Lou Reed’s Dirty Blvd. --A Songwriter's Appreciation

 

A Songwriter’s Appreciation:

Lou Reed’s Dirty Blvd.

Anyone passingly familiar with the mystique and work of Lou Reed would be aware of his status as one of the primary progenitors of the “new honesty” in rock: an unflinching stylistic trend that preceded "punk" in the mid to late 70's. Ian Hunter & Mott the Hoople, David Bowie, NY Dolls, Iggy & The Stooges, Alice Cooper, etc. were fresh new voices that returned to and embraced a stark expressionism. Vivid and lyrical, it was not altogether nascent, but a return to the blunter styles of early blues and rock. Eric Burdon & The Animals, early Rolling Stones—perhaps even Buddy Holly-- were ‘punk’ in that the delivery was direct, forthright and unadorned with productions stripped down to big notes and sounds with a won’t-run-can’t-hide presentational approach that torched all chances for misinterpretation.

Since then, the tradition continues from mid to late 70’s to now with New Wave/Punk icons The Ramones, Sex Pistols, The Clash, The Cramps, Dead Kennedys, The Stooges, Buzzcocks, Patti Smith, Black Flag (continually Henry Rollins…) into the Post-Punk 80’s & 90’s with B-52s, Talking Heads, Gang of Four, Severed Heads, R.E.M., Mission of Burma, U2 and on to post-punk revivalists like The Strokes, Social Distortion,etc: those who embrace a more direct style to convey many and varied themes, tales, rants and laments, the last of which may hazard to be romance and love if those particular yarns were abjectly truthful, proud and with nary a nod to vulnerability. Sweetness for its own sake was elementa non grata.

Lou Reed was the principle writer of the Velvet Underground before a long career of collaborative adventure and solo works, and among the first of these artists to lyrically present society’s underbelly, its underdogs, the under-served and under-represented writ large and under-explored. His social commentaries were largely delivered through the lenses of vividly drawn characters, and singling out society’s soulless and villainous entities, dulcet-toned rants of street-corner commiseration. 

"Lou Reed doesn't just write about squalid characters, he allows them to leer and breathe in their own voices, and he colors familiar landscapes through their own eyes. In the process, Reed has created a body of music that comes as close to disclosing the parameters of human loss and recovery as we're likely to find. That qualifies him, in my opinion, as one of the few real heroes rock & roll has raised."

—Mikal Gilmore, Rolling Stone, (1979)

Mainstream pop music, as with film or any other medium, might include the merely sincere among its myriad characteristics, but it was Punk that flipped the switch refreshingly back to Rock and Roll’s original proclamatory (and in the purest sense, mandatory) adherence to the ethos of “saying what you mean” with as little incidental packaging as possible. The superfluous is an obstruction, no lightweight consideration especially when constructing a narrative arc no longer than a 3 minute record.

During his final few years alive Reed returned to radio hosting along with old pal producer and alas, recently departed Hal Wilner--the gleefully received eclectic weekly 5 hour New York Shuffle on Sirius-XM which at this writing still continues, with the implicit “you’re welcome if you’re doing something interesting” playlist policy. His broad-scope spin choices revealed other interesting aspects to his top-shelf artistic taste.

Throughout his artistic life Lou Reed maintained a loyalty to all that is straightforward and sure-handed, even when the musical facility was perhaps a bit precarious.

As a performer, Reed mostly recorded and/or performed clean—or broadly dirty—presentations and portraits that relied on his deft ability to wrangle as much potency from a cunningly considered lyric, a true gift to be appreciated again and again throughout his generous canon of well-turned phrases.

During his early growth as a student of journalism, film-making and creative writing he was profoundly impressed by the high-octane possibilities of well deliberated minimalism, propelling his lyric writing ever more toward that ideal.            

 The basic, aurally strong-boned construction of punk provided the perfect accommodation for Reed’s glib style which stands starkly and undeniably expressive, with imagery abiding in scandalous cahoots with primal rhythms and multi-entendre word craft.

It’s this hybrid brew of narrative styles that I find the most effecting throughout the Lou Reed catalog. It’s sneaky, as though there may all the while be one continuous chaotic sub-text, a slip-stream cum river raging beneath a mundanely dead-pan commentary. I find Reed’s dryly elegant effusiveness a deceptively rich archeological terrain begging to be upturned for closer scrutiny.

One of my personal all-time favorite songs can be found on the1989 album Lou Reed release New York, a contiguous three-act collection that was performed (sometimes stubbornly) in its sequenced entirety during its initial promotional tour.

 For those allowing the indulgence, I’ve chosen the song Dirty Blvd. for a somewhat overly-granular if not duly reverent unpacking: an “under the hood” look at why I consider it an exemplary piece of great songwriting, its layout so vivid and masterful that I had somehow managed to overlook it’s mostly spoken delivery for years (after recently listening with a college class of young aspiring songwriters, one student exclaimed that it was “the weirdest rap song” he’d ever heard).

The song's urban universe revolves around the ambiguously young, cursedly poor, dreamily wistful Pedro. One might deduce that within the described relentless and cruel environment that his pragmatic coping devices will inevitably mature along with his hopelessness into more insidious escape mechanisms and an illicit and morally deficient adult existence.

Bleak? Undoubtedly. But truthful and credibly fashioned as only a native empath of “the mean streets” would manage. Over the years the images and impressions within this haunting tale would come to wrap ever closer around my head much as this harsh reality would tighten intractably around pitiful Pedro’s choked future. See if you might experience the same reaction.

First, the lyric only:

(The mix of the recording is wonderfully narrator-centric, as if the storyteller waits just out of the frame during the compellingly simple guitar intro before stepping in, immediately nose to nose with us listeners)

Dirty Blvd. 

(Lou Reed) 

Pedro lives out of the Wilshire Hotel

He looks out a window without glass

The walls are made of cardboard, newspapers on his feet

His father beats him 'cause he's too tired to beg

He's got 9 brothers and sisters--they're brought up on their knees

It's hard to run when a coat hanger beats you on the thighs

Pedro dreams of being older and killing the old man

but that's a slim chance, he's going to the boulevard

He's going to end up, on the dirty boulevard

He's going out, to the dirty boulevard

He's going down, to the dirty boulevard

This room cost 2,000 dollars a month, you can believe it man, it's true

Somewhere a landlord's laughing till he wets his pants

No one here dreams of being a doctor or a lawyer or anything

they dream of dealing on the dirty boulevard

Give me your hungry, your tired your poor I'll piss on 'em

That's what the Statue of Bigotry says

Your poor huddled masses, let's club 'em to death

and get it over with and just dump 'em on the boulevard

Get ‘em out, on the dirty boulevard

Going out, to the dirty boulevard

They're going down, on the dirty boulevard

Going out

Outside it's a bright night, there's an opera at Lincoln Center

Movie stars arrive by limousine

The klieg lights shoot up over the skyline of Manhattan

But the lights are out on the mean streets

A small kid stands by the Lincoln Tunnel

He's selling plastic roses for a buck

The traffic's backed up to 39th street

The TV whores are calling the cops out for a suck

And back at the Wilshire, Pedro sits there dreaming

He's found a book on Magic in a garbage can

He looks at the pictures and stares up at the cracked ceiling

"At the count of 3" he says, "I hope I can disappear"

And fly fly away, from this dirty boulevard

I want to fly, from the dirty boulevard

I want to fly, from the dirty boulevard

I want to fly, fly, fly, fly, from the dirty boulevard

I want to fly away

I want to fly 

Now with some notes, just for fun:

(Of course, these thoughts, interpretations and suppositions are this writer’s alone. It’s perilous to “analyze” songwriting. Most writers recoil from the prospect and I apologize if the reader is repelled by this overstep. On the other hand, step off…it’s just a song and it's exceptionally good, as is always discussion)

Dirty Blvd. 

(Lou Reed) 

Pedro lives out of the Wilshire Hotel

He looks out a window without glass

(The stage is economically set within 5 seconds with these  first two lines.Taken literally: abject poverty.  Figuratively, it might suggest there is no lens or protective layer of shelter between outside and in: One reality. Pedro doesn’t live IN the Wilshire (“will share?”) Hotel, he lives out of it.

The walls are made of cardboard, newspapers on his feet

His father beats him 'cause he's too tired to beg

(Further establishing the environment as deprived, abusive, flimsy to the point of ephemera)

He's got 9 brothers and sisters--they're brought up on their knees

It's hard to run when a coat hanger beats you on the thighs

(The “begging” is reiterated as we learn there are many others there, and they are “brought up on their knees”, raised to believe that they are lower and worth less than most)

Pedro dreams of being older and killing the old man

but that's a slim chance he's going to the boulevard

(Back to Pedro, he dreams. To wit, his pathetic visionary aspiration is to one day murder his parent. And our credibly world-wise narrator dryly and jarringly dashes even that demented hope as futile, pointing out that Plan A is sadly:)

He's going to end up, on the dirty boulevard

He's going out, to the dirty boulevard

He's going down, to the dirty boulevard

(The signifiers here are quick and potent: “end up”, “going out”, “going down”)

This room cost 2,000 dollars a month, you can believe it man, it's true

Somewhere a landlord's laughing till he wets his pants

(Reed introduces what will be a recurring device here and elsewhere throughout the album, using defecation as a handy expression of a total lack of dignity and respect.)

No one here dreams of being a doctor or a lawyer or anything

They dream of dealing on the dirty boulevard

(Here again is the insistent mention of “dreams”, a term for aspirations, but now they lead irrevocably back to the “dirty boulevard”, perhaps as Robert Frost’s After Apple Picking refers to the hauntingly perseverating images which cannot be dispelled by an exhausted laborer at the end of a long day) 

Give me your hungry, your tired your poor I'll piss on 'em

That's what the Statue of Bigotry says

Your poor huddled masses, let's club 'em to death

and get it over with and just dump 'em on the boulevard

(Boldly animating--then desecrating—the Lady in the Harbor, taking four lines to further dehumanize the immigrants to so much rodential detritus thereby conflating to national policy the landlord “laughing while he wets...”)

Get ‘em out, on the dirty boulevard

Going out, to the dirty boulevard

He's going down, on the dirty boulevard

Going out

(Now we are introduced to the third act which offers some specificity to the job descriptions on the boulevard. “Going out” is a streetwalker’s standard pitch, while “going down” is often at offer)

Outside it's a bright night, there's an opera at Lincoln Center

Movie stars arrive by limousine

(We stay “out”, outside Pedro’s world, and the privileged and well-heeled are antithetically busy in theirs. Their night is “bright”, although Lou slyly and seductively reforms the word “limousine” into the name of a drug like “mescaline” or “Dexedrine”. Just as this listener is thinking this, the following lines affirm the theme)

The klieg lights shoot up over the skyline of Manhattan

But the lights are out on the mean streets

(No explanation required.)

A small kid stands by the Lincoln Tunnel

He's selling plastic roses for a buck

(I discovered that The Robert Frost poem alludes to “stem end and blossom end” as well as other salient images and themes that correspond not too remotely.) 

The traffic's backed up to 39th street

The TV Whores are calling the Cops out for a suck

(A vivid scene,with metaphors for those who are looking. Economical phrasing right down to numbers and acronyms.)

And back at the Wilshire, Pedro sits there dreaming

He's found a book on Magic in a garbage can

He looks at the pictures and stares at the cracked ceiling

"At the count of 3" he says, "I hope I can disappear"

(The “cracked ceiling”: figurative, literal with multiplied metaphoric weight and now, after all, Pedro’s dream and hope, is to disappear…)

And fly fly away, from this dirty boulevard

I want to fly, from dirty boulevard

I want to fly, from the dirty boulevard

I want to fly, fly, fly, fly, from the dirty boulevard

I want to fly away

I want to fly

(The Doo-Wop style backsing –remember the doot da doot in Walk On The Wild Side?—function as Greek Chorus and Uriah Heep, ushering the listener and Pedro to whatever comes next. Another voice --a grown man-- assumes Pedro’s persona with the vociferous desire: “I wanna fly”)

 This song is to me a wonderful example of how a simple, thoughtfully considered lyric can achieve amazing and transporting results.

Many Thanks, Lou.

 ~JC

JC Interview for CIYH.com

           Jon Carroll Interview with Concerts In Your Home

                                

 Describe your most memorable house concert experience. 
Always a challenge, as there have been so many but, HEY…Memorable…right? Remarkable…yeah?
 I recently played T.Edwin Doss and his wife Patricia’s Rocky’s Run House Concerts, which is a splendid venue right on Lake Anna which is just due SW of my boyhood town of Fredericksburg, Va.
 My sets can, if the chemistry is just right, take on an interesting narrative arch, as various songs of mine are chipped off the mother lode vein of my own childhood and past experiences. Not all, but some of the major corner stones are, as most writers will attest.
Well, that particular night the faces filling my view from the stage became a miasma of familiar retrospect, as more than a few of my childhood buddies, the brother of an ex-girlfriend, and the parents of our best playmates from next door (they still live there!) all were there beaming, nodding and swaying to the beat. It was quite dreamlike, but also so jovially companionable due to their knowing of all the landmarks and characters that were mentioned, it was as if everyone was given a decoder ring at the door!   

What's your best opening line? (from one of your songs, or one of your favorites)

I LOVE great first lines. Folks comment frequently on the first lines of my song Land That Time Forgot, which are: “I’m an old man eating dinner somewhere in Wyoming
Got my false teeth working on a microwave medallion”
 I was unsure of that line, the whole song really, until a fellow writer buddy of mine suggested I try putting it all in the first person, which made all the difference, for it as a song and as something to sing. I thank him every time I see him.
 First line by other…Paul Simon:
“We were married on a rainy day. The sky was yellow and the grass was grey
We signed the papers and we drove away. I do it for your love”
 Sorry for the bleak themes…I’m not mainly that way…but I do love the images and the setups, though…!
 OK….”I may go out tomorrow if I can borrow a coat to wear 
Oh, I'd step out in style with my sincere smile and my dancing bear”—Randy Newman  (I feel better, now..you?)

What song is most likely to make you cry? (if you were the crying kind)

I’m very much the crying kind and that fact proves to be a challenge, since singing and becoming overcome and blubbery are a nasty combination. There are different songs that can/will do that. Leonard Cohen’s Suzanne: …“They are leaning out for love, and they’ll lean that way forever” or his Song of Bernadette…Joni’s Case Of You… There have been a few embarrassing moments (unnoticed by others, I pray) during Mary Chapin Carpenter’s shows (I’ve played with her for decades now) when it gets a bit difficult to see the keys. Amazing writing will move you as it should.

How many miles did you drive last year?

Jeez, including tourbus…not fair…but scads. I drive a lot, too and I’d say roughly 9,000 miles. I do my solo shows plus mini-tours with other folks such as Eric Lindell and Peter Wolf. Sessions in other cities…adds up.

What is your favorite thing about house concerts?

The wondrous, unified and collective experience. I’m not one to put things in between me and my audience. Not alcohol, drugs etc. And the intimacy that proximity brings can be extremely powerful. The mutual respect and understanding in a tuned in room can really dissolve many of those classic barriers that come with the standard mise en scene. It really becomes less of a set or tableau piece, and more of an exciting adventurous dance. A real collaboration!

If you could no longer sell your music on CD, what would you do differently?
I would record each show and burn USB wristlets sold cheaply on the way out. Plus including a code for downloading something current and exclusive.

When is the last time someone critiqued your song, suggested a way to make it better, and you agreed?

That’s an interesting question that makes more sense than what some might think. I’ve worked on several stage plays, and cowrote some musicals, and the staged readings are a valuable resource as the audience, as well as the actors reading/playing the roles, weighs in after with opinions, sharing responses, and offering suggestions. I find that performing songs brings another initial response from the listener, and their sharing of that response includes some nuanced but none too oblique messages within that the writer can pick up on. How a fan even refers to the song can be quite telling. Sometimes, in the course of a conversation, it becomes clear whether the person got the hook, or maybe missed it altogether. Some folks remember the scenery along the way, with the destination not being all that important. So be it. The response of an audience in real time is the thing that turn the most knobs for me as a writer. A song that you’ve honed and fashioned for tortuous hours can become altogether a different beast once your performing it in front of an audience. The universe changes in performance, and, in that manner, the audience is constantly and covertly critiquing and making suggestions. I do enjoy post-show talkback sessions, though. In the theater, they can be quite valuable. After a house concert set, there’s usually a chance for that sort of give and take. It also gives people a chance to ask about Afternoon Delight.

Have you ever watched yourself do a full concert on video? If so, what did you learn?

Many times. The overall kneejerk reaction is to slow down, and that’s usually a correct move. I have a lot of energy when I perform, and some of my songs have a rhythmic pulse that, as a piano or guitar player having a drummer laying down the tempo will help to relax. Having someone riding shotgun, so to speak. In a solo situation, taking a deep breath and centering is always a good idea. As long as I’ve done this, it’s still an important part of the warm-up ritual, that is, settling down!

Is there anyone you like to go to for songwriting help or advice? If so, who?

Wow. I usually turn to great literary writers: Bellows, Malamud, Fitzgerald, Munro, Amis, Welty, Trevor, Greene, Conrad, Mortimer, Banks, Singer…any writer who writes like a writer. There are a lot of mundane lyrics out there, and to be fair, the way words, melody, rhythm and scan juxtapose in song makes it a different carnival ride altogether. The great songwriters that float my boat, Van Zandt, Cohen, Crowell, Mitchell, MacMurtry, Carpenter, Webb, Newman, Waits & countless others…tend to have one thing in common: they transport the listener. Music and song have a power that great film has, that is to create a story universe outside of the here and now. If I’m stuck, it’s usually because I’m unsure about what I’m actually wanting to say, not on how to say it.
 Don’t get me wrong, I’m not above throwing out a lifeline, but that usually happens when sitting there collaborating on a song with others. Honestly, I’m not one to call up another writer and yell help. I don’t think it’s pride, I just figure that they’re busy enough with their own damn songs!

What is the best stage name of all time?
I dunno, how about Tom Jones? Liberace was pretty cool. Elvis Costello hits on multiple cylinders. Boris Karloff. Karla Bonoff. Tommy Tune. Iggy Pop. I still want to know how The Edge gets called to the counter at the DMV.

Car you drive vs the car you'd most like to drive.

Honda Odyssey Van vs nice RV towing a coupla V-Twin cycles.

What percentage of your songs are about love relationships?

30

You can bring back any dead artist, and be their apprentice for a month, who do you choose?

Toss-up between John’s Lennon and Mercer, with the deal being they stay alive after the month’s up. Even if working with me kills ‘em. 

You can recruit anyone in the world to manage your artistic career, who is it?
The Tom Hanks character in That Thing You Do.

You can work with any living record producer. Who do you choose for your next project?

Tough one, but I suppose Phil Ramone, but I did already…but I was 18. No fair. He was one of those producers though, who was so very very musical and creative, that the players played and the singers sang extra special great on his sessions. One of the most respected and accomplished producers of our time.

You must personally destroy every instrument you own, except one. Which do you keep? Which do you destroy first/last, and why?

Not to take the cheap high road less than loquacious way out, but I don’t want to destroy anything, much less something that brings joy. I have separation anxiety. I get misty when checking out of a room I’ve had for three days on a tour. I still have my first drumset, my piano has been mine since 1977, my Wurlitzer Electric since 76, I won’t get rid of my Roland Juno 60, get the picture? Now, I’m sure other folks around me might have a hierarchy of plans. I think I’ve even heard them plotting deep into the whispery night.

Top item on your bucket list.

Seeing the Bosphorus Strait. It’s been an elusive dream.

Cat, dog, or goldfish?

Are you kidding? I tour. But I love it when there’s a dog around, even on the bus. I once slept with a Golden Retriever. Perils of the bottom bunk!

Writing retreat. You can go anywhere in the world for 2 weeks, where do you go? One instrument, one suitcase - what do you bring?

You’d think I’d might have already gotten around to this, but the Northern Neck of Virginia feels like the floor of my soul to me. For some reason, I’ve always been attracted to those little square office compartments at the top of grain elevators and mills, too. Just a typewriter will do. Loved that Alex Haley would book passage on tankers and merchant marine vessels to write. That’s the idea!

Plan B, or no Plan B?

Been doing this too long, it contains multitudes and it’s always brought new gifts and new incarnations of more Plan A, eh?

 

Letter to Lawmakers--Pandora Bill

Jonathan Carroll
_____________

_____________

November 26, 2012

The Honorable Mark Warner
United States Senate
475 Russell Senate Office Building
Washington, DC 20510‑4601

The Honorable Jim Webb
United States Senate
248 Russell Senate Office Building
Washington, DC 20510‑4604

The Honorable Frank R. Wolf
House of Representatives
241 Cannon House Office Building
Washington, DC 20515‑4610

Re: Oppose the "Pandora Bailout Bill"

I am a lifelong musician, artist and writer/composer and have had personal experience with the issues stated below which have direct import into the legislation in question below.

I have lobbied for fairness in the Broadcast Performance Royalty legislation, and, like all else like me, have been beat to the punch in your offices by the profoundly well-funded NAB, which preempted many of the efforts by front loading many inaccurate and misrepresenting scenarios, hoping to shift the focus --and culpability--from broadcasters to the labels themselves, even to the songwriters, who happen to have a much fairer deal historically, even citing only the most profoundly successful acts (a very small percentage even in the industry’s heyday) whose names are recognizable enough for them to be salient spokespersons for this cause, as greedy, spoiled and Pollyannaish.

Recently there have been deals made between some new labels (with already successful acts who are enjoying high sales and exposure via many new delivery systems, such as Pandora) which falsely cite "parity" as the end all justification for lower rates. In reality these lower rates HAVE NEVER been fair or justified. The new digital services, such as Pandora who launched in 2003 and formed, developed and tweaked its business model with a library supplied FOR FREE by label and non-label and artists alike, before starting to pay the MINIMAL fees only within the last few years.

These recent arrangements are unique deals by companies that can uniquely benefit from them as they have a large digital presence, not a template for universal extension to all broadcasters.

Since Napster woke the industry up in the 90's--too late, I might add---many within the industry have been scrambling to catch up since the new paradigm has been established, with all its ever-changing shifts and adjustments with the status quo. If you look at the % drop in music sales during the last 15 years, you will see the decimation of a once healthy and thriving music industry brought about by its tardy response to the digital revolution.

But please consider the fact we had just recently become encouraged that there could be a final legislative resolution for Broadcast Performance Royalties after a much much longer period of time
during which the United States enjoyed the dubious company of Qatar, North Korea, Rwanda and China as countries who HAVE NEVER paid fees for terrestrial broadcast performances.


I write to express my strong opposition to the so-called "Internet Radio Fairness Act" (H.R. 6480/S. 3609) and to ask you not to cosponsor the bill. If the bill comes up for a vote, I urge you to vote NO.

Pandora and broadcasters support this bill, claiming that fairness and parity are needed. But the bill ignores the greatest inequity in music compensation -- the lack of a performance right to compensate performers when their songs are played on terrestrial radio.

And the bill isn't fair to the creators of music whose work makes up the content of Internet radio. This bill would slash payments to artists by hundreds of millions of dollars. Under current law, artists and music creators receive from Pandora payments for the use of their performances based on a fair market, "willing buyer, willing seller" standard. Pandora's special interest bill would slash those payments to a below market, government-mandated subsidy rate. With the music business shrinking to half the size it was ten years ago, working class musicians wait for these royalty checks every quarter to help make ends meet.

Despite crying poor to Congress, Pandora is expected to clear more than $600 million in revenues next year, and is valued at more than $1.5 billion. This isn't about fairness, it's about lining stockholders' pockets. Musicians should not be deprived of the income that they deserve to subsidize Internet radio.

Congress shouldn't pick winners and losers on the Internet, and shouldn't force artists and music creators to pad Pandora's wallet.

Historically, recording artists have already the deck enedemically stacked against them.

This bill is a giveaway to Pandora and I urge you to oppose it.

Dear Senator Warner:

I am writing to express my strong opposition to the so‑called "Internet Radio Fairness Act" (H.R. 6480/S. 3609). I urge you  not to cosponsor this bill and to vote "NO" if the bill is brought up for a vote.

Although this bill claims to be about fairness, in reality it is nothing more than a bailout for Pandora to increase shareholder profits by taking money away from artists and music creators. Under the law, Pandora and other Internet radio services must pay a statutory royalty rate that represents the fair market value of the music they use to build their businesses. The "Internet Radio Fairness Act" would cut the royalty standard to a below market rate that amounts to a government‑mandated subsidy. Music creators will be paid less while corporate shareholders are paid more.

Pandora's estimated value is over $1.8 billion. It can afford to fairly compensate the hard‑working artists and professionals who make a living by creating music. Instead of providing another bailout for big business, Congress should provide real radio parity by requiring terrestrial broadcast radio to compensate music creators just as Internet, satellite and cable radio services do.

Please oppose the "Internet Radio Fairness Act." There's nothing fair about robbing music creators to pay for Pandora's profits.

Sincerely,

Jonathan Carroll

Minstrels

                                                

                                                                                             MINSTRELS 1961-1968

It's since become a full-fledged exurb of Washington D.C. but in 1961 Fredericksburg, Virginia was as Southern as any Carolina town. If any of its restless eyes sought livelier sights under city lights, they turned toward Richmond, forty miles to the south.

Our family's middle-class house stood on a slight rise beside a two-lane road in rural Falmouth, with a few grassy fields between us and the Rappahannock River. The windows of the den looked out across those fields then beyond to the two church steeples of downtown Fredericksburg and a  monolithic sign announcing the grocery at the top of William Street, just close enough for its non-specific red then yellow then white "S" of Safeway to be visibly repeating after dark until closing.

I was 4 years old when entered into the annual Kiwanis Club talent show in 1961. My older brother and sister felt that my rendition of Mama’s Little Baby Loves Shortnin’ Bread had potential. I don’t recall learning it or from whom I did, but I knew it well enough to tap, snap and sing it much to the beaming amusement of the tall ones. Nor did I grasp the meaning lurking within its repetitive rhymes:“two little babies ---lying in the bed—one was sick and the other one, dead” verse. I liked singing them. The song was funny. Folks laughed.

The try-outs took place in the booming wooden auditorium of Maury School, an aging mainstay in the heart of downtown Fredericksburg. The late afternoon sun poured down from high windows through the municipal dust while hopeful youngsters sat in or scurried about the rows of theater seats. Jugglers, dancers, singers, plate spinners, card flashers, baton twirlers, joke tellers and trick mongers each awaited their turn to step up onstage for their shot at being in the annual show.

One contestant was a girl who was bigger and older than me--7 years old, I thought.  I sat silently and spellbound beside my older Brother as she sang “Yellow Bird”. There on the stage, she stood starkly and stiff, with barely moving but slightly trembling blond braids, blue jeans and white sneakers and holding a painted wooden bird on a stick before her, carefully and softly reciting in a shaky voice the lyrics which her darting eyes scanned from its back.

Several times she started then stopped then started , Yellllow Biiiird Up high in banana treeee
Yellllow Biiiird You sit… all…alone…like me…  

On the third or fourth try, she made it to the end and the judges were gently reassuring as she was led offstage by her mother. I was glad to see her utter relief that it was over.

Soon we heard my name called and I slid off the theater seat, looked to my brother who said something like “go on, Jon…just like at home…it’ll be great” which shored me up enough to launch into my bit without too much fuss.

To this day I still feel that original pang of “this is the real thing” jitters after rehearsals in a well lit room give way to the dress rehearsal onstage and opening night in front of audience whose anticipations cannot be known. It was they who were now upright and attentative in those theater seats, judging from the dark night instead of ushering us through a sunny afternoon.

All performers sat on bleachers in a remotely stark and echoing sodium lit gymnasium in the bowels of the school. Waiting for their names be called when they would then proceed, three by three, toward the world which waited in their near untold future.  I held my brother’s hand as he led me down long locker-lined hallways around and through various realms of the school's daytime life, quietly moving toward my moment of truth.

We scaled one last steep stairway leading up to a lady who smiled and “shushed” us as we rounded the corner, stepped through a door and found ourselves gazing from the offstage shadows onto the spotlit stage.

There before us, with two bows in her braided hair, a frilly dress and slightly nuzzling in shyness into the pleated curtains gathered before her,  stood the Yellow Bird girl. Her shiny patent leather shoes made short brittle scraping noises against the hard floor as she fidgeted.

We arrived just as the emcee's ominously amplified voice announced her name. From around the corner where we couldn’t see came the roaring applause of the roomful as she inhaled slowly then stepped out and crossed toward the lone glinting microphone stand. The clapping scattered and ebbed to silence as the girl stopped and stood facing them, holding the wooden bird on a stick. She and it were still, rigid and silent. She glanced down and squinted at the back of the bird, turning it around then around again, her neck gradually craning forward and toward the indistinct and impermeable black silhouette created by the giant spotlight.

With a quivering voice she started to sing, Yelllow Bird…high up in banana treeeee ….

She trembled through four lines before sputtering to a halt. Still trying to make out the written words there cloaked in shadow she began again, stamped one shiny shoe, then restarted, then  gasped while lowering and raising the stick in desperation, holding it at arms length with both hands for one last try. Letting loose a tearful yelp before turning on her hard heels, she ran as if being chased directly toward where we stood in the wings.

My brother quickly stepped aside letting her blow past and we could hear her sobs echoing away down the stairwell while the man onstage uttered something jovial to the awws of sympathy and warm complicit applause.

I had never been that near to such panic and anguish, and it all happened moments before I heard my name called. 

Don’t worry about it, Jon..remember, just like at home…

I don’t remember much more about that night, other than the invisible roar of the audience, the blinding  glare of the super trooper spotlight which cloaked the seated crowd into a penumbra of anonymity. But I heard my family comments of how I must have just been nervous, etc.

It was next year, 1962 when I would sit in that same dark auditorium as an audience member to see the Lion’s Club Minstrels. My father explained to me that there were no winners or losers and that it was a variety show, and he and our mom would be singing and dancing a romantic duet. We had heard them at home practicing at the piano once or twice, a show tune from My Fair Lady, On The Street Where You Live it probably was.

My mother became ill and my dad would have to do the number with the alternate, which only made it more of an episode for her. There was arguing and accusations. It was a pattern, and the same drama would occur again the next year.

But the Mistrel Show, as it was known,  was a lively celebration with many varied numbers, each of which were enjoyable for a 5 year old, especially the vaudeville type bits. One such routine sported a group of 6 or 7 men bursting onstage in clownish suits of polka dots, wide stripes and bowler hats while cavorting and careening all about the stage crowing jokes and doing stunts. They shouted and guffawed in exaggerated Amos and Andy accents with their faces each painted black as a moonless midnight.

The audience roared with laughter, and I watched with glee as they volleyed risqué punch lines, poked each other and carried on like that for 5 minutes or so. One bit involved pushing a hen’s egg across the stage with a broom. I've never heard that one explained.

The next day, after overhearing their arguing about last night’s show, I mentioned the blackface men to my parents. It seemed to be the centerpiece highlight of the show. My father responded by brusquely mumbling, that it probably had been the last time for that act to appear, and that was also probably a good thing. He said sternly that it wasn’t nice to make fun of colored people that way, and that lots of folks had been upset about it.

Another year passed and it was again time for the Lions Club Minstrels Show. Mom and Dad rehearsed, mom got sick, dad did the number with another lady and there were jealous arguments before and after the show. I recalled the black face minstrel men, and my father’s remarks a year earlier. He once more uttered something about their not doing black face anymore.

The opening number of the show that year was again jovial, rousing and as harmonious as only grown-up singers and performers can deliver. The solos, duets and dance routines were met with rousing hometown appreciation. Intermission came, and I was wondering what would be the central “funny” bit, as I was already impatient to see it.

Back in our seats, we waited as the lights went down. A fat moment of silence was pierced by the wailing siren announcing the clown men who emerged in their flapping tails, bright scarves and bow ties, top hats and bowlers. They scurried and crowed, howled and hammed while the audience reeled with delight. I was only 6, but I knew that what I saw was something sad, silly and very, very wrong. 

My Dad was right and so were the other good folks who had raised their concern about the men with the black grease painted faces. Those folks who wanted to keep the act in the show decided on the only thing that they felt would make everyone happy: They painted their faces white.

A few years later I was entered into another Kiwanis Club Talent Show. I played piano--a Clementi Sonatina which was abruptly followed by an “original” boogie woogie composition. The crowd liked it, and I won the $25 first prize in the Elementary Division and used it to buy my first guitar at Bill Ross’ Music store, where I spent a lot of my after school afternoons and Saturdays. Mr. Ross was a pretty stiff lipped fellow most of the time, and it felt good to see his faint smile as we made the deal.

After that year's show dress rehearsal, I was waiting in front of a closed store across the street from the school near a pay phone where I’d called my mom to come and fetch me. The late afternoon sun had sunk and the street corner was falling into early nighttime. A group of neighborhood kids was walking down the sidewalk toward me. As they came closer I heard their laughter turn to whispers, and one of the three came up to me and asked for money. One of the other kids started patting my pockets hard then harder, and the others began shouting until the first piped up and said to stop because I was “the boogie woogie boy”. 

My dad was gone two years later when I served up the same Sonatina/Boogie Woogie formula for that talent show. He had already been around for the first time, though. It was pretty much the same deal too, except that I was now 12 and old enough to win the Grand Prize:  a trophy and another 25 bucks, I think. 

My big sister had taken me to those try-outs where there was a black kid whose act was singing along with Otis Redding’s Dock of the Bay. I wondered if he might have been one of the kids from last year’s phone booth convergence.

I loved that Otis record. The kid snapped his fingers, tapped his feet and sang it like he felt right at home. 

One day that summer I was in the kitchen singing along with the radio playing  Aretha Franklin’s Respect  and my mom asked me to turn it down because she thought those records “sounded like angry colored girls shouting at someone”. 

But later that year, we would sit at the kitchen counter and listen silently to the radio until the very last note of Brook Benton’s A Rainy Night In Georgia was done flowing past. My mother looked at me with an accepting distance in her eyes and said “you know what? That was a really great vocal performance”. 

A year to the day after my father died, our next door neighbors took me with them to the second annual Smithsonian Festival of American Folklife on the Mall in Washington D.C. The live concert that night was to be Muddy Waters as well as the Chambers Brothers. The field was packed with folks of all shapes and colors, and I had not heard or seen anything like the sounds and sights of that night. Muddy’s slide guitar came straight from the heart of someone’s holy heaven and hell, and the Chambers Brothers’ voices weaved around and pounced upon the beats like a funky orchestra. They moved forward and toward the crowd while wearing brightly colored double breasted suits and proud floppy wide brimmed hats. One singer danced to the edge of the stage, then sat down on its edge. Time Has Come Today…!

Like most childhoods, mine flew by like a bittersweet breeze in Summer. My adulthood allows me to stand and look back on those few years from Boo Radley's porch, if you will, and appreciate the social changes that were happening above, beyond and all around me. I can still hear my father’s and my mother’s voices like so many other sounds that continue to echo down a long hall, and I think about the Yellow Bird girl more often than I probably should. And when asked an honest question by a child--questions such as why is that wrong? and why not?--I also think carefully before uttering my answer. 

~JC

LEVON

LEVON

There are many brands of bullshit in every business—especially show business—and Levon Helm seemed to cut right through them, each and all.

The Great and Powerful Levon Helm 

It was the autumn of '69, and I was an eleven year old kid beginning to play in bands in Fredericksburg, Va., when the elastic funk of a wah-wah clavinet first bounced out the radio announcing the arrival of the train that would take us Up On Cripple Creek. The conductor called us on board with a sonorous Arkans-drawl, and a smitten country-wide collective gladly boarded. The beat was brawny and adult, the tale was crowed proudly, each syllable making every stop through the ululating pipes until it was laid before us all, resolute and unashamed. It was news: the sound, the message and the manner and everything but shy. It teemed with spirited energy while relaxed and playful. It was delivered plainly, self-assuredly and directly without being the least bit harsh, hostile or aggressive.

I now realize that we were then listening to a man presenting his heart and soul entirely with every word, every beat. The whole honest deal swirled before you, or rather sat in the saddle of celebration while digging in with the sophistication of the lived-in ages, crookedly smacking each rimshot, twisting his torso toward the thing that was undoubtedly the truth: the only prize worth clamoring  for instinctively, relentlessly-- the thing worthy of stumbling toward like a fool, if need be.

Levon Helm was known for crowing about what’s worth crowing about. He was able to do precisely that for a long time, but we wish it were for much longer. Wisdom seemed to have been born with him. He had that wonderful duality, at once the tenured wise beyond his years teenager and the old-timer with the rough and rowdy heart of foolish youth.

I’ve been fortunate to have performed with more than a few talented folks over the years (dumb-luckier than a per-chance spied evening meteor to have played with the man himself on a few occasions), and I’ve mostly endeavored, by his inspiration, to try and put the utmost heart and commitment into every note of each performance –enough so that there may be no doubt about being “all the way in”. It’s an ambitious and hopeful touchstone of an approach, and not always a successful one, but it was hearing and seeing Levon that showed me that if you stood in the ring squarely on both feet, looked the song in the eye, and brought your soul to its statement with total conviction, that an inarguable truth could be willed out. Damn—how could anyone up there get away with “phoning it in” while that dude was singing and playing? I dunno, is how. 

I've heard and seen Levon more times than I can count: of course with The Band as well as his other numerous projects (Levon and The Cate Brothers in the 80's was always a must) right up until last year. Throughout that time I heard, saw or sensed nary a false or halfhearted note or moment. I choose to believe there were none.
 

That‘s not to say that Levon was the guy to reel in a breakdown, stifle a gid, wag a finger, be a whip-cracker, task-master or buzz-killer in a studio or stage setting. The few times I remember proved contrary.  Although listening to him tell the tales from his early and then long career, or reading stories from his book, one might be sobered to learn that the glorious music was the end to the means, and up until, around and after that fact, there was much banality and pesky no-nonsense scenes to be seen to by those with level country heads such as his.  

But, before and after all, what is (good) music if not total joy, and what is a show, a gig or a session if not a great hang with other musicians? I was blessed to be able to hang out and be joyful with Levon on several occasions, mainly and thankfully due to my friend and brilliant songwriter Emory Joseph having hired me on, along with a few other longtime band-mates and buds Duke Levine, Dave Mattacks, Kevin Barry and the late great T-Bone Wolk for his recording sessions for Labor and Spirits, and to later perform a few years ago at Levon’s notorious Midnight Ramble house concert in Woodstock.

At the Ramble, I on keys for Emory's opening set, along with Steve Holly, Andy York & T-Bone doing tunes from his Robert Hunter collection Fennario, and his original Labor & Spirits. It was figuratively and literally a Thanksgiving celebration, but that night Levon contributed his spirit exclusively at the drum set as per doctors’ instructions, saving his voice for a better mended fit to crow day, which would indeed would arrive after that healing hiatus and others. 

The Ramble’s stage/studio/barn/playhouse was packed with fans, friends and family. The stage was full of brilliant players and singers and revel truly rocked the hills while Levon beamed and walloped the kit with a  gladiator's zeal, exuberant as any man is allowed to be in this world, perhaps enjoying the tribal celebration and the venerated center spot of a cultural phenomenon to be savored and cherished within those moments. Like all others, they would come to pass and be no more, gone as quickly as their notice. 

After our set I sat on a radiator within yards of the widely grinning man in the starched collared shirt, wearing the short gloves that held the sticks so deftly, at times recklessly, passionately drilling home the deliberate but wiley ride cymbal, ballistic and balanced about the toms with each fill tumbling into rebirth in another verse or refrain, truly a wonder and one-time thrill. All eyes were on him, and every amazed gaze was glad and good. All hearts were soaring and it was as if he had the lot of us on his knee, children giddy-upping along on the whoop-whipping ride of our lives.

The recording sessions years earlier were yet another story to tell.

I had been on a few shows along with Levon, who performed on-- and was the voice for--a television series in the 90’s called The Road. I was participating as a band member with Mary Chapin Carpenter and Rodney Crowell. There were some roll-out shows at Opryland in Nashville, and I remember Levon--bearded and leading with his toothy smile and aviator shades, his lithe and seemingly frail frame swimming deep within a bright blue color coordinated warm-up suit. He sported the endearing charisma of a true bad-ass who could never escape his own sincerity, thus prohibiting him from ever coming off as a flippant, rude or lofty star. Levon seemed to me real, and a real good and cool cat.

Years later, in ‘98, at Longview Studios, a converted 1919 dairy farm in rural Massachusetts, Levon would arrive with a couple of his own closest friends to join us for a day of tracking on Emory’s Labor & Spirits record. He bounded amiably in, proceeded to make himself--and thereby all else there—comfortable and relaxed. Proceeding to wield and prepare organic substances he jovially credited with his remission from throat cancer, it was perhaps the pervasive nature of such a smoky realm that transformed the day into one of the most guffaw-filled and zany fun house rides that I’ve ever survived.

The day was summer sunny, hot and humid, dusty and buggy. I recall his remark that this was “heat that’ll follow you into the shade”, among many other stories, tales and asides. I must include the image of Funk legend Bernie Worrell who aimlessly ambled into our studio, having nothing to do while his sessions in the nearby larger barn studio were suspended due to a death in the family of one of the crew. I’ll forever kick myself for not taking a picture of Bernie wearing his tee shirt, head wrapped in a bright blue bandana, tenuously and daintily tooting notes on my new (to him) penny whistle. Bernie Worrell playing a penny whistle. Think about it. 

Back to the sessions.

It was decided that it wouldn’t be too insane to set up two drum kits, each facing the other, at which Levon and Dave Mattacks could respectively concoct a tandem groove. It came together like a sideways train on a sky bound track. Those familiar with the artistry and angles of Dave Mattacks can possibly imagine the resulting delight that was those two percussive worlds colluding. You can hear it on Emory Joseph’s Family Dog…

Much music, mirth and magic was made that day, and it all now exists forever, along with some extemporaneous outtakes that Emory was foolishly wise enough to include in the final master.

It was then time to lay down some background vocals on a few tunes (Rhum and Coffee and Family Dog) the first song written for and dedicated to the great Guy Clark. It’s a bouncy, rollicking proclamation and celebration of recipes promoting poetry and the autonomy of personal choices. That’s my read, at any rate. The second is a first-dog description of the canine ethos that you by now may have heard.

We all gathered around one microphone with Emory, T-Bone & Levon, whose hoarse voice was neither a disclaimer nor a discouragement. Once we were done clowning and were underway, every note from his challenged pipes was pure and perfectly pitched, a singer's singer in any circumstance.

Until then though, it was pretty much of a riot. I won’t delve way into it here, but suffice to say that a good joke is worth developing for as long as it promises to be funny, and Levon's efforts wouldn’t end until all was explored. 

To this day, it’s one of my personal all-time favorite outtake bits, and I wish I’d had the chance to laugh to it all over again with him. 

I like to call it Duckboy and The Day Visitors
(careful...intentionally offensive language)

This past few days since Levon’s exit from this world have been like that tough dream you must muddle through until you eventually awaken. You’d rather not be within it, but it’s too late now. It’s hard to peg this feeling, because it’s hard to tag the man, the artist, the voice, the legend. Every note he sang, strummed, picked or played was the whole picture: the picture with which Levon Helm was wholly familiar: the way of the world. 

 

There’s no doubt that The Band was one of music’s most influential forces, and even as an eleven year old, it was clear to me as I listened to other songs that were somehow too real, too honest and too important to become hits you heard on the radio repeatedly alongside Frankie Vallie, The Grassroots, Buckinghams, Monkees or--you get the picture—that these guys weren’t merely onto something that was special like a new sonic discovery or genre recipe. Instead they were continuing, developing and adding to a mountain of heart, soul and song that, without these responsible sentinels minding the other careless kids who were whistling through the candy store, might very well be whittled and weathered down to whispered ephemera. 

Theirs was a stewardship of almost holy proportion. Merely to illustrate the point further: The Night They Drove Old’ Dixie Down was the B-side of their sole top 40 hit Cripple Creek in ‘69. That was and is the  prevailing “wisdom” of commercial radio. 

As a band, the group contained profound multitudes, as any great band must. Multi instrumentalists, gifted storytelling and lyricism, singular and combined vocal magic made them distinctive, almost mystical. Danko’s frantically wavering tenor barely able to contain itself, Richard Manuel’s father time confessor of pain and purity, sincere energy from a darker place that maybe only he and Ray Charles could see—Robbie Robertson’s perfectly placed strums and licks economically serving those brilliant songs while he added vocal element X to the harmonies. And all that dressed up and launched heavenward by the illustrious operatic orchestrations of Garth Hudson's keys and reeds. Also, like any great ensemble, the sum of it all became one glorious sound, not to be easily analyzed or deconstructed, but accepted and appreciated like a golden rising moon.

But its front man, ambassador, pilot, admiral, spokesman, non-apologetic and all encompassing personae that stood undeniably on the shoulders of the sturdiest and most venerable truths of our earthly clan, was the scruffy rascal that knew how to put it across. He wasn’t slick or jive, posing or primping. He was a truth-teller with gusto, a crusader with class, a clarion call for all to fear not. Go on and have a REAL good time. Do a good job and tell it like it is.

He was what making music is about. He was what being alive is all about. 

Wow—a jewel is gone. Let all shine on.

~JC

To Folks Who Condemn Addicts on Moral Grounds

There is a fatal disease called drug addiction. Millions of people have it, and millions seek help --many working hard enough and being blessed enough to begin successful recovery.

Many are unsuccessful.

Many people who battle drug addiction (which some prefer to call "demons") have creativity, artistic expression and the quest for beauty as their raisin d'etre. Their status and cultural prominence as celebrities has them venerated as well as awarded with financial success (That Whitney was one of the greatest singers of all time is something most folks are capable of appreciating) but that is often fleeting as the disease is unrelenting and progressively defeating. It's reported that at the time of her death Ms. Houston was not only financially bankrupt but as anyone who's traveled to their own "bottom" of addictive descent can attest, she was more than likely just as physically and spiritually depleted.

 It is an insidious (and I reiterate, fatal) disease. It's cunning and baffling. Look it up. It is as clinically diagnosable as diabetes, hepatitis or cancer.

Many here and elsewhere are quick to condemn addicts on moral grounds--a sophomoric knee-jerk reflex which is utterly ignorant. There are some who are offended by an outpouring of sympathy, grief and over-appreciation of these victims as if it were the obsequious cloying of an adulatory public for a beloved artist or personality who meets an untimely end which they may consider to be self-inflicted. I  recoil wincing from the professional punditry (many of whom are not only relatively mediocre non-creative performers, but suffer from addictive disorders themselves) who serve up their judgemental sanctimony with moral indictments of the victim's character to their "followers" who collectively hoist them to some perversely procured pedestal.

But we should better mind and consider that this disease discriminates even less. It doesn't discriminate at all. 

With all that considered, addiction and self-destructive behavior, albeit collaterally pervasive for the family, friends and associates of the sufferer, are perhaps not as abjectly and overtly destructive as that of so many others' whom we admire, pardon and emulate while never acknowledging and accepting the simple truth that good folks oftentimes lose battles with profound diseases. Addiction is but one of those, regardless of the victim's soulful fortitude or strength of character.

~JC

On Chris Richard's Washington Post Grammy Review

It’s unfortunate that Chris Richards [Disjointed Grammys honor Whitney Houston] couldn't find more to appreciate positively about the evening. A live broadcast of a multiple-act performance oriented variety show will of course not have uniformly seamless transitions and as a whole, and will be technically "disjointed".  

With variety, one must expect some inconsistency.
 
The few positive remarks he did make were framed and diluted with cynically contextualized. He cites a few “moments of clarity”, while merely relating others without comment, reserving all his writer's eloquence for stabs and snarks.
 
His commentary on Springsteen's opening number “We Take Care of Our Own” (“given Houston’s death, an ill-considered opening line: “America, are you alive out there?”) was just plain opportunistic and trite.  
 
And Taylor Swift's number (which received a show-stopping standing ovation, hello...) was strong and masterfully rendered. "Sour grapes"...o.k., but that's indeed the theme of the song, man. 
 
If Richards feels the night's show was "something to be endured ...a ceremony riddled with disjointed collaborations that spanned genres and generations for the sake of ... what, exactly?"...
and a "missed opportunity" some 25-hours after the untimely and unfortunate death of one of the music world's all-time greats, then perhaps he's the one that's missing an opportunity to consider writing about something else.
 
I've seen, performed at, and attended numerous Grammy telecasts, and I felt this was one of the more memorable and richly enjoyable, warts and all.  

The WP Piece Here