The John Pierce Experiment
About a year ago, my friend Melissa, whom I have known since high school, sent a tidbit about author Dan Levitin who encountered John Pierce, the man who invented the transistor. Pierce, in his eighties, had never knowingly heard any rock music. How one can live in a developed nation and achieve this, I do not know, but when Levitin discovered this curious deficit, the two had a little heart-to-heart, and the Pierce asked Levitin to provide six––count ‘em, six––prime examples of the form from which he might form an opinion and make appropriate generalizations about the whole.
Why Pierce chose six is never made clear––and I’ve checked via a reading of Levitin’s puzzler of a book, This Is Your Brain On Music.
The actual selections were as follows:
“Long Tall Sally” by Little Richard
“Roll Over Beethoven” by the Beatles
“All Along the Watchtower,” by Jimi Hendrix
“Wonderful Tonight,” by Eric Clapton
“Little Red Corvette,” by Prince
“Anarchy in the U.K.,” by the Sex Pistols
Scary choices, methinks, especially those last two. But Pierce’s request does pose a dilemma: If faced with this same conundrum, which songs would you choose?
This is where Melissa re-enters the tale, because my otherwise excellent and benign friend has challenged some one dozen of her pals to enact the same experiment. Lucky me, I have been tapped as one of the Chosen Few. (Remember the comedic quartet known as Beyond the Fringe? “Please, sir, I want to join the few!” “No, I’m sorry, there are far too many.”)
Now, this exercise is surely meant to be a sort of five-minute party game, but as it turns out, hardly anyone in Melissa’s invited circle has been able to fulfill the task. Avid music fans all, it seems we are loathe to narrow the field, to unveil the Top Six Songs (or instrumentals) that fully and ultimately reveal the Rock ‘n’ Roll Form in all its depth, variety and glory.
Or, depending on one’s point of view, its shallowness, sameness, and depravity.
My own tendency in flailing for answers has been toward the atavistic and primitive. I have made several partial lists, some written down, some only mental, but their common bond is their allegiance to simplicity. Think Bo Diddley, The Dead Milkmen, Midnight Oil, Deep Purple or Neil Young. Songs like “I Want Candy,” “Punk Rock Girl,” “Beds Are Burning,” “Smoke On the Water” and “Hey Hey, My My (Rock and Roll Will Never Die)” are exactly the sort of sonic assaults that rock’s detractors rail about, but for the fans, they function as its most effective emissaries. And yet, I am reluctant to commit to any of these, most especially “Smoke On the Water,” which does lay a reasonable claim to containing the greatest riff of any heavy rock song, but its verses are musically stultifying––a disjointed, unequal partner for the brilliant chorus & hook. Why elevate a song that’s only half good into the pantheon?
And then there’s the problem of endless supply. If the above songs bear serious consideration, then surely so do “All Day and All Of the Night” (The Kinks) or “I Want To Be Sedated” (The Ramones). Is rock’s essence really founded so completely on full-speed-ahead noise? On a near absence of subtlety? Don’t forget “Get Off Of My Cloud,” AC/DC, the Sweet and Metallica, or any number of more recent head-banging outings. Come on feel the noyze––from Boston to the Beat Farmers to Nine Inch Nails, rock has Basic in every size.
Let us introduce a little craft by considering the case of Creedence Clearwater Revival. “Green River” or “Fortunate Son” chug hard (so much of their work does), and they exhibit all the virtues of brevity, but even so…is “Up Around the Bend” or “Down On the Corner” really Top Six All Time? And would they be the perfect numbers with which to educate the uninitiated?
The Lovin’ Spoonful apparently were prescient. Remember the lyrics from “Do You Believe in Magic?” They sang “…but it’s like trying to tell a stranger about rock ‘n’ roll…” As in, that’s hard.
Or recall The Five Man Electrical Band, one of my favorite vanished acts. From their song “I’m a Stranger Here,” I shall take the liberty of quoting the first verse (and I hope their publishers will forgive me):
“Well I’m a stranger here on this place called Earth
And I’ve been sent down here to discover the worth
Of your little blue planet, third from the sun
Come on and show me what you’ve done.”
Dare I mention that I just did that from memory?
“I’m a Stranger Here” tells a sad, mordant story of a well-meaning alien (John Pierce, perhaps) who leaves earth disgusted with what he/she/it finds. Rock has ample room for such tale-telling, for the fine-spun arc of story. Just ask Roger Waters, Steeleye Span, Paul Simon or Kate & Anna McGarrigle. But are the McGarrigles actually rockers at all? Or just folkies? And where, given the amplified mayhem of, say, “Samhain,” does a folk act like Steeleye Span fit in?
What of Soul? Do Ruth Brown and Otis Redding belong to the Rock Canon, or to something else? Dare I leave out the Queen of Soul without first relegating Soul itself to the back forty?
Jazz isn’t rock, no. But guitar solos owe nearly everything to the free-swinging jazz stylings of Jelly Roll Morton, Louis Armstrong, and a host of other jazz pioneers. Without jazz, there’d be no rock. With jazz, we get the Allman Brothers, who remain reviled by a good many jazz critics (and more than a few in the rock camp) for being either too jazzy or too rock ‘n’ roll. Sometimes you can’t win for losing.
While on the subject of jazz, take a gander at Miles Davis. He fully embraced rock for a brief period, as did jazz peculiarists like John McLaughlin and the Mahvishnu Orchestra. The results were apparently unsatisfying; ever questing, Miles moved back to jazz.
As for the blues, Muddy Waters said it best: “The blues had a baby and they named it rock ‘n’ roll.” Which suggests I’d better add Big Mama Thornton and Albert Collins, among many others, to my thinking. And maybe Sister Rosetta Tharpe, Sam Cooke and Mahalia Jackson.
Zydeco and creole music aren’t rock. Period. But they sure have a killer beat, and New Orleans birthed American music more than once. Professor Longhair and Allen Toussaint deserve some thought here, surely?
Or not?
Is Merle Haggard rock? Bob Wills? Johnny Cash? Abba? Gloria Gaynor? The Golden Palominos? Stevie Ray Vaughn? The Philly Sound?
What of Art Rock? I have little patience for most of King Crimson, Marillion, Genesis, and countless others (Badger, Gentle Giant, Van Der Graaf Generator, etc.), but how could I possibly explicate all of rock without a nod to the sonic symphonies of the Moody Blues or Jon Anderson and Company? I mean, golly-gosh, these are the folks who’ve seen all good people turn their heads each day.
Another reason for hesitation is the dread certainty that despite my fairly extensive knowledge, I am not up to the task. So much music has escaped me, particularly in the years since I turned thirty. Even though I make an effort to keep up, I really have no idea what Modest Mouse sounds like, or where Beyonce Knowles came from. Justin Timberlake? Wasn’t he dating Madonna? If I’ve heard a Norah Jones song, I’m not aware of it, and my credentials in rap and hip-hop pretty much ended with Public Enemy, Jamnation and Portishead.
For Melissa’s sake, I did finally settle on one selection, and I nearly gave her a heart attack when I announced that my choice was a Jim Steinman composition, performed by none other than that eternal eight-grader, Meatloaf. “Everything Louder Than Everything Else” is the song, and until embarking on this essay, it remained the only one I was sure of. My reasoning? That ultimately, amplification is the central aesthetic of rock. That and attitude. This song makes a mantra of both, defining itself first in the footsteps of the Who’s “My Generation” and then daring to be ever louder, in perpetuity, ad nauseum.
Okay, so the song is also pretty juvenile. Can’t defend it on that level, except to say that Meatloaf (as he nearly always does) puts his back to the plough and sings as if every note will be his last. His total commitment to his art (if art it is) remains the most admirable thing about him; in the service of raucous ‘n’ roll (and a lot of premarital sex), Meatloaf sings glory to the Heavens. And then back into hell.
Now, don’t abandon all hope. I’m not saying that “Everything Louder Than Everything Else” is the best song of all time rock-wise. I’m not even saying it deserves to be top five hundred. But it does distill rock music persuasively, effectively, with the dangerous efficiency of a scalpel cutting skin. It earns points for evangelizing, for not merely demonstrating but for actively flinging rock’s gestalt in the face of both expert and greenhorn.
To return to my wayward, heretical thesis, and to flesh it out: Rock is the only musical genre (until the advent of hip-hop and rap) in the history of humanity that absolutely depended upon amplification. All others could take it or leave it and retain their purity of essence, but not rock. Rock needs microphones, a power supply, and speakers. Rock needs the 20th––and now the 21st––centuries. (The only significant exception is vocal doo-wop, a sub-category of rock that is more in the tradition of the Ink Spots or the Fleetwoods than of actual rock. And it’s generally so chummy, it’s hard to credit a capella doo-wop with anything even vaguely akin to rock ‘n’ roll’s attitude. The chief attitude expressed might be described as a liking for hair gel and colorful letterman sweaters.)
So: It ain’t rock if you can’t put the power in the power chord. Rock musicians are welcome to play an acoustic set––even that grand warhorse of noise, Led Zeppelin, spent almost all of album number four doing precisely that––but in the end, if you want to qualify for the Big Dance, if you want to Fight For Your Right To Party, you’ve got to at least have the potential to Pump Up the Volume. That’s right, Spinal Tappers. This one goes to eleven.
But love ain’t all noise and chutzpah. Rebellion may lurk at the core, but it’s love that keeps the music’s loyal heart ticking. Buddy Holly knew this right away, and Elvis learned it pretty darn quick. Detours like Yes and Creedence are few and far between; most careers are built on sex and heartbreak. With that in mind, I offer the second of my six songs (they’re not in any particular order), “Message Of Love” from The Pretenders. Crash-banging chords, ringing Byrd-like harmonies, and a basic Message on a Broad Scale. Of Love.
Wait, cry the cynics! How can you get this far and not at least mention the Beatles?
Fair enough, let’s hold our horses. The Beatles remain the greatest rock act for two reasons: 1) The sheer level of progress they displayed in a mere seven years, from “Love Me Do” to “Let It Be,” and 2) Their ready wit and humor. No other major band has allowed whimsy a turn at the wheel with such frequency. “Rocky Raccoon” and “Penny Lane” and “Piggies” and “Lovely Rita” and many more rise above because they display what rock so often throws away, good cheer and smiles. Imagine the Rolling Stones, scowlers one and all, attempting to sing or even write “Octopus’ Garden.” See? Can’t be done. Same for U2 and Bruce Springsteen and Aretha Franklin and just about every other heavy-hitter in the rock canon. Sure, there have been novelty songs––and great ones, too––but most were penned and released by one-hit wonders. Strange, actually, and sad; great humor and great art ought not to be antithetical.
Do the Beatles then earn a spot on the Most Essential Six? Possibly.
Do novelty songs necessarily fail the acid test? Probably––but not for certain. No lesser a light than Ben Fong-Torres has opined that all pop and rock songs are novelties. I suspect he’s abusing the term for his own purposes; after all, if we continue the analogy infinitely, it’s not long before we define Mahler’s Fourth and Verdi’s Rigoletto as mere “novelty.”
Novelty––Fong-Torres’ definition––would also derail the entire Levitan/Pierce experiment, since why should anyone, stranger, alien or otherwise, need to know the Top Six Most Defining Novelty Songs?
So let’s assume Fong-Torres is wrong without bothering to argue the point. Rock matters. We know it in our souls.
Teenagers know it better than anyone else. Rock’s unique brand of (amplified) alienation is aimed squarely at a teen market––that is to say me, twenty-plus years ago. Generally manufactured by adults, rock is the product most successfully palmed off on those under twenty by those who are over. Whether it be puff (Hannah Montana, early Beatles, Adam & the Ants) or high-concept (Jefferson Airplane, Focus, Robyn Hitchcock), the target audience remains the same, and only alters as any given generation of fans naturally age with their particular guitar heroes. Rock, then, also has a strong quotient of self-involvement, an ingredient without which alienation simply cannot function. Rock caters to “Me First!” and openly accuses anyone who “doesn’t get it” of being both over thirty and out of touch (me again). It accepts at face value the premise that each teen listener sees him or herself as God in miniature, the natural center of the universe (if only for the duration of the next three-minute single). Rock encourages and fertilizes ego. Rock says, “Yes, you matter. And so does your angst. Wallow if you like. Shout it loud. You deserve to have both your exquisite pain and your moment in the sun.”
The greatest exponent of alienation is without a doubt Pink Floyd. For that accomplishment, I submit “Brain Damage/Eclipse” as Song Number Three. After all, “Everything under the sun is in tune, but the sun is eclipsed by the moon.” Not true profundity, perhaps, but a pretty good approximation for most hormonally unbalanced seventeen-year-olds.
Rock also asks us to imitate, to replace the icons we see in the spotlight with bright and shiny images of ourselves, all sequins and gold lamé. In that sense, rock is both endlessly hopeful (redemptive, even) and deeply cynical. How many youngsters dream of taking command of an arena’s hot lights only to fall somewhere so far south of short that they don’t even merit a breath of regret for their untalented efforts? (“Is a dream a lie if it don’t come true, or is it something worse?”) And yet the videos and the glossy magazines march on. Our heroes look good, dress great, sound terrific. They never get acne, they don’t wear braces. Who wouldn’t want to be like them?
Of all the songs touching on fame and stardom, ranging from the Beatles’ “Drive My Car” to the Pretenders’ “Popstar,” my favorite remains Kiki Dee’s 1981 obscurity “Star.” I won’t include it on the list, however; for one thing, it’s completely unavailable, and for another, I think I’m the only person on the planet, perhaps besides Kiki Dee herself, who actually liked it.
Song Number Four, then: Chuck Berry’s “Johnny B. Goode.” The jangle, the beat, the enthusiasm. It’s only rock ‘n’ roll. And there it was, in at the head of the line, present and accounted for at the very beginning of (rock) time.
Infectiousness is an oft-overlooked hallmark of great rock (and all dance music, which is where rock most often taps into the universal), so at least a nod must be given to tunes like “The Safety Dance,” “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida,” “Ballroom Blitz” and “Kids in America.” Also funk, disco, reggae, speed metal and pretty much anything that inspires a mosh pit. One of my favorite toe-tappers has to be “Summer Nights,” from Grease. That bass line could carry a platoon into happy battle, and the chorus members are having more fun than oughter be allowed. Puff? Perhaps. But not every song has to be deep. Not everything needs a message. Sometimes the girl (and the boy) just wants to have fun.
But surely that’s exactly what “Johnny B. Goode” provides? Fun, with no strings attached. That base, then, is covered.
Time, then, to return to musical tale-spinning. Of course, stories set to music are at least as old as music itself. Rock is the Taliesyn of our age, endlessly inventive, deeply engaging, packed with the latest news and the oldest saws. Look at the great concept albums, led not by Tommy (in my humble opinion) but by Desperado and Amused To Death and Hotwalker. Look at Steeleye Span’s long-standing output of story-cycles like “Lady Diamond,” “Two Butchers” and “Tam Lin.” Look at Ray Davies, whose simple but haunting “Come Dancing” remains one of rock’s most overlooked gems, or the weirdness of his “Phenomenal Cat.” Look at the Boss, with “Jungleland” or “Highway Patrolman.” Even a lightweight like Richard Marx knew the value of story: “Hazard” has wandered o’er the airwaves for almost twenty years now and, I hate to say it, deservedly so.
The best rock story? “Fairytale of New York,” in which brilliant vocal performances by Kirsty MacColl and Shane McGowan intertwine with Gaelic tradition to produce something wholly new. That’s song Number Five.
Leaving Six.
Bruce Springsteen seems impossible to leave out, especially with his populism, his soaring odes to escape and better days. But, much like Johnny Cash and Bob Dylan, it is the man himself who takes precedence; his body of work rises over and above any one song. Bruce is likely the true king of rock ‘n’ roll, greater in scope, delivery and musical ambition than Elvis ever was, but almost by virtue of Bruce’s extraordinarily long shadow, no one song rises to the top.
The open road calls, of course, and Bruce waits on it, but so, too, does Jackson Browne, not to mention Brian Wilson and the Beach Boys, Tom Waits, Tom Russell, “Me and You and a Dog Named Boo” and annoyances like the Donnas. True, the phrase “Someday I’m gonna blow this town” may be the most time-worn proclamation of uppity youth, but it doesn’t quite head the list of rock’s most important attributes. It is trumped, say I, by two other traits: Musical complexity and joy.
For those two items, I turn at last to Yes, as I always suspected I would, and a tune no FM radio station has ever put into heavy rotation, “It Will Be a Good Day (The River)” from 1999’s The Ladder hereby enters the fray as my Song Number Six. From the delicate Asian tones of its bell-like opening to the rising, ever-developing fugue of its structure, this is a song that caught my ear the first time I heard it (a message of love at first sight) and has never ceased to deepen and amaze (a message of love for the long term). “It Will Be a Good Day” is so simple––except that it isn’t. It contains enormous complexities, layered so skillfully that it appears to be simple.
Is it really rock ‘n’ roll? Would Bill Haley even recognize the form? (“Hey,” cries Bill from the grave, “don’t they gotta have the main beats on one and three?”)
Sorry, Bill. I’m not going to defend my choices further. They’re highly subjective, after all. They serve a pedagogical function, like a good tour guide in a museum too enormous to be taken in during a single visit.
But I will say this in defense of each and every one of my Top Six: They’re amplified.
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Wednesday, June 17, 2009
