Popular myth has it that rock and literature make strange bedfellows –– a surreal pairing on the level of, say, Henry Miller sharing a cot with Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention. Quite the opposite actually, since rock songs seem to hold a monopoly on literate and eloquent lyrics. Consider Elton John’s "While Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters, sons of bankers, sons of lawyers/Turn around and say good morning to the night" or Dylan’s "And the ancient empty street's too dead for dreaming," or the Stone’s "The sunshine bores the daylights out of me," or Radiohead’s "She looks like the real thing/She tastes like the real thing/My fake plastic love." Sure there are clunkers (the Scorpions’ insipid Glasnost hangover, Winds of Change) but they pale in comparison to pop music’s "Say you, say me, say it together naturally" or "I’m a Barbie girl in a Barbie world." No contest, man. Even Klaus Meine’s random jottings would sound like e e cummings’ poetry compared to saccharine entries in Aqua’s diary.
Think of all the sagely nutcases, the saintly drunks, the cosmic hitchhikers, the freebasing spirits that have given rock n’ roll its strange and beautiful lyricism: Jim Morrison, Van Morrison, Perry Farrel, Lou Reed, Jeff Buckley, Joni Mitchell, Bowie, Morrissey, among others.
And all the night’s magic seems to whisper and hush. Sidewalk crouches at her feet. Dinosaurs on the quilt I wore with a girl, such a classic girl. And I feel them drown my name. I looked at my haggard face in the bathroom light. I would go out tonight but I haven’t got a stitch to wear. Shiny, shiny boots of leather, whiplash girlchild in the dark. Turn and face the strange changes. It’s a wonderful night for a Moondance. And other sweet etceteras.
Think also of those on the other side of the vinyl. Those who have soaked in those elliptical words and weeping guitars and reacted –– by spilling their souls on paper while strung out on caffeine and nicotine, giving shape to the jealous muse called Opinion, typing with blood, sweat, spit and deadlines rearing their ugly heads in the horizon. Nevermind the slings and arrows from those who love to criticize the critics.
The best music magazines usually contain articles that synthesize literary musings, drugged recollections and metaphysical ejaculations –– Ray Gun, Interview, Crawdaddy, Creem and Melody Maker, to name a few.
Rolling Stone used to be hip to what’s really hip. Articles on Soundgarden, Alice in Chains, Nine Inch Nails, the Black Crowes, Pearl Jam (written by no less than Cameron Crowe) really skewered the meat of the matter. But I became disillusioned with the magazine when Britney, ‘N Sync and other busty dolls found their way to RS pages, and when the album reviewers started sucking up to the majors: a writer gave a bunch of stars to Jennifer Lopez’s vanity album, another labeled Sporty Spice the "Gifted" Spice. To think that Melanie C has a voice that is a cross between helium and Kris Aquino’s early evening caterwaul. An editorial sham, indeed.
To me, the long-dead Melody Maker was more intriguing. And so when I stumbled upon a copy of Melody Maker Classic Rock Interviews in a dusty, forgotten corner of Goodwill Bookstore, I couldn’t contain my excitement. There was the book under a pile of Pavarotti bios and opera hardcovers, a compilation of the some of the best MM articles that I’ve been searching for in the voids of Recto.
Classic Rock contains Michael Watts’ protracted meditations on Bob Dylan ("The man called Alias"), David Bowie ("Oh you pretty thing") and Bruce Springsteen ("Lone star"). My personal favorite among Watts’ work is his take on the Rolling Stones and the comparison/contrast of the Glimmer Twins –– Jagger and Richards whom Truman Capote once called "unisexual zombies."
Watts also shares a Keith Richards anecdote. The craggy-faced guitar player was approached by rich, pampered Swiss kids who asked him what would it take to be a good rock n’ roll musician. Keith snapped, "Try starving!"
There is also Richard William’s chronicle of John Lennon in the studio with Phil Spector. Another great write-up is Mark Williams’ feature on Chrissie Hynde ("Say a prayer for the Pretenders"), who also dabbled in rock journalism during her hungry punk years. I don’t quite dig Allan Jones’ long, rambling article on Lou Reed, "Street Hassle" days. I prefer his sparring with the Sex Pistols and their dirty rotten twisted tongues.
Readers might comment that the book is too Seventies-centric. But the era –– its hard rock, punk, bell bottoms, elevator shoes, warts and all –– makes for a great read. (An exciting and incendiary age indeed: the world was drifting in blind orbits –– not into the Apocalypse, it turned out, but into the staid ‘80s.)
Besides, the Melody Maker writers also took a jab at more contemporary icons such as Sting, U2, REM, Public Enemy and Nirvana, which was featured in a post-punk rhapsody by Everett True. Too much rock? Bob Marley and Marvin Gaye (straddlers of different genres –– reggae and soul, respectively) were also given props by Melody Maker.
After going through Classic Rock Interviews or Nick Kent’s The Dark Stuff or Lester Bangs’ Pscyhotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung, one would get the feeling rock n’ roll and literature are good in bed together.
Lester Bangs’ Love Letters To Oblivion
If there is one thing I’ve learned from reading Lester Bangs –– "the great gonzo journalist, gutter poet and romantic visionary of rock writing" –– it’s the philosophy that rock n’ roll is not just confined to loud music characterized by angry lyrics and apocalyptic guitars. Let Bangs blurt it out:
Good rock n’ roll also encompasses other things, like Hank Williams and Charlie Mingus... Rock n’ roll is like an attitude, I mean, writing can be rock n’ roll or a movie can be rock n’ roll. It doesn’t necessarily have to have anything to do with music. It’s just a way of living your life, a way of going about things.
Amen. Lester said that rock n’ roll is something that makes you feel alive. Yes, it may sound like hippie talk but it is something that is mind-altering. It follows that Jack Kerouac’s novels about hitchhiking across broken-down yet beautiful America or Friedrich Nietzche’s metaphysical graffiti or Basquiat’s cosmic doodlings or Clockwork Orange or John Coltrane playing transcendent, snaking saxophone lines at the Village Vanguard may be considered more rock n’ roll than anal rock from the monolithic mediocrity machine like Bush or, ugh, Crazy Town.
For a dose of the definitive Lester Bangs, interested ones should check out Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung, a compilation of music articles (from Creem, The Village Voice etc.) written by rock journalism’s beautiful wreck. Or watch Cameron Crowe’s Almost Famous wherein Bangs is portrayed by Phillip Seymour Hoffman as a generous guru to a rookie rock journalist.
Reading Bangs’ beyond-the-bizarre articles about Lou Reed, the Clash or Van Morrison –– his love letters to oblivion, his Valium and cough syrup visions –– will make even the most jaded listener fall in love with rock n’ roll all over again.