rock and roll musings by Tim Byrnes

The Summer of Hate

Cobain ten years gone now, the media’s after Courtney, there’s no justice in the woods. Today’s ‘rock scene’ has devolved into a morass of failure, ineptitude and anger the likes of which not seen before. Are we really in danger of losing rock and roll? Or of rock and roll losing it’s credibility as it sinks lower and lower, if only to meet the expectations of it’s modern fans? The whole shebang has been spinning it’s wheels for what seems like forever, but on closer inspection, turns out to be only really 10 years, but in rock and roll, ten years is forever. At least it used to feel like forever.

I almost feel a tinge of pity for the modern rock critic. Imagine having to piece together some kind of legacy, or even to make any kind of artistic/cultural sense of the crap that’s come down the rock and roll pike these last ten years. No wonder the best they (we?) Can come up with is that Kurt Cobain is, indeed, still dead.

Yeah, I’m a crank, and an old one at that, but that’s the reason I’m so damn depressed about what passes for rock and roll in the 21^st Century. I was there and saw the greatness of the great, from Dylan to the Pistols to the Smiths to the Afghan Whigs, and as the years wear on (and god how they wear on) the pickings get nothing but slimmer.

For a cultural movement that at one time was an integral part of ending the Vietnam War to wither and stray to the point where we (whatever we’re calling ‘the youth culture’ this month) can only get it up for something as surreal and Vonnegutian as a wardrobe malfunction, is more than sad; it’s pathetically prophetic. Where’s the real action, anyway? Can anyone really find anything below the surface of, say, a Linkin Park or a Korn? What are these bands saying other than ‘give me $18?

Not much from where I sit. Our governments play footsie with the truth and they’re not even careful anymore ‘cause they know we’re asleep and incredulous. Waiting for further wardrobe malfunctions? Could be. It is the height of irony that the one musical act responsible enough to comment on the chicanery of King George the Bush turns out to be the Dixie Chicks; as traditional a country act as radio will allow. Somewhere Johnny Cash is half-smiling. We, and when I say we I refer to rock and rollers of all stripes, blew it. We rant and rant online and in print and in person all about Kurt and Courtney and Justin and Janet and Britney and Fred when we should be shucking off all these weapons of mass distraction, stop being so fucking entertained and get in the game for real.

We in America have an administration that has to go and the ballot box ain’t gonna cut it this time. It sure didn’t last time. I’m with Michael Moore on this one. He sent a letter to Kofi Annan requesting the help of the United Nations in deposing a dictator who has illegally grasped the reigns of American government. We have a despot to depose, people. Meet me in Washington with pitchforks and torches (or at least email the White House demanding that Dubya step down) and once we get that job done, maybe then we can talk some more about Kurt Cobain.

Although I can’t imagine why.

Posted by: timbyrnes at 19:51 | link | comments (1)

Knocking On Heaven’s Door: Mike Scott in a Pagan Place

Life has been getting back to normal. The stress of the move and everything has finally settled into something resembling calm. The future’s even looking a little brighter now that I’m in a working band (more on which later). After my plunge into depression last month I found myself unable to write, at least not as prolifically as before, certainly not as coherently. I will one day write a good piece on Danelectro guitars. With the help of my friends Jackie and Jan, though, I continue to bounce back, to remember the things that are worthwhile. I remember how to love, what I love and who I love (Hi, Lynn!). It’s kind of been like coming out of a fog, mentally. I was going through some boxes the other day, still unpacking, and came across a cassette I had bought for 89 cents at the Goodwill about 7 years ago. It was ‘A Pagan Place’ by the Scottish band the Waterboys, led by the gifted singer/songwriter/multi-instrumentalist Mike Scott, one of the brightest spots of the 1980's music scene.

The cassette was purchased to replace the vinyl version that I had either left or sold in New York before my trek to Colorado. In 1983 it was one of those records that never left the turntable for long. Much like my beloved Smiths, the Waterboys (essentially Scott, sax player Anthony Thistlethwaite and keyboardist Karl Wallinger, later of World Party) music soared in arcs of triumphant spirituality in an era of synth bleeps, hair bands and a mostly misinterpreted Bruce Springsteen. Dark days, indeed. ‘A Pagan Place’ was their 2^nd album, their 1^st being a self titled ep where Scott played all the instruments. This record contained the amazing track about Patti Smith ‘Girl Called Johnny", all banging pianos and street cat swagger. The ep is wonderful, buy it. But ‘A Pagan Place’ is, to my mind, the definitive Waterboys record and one of the best records of the 80's, if not all time.

From the acoustic guitar strums that gallop like holy horses opening the 1^st track ‘A Church Not Made With Hands’, a snare drum quietly rolls up, unfolds like a red carpet shooting the intro through with hard guitars and Gabriel’s trumpet. Scott’s voice enters. Urgent, bursting at the seams with unrestrained passion, starting the record off at a pitch most bands can’t reach in their entire catalog. Passion was the band’s greatest strength and I’m not talking about the Springsteenian veins in the neck bulging jingoistic prole baiting pose of solidarity in the ethereal spirit of rock and roll, no, I’m talking about a spirit possessed by and channeling the voice of god in an Old Testament, the angel of the lord spoke unto Mary PASSION!

Throughout his career, Mike Scott has drawn upon a deep spirituality to express his thought and concerns about life, and the message I receive from his music is that life is holy just as it exists, that we are all god and that god is good. This healing and inspiring energy is most evident within the grooves of ‘A Pagan Place’. On a track called ‘The Big Music’ Scott sings of catching glimpses of the eternal, the divine. ‘I have hear’, he sings, ‘the big music’. He sings these words amidst a big music, indeed. The band swells around his yearning vocals as one indefinable instrument, billowing under him, projecting his words upward, like the prayers they are. The background singers float in on clouds, admonishing ‘You’ll never get there, you’ll never get there, you’ll never get there...’ cresting like a wave that Scott rides atop, singing in a voice of certainty: ‘BUT I WILL!’ You can hear the holy smile in his voice and you can’t bet against him.

My favorite cut on the album is ‘Red Army Blues’, with it’s detailed, literate depiction of a young man lost in the folly of war. From identifying himself with the perceived enemy ("I saw my first American, he looked a lot like me. He had the same kind of farmer’s face, Said he came from someplace called Hodsbury, Tennesee.") Lyrics this precise, this human don’t fall out the turnip truck everyday. The song continues to chronicle the pain and waste and failed idealism of the common soldier "....on that great Siberian road that goes for miles and miles and miles and miles." Finally betrayed by the forces he sought to defend our soldier is left with the realization that "... only one thing remains, the brute will to survive." Flags fail, the human spirit endures and without forward motion, all is lost.

Heavy stuff for a pop record of it’s, or any time, and for some reason the masses didn’t take to the Waterboys in any manner resembling the fame their work deserved. There have been rumors of troubles on their opening slot tour with U2 in 1984. Stories of the Waterboys upstaging U2 and, as a result, being bounced from the tour; a move that stalled the Waterboy’s momentum at a crucial stage of their development. We’ll never know exactly what happened, but Scott and his band never regained the buzz that had been created by initial response to ‘A Pagan Place’.

They followed ‘Place’ with ‘This Is The Sea’, a great album containing the closest thing they had to a hit, ‘The Whole of the Moon’, as well as the hymn-like title cut. But as fine as this album was, it lacked the manic grace and urgency of ‘A Pagan Place’, barely grazing the heights that record hit on every song. Since then, Scott has released CD’s with an ever revolving group of musicians under the Waterboys rubric. Fine, fine music that stresses his Celtic background in a more mannered traditionalism, all bohdrans and penny whistles, pleasant and ultimately safe. But there was a time when Mike Scott and his Waterboys, armed with barbed wire guitar and rolling piano, soaring saxophones and a voice like a streetwise angel played holy rock and roll, the sound that shakes city walls and soothes lost souls. Do yourself a favor and find a copy of ‘A Pagan Place’ and listen to the sound of life, ascendant.

Posted by: timbyrnes at 17:35 | link | comments

Open Letter to a Force of Nature: Note to Courtney Love, Don’t Die.

Dear Courtney,

Hi, you don’t know me, but I’m the guy who posted that really good review of ‘America’s Sweetheart’ on that frat-boy, hate-metal site antimusic.com. Gave it 5 stars a) because I thought it was a 5 star record and b) I knew that such a review would piss off a large part of the readership at said frat-boy, hate-metal site. I was not disappointed, at first. The first few ‘readers posts’ started off by questioning the legitimacy of the review. Some people thought it had to be a joke because, apparently, you are some kind of pariah at a site that extols the virtues of Iron Maiden in the 21^st Century. No accounting for taste and, while I’m not an Iron Maiden fan by any stretch of the imagination, neither would I publicly call for their death as some of the readers at that site routinely do when they don’t like something or someone.

And Courtney, they don’t like you. They cheer at your troubles and root for your death. Vicious sentiments get posted regarding you on a disturbingly regular basis. I tried to write a review that attempted to explore the roots of this misguided, disproportionate hatred. My take on it was that if you had a penis you’d be cool. I offered a sled-full of pseudo-psychology but boiled it down to the conclusion that "Maybe we just hate women."

That struck a nerve and I was soon getting virulent posts, some tongue in cheek, some I’m not sure, but they ranged from notification that I was ‘Going to get my come-uppance’ (sic) (I requested 2, as my wife wanted one also) to "a 5 star review? On this site? I never thought I’d see the day", "Sign of the apocalypse’ and the ever popular ‘she should just die.’

I was disenchanted, to say the least, at this response, but then a funny thing started to happen. Positive posts started appearing. Readers were taking time to post their feelings about you, your records and the way certain frat-boy hate-metal morons respond to you. The debate continues. Through this review I’ve met people who think a lot about rock and roll and see it as a positive force. In their lives and in the world.

‘America’s Sweetheart’ is still my album of the year, not that one wanna be rock critic’s opinion matters, but the important lesson to be learned here is that while there is indeed a large faction of people who are threatened by your strength, your honesty and your craziness there is an even larger faction of people who love you.

And as one of those people, I am worried about you.

I’ve always maintained that an artist’s personal life has no bearing on their work or my appreciation of it. I mean, I know Lou Reed’s a creep, but that’s never gonna stop me from loving ‘Berlin’. What you do ‘on your own time’ is none of my business, or anyone else’s. I know that. But your music and your stance are important parts of my life. As corny as it sounds, your uncompromising living of your life has been inspirational to me and millions of other people and, speaking on their behalf, I implore you: Please don’t die. Don’t kill yourself with drugs. Don’t kill yourself out of spite. Don’t kill yourself trying to save rock and roll. We’re not worth it.

Apart from the selfish reason of not wanting to lose one of the few artists I still respect, I don’t want your passing to give all those weasel dick, hate spewing, small minded, racist, sexist, homophobic idiots a moment of satisfaction. Your death would play into those pinhead’s hands, and break the hearts of all of us who love you. You really want to piss off the pinheads? Live. Live long. Create startling new music. Become the long-term artist we all know you’re capable of becoming. You’re well known for your chameleon like ability at re-invention. Please, please, please stop poisoning yourself and giving the pinheads the ammunition to dismiss you. Your work is too important to go up in the flames of self-immolation; you give too many of us too much to think about. There are still thinking, feeling people out here you look to your work for strength and identity

Lester Bangs once wrote a long piece about Sid Vicious, about how we all stood by and wrote another human being off as a waste of time, a worthless junkie and how we all said nothing as we watched him die. We were all culpable in Sid’s death because we believed his publicity. Almost as much as he did. Lester tried to clear his conscience by grieving after the fact, bemoaning the fact that he said and did nothing (except cover the story for cash and it’s own black entertainment value) when it might have done some good. People are writing you off as a waste of time and a worthless junkie. These people are, of course, wrong. You are a beautiful, vibrant woman, artist, actor, rocker, force of nature and mother. The world needs your voice, your rage, your sex, your thoughts, your contradictions and your power. Yes. Power. You have the ability to reach people, to let them know that the bastards only get you down when you let them. Or when you do so many drugs that you die. Then you’re just a spectator sport.

So, Courtney, from a nobody to the queen of rock and roll, I beg you, don’t give the idiot nay-sayers the last word. Live through this, too. I know you can and I hope you do. We love you more than you’ll ever know and need you even more than that. I want to be around when you cause a scene at your induction in the rock and roll hall of fame. I want to be around when you get that lifetime achievement grammy award. I want to be around when you’re 100 years old and being interviewed on PBS about rock and roll when Marty Scorcese’s grandson does his 12-part series on rock and roll roots music.

Live damn it, ‘cause you, and we, deserve it.

Thank you,

tim byrnes/punk rock blues/workbook

email: smoke81mc@aol.com

Posted by: timbyrnes at 21:08 | link | comments (2)