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subject appears to be a white male, early 50's, pathologically tall/skinny. brain patterns show evidence of a life in alcohol - first swimming in it then running from it. fingers show wear from years of guitar playing. heart presents slow repair, through writing, from being broken by rock and roll.
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Who Says It's Good To Be Alive?: The Case For Richard Hell
Return with us now to those days of yesteryear, the late '70's, to be nearly precise. The nascent punk rock scene had moved from it's murky and humble origins of the Mercer Arts Center, where bands like the NY Dolls and Suicide (more on whom later) literally brought down the house, to the now endangered tourist trap/shrine CBGB, where artists like Television, Patti Smith and Ramones ushered in what is to my mind the last great era of rock and roll. They did this mainly by stripping away the Emerson, Lake and artifice that rock had become in those dry, dreary days and creating art that rocked and rock that was, in it's way, the greatest art of all: the expression of self.
As a working stiff in his early 20's, working on a loading dock in Mahwah, NJ at the time, I was hardly surrounded by folks who shared my love for this new, raw music. These were the days of Styx and Journey and all that that implies; processed cheesefood masquerading as, if not art, then at least the folk music of it's time. The days of Billy Joel in his brand new leather jacket boasting of walking through Bedford-Stuy alone and actually driving his motorcycle in the rain. This was the twaddle that my friends accepted as real rebellion at the time. And, honestly, the less said about heavy metal in general and Black Sabbath in particular, the better. I remember hearing a dj I almost respected making fun of Richard Hell and the Voidoids on air one afternoon after tearing the needle off the title cut of their debut record 'Blank Generation' before the song had finished.
It was at that moment that I knew the revolution would not be aired on the radio (I wish there was a more concise radio version of the word 'televised', but, apart from 'broadcast, there isn't. So what?) and that the CBGB bands would be prophets without honor in their own country, so to speak. Let's face it, if NY radio wasn't going to respect these bands, then Radio Idaho wasn't about to see the light, now were they? It has always been thus with mass media: when confronted with anything that varied in the slightest from the feel good nothingness of musical prozac, they at best ignore, at worst ridicule. All these bands that contemporary critics swoon over in print, all the praise now heaped upon the Sex Pistols by folks who plainly weren't there is revisionist history. When the lightning struck, most of us were hiding under trees shaped like the latest Led Zeppelin record. In the words of David Byrne: 'Same as it ever was.'
But I'm not here to bitch yet again about missed boats and the general tastelessness of the American public, or at least I'm done doing so for the moment, I'm here to talk about Richard Hell. I've given Richard Hell a lot of grief in print, and I guess I'm going to continue to do so here, but it's struck me that, much like my continual war against god on the few Christian messageboards I have not yet been asked to leave, I spend an awful lot of time considering and writing about something I clearly don't get. As a favor to the late and sainted Lester, and possibly to myself, I pull out my worn and original vinyl copy of Hell's 'Blank Generation' at least thrice yearly and try to listen hard enough to hear what Lester heard. Lester has gone down on record as calling this work a classic and, I'm sorry Lester, I still don't get it.
Much of my problem with this record, and Richard Hell in general is close to what made all those Billy Joelsters and Journey-men/women of the 70's dismiss punk to begin with; the celebration of the negative that Hell was like the poster boy for. I've got nothing against the negative, per se, which anyone who's read this page for any length of time can attest to. It's the cheap, whiny and ultimately false nihilism that Hell and lesser imitators presented as real angst. And yes, there was something about the Voidoids that setthem apart from, say, the Dead Boys or the Viletones (both quasi-suicidal 3rd rate garage bands, or at best guity pleasures of the day) and his name was Robert Quine who died by his own hand last year. On the cover of the record stands Hell, nee Richie Meyers, looking for all the world like Bob Dylan's afterbirth, weak and petulant, his shirt torn open to reveal the words 'please kill me' scrawled across what could be the chest of an anemic chicken.
Hell's hook, so to speak, and really all the mainstream press saw in his work, and much of punk in general, was a theatrical indifference to life and a profession in a belief in nothing save the futility of human existence. Punk, to the mainstream, was all torn clothes, razor blades and a mindless, kneejerk hatred of the sanctity of, well, anything, but most vivdly, life itself. Hell gave long, psuedo intellectual interviews questioning the value of life with the tossed off nonchalance of someone who practiced the speeches he gave while fastiduously combing his hair in an ever present mirror, coaxing and taunting it until it reached the proper level of chaos. It takes a lot of work to look like an unmade bed all the time. Lester wrote a piece that I thought was wonderful (I think pretty much everything Lester wrote was wonderful, but in this case I think I think that for good, if not right, reasons) where he called Hell on the lameness of his so-called disavowal of his humanity and promised, in print, that if Hell ever did kill himself-and there was plenty of doubt in the prose-that he, Lester, would dig Hell's body up and kick his cold, cold ass.
You gotta love the humanity in that sentiment, especially when utterred by one who loved life so much he killed himself trying to live it. And remember Lester was born in December and died in April at the age of 33, much like another lover of humanity. Only if Lester came back, he's tear down any churches in his name. Maybe the other guy would too, at least I'd like to think he would.
Anyway, as it turns out, Lester needn't have worried. About a year and a half ago a friend of mine from NY (Hi, Elaine!) sent me a newspaper clipping that made me laugh out loud. Apparently our boy Hell had recently sold his 'papers' to a university, I believe it was Rutgers, but I'm not sure, for the princely sum of $50,000. His 'papers' consisted basically of every flyer, every review, every journal entry, every single piece of tangible minutae regarding those halcyon days that he had saved and had been saving for upwards of 20 years. Now I ask you, does a suicidal/tragic poet/nihilist look that far forward, scrimping and cataloging their days of rage in the hopes of establishing a memorial library worth $50,000? Apparently his own life wasn't worth saving, but damn it, Dee Dee, don't spill any of that heroin on my Mudd Club poster, that's gonna be worth big bucks someday!
Cheap, gimcrack nihilism by a failed male model who could barely play bass (and yes I know neither could Sid, but Sid was real. Real sad, granted, but real). Of course the case could be made, if cases are really worth making for something as trivial and mandatory as an artist's intent, that Hell was correct and actually smart enough to not believe his own publicity,as he was pressing it between pages like lovers' autumn leaves and building a nest egg. Smart, but ultimately false as one really can't be heroic and hedge one's bets at the same time. Hell spewed forth a philosophy of self loathing that he clearly did not believe, but does that cheapen the philosophy? Or just the philosopher? And we all know how cheap philosophers can be. The question that Hell raised in his mien and actual song title was 'Who says it's good to be alive'? and that life was nothing but a 'perpetual jive.' That he freeze dried these sentiments along with track sheets and blurred photos doesn't lessen the importance of the question, it just makes it harder and harder every year for me to see what Lester saw.
So the question remains, is life worth living?
I find myself asking myself that question with alarming frequency these days and, sorry folks, but lately the answers been a resounding 'no'. Life anymore has become an seemingly endless stretch of days waking up to walk the dog and feed the cats and little more. Oh, I'm looking for work and am doing basic yard work around town on a piecemeal basis to keep me and the kids in cigarettes and Friskies, and I no longer lash out at my few remaining friends about my suicidal ideation. I just sit quietly and ponder, what would really be missed should I shuffle off this mortal coil? I would of course remand Buster and the kittens to the various loving homes that have been offerred them, not in expectation of my snuffing it beacause neither my friends nor I actually believe I have the guts to do it, but in deference to my mental health. Friends find me so fragile to think that the stress of caring for these creatures might be what's overwhelming me at present. To this notion I have to say thee nay, it's the animals that are presently keeping me going. It's people I can't stand, or rather one person in particular. The guy responsible for the drivel I'm surprised yr still reading.
Would I appreciate Richard Hell's music more had he killed himself in, say 1980? I doubt it. I still find his lyrics weak and his yelping vocals a poor imitation of La Smith. I still love Quine's guitar work on this record, but no more since he murdered himself. Would I respect Hell more as a person had he put out the big light? Sadly I have to say probably yes. I have a softer spot in my heart for Quine and Vicious and Joy Division's Ian Curtis (and yes, also Cobain) because they had the guts to end the story themselves than I do for the archivist Hell, who played the agonized soul while profiting off souls who blazed briefly in their own, real agony. Wasted lives you might say, but I respect more the individual who takes the reins no matter where they lead more than the individual who continues to suffer the slings and arrows of the deadening day to day.
Now before you write to tell me this would all be fixable if I had a real relationship with god, Carl (and others) fear not. Yr humble reporter has neither the stones nor the inclination to actually off himself. But there are days like these when I wish I did. I'm gonna go home, walk Buster, play with Bleeker and MacDougal, wait for word on work and listen to the Waterboys and hope that something close to holy rubs off.
Posted by: timbyrnes at 16:41 |
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