This is not part of my current book The Greatest Record Ever Made! (Volume 1). If I do a Volume 2, this will probably be included in that.
An infinite number of tracks can each be THE greatest record record ever made, as long as they take turns. Today, this is THE GREATEST RECORD EVER MADE!
There was this guy from Staten Island. A singer. He was in a band, a loud, sloppy, garish mess of a rock 'n' roll band. Some said they couldn't play. Their fans said they didn't care. The band got signed, made records, looked fine on television. Readers of CREEM magazine voted them the best new band of 1973, and at the same time voted them the worst new band of 1973. All and nothing. They didn't sell a lot of records. They were as influential as nearly any band that didn't sell a lot of records could even dream of being...but again, they didn't sell a lot of records. This best new band of '73/worst new band of '73 broke up. Too much, too soon.
So if you're this guy, this singer from Staten Island: What the hell do you for your second act?
Improvise. Reinvent, from gutter glam to funky but chic. Retain the grit, smooth its edges. Survive.
David Johansen was an incredible performer. He was a magnetic, preening frontman for the glorious chaos of the New York Dolls. When he stopped playing with Dolls, he...grew up, still magnetic, still incredible, possessed of a sudden maturity that suited him as well as drag-trash had fit him before.
Former Dolls guitarist Johnny Thunders accused Johansen of selling out--or worse, selling out even though no one was buying--but Johansen himself didn't really change. He ditched the glam, and maybe he cut back a bit on the prancing part of his on-stage presentation; he still screeched (melodically), he still wailed, he still infused his rockin' pop with a deep love of R & B. He still ruled the room, and he still looked like he was having fun.
This was evident on much of Johansen's first solo record. The initial line-up of the post-Dolls David Johansen Group included Sylvain Sylvain, who had been the other guitarist in the New York Dolls, less noisy (and less heroin-smacked) than Thunders, but no less powerful. Johansen and Sylvain co-wrote a number of the songs on 1978's David Johansen album, and their collaborations "Cool Metro" and "Girls" could have fit seamlessly on the Dolls' second album Too Much, Too Soon. Sylvain moved on to his own career, but he did play on "Cool Metro."
The other two Johansen-Sylvain co-writes on the album are less evocative of the pair's mascara-streaked alma mater. "Funky But Chic" was the single, a not-quite-funky, not-quite-campy but tres chic bit of breezy, bouncy pop.
The other one was "Frenchette."
You call that love in French, but it's just Frenchette. I've been to France, so let's just dance.
The track opens with a piano sound so mournful we are tempted to send condolences and take up an emergency collection to finance distractions from its sorrow. Johansen, the ex-lover too weary to even try to shrug off his fate, slowly sings his litany of disappointments and regrets (or, I guess, regrettes). As guitars come in and the pace quickens, the singer has already abandoned all hope. He makes one last stand anyway.
The lyrics can seem a bit pat, as permutations of -ette--luncheonette, naturalette (whatever that is), leatherette, launderette, kitchenette, dinette, yeah yeah--delineate the modest, truncated booby prizes Johansen is forced to settle for in place of the grand romance that eluded him. The vignette is accompanied by castanets and references to the Ronettes and to the Four Tops' "Bernadette." It makes you wonder if the song's original scribblings contained discarded lines about flannelette, baguettes, Raisinets, and, I dunno, maybe a Penthouse Pet named LaFayette. Do you call that love in French?
Let's just dance and I'll forget.
And that's the heart of it. Even as we try to be glib and clever, to feign some suave patchwork shield of indifference, transcendence, philosophical understanding, and muttered assurances that yes, of course we can still be friends...damn it, we know we've lost something that meant more to us than either blush or bourbon can obscure. There's no such thing as painette.
I had never heard "Frenchette" before the first time I saw the David Johansen Group play. That live show was in the summer of 1979, with the Flashcubes opening. I'd barely heard the Dolls by then, and "Funky But Chic" was likely the only Johansen track that had crossed my path, but I knew of the Dolls and was eager to hear more. Johansen and his boys--Come ON, boys!!--nailed their set, from its cool-beyond-cool "Cool Metro" opener through the rest of the DJ songbook, including tips to the Dolls with "Babylon," Bo Diddley's "Pills," and--obviously--the signature New York Dolls number "Personality Crisis," performed as a medley with Donna Summer's "Hot Stuff." Obviously. The whole damned thing was nothing short of fascinating.
"Frenchette" was mesmerizing.
Granted, I'd had a few drinks, a few transcendental tickets to paradise to enhance my enjoyment of the night. But my God, being in a crowded nightclub as that piano lick began its melodic shiva, witnessing this guy who used to be a dressed-up Doll croon so eloquently and effectively of just dancing to forget...man, the lump in my throat is still there. This was amazing.
And this was where I became a fan. I bought the Johansen albums, tracked down a hideously battered copy of the first Dolls LP and a cassette of their second, snapped up Johnny Thunders' live album with his band o' junkies the Heartbreakers as well as JT's own solo debut So Alone.
I saw the David Johansen Group on a few subsequent occasions--another club show, an outdoor show, and a show in the spartan ballroom at my former college's student union building--and if nothing ever quite matched the magic buzz of my first David Jo concert, I loved each opportunity to shout along with "Girls" and "She," to raise a fist with "Personality Crisis," to flip off the persistence of memory with "Frenchette."
But that outdoor show and that ballroom show also offered a glimpse of Johansen's next avenue. By then he had played larger venues as an opening act for the Who, and he told a journalist of his growing disinterest in performing in hockey arenas for an audience of Hitler Youth. My last two Johansen shows, outside in the Buffalo suburbs and in the ballroom at Brockport, there was an increasing element of show-biz camp working its way into Johansen's schtick. That element would take full form as Johansen's swingin' alter ego Buster Poindexter, a sort of self-aware Dean Martin pastiche that was even more removed from whatever the Dolls had been. Improvise. Reinvent. Survive.
As I write this, it's been a little over a week since Johansen's death. Yesterday, as I was getting ready to leave for work, some lines popped into my head, compelling me to jot them down in my notebook before fickle memory consigned them to the dustbin of flowers and trash:
I'm not a songwriter, and these random lines will never find the company of melody nor even additional words. But without even meaning to, I stumbled into what might pass for the story of the New York Dolls. Couldn't play, couldn't sing? Fuck it. Doin' it anyway. David Johansen went a step beyond that, assembling a kickass post-Dolls band, building upon the legacy of the Dolls, entertaining in whatever guise he chose.
And with "Frenchette," David Johansen did what Alex Chilton did with "September Gurls," what Michael Brown did with "Walk Away Renee," what Smokey Robinson did whenever he damned well felt like doing it: He took the ache of loss and made it pretty.
What more can we ask? Our hearts are going to break. We are going to lose, at least sometimes. And we are going to have to say goodbye, whether we want to or not. Our art can comfort, confront, elevate, console. It can improvise. It can reinvent.
So let's just dance. But we're not going to forget.
If you like what you see here on Boppin' (Like The Hip Folks Do), please consider a visit to CC's Tip Jar.
My new book The Greatest Record Ever Made! (Volume 1) is now available, and you can order an autographed copy here. You can still get my previous book Gabba Gabba Hey! A Conversation With The Ramones from publisher Rare Bird Books, OR an autographed copy here. If you like the books, please consider leaving a rating and/or review at the usual online resources.
This Is Rock 'n' Roll Radio with Dana & Carl airs Sunday nights from 9 to Midnight Eastern, on the air in Syracuse at SPARK! WSPJ 103.3 and 93.7 FM, streaming at SPARK stream and on the Radio Garden app as WESTCOTT RADIO. Recent shows are archived at Westcott Radio. You can read about our history here.
No comments:
Post a Comment