FEBRUARY 4TH, 1971 AND ROLLING STONE MAGAZINE GIVES ITS READERSHIP, "LADIES & GENTS, LEONARD COHEN"
AMONGST THE STORIES ABOUT BUSTS, LEGAL DEBACLES, "WHO IS SUEING WHO", AND THE BEST LP'S OF THE WINTER OF '71, HELLO LEONARD
I can remember sitting in the newspaper office, of the Muskoka Lakes-Georgian Bay Beacon, situated back then, on the main street of the Village of MacTier, (circa January 1979), crying towel on my lap (below the desk so no one could see it) and feeling the salt stinging the open wound, sprinkled liberally, by each song, I emotionally recalled, from "our once upon a times," now blaring out of the office radio. All that winter, I hated the radio and the songs it transmitted. The layout staff wouldn't let me shut it off. I wanted to stomp on it, like she stomped on me. Those songs that reminded me of my former girlfriend, and our five years together, (and all the friends we had to socialize with, in those good old days, that I lost in the settlement); and then there was the happenstance framing of the wretched way I felt then, having just received the proverbial heave-ho, with no solace whatsoever to be found in music! Music was not helping me at this point. All of which imprinted upon my worn-out soul, with the sharp essence of sadness, that I was unhappily single again. What was the point of it all? I'd given the best years of my life to this women, and then she ripped my heart out of my ear, and then danced an Irish jig on the lowly beating vestige of my humanity! Yes, I did feel like a tool for taking it this hard. It's also true, that eventually, a more substantial foray into music of the period, broke me free of the broken relationship syndrome. If I was to admit my revitalization was courtesy the LP's of "Kansas" and "Toto" would you be surprised? I was! Still am!
What is music supposed to do for us hardcore, semi-hardcore, dedicated, but not obsessed, casual, but-not-reading-stuff-into-it listeners? Seeing as there aren't any rules about this, unless you happened to be a musician, or music scholar, generally speaking, and I think it's pretty safe to say, one takes from any musical experience, what they find appealing or not so much. We all have those moments in our harried everyday existence, when music inspires us onward, and potentially, also becomes an annoyance under certain circumstances. If you happen to have a pounding headache, maybe the sound of genuine silence is what is best suited. If you are just about to enter an ultimate fighting, or cage-match, maybe you need some upbeat music, like Rocky, before he met Apolo Creed in the boxing ring. I have always used music in this way, and although I hate to admit it, especially with an excerpt of a 1971 interview with poet / musician, Leonard Cohen, presented below, you see folks, I have never paid particular attention to the words. I like the work of Cohen and Bob Dylan, but mostly the music. The only way either performer could have been my motivation, at any time, was due to the instrumentation; the music and not so much the words. The words to Don McLean's "American Pie," for gosh sakes! Everyone knew and sang along when it came on the radio. Being honest with ourselves for a moment, how many great songs out there, have mumbled lyrics that are buried by the power and glory of the tune; and I for one, can live with that reality. For a whack of songs, made popular as political and anti-war protests, you pretty much needed, in my day, the actual music sheet in front of you, with words, and a side-bar booklet, to explain what it all means.
Even astute lyric followers, have been fooled by hidden meanings in the lyrics. Ah, the poet / musician. I have always felt it was a tremendous shortfall on my part, avoiding the embedded message of these hugely influential social / cultural songs we marched to, in spirit, letting "the man" know how oppressed we were feeling. I wonder what percentage of these musicians were aware, just how many listeners out there, were embracing their music, without knowing what the hell the words meant; or what protest they may be embracing without knowing it? I think this statistic would be pretty alarming to musicians who expect their lyrics to mean something, to fans, more than being a sort-of wordy static, we have come to accept as part of the whole listening experience. Many of the great symphonies didn't have lyrics, and they were adored by fans?
No matter how much I try to justify being a heathen, not knowing the words of the song (just about any song), point is, there's a lot of us, and we support musicians endlessly, as is evidenced by the billions that are spent each year, by fans expressing their opinions on what is popular and what isn't. Should they be given a test however, how many out of every thousand hardcore fans, could accurately represent the lyrics, and the message, by only listening to the music? From a scholarly perspective, I do find it interesting, in my own retrospective, however late in life, to revisit this shortfall of music knowledge. I've got a long way to go, in order to catch up with my sons, who have a much better appreciation of lyrics; in part, because as music teachers, they feel obliged to learn the songs they teach. They inspire me to seek the truth. Yup, and sometimes I've even ruined the good vibes of a song, by finding out, when reading and interpreting the lyrics, it meant something completely different than what I had for long and long, believed. Now that's a bummer.
Weird thing is, I studied poetry and creative writing in university, with some well known Canadian poets, and learned all about those magnificent hidden meanings, that tempt the reader to delve deeper for greater satisfaction. I just never applied it to musicians and song writers' craft. I knew I should have, but all the easy listening made me lazy.
In this, the last chapter of my week-long foray, into the popular music scene of the late 1960's, and early 1970's, courtesy the small but neat collection of "Rolling Stone" magazines, son Andrew purchased recently, from a local collector. It's been an enlightening couple of weeks, and I've re-lived quite a few of those music moments, that I knew from my teenage years, including my jags of unspecified rebellion, the angry years, the drinking era, and the love and lost-love period of my early twenties; when every song on the radio reminded me of old girlfriends and the friends I used to have! Thanks for joining me on this little trip back in music history, and thanks so much, to the publishers of Rolling Stones, for all these years keeping us informed about the lyrics we didn't appreciate, and the performers who asked too little of us, or way too much. Here now is the final installment, and I'd liked to begin with a little offering of Leonard Cohen, a deep, deep well of profound thought! I'm pretty sure!
"SAN FRANCISCO - Leonard Cohen's fans are 'word' people. They believe a song's lyrics are more important than its instrumentation, packaging, or the lead singer's crotch. It could even be that for most of them, words have become the first-aid station, in the preventive detention camp of the feelings. Certainly they are all helpless romantics, trapped by rage in the age of efficiency," wrote Jack Hafferkamp, in the article running the length of page 26, in the February 4th, 1971 issue of Rolling Stone. The article falls under the black and white portrait of a mindful, philosophical Cohen, looking up from the microphone, as if expecting, well, "the unexpected."
Hafferkamp continues his overview of Cohen, writing, "Cohen, of course, is crazy, but he is cunning enough to keep on the loose. A mystery man with a big nose, he is a 'beautiful creep.' He wants to be handsome but settles for looking better than he expected. And wishing to be slick, he succeeds just enough to keep on wishing. He has no desire to be a pop star, yet he wants to sell records."
The Rolling Stone article continues, "Over the house phone at Berkely's stately old Claremont Hotel, he agrees to a few questions, only after I assure him that we will meet on equal terms. 'I never do interviews,' he says. 'I prefer an interviewer to take the same risks that I do. In other words, not to make a question and answer kind of scene, because I'm interested in......like a description from your side,....to practice the novelist's rather than the interviewer's art. Say, like what was the feeling of the interviewer, and how does that relate to the work we all know. Rather than like....put me on the line for this or that type of question'. Cohen ordered a scotch and soda for me from room service - at the time it seemed like the perfect drink. He introduced me to Charlie Daniels, a member of his touring band, the Army. Once an 80 cigarette-a-day addict. Charlie is now down to five sticks of gum at once."
"As I set up the tape recorder, Cohen turned down the sound from the TV. He left the picture tuned to Lassie. A definite feeling of uncertainty settled around us, the intruders. Cohen carefully scrutinized us. He repeated his insistence that our meeting be held on common ground. 'I had to be reminded of other things I've said. It's just sheer fatigue which has allowed me to conduct this whole scene. I don't believe in it, you know. One of the reasons I'm on tour is to meet people. I consider it a recognissance. You know, like in a military operation. I don't feel like a citizen. I feel like I know exactly what I have to do. Part of it is familiarizing myself with what people are thinking and doing. The kind of shape people are in, is what I am interested in determining....because I want to lay out any information I have, and I want to make it appropriate. So if I can find where people are at any particular moment, it makes it easier for me to discover if I have anything to say that is relevant to the situation."
Hafferkamp writes of Cohen, "A refugee from the men's garment industry (he pushed clothes racks for a time), he has arrived at 36 years of age. He is tastefully dressed in conservatively flared tan pants, black shirt, and bush jacket, but he carefully denies affluence by keeping himself particularly emaciated. He firmly believes that women are gaining control of the world and that it is just. He empathizes, 'Women are really strong. You notice how strong they are? Well, let them take over. Let us be what we're supposed to be - gossips, musicians, wrestlers. The premise being, there can be no free men unless there are free women.'
"His stories, poems and songs are all quite personal, written to and about himself, and the lifetimes, he has drifted through. Sometimes nakedly, but just as often humorously, he looks down from the cross and decides that crucifixion may as well be holy. He answers cautiously, but once begun, his conversation glides as easily from the writing of his books to the writing of his songs. 'As I've said before, just because the lines don't come to the end of the page doesn't necessarily qualify it as poetry. Just because they do, doesn't make them prose. Oh, I'm continually blackening pages."
I think the most profound article I've read so far, in this spiraling down through the ages, of the Rolling Stone magazine, is the same issue's, part two interview with John Lennon, entitled "Life With The Lions," by writer, Jann Wenner. It sums up for me, much of what I've questioned, about musicians and artists, however latently, during the period of the late 1960's and 70's, and about the idolization of these celebrities, some worn-out and tossed aside when the trend of affection wears thin. In the opening paragraph of the interview, Lennon makes it abundantly clear, "If I could be a f---in' fisherman I would. If I had the capabilities of being something other than I am, I would. It's no fun being an artist. You know what it's like, writing, it's torture. I read about Van Gogh, Beethoven, any of the f--kers. If they had psychiatrists, we wouldn't have had Gauguin's great pictures. These bastards are just sucking us to death; that's about all that we can do, is do it like circus animals." He continues his rant, "I resent being an artist, in that respect. I resent performing for f--king idiots, who don't know anything. They can't feel. I'm the one that is expressing. They live vicariously through me and other artists, and we are the ones...even with the boxers - when Oscar comes in the ring, they're boeing the shit out of him; he only hits Clay once and they're all cheering him. I'd sooner be in the audience, really, but I'm not capable of it!"
Geez John, now I feel really bad about my music appreciation inadequacies. What's a lost soul in music to do? "Dust in the wind," yup, just dust in the wind. I feel it blowing now.
What's Yet to Come for This Blogger - It's a month and a couple of days, until I ripen and fall off the vine, Suzanne tells me, which means I hit the six decade mark; "the one foot in the grave" time of life, she says, with a cheek to cheek grin, although I have the last laugh. Suzanne is a year older than me. I figure I've got to have the month of my life then, in order to hit sixty on the fly. I'd like to go pubing in England and Scotland, but work prohibits such extravagance. I might like to canoe through Algonquin Park, on my seemingly endless quest to find out who murdered artist Tom Thomson. I've got two years to work on this, to match it up with the 100th anniversary of his death, of alleged drowning, in early July, 1917, while traversing Canoe Lake on a fishing trip. This is a more likely scenario, that jumping aboard the Orient Express, for one of those wild train adventures you see in films, or heading to some exotic south seas island, to write my long-planned novel. I should be able to wrap it up in a month. Suzanne tells people, interested in my historical vignettes, published on her Facebook Page (Currie's Antiques), that I am a prolific writer, and I'm pretty sure to her, it means "space hog," and "I can't believe this guy won't stop writing for God's sake." After reading John Lennon's interview, back in that 1971 Rolling Stone article, I don't know whether I've been having fun as a writer for all these years, or that I've just been fooling myself, about the virtues of being creative. Methinks it has a lot to do, I hate to admit this..., "not" being as successful as John Lennon was, because honestly, unless it's been an extended dream to the contrary, I've never felt in demand, only to make coffee and donut runs for the newsroom, and to my knowledge, I've never had one groupie, to call my own, or one pair of knickers thrown at me....from a fan. I enjoy myself as a writer most of all, because there is no great demand, and thus, no weight of responsibility, to out perform the last best effort. I suppose I do know what John Lennon was writing about, and I suppose, reluctantly, that obscurity and mild success has been good for me. I'm going to hit 60 years of age, feeling pretty much unscathed by the burden of celebrity. I have no strings attached, unless you count my joint ownership in this family antique business, and the fact I'm the lead picker running from sale to sale, venue to venue, to keep up our stock. Oh well. At least I've got the quiet time of being an unfettered writer with a Pulitzer head of steam. To hell with 60. With all the juice and vegetation, Suzanne insists I consume, as part of my healthy lifestyle, I figure it's entitled me to a second shot at the fifties I spent worried about turning sixty.
Lots more to come, as I find adventures out there on the hustings. I've got a lot of living to jam into the next sixty years of my life.
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