When it comes to this great American band’s legacy, the best thing about the Doors is also the worst thing about the Doors: Jim Morrison.

Blessed with one of the more charismatic and literate frontmen of their—or any—era, it seems inevitable, in hindsight, that the Doors would become icons. Morrison, as leather-legged Lizard King, cut a figure that adorns posters and t-shirts four decades after his death.

Morrison also endures as one of the epic—and tragicomic—tales of rock and roll excess: a bright and beautiful young man who abused his body with drugs and alcohol, becoming a bloated shell of himself by the time he expired, looking like a fat retiree at 27.

Unfortunately, Oliver Stone’s ass-backwards hagiography is a quintessential slab of outsider’s groupie-envy, and his movie reinforced every lazy cliché associated with Morrison (and rock music). Despite what he may actually have intended, he turned his hero into a rather uninteresting cartoon character. In the final analysis, Morrison may have cared too little about his life, but he cared a great deal about his work.

Perhaps it is because of Morrison’s paradoxes (as another American poet put it, he contained multitudes) that he continues to appeal, as a source of both aggrandizement and reproach. And that’s just his lyrics. The ever-growing legend of Mr. Mojo Risin’ helps sell albums and convert young fans every year, but it tends to obscure a single, important fact: The Doors were a first-rate band, period.

The man to whom more credit for their success, and sound, should be attributed is Ray Manzarek, who passed away this week. Manzarek, an accomplished keyboardist who famously handled bass duties on his Fender Rhodes, also played the role of arranger and older brother. It’s obvious why his songwriting and technical abilities were so significant. It’s his role as middleman—and mediator—for Morrison and the band (including drummer John Densmore and guitarist Robby Krieger) that does not get nearly enough consideration. Without Manzarek’s steadying personality and the patience he preached to all involved (Morrison, the band, the fans), it’s debatable if the Doors would have made more than two albums.

For bringing keyboards to the forefront and utilizing his organ as a lead instrument, Manzarek was a pioneer. He was also the chief architect of the dark, distinctly psychedelic sound the band perfected on their first two albums. Whether it’s the Sunset Boulevard funk of “Soul Kitchen”, the Brechtian whimsy of “Alabama Song (Whiskey Bar)”, or the eyes-half-shut oblivion of “End of the Night” that’s Manzarek moving things forward, and sometimes sideways.

Equally comfortable playing piano, Manzarek’s contributions were at once front and center and lurking in every corner, adding color, texture, momentum. This versatility is nowhere better represented than on “The Crystal Ship”, where his restrained, often ethereal organ is the water the rest of the band could cook with, while his discerning, almost elegant turn at the piano provides cerebral counterpoint. Manzarek takes what would be a near-perfect pop song and elevates it, imbuing it with a maturity and class that resists age: the rush and remorse inextricable from day-to-day existence; the deadening of the senses through chemical escape; the illusory respite from reality that is more or less Morrison’s epitaph; all the pain and unfulfilled promise of his life, along with much of the glory and redemptory grace, somehow contained in one song (all in all, a pretty impressive use of two minutes and 40 seconds).

One of the reasons the first album remains one of the all-time great debuts is because “The Crystal Ship” (along with “Break on Through” and “Soul Kitchen”) still sound remarkably, almost impossibly fresh; still edgy, still laced with menace, not dark so much as indifferent: immune to taste, fashion and time. And if Strange Days is slightly leaner and less essential than the first album, it has a handful of songs that stand proudly alongside anything the band ever did. The carnivalesque touches on “People Are Strange”, and the employment throughout of harpsichord and marimba reveal a willingness to stretch out and search for the perfect sounds. Still, The Doors were best when they went dark and deep: the surreal title track screams 1967, yet somehow seems as ominous and intact as ever in 2013. Each of these songs sound nothing like what anyone else was doing, and all would be unimaginable with Manzarek’s distinctive imprint.

For the rest of the group’s brief but rewarding time together Manzarek remains the focal point, always the anchor, but occasionally the captain. From the sweet piano of “Love Street” to the sour organ of “Not to Touch the Earth”; from the defiant “Shaman’s Blues” to the kaleidoscopic “Soft Parade”; from the bar-room bonhomie of “You Make Me Real” to the cool blues groove of “The Spy”; from the Ray Charles acid jazz of “The Changeling” to the wistful-to-majestic swells of “Hyacinth House” it’s Manzarek supplying the foundation—and the feeling. Aside from Morrison, it’s that image of Ray most fans associate with the band: hunched over his keyboard, head shaking like he was not only reading a book in his lap, but translating it.

With Morrison gone, Manzarek—so reticent and introspective during the band’s heyday—became a character, perhaps because he felt it was his obligation. In interviews Ray consistently came across as the brilliant but eccentric uncle. He embodied so many excesses we tend to associate with the ‘60s, never reluctant to reminisce about mind expansion, mythology and always prepared to espouse peace, love and understanding. At times a little Manzarek went a long way, particularly when he could not leave well enough alone as it pertained to the band’s influence… and influences.

Several years ago while reviewing the band’s thrice-remastered catalog, I acknowledge that Manzarek invited interest—and occasional ridicule—for so zealously, and loquaciously embracing his role as spokesman for the band’s legacy:

Let’s face it, one reason it is so easy, even imperative, to poke fun at the Doors is because Manzarek himself, who has been anything but tongue-tied in interviews over the years, seems entirely too eager to elucidate the ways in which the band consciously emulated John Coltrane while composing their most important song. It might have behooved him a bit to understand that the considerable majority of even the most proficient jazz musicians are wary of drawing any sort of overt comparisons to Coltrane (mostly because the first thing it does is amplify the rather extreme divergence between the very good and the Great).

And yet. Robby Krieger, through lessons and discipline, had developed a facility on the flamenco guitar before moving on to amplified blues, then rock; John Densmore received classical training and played in jazz bands for years; Manzarek too had classical training. Nevertheless, there is no shortage of musicians (in rock and even in jazz) who have all the technique and ambition in the world, but cannot craft truly original, irrevocable melodies. Only the most obstreperous haters will deny that, as a tune, “Light My Fire” is irresistible … at least the first million times.

To the end, Manzarek remained Morrion’s biggest fan, and defender. He showed both his loyalty and taste on the occasion of Oliver Stone’s idiotic Pop Opera, which he rightly lambasted. He was ebullient, always happy to explain the creative process and offer behind the scenes insight into how the Doors captured so many lightning bolts in so many bottles. He was also self-deprecating, droll and a total original. We are steadily losing, in prototypes like Manzarek, Dennis Hopper and Levon Helm, crucial links to a time we will never see again. As gloomy as it is to watch them go, we can, as always, console ourselves with the work they left behind—all for our enjoyment and edification. Still, Manzarek seemed like a man destined to live a very long time. His ride only lasted 74 years, but he left his handiwork all over several of the more resilient and extraordinary songs from one of the more resilient and extraordinary American bands.

ON THIS DAY

On May 23, 1934, bank robbers Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow were shot to death in a police ambush as they were driving a stolen Ford Deluxe along a road in Bienville Parish, La.

Great story. Great movie.

From a personal point of view, both Faye Dunaway and Warren Beatty turn in the best work they ever did. And an added bonus, for my money Dunaway is as beautiful, here, as any leading lady ever was in any film. And of course there is “the scene”: that bloody ballet death sequence, which was groundbreaking and violent and innovative, et cetera. (Hard to imagine the Sonny Corleone execution scene from the first Godfather without this having happened.) But before the bullets fly, the look Bonnie gives Clyde at the moment of realization (1.29 in clip, below) is one of the great moments (good direction, better acting) in all of cinema.

And then, of course, there is Serge and Brigitte. Déférence!

Or, If Loving Wagner is Wrong, I Don’t Want To Be Reich.

(More on one of the most complex and controversial composers ever, who was born 200 years ago today, HERE.)

Seriously though, I came across an amazing article on Wagner, written by Nicholas Spice (from the London Review of Books). Check it out HERE (warning, it’s long).

Reading this I could scarcely contain my giddiness and I realized, not for the first time, that I anticipate sustained analysis of music (whilst listening to said music) the way teenyboppers regard a boy band concert, or many of my peers look forward to reality TV. Which is to say, I’m weird.

The writing is so solid, and the insights so keen I feel like this is legit music/nerd porn. See for yourself:

Like anyone who has spent time thinking about Wagner, I have inevitably come back to the subject of boundaries and limits, and in particular to questions about the boundary that lies between Wagner’s works and his listeners, and about the experience, apparently not uncommon, of that boundary becoming blurred or even disappearing, an experience that may hold a clue to the feeling, also not uncommon, that Wagner’s work is in some sense not altogether good for us.

Wagner has kept me awake at night. Sleepless, I turn my thoughts to Tristan und Isolde, Wagner’s most extreme work and the nec plus ultra of love stories, and I notice a kinship between aspects of Tristan and Isolde’s passion and the experience of a certain kind of insomnia. The second act of Tristan und Isolde is Romanticism’s greatest hymn to the night, not for the elfin charm and ethereal chiaroscuro of moonbeams and starlight, the territory of Chopin and Debussy, but night as a close bosom-friend of oblivion, a simulacrum of eternity and a place to play dead. Insomnia is a refusal to cross the boundary between waking and sleeping, a bid to outwit Terminus by hiding away in ‘soundless dark’, a zone beyond time.

The usual thing to say about this (and Wagner himself said something along these lines) is that the music enacts the experience of desire, forever on the verge of satisfaction but never satisfied, a state of suspension symbolised by the first three bars, which ‘resolve’ the startling discord of bar two – the famous Tristan chord – onto a dominant seventh, itself a discord crying out for resolution. But we can also read this reluctance to resolve as the musical equivalent of staying awake: a bid to suspend the passage of time, in which sleep gratefully acquiesces.

Music can, of course be sacred, and this is sacred music.

If Mozart heads straight for your heart and Beethoven always gets you in the gut, Wagner is not satisfied until he has your entire soul.

This music is all-consuming, insatiable, and mesmerizing in a way that invokes “other” places not of this earth. (And if that sounds sappy and unconvincing there are two primary reasons: one, I’m not sufficiently qualified to describe this, or any music, and two, you have not had the opportunity, or possess the requisite skills –or soul– to comprehend what the best music instills in a receptive listener’s mind.)

I came at Wagner the old-fashioned way, through movies. (I mean that literally and facetiously, it being 2013 after all.)

First, of course, through the epic (I mean that literally and literally) employment of Wagner’s oeuvre in the immortal “What’s Opera, Doc?”. All hail Bugs (and Mel Blanc).

Then in Apocalypse Now and The Blues Brothers, both of which used “Ride of the Valkyries” to delightful, absurd effect.

By the time I saw Excalibur, in the theater, with Pops, in April 1981, all bets were off.

I was (and remain) captivated by the film, a flawed masterwork from John Boorman.

More than anything else, the music struck a chord –in the literal sense– with me, and I did (and do) consider it the perfect accompaniment for the material. I’ve seen Wagner utilized before and since, but no storyline is sufficiently important, or epic (in the literal sense) as the King Arthur myth. And, of course, the Tristan and Isolde as well as Parsifal operas have multiple connotations with the Lancelot and Guinevere and Percival sub-plots.

I’m somewhat surprised that after 1,000-plus posts on this blog (or at PopMatters), I’ve not yet attempted to do a proper assessment of this greatly misunderstood and underrated film. It has not been for lack of contemplation; indeed, I intended to do something in 2011 for its 30th anniversary but…it just didn’t happen. A proper “review” did not seem quite right, and an uncritical appreciation seemed too…personal. More on it later, I’m sure.

But to simply focus on the movie’s deft and, at times, uncannily perfect employment of Wagner’s music, I can say that the impact it had on me was profound, and permanent. Of course, at the time I had no idea who it was or how to get hold of it. (As I’ve said before, probably in these exact words: it is all but impossible for anyone born after, say, 1980 to understand or even imagine a world pre-Internet. Back in the bad old days, if you couldn’t find it in a library, you were out of luck.) If there had been a proper soundtrack, that would have made matters considerably more simple, and awesome. Alas, it was not to be. I had to wait another seven years or so, during “Music Appreciation 101″, my freshman year of college, to figure out who Wagner was, and which compositions were featured in Excalibur. I acquired a compact disc of Wagner overtures as quickly as I could, but I had to figure out the hard, and expensive way, that the most important stuff, specifically “Siegfried’s Funeral March, from Götterdämmerung” were part of “The Ring”. The rest, as they say, was history.

Of course, Wagner has more than occasionally been a lightning rod for conflict, some of it serious, some of it frivolous (much of it opportunistic on the part of the offended). The laundry list is detailed here. At best (worst?) the same type of criteria applies to Wagner as it does to any creative person: no matter how insufferable or puny the person may happen to be, we seldom celebrate the creator so much as what they created. Or, we can choose to focus on the very good that sprang, however improbably, from a person who chose not to overcome the issues/prejudices/vices of their life/time.

Here’s Spice, again:

The difficulty we have tying non-musical meanings back to the notes on the page has a direct bearing on the fraught question of the association of Wagner’s works with National Socialism and, in my view, it makes the arguments in this debate convoluted and unsatisfactory. For this reason, I shall merely skirt the topic. Moreover, the subject of Wagner and the Nazis is too big to be fitted meaningfully into a set of general reflections on the composer, especially when the focus of the reflections is the music rather than the ideological content of the work, such as it can be construed. Music is a promiscuous and adhesive medium: as soon as you introduce powerfully expressive music into the vicinity of words, images and ideas, it jumps the gap and attaches itself to them (as Wagner understood better than anyone, before or since). A host of circumstances, not least Wagner’s own writings (some of them utterly abhorrent), drove his music into the proximity of the most evil political system in the history of Western Europe. That Wagner’s work became indelibly associated with German Fascism is a fact. Whether his music can be understood as a sinister prolepsis of this ideology is another matter altogether. I don’t believe we are in a position to make this argument, although the tack I am taking may suggest ways of situating Wagner’s music within the bigger context of music’s amenability to exploitation for political purposes.

Here is an entire century of debate, loathing (self and outward), and confusion deconstructed by the man best suited for this work, Larry David:

There is a reason Wagner continues to resonate, inflame, confuse. He is relevant for the most simple, yet profound reason any artist remains known decade after decade: the work endures.

Discussion of the man, his music and the visions (ill or illuminated) that informed it will remain ongoing. Wagner, and the work he did, is impossible to ignore, and it is too important to fall prey to fads or fashion.

This is art capable of changing you, to be sure. But it does more than that: it elevates you.

I knew I’d have to deal with this one of these days.

So many of my favorite old-school rock legends died when I was young, or before I was born (think Jimi, Jim, Janis, etc.), they’ve never been part of my ongoing narrative.

Ray Manzarek, one of the three surviving members of one of my all-time favorite bands, did seem like a man destined to live a very long time.

Sadly, thanks to our least favorite ailment, cancer, this was not to be. He has passed on, aged 74. More here.

And more to come. For now, a personal favorite –featuring Ray– from each proper Doors album.

(Parts 1-4 of this series here, here, here, and here.)

Before they became the Black Keys of Leon (a development that was equal parts unfortunate and inevitable) The Black Keys were one of the better rock bands around (really: check it out HERE, HERE, HERE, and HERE –check #5).

More, they were, hands down, the best interpretors of other folks’ songs. They took classics, often deeper cuts, and put their own unmistakable and wonderful mark on them. Here are five.

Obviously, there is an art to covering a song. Nothing is off limits, but you can usually separate the contenders from the pretenders based on the songs they choose: the opportunistic clowns in search of an easy hit will take a well-loved song and dumb it down for the masses (this works like a charm). Of course, when this is done, the song being covered is usually destroyed, and tarnished: it’s kind of the worst of both worlds: unworthy fakers get props and cash for soiling a well-loved song and, in the process, they besmirch an original with a new, worse version that can never be unheard. On the other hand, real bands with real heroes and real talent will invariably choose more obscure songs with two primary objectives: celebrate the heroes who inspired them, and put their own inimitable touch on an old chestnut. The Black Keys have been better at this than any other band in recent memory.

It takes balls to even attempt to cover icons like Captain Beefheart and The Kinks. It is wonderful (and ballsy) to pay tribute to the Iceman (Jerry Butler), a singer against whom anyone will come up short; astonishingly, Dan Auerbach infuses this cover with heart and soul to spare: he does the near-impossible. Taking a truly obscure song by Richard Berry is the sort of move that made The Black Keys so special, and illustrated how deep their roots went and how much they loved all sorts of music. Finally, their personal god, Junior Kimbrough, received an entire tribute album (the remarkable Chulahoma, which you can acquire for $5 –the best bread you’ll lay down this month). It’s hard to explain what Auerbach achieves on the cover of “My Mind is Rambling”…it is not coverable, so he takes it from the inside out and adds a grit and menace (and yes, authenticity) that is inexplicable. For a skinny white dude from Akron, he buries himself in the deepest of all possible souths and goes deeper: this is midnight of the soul type shit, and it is at once scary and revelatory. It is a miracle of music.

“Have Love Will Travel” (Richard Berry)

“Act Nice and Gentle” (Kinks)

“Grown So Ugly” (Captain Beefheart)

“Never Give You Up” (Jerry Butler)

“My Mind is Rambling” (Junior Kimbrough)

I don’t know what you were up to but I was partying like it was 1983.

Due to the miracles of technology, we can see precisely how I was living, almost exactly thirty years ago.

Let’s do a quick analysis of that picture.

Grey Levi’s cords? Check.

Untucked blue oxford? Check.

R2-D2 light switch and piggy bank (both home made, neither by me)? Check. (For those playing at home, this was before Return of the Jedi was released, and I was still on board the Millennium Falcon).

Napkin with note and autograph from Dexter Manley? Check.

Feathered hair covering the ears? Check.

A little Toulouse-Lautrec up in there? Certainement!

Cozying up to my boy, Mr. Mojo Risin’? Check. (More on him HERE.)

Jimi Hendrix poster with feathered roach clip? You know this.

(About those roach clips: anyone else remember when those were souvenirs, or prizes, from the Langston Hughes fairs? We used to hang them on our Duron paint caps. We had no idea what they were really used for and, presumably, neither did my parents. They probably thought I was respecting our Native American heritage and hey, Hendrix had Cherokee blood…)

The obligatory black light poster that we used to buy at Spencer’s? Check.

A floor speaker and a bookshelf, two components that still comprise my personal arsenal.

But what really inspired this trip down memory lane was a “From the vault” entry in the latest Rolling Stone –a magazine I started subscribing to right around this time. This particular entry features the Top 10 singles from the week of May 12, 1983, and it is indeed a trip, in many senses of the word. I wonder if this will bring you back (and I mean waaaaay back) the way it did me: 7th grade lockers, Mr. Bryant & Reston Skateway (for my local peeps), getting to second base (allegedly), and a hundred other things. Let’s run it down from top to bottom and shoot the proverbial duck. Wherever possible, I’ve embedded the proper video from MTV. (MTV!!! Here’s a trivia question I bet even people who know me best would get wrong: I did not, in fact, have access to this epic channel back in the day. My parents would not allow it. Wisely. That does not mean I did not log quality hours –and I mean hours– at myriad friends’ houses.)

1. Michael Jackson, “Beat It”:

re. The King of Pop:

A confession. I was not necessarily a fan. I certainly was able to appreciate that dancing, and that song (and any male my age who attempts to deny that he desperately wanted to perfect the moonwalk is lying through the acne-glazed haze of adolescent recollection). It was a bizarre time to be a teenager: all the girls in school loved Michael Jackson and all the guys loved Jim Morrison. Oh wait, that was just me? Well, as corny as I would have considered it for any dude to have a poster of MJ, I am not particularly proud to reconsider the prominent spread of leather-clad Lizard King photos on my bedroom wall. I say this only to underscore the impact MJ had at the time: I was well tired of the non-stop hype and ceaseless radio play (seven Top 10 singles?!), and it was simply beyond human capability to separate oneself from Thriller’s impact. You may not have loved it (you may not have liked it) but I have never spoken to anyone who actually hated it. I’m sure there is someone out there, who also hates the Sistine Chapel and The Lincoln Memorial. Or Moby Dick (just kidding, sort of.)

A lot more on MJ, and the ’80s, HERE.

2. David Bowie, “Let’s Dance”:

Kind of amazing –and humbling– that David Bowie appears to have aged less in three decades than me (or anyone else on the planet).

3. Greg Kihn Band, “Jeopardy”:

When Greg Kihn was born I believe his parents stood over him the way the gods once did at Olympus (“Clash of the Titans” style) and said: “Your purpose on this earth is to form a band and make an album called Kihnspiracy. Mission accomplished. (What have you done with your life?)

4. Men at Work, “Overkill”:

5. Thomas Dolby, “She Blinded Me With Science”:

This song is just as amazing today as it was then. That is all. (And don’t sleep on this slice of heaven.)

6. Dexy’s Midnight Runners, “Come On Eileen”:

All I had to do was type the letters “D-E-X” into YouTube and this was the first thing that came up. Obviously.

7. Irene Cara, “Flashdance…What a Feeling”:

13 year old Murph would like to send my personal thanks to Irene Cara for helping me through some…hard times. If you know what I’m saying.

8. Prince, “Little Red Corvette”:

Ridiculous video, but apparently the Prince police have disabled everything on YouTube.

re. Prince: idiots, like me, were not prepared to appreciate him, but time has taught us that this weird dude is a genius. Duh.

9. Laura Branigan, “Solitaire”:

Two words: Couples skate!!!

10. After the Fire, “Der Kommissar”:

Perfect way to end. What an unbelievable range of sounds, cultures and styles –and these were the most popular songs in the country. This, my friends, when people ask why we are so nostalgic, is the answer. Because the ’80s, when all is said and done, did not remotely suck!

But don’t take it from me, ask John Cusack!

5/16/66.

A day that changed music, forever, for the better.

A case could, and probably should, be made that we ought to refer to rock music as “BP” and “AP” (Before Pet Sounds and After Pet Sounds).

Writing about Brian Wilson, The Beach Boys, and the miraculous release of the (miraculous) SMiLE Sessions, this is my brief take on the times and circumstances Wilson instigated, embraced and inevitably became overwhelmed by:

Speaking of America and dreams, there is one overriding rule. We want our artists to earn it, to mean it, and sometimes the world sees to it that they suffer. If any single artist left it all, every scrap of his ambition and energy, on the table, it’s Brian Wilson. He did not pay the ultimate price; he did not die. But for an unconscionable number of years—and years that got broken into months into weeks into hours into minutes into seconds like all the grains in a sandbox—Wilson had to reconcile himself to what must have seemed an irreconcilable verdict: a senseless world declared that he was insane. And then, having to live with a failure only he could be accountable for, even if blame could fairly be laid at the rubber souls of almost everyone that surrounded him.

For anyone new to the story, or unfamiliar with the intricacies therein, it might be useful to summarize what has long been rock and roll’s ultimate cautionary tale. There was this band called the Beach Boys and they crafted best-selling pop confections about cars, surfing and girls. Driven by the increasingly determined—and restless—frontman, the group dropped Pet Sounds on a mostly unprepared world. How influential was it? Paul McCartney who, at that time, brooked competition from no other mortal not named John Lennon, was intimidated, and ultimately inspired by what he heard. In typical Fab Four fashion, he and his mates rose to the challenge and first Revolver, then Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band followed. Of course, Pet Sounds was not a commercial success, at least compared with previous number-one-with-a-bullet efforts from admittedly less complicated times. This did not sit well with some of Wilson’s sidemen, particularly the Kiddie-Pool deep Mike Love.

A lot more on the making, breaking and reviving of the SMiLE legend HERE.

Talk about an opening statement, and statement of purpose. This is the sound of a revolution:

And then it’s a succession of brilliance, one miniature pop-opera at a time. It’s the sound of Brian Wilson maturing and growing into his genius. Not for nothing did Paul McCartney hear this and know he had to up his (already considerable, and all but peerless) game.

Brian Wilson was perfecting a somewhat unprecedented type of songwriting here: upbeat (sounding) but reflective, almost pensive ballads. No question The Beatles were listening closely to songs like “Don’t Talk (Put Your Head On My Shoulder)” and “That’s Not Me” (see: Mac’s songs on the subsequent Revolver). Check it out:

Whimsy, possibly enhanced by the ingestion of some consciousness-expanding substances, resulted in songs that are equal parts silly and audacious. It’s hard to imagine Beefheart and Syd Barrett having the balls, or ability, to take their next steps without a song like “Sloop John B”. It is disarmingly simple, but not simplistic. If nothing else, the arrangement is a delivery device for those voices: Wilson (as the image on the back cover, copied above, illustrates) was pushing himself, and his mates, to blend their vocals in increasingly complex and ingenious harmonies.

In hindsight these tracks are equal parts revelation and test run for SMiLE. Regarding the perfection achieved on that recording, I wrote the following:

Until now, the high-water mark of harmonizing, with due respect to Simon and Garfunkel, Crosby Stills and Nash and even earlier Beach Boys material, remains Abbey Road (and it is still astonishing to consider the trajectory The Beatles took, starting with the glistening sheen of the early hits to the mano-a-mano glory of Rubber Soul to the all-in, panoramic sweep of their final work). All that notwithstanding, I’m unsure I’ve heard anything approaching what is happening, on a purely vocal level, throughout SMiLE. It is instructive here to note the bonus tracks, particularly the “SMiLE Backing Vocals Montage”, which make it abundantly obvious how these sounds were stacked, shuffled and overlaid to create miniature symphonies of human voice. To hear these efforts come to fruition in songs as radically different as “Wonderful” (the aforementioned yodel, along with harmonies to rival Side Two of Abbey Road), “Do You Like Worms” (the previously described faux-Hawaiian chanting) or the pinnacle of harmonies and emotion in “Wind Chimes”.

Possibly the most important track (at least to Paul McCartney) is the epic “God Only Knows”. Rather than attempt to articulate its import, I’ll let Mac do the honors:

“It’s a really, really great song—it’s a big favorite of mine. I was asked recently to give my top ten favorite songs for a Japanese radio station…I didn’t think long and hard on it, but I popped that ["God Only Knows"] on the top of my list. [Thinks for a moment] It’s very deep. [Quotes the lyrics to "God Only Knows"] Very emotional, always a bit of a choker for me, that one. There are certain songs that just hit home with me, and they’re the strangest collection of songs…but that is high on the list, I must say.”

More from Macca on Pet Sounds, HERE.

Speaking only for myself, I love Pet Sounds and appreciate its place as perhaps the single-most important stepping stone for the year (’67) where pop became art (a LOT more on that HERE). For me, Pet Sounds is like Sgt. Pepper in that I seldom listen to it all the way through the way I can later albums I prefer (think SMiLE or Abbey Road –more on the latter HERE). And like Sgt. Pepper, there are a handful of songs that I can listen to repeatedly, anytime, and never grow bored or uninspired. The number one example is “Hang On To Your Ego” (which became “I Know There’s an Answer”, allegedly based on Mike Love’s concerns that the lyrics were too blatantly LSD-inspired. Love must be acknowledged, if nothing else, for being the anti-Wilson in virtually every regard). Which one is better? Personally, I’ll take both.

In the final analysis, even though there are few things I enjoy more than writing about music, there is nothing I enjoy more than listening to music. And that, as ever, is the ultimate –if not only– way a work can account for itself. Listen, learn, appreciate, then repeat for the rest of your life. But the final words should be reserved, not for me, not for McCartney, but for the great man himself. In a song that manages to epitomize everything about Brian Wilson: aesthetically, creatively, as a musician, as a man, we must leave it at “I Just Wasn’t Made For These Times.” Only Wilson could write a composition that at once underscores how out of place, and out of time, he felt; yet in so feeling, he managed (through a possibly unparalleled combination of talent and will) to write a definitive song that inspired the greatness others emulated but possibly never equaled. In rock music’s ultimate irony, Wilson honestly felt he wasn’t a fit for the times he, as much as anyone, helped create. For that alone, attention must always be paid.

Kathryn Schulz has seized the occasion of the newest—and probably not the last—screen adaptation of The Great Gatsby to take the great American novel down several pegs. Indeed, she is not content to critique it; the title of her provocative piece is Why I Despise The Great Gatsby” (Vulture.com, 6 May 2013). Naturally, any critic, any reader, is more than entitled to his or her opinion; art is useless unless it is capable of inspiring. At its best it can inspire pleasure and awe, sympathy and thoughtfulness, but it can and must also inspire criticism, and art that lasts is able to sustain both our scrutiny and the passage of time.

As such, I have no particular qualms with Schulz, or anyone else, expressing disenchantment with a novel so many others worship. In fact, the world needs more, not less people willing or able to interrogate our literary sacred cows and offer views contrary to received and/or inculcated opinion. On the other hand, any analysis that disputes near-universal approbation must do the necessary work on its own behalf. Thus, as a statement of personal preference, I celebrate Schulz’s decision—however opportunistic—to declare her disdain; it’s where she attempts to engage with the novel as a critic that I have reservations, and comments. More, she claims a conspiracy of sorts where we are “not free to dislike this book”. Of course we are; but if we are going to put pen to paper in the service of condemning it, we’d better have insights that are compelling and not clichéd.

First of all, I can usually tell where people are coming from when they assail The Great Gatsby. They are invariably similar to folks who, striking a rebellious or recalcitrant pose, dismiss Shakespeare as overrated or impossible to appreciate. Of course, all too often it becomes disappointingly obvious that many of these people have failed to read many (or any) of the works in question. Of course this scenario applies to many canonical works, whether we’re talking about Mozart, Miles Davis or (sigh) Herman Melville. The reason I associate naysayers of The Great Gatsby  with Shakespeare deniers is because they frequently make the facile and irritating mistake of approaching older works from a current perspective.

To be certain, one of the reasons an eminent work (like The Great Gatsby) appeals to successive generations is its ability to depict truths that cut across time and trends. Ironically, it’s precisely the ways F. Scott Fitzgerald’s masterpiece remains relevant—and revelatory—that offer its best account for posterity. The fact that the action occurs in definite times and places which, at least on superficial levels, seem obsolete, only augments the novel’s import and prescience.

Whenever someone complains about the obviousness or unoriginality of either Shakespeare or Fitzgerald, I am obliged to remind them that the reason their words and symbols seem so readymade is because so many lesser authors have imitated or copied them. Aside from the fact that virtually any of Shakespeare’s mature works and The Great Gatsby can be savored on a line-by-line basis solely for the richness of their language, it’s almost impossible to imagine contemporary writing outside the large shadow they cast. Anytime a symbol from an older work (like, say, Hamlet or Moby Dick) seems hackneyed there’s a good chance it’s because the symbol in question has become such an inextricable part of our culture. Sound pretentious? Think about what the expression “white whale” signifies, or the ways “to be or not to be—that is the question” has been quoted or placed in diverse contexts. Put another way, it’s not the fault of the author if their words have become ubiquitous, and it’s both unfair and inaccurate to damn the work by comparison with the unoriginal or overused ways it is exploited—or abused—by  its acolytes.

I’m accustomed to hearing people protest (too much) about the symbolism in The Great Gatsby, but Schulz levels two complaints that I’m not sure I’ve heard associated with this particular book, and I think, as is normally the case, they reveal more about her than Fitzgerald’s prose. The first is that the characters are unlikable, a quibble I’d expect from a college sophomore or someone who reads books about reality TV stars. Now, to be clear, some of our better scribes have been able to render terrible people as both amusing and endearing. This is something Martin Amis has practically made a career out of, nowhere more successfully than in his masterpiece Money. But who needs or wants to like all the characters in a work of fiction?

Complaining about the novel she wished Fitzgerald had written, Schulz complains “Indeed, The Great Gatsby is less involved with human emotion than any book of comparable fame I can think of. None of its characters are likable. None of them are even dislikable, though nearly all of them are despicable.” It is, presumably, a given that both Tom and Daisy are supposed to be unsympathetic (for my money they are, to Fitzgerald’s considerable credit, portrayed as two of the most despicable characters in all literature). But let’s take a look at the primary players for whom Schulz can summon neither love nor hate. In a book (the book) delineating shallow, misguided and spiritually hollow people, Schulz can’t fathom why Fitzgerald would create such…shallow, misguided and spiritually hollow people! One scarcely knows where to begin, but I’ll take a shot.

As narrator (reliable? What can we take from the fact that he is writing this, years and miles removed from the events being depicted, safe, chastened, dissatisfied, maybe a tad sentimental, still, for the things that might have been had Gatsby been just a little bit greater?), Nick is not supposed to be especially likable. In fact, he’s supposed to be exactly what he is: a passive, voyeuristic coward; the guy who silently goes along with everyone and everything even though he—as the less-than-reliable narration would have us believe—knew better. Here is Schulz’s assessment: “At no point are we given cause, or room, to feel complicit. Our position throughout is that of an innocent bystander. That’s also Nick’s role, so the perspective of the book becomes one of passive observation…Yet he never admits to collusion with or seduction by all the fabulous depravity around him. After it’s all over, he retreats to the Midwest and, figuratively and literally, tells his story from the safe remove of America’s imaginary moral high ground.” Does it occur to Schulz that part of Nick’s unspoken story is the possibility that, had Gatsby not been killed, he would have contentedly continued to lick his rich benefactor’s boot heels? Perhaps Schulz also suspects that in Poe’s tale Amontillado is the bad guy, or that Marlow is just as culpable as Mr. Kurtz, because he kind of sat around and watched the evil unfold?

Along these lines, Schulz commits the most egregious, and embarrassingly shallow of sins: conflating Nick as narrator with Fitzgerald as actual person. Granted, this type of insouciant psychoanalysis is practically de rigueur in today’s literary scene (including most college English departments), but it not only undermines the point(s) Schulz attempts to make, it leaves them difficult to take seriously. Worse, she hones in on what she believes exposes Fitzgerald’s ultimate character flaw: the fact that he struggled with his contempt for the wealthy and his ambition to be well-off. Gee, sound like anyone you know?

Perhaps, just to take one glaring example, a certain demographic in our country that consistently votes against its best interest, enabling taxes on the wealthiest fraction to shrivel because of the infinitesimal chance they, too, might one day be flush? As F. Scott Fitzgerald puts it, knocking it out of the park better than anyone not named H.L. Mencken: “Americans, while occasionally willing to be serfs, have always been obstinate about being peasantry.” It’s what the novel says about those who are not wealthy that comprises the dark heart of its wonder—and acumen—and anyone failing to see the flappers and fools providing their gin are so much expensive scenery misses the entire point.

Schulz also laments that she can’t find sufficient reason to believe in Gatsby’s love for Daisy (indeed, she can’t believe in Gatsby and Daisy, period). I find this incredible: how can anyone read this novel and not understand Gatsby’s love for Daisy is unbelievable, in part because it is unfeasible; it is, in fact, impossible—an illusion. Like so many could-have-been-a-contender parables, he snatched at his brass ring (erected his Xanadu, etc.), and found, to his chagrin, it was not sustainable. And all that business about “You can’t repeat the past?” Hint: Nick (and/or Fitzgerald) is not just talking about Gatsby there; he’s talking about all of us, and understanding this puts the entire narrative in sharp, devastating focus. The tragedy of the novel is, ultimately, not a bunch of incurious, brutal people behaving badly; it’s that everyone, affluent or indigent, has a human desire to get more than they’ll receive, and an instinctive awareness they get less attractive, healthy and proficient after exceeding a certain age.

Once again, Schulz laments Fitzgerald’s inability to write the book she would have felt more comfortable reading, underscoring how grievously she is missing the mark: “On the page, Fitzgerald’s moralizing instinct comes off as cold; the chill that settles around The Great Gatsby is an absence of empathy.” On the contrary; what Fitzgerald does, with these ostensibly soulless and unpleasant people, is interrogate cause and effect, motive and aftermath, and all aspects of that myth sold to us as the American Dream. He takes this construction and places it on the operating table, dissecting what causes it to breathe, thrive and rot from the inside out. In this single regard, Fitzgerald was more prophetic than his critics can comprehend: he predicted how the roaring ‘20s would end and be remembered before they expired. If the people (like Nick) who wind up on the outside looking in see nothing but emptiness, it’s because all vanity, in the end, returns to the ashes whence it sprang. Fitzgerald is not describing anything Ecclesiastes did not say first, if less poetically.

In addition, he depicted the way Americans would react to every calamity of the 20th Century: after each debacle, the architects of said crisis waltz away, licking their wounds and counting their cash. No amount of dour intuition could have prepared Fitzgerald to imagine that, in the 21st century, they also get paid to scold the complicit masses (receiving book deals, going into politics or appearing on TV—the lucky ones doing all three). Think about the cowards in Congress today, who lustily passed legislation (and deregulation) that hastened the latest crash, now pushing austerity (but not higher taxes!). It isn’t that their methods or strategies are predictable (they are), it’s the narrative they employ that is so quintessentially American: cynicism covered in money, preaching solidarity.

In one of the most quoted passages of the book, Tom and Daisy are described as “careless people…they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made.” One need look no further than Wall Street, or Iraq, or the budgetary realities of a small town under sequestration to see, even with eyes wide shut, the ways everything Fitzgerald held his mirror up to are reflecting back at us, bigger, uglier and more shameless than they ever were a century ago. In America it is not only romance and nostalgia that ensure we are borne, ceaselessly to the past.

http://www.popmatters.com/pm/feature/171337-the-greatness-of-the-gatsby/

With the emotional baggage associated with things like Mother’s Day and my birthday, it’s nice –and necessary– to step back and fully appreciate my family and friends.

This was my birthday message, via Facebook to that extended network: I’m blessed, to the point of embarrassment, by the number of amazing, generous, inspiring people I’m fortunate to call friends. I love all of you!

And so I do.

But sometimes even that considerable bulwark against negative thoughts is not enough.

Fortunately, for me, I always have music. Let me say that again: I ALWAYS HAVE MUSIC.

(When all else fails (and all else always fails) there is music. When the emotions and awareness start to squeeze their way behind your mind, giving way to those awful times when you wonder how you can possibly find peace or make sense of anything ever again, music is there when you need it most. August 27, 2002 was the first day of the rest of my life. Anyone who has lost a loved one will recall (or half-recall) the blur of events that come after, all of which are a blessing in the disguise of distraction. I did a lot of driving: driving from father’s house to my place, from funeral home to father’s place, to the airport to pick up relatives. The emotions and sensations would become overwhelming at times, and there are those interminable hours when you are not even certain what is real or who you are. During one of these episodes I was coming or going somewhere and I had not been paying attention to my car stereo, and then I came to my senses, recognizing a song I’d heard hundreds of times: in this crucial moment it broke through that haze like the sun and saved my life. I can’t count how many times something similar has happened, though it’s possible I never needed music as much as I did on this desperate occasion.)

Here’s the bottom line: when I contemplate whatever life has in store for me, or even if I allow myself to entertain the worst case scenarios regarding what I could have been or might become, as long as my ears work, all will never be lost. In this regard I echo the letter of Paul to the Corinthians, which is obligatory reading at every wedding: and though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. I feel that, and I don’t know many people who would attempt to contradict such a beautiful, irrefutable sentiment. But I reckon, if everything else was removed from my life, including love, I could find meaning and solace if I still had music. If I’m ever reduced to a bed-bound wreck, so long as I have ears to listen with, I’ll never be beyond redemption; I’ll always be willing to draw one more breath. Take away my ability to write, speak, see the world, smell the air, drink, eat or emote, this life will still be worth living if I can hear those sounds.

Which is why I make a request to my friends, family and the medical establishment: even if I’m someday in that coma and every professional would wager a year’s salary that there is no possible way I’m able to hear anything, as long as my heart is still beating please, no matter what else you do, keep the music playing in my presence until I’m cold. Because no matter what you think or whatever you’re praying for, as long as I can hear that music I’m already in a better place than wherever you imagine or hope I’m heading toward.

Here are ten of the best things that have ever happened to me. The sounds never cease to make me smile, and restore me. Naturally I could list many thousands of alternatives (and have done so, on this very blog, over the years). Here are ten special ones that help me help myself.

(Let me know which ones you would pick!)

1. Ornette Coleman, “Congeniality” (more on Coleman HERE):

2. Bob Marley, “Coming In From The Cold” (more on Marley HERE):

3. The Allman Brothers Band, “Jessica” (could have easily gone with “Revival” here, as well):

4. Black Sabbath, “A Hard Road”:

(Here is what I had to say about this song, in 2011: how can anyone be unmoved by the crowded pub singalong of “Hard Road”? This last song, which showcases every member of the band lending their voice, is a tour de force of optimism and the tough-love Sabbath doled out more convincingly than anyone of this era. It also features an Iommi solo (2:50-3:25) that could possibly save your life, if you let it. Listen to the chorus and crack the code to Sabbath’s last great gasp: “Forget all your sorrow, don’t live in the past/And look to the future, ‘cause life goes too fast—you know.” More on that album HERE and a lot more on Sabbath HERE and HERE.)

5. Beethoven (Yes, I just went from Black Sabbath to Beethoven; that’s how I roll!), “Les Adieux Sonata, 3rd Movement”:

6. Mozart, “Piano Concerto No. 27, 3rd Movement”:

7. John Coltrane, “Cousin Mary” (A lot more on Coltrane HERE):

8. The Mighty Diamonds, “Pass The Kouchie” (more on the Might Diamonds HERE):

9. The Pretenders, “Stop Your Sobbing” (a lot more on Chrissie Hynde and crew, HERE):

10. Yes, “Awaken”:

(Here is what I had to say in 2011 when I declared this the #11 prog song of all time –the entire list can be found HERE:

1977 was not only about clothespins and green-toothed sneers: just as punk was gaining steam, Yes, the band that represented everything everyone hated about “dinosaur rock”, returned with their best album in ages, Going For The One. “Awaken” is, along with the aforementioned “Dogs” and “Cygnus X-1, Book II: Hemispheres”, one of the last (near) side-long epics of the era. It would be difficult to deny that this track features the most compelling (and convincing) work both Jon Anderson and Rick Wakeman ever did. Many people did—and do—instinctively retch at the idea of Wakeman playing a pipe organ (recorded in a cathedral) and Anderson’s sweet schizophrenia of multi-tracked exultations. Their loss; this is prog-rock as opera, and it never got better than this: a fully realized distillation of emotion and energy as only Yes could do it. There is something irrepressible and life-affirming about this music, and in a market (then, now) where cynicism and scheming are the default settings, this unabashed—and unapologetic—devotion to an unjaded vision could almost be considered revolutionary.)

I’m fortunate, in a sense, to be the type of person that gets more sentimental about the times I read a certain book or heard a particular album than I ever do about holidays. But I’m still human. I still recall the almost breathless inability to accelerate time and make Christmas arrive more quickly. Or the Halloween costumes, Easter candy or the great Thanksgiving feasts (and the not-so-great family fights that would sometimes ensue). The holidays, as idealized rites of passage, still resonate; but these occasions are not capable of enhancing or obliterating whatever mood I’m already in. As such, the absence of my mother might feel more acute on holidays, but none of these events have been unduly marred during the past decade.

Surprisingly, even the week that presents a triptych of raw remembrance, comprising her birthday (August 23), and the anniversaries of her death (August 26) and funeral (August 30) have been bearable. These have become prospects for celebration, however somber, and I am mostly able to channel that grief into gratitude for the times she was around. Similarly, Mother’s Day is seldom joyful, but it provides an imperative to consider happy times and my relative good fortune—despite what is obviously lacking, now. It also obliges me to behold my family members and friends who have become admirable mothers themselves, and I am humbled to see my mother alive in the looks they give their children.

And if I’m ever inclined to stop and consider how corny, or manufactured these sentiments may be, I console myself with the awareness of how increasingly corny and manufactured holidays in America have become.

***

Any time I need to be reminded that I am one of the lucky ones, I look at the picture taken the day I was born. The pose is not unique; virtually every child has at least one frameable shot of the post-delivery adoring gaze. Or, every child fortunate enough to have been born in a hospital (or home) under safe conditions to a mother who welcomes the moment and, most importantly, is prepared for the moments (and days and years) that will follow. I don’t need to resort to religion or sociology: I can simply consider the circumstances and the infinitesimal odds that I ever made it from my father to my mother in the first place (if you know what I mean).

What child cannot recall asking, on Mother’s Day, why there wasn’t a Kid’s Day? The response was always the same: Every day is Kid’s Day. Most of us who have lived a single hour in the so-called real world quickly came to register how accurate this tired cliché actually is. Indeed, those of us who were sufficiently well-raised didn’t need to wait that long for this epiphany to occur. A year or two punching the clock, paying bills, cleaning up one’s own messes—the literal and especially the figurative ones—and generally attaining that independent status one strove so single-mindedly to attain is impetus enough for reflection. Not merely an appraisal of how impossible it would be to repay the investment made, measured in money, time, affection and approbation, but a recognition of what was truly at stake: the selflessness your parents displayed, putting in all that effort to enable you to become your own person. The best gift a parent can give (you come to understand) is loving you enough to allow you to not be exactly like them; to encourage you to figure out exactly who you are supposed to become.

***

Holidays have not been intolerable, no more than any other day, especially the bad days when I miss my mother most. As a result, I reckon I’m not the only one who has found that my birthday is the single occasion that can never be the same. Inexorable nostalgic pangs, the pull of biological imperatives, or the simple fact that I’m still human has ensured that the annual recognition of my birth day is imbued with sadness and a heavy longing I don’t feel any other time. If so, it seems a reasonable trade-off: that deep and uncomplicated connection, along with the longing any child can comprehend, signifies that yet another cliché holds true: absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Every time I scribble a thought with artistic intent I am inspired by the support my mother offered, going back to the days I was a kid with crayons, coloring outside the lines while listening to The Nutcracker Suite. She will never be forgotten; in fact, she will never be gone. This is what helps and it is also, at times, what hurts.

***

How do you get over the loss?

That is the question I asked a former girlfriend who lost her father when she was a teenager. “You don’t,” she said. Hearing this, you can acknowledge—and appreciate—the sentiment; you can easily empathize with how inconceivable it is to possibly heal from that kind of heartbreak. But it isn’t until you experience it that you comprehend the inexplicable ways this reality is an inviolable aspect of our existence: it’s worse than you could ever envision, but if you’re one of the lucky ones, it’s also more redemptory than you might have imagined. Mostly, you accept that a day will seldom pass when you don’t think of the one you loved and lost. And more, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Every day is Kid’s Day, and who would hope to change that?

Every day, for me, is Mother’s Day. And on my birthday, I don’t celebrate myself so much as acknowledge—and appreciate—the one who did the most to help me get here.

* From a memoir entitled Please Talk About Me When I’m Gone.