BOB DYLAN AND THE BEATLES(Vol. 1 of the best of the Blacklisted Journalist).Al Aronowitz. First Books Library.
Reviewed By Hammond Guthrie.
Al Aronowitz is often referred to as "the godfather of rock journalism." But his roots are in the tradition of the writers who trailed behind the Old West's outlaws and revolutionaries, embellishing the truth to delight an eager readership.
However, Al was always more a participant than a mere observer, positioned early at the crossroads of one of modern America's defining eras. Indeed, his influence was a catalyst that helped precipitate the psychosomatic eruptions that ripped the social fabric and gave life a new soundtrack.
Bob Dylan's first meeting with the Beatles was one such pivotal event, which anchors this intriguing collection of anecdotes. It was the summer of 64, just before the US release of "The Beatles for Sale." The Fab Four were still composing ditties like "I Don't Want To Spoil the Party" and covering standards such as "Kansas City."
By now an unofficial attaché for Dylan, Al stepped in and introduced him to the Liverpool mop tops. Exactly a year later the Beatles released "Help!" The album and the movie soon got their fans wondering: "Are these guys stoned?" Al Aronowitz knew the truth. He had personally turned them on at the Hotel Delmonico on Manhattan's Park Avenue on August 28th 1964.
Working on assignment for the New York Post, Al became a fixture in an emerging scene populated by rockers, activists and alchemists. Another heavy presence was Murray the K, who spurned the typical 50s DJ hype to initiate a new 60s style.
Al reports: "When the Beatles first landed in New York in 64 every hotshot DJ in the world who commanded an expense account headed for the Plaza expecting an exclusive interview, but when Murray showed up it wasn't with a tape recorder, it was with the Ronnettes." A tide of troubles separated these old friends in the end. They no longer spoke, Murray had a heart attack and Al lost his coveted position at the New York Post.
Then there was Woodstock - before, during and after Big Pink's basement became legend. Al was a devoted Dylan fan, nearly moving in with him. He recalls lying awake all night listening to Marvin Gaye's "Can I Get A Witness" over and over, as Dylan typed up the original drafts of "Mr.Tambourine Man" in the next room. This prompted George Harrison to quip years later: "I'll bet you can find every note of 'Can I Get A Witness' in 'Mr. Tambourine Man' if you looked for them."
The book is thick with repetitive apologies and disclaimers, as Al remembers all the people who no longer speak to him. Dylan is foremost among them, true to his habit of "treating everyone like old shoes." Other factors played a part in the social ostracism. Aronowitz became a freebase junkie, entering a recreational hell that puts dampers on anyone's friendship. He became, he admits, an "Assaholic."
His relentless idolization of Dylan gets a little tedious - "He could string words together with God-like power and charm the rattles off a snake's ass." Yet he never misses a chance to point out what a complete jerk the cultural hero was, especially to those closest to him. The sharp barbs and cruel ad-libs provide no insight into Dylan's creative process, though this is redeemed somewhat by his descriptions of Dylan's life in Woodstock with his wife Sara ("Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowland"), his respect for her, and her calming influence.
Though his association with Dylan and most of the Beatles quickly faded, Al managed to remain on intimate terms with George Harrison. Al's descriptions of their meetings at his estate at Henley-on-Thames takes a much different tone than the serrated edge he uses to rip Dylan. Mind games were not Harrison's prime directive. We learn how George asked Al to contact Buckminster Fuller for advice on how best to use the proceeds from The Concert for Bangladesh.
Scattered through these accounts of meetings with people who fanned the flames of lyrical truth and social enlightenment, Al's honesty twinkles, sometimes between the lines. He acknowledges his ambition to make a million dollars in the writer's trade, yet wound up "losing [his] diplomatic immunity."
For anyone trying to untangle the matrix of the 60s, "Bob Dylan And The Beatles" is an essential reference for demystifying what the author refers to as: "one of the most self-destructive binges of creativity in cultural history."
© 2004 - Hammond Guthrie: All Rights Reserved: Hammond Guthrie.
Hammond Guthrie is the Editor of The 3rd Page Journal of OnGrowing Natures http://www.emptymirrorbooks.com/thirdpage/index.html. He can be reached by email at: writenow@spiritone.com
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FATS WALLER (THE CHEERFUL LITTLE EARFUL). Alyn Shipton. Continuum. Music historian and journalist Alyn Shipton believes that the true genius of Fats Waller has not be fully explored nor appreciated by music fans from around the world. And in the revised edition of his book Fats Waller, Shipton makes a pretty good case for his theory.
Fats Waller was simply a magnificent pianist whose work influenced countless generations of musicians - from jazz players to rockers to bluesmen. Further, Waller’s work also had a huge impact on Beat writers such as Jack Kerouac and Lew Welch who were attracted to the silken complexities of Waller’s lilting and layered style:
"Every biographer of Waller has been impressed with his playing - he was, after all, the leading stride pianist of his generation - but he deserves equal consideration as a master songwriter, show composer, and recording and broadcasting artist. Despite the serious aspects of Waller’s legacy, his abiding gift to the generations that followed is his boisterous good humor. It is a rare talent to make an audience laugh aloud at an aside on a gramophone record. That Waller could manage this feat often, and that his irrepressible bonhomie has stood the test of the decades that have passed since his death, is a tribute to his rarest quality of all - the ability to communicate his enormous talent and personality to every listener."--From Shipton’s Preface - at xi
Even now, most people have no idea just how much music Waller made in his lifetime (from scores for the Broadway stage to the hundreds of songs he penned and performed with his band). Simply, Waller is a man whose legacy endures in the fact that we can hear the blood of his influence pumping through the veins of so many of the musicians we listen to today: You’ll hear strains of Waller’s intimate style in the playing of Garth Hudson, Roy Bittan, Ray Manzarek and Al Kooper -- deep and soulful, fingers milking sound from piano, drawing music from the musty candles of the half-muffled silence.
In retrospect, Waller was a complex player, and his sound an amalgamation of history and street poetry and old-time jazz, stirring together the steps of hundreds of unknown musicians who would perish in obscurity. And the beauty of Shipton’s book is that he’s able to bring all this out in a seamless narrative which traces the whole of Waller’s career step-by-step (Harlem to Europe, and all stops in-between).
In short, this is a well-honed chronology detailing the life and intricate legacy of the most influential jazz pianist of the modern era (with Shipton careful to acknowledge the fact that people from around the world remain influenced by these songs without even knowing it’s Waller that they should be paying homage to). Finally, we have a book that sets the record straight and brings some attention to the Fat Man behind the piano. Appropriate as a teaching text in music history/music appreciation courses; also will appeal to casual fans of jazz providing insightful commentary on this often overlooked pianist. Would further be useful as a general reference text in both college and public libraries.
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SICK OF BEING ME. Sean Egan. Askill Publishing. Drugs and Rock and Roll stories are nothing new in the world of publishing. Every year, we seem to see four or five "tell all" books about the music business and the minefields inherent with life on the road. Sick of Being Me, Sean Egan's first book, tells the story of musician and heroine addict Paul Hazelwood, creating a picture of what so many confused and speed-driven rock and rollers live through:
"On the last four or five streets I had to stop to vomit twice. The first time, I felt my stomach going into spasms. It wasn't painful but the bizarre violent jumping of your innards makes you feel queasy in the brain as well as in the gut: an awful, all-over slithery sensation. I stopped and held my face away from the papers. My stomach felt like it was rolling over itself as the eruption of sick hit the pavement.."
I know what you're saying -- "but I've read all this before. Why should I read it again?" Good question.
And the answer is that I believe this book. While reading this, I don't sense that I'm being bullshitted - but instead, I get the feeling that I am in a conversation with another writer about something he saw down the street last night. This story reads not so much as a novel but as a careful and clear reportage of the behind the scenes world of the music business (Egan is a music journalist so he's obviously been carefully observing his surroundings). In the end, Egan is able to pull all this off because his writing is crisp and clear and ever-so-evocative: a tour through the muddy swamps of 2 AM music clubs, pant cuffs muddy with rain, shirt stained with puke, no more money for drugs.
Sick of Being Me is about the world that haunted Jim Carroll. It's about the world that plagued William Burroughs and Herbert Huncke circa Tangiers in the early 1950s: a shockingly real ride through the dirtiness of addiction and denial and egotism told with the sure-eyed realism of a practicing journalist.
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