Pet Sounds

Best debut single by a Canadian band ever. 

Selling Out

 So I ran across this very amusing piece a few days ago, and it reminded me of a series of posts I wrote to a mailing list back in the days of yore, when mailing lists were the main way people passionate about a given topic exchanged ideas and information—which is to say the prehistoric days around the turn of the century.

I don't recall what started the entire discussion, but it could have been the then-fairly-recent commercial for...an automobile, maybe?...featuring Peter Gabriel's song "Big Time." Or maybe it was Led Zeppelin definitely shilling for a car company. Or Pete Townshend...shilling for a car company. Before he sold perhaps his greatest song to a cheesy cop show. Which was before he sold perhaps his second greatest song to another cheesy cop show.

Whichever it was, it seemed just such a betrayal by one of our greatest artists, something I found shocking and upsetting. Ah, but I was so much older then...

Look. I get it. I do I mean, yeah yeah, it's all very meta, the way Gabriel is saucily taking the piss out of the entire venture by using that song, of all his songs, to shill a product. So mighty clever. As Pete Townshend, now vying with the Glimmer Twins for the poster boy of what used to be called selling out, once said:

For about ten years I really resisted any kind of licensing because Roger had got so upset when somebody had used "Pinball Wizard" for a bank thing. And they hadn't used the Who master—and what he was angry about was, he said that I was exploiting the Who's heritage but denying him the right to earn. Who fans will often think, "This is my song, it belongs to me, it reminds me of the first time that I kissed Susie, and you can't sell it."

And the fact is that I can and I will and I have. I don't give a fuck about the first time you kissed Susie. If they've arrived, if they've landed, if they've been received, then the message is there, if there's a message to be received. 

I think the other thing is, though—and I'm not trying to sideswipe this, this is not the reason why I license these songs, it's not the reason why I licensed "Bargain" to Nissan—it was an obviously shallow misreading of the song. It was so obvious that I felt anybody who loved the song would dismiss it out of hand. And the only argument that they could have about the whole thing was with me, and as long as I'm not ready to enter the argument, we don't argue. Well, I'm not ready to argue about it. It's my song. I do what the fuck I like with it.

[Emphasis added.]

Isn't that just adorable. "Sure, I took millions but you were all in on the joke, right? If you were a real fan, you'd have gotten it."

And that sums up Townshend so wonderfully right there, the way he manages to be absolutely right and completely wrong at the same damn time, even as simultaneously compliments and denigrates the hell out of Who fans. As counterpoint, I present this quote taking the opposite stance:

I had such grand aims and yet such a deep respect for rock tradition and particularly Who tradition, which was then firmly embedded in singles. But I always wanted to do bigger, grander things, and I felt that rock should too, and I always felt sick that rock was looked upon as a kind of second best to other art forms, that there was some dispute as to whether rock was art. Rock is art and a million other things as well—it's an indescribable form of communication and entertainment combined, and it's a two-way thing with very complex but real feedback processes as well. I don't think there's anything to match it.

[Emphasis again added.]

Let's see now, who said that? Oh, that's right: it was Pete Townshend. Calling his older self full of shit. (To be fair, Pete often calls himself full of shit, not infrequently in the same interview or even breath.)

So. Seems that once upon a time, at least, there was such a thing as the concept of selling out, and that some artists considered this a bad thing. Some of those artists later went on to do the very thing their earlier selves had claimed to find abhorrent. Life's a funny thing, innit?

First of all, let me point out the blindingly obvious, which is that the world has changed since I wrote much of this, 10 long years ago. For the majority of artists—including, yes, major gazillionaires like the Who and the Rolling Stones and Eric Clapton and so on and so forth—the only way to get their new stuff heard is by licensing it to a commercial, and that goes quadruple for almost any act younger than U2. So I get that.

The concept of selling out is so old-fashioned that I'm not sure some of today's artists are even aware that it was even a thing, much less thought of negatively. So I may not like that the only way I'll hear a new song by, say, Camera Obscura or Real Estate or The War on Drugs is when they license it for a television show, but I get it. Hey, times have changed, the world moves on, and an artist has to make a living. I oh so very much get that. Trust me, I'm nobody and I've totally sold out more times and more cheaply than I can bear to remember.

But it seems to me that there's a big difference between writing a song with a commercial in mind (Stevie Wonder's commercial for a local soda of which he was extremely fond) and a song which, theoretically, was written from the heart (say, "Bargain").

The first is a simple act of craftsmanship and has a long history, and if that history isn't normally thought of as noble, well, at least some truly great artists have contributed to it. And when it's simply an exercise, there's seems to me no great crime against High Art, whatever that may be—it's just providing a service, and if the end result is of a high enough quality, we're all better off: there are always going to be commercials, so better good commercials than bad and, really, is it all that different than Bach writing The Art of the Fugue as a try-out for a club he wanted to join?

The second one, however, seems to me a betrayal of everything that truly great rock artists believe in and stand for. I'd have no moral qualms with Pete Townshend or Peter Gabriel giving up rock to write commercials; I'd be saddened, maybe, but otherwise, hey. But to write a song from the heart and sell it to the fans with the implicit promise (and I believe that promise is indeed implicit in everything those guys said in the first few decades of their careers) that this means something to me, this is what I really feel, this is a small slice of my soul...and then sell it to a soulless corporation for a big chunk of change, when neither of those guys is exactly on their way the poorhouse, seems a despicable act.

Do you really believe that's not the exact pose the Rolling Stones were attempting (quite successfully) to sell in the 60s and 70s? In retrospect it's pretty clear that Jagger, at the least, was almost certainly never some true believer—but they worked hard to embody the total rock and roll image, which included giving The Man the finger. But if you don't believe that they tried to make their audience believe that they somehow embodied a higher version of Integrity than the pop stars of yore, as well as the business men of the day, you're either kidding yourself or don't know your rock history. 'cuz that's exactly to a T what those middle-class kids posing as rebels were doing.

Now, do I deny that it's their right to do whatever they want with their work? Of course not. In fact, let's say that again, for those in the back, just to be perfectly clear: it's their work and they have every right to do whatever they want with it.

You know what? To make this unmissable, let's say that one more time:

It's their work and they have every right to do whatever they want with it.

But. For them to deny that every fan who gave them their money and spent hours and hours listening to their work, work that was presented as one thing, and then to turn around and sell that same piece and allow it to be used in such an utterly different and contradictory way, is a rejection of those very ideals that made them attractive to us fans in the first place. It's a con job. It's saying, here, check out this thing—it's a small slice of my soul. And you take it as such and perhaps it forms a small part of who you are. And then ten years later they sell it to an SUV commercial. That's bait and switch. It's a fine technique for making money. It's impossible to reconcile with Art or Truth.

Once again, as Townshend himself said: "Rock is art and a million other things as well: it's an indescribable form of communication and entertainment combined, and it's a two-way thing with very complex but real feedback processes."

It's a two-way thing. You give us your music, we give you our money, but in rock and roll that's not where the deal ends. There's, as Pete Townshend himself said, more—there's feedback and an identification thing that is perhaps unique to rock and which most of the great bands have acknowledged and utilized. Townshend himself obviously did (and this is not the only time he said something along these lines, just the one that was close at hand). Or at least he did before H+P offered him a couple million.

Look, he and they all have the right to do it. But that doesn't mean it was the right thing to do. I'll still enjoy their music and sometimes be touched by it and often marvel at their artistry. But I can no longer believe that they are the pure artists they would have (or have had) us believe they are.

And here's the thing: if artists as diverse as The Doors, Bruce Springsteen, Tom Petty, R.E.M., The Replacements, Sonic Youth, Nirvana and Pearl Jam have all refused to license their songs (it's extremely notable that McCartney has no qualms about licensing the songs of others he owns—Buddy Holly, for instance—but refuses to let the actual Beatles recordings be used) giving up in some cases mind-boggling amounts of money, then the very notion that there's something distasteful about the practice isn't absurd. You can disagree with my argument and maybe you're even right, but these artists obviously agree with me to some extent. And when someone passes up tens of millions of dollars to avoid doing it, it's something that needs to be at least given the benefit of some thought rather than dismissed out of hand.

Now. You'll note that all my examples are of extraordinarily wealthy rock stars. I don't begrudge Gary US Bonds whatever he made for those beer commercials in the early to mid 1980s, or Southside Johnny, who did one as well, or B.B. King for whatever he's done—XM Radio? Sirius? And maybe a hotel commercial too, right? And diabetes medication. And a fast food chain. And maybe a few others. God bless you, good sir, say I.

But do you really think at any point in the past twenty-five years that any of them (toss Etta James in there too) has in their best year made even a third of what, say, The Stones have made in their worst year? When real life (paying the mortgage, say) runs up against ideals, real life wins. I mean, duh. But when you're sitting on a hundred million in the bank, I kinda feel like staying true to the ideals you espoused which got your that fortune in the first place just isn't asking too much.

Neil Young clearly feels the same way, given how openly he savaged his friend Eric Clapton in an award-winning video:

As pal DT once said,

Robert Klein once joked, you may recall, that imagine how set for life Neil Armstrong would have been had he stepped onto the lunar surface and exclaimed, "Pepsi Cola!" Some moments need to exist for themselves, and art needs to exist for itself. If it's good enough or, hell, even mainstream enough, it will take on another life and turn into a moneymaker. And to that I say, "Groovy."  

Two last points and then I'll allow this self-righteous rant to die a merciful and deservéd death. The first is Tom Waits seems to agree with me and, as a general rule of thumb, if Tom Waits agrees with you, you're probably on the right track:

Songs carry emotional information and some transport us back to a poignant time, place or event in our lives. It’s no wonder a corporation would want to hitch a ride on the spell these songs cast and encourage you to buy soft drinks, underwear or automobiles while you’re in the trance. Artists who take money for ads poison and pervert their songs. It reduces them to the level of a jingle, a word that describes the sound of change in your pocket, which is what your songs become. Remember, when you sell your songs for commercials, you are selling your audience as well.

When I was a kid, if I saw an artist I admired doing a commercial, I’d think, “Too bad, he must really need the money.” But now it’s so pervasive. It’s a virus. Artists are lining up to do ads. The money and exposure are too tantalizing for most artists to decline. Corporations are hoping to hijack a culture’s memories for their product. They want an artist’s audience, credibility, good will and all the energy the songs have gathered as well as given over the years. They suck the life and meaning from the songs and impregnate them with promises of a better life with their product.

Finally, I think Berke Breathed's Bloom County summed it up nicely—and when in doubt, always go with a drawing of a penguin:

Ray Manzarek

So Ray Manzarek has died, sadly, at age 74. The man probably most responsible for introducing Jim Morrison to the world (for better and for worse) and, even moreso, for stoking Morrison’s legend after his 1971 death to a degree where the Doors and Morrison saw the most startling post-death surge in popularity in rock history, is gone. And that’s sad.

Like most who came of age in the late 70s/early 80s when the Doors meteoric return was captured by this epochal Rolling Stone cover, I became a Doors maniac when I was in the 7th grade. And like a whole great lot of those people I was thoroughly tired of them by the time 10th grade rolled along. That was about the window. They were awesome when I was 13 and then poof! They were irrevelant by 15.

To this day I don’t know exactly how I feel about them. I'm not a fan and haven't been since about 1983, but to paraphrase something Dave Bry very astutely wrote on The Awl, how can I totally discount something that meant so much to me when I was 13 years old?

On the good side, they had a wholly unique sound, dark and mysterious and as forboding as anything of their era. They had a couple exceptional songs and a few good ones. Despite a total lack of training, Morrison’s deep voice lent itself well to their atmospheric sound. And, let’s face it, no one—not even Robert Plant—has ever more looked the part of rock-n-roll god than Jim Morrison did. The danger, the cutie-pie stare, the sexual aura, the cool—he had it all, and the Doors indeed benefited from it.

On the downside, well…let's face it, they really weren’t that good. For the most part Manzarek’s organ—which along with Morrison’s voice was the focal point of most of the band’s music—was way too lite-jazzy for me and seemed to drone on and on. Morrison’s lyrics ranged from merely indulgent (“And our love become a funeral pyre?” Really?) to just horrible (“Warm me up with your inner stove”—UGH!) The man couldn’t help himself—there are too many examples of bad writing mistaken for Faustian depth to really get into it here. But let’s just say this: English teachers rue the day a line like “I’m gonna love you ‘til the stars fall from the sky for you and I” was written, as it surely spawned 1,000 imitators that were even more trite and displayed even poorer grammar.

Also? Jim Morrison was a cad and a creep, by all accounts. Was he the only one in rock-n-roll? Heavens no. But he seemed to enjoy his status more than anyone, to wear it as a badge of honor. It seemed he wanted that to define him even more than his music. And that kinda sucks.

There’s a passage in No One Here Gets Out Alive, the definitive Morrison bio I read when I was 12—and at the time felt like it changed my life (um, it didn’t)—that speaks to what an asshole he was. To paraphrase, he’s just gotten done having sex with a young prostitute/groupie when his long-suffering girlfriend Pamela Courson knocks on the door. Jim shoos Pam away, and then painfully rips several rings off the young girl’s fingers (the book made it clear this hurt like hell), ushers her out the window and gives the rings to Pamela as a gift. Know what that sounds like? A pure sociopath. So, yeah, forget womanizer or reprobate or whatever other labels can be affixed to so many keepers of rock-n-roll decadence. This is more than that—Jim Morrison was a dick.

And it's for that reason (well, that and the bad poetry) that I've spent most of my adult years laughing at the Doors when I think of them (which, honestly, isn't that often), rather than any kind of real reverence.

Yet still, for all of the self-importance and lousy writing and debauchery, there were some songs that made them legit, at least for a short while. And Manzarek often times seemed to be the only adult in the room, driving them towards success. It’s Ray’s rumbling bassline, for example, on “Break on Through,” the very first song on the Doors’ very first album, that still stands today as one of the most audacious and menacing opening shots in rock history. It’s Ray’s moody, controlled chaos that lends “Riders on the Storm” its terrifying seductiveness. And it’s Ray whose restrained yet tasetful work augments Robbie Krieger's guitar and drives along my personal favorite Doors song, “People Are Strange,” lending it a haunting, ghostly feel.

  

Listening to this and I can hear threads leading to R.E.M.’s “Maps and Legends,” or maybe some of the darker tracks by the Pixies and, much later on, even the Decembrists. It’s one of the only songs that seems to successfully make sense of Morrison’s insipid “Lizard King” image—courting the darkness that comes with being an outcast and existing on the fringes. (“Faces come out of the rain when you're strange. No one remembers your name when you’re strange.”) For one of the very few times in the Doors’s five year, six-album career, Jim Morrison actually relies on subtlety and doesn’t overdo it. As a result, “People Are Strange” is a highlight that most anyone would be proud of.

It’d be nice to think that Ray Manzarek, who was more devoted to keeping the Doors music and mystique alive for the past 40 or so years, had something to do with this.

Shiny Happy Losing My Religion

I'm...having trouble processing this. This song is so ingrained in my DNA from hundreds upon hundreds of times listening to the studio recording, as well as dozens of live recordings, even scores of times playing it (poorly) myself. And then...this.

I...I...I don't know if I can do it... 

I  think I thought it's fascinating, the way altering the pitch of a just a few notes completely and totally changes our perceptions of the whole structure. Honestly, listening to this really does make me feel slightly woozy.

The results are even more dramatic, I think, if less intestinally-jarring, when it comes to Metallica's "Nothing Else Matters" and "Riders on the Storm" by the Doors

but since I don't have anything like the same emotional attachement to those bands, it doesn't affect me nearly as much. Still worth a listen or three, of course.