As I continue to work on my book The Greatest Record Ever Made! (Volume 1), I wanted to finally indulge myself with this little exercise that's been on my mind for months. This, my friends, is the entire book!
Well...sort of. Not exactly.
These are 115 sentences from the book, one apiece from each of the book's chapters (including the Foreword, Afterword, Disclaimers, Overture, Coda, Interludes, and all of the individual and supplemental song entries). They are strung together here in order of their appearance in the book, at least according to my current Table Of Contents.
Think of this as the literary equivalent of a sound collage. It was fun to slap together, and I hope it provides a pleasant li'l pop diversion for anyone interested in reading it. Part of my goal in writing this book is to create a nonfiction work about pop music that invites compulsive page-turning, chapter to chapter, reading sequentially almost (if not quite) like a novel rather than a collection of unconnected essays. Yeah, even though it really is a collection of unconnected essays. This exercise is just a taste of that.
I'm prouder of this than I have any rational right to be.
But now: back to work...!
THE GREATEST RECORD EVER MADE! (VOLUME 1): A 115 sentence sampler
Why in God's name would anyone ever wanna be objective about pop music? So set up a round, and turn up the sound.
I have no conscious memory of a time before I loved music. When I was a teenager, AM radio was both a tether to the real world and a pipeline to an imagined (if not quite imaginary) world of sheer splendor. It's the wee wee hours at the end of 1964. But both pop music and love itself can offer the promise of something sweeter to believe in.
But I liked the noise immediately.
This was rock 'n' roll's equivalent of the shot heard 'round the world. The song churns forth, churns with a swagger beyond Jagger, a danger beyond Morrison, a lust beyond Penthouse readers grooving to Helen Reddy while perusing the Pet Of The Month. This was the tug of war that would play out in his consciousness, his conscience: a gay rock 'n' roll star who believed in the promise of a Heaven for the righteous, but who knew (or thought he knew) that who he was and what he did would condemn him to the pits for all eternity. The former is a love song that casually employs elements of a more divine belief. But no one--no one--will ever surpass or equal the original recording, performed by a band that never existed.
And it's like the trite old story of the presumably-mousy secretary whose beauty suddenly reveals itself when she removes her glasses...except that she was always beautiful, with or without the glasses, ya freakin' dimwit. If she has a heart, the broken-hearted toy she plays with has a fair chance at winning it. Even in a cynical world, the romantic within us believes this prayer was answered, and the love will last forever. I was too young to ever know the full story. I was nine, soon to be ten years old, and I had already spent a short lifetime as a misfit. The music we listen to as teens can resonate throughout our lives, etched in memory alongside every eternal snub and accolade.
Would you rather live in his world, or live without him in yours?
Facts may mingle freely with speculation for the remainder of our story, so proceed with caution. As tough as Detroit's MC5 or Stooges, a Don't tread on me! as potent as a sidewinder's rattle, and as intoxicating as drinkin' wine, spo-dee-o-dee, drinkin' wine, goddamn. I lived in dorm rooms and then a cheap apartment, but in my head I lived in an apartment on the 99th floor of my block. Wilson Pickett meets The Kinks. She had nothing to prove to commoners. Nesmith was dissatisfied with it from the start.
The calendar insisted it had been just one year; instead, it may as well have been a lifetime. They say lightning can't strike twice, so attempts to recapture and bottle its power and brilliance are damned by definition. It's a difficult and damning notion to address; naive romantic that I am, I've just never heard it that way. In the garages, in the clubs, in practice spaces, school dances, rec hall hops, coffeehouses, open fields, and cellars full of noise, plugged in or unplugged, sparks ignite when someone says Let's put on a show! It's trashy and messy, a puff of smeared mascara and loud guitars, a six-string catfight on high heels and just plain high, Eddie Cochran with lipstick, the British Invasion in fishnets, The Pretty Things, only prettier. And the guitar break is so simple and (wonderfully!) moronic that it's intrinsically and immediately more interesting than any gratuitous display of six-string virtuosity could ever be.
Rock 'n' roll has always been working class music. And why am I suddenly so intrigued by it? The former creative effort could be art; the latter could only be rubbish. "Rockaway Beach" it was not. Our own desperation to reclaim what's lost carries an inherent danger of reducing us to ash in a scorched place where love used to grow. This was the height of the girl-group era, and you can't blame something for not being ahead of its time.
We may seek catharsis in celebration, in jubilant party tunes that urge us to jump up and down and all around in willful repudiation of the ache that grips us. This fate is assured, and no feel-good sentiment can mitigate that fact. The tentative dance of teen infatuation, captured in microcosm, made pretty with the sound of (apparently) the latest musical trend. In the late '70s, power pop was a niche genre that did not wish to be a niche genre.
She just may have been the sexiest thing I had ever heard on the radio.
This goes well beyond the limited parameters of hipster snobbery, of us versus them, of self-conscious cool that is, in fact, not cool in any way. In 1980, a new kingdom had not yet formed. The next Beatles. Imitation and inspiration are two very different things. The Beatles were a competitive lot. Rock 'n' roll didn't set out to be art. In truth, there was probably very little arrogance on the part of these British pop stars. My Dad thought all rock stars were British. Man, I wanted to go all Incredible Hulk on my poor little clock radio right then and there.
It's a difficult dichotomy to reconcile. The fact of his death at the young age of 47 makes it difficult to pretend he found his happily-ever-after. It seemed so long ago, if it ever really existed in the first place. I was oblivious to all of this. I consider myself fortunate to be the sort of wide-eyed pop fan that can sometimes fall in love with a song or a band instantly. Cracks were beginning to appear in this condescending facade of the dull and the gray. Its sting is unique, its lingering memory a mocking reminder of false confidence and misguided trust. Voices gathered force, harmonies filling the room with power and precision. The British invaded and conquered with weapons at least partially made in the former colonies.
Heartbreak, capitulation and acceptance--and that's all apparently taken place before the song's even started.
I guess we should go back at least to Screamin' Jay Hawkins' outrageous stage persona in the '50s for the roots of shockingly flamboyant presentations of the rock and the roll, and certainly we have to go through Elvis air-copulating on stage, the destructive displays of the early Who, the guitar arson of Jimi Hendrix at Monterey, and the fiery get-up of The Crazy World Of Arthur Brown in discussing this idea of rock as SPECTACLE!! It was just publicity for a children's TV program. And when I see a star, well, that's the wish I'll wish for you tonight. It was a missed opportunity to reclaim the glory of rock 'n' roll radio at its very best. He sighed, a saddened tone in his voice.
There would be no hit records.
Punk rock drew lines of demarcation. Actor Rob Reiner had won fame and acclaim in the role of Michael Stivic, the liberal son-in-law dismissed as "Meathead" by Archie Bunker on the TV series All In The Family. I am gullible, but selectively gullible. Far from home, nothing to do, at least nothing worth doing. It seems to imply something frail and fragile, delicate, something to handle with care, something easily broken, easily damaged, easily breached. Who'll be the last lover standing? I remember JFK, but only vicariously, through impressionist Vaughn Meader and his hit comedy album The First Family. Together, they formed a rhetorical question that served as its own authoritative answer.
But we are more than our labels, and we are larger than the myths that amuse us. No, I'm not kidding. A pop song as the clarion call for the free world? It ain't braggin' if you can do it. The appeal transcends mere mimicry; its magic lies not in where the group nicked its initial tricks, but in the self-assured manner in which such thefts became irresistible new pop confections.
It wasn't even just the music that turned me off; it was the whole atmosphere, the artificial vibe, the mix of the smug and smarmy, an insincere mating ritual without substance. It's got that beat, and it has genuine passion, real soul, bred in both the clubs and the church, drawing upon Gospel and dance mix alike. It's the eternal teen dream of new romance, delivered with grace and an easygoing smile. It is fleeting, ephemeral evidence of pop immortality, an incongruous dash of both the disposable and the permanent.
It was another early sign that I had chosen the wrong musical environment for my college experience.
Pure as the driven snow, drifting somewhere on the left of the dial. The record had no precedent. And the world kept going round. But its sense of heightened emotion is put to a higher purpose: not just lamenting lost love, but planting feet firmly, chin set, and reaching out to help a loved one make a stand when the chips are down. These are the things our lives can offer us: the beauty of art and appreciation, friendship, creation, participation, romance, passion, family, trust; the sadness of loss, longing, distance, frailty, mortality, disillusion. The true story is so much more than what was fabricated for prime time.
They started out billed as equals. We only know one thing, again and again: No one can save us. And we embraced the notion of looking for light in the darkness of insanity. But Top 40 radio was an equal-opportunity rush. The idea of family discord is alien to me, and I know how fortunate I am in that regard. It is a wisp of emotion, heartbreak, love, and hope, a precarious house of cards that will still stand long after we're all dust.
I dunno, maybe she thought we thought we were too cool for the song.
There are times when the songs on the radio seem to know us better than we know ourselves. Radio used to be so important, so goddamned vital. Welcome to the one true Church Of Love. Sometimes we pride ourselves on how we stand out from the crowd. The song felt like a connection to what was lost, to what could still be recovered, to what could always be remembered. Gimme something short 'n' sharp, fast 'n' catchy, and play it loud. In the wicked consummation of the orgiastic union of the rock and the roll, Gospel music was a participant no more reserved and no less sweaty than R & B, country, honky tonk, and blues.
Perhaps they created their own conformities along the way.
If we believe in a love at first sight (and I'm certain that it happens all the time), we must also believe in a love that builds itself over time. The ideal of the miracle year is intriguing, enticing, yet elusive, and damned near unattainable. Sometimes it's just as simple as that. As long as that heart beats, the music will keep playing.
That was my music, and it will likely remain that way. Pop music was at a creative zenith, while still retaining its identity as pop music. I swear, I could see the music. As a former pop journalist, I should try to propagate an image of sophistication and deliberation, retiring to my study, brandy in hand, intent on contemplating the splendor of a virgin vinyl Pet Sounds played through a 5.1 surround stereo system that cost more than I made in twenty years of freelancing for Goldmine. An infinite number of records await their individual, transcendent turn.
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Fans of pop music will want to check out Waterloo Sunset--Benefit For This Is Rock 'n' Roll Radio, a new pop compilation benefiting SPARK! Syracuse, the home of This Is Rock 'n' Roll Radio with Dana & Carl. TIR'N'RR Allstars--Steve Stoeckel, Bruce Gordon, Joel Tinnel, Stacy Carson, Eytan Mirsky, Teresa Cowles, Dan Pavelich, Irene Peña, Keith Klingensmith, and Rich Firestone--offer a fantastic new version of The Kinks' classic "Waterloo Sunset." That's supplemented by eleven more tracks (plus a hidden bonus track), including previously-unreleased gems from The Click Beetles, Eytan Mirsky, Pop Co-Op, Irene Peña, Michael Slawter (covering The Posies), and The Anderson Council (covering XTC), a new remix of "Infinite Soul" by The Grip Weeds, and familiar TIRnRR Fave Raves by Vegas With Randolph, Gretchen's Wheel, The Armoires, and Pacific Soul Ltd. Oh, and that mystery bonus track? It's exquisite. You need this. You're buying it from Futureman.
Get MORE Carl! Check out the fourth and latest issue of the mighty Big Stir magazine at bigstirrecords.com/magazine
Hey, Carl's writin' a book! The Greatest Record Ever Made! (Volume 1) will contain 100 essays (and then some) about 100 tracks, plus two bonus instrumentals, each one of 'em THE greatest record ever made. An infinite number of records can each be the greatest record ever made, as long as they take turns. Updated initial information can be seen here: THE GREATEST RECORD EVER MADE! (Volume 1).
Our most recent compilation CD This Is Rock 'n' Roll Radio, Volume 4 is still available from Kool Kat Musik! 29 tracks of irresistible rockin' pop, starring Pop Co-Op, Ray Paul, Circe Link & Christian Nesmith, Vegas With Randolph Featuring Lannie Flowers, The Slapbacks, P. Hux, Irene Peña, Michael Oliver & the Sacred Band Featuring Dave Merritt, The Rubinoos, Stepford Knives, The Grip Weeds, Popdudes, Ronnie Dark, The Flashcubes, Chris von Sneidern, The Bottle Kids, 1.4.5., The Smithereens, Paul Collins' Beat, The Hit Squad, The Rulers, The Legal Matters, Maura & the Bright Lights, Lisa Mychols, and Mr. Encrypto & the Cyphers. You gotta have it, so order it here. A digital download version (minus The Smithereens' track) is also available from Futureman Records.
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