Like a Rolling Stone & Heroin

My poem’s epic, and is meant to be

Divided in twelve books; each book containing,

With love, and war, and a heavy gale at sea,

A list of ships, and captains, and kings reigning,

New characters; the episodes are three:

A panorama view of hell’s in training,

After the style of Virgil and of Homer,

So that my name of Epic’s no misnomer.

Lord Bryon is being his smart-assed self with the above passage, placing Don Juan, his work-in-progress, on the shelf with The Odyssey and The Aeneid. He’s correct, though, in that there are specific attributes that make an epic an epic. At least when we’re talking about very old, very long poems.

Even when we use the word more loosely, we still tend to apply it to works or art that are ambitious and expansive—ones that don’t just hint at the tip of the iceberg. Hence, for our purposes here, we’re looking at songs in the six- to seven-minute range.

Length might be the most concrete connection, but I feel like these are songs that dive deep, that exhaust their own subject matter. They can feel a bit formless, but to me that makes them all the more vast. Moreover, these are songs that serve both as a highly personal confession and also as a vivid send-up of an era. (Coincidentally, Reed's send-up includes seas, ships, and a panorama view of hell.)

"Heroin" came out four years after "Like a Rolling Stone," but they were written at just about the same time. When you listen to these back to back… well… How does it feel? To me, it feels like Dylan is taking a walk through Greenwich Village at the height of its hipness, and he dismisses it all with a smirk because he’s already over it. Meanwhile, a block away, Lou Reed raises a pale arm and lowers the blinds.

Pithecanthropus Erectus & M. Daguerre

Jazz is like wine… if I try to say something smart about it, I’m just repeating something I heard.

There might actually be something to that comparison, though. You’re welcome to enjoy these things even if you haven’t made a devoted study of them, but there’ll always be the lingering feeling that intricacies and subtleties lie just beyond your reach—that there’s something a bit “surface” about your appreciation. That’s how I feel about it, anyway. But does it really matter? What’s wrong with just taking the simple view that you know what you like?

There’s a lot of revered jazz that’s lost on me, but I know that I like Mingus’s “Pithecanthropus Erectus.” This song is actually a jazz tone poem because it depicts musically Mingus's conception of the modern counterpart of the first man to stand erect – how proud he was, considering himself the “first" to ascend from all fours, pounding his chest and preaching his superiority over the animals still in a prone position. Overcome with self-esteem, he goes out to rule the world, if not the universe, but both his own failure to realize the inevitable emancipation of those he sought to enslave, and his greed in attempting to stand on a false security, deny him not only the right of ever being a man, but finally destroy him completely. Basically the composition can be divided into four movements: (1) evolution, (2) superiority-complex, (3) decline, and (4) destruction. 

... as promised, if I say something smart about jazz, I'm repeating something I heard. I lifted the above explanatory text from the album liner notes. I never would've picked up on any of that stuff... but it's pretty cool, right?

And perhaps my lack of technical knowledge has freed up my mind enough to associate “Pithecanthropus Erectus" with an unlikely match: “M. Daguerre” by the 1990s chamber quartet The Rachel’s.

Here's another instance where I'm a bit ignorant, but if you're like me, you hear "Daguerre" and some faint bells begin to ring. Daguerre... daguerre... daguerreotype... that's an early photography thing, right? 

It was. It was the very first photographic process, and this 1838 photo by Daguerre features the earliest known candid photo of a person (thanks, Wikipedia). 

It's a happy coincidence that this photo depicts a city street. These songs, for me, were connected in my mind without any regard for their titles or backstories. I'm putting them side by side because I feel that each could serve as a score to the same silent film: two different takes on a midnight walk through a city—strolling beneath street lights, dodging angry traffic, ducking into dark alleys, confronting, clashing, fighting, getting up, dusting off, moving on.

Restless & I Don't Think I'm Ever Gonna Figure It Out

You there. The mopey one with the Salvation Army t-shirt and the acoustic guitar. What's this faint glimmer of hope I hear in your surprisingly jaunty folk song?

If Elliott Smith were a fictional character, I would possibly accept that his death was the logical end point of his art. But, of course, he wasn't, and the reality of what went down still plain just sucks. No, he didn't invent the folk song and he didn't invent sincerity, but he put those things to great use in an era when they were the last things on anyone's mind.

As for Jana Hunter's "Restless," I hear the same promise: it's the end of the film, we've been through some shit, but the clouds, at long last, are parting.

Each song keeps it brief, and I will do likewise. These pair well with solitude, ideally near a window with a decent view, and with a cup of coffee, ideally in a well-worn, cherished mug.

Born on the Floor & Ballad of the Sin Eater

Wherein we get political. Geopolitical.

The songs in previous posts have a connection that might only exist in my head, but in this instance I'm pretty sure I'm not talking complete smack. Today's songs are "Born on the Floor" by the Make-Up and "Ballad of the Sin Eater" by Ted Leo and the Pharmacists.

Here, we're given a whirlwind tour through history, through geography, making stops at conflicts and milestones that much of our formal schooling glossed over. We're firmly in Zinn and Chomsky territory with these songs. They mean to shake you awake. The world is bigger than you might've thought. History is uglier than you might've thought. The refrain in "Ballad of the Sin Eater" is essentially the blunt realization most Americans grappled with on 9/11: "You didn't think they could hate you, now did you? Ah, but they hate you. Make no mistake, they hate you." 

And yet, these songs are pretty damned goofy. In "Born on the Floor," Ian, as an embryo, urges his mother to "create a terrible baby they all fear, who destroys the state." Ted, meanwhile, seems to be channeling Gob Bluth as he belts out, "I couldn't tell if it was Jersey or Sierra Leone, COME ON!!" 

So, exactly how seriously are we supposed to take all of this? Speaking for myself, I've been fascinated by Ian Svenonius's work for more than twenty years now, and I've given up on trying to figure him out. To a degree, we're all playing a character—and perhaps it's just that his is more developed than most. Yet, when he names an album 13 Point Program to Destroy America, you can't help but wonder, Well... how much does he actually mean that? And when he struts out on stage with a swagger that Prince might regard as a bit over the top, it begs the question: He's kidding at least a little bit, right?

Of irony, Rainer Maria Rilke wrote: “under the influence of serious things it will either fall away from you (if it is something accidental), or else (if it is really innate and belongs to you) it will grow strong, and become a serious tool and take its place among the instruments which you can form your art with.”

Whether Ian is being ironic, hyperbolic, sardonic, sassy, or something else, I do not know. But I did recently bump into him out of context. This was a month ago at Union Market in Washington, D.C. He was waiting in line for coffee, and I spotted his hair from far away. He seemed small (as people who loom large in your mind often do in person), and when I asked him if he was Ian, he said, “Yes?” in a startled way, as if he might be in trouble. I didn’t have a follow-up statement prepared, but the words that came out were, “Your music has been incredibly important to me.” Without realizing it, I found I had put my hand on my heart. In my entire life, I don't think I'd ever made that gesture. Whatever the proper term for Ian and his art might be, what it apparently elicits from me is plain old sincerity.

Ted Leo and I came into even closer quarters, though he was unaware of it. We ended up on the same American Airlines flight from D.C. to Chicago. The Pharmacists were seated sporadically throughout the plane, and Ted was five rows up from me, on the aisle. This was four years ago and even then I felt too old to approach him like a gushing, star-struck fan. Yet… there’s just not much to do when you’re strapped into a chair 10,000 feet in the sky. I considered showing him my iPod as proof of my fandom, with his name just before The Teen Idles, Television, The Temptations, and Thelonious Monk (the Ts did have me looking pretty cool). I rehearsed various approaches (Sorry to bug you… Hey, real quick…), and I mentally fact-checked the thing I really wanted to say to him: You, sir, are the smartest punk lyricist of all time.

I’m still pretty sure this is true. But how is anyone supposed to respond to that? In the end, I just stayed in my seat, though I did tap the shoulder of the guy next to me, and I pointed out Ted. “See that guy? He’s awesome.” And I left it at that.

Speaking of lyrics, I haven't included any on other posts, but there's a lot to unpack here. So, behold. (And I trust it goes without saying that the lyrics and music belong to the artists and you should buy these records post-haste. Also, do not call these songs indie. Just don't.)

"Born on the Floor"  - the Make-Up I was born in 1979. I was just a look in my daddy's eye. I put it into my mama's mind to push me through her thighs. I was enraged with the black ops sent by the CIA. I was packing things for Angola; she said "No, you're just an embryo!" When I came into this world, I wanted to be premature. I said "Mama, I gotta come out soon!" I kicked against the womb. I was born in 1961. I was born to be a son of a gun. a hot day in Dallas, my mother's water broke. contractions started, but I was late to the show. I was born in 1917 when the guns of October sowed my seed. I was born in 1908 when my battleship was sittin' at the dock of the bay. When I came into this world, I wanted to be premature. I kicked against the womb. I said "Mama, I wanna come out soon!" But by the time I was out, it was twilight; we were shut down. They cut my umbilical cord and left me there; I was born on the floor. I put that thought into my mother's mind and I put that look into my daddy's eye. I said "Mama, you must create a terrible baby they all fear who destroys the State." She delivered a bundle of joy so full of righteous hate, but by delivery time, they spanked my behind and it was too late. When I came into this world, I wanted to be premature. I kicked against the womb. I said "Mama, I gotta come out soon!" But by the time I was out, it was twilight; we were shut down. I was born, I was born I was born, I was born on the floor. When I came into this world, I wanted to be premature. I kicked against the womb. I said "Mama, I gotta come out soon!" But by the time I was out, it was twilight; we were shut down. They cut my umbilical cord and left me there; I was born on the floor.

"Ballad of the Sin Eater"  - Ted Leo and the Pharmacists When you run, digger, runner Listener, thief, you carry it all with you Today I woke up uncertain And you know that gives me the fits So I left this land of fungible convictions Because it seemed like the pits And when I say, "conviction" I mean it's something to abjure And when I say "uncertain" I mean to doubt I'll not turn out a caricature So I set off in search of my forebears Cuz my forbearance was in need But the only job I could get in dear old Blighty Was working on the railway between Selby and Leeds So I took a ferry to Belfast, where I had cause to think: They wanted none of my arm-chair convictions But nobody seemed to mind when I was putting on the drinks! So...I stayed out all night in Ibixa By way of San Sebastian, where they said 'Yanque, you better watch what you're saying, unless you're sayin' It in Basque or in Catalan!" So all the way east to Novi-Sad Where narry a bridge was to be seen But mother Russia, she laid her pontoons on down So I crossed over, if you know what I mean... Then on the road to Damascus, yes The scales, they fell from my eyes And the simplest lesson I learned at the mount of olives: everybody lies And the French foreign legion You know they did their best - but I never believed in T.E. Lawrence, so how the hell could I believe in Beau Gest? So...I spent a night in Kigali in a five diamond hotel Where maybe someday, they'll do the wa-tutsi down in Hutu hell And I fell in with a merchant marine who promised to take me home But when I woke up beaten and bloodied I couldn't tell if it was Jersey or Sierra Leone! And the knocking in my head, just like the knocking at my door And maybe it was me or maybe it was my brother But either me or me and him went down to the bar Where I got seven powers in me for to give me the cure But when seven powers failed to spin me I had to get me seven more And when I say, "me" I mean my brain And when I say "give me the cure" I mean to kill the pain And when I say "kill the pain" I meant to get the devil out And when I say "devil" I mean the manifestation of doubt! And you didn't think they could hate you Now did you you didn't think they could hate you, now did you? You didn't think they could hate you, now did you? Ah, but they hate you, make no mistake - they hate you...

Used Cars & Jenny

When it was announced that John Darnielle's novel Wolf in White Van was a finalist for the National Book Award, the news was oddly reassuring to some of us. Maybe we weren't just being childish for attributing legitimate literary merit to a guy who recorded his songs at home on a boombox. Maybe we hadn't been too easily won over by that yearning voice that cracked in just the right spots. And maybe, just maybe, we were on to something when—a few drinks into the evening—we played these songs to our friends and declared that this guy, (yes, the guy who just belted out "Hail Satan!"), is one of our greatest living storytellers.

For several albums now, The Mountain Goats have been a full band. A lot of times when a performer makes this transition from solo-acoustic, I find myself missing the early stuff, but here I think it's an instance where a fuller sound genuinely works. That said... when they come to ship me off to a desert island where I'm doomed to play only a handful of records for the rest of my days, The Mountain Goats album I'll reach for is All Hail West Texas.

The cover art makes it clear what this album is about. It includes the following sentence in a modest gray font:

fourteen songs about seven people, two houses, a motorcycle, and a locked treatment facility for adolescent boys.

Among these fourteen songs are what I believe to be the greatest love song ever written (“Riches and Wonders”) and then the greatest we are not in love anymore song ever written (“Fault Lines”). Both wreck me. And then there are the cryptic ones: What on earth is the backstory on “Source Decay”? Who is this damaged man in West Texas, gathering his mail at the Post Office and straining to recall, in flickering glimpses, a railroad platform in Bangkok in 1983? Students in writing workshops sometimes nod to an untold backstory, and it’s often apparent if they've thought the untold stuff through or they're simply trying to gain some power from the unsaid. Maybe I’m too easily won over here, but for me the light brushstrokes on "Source Decay" have me believing in the entire picture.

Having gushed to the point of embarrassment here, I now need to hurry up and say: But of course this isn’t the first home-recorded album that feels very much like a short story collection! 

I’m sure there are other precedents, but for me the obvious comparison is Bruce Springsteen's Nebraska. This is the album you start talking about in those baffling encounters when people make the same mistake Reagan made: thinking that Springsteen was that patriotic guy from the 80s. Nebraska is an album of stories, one of which was inspired by a film (Badlands) another of which inspired a film (The Indian Runner). “My Father’s House” could be the coda to a Cormac McCarthy novel. In large part these are stories of the downtrodden, though, as the final song proclaims, "at the end of every hard earned day people find some reason to believe."

For our purposes here, these entire albums could be put side by side, but today I'm going to go with Springsteen's "Used Cars" and The Mountain Goats' "Jenny."

Of the two, the tone in "Jenny" is a bit more hopeful, though what I see in both is the promise of escape from our lives as they currently are. Moreover, these are not songs about finding salvation within. They are about getting some wheels and getting the fuck out.

. . . p.s. Why call it "Jenny"? My best guess is it's a nod to "Pirate Jenny" from Bertolt Brecht's Three Penny Opera. "Pirate Jenny" is sung by a woman scrubbing floors in a seedy hotel, quietly imagining her emancipation and revenge by way of a black freighter of pirates who will lay waste to the hotel and spare only her. The song concludes:

And the ship
The Black Freighter
Disappears out to sea
And
On
It
Is
Me