Being a musician is not the noblest of pursuits. It’s not a career path by any stretch of the imagination—more of a career escape plan than anything else. Why, if Holden Caulfield picked up a goddamn guitar half way through The Catcher in the Rye, he would have beaten both Nirvana and the Clash to the punch. My next sentence was going to be something like, “and then maybe John Lennon would never have been murdered.” But that is probably bullshit. Lennon’s murderer would merely have had some other book in his pocket when he pulled the trigger, killing much more than a husband and a father. The book could have just as easily been Lord of the fucking Rings if it would fit in a pocket. Or Goodnight Moon.

But it was The Catcher in the Rye, which has since become a memento reminding us of the murder of one of the great songwriters in all of rock ‘n’ roll. One of the architects of rock music, working class heroes, and revolution through art. I fucking hate that.

It’s just a book.

Had J.D. Salinger not been such a devout and angry recluse, clinging to his art in a way that is just unheard of in today’s 360 deal world, the book would have a lot less mystique behind it. Mystique is what makes something seem greater than it really is. I don’t watch television hardly ever, yet I had to stop listening to the Who’s Next, once one of my favorite Who albums, because now it sounds like a bunch of teasers for CBS. The mystique of those songs is gone for me now, sold off to pay the fucking bills. How sad is that? Or is that just me romanticizing some moment when those songs saved me or made me pump my fist or shotgun a tall boy with a mouth full of reefer smoke? I don’t own those songs. They are not mine, never were, never will be. They’re just chords and words and Keith Moon bashing away, right? Why should I give a damn what Pete Townshend does with them? They’re his songs, sell them to Glenn Beck for all I should care.

But I do care.

There’s the rub. Like The Catcher in the Rye, and the Who, and John Lennon, the really good shit gets under your skin like some sort of reverse parasite. Instead of feeding off you, you feed off it. I have to admit The Catcher in the Rye never fed me much beyond the words I am now writing, but the Who did, before some of their best songs became the TV show equivalent of high fructose corn syrup. There I go again, thinking I own them, or that they owe me something. When, during your darkest days, music (or a book) is all you got, you feel it becomes a part of you and your relationship with it becomes irrational. But then, art is irrational in and of itself, isn’t it? Its healing and companionship properties cannot be explained, nor its beauty, pain, or other invocations. All I know is, for a sizable chunk of humanity, we would be dead without it. And a very small chunk died because of it. Don’t get me wrong. Lennon did not die because of art, be it his own or J.D. Salinger’s. Lennon died because it’s a fucked up world full of fucked up, crazy people. And we all look more or less the same until we pull out a gun and start shooting. John Lennon died for the same reason art exists.

Opening the book again

Salinger clung to his stories as if they were sculptures unavailable for adaptation. Adaptation is fine for the origin of species, but it is an art killer more often than not. For every “All Along the Watchtower” by Hendrix there are 50 “Tutti Frutti’s by Pat fucking Boone. And of course, I am writing this while Hollywood is in front of the mirror primping for its red carpet sojourn to cemented celebrity status where adaptation is celebrated like a cure for blindness. Nah, I do not hate the goddamn movies like Holden Caulfield did. I kind of hate what they represent though. All those self-important people cursed with genius, fame, money, and occasionally talent, but blessed with lawyers, accountants, and agents—bunch of goddamn phonies—if I can be so bold as to steal from The Catcher. I suppose that makes me a phony, too.

If murder really was inspired by The Catcher in the Rye, then John Lennon should have been the last man to get shot. Paul maybe—but only during that awful Heather Mills era. In truth, Paul was still broken from losing Linda, the greatest love of his life. So, in my book he is wholly forgiven for that transgression. For Paul needed a wife like Linda who could tell him, I don’t care that you wrote “Blackbird” and “Hey Jude”, go change the litter box and take out the goddamn garbage. If Lennon’s murderer really was inspired by The Catcher in the Rye (and I do not believe he was), he would have gone to the Oscars and unloaded on the red carpet.

Now if you are capable of translating the above words into me advocating the murder of anyone, you’re crazy as a shithouse rat and not even worthy of this sentence I’m giving you. Look, I’m not even sure I have a point here, okay? All I’m trying to say is, don’t let some crazy fuck take away our art or assign it a history that is coincidental at best and circumstantial at worst. When I listen to the song “Helter Skelter”, I do not think of Sharon Tate or her murderers; in fact, I try to not think at all—thinking is the road to ruin when it comes to art. If I end up thinking while listening to “Helter Skelter”, it’s usually of Bono with his perennially open yapper telling the crowd he’s stealing the song back from another crazy asshole rotting away in prison. The thing is, that song was never stolen. Maybe it was given up by Beatle fans distraught over the news that day, but it can’t be stolen—only abused and poorly adapted.

I started this column off by stating that being a musician is not a noble pursuit. If you want proof, try and watch either of those self-absorbed “We Are the World” music catastrophes. If I was chest high in rubble and you sang that song for me I’d think—no, I’d know—you’re nothing but a bunch of goddamn phonies. Adaptation at its fucking worst—adapting empathy and adapting compassion and adapting goddamn celebrity.

While being a musician may not be noble in pursuit, it can be honorable in its intentions if you know where to look. Local to my music scene and void of the chancre that is celebrity, there are bands playing to generate money for the earthquakes in Haiti and Chile, and for Doctors without Borders. These charitable acts are performed by artists cursed with nothing more than the need to write and play music, and blessed with a sense of duty to help those who need it. That’s what Holden Caulfield missed in his privileged prep school world. That’s what murderers who use art to justify their actions lack utterly. They’re all a bunch of goddamn crazy phonies if you ask me.

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