The Boy Who Cried Freebird

by Mitch Myers

  Maintaining his un/usual verbal dexterity, and drawing provocative recollections from his personal-cum-professional lifetime, Meltzer found playful ways to entertain. He wrote red-herring travelogues like “Of Peep Shows and Piano Bars” and the brutally observant in-search-of-Lawrence-Welk saga, “All the Tired Geezers in the Sun.”

  After two decades of not-all-that-much-fun-in-the-sun, Richard abandoned Los Angeles in favor of the beatnik-friendly Northwest. He moved to Portland in 1995 and soon began struggling with some very human concerns. Those concerns would include mortality, his ever-increasing geezerhood, and the practical limits of a vaguely foreseeable future.

  “Basically, I have to start thinking about the number of things that I’ll have time to do,” said Meltzer. “That number is very finite now. I have time for three or four more books and I have time for [so many] magazine pieces in the course of the year. It takes me longer to write now and I really have to figure out what to do next.”

  An eternal fringe player in the rockcrit game, Meltzer’s sense of humor is self-deprecating, but it can also be quite deadly when he turns his aim toward others. His powerful 1998 essay, “Vinyl Reckoning,” serves as a handy-dandy sequel/bookend/antithesis to “The Aesthetics of Rock.”

  “Vinyl Reckoning” is a carefully crafted memoir-via-artifact that has geezer Meltzer reminiscing through his record collection and airing dirty laundry from past decades. While a sense of closure is attained in this piece (it’s FINAL, okay?), Richard is not going gently into that dark night, nor does he intend to go there alone.

  So, Meltzer spills the beans. There, strewn among his dog-eared albums are the emotional remnants of a record-beaten life; memories of his girlfriend’s abortion, an unmistakable diatribe against Sandy Pearlman, the man’s whole rock-qua-rock verbosity shtick, Sisyphus again, and of course, his never-ending venom for rock establishment types Robert Christgau and Greil Marcus.

  Meltzer’s autobiographical ramblings unfold mightily in the course of “Vinyl Reckoning,” especially his resentment and single-minded contempt for the editors he believes, or at least maintains, kept him away from some big-time recognition and a few decent paychecks. Savaging Christgau and Marcus for slights real and imagined that date back to the ’60s, Meltzer accused his contemporaries of the worst crime imaginable, being uptight.

  “Robert Christgau and Greil Marcus were squares, outsiders to the [rock] experience,” Meltzer said emphatically. “They’re just stuffed shirts who find themselves talking about colorful characters and high times who are apart from those things and those people.”

  That these men are still writing about music and have attained a certain professional status seems to irk Meltzer, as if the two have somehow stolen his original rockwrite thunder. Still, Meltzer can’t help but wonder what his old foes might say about him. “I have no idea whether Christgau or Greil have read any of this stuff and whether they ever will,” he said. “I would like to get some feedback from them, just to get a sense of the ongoingness of the damn thing.”

  Oh, there’s ongoingness all right. Speaking from his home in New York, Robert “The Dean” Christgau was well able to discuss Meltzer’s A Whore Just Like the Rest shortly after composing his review/rebuttal for the Village Voice.

  “I had plenty of negative things to say about [Richard] but the book impressed me,” Christgau said. “I didn’t expect to be impressed but I couldn’t ignore what he’d accomplished. He’s an excellent writer about music in his own way. Not the way that I would recommend but rules are made to be broken and he breaks them and does it often, brilliantly. He regards himself as some kind of avant-garde writer and at some level he doesn’t understand why he’s not as famous as William S. Burroughs. There are a lot of bohemians who believe that they ought to be famous who haven’t accomplished anywhere near as much as Meltzer has. All I can say is that nothing he said about me seems to me to be grounded in fact. Nothing. He got everything wrong.”

  Author Greil Marcus was less willing to discuss Meltzer’s notorious taunts in “Vinyl Reckoning.” “I can’t speculate on anybody’s motives and I’m just not going to get into any of that,” said Marcus.

  When it came to the premise of having one’s identity forever tied to being a music writer, however, Greil was somewhat more reflective. “It’s a title that is very difficult to escape,” Marcus explained. “It’s an easy way to dismiss somebody, call him or her a rock writer or a rock critic. To a lot of people it seems like a ridiculous thing to be spending your time on. Richard did unique work writing about music but if you read what he wrote as he wrote it, he’s playing with words. I don’t mean that in a frivolous sense, he’s trying to find out what words can do, which is what writers do.”

  It’s interesting to note that both Christgau and Marcus were willing to say that Meltzer is a talented writer, which is the one thing that Richard rarely admits about them.

  To be sure, Meltzer still matters. With a (baker’s) dozen books to his credit, his writing has grown stronger over the years and he continues to get under the skin of rivals who would have been more than happy to forget all about him. Of course, there’s nothing like a little provocation to bring out the best and/or worst in people. Meltzer’s supercilious attacks on Bob Christgau in A Whore Just Like the Rest didn’t go to waste, as Christgau’s retaliation in the Village Voice was the critic’s best-written review in ages.

  Obviously, the shoot-yourself-in-the-foot path Meltzer has taken is not lost on his peers. Dave Marsh, who edited Richard during their early days at Creem and declined to commission him while editing at Rolling Stone, had no problem taking Meltzer to task.

  “I listed The Aesthetics of Rock as one of the worst rock books,” Marsh said. “Part of Richard’s strategy has always been to get people to react. From very early on it became clear that [his position] was coming out of contempt for rock music. What you see is somebody who’s very good and who has something to say, paint himself into a corner. What’s the paintbrush? The paintbrush is self-loathing. I think he was funny about things when people needed to be reminded that funny was part of it. People think that being a rock critic is easy, well, maybe for two years. After that, you’re on your mettle. Richard, not for lack of talent, decided he didn’t want to do it.”

  The late David Walley, author of Teenage Nervous Breakdown: Music and Politics in the Post-Elvis Age, remembered these veteran music critics from his own ambitious youth, seeing them at other people’s parties and working with a few. Walley dropped out of the East Coast rockwriting game about the time Meltzer abandoned Manhattan for L.A. Equally disgusted by the rock/commerce equation, he respected Meltzer’s principles but not his methods.

  “I like Richard but we never got along,” Walley said. “He’s the Charles Bukowski of rock ’n’ roll. [The people he attacks] sold out years ago. In fact, there was never a question that they would sell out, they were sell-outs when they started. It’s impossible for pop music to be revolutionary in a market society. Rock ’n’ roll today is very capitalist whereas rock ’n’ roll of our day was very anti-capitalist. That’s a very severe difference.”

  Richard’s old pal Nick Tosches, now enjoying great success as a hard-boiled novelist and well-paid biographer, declined to be interviewed for this story. He did, by way of Meltzer, provide one quote (and let’s just hope Richard didn’t write it himself ).

  Nick wrote, “The fact that Richard, after all these years, is still not full of shit—a very normal outcome for writers, frycooks, and thieves—is staggering evidence of not merely the truth but the stamina of his vision.”

  ’Nuff said.

  ERECTOR SET

  Little Jonny Jewel was in a great big hurry. He’d waited for his mother to leave the house for work that morning, but the old lady had taken more time than usual. Now Jon was pedaling his bicycle like mad to make up for lost time, and his backpack bounced off his shoulders every time he hit a bump on the sidewalk.

  “Darn,” the boy thought. Here it wa
s his first time being invited to one of the secret meetings at Brad’s house and he was going to be late.

  The twelve-year-old checked his Mickey Mouse watch as he threw his bike down in front of the Conner residence. “Not too bad,” thought Jon. “Its only five minutes past noon.”

  Clutching his backpack, Jon rang the doorbell and held his breath. Brad Conner opened the door slightly, looked around for a moment, and let Jon into the house. “Hey, glad you could make it,” Brad said. “Some of the guys thought you couldn’t come.” Jon looked into the living room and saw a group of young boys laughing and watching TV.

  Brad gripped Jon by the shoulder and leered devilishly. “Well, did you bring your contribution to this afternoon’s proceedings?” Jon smiled weakly at the older boy and his voice cracked as he replied, “I did. I got what you wanted.” Brad clapped his hands together and shouted, “Great! Let’s get started then, shall we?”

  Brad led Jon into the living room and addressed the youthful gathering. “See, I told you he’d make it. Show the guys what you’ve brought us, Jonboy!” Jon blushed as he revealed three issues of Penthouse that he had taken from underneath his older brother’s mattress. The kids cheered as Jon threw the magazines on the floor in the center of the room. Deep Throat starring Linda Lovelace was on the TV with the sound down, and sex-related materials were scattered all over the room. One nine-year-old boy was enthusiastically showing the others his deck of pornographic playing cards.

  It was then that Jon heard the music coming from the speakers suspended from the ceiling in the living room. A chorus of voices emerged over an insistent, bouncing, rock-reggae vamp. “What the heck is this?” he wondered out loud.

  “It’s the Mekons, Jon,” Brad answered. “I found the CD buried in my dad’s bottom drawer. He’s been collecting the stuff for years and must have over twenty different Mekons collections. I thought it would be just perfect for our little circle jerk.”

  “I guess so,” Jon responded.

  Brad laughed gleefully as he used a remote control to turn up the volume and turn down the lights. “My dad says they’re from England and used to inhabit a sociopolitical/musical realm somewhere between the Clash and the Pogues.”

  Jon scanned the room and made sure that no one else had started jacking off yet. He didn’t want to be left behind and was totally confused as to whether you won or lost by being the first to finish or the last.

  “I always thought the Mekons were a punk group from Leeds that came up the same time as the Gang of Four and had Celtic and country music influences,” Jon said.

  Brad began passing around small tubes of flavored lubricants as he hummed along with the music. “Yes, that’s them; they’ve even used electronics and computers in their music, but it’s still rock ’n’ roll—VERY ADULT rock ’n’ roll. I think that they’re one of the most interesting groups in music. I mean, how many bands have had a curse put on them anyway?”

  Talking in the room subsided, and most of the boys’ attention shifted toward Linda Lovelace’s award-winning performance on the video.

  Suddenly, the lights flashed on and Mrs. Conner was screaming at Brad. “What in the hell is going on here?!?” Everyone immediately scrambled to their feet except Bill Bessfield who was listening to Metallica on his iPod with his eyes tightly shut.

  Jon almost tripped over his pants, which were down around his ankles, but he managed to right himself and grab his backpack before flying through the kitchen and out the back door.

  Jon was a good half-mile away from the house before he stopped running. As he searched through his backpack, Jon realized that he had left the dirty magazines behind, not to mention his bicycle. His brother was sure to kick his butt when he got home. It was right then that he found the stained booklet from the Mekons CD that he had heard at Brad’s place.

  “Excellent,” Jon thought. “Now Brad will have to invite me back the next time he has everyone over to the house.”

  CLASSICS VS. ANTHEMS

  Let’s play a game. It’ll help if you have some working knowledge of pop music from days gone by, but anyone who’s listened to the radio in the last forty years will do just fine. It’s simple really; all you have to do is pick out which song is a classic and which one is an anthem.

  For the record, The Concise Oxford Dictionary (9th edition) defines the word classic as (a) “acknowledged excellence” and (b) “outstandingly important.” An anthem, on the other hand, is understood as (a) “a solemn hymn of praise” or (b) “a popular song that is defined with a person, group, etc.”

  Now that we’ve got our basic terms straight, let’s get started and learn more as we go along. First question: the Rolling Stones—“Satisfaction” versus “Jumping Jack Flash.” Which is which? The answer: “Jumping Jack Flash” is the classic and “Satisfaction” is the anthem. You may not agree with this judgment, but it’s my game, so behave or you’ll have to sit quietly while the rest of us have fun without you.

  You see, not every classic is necessarily an anthem and not every anthem is a classic. Since neither category consistently subsumes the other, you’re really going to have to consider the logic behind your answers. Here’s one. Bob Dylan—“Like a Rolling Stone” versus “Blowin’ in the Wind.” Answer? “Blowin’ in the Wind” is just a classic, and “Rolling Stone” is the actual anthem.

  I should say that it’s possible for a song to be both an anthem and a classic, but anthems can also be quite horrible and some will never attain classic status. Is “We Are the World” an anthem? Yes, but it sure isn’t a classic. The same goes for Twisted Sister’s “We’re Not Gonna Take It” and countless other Top 40 hits that I decline to mention. Just because a song has been played on the radio incessantly doesn’t mean it has to be a classic or an anthem, let alone both.

  Also, there’s the notorious “Springsteen Principle” to consider. That is, some artists (like Dylan, Neil Young, and Prince) are predisposed to write in an anthemic voice and, as a result, many of their songs are anthems or pseudo-anthems. Think about it. “Born to Run,” “Born in the USA,” “Hungry Heart”—for a while Bruce couldn’t clear his throat without the end result becoming an anthem.

  Of course, the same goes for stadium rockers like Tom Petty and John Mellencamp; they just seemed compelled to write anthems. So did the Who’s Pete Townsend, for that matter. From songs like “My Generation” to “Won’t Get Fooled Again,” old Pete wrote more anthems than that great American composer Stephen Collins Foster.

  One good way to test out the classic versus anthem theory is to play the song in question at a sporting event. If the tune doesn’t make it at a basketball game, odds are that it isn’t an anthem. In this case, the late Freddie Mercury and his group Queen are at the top of the heap with anthems like “We Are the Champions” and “We Will Rock You.”

  But not all anthems are melodramatic, sloganeering pieces of rock propaganda; some aren’t about anything in particular. Even a tune with no discernible words, like Gary Glitter’s “Rock and Roll Pt. 2,” rates as a huge anthem in the world of sports.

  As a result, you’ll never hear John Lennon’s “Imagine” at half-time—but for some reason, cheerleaders are still shaking their butts to Paul McCartney’s “Live and Let Die.” Obviously, anthems like “Cocaine” don’t make it into sports venues, but I do recall hearing “I Want a New Drug” at a basketball game a few years ago.

  Also, I feel it’s my civic duty to inform you that Curtis Mayfield’s “Superfly” is an urban classic while Isaac Hayes’s “Shaft” is the ultra-funky anthem. I don’t remember exactly why, but that’s the deal.

  Here’s one. Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” versus “Whole Lotta Love.” Answer: Both are classics, but neither are anthems. This goes back to the little-known proposition that Zeppelin damn near invented “Classic Rock” and thereby avoids the lowest common denominators frequently found in anthem rock (the same goes for Jimi Hendrix and Eric Clapton, by the way).

  This brings
us to my final point. You’re probably not hearing as much “Classic Rock” as you think you are. In most cases, those radio stations clubbing you over the head are actually playing “Anthem Rock” and don’t even know it.

  As a result, I’m looking for a few serious investors for a new kind of radio station. Naturally, it’s going to be anthem rock radio and our motto will be “All Anthems—All the Time.” There will be no meager power ballads, no contrived golden oldies, and no sentimental dustys—just certifiable rock anthems guaranteed to pump you up.

  We’ll also be looking for a few good DJs who are willing to play “Freebird” during the A.M. drive time, but that shouldn’t be a problem. Anthems are for the people, right? Just think of the advertising dollars we’re going to haul in. It’s enough to make a man stand up and salute.

  Which reminds me, Bachman Turner Overdrive’s “Takin’ Care of Business” versus Pink Floyd’s “Money.” Any takers?

  OH HAPPY DAY

  Winter holidays are the time of year when writers are encouraged to bring out seasonal messages. I’ve always had a difficult time finding a good topic, but recently, I had a revelation and I’d like to reflect on “Oh Happy Day” by the Edwin Hawkins Singers—an unlikely hit single from the year 1969.

  If the piano intro to this song sounds familiar, perhaps it’s because George Harrison borrowed it for his own song of praise, “My Sweet Lord.” “Oh Happy Day” was actually cut in 1967 when Edwin Hawkins, his brother Walter, and a woman named Betty Watson organized the Northern California State Youth Choir and privately recorded a devotional album entitled Let Us Go into the House of the Lord.