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Column: Tell Em Man
Lou Reed: Metal Machine Maniac
Typically the category of self-destruction most closely associated with rock ‘n’ roll is the too-much-too-soon excess that inspires otherwise gifted individuals to take their new-found wealth and snort it, or inject it, or drive it into a swimming pool. Rarer is the sort of performer whose slow-burning career instills a sort of artistic self-destructiveness designed to help maintain a certain comfortable distance from glittery stardom. Some legendary artists have fallen into this latter category—Neil Young, Paul Westerberg—but the all-time champion of antagonistic crash-and-burn renegades has to be Lou Reed.
Throughout his long and occasionally sordid career, Reed has commonly veered left of just about all expectations from fans, critics, producers, and bandmates. Beginning when he went AWOL on the Velvet Underground after completing their one and only bid at commercial success, Reed has consistently followed a creative triumph with at least one effort designed to drive us all insane. Surely there have been some pharmaceutical explanations for this behavior, but for the most part it would seem that Reed just loves to piss people off.
In an uncharacteristic show of civility, Reed thoughtfully contemplates this facet of his persona in this 1982 interview. By all accounts clean and sober by this time, the songwriter acknowledges his destructive tendencies and stands by them, no matter who he managed to offend, even taking some jabs at the state of popular music and radio at that time that ring unsurprisingly true in our age of nostalgia for the not-so-distant past.
Pete Townshend: Classy and Articulate
Pete Townshend would be widely regarded as a self-important arse if he weren’t Pete Townshend. As the principle songwriter in one of the most ambitious, frustrating, but ultimately beloved rock ‘n’ roll bands ever, he’s earned the right to hold court on just about any subject. With the Who, he first mashed up the residue from half an art school education with the aesthetic of West End mods and a touch of violence, creating the ultimate expression of teen nihilism. Next, the resultant sound was tempered with equal parts mysticism and theatricality, inventing, for better or worse, the rock opera. From there it was a fast ascent to the upper stratosphere of international superstardom accompanied by the anthemic fist pumping and what-does-it-all-mean navel gazing we’ve come to expect from rock gods. And we’ve come to expect it because Townshend and the Who invented it, and every popular band since has done their best to repeat it.
This history affords Townshend the authority to speak as he does: In conversation as in music, he is unafraid to explore any avenue, treating each topic with respect and humor and following it until he can go no further, as he would a song. This 1982 interview finds him discussing life and art and everything in between with great detail, making it as intriguing a listen as any of his albums.
While lucrative reunion tours and crime drama credit sequences have threatened the integrity of his legacy, Pete Townshend has never ceased the restless pursuit of his vision; the Who’s most recent release and his own embrace of technology as a means of both communication and art are evidence of this. For insights on creativity and creation, listen to Pete, and experience a classy and articulate rock star for a change.
Geddy Lee: Banshee Vocalist Nonpareil
For those who have never seen Rush live, the wailing castrato vocals and lightning bass licks may have been mistakenly attributed to a faulty tape machine in the studio, or a turntable set to 45 rpm. Nope. That shit’s for real, and for well over 30 years these unique sounds have been a crucial component in what is arguably the most successful progressive hard rock band in history.
From the moment he squealed, “Finding my waaayyy!,” on Rush’s eponymous 1974 debut, Gary Weinrib entered the public consciousness as Geddy Lee: banshee vocalist nonpareil and major rager on the four-string motherfucker. It was the sound that launched a billion arguments as geeks ‘round the globe divided into camps that variously defended his operatic vibrato or eschewed his high-pitched screech, hailed his immense technical ability or played the Jaco card.
Whatever your opinion, it cannot be denied that Geddy and Rush have consistently remained one of the world’s most popular touring acts, and inspired in their fans a rabid devotion. The secret to their longevity is a simple equation that has escaped many who are lucky enough to record a sophomore album: your music needs to evolve, and to achieve this, you must have some proficiency on a musical instrument.
Keith Richards: Monkey Man
The rock star caricature has taken on mythical proportions, and few other archetypes possess such a wealth of absurd material amassed in a rather short period of time as a basis. It’s only been about 50 years since Jerry Lee Lewis married his cousin, a little over 40 since Pete Townshend smashed his first guitar, and around 30 since the alleged fish incident involving Zeppelin’s road crew. In historical terms, the rock ‘n’ roll era is just a drop of spit in the ocean, and already many of its most notorious perpetrators have matured, disappeared, or expired. But there are those few for whom controversy and chaos have remained a lifelong pursuit, and who have managed to avoid sensible behavior and the grave for far longer than modern science could hope to explain. The undisputed king of this latter category? Keith Richards.
His Majesty of Debauchery, King Keef, has reigned over the post-Elvis period as the ultimate rock star. At the peak of his powers, his appetite for opiates and wanton hotel room destruction was unparalleled, and matched by his proclivity for unusual fashion accoutrements. There have been arrests, there have been love triangles, and there have been brawls with bandmates. Some of these events may even have been related.
It is, of course, an oversimplification to reduce Keith to a violent pile of gypsy scarves and heroin; this is the man described by his peers as the Human Riff, after all. The driving force behind all of this excess was the music, and it is on that subject that the most musical of scrawny Englishmen holds forth in this 1983 interview with Lisa Robinson. Perhaps most intriguing during this segment are Keith’s thoughts on originality in popular music, and his opinion that all musicians essentially borrow from everything that came before—a statement which, though entirely true, completely disregards his own unique musicianship and songwriting.
Zappa en Regalia
With an utter strangeness matched only by his prolificacy, Frank Zappa cut a totally unique swath in the fabric of music history. His career began before the Beatles stormed the beaches at the Ed Sullivan Show and persisted for more than 30 years, unassisted by any psychotropic substances stronger than hot dogs, black coffee, and nicotine. To say that he was an innovator, an iconoclast, and ingenious would only be a start, not to mention somewhat redundant and using only words that begin with the letter “i”… but Zappa was all of these things. Drawing on a wide range of influences, including ‘50s vocal groups, early 20th century avant-garde composers, and his own demented sense of humor and morality, Zappa created a bizarre amalgam of disparate musical styles and perverse lyricism that he used to poke fun at and holes in everything that, well… just everything: no further qualification is necessary.
Somewhere in the middle of this unusual journey, Zappa paused to speak to Mary Travers about his upcoming live album, Bongo Fury, and a number of other topics of no small concern, including what it’s like to rehearse next door to Elton John and the inherent inaccessibility of commissioned classical music. No opinion is withheld, but Frank is always self-aware enough not to comment on subjects he knows nothing about; clearly his intelligence extended beyond the stage and studio.
Eric Clapton: The Word of God
Many of the biggest names in rock ‘n’ roll have been the subjects of provocative books detailing the triumphs and tragedies of a life spent beneath the baking glow of stage lights and hopefully just out of the reach of hotel security. Some would sadly write their own endings too soon, and thus were not available for comment when pot-boiling biographies bubbled over, feeding the public’s insatiable hunger for tales of debauched sexuality and chemical excess. But others, through a series of not-so-minor miracles and, most likely, one or more lengthy vacations in a rehabilitation facility, managed to stick around long enough to commit their own stories to paper with the mature perspective of one that has faced six or seven decades and 12 steps.
Among the most recent additions to this latter cadre is Eric Clapton, an artist whose accessible music and wise countenance belie the utter chaos that defined his personal life for much of the ‘70s and ‘80s. Suffering at different points, though often concurrently, from unrequited love, drug and alcohol addiction, the fall-out from numerous infidelities, and the death of a child, Slowhand has undoubtedly spun an epic that would leave Homer at a loss for words (the Greek poet, not the jaundiced cartoon patriarch).
Just as intriguing, however, are his observations from the midst of all that turmoil. In this 1975 interview, recorded shortly before work had begun on No Reason to Cry and conducted by the “Mary” of Peter, Paul and Mary of all people, Clapton speaks openly and somewhat lucidly on a number of topics stretching all the way back to the Yardbirds.
Stuart Adamson: Auld Lang Syne
A strong current of majestic rock ‘n’ roll was building momentum in the Celtic Nations as a response to the din of post-punk nihilism and eyeliner-caked navel gazing in early ‘80s Britain. With a simple but dense combination of chiming guitars, heavy galloping rhythms, and the melodic sensibilities of traditional Irish and Scottish folk music, these few bands stirred the youth of their native countries into the sort of frenzy generally reserved for the local football club. Though often relegated to one-hit-wonder status stateside, Big Country of Dunfermline, Scotland epitomized this proud new trend, and for a few years resided at the top of the UK charts.
An earnest but ultimately tragic soul, Big Country frontman Stuart Adamson evoked both the idyllic grandeur and industrial drudgery of his homeland with unique instrumental technique and haunting lyricism. At the time of this 1983 interview, the band had released only one album and a handful of singles, but had already conceived its characteristic sound and as a result was experiencing a commercial windfall. In conversation, as in his songs, Adamson is direct and engaging, discussing how his playing and writing developed and an aversion to the usual excesses of stardom, all in his fetching burr.
While contemporaries like U2 sustained their worldwide dominance with mercurial attention to popular trends, Big Country proved less successful in the long-term by adhering steadfastly to the style outlined in their debut release. Though still critically lauded, the band’s diminishing sales throughout the ‘90s took their toll, and following a long battle with alcoholism, Stuart Adamson was found dead, an apparent suicide, in December of 2001. As the anniversary of his untimely death approaches, take a moment to remember the triumphant music he made during his short time among us.
Robert Plant: Of Bustling Hedgerows and Bonzo
Though some notable exceptions existed (chiefly Roger Daltrey as the angry young man turned convoluted libretto interpreter and Jim Morrison as the drunken biker Apache poet, or whatever the fuck), a rock ‘n’ roll frontman prior to 1969 typically fell into one of three categories: cherub-faced art school dropout, pageboy-sporting psychedelic dandy, or leather-clad ‘50s throwback. But, lo, at the close of the peace and love decade, a golden god descended from upon high, and from his thigh was begat a new breed of chiseled and preening rock idols for whom the 1970s and beyond would prove both playground and battlefield.
With flowing flaxen locks and inspiration drawn from Celtic, Norse, and Mississippian mythology, Robert Plant personified what quickly became the standard in rock music: bare-chested carnal howling, bathed in white light and strutting in tumescent pants. It was an archetype ripe for parody, and indeed, many of the pretenders who followed in his wake couldn’t quite make the formula believable, but rabid audiences the world over still can’t get enough of the original.
Despite his cocksure image, however, Plant proves quite demure during this 1983 interview. The humble singer thoughtfully discusses his solo career and the formidable legacy of his former band with humor and candor. Ever the protector of his own mythology, he still doesn’t satisfactorily explain the inclusion of Phil Collins in the studio and tour for The Principle of Moments.
It’s Not Me… It’s You, Babe
If ever there was an album that would break up a band, Kilroy Was Here is it. Ostensibly conceived as a high-concept response to California State Legislature’s claim that Styx had hidden satanic messages in tracks of their previous effort, Paradise Theater (allegations made particularly hilarious when considering that the album was released in the same year as Venom’s Welcome to Hell and Killers by Iron Maiden, but obviously the California State Capitol had let its subscription to Kerrang! magazine lapse), Kilroy played out like a Trekkie’s nightmare set to the tune of the Electrical Parade at Disneyland. This, of course, was completely awesome if you were between the ages of five and 12 in 1983, but unfortunately for Dennis DeYoung, bandmates Tommy Shaw and JY Young were a couple of decades beyond the project’s appeal. Following a lukewarm live album and a series of solo records from each of Styx’s principles, rumors of their separation abounded.
Despite a couple of slip-ups, however, DeYoung was quite adamant that his group was merely on hiatus and entertaining outside interests during this interview from September of 1984. While his cheerful arrogance permeates topics as diverse as the writing of “Babe”, the formative years of Styx, the writing of “Lady”, his latent xenophobia triggered upon introduction to the Beatles, and the writing of his debut solo album, the singer-songwriter shows astonishing humility when discussing his rise to fame and reactions to criticism.
Paul McCartney: Ever-Present Past
by: Braden Towne
Less experienced pop stars might throw up their hands and admit defeat when confronted with such adversity, but it must be remembered that Sir Paul has been mostly famous since he was a teenager, and such adversity has been thwarted repeatedly throughout his illustrious 40-plus year career. Even in 1989, there was a sense of triumph as McCartney announced his first American tour since 1976. Having previously admitted to being a bit timid about performing following the tragic murder of John Lennon, the multi-talented singer felt the time was right to traverse the globe again, delivering the gift of song.
In this press conference and interview from that period, Paul’s mood is jovial and lighthearted, consistent with the public persona that has made him so beloved since the ’60s. Many topics are covered, including song selection for the upcoming tour, and his opportunity to bring his music live to a new generation of fans for whom he had never performed.
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by: Braden Towne
published: September 17, 2008
in column: Tell Em Man
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