I saw him do it in 1997 at a Harry Smith celebration at UCLA; when he opened his mouth for the first line it sounded like a tiger leaping out of his throat. I’d like to hear PJ Harvey take it up. Or Eleanor Friedberger.
I just realized that of all my favorite groups, George Clinton and P-Funk might be the one you’ve written the least about; I’m only aware of a passing compliment paid to The Electric Spanking of War Babies. Any thoughts or opinions about the rest of their work?
– Phil Dyess-Nugent
I saw a Mothership show. I was more taken with Parliament. But really, I never got past “Maggot Brain”—something Peter Green would have given a leg to have played. It all made sense when I read what George Clinton supposedly told Eddie Hazel before they cut it: “Play it like like your mother just died.”
What is your opinion of the TV mini series airing on CMT, Sun Records? Any thoughts on the music or the story so far?
– Hugh Grissett
I like the way Sam Phillips is portrayed as a hipster and Marion Keisker as a stone fox. If they keep the focus on them more than Elvis Johnny Cash Jerry Lee it might work. But it already kind of pales against the news that Leonardo DiCaprio has bought film rights to Peter Guralnick’s biography of Phillips and plans to play Phillips himself. And he’d be fabulous.
I’m curious about your oft-stated antipathy towards tribute albums. Is your objection to them based on some broader philosophical objection to them as a genre? Or do you never miss a chance to remind the reader that tribute albums are terrible just because it’s your impression that, due to an unhappy coincidence, all these albums are terrible?
– Phil Dyess-Nugent
Not to get into explaining a joke—but tribute albums are usually terrible, not to mention made from the worst motives (quick money for no work, giving people who don’t deserve it exposure on the back of somebody with a bigger name) with the stray gems both proving the point and allowing an escape from the prison of the concept. They’re sitting ducks that sometimes bite back.
You’ve written of your affection for “Good Lovin'” and “Carry Me Back.” Were you a fan of the Rascals at the time? Did their story, sound, or success (three Number One singles) in this fruitful 1966-1969 pop era stand out as different—or difference making? Does it seem any more interesting now?
“Good Lovin'” was a ferocious shock on the radio. They were a fun band until they got embarrassed with themselves and dropped the ‘Young.’ They still sound fresh.
As a long-time Berkeley resident and UCB alumnus, what did you think of the recent controversy/unrest occasioned by the invitation to Milo Yiannopoulos?
I’m a Free Speech Movement person. Stopping someone from speaking is an attack on democracy. A hundred Berkeley professors signed a letter in favor of the glamorous thug being banned from speaking; more FSM people signed one saying he, like anyone, had a right to speak and advocate on public property, which the University is—that was what the Free Speech Movement was all about. There is nothing wrong with picketing a talk, or even going inside and shouting a question—but trying to stop a speaker, shouting a speaker down, harassing those who want to hear him or her, let alone attempting to terrorize the event itself shows weakness, fear, cowardice, self-righteousness, and contempt for the only values that have saved this country, and might still. During FSM, the administration often claimed the demonstrators were so-called outside agitators, not students, Communists. That wasn’t true, but it seems to be in this case: a well-organized group of masked anarchists afraid to say who they are and what they have to say happy to destroy the campus and any small business without a guard. They have made their presence felt in the East Bay in Black Lives Matter demonstrations and more—essentially turning political protest into its own Trump rally. Quite clearly they could care less that all they have done, aside from smearing real political act and speech, is make Milo look good—to the point that Robert Reich, Secretary of Labor under Clinton and a professor at the UC School of Business, wondered if Yiannopolous hired them himself.
One question—not the ruling question, but no one seems to have asked—is why the Campus Republicans invited a racist woman-hater to speak in the first place. They answer can only be that they find what he says thrilling and who he is the kind of person they’d like to be. That’s worse than anything he might have to say.
Like many readers, I’m fascinated with your “Treasure Island” discography, especially since you later revealed that Knopf editor Robert Gottlieb required you to “consider his suggested additions and changes” to the list. We know you lamented the Stevie Wonder concession, and you’ve indicated that David Bowie is also in that company. Are you willing to identify and discuss other entries that were compromises? Or is this a mystery that should be left alone?
I still have Bob Gottlieb’s handwritten notes in tiny script. At least five pages of them. That’s for him to publish!
Saw this [link] in the New York Times and wondered if “Absolutely Sweet Marie” might allude to this righteous scofflaw, just the kind of heroine to stick in Dylan’s memory.
– Laura Leivick
I’d never heard of her, but I’d say the likelihood of this being a Dylan reference is about absolute. She is just the sort of person who would have been a Greenwich Village legend, just the sort of thing Dylan was picking up a mile a minute in 1961 and ’62. It’s wonderful how songs write history.
Not a question, just a quick correction to [Greil’s] 1/27 answer [below] on bassists.
Robbie Shakespeare played bass on “Concrete Jungle,” not Aston Barrett. (To be fair, Barrett is credited rightfully as the bassist on that album, but for that particular track only, it was Robbie Shakespeare.)
Thanks for the correction.
Of all the periods of music you’ve lived through, which excited you the most?
– Robert Fiore
1964: the Beatles! Five in the Top Ten? Can this be real? The world is tilting off its axis. Why not all ten?
Mr. Marcus –
I have read most of your unique and analytical tomes, and many of your reviews/columns/essays/pearls over the years. Thank you for adding such depth to my thought process.
I am troubled by artists that continue playing their old tunes, without creating any new resonating material. Creating something fresh could equate to huge expenses vs. limited return due to the streaming impact; touring at a highly-marked up price equates to a much larger chunk of revenue. However, what may be missing in that financial equation is why one initially fell in love with music—to think or feel or act or become part of something much larger than oneself in an honest way, which feels more like a rip-off if one is asked to pay $300 for a ticket.
Do you have issues with acts that should retire, or do you feel it is a craft and trade like any other, and if one needs to work, one does what one can, especially if the demand is still there?
– Randy, aka “one”
It’s simple: it’s what most people are paying for. Rick Nelson addressed all the philosophical ramifications in “Garden Party.” It won’t change your mind and shouldn’t but it makes sense of the situation.
Do you think that Jimi Hendrix’s music has worn well? Do you still feel compelled to listen frequently?
It has. Are You Experienced still carries the full charge of someone seizing his own voice for the first time. Close to half a century has not compromised the daring, delight, subtlety and force of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” “Like a Rolling Stone,” or “Machine Gun,” while the permanent playlisting of “All Along the Watchtower” hasn’t lessened its momentum of surprise. And “Voodoo Chile (Slight Return)” is a true contribution to the blues: something that wasn’t there before and now always will be.
So I just finished Robbie Robertson’s autobiography. I’ll leave opinions on it to others. However, when I go back and compare it to that autobiographical track he wrote about The Band’s history, “This is Where I Get Off” from his last CD, I am still left wondering one thing. At the very end of the song, the lyrics go:
This is where I get off
This ain’t where I belong
Somebody done me wrong, along the way…
I can’t figure out who he is referencing about doing him wrong. The book never brings up such a thought. I really don’t think it could be any of the Band members (including Levon), and his relationship with Albert Grossman didn’t seem contentious. He says David Geffen and him are square, and Geffen did produce his first solo CD. So as any good murder mystery would go: Who done it? Thx.
– M. Freeman
– I would think the junkies in the Band. To me, he says that in almost so many words: Levon LIED to me!
Are there any particular bassists you admire for their contribution to music? Do you have any favs in particular?
– Dann Alexander
Richard Davis on Van Morrison’s Astral Weeks. Charlie McCoy on Bob Dylan’s John Wesley Harding. Aston Barrett on the Wailers’ “Concrete Jungle.” James Jamerson on Motown. Keith Richards on “Sympathy for the Devil.”
Do you think T.M. Christian is going to review another album in 2017?
– Joseph Wasser
Wow. I haven’t heard from him in years. Maybe the next Lucinda Williams album, There But for Fortune, songs celebrating the best of all the singers she’s loved who ever died, with cool samples from each.
I never liked Pink Floyd’s music—it feels cold and sounds boring—and regarding the (David Gilmour-era) band as an idea I stand with Johnny Rotten: I Hate Pink Floyd. Further, although I can understand the band’s appeal to the rock audience they cultivated in the 1970s, I cannot comprehend the megaplatinum success of The Wall, which to me is the sound of rock’s corpse, or at least a horrible betrayal.
You would make my day if you would just confirm my feelings, tell me to go listen to X-Ray Spex and then everything will be OK and we can move on—but seriously, I would love your honest thoughts about Pink Floyd and how you hear and place them.
I liked “See Emily Play,” the song “Wish You Were Here,” and that album cover. As someone else once said, “Millionaires telling children ‘We don’t need no education’!” And Roger Waters is an anti-Semite.
Did you attend the Modern Lovers show at the Long Branch Saloon in 1972 or see the original band (Richman/Harrison/Brooks/Robinson/sometimes Felice) live at any time? If so, what were your thoughts?
– Bill Alderson
I was at the Longbranch show, which I wrote about in Lipstick Traces. I was there with two critics from New York, one of whom said, in the middle of the set, “We could make this band.” Aside from that being ridiculous, it was the most obnoxious thing I’d ever heard a rock critic say. And he’d begun the night by saying that nobody cared about rock ‘n’ roll anymore, all anybody cared about was politics, so he wasn’t going to write about it anymore.
I’ve had one personal encounter with Jonathan Richman, which came many years ago when he called me up to ask if I knew what kind of amp Scotty Moore used on Elvis’s Sun Sessions.
What are the key issues for music criticism in 2017?
– Dennis McDaniel
I can’t speak for anyone but myself. For me, what’s crucial is not to write about music, or anything else, without a sense of tyranny surrounding any attempt at communication, expression, or free speech of any sort.
While having another read through Lipstick Traces I was surprised to see you describing The Slits official releases as “crummy” compared to the John Peel radio sessions. I know you have high regard for Viv Albertine’s book and wonder if you have taken another listen to Cut recently—I maintain it’s a classic of both that and any other era.
– Paul Ashbridge
I may have been harsh, but I don’t know anything on any of their official albums, other than a few moments on their Peel Sessions, that comes close to speaking the same language as the Y label official bootleg.
I remember with pleasure attending Bill Graham’s Day On The Green concerts at Oakland Coliseum. (I was too young to ever see a show at the Fillmore.) I was curious as to your experiences with Graham, and your thoughts on the man.
– Bill Boyd
I had various encounters with Bill Graham, beyond going to shows at the Fillmore and Winterland and everywhere else from 1966 on. The first came at a conference on rock ‘n’ roll held at Mills College in, I think, 1967. Panelists included Graham, Phil Spector (who attacked Graham for not supporting Lenny Bruce when Bruce performed at the Fillmore), Marty Balin of the Jefferson Airplane, and more. During a break, while I was asking Phil Spector why it was impossible to find his Christmas album, and he handed me a business card, told me to write what I wanted on it and send it back, and he’d send me anything——which he did, my wife asked Bill Graham why he’d started charging at the coat room at the Fillmore. He exploded at her, screaming, threatening her, calling her words I don’t feel like repeating. Two years later, when I was the music columnist for the San Francisco Express-Times, I wrote a piece about the Band’s debut shows at Winterland, and Bill sent me a fan letter. Some years after that, I was working on an extremely elaborate AIDS benefit in a building on the San Francisco waterfront, that opened with a very complex candle-lit entrance. A fire marshal buttonholed everyone he could find claiming a fire risk (unlikely, as the candles were positioned over water), saying he was going to shut the place down. I saw Bill across the room, asked the marshal to wait, went up to Bill and said, You’ve had to deal with this for years (when the Fillmore opened Graham had to battle the city weekly to keep it open), can you handle this? And he did.
1. How would you compare your feelings in January 1980 about Reagan coming into power with your feelings now about Trump coming into power?
2. Do you think that music as a way to mobilize people or at least voice a common discontent will play a role in the coming months and years?
When Reagan was elected I was so depressed I lost a year of work. On the other hand, the rage, disgust, loathing, and anger I felt at the dismantling of the republic I trusted and the country I believed in drove the book I had just started working on, even if, at the same time, in terms of thinking and writing, l left the country, and the present, working my way back through the tangles of the European avant-garde, through the 20th century and, by the end of the book, past France, England, Germany, and Italy, to the Levant in the 12th century.
With Trump, where the dangers may be far deeper—because of the foundation of destruction that Reagan built and that Republicans have been maintaining and extending ever since—a black cloud falls on me every few days or so, but in a way that it sometimes takes me half a day to realize why I’m moving in slow motion. It hasn’t gotten in the way of writing. I am not sanguine that things will be so bad so quickly that the country will rise up as one, that representatives will realize they’ll be thrown out of office if they kill Medicare and Social Security, and this will all be over in four years, or less if Trump is impeached for obvious constitutional violations, if not treason itself, and much of his cabinet sent to jail for self-dealing, bribery, and theft, as the New York Times editorial page so blithely assumes. Impeached by who? This congress? Prosecuted by who? This attorney general?
Trump has created a government that on paper is only steps away from realizing the dream of generations—the repeal not merely of Obamacare—the name of which trivializes it, as if it’s merely one man’s vanity project, not national policy, part of the republic—but of the New Deal and everything that flowed from it, the repeal of any notion of the Federal government playing an affirmative role in national life, “to protect the general welfare”: the repeal, in essence, of 20th century democracy. That means Social Security, the FAA, the Food and Drug Administration, the Center for Disease Control, the National Weather Service, and countless other institutions of American life. It means the dismantling of laws and institutions against discrimination of any and all kinds, to the point, perhaps, of allowing states and municipalities to re-institute de jure racial segregation along with the abolition of abortion rights, the abrogation rights of women to legal equality with men, and the criminalization of homosexuality (none of that sounds that far away for me; that was the America I grew up in). It means the junking of the national highway system, a New Deal successor under Dwight Eisenhower, in favor of selling it off to private companies. It means the abolition of Medicare, the most important New Deal successor program, and Medicaid, the Head Start, food stamps, and a thousand other programs. Oh, pundits say, all of that will hurt so called red state voters, Trump voters, right where they live, and they’ll be outraged! No they won’t. They voted for this. They voted for Trump—not out of some narrow sense of what pundits call their own interests, by which is meant their own narrowly defined economic interests, but because Trump embodied the kind of country they wanted to live in and the kind of people they wanted to think they are—and they will support him again. Many people on Medicaid and so many other linked government programs don’t vote, and merely cutting a lifeline won’t lead many of such people to vote. That is at the heart of American electoral history.
What I find scariest is something that Rudolph Giuliani said at the Republican National Convention, seemingly in a moment of out-of-body mania in the midst of an hysterical speech: “This is the last election!” You could hear it in the moment as meaning, if it meant anything, that if the Democratic Party won it would render all future elections meaningless, from a Republican standpoint, because they would, by institutional buttressing of demographic change, lose them. But it means something different now.
The Republican prospect of erasing the New Deal—a regulatory state with a commitment to the general welfare of the citizenry—reminds me of the fall, or the erasure, of the Soviet Union. Suddenly the USSR ceased to exist and membership in the Communist party was made illegal, and what filled the gap of regulation, exploitation, and oppression was organized crime. The result in the USA could be the same, because the destruction of New Deal institutions will mean that the gap in the governance of everyday activities will fall into the hands of unregulated corporations, and unregulated corporation are a form of organized crime. Much is made of Trump having no core beliefs beyond a faith in his own sacredness, no comment to any set of principles other than the various elements of his own vanity, and so on. That’s an illusion. His whole life, from childhood on, has been a matter of absolute hostility to any authority, agency, or law that in any way impinges on his ability to do exactly as he pleases and make as much money as possible. Franklin Roosevelt put it squarely at his great campaign rally in Madison Square Garden on October 31, 1936, in a speech so powerful that, listening to it today you can feel the words echoing across the roof of the hall like shots: “Government by organized money is just as dangerous as government by organized mob.” That is precisely the future Trump believes in. That is what Making America Great means.
What can music do? Robert Christgau put it well in 1969: “In the worst of times music is a promise that times are meant to be better.” That is not as easy a promise to make, let alone keep—to stay true to—as it might seem. In the next year we’ll find out who can make that promise, and who can’t, who cares, and who doesn’t.
If, in 1961, Woody Guthrie had been in the hospital in, say, Chicago, would Bob Dylan have gone to New York at that time? How would Dylan’s career and music have been different had his early post-Minnesota years been spent in Chicago?
– Dave Rubin
There was a lot going on in Chicago at that time. Dylan would have gravitated to the Old Town School of Folk Music, where he would have quickly developed contacts that would have taken him to New York. Nothing very important would have changed.
I recently saw The Roots in Boston and came away stunned at their versatility and virtuosity. I’d love to know what other current bands you put in their league.
– Steve Varnum
Given their camaraderie, multiplicity, unpredictability, and a world class record geek as chief showboat, plus their unmatched visibility, which allows them to release odd records—their wonderful John Legend album—almost invisibly, they’re in a league of one.
I have been listening to the song “Long Black Veil.” Three great versions by the Band, Johnny Cash, Lefty Frizzell. Any preference? “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry”—three great versions, Hank Williams, B.J. Thomas, Al Green. Any preference?
– Hugh Grissett
The Band; Al Green.
Do you think Buddy Holly is a little underrated when it comes to his contribution to rock n roll? He wrote his own songs and was one of the first to have the now typical rock band (guitar/bass/drums and sometimes a 2nd guitar). Elvis couldn’t write a song. Chuck Berry could write but didn’t have his own band (although it’s hard to beat Johnnie Johnson and Willie Dixon). Even his glasses were an inspiration. He’s obviously one of the all time greats but doesn’t seem to get the recognition some of the other greats from the ’50s do these days.
– Bill Alderson
Buddy Holly is anything but underrated—he was part of the first class of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, along with Elvis, Chuck Berry, Fats Domino, the Everly Brothers, Ray Charles, Sam Cooke, Little Richard, James Brown, Jerry Lee Lewis, Jimmie Rodgers, Jimmy Yancey, Robert Johnson, Alan Freed, and Sam Phillips—all of whom lived and contributed (as Phil Spector would put it) past their 22nd birthdays, as Holly didn’t. For someone whose career had already traced an arc—when Holly died his career was waning, he was broke, and his dream was his own record label, his own art complex, with himself as president, talent scout, manager, and artist, recording with Mahalia Jackson and Ray Charles—Holly has been the subject of one critical study and two biographies, one of them excellent, one knockout feature film, and actors have played him in others. He’s not underrated by me: two of the first pieces I ever published, in Rolling Stone and Who Put the Bomp, were about Holly, and I’ve written about him in one way or another ever since.
A case can be made that, given the brevity of his career and, as Nik Cohn put it in his Holly section of Awopbopaloobop Alopbamboom, the first good book on rock and roll, from 1969, the “neopolitan flowerpots” of his more treacly records—as a complete phony who nevertheless scored hits, Cohn honors Holly as “founder of a noble tradition”—Holly is overrated. If he’d have been black, he likely would not hold the place that he does today—what if Sam Cooke, the performer and entrepreneur who is Holly’s closest artistic kin, had died after “You Send Me”? His death not only made him a romantic, never-forgotten figure—the drama! the wipeout! the day the music died!—it spared him from failure, compromise, for all we know ending up under the finger of the mob. I don’t think so: the home recordings he made in the weeks before he died, from “Peggy Sue Got Married,” “Crying, Waiting, Hoping,” and more, all but promise music ready to hit a new world head on, to the point that it would have been Holly, not Johnny Cash, accompanying Bob Dylan on Nashville Skyline.
What did you think of the Grateful Dead’s “New Speedway Boogie” as a response to Altamont?
– Robert Fiore
Nice song. Brilliant evasion. Total bullshit.
Dear Greil Marcus,
What sound system(s) do you use? Still listening to vinyl? Even tapes?
All the best for 2017!
Greetings from Nuremberg,
I use Bose computer speakers and a stereo set with a 50-year-old McIntosh amp and a six year old Harman Kardon turntable and a Nakamichi cassette deck. I used to have Voice of the Theatre speakers, but since moving to a small house use Audio Monitor bookshelf speakers.
What are your thoughts on Bob Neuwirth’s solo albums? How much of an influence do you think he had on Bob Dylan’s personality in the ’60s?
– Bill Alderson
Bob Neuwirth was a confidant. Tonto to Dylan’s Lone Ranger, or Pancho to the Cisco Kid, though sometimes the roles might have been reversed. What Dylan says about him in Chronicles is right. We’ve become friendly over the last ten years or so. I wouldn’t say more, though there’s a hilarious performance of “Come See” by him on the Arhoolie 50th Anniversary Celebration Hear Me Howlin’ set released 5 years ago.
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