Brackett Ed (2020) - The Pop, Rock, and Soul Reader Histories and Debates

DAV ID
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TR ACE S THE E VOL U TION OF DIVER SE
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THE
POP,
ROCK, AND
SOUL
READER
Histories and Debates
Fourth Edition
David Brackett
McGill University
New York Oxford
OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS
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Names: Brackett, David.

Title: The pop, rock, and soul reader : histories and debates / David
Brackett.
Description: Fourth edition. | New York, NY : Oxford University Press, [2019]
Identifiers: LCCN 2019017639 | ISBN 9780190843588 (pbk.)
Subjects: LCSH: Popular music—United States—History and criticism.
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Contents
Preface. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xiii
PART 1 Before 1950

1. Irving Berlin in Tin Pan Alley . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
Charles Hamm, “Irving Berlin and the Crucible of God”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2
2. Technology, the Dawn of Modern Popular Music, and the “King of Jazz” . . . . . . . . . 9
Paul Whiteman and Mary Margaret McBride, “On Wax,” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
3. Big Band Swing Music: Race and Power in the Music Business . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14
Marvin Freedman, “Black Music’s on Top; White Jazz Stagnant”. . . . . . . . . . . 15
Irving Kolodin, “The Dance Band Business: A Study in Black
and White”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17
4. Solo Pop Singers and New Forms of Fandom. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21

Martha Weinman Lear, “The Bobby Sox Have Wilted, but the Memory
Remains Fresh”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
5. Hillbilly and Race Music. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25

Kyle Crichton, “Thar’s Gold in Them Hillbillies”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
6. Blues People and the Classic Blues. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30

LeRoi Jones, from Blues People: The Negro Experience in White America
and the Music that Developed from It. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32
7. The Empress of the Blues . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39

Nat Shapiro and Nat Hentoff, from Hear Me Talkin’ to Ya: The Story of
Jazz as Told by the Men Who Made It. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .40
8. At the Crossroads with Son House . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43

Jerry Gilbert, “Son House (part 1): Living King of the Delta”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45
iii
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iv Contents
9. Jumpin’ the Blues with Louis Jordan. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47

DownBeat, “Bands Dug by the Beat: Louis Jordan”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48
Arnold Shaw, from Honkers and Shouters: The Golden Years of
Rhythm and Blues. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49
10. On the Bandstand with Johnny Otis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52

Johnny Otis, from Upside Your Head! Rhythm and Blues on Central Avenue. . . . . . . . . 52
11. The Producers Answer Back: The Emergence of the “Indie”

Record Company . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54
Bill Simon, “Indies’ Surprise Survival: Small Labels’
Ingenuity and Skill Pay Off”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55
Arnold Shaw, from Honkers and Shouters: The Golden Years
of Rhythm and Blues. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57
12. Country Music as Folk Music, Country Music as Novelty. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60

Billboard, “American Folk Tunes: Cowboy and Hillbilly Tunes
and Tunesters”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61
Newsweek, “Corn of Plenty”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63
PART 2 The 1950s

13. Country Music Approaches the Mainstream . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67
Rufus Jarman, “Country Music Goes to Town”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68
14. Rhythm and Blues in the Early 1950s: B. B. King . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70

Arnold Shaw, from Honkers and Shouters: The Golden Years
of Rhythm and Blues. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71
15. “The House that Ruth Brown Built”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73

Ruth Brown (with Andrew Yule), from Miss Rhythm:
The Autobiography of Ruth Brown, Rhythm and Blues Legend. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74
16. Ray Charles, or, When Saturday Night Mixed It Up with Sunday Morning. . . . . . . . 78
Ray Charles and David Ritz, from Brother Ray: Ray Charles’
Own Story. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79
17. Jerry Wexler: A Life in R&B. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85

Jerry Wexler and David Ritz, from Rhythm and the Blues:
A Life in American Music. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86
18. The Growing Threat of Rhythm and Blues. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90

Variety, “Top Names Now Singing the Blues as Newcomers
Roll on R&B Tide”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91
Variety, “A Warning to the Music Business”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93
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Contentsv
19. From Rhythm and Blues to Rock ‘n’ Roll: The Songs of Chuck Berry. . . . . . . . . . . . . 95
Norman Jopling, “Chuck Berry: Rock Lives!”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96
20. Little Richard: Boldly Going Where No Man Had Gone Before . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99
Charles White, from The Life and Times of Little Richard:
The Quasar of Rock. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100
21. Elvis Presley, Sam Phillips, and Rockabilly. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105

Elizabeth Kaye, “Sam Phillips Interview”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107
22. Rock ‘n’ Roll Meets the Popular Press . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112

23. The Chicago Defender Defends Rock ‘n’ Roll . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114
Rob Roy, “Bias Against “Rock ‘n’ Roll” Latest Bombshell in Dixie”. . . . . . . 115
24. The Music Industry Fight Against Rock ‘n’ Roll: Dick Clark’s
Teen-Pop Empire and the Payola Scandal. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117
Peter Bunzel, “Music Biz Goes Round and Round:
It Comes Out Clarkola” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119
New York Age, “Mr. Clark and Colored Payola”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 122
PART 3 The 1960s

25. The Brill Building and the Girl Groups. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125
Charlotte Greig, from Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?
Girl Groups from the 50s On . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127
26. From Surf to Smile . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 134

Richard Cromelin, “Interview with Brian Wilson” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135
27. Urban Folk Revival . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138

Gene Bluestein, “Songs of the Silent Generation” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 140
Time, “Folk Singing: Sybil with Guitar” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143
28. Bringing It All Back Home: Dylan at Newport . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147

Irwin Silber, “Newport Folk Festival, 1965”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150
Paul Nelson, “Newport Folk Festival, 1965”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151
29. “For a Man to Be at Ease, He Must Not Tell All He Knows,

Nor Say All He Sees”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153
John Cohen and Happy Traum, “An Interview with Bob Dylan”. . . . . . . . . . . 155
30. From R&B to Soul. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163

Jerry Wexler and David Ritz, from Rhythm and the Blues:
A Life in American Music. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 165
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vi Contents
31. No Town Like Motown . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 166

Harvey Kubernik, “Berry Gordy: A Conversation with Mr. Motown”. . . . . . 168
32. The Godfather of Soul and the Beginnings of Funk . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 172

James Brown (with Bruce Tucker), from The Godfather of Soul . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 173
33. “The Blues Changes from Day to Day”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 183

Jim Delehant, “Otis Redding Interview” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 183
34. Aretha Franklin Earns Respect. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 187

Phyl Garland, “Aretha Franklin—“Sister Soul”: Eclipsed Singer
Gains New Heights”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 188
35. The Beatles, the “British Invasion,” and Cultural Respectability. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 193
William Mann, “What Songs the Beatles Sang . . .”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 194
Theodore Strongin, “Musicologically . . .”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 196
36. A Hard Day’s Night and Beatlemania. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 198

Andrew Sarris, “Bravo Beatles!”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 198
Barbara Ehrenreich et al., “Beatlemania: Girls Just Want to Have Fun”. . . . . . . 201
37. Two Takes on Sergeant Pepper . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 206

Tom Phillips, “Review of Sergeant Pepper:
The Album as Art Form”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 208
Richard Goldstein, “I Blew My Cool through the New York Times”. . . . . . . . . 210
38. The British Art School Blues. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 213

Giorgio Gomelsky, “The Rolling Stones Stake a Claim
in the R&B Race”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 216
39. The Stones versus the Beatles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 220

Ellen Willis, “Records: Rock, Etc.—The Big Ones”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 222
40. If You’re Goin’ to San Francisco . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 226

Ralph J. Gleason, “Dead Like Live Thunder”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 228
41. The Kozmic Blues of Janis Joplin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 231

Nat Hentoff, “We Look at Our Parents and . . .” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 232
42. Jimi Hendrix and the Electronic Guitar. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 236

Bob Dawbarn, “Second Dimension: Jimi Hendrix in Action”. . . . . . . . . . . . . 237
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Contentsvii
43. Rock Meets the Avant-Garde: Frank Zappa. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 240
Sally Kempton, “Zappa and the Mothers: Ugly Can Be Beautiful”. . . . . . . . . 241
44. Festivals—The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 245

Mike Jahn, “Recollected in Tranquility: Woodstock”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 246
PART 4 THE 1970S

45. Where Did the Sixties Go?. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 253
Lester Bangs, “Of Pop and Pies and Fun”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 255
46. The Sound of Autobiography: Singer-Songwriters, Carole King. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 260

Robert Windeler, “Carole King: ‘You Can Get to Know
Me Through My Music’”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 262
47. Joni Mitchell: The Power of Insight. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 265

Penny Valentine, “Joni Mitchell: An Interview (part 1)”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 266
48. Sly Stone: “The Myth of Staggerlee”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 269

Greil Marcus, from Mystery Train: Images of America
in Rock ‘n’ Roll Music. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 271
49. Not-so-“little” Stevie Wonder. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 277

Chris Welch, “Stevie Wonder: ‘Hah—the boy is getting
MILITANT! You get back to ‘Fingertips’ now!’” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 278
50. Parliament Drops the Bomb . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 281

W. A. Brower, “George Clinton: Ultimate Liberator
of Constipated Notions” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 282
51. Heavy Metal Meets the Counterculture. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 288

John Mendelsohn, “Review of Led Zeppelin”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 290
Ed Kelleher, “Black Sabbath Don’t Scare Nobody”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 292
52. Led Zeppelin Speaks!. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 297

Dave Schulps, “The Crunge: Jimmy Page Gives a History Lesson”. . . . . . . . 298
53. “I Have No Message Whatsoever”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 305

Cameron Crowe, “David Bowie Interview” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 306
54. Rock Me Amadeus. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 312

Tim Morse, from Yesstories: Yes in Their Own Words. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 314
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viii Contents
55. The Global Phenomenon of Reggae . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 318

Robert Hilburn, “Third-World Theme of Bob Marley”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 319
56. Get On Up Disco. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 323

Andrew Kopkind, “The Dialectic of Disco: Gay Music Goes Straight”. . . . . . 325
57. Punk: The Sound of Criticism? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 334

James Wolcott, “A Conservative Impulse in the New
Rock Underground”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 336
58. The Punk Rimbaud. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 340

Robin Katz, “Patti Smith: Poetry in Motion”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 341
59. Punk Crosses the Atlantic. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 346

Caroline Coon, “Rebels Against the System”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 347
60. Punk to New Wave? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 352

Stephen Holden, “The B-52s’ American Graffiti”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 354
PART 5 THE 1980S

61. A “Second British Invasion,” MTV, and Other Postmodernist Conundrums. . . . . 357
Robert Christgau, “Rock ‘n’ Roller Coaster: the Music Biz on a Joyride”. . . . 359
62. Thriller Begets the “King of Pop”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 369

Greg Tate, “I’m White! What’s Wrong with Michael Jackson” . . . . . . . . . . . . 370
Daryl Easlea, “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough: Bruce
Swedien Remembers the Times with Michael Jackson”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 374
63. Madonna and the Performance of Identity. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 378

Camille Paglia, “Venus of the Radio Waves” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 379
64. Bruce Springsteen—Reborn in the USA. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 383

Dave Marsh, “Little Egypt from Asbury Park–and
Bruce Springsteen Don’t Crawl on HisBelly, Neither”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 384
Simon Frith, “The Real Thing—Bruce Springsteen” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 387
65. R&B in the 1980s—To Cross Over or Not to Cross Over? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 394
Nelson George, from The Death of Rhythm and Blues . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 395
66. Heavy Metal Thunders On!. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 401

J. D. Considine, “Purity and Power—Total, Unswerving Devotion to Heavy
Metal Form: Judas Priest and the Scorpions”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 402
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Contentsix
67. Metal in the Late Eighties: Glam or Thrash? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 405
Richard Gehr, “Metallica”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 406
68. Parents Want to Know: Heavy Metal, the PMRC, and the Public
Debate over Decency. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 411
Record Labeling: Hearing before the Committee on Commerce,
Science, and Transportation, United States Senate,
99th Congress, September 19, 1985. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 414
69. Postpunk Goes Indie. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 420

Al Flipside, “What Is This Thing Called Hardcore?”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 421
70. Indie Brings the Noise. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 424

Kim Gordon, “Boys Are Smelly: Sonic Youth Tour Diary, ’87”. . . . . . . . . . . 425
71. Hip-Hop, Don’t Stop . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 430

Robert Ford, Jr., “B-Beats Bombarding Bronx: Mobile DJ Starts
Something with Oldie R&B Disks” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 431
Robert Ford, Jr., “Jive Talking N.Y. DJs Rapping Away in Black Discos”. . . . 432
72. “The Music Is a Mirror”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 433

Harry Allen, “Hip Hop Madness: From Def Jams to Cold Lampin’,
Rap Is Our Music” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 436
Carol Cooper, “Girls Ain’t Nothin’ but Trouble”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 440
73. Where Rap and Heavy Metal Converge. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 442

Jon Pareles, “There’s a New Sound in Pop Music: Bigotry”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 443
PART 6 THE 1990S

74. Hip-Hop into the 1990s. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 449
J. D. Considine, “Fear of a Rap Planet”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 451
75. Nuthin’ but a “G” Thang. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 457

Touré, “Snoop Dogg’s Gentle Hip-Hop Growl” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 458
76. Keeping It a Little Too Real. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 462

Sam Gideon Anso and Charles Rappleye, “Rap Sheet” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 463
Selwyn Seyfu Hinds, “Party Over”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 464
Natasha Stovall, “Town Criers” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 465
77. Women in Rap . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 466

Christopher John Farley, “Hip-Hop Nation”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 468
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x Contents
78. From Indie to Alternative to . . . Seattle?. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 474

Grant Alden, “Grunge Makes Good” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 475
79. Riot Girl . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 479

“RIOT GRRRL . . . Believe in me!”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 480
80. Grunge Turns to Scrunge. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 483

Eric Weisbard, “Over & Out: Indie Rock Values in the Age of
Alternative Million Sellers”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 485
81. “We Are the World”?. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 491

George Lipsitz, “Immigration and Assimilation: Rai, Reggae,
and Bhangramuffin”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 494
82. Genre or Gender?. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 502

Carla DeSantis, “Lilith Fair: If You Want to See a Show, Put on a Festival—
Sarah McLachlan Takes the Girls on the Road”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 504
83. Electronica Is in the House. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 508

Simon Reynolds, “Historia Electronica Preface”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 510
84. R&B Divas Go Retro. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 521

Ann Powers, “The New Conscience of Pop Music” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 522
PART 7 THE 21ST CENTURY

85. Country in the Post–Urban Cowboy Era. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 527
Mark Cooper, “Garth Brooks: Meet Nashville’s New Breed
of Generously Stetsoned Crooner”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 529
Charles Taylor, “Chicks Against the Machine” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 534
86. New Adventures in Mediation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 540

Joshua Clover, “Jukebox Culture: How I Learned to Stop Worrying
and Love the Boy Band” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 542
Nina C. Ayoub, “Idol Pursuits” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 544
87. The End of History and the Mass-Marketing of Trivia. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 547

Jay Babcock, “The Kids Aren’t Alright  . . . They’re Amazing”. . . . . . . . . . . . 549
88. A World of Copies without Originals. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 554

Testimony of Mr. Lars Ulrich, Member and Co-founder of
Metallica (Senate Judiciary Committee on Downloading Music
on the Internet, July 11, 2000) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 556
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Contentsxi
John Seabrook, “Revenue Streams” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 559
Joe Coscarelli, “Riding an Online Craze to the Top” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 567
89. Political Engagement and African American Popular Music

in the 21st Century . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 569
Zandria F. Robinson, “How Beyoncé’s ‘Lemonade’ Exposes
the Inner Lives of Black Women”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 572
Aisha Harris, “Has Kendrick Lamar Recorded the New Black
National Anthem? Singing ‘Alright’ in a Summer of Protest,
Despair, and Hope” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 575
90. EDM Grooves Onward. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 578

Simon Reynolds, “How Rave Music Conquered America” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 579
Selected Bibliography. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 585

Index. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 591
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Preface
The music of a well-ordered age is calm and cheerful, and so is its government. The
music of a restive age is excited and fierce, and its government is perverted. The music
of a decaying state is sentimental and sad and its government is imperiled.
—Lu Be We, ancient Chinese philosopher1
It seems that music is used and produced [in one era] in the ritual in an attempt to
make people forget the general violence; in another, it is employed to make people
believe in the harmony of the world, that there is order in exchange and legitimacy
in commercial power; and finally, there is one in which it serves to silence, by mass-
producing a deafening, syncretic kind of music, and censoring all other human noises.
—Jacques Attali, contemporary French philosopher2
To some extent the genesis of this project can be blamed on my mother, who gave
me a copy of The Rolling Stone Record Review (a collection of reviews from Rolling
Stone from the years 1967–70) when I was 13. I became aware of an ongoing world
of criticism with its own set of myths and assumptions about what was important in
popular music. The contributors to the Record Review took popular music seriously,
wrote about it literately, and seemed to share a sense of how the sound and style of
popular music were bound up with contemporary social and political currents. I have
continued to use that same, now-tattered paperback copy of the Record Review and
its successor, The Rolling Stone Record Review, Volume 2, as a reference volume for the
subsequent 30 years, and two reviews from the first volume (plus the epigraph by Lu
Be We) made it into this book.
As is true of many things that happen during puberty, reading the Record Review
had an impact that could not have been foreseen at the time. I subsequently morphed
from music fan and fledgling musician to music student to professional musician to
music academic, yet these early encounters with music criticism continued to exert a
powerful fascination.
The Book’s Approach

In the course of teaching classes on the history of 20th- and 21st-century (mostly) U.S.
popular music for several years, I began to ponder ways to explore the interconnec-
tions among popular music, musical techniques, current events, and social identity
in a way that would make popular music as exciting and powerful for students as it
had become for me. I wanted to find material that could address several particularly
compelling questions: How did the musicians who made the music explain it? What
did the music sound like? Who listened to it? Why did they listen to it? How did they
1. The Rolling Stone Record Review (New York: Pocket Books, 1971), i.
2. Jacques Attali, Noise: The Political Economy of Music, trans. Brian Massumi (Minneapolis:
University of Minnesota Press, 1985), 19.
xiii
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xiv Preface
react? What was the dominant impression made by the music to society at large? Why
do some types of popular music still matter today?
Readings Offer Breadth and Flexibility

Over time, it became clear to me that one of the best ways to focus attention on
these questions and, in some cases, to suggest possible answers to them was to assign
source readings. Source readings challenge readers to re-create the context in which
the first expressions of excitement and arguments about value in various genres oc-
curred. This engagement with the social context is a large part of the reason why
source readings tend to stimulate critical thinking and lively discussions, as read-
ers relive the controversies and conflicts that accompanied significant events in the
history of popular music. The wealth of entries means that readers and instructors
using this book can pick and choose readings to correspond to a variety of interests
and emphases.
Readings Provide Diverse Perspectives

A collection of source readings provides a different sense of history than do more
conventional narrative histories, which tend to emphasize continuity. By contrast, the
sense of history that emerges from an anthology of source readings is more disjunct
in some respects, since different voices present authoritative versions of historical
events that may compete or conflict with one another. This unresolved quality can be
wonderfully stimulating. In this volume, for example, artists such as James Brown,
Bob Dylan, the Beatles, and Jimi Hendrix can be seen through a prism of shifting
perspectives consisting of critics writing at different times, as well as interviews and
autobiographies of people involved in the creation of the music. This lack of resolu-
tion may also provide the impetus for classroom discussions.
Commentary Provides an Overarching Historical Backdrop

This book is a hybrid of sorts, differing from most other anthologies in that it fur-
nishes its own sense of linear history. In addition to the usual sort of material found
in headnotes (introductions to the entries), I have provided historical background
about different artists, eras, and genres. This was necessitated by several factors:
First, the large social and stylistic distances between genres grouped within the
larger rubric of “popular music” made transitions between some entries difficult.
It didn’t seem right, for example, to go from an entry discussing the aesthetic
innovation and cultural importance of disco to entries discussing the different
aesthetic and social context of punk, with only a headnote to function as a transi-
tion. Second, these transitional historical passages allowed me to discuss a broader
range of sources than I could include in the book as entries, and they opened the
book up to a wider range of uses.
Organization Allows Broad Usage

The book is arranged chronologically by decades, with the first part of the book
devoted to developments prior to the 1950s. Throughout this collection of source
readings, I’ve woven in commentary that provides context preceding the articles
and, on occasion, in the midst of them, thereby creating a hybrid text/reader. Thus
the book can be used either as the main text for a course or as a supporting reader.
In addition to courses on the history of 20th- and 21st-century popular music, the
content applies to courses on American music, American studies, media studies,
history, and sociology.
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Prefacexv
The Selections
The documents in this collection may be grouped into two large categories: the first
includes articles from general-interest magazines, music magazines, newspapers, and
music industry publications, and the second includes interviews and autobiographies
of musicians and other participants in the music industry.
Journalism/Criticism
Works of journalism and criticism convey reactions to important musical develop-
ments at the moment they began to receive public attention. The interest in these
pieces—often written with a tight deadline in mind and with little thought for creat-
ing enduring historical narratives—comes from a palpable sense of excitement as the
pieces respond to, for example, the appearance of a new genre, the reinterpretation
of an old genre as it finds a new audience, or the impact of new technology on pro-
duction and reception. Journalistic criticism is particularly useful in communicating
a sense of unfolding events, since critics fill an important role mediating between
musicians, the music industry, and the audience.
Within the category of “criticism,” I have included a variety of different types
of writing about music, from articles and record reviews in magazines with a broad
readership, to excerpts from underground “fanzines,” to examples of “new jour-
nalism” in which the subjective impressions of the critic are highlighted. In decid-
ing which pieces of criticism to select, I sought out examples of critics who have
been historically influential, some of whom have played a role in the reception and
meaning of the music itself. One of the clearest examples of this synergy between
criticism, style, and meaning may be found in the debates that exploded in the late
1960s around rock aesthetics. These debates indicated a major shift in the reception
of post–rock ‘n’ roll popular music and continue to illuminate debates that still rage
whenever musicians and fans argue about their preferences. I also included accounts
that are not particularly hip or influential in terms of popular music criticism, not in
order to make fun of them or show how wrong the authors were, but because these
articles are useful for conveying widespread attitudes about popular music at that
time in a way that more specialized publications are not.
An interesting facet of working with journalistic sources is the variation in point
of view and tone between different publications. This may be confusing for students
because interpreting many of the entries often requires reading skills beyond those
needed for gleaning facts from a standard textbook. The headnotes are intended
to clarify some of the complicating factors. These include (to name only a few) the
assumed readership of the publication, the ongoing dialogue with other critics in
which the article might have been participating, and the larger issues in the music
industry and/or society at large to which the article might have been alluding.
Interviews and Autobiographies

I looked for statements by musicians that focused on their social and musical back-
grounds and on aspects of their music that had the greatest influence on others. I
concentrated on artists who had a significant historical impact even if they were not
necessarily the most popular in statistical terms during the period in which they
worked. I also sought the views of “backstage” figures who played an important
role in the history of popular music—it was often the vision of these entrepreneurs,
record producers, and engineers that led to the formation of new musical alliances
and the redrawing of the stylistic map. While it may be true that many of the inter-
views and autobiographies display the kind of self-serving revisionism that comes
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xvi Preface
with fi
rst-person re-creations of events long past, even in their idealized form these
recollections can still provide a good starting point for discussions.
I do not attempt to include every important personage in popular music dur-
ing the period covered here. Some figures, such as Nat “King” Cole and Bill Haley,
while they do not have entries devoted specifically to them, are mentioned in arti-
cles, headnotes, or interviews with and autobiographies of others. These omissions
are not intended as a slight or an indication of what I think is important so much as
they reflect the accessibility of primary materials that focus on these musicians. In
the case of certain genres, such as doo-wop, I had difficulty tracking down source
materials that I found acceptable. In other cases, I simply ran out of time, luck,
money, or some combination of the three. At any rate, I welcome suggestions for
future editions.
What’s New in the Fourth Edition?

The fourth edition includes eleven new entries, replacing the same number of entries
from the second edition; these include the following:
1. New articles on classic rock artists, the Beatles and the Rolling Stones that
will facilitate classroom assignments and discussion. The return of critical
overviews of the beginning of the 1970s and 1980s by leading critics Lester
Bangs and Robert Christgau. An emphasis on the central role of women in
punk rock. New essays on the impact of technology and mass media on the
circulation and social meaning of music, including topics such as streaming,
the interconnectedness of social media, and the legal battles over file-sharing.
The resurgence of political engagement in recent African American popular
music, with features on Beyoncé and Kendrick Lamar.
2. An account of the meteoric rise in popularity of electronic dance music.
So What, Exactly, Constitutes Popular Music?

The organization of this book reflects my longtime interest in issues of genre. This inter-
est arose out of attempts to synthesize my experiences as a musician and as an academ-
ically trained music scholar; in other words, I sought a point of articulation between
music analysis—the formal or technical description of music—and the social meanings
and functions of music. Focusing on genre provides an ideal theoretical framework for
exploring such an interest, since genre may be understood as a way of categorizing
popular music so as to create a connection among musical styles, producers, musicians,
and consumers. Genres also underline how meaning circulates in a kind of “feedback
loop” that binds musicians, fans, and critics. Thus no one source rooted in any one of
these groups can act as the ultimate arbiter of musical significance. The focus on genre
in this book resembles that of a book like Philip Ennis’s The Seventh Stream: one that
relies on a model of popular music as an assemblage of several (or, as in Ennis’s case,
seven) simultaneous streams that cross, interweave, and diverge at different historical
moments. Although one may quibble over what constitutes the boundaries of a stream
at any given moment, the metaphor remains useful.
The main categorical or generic division, and one that occurs in every part of
this book, is that between black popular music and white popular music. While there
have certainly been moments of strong interconnection (the mid-1950s, for example),
at other times these two large categories really do seem to exist in separate, although
not necessarily equal, universes. This frequent sense of distance between musical
categories and my desire to contextualize the categories are two of the d riving forces
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Prefacexvii
behind what I referred to earlier as the “hybrid” nature of this anthology. The pres-
ence of these multiple streams is reflected in my title: I avoided calling this book The
Rock ‘n’ Roll Reader or The Rock Reader precisely because those terms seem somewhat
more limited to me, especially in that they are frequently understood as not includ-
ing the full range of African American popular music since World War II. The usage
of “rock,” for example, sometimes refers to all popular music after 1955; at other
times the term refers to popular music made by (mostly) white, (mostly) male musi-
cians after 1965. Neither “rock ‘n’ roll” nor the twin usages of “rock” do justice to the
rich range of genres that have dominated popular music of the past 50 years. Dave
Marsh’s notion of “rock and soul music” comes close to capturing the complex range
of styles discussed in this book and granting recognition to the importance of Afri-
can American musicians, although I felt it necessary to expand “rock” and “soul”
further by adding “pop.”3
One question that readers are bound to raise concerns the boundaries of popular
music itself. While my title, The Pop, Rock, and Soul Reader, may project capacious-
ness in terms of styles and genres, I am sure that despite my best efforts, the issue of
inclusiveness will inevitably arise. It is, of course, not possible to include everything
(imagine how large a book that would be!); nevertheless, I believe that the material
presented here is diverse enough to encourage and enable the tracing of a variety
of histories with different points of emphasis. The ability to refocus on a varying
assortment of genres makes it possible to shift which dates, places, and personages
seem important.
A Note on Chronology and Sources

That this anthology provides a variety of routes through history by allowing the
reader to pick and choose from among the entries also underscores the fuzziness of
generic borders, in that our perceptions of these borders may shift, depending on
which points of view we consider. By the same token, a genre’s temporal boundar-
ies may also appear to be imprecise if we view them from different perspectives;
therefore, the histories of genres will not necessarily begin or end clearly on specific
dates. Acknowledging the lack of a specific point of origin for genres, however, does
not preclude the possibility that certain types of historical emphases within genres
will correspond more strongly than others to the perceptions of a particular socially
or culturally situated group. For example, from the point of view of the first wave of
baby boomers who came of age as fans in the 1950s, 1955 may seem like an obvious
date for the transformation of popular music. On the other hand, this date may seem
less important to those who formed strong attachments to popular music in the 1990s
or 1930s. That the book goes back to the turn of the last century suggests that the
intrageneric dialogue that we now associate with rock ‘n’ roll had already started by
the early decades of the 20th century.
Although I was tempted, I decided not to divide chapters by dates that create
the appearance of a significant point of arrival (e.g., 1955, 1964, and 1977) in order to
open the use of the book to those who disagree about when significant breaks occur.
Even the division by decades does not provide an easy solution, however, since many
artists who are presented here through autobiography or interview had careers that
spanned several decades, and their thoughts were inflected by the period in which
3. The phrase “rock and soul” comes from Dave Marsh, The Heart of Rock and Soul: The 1001
Greatest Singles Ever Made (New York: Da Capo Press, [1989] 1999).
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xviii Preface
they were written down, a period that may have occurred long after the time of the
musical events they are describing. This historical untidiness sometimes means that
readings referring to a single genre are spread out over two or more chapters.
This book is also very much a history of the different types of mass media
and trade publications about popular music since 1920. The surge of writing in the
late 1960s significantly altered the landscape of popular music criticism, a devel-
opment that is reflected in this book. Prior to the late 1960s, sources consisted of
music industry publications, such as Billboard and Variety; magazines that catered
to jazz aficionados, such as Down Beat and Metronome; the occasional feature piece
in a general-interest magazine or newspaper; and the odd interview or musician’s
autobiography (although it is interesting to note that many of the interviews and
autobiographies dealing with events from before 1960 were actually published after
1970, a phenomenon facilitated by the same boom that produced an abundance of
new publications). Whereas the problem with finding suitable material pre-1967 was
its scarcity, or the lack of variety in the type of sources, the surfeit of riches after 1967
creates the opposite problem of having too much material and too many choices.
In a few cases I have included pieces of a more scholarly hue that are particularly
illuminating about an issue occurring close in time to the publication of the piece,
thus putting these essays in a context similar to that of the journalistic work or the
trade publications. These scholarly works, along with several intensely researched
pieces that could easily pass for academic work even if their conventional assigna-
tion falls into the category of “journalism” or “trade publication,” emphasize how
hazy the line can be between the scholarly and the nonscholarly. However, while
some of the criticism here displays the thorough research and analysis that many
would associate with scholarly work, many of these pieces do not provide the type
of sustained analysis found in scholarship, nor do they usually contain in-depth
descriptions of musical style like those found in musicological studies. The work of
critics may seem remarkably prescient or spectacularly wrongheaded after the fact,
but it almost always tells us something about how people felt at the time the events
were happening. Scholars, with the benefit of hindsight, are able to work backward
from questions that interest them in the present to shock, surprise, or comfort read-
ers on the basis of how the authors perceive present-day attitudes toward their sub-
jects. Although I am a musicologist rather than a critic, I have emphasized criticism
and trade publications far more than scholarship because criticism better served the
goals of this book. An impressive expansion occurred in academic studies of popular
music in the 1980s and 1990s that would require a separate volume were I to attempt
to do it justice. For those hankering for a greater proportion of academic work, refer-
ences are given throughout to direct readers toward relevant scholarship.
Acknowledgments
In addition to thanking everyone I thanked in the first three editions, I would like to
express my appreciation for my research assistants: Farley Miller, Sean Lorre, Jennifer
Messelink, and Claire McLeish, who helped track down the new entries and narrow
the field of possibilities; and for the authors of the new entries in this edition for their
permission to use their work.
The encouragement of my new editor, Richard Carlin, provided the necessary
motivation down the homestretch; and to his indefatigable assistant, Jacqueline Lev-
ine. I can’t resist repeating my thanks to two people mentioned in the acknowledg-
ments of the first three editions: first, to Jan Beatty, editor of the first two editions,
whose dedication and enthusiasm for the project played a major role in its prepa-
ration; and second, to my partner Lisa Barg, guiding light in matters of the spirit
bra43588_fm_i-xx xviii 05/24/19 04:12 PM

Prefacexix
and mind. Finally, I must mention my debt to our children, Sophie and Fred, whose
growing love of music and wide-open ears inspire me to keep listening and playing.
I extend my thanks to the following reviewers commissioned by OUP, who
helped enormously with the preparation of the new edition, including
Stephen Allen, Rider University
Brian Fauteux, University of Alberta
Paul Fehrenbach, Pennsylvania State University
Daniel Koppelman, Furman University
Rebecca Rinsema, Northern Arizona University
Benjamin Tausig, Stony Brook University
Edward Whitelock, Gordon State College
A Note on the Text

There are two kinds of footnotes in this anthology: those I prepared myself and those
that are being reprinted from the original source readings. I have indicated my notes
with numbers and the others with symbols.
bra43588_fm_i-xx xix 05/24/19 04:12 PM

bra43588_fm_i-xx xx 05/24/19 04:12 PM
PART 1
Before 1950
1. Irving Berlin in Tin Pan Alley
For most of the 19th century in North America and Western Europe, popular
song publishing was built around a sheet-music trade aimed at home per-
formers. In the United States during the 1890s, organizers of the variety
entertainment known as vaudeville and theatrical producers increasingly
consolidated their offices in New York City, which had already become
the center of the music publishing business. Located first on West 28th
Street in Manhattan and then moving uptown (eventually to the neigh-
borhood between West 42nd and West 56th Streets), the area where the
publishers set up shop became known as “Tin Pan Alley,” a name that
would later stand for the kind of songs created there. In the close con-
nection between the stage and the publishing trade, both the vaudeville
circuit and the Broadway show relied on Tin Pan Alley songwriters for their
music; in turn, the stage, with its national circuits of theaters and touring
attractions, popularized and circulated this music among customers who
enjoyed listening to, singing, and playing it.
The decade of the 1890s dawned on a popular music scene domi-
nated by Victorian-style ballads and waltz songs composed by European
American songwriters such as Charles K. Harris, Paul Dresser, and Harry
von Tilzer. Before the decade was over, however, a vigorous new style
created by African American musicians called ragtime was introduced.
Both types of song (as well as others) persisted through the years 1900–
20, each developing in its own way. The classically trained Broadway
composer Jerome Kern brought a cosmopolitan harmonic and melodic
richness to the first type. As for ragtime, in the hands of the self-taught
Russian immigrant songwriter Irving Berlin, rhythm and exuberance
came to stand less for ethnic difference than for social liberation,
especially as expressed in such new dances as the grizzly bear and the
turkey trot. Songs from Tin Pan Alley (and from Broadway, its higher-
toned relative) were heard live on stages and in other entertainment
1
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 1 05/27/19 04:50 PM

2 Before 1950
venues across the country and overseas and on phonograph records
and player-piano rolls, as well as in performances conducted at home.1
It is fitting that the first entry in this anthology is authored by Charles

Hamm, a pioneering figure in the study of the popular music of the
United States.2 Hamm’s work on Irving Berlin (1888–1989) stands as the
definitive scholarly treatment of this major figure in American music, and
the following excerpt from his book on Berlin illustrates well the turn-of-
the-century milieu in which Berlin came of age and entered the music
business. Hamm’s account stresses the importance of ethnic identities—
Jewish American, Irish American, African American, and others—in forg-
ing a Tin Pan Alley style that was perceived as distinctly “American”
both within the United States and around the world; in Hamm’s words,
Berlin’s songs “encode or reflect or perpetuate or shape or empower . . .
the culture and values of this complex community.” Other passages in this
excerpt emphasize important distinctions in the way authorship functions
in this type of popular music compared to classical music. Many of Berlin’s
songs were collaborations, not only with other songwriters, but also with
arrangers and “musical secretaries” who could transcribe his ideas into
musical notation for him. And while Hamm describes the primacy of sheet
music at this time for the circulation of commercial music—a medium that
makes songs appear similar in formal terms—he stresses how the appar-
ent standardized quality of these songs also enables a great deal of flex-
ibility in performance, allowing the song to be rearticulated in a multitude
of different contexts and genres. Differences in performance, in turn,
strongly affect the reception and meaning of the songs.3
Irving Berlin and the Crucible of God

Charles Hamm
What little we know of his early life has been pieced together from scattered offi-
cial documentation, journalistic coverage of his activities, an early biography by his
friend Alexander Woollcott, the lyrics and music of his earliest songs, and g eneral
1. For more, see Richard Crawford, America’s Music Life: A History (New York: Norton, 2001);
and Alec Wilder, American Popular Song: The Great Innovators, 1900–1950 (New York: Oxford Uni-
versity Press, 1972).
2. See Charles Hamm, Yesterdays: Popular Song in America (New York: W. W. Norton, 1979);
idem., Music in the New World (New York: W. W. Norton, 1983); and idem., Putting Popular Music
in Its Place (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1995).
3. For a fascinating case study of how performance affects genre, see Hamm, “Genre, Performance,
and Ideology in the Early Songs of Irving Berlin,” in Putting Popular Music in Its Place, pp. 370–80.
Source: IRVING BERLIN: SONGS FROM MELTING POT: THE FORMATIVE YEARS, 1907–1914
by Charles Hamm (1997): Extracts totaling 3700 words (pp. vi-viii, ix-x, 5,7–8,9,11, & 12–18) ©
1996 by Charles Hamm.
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 2 05/27/19 04:50 PM

Irving Berlin in Tin Pan Alley 3
information about life and culture in the Lower East Side.* Born Israel Baline in
Tumen in Western Siberia on 11 May 1888,† the youngest of the eight children of a
cantor, Moses Baline, and his wife, Leah (Lipkin), he had come with his parents and
five of his siblings to the New World, arriving in New York aboard the SS Rhynland
on 13 September 1893. The family found temporary lodging in a basement apartment
on Monroe Street in Manhattan’s Lower East Side, then settled at 330 Cherry Street,
in the southeastern corner of the Jewish quarter, in a flat that remained the family
home until 1913.
The father was able to find only part-time employment, as a kosher poultry
inspector and a manual laborer, and, as in so many immigrant families, everyone in
the Baline household was expected to contribute to the family income. The mother
became a midwife, three of the daughters found irregular employment wrapping
cigars, the oldest son, Benjamin, worked in a sweatshop,‡ and young Israel peddled
newspaper and junk in the streets while attending public school and receiving reli-
gious instruction at a cheder. With the death of the father in 1901, matters became
even more difficult for the family, and Israel decided to strike out on his own:
[Berlin] knew that he contributed less than the least of his sisters and that skepti-
cal eyes were being turned on him as his legs lengthened and his earning power
remained the same. He was sick with a sense of his own worthlessness. He was a
misfit and he knew it and he suffered intolerably. Finally, in a miserable retreat
from reproaches unspoken, he cleared out one evening after supper, vaguely bent
on fending for himself or starving if he failed. In the idiom of his neighborhood,
where the phenomenon was not uncommon, he went on the bum.§
Faced with the necessity of supporting himself, the fourteen-year-old Israel fell
back on his one obvious talent: singing. According to Woollcott, he was paid for sing-
ing popular songs on Saturday nights at MacAlear’s Bar, not far from Cherry Street,
was hired briefly in the chorus of the road company for The Show Girl, which had
opened in New York on 5 May 1902, and briefly plugged songs from the balcony at
Tony Pastor’s Music Hall. Most of the time, however, he was one of the company of
buskers who, having learned the latest hit songs brought out by Tin Pan Alley pub-
lishers, “would appear in the bar-rooms and dance-halls of the Bowery and, in the
words of Master Balieff, ‘sink sat sonks’ until the patrons wept and showered down
the pennies they had vaguely intended for investment in more beer.”¶
Early in 1904, Izzy, as he was now called, found a more secure position as a sing-
ing waiter at the Pelham Café, a saloon and dance hall at 12 Pell Street in Chinatown
that was owned and operated by Mike Salter, a Russian Jewish immigrant whose
dark complexion had earned him the nickname Nigger Mike. Salter capitalized on
the location of his establishment in this sordid quarter to attract tourists, college
*Alexander Woollcott, The Story of Irving Berlin (New York: Putnam, 1925). Later biographies
include Michael Freedland, Irving Berlin (New York: Stein & Day, 1974) and A Salute to Irving
Berlin (London: W. H. Allen, 1986); Ian Whitcomb, Irving Berlin and Ragtime America (London:
Century Hutchinson, 1987); and Laurence Bergreen, As Thousands Cheer: The Life of Irving Berlin
(New York: Viking, 1991). See also Charles Hamm, “Irving Berlin’s Early Songs As Biographical
Documents,” Musical Quarterly 77/1 (Spring 1993): 10–34 and Vince Motto, The Irving Berlin Cata-
log, Sheet Music Exchange 6, no. 5 (October 1988) and 8, no. 1 (February 1990).
†
According to research conducted recently by Berlin’s daughters. See Mary Ellin Barrett, Irving
Berlin: A Daughter’s Memoir (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1994), pp. 98–99.
‡
Bergreen, As Thousands Cheer, p. 11.
§
Woollcott, The Story of Irving Berlin, p. 21.
¶
Ibid., p. 27.
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 3 05/27/19 04:50 PM

4 Before 1950
students, and other “slummers” looking for vicarious thrills in the bowels of the
city. In truth, though, “the sightseers usually outnumbered the local talent [at the
Pelham], and the grand folk who journeyed eagerly from Fifth Avenue to Nigger
Mike’s seeking glimpses of the seamy side of life were usually in the predicament of
those American tourists who retreat to some quaint village in France or Spain only
to find its narrow streets clogged with not strikingly picturesque visitors from Red
Bank, N.J., Utica, N.Y., and Kansas City, Mo.”*
Izzy served drinks to the patrons of the Pelham Café and also entertained them
by singing for coins tossed his way, specializing in “blue” parodies of hit songs of the
day to the delight of both regular customers and tourists. In his free time he taught
himself to play the piano, an instrument available to him for the first time in his
life at the Pelham, and tried his hand at songwriting, his first attempt being “Marie
From Sunny Italy,” written in collaboration with the Pelham’s resident pianist, Mike
Nicholson. For reasons never fully explained, he chose to identify himself in the pub-
lished sheet music of that first song as Irving Berlin, a name that he retained for the
rest of his life.
His way with lyrics came to the attention of representatives of the popular music
industry, who supplied him with the latest songs. Max Winslow, for instance, a staff
member of the Harry Von Tilzer Company, came often to the Pelham to hear Izzy
and was so taken with his talent that he attempted to place him in that publishing
firm. As Von Tilzer described the episode in his unpublished autobiography:
Max Winslow came to me and said, “I have discovered a great kid, I would like to
see you write some songs with.” Max raved about him so much that I said, “Who
is he?” He said a boy down on the east side by the name of Irving Berlin. . . . I
said, “Max, How can I write with him, you know I have got the best lyric writers
in the country?” But Max would not stop boosting Berlin to me, and I want to say
right here that Berlin can attribute a great deal of his success to Max Winslow. Max
brought Berlin into my office one day shortly afterwards, and we shook hands, and
I told him that I was glad to meet him and also said, “You have got a great booster
in Winslow.” Berlin told me that he had a song that he had written with Al Pian-
tadosi and said he would like to have me hear it. I said I would be glad to hear it.†
Even though Von Tilzer agreed to publish the song, “Just Like The Rose,” he didn’t
offer Berlin a position on his staff.
In 1908 Berlin took a better-paying position at a saloon in the Union Square
neighborhood run by Jimmy Kelly, a one-time boxer who had been a bouncer at the
Pelham, and moved into an apartment in the area with Max Winslow. Collaboration
with such established songwriters as Edgar Leslie, Ted Snyder, Al Piantadosi, and
George Whiting strengthened his ties with Tin Pan Alley, and in 1909, the year of the
premiere of Zangwill’s The Melting-Pot, he took a position as staff lyricist at the Ted
Snyder Company. . . .
Even though Berlin had left home as a teenager to pursue a life unimaginable
to his parents and their peers, he retained close ties with his family, as well as with
their community of immigrant Eastern European Jews. When he was the featured
performer at Hammerstein’s vaudeville house in the fall of 1911, as the wealthy and
world-famous writer of “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” and dozens of other songs, the
New York Telegraph for 8 October reported that “a delegation of two hundred of his
friends from the pent and huddled East Side appeared . . . to see ‘their boy,’ as one
*Ibid., pp. 49–50.

†
Unpublished typescript, “Story of Harry Von Tilzer’s Career,” Library of Congress, p. 123.
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 4 05/27/19 04:50 PM

man among them expressed it, when he stopped the show long enough to tell the
audience that ‘Berlin was our boy when he wasn’t known to Broadway, and he had
never forgotten his pals during his success—and he is still our boy.’” The account
goes on to say that “all the little writer could do was to finger the buttons on his
coat and tears ran down his cheeks—in a vaudeville house!” In addition, according
to the Telegraph, “the home [on Cherry Street] is envied by all who are invited into
it from the original neighborhood where Berlin first saw the light. There his mother
and sisters enjoy the benefits—all of them—of his first years’ royalties.” In 1913 he
moved his mother into a new home at 834 Beck Street in the Bronx, in what was then
a much more fashionable neighborhood, and on opening night of his first musical
show, Watch Your Step, he shared his box at the New Amsterdam Theatre with his
mother and his sisters.
In addition to maintaining his ties to his own community, Berlin was very much
a part of New York City’s radically multicultural milieu, which encompassed, in
addition to his own group, Jews who had been in the United States for several gen-
erations; other recent immigrants to the New World from such places as Italy, Sicily,
Portugal, and Turkey; Irish, Germans, and Scandinavians who had come over a gen-
eration or two ago; Americans of British heritage who had a much longer history in
the United States and who had largely shaped the nation’s political, educational, and
cultural life; and some blacks, who were still very much on the fringes of American
society. . . . Berlin had personal and professional association with many people
outside his own ethnic group: Chuck Connors, a friend and protector during his
early days in Chinatown; his first collaborator, Mike Nicholson; Edgar Leslie, born
in Stamford, Connecticut, and a graduate of the Cooper Union; the Irish-American
George M. Cohan and the Dublin-born Victor Herbert, who became mentors and
friends. He associated as freely as was possible at the time with such black musicians
as Eubie Blake. And he fell in love with and married Dorothy Goetz, a Catholic, and
some years after her tragic early death married another Catholic.
Berlin, then, was a product of the multiethnic and predominantly immigrant/
first-generation community of turn-of-the-century New York City, of which the Jew-
ish enclave of Manhattan’s Lower East Side was merely one component. His early
songs, like those of his peers on Tin Pan Alley, encode or reflect or perpetuate or
shape or empower—depending on how one views the social function of popular
music—the culture and values of this complex community.
Remarkably, though, despite their regional origin and character, Tin Pan Alley
songs came to be accepted far beyond the community in and for which they had been
created. A parallel suggests itself. At exactly the same time, a quite different com-
munity, this one of African Americans, was forging its own body of popular music,
created for and performed within its home community at first but eventually finding
favor elsewhere as well. This music was jazz, and its acceptance by people outside its
home community, like that of Tin Pan Alley songs, seems to be explainable by this
observation: Although it retained important aspects of the character and the distinc-
tive musical style of the people who created it, it also accommodated and assimilated
enough external aspects of America’s older and more dominant culture to make it
easily accessible to those outside the community as well.
Creation, Collaboration and Originality

. . . Writing a Tin Pan Alley song was both a complex and a corporate process. As
Berlin described his own working method, he would begin with an idea for “either a
title or a phrase or a melody, and hum it out to something definite. . . . I am working
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 5 05/27/19 04:50 PM

6 Before 1950
on songs all of the time, at home and outside and in the office. I gather ideas, and then
I usually work them out between eight o’clock at night and five in the morning.”*
He would jot down lyrics as they came to him, on whatever material was at hand;
some of his unpublished lyrics are written on scraps of paper or on hotel or business
stationery, and others were typed out by a staff member of his publishing house.
In the next stage, words and music would be worked out more fully in collabora-
tion with another songwriter and/or an arranger. Berlin’s first biographer describes
the genesis of Berlin’s first song, “Marie From Sunny Italy”:
It was agreed that [Berlin and Mike Nicholson] must publish a song. Nick, of
course, would invent the tune and [Berlin] must write the words, for which, they
said, he had a knack because he was already famous in Chinatown for the amus-
ing if seldom printable travesties he improvised as the new songs found their way
downtown. . . .
This masterpiece was wrought with great groaning and infinite travail of the
spirit. Its rhymes, which filled the young lyricist with the warm glow of authorship,
were achieved day by day and committed nervously to stray bits of paper. Much
of it had to be doctored by Nick, with considerable experimenting at the piano and
a consequent displeasure felt by the patrons at Nigger Mike’s who would express
their feelings by hurling the damp beer cloths at the singer’s head. Truly it might be
said that Berlin’s first song was wrought while he dodged the clouts of his outraged
neighbors.
Finally the thing was done and then the two stared blankly at the bleak fact
that neither of them knew how to record their work. Nick could read sheet music
after a fashion but he had no notion how to reverse the process. . . . [W]hen the song
was finally transcribed, the work was done by a young violinist who shall remain
unidentified in this narrative because he has since clothed himself in the grandeur
of a Russian name and betaken himself to the concert platform with the air of a
virtuoso just off the boat from Paris.
Next the masterpiece was borne with shaking knees to Tin Pan Alley, where it
was promptly accepted by Joseph Stern for publication.†
Some songwriters were primarily lyricists, writing texts to which more musi-
cally adept collaborators added music, and at the beginning of his career Berlin was
considered to be one of these. . . .
Berlin wrote both words and music for almost two thirds of his early songs, and
in later years it became the exception for him to collaborate with another songwriter.
He described the advantages of being both lyricist and composer this way:
Nearly all other writers work in teams, one writing the music and the other the
words. They either are forced to fit some one’s words to their music or some one’s
music to their words. Latitude—which begets novelty—is denied them, and in
consequence both lyrics and melody suffer. Writing both words and music I can
compose them together and make them fit. I sacrifice one for the other. If I have a
melody I want to use, I plug away at the lyrics until I make them fit the best parts
of my music and vice versa.*
Even when Berlin was writing both words and music for a song, he was still
engaged in collaboration. Like other songwriters of the day, he depended on someone
*Quoted in Bergreen, As Thousands Cheer: The Life of Irving Berlin (New York: Penguin, 1990),
pp. 57–58.
†
Alexander Woollcott, The Story of Irving Berlin (New York: Putnam), pp. 65–68.
*Green Book Magazine (February 1915) cited in Bergreen, As Thousands Cheer: The Life of Irving
Berlin, pp. 55–56.
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 6 05/27/19 04:50 PM

else to take down his tunes in musical notation and to work out details of the piano
accompaniment; as he put it, “when I have completed a song and memorized it, I
dictate it to an arranger.”† Though he has often been criticized for this, it was in fact
standard procedure for Tin Pan Alley songwriters, even those fluent in musical nota-
tion, from Charles K. Harris on. . . .
The point of this discussion of the Tin Pan Alley mode of song production is not
merely to justify the inclusion in the Berlin canon of pieces written by him in collabo-
ration with others but, more important, to underline that the creation of a popular
song is a vastly different process from the composition of a classical piece. And the
difference between popular and classical music extends far beyond the mechanical
details of how a new piece within each genre comes into being to such issues as the
concept of “originality” and the relationship of music and its composers to the com-
munity for which it is created. . . .
The Material Form of Tin Pan Alley Songs

Tin Pan Alley songs were disseminated primarily in the material form of published
sheet music. Production of such a piece began with its collaborative oral creation and
its subsequent capture in musical notation, as described earlier, after which the song
was sent off to be engraved. . . .
In their material form as published sheet music, Berlin’s early songs appear to
exhibit a high degree of uniformity, among themselves and also in relation to pieces
by other songwriters. Structurally, virtually every one of them is made up of the
same component parts:
1. a brief piano introduction, drawn usually from the final bars of the chorus or
the beginning of the verse
2. a two- or four-bar vamp, with melodic and rhythmic material drawn from
and leading into the verse
3. two (or sometimes more) verses, usually sixteen or thirty-two bars in length,
depending on the meter of the song
4. a chorus, usually equal in length to the verse, with first and second endings.
The first ending indicates a repeat of the chorus; the second gives instruc-
tions for either a da capo return to the introduction or a dal segno return to
the vamp
The songs also appear to be quite uniform in melodic, harmonic, and rhythmic
style. Texts are set in a predominantly syllabic fashion, to mostly diatonic tunes con-
fined to a vocal range of an octave or less, with an occasional chromatic passing note.
Harmonies are tonal and triadic, shaped into two- or four-bar phrases, with second-
ary dominants and other chromatic chords sometimes lending variety. Modulation
may lead to another key for a phrase or two, and from early on Berlin had a man-
nerism of abruptly shifting a phrase to a key a third away from the tonic, without
modulation.*
Most of what has been written about Berlin’s early songs takes this sheet music
as the primary (and often only) text, and most recent performances of these pieces are
more or less literal readings from this text. But the songs were rarely performed just
†
Green Book Magazine (February 1915), cited in Bergreen, As Thousands Cheer, p. 57.
*For a general discussion of the musical style of these songs, see Hamm, Irving Berlin: Early
Songs, vol. 1, pp. xxv–xxviii.
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8 Before 1950
as they appear on the printed page. A literal reading from the sheet music results in
a performance shaped as follows:
• piano introduction
• vamp
• first verse
• chorus with first ending
• repeat of chorus, with second ending
• vamp
• second verse
• chorus with first ending
• repeat of chorus, with second ending
But we know from period recordings and other evidence that this sequence was subject
to change in performance. Only the first verse might be sung, or additional verses not
found in the sheet music might be added. The chorus might be sung only once after
each verse, “catch” lines of text might be interpolated into the second chorus, or there
might be a completely different set of lyrics, not found in the sheet music, for the sec-
ond chorus. The singer might alter notes in the melody or deliver the entire song in a
semispoken way without precise pitches. The accompaniment might take over for a half
or a full chorus without the singer(s), the instrumental introduction might be repeated
after the last chorus, or the song might end with a coda not found in the sheet music. . . .
The problem with taking the notated form of these songs as the primary text,
then, is that, unlike compositions of the classical repertory, which throughout the
modern era were assumed to be “ideal objects with an immutable and unshifting
‘real’ meaning,”† a popular song may be “rearticulated” in any given performance.‡
In other words, “dissemination of [a popular song] as printed sheet music was only
the beginning of its history; it then became fair game for performers, who according
to the conventions of the genre were free to transform [it] in details of rhythm, har-
mony, melody, instrumentation, words, and even overall intent.”§
Throughout its history, popular music has been marked by the extraordinary flex-
ibility with which its text has been treated by performers, and also by the variety of
meanings that listeners have perceived in these songs. Stephen Foster’s “Old Folks At
Home” was sung by amateurs clustered around pianos in private parlors, performed on
the minstrel stage in blackface, sung on the concert stage by famous performers of the
classical repertory, interpolated into stage versions of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, sung around
campfires by groups of Civil War soldiers of both sides, reworked into elaborate display
pieces for virtuoso pianists and trumpet players, paraphrased in classical compositions
by Charles Ives and others, and quoted in Irving Berlin’s “Alexander’s Ragtime Band.”
In each instance, the overall shape, stylistic details, and the performance medium were
different, as was the meaning of the song for its performers and listeners.*
†
Carl Dahlhaus, Foundations of Music History, trans. J. B. Robinson (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1983), p. 150.
‡
See Richard Middleton, Studying Popular Music (Milton Keynes & Philadelphia: Open Univer-
sity Press, 1990), particularly pp. 16–32.
§
Charles Hamm, review of The Music of Stephen C. Foster: A Critical Edition, ed. Steven Saun-
ders and Deane L. Root, Journal of the American Musicological Society 45, no. 3 (1992): 525–26.
*For a book-length discussion of the varied and changing meanings of Foster’s songs, see Wil-
liam Austin, “Susanna,” “Jeanie,” and “The Old Folks at Home”: The Songs of Stephen C. Foster from
His Time to Ours (New York: Macmillan, 1975).
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Technology, the Dawn of Modern Popular Music, and the “King of Jazz” 9
Further Reading
Crawford, Richard. America’s Music Life: A History. New York: W. W. Norton, 2001.
Furia, Philip. America’s Songs: The Stories behind the Songs of Broadway, Hollywood, and Tin Pan
Alley. New York: Routledge, 2007.
Hamm, Charles. Yesterdays: Popular Song in America. New York: W. W. Norton, 1979.
_______. Putting Popular Music in Its Place. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press,
1995.
Jablonski, Edward. Irving Berlin: American Troubadour. New York: Henry Holt, 1999.
Sears, Benjamin. The Irving Berlin Reader. New York: Oxford University Press, 2012.
Sheed, Wilfrid. The House That George Built: With a Little Help from Irving, Cole, and a Crew of
About Fifty. New York: Random House, 2007.
Van Vechten, Carl. “The Great American Composer.” Vanity Fair, April 1917.
Wilder, Alec. American Popular Song: The Great Innovators, 1900–1950. New York: Oxford Uni-
versity Press, 1972.
Discography
Fitzgerald, Ella. Ella Fitzgerald Sings the Irving Berlin Songbook, Vol. 1. Polygram Records, 1990.
Irving Berlin: A Hundred Years. Sony, 1990.
The Melody Lingers On: 25 Songs of Irving Berlin. ASV Living Era, 1997.
Songs of Irving Berlin. Castle Pulse, 2004.
2. Technology, the Dawn of Modern Popular

Music, and the “King of Jazz”
Prior to the 1920s, popular music in the United States mainly circulated
as sheet music and in what we would now call live performance. The
introduction of new technology in the 1920s for music consumers began
a process that revolutionized the industry, leading to a shift from musi-
cal re-creation, featuring performances of sheet music in the home, to
an emphasis on listening to recordings or broadcast performances.
Record players and discs had become standardized enough by this
time to permit several companies to produce compatible equipment on
a mass scale. Radio broadcasting of music developed during the decade
to become a popular source of domestic entertainment.
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10 Before 1950
The music industry developed a classification system that affected
what types of music were recorded and how they were distributed.
A ”popular” category emerged, in contrast to “classical” or ”serious”
music, that catered primarily to bourgeois, white, literate residents of
urban areas. This category included music from dance bands (which
began to be called “jazz” during this decade), as well as recordings
of solo singers that ranged in style from vaudeville (Al Jolson, Sophie
Tucker), to “crooning” (Gene Austin, Rudy Vallee), to torch singing
(Helen Morgan, Libby Holman).
While the story of jazz as an autonomous history is not the central con-
cern of this book, a few moments during which jazz and popular music
intersected do warrant inclusion. From the early 1920s through the mid-
1940s, the two categories were often synonymous. The decade of the
1920s is often referred to as the “Jazz Age”; however, the most popu-
lar music of the era—the music played by the high-society orchestras
of Paul Whiteman (the “King of Jazz,” 1890–1967) and Guy Lombardo,
which is sometimes known as “syncopated dance music”—bears little
resemblance to what contemporary listeners (or authors of jazz his-
tory books) would now recognize as jazz.1 In the following excerpt from
Whiteman’s 1926 autobiography, the “King of Jazz” discusses his early
recording career. Of particular interest is his discussion of the impor-
tance of keeping abreast of ever-changing dance fads and how the mys-
terious alchemy of the change in popular style occurs, fueled as it is by
countless anonymous contributors. In his playful, self-deprecating writ-
ing style, Whiteman also describes the particular challenges of early
“acoustic” recording and how changes in technology affected both the
instrumentation heard on his recordings and the permanent makeup of
his performing forces. Like many autobiographies by celebrity popular
musicians, Whiteman and McBride assume an audience of fans who will
associate the prose style with the public persona of the bandleader,
which was, in this case, unassuming to say the least. Later denizens
of dance music may be amused to hear of Whiteman’s innovation in
that area.
1. But for surveys that do not exclude this music, see Gunther Schuller, The Swing Era: The
Development of Jazz, 1930–1945 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1989), 632–769; and Michael
Campbell, And the Beat Goes On: An Introduction to Popular Music in America, 1840 to Today (New
York: Schirmer Books, 1996). For an examination of the eclectic repertoires (which often included
“syncopated dance music”) of bands that were later canonized as jazz pioneers, see Jeffrey
Magee, “Before Louis: When Fletcher Henderson Was the ‘Paul Whiteman of the Race,’” American
Music 18, no. 4 (Winter 2000): 391–425.
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On Wax
Paul Whiteman and Mary Margaret McBride
When our first records came down from the laboratories of the Victor Company for
their initial “audition,” a visitor exploded, “What the dickens?”
Then he listened to a few bars—he was an experienced listener—and demanded:
“Who is it?”
The one step was dying a natural death and in that death was becoming apothe-
osized into the fox trot. But our first record was different from either. Perhaps danc-
ers in America who are old enough will remember it. It was a twelve-inch disc, the
first I think of the dance variety ever made that size, and there was a one step on
one side of it arranged from the “Dance of the Hours.” On the other, was the legally
immortalized “Avalon” which gave occupation for a time to the copyright lawyers
of two continents under the theory that it had been plagiarized from “La Tosca.” This
was one of the greatest fox trots of the late “glide” period.
The companion record was that masterpiece of dance composition “The
Japanese Sandman,” ranking with the earlier “Havanola,” which Rudolph Gans had
had scored by the composer and played by the St. Louis Symphony Orchestra as
an example of American music. The even more popular “Whispering” was on the
other side.
For years before we began to record, it had been necessary for almost all record-
ing laboratories to change the instrumentation of nearly all orchestral pieces. Certain
instruments, notably the double basses, which were then used, the horn, the tym-
pani, and in lesser degree, other instruments, failed to yield satisfactory results. The
double basses frequently were discarded and replaced by a single tuba. Modifica-
tions also in the placing of the orchestra were necessary in order to make the volume
of tone from a large number of instruments converge upon a tiny diaphragm whose
vibrating needle inscribed, upon a disc of wax, the mysterious grooves, which,
retraced by a second needle attached to a second diaphragm, gave back the voices
and accents of music.
So for all our labor and study, we had to go into the recording room and learn
all over. One of the changes we made when we found that ordinary drums could not
be put on the record was to use the banjo as a tune drum. The tympani and snare
drum record, but the regular drum creates a muddy and fuzzed-up effect when other
music is going, although solo drums make very good records. It was at this time that
I tried out the banjo for the ground rhythm and discovered the possibilities of that
small instrument which until then had been kept in the back and hardly heard at all.
We also discovered that almost every instrument has a treacherous or bad note and
that when the score calls for that note the instrument had better stop playing. An
extreme dissonance would mean that the record would be blasted. For all our trou-
bles, however, we were told that fewer changes had to be made in our scoring than in
any dance records of the time. As a rule we made two records at a time, though once
I believe we made nine in three days. Each record averages about an hour and a half
or two hours, for there must first be a rehearsal and a test before the perfect record is
passed upon by the company “hearing committee.”
Source: “On Wax,” in Paul Whiteman and Mary Margaret McBride, Jazz (New York: J. H. Sears &
Company, 1926), 223–31.
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12 Before 1950
Recording is perhaps the most difficult task in the day’s work—or the lifetime’s.
A slip may pass unnoticed in concert, whether across the footlights or over the radio,
and even if noticed, it may be forgiven, since living flesh and sensitive will cannot
always achieve mechanical perfection. But a slip in a record after a time becomes the
most audible thing in it. Everything else will be neglected to wait for the slip and to
call the attention of someone else uninstructed in music to a great artist’s false note.
So every composition has to be recorded until it is perfect. If things go fine from the
first, well and good; but if, from the three records of each number usually made,
there is none which will quite pass the exacting standards of the committee, there
must be another afternoon of making and remaking. Every faculty of the artist, emo-
tional as well as physical, must be expended in producing a perfect result.
In late recording practice, with highly improved methods of capturing sound and
with new scientific principles, it has grown more and more practicable to record large
bodies of instruments without losing volume, without having a large quantity of tone
dilute and diffuse itself before reaching the actual path of the recording apparatus.
In the laboratory, as we worked, the possibilities of the orchestra began to loom
large and the original plan with a single player for each type of instrument began to
expand. The saxophone, for instance, had always had a shadow or understudy. A
third saxophone now was added and in time the orchestra developed the full Wag-
nerian quartette of instruments in this group. The one trumpet was reinforced by a
second and the now popular combination “straight” and “comedy” trumpets came
into existence. The banjo instead of just marking time began to make new excursions
into the realms of rhythm and the fox trot began to change without, however, dis-
turbing the pedestrian order of things.
Not all these changes took place, of course, in the laboratory. Most of the rehears-
ing and discussing and rescoring was done in consultations outside—consultations
not always free of the heat of argument. The actual business of recording is a star
chamber matter but it is no violation of a secret to admit that some of our early
records were spoiled by men swearing softly at themselves before they learned the
new adroitness which the delicate mechanism of the recording room required.
The records of our orchestra that I have liked particularly are fox trots like the
“Song of India,” with its burst of two part harmony, the “Waters of the Minnetonka,”
with its wood wind accompanimental figure and its swinging climax and the insidi-
ously delicate “Oh, Joseph.”
One sees all one’s friends and some of one’s enemies at the recording laborato-
ries and the exchange of experience between the classicist and “coonshouter,” the
string quartette and the clarinet jazz band is illuminating for everybody.
Not long ago, Rosa Ponselle, Mischa Elman and I were all recording at the Vic-
tor, though in different laboratories. We had lunch together and regardless of the fact
that the temperature was above 90, the great dramatic soprano demonstrated a dance
step for us in the best Broadway style. Then we sat for our pictures, she in her bunga-
low apron, Elman minus collar and coat and I in plus four knickerbockers.
It interested me that the singer should have been familiar with the current fox
trot step, for with the almost weekly changes in the dance I had begun to believe that
only orchestra leaders and college boys could possibly keep pace. We have even to
anticipate the change and that has become our chief problem as the public is well
aware. Dancers and musicians, as a rule, are harder to bring together than the vari-
ous labor unions working on a big building. Ballroom dancers persistently refuse to
conform to accepted or classical styles, or to any styles which they do not determine
for themselves in the ballrooms of the hour. Any study of the long list of our fox trots
will reveal peculiarities in tempo, rhythm and general style not to be accounted for
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 12 05/27/19 04:50 PM

on the basis of “individual variation,” or the time-honored principle that “nature
makes no two faces alike”; the simple truth of the matter is, that a dance, almost, is
no sooner in the hands of the public than the style changes.
During the past half-dozen years there have been several powerfully marked
variations in the ordinary, or “two-step” fox trot. The original “glide two-step” fox
trot of the “Japanese Sandman” period soon was succeeded by the “radio roll” or
the “scandal walk” (the two passed into one another) by the “blues,” which was
officially earlier but in point of fact later in the experience of many dancers than the
“collegiate,” which set up an entirely new style of dancing and called for an entirely
new type of music. The “tango fox trot” prevailed in a few cities, the “military fox
trot,” and entirely local dances with fanciful, and in some cases meaningless, names,
in others.
All of these changes of style or local and individual caprices in taste, have to be
ministered to by a dance organization as large as ours, or we soon perish. Few new
dances, except those for stage use, are ever brought forward by teachers; they are
developed, in public, by persons of no particular skill, and with little or no knowl-
edge of the dance as an art. It is avowed, and on excellent authority, that the “colle-
giate” sprang from the use of rubber-soled summer footwear and slow, sticky dance
floors at public resorts, where the skate-like slides and pivots of the old-style dancer
were impossible. With footwear of this sort it was possible to do little else than stamp
up and down. From this developed a polka-like dance with crude hops and jumps,
calling for agility, but with no great degree of sophisticated grace.
Small items like this determine the whole power of survival of an orchestra.
When a method crystallizes or a dance is standardized, it is done. For the younger
generation everywhere who invented it, without half knowing most of the time what
they were about, are now through with it.
One phenomenon I noted when I was playing dance music at the Palais Royal
on Broadway. A fox trot was played in a rhythm exactly that of the Habanera or
Tango, but much swifter in time. The result was that the easy “chasse” skips peculiar
to this type of dance became impossible to the dancers who thereby changed their
rhythm from that of the tango to the easier two-step with the result that six hundred
fox-trotters—not all of whom could be charged with profound musical knowledge—
automatically were dancing in cross rhythm.
Further Reading
Magee, Jeffrey. “Before Louis: When Fletcher Henderson Was the ‘Paul Whiteman of the
Race,’” American Music 18, no. 4 (Winter 2000): 391–425.
Schuller, Gunther. Early Jazz: Its Roots and Musical Development. New York: Oxford University
Press, 1968.
Discography
Austin, Gene. Voice of the Southland. ASV/Living Era, 1997.
Etting, Ruth, and Helen Morgan. More Than You Know. Encore, 1996.
Holman, Libby. Scandalous: Something to Remember Her By. Jasmine, 2005.
Jolson, Al. Best Of. Universal Music Group, 2001.
Whiteman, Paul. Greatest Hits. Collector’s Choice Music, 1998.
______. King of Jazz. ASV/Living Era, 1996.
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 13 05/27/19 04:50 PM

14 Before 1950
3. Big Band Swing Music

R ACE A ND POW ER IN T HE MUSIC BUSINE S S
The music most canonized as jazz during the 1920s—the small, hot com-
bos led by Louis Armstrong and the ragtime-influenced compositions of
Jelly Roll Morton—was largely the province of African American listen-
ers and white jazz connoisseurs and did not find a mass audience. This
situation changed radically in the 1930s, when popular music and what
is now heard as “real jazz” began to be closely intertwined. The period
from the mid-1930s through the early 1940s is commonly referred to as
“The Swing Era” or “The Big Band Era,” named after the large ensembles
that proliferated at that time and the type of jazz they played (“swing”).
The two entries included here examine the racial politics of the Swing
Era, demonstrating that contemporary writers were aware of how music
that had initially been made largely by and for African Americans had
been popularized mainly by white bandleaders.1
Marvin Freedman’s article appeared in Down Beat, one of the first pub-
lications in the United States to cater to jazz connoisseurs. Freedman
discusses the distinction between “sweet” bands (e.g., Guy Lombardo,
Sammy Kaye) and those that play a “hotter” type of “swinging” jazz
(Count Basie, Duke Ellington, Benny Goodman, Artie Shaw). His valua-
tion of black musicians over white ones may seem to counter common
stereotypes about white superiority, yet some stereotypes are still at
work in his article: Freedman identifies black musicians with the body
and natural spontaneity, while he identifies whites with the mind, cal-
culation, and “femininity” (after all, as he writes, “even college girls”
like white swing bands, such as Jimmy Dorsey’s). His history of the rela-
tionship between race and the ability to play jazz is overly simple at
best: few would now agree that white musicians dominated jazz during
the years 1927–31, though several of the greatest white jazz musicians
produced fine music during that period. Clearly, Freedman recognizes
1. Both articles are discussed in Scott DeVeaux’s excellent examination of the transformation of
swing into bebop, The Birth of Bebop: A Social and Musical History (Berkeley: University of C
alifornia
Press, 1997).
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 14 05/27/19 04:50 PM

Big Band Swing Music 15
that the relationship between race and musical style is important in
jazz, but he never distinguishes whether these differences are social
or biological, thus leading to a kind of stereotyping that modern cul-
tural theorists might describe as ”essentialist” (the notion that “black
music” consists of a fixed repertoire of stylistic elements that is trans-
mitted genetically), although he does state that a musician does not
have to be black to sound black. The article is valuable in that it shows
how public awareness of the racial politics of popular music is not nec-
essarily of recent provenance. Freedman may have been one of the first
white writers to recognize so explicitly how white musicians learn from
and admire black musicians.
Black Music’s on Top; White Jazz Stagnant

Marvin Freedman
Any good scientist will tell you there’s no difference between the blood of a Negro
and the blood of a white man. But you can still tell the color of a jazz musician by
listening to the music he plays. There may be a lot of greys in between, but it’s a long
way from black to white.
The history of American music has been the story of two great conflicts. One
of them, the fight between commercial dance music and jazz is all over. Some Gue-
rilla warfare is going on, but the sweet corn has taken the Siegfried, Maginot, and
Mannerheim lines. The other great fight, between white and black, is still in pro-
gress. Now, a good fight is worth any cause. So long as it’s strictly man to man, and
nixy on the brass knucks. There’s conflict inside music. In classical music you call
it counterpoint. In American music you call it swing. The soloist swinging against
the rhythm section is battling it so as not to get sucked into an “on beat” Busse solo.
The rhythm section is shoving the soloist to prevent him from pulling them into a
Joe Daniels “military” rhythm. A sweet band can’t play music, because everyone in
the sweet band is docilely going in the same direction with everyone else. You can’t
build musical structure by merely swelling your volume. There’s got to be a conflict,
swing, counterpoint. That’s what’s good about a jam session, an old fashioned “carv-
ing” session. Everyone fights everyone to give out or to give up—then you produce
your best music. The fight between black and white is good because it keeps both
sides on their toes.
Bix and Tesch Whites

Now, don’t get the idea that white or black is just a difference in the color of the musi-
cian. It’s a difference in the music itself. White jazz is colder, cleaner, more conscious;
black music is richer, looser, more relaxed. Beiderbecke and Teschemacher were
probably the whitest; Armstrong, Bechet, Hawkins probably the blackest. I can’t tell
you the difference. You either know it or you don’t.
Source: Marvin Freedman, “Black Music’s on Top; White Jazz Stagnant,” DownBeat, April 1, 1940,
pp. 7, 20.
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16 Before 1950
Right now, it’s black on top, and white isn’t climbing. Sure, there are a lot of
white men playing jazz, but are they playing white or black? And when they play
white is it good white?
Count Basie’s band is the strongest influence in jazz. When Shaw’s band beat
out Goodman’s, it did so by playing Basie music—weakened and commercialized
Basie, but still the same black Kansas City style. Glenn Miller’s band would probably
fall off the stand if it heard itself swing a note, but it’s getting by as a swing band,
and it’s black music again—Count Basie diluted some more. Charlie Barnet’s band is
as black a band as you’ll ever hear, and that band is one of the idols of the growing
white musicians. Ask Barnet if he doesn’t think white men can swing only by imitat-
ing blacks.
Crosby “Canadian Capers”

There’s no white vitality anywhere in jazz. Glen Gray stayed white, and stopped
playing jazz. Crosby sounds like Canadian Capers except when it imitates black New
Orleans style. Dorsey wears Lord Fauntleroy pants, and even college girls like his
style. Goodman imitates Basie, or imitates the Goodman of five years ago, or doesn’t
swing. James wishes he was Louis Armstrong or Joe Smith. Is the great Teagarden as
good as he used to be? Why does a fine old timer like Fud Livingston need a Stanley?
Have the last 10 years done Krupa any good?
The white Chicagoans, Pee-Wee Russell, Freeman, Kaminsky, Joe Sullivan,
Condon, are walking in the footprints they made 10 years ago. At their best they’re
almost as good as they were then. Spanier plays as well or better than ever, but the
only thing white about his music is the color of the face behind the horn.
Meanwhile, men like Basie, Hawkins, Hines, Hampton are still going forward
and upward. Not all the time, but every now and then a great colored musician
comes out with something new that knocks you over. Louis Armstrong isn’t trying
any more, but every time you listen to him you’ll come away with at least one new
idea. Lionel Hampton is twice as good as he was five years ago. Chu Berry, Teddy
Bunn, Frankie Newton, Al Morgan, Benny Carter, Cozy Cole—they’re all growing.
Even old timers like Jelly Roll Morton and Sidney Bechet come out and put some of
the finest jazz of all time on wax.
Harry James Plays Black Music

When young white musicians want to encourage themselves, they listen to
black music. When a white arranger wants ideas he listens to Basie or Lunceford
or Redman. In the last year or so you hear white musicians say that they’ve got to
play like colored musicians, or their music doesn’t swing. Even a great musician
like Harry James forsakes the white cause, and carries out the ideas of colored
musicians.
It wasn’t always black music. A dozen years ago, white jazz was on top. The hot-
test music came from white men in Chicago. Teschemacher was probably the hottest
musician alive. Bud Freeman was starting out, and full of energy, as were Krupa,
Condon, Sullivan. Young musicians were getting their kicks from white music. From
about 1927 until as late as 1931–32 (when Bix and Tesch died), colored musicians
imitated the white style. And you can prove that by listening to Fletcher Henderson
records of those times. White music was so far in front that bands like Red Nichols’,
playing pure white style, were tremendously popular. The public liked white jazz so
much that even men like Whiteman let their men play some good jazz.
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 16 05/27/19 04:50 PM

Goodman Took Up the Fight
Unfortunately for the white cause, they have no reserves. When Bix and Tesch died
that took all of the strength out of white music. The white Chicagoans remained good
(or great), but none of them had the necessary genius to lead a whole musical style.
As white music got worse, the public and musicians discarded it. Goodman’s band in
about 1935 took up the fight again, and squeezed out some good white jazz. It wasn’t
enough, however, and I’ve told you the rest.
Maybe it doesn’t matter. Music is music, black or white. But maybe it does. If Bix
and Tesch had lived and if white music had developed (or if it develops anyway), it
might have gotten (or it might get) better than Bix or Teschemacher, Louis, or any of
them have done. Maybe white jazz could even conquer commercial dance music and
Tin Pan Alley.
Irving Kolodin’s article touches on issues similar to those discussed

by Freedman, framing them with an in-depth description of the net-
work of live performances (frequently played in hotel ballrooms), radio
broadcasts, and recordings that sustained the big bands at the apex of
their success. By sticking to the different treatment received by black
and white musicians, rather than trying to theorize why they sound
different, Kolodin avoids some of the problems with stereotypes that
haunt Freedman. The tone of the article was undoubtedly influenced
by its inclusion in Harper’s, a general-interest magazine, rather than
one directed toward jazz fans, such as Down Beat. The article thus has
more of the quality of a “human-interest” story in contrast to Freed-
man’s essay, which conveys the passion of a fan participating in an
ongoing debate.
The Dance Band Business: A Study in Black and White

Irving Kolodin
Those with a finger on the pulse of this capricious industry have an amazing instinct
for estimating the moment when a band is truly “hot,” in a sense unrelated to the
kind of music it plays. It is at such a moment, when sales of records suddenly swing
upward, and a fan club is started in Baton Rouge, and another leader tries to buy off
the hitherto obscure arranger who has given the band its distinctive personality, and
radio agents file requests for the band to audition, and even Winchell2 recommends
its performance, that a shrewd booker realizes that the time is at hand to tour the band
on as long a series of one-nighters as the men can endure. In two months of the early
summer of 1937 the Goodman band played a sequence of dates that carried it from
New York to California and never found the band in the same town for two days.
2. Walter Winchell, famous theater and music critic based in New York City.
Source: Irving Kolodin, “The Dance Band Business: A Study in Black and White,” Harper’s Maga-
zine, No. 183 (1941) 78–82. Copyright © 1941 Harper’s Magazine. All rights reserved. Reprinted
from the June issue by special permission..
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18 Before 1950
The Goodman share was nearly $90,000 in two months during what could hardly be
called a boom period. How quickly (and mysteriously) a band can find itself in such
a category is illustrated by the career of Glenn Miller. As recently as New Year’s Day
of 1939 Miller was playing an engagement (at union scale, or about $1,050 a week for
the entire organization) at the Paradise Restaurant in New York, humbled to second
billing below the clownish group known as Freddie “Schnickelfritz” Fisher and his
orchestra. For purposes of economy Miller pared his band to thirteen dispensing
with a guitar player—in this profession almost a confession of bankruptcy. In the
few months that followed Miller played one-night engagements for as little as $400.
During the dismal stand at the Paradise, however, Miller had made a disk of
his signature music which he called “Moonlight Serenade.” It embodied a curious
blending of reed instruments, in which two clarinets played the melody in unison
with the saxophones, but an octave higher. And from this record, and the amazing
vacillations of popular enthusiasms, Miller’s rise may be traced. An engagement at
Dailey’s Meadowbrook during the late spring of the same year tested out Miller’s
new style, and through radio sustaining time,3 impressed it on a wide public. When
his manager told him, during the summer of 1939, that the band would never sell for
less than $700 for a one-nighter thenceforth, Miller told him he was a dreamer with
a perverted sense of humor.
But less than a year later Miller’s band played two successive dates to a total
of 13,000 people. On one night, in St. Louis, they drew 5,400; and on the following
night, in Kansas City, Missouri, they broke every record (including the inaccurate
ones) for attendance at such a public, unsponsored dance by attracting 7,800 people
to the Kansas City Convention Hall. Miller received $4,680 for his night’s work. “It’s
an inspiring sight,” he recalls, “to look down from the balcony on the heads of 7,000
people swaying on a dance floor—especially when you are getting $600 for every
thousand of them.” Concurrently, Miller held a contract for three fifteen-minute
broadcasts a week for Chesterfield, which brought him a quarter of a million dollars
in the first year and has recently been renewed for a second; and he was negotiating
a contract for a moving picture (now in production) with $100,000 as the band’s fee
for eight weeks’ work. It is not likely that Miller will ever use his Social Security card.
Now perhaps you can see why a band leader who has won his way to a second and
a third engagement in a prominent New York hotel is rarely overjoyed with his situ-
ation. He is spending the hours from seven to two each night to earn a sum which
will not cover his expenses; he is also aware that someone else might come along to
take the money out of a territory he is eager to play before his popularity wanes. It
might be someone as little known to the general public as Glenn Miller was at the
Paradise when Goodman was blowing his clarinet in the Empire Room of the Wal-
dorf. In this business the public does not merely want to be entertained—it wants
to be entertained by a succession of new personalities, with a different instrument
prominent in this year’s “sensational” band than in the one they were ecstatic about
the year before.
That it is possible to write a survey of this kind with no more than historic ref-
erence to the names of Paul Whiteman, Vincent Lopez, Fred Waring, Ted Lewis,
Rudy Vallee, and other celebrities of the so-called Jazz Age is evidence that they
have, substantially, been passed by. However, by less than the exalted standards
3. “Sustaining time”: late-night radio broadcasts paid for by the hotel from which the perfor-
mance originated rather than by the radio network.
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 18 05/27/19 04:50 PM

of their highest popularity, they are not faring so badly. Waring, for example, very
likely earns nearly as much now as he ever did, playing a series of brief, almost daily
broadcasts for a cigarette company. Lopez still makes theater and dance-hall appear-
ances and derives as well a moderate income from one of the lesser weekly radio
shows. Vallee’s radio career is momentarily in suspension, but his recent radio activi-
ties have had practically nothing to do with music anyhow. Lewis is still a person of
consequence in the hinterlands, cavorting as ever with clarinet and silk hat, moaning
“Is Everybody Happy?” and employing good musicians with traditional shrewd-
ness. However, the infrequency of his appearances in New York is not altogether
involuntary; what he has to offer now he is showman enough to realize is not for
sophisticates. As for Whiteman, who has made the most eager effort to adapt himself
to the new mode in music, he was last heard from in Florida (after a lapse from public
prominence due to illness), organizing a new band, principally for radio work.
It is rather more curious that another group of names has been even less con-
spicuous in this inquiry, for it embraces musicians who are in no sense moribund,
and very much a part of the contemporary jazz picture. It is a list which begins with
the name of Duke Ellington, and continues with those of “Count” Basie, Jimmy [Jim-
mie] Lunceford, Louis Armstrong, Fletcher Henderson, Ella Fitzgerald, Cab Callo-
way, Teddy Wilson, Andy Kirk, John Kirby, Coleman Hawkins, Erskine Hawkins,
Lionel Hampton, Roy Eldridge, and sundry others. They are names with a familiar
echo even to a public unfamiliar with this subject; but they are almost never to be
encountered in a prominent hotel, and never on a commercial radio program.
They are of course all Negro musicians—and rigorously excluded, as if by Con-
gressional decree, from these two principal sources of prestige and financial reward.
Thus, though each enjoys a serious repute among students of jazz music, and sub-
stantial income from records and theater engagements and dance-hall appearances,
they can never hope to equal the fabulous earnings of Goodman, Shaw, or Glenn
Miller. Nor can the working musicians in their bands hope to attain the degree of
public prominence which Gene Krupa enjoyed when he received $500 a week from
Benny Goodman.
A few Northern hotels have made an exception occasionally for a particular
band—Duke Ellington has played in the Panther Room of the Hotel Sherman in Chi-
cago several times, and the Ritz-Carlton in Boston has been hospitable to both Elling-
ton and Basie. More recently, the Pump Room of the Ambassador East in Chicago has
opened its doors to Teddy Wilson, John Kirby, and “Fats” Waller, of the glib piano
and raucous voice, but this is a minor room in the hotel, with little social réclame.
The single effort of a New York hotel to take advantage of the undeniable popu-
larity of Negro swing bands was so surrounded by compromises that it collapsed
quickly under the burden of its own uncertainty. It was the roof-top Cocoanut
Grove of the Park Central Hotel, which placed its premises at the disposal of the late
“Chick” Webb and Ella Fitzgerald when the latter was still the “A-tisket A-tasket”
girl two years ago. Instead of letting the band perform as it was accustomed to, the
management encouraged a kind of exhibitionism which had a disastrous effect on
the playing of the musicians. There was so much “Jim Crow” in the air, together
with the kind of antics which the white public believes to be inseparable from the
colored man’s expression of his immortal soul, that the musicians were humiliated,
the knowing public repelled, and the engagement a failure.
Considering the stratagems which a hotel manager will employ to attract busi-
ness to his establishment, this avoidance of such established attractions as Ellington,
Basie, Armstrong, Lunceford, and Calloway can only be regarded as pathological.
There is a legend that the transient trade of the large “commercial” hotels in New
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 19 05/27/19 04:50 PM

20 Before 1950
York includes many persons from the South, and that they would be offended to find
themselves in a dining room where the musicians were colored. But the Goodman
Trio and Quartet (with its Negro virtuosi Wilson, Hampton, and Christian) were
ecstatically applauded when they appeared in the Empire Room of the Waldorf-
Astoria though they were identified, somewhat disingenuously, as “special enter-
tainers.”
It is simply an exaggerated prejudice which no hotel manager has the enterprise
to challenge or the courage to disregard. When one is driven to such a decision by
such straits as influenced Weitman to experiment with bands at the Paramount it is
probable that a vogue of Negro orchestras in hotels will ensue.
However the outlook is not too hopeful. Even a colored guest star on a dance
band’s radio commercial may bring angry mutterings from the South and one which
regularly employs such musicians may write off, in advance, any hope of sales appeal
in Georgia, Louisiana, and Mississippi.
If the swing fever is not what it was in 1938–39, there is still a substantial public
for the orchestras which play music with precision and drive, life and flexibility—the
qualities which were all but unknown in the dance music of commerce in the middle
twenties and early thirties. The trend-followers and sensation-seekers who made
of swing (and themselves) a public nuisance three years ago have gone on to some
new enthusiasm. The youngsters who grew up with swing are sufficiently sure of
their liking not to require the exhibitionistic simulation of it which made their older
brothers and sisters subjects for the psychologists. Moreover, an increasingly large
number of adults through the country have found swing and swing musicians an
absorbing phase of general musical interest and will continue to be diverted by it
regardless of its fate as a social phenomenon. Benny Goodman, Artie Shaw, Jack
Teagarden, the Dorseys, Duke Ellington, and the rest continue to be important peo-
ple in their lives.
Further Reading
DeVeaux, Scott. The Birth of Bebop: A Social and Musical History. Berkeley: University of
California Press, 1997.
Hentoff, Nat. At the Jazz Band Ball: Sixty Years on the Jazz Scene. Berkeley: University of
Schuller, Gunther. The Swing Era: The Development of Jazz 1930–1945. New York: Oxford
University Press, 1989.
Sheed, Wilfrid. The House That George Built: With a Little Help from Irving, Cole, and a Crew of
about Fifty. New York: Random House, 2007.
Discography
An Anthology of Big Band Swing (1930–1955). Verve, 1993.
Basie, Count. The Complete Decca Recordings. GRP, 1997.
The Best of the Big Bands. Compendia, 1995.
Ellington, Duke. Masterpieces: 1926–1949. Proper, 2001.
Shaw, Artie. Greatest Hits. RCA/Victor, 1996.
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 20 05/27/19 04:50 PM

Solo Pop Singers and New Forms of Fandom 21
4. Solo Pop Singers and New Forms of Fandom
Bing Crosby (1903–77), the most successful solo singer of the pre–rock
‘n’ roll era, skillfully combined many of the distinctive qualities of the
preceding generation of popular singers: the energy and rhythmic
vivaciousness of Al Jolson, the use of new amplification technology to
project the sensitivity of crooners like Rudy Vallee, and the spontaneity
and swing of Louis Armstrong. Crosby succeeded in all the media avail-
able to him at that time—records, radio, movies—to become the first
international multimedia superstar. While he had first achieved promi-
nence with Paul Whiteman’s band in the late 1920s, Crosby was best
known as a solo performer during the 1930s and 1940s, recording with
studio orchestras (or occasionally smaller ensembles that had more in
common with jazz groups), singing and acting in movies, and hosting
his own network radio show. The only other star who could possibly rival
him in the 1930s was Fred Astaire, who had an extraordinarily success-
ful career as a dancer, actor, and singer. During World War II, a number
of factors led to solo singers gradually supplanting the supremacy of
big bands: the recording ban of 1943, the expense of operating a large
band, the decrease in demand for dancing, and the increasing demand
for sentimentality as the war progressed. The newfound dominance
of solo singers also contributed to the increasing separation between
popular music and jazz as solo singers relied less on swinging rhythm,
improvisation, and blues tonality.
Frank Sinatra (1915–1998) began his career singing for big bands,
first with Harry James, then, more notably, with Tommy Dorsey. Sina-
tra became one of the most popular big band singers during his stint
with the Tommy Dorsey band, but it was not until he left the Dorsey
band late in 1942 that he became a mass cultural phenomenon. Audi-
ences and critics of the time understood him as a counterweight to Bing
Crosby, as a singer formed by the musical styles of the thirties rather
than the twenties (as with Crosby). Sinatra’s musical (and cultural) sen-
sibilities were more in tune with swing, and endeared him to a younger
audience. So fervent was the response to Sinatra the solo singer that
his popularity instigated one of the first known cases of sociological
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 21 05/27/19 04:50 PM

22 Before 1950
and psychological inquiries into popular music. These fans, known as
“bobby-soxers” were young, barely adolescent girls who represented
a type of intense identification with popular music that became more
common with the advent of the “teenager” (not yet a marketing category
in the early 1940s) and rock ‘n’ roll. In the short first-person account that
follows, Martha Weinman Lear recounts her experience as an archetypal
bobby-soxer at a Sinatra show in Boston in the mid-1940s.1
The Bobby Sox Have Wilted, but the Memory Remains Fresh
Martha Weinman Lear
Ah, Frankie everlovin’, here we are at the Garden dancing cheek to cheek and the
lights are low and it’s oh so sweet. We haven’t been this close since the old days when
I played hookey from school to come see you in the RKO-Boston. You remember me,
don’t you? I was the one in the bobby sox.
Lord, what that man meant to me. If you didn’t go through it, you wouldn’t
believe it. Look at him now, what do you see? A paunch, a jowl, a toupee. What
could have driven me so crazy—the cuff links? But no, in the beginning he was no sar-
torial splendor. Suits hung oddly on him. Suits with impossible shoulders jutting like
angle irons from that frail frame. He used to make jokes about hanging on the micro-
phone for support, Bob Hope–type jokes, badly delivered, which we found adorable.
He had cabbage ears and the biggest damned Adam’s apple you ever saw. It wobbled
like a crow’s when he sang. The voice was delicious, the phrasing superb. But listen,
what did I know about phrasing? Those cabbage ears could have been pure tin and it
wouldn’t have made any difference, not to me. So what drove me so crazy?
Sinatra at Madison Square Garden, last night and tonight, and I am a thirteen-year-
old again, packing my peanut-butter sandwiches off to the RKO-Boston to shriek and
swoon through four shows live, along with several thousand other demented teen-
agers, while he crooned to some princess who wasn’t even in the house. “Frankie!”
we screamed from the balcony, because you couldn’t get an orchestra seat unless
you were standing on line at dawn, and how could you explain to Mom leaving for
school before dawn? “Frankie, I love you!” And that glorious shouldered spaghetti
strand way down there in the spotlight would croon on serenely, giving us a quick
little flick of a smile or, as a special bonus, a sidelong tremor of the lower lip. I used to
bring binoculars just to watch that lower lip. And then, the other thing: The voice had
that trick, you know, that funny little sliding, skimming slur that it would do coming
off the end of a note. It drove us bonkers. My friend Harold Schonberg, the Times’s
music critic, says that it must have been what is called portamento, although he can’t
swear to it, he says, because he’s never heard Sinatra sing. Elitist. Anyway, whatever
1. For a series of scholarly essays on Sinatra, see Stanislao G. Pugliese (ed.), History, Identity,
and Italian American Culture (New York: Palgrave, 2004); particularly germane to these excerpts is
the essay by Janice L. Booker, “Why the Bobby Soxers?,” in ibid., 73–81.
Source: “The Bobby Sox Have Wilted, but the Memory Remains Fresh,” Martha Weinman Lear.
From The New York Times, © 1974 The New York Times. All Rights Reserved. Used by permission
and protected by the Copyright Laws of the United States. The printing, copying, redistribution,
or retransmission of this content without express written permission is prohibited.
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 22 05/27/19 04:50 PM

Solo Pop Singers and New Forms of Fandom 23
it’s called, it was an invitation to hysteria. He’d give us that little slur—“All . . . or
nothing at aallll . . .”—and we’d start swooning all over the place, in the aisles, on
each other’s shoulders, in the arms of cops, poor bewildered men in blue. It was like
pressing a button. It was pressing a button.
We loved to swoon. Back from the RKO-Boston, we would gather behind locked
bedroom doors, in rooms where rosebud wallpaper was plastered over with pictures
of The Voice, to practice swooning. We would take off our saddle shoes, put on his
records and stand around groaning for a while. Then the song would end and we
would all fall down on the floor. We would do that for an hour or so, and then, before
going home for supper, we would forge the notes from our parents: “Please excuse
Martha’s absence from school yesterday as she was sick . . .”
We were sick, all right. Crazy. The sociologists were out there in force in those
mid-forties, speculating about the dynamics of mass hysteria, blathering on about how
his yearning vulnerability appealed to our mother instincts. What yo-yo’s. Whatever
he stirred beneath our barely budding breasts, it wasn’t motherly. And the boys knew
that and that was why none of them liked him, none except the phrasing aficionados.
In school they mocked us, collapsing into each others’ arms and shrieking in falsetto:
“Oh-h-h, Frankie, I’m fainting I’m fainting.” The hell with them. Croon, swoon, moon,
spoon, June, Nancy with the Smiling Face, all those sweeteners notwithstanding, the
thing we had going with Frankie was sexy. It was exciting. It was terrific.
I don’t remember exactly when it stopped being terrific, but by the end of
the decade he was bombing. His voice went bad. He sang terrible songs—he sang
“Mairsy Doats,” and on one record he barked like a dog, and I wept for the glory of
the empire—and in movies he was developing into the loser incarnate, a bumpkin
sailor boy who got to say dumb lines and kept losing Kathryn Grayson to somebody
else. I mean, it was over. And so was his marriage to Nancy, and he was chasing
around after Ava Gardner, whom he later (briefly) married, and in news photos there
they were, Gardner gorgeous and Sinatra with a silly little mustache on his face;
Beauty and the Schlep.
The comeback that began with his winning of an Oscar for From Here to Eter-
nity, in 1953, must still stand as the most fantastic comeback in show-business his-
tory, because he really had been reduced to total schlephood, not only professionally,
which we can forgive, but in the personal image, which we usually cannot. And
to come back from that kind of rock-bottom takes—what? an extraordinary self-
discipline. I suppose. What clicked in that head, what lights went on? All of a sudden
the little loser was coming on like a bigger winner than we or he had ever dreamed,
the voice sounding great and the man coming on cool, arrogant, exuberant, extrav-
agant, powerful—the Swinger, Il Padrone, Chairman of the Board, all that business,
with his pinkie rings flashing and his cuffs splendidly shot and his women and his
starched $100 bills at the gambling tables in Las Vegas, with his own Rat Pack and
his own Clan, his own court jesters, all those Dinos and Sammys and Joeys, his own
myth in his own time. And even if only a fraction of it were true, what a myth!
And we were all grown up and our swoons were memories, but I tell you, the
gravity was as powerful as ever. I remember, and still blush to remember, going to
an opening night party that the film producer Norman Lear (a relative of mine by
marriage), gave when Come Blow Your Horn opened here in New York City in the
early sixties. I was standing around talking to some people, all adult and cool, right?
when my husband came over and said, “Sinatra’s just come in.” Wham! A child again,
beguiled again, zooming backward through time and space and I stood there shak-
ing like a thirteen-year-old, hands clasped tight behind my back and wailing, “No, I
can’t.” (And didn’t.) “What would I say to him?” Oh, well. He probably wouldn’t have
remembered me, anyway.
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 23 05/27/19 04:50 PM

24 Before 1950
A few years later, it started getting . . . seamy. Tacky. With the henchmen and the
talk of mob connections, the mean-mouthed confrontations with the press, the public
degrading of women, the spectacle of baggey-eyed, boozed-up, middle-aged men try-
ing to make it New Year’s Eve forever: We’re gonna have fun if it kills us. The Kennedy
White House, into whose Camelot he had drifted for a time, dropped him. The Clan
faded, maybe of age. His third marriage, to nymphet Mia Farrow, broke up. A lifelong
Democrat, he got chummy with Reagan and then, good grief, with Agnew. Not that
it was hard to understand: two boys who had made it from nowhere, and possibly
each longed for the other’s brand of power. The gossip columns told us that his Palm
Springs house was filled now with the good burghers of the Beverly Hills Establish-
ment, with the Brissons, the Goetzes, people like that; just plain suburban folk.
But listen: The punch was still there. I can’t explain it, but it was still there. It was
just two years ago that the prominent portrait painter Aaron Shickler got a business
call from Sinatra’s office. His wife, Pete, answered the phone. Wait a minute, a voice
at the other end said, we have Mr. Sinatra on the line. And, as Mrs. Shickler tells
it, she damn near died. Her hand was unsteady, her breath came heavy. And then
he said, “Hello,” and here was this woman, mature, poised, veteran of a thousand
cocktail-party ripostes—but she was one of us, you see, she had swooned at the Para-
mount when I was swooning at the RKO-Boston, and that is something you never
quite get over—and what she said, her lips fluttering like wings around the mouth-
piece, was this: “Oh, my goodness,” she said, “It sounds just like you.”
What I mean is, it’s Ol’ Blue Eyes, now, at fifty-nine, with the paunch and the
jowl and the wig, and the hell with them. The blue eyes still burn, the cuffs are still
incomparably shot, the style, the style, is still all there, and what’s left of the voice still
gets to me like no other voice, and it always will. Hey, out there in Boston. Hey, Rudi
Litman, Therese O’Reilly, Nettie Holzman, Lillie Lefkovitz, and all the rest of that old
RKO-Boston gang of mine: Are you listening? Could you swoon?
Further Reading
Crosby, Bing (as told to Pete Martin). Call Me Lucky. New York: Da Capo Press, 1953.
Fuchs, Jeanne, and Ruth Prigozy, eds. Frank Sinatra: The Man, the Music, the Legend. Rochester,
N.Y.: University of Rochester Press, 2007.
Giddins, Gary. Bing Crosby: A Pocketful of Dreams. Boston: Little, Brown, 2001.
Keightley, Keir. “Music for Middlebrows: Defining the Easy Listening Era (1946–1966),”
American Music (Fall 2008): 309–35.
Prigozy, Ruth, and Walter Raubicheck. Going My Way: Bing Crosby and American Culture.
Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 2007.
Pugliese, Stanislao G. Frank Sinatra: History, Identity, and Italian American Culture. New York:
Palgrave Macmillan, 2004.
Ulanov, Barry. The Incredible Crosby. New York: Whittlesey House, 1948.
Discography
Astaire, Fred. The Essential Fred Astaire. Sony Music, 2003.
Crosby, Bing. Bing! His Legendary Years, 1931 to 1957. MCA, 1993.
Jolson, Al. Best Of. Universal Music Group, 2001.
Sinatra, Frank. A Voice in Time: 1939–1952. Sony, 2007.
_______. Sinatra Reprise: The Very Good Years. Warner Bros., 1991.
_______. The Capitol Years. Capitol, 1990.
Vallée, Rudy. The Vagabond Lover. Pro Arte, 1993.
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 24 05/27/19 04:50 PM

Hillbilly and Race Music 25
5. Hillbilly and Race Music
In addition to the category of popular music, during the 1920s the

music industry developed categories for music that catered to African
Americans and rural white Americans, dubbed “race” and “hillbilly,”
respectively. This article on the beginnings of these two latter catego-
ries appeared in Collier’s in 1938. The faint tone of condescension found
here would continue for many years in mainstream writing about these
musics.1 Astonishment mixed with condescension as writers conveyed
their surprise at the success of musicians originating outside the ambit
of New York’s professional music circuit. Not discussed in this article is
the phenomenon of the “Latin tinge” that crept into mainstream popular
music during this time via novelty numbers such as Don Azpiazu’s 1930
hit “El Manisero (The Peanut Vendor).”2 The author does, however, men-
tion in passing other ethnic sources of variety for the mainstream, such
as “Calypso people in the West Indies, [and] the Cajuns of Louisiana.”
Thar’s Gold in Them Hillbillies

Kyle Crichton
The young man with the Adam’s apple seemed out of place in a New York elevator.
Very definitely he was not a New Yorker and in addition he was not welcome in the
crowded car because he carried under his arm a case that looked like a rough box for
a horse.
1. “Hillbilly” did not become the predominant term until the 1930s. In the 1920s, the music
industry tended to use “old-time tunes.” The classic discussion of early country music can be
found in Bill C. Malone, Country Music U.S.A. 2nd rev. ed. (Austin: University of Texas Press,
2002). Recent revisionist scholarship includes Karl Hagstrom Miller, Segregating Sound: Inventing
Folk and Pop Music in the Age of Jim Crow (Durham, N.C., and London: Duke University Press,
2010); and David Brackett, Categorizing Sound: Genre and Twentieth-Century Popular Music (Oak-
land: University of California Press, 2016).
2. For more on the Latin tinge in American popular music, see John Storm Roberts, The Latin
Tinge: The Impact of Latin American Music on the United States., 2nd ed. (New York: Oxford Univer-
sity Press, [1979] 1999).
Source: “Thar’s Gold in Them Hillbillies,” Kyle Crichton, Collier’s (April 30, 1938), pp. 26–27.
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 25 05/27/19 04:50 PM

26 Before 1950
“Will y’all pahdon me?” he said plaintively. “Ah’m havin’ some trouble with
this here git-tar.”
He carried the trouble with him when he got off at the eleventh floor and was
presently in a room before a microphone having an audition for phonograph records.
He said, with some hesitation, that he would do imitations of Jimmie Rodgers and
started in a thin wailing voice to do Blue Yodel, No. 1, which has for its theme: “T for
Texas, T for Tennessee and T for Thelma.” It seemed that Thelma had made a bum
out of somebody and was to receive a bullet from a .44 through her middle—“just for
to see her jump and fall.”
This was the rare thing of a New York audition for hillbilly songs and race
records. The general practice is to take a recording outfit into the territory where such
songs grow and out of this endeavor have come such classics as The Wreck of Old
97, Floyd Collins in the Cave, Little Old Log Cabin in the Lane, The Old Hen Cackles
and The Rooster’s Goin’ ta Crow, Crazy Blues, Jimmie Rodgers and his Blue Yodels
(Nos. 1 to 12), That Thing Called Love, Just Because, Deep Elam Blues, The Prisoner’s
Song, Comin’ Round the Mountain, Hand Me Down My Walkin’ Cane, Casey Jones,
Twenty-one Years, and hundreds of others.
South of a point that might roughly be regarded as St. Albans, West Virginia,
the grapevine system of news distribution still beats anything known to modern sci-
ence. A hint from New York that David Kapp of Decca or Eli Oberstein of Victor is
headed South will find the tidings flying over mountains and the result will be that
when the city slickers arrive they will be unable to get into their hotels for the pres-
ence of mouth organ virtuosos, yodelers, blues singers and specialty bands equipped
with instruments made up of tissue paper on combs, washboards, assorted saws and
rutabaga gourds.
If there needs to be another picture at this point, the camera can leap agilely
to such distant parts of South Africa and Australia where the native bushmen are
busily humming a little number written by Jimmie Davis of Shreveport, Louisiana,
and entitled Nobody’s Darling but Mine. In short, no matter what the citizens of the
United States think about their native songs, the world ranks the hillbilly ballads
among the folk-tune wonders of the universe.
It started back in 1921 when Ralph S. Peer was with Okeh records. Sophie Tucker
had agreed to do You Can’t Keep a Good Man Down but it was found at the last
moment that another contract prevented her from working for Okeh. In this crisis
Perry Bradford, who was a colored song plugger for W. C. Handy (St. Louis Blues,
Memphis Blues, etc.), informed Mr. Peer that he could furnish a girl who was as good
as Sophie. She turned out to be Mamie Smith, a colored girl who was working as [sic]
cleaning woman in a theatre. She made the Good Man song, and for the other side of
the record did That Thing Called Love. Mamie had a loud raucous voice and there
was great difficulty with recordings in that day of poor equipment, but the Okeh
people knew they had something when the record sold 75,000 copies the first month.
Mamie was forthwith yanked back into the studio and this time she brought with
her a horrendous five-piece band known as Mamie Smith’s Jazz Hounds. They made
Crazy Blues and It’s Right Here for You.
A Market Nobody Thought Of

Bert Williams, the colored comedian, had been making records for Columbia for
many years but the companies never imagined that the Negroes themselves might be
a market for Negro records. In fact, the companies carefully hid the fact that colored
singers were being used. About this time, dealers in New York began to report a
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 26 05/27/19 04:50 PM

curious trend in the business. It seemed that Negro Pullman porters on trains going
South invariably left New York with as many as twenty-five records apiece under
their arms. Since the records cost one dollar each, the business was big stuff and
Mr. Peer went South to investigate. He found (a) that the Negroes were buying
records of their own people in great quantities and (b) that the Negroes of Richmond,
Virginia, invariably referred to themselves as The Race.
“We had records by all foreign groups,” says Mr. Peer. “German records, Swed-
ish records, Polish records, but we were afraid to advertise Negro records. So I listed
them in the catalogue as ‘race’ records and they are still known as that.”
About this time the vogue of Mamie Smith at Okeh was swamped by the arrival
of the great Bessie Smith on Columbia records. Bessie Smith has now become almost
a legendary figure and her records have lately been reissued in a new form and are
considered classics in blues singing by the experts. Her most famous was Gold Coast
Blues, which originally sold into the millions. It may be remarked that at the present
day a sale of 100,000 records is held to be sensational in any field.
With Bessie Smith being so successful, Okeh was under the necessity of digging
up a new sensation, and Mr. Peer took a portable recording outfit to Atlanta and
began looking around. For some reason Atlanta is the worst town in the South for
Negro talent (then and now), and Mr. Peer was soon stumped. At the suggestion of
a local dealer who guaranteed to sell enough records to cover the cost, he did a few
recordings by Fiddler John Carson, a white mountaineer who arrived for the record-
ings in overalls. Old John had been a ballyhoo man with a circus, had a repertory of
hillbilly songs that never ended, and he could sing a bit with his fiddling. He made
Little Old Log Cabin in the Lane, and The Old Hen Cackles and The Rooster’s Goin’
ta Crow.
“It was so bad that we didn’t even put a serial number on the records, think-
ing that when the local dealer got his supply, that would be the end of it,” says Mr.
Peer. “We sent him 1,000 records, which he received on a Thursday. That night he
called New York on the phone and ordered 5,000 more sent by express and 10,000 by
freight. When the national sale got to 500,000, we were so ashamed we had Fiddler
John come up to New York and do a re-recording of the numbers.”
The matter of the name arose again in this connection. It was obviously impos-
sible to list them under the designation of each section (mountaineer, “Georgia
Cracker,” etc.) and Mr. Peer, who had come from Kansas City and was well
acquainted with the Ozarks, named them hillbilly records. The result is that the
word has come to have a general application, and mountaineers of all sections are
now known as hillbillies.
The greatest success of all time was made by The Prisoner’s Song, which was
introduced almost as an afterthought by Vernon Dalhart, who had done The Wreck
of Old 97 and was desperate for something for the other side of the record. It eventu-
ally sold 2,500,000 records for the Victor company. It cost the company seven cents
to make the record (all expenses included) and the wholesale price they received was
thirty-seven cents a record.
The Singing Brakeman

The greatest of all romances in the hillbilly business centers about Jimmie Rodgers,
the little railroad brakeman who fought desperately against poverty and the ravages
of tuberculosis until Mr. Peer discovered him in Bristol, Tennessee, and started him
on a career that was fabulous even in the phonograph industry. It is estimated that
the Blue Yodel records sold over 5,000,000 copies. Jimmie Rodgers is now dead and
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 27 05/27/19 04:50 PM

28 Before 1950
his records do not have the fame with collectors that has come to those of Bessie
Smith, but he has left a mark on all hillbilly music.
When David Kapp goes out to Dallas now for Decca to record hillbilly and
race records, he will do as many as 325 selections in fifteen days. The big stars
now are Jimmie Davis, clerk of the Criminal Court in Shreveport, Louisiana, and
Gene Autry, the singing cowboy of the movies. Another favorite group is the
Carter Family of Maces Springs, Virginia, who sing and play and make marvelous
didos with such instruments as the guitar and autoharp, which is really a zither
with keys.
The best colored singer since Bessie Smith is said to be Georgia White, and it is
in this field that some of the most remarkable records are made. There are colored
numbers so strictly African and special that nobody but a Negro could understand
them or appreciate them. When Sleepy John Estes does his own Negro compositions,
they seem to be in another language. The melodies are strange, the words are like
something out of a voodoo chant and the manner of delivery is such that they make
no sense whatever to the untrained white mind. The recordings by Petie [sic] Wheat-
straw come in the same class, and when Kokomo Arnold does the “sebastapool” on
his guitar, effects are made that seem unearthly.
Unless the artist is also the writer of his own material and hence shares in the
royalty for composers, the rewards of recording are not great, being on an average of
$25 a “side.” The payment is outright and there is no bookkeeping.
Among the novelty records are those made by the Calypso people in the West
Indies, the Cajuns of Louisiana and Corny Allen Greer and his band.
The loyalty of the hillbilly audience to its heroes can be seen in the titles of the
songs. When Jimmie Davis wrote Nobody’s Darling But Mine, he immediately made
a sequel entitled An Answer to Nobody’s Darling. That was followed by A Woman’s
Answer to Nobody’s Darling. Bob and Joe Shelton, who also come from Shreveport,
wrote Just Because in collaboration with Leon Chappalear. When it became a success,
they followed that with Just Because III. It is quite possible that the thing could go
on forever.
Students are convinced that Bessie Smith and particularly the players who
accompanied Bessie Smith on her records have had a great part in stimulating
that disease known as swing music, which has now gripped the nation. Bessie had
such men doing her accompaniments as Louis Armstrong, Fletcher Henderson, Joe
Smith, Fred Longshaw, Charlie Green and the late James P. Johnson, one of the
most spectacular of the hot pianists. Musicians are the keenest people in the world
at admiring new talent and just as Benny Goodman will sit goggle-eyed now lis-
tening to the “hotteties” of Count Basie, the colored demon of Kansas City, so did
the orchestra leaders of ten years ago go insane over the berserk playing of Bessie
Smith’s boys. From that interest came the change in orchestra music that is now so
pronounced in the work of Goodman, Tommy Dorsey, Glen Gray, Jimmy Dorsey
and others.
The traditional folk songs of the Southern mountaineers and the spirituals have
not been included in this discussion because they occupy a special position in the
art of song. In the strictest sense the mountaineer ballads are old English folk songs,
some of them even traceable to old Gregorian chants; and as such they are not strictly
American products. New York was recently visited by the Rev. John William Daw-
son, pastor of the Dry Fork Primitive Baptist Church of Morehead, Kentucky, who
sang Lord, Spare Me for Another Year and The Wayfaring Stranger. The words
seemed to have grown out of local legends of the mountains but the tunes stemmed
back to the earliest days of American history when the first settlers crossed from
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 28 05/27/19 04:50 PM

the old country. Most strictly in the American tradition are the songs of Aunt Molly
Jackson of Harlan County, Kentucky, who has told the story of the labor struggles
of that section. Her songs are richly evocative and thrilling, carrying the troubadour
quality of old.
Fans Are Delighted

But it’s when Sleepy John Estes on his guitar and Hammie Nix on his mouth
organ get wound up that the newfound fans start yammering with delight. There
are isolated groups in all sections of the world prepared to fight to the death to
prove that Maxine Sullivan, from the Onyx Club, is a greater artist than Lily Pons.
Miss Sullivan became the storm center of radio controversy as the first person to
swing Loch Lomond and other old ballads. There are strange individuals who
wouldn’t give a Georgia White and Rhubarb Red (guitar) record for anything
made by Caruso.
The cult of the hillbillies may be a passing fancy but it is significant that Ambrose,
the swankiest orchestra conductor in London, has made an arrangement of Nobody’s
Darling But Mine. When the St. Louis Blues is made into a Metropolitan Opera, the
truth will finally be evident. In the meanwhile, the nasal-voiced boys and girls of the
hinterlands have the most curious things to say about love and My Gal Sal. There
seems to be an awful lot of double-crossing done by the ladies in the “mountings,”
and they invariably pay for it. This makes art.
Further Reading
Brackett, David. Categorizing Sound: Genre and Twentieth-Century Popular Music. Oakland:
University of California Press, 2016.
Filene, Benjamin. Romancing the Folk: Public Memory & American Roots Music. Chapel Hill &
London: The University of North Carolina Press, 2000.
Lange, Jeffrey. Smile When You Call Me a Hillbilly: Country Music’s Struggle for Respectability,
1939–1954. Athens: University of Georgia Press, 2004.
Malone, Bill C (with Jocelyn R. Neal). Country Music U.S.A. 3rd rev. ed. Austin: University
of Texas Press, 2010.
Miller, Karl Hagstrom. Segregating Sound: Inventing Folk and Pop Music in the Age of Jim Crow.
Durham, N.C., and London: Duke University Press, 2010.
Roberts, John Storm. The Latin Tinge: The Impact of Latin American Music on the United States.
2nd ed. New York: Oxford University Press, 1999.
Russell, Tony. Blacks, Whites, and Blues. New York: Stein and Day Publishers, 1970.
Southern, Eileen. The Music of Black Americans: A History. 3rd ed. New York: W. W. Norton,
1997.
Discography
The Anthology of American Folk Music. Smithsonian Folkways, [1952] 1997.
Azpiazu, Don. Don Azpiazu and His Havana Casino Orchestra. Harlequin, 1994.
Great Race Record Labels Vols. 1–3. Windsong, 2000.
Rodgers, Jimmie. The Singing Brakeman. ASV/Living Era, 2006.
Roots N’ Blues: Retrospective 1925–1950. Sony, 1992.
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 29 05/27/19 04:50 PM

30 Before 1950
6. Blues People and the Classic Blues
As indicated in the preceding article, from the 1920s through the

1940s, the music industry classified most of the music made by and
directed toward African Americans as “race music.” Notwithstanding
this practice of musical segregation, several notable African American
bands were marketed in the “popular” category and broadcast on net-
work radio shows; they included swing bands led by Duke Ellington,
Count Basie, and Jimmie Lunceford, and some of the close harmony
groups such as the Mills Brothers and the Ink Spots. The “race music”
category, on the other hand, included blues, gospel tunes, piano
boogie-woogies, small jazz groups, and the funkier swing bands
unknown to the white public. During the 1920s, the category of race
music also included types of music that would later not be closely
associated with African Americans, such as music for jug bands and
string bands.1
The name of the category itself, “race music,” probably carried
pejorative connotations to the executives who coined it, yet for African
Americans during this period, it also carried positive meanings. In the
Harlem Renaissance of the 1920s up through the 1940s, to be a “race
man” was to be active in the fight for equal rights and the recognition
of black achievement and ability; this designation was obviously not
limited to the “Negroes of Richmond, Virginia” as implied by the previ-
ous article.
The previous article from Collier’s also mentioned how the late
1920s witnessed the growing importance of newly composed gos-
pel music in addition to secular music. Thomas Dorsey, a pianist and
songwriter who had provided material and worked as an accompanist
for Ma Rainey, began to write sacred material and to work with female
1. For an excellent assortment of “race” and “hillbilly” recordings from the late 1920s, see the
now-classic Anthology of American Folk Music, compiled by Harry Smith (Smithsonian Folkways
Recordings, [1952] 1997). For a discussion of the diversity of traditions issued on race records, see
Paul Oliver, Songsters and Saints: Vocal Traditions on Race Records (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge Uni-
versity Press, 1984). The usefulness of the term “race music” for understanding post-1940 forms
of African American popular music is explored by Guthrie P. Ramsey, Jr., in Race Music: Black Cul-
tures from Bebop to Hip-Hop (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003).
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 30 05/27/19 04:50 PM

Blues People and the Classic Blues 31
singers such as Mahalia Jackson and Willie Mae Ford Smith. Dorsey,
known as the “Father of Gospel Music,” was a major force in the devel-
opment of modern gospel music and its rise to prominence in a network
of African American Baptist churches across northern and midwestern
cities. As gospel developed into an important component of the “race”
records category, gospel quartets like the Golden Gate Quartet and
the Five Blind Boys made successful recordings throughout the 1930s
and 1940s. This style of gospel performance would play a major role
in the development of “doo-wop” a capella singing, which would, in
turn, play a major role in rhythm and blues, beginning in the late 1940s,
and later in early rock ‘n’ roll. While sacred and secular music had been
intertwined previously, the vitality of gospel music provided a major
resource (and training ground) to which African American popular musi-
cians continually returned.
Amiri Baraka, widely known as a poet, playwright, and associate of

the Beat writers, wrote what was arguably the first social history of
African American music in the early 1960s (when he was known as
LeRoi Jones). His Blues People has been much debated, its theses
argued and disputed, but Jones’s strong views of his subject continue
to encourage readers to focus on the political aspects of this history.2
Baraka’s account is valuable both for its perspective on the rela-
tionship between changing social conditions and the development
of the classic blues and for his discussion of the historical linkages
among classic blues, minstrelsy, and vaudeville. Many have argued
that Baraka’s views of the “whitening” of African American genres is
overly simplistic and that his ideas about the connections between
racial identity and musical style betray traces of essentialism.3 He may
also be faulted now for his use of the “reflection” theory between
culture and art that posits a straightforward and direct relationship
between social change and musical change, and others have chal-
lenged his scholarly assertions. Nonetheless, the passion and moral
authority with which Jones asserts his analysis and the imaginative
way in which he illuminates the aural manifestations of social forces
all continue to make knowledge of this text invaluable for the student
of American popular music.
2. The most famous rejoinder came from Ralph Ellison; see his “Blues People,” in Shadow and
Act (New York: Vintage Books, [1964] 1972), 247–58.
3. Baraka modified this notion himself with the development of the idea of black music as a
“changing same.” See Amiri Baraka, “The Changing Same (R&B and New Black Music),” in Black
Music (New York: William Morrow, 1967), 180–211.
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 31 05/27/19 04:50 PM

32 Before 1950
from Blues People: The Negro Experience in White America

and the Music that Developed from It
LeRoi Jones
What has been called “classic blues” was the result of more diverse sociological and
musical influences than any other kind of American Negro music called blues. Musi-
cally, classic blues showed the Negro singer’s appropriation of a great many ele-
ments of popular American music, notably the music associated with popular theater
or vaudeville. The instrumental music that accompanied classic blues also reflected
this development, as it did the Negro musician’s maturing awareness of a more
instrumental style, possibly as a foil to be used with his naturally vocal style. Classic
blues appeared in America at about the same time as ragtime, the most instrumental
or nonvocal music to issue from Negro inspiration. Ragtime is also a music that is
closely associated with the popular theater of the late nineteenth and early twentieth
centuries. Although ragtime must be considered as a separate kind of music, bor-
rowing more European elements than any other music commonly associated with
Negroes, it contributed greatly to the development of Negro music from an almost
purely vocal tradition to one that could begin to include the melodic and harmonic
complexities of instrumental music.
Socially, classic blues and the instrumental styles that went with it represented
the Negro’s entrance into the world of professional entertainment and the assump-
tion of the psychological imperatives that must accompany such a phenomenon.
Blues was a music that arose from the needs of a group, although it was assumed that
each man had his own blues and that he would sing them. As such, the music was
private and personal, although the wandering country blues singers of earlier times
had from time to time casual audiences who would sometimes respond with gifts
of food, clothes, or even money. But again it was assumed that anybody could sing
the blues. If someone had lived in this world into manhood, it was taken for granted
that he had been given the content of his verses, and as I pointed out earlier, musical
training was not a part of African tradition—music like any art was the result of natu-
ral inclination.4 Given the deeply personal quality of blues-singing there could be no
particular method for learning blues. As a verse form, it was the lyrics which were
most important, and they issued from life. But classic blues took on a certain degree
of professionalism. It was no longer strictly the group singing to ease their labors or
the casual expression of personal deliberations on the world. It became a music that
could be used to entertain others formally. The artisan, the professional blues singer,
appeared; blues-singing no longer had to be merely a passionately felt avocation, it
could now become a way of making a living. An external and sophisticated idea of
performance had come to the blues, moving it past the casualness of the “folk” to the
conditioned emotional gesture of the “public.”
This professionalism came from the Negro theater: the black minstrel shows,
traveling road shows, medicine shows, vaudeville shows, carnivals, and tiny cir-
cuses all included blues singers and small or large bands. The Negro theater, in
form, was modeled on the earlier white minstrel shows and traveling shows which
played around America, especially in rural areas where there was no other formal
4. This is an example of one of Baraka’s assertions that would be hotly questioned by contem-
porary scholars.
Source: Pages 81–94 from BLUES PEPLE by LEROI JONES. Copyright © 1963 by LeRoi Jones.
Reprinted by permission of Harper Collins Publishers.
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 32 05/27/19 04:50 PM

e ntertainment. The Negro theater did not, of course, come into being until after the
Civil War, but the minstrel show is traceable back to the beginning of the nineteenth
century. White performers using blackface to do “imitations of Negro life” appeared
in America around 1800, usually in solo performances. By the 1840’s, however,
blackface was the rage of the country, and there were minstrel shows from America
traveling all over the world. It was at least thirty more years before there were groups
of traveling entertainers who did not have to use burnt cork or greasepaint.
It is essential to realize that minstrelsy was an extremely important sociological
phenomenon in America. The idea of white men imitating, or caricaturing, what they
consider certain generic characteristics of the black man’s life in America to entertain
other white men is important if only because of the Negro’s reaction to it. (And it is
the Negro’s reaction to America, first white and then black and white America, that I
consider to have made him such a unique member of this society.)
The reasons for the existence of minstrelsy are important also because in consid-
ering them we find out even more about the way in which the white man’s concept of
the Negro changed and why it changed. This gradual change, no matter how it was
manifested, makes a graph of the movement of the Negro through American society,
and provides an historical context for the rest of my speculations.
I suppose the “childlike” qualities of the African must have always been amus-
ing to the American. I mentioned before how the black man’s penchant for the super-
natural was held up for ridicule by his white captors, as were other characteristics
of African culture. Also, I am certain that most white Americans never thought of
the plight of the black man as tragic. Even the Christian Church justified slavery
until well into the nineteenth century. The “darky” at his most human excursion into
the mainstream of American society was a comic figure. The idea that somehow the
slavery of the black man in America was a tragic situation did not occur to white
Americans until the growth of the Abolition movement. But it is interesting that min-
strelsy grew as the Abolition movement grew. I would say that as the “wild savage”
took on more and more of what New England Humanists and church workers con-
sidered a human aspect, there was also more in his way of life that Americans found
amusing. (And who has not laughed at the cork-faced “Negro” lawmakers in D. W.
Griffiths’ Birth of a Nation? It is a ridiculous situation, ignorant savages pretending
they know as much as Southern senators.) As the image of the Negro in America
was given more basic human qualities, e.g., the ability to feel pain, perhaps the only
consistent way of justifying what had been done to him—now that he had reached
what can be called a post-bestial stage—was to demonstrate the ridiculousness of his
inability to act as a “normal” human being. American Negroes were much funnier
than A fricans. (And I hope that Negro “low” comedy persists even long after all the
gangsters on television are named Smith and Brown.)
The white minstrel shows were, at their best, merely parodies of Negro life,
though I do not think that the idea of “the parody” was always present. It was
sufficiently amusing for a white man with a painted face to attempt to reproduce
some easily identifiable characteristic of “the darky.” There was room for artistic
imprecision in a minstrel show because it wasn’t so much the performance that was
side-splitting as the very idea of the show itself: “Watch these Niggers.” Among
the typical “Negro” material performed by the white minstrels are these two songs
which perhaps indicate the nature of the parody white minstrelsy proposed to make
of Negro life:
The Traveling Coon
Once there was a traveling coon
Who was born in Tennessee.
He made his living stealing chickens
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 33 05/27/19 04:50 PM

34 Before 1950
. . . And everything else he could see.
Well, he traveled and he was known for miles around,
And he didn’t get enough, he didn’t get enough,
Till the police shot him down.
The Voodoo Man

I’ve been hoodooed, hoodooed
Hoodooed by a negro voodoo;
I’ve been hoodooed, hoodooed,
Hoodooed by a big black coon.
A coon for me had a great infatuation;

Wanted for to marry me but had no situation.
When I refused, that coon he got wild.
Says he, “I’m bound for to hoodoo this child.”
He went out and got a rabbit’s foot and burned it with a frog
Right by the road where I had to pass along.
Ever since that time my head’s been wrong.*
The black minstrel shows were also what might be called parodies, or exaggera-
tions, of certain aspects of Negro life in America. But in one sense the colored minstrel
was poking fun at himself, and in another and probably more profound sense he was
poking fun at the white man. The minstrel show was appropriated from the white
man—the first Negro minstrels wore the “traditional” blackface over their own—but
only the general form of the black minstrel show really resembled the white. It goes
without saying that the black minstrels were “more authentic,” and the black shows,
although they did originate from white burlesques of Negro mores, were given a
vitality and solid humor that the earlier shows never had.
The minstrel shows introduced new dance steps to what could then be consid-
ered a mass audience. The cakewalk was one of the most famous dance steps to come
out of minstrelsy; it has been described as “a take-off on the high manners of the
white folks in the ‘big house.’” (If the cakewalk is a Negro dance caricaturing certain
white customs, what is that dance when, say, a white theater company attempts to
satirize it as a Negro dance? I find the idea of white minstrels in blackface satirizing
a dance satirizing themselves a remarkable kind of irony—which, I suppose, is the
whole point of minstrel shows.)
Early Negro minstrel companies like the Georgia Minstrels, Pringle Minstrels,
McCabe and Young Minstrels, provided the first real employment for Negro enter-
tainers. Blues singers, musicians, dancers, comedians, all found fairly steady work
with these large touring shows. For the first time Negro music was heard on a wider
scale throughout the country, and began to exert a tremendous influence on the
mainstream of the American entertainment world; a great many of the shows even
made extensive tours of England and the Continent, introducing the older forms of
blues as well as classic blues and early jazz to the entire world.
Classic blues is called “classic” because it was the music that seemed to contain
all the diverse and conflicting elements of Negro music, plus the smoother emotional
appeal of the “performance.” It was the first Negro music that appeared in a for-
mal context as entertainment, though it still contained the harsh, uncompromising
*From Newman Ivey White, ed., The Frank C. Brown Collection of North Carolina Folklore (Dur-
ham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 1962), 88–89.
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 34 05/27/19 04:50 PM

r eality of the earlier blues forms.5 It was, in effect, the perfect balance between the
two worlds, and as such, it represented a clearly definable step by the Negro back
into the mainstream of American society. Primitive blues had been almost a con-
scious expression of the Negro’s individuality and equally important, his separateness.
The first years after the Civil War saw the Negro as far away from the whole of
American society as it was ever possible for him to be. Such a separation was never
possible again. To the idea of the meta-society is opposed the concept of integration,
two concepts that must always be present in any discussion of Negro life in America.
The emergence of classic blues indicated that many changes had taken place in
the Negro. His sense of place, or status, within the superstructure of American society
had changed radically since the days of the field holler. Perhaps what is so apparent
in classic blues is the sense for the first time that the Negro felt he was a part of that
superstructure at all. The lyrics of classic blues become concerned with situations and
ideas that are recognizable as having issued from one area of a much larger human
concern. Classic blues is less obscure to white America for these reasons, less invo-
luted, and certainly less precise. Classic blues attempts a universality that earlier blues
forms could not even envision. But with the attainment of such broad human mean-
ing, the meanings which existed in blues only for Negroes grew less pointed. The pro-
fessionalism of classic blues moved it to a certain extent out of the lives of Negroes. It
became the stylized response, even though a great many of the social and emotional
preoccupations of primitive blues remained. Now large groups of Negroes could sit
quietly in a show and listen to a performer re-create certain serious areas of their lives.
The following blues was written by Porter Grainger and sung by Bessie Smith:
Put It Right Here or Keep It Out There
I’ve had a man for fifteen years, give him his room and board;
Once he was like a Cadillac, now he’s like an old, worn-out Ford;
He never brought me a lousy dime and put it in my hand;
So there’ll be some changes from now on, according to my plan.
He’s got to get it, bring it, and put it right here,
Or else he’s goin’ to keep it out there;
If he must steal it, beg it, or borrow it somewhere,
Long as he gets it, I don’t care.
I’m tired of buyin’ porkchops to grease his fat lips,

And he has to find another place for to park his old hips;
He must get it, and bring it, and put it right here.
Or else he’s goin’ to keep it out there.
The bee gets the honey and brings it to the comb,

Else he’s kicked out of his home sweet home.
To show you that they brings it, watch the dog and the cat;
Everything even brings it, from a mule to a gnat.
The rooster gets the worm and brings it to the hen;

That oughta be a tip to all you no-good men.
The groundhog even brings it and puts it in his hole,
So my man is got to bring it—dog gone his soul.
5. By “earlier blues forms,” I am assuming Jones is referring to what blues scholars would term
the “country blues” or the “downhome blues.” These blues genres are discussed later in Part 1.
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 35 05/27/19 04:50 PM

36 Before 1950
The “separate society” was moving to make some parallels with the larger world.
An idea of theater had come to the blues, and this movement toward performance
turned some of the emotional climate of the Negro’s life into artifact and entertain-
ment. But there was still enough intimacy between the real world and the artifact to
make that artifact beautiful and unbelievably moving.
Classic blues formalized blues even more than primitive blues had formalized
earlier forms of Negro secular music. Just as the wandering primitive blues singers
had spread a certain style of blues-singing, the performers of classic blues served as
models and helped standardize certain styles. Singers like Gertrude “Ma” Rainey
were responsible for creating the classic blues style. She was one of the most imi-
tated and influential classic blues singers, and perhaps the one who can be called
the link between the earlier, less polished blues styles and the smoother theatrical
style of most of the later urban blues singers. Ma Rainey’s singing can be placed
squarely between the harsher, more spontaneous country styles and the somewhat
calculated emotionalism of the performers. Madame Rainey, as she was sometimes
known, toured the South for years with a company called the Rabbit Foot Minstrels
and became widely known in Negro communities everywhere in America. It was she
who taught Bessie Smith, perhaps the most famous of all the classic blues singers.
Both these women, along with such performers as Clara Smith, Trixie Smith, Ida Cox,
Sarah Martin, Chippie Hill, Sippie Wallace, brought a professionalism and theatrical
polish to blues that it had never had before. They worked the innumerable little gin
towns with minstrel shows.
By the turn of the century there were hundreds of tiny colored troupes, and
some larger ones like The Rabbit Foot, Silas Green’s, Mahara’s. There were medi-
cine shows, vaudevilles, and circuses when minstrel shows finally died. By the early
twenties there were also certain theater circuits that offered tours for blues singers,
jazz bands, and other Negro entertainers. One of the most famous, or most infamous,
was the old T.O.B.A. (Theatre Owners’ Booking Agency), or as the performers called
it, “Tough On Black Artists” (or “Asses”). Tours arranged by these agencies usually
went through the larger Southern and Midwestern cities.
While the country singers accompanied themselves usually on guitar or banjo,
the classic blues singers usually had a band backing them up. They worked well with
the jazz and blues bands, something the earlier singers would not have been able to
do. Classic blues was much more an instrumental style; though the classic singers
did not lose touch with the vocal tradition, they did augment the earlier forms in
order to utilize the more intricate styles of the jazz bands to good effect.
The great classic blues singers were women. Ma Rainey, Bessie Smith, and the
others all came into blues-singing as professionals, and all at comparatively early
ages. (Ma Rainey started at fourteen, Bessie Smith before she was twenty.) Howard
W. Odum and Guy B. Johnson note from a list of predominantly classic blues titles,
taken from the record catalogues of three “race” companies. “The majority of these
formal blues are sung from the point of view of woman . . . upwards of seventy-
five per cent of the songs are written from the woman’s point of view. Among the
blues singers who have gained a more or less national recognition there is scarcely
a man’s name to be found.”* However, the great country blues singers, with excep-
tions like Ida May Mack or Bessie Tucker, were almost always men. But the country
blues singers were not recorded until much later, during the great swell of blues and
“race” recordings when the companies were willing to try almost any black singer or
*Negro Workaday Songs (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1926), p. 38.
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 36 05/27/19 04:50 PM

usician because they were still ecstatic about their newly discovered market. The
m
first recordings of blues were classic blues; it was the classic singers who first brought
blues into general notice in the United States.
There were several reasons why women became the best classic blues singers.
Most of the best-known country singers were wanderers, migratory farm workers, or
men who went from place to place seeking employment. In those times, unless she
traveled with her family it was almost impossible for a woman to move about like
a man. It was also unnecessary since women could almost always obtain domestic
employment. Until the emergence of the Negro theater, Negro women either sang
in the church (they were always more consistent in their churchgoing) or sang their
own personal sadnesses over brown wood tubs. In the slave fields, men and women
worked side by side—the work songs and hollers served both. (Given such social cir-
cumstance, one must assume that it was only the physiological inequality of the black
woman, e.g., not infrequent pregnancies, that provided some measure of superiority
for the male, or at least some reticence for the female.)
I’m a big fat mama, got the meat shakin’ on my bones
I’m a big fat mama, got the meat shakin’ on my bones
And every time I shake, some skinny gal loses her home.
Only in the post-bellum society did the Christian Church come to mean social
placement, as it did for white women, as much as spiritual salvation. (Social demea-
nor as a basic indication of spiritual worth is not everybody’s idea. Sexual inter-
course, for instance, is not thought filthy by a great many gods.) It was possible to be
quite promiscuous, if it came to that, and still be a person capable of “being moved
by the spirit.” But in post-bellum Negro society, Christianity did begin to assume the
spirituality of the social register; the Church became an institution through which,
quite sophisticatedly, secular distinction was bestowed. The black woman had to
belong to the Church, even if she was one of the chief vestals of the most mysterious
cult of Shango, or be thought “a bad woman.” This was a legacy of white American
Protestantism. But the incredibly beautiful Jesus of Negro spirituals is so much a man
of flesh and blood, whether he is sung of by the church women or those women who
left the Church to sing the “devil songs.”
Dark was de night an’ cold was de groun’
On which de Lawd had laid;
Drops of sweat run down,
In agony he prayed.
Would thou despise my bleedin’ lam’

An’ choose de way to hell,
Still steppin’ down to de tomb,
An’ yet prepared no mo’?
l love Jesus,
I love Jesus,
I love Jesus,
O yes, I do,
Yes, Lawdy.*
*From Negro Workaday Songs, p. 196.
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38 Before 1950
Minstrelsy and vaudeville not only provided employment for a great many
women blues singers but helped to develop the concept of the professional Negro
female entertainer. Also, the reverence in which most of white society was held by
Negroes gave to those Negro entertainers an enormous amount of prestige. Their suc-
cess was also boosted at the beginning of this century by the emergence of many white
women as entertainers and in the twenties, by the great swell of distaff protest regard-
ing women’s suffage. All these factors came together to make the entertainment field
a glamourous one for Negro women, providing an independence and importance not
available in other areas open to them—the church, domestic work, or prostitution.
The emergence of classic blues and the popularization of jazz occurred around the
same time. Both are the results of social and psychological changes within the Negro
group as it moved toward the mainstream of American society, a movement that
tended to have very significant results. The Negro’s idea of America as the place where
he lived and would spend his life was broadened; there was a realization by Negroes
(in varying degrees, depending upon their particular socio-economic status) of a more
human hypothesis on which to base their lives. Negro culture was affected: jazz is eas-
ily the most cosmopolitan of any Negro music, able to utilize almost any foreign influ-
ence within its broader spectrum. And blues benefited: it was richer, more universal,
and itself became a strong influence on the culture it had depended upon for its growth.
Ragtime, dixieland, jazz, are all American terms. When they are mentioned any-
where in the world, they relate to America and an American experience. But the term
blues relates directly to the Negro, and his personal involvement in America. And
even though ragtime, dixieland, and jazz are all dependent upon blues for their exist-
ence in any degree of authenticity, the terms themselves relate to a broader reference
than blues. Blues means a Negro experience, it is the one music the Negro made that
could not be transferred into a more general significance than the one the Negro gave
it initially. Classic blues differs a great deal from older blues forms in the content of
its lyrics, its musical accompaniment, and in the fact that it was a music that moved
into its most beautiful form as a public entertainment, but it is still a form of blues,
and it is still a music that relates directly to the Negro experience. Bessie Smith was
not an American, though the experience she relates could hardly have existed out-
side America; she was a Negro. Her music still remained outside the mainstream of
American thought, but it was much closer than any Negro music before it.
Further Reading
Jones, LeRoi. Blues People: The Negro Experience in White America and the Music that Developed
from It. New York: William Morrow, 1963.
Oliver, Paul. Songsters and Saints: Vocal Traditions on Race Records. Cambridge, UK: Cam-
bridge University Press, 1984.
Ramsey, Guthrie P., Jr. Race Music: Black Cultures from Bebop to Hip-Hop. Berkeley: University
of California Press, 2003.
Discography
Blues Masters, Vol. 11: Classic Blues Women. Rhino, 1993.
Jackson, Mahalia. Gospels, Spirituals, and Hymns. Sony Jazz, 1998.
Kings of the Gospel Highway: The Golden Age of Gospel Quartets. Shanachie, 2000.
Lost Sounds: Blacks and the Birth of the Recording Industry 1891–1922. Archeophone Records, 2005.
Precious Lord: The Great Gospel Songs of Thomas A. Dorsey. Sony, 1994.
Smith, Willie Mae Ford. Mother Smith and Her Children. Yazoo, 1990.
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 38 05/27/19 04:50 PM

The Empress of the Blues 39
7. The Empress of the Blues
Amiri Baraka concludes his discussion of the classic blues with a ref-
erence to Bessie Smith (1894–1937), the “Empress of the Blues,” the
most popular and influential of the classic blues singers and one of the
most popular recording artists of the 1920s. Gaining her experience
from traveling vaudeville shows, Smith developed a powerful voice
that could project in large spaces without amplification. Unlike the
country and Delta blues singers, many of her songs were tailor-made
for her by professional songwriters. Thus, while she incorporates con-
ventional blues phrasing and harmonic patterns into her singing, she
also incorporates formal devices from contemporary popular song as
well (this is true of “St. Louis Blues,” the most famous song associated
with her). The persona projected by Smith—strong, sassy, sensual—
has become almost an archetype in representations of classic blues.1
Her influence on subsequent female blues, jazz, and rock singers was
strong and was felt by everyone from Billie Holiday to Dinah Washing-
ton to Janis Joplin.
In the following discussion from Nat Shapiro and Nat Hentoff’s clas-
sic oral history of jazz, Hear Me Talkin’ to Ya, we hear from Frank Walker
(a record company executive who was a central figure in the develop-
ment of both “race” and “hillbilly” categories), Danny Barker and Buster
Bailey (musicians who accompanied her), Mezz Mezzrow (a jazz musi-
cian of the period), and Alberta Hunter (a songwriter and blues singer
in her own right).
1. For more on issues of sexuality and place in the classic blues, see Hazel V. Carby, “‘It Jus’
Be’s Dat Way Sometime’: The Sexual Politics of Women’s Blues,” Radical America 20, no. 4 (1986):
9–24, reprinted in Robert Walser, ed., Keeping Time: Readings in Jazz History (New York: Oxford
University Press, 1999), 351–65; see also Daphne Duval Harrison, Black Pearls: Blues Queens of the
1920s (New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 1988); and Angela Y. Davis, Blues Lega-
cies and Black Feminism: Gertrude “Ma” Rainey, Bessie Smith, and Billie Holiday (New York: Vintage
Books, 1999).
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 39 05/27/19 04:50 PM

40 Before 1950
from Hear Me Talkin’ to Ya: The Story of Jazz as Told

by the Men Who Made It
Nat Shapiro and Nat Hentoff
Frank Walker
I don’t think there could have been more than fifty people up North who had heard
about Bessie Smith when I sent Clarence Williams down South to get her. Clarence
did a lot of work for me then. He was very important in coaching and teaching and
working on our artists. He could somehow manage to get the best out of them, and
to this day hasn’t received the credit he really deserves.
Clarence really wasn’t much of a pianist though, he’ll tell you that himself. When
he was back home in New Orleans he played piano in one of those honky-tonks and
could only play by ear—maybe knowing a half a dozen songs. Then some inebriate
might come in and ask for a song he didn’t know, and Clarence would say, “Come
back tomorrow night.” The next day he’d go down to the five-and-ten-cent store, to
the sheet music counter, and pull out the song for the piano player to demonstrate.
He would hear it once and know it. If that customer came back, Clarence would play
the song and maybe pick up a dime tip. It was like some of our hillbilly artists say
about songs, “I can write them down, but I can’t note them.”
Anyway, I told Clarence about the Smith girl and said, “This is what you’ve got
to do. Go down there and find her and bring her back up here.”
He found her, and I’m telling you that the girl he brought back looked like any-
thing but a singer. She looked about seventeen—tall and fat and scared to death—just
awful! But all of this you forgot when you heard her sing, because when Bessie sang
the blues, she meant it. Blues were her life. She was blues from the time she got up
in the morning until she went to bed at night. Oh, she had a sense of humor all right,
and she could laugh too. But it didn’t last long.
Her first record was Down Hearted Blues and it was a tremendous hit. And there
was one line in that blues that did it. It was the first time it was used and it made that
record a hit. It was “Got the world in a jug, got the stopper in my hand.”
I don’t know that there was anyone closer to Bessie than I was. She came to me
for advice; I took care of her money and bookings (at one time she was probably the
highest-paid Negro performer in vaudeville—next to Bert Williams, that is).2 She knew
that we looked at her and treated her as a human being and not a piece of property.
It was all a matter of feeling with her. It was inside. Not that there was any repres-
sion. It all came out in her singing. Almost all of the blues she sang told sort of a story,
and they were written especially for her. I don’t want to give you the idea that Bessie
Smith was incapable of writing her own blues, not at all. She probably could have. She
would get an idea, then we would discuss it. But once she started to sing, nobody told
her what to do. Nobody interfered. That was one of the reasons she liked Fletcher Hen-
derson so much. He was quiet and never butted in. He did what Bessie told him to.
I suppose that lots of people remember and think of Bessie as a rough-and-tumble
sort of person. Still, that wasn’t the only side of her. They didn’t know about things
like her buying a rooming house for her friends to live in, and hundreds of other little
Source: Hear Me Talkin’ to Ya: The Story of Jazz as Told by the Men Who Made It, Nat Shapiro and Nat
Hentoff, © 1955 Dover Publications.
2. Bert Williams was the most famous black minstrel performer of the period.
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 40 05/27/19 04:50 PM

The Empress of the Blues 41
things which cost her barrels of money. Yes, Bessie had a heart as big as all outdoors,
but she gave it all away.
Later on, when the blues began to spread out and became established, new peo-
ple were coming along and Bessie began to lose heart. You might say she didn’t have
a hitching post to tie her horse to. She began to lose interest in life. She had no heart
left and was singing differently.
There was bitterness in her, and, you know, the blues aren’t bitter.
Danny Barker
Bessie Smith was a fabulous deal to watch. She was a pretty large woman and she
could sing the blues. She had a church deal mixed up in it. She dominated a stage.
You didn’t turn your head when she went on. You just watched Bessie. You didn’t
read any newspapers in a night club when she went on. She just upset you. When you
say Bessie—that was it. She was unconscious of her surroundings. She never paid
anybody any mind. When you went to see Bessie and she came out, that was it. If
you had any church background, like people who came from the South as I did, you
would recognize a similarity between what she was doing and what those preachers
and evangelists from there did, and how they moved people. The South had fabulous
preachers and evangelists. Some would stand on corners and move the crowds from
there. Bessie did the same thing on stage. She, in a sense, was like people like Billy
Graham are today. Bessie was in a class with those people. She could bring about
mass hypnotism. When she was performing, you could hear a pin drop.
Buster Bailey
Bessie Smith was a kind of roughish sort of woman. She was good-hearted and big-
hearted, and she liked to juice, and she liked to sing her blues slow. She didn’t want
no fast stuff. She had a style of phrasing, what they used to call swing—she had a
certain way she used to sing. I hear a lot of singers now trying to sing something like
that. Like this record that came out a few years ago—Why Don’t You Do Right?—
they’re trying to imitate her.
We didn’t have any rehearsals for Bessie’s records. She’d just go with us to the
studio around Columbus Circle. None of us rehearsed the things we recorded with
her. We’d just go to the studio; Fletcher would get the key. This, by the way, applied
not only to Bessie but to almost all the blues singers. The singers might have some-
thing written out to remind them what the verse was but there was no music written
on it. On a lot of the records by Bessie you’ll see lyrics by Bessie Smith and music by
George Brooks. That was Fletcher.
We recorded by the horn. You know the way they used to record in those days.
We’d monkey around until we had a good balance and we’d make two or three but
we never made more than two masters on a tune. We’d make only two sides in a ses-
sion and at that time we got more money for that than we do now.
For Bessie, singing was just a living. She didn’t consider it anything special. She
was certainly recognized among blues singers—a shouter, they called her. They all
respected her because she had a powerful pair of lungs. There were no microphones
in those days. She could fill up Carnegie Hall, Madison Square Garden, or a cabaret.
She could fill it up from her muscle and she could last all night. There was none of
this whispering jive.
Mezz Mezzrow
Bessie was a real woman, all woman, all the femaleness the world ever saw in one
sweet package. She was tall and brown-skinned, with great big dimples creasing
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 41 05/27/19 04:50 PM

42 Before 1950
her cheeks, dripping good looks—just this side of voluptuous, buxom, shapely as a
hourglass, with a high-voltage magnet for a personality.
You ever hear what happened to that fine, full-of-life female woman? You know
how she died? Well, she went on for years, being robbed by stinchy managers who
would murder their own mothers for a deuce of blips, having to parade around in
gaudy gowns full of dime-store junk and throw away her great art while the lushes
and morons made cracks about her size and shape. She drank a lot, and there must
have been plenty of nights when she got the blues she couldn’t lose, but she went on
singing, pouring out the richness and the beauty in her that never dried up. Then one
day in 1937 she was in an automobile crash down in Mississippi, the Murder State,
and her arm was almost tore out of its socket. They brought her to the hospital but it
seemed like there wasn’t any room for her just then—the people around there didn’t
care for the color of her skin. The car turned around and drove away, with Bessie’s
blood dripping on the floor mat. She was finally admitted to another hospital where
the officials must have been color-blind, but by that time she had lost so much blood
that they couldn’t operate on her, and a little later she died. See that lonesome road,
Lawd, it got to end, she used to sing. That was how the lonesome road ended up for
the greatest folk singer this country ever heard—with Jim Crow directing the traffic.
Buster Bailey
Alberta Hunter was another singer of the type I mean. She didn’t need a mike. Bricktop
was also in that gang. She was a good singer and she could dance. You had to sing and
dance in those days. Bricktop was the one who later had a club of her own in Paris and
now has one in Rome. Ma Rainey was good—you can’t leave her out. But they all con-
sidered Bessie the best, like they put Louis on top. Bessie was the Louis Armstrong of
the blues singers. She had more original ideas for blues and things than the others did.
Alberta Hunter
The blues? Why the blues are a part of me. To me, the blues are—well, almost reli-
gious. They’re like a chant. The blues are like spirituals, almost sacred. When we sing
blues, we’re singin’ out our hearts, we’re singin’ out our feelings. Maybe we’re hurt
and just can’t answer back, then we sing or maybe even hum the blues. Yes, to us, the
blues are sacred. When I sing:
“I walk the floor, wring my hands and cry.
“Yes, I walk the floor, wring my hands and cry. . . .”
what I’m doing is letting my soul out.

Blues are a part of me, and when I knew nothing about music, or even about
such a thing as music being written down, I was singing blues and picking them out
on the piano with one finger. I was less than eleven years old when I started writ-
ing Down Hearted Blues, just before I ran away from home. Later on, I recorded it for
Paramount Records and it was a tremendous hit. That was before Frank Walker sent
for Bessie Smith. Bessie made it after it had been recorded on almost all the labels and
even on piano rolls. We thought that it was exhausted, but it was Bessie’s first record
and it sold 780,000 copies!
No, they don’t have blues singers now like they had then, except maybe Dinah
Washington. There was Sara Martin, Ida Cox, Chippie Hill, Victoria Spivey, Trixie
Smith, and Clara Smith and Mamie Smith, who made it possible for all of us with her
recording of Crazy Blues, the first blues record.
But Bessie Smith was the greatest of them all. There never was one like her and
there’ll never be one like her again. Even though she was raucous and loud, she had a
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 42 05/27/19 04:50 PM

At the Crossroads with Son House 43
sort of a tear—no, not a tear, but there was a misery in what she did. It was as though
there was something she had to get out, something she just had to bring to the fore.
Nobody, least of all today, could ever match Bessie Smith.
Further Reading
Carby, Hazel V. “‘It Jus’ Be’s Dat Way Sometime’: The Sexual Politics of Women’s Blues.”
Radical America 20 (1986): 9–24. Reprinted in Robert Walser, ed., Keeping Time: Readings
in Jazz History, 351–65. New York: Oxford University Press, 1999.
Davis, Angela Y. Blues Legacies and Black Feminism: Gertrude “Ma” Rainey, Bessie Smith, and
Billie Holliday. New York: Vintage Books, 1999.
Harrison, Daphne Duval. Black Pearls: Blues Queens of the 1920s. New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers
Scott, Michelle R. Blues Empress in Black Chattanooga: Bessie Smith and the Emerging Urban
South. Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2008.
Discography
Smith, Bessie. The Empress of the Blues: 1923–1933. Jazz Legends, 2004.
8. At the Crossroads with Son House
Of the many musical forms associated with African Americans, the

country blues, along with work songs and the religious ring shout,
has most often been linked with West African musical practices such
as those used by the jali singers of the Gambia region.1 While both
jalis and blues singers are frequently troubador-like solo singers who
1. For the connection between the country blues and the music of the jalis, see Paul Oliver,
Savannah Syncopators: African Retentions in the Blues (New York: Stein and Day, 1970); and Samuel
Charters, The Roots of the Blues: An African Search (New York: Da Capo, 1981). For more in-depth
accounts of the jali tradition, see Sidia Jatta, “Born Musicians: Traditional Music from the Gambia,”
in Repercussions: A Celebration of African-American Music, ed. Geoffrey Haydon and Dennis Marks
(London: Century, 1985); and Eric Charry, Mande Music: Traditional and Modern Music of the Maninka
and Mandinka of Western Africa (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000).
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 43 05/27/19 04:50 PM

44 Before 1950
accompany themselves on stringed instruments while telling stories,
crucial differences exist as well: a jali sings about the history of his or
her people while a blues singer describes personal experiences, and
the blues musician uses Western musical techniques such as harmonic
progressions and instruments based on equal temperament. Nonethe-
less, some view the expressive note-bending and the use of multi- or
polyrhythms in the blues as musical connections to jalis in particular
and West African music-making in general.
In contrast to the classic blues, country blues singers tended to
be men from the rural South who accompanied themselves most often
on guitar. The earliest recordings date from the 1920s, not too long
after the first classic blues recordings, but no country blues singer ever
enjoyed the widespread success of a Bessie Smith or Ma Rainey. Of the
country blues artists who recorded in the 1920s, the best-known, most
influential, and perhaps most successful was Blind Lemon Jefferson
(1897–1930), who sang in a high-pitched wailing style, accompanied
himself on the guitar with a mixture of single-note runs and chords,
and featured an extremely flexible rhythmic sense in recordings such
as “Matchbox Blues,” “Black Snake Moan,” and “See That My Grave Is
Kept Clean.”
The Delta blues was a specific variety of country blues that devel-
oped in the Mississippi Delta and featured greater rhythmic intensity
and a more extroverted style of blues than that recorded by singers such
as Blind Lemon Jefferson, who hailed from Texas. Other innovations such
as bottleneck, or “slide,” guitar and blues harmonica also first became
widespread in the Delta region. Of these Delta blues musicians, none
had more impact or influence than Robert Johnson (1911–38). Johnson,
who left behind a mere 29 recorded songs, wrote and recorded some
of the most well-known blues songs, including “I Believe I’ll Dust My
Broom,” “Sweet Home Chicago,” “Cross Road Blues,” and “Come On
in My Kitchen.” The release of his collected recordings by Columbia in
the early sixties helped spur the blues revival of the 1960s and was one
of the most important events in the development of blues-rock in Eng-
land during that time. Although he played unamplified guitar, J ohnson’s
style influenced numerous electric blues artists who were instrumental
in the later development of the Chicago blues, such as Muddy Waters
and Elmore James. The complexity of his guitar playing and the emo-
tional fervor of his singing were also undoubtedly responsible for the
continuing popularity and influence of his recordings on subsequent
generations of blues aficionados.
Accounts of Johnson’s music have often presented him as almost sui

generis, a unique creative force propelled by inner demons, and as a
locus of Romantic desire. Some recent blues historians have begun to
provide alternative perspectives, stressing Johnson’s position within
a creative and cultural network in which he participated as an amal-
gamator of current African American popular styles, albeit a particularly
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 44 05/27/19 04:50 PM

At the Crossroads with Son House 45
skilled one.2 His sources included then-contemporary popularizers of
the blues such as Peetie Wheatstraw and Kokomo Arnold, as well as
earlier Delta musicians like Charlie Patton and Son House. The following
reading is an interview with House and portrays him during a revival of
his career that occurred during the 1960s. House recalls his earlier con-
temporaries and discusses his bottleneck technique (which influenced
Johnson). The interview also includes a brief reminiscence of House’s
encounter with Robert Johnson and the impression made on House by
both Johnson’s music and his temperament.
“Son House (part 1): Living King of the Delta”

Jerry Gilbert
“All ma old boys has left me by myself; they’s all dead and gone—Charley Patton,
Blind Lemon, Willie Brown, Skip James. I’m 69 now and it won’t be long before I’m
70; I may be old but you know I still have young ideas.” . . .
He was particularly fascinated by early bottleneck players around his home
town of Clarksdale, and he adopted his own method of producing the whine up the
treble strings—a copper ring which was to become the trademark of his music. Son
is now using a piece of copper tubing, and has been known to use other implements
including a penknife.
“I was born and raised in Clarksdale but Charley [Patton] was living in Jackson,
Mississippi when I first ran into him. I couldn’t play the blues like him by just learn-
ing straight off. So I stayed around with him for a little while, then I moved on and
ran into Willie Brown. We started playing together, Bill and me, and soon after that
Charley was recording for Paramount and he wanted someone to play with him.
“I think Charley had heard people braggin’ on me, so me and Willie was talked
into going down. So then there was Willie, me and Louise McGhee. Blind Lemon was
way up ahead of us, and he left us there.”
Patton, Brown and House all recorded for Paramount at Grafton, Wisconsin in
May 1930. House’s sides included versions of “My Black Mama,” “Preachin’ The
Blues,” “Dry Spell Blues,” “Clarksdale Moan,” “Mississippi County Farm Blues” and
“What Am I To Do Blues.”
Muddy Waters, who also came from Clarksdale, is reported to have told Paul
Oliver that Son was the best blues-man to play the jukes around Clarksdale. Muddy
2. For the classic accounts of Johnson and the country/Delta blues, see Samuel B. Charters,
The Country Blues (New York: Da Capo, [1959] 1975); David Evans, Big Road Blues: Tradition and
Creativity in the Folk Blues (New York: Da Capo, 1982); Greil Marcus, “Robert Johnson,” in Mystery
Train: Images of America in Rock ‘n’ Roll Music, 4th rev. ed. (New York: Penguin, [1975] 1990), 19–38;
Paul Oliver, Blues Fell This Morning: Meaning in the Blues (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, [1960] 1997); and Robert Palmer, Deep Blues (New York: Viking, 1981). For revisionist his-
tories of Johnson, see Elijah Wald, Escaping the Delta: Robert Johnson and the Invention of the Blues
(New York: Amistad, 2004); and David Brackett, “Preaching Blues,” Black Music Research Journal
32, no. 1 (2012): 113–36.
Source: “Son House (part 1): Living King of the Delta” by Jerry Gilbert, originally published in
Sounds, 10 October 1970, © Jerry Gilbert. Reprinted under license from Backpages Limited.
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 45 05/27/19 04:50 PM

46 Before 1950
recalled that Son came from a plantation east of Clarksdale and played with the neck
of a bottle over his little finger. Muddy admits to getting the idea from Son House,
but felt that Son never came over as well on record as his live performances.
“A man from Jackson wanted us to make some records and he thought we was
all sanctified folks, but we was just whiskey drinkers,” mused Son.
“Then Charley died of pneumonia and me and Willie was up in Robinsonville at
the time, and they wrote us a special; but there wasn’t nothing we could do nohow,
so we just stayed right on and didn’t go [to] the funeral.”
Around August 1941, Son and Willie recorded at Lake Cormorant for the Library of
Congress, and House’s “Shetland Pony Blues,” “Fo’ Clock Blues,” “Camp Hollers,”
“Delta Blues” and “Going To Fishing” were subsequently released.
Son cut a further eight sides for Alan Lomax at the General Store in Robinsonville
in 1942, which were among his best sides. Six of these were reissued recently on an
Xtra album with Jaydee Short. The sides are “Sun Going Down,” “I Ain’t Goin’ To
Cry No More,” “This War Will Last You For Years,” “Was I Right Or Wrong,” “My
Black Woman” and “County Farm Blues.” The other titles, Son’s famous “Jinx Blues”
and “The Pony Blues,” a variant of his earlier “Shetland Pony Blues” have recently
been reissued on Roots. But most of the tracks have been retitled since they were
originally recorded.
It appears that Son was given time off from the plantation to record for the
Library of Congress: “I was a tractor driver for six or seven dollars a week but it
didn’t matter what you went out and did to yourself at the weekends so long as
you was there ready to start on Monday morning. Willie and me had moved back
from Jackson about 25 miles south of Memphis, Tennessee; we weren’t making much
money and I was drivin’ the tractors and plowing the mules. At the weekends we
played the juke joints and rent parties. We didn’t sleep on Saturday night, then we’d
play on all day Sunday and Sunday night, and then it was Monday.” . . .
Because of the mystique surrounding that other great Delta bluesman, Robert
Johnson, Son House has tended to be slightly overshadowed. Thus it was interesting
to hear first hand of Son’s encounter with Robert and a further aid to understanding
the chromatics and semantics of the blues environment.
“I first met Robert in 1933, I think in Robinsonville. I got friendly with his mother
and father, and he was blowing Jew’s harp. Why, even then he could blow the pants
off just about anyone, but he wanted to play guitar. When he grabbed a guitar, the
people would ask why don’t he stop; he was driving ‘em all crazy with his noise.
Then he slipped off to Arkansas somewhere, but sure enough he came back and he
found us. We was asking if he remembered we’d showed him, but then he showed
us something, and we didn’t believe what we saw. I said to old Bill ‘that boy’s good.’
“But Robert was too quick to get excited and he’d believe everything the girls
say; they’d be saying things to him and he’d be thinking they was meanin’ it; but we
told him they didn’t mean no good, and he went and got killed on the levee camp.”
Further Reading
Beaumont, Daniel E. Preachin’ the Blues: The Life and Times of Son House. New York: Oxford
Charters, Samuel B. The Country Blues. New York: Da Capo Press, [1959] 1975.
_______. The Roots of the Blues: An African Search. New York: Da Capo Press, 1981.
Guralnick, Peter. Searching for Robert Johnson. New York: Plume, [1982] 1989.
Oliver, Paul. Savannah Syncopators: African Retentions in the Blues. New York: Stein and Day,
1970.
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 46 05/27/19 04:50 PM

Jumpin’ the Blues with Louis Jordan 47
Palmer, Robert. Deep Blues. New York: Viking Press, 1981.
Pearson, Barry Lee, and Bill McCulloch. Robert Johnson: Lost and Found. Urbana: University
of Illinois Press, 2003.
Schroeder, Patricia R. Robert Johnson, Mythmaking, and Contemporary American Culture. Ur-
bana: University of Illinois Press, 2004.
Wald, Elijah. Escaping the Delta: Robert Johnson and the Invention of the Blues. New York: Amis-
tad, 2004.
Discography
Back to the Cross-Roads: The Roots of Robert Johnson. Yazoo CD-2070, 2004.
Johnson, Robert. The Complete Recordings. Sony Jazz, 1996.
Martin Scorsese Presents the Blues: Son House. Hip-O Records, 2003.
9. Jumpin’ the Blues with Louis Jordan
Louis Jordan’s (1908–75) role in the transition of race music to rhythm

and blues is second to none. His group, the Tympany Five (which usually
consisted of seven members), established the concept of the swinging
small band with rhythm section (piano, bass, drums, and occasionally
guitar) and a horn section consisting of two saxophones and one or
two trumpets. Jordan’s use of simplified swing rhythm (which became
known as “shuffle rhythm”), blues harmonic patterns, and witty,
vaudeville-influenced lyrics led him to achieve unprecedented popu-
larity for an African American artist during the years 1942–49. While
reviews from the period and statements from musicians who were his
contemporaries stress his musicianship and his professionalism, Jordan
departed from other jazz-oriented players of the day in his emphasis
on pleasing audiences and his unabashed embrace of commercialism.
The following article from DownBeat comes from a period when Jordan
was beginning to broaden his audience. The anonymous reviewer notes
how Jordan is merging aspects of jazz, blues, and pop with novelty and
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 47 05/27/19 04:50 PM

48 Before 1950
“jump numbers.” Although the writer criticizes Jordan for monotony,
he acknowledges that Jordan’s emphasis on entertainment results in a
crowd-pleasing show. He also looks somewhat askance at those stage
mannerisms that Jordan retained from his days as a vaudeville-minstrel
entertainer. DownBeat, as mentioned earlier, was one of the first maga-
zines to cater to jazz fans. As such, the criticisms of Jordan allude to
ongoing debates among jazz critics about the relationship between jazz
and commercialism.1
Bands Dug by the Beat: Louis Jordan

DownBeat
Dynamic is the word for Jordan’s compact jazz machine. One of the strongest
contributing factors to Jordan’s phenomenal success has been his unrelenting
insistence on a continuous performance. The band came on the Savoy bandstand
at ten and played one number on top of the other until two ayem [sic] with only a
twenty-minute intermission. This group really works hard and manages to keep
the same tension intact all through their appearance. Another very important
factor contributing to the shining of Jordan’s star has been those innumerable
juke box sides. Playing this dance job, they took advantage of the nickel g rabbers
and played their recorded repertoire, most of which features the leader vocally.
Louis gave with his usual gestures and rolling of the eyes but did not bother
to don any stage garb to depict Deacon Jones. In fact, he kept the pure novelty
numbers at a minimum and featured blues to a great extent with a very fine
reception from the Savoy throng. Consequently there was a good deal of jazz
played with Louis himself playing fine alto and some quite acceptable tenor plus
a little clarinet.
The group is closely knit and jumps like mad when really wound up. Louis’
vocal on every number tended to slow up the winding however. When Eddie
Roane, a fine trumpet, got a break he made the most of it and played some amazing
things. His wah-wah muting accompaniment to the blues vocals showed a variety
of ideas for that type of playing. His open horn is clean and full-toned. Both Louis
and Eddie worked over a full and driving beat furnished by the rhythm trio, which
in itself is stellar. The original Jordan pianist, Arnold Thomas, played relaxed and
his fill-ins are well worth listening to. Al Morgan, considered one of the finest bass
men still slapping the bass, fitted into the rhythm trio perfectly. Wilmore (Slick)
Jones, the late Fats Waller’s favorite drummer, also helped keep the rhythm going
at [a] terrific pace.
1. These debates over value in the jazz press have received a fair amount of scholarly atten-
tion; for two studies, see Bernard Gendron, “Moldy Figs and Modernists,” in Between Montmartre
and the Mudd Club: Popular Music and the Avant-Garde (Chicago: University of Chicago Press,
2002), 121–42; and Scott DeVeaux, “Constructing the Jazz Tradition: Jazz Historiography,” Black
American Literature Forum 25, no. 3 (Fall 1991): 525–60.
Source: “Bands Dug by the Beat: Louis Jordan,” DownBeat, Courtesy of the DownBeat Archives.
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 48 05/27/19 04:50 PM

Louis Jordan has versatility and one feature is some good jazz playing. One criti-
cism, however, is the fact that every number played in jump tempo with Louis’ sing-
ing is likely to become monotonous. His renditions of G. I. Jive, Straighten Up and
Fly Right, and Is You Is Or Is You Ain’t My Baby all sound alike. Although the band
is versatile in presenting novelties, blues, jump numbers and pops, it still retains a
sameness in the style of playing various types.
In the next entry, Jordan describes his background in minstrel shows

and large swing bands and his role in the development of “jump blues,”
a genre using a small band, blues-based forms, and shuffle rhythms.
Throughout his recollections, Jordan shows a concern for the makeup
of his audience, and although he recognized that he needed to please
white audiences to achieve commercial success, he also believed that
much of the vitality of his music came from his continued connection
with black listeners. This belief is apparent in Jordan’s telling account
of an engagement he shared with the Mills Brothers, a band with much
less connection to blues and jazz.
from Honkers and Shouters: The Golden Years

of Rhythm and Blues
Arnold Shaw
“It was a saxophone in a store window. I could see myself in the polished brass—that
started me off. I ran errands all over Brinkley [Arkansas] until my feet were sore,
and I saved until I could make a down payment on that shiny instrument. My father
taught me music. I was still a teen-ager when I played my first gig. It was vacation
time, and I blew with Rudy Williams—he was known as ‘Tuna Boy’ Williams. It was
at The Green Gables in Hot Springs. That was about 150 miles west of Brinkley where
I was born. Little Rock is in between, and about 100 miles from my hometown. I went
to Arkansas Baptist College there and majored in music.2
“My first professional job was with The Rabbit Foot Minstrels. Ma Rainey
was once the star, and Bessie Smith got her start with them. I played clarinet and
danced all through the South. Around 1932, I went North, settled in Philadelphia
and got connected with Charlie Gaines’s band. I had eyes, you know, on the Big
Apple—New York City. But it took several years before I could get a union card
in Local 802.
“I worked with several bands. Joe Marshall was one. He was a drummer with
Fletcher Henderson. We played the Elks Rendezvous in Harlem for a while. Around
1936 I joined Chick Webb at The Savoy. Played alto, sang, and announced numbers.
2. While Jordan wanted to attend college, he was never able to for financial reasons despite
many statements to the contrary. See John Chilton, Let the Good Times Roll: The Story of Louis Jordan
and His Music (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1997), 17.
Source: Honkers and Shouters: The Golden Years of Rhythm and Blues. By Arnold Shaw. New York:
Macmillan Publishing Company, Inc., 1978.
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50 Before 1950
Chick was a little man, hunchback, but a great drummer. He had big ears for talent—
like Ella Fitzgerald, whom he adopted so she could sing with the band. But he was no
showman and some people thought I was the leader because I introduced numbers.
“I loved playing jazz with a big band. Loved singing the blues. But I really
wanted to be an entertainer—that’s me—on my own. I wanted to play for the people,
for millions, not just a few hep cats.
“When Chick died in 1938, I cut out and formed my own band. Nine pieces,
and we had a regular gig at the Elks Rendezvous. Four-sixty-four Lenox Avenue
was the address. Also played club dates ‘off nights.’ Those were nights when a band
was off. I played up and down Swing Street, Fifty-second Street. After a while, I cut
the nine pieces down to six. Later I added a guitar and made it seven. Once I got
known as Louis Jordan and His Tympany Five, I kept the name. But I always had
seven or eight men.
“After that Fifty-second Street bit, I started playing proms, like at Yale and
Amherst. That’s when friends began saying, ‘Why don’t you get out of New York,
Louis? It’s taking too long for you to get started.’ So they came and asked me if I
would play with the Mills Brothers in Chicago. The Capitol Lounge was for white
folks. It was across the alley from the Chicago Theater. Not many Negroes came
because they felt they weren’t welcome. They wanted me to play intermission for the
Mills Brothers. I started not to go—that was a big mistake.
“At first I was doing ten minutes; then they raised me to fifteen; then I got to
half an hour. The Mills Brothers went over big. ‘Cause the people who came to hear
them and Maurice Rocco—he was the third act—they had their following and he had
his. And after a while, I had my following. The Capitol Lounge couldn’t hold two
hundred people. But they would have a hundred twenty sittin’ down and maybe a
hundred eighty standin’ at the bar. After that booking, I was gone!
“The Fox Head in Cedar Rapids was a great turning point in my career. It was
there I found ‘If It’s Love You Want, Baby, That’s Me’ and a gang of blues—‘Ration
Blues,’ ‘Inflation Blues,’ and others. Now, it was just a beer joint. It ran from a street
to an alley. Beer was fifteen cents. The owner was a ham radio operator. He insisted
that I stay at his house. He was a wonderful man.
“After my records started to sell, we drew mixed audiences to clubs like The Tick
Tock in Boston, Billy Berg’s Swing Club in Los Angeles, The Garrick in Chicago and
The Top Hat in Toronto. The first time I played the Adams Theatre in Newark, I played
with a fellow who sings like Perry Como. He was in Vic Damone’s bag. And the sec-
ond time I played there, I appeared with a society band like Meyer Davis. I was the
Negro part, and they played the white part. That’s how we did it in the early forties,
so that we drew everybody. I was trying to do what they told me: straddle the fence.
“I made just as much money off white people as I did off colored. I could play a
white joint this week and a colored next. The Oriental Theatre in Chicago was a white
theater for the hep crowd. The State Theatre in Hartford was the same. It drew the col-
lege crowd. Same with the Riverside Theatre in Milwaukee. Any time I played a white
theater, my black following was there. The Paradise Theatre in Detroit was on the bor-
derline. The Negroes lived on that side of Woodward, and the whites on this side. Oh
yeah, the Royal in Baltimore was a colored theater. But white people came to see me.
The Beachcomber in Omaha was basically a Negro place. When I played there, I had
white audiences. Many nights we had more white than colored, because my records
were geared to the white as well as colored, and they came to hear me do my records.
“For Negroes, there were three basic theaters: Howard in Washington, Regal in Chi-
cago, and Apollo in Harlem. In the big years, we played the Paramount on B roadway—a
four-week engagement every year—and the Apollo twice a year. We appeared at the
Regal in Chicago every Easter week and the Apollo every Christmas week.
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 50 05/27/19 04:50 PM

“Not all of my hits was written by Negroes. ‘Knock Me a Kiss’ was by a white man,
Mike Jackson, though Andy Razaf wrote some special words. Two white guys came
up with ‘Choo Choo Ch’ Boogie.’ I believe that Vaughn Horton and Denver Darling
were really country-western writers. The song was played to me in the studio. We
were recording with Milt Gabler, who handled all my Decca sessions. He brought the
words and asked what I could do with them. At that time I had Wild Bill Davis play-
ing piano. All of my things are based on the blues, twelve-bar blues. So I asked Bill to
play some blues in B-flat. I was using the shuffle boogie then. He started shuffling off
in B-flat, a twelve-bar phrase—and that’s how we got the record together.
“‘Blue Light Boogie’ was by a colored woman, Jessie Mae Robinson. She was the
best-oriented colored songwriter. She didn’t write white songs. ‘Don’t Worry ‘bout
That Mule’ was written by colored. ‘Beans and Cornbread’ was by a colored boy,
Freddie Clark. ‘The Chicks I Pick Are Slender, Tender, and Tall,’ ‘What’s the Use of
Getting Sober?,’ ‘Somebody Done Changed the Lock on My Door,’ ‘That’ll just about
Knock You Out,’ started from a white man in Grand Forks, North Dakota. The boss
of the place had a husky voice. [Imitating] He’d say it all the time. That’s where we
wrote the song from.
“‘Saturday Night Fish Fry’ was the work of a colored girl. ‘Let the Good Times
Roll’ was by Sam Theard, a black comedian. ‘Mama Blues’ was by a black writer,
and so was ‘Small Town Boy.’ That was written by Dallas Bartley, my bass man,
who comes from a small town. But ‘Five Guys Named Moe’ was by a white guy.
It was done with a Negro feel. [Sings lyrics and some of the instrumental licks]
‘Beware, Brother, Beware’ and ‘Buzz Me’ were both written by white guys. ‘Early in
the Mornin’ was by a mixed group—Leo Hickman, a white man; Dallas Bartley, my
bassman; and me.
“I had five tunes that sold a million records, and ‘Is You Is, or Is You Ain’t (Ma’
Baby)?’ was by a white man. I was playing at Lakota’s Lounge on Wisconsin Avenue
in Milwaukee. He was a little humpback fellow about the size of Chick Webb. He’d
come in every night and talk to this girl. They’d have dinner and stay for lunch. He
just loved me and he’d hang around so long as I was there. She’d be talkin’ to some-
one else and he’d say to her, ‘Is you is or is you ain’t ma baby?’ And he was strictly
Caucasian—no black blood in him at all. Soon I started sayin’ it. And he said, ‘Let’s
write a song.’ You can’t say because of color or race that a person would not say a
thing or would not do a thing.
“‘Caldonia’ was by a black writer, meaning me. Fleecie Moore’s name is on it,
but she didn’t have anything to do with it. That was my wife at the time, and we put
it in her name. She didn’t know nothin’ about no music at all. Her name is on this
song and that song, and she’s still getting money.”
Further Reading
Ake, David. “Jazz Historiography and the Problem of Louis Jordan.” In Jazz Cultures, 42–61.
Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2002.
Chilton, John. Let the Good Times Roll: The Story of Louis Jordan and His Music. Ann Arbor:
University of Michigan Press, 1997.
Discography
Jordan, Louis. Saturday Night Fish Fry: The Original and Greatest Hits. Jasmine, 2000.
_______. Louis Jordan and His Tympani Five. JSP Records, 2001.
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 51 05/27/19 04:50 PM

52 Before 1950
10. On the Bandstand with Johnny Otis
Although not well known to many rock ‘n’ roll fans, Johnny Otis (b. 1921)
was a major force in rhythm and blues from the late 1940s through the
1950s. He worked as a bandleader, record producer, disc jockey, and
entrepreneur. Otis’s collaborators included Willie Mae “Big Mama”
Thornton (Otis played drums and produced her recording of “Hound
Dog”), Little Esther, and Etta James, among others. After numerous
rhythm and blues hits throughout the 1950s, in 1958 he led a recording
of “Willie and the Hand Jive,” which used a rhythm common throughout
the African diaspora (sometimes rendered as “shave and a haircut, six
bits”) and became a crossover hit when revived by Eric Clapton in 1974.1
Otis’s involvement in rhythm and blues for over 50 years is remark-
able for another reason; although biologically white, Otis identified
with African Americans from an early age, becoming culturally, if not
racially, black. His life serves as an important reminder of the instabil-
ity of racial categories. As dedicated to social causes as he is to music,
Otis c ontinues to be a sterling advocate of African American popular
music and political interests. Otis is also a master storyteller, and his
autobiography, Upside Your Head! deserves to be read in its entirety.
from Upside Your Head! Rhythm and Blues on Central Avenue

Johnny Otis
From my vantage point on the drummer’s stool in the Club Alabam, I could see the
music that was to be named rhythm and blues taking shape. First in Harlan Leon-
ard’s Kansas City Rockets and later, with my own big swing band, the blues and
1. In addition to the uses of this rhythm in African American music, which are described in
the following excerpt, this rhythm, in slightly varied form, also forms the basic clave rhythm of
the Cuban son, which, in turn, provides the rhythmic underpinning for much salsa. For a concise
exploration of this connection, see Peter Manuel, Caribbean Currents: Caribbean Music from Rumba
to Reggae (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1995).
Source: Excerpt from Johnny Otis, Upside Your Head! Rhythm and Blues on Central Avenue. © 1993
by Johnny Otis and reprinted by permission of Wesleyan University Press.
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 52 05/27/19 04:50 PM

On the Bandstand with Johnny Otis 53
jazz elements were coming together. Neither Harlan’s band nor mine could have
been described as rhythm and blues, but the acts we were backing at the Alabam in
the early and mid-forties were certainly the forerunners of the R&B style. Wynonie
Harris, Jo Jo Adams, Marion Abernathy, T-Bone Walker, Little Miss Cornshucks, and
Mabel Scott were the kind of artists who headlined the shows. Each of them and the
many other blues-oriented performers who starred at the Alabam in those years, had
a down-to-earth, uninhibited approach that set them apart from the more formal and
formatted jazz and swing performers of the preceding era.
These new show stoppers grew out of the Lionel Hampton, Louis Jordan, Ray
Nance, Jimmy Rushing, Illinois Jacquet tradition. The high-spirited exuberance of the
African American church tradition and of the little honky-tonk clubs around A merica
was being felt on the stages of the larger, more prestigious Black entertainment rooms.
They were demonstrating that artistry, energy, and fun could coexist in Black music
without sacrificing artistic integrity. Louis Armstrong had always performed in this
way, and now, more and more, the deadpan stiff concept was giving way to a freer,
bluesier, more entertaining form. Even in the more conservative world of bebop
music, the great Dizzy Gillespie began to use dancing, good humor, and earthiness
as a kind of act of love, and his burgeoning popularity among both the music experts
and the general public proved him commercially and artistically correct.
During the thirties and forties and perhaps as far back as the 1920s, there evolved
an interesting breed of musicians. They inhabited that musical never-never land
that exists somewhere between southern blues and so-called jazz. Usually working
for peanuts, in small undistinguished clubs, they made up for whatever technical
shortcomings they may have had with enthusiasm and showmanship. They prob-
ably regarded themselves as “jazz” players and singers but could be tagged more
accurately barrel-house or jump music stylists. A typical jazz musician wouldn’t
have lasted five minutes in those clubs. The customers weren’t interested in musical
subtlety or even virtuosity—they wanted spirited entertainment and fun. The bigger
the beat, the stronger the boogie woogie flavor, and the bawdier the lyrics, the better.
Of course, bawdy by those standards would hardly raise an eyebrow today. An
example of a very daring lyric for that time was the blues Count Otis Matthews sang
when we played in those West Oakland greasy spoon dives. It went, “Oohwee, baby,
I ain’t gonna’ do it no more, ‘Cause every time I do it, it makes my wee wee sore!”
The audience would squeal with delight.
One night in 1941, at the Peavine Club—a tacky Black joint in Reno, Nevada—
Count Otis sang his risqué little verse, and a burly, white plainclothes cop materialized
out of the shadows and snarled, “Sing one more dirty, filthy song and I’m taking all you
niggers down!” After that, our most daring number was “Mama Bought a Chicken.”
Further Reading
Lipsitz, George. Midnight at the Barrelhouse: The Johnny Otis Story. Minneapolis: University of
Minnesota Press, 2010.
Otis, Johnny. Upside Your Head! Rhythm and Blues on Central Avenue. Hanover, N.H.: Univer-
sity Press of New England, 1993.
Discography
Otis, Johnny. Jukebox Hits: 1946–1954. Acrobat, 2007.
_______. The Godfather of Rhythm and Blues, and the R&B Caravan. EP Musique, 2003.
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54 Before 1950
11. The Producers Answer Back

T HE EMERGE NCE OF T HE “INDIE ” R E COR D COMPA N Y
The article reproduced in Chapter 5, “Thar’s Gold in Them Hillbillies,”

discussed the position of the “race” and “hillbilly” categories in rela-
tion to mainstream “popular” music during the 1920s and 1930s. What
that article did not really discuss or analyze was how the structure of
the music industry in the United States discriminated against popular
musicians outside the mainstream. Radio was dominated by national
network shows (somewhat analogous to network television), which
played a broad range of programs: music variety, dramas, comedies,
news, concerts, and so forth. The music featured on these shows
tended to consist of songs written by professionals employed in Tin Pan
Alley. These songwriters also were responsible for the vast majority of
Broadway (and, after 1930, Hollywood) musicals. The main organiza-
tion responsible for securing royalties for songwriters was a publishing-
rights organization known as the American Society of Composers and
Publishers (ASCAP). ASCAP had stringent rules about who they would
accept as a composer, and most composers of hillbilly and race music
did not fit their guidelines. These songwriters were thus excluded both
from receiving exposure via radio broadcasts and from collecting rev-
enue from their songs (which might accrue from either jukebox play,
sales of recordings, public performance, or radio broadcasts).1
This situation began to change on several fronts in the late 1930s.
A publishing-rights organization, Broadcast Music Incorporated (BMI),
formed with somewhat looser guidelines than ASCAP about what con-
stituted an acceptable composition and what type of people might
qualify as acceptable composers. Small local radio stations that began
to play “hillbilly” music proliferated (stations devoted to “race” music
developed a bit later). “Barn Dance” shows, such as the Grand Ole
Opry, and the WLS National Barn Dance, both of which had been broad-
casting since 1925, reached larger audiences, and the Grand Ole Opry
1. See John Ryan, The Production of Culture in the Music Industry: The ASCAP-BMI Controversy
(New York: Rowman and Littlefield, 1985); Russell Sanjek and David Sanjek, Pennies from Heaven:
The American Popular Music Business in the Twentieth Century (New York: Da Capo Press, 1996);
and Philip T. Ennis, The Seventh Stream: The Emergence of Rocknroll in American Popular Music (Han-
over, N.H.: University Press of New England, 1992).
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 54 05/27/19 04:50 PM

The Producers Answer Back 55
even procured a half-hour Saturday night slot on the NBC radio net-
work. Recording bans during 1942 and 1943 increased radio networks’
interest in alternative sources for recordings, a development that also
facilitated crossovers and cover tunes of both hillbilly and race music.
And immediately following the war, the number of independent record
companies catering to these types of music grew at an unprecedented
rate. All these developments set the stage for a massive shift in the role
played by hillbilly and race music in popular music.
The following article demonstrates the music industry’s awareness

of the growing role of independent record companies. During the late
1940s, four major companies dominated record sales: RCA Victor,
Columbia, Decca, and Capitol. Nevertheless, the percentage of sales
controlled by the “majors” slipped between 1948 and 1955, presaging
a major decentralization of record sales by the late 1950s.2 This article
was published in Billboard, the leading music industry weekly, whose
editorial policy took for granted the centrality and superiority of music
originating in Tin Pan Alley. While somewhat condescending, the author
nonetheless recognizes the entrepreneurial skill and organizational
advantages (which include flexibility, underpaying recording artists,
and smaller expenses for “disc jockey promotion”3) held by small com-
panies in ”nonmainstream” categories, such as polka, Polish, Latin,
rhythm and blues, and country and western.
Indies’ Surprise Survival: Small Labels’

Ingenuity and Skill Pay Off
Bill Simon
It’s almost a year ago that James C. Petrillo signed with the record companies to
end his historic recording ban. At that time most prognosticators foresaw the early
demise of the indie companies as the majors threatened to grab their proven artists
2. For an in-depth analysis of record companies during this period, see Richard A. Peterson
and David G. Berger, “Cycles in Symbol Production: The Case of Popular Music,” American So-
ciological Review 40 (1975), reprinted in On Record: Rock, Pop, and the Written Word, ed. Simon Frith
and Andrew Goodwin, 140–59 (New York: Pantheon, 1990).
3. This practice, acknowledged openly at this point, later became the focus of a backlash
against early rock ’n’ roll when certain disc jockeys were prosecuted for accepting such “promo-
tional fees,” which were subsequently labeled “payola.” See Chapter 24 for articles documenting
this late 1950s “scandal.”
Source: “Indies’ Surprise Survival: Small Labels’ Ingenuity and Skill Pay Off,” Bill Simon/
Billboard/published December 3, 1949, pp. 3, 13, 18. Copyrighted 1946–1979. Prometheus Global
Media. 289858:1218DD.
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 55 05/27/19 04:50 PM

56 Before 1950
and methods in all categories. It was reasoned then that distribution and exploitation
power, plus slicker recording facilities would spell the end to the indie era. Now it
appears that a number of indie label producers have by creative ability, ingenuity
and sharp business acumen, carved special niches in the market and actually out-
sold the majors in several fields. Many indie-produced disks have racked sensational
sales figures despite the fact that the artists and tunes were unknown, distribution
spotty and exploitation funds virtually nonexistent.
It has become more and more obvious that the gimmick makes the hit, and these
indies have been able to come up with the gimmicks. The hit then makes its own
distribution. The indie topper, who usually acts as artists-repertoire chief, recording
director, business manager and promotion man has got out in the field to dig up new
talent with that different, provocative sound. And he’s kept his door open to all sorts
of new writers and performers. Since overhead is low, and he’s not expected to pay
the kind of fees a major pays a name artist, he can afford to take chances. And he
often has the boldness and the imagination to do so.
Some of the small diskeries have taken advantage of the majors’ weakness in
certain departments such as rhythm-blues, folk, Latin-American and Polish, and by
clever concentration have nabbed the leadership in the various markets. They have
consistently attracted the salable new talent and tunes. They have learned their field
thoroly [sic], and maintain a close contact with the buying public. They have set up
their distribution where it counts.
With low talent and recording costs and with the low, or non-existent royalty
rates that are paid out for original material, the indie can usually get off his record-
ing nut with a sale of 5,000 records. A major usually has to go three times that figure
to break even. Where the majors pay $275,000 or even more annually for disk jockey
promotion, some of the indies will go no higher than $150 a month, usually divided
between a couple of key jocks. Some send out vinylites but they know exactly which
spinners can use them, and few are wasted.
Rhythm and Blues

In the rhythm-and-blues field, such indies as Atlantic, King, Alladin, Miracle,
Supreme, and Savoy have come up sensational sellers. Most of their sides have
displayed an acute awareness of their market’s ephemeral predictions. Savoy’s
Herman Lubinsky and Teddy Reig have led the way on many occasions, and the
label’s original waxing of The Hucklebuck is reported to have hit around 500,000.
Atlantic’s Herb Abramson, who once came up with an Open the Door, Richard for
National, and also waxed that label’s big sides with The Ravens and Billy Eckstine,
has come up with a new star, Ruth Brown, on his own label. Her first record, So
Long, has been out three months and sold 65,000. The label’s big click was Stick
McGhee’s Drinkin’ Wine Spo-Dee-O-Dee, released in March and, according to pub-
lisher’s statement, hitting 170,000 at the end of the last quarter. It’s now up to about
200,000 and is enjoying a late spurt. Joe Morris’s small combo disking of Beans and
Corn Bread has done 70,000 to date. The diskery anticipates a total sale of 950,000
disks this year.
Sensation, another rhythm-blues outfit, has had several platters hit between
70,000 and 100,000 sales this year. A Crystalette sleeper, Ain’t She Sweet?, by Mr.
Goon Bones, has sold close to 500,000. The Tempo etching of Margie, by the original
Mr. Bones, hit 376,000 between the first of the year and the end of the last quarter.
This platter, which retails at $1.05, was the first of the gimmicked “Bones” novelties
to hit.
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 56 05/27/19 04:50 PM

Hillbillies Score
King, 4-Star, Imperial and several more are racking up startling figures in Country-
Western territories. The original disking of Why Don’t You Haul Off and Love Me?,
cut for King by Wayne Raney, has hit 250,000 and versions are now available on all
major labels. None of these, however, has approached Raney’s mark. Another King
disk, Blues Stay ‘Way From Me?, by the Delmore Brothers, is close to 125,000 in six
weeks, and the other companies have just begun to cover the tune. King, master-
minded by Sid Nathan, virtually dominated the folk field during some months of
this year.
One of the unsung heroes of early R&B and rock ‘n’ roll, and one of a
handful of African Americans with some clout in the recording indus-
try at this time, Henry Glover was a songwriter, arranger, producer,
and A&R (artists and repertoire) director at King Records, an inde-
pendent label located in Cincinnati specializing in rhythm and blues
and country music (discussed at the end of the previous article).
Glover was the musical brain behind King who helped label owner
Syd Nathan realize his goal of having country artists record rhythm
and blues songs and rhythm and blues artists record country songs—
usually they would have one artist from each category record the
same song. Glover’s arrangements and skills as a producer enabled
these ideas to work musically.4 Here Glover recounts King Records’
crossover strategy.

of Rhythm and Blues
Arnold Shaw
“Sam Phillips has received great recognition because he did the novel thing of
recording R&B with white country boys. He deserves credit, considering that Elvis
Presley, Jerry Lee Lewis, Roy Orbison, Carl Perkins, and Johnny Cash all emerged
from the Sun label. But the fact is that King Records was covering R&B with coun-
try singers almost from the beginning of my work with Syd Nathan. We had a duo
called The York Brothers who recorded many of the day’s R&B hits back in ‘47–‘48.
4. For more on the literature on rhythm and blues with an emphasis on the role of producers,
A&R men, and record company owners, see David Sanjek, “One Size Does Not Fit All: The Pre-
carious Position of the African American Entrepreneur in Post–WWII American Popular Music,”
American Music 15, no. 4 (Winter 1997): 535–62. For a longer interview with Glover, see John Rum-
ble, “The Roots of Rock and Roll: Henry Glover of King Records,” Journal of Country Music 14, no.
2 (1992): 30–42.
Source: Honkers and Shouters, The Golden Years of Rhythm and Blues. By Arnold Shaw. New York:
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 57 05/27/19 04:50 PM

58 Before 1950
They sounded something like the Everly Brothers, whom they probably influenced.
We were more successful in doing the reverse—covering C&W hits with R&B sing-
ers. In ’49, as you already know, Bull Moose Jackson’s hit “Why Don’t You Haul
Off and Love Me” was a cover of a Wayne Raney country hit. And Wynonie Har-
ris’s “Bloodshot Eyes”—on R&B charts in ‘51—was originally a Hank Penny country
record. I’ll confess that we didn’t think we were doing anything remarkable. It’s just
that we had both types of artists, and when a song happened in one field, Syd Nathan
wanted it moved into the other.
“You see it was a matter of Cincinnati’s population. You couldn’t sell Wynonie
Harris to country folk, and black folk weren’t buying Hank Penny. But black folk
might buy Wynonie Harris doing a country tune. And since Syd published most of
the tunes we recorded, he was also augmenting his publishing income and building
important copyrights. He was a smart businessman and didn’t miss a trick.”
Cofounder of rhythm and blues independent Atlantic label, Ahmet Erte-

gun was one of the most important behind-the-scenes personages in
the development of the “uptown” R&B that began to cross over to white
audiences. His career intersected with many of the leading names of
not only 1950s, but 1970s rock as well. Near the end of this entry, Erte-
gun claims that part of Atlantic’s success was due to the loyalty of the
artists engendered through generous contracts and the creation of a
sense of “family.” It is interesting to compare Ertegun’s recollections
with Ruth Brown’s account (in Chapter 15) of how she and other Atlantic
artists from that period were treated.
“When I was studying for my doctorate at Georgetown University in Washington,

D.C., I hung around a record store not far from the Howard Theatre. That’s where
I got my doctorate in black music, at the Howard Theatre. What I learned at Max
Silverman’s Quality Music Shop was that black people didn’t buy jazz. They bought
country blues singers like Washboard Sam; they bought city blues men like Charles
Brown; and they bought rhythm-and-bluesmen like The Ravens. My Atlantic part-
ner, Herb Abramson, had been making these records on National. When we cut
Brownie McGhee’s brother, Stick McGhee, doing an old blues, our direction was set.
‘Drinkin’ Wine, Spo-Dee-O-Dee’ was our first R&B hit in 1949.
“Black people were clamoring for blues records, blues with a sock dance beat.
Around 1949, that was their main means of entertainment. Harlem folks couldn’t go
downtown to the Broadway theaters and movie houses. Downtown clubs had their
ropes up when they came to the door. They weren’t even welcome on Fifty-second
Street where all the big performers were black. Black people had to find entertain-
ment in their homes—and the record was it.
“Even radio was white oriented. You couldn’t find a black performer on network
radio. And when it came to disk jockeys on the big wattage stations, they wouldn’t
play a black record. We had a real tough time getting our records played—even Ruth
Brown, who didn’t sound particularly black. All the jocks had to see was the Atlantic
label and the name of the artist and we were dead. We’d say, ‘Just listen and give
your listeners a chance to listen.’ But they had a set of stock excuses: ‘Too loud’; ‘Too
rough’; ‘Doesn’t fit our format.’ They’d never say, ‘We don’t play black artists.’ But
then they’d turn around and play a record of the very same song that was a copy of
our record, only it was by a white artist.
“The breakthrough didn’t come, as you might expect, in the North. No, it
was ‘prejudiced’ white Southerners who began programming R&B. They began
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playing Fats Domino, Ivory Joe Hunter, Roy Milton, Ruth Brown, Amos Milburn
because young white teen-agers heard them on those top-of-the-dial stations
and began requesting them. What the hell was Elvis listening to when he was
growing up?
“From the beginning, our records were really accessible to white listeners. Our
artists weren’t down-home bluesmen. They didn’t come from red-clay country. And
our backup groups were either studio musicians or jazzmen. Working with these
sophisticated cats, we did try to get an authentic blues feeling. And how could you
beat a polished performance of down-to-earth blues material? It has mass appeal,
white as well as black.
“We worked at getting a strong and clean rhythm sound. This was partly a mat-
ter of engineering. We were among the first independents to mike instruments in
the rhythm section separately—a separate mike for drums, bass, and guitar. But to
get that clean rhythmic punch, we found it necessary to use written arrangements.
This was a major departure in R&B recording. Experienced black arrangers like Jesse
Stone, Howard Biggs, Budd Johnson, Bert Keyes, and Teacho Willshire, later white
arrangers like Ray Ellis and Stan Applebaum, helped develop a blues arranging style.
Some writers have described the Atlantic Sound as R&B with strings or arranged
R&B, and there’s some merit in that.
“In later years, the Atlantic Sound acquired what Jelly RoIl Morton spoke of
as ‘the Spanish tinge.’ Leiber and Stoller introduced a shuffling Latin beat in some
of The Drifters’ records. Bert Berns also had a big feeling for Spanish music. W. C.
Handy used the habanera rhythm in his ‘St. Louis Blues.’ In the late fifties the samba
beat, guaracha, baion, and other Afro-Cuban rhythms added color and excitement to
the basic drive of R&B.
“Atlantic grew and survived when most other independents disappeared
because it had great flexibility and responded to change. A record company needs
engineers, creative producers, and smart promoters. But more than anything else,
it needs artists. We established a reputation early for paying established artists top
royalty—and did pay. This trade secret attracted many performers to our doors. And
after we signed them, we worked to make them feel at home and to search out the
best material we could find for recording. We’re probably too big now to cultivate
the family feeling that was ours for years, but we still like to think of ourselves as a
big, happy, soulful family.”
Further Reading
Ennis, Philip H. The Seventh Stream: The Emergence of Rocknroll in American Popular Music.
Hanover, N.H.: University Press of New England, 1992.
Peterson, Richard A., and David G. Berger. “Cycles in Symbol Production: The Case of
Popular Music.” American Sociological Review 40 (1975); reprinted in On Record: Rock,
Pop, and the Written Word, ed. Simon Frith and Andrew Goodwin, 140–59. New York:
Pantheon, 1990.
Rumble, John. “The Roots of Rock and Roll: Henry Glover of King Records.” Journal of
Country Music 14, no. 2 (1992): 30–42.
Ryan, John. The Production of Culture in the Music Industry: The ASCAP-BMI Controversy.
Lanham, Md.: University Press of America, 1985.
Sanjek, David. “One Size Does Not Fit All: The Precarious Position of the African American
Entrepreneur in Post–WWII American Popular Music.” American Music 15, no. 4 (Winter
1997): 535–62.
Sanjek, Russell, and David Sanjek. Pennies from Heaven: The American Popular Music Business
in the Twentieth Century. New York: Da Capo Press, 1996.
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 59 05/27/19 04:50 PM

60 Before 1950
Discography
Atlantic Rhythm and Blues 1947–1974. Atlantic, 1991.
The Black and White Roots of Rock ‘n’ Roll. Indigo, 2004.
Fifty Years of Country Music from Mercury. Polygram, 1995.
King R&B Box Set. King, 1996.
Mercury Blues ‘n’ Rhythm Story 1945–1955. Polygram, 1996.
12. Country Music as Folk Music, Country

Music as Novelty
Several articles have already touched upon the position of country (or
“hillbilly”) music within the post-1920 music industry. Country music, in
its modern, commercial, mechanically reproducible form, began in the
1920s as a conglomeration of separate genres: ballads derived from tra-
ditional music of the British Isles, string band music, fiddle tunes, hymns,
and blues. As the inclusion of “blues” in the preceding list indicates,
musical elements that would later be associated exclusively with African
Americans formed a powerful part of the mix. The early music industry
name for this category of music, “hillbilly,” was a pejorative term used
by rural, white southerners in the spirit of affectionate self-deprecation;
however, its use by music executives in New York City arose from a mis-
understanding and conveyed a supercilious attitude toward the music.1
New genres of country music developed in the 1930s in response to
changing performance contexts and increasing contact with other popu-
lar idioms. One new genre, Western Swing, arose from a conjunction of
fiddle-led, string band dance music and big band swing. Breaking with
country music tradition by using drums, Western Swing also featured
amplified guitars, horns, and piano alongside bass and fiddle. From the
rough barrooms of the rural South came another new genre, “honky-
tonk” music, named after the venues in which it was featured. Honky-
tonk also featured amplified guitars and produced stars in the late 1930s
and early 1940s such as Ernest Tubb, Cliff Bruner, and Ted Daffan.
1. For a more thorough description of the history of this term, see Bill Malone, Country Music
U.S.A., rev. ed. (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1985); and Archie Green, “Hillbilly Music:
Source and Symbol,” Journal of American Folklore 78 (July–September 1965): 204–28.
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Country Music as Folk Music, Country Music as Novelty 61
In the early 1940s, both Western Swing and honky-tonk produced
“crossover” hits: songs that appeared on the popular music charts and
were heard on national network radio broadcasts. Songs like “New San
Antonio Rose” by Bob Wills, “Born to Lose” by Ted Daffan, and “Walking
the Floor Over You” by Ernest Tubb found large audiences that cut across
the demographic spectrum, a development aided by pop artists such
as Bing Crosby, who recorded their own “cover” versions of the songs.
Country music, in turn, was influenced by mainstream popular music in
terms of songwriting conventions, instrumentation, and rhythm (as in
the “swing” of Western Swing).
Beginning in 1939, the popularity of country music began to be
tracked in the music industry publication, Billboard, in a chart ini-
tially titled “hillbilly.” The number of songs represented in this chart
increased throughout the 1940s as the name vacillated, changing to
“American folk” in 1945, before finally settling down to “country and
western” in 1949. This name reflected what were perceived at the time
as two different types of music: “country” included honky-tonk music
and music descended from fiddle tunes, ballads, waltzes, and novelty
tunes, while “western” referred to Western Swing and cowboy songs.
The unsigned article below marks an increase of interest in country

music in music industry publications. The author correctly points out
the link between country music of the 1940s and the traditional music
of Euro-Americans (particularly in the rural South) prior to the advent of
recording. The tone is faintly apologetic, as if anticipating a skeptical
readership, which, since the article was appearing in Billboard, was not
unreasonable. The explanation that the spread of country music’s popu-
larity reflects demographic shifts has some validity but implies that the
music could appeal only to southerners (or their friends), an explana-
tion that turned out to be overly pessimistic. The article also refers to a
phenomenon that was only beginning: the writing of country tunes by
Tin Pan Alley tunesmiths.
American Folk Tunes: Cowboy and Hillbilly Tunes

and Tunesters
Billboard
People’s Music
Folk music, tho highly sectional, has always been the music of the people as a whole.
Plaintive or catchy, the melodies are easily remembered and easily sung. Written
from the heart, the words more often than not are imperfect grammatically, but they
Source: “American Folk Tunes: Cowboy and Hillbilly Tunes and Tunesters,” Billboard/Published
August 17, 1946, p. 120. Copyrighted 1946–1979. Prometheus Global Media. 289858:1218DD
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 61 05/27/19 04:50 PM

62 Before 1950
express the feeling of the people more clearly than would even perfect poetry. To be
sure, many folk tunes have been written by commercial writers and some corrupted
by the South American influence, but the majority are written by people who find
music as the outlet for their thoughts and emotions. They stress the ordinary sorrows
and joys of people which are experienced by everyone, be he rich or poor. Love, hate,
loyalty, infidelity, all have their place in folk music. Early American folk music told
the tales of heroes, good and bad. Sung by people as they pioneered the country,
the songs were a means of spreading news. The story of many a famous battle has
been told in a folk song. Today’s folk music has changed but little from the early
songs. While they are no longer need [sic] to carry news the basic components have
remained the same.
Another major factor in the increasing popularity of folk music was the migra-
tion of country dweller to the city during the war. The country dweller demanded
the music with which he was familiar at night clubs, theaters, dance halls and amuse-
ment parks. He organized square dances, jamborees and hayrides, and as a result
of this activity, the city dweller, once too sophisticated for the simple music, found
himself enjoying it as he attended the square dances in the company of his country
friends.
A third factor was the cognizance of the trend by show business. Ever on the
alert for the changing moods of its audiences, show business eagerly complied
with the request for folk music. Folk artists were imported from country fairs to
theaters and night clubs. Entertainers in the popular and concert fields included
folk music on their programs. Radio increased its folk shows. Motion pictures
included folk artists and folk music in pictures other than Westerns. Thus more
and more people became acquainted with folk music and the interest in it spread
from coast to coast.
That this rise in popularity of folk tunes will continue is certain, for today efforts
are being made to catalog, categorize and compile folk music for the first time in its
history. Whether or not folk music will ever entirely supplant the so-called popular
music is not certain. At any rate, folk music is here to stay.
In the late 1940s, the profile of country music among the general pub-
lic continued to increase. However, the most successful recordings of
country tunes in the “popular” category during this period were not
songs by country artists, but “cover tunes” of country songs by pop art-
ists or pseudo-country songs written by Tin Pan Alley songwriters.2 In
1950, the phenomenon of country music’s crossover success reached
an apex: “The Tennessee Waltz,” recorded and composed by country
artist Pee Wee King in 1948, was released in a cover version by pop
singer Patti Page in 1950 and became one of the best-selling record-
ings up to that time, spawning an additional six cover versions by pop
artists that made the best-seller charts during 1951.3
2. This phenomenon is noted in the following entry and was the focus of an article in the
New York Times Magazine: “Tin Pan Alley’s Git-tar Blues,” New York Times Magazine, July 15, 1951,
8, 36, 37.
3. For a more in-depth account of “Tennessee Waltz” and its significance for both the country
and popular music fields, see James M. Manheim, “B-side Sentimentalizer: ‘Tennessee Waltz’ in
the History of Popular Music,” Musical Quarterly 76, no. 3 (Fall 1992): 37–56.
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By 1949, the presence of tunes originating in the country field had grown
to the point where mass circulation magazines such as Newsweek felt
the need to give their readers some background on the phenomenon.
The title of the following article, “Corn of Plenty,” tells readers all they
need to know about the cultural status of the music under discussion
(and shows how impressions of country music had changed little since
the 1938 Collier’s article reprinted in Chapter 5). The article refers to
the increasing prominence of country tunes on the popular Hit Parade
and discusses the prominence of Eddy Arnold in particular. Because
of the prevalence of cover versions, Arnold’s songs were heard by the
popular music audience in recordings by pop singers, despite the fact
that his own versions sold over a million copies. The overall impres-
sion conveyed by this article is the sense of a vacuum in mainstream
popular music that the music industry (“in its chronic fluttery state”) is
filling with country music and other sorts of “simpler songs.”
Corn of Plenty
Newsweek
“The corn is as high as an elephant’s eye—and so are the profits.” A hard-bitten Tin
Pan Alley character shook his head in amazement, for he was talking about hillbilly
songs—the current wonder of the music world.
Always a steady factor in record and sheet sales, hillbilly music is now such a
vogue that it is “just about pushing popular tunes, jazz, swing, bebop, and every-
thing else right out of the picture,” noted Down Beat magazine. While the rest of the
music business remained in its chronic fluttery state, the hillbilly output remained
fairly constant. But the demand for it has multiplied fivefold since the war. This week
the industry was still moving in concentric circles and nothing was dependable—
except hillbilly music.
Out of the Hills

Ten years ago, if a hillbilly record sold 10,000 copies, it was a hit; today a 50,000
sale is mediocre. Once a specialty product marketed in the Deep South, it now has
a -nationwide sales field. The South is still lapping it up (some radio stations play hill-
billy music eighteen hours a day), but Pennsylvania and New York are right behind.
City slickers are square-dancing from Ciro’s in Hollywood to the Pierre in New York,
and the cowpoke “Riders in the Sky” is the most popular song in the nation.
With the war, hillbilly music quickly came out of the hills. Most of the large
training camps were in the South, and GI’s who might have never been exposed
to this relatively unfamiliar music heard it constantly. They liked it—and brought
Source: Jack Kroll, “Corn of Plenty.” From Newsweek, 6/12/1949 © 1949 Newsweek, Inc. All rights
reserved. Used by permission and protected under the Copyright Laws of the United States.
The printing, copying, redistribution, or retransmission of the material without express written
permission is prohibited.
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 63 05/27/19 04:50 PM

64 Before 1950
the songs home with them. Postwar shifts in population helped spread it; and disk
jockeys followed through and aired “country” music to a widening audience. It all
tied in with the current trend toward simpler songs—and nothing is simpler than
country music.
Rich Soil
From the plains, prairies, and hills the songs are now coming—ballads (love stories),
narratives, sacred songs, and dance tunes. Titles range from “My Daddy Is Only a
Picture” to “Life Gits Tee-jus, Don’t It?” Songs celebrating news events pop up over-
night. For example, only three days after little Kathy Fiscus of San Marino, Calif.,
died in an abandoned well, the record companies were swamped with songs about
her. And no Tin Pan Alley tunesmith can turn out songs faster than country-song
writers—men like Fred Rose, Bob Miller, and Carson Robison.
But country music has spilled over into the more conventional popular field, and
many numbers are being recorded in both straight and country styles. Jo Stafford’s
raucous hayseed version of “Timtayshun” undoubtedly started something, and it
would seem that all a singer needs is a hoedown fiddle, a steel guitar, a mandolin, and
new inflection in his voice—and he’s set for the bonanza. Dinah Shore did just that and
changed the schmaltzy European waltz “Forever and Ever” into a backwoods ditty.
Back in 1930 country singers started going highly commercial when Gene Autry
pioneered the way. Following him came a long procession of names, led today by
Hank Williams, George Morgan, Red Foley, Roy Acuff, Jimmy Wakely—and the
kingpin of them all—Eddy Arnold.
Barefoot Boys
In New Orleans last February, Eddy Arnold guest-starred on the Spike Jones show.
Laying aside his guitar, he did a skit in which he was murdered by a storekeeper. As
Arnold sagged dying to the floor, Jones bawled to the other actor: “You just killed
RCA Victor’s biggest asset!”
He wasn’t far wrong, for Eddy Arnold ranks with Perry Como and Vaughn
Monroe among RCA’s top popular names. Just another country boy five years ago,
today he is the pace setter in the whole country-music field.
Arnold was born on his father’s farm near Henderson, Tenn., 30 years ago. As a
child, he picked cotton and husked corn on land that barely gave his family enough
to eat. “I figured,” he recalls, “there must be a better way of makin’ a livin’.”
When he was 10, his cousin gave him an old Sears, Roebuck guitar, and Arnold
started fooling around with it. Soon he was good enough to play with local outfits. At
15 he took four lessons at 75 cents apiece from an itinerant musician—the only music
lessons he ever had.
Pay Dirt
By the time he was 18, he signed up with Pee Wee King and His Golden West Cow-
boys, and from there he struck out on his own. On a six-day-a-week stint over Station
WSM at Nashville, the 6-foot, drawling baritone sang, played the guitar, and called
himself “The Tennessee Plowboy”—a sobriquet he still uses. There RCA heard him
and signed him up in 1944.
In 1946 along came “That’s How Much I Love You,” and the ball started rolling.
It picked up momentum with “I’ll Hold You in My Heart” and last year’s “Bouquet
of Roses,” which sold a million and a half records and is still going strong. Ever since
bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 64 05/27/19 04:50 PM

Arnold made the big time, no record of his has sold less than 400,000 copies. His cur-
rent number, “One Kiss Too Many,” hit the 250,000 mark last week—with only six
weeks’ sales.
Arnold is tied up with RCA Victor until 1956. He also has a radio show on
Mutual and a two-picture deal with Columbia. He is now star-gazing in Hollywood
while making “Hoedown,” but somehow, “I’m real downright homesick for my wife
an’ kids an’ my mom back home.”
Today the barefoot boy has an annual gross income of $250,000, a great cure for
homesickness.
Further Reading
La Chapelle, Peter. Proud to Be an Okie: Cultural Politics, Country Music, and Migration to South-
ern California. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007.
Malone, Bill C. (with Jocelyn R. Neal). Country Music, U.S.A. 3rd ed. Austin: University of
Texas Press, 2010.
Pecknold, Diane. The Selling Sound: The Rise of the Country Music Industry. Durham, N.C.:
Duke University Press, 2007.
Peterson, Richard A. Creating Country Music: Fabricating Authenticity. Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 1997.
Russell, Tony. Country Music Originals: The Legends and the Lost. New York: Oxford University
Press, 2007.
Discography
Acuff, Roy. King of Country Music. Proper Box UK, 2004.
Daffan, Ted and His Texans. Born to Lose. Jasmine, 2004.
Foley, Red. Hillbilly Fever. Blaricum, 2005.
The Smithsonian Collection of Classic Country Music. PS 15640, 1981.
Tubb, Ernest. The Definitive Collection. MCA Nashville, 2006.
Wills, Bob. The Essential Bob Wills. Sony, 1992.
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bra43588_pt01_001-066.indd 66 05/27/19 04:50 PM
PART 2
The 1950s
13. Country Music Approaches the Mainstream
In contrast to the bemused accounts in the late 1940s in publications

such as Billboard and Newsweek, country music had so succeeded by
1953 that it earned a feature story in a business magazine. The period
1949 to 1953 witnessed numerous cover versions of country songs
(especially those written and recorded by Hank Williams) that suc-
ceeded on the pop charts, as well as some crossover hits by country
stars such as Red Foley and Tennessee Ernie Ford. While this article
shares with the earlier entries a somewhat condescending tone (note
especially the description of the audience), it nevertheless enthusiasti-
cally discusses the spread of country music to Europe and Asia. Another
important focus is the history provided of that enduring institution, the
Grand Ole Opry, and its development in tandem with the rest of the
Nashville-based country music industry (which is, after all, what one
may expect to find in a business magazine). The article concludes with
a brief interview with Hank Williams (1923–53), arguably the most sig-
nificant songwriter and performer in country music during this period
and one of the most influential musicians in country music history. An
unwritten requirement of any piece on Williams is that it must include a
reference to Tee-Tot, an African American guitarist and street musician
who was an early mentor of Williams.
67
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68 The 1950s
Country Music Goes to Town

Rufus Jarman
What brought this homely music out of the back-roads and into great popularity
nationally—and now internationally—was radio in general and in particular station
WSM, owned by the National Life & Accident Insurance Company. Through country
music, Nashville is now a phonograph-recording center comparable to New York
and Hollywood. WSM has become the “big time” to country musicians, as the old
Palace once was to vaudeville. The Wall Street Journal has estimated that country
music in Nashville now amounts to a $25,000,000-a-year industry.
What baffles conservative Nashvillians are the crowds that swarm into town each
week to see the program, which lasts four and one-half hours. All of it is broadcast
over WSM’s powerful, clear-channel station, and 30 minutes of it has been broadcast
for a dozen years over the NBC network, sponsored by Prince Albert Tobacco. Red
Foley is the master of ceremonies. In addition to the music of bands and quartets,
there are two immensely popular comedians, Red Brasfield of Hohenwald, Tenn.,
and Cousin Minnie Pearl, a product of Centerville, Tenn.
Only the network portion of the show is rehearsed and that only once, for timing.
About 125 stars and their “side men” take part in this whole jamboree, which is
marked by great informality. Performers, some in outlandish costumes, stroll about
the stage, join in with their instruments with units of the show other than their own,
and occasionally toss one another playfully into a tub of iced drinks that is kept on
the stage at all times.
The audience ranges from a few people who think the term “Opry” means they
should come formal to those who take off their shoes and nurse their babies during
the show. Many of them come in trucks.
In Nashville hotels, they often bed down eight to a room, and bring along their
food. They clean their hotel rooms, never having heard of maid service. Many of
them never heard of tipping either. Bellboys and elevator operators, when the man-
agement isn’t looking, may make up for this over-sight by charging ten cents per
elevator ride.
Besides their radio programs and records, the Opry stars constantly manifest
themselves to their followers through personal appearances, arranged by the WSM
Artist Service Bureau, under Jim Denny. Every night one or more troupes of Opry
stars are appearing in some city about the land. They have crammed Carnegie Hall
in New York and played before sellout audiences in white ties and tails in Consti-
tution Hall in Washington. More often they appear on Sundays in picnic groves
in Pennsylvania, Illinois or Ohio. Not long ago, one troupe played to 65,000 persons
in four days in Texas.
To fill this schedule, the Opry stars live a hard life. They usually leave Nashville
in their cars on Sundays, and drive hard from one engagement to another, heading
back to Nashville in time for Saturday. Often they don’t sleep in a bed for nights on
end, but take turns driving.
Source: Rufus Jarman, “Country Music Goes to Town,” Nation’s Business, originally published
February 1953. Reprinted by permission, uschamber.com, March 2019. Copyright © 1953 U.S.
Chamber of Commerce.
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Country Music Approaches the Mainstream 69
They keep their car radios tuned to hillbilly broadcasts at all times, and when
they hear some local rustic singer who sounds promising, they tip off Jack Stapp, the
Opry’s program director.
The touring stars have simple living tastes. One observer who has travelled with
them reports that some stars, making hundreds of thousands of dollars a year will
eat the same meal three times a day—fried potatoes, fried eggs and fried pork chops.
For, in spite of their fancy clothes, big cars and abundant money, the Opry stars
remain simple people who “were raised hard and live hard,” as one of them has said.
Some of them do not know a note of music, but their great appeal as entertainers is in
the rawness of their emotions and their sincerity in conveying them.
Hank Williams was discussing that shortly before his death in January. Williams
was a lank, erratic countryman who learned to play a guitar from an old Negro
named Teetot in his home village of Georgiana, Ala.
“You ask what makes our kind of music successful,” Williams was saying. “I’ll
tell you. It can be explained in just one word: sincerity. When a hillbilly sings a crazy
song, he feels crazy. When he sings, ‘I Laid My Mother Away,’ he sees her a-laying
right there in the coffin.
“He sings more sincere than most entertainers because the hillbilly was raised
rougher than most entertainers. You got to know a lot about hard work. You got to
have smelt a lot of mule manure before you can sing like a hillbilly. The people who
has been raised something like the way the hillbilly has knows what he is singing
about and appreciates it.
“For what he is singing is the hopes and prayers and dreams and experiences of
what some call the ‘common people.’ I call them the ‘best people,’ because they are
the ones that the world is made up most of. They’re really the ones who make things
tick, wherever they are in this country or in any country.
“They’re the ones who understand what we’re singing about, and that’s why our
kind of music is sweeping the world. There ain’t nothing strange about our popular-
ity these days. It’s just that there are more people who are like us than there are the
educated, cultured kind.
“There ain’t nothing at all queer about them Europeans liking our kind of sing-
ing. It’s liable to teach them more about what everyday Americans are really like
than any thing else.”
Further Reading
Ching, Barbara. Wrong’s What I Do Best: Hard Country Music and Contemporary Culture. New
York: Oxford University Press, 2001.
Green, Archie. “Hillbilly Music: Source and Symbol.” Journal of American Folklore 78 (July–
September 1965): 204–28.
Malone, Bill. Country Music U.S.A. 2nd rev. ed. Austin: University of Texas, 2002.
Peterson, Richard. Creating Country Music: Fabricating Authenticity. Chicago: University of
Discography
Classic Country, vols. 1 and 2. Time-Life Music, Sony, 1999.
Foley, Red. Hillbilly Fever: 24 Greatest Hits. Blaricum, 2005.
Ford, Tennessee Ernie. Vintage Collections Series. EMI Special Products, 1997.
Wells, Kitty. My Cold, Cold Heart Is Melted Now. Decca, 1954.
Williams, Hank. Original Singles Collection . . . Plus. Mercury Nashville, 1992.
bra43588_pt02_067-124.indd 69 05/27/19 04:52 PM

14. Rhythm and Blues in the Early 1950s
B. B. K ING
The music industry category of rhythm and blues included within it a

great diversity of distinct musical genres. The three musicians exam-
ined more closely in this and subsequent chapters—B. B. King, Ruth
Brown, and Ray Charles—represent three important strands of R&B that
emerged during the early 1950s: the transformation of the country blues
into urban blues, the development of a more carefully arranged form
of R&B, and the increasing use of vocal techniques derived from solo
gospel singing.
One of the most popular rhythm and blues performers of the 1950s and
early 1960s, B. B. King was responsible for spreading and popularizing
many of Walker’s innovations: the jazzy, single-note improvisations on
guitar; the gospel-influenced vocal style; and the large band arrange-
ments featuring horns.1 A widely imitated guitarist, King became known
to many fans of rock music through his influence on rock guitarists such
as Eric Clapton and through the tributes paid to him by Clapton and
other white artists. Despite the acclaim generated by such attention and
by successful albums like Live at the Regal (1964), King had to wait until
1970 for his greatest mainstream success with “The Thrill Is Gone.” In
this interview, recorded in 1978, King talks about how he learned to
entertain audiences, some unsuspected relationships between sacred
and secular music, and what the blues mean to him. King comments on
the shifting nature of music industry classifications and how in many
ways they seem determined more by sociological factors than musical
ones.
1. A fascinating account of King during this period can be found in Charles Keil, Urban Blues
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1966).
70
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Rhythm and Blues in the Early 1950s 71
of Rhythm and Blues
Arnold Shaw
“I left Indianola in 1946, hitchhiking to Memphis. I had been singing with a gospel
quartet called the St. John Gospel Singers. There were a lot of groups around, and
material would pass from group to group so that we did some new gospel songs. We
picked most of our material from what we heard on records, radio, jukeboxes. Poor
people were beginning to afford a radio and they got to know the name [of] groups
and their songs. CBS and a few of the networks were presenting groups like The
Trumpeteers and the Golden Gate Quartet. Then, out of Nashville, we could hear
the Fairfield Four. The Soul Stirrers came into our area, and that was when I first met
Sam Cooke—around 1948, I guess.
“The distinctions that I hear writers make between blues and rhythm and blues I
regard as artificial. Most of the people that we hear playing the blues came from
the same area, even though they may be living in other areas. We hear of the Chi-
cago blues because many of the Mississippi crowd lives in Chicago. When I was on
the radio in Memphis, we used to get Billboard, Cash Box, and they classed things
that Louis Jordan was doing as rhythm and blues. Or they would call it ‘race.’ And
that’s how you could distinguish what he and others like him did from so-called pop.
But today, for instance, James Brown is considered rhythm and blues. Aretha Frank-
lin is considered soul or rhythm and blues—and I am considered blues. [Chuck-
ling] In Memphis, I was considered rhythm and blues. I personally think that it’s all
rhythm and blues because it’s blues and it has rhythm. I guess that you could break
it down if you wanted to. I remember that Dinah Washington was considered R&B or
‘race.’ But Dinah sang anything that anybody else sang. She just sang it her own way.
She was doing all of the popular tunes of the late forties and early fifties. So were
Ella Fitzgerald, Nat Cole, and Louis Armstrong—these were the top black recording
artists. Louis Jordan, too, and The Ink Spots. But they were classed differently. Ella
was more pop than most of the black female singers, but she still covered most of the
bluesy tunes. But Dinah stayed with them, and Louis Jordan stayed with them, and
they came up with some very big records. I remember Dinah covering ‘Three Coins
in a Fountain.’ Mercury Records was using her to sell records to black record buyers.
But when she did these pop tunes in her way, they were classed as rhythm and blues.
“It’s true that after the big band era, blues singers started being accompanied
by horns and rhythm groups instead of just guitar and harp. But the reason that this
happened was because, before that, blues singers just could not afford to be backed
by bands. They wanted it. In the delta, there was a band called the Red Caps that
had all kinds of instruments. They were playing like Jimmie Lunceford. They were
stationed right there in Greenville, Mississippi. They were among the lucky few that
could afford band instrumentation. Incidentally, the Red Caps I’m talking about were
not the Red Caps of Steve Gibson that had ‘Wedding Bells Are Breaking Up That Old
Gang of Mine.’ But they played the socials around Greenville, and they had a very
varied repertoire. They played bluesy things and jazz. What I’m trying to say is that if
we had the money or even a music store where we could borrow instruments—why
Source: Arnold Shaw, Honkers and Shouters, The Golden Years of Rhythm and Blues. New York:
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72 The 1950s
we had to go twenty-five miles to the nearest music store. We did not have one in
Indianola, Greenwood or Greenville was the nearest place. And when you went to
one of these stores, you had to pay cash. They didn’t know you, and you didn’t have
any credit. At that time, a horn was costing like $100. Gosh, in those days, it would
take me five months to make $100. Out of the twenty-two fifty a week I was mak-
ing, after you bought groceries and other necessities, you could save only seven to
eight dollars. So you bought whatever instrument you could afford—and that was
the guitar. As for a piano, you could forget about that. Or an organ. But my aunt had
one that you had to paddle with your feet. It’s so funny to see people now playing
notes on an organ with their feet. Well, then you had to use your feet to get air flow-
ing through the organ pipes. I don’t know how she got that organ. My aunt was one
of those people who said that a person had to have something for themselves. And
she did. She had a phonograph, or as we called them, a Victrola. When I was a good
boy—and I stayed a good boy around her—she would let me play the Victrola. And
that’s how I got into those old blues records like Lemon Jefferson. I had a chance to
fool with the organ, and that’s how I learned to play a few chords.
“My first hit record was Lowell Fulson’s tune, ‘Three O’Clock Blues.’ I always did
like his work. In fact, I idolized Lowell. But I probably like his singing better than his
playing. It’s nice of him to say that I do ‘Every Day I Have the Blues’ better than he
does, but he had a hit on it. Several of us had hits on that Memphis Slim tune. But
Lowell was the one who influenced me to do the tune. He and Joe Williams. You
know, a lot of people don’t know that Williams cut ‘Every Day I Have the Blues’
before he made it with Basie. He first made it with King Kolak’s band. That was the
one, along with Lowell’s record, that made me think that I could get a hit on it. And
luckily I did. But then, when Joe Williams got with Basie, he did it again, and that
was the master one. But Lowell is a great artist. He is one of the sleeping giants in
the blues.
“When I first started performing, it was me alone. Then I got a trio on the radio:
Johnny Ace on piano, Earl Forest on drums. It was hard to keep a bass player. Later
on is when I got Billy Duncan on tenor sax. That’s when I made ‘Three O’Clock
Blues.’ We recorded our first hit in the YMCA in Memphis. One of my biggest hits,
‘Darling, I Love You,’ was recorded at Tuff Green’s home, the same fellow that made
the first record with me.
“By 1955 I was pretty well known, and we were booked for like five to seven
hundred dollars a day. That was our guarantee. Then it went up to a thousand and, if
we were lucky, twelve hundred. But then I had my own bus and a very big group.
We ran it up to about thirteen pieces, and we kept that until I went broke. [Chuck-
ling] Then I dropped down to five: organ, drums, tenor, trumpet, and alto. Kept that
for a while, and when things started to pick up, we added more men. I like the big
band sound. I guess one of the reasons is my being brought up in the church. I can
always hear the choir singing behind me, and that’s what I hear when the horns are
playing behind me. The little tricky things they do, like rhythms within rhythms—
this is what puts spice on. Blues is usually slow, melancholy, and if you have some
little figures going on with the horns, it makes it more interesting.
“The blues is the blues. They don’t change. But sounds do change. And I’ve just
had to make some changes in my band after working with some men for many years.
For some time, I’ve been asking them to listen to the sounds behind James Brown,
behind Aretha, behind Wilson Pickett. Audiences feel the difference. But it was like I
wasn’t saying anything. Each year, I give my men four weeks off, two with pay and
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“The House that Ruth Brown Built” 73
two without. This was to give them a chance to make a change if they wanted to.
And this year, I felt that I had to. It wasn’t easy, especially since some of the men are
Memphis friends from way back. I understand their feelings. But you either change
with the times or you find yourself looking at empty seats. . . .”
Further Reading
Adelt, U. “Black, White, and Blue: Racial Politics in B.B. King’s Music from the 1960s.” The
Journal of Popular Culture 44 (2011): 195–216.
Keil, Charles. Urban Blues. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1966.
Kostelanetz, Richard. The B. B. King Reader: Six Decades of Commentary. Milwaukee: Hal Leon-
ard Corp., 2005.
Shaw, Arnold. Honkers and Shouters: The Golden Years of Rhythm and Blues. New York: Macmil-
lan, 1986.
Discography
King, B. B. King of the Blues. Geffen, 1992.
_______. Live at the Regal. Geffen, [1964] 1997.
15. “The House that Ruth Brown Built”
Ruth Brown (b. 1928), along with Dinah Washington, was the biggest
female R&B star of the 1950s. Like other R&B and soul stars, Brown’s for-
mative musical experiences occurred in the church, and her early musical
influences also included field hollers and blues. By the time she began
to sing professionally, she had also been exposed to a great variety of
music via records and radio and had acquired a background in jazz and
mainstream popular music. In 1948, she signed with manager Blanche
Calloway, who helped arrange a contract with Atlantic Records. Shortly
after signing with Atlantic, Brown was hobbled by a serious auto acci-
dent. Nevertheless, she began recording as soon as she possibly could,
and her first session resulted in a major R&B hit, “So Long.” Subsequent
sessions were marked by eclecticism and uncertainty about how to repeat
the success. The search for a follow-up was finally rewarded when Brown,
in tandem with arranger Jesse Stone and producers Ahmet Ertegun and
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74 The 1950s
Herb Abramson, began to develop a style that fused elements of blues,
jazz, and pop. As Brown further refined this fusion into a trademark form
of smooth “uptown” rhythm and blues, her continuing success led to
Atlantic being known as “The House that Ruth Brown Built.”1
In her autobiography, Miss Rhythm, Ruth Brown describes her contribu-

tions to Atlantic, the origins of her biggest hits, and the development
of her business relationship with Atlantic. Brown devotes a lot of space
to detailing how companies such as Atlantic exploited her and other
rhythm and blues artists of the time. One of the factors that gave the
companies almost unlimited leverage in withholding royalties was the
onerous practice of charging “session fees” to the leader of the date.
She also describes the difficulties of touring in the Jim Crow South, a
hardship compounded by being the only woman in the entourage as
well as the star of the show. Brown’s autobiography offers an insightful
view of the relationship between rhythm and blues artists in the fifties
and the owners of independent companies like Atlantic.
from Miss Rhythm: The Autobiography of Ruth Brown,

Rhythm and Blues Legend
Ruth Brown (with Andrew Yule)
On April 6, [1949], still on crutches and wearing a leg brace, I hobbled into the Apex
Studio at the tail end of a John “Texas Johnny” Brown session, with Amos Milburn
sitting hunched over the piano. I sang “Rain Is a Bringdown,” a tune I’d doodled in
the hospital just to give Ahmet and Herb an idea of how my voice came over on disc.
Then Herb began to talk material, mentioning “So Long,” the bluesy ballad we all
knew from Little Miss Cornshuck’s version. We talked a little bit about the tempo and
treatment, and Herb said he’d have an arrangement worked out by the time we were
set to record at WOR the following month. We recorded the song with Eddie Condon’s
orchestra on May 25, and after listening to the playback Ahmet and Herb decided the
track was strong enough for my first A-side. “It’s Raining” formed the B-side.
Within a few weeks of its release “So Long” was selling well, climbing to number
six on Billboard’s R-and-B chart. It was only the company’s second hit after Sticks
McGhee’s “Drinkin’ Wine, Spo-dee-o-dee,” and everybody at Atlantic was thrilled
1. This phrase is a play on the description of Yankee Stadium as “The House that Ruth Built.”
Source: Excerpt(s) from MISS RHYTHM: THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF RUTH BROWN, RHYTHM
AND BLUES LEGEND by Ruth Brown and Andrew Yule, copyright © 1996 by Ruth Brown &
Andrew Yule. Used by permission of Dutton, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division
of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved.
bra43588_pt02_067-124.indd 74 05/27/19 04:52 PM

to see the company’s name back on the charts. Me too, believe it! This time they were
determined it would be no one-hit wonder.
After four of my follow-up releases to “So Long” went nowhere however, it was
time for a reappraisal. The problem on Atlantic’s side was they couldn’t figure out
what to do with me. I was recorded with the Delta Rhythm Boys, singing spirituals,
even flirting with Yiddish songs in English. “Too darn versatile,” I heard Herb mutter
more than once. The problem I posed, in turn, was my resistance to singing anything
but my first love, ballads. I wanted to tell stories in songs, to explore emotions, to the
lush sounds of velvety string accompaniments I’d always conjured up when dream-
ing of recording. A solution had to be found; meanwhile I was working regularly,
and for decent money, although I was hampered by the legacy of that car crash.
The house writer that broke the dry spell after “So Long” was Rudolph “Rudy”
Toombs. The song Rudy composed especially for me, “Teardrops from My Eyes,”
took me to the top of the R-and-B chart in October 1950. And there it stayed for
eleven solid weeks, with a total chart run of twenty-six weeks. One-hit wonder? Not
me, baby! The disc also became a tiny piece of history, being Atlantic’s first record
made available on seven-inch 45-rpm vinyl as well as the standard ten-inch 78-rpm
shellac.
Rudy was my good friend, a man who was simply bursting with life, as efferves-
cent as any of his songs. The things he did for me were different rhythmically from
what I was into, but I finally had to give in to the fact that Ahmet, Herb and their
team were a step ahead of the accepted sound of the day. Taking a deep breath, I
went along with it. Although I had no right of veto in my contract, that did not stop
me from fighting if I wasn’t happy with what came up. On most issues we reached
common ground, with Ahmet and Herb resigned to my singing the occasional bal-
lad, if only for a B-side. Although Herb was the man in charge of my sessions, many
of the decisions regarding material were made by Ahmet and arranger Jesse Stone,
whose remarkable body of compositions ranged from “Smack Dab in the Middle”
all the way to “Shake, Rattle and Roll.” He was the man behind so many of the great
things that came out of Atlantic, together, of course, with the engineering wizard,
Tom Dowd. Tommy had impeccable intuition and was a fixture in the control booth
with Ahmet and Herb.
A couple of times during early morning sessions, with sunshine streaming
through the windows, I remember protesting it was the wrong time of day to capture
a blue mood. “Ruth, just sing like you’ve got tears in your eyes,” Herb would direct
me. Another time it would be, “Give me that million-dollar squeal.” There were occa-
sions when my throat felt sore, or what I used to call “rusty.” “I like your sound when
it’s like that,” Herb would enthuse. “It has an earthy quality, a sexiness.” “Down,
boy!” I’d kid him.
Soon I felt like the Queen of the One-Nighters, with dates stretching through the
Litchman Theater chain from New York to Washington, Baltimore, Richmond, and
near home again at the Booker T in Norfolk. One-night dance dates followed into
the Carolinas and all the way down to Georgia, Alabama and Tennessee, bringing
me face to face with all those racial problems, rubbing my nose in them. We did
close on seventy one-nighters on the trot, spending most days riding the tour bus.
When we hit Atlanta we set up camp and made excursions to neighboring towns like
Columbus and Augusta, and in Atlanta itself there were lots of clubs to work.
On stage I took to wearing multicolored petticoats and accordion-pleated skirts,
featuring all the colors of the rainbow, and from the brighter end of the spectrum:
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76 The 1950s
peacock blue, surprise pink, sunshine yellow, orange and lavender. Apart from fellow
performers, you had the audiences to compete with, who came along dressed to the
nines. Our dates were once-in-a-lifetime-style affairs, a big night out, with posters up
months before we arrived. In the South it was even trickier; you had to watch in case a
member of the audience was wearing the same dress as you and took offense.
Some people to this day call Atlantic “The House that Ruth Brown Built,” and
even if this is an exaggeration, few would deny that I contributed a solid por-
tion of the foundation as well as quite a few of the actual bricks. No doubt the
cement was the matchless team at the company, Ahmet, Herb, Jesse and Tommy,
together with the incredible mix of outstanding musical talent they employed
and nurtured.
Rudy Toombs was responsible for the next smash I enjoyed. His original title was
“5-10-15 Minutes (Of Your Love)” until Herb coolly informed him that “minutes”
was no longer enough now that we were in the era of Billy Ward and the Dominoes’
Sixty-Minute Man. Presto, it became “5-10-15 Hours (Of Your Love).” The song fol-
lowed “Daddy, Daddy” into the R-and-B chart in ‘52 and lodged at number one for
seven weeks. Ruth Brown? Hotter than a pistol!
Caught up in the euphoria of having a contract to sign at all, I had taken no advice
beyond a quick word with Blanche before signing with Atlantic. Ahmet had a great
pitch that settled any questions: “Only Bing Crosby gets five percent at Decca.” Ruth
Brown on the same percentage as Der Bingle? Sure sounded good to me, although I
knew I was starting at the bottom as far as advances were concerned—I’m sure Bing
had long since worked his way past sixty-nine dollars a side. I also understood that
I was responsible for certain production costs, but how big a deal could they be if
I sold enough records?
Strangely enough, despite my continuing chart success, I had to ask every time I
needed cash. Any real money I made came from touring, and I was always out there
promoting the records. Back then any record by a black artist needed every ounce
of help it could get. The expression “R-and-B chart” was another way in the late for-
ties and early fifties to list “race and black” as well as “rhythm and blues” records.
And the reason so few discs by black artists crossed over to Billboard’s mainstream
chart was simple: it was compiled from white-owned radio station playlists featuring
music by white artists, with our list confined to stations catering to blacks. As Jerry
Wexler, Herb’s successor at Atlantic, put it when asked if it was difficult to get R-and-
B records played on general-audience stations in the early fifties, “Difficult would
have been easy. It was impossible.”
It very gradually became less so, of course, as R-and-B artists broke through
the barriers by the sheer strength and quality of their music. But it took time, and
throughout my biggest hit-making period I was forced to stand by as white singers
like Georgia Gibbs and Patti Page duplicated my records note for note and were
able to plug them on top television shows like The Ed Sullivan Show, to which I had
no access.
Chuck Willis wrote “Oh, What a Dream” especially for me, and it was my
favorite song, but it was Patti Page, with an identical arrangement, who got to sing it
on national television. Even topical stuff like my “Mambo Baby” had a Georgia Gibbs
duplicate rushed out. My labelmate and good friend LaVern Baker, who joined
Atlantic in ‘53, suffered the same fate on her original of “Tweedle Dee”—another
note-for-note copy by Her Nibs Miss Gibbs. There was no pretense, either, that they
were anything but duplicates. Mercury actually called up Tommy Dowd on the day
bra43588_pt02_067-124.indd 76 05/27/19 04:52 PM

they were cutting “Tweedle Dee” and said, “Look, we’ve got the same arrangement,
musicians and tempo, we might as well have the same sound engineer too.”
It was tough enough coming up with hit sounds, therefore doubly galling
to see them stolen from under our noses. Few seemed to stop and question the
morality of this, least of all the publishers, to whom it was a case of the more the
merrier. LaVern for one did, protesting to her congressman over her treatment at
Mercury’s hands, but then as now, there was no copyright protection on arrange-
ments.
I was denied sales abroad as well, although I knew nothing of this at the time.
“Abroad,” as far as the feedback from Atlantic’s accounting department was con-
cerned, could have been the moon. Having made number three on Billboard’s R-and-
B chart in the States, and actually crossing over to their pop charts as well, reaching
number twenty-five, my version of “Lucky Lips” was ignored in Britain.
It was because of Willis2 that I couldn’t relate to “Mama, He Treats Your Daughter
Mean” when it was first presented to me at Atlantic. Maybe it reminded me of a
past relationship I wanted to forget, maybe I felt that singing it would put a jinx on
us. I had to be coaxed into it by Herb, who upped the tempo from the slow ballad
it had been. The tune had been written by two friends of mine, Herb Lance and
Johnny Wallace (brother to a young fighter named Coley, who played the champion
in The Joe Louis Story). There was a lot of joking around the night we recorded it,
for everyone present knew I was less than keen. And Willis was absent, off doing
a session of his own. “Does your man treat you mean, Ruthie?” drummer Connie
Kay inquired, mock-anxiety written all over his teasin’ face. “Anybody here seen
Gator?” trumpeter Taft Jordan chimed in. I tell you, spitfires can be a target them-
selves sometimes.
During the first playback Herb and the others all looked at me expectantly.
Although I still didn’t like it, there was something so comical about their concern
that I had to smile and relax into the second take. This time we hit it just right. I can’t
put my finger on what was so special about that record, for the rhythm pattern was
similar to a lot of stuff that was out there, but boy, did it take a trick. I was never so
wrong about any piece of material in my life.
Further Reading
Brown, Ruth, and Andrew Yule. Miss Rhythm: The Autobiography of Ruth Brown, Rhythm and
Blues Legend. New York: Da Capo Press, 1999.
Deffaa, Chip. Blue Rhythms: Six Lives in Rhythm and Blues. New York: Da Capo Press, 2000.
Hoskyns, Barney. “Ruth Brown.” Mojo, March 1995.
Whiteis, David. “Ruth Brown.” Living Blues, February 2007, 69–71.
Discography
Brown, Ruth. Miss Rhythm (Greatest Hits and More). Atlantic/WEA, 1989.
______. The Best of Ruth Brown. Atlantic/WEA, 1996.
2. The “Willis” in question is Willis “Gator Tail” Jackson, tenor saxophonist on many Atlantic
recordings from the period, including Brown’s, and the person Brown describes as “the love of
her life.”
bra43588_pt02_067-124.indd 77 05/27/19 04:52 PM

16. Ray Charles, or, When Saturday Night
Mixed It Up with Sunday Morning
Ray Charles (1930–2004) was almost bewilderingly talented: a pianist,

singer, songwriter, arranger, saxophonist, and bandleader, he was also
an extraordinarily eclectic musician, skilled in jazz, gospel, blues, coun-
try, pop, and classical musics. After initial experiences playing jazz and
country music in Florida, Charles moved to Seattle in 1948 and began
playing clubs and recording in a sophisticated rhythm and blues style
indebted to Nat “King” Cole and Charles Brown. Charles’s real break-
through came in 1953–55 when he developed an earthy adaptation of
gospel music that fused the melodies, singing style, and harmonic and
rhythmic patterns of gospel with secular lyrics and rhythm and blues
instrumentation.
Prior to Charles, the first rhythm and blues singer to attract atten-
tion for his indebtedness to gospel technique was Clyde McPhatter, who
had been the lead singer on many hit recordings made in the early to
mid-1950s with Billy Ward and the Dominoes and with the Drifters. These
recordings featured McPhatter’s impassioned melismas and call-and-
response alternations between him and the other singers in the band
to a greater extent than had been evident in previous R&B recordings.
What distinguished McPhatter from singers in earlier gospel-derived
male groups, such as the Ink Spots and the Mills Brothers, was the way
in which he adopted the dynamic solo style of female singers such as
Mahalia Jackson and Clara Ward for songs with gospel-derived harmonic
progressions in which the change of a single word (“Have Mercy Baby”
to “Have Mercy Lord”) could transform the song back into a gospel num-
ber. Also important during the late 1950s was McPhatter’s successor
in the Dominoes, Jackie Wilson, a dynamic performer who employed
gospel-derived vocal techniques in a pop-oriented idiom.
It was Charles, however, who brought many of McPhatter’s inno-
vations to fruition in a series of recordings beginning in 1954. Thinly
veiled adaptations of gospel songs, such as “I’ve Got a Woman” (1954),
“This Little Girl of Mine” (1955), “Drowning in My Own Tears” (1956),
and “Hallelujah, I Love Her So” (1956), became major rhythm and blues
hits while raising charges of blasphemy in the African American com-
munity. On these recordings, Charles sings in a raspy, exuberant tone
full of whoops, cries, bent notes, melismas, and shouts, engaging in
call-and-response patterns with either the horns (a combination of
78
bra43588_pt02_067-124.indd 78 05/27/19 04:52 PM

Ray Charles, or, When Saturday Night Mixed It Up with Sunday Morning 79
saxophones, trumpets, and trombones) or a female backup trio named
the Raelettes, and accompanying himself with gospel-style piano. The
apotheosis of this approach comes in Charles’s 1959 recording “What’d
I Say,” which not only imported musical elements from gospel music,
but also produced a condensed simulation of an African American Holi-
ness religious service. Charles succeeded with yet another innovative
fusion in 1962 with his Modern Sounds in Country and Western Music.
Although it caught his fans and the music industry off guard, he was
merely bringing sounds together that he had been hearing and perform-
ing since his childhood.
Ray Charles’s autobiography, Brother Ray, conveys his charming and iras-
cible personality and details the rise of a poor, blind, African American
country boy in the Deep South to become one of the world’s most success-
ful entertainers. The path to this success was paved by his voracious appe-
tite for diverse styles and his ability to synthesize them. The passages
reproduced here focus on the years during which he developed his proto-
soul sound and address the controversy aroused by his adaptation of pre-
existing gospel material. Throughout these passages, Charles displays a
keen sensitivity to the relationship between his style and the makeup of
his audience, enabling him to explain quite clearly the difference between
the music he was making in the mid-1950s and early rock ‘n’ roll.
from Brother Ray: Ray Charles’ Own Story

Ray Charles and David Ritz
These are the years—’53, ’54, ’55—when I became myself. I opened up floodgates,
let myself do things I hadn’t done before, created sounds which, people told me
afterward, had never been created before. If I was inventing something new, I wasn’t
aware of it. In my mind, I was just bringing out more of me. I started taking gospel
lines and turning them into regular songs.
Now, I’d been singing spirituals since I was three, and I’d been hearing the blues
for just as long. These were my two main musical currents. So what could be more
natural than to combine them? It didn’t take any thinking, didn’t take any calculat-
ing. All the sounds were there, right at the top of my head.
Many of those first tunes were adaptations of spirituals I had sung in quartets
back in school. “You Better Leave That Woman Alone” was originally something
called “You Better Leave That Liar Alone.” “Lonely Avenue” was based on a spiritual
that Jess Whitaker used to sing with the Pilgrim Travelers. “Talkin’ ‘Bout You” was
another song which I had been singing my whole life in another form.
Source: Brother Ray: Ray Charles’ Own Story, Ray Charles and David Ritz (New York: Dial Press,
1978), pp. 148–51, 173–75, 176–78, 190–92, 222–23. Reprinted with permission of Aaron M. Priest
Literary Agency.
bra43588_pt02_067-124.indd 79 05/27/19 04:52 PM

80 The 1950s
None of the spirituals had copyrights. How could they? Black folk had been
s inging ‘em through the hollow logs as far back as anyone could remember. And often
my new tunes would be based on three or four gospel numbers—not just one.
But the basic line, the basic structure, the basic chord changes were throwbacks
to the earliest part of my life on earth. Nothing was more familiar to me, nothing
more natural.
Imitating Nat Cole had required a certain calculation on my part. I had to gird
myself; I had to fix my voice into position. I loved doing it, but it certainly wasn’t
effortless. This new combination of blues and gospel was. It required nothing of me
but being true to my very first music.
Now with my band I could rebuild my own little musical world that I first heard
in Greensville. In fact, this was the heaviest writing period of my life. When Ahmet
Ertegun or Jerry Wexler at Atlantic sent me songs they thought I should record, I
often didn’t like them. That inspired me to begin writing more tunes of my own.
Atlantic let me record anything I wanted to. They never said, “No, do our songs,
not yours.” They trusted me and left me alone.
The same thing had been true with Jack Lauderdale when I was recording for
Swingtime. And it would be no different years later when I would start making
records for ABC.
I’ve never had what they call a producer to oversee me. I’ve always produced
myself. And during my Atlantic days, I always came into the studio with the tunes
already picked and the arrangements already written. There was nothing left for a
producer to do.
You might ask: How could a young kid like me—at twenty-two or twenty-
three or twenty-four—have that kind of power? I still wasn’t much of a name. And I
certainly didn’t have any right to go round demanding or dictating a goddamn thing.
Well, these record people saw that I was developing and that I needed space to find
myself. Even though I was young and tender, they let me make my own mistakes, let
me produce my own small triumphs.
Only one time at Atlantic—and that was a very minor incident—did one of the
cats suggest that I listen to Fats Domino and maybe do something on the style of
“Blueberry Hill.” I told the guy that I was for Fats, but that I wasn’t Fats. I was Brother
Ray. That quieted him down.
So I was lucky. Lucky to have my own band at this point in my career. Lucky to
be able to construct my musical building to my exact specifications. And lucky in
another way:
While I was stomping around New Orleans, I had met a trumpeter named Renolds
Richard who by this time was in my band. One day he brought me some words to a
song. I dressed them up a little and put them to music. The tune was called “I Got a
Woman,” and it was another one of those spirituals which I refashioned in my own way.
“I Got a Woman” was my first real smash, much bigger than “Baby, Let Me Hold
Your Hand.” This spiritual-and-blues combination of mine was starting to hit.
But even though this record, made toward the end of 1954, was very big, that
didn’t mean I was making very big money. It was like that story I told before about
Joe Morris. He had a hit, but he still had to hustle like crazy. Well, now I was Joe
Morris. The success of my record meant I’d get to work more often. But the black
promoters—the men I dealt with—still paid very little. And as for royalties, well,
they took a long, long time to start coming in, and when they did I used the money
for things like new tires for the car.
At the time this was happening, not everyone approved. I got letters accusing
me of bastardizing God’s work. A big-time preacher in New York scolded me before
bra43588_pt02_067-124.indd 80 05/27/19 04:52 PM

his congregation. Many folks saw my music as sacrilegious. They said I was taking
church songs and making people dance to ‘em in bars and nightclubs.
Must tell you that none of those reactions bothered me. I’d always thought that the
blues and spirituals were close—close musically, close emotionally—and I was happy
to hook’ em up. I was determined to go all out and just be natural. Everything else
would spring from that. I really didn’t give a shit about that kind of criticism.
After “I Got a Woman,” my three big records were “A Fool for You,” “Drown in
My Own Tears” and ”Hallelujah, I Love Her So.” These were the songs which caught
on, the tunes which kept me working.
“Hallelujah” was probably the most important. I did it in late 1955, at the same
session as “Drown,” and, as far as I was concerned, it was just another number I’d
written. I didn’t ascribe any great importance to it, and actually the lyrics were a little
more lighthearted than the ones I usually wrote.
When I was writing songs, I concentrated on problems or feelings everyone
could understand. I wouldn’t call the tunes biographical; I just made’ em up. But I
always tried to stick to common themes—love heartaches, money heartaches, pleas-
ures of the flesh and pleasures of the soul.
“Hallelujah” clicked. It sold big among blacks, and I guess it was my first record
to enjoy some popularity among whites.
If these early hits sold two hundred thousand copies, I was pleased. That was
almost all in one market—the black market—and two hundred thousand were a lot
of records in those days. Oh, sure, there’d be whites who bought my sides—even
sneak and buy ‘em if they had to—but up until “Hallelujah,” the overwhelming
majority of those listening to me were black.
When I stopped imitating Nat Cole and slid into my own voice, I saw that my
successes were exclusively at black clubs and black dances. My music had roots
which I’d dug up from my own childhood, musical roots buried in the darkest soil.
Naturally it was music blacks could immediately take to heart.
Little by little, though, beginning around 1956, I saw that my music had appeal
beyond my own people. I saw it breaking through to other markets, and now and
then there’d be a date in a city auditorium where whites would come along with
blacks. It probably took me longer to digest this gradual change than it would have
taken someone else. I couldn’t see the increasing number of white faces.
It meant more work and more money. But it wasn’t going to change my music,
and it wasn’t going to change me. The more people there were who liked my stuff,
the happier I was. But at this point in my life that only convinced me to stick to my
guns and follow my program. Most of the material the band was playing was our
own. Ninety-five percent of everything we did in those years was written by me.
There were the original songs—maybe fifteen or twenty that we played. And there
were also Latin numbers and hard-driving jazz tunes which I arranged. I remember
writing a chart of Dizzy’s “Manteca,” and we also did a bolero thing on “In a Little
Spanish Town” and “Frenesi.”
I might write arrangements on ballads like “Funny Valentine” or “If I Had You.”
I loved old standards and always had them in the book. From the first days the band
was together, we played a mixture of the different music I found myself drawn to.
The cats in the band could play the blues. That came first. Show me a guy who
can’t play the blues and I’m through with him before he can get started. If you can’t
get nasty and grovel down in the gutter, something’s missing.
It’s not that the blues are complicated. They’re not; they’re basic. There are hun-
dreds of versions of the same blues—the same changes, the same patterns—just as
there are hundreds of versions of the same spirituals. The music is simple. But the
feeling—the low-down gut-bucket feeling—has to be there or it’s all for nothing.
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82 The 1950s
My cats could also play serious jazz. Donald Wilkerson, for example, could kick
the ass of almost any tenor player in the country. For my money, he’s one of the
best saxophonists of the century. Fathead1 was right there next to him, playing with a
lyricism and a sweetness which Donald lacked. Fathead didn’t have Donald’s speed
and maybe not as much fire, but he could make his sax sing the song like no one else.
In this period, I loved to watch Donald attack Fathead on the stand. Course that
was good for David, and it brought out the best in both cats. When someone tries
to stomp on you, naturally you’re going to respond. And together—blowing out in
front of the band—they’d be burning up the place.
Most of my original compositions—the ones with my own words and my own
music—found their way to the recording studio, but I’d guess there must have been
three times that number of songs—maybe as many as a hundred—which I arranged
and never recorded.
I like to think I’m a half-ass composer. I ain’t no Duke Ellington, but I can write.
There isn’t that much to making a song—jazz or otherwise. There are lyrics, and then
there are notes, melody lines which you set up.
As I told you before, I could write on demand—especially when we were about
to go into the studio. And I suspect that if you asked me tonight to write you a song,
and if I wasn’t too sleepy, I’d have it done by morning.
I noticed some interesting developments in popular music. White singers were pick-
ing up on black songs on a much more widespread basis. They had always done it, but
now it was happening much more frequently. Georgia Gibbs and Pat Boone and Carl
Perkins and Elvis were doing tunes which originally had been rhythm-and-blues hits.
It didn’t bother me. It was just one of those American things. I’ve said before that
I believe in mixed musical marriages, and there’s no way to copyright a feeling or a
rhythm or a style of singing. Besides, it meant that White America was getting hipper.
Something else happened in this time slot: rock ‘n’ roll. I have a hard time defin-
ing schools of music, and I’ve never been one to even try. I’ve been arguing against
labels my whole life—I hate it when they’re slapped on me—but finally they become
so popular that even I have to use them.
I never considered myself part of rock ‘n’ roll. I didn’t believe that I was among
the forerunners of the music, and I’ve never given myself a lick of credit for either
inventing it or having anything to do with its birth.
When I think of the true rock ‘n’ roll, cats like Chuck Berry and Little Richard
and Bo Diddley come to mind. I think they’re the main men. And there’s a towering
difference between their music and mine. My stuff was more adult. It was more dif-
ficult for teenagers to relate to; so much of my music was sad or down.
A tune like Little Richard’s “Tutti Frutti” was fun. Less serious. And the kids could
identify with it a lot easier than my “A Fool for You” or “Drown in My Own Tears.”
I don’t want to put down the others, and I don’t want to butter myself up. Rich-
ard and Chuck and Bo sold millions of records, and they helped the whole industry.
They did some spirited music and it broke through some thick barriers. Those guys
sold a hell of a lot more records than I did back then. They sold to whites by the truck-
loads. Fats Domino had huge hits in the white market—“Blueberry Hill” and “Ain’t
It a Shame”—and I wasn’t even in the same league.
Rock ‘n’ roll was also music that the teenagers were able to play themselves.
Little Richard’s or Jerry Lee Lewis’s piano style—taking your thumb and scraping
1. “Fathead” was David Newman, Charles’s long-time tenor sax player.
bra43588_pt02_067-124.indd 82 05/27/19 04:52 PM

all the way up the keyboard—had a flare and a sound that the kids loved. And which
they could duplicate. I sang some happy songs, and I played tunes with tempos that
moved. But if you compare, let’s say, my “Don’t You Know, Baby?” to Little Rich-
ard’s “Long Tall Sally,” you’ll hear the difference; my music is more serious, filled
with more despair than anything you’d associate with rock ‘n’ roll.
Since I couldn’t see people dancing, the dance crazes passed me by. I didn’t
try to write any jitterbugs or twists. I wrote rhythms which moved me and figured
they’d also make other folk move.
I’ve heard the Beatles say that they listened to me when they were coming up.
I believe them, but I also think that my influence on them wasn’t nearly as great as
these other artists. I was really in a different world, and if any description of me
comes close, it’s the tag “rhythm and blues.” I’ve fooled around in the same way that
blacks have been doing for years—playing the blues to different rhythms.
The style requires pure heart singing. Later on they’d call it soul music. But the
names don’t matter. It’s the same mixture of gospel and blues with maybe a sweet mel-
ody thrown in for good measure. It’s the sort of music where you can’t fake the feeling.
Earlier I was telling you how I never test songs on the public before I record them.
I’ve always been my own private testing service. But there was one exception to this
rule, even though I didn’t mean for it to happen the way it did. I’m talking about the
accidental birth of “What I Say.”
We happened to be playing one of my last dances—somewhere in the M idwest—
and I had another twelve minutes to kill before the set closed. A typical gig of that
kind lasted four hours, including a thirty-minute intermission. We played from
9:00 till 11:30, took a half-hour break, and then did the final hour.
It was nearly 1:00 A.M., I remember, and we had played our whole book. There
was nothing left that I could think of, so I finally said to the band and the Raeletts,
“Listen, I’m going to fool around and y’all just follow me.”
So I began noodling. Just a little riff which floated up into my head. It felt good
and I kept on going. One thing led to another, and suddenly I found myself singing
and wanting the girls to repeat after me. So I told ‘em, “Now.”
Then I could feel the whole room bouncing and shaking and carrying on some-
thing fierce. So I kept the thing going, tightening it up a little here, adding a dash of
Latin rhythm there. When I got through, folk came up and asked where they could
buy the record. “Ain’t no record,” I said, “just something I made up to kill a little time.”
The next night I started fooling with it again, adding a few more lyrics and refin-
ing the riffs for the band. I did that for several straight evenings until the song froze
into place. And each time I sang it, the reaction was wild.
I called Jerry Wexler from the road and told him that I was coming to New York
with something new to record. “I’ve been playing it,” I said, “and it’s pretty nice.”
That was further than I usually went with Jerry. I don’t believe in giving myself
advance notices, but I figured this song merited it.
We made the record in 1959, and it became my biggest hit to date. Like “Hallelu-
jah,” it sold to whites and blacks alike, although not everyone dug it. It was banned
by several radio stations. They said it was suggestive. Well, I agreed. I’m not one to
interpret my own songs, but if you can’t figure out “What I Say,” then something’s
wrong. Either that, or you’re not accustomed to the sweet sounds of love.
Later on, I saw that many of the stations which had banned the tune started play-
ing it when it was covered by white artists. That seemed strange to me, as though
white sex was cleaner than black sex. But once they began playing the white version,
they lifted the ban and also played the original.
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84 The 1950s
These bans didn’t bother me none, mainly ‘cause I could see, feel, and smell
royalties rolling in. At this point, it was bread I really needed.
The biggest of the concept albums involved country-and-western music. And it came
about because I had been planning it for years. If I had remained on Atlantic, I would
have done the country thing a year or two earlier. I knew, however, that ABC thought
of me as a rhythm-and-blues singer, and I didn’t want to shock the label too badly or
too quickly. So I waited till the beginning of 1962. That seemed like a reasonable time.
My contract was up for its three-year renewal and, to my way of thinking, I had
done well for ABC. They hadn’t hassled me before, and I had no reason to believe
they would bother me now. Still, my country music idea might have hit them as half-
cocked and completely crazy.
What better time to test their faith in me? If they were really behind me, they’d let me
do what I wanted. And if they weren’t with me all the way, I’d get to learn that right now.
I called Sid Feller and asked him to gather up the great country hits of all time.
He sounded a little bewildered, but he was nice enough to do what I asked. Later on,
the ABC executives mildly protested—but all in good taste.
They told me how this might injure my career. They told me how all my fans had
been loyal to me. They explained how I might irritate some people, how I might lose
my following. And even though I listened and understood what they were saying, I
ignored them and made the record anyway. We had no contract problems.
I didn’t plan on making a killing on the country stuff; I had no commercial
scheme in mind. I just wanted to try my hand at hillbilly music. After all, the Grand
Ole Opry had been performing inside my head since I was a kid in the country.
To show you how naive I was about the sales potential of this material, I put
“I Can’t Stop Loving You” as the fifth song on the B side. I called the album Modern
Sounds in Country and Western Music.
I had no special plans for the arrangements. In fact, I set some of the songs against
strings with a choir, the way I was doing much of my material then. Other tunes were
done with a big band—my big band—which had just been formed.
I was only interested in two things: being true to myself and being true to the
music. I wasn’t trying to be the first black country singer. I only wanted to take coun-
try songs and sing them my way, not the country way. I wasn’t aware of any bold act
on my part or any big breakthrough.
It was just blind luck that the tunes—“I Can’t Stop Loving You,” “Born to Lose,”
and later, “Take These Chains,” “You Are My Sunshine,” “Busted,” and “You Don’t
Know Me”—hit with such impact. These country hits wound up giving me a bigger
white audience than black, and today when I play concerts, there are still usually
more whites than blacks.
At the same time, “I Can’t Stop Loving You” was a big song among blacks. It
didn’t get the initial air play that it might have, but that’s ‘cause it wasn’t the kind
of song black jocks normally programmed. And also I was led to believe by some of
these cats that they just didn’t like ABC. They told me that they played my songs only
because it was me. Finally, “I Can’t Stop Loving You” made the black stations simply
cause they had no choice; the record was too important to be ignored.
Further Reading
Charles, Ray, and David Ritz. Brother Ray: Ray Charles’ Own Story. New York: Dial Press, 1978.
Cooper, B. Lee. “Ray Charles (1930–2004): Reflections on Legends.” Popular Music and Society
28 (February 2005): 111–12.
bra43588_pt02_067-124.indd 84 05/27/19 04:52 PM

Jerry Wexler 85
Lydon, Michael. Ray Charles: Man and Music. New York: Routledge, 2004.
Phinney, Kevin. Souled American: How Black Music Transformed White Culture. New York:
Billboard Books, 2005.
Discography
Charles, Ray. The Birth of Soul: The Complete Atlantic Rhythm and Blues Recordings, 1952–1959.
Atlantic/WEA, 1991.
———. The Complete Country and Western Recordings, 1959–1986. Rhino/WEA, 1998.
17. Jerry Wexler

A LIFE IN R&B
A colorful character who had a hand in recording numerous R&B and soul
greats, Jerry Wexler (1917–2008), along with Ahmet Ertegun, ran Atlantic
Records from the mid-1950s through the 1960s. These excerpts from his
autobiography look both backward—to “race” records of the1940s—and
forward—to the transformation of rhythm and blues into rock ‘n’ roll.
Wexler describes the situation at Atlantic Records when he joined as
codirector with Ahmet Ertegun and presents his analysis of the social
and historical context of the early 1950s in which R&B recordings began
to appeal to white teenagers. Always engaging and opinionated, Wexler
offers his views on cross-cultural collaboration, the “White Negro” syn-
drome,1 and the relationship between commercialism and notions of
expressive sincerity (or “authenticity”). Not surprisingly, both he and
Ertegun take a rather different view of Atlantic’s relationship with its
artists than the artists themselves do.
1. The “White Negro” syndrome refers to a famous article by Normal Mailer, “The White
Negro: Superficial Reflections on the Hipster,” Dissent, Summer 1957, 276–93. Wexler discusses
Mailer’s article in this excerpt.
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86 The 1950s
from Rhythm and the Blues: A Life in American Music

Jerry Wexler and David Ritz
The early catalogue [at Atlantic] was eclectic. There were Eddie Safranski’s Poll
Cats; Stan Kenton band members like Art Pepper, Shelly Manne, Pete Rugolo, and
Bob Cooper. There were guitarist Tiny Grimes; Swing Era jazzmen like Rex Stew-
art; vocal groups like the Delta Rhythm Boys, the Clovers, and the Cardinals; pia-
nists Erroll Gamer and Mal Waldron; boppers Howard McGhee, James Moody, and
Dizzy Gillespie; scat singers Jackie and Roy; Sarah Vaughan; blues legends Leadbelly
and Sonny Terry; Mary Lou Williams; clarinetist Bamey Bigard; cafe society singers
Mabel Mercer and Bobby Short; Billie Holiday–based Sylvia Syms; boogie-woogie
virtuoso Meade Lux Lewis. In short, there was everything.
At the same time, nothing was selling big except for that single Stick McGhee
hit—“Drinkin’ Wine Spo-Dee-O-Dee”—and some Ruth Brown and Joe Turner. In
spite of a noble attempt to represent a broad spectrum of jazz and jazz-tinged music,
it was rhythm and blues and rhythm and blues alone that paid the rent—a situation
that wouldn’t change for a long time to come.
So when I came along, the agenda was already set. Ahmet ran it down to me in no
uncertain terms. “Here’s the sort of record we need to make,” he explained. “There’s a
black man living in the outskirts of Opelousas, Louisiana. He works hard for his money;
he has to be tight with a dollar. One morning he hears a song on the radio. It’s urgent,
bluesy, authentic, irresistible. He becomes obsessed. He can’t live without this record.
He drops everything, jumps in his pickup, and drives twenty-five miles to the first
record store he finds. If we can make that kind of music, we can make it in the business.”
It’s interesting that Ahmet’s decree makes no mention of cross-over—the notion
of selling black music to whites. That idea wasn’t yet in the air. When I started work-
ing at Atlantic, I certainly had no such notions. I knew that the postwar rhythm-
and-blues phenomenon had been spearheaded by independent labels. The war had
caused a scarcity in shellac, and the majors were recording only their big-selling
white acts and very few blacks. Thus black buyers’ demand for black records was
great. That’s the slot the indies filled in the forties. And to a large extent, in the early
fifties that was still the deal.
It happened before, I wrote in an essay for Cashbox in 1954. “It happened in the
twenties when Perry Bradford and Spencer Williams were as hot as Irving Berlin;
it happened when Bessie Smith and Ethel Waters sold their records into millions of
white parlors. Now it’s happening again. The blues will get stronger before the blues
get weaker. Regardless of its impact on the pop field, the blues will surely go on.”
I was talking about the present state of rhythm and blues and the beginnings of
rock ’n’ roll. In significant numbers, white people were listening to, buying, and playing
black music. Atlantic’s black-and-red label carried the slogan “Leads the Field in Rhythm
and Blues,” but it was clear that our market, once exclusively black, was expanding.2
Source: Excerpt(s) from RHYTHM AND THE BLUES: A LIFE IN AMERICAN MUSIC by Jerry
Wexler, copyright © 1993 by Jerry Wexler and David Ritz. Used by permission of Alfred A. Knopf,
an imprint of the Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House
LLC. All rights reserved.
2. This assertion is borne out by a spate of articles that appeared in music industry publica-
tions around this time; see Bob Rolontz and Joel Friedman, “Teen-Agers Demand Music with a
Beat, Spur Rhythm-Blues: Field Reaps $15,000,000; Radio, Juke Boxes Answer Big Demands,” Bill-
board, April 24, 1954, 1, 18, 24, 50; and other articles reprinted or cited later.
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Jerry Wexler 87
The first hint came when my friend Howie Richmond called to say that
something new was happening in the South and Southwest. They were calling it
“cat music,” the pre-rock‑’n’-roll handle for rhythm and blues selling to whites.
Immediately I glommed on to the name, and we started a “Cat” subsidiary label.
That had two advantages: first, I hoped the name would pick up on the trend; and
secondly, another label allowed us to use other distributors in major markets. (We
usually made exclusive agreements with a single distributor in each city, when in fact
there were any number of excellent distributors.) We had black artists on Cat—Little
Sylvia Vanderpool (later of Mickey and Sylvia), Mike Cordon and the El Tempos,
and the Chords, whose record of “Sh-Boom” would be copied (and buried) by the
Crewcuts, a white group.
A picture was beginning to emerge: Kids, especially kids down South, were tak-
ing newly invented transistor radios to the beach. White Southerners, I believe, in
spite of the traditional aura of racial bigotry, have always enjoyed the most pas-
sionate rapport with black music, itself a Southern phenomenon. And in the fifties,
white Southern teenagers started the charge towards ballsy rhythm and blues. As
the Eisenhower decade became more conformist, the music became more rebellious,
more blatantly sexual, climaxing in the remarkable persona of Elvis Presley, a Mem-
phis boy raised on the pure sounds of the black South.
In the wake of postwar prosperity, teenagers were becoming a market of their
own. Their buying power was real, their emotional needs immediate, their libidinous
drive no longer reflected by the dead-and-gone fox-trots of their parents. Suddenly
there was another force at work—old but new, primal yet complex, a music informed
by the black genius for expressing pent-up frustration, joy, rage, or ecstasy in a poetic
context marked by hip humor and irresistible rhythm.
Ahmet had already anticipated this evolution, the best example being his
seminal work with Joe Turner. Big Joe was the blues-shouting bartender from
Kansas City whom I’d heard back in my student days. A mountain of a man, his
voice was among the most powerful in the history of the form. History had placed
him in a niche with Pete Johnson, his boogie-woogie-piano-playing partner, and
Count Basie, whose band he’d joined when Ahmet caught him at the Apollo in the
early fifties.
“Joe took Jimmy Rushing’s place,” says Ahmet, “but unlike Jimmy, Joe didn’t fit.
Musically, he and Basie were fighting each other, and it was depressing. The crowd
didn’t like it, Joe didn’t like it, and afterwards I found him in a bar where he told me
Columbia had dropped him from the label. Joe really had the blues. ‘I think you’re
the greatest blues singer in the world,’ I told him. ‘All you need is fresh material. Sign
with Atlantic and we’ll make hits.’”
Ahmet’s “Chains of Love” hit the charts in 1951, followed by “Sweet Sixteen,”
“Honey Hush,” and “TV Mama.” It was “Shake, Rattle and Roll,” though, that
opened the floodgates for Joe. The song was written by Jesse Stone, a brilliant black
arranger with roots back to Jelly Roll Morton. Jesse’s musical mind had as much
to do as anyone’s with the transformation of traditional blues to pop blues—or
rhythm and blues, or cat music, or rock ‘n’ roll, or whatever the hell you want
to call it. Jesse was a master, and an integral part of the sound we were develop-
ing. He had the unique gift of maintaining a hang-loose boogie-shuffle feel in the
context of a formal chart. Jesse was a record producer’s dream come true. I always
felt he viewed me with a slightly jaundiced eye, as though I might sign the checks
but was in on a pass, not knowing shit about the music. Jesse seemed to know
everything.
He’d written hits for Jimmy Dorsey. He’d written “Idaho,” whose s ophisticated
chord structure became a favorite vehicle for the beboppers. In “Shake, Rattle and
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88 The 1950s
Roll,” under the pseudonym of Charles Calhoun, he also wrote, “you wear those
dresses, the sun comes shining through, I can’t believe my eyes, all that mess
belongs to you”—one of my favorite images of erotic poetry. In Bill Haley’s white
cover, whose sales outstripped Turner’s version, the sex was stripped off, the lyrics
bleached clean. No matter; Joe’s reading remains a gem.
Highly imitated as innovators, Jesse Stone and Howard Biggs (another fabulous
arranger) were absolutely essential to the good rockin’ feel of our early-fifties hits.
Howard is gone, but Jesse is still with us. In his eighties, he is living in Florida, alert
and in full possession of all his faculties.
Those first couple of years at Atlantic had me flying high. With the aid of Miriam
Abramson, who shared my zeal for the nitty-gritty of daily detail, the business side
was clean-cut and straight-ahead. Ahmet was cooking in the studio, and I was at his
side soaking up the make-it-up-as-you-go-along recipes.
Luckily, my arrival came at that fortunate point in American music when the
lines between black and white were starting to fade. Things were getting blurry in
a hurry, and Atlantic both benefited from and contributed to that breakdown. Hip
disc jockeys—white guys who talked black—were starting to play black music to
an audience that was increasingly white. Cats like Zenas “Daddy” Sears in Atlanta,
George “Hound Dog” Lorenz in Buffalo, Hunter Hancock in Los Angeles, Bob “Wolf-
man Jack” Smith in Shreveport and Del Rio, Ken “Jack the Cat” Elliott and Clarence
“Poppa Stoppa” Hamman in New Orleans, Gene Nobles and John Richbourg and
Hoss Allen in Nashville, not to mention a man destined for national prominence,
Alan “Moondog” Freed in Cleveland—these were all white guys who broadcasted
black, speaking with the timing and rhyming of the ghetto. Both in the existential
sense of Norman Mailer’s term (“The source of Hip is the Negro,” he wrote, “for
he has been living on the margin between totalitarianism and democracy for two
centuries”) and in the sense of pure entertainment, these were White Negroes. Their
significance cannot be overemphasized. These sons-of-bitches not only pointed to
the future of American popular music but were also the makers and the breakers of
our records.
The black style represented a diverting departure from the mid-fifties blahs. You
could segregate schoolrooms and buses, but not the airwaves. Radio could not resist
the music’s universality—its intrinsic charm, its empathy for human foibles, its direct
application to the teen-age condition.
The hip of my generation, who were teenagers in the thirties, had always been
drawn to black culture. In fact, I had always known White Negroes, not pretend-
ers or voyeurs but guys who had opted to leave the white world, married black
women, and made Harlem or Watts their habitat. These guys converted. Clarinetist
Mezz Mezzrow—of the famous joints—was the most colorful example; Teddy Reig,
the three-hundred-pound soul man who managed Count Basie and Chuck Berry
and produced Charlie Parker, was another. Symphony Syd, jazz voice of the night
in New York City; Johnny Otis, pioneering rhythm-and-blues band leader, crea-
tor of “Willie and the Hand Jive,” discoverer of Esther Phillips and Etta James in
Los Angeles; Monte Kay, bebop impresario, manager of the Modern Jazz Quartet,
whose kinky coif might have been the first Jewfro in hair-fashion history—these
were all friends.
I dug cross-cultural collaborations and craved commercial success, which is
maybe why Ahmet and I got on so well. We could have developed a label along the
lines of Blue Note, Prestige, Vanguard, or Folkways, fastidious documentarians of
core American music. Bobby Weinstock, Alfred Lion, Moe Ash, Orrin Keepnews,
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Jerry Wexler 89
Manny Solomon, and the other keepers of the flame were doing God’s work. Ahmet
and I, however, didn’t feature ourselves as divinely elected. We weren’t looking for
canonization; we lusted for hits. Hits were the cash flow, the lifeblood, the heavenly
ichor—the wherewithal of survival. While we couldn’t divorce ourselves from our
tastes and inclinations, neither could we deny our interest in income. Nor could
we stand still; we believed to our souls that the way of the independent label was
either growth or death. Every month, it seemed, another indie would hit the dust.
Our competitors in commercial black music—Lew Chudd at Imperial, Sam and
Hymie Weiss at Old Town, Syd Nathan at King, Art Rupe at Specialty, Don Robey
at Duke/Peacock, Jules and Saul Bihari at Modern, Bess Berman at Apollo, Her-
man Lubinsky at Savoy, Phil and Leonard Chess—weren’t exactly pushovers. If
we slipped, these sweethearts would be right behind us picking up the pieces. This
was a pushy, get-to-the-distributor, get-to-the-deejay, get-the-goddamn-song-on-
the-air business.
Consequently, the term “commercial” was not a pejorative for me—wasn’t then,
isn’t now. If “commercial” meant a song with a strong hook, an inviting refrain,
melodic variety, and a rhythm pattern with a walloping bass line—well, give me
commercial and lots of it. The merry jingle of cash registers was music to my ears.
As a kid, I might have been cavalier about money. But this was a different deal. I had
a family to support; people were working for me. Fear of bankruptcy was always
around the corner—deep-depression, nothing-to-eat, nowhere-to-sleep fear. Given
my high level of chain-smoking anxiety, I still wonder that I didn’t develop ulcers
early on.
Yet the tonic wasn’t money; it was music. Substantial financial rewards wouldn’t
come until well into the sixties. In the precarious fifties, my fascination with the glo-
ries of the music seemed to push me beyond my own limitations. If now and then
Ahmet or I might begin to worry during a session, unnecessarily afraid that LaVern
or Ray was getting too hoarse or the drummer was dragging, the natural abilities of
our artists would eventually pull things together. We also had the benefit of Dowd’s
engineering talents, arrangers like Jesse, and a large pool of New York City session
musicians, many of whom—drummers Connie Kay and Panama Francis, tenor men
Budd Johnson and Sam Taylor, pianists Hank Jones and Dick Hyman—were jazz
musicians of the first order.
Further Reading
Broven, John. Record Makers and Breakers: Voices of the Independent Rock ‘n’ Roll Pioneers.
Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2009.
Mailer, Norman. “The White Negro: Superficial Reflections on the Hipster.” Dissent, Summer
1957, 276–93.
Rolontz, Bob, and Joel Friedman. “Teen-Agers Demand Music with a Beat, Spur Rhythm-
Blues: Field Reaps $15,000,000; Radio, Juke Boxes Answer Big Demands.” Billboard,
April 24, 1954, 1, 18, 24, 50.
Wexler, Jerry, and David Ritz. Rhythm and the Blues: A Life in American Music. New York:
Alfred A. Knopf, 1993.
Discography
Atlantic Rhythm and Blues 1947–1974. Atlantic/WEA, 1991.
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18. The Growing Threat of Rhythm and Blues
While the early 1950s witnessed numerous crossovers and cover ver-
sions of country songs, such developments occurred more slowly in
rhythm and blues. As described by Jerry Wexler and Ruth Brown, how-
ever, by 1954 people in the music industry were aware of the broadening
appeal of R&B. The expanding audience for R&B began to be reflected
in a growing number of pop cover versions of R&B hits, as well as in
the occasional crossover, such as “Crying in the Chapel” by the Orioles
in July 1953 or “Gee” by the Crows in March 1954, both “doo-wop”–
style vocal numbers. Diverse factors played a role in heightening pub-
lic awareness of black popular music: the spread of R&B to jukeboxes
and record stores in white neighborhoods, the integrated audiences
at rhythm and blues shows emceed by Alan Freed, new technology
(the introduction of the inexpensive and durable “45,” affordable tape
recorders, transistor radios), and a growing number of radio shows
devoted to R&B.
In early 1955, a series of articles appeared in Variety (one of the three

most important music industry publications, along with Billboard and
Cashbox) describing the effect of the increasing popularity of rhythm and
blues on popular music. These articles generally lamented the incursion
of R&B, citing the difficulties created for old-fashioned pop tunes and
the music-publishing business. As one article observed, “R&B is strictly
a sound phenom”—that is, it is the particular sound of a recorded per-
formance of an R&B record that listeners find attractive, rather than the
more abstract sense of melody and harmony provided by sheet music
that may retain its appeal through numerous competing recordings or
performances (as in the pop tunes of the Tin Pan Alley era).1
As the weeks went by, the sense of panic in Variety’s pages
increased. The following article provides evidence of this tone in its
assertions of the displacement of pop vocalists by rhythm and blues art-
ists. Variety’s own popularity charts contradict this, however, as cover
1. “Music Biz Now R&B Punchy: Even Hillbillies Are Doing It,” Variety, February 9, 1955,
51, 54.
90
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The Growing Threat of Rhythm and Blues 91
versions were far more popular than the original versions of these tunes.
For example, Georgia Gibbs’s version of “Tweedle-Dee” (discussed in
the following article) ranked number nine, while LaVern Baker’s (R&B)
version was not listed at all during the week this article was published.
At any rate, regardless of whether its assertions were well grounded,
Variety clearly found the presence of any R&B recordings or covers on
the pop charts profoundly upsetting.
Top Names Now Singing the Blues as Newcomers

Roll on R&B Tide
Variety
Like the major disk companies, the established pop vocalists are finding the current
rhythm & blues phase of the music biz to be tough sledding. At the present time, the
only veteran names in the topselling brackets are Perry Como and Georgia Gibbs.
Both are rolling with the cycle and have turned r&b tunes, such as “Ko Ko Mo” and
“Tweedle Dee,” into top hits.
The major diskers are not finding it easy to crack the r&b formula. For one thing,
most of the artists & repertoire chiefs frankly can’t recognize a potential r&b hit when
they hear one. As a result, they are all waiting for the tunes to break through on the
indie labels and then they decide to cover.
However, unlike a straight pop tune on which a major could usually take the
play away from an indie, this does not necessarily hold true of r&b tunes. The kids
not only are going for the tunes and the beat, but they seem to be going for the origi-
nal interpretations as well. Several covers of r&b tunes by pop names have not been
able to gain ground because they lacked that authentic low-down quality accented
on the indie labels.
The major labels are not only being knocked over by the r&b cycle, but by the
general demand for offbeat stuff. Femme vocal groups, which used to be a drug
on the market only a few months ago, are now hitting big. Such combos as the
McGuire Sisters, Fontane Sisters, and DeJohn Sisters are one, two, three disk attrac-
tions currently.
The Crew-Cuts is another combo mopping up in the current tune trend, as is Bill
Haley & His Comets. The Penguins, on the indie Dootone label, have also been click-
ing with their original r&b interpretation of “Earth Angel,” although the Crew-Cuts
are outpacing them in sales.
Like the influx of hillbilly names into the pop market about four years ago, the
r&b cycle is turning up its share of new combos and singers. These include The
Charms, The Five Keys, Lavern Baker, Fats Domino, Gene & Eunice, the Moonglows,
and a flock of other such combos.
The topsy-turvy nature of the current disk biz is spotlighted by the dominance
of the small labels among the top 10 or 15 disks. Companies like Dot, Cadence, Coral,
Epic and Mercury are riding roughshod over the Big Four of Victor, Columbia, Decca
and Capitol.
Source: “Top Names Now Singing the Blues as Newcomers Roll on R&B Tide,” Variety. Copyright
© 1955 Reed Business Information, A Division of Reed Elsevier, Inc.
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92 The 1950s
That there’s no completely uniform pattern to the music biz is revealed by
the presence of an oldie ballad like “Melody of Love” among the topsellers. Also a
legitimate tune like “That’s All I Want From You” continues to hold up despite the
demand for the “Ko Ko Mos” and “Tweedle-Dees.”
Variety’s anxiety reached its shrillest pitch in the following editorial,

which appeared the same week as the preceding article. “Abel” (the
pseudonym used by the author of this piece) seems particularly upset
about companies that are irresponsibly pursuing the “filthy fast buck” by
foisting R&B on an unsuspecting public. This idea, which verges on a con-
spiracy theory, implies the unlikely historical scenario whereby the music
business, prior to its defilement by popular music sporting “leer-ics,”
was engaged in a philanthropic, rather than a capitalistic, activity. Abel
blames payola, even though independent companies spent less money
on “promotion” (the official term for payola) than the majors did.2
The following week’s edition of Variety printed letters from sev-
eral prominent people in the entertainment industry who supported
the editorial, along with one anonymous writer who argued in favor of
the independent record companies.3 That the writers who favored the
editorial were allied with the superstructure supporting old-style pop
music—ASCAP, a major record company, and a Broadway theater—
should not be too surprising. None of these people stood to profit from
the expansion of rhythm and blues into the pop market. Though never
overt, the issue of race informs the editorial and the responses to it:
the concern about the inroads made by R&B is unimaginable without
the widely held associations between race and certain categories of
popular music and the way in which the structure of popular music
at that time mirrored the segregation of U.S. society (as the editorial
reminded its readers, “this sort of lyric was off in a corner by itself. It
was the music underworld—not the main stream”).4
Of greater interest, though, and a bit more perplexing, is that
Abel doesn’t provide examples of offending songs. Which particular
“leer-ic” does he have in mind? Two somewhat salacious songs had
experienced a minor degree of crossover success in the preceding
year: Joe Turner’s “Shake, Rattle, and Roll” and the Midnighters’ “Work
with Me Annie,” both of which were huge R&B hits (another sugges-
tive song, “Sixty-Minute Man,” had followed a similar pattern three
years earlier). However, as Jerry Wexler noted in his autobiography,
2. For more on panics surrounding early rock ’n’ roll concerts, see “‘Rock & Roll’ to Get
Ofay Theatre Showcasing; Freed Set for Par, B’kln,” Variety, February 1955, 47; “Cleve. Cats Are
Clipped by Cops’ Crackdown on Jock’s Jive Jamboree,” Variety, February 9, 1955, 58; “Jocks Junk
Payola Platters,” Variety, February 16, 1955, 39.
3. “Trade Execs Generally Support Stand vs. Indigo R&B Lyrics,” Variety, March 2, 1955, 51.
4. I discuss the moment in greater detail in “Music,” in Key Terms in Popular Music and Culture,
ed. Bruce Horner and Thomas Swiss, 124–40 (Malden, Mass.: Blackwells, 1999). For an in-depth
account, see Trent Hill, “The Enemy Within: Censorship in Rock Music in the 1950s,” South Atlantic
Quarterly 90, no. 4 (Fall 1991): 675–708. Charles Hamm also discusses this editorial and the series of
articles in Variety in Yesterdays: Popular Song in America (New York: W. W. Norton, 1979), 401–02.
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The Growing Threat of Rhythm and Blues 93
another version of “Shake, Rattle, and Roll,” a cover by Bill Haley that
toned down the lyrics of the Joe Turner version, had been much more
successful on the pop charts.5 On the other hand, nothing in the lyrics
of songs of other recent crossovers from this period, such as “Earth
Angel” and “Tweedle-Dee,” explains why they might cause offense.
The plentiful cover songs on the charts at the time of the editorial
also offer no explanation for this fear of an invasion of “euphemisms
which are attempting a total breakdown of all reticences about sex.”
One can only speculate that this panic was being driven by fears about
aspects of the music style, the threat to the established structure of
the music industry, and the breakdown of extant social barriers that
would accompany an unprecedented integration of African American
performers into white society. Despite the fact that these reactions
seem out of proportion to what was actually going on in the popular
music of the time, they proved remarkably prescient. By 1956, African
American artists playing what would by then be termed “rock ‘n’ roll”
were thoroughly integrated into the mainstream pop charts.
A Warning to the Music Business

Variety
Music “leer-ics” are touching new lows and if the fast-buck songsmiths and music
makers are incapable of social responsibility and self-restraint then regulation—
policing, if you will—have to come from more responsible sources. Meaning the pho-
nograph record manufacturers and their network daddies. These companies have a
longterm stake rather than a quick turn-around role. It won’t wash for them to echo
the cheap cynicism of the songsmiths who justify their “leer-ic” garbage by declaring
“that’s what the kids want” or “that’s the only thing that sells today.”
What are we talking about? We’re talking about “rock and roll,” about “hug,”
and “squeeze,” and kindred euphemisms which are attempting a total breakdown of
reticences about sex. In the past such material was common enough but restricted to
special places and out-and-out barrelhouses. Today “leer-ics” are offered as standard
popular music for general consumption, including consumption by teenagers. Our
teenagers are already setting something of a record in delinquency without this raw
musical idiom to smell up the environment still more.
The time is now for some serious soul-searching by the popular music industry.
This is a call to the conscience of that business. Don’t invite the Governmental and
religious lightning that is sure to strike. Forget the filthy fast buck. Nor is it just the
little music “independents” who are heedless of responsibility.
5. The original recording of “Shake, Rattle, and Roll,” by Joe Turner reached 22 in the pop
jukebox charts and spent a total of two weeks in the Top 30 during August 1954. “Work with
Me Annie” performed similarly in the pop charts in June 1954. After Etta James had an R&B hit
with a reply song, “The Wallflower (Roll with Me Henry),” Georgia Gibbs had a huge hit with a
watered-down version, entitled “Dance with Me Henry,” in April 1955.
Source: “A Warning to the Music Business,” Variety. Copyright © 1955 Reed Business Information,
A division of Reed Elsevier, Inc.
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94 The 1950s
The major diskeries, with the apparently same disregard as to where the blue
notes may fall, are as guilty. Guiltier, perhaps, considering the greater obligation—their
maturer backgrounds—their time-honored relations with the record-buying public.
The most casual look at the current crop of “lyrics” must tell even the most
naive that dirty postcards have been translated into songs. Compared to some of the
language that loosely passes for song “lyrics” today, the “pool-table papa” and ”jelly-
roll” terminology of yesteryear is polite palaver. Only difference is that this sort of lyric
then was off in a corner by itself. It was the music underworld—not the main stream.
For the music men—publishers and diskeries—to say that “that’s what the kids
want” and “that’s the only thing that sells nowadays,” is akin to condoning publi-
cation of back-fence language. Earthy dialog may belong in “art novels” but mass
media have tremendous obligation. If they forget, they’ll hear from authority. Seem-
ingly that is not the case in the music business.
Before it’s too late for the welfare of the industry—forgetting for the moment the
welfare of young Americans—VARIETY urges a strong self-examination of the record
business by its most responsible chief executive officers. A strong suspicion lingers
with VARIETY that these business men are too concerned with the profit statements
to take stock of what’s causing some of their items to sell. Or maybe they just don’t
care. A suspicion has been expressed that even the network-affiliated and Hollywood-
affiliated record companies brush things off with “that’s the music business.” This is
illogical because it is morally wrong and in the long run it’s wrong financially.
Today’s “angles” and sharp practices in the music business are an intra-trade
problem. Much of it, time-dishonored. The promulgation and propagation of a pop
song, ever since there was a Tin Pan Alley, was synonymous with shrewdness,
astuteness and deviousness that often bordered on racketeering in its subornation of
talent, subsidy, cajolery and out-and-out bribery.
In its trade functions no trade paper, VARIETY included, wants to be accused of
”blowing the whistle.” But the music business is flirting with the shrill commands of an
outer influence if it doesn’t wake up and police itself. This is not the first time VARIETY
has spotlighted the pyramiding evils of the music business as it operates today. One
of the roots is the payola. If some freak “beat” captures the kids’ imagination, the boys
are in there quick, wooing, romancing, cajoling the a&r men.
Here is where the responsible chief officers of the major diskeries should come in.
They can continue to either blind themselves, as apparently seems to be the case, or
they can compel their moral obligations to stand in the way of a little quick profit. This
has an accumulative force, because their own radio outlets can limit the exploitation
of this spurious stuff. Not only the commodities of their own affiliation, but others.
Some may argue that this is a proposal of “censorship.” Not at all. It is a plea to
ownership to assume the responsibilities of ownership and eliminate practices which
will otherwise invite censorship. In short, chums, do it yourself or have it done for
you. You’re not going to get or have it done for you.
Abel.
Further Reading
Brackett, David. “Music.” In Key Terms in Popular Music and Culture, ed. Bruce Horner and
Thomas Swiss, 124–40. Malden, Mass.: Blackwell, 1999.
Hamm, Charles. Yesterdays: Popular Song in America. New York: W. W. Norton, 1979, 401–02.
Hill, Trent. “The Enemy Within: Censorship in Rock Music in the 1950s.” South Atlantic Quar-
terly 90, no. 4 (Fall 1991): 675–708.
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From Rhythm and Blues to Rock ‘n’ Roll 95
Discography
Baker, LaVern. The Platinum Collection. WEA International, 2007.
The Crew Cuts. Best of the Crew Cuts. Polygram International, 2001.
Domino, Fats. Greatest Hits: Walking to New Orleans. Capitol, 2007.
Founding Fathers of the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame. Orpheus Records, 2001.
Gibbs, Georgia. Her Nibs. ASV Living Era, 2006.
The McGuire Sisters. The Anthology. MCA, 1999.
Miami Rockin’ Doowop from the Chart Label. Ace Records UK, 2000.
The Penguins. Earth Angel. Ace Records UK, 1990.
19. From Rhythm and Blues to Rock ‘n’ Roll

T HE SONGS OF CHUCK BER RY
Earlier in this book, in one of the excerpts from his autobiography, Ray
Charles described several factors that defined the difference between
himself, a rhythm and blues artist, and rock ‘n’ rollers such as Chuck
Berry and Little Richard; these included the intended audience for his
recordings (more adult for R&B, more teenage for rock ‘n’ roll) and the
level of emotional seriousness (rock ‘n’ roll featured more unadulter-
ated “fun” while rhythm and blues was more “serious”). During 1955,
Chuck Berry, Little Richard, Bo Diddley, and Fats Domino all developed
a new form of rhythm and blues that lent itself to being marketed to an
interracial teenage market.1 Of these four, Chuck Berry (b. 1926) in many
ways represents the prototypical rock ‘n’ roller because of his abilities
as a singer, songwriter, and guitarist (the quality that separates him
from Little Richard and Fats Domino, both pianists). More than the
other two, Berry was also a master of creating stories directed toward
teenagers that described experiences that were widespread enough to
transcend most social boundaries (cars, dating, and the frustrations of
high school). This does not mean that Berry was motivated solely by a
desire to cross over. Musically, he remained rooted in blues and the
1. Some might argue that of the three, Fats Domino’s success resulted the least from a change
of style, as he had been recording songs similar in sound since the late forties. In this case,
changes in the audience and the popular music mainstream may have been more responsible for
his sudden success in the pop market.
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96 The 1950s
guitar styles of Muddy Waters, T-Bone Walker, and Charlie Christian,
although he experimented early on with incorporating influences from
country and pop music, developing a fusion that would prove important
to his success. He also occasionally wrote lyrics that expressed subtle
social commentary (“Too Much Monkey Business”) and even racial pride
(“Brown-Eyed Handsome Man”).
The following discussion with British music critic Norman Jopling

catches up with Berry in 1967, around the time that he changed record
companies from Chess to Mercury. In the article, Berry describes how he
had recently re-recorded many of his earlier hits for Mercury at the same
time that Chess was releasing a now-historic compilation of his great-
est hits, Chuck Berry’s Golden Decade. Berry also reveals the inspiration
behind many of his most famous lyrics and the important role of country
music in the formation of his style.2 Beyond his songs and his recordings
of them, however, Berry’s legacy lives on in the numerous rock ‘n’ roll art-
ists who owe a large part of their style to him, including the Beach Boys,
Beatles, and Rolling Stones, to name only the most famous. Learning
his trademark guitar licks and boogie-style accompaniment has become
a rite of passage for every would-be rock guitarist, and his songs still
feature prominently in many country and rock ‘n’ roll bar bands.3
“Chuck Berry: Rock Lives!”

Norman Jopling
Chuck Berry has become a musical institution in the eleven years that he has been
making hit records. Since his first American hit single “Maybellene” in 1955 (before
Elvis Presley scored HIS first American hit), Chuck has endeared himself to the hearts
of all types of pop music admirers—from never-say-die side-burned drape-jacketed
rockers, to trendy mini-skirted young ladies.
Just how much has Chuck himself changed in that considerable amount of time,
musically? (to go back to Presley, think how much HE has changed!)
2. Berry provides much more detail on these subjects in his autobiography, Chuck Berry: The Au-
tobiography (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1987). For excerpts that focus on the formation of his mu-
sical style and the background of his early recordings and most famous songs, see “From Rhythm
and Blues to Rock ’n’ Roll: The Songs of Chuck Berry,” in The Pop, Rock, and Soul Reader: Histories
and Debates, 2nd ed., ed. David Brackett, 107–12 (New York: Oxford University Press, 2009).
3. For more on Berry’s guitar style, see Steve Waksman, Instruments of Desire: The Electric
Guitar and the Shaping of Musical Experience (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999),
148–66; and R. Vito, “The Chuck Berry Style: A Modern Rocker Pays Tribute to the Master,” Guitar
Player (June 1984): 72–75.
Source: “Chuck Berry: Rock Lives!” by Norman Jopling, originally published in Record Mirror, 4
March 1967. © Norman Jopling/Rock’s Backpages.
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From Rhythm and Blues to Rock ‘n’ Roll 97
“Then was then, and now is now,” Chuck replied; “I re-cut my old tunes for
this new Mercury album, but they’re different from on the old albums. I doubt if I
could play them the same now. When I listen to my old tunes I’m never completely
satisfied with them. I won’t say I’m unsatisfied—just not completely satisfied. New
songs? Well, I’ve written seven, no, eight songs in six months. Five of them I’ve
recorded and sent to Mercury—the others are lying there in my brief-case. One was
released—‘Club Nitty Gritty.’ The other album I have here is just a re-issue from
Chess.” The Chess LP was a double-album set, containing most of Chuck’s biggest
hits, ranging from “Maybellene” and the early hits, to “No Particular Place To Go”
and “You Never Can Tell,” his later hits for Chess. Why did Chuck leave Chess after
ten years recording with them? Was there any ill-feeling?
“Oh no, there were no bad feelings. We just shook hands and they wished me
good luck. The change-over was just a business deal. The first Mercury album will be
released . . . in March or April.”
One thing which fascinates most people about Chuck Berry are the lyrics of his
songs. All about life—cars, school, real romance. What has Chuck to say about the
words of his songs?
“The car songs—I had a phase of about four or five years of writing songs about
cars. Because this was a yearning which I had since I was aged seven to drive about in
a car. I first started driving at 17—one year earlier than I should have. It was my fasci-
nation for the roads, for driving, motoring, which prompted me to write those songs.
“I have written about my cars, and about my school. I can’t write about some-
thing which I haven’t experienced. I wrote ‘Sweet Little Sixteen’ at a concert when I
saw a little girl running around backstage collecting autographs. She couldn’t have
seen one act on the show—unless it was mine! When I wrote ‘Memphis,’ I had known
couples who had divorced and the tragedies of the children.
“You can associate these songs with life—for instance when I wrote ‘Maybel-
lene’ just about every farmer must have been driving about in Fords, station wagons
etc. But then Chevrolet got wise and started a big advertising campaign with the
farmers!”
I wondered how much notice Chuck took of the charts. How much does he fol-
low them, and consequently how much is his music influenced by current trends and
other artists?
“I don’t study the charts—I observe them,” he replied. “Of course I’ve been
influenced, by everyone from Bing Crosby to the Beatles. I don’t let my music be
consciously affected by anything. What do I think of the Beatles versions of two of
my songs? Very nice. But they recorded them two, three years ago now. In fact it’s
only now that I’m beginning to feel the benefits of them—those songs ‘Roll Over
Beethoven’ and ‘Rock And Roll Music’ are now on an upward trend.
“Talking about the Beatles, three or four of their songs are amongst the best ever
written in pop music. Especially ‘I Wanna Hold Your Hand.’ I put that one with
songs like my ‘Sweet Little Sixteen’—and I’m not saying that just because I wrote it.
I’ll never write another song like that.
“And of course there’s the Everly Brothers ‘Wake Up Little Susie.’ That’s really
one of my favorite songs. Those three songs I’ve named—they have virtue and fresh-
ness. It doesn’t matter who sings them.”
On the personal side there are a couple of popular misconceptions about Chuck.
He stated, “When I meet people they say, ‘Wow, we thought you were a short man.’ ”
(Chuck is well over six feet tall.) “I guess it’s because of the name. Chuck, it’s small,
you know! And another thing, I have this popular image of being quiet, and people
wonder why, because of my stage act I suppose in which I go pretty wild. Well, you
can’t expect me to be leaping around when I come off stage, and talking extra-fast!”
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98 The 1950s
Apart from the musical side, Chuck Berry has developed into a very successful
businessman. He has his own music corporation, music publishers, amusement park,
and several other highly-successful money-making projects. Why, I wondered, had
Chuck chosen of all things an amusement park (called Berry Park) to make money from?
“It goes a long way back. When I was a child I lived opposite a park but my
father forbade me to go there. We moved somewhere else, and the same thing hap-
pened. You see, it’s a psychological thing. When I bought the land to develop it was
just wheat land. It was winter at the time, and of course there was no wheat growing.
The first thing I built there was a swimming pool, and I charged 25¢ admission. Now
there are many more things to do and I charge more. I have groups there, Western
and Rock. That’s the music people want to listen to—they don’t want jazz. After all
who wants to learn and study music when they go to an amusement park—people
just want something to entertain them.
“Myself, when I feel like dancing then I play rock music. If I’m in a sentimental
mood, then Western music. And of course I do play jazz because that’s the only
music you can learn something from.”
I ventured to suggest that it was strange that Chuck, hero of the rock and roll set,
should like Country and Western music. Especially as his own brand of sound was
so different.
“Oh no! You’re wrong there. ‘Maybellene’ was very much a country song, with
country lyrics. Maybe a little faster but basically it was country. You ask me if I would
have made money if I hadn’t been an entertainer. Yes!”
Finally, just how much work does Chuck do now, and will he be appearing in
any more rock films?
“I take about 60 per cent of the work that’s offered to me. That means I work
about three days a week. I’m offered work for about four or five days of the week.
But I won’t do the kind of tours that I used to. They were eighty day tours . . . really
something. I like to do different kind of venues—colleges, concert halls, different
avenues of work. The reason I haven’t made any films for a long while is because I
haven’t been offered any. I wouldn’t be averse to making films at all.”
And a final point of interest—Chuck reads a lot. He reads works on psychology
and science. Nothing else. No fiction. And he says, “I write fiction, I don’t read it. . . .”
Further Reading
Berry, Chuck. Chuck Berry: The Autobiography. New York: Random House, 1987.
Taylor, Timothy D. “His Name Was in Lights: Chuck Berry’s Johnny B. Goode.” In Read-
ing Pop: Approaches in Textual Analysis in Popular Music, ed. Richard Middleton, 165–82.
Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press, 2000.
Vito, R. “The Chuck Berry Style: A Modern Rocker Pays Tribute to the Master.” Guitar Player
(June 1984): 72–75.
Waksman, Steve. Instruments of Desire: The Electric Guitar and the Shaping of Musical Experience.
Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1999.
———. “The Turn to Noise: Rock Guitar from the 1950s to the 1970s.” In The Cambridge Companion
to the Guitar, ed. Victor Coelho, 109–21. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2003.
Discography
Berry, Chuck. The Great Twenty-Eight. MCA, 1990.
———. Johnny B. Goode: His Complete ’50s Chess Recordings. Hip-O Select, 2007.
Diddley, Bo. I’m a Man: The Chess Masters, 1955–1958. Hip-O Select, 2007.
Legends Collection: Rock ‘n’ Roll Teenagers. Legends Collection, 2002.
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20. Little Richard
BOLDLY GOING W HER E NO M A N H A D GONE BEFOR E
Compared to Chuck Berry, Little Richard (b. 1932) came from a far more
rural and humble background, and his early experiences in a backwoods
Pentecostal church played a stronger role in shaping his musical style than
they did Berry’s. Little Richard’s extroverted and energetic singing, piano
playing, and songwriting made him one of the biggest stars of the rock
‘n’ roll era. His vocal style, in particular, had an impact on many subse-
quent musicians, including James Brown, Otis Redding, Paul McCartney,
and John Fogerty (of Creedence Clearwater Revival). After making several
unsuccessful recordings in the early 1950s, he recorded “Tutti Frutti” in
September 1955, which rose high on both the R&B and pop charts. “Tutti
Frutti” set the tone for the hits that followed between 1956 and 1958: Over
a fast boogie-shuffle rhythm with many stop-time breaks, Richard would
sing playful double entendres near the top of his range in a searing timbre
interspersed with trademark falsetto whoops. His piano playing derives
from boogie-woogie style, emphasizes the upbeat, and features a great
many glissandi. In performance, Richard would frequently leave the piano
to dance exuberantly, occasionally on top of the piano itself.
In addition to his uninhibited presence as a singer, pianist, and
dancer, Richard’s visual appearance added to the sense of his outrageous-
ness: with his large pompadour, liberal use of makeup, and gaudy cloth-
ing, he raised the specter of cross-dressing and ambiguous sexuality at a
time when such issues were strictly taboo. In pondering the improbability
of Richard’s mass acceptance at the time, one possible explanation sug-
gests itself: his outrageous performance style camouflaged (and perhaps
deflected and deflated) whatever threat he posed to heterosexual norms.
After several more hits and appearances in three films (Don’t Knock the
Rock and The Girl Can’t Help It, both in 1956, and Mister Rock ‘n’ Roll, in
1957), Richard decided abruptly to quit his career for the ministry because
of a vision he had during a flight back to the States from Australia.
The following excerpts come from an “oral history” of Little Richard,

rather than an autobiography. Thus, in addition to Richard’s voice, we
hear from Bumps Blackwell, a famous A&R (artist and repertoire) man
for Specialty Records (an independent record company specializing in
99
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100 The 1950s
African American sacred and secular music). An academically trained
composer, Blackwell, along with Henry Glover and Jesse Stone, was one
of the few African American A&R men at the time. His astute comments
derive from the important role that he played in Little Richard’s early
recordings: in addition to producing, he cowrote many of Richard’s best-
known songs. Richard presents his own views on how his music mapped
racial relations, the interesting origins of “Lucille,” and Alan Freed.
from The Life and Times of Little Richard: The Quasar of Rock
Charles White
You’d hear people singing all the time. The women would be outside in the back
doing the washing, rubbing away on the rub-boards, and somebody else sweep-
ing the yard, and somebody else would start singing “We-e-e-ll . . . Nobody knows
the trouble I’ve seen. . . .” And gradually other people would pick it up, until the
whole of the street would be singing. Or “Sometimes I feel like a motherless child, a
long way from home. . . .” Everybody singing. I used to go up and down the street,
some streets were paved, but our street was dirt, just singing at the top of my voice.
There’d be guitar players playing on the street—old Slim, Willie Amos, and my
cousin, Buddy Penniman. I remember Bamalama, this feller with one eye, who’d
play the wash-board with a thimble. He had a bell like the school-teacher’s, and he’d
sing, “A-bamalam, you shall be free, and in the mornin’ you shall be free.” See, there
was so much poverty, so much prejudice in those days. I imagine people had to sing
to feel their connection with God. To sing their trials away, sing their problems away,
to make their burdens easier and the load lighter. That’s the beginning. That’s where
it started.
We used to have a group called the Penniman Singers—all of us, the whole fam-
ily. We used to go around and sing in all the churches, and we used to sing in con-
tests with other family groups, like the Brown Singers, in what they called the Battle
of the Gospels. We used to have some good nights. I remember one time. I could
always sing loud and I kept changing the key upward. Marquette said it ruined his
voice trying to sing tenor behind me! The sisters didn’t like me screaming and sing-
ing and threw their hats and purses at us, shouting “Hush, hush, boys—hush!” They
called me War Hawk because of my hollerin’ and screamin’ and they stopped me
singing in church.
From a boy, I wanted to be a preacher. I wanted to be like Brother Joe May,
the singing evangelist, who they called the Thunderbolt of the West. My daddy’s
father, Walter Penniman, was a preacher, and so was my mother’s brother, Reverend
Louis Stuart, who’s now pastor of a Baptist church in Philadelphia. And I have a
cousin, Amos Penniman, who’s a minister in the Pentecostal Church. I have always
been basically a religious person—in fact most of the black people where I’m from
was. I went to the New Hope Baptist Church, on Third Avenue, where my mother
was a member. My daddy’s people were members of Foundation Templar AME
Church, a Methodist church on Madison Street, and my mother’s father was with the
Source: Charles White, The Life and Times of Little Richard: The Quasar of Rock, Macmillan, 1985,
pp. 15–16, 39–40, 47–51, 60–62, 65–66, 70, 75–76. © 1985 Charles White.
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Little Richard 101
oliness Temple Baptist Church, downtown in Macon. So I was kind of mixed up
H
in it right from the start. Of all the churches, I used to like going to the Pentecostal
Church, because of the music.
Clint Brantley set up a tour around Georgia and Tennessee—Nashville, Knoxville,

Milledgeville, Sparta, Fitzgerald, and Tallahassee, places like that. We used to draw
the crowds all the time. The places were always packed. I was popular around those
states before Chuck and Lee Diamond joined the band. I got two sax players and
named the band the Upsetters. It made me outstanding in Macon at that time, to have
this fantastic band in a little town like this. The other bands couldn’t compete. So
when it said “Little Richard and the Upsetters” everybody wanted to come. We had
a station wagon with the name written on it, and I thought it was fantastic.
We were each making fifteen dollars a night, and there was a lot you could do
with fifteen dollars. We would play three, four nights a week—that’s fifty dollars.
And sometimes we would play at a place on the outskirts of Macon at a midnight
dance. That would pay ten dollars and all the fried chicken you could eat. We were
playing some of Roy Brown’s tunes, a lot of Fats Domino tunes, some B. B. King
tunes, and I believe a couple of Little Walter’s and a few things by Billy Wright. I
really looked up to Billy Wright. That’s where I got the hairstyle from and every-
thing. “Keep Your Hand on Your Heart,” that was one of them. We’d play all around
Georgia, Tennessee, and Kentucky, cos we had a big name around those places. We
would draw packed houses every place and we’d get a guarantee and a percentage
of the take over the guarantee. We were making a darned good living. One song
which would really tear the house down was “Tutti Frutti.” The lyrics were kind of
vulgar, “Tutti Frutti good booty—if it don’t fit don’t force it. . . .” It would crack the
crowd up. We were playing without a bass and Chuck would have to bang real hard
on his bass drum in order to get a bass-fiddle effect.
BUMPS BLACKWELL: When I got to New Orleans, Cosimo Matassa, the studio
owner, called and said, “Hey, man, this boy’s down here waiting for you.” When I
walked in, there’s this cat in this loud shirt, with hair waved up six inches above his
head. He was talking wild, thinking up stuff just to be different, you know? I could
tell he was a mega-personality. So we got to the studio, on Rampart and Dumaine. I
had the Studio Band in—Lee Allen on tenor sax, Alvin “Red” Tyler on baritone sax,
Earl Palmer on drums, Edgar Blanchard and Justin Adams on guitar, Huey “Piano”
Smith and James Booker on piano, Frank Fields, bass, all of them the best in New
Orleans. They were Fats Domino’s session men.
Let me tell you about the recording methods we used in those days. Recording
technicians of today, surrounded by huge banks of computer-controlled sound tech-
nology, would find the engineering techniques available in the 1950s as primitive as
the Kitty Hawk is to the space shuttle. When I started there was no tape. It was disk to
disk. There was no such thing as overdubbing. Those things we did at Cosimo’s were
on tape, but they were all done straight ahead. The tracks you heard were the tracks
as they were recorded from beginning to end. We would take sixty or seventy takes.
We were recording two tracks. Maybe we might go to surgery and intercut a track
or cut a track at the end or something, but we didn’t know what overdubbing was.
The studio was just a back room in a furniture store, like an ordinary motel room.
For the whole orchestra. There’d be a grand piano just as you came in the door. I’d
have the grand’s lid up with a mike in the keys and Alvin Tyler and Lee Allen would
be blowing into that. Earl Palmer’s drums were out of the door, where I had one
mike, as well. The bassman would be way over the other side of the studio. You see,
the bass would cut and bleed in, so I could get the bass.
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102 The 1950s
The recording equipment was a little old quarter-inch single-channel Ampex
Model 300 in the next room. I would go in there and listen with earphones. If it didn’t
sound right I’d just keep moving the mikes around. I would have to set up all those
things. But, you see, once I had got my sound, my room sound, well then I would
just start running my numbers straight down. It might take me forty-five minutes,
an hour, to get that balance within the room, but once those guys hit a groove you
could go on all night. When we got it, we got it. I would like to see some of these
great producers today produce on monaural or binaural equipment with the same
atmosphere. Cos the problem is, if you’re going to get a room sound with the timbre
of the instruments, you can’t put them together as a band and just start playing. All
of a sudden one horn’s going to stick out. So I had to place the mikes very carefully
and put the drummer outside the door.
Well, the first session was to run six hours, and we planned to cut eight sides.
Richard ran through the songs on his audition tape. “He’s My Star” was very disap-
pointing. I did not even record it. But “Wonderin’ ” we got in two takes. Then we got
“I’m Just a Lonely Guy,” which was written by a local girl called Dorothy La Bostrie
who was always pestering me to record her stuff. Then “The Most I Can Offer,” and
then “Baby.” So far so good. But it wasn’t really what I was looking for. I had heard
that Richard’s stage act was really wild, but in the studio that day he was very inhib-
ited. Possibly his ego was pushing him to show his spiritual feeling or something, but
it certainly wasn’t coming together like I had expected and hoped.
The problem was that what he looked like, and what he sounded like didn’t
come together. If you look like Tarzan and sound like Mickey Mouse it just doesn’t
work out. So I’m thinking, Oh, Jesus . . . You know what it’s like when you don’t
know what to do? It’s “Let’s take a break. Let’s go to lunch.” I had to think. I didn’t
know what to do. I couldn’t go back to Rupe1 with the material I had because there
was nothing there that I could put out. Nothing that I could ask anyone to put a pro-
motion on. Nothing to merchandise. And I was paying out serious money.
So here we go over to the Dew Drop Inn, and, of course, Richard’s like any other
ham. We walk into the place and, you know, the girls are there and the boys are there
and he’s got an audience. There’s a piano, and that’s his crutch. He’s on stage reckon-
ing to show Lee Allen his piano style. So WOW! He gets to going. He hits that piano,
didididididididididi . . . and starts to sing “Awop-bop-a-Loo-Mop a-good Goddam—
Tutti Frutti, good booty. . . .” I said, “WOW! That’s what I want from you, Richard.
That’s a hit!” I knew that the lyrics were too lewd and suggestive to record. It would
never have got played on the air. So I got hold of Dorothy La Bostrie, who had come
over to see how the recording of her song was going. I brought her to the Dew Drop.
Dorothy was a little colored girl so thin she looked like six o’clock. She just had
to close one eye and she looked like a needle. Dorothy had songs stacked this high
and was always asking me to record them. She’d been singing these songs to me, but
the trouble was they all sounded like Dinah Washington’s “Blowtop Blues.” They
were all composed to the same melody. But looking through her words, I could see
that she was a prolific writer. She just didn’t understand melody. So I said to her,
“Look. You come and write some lyrics to this, cos I can’t use the lyrics Richard’s
got.” He had some terrible words in there. Well, Richard was embarrassed to sing
the song and she was not certain that she wanted to hear it. Time was running out,
and I knew it could be a hit. I talked, using every argument I could think of. I asked
him if he had a grudge against making money. I told her that she was over twenty-
one, had a houseful of kids and no husband and needed the money. And finally, I
1. Art Rupe, owner of Specialty Records.
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Little Richard 103
convinced them. Richard turned to face the wall and sang the song two or three times
and Dorothy listened.
Break time was over, and we went back to the studio to finish the session, leav-
ing Dorothy to write the words. I think the first thing we did was “Directly from My
Heart to You.” Now that, and “I’m Just a Lonely Guy,” could have made it. Those
two I could have gotten by with—just by the skin of my teeth. Fifteen minutes before
the session was to end, the chick comes in and puts these little trite lyrics in front
of me. I put them in front of Richard. Richard says he ain’t got no voice left. I said,
“Richard, you’ve got to sing it.”
There had been no chance to write an arrangement, so I had to take the chance
on Richard playing the piano himself. That wild piano was essential to the success
of the song. It was impossible for the other piano players to learn it in the short time
we had. I put a microphone between Richard and the piano and another inside the
piano, and we started to record it. It took three takes, and in fifteen minutes we had
it. “Tutti Frutti.”
BUMPS BLACKWELL: The white radio stations wouldn’t play Richard’s version of
“Tutti Frutti” and made Boone’s cover number one. So we decided to up the tempo
on the follow-up and get the lyrics going so fast that Boone wouldn’t be able to get
his mouth together to do it! The follow-up was “Long Tall Sally.” It was written by a
girl named Enortis Johnson and the story of how she came to us seems unbelievable
today.
I got a call from a big disk jockey called Honey Chile. She had to see me. Very
urgent. I went, because we relied on the jocks to push the records, and the last thing
you said to them was no. I went along to this awful downtown hotel, and there
was Honey Chile with this young girl, about sixteen, seventeen, with plaits, who
reminded you of one of these little sisters at a Baptist meeting, all white starched col-
lars and everything. She looked like someone who’s just been scrubbed—so out of
place in this joint filled with pimps and unsavory characters just waiting to scoop her
up when she’s left alone, you know?
So Honey Chile said to me, “Bumps, you got to do something about this girl.
She’s walked all the way from Appaloosa, Mississippi, to sell this song to Richard,
cos her auntie’s sick and she needs money to put her in the hospital.” I said okay, let’s
hear the song, and this little clean-cut kid, all bows and things, says, “Well, I don’t
have a melody yet. I thought maybe you or Richard could do that.” So I said okay,
what have you got, and she pulls out this piece of paper. It looked like toilet paper
with a few words written on it:
Saw Uncle John with Long Tall Sally
They saw Aunt Mary comin,
So they ducked back in the alley
And she said, “Aunt Mary is sick. And I’m going to tell her about Uncle John. Cos he
was out there with Long Tall Sally, and I saw ‘em. They saw Aunt Mary comin’ and
they ducked back in the alley.”
I said, “They did, huh? And this is a song? You walked all the way from Appa-
loosa, Mississippi, with this piece of paper?” (I’d give my right arm if I could find it
now. I kept it for years. It was a classic. Just a few words on a used doily!)
Honey Chile said, “Bumps, you gotta do something for this child.” So I went
back to the studio. I told Richard. He didn’t want to do it. I said, “Richard, Honey
Chile will get mad at us. . . .” I kept hearing “Duck back in the alley, duck back in
the alley.” We kept adding words and music to it, to put it right. Richard started to
sing it—and all of a sudden there was “Have some fun tonight.” That was the hook.
Richard loved it cos the hottest thing then was the shuffle.
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104 The 1950s
Richard was reciting that thing. He got on the piano and got the music going and
it just started growing and growing. We kept trying, trying it, and I pulled the musi-
cians in and we pulled stuff from everybody. That’s where Richard’s “Ooooooh”
first came in. That’s what he taught to Paul McCartney. Well, we kept rerecording
because I wanted it faster. I drilled Richard with “Duck back in the alley” faster and
faster until it burned, it was so fast. When it was finished I turned to Richard and
said, “Let’s see Pat Boone get his mouth together to do this song.”** That’s how it
was done, and if you look at the copyright you’ll see it’s Johnson, Penniman, and
Blackwell.
LITTLE RICHARD: We were breaking through the racial barrier. The white kids had
to hide my records cos they daren’t let their parents know they had them in the
house. We decided that my image should be crazy and way-out so that the adults
would think I was harmless. I’d appear in one show dressed as the Queen of England
and in the next as the pope.
They were exciting times. The fans would go really wild. Nearly every place we went,
the people got unruly. They’d want to get to me and tear my clothes off. It would
be standing-room-only crowds and 90 percent of the audience would be white. I’ve
always thought that Rock ‘n’ Roll brought the races together. Although I was black,
the fans didn’t care. I used to feel good about that. Especially being from the South,
where you see the barriers, having all these people who we thought hated us, show-
ing all this love.
A lot of songs I sang to crowds first to watch their reaction, that’s how I knew they’d
hit, but we recorded them over and over again. “Lucille” was after a female imper-
sonator in my hometown. We used to call him Queen Sonya. I just took the rhythm
of an old song of mine called “Directly from My Heart to You” slowed down and I
used to do that riff and go “Sonya!” and I made it into “Lucille.” My cousin used to
live in a place called Barn Hop Bottom in Macon, right by the railway line, and when
the trains came past they’d shake the houses—chocka-chocka-chocka—and that’s how
I got the rhythm for “Directly from My Heart” and “Lucille.” I was playing it way
before I met Bumps. I was playing “Lucille” and “Slippin’ and Slidin’” in my room
in Macon way before I started recording for Specialty. I’d make up the music while I
was making the words fit.
“Good Golly Miss Molly” I first heard a D.J. using that name. His name was
Jimmy Pennick, but you know it was Jackie Brenston that gave me the musical inspi-
ration. Jackie Brenston was a sax player with Ike Turner’s Kings of Rhythm when
he did “Rocket 88” and “Juiced,” and Ike Turner’s band backed him, but they didn’t
take any credits because of their contracts. I always liked that record, and I used to
use the riff in my act, so when we were looking for a lead-in to “Good Golly Miss
Molly” I did that and it fitted.
**
Boone did cover “Long Tall Sally.” An anemic version in which he reverses the Midas touch
and turns gold into dross, managing to sound as though he is not quite sure what he is singing
about. It sold a million.
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Elvis Presley, Sam Phillips, and Rockabilly 105
Further Reading
Altschuler, Glenn C. All Shook Up: How Rock ‘n’ Roll Changed America. New York: Oxford
Kirby, David. Little Richard: The Birth of Rock ‘n’ Roll. New York: Continuum International
Publishing Group, 2009.
White, Charles, Richard Wayne Penniman, and Robert Blackwell. The Life and Times of Little
Richard: The Quasar of Rock. New York: Random House, 1984.
Discography
Boone, Pat. Pat’s 40 Big Ones. Connoisseur Collection, 2001.
______. The Singles+. Br Music Holland, 2003.
Little Richard. Little Richard: Eighteen Greatest Hits. Rhino/WEA, 1985.
______. Greatest Gold Hits. Mastercuts Lifestyle, 2004.
______. The Explosive Little Richard. Edsel Records, UK, 2007.
21. Elvis Presley, Sam Phillips, and Rockabilly
As the most successful artist of the mid-1950s rock ‘n’ roll explosion, Elvis
Presley (1935–77) had a profound impact on popular music. His sense of
style, both musical and personal, was both the focal point of the media
reaction to early rock ‘n’ roll and the inspiration for some of the most
important rock musicians to follow. The narrative of his meteoric rise and
subsequent decline amid mysterious and tawdry circumstances fueled
many myths both during his life and after his death at 42.1
The earliest musical experiences of Presley, who was raised in pov-
erty in the Deep South, came in the Pentecostal services of the First
Assembly of God Church.2 Other formative influences included popular
1. The mythologizing after his death has been prolific enough to spawn at least two books
that are devoted to understanding it, as well as numerous articles; see Gilbert Rodman, Elvis after
Elvis: The Posthumous Career of a Living Legend (New York: Routledge, 1996); and Greil Marcus,
Dead Elvis: A Chronicle of a Cultural Obsession (New York: Doubleday, 1991).
2. C. Wolfe, “Presley and the Gospel Tradition,” in The Elvis Reader: Texts and Sources on the
King of Rock ’n’ Roll, ed. K. Quain, 13–27 (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1992).
bra43588_pt02_067-124.indd 105 05/27/19 04:52 PM

106 The 1950s
tunes of the day, country music, blues, and rhythm and blues. Although
he had little experience as a performer, in 1954, at age 19, he came to the
attention of Sam Phillips, owner of a Memphis recording company, Sun
Records. Phillips teamed Presley, who sang and played guitar, with local
country and western musicians Scotty Moore (guitar) and Bill Black (bass).
During their first recording session in June 1954, the trio recorded a single
with “That’s All Right, Mama” (originally recorded in 1946 by blues singer
Arthur “Big Boy” Crudup) on one side and “Blue Moon of Kentucky” (origi-
nally recorded in 1946 by bluegrass pioneer Bill Monroe) on the other. The
group’s style blended elements of country and rhythm and blues without
being identifiable as either; the distinctive sound included Moore’s rhyth-
mically oriented lead guitar playing, Black’s slapped bass, and Presley’s
forceful, if crude, rhythm guitar, with the recording swathed in a distinc-
tive electronic echo effect. Presley’s voice, however, attracted the most
attention: swooping almost two octaves at times, changing timbre from a
croon to a growl instantaneously, he seemed not so much to be synthesiz-
ing preexisting styles as to be juxtaposing them, sometimes within the
course of a single phrase.3 While the trio’s initial record provoked enthu-
siastic responses immediately upon being broadcast on Memphis radio,
it confused audiences, who wondered if the singer was white or black.
And although white musicians’ music had incorporated African American
instrumental and vocal approaches since the earliest “hillbilly” recordings
of the 1920s, no previous white singer had so successfully forged an indi-
vidual style clearly rooted in a contemporaneous African American idiom.
Presley, Moore, and Black released four more singles on Sun dur-
ing 1954–55; each one featured a blues or rhythm and blues song
backed with a country-style number. Presley’s uninhibited, sexually
charged performances throughout the Southeast provoked frenzied
responses and influenced other musicians: by the end of 1955, per-
formers such as Carl Perkins and Johnny Cash had emerged with a style
(coined “rockabilly”) that resembled Presley’s.
Presley’s growing popularity attracted the attention of promoter
“Colonel” Tom Parker, who negotiated the sale of Presley’s contract
to RCA Records for the then-unheard-of sum of $35,000. Presley’s first
recording for RCA, “Heartbreak Hotel” (released in March 1956), achieved
the unprecedented feat of reaching the Top 5 on the pop, rhythm and
blues, and country charts simultaneously. This recording and the songs
that followed in 1956 all combined aspects of his spare Sun recordings
with increasingly heavy instrumentation—including piano, drums, and
background singers—that moved the sound closer to that of mainstream
pop. Both sides of his third RCA single “Hound Dog”/”Don’t Be Cruel”
hit number one on all three charts. “Hound Dog” radically transformed
Willie Mae “Big Mama” Thornton’s 1952 R&B hit, while “Don’t Be Cruel”
was a more pop-oriented recording written specifically for Presley by
Otis Blackwell. Presley’s vocal style already showed signs of manner-
ism, trading the unpredictable exchanges of different voices of the early
recordings for a single affect throughout each song.
3. These aspects of Presley’s style are described in Richard Middleton, “All Shook Up,” in The
Elvis Reader, 3–12.
bra43588_pt02_067-124.indd 106 05/27/19 04:52 PM

Although Elvis Presley did participate in some interviews throughout his

career, the questions and his answers in these interviews tended toward
the perfunctory (e.g., in response to questions about rock ‘n’ roll, Elvis
responded, “It’s hard to explain rock ‘n’ roll. It’s not what you call folk
music. It’s a beat that gets you. You feel it.”).4 In contrast, Presley’s first
producer, Sam Phillips, has reflected at length on those early recording
sessions and the conditions that gave rise to rockabilly. Prior to record-
ing Presley’s first five singles and the appearance of Elvis’s rockabilly
successors at Sun such as Carl Perkins, Jerry Lee Lewis, Johnny Cash,
and Roy Orbison, Phillips recorded local blues and R&B musicians like
B. B. King, Ike Turner, and Howlin’ Wolf, including a session that resulted
in the important proto–rock ‘n’ roll recording, Jackie Brenston’s “Rocket
88” (with a band led by Turner) in 1951. Phillips is also a natural-born
storyteller, as revealed by many of the anecdotes in this interview.
Sam Phillips Interview

Elizabeth Kaye
There are many stories about how Elvis came to Sun in 1954. I’d like to hear your version of it.
He was working for Crown Electric. I’d seen the truck go back and forth outside,
and I thought, “They sure are doing a hell of a lot of business around here.”
But I never saw it stop anywhere. So Elvis had . . . he had cased the joint a long
time before he stopped the truck and got out. And there’s no telling how many
days and nights behind that wheel he was figuring out some way to come in
and make a record without saying, “Mr. Phillips, would you audition me?” So
his mother’s birthday gave him the opportunity to come in and make a little
personal record. [Elvis claimed he was making the record for his mother, but
her birthday was, in fact, months away, so perhaps he had other motives.]
The first song he recorded was “My Happiness.” What do you think when you heard it?
There wasn’t anything that striking about Elvis, except his sideburns were down
to here [gestures], which I kind of thought, well, you know, “That’s pretty cool,
man. Ain’t nobody else got them that damn long.” We talked in the studio. And
I played the record back for him in the control room on the little crystal turntable
and walked up front and told Marion [Phillips’s assistant, Marion Keisker] to
write down Elvis’ name and a number and how we can get ahold of him.
You called him back to cut a ballad called “Without You.” That song was never released.
What went wrong?
We got some pretty good cuts on the thing, but I wanted to check him out other ways before
I made a final decision as to which route we were going to attempt to go with him.
And I decided I wanted to look at things with a little tempo, because you can
really hang yourself out on ballads or when you go up against Perry Como or
4. This quote comes from Mick Farren and Pearce Marchbank, Elvis in His Own Words (Lon-
don: Omnibus Press, 1977), 27.
Source: “Sam Phillips: Interview” by Elizabeth Kaye from Rolling Stone issue dated February 13,
1986. Copyright © Rolling Stone LLC 1986. All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission.
bra43588_pt02_067-124.indd 107 06/04/19 10:43 PM

108 The 1950s
Eddie Fisher or even Patti Page, all of those people. I wasn’t looking for anything
that greatly polished.
After that, you put Elvis with a band, Scotty Moore on guitar and Bill Black on bass. Why
did you choose them?
The two of them, they’d been around the studio, Lord, I don’t know how many damned
times, you know? Scotty had been playing with different bands, and although he
hadn’t ever done a session for me, I knew he had the patience and he wasn’t afraid
to try anything, and that’s so important when you’re doing laboratory experiments.
Scotty was also the type of person who could take instruction real good.
And I kidded him a lot. I said, “If you don’t quit trying to copy Chet Atkins, I’ll
throw you out of this damn place.” And Bill, he was just Bill Black, and the best
slap bass player in the city.
What were you trying to achieve with Elvis?
Now you’ve got to keep in mind Elvis Presley probably innately was the most intro-
verted person that came into that studio. Because he didn’t play with bands. He
didn’t go to this little club and pick and grin. All he did was set with his guitar
on the side of his bed at home. I don’t think he even played on the front porch.
So I had to try to establish a direction for him. And I had to look into the
market, and if the market was full of one type of thing, why try to go in there?
There’s only so many pieces in a pie. That’s how I figured it. I knew from the
beginning that I was going to have to do something different and that it might be
harder to get it going. But if I got it going, I might have something.
How did you come to cut “That’s All Right”?
That night we had gone through a number of things, and I was getting ready to fold
it up. But I didn’t want to discourage the damn people, you understand? I knew
how enthusiastic Elvis was to try to do something naturally. I knew also that
Scotty Moore was staying there till he dropped dead, you know? I don’t remem-
ber exactly what I said, but it was light hearted. I think I told him, “There ain’t
a damn song you can do that sounds worth a damn,” or something like that.
He knew it was tongue in cheek. But it was getting to be a critical time, because
we had been in the studio a lot. Well, I went back into the booth. I left the mikes
open, and I think Elvis felt like, really, “What the hell have I got to lose? I’m really
gonna blow his head off, man.” And they cut down on “That’s All Right,” and
hell, man, they was just as instinctive as they could be.
It’s said that you heard him singing it, and you said, “What are you doing?” and he said, “I
don’t know,” and you said, “Do it again.” Is that true?
I don’t remember exactly verbatim. But it was something along the lines that I’ve
been quoted.
Scotty Moore says that when he heard the playback he thought he’d be run out of town. How
did you feel when you heard it?
First of all, Scotty wasn’t shocked at any damned thing I attempted to do. Scotty isn’t
shockable. And for me, that damned thing came through so loud and clear it was
just like a big flash of lightning and the thunder that follows. I knew it was what
I was looking for for Elvis. When anybody tells you they know they’ve got a hit,
they don’t know what the hell they’re talking about. But I knew I had it on “That’s
All Right.” I just knew I had found a groove. In my opinion. And that’s all I had to
go on, honey. I mean I let people hear it. But I didn’t ask them their damn opinions.
Then what happened?
I let Scotty, Bill and Elvis know I was pretty damn pleased. Then I made an acetate
dub of it and took it up to [Memphis disc jockey] Dewey Phillips and played him
bra43588_pt02_067-124.indd 108 05/27/19 04:52 PM

the tape. And Daddy-O Dewey wanted to hear it again. “Goddamn, man,” he
says, “I got to have it.” Red, hot and blue. You’d have to know Dewey.
And two nights later he played that thing, and the phones started ringing.
Honey, I’ll tell you, all hell broke loose. People were calling that station, and it re-
ally actually surprised me, because I knew nobody knew Elvis. Elvis just didn’t
have friends, didn’t have a bunch of guys he ran with or anything, you know?
Anyway, it was just fantastic. To my knowledge, there weren’t any adverse calls.
Why did you decide to back “That’s All Right” with “Blue Moon of Kentucky”?
This was before anybody thought of young people being interested in bluegrass. But
we did this thing, and it just had an intrigue. And that’s the one where I thought
maybe there was a good possibility of getting run out of town, ’cause hey, man,
you didn’t mess with bluegrass. Bluegrass is kind of sacred, you know.
Once the record was released, there was an incredible furor. How did it affect you?
Rock & roll probably put more money in the collection boxes of the churches across
America than anything the preacher could have said. I certainly know that to be
a fact. Not only them. Disc jockeys broke the hell out of my records. Broke ‘em
on the air. Slam them over the damn microphone. Now if I hadn’t affected people
like that, I might have been in trouble.
Do you remember the session for “Good Rockin’ Tonight”?
Oh, God, we all loved that song, man. I took Bill, and I said, “I don’t want none of this
damned slapping. I want you to pull them damned strings, boy.”
Your contract with Elvis had him completely locked up, so the only way Colonel Parker could
have become involved was as a concert booker. Why did you decide to sell his contract
just a year and a half after he started with you?
I had looked at everything for how I could take a little extra money and get myself
out of a real bind. I mean, I wasn’t broke, but man, it was hand-to-mouth. I made
an offer to Tom Parker, but the whole thing was that I made an offer I didn’t
think they’d even consider—$35,000, plus I owed Elvis $4000 or $5000.
So you thought the offer was so high no one would take it?
I didn’t necessarily want them not to take it.
Did you realize how much Elvis was worth?
Hell, no. I didn’t have any idea the man was going to be the biggest thing that ever
happened to the industry.
Were you ever sorry you let him go?
No. That was the best judgment call I could make at the time, and I still think it
is. And Sun went on and did many, many things. I hoped the one thing that
wouldn’t happen to me was that I would be a one-artist or a one-hit label.
Did you give Elvis any advice when he left Sun?
The one real ammunition I gave him was “Don’t let them tell you what to do. Don’t
lose your individuality.”
Then how did you feel when he started making the type of movies he made?
They were just things that you could make for nothing and make millions off of, and
Elvis didn’t have anything to do with it. That was Colonel Tom Parker and the
moguls at the different studios. I think it was almost sinister, I really do.
Did you ever think of becoming a manager?
I’m insane. But I’m not that insane.
Once Elvis was gone, were you banking Sun’s future on Carl Perkins?
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110 The 1950s
Absolutely. And there was another one of those instincts. I was giving up some kind of a
cat, man, but, sure enough, I sold him, and that’s what financed “Blue Suede Shoes.”
Steve Sholes of RCA called you at the time “Blue Suede Shoes” was climbing the charts. RCA
couldn’t get anything going with Elvis, and Sholes asked you, “Did we buy the wrong
guy?” What did you tell him?
I told him, “You haven’t bought the wrong person.” And I gave him the reasons.
Number one, Elvis certainly had the talent. And unlike Carl, he was single and
had no children and was a helluva-looking man. He said, “Well, would you be
mad at us if we put out ‘Blue Suede Shoes’?” Man, that staggered me. I said,
“Steve, you all are big enough to kill me, you know.” But they didn’t put it out as
a single. They released it as an EP.
Did it outsell Perkins’ version?
Hell, no. Well, I guess over the years when it was put in nineteen packages. But the
only reason Carl is not recognized for “Blue Suede Shoes” is that Elvis became
so mammothly big.
When did you realize how big Elvis would be?
Not when I heard “Heartbreak Hotel.” That was the worst record. I knew it when I
heard “Don’t Be Cruel.” I was driving back from the first vacation I’d had in my
life, and it came on the radio, and I said, “Wait a minute. Jesus, he’s off and gone,
man.” I’d like to run off the road.
Were you jealous?
Hell, no, ’cause when I heard “Heartbreak Hotel,” I said, “Damned sons of bitches
are going to mess this man up.” Then, boy, I heard “Don’t Be Cruel,” and I was
the happiest man in the world.
What was the difference in what you were trying to achieve first with Elvis, then with Perkins?
With Elvis I kind of wanted to lean more toward the blues. I wanted to get Carl more
into modifying country music.
What was your favorite Perkins song?
This is the craziest thing, but one of the cutest songs I ever heard was his “Movie
Magg.” And “Boppin’ the Blues.”
Do you remember when you first heard Jerry Lee?
It was the day after I first heard “Don’t Be Cruel.” Jerry had come to Memphis with his
cousin, staying at his house. He was a pretty determined person, and he made up
his mind he was going to see Sam Phillips. Jack Clement [Sun’s producer] was at
the studio, and Jerry didn’t even want to audition for him. But they cut this little
audition tape. And when I went to the studio, Jack says, “Man, I got a cat I want you
to hear.” Well, I had been looking for somebody that could do tricks on the piano
as a lead instrument. Lo and behold, man, I hear this guy and his total spontaneity.
Then, when you met Jerry Lee and he played for you, you’re supposed to have told him, “You
are a rich man.”
I probably did. Not in the connotation of money, but of talent.
You’ve said that Jerry Lee was the most talented person you ever worked with but that you
don’t think he could have been bigger than Elvis. Why is that?
That gets into the thing of the total effect of the person. There is no question that the
most talented person I ever worked with is Jerry Lee Lewis. Black or white. But
Elvis had a certain type of total charisma that was just almost untouchable by
any other human that I know of or have ever seen.
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But this is a tough comparison for me to make. It looks like I’m drawing
lines between two of the most talented people in the world, and I don’t like to do
that. But I would say that if they were both at their peak, and Elvis was booked
for a show but Jerry Lee showed up, no one would be disappointed. Is there a
better answer you can think of than that?
What do you remember about recording “Great Balls of Fire”?
That was the toughest record I ever recorded in my life. Otis Blackwell had done the
demo.5 When I heard it, I said, “What in the hell are they doing sending me a
record like this? It ought to be out.” He’d written the damn thing on a napkin in a
bar he owed a lot of money to. And we worked our ass off because those breaks . . .
with Jerry having to do his piano, it had to be exactly synced with his voice.
You didn’t do any overdubbing on it?
Hell, no. We didn’t have nothing to overdub with.
When Elvis died, you said that he died of a broken heart. Can you amplify that?
When you really don’t have something to look forward to with a good, sweet, beauti-
ful attitude, you’re in trouble. I don’t care who you are. You’re also in trouble if
you’re in bondage in any way. I’m talking about emotional entrapment. That’s
deep stuff. And it’s serious stuff. And no matter what happens to you in this
world, if you don’t make it your business to be happy, then you may have gained
the whole world and lost your spirit and maybe even your damned soul.
But wasn’t Elvis entrapped by circumstance?
Absolutely.
What could he have done differently?
Been hardheaded like me and said, “I will break your damned neck, I don’t care—
you can’t scare me. Monetary factors can’t scare me. Starvation can’t scare me.
Threats can’t scare me.” I mean you have to have that attitude.
Elvis also knew that success wasn’t enough. It’s like Mac Davis said, man, and
I think this is one of the greatest quotes, Bible included: “Stop and smell the roses.”
Now that’s where we can all find ourselves if we don’t stop and smell the roses.
And the sad thing about it is dying before you actually physically die. I
mean, you know, bless his heart.
Further Reading
Bragg, Rick. Jerry Lee Lewis: His Own Story. Harper/Harper Collins Publishers, 2014.
Farren, Mick, and Pearce Marchbank. Elvis in His Own Words. London: Omnibus Press, 1977.
Guralnick, Peter. Last Train to Memphis: The Rise of Elvis Presley. Boston: Little, Brown, 1994.
_______. Careless Love: The Unmaking of Elvis Presley. Boston: Little, Brown, 1999.
Marcus, Greil. Mystery Train: Images of America in Rock ‘n’ Roll Music. 3rd rev. ed. New York:
Plume, [1975] 1990.
Middleton, Richard. “All Shook Up.” In The Elvis Reader: Texts and Sources on the King of Rock
‘n Roll, ed. Kevin Quain, 3–12. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1992.
Rodman, Gilbert. Elvis after Elvis: The Posthumous Career of a Living Legend. New York: Rout-
ledge, 1996.
Wolfe, Charles. “Presley and the Gospel Tradition.” In The Elvis Reader: Texts and Sources on
the King of Rock ‘n Roll, ed. Kevin Quain, 13–27. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1992.
5. Blackwell also wrote many songs for Presley, including “Don’t Be Cruel,” “All Shook Up,”
and “Jailhouse Rock.”
bra43588_pt02_067-124.indd 111 05/27/19 04:52 PM

112 The 1950s
Discography
Legendary Sun Records Story. Castle/Pulse, 2003.
Legends Collection: Rock ‘n’ Roll Teenagers. Legends Collection, 2002.
Orbison, Roy. The Essential Roy Orbison. Sony, 2006.
Presley, Elvis. Elvis Presley. RCA Victor, 1956.
_______. Elvis. RCA Victor, 1956.
_______. Loving You. RCA Victor, 1957.
_______. Elvis 30 #1 Hits. BMG/Elvis, 2002.
_______. Elvis at Sun. BMG/Elvis, 2004.
_______. The Essential Elvis Presley. BMG/Elvis, 2007.
Thornton, Big Mama. Hound Dog: The Peacock Recordings. MCA, 1992.
22. Rock ‘n’ Roll Meets the Popular Press
Beginning in 1956—after the first wave of national hits by Fats Domino,

Chuck Berry, Little Richard, and Elvis Presley, and amidst a torrent of
cover versions of R&B songs and increasing numbers of integrated rock
‘n’ roll revues—articles on rock ‘n’ roll began appearing in mainstream
newspapers such as the New York Times and in magazines such as Time,
Newsweek, and Life. These articles recall and amplify some of the topics
present in the series of Variety articles included earlier in this volume:
the tone, by and large, is condescending, making frequent references
to the connections between rock ‘n’ roll and sex, violence, and juvenile
delinquency. In particular, descriptions abound of audiences and per-
formers trespassing societal norms, and this aberrant behavior (one
article describes “snake-dancing around town and smashing windows”1)
is typically linked to the influence of the beat or rhythm of the music.
For example, in an article entitled “Rock-and-Roll Called Com-
municable Disease,” a “noted psychiatrist,” Dr. Francis J. Braceland
of Hartford, Connecticut, “called rock-and-roll a ‘cannibalistic and
tribalistic’ form of music. He was commenting on the disturbances
that led to eleven arrests during the week-end at a local theatre.”
Dr. Braceland explains further: “It is insecurity and ‘rebellion’ . . . that
1. This phrase comes from “Yeh-Heh-Heh-Hes, Baby,” Time, June 18, 1956, 54.
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Rock ‘n’ Roll Meets the Popular Press 113
impels t eenagers to affect ‘ducktail’ haircuts, wear zoot-suits and carry
on boisterously at rock-and-roll affairs.”2
Roughly three months later, Time stoked similar fears, commencing
an article with the evocative title “Yeh-Heh-Heh-Hes, Baby” with a descrip-
tion of a concert that blends images of a riot with those of a menagerie:
When [the names of the stars] appear on theater and

dance-hall marquees announcing a stage show or “record
hop,” the stampede is on. The theater is jammed with
adolescents from the 9 a.m. curtain to closing and it rings
and shrieks like the jungle bird house at the zoo. If one
of the current heroes is announced—groups such as Bill
Haley and His Comets or The Platters or a soloist such as
Elvis Presley—the shrieks become deafening.3 The tumult
completely drowns the sound of the spastically gyrating
performers despite fully powered amplification. Only the
obsessive beat pounds through, stimulating the crowd
to such rhythmical movements as clapping in tempo and
jumping and dancing in the aisles. Sometimes the place
vibrates with the beat of music and stamping feet, and
not infrequently kids have been moved to charging the
stage, rushing ushers and theater guards.
The article continues with the warning that rock ‘n’ roll is as “sugges-
tive as swing.” The effect it elicits from listeners is apparently involun-
tary, and the gyrations of Elvis’s pelvis were sufficient to raise the moral
hackles of policemen in Oakland, California:
There is no denying that rock ‘n’ roll evokes a physi-

cal response from even its most reluctant listeners, for
that giant pulse matches the rhythmical operations of
the human body, and the performers are all too willing
to specify it. Said an Oakland, Calif. policeman, after
watching Elvis Presley last week: “If he did that in the
street we’d arrest him.”
This article closes with a clincher: the seductive call of rock ‘n’ roll
is compared by anonymous “psychologists” to the calls of the leader of
National Socialism (Nazism), the spectre of which would have still been
relatively fresh in 1956: “Psychologists feel that rock ‘n’ roll’s deepest
appeal is to the teeners’ need to belong; the results bear passing
resemblance to Hitler mass meetings.”4
2. “Rock-and-Roll Called Communicable Disease,” New York Times, March 28, 1956, 33.
3. Elvis Presley, in fact, became a focus of the media’s reaction to rock ‘n’ roll’s “lewdness” and
“degeneracy.” For examples of early responses to Elvis’s TV performances, see “Teeners’ Hero,”
Time, May 14, 1956; and Jack Gould, “TV: New Phenomenon—Elvis Presley Rises to Fame as Vo-
calist Who Is Virtuoso of Hootchy-Kootchy,” New York Times, June 6, 1956, 67.
4. “Yeh-Heh-Heh-Hes, Baby,” Time, June 18, 1956, 54.
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114 The 1950s
Show business personalities from the realms of both high and low
culture could not resist weighing in on the impact of rock ‘n’ roll. Her-
bert von Karajan, the conductor of the Berlin Philharmonic at the time,
offered this medico-musical explanation, recalling passages from the
Time article quoted previously: “Strange things happen in the blood
stream when a musical resonance coincides with the beat of the human
pulse.”5 Frank Sinatra’s comments merged aesthetics with the then-
popular sociological discourse on delinquency when he averred that
“rock ‘n’ roll smells phony and false. It is sung, played and written for
the most part by cretinous goons and by means of its almost imbecilic
reiteration and sly, lewd, in plain fact, dirty lyrics, it manages to be the
martial music of every sideburned delinquent on the face of the earth.”6
Further Reading
Gould, Jack. “TV: New Phenomenon—Elvis Presley Rises to Fame as Vocalist Who Is Vir-
tuoso of Hootchy-Kootchy.” New York Times, June 6, 1956, 67.
“Teeners’ Hero.” Time, May 14, 1956, 53–54.
Thiel-Stern, Shayla. “The Elvis Problem: 1956–1959.” In From the Dance Hall to Facebook:
Teen Girls, Mass Media, and Moral Panic in the United States, 1905–2010, edited by
Shayla Thiel-Stern, 91–120. Amherst and Boston: University of Massachusetts Press,
2014.
23. The Chicago Defender Defends Rock ‘n’ Roll
The landmark U.S. Supreme Court decision of 1954, Brown v. Board

of Education, which in effect mandated integration of public schools,
sent shockwaves through U.S. society. The struggles around civil rights
for African Americans that intensified after this decision received
considerable media attention from the mid-1950s through the 1960s.
The following article attests to the interconnection between early rock
5. “Rock ‘n’ Roll’s Pulse Taken,” New York Times, October 27, 1956, 58.
6. Gertrude Samuels, “Why They Rock ‘n’ Roll—And Should They?,” New York Times Sunday
Magazine, January 12, 1958, 19–20.
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The Chicago Defender Defends Rock ‘n’ Roll 115
‘n’ roll and the increasing public pressure to end racial segregation,
an interconnection that was especially important to those who were
most concerned with resisting integration. While Asa Carter (head of
the North Alabama White Citizens Council) made claims that may seem
extreme in the context of previous media reactions (e.g., rock ‘n’ roll
pulls “the white man down to the level of the Negro”), these statements
brought out what was implicit in the earlier “Warning to the Music
Business” published in Variety. In lighthearted fashion, Rob Roy (the
author of this article) makes overt the linkages between the threats of
both rock ‘n’ roll and integration to U.S. social conventions of the era.
The publication of this article in the African American newspaper the
Chicago Defender indicates some of the issues related to rock ‘n’ roll
that concerned the black community at the time.
Roy’s experiences in Alabama were hardly unique; nor were they
the most extreme instance of harassment: three days after this arti-
cle was published, an attack on Nat “King” Cole during a concert in
Birmingham by the White Citizens Council illustrates the lengths to
which such groups could go. This attack led to the cancellation of the
remainder of Cole’s southern tour. Cole was certainly not a rock ‘n’
roller by any stretch of the imagination, representing the persistence of
older-style pop music into the late 1950s (and 1960s), but he was also
assuredly African American, obviously a factor that was more important
to the White Citizens Council than the type of music he was playing.1
Bias Against “Rock ‘n’ Roll” Latest Bombshell in Dixie

Rob Roy
In a small town in Alabama not so many moons ago, and after several “moonshines”
(at a rear bar) this corner [i.e., the author] attempted to play a number on [a] juke box
that was situated near a front bar. The bartender yelled, “No, no, no” so no music
was played. That will not happen again.
One of the reasons is factual—this corner will hardly be in a position to reach
a juke box in that little town again. Then there is the other reason: Should council
leader Asa Carter of Birmingham have his way there will be no Rock ‘N’ Roll num-
bers on the juke box and of course no reason for this corner to wish to spend his dime.
Even in Birmingham a dime is a dime.
Councilman Asa Carter says “Rock ‘N’ Roll” music is nothing but a plot by
[the] NAACP to lower American youth’s morals. He indicates he’ll ask blacklisting
of juke box operators who carry “Rock ‘N’ Roll” records on their vendors. Only
thing wrong here is Mr. Carter, if successful, wouldn’t be hurting the NAACP or
the customers who wish to play the music but the juke box operators and the tav-
ern owners.
1. For a report on this incident, see “Alabamans Attack ‘King’ Cole on Stage,” New York Times,
April 11, 1956, 1, 27
Source: “Bias Against ‘Rock ‘n’ Roll’ Latest Bombshell in Dixie,” Rob Roy, Chicago Defender,
April 7, 1956, p. 14.
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116 The 1950s
Fancy if you can, a group of youngsters, patronizing a dancehall tavern
and having to waltz each number that isn’t a fox trot. “What, no jitterbugging?”
they’d say on the way out of the place. In that case who would be hurt? Of course
Mr. Carter would hardly be hurt. One must feel that he does not operate a tav-
ern. Nor is it likely that his accomplishments include the jitterbug or rugcutting
dance. To do either one must be alert of limb, fast, think what is the next move
just naturally, and a few more sensible things. If Asa’s feet match his expressed
mind and actions they are too sluggish and out of line for even a dancer. Just an
old story? “Free schools yet dumb people.”
Carter, executive secretary of the powerful pro-segregation group, declared that
citizen’s councils through the state were circulating petitions demanding that “rock
and roll” music be banned from jukeboxes.
He said in an interview that what he called “this generate music” was being
encouraged by the NAACP and other pro-integration groups, adding:
“The NAACP uses this type of music as a means of pulling the white man down
to the level of the Negro.”
He declared that “rock and roll” as well as other forms of jazz, was undermin-
ing the morals of American youth with its “degenerate, anamalistic [sic] beats and
rhythms.” He added:
“This savage and primitive type of music which comes straight from Africa
brings out the base things in man.”
“Rock and Roll” music, he said, got its start in Negro night clubs and Negro
radio broadcasts and its influence was spread by the NAACP.
“Instead of opposing it in an attempt to raise the morals of the Negro,” he said,
“the NAACP encouraged it slowly for the purpose of undermining the morals of
white people.”
He estimated that 300,000 signatures would be collected by the petitions and
added:
“If jukebox operators hope to stay in business they better get rid of these smutty
records with their dirty lyrics.”
Further Reading
“Alabamans Attack ‘King’ Cole on Stage.” New York Times, April 11, 1956, 1, 27.
Gourse, Leslie. Unforgettable: The Life and Mystique of Nat King Cole. New York: Cooper Square,
2000.
Discography
Cole, Nat King. After Midnight: The Complete Session. Blue Note Records, 1956.
______. The Greatest Hits. Capitol, 1994.
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24. The Music Industry Fight Against
Rock ‘n’ Roll
DICK CL A R K’S T EE N-POP EMPIR E A ND T HE PAYOL A SC A NDA L
The 1950s ended on a bum note for rock ‘n’ roll: Chuck Berry was on the
verge of being convicted for having transported a minor across state
lines; Elvis was in the army; Little Richard had left popular music for
the ministry; Jerry Lee Lewis had effectively been blacklisted for having
married his 13-year-old cousin; and Buddy Holly, Richie Valens, and the
Big Bopper (all of whom had scored major hits during 1957–58) had died
in a plane crash. As early as 1956, defenders of pop music’s old guard,
represented by ASCAP officials and songwriter-performers associated
with ASCAP, mounted an attack on rock ‘n’ roll by linking it to the rise of
BMI and accusing BMI of manipulating public taste owing to its undue
influence in the broadcast media. Several rounds of public hearings
resulted.1 The repeatedly asserted link between BMI and radio stations
was specious: all broadcasters at that time had licenses from both BMI
and ASCAP that required them to pay a fee for using music affiliated
with those organizations, and even radio stations that owned stock in
BMI did not receive dividends. No, the battle’s focus truly lay in a con-
junction of aesthetics and politics.2 The old guard were defending their
business interests, as well as their taste in music. The analyses of BMI’s
power, while inaccurate, could have been applied quite fairly to the
position of ASCAP before BMI-affiliated music began making inroads in
the pop music mainstream during the late 1940s.3
1. For a summary and analysis of these hearings, see Trent Hill, “The Enemy Within: Censor-
ship in Rock Music in the 1950s,” South Atlantic Quarterly 90, no. 4 (Fall 1991) 1: 675–708. The
hearings lasted from 1956 into 1958. For accounts in the press, see “Rock ’n’ Roll Laid to B. M. I.
Control: Billy Rose Tells House Unit That ‘Electronic Curtain’ Furthers ‘Monstrosities,’” New York
Times, September 19, 1956, 75; Val Adams, “Networks Held Biased on Music: Senate Unit Hears
Charges that They Promote Products of Their Own Affiliates,” New York Times, March 12, 1958, 63;
Val Adams, “Hanson Decries Hillbilly Music: Tells Senate Unit Hearing Tunes Heard on Air Are
‘Madison Ave.’ Version,” New York Times, March 14, 1958, 51.
2. See Reebee Garofalo, Rockin’ Out: Popular Music in the USA (Boston: Allyn and Bacon, 1997),
172; and Russell Sanjek, “The War on Rock,” Downbeat Music ’72 Yearbook (Chicago: Maher, 1972).
3. See Richard A. Peterson and David G. Berger, “Cycles in Symbol Production: The Case
of Popular Music,” in On Record: Rock, Pop, and the Written Word (New York: Pantheon Books,
1990), 140–59.
117
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118 The 1950s
The payola hearings (which grew out of congressional hearings on
crooked practices on television quiz shows) represented yet another
official intervention into the business and media practices associated
with early rock ‘n’ roll. In media accounts of payola, one is struck by how
politicians were so quick to believe that the popularity of rock ‘n’ roll
was due to either a conspiracy with BMI or payola; in other words, they
thought that the music was so horrible that there had to be some form
of external coercion involved for people to want to listen to it.
A new form of rock ‘n’ roll emerged that was designed to please
both politicians and teenagers. The main variety of this new rock ‘n’ roll,
“teen pop,” was promoted by a nationally syndicated television show,
American Bandstand, hosted by Dick Clark, a figure at once youthful and
nonthreatening. Teen pop adopted older techniques of pop music produc-
tion, incorporating aspects of rock ‘n’ roll while reinstating the separate
roles of songwriter, instrumentalist, and singer that had been collapsed
by artists like Chuck Berry and Little Richard. American Bandstand largely
featured the stars of teen pop, known as “teen idols”: good-looking
young people from the Philadelphia area (where American Bandstand
originated) singing music with a vague resemblance to rock ‘n’ roll.
Equally striking as the official, public response to rock ‘n’ roll were
the disparate fates of Alan Freed and Dick Clark. The Jewish Freed rose to
success by playing black popular music to white kids and by promoting
concerts at which both performers and audiences were integrated. The
clean-cut, all-American Clark’s signature show, American Bandstand,
featured a virtually all-white audience and was cautious about integra-
tion on the air.4 Freed’s career was effectively ended by the scandal;
Clark hosted American Bandstand until 1989 and continued to make
appearances on television, most notably as the host for New Year’s
Rockin’ Eve, until his death on April 18, 2012.5
The following article from Life describes the payola hearings of late
1959–early 1960 and focuses on Clark. This article reproduces many of
the criticisms and stereotypes found in early media reports on rock ‘n’
roll, even suggesting in the opening paragraph that a teenager mur-
dered his mother because she refused to let him watch American Band-
stand. More evenhanded than some other mainstream reports of the
time, however, the article gives space to the views of fans of the show
in order to explain why they like it. And while the familiar condescend-
ing tone is present, most of the comments critical of rock ‘n’ roll are
ascribed to the members of the Senate committee. Along the way, a
history and explanation of payola is presented and contrasted with the
specifics of Clark’s business operation so as to anticipate his ultimate
exoneration.
4. That this was recognized by African American viewers is substantiated by the article from
the African American newspaper New York Age, reprinted in this chapter.
5. For a thorough history of American Bandstand, see John A. Jackson, American Bandstand: Dick
Clark and the Making of a Rock ‘n’ Roll Empire (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997).
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The Music Industry Fight Against Rock ‘n’ Roll 119
Music Biz Goes Round and Round: It Comes Out Clarkola

Peter Bunzel
Back in September 1958 a roly-poly Tulsa boy named Billy Jay Killion came home
from high school and wanted to watch Dick Clark’s television program, American
Bandstand. His mother, who didn’t particularly care for rock ‘n’ roll music, was all
set to watch a different program, so she told Billy “No.” He seethed the whole night
long. Then in the morning Billy took out a rifle and shot his mother dead.
Millions of American teen-agers feel just as strongly about Dick Clark, though
no others have vented their feelings so violently. Last week their loyalty was put to
the supreme test, for Clark was up before Congress to answer for mayhem of another
kind. For six months the Harris Committee had been investigating payola in music
and broadcasting, and had developed a greedy image of the whole industry. A long
succession of disk jockeys admitted taking payments from music companies. But the
one man the committee had always been gunning for was Dick Clark, the biggest
disk jockey of all and a symbol, in giant screen, of the whole questionable business.
“I have never,” Clark told the committee, “agreed to play a record in return for
payment in cash or any other consideration.” This statement seemed more and more
astonishing to the committee as Clark went on to admit that in the last three years he
had parlayed his position into a whopping personal fortune of $576,590. “Plugola,”
“royola” and “Clarkola,” the committeemen variously called it.
But their skepticism did not alter Clark’s mien as he sat on the stand giving off
the same air of proper respectability he does on TV. He wore a blue suit, button-down
shirt and black loafers. Every strand of his hair was neatly lacquered into place. His
voice had the bland, dulcet tone of the TV announcer that he is.
A Most Important Commercial

His tone was appropriate, for 30-year-old Richard Wagstaff Clark was delivering
the most important commercial of his life. He is out to sell his highly select adult audi-
ence the same moralistic image of himself that he has convincingly sold to the nation’s
teen-agers. It was an image he had peddled not only on the air but in a book of ado-
lescent etiquette called Your Happiest Years. In this work he made a strong pitch for
neatness and good manners, pausing briefly for little homilies: “Don’t make the mis-
take of thinking those TV cameras are branches of the United States mint. Contrary to
popular opinion, dollar bills don’t come out of them like bread from a bakery oven.”
Source: Peter Bunzel, “Music Biz Goes Round and Round: It Comes Out Clarkola,” LIFE, May 16,
1960, pp. 118–22. © 1960 TI Gotham Inc. All rights reserved. Reprinted/Translated from LIFE and
published with permission of TI Gotham Inc. Reproduction in any manner in any language in
whole or in part without written permission is prohibited. LIFE and the LIFE logo are registered
trademarks of TI Gotham Inc. used under license.
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120 The 1950s
Clark himself made the mistake he warned his public against, but it turned out
fine for him. After all, he was in a unique spot to profit by his error. Most disk jockeys
perform on radio. Clark is on TV. Most others are only on local stations. He is on a
national network and he reaches some 16 million people with his stock in trade, rock
‘n’ roll. This form of music is alien to most adults, for whom it has all the soothing
charm of a chorus of pneumatic drills. “But we love it,” said a teen-age girl from
Charleston, W. Va., who attended the Clark hearings. “When I hear a Beethoven
symphony, I don’t feel anything. When I hear our kind of music, I feel something
way down deep, like oatmeal.”
Payola as a Compliment
The same adults who disparage rock ‘n’ roll unwittingly helped get it going. When
long-playing records came in, grown-ups stopped buying single records. Manufac-
turers of singles had to aim their products at teen-age taste and rock ‘n’ roll became
the staple. The singles are easy and cheap to make and 600 record companies are
expelling a constant flow. But the big problem is selling them.
First the records get a test run in such “break-out” cities as Cleveland, Boston
or Detroit to see which can be sold—or which the public can be conned into buying.
A sure way to boost the songs has been to put money on the line to disk jockeys.
Many deejays were proud to be bribed, for, in their curious little fraternity, payments
became a status symbol. “Payola comes to the top disk jockeys, not the others,” said
one. “If you are in show business, don’t you want to be at the top? Isn’t this the great-
est compliment?”
A large number of fraternity brothers felt the same way, for the Federal Trade
Commission estimates that 250 disk jockeys accepted the compliment. Generally
the recipients deny that there is any connection between paying and playing. But
remarked Congressman John Moss of the committee, “Some kind of telepathic com-
munication seems to take place. By intellectual osmosis between the disk jockey and
the record manufacturer, money is passed and records get played.”
Actually the committee should not be so surprised at payola. It is old stuff in
the music business. In Victorian England, before he teamed up with William Gilbert,
a young composer named Arthur Sullivan dashed off a song called Thou’rt Passing
Hence. He got it performed in public by giving a share of the royalties to Sir Charles
Santley, a leading baritone of the time. Sir Charles was still collecting his payoff when
the tune was played at Sullivan’s funeral.
In the U.S., in the 1890s, the music publishers paid to have their songs played
in beer gardens. Later, top stars like Al Jolson and Eddie Cantor were offered enor-
mously tempting payola deals—and in the ’30s maestros of big-name bands got a cut
of the royalties for playing new tunes on network radio.
Until the payola scandals broke, disk jockeys had no pangs of conscience about
benefiting from a practice with such a tradition. Payola was simply the way they did
business and they imagined that everyone else did it that way too. “This seems to be
the American way of life,” said Boston’s Stan Richards, “which is a wonderful way
of life. It is primarily built on romance: ‘I’ll do for you. What will you do for me?’”
What Dick Clark did for music people was to give them a pre-sold market and
what they gave him in return was a windfall. He did not rely on conventional cash
payola but worked out a far more complex and profitable system. It hinged on his
numerous corporate holdings which included financial interests in three record com-
panies, six music publishing houses, a record pressing plant, a record distributing
firm and a company which manages singers. The music, the records and the singers
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involved with these companies gained a special place in Clark’s programs, which the
committee said gave them systematic preference.
A statistical breakdown showed how his system worked. In a period of 27 months
Clark gave far less air time to a top star like Elvis Presley than to a newcomer named
Duane Eddy, one of the several singers whom he has helped make into a star. Clark
had no stake in Presley. But firms in which he held stock both managed and recorded
Eddy. During the same 27 months Clark played only one record by Bing Crosby (the
almost mandatory White Christmas) and none at all by Frank Sinatra. “You sought to
exploit your position as a network personality,” said Moss. “By almost any reason-
able test records you had an interest in were played more than the ones you didn’t.”
Replied Clark, “I did not consciously favor such records. Maybe I did so without
realizing it.”
“You Laid It On”

Nor did Clark neglect revenues from copyright ownership. He owned 160 songs, and
of these 143 came to him as outright gifts, much as Gilbert’s Thou’rt Passing Hence
came to Santley. “Once you acquired an interest,” said Moss, “then you really laid
it on.”
A shining example was a record called 16 Candles. Before getting the copyright,
Clark spun it only four times in 10 weeks, and it got nowhere. Once he owned it,
Clark played it 27 times in less than three months and it went up like a rocket. Each
time the record was purchased Clark shared in the profits to the merry tune of
$12,000. This pattern was duplicated with a song called Butterfly—and for his trouble
the publisher gave him $7,000.
Many of his deals afforded Clark a special tax break. In May 1957 he invested
$125 in the Jamie Record Company, which was then $450 in the red. Once he was
a stockholder, Clark found Jamie records very attractive. By plugging them on his
show he helped make many of them hits. When he sold out last December for $15,000,
Clark had a cool profit of $11,900, and he could declare it all as capital gains. Clark
granted the accuracy of these figures but explained, “I followed the ground rules that
existed.” He was familiar with the rules from another angle. Although he denied he
had taken payola he admitted, paradoxically, that one of his record companies had
passed out payola to get its wares plugged.
Coming back again and again to rock ‘n’ roll, the committee members strongly
implied that Clark had deliberately foisted it on teen-agers. “I don’t know of any
time in our history when we had comparably bad, uniformly bad music,” said Moss.
Clark replied, “Popular music has always become popular because of young people.
You can’t force the public to like anything they don’t want. If they don’t want it, it
won’t become a hit.”
Clark’s soft sell made him an effective, if slippery, witness. At the end Chairman
Oren Harris remarked, “You’re not the inventor of the system or even its architect.
You’re a product of it.” Then showing as much perspicacity as any 15-year-old, the
congressman added, “Obviously you’re a fine young man.”
This encomium was sweet music to teen-agers who came to the hearing to see
their hero in his hour of travail. Seated in the front row were two sisters from West
Orange, N.J., whose parents had brought them to Washington to view the sights. To
them the loveliest sight of all was Dick Clark.
“I don’t care if he took payola,” said Karen Katz, 13. “He gets to us as kids. The
reason 16 Candles took off is because we liked it. They say he didn’t play enough Bing
Crosby. Look, his show isn’t for grandmothers. And Frank Sinatra, who needs him?”
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122 The 1950s
The final verdict on Clark rests in part with teen-agers like Karen, but even more
with his many sponsors. If they decide that his value as a pitchman has been hurt,
then they will drop him like a cracked record. Already the danger signals are up.
“We aren’t happy about this thing,” said the account executive for Hollywood Candy
Bars, “and neither are any of the other ad agencies. We want to keep our noses clean.”
The American Broadcasting Company is playing it cautious, waiting to see
which way the wind will blow. Its stake in Clark is huge, for the network carries both
of his shows, and each year they bring $6 million in advertising revenue. At least one
disk jockey, a Miami man, says that ABC has already lined him up as Clark’s replace-
ment, just in case—and he is waiting for word to catch the next plane north.
But the sponsors had better think twice before dropping Clark. The teen-agers
feel an almost fanatical bond with him. An investigator for the committee named
James Kelly ran into this fanaticism right in his own family. Kelly’s wife has a 15-year-
old sister and they used to be great pals. But ever since Kelly started prying into Dick
Clark’s affairs, the girl has cut him absolutely dead.
The concluding article for this chapter, published in the New York
Age, an African American newspaper, explores an aspect of American
Bandstand’s “all-American” appeal ignored by the previous article.
Mr. Clark and Colored Payola

New York Age
With all of the publicity focusing on disc jockey payola, we are concerned about
another matter which has never seemed to bother many people. This is the question
of Negro participation on the various TV bandstand programs.
If there’s one shining star in the constellation of Alan Freed’s career, it has
been his determined, quiet, but effective war on racial bigotry in the music busi-
ness. Largely as a result of his efforts, several Negro singing groups are top successes
today because of his encouragement and fairness.
At the same time, his “Big Party” has always had Negro kids right in there put-
ting down a tough “slop” with the best of them.
Have you even seen Negro kids on Dick Clark’s program? Perhaps, a few times,
but the unspoken rule operates—Negro kids simply have been quietly barred from
the “American Bandstand.”
Somebody should raise the question as to whether there was ever any payola to
keep Negro kids off of Dick Clark’s American Bandstand TV program.
Further Reading
Adams, Val. “Networks Held Biased on Music: Senate Unit Hears Charges that They Promote
Products of Their Own Affiliates.” New York Times, March 12, 1958, 63.
______. “Hanson Decries Hillbilly Music: Tells Senate Unit Hearing Tunes Heard on Air Are
‘Madison Ave.’ Version.” New York Times, March 14, 1958, 51.
Blitz, Stanley, and John Pritchard. Bandstand the Untold Story: The Years before Dick Clark.
Phoenix: Cornucopia Publications, 1997.
Source: “Mr. Clark and Colored Payola,” New York Age, December 5, 1959.
bra43588_pt02_067-124.indd 122 05/27/19 04:52 PM

Clark, Dick. The History of American Bandstand. New York: Ballantine Books, 1985.
Delmont, Matthew F. The Nicest Kids in Town: American Bandstand, Rock ‘n’ Roll, and the Strug-
gle for Civil Rights in 1950s Philadelphia. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2012.
Hill, Trent. “The Enemy Within: Censorship in Rock Music in the 1950s.” South Atlantic Quar-
terly 90, no. 4 (Fall 1991): 675–708.
Jackson, John A. American Bandstand: Dick Clark and the Making of a Rock ‘n’ Roll Empire. New
Peterson, Richard A., and David G. Berger. “Cycles in Symbol Production: The Case of Popu-
lar Music.” In On Record: Rock, Pop, and the Written Word, ed. Simon Frith and Andrew
Goodwin, 140–59. New York: Pantheon Books, 1990.
“Rock ‘n’ Roll Laid to B.M.I. Control: Billy Rose Tells House Unit that ‘Electronic Curtain’
Furthers Monstrosities.” New York Times, September 19, 1956, 75.
Discography
The 50’s Decade: Teen Idols. St. Clair Records, 2001.
Avalon, Frankie, and Fabian. Collector’s Edition: Frankie and Fabian—Teen Idols. Madacy
Records, 2000.
The Official American Bandstand Library of Rock and Roll. Atlantic/WEA, 2000.
The Rock ‘n’ Roll Era: Teen Idols. Time Life/Warner, 1989.
Teenage Idols. Disky, 2001.
Wolfman Jack’s: Teen Idols. St. Clair Records, 2001.
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bra43588_pt02_067-124.indd 124 05/27/19 04:52 PM
PART 3
The 1960s
25. The Brill Building and the Girl Groups
The payola hearings, one of the most publicized aspects of popular

music at the end of the 1950s and the beginning of the 1960s, high-
lighted some of the dominant trends in the mainstream: the early wave
of rock ‘n’ roll, represented by Alan Freed and promoted by independent
recording companies, lay dormant while teen idols coexisted with con-
tinuations of previous popular styles embodied in soundtrack themes
and new versions of standards.1 Until recently, histories of popular music
describing this period tended to trace an arc of declining quality as
authentic, virile rock ‘n’ roll was supplanted by mass-produced schlock.
A closer inspection of popular music circa 1960, however, leads
one to resist such tidy characterizations. It is true that music industry
centers such as the Brill Building in New York City did revive some of
the production practices of Tin Pan Alley, but not all their efforts can be
dismissed as “schlock-rock.” A breed of young songwriters combined
the youthful energy of rock ‘n’ roll with the sophisticated harmonic
and melodic techniques of earlier popular music to create new forms
of soulful, dance-oriented popular music. These songwriters—who
included among their ranks newcomers such as the teams of Carole
King and Gerry Goffin, Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil, Ellie Greenwich
and Jeff Barry, and Burt Bacharach and Hal David, along with seasoned
pros like Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller—created new syntheses while
1. Reebee Garofalo and Steve Chapple use the term “schlock-rock” to refer to the music
eveloped around teen idols; see Rock and Roll Is Here to Pay (Chicago: Nelson-Hall, 1977). By the
d
mid-sixties, recordings of pre–rock ’n’ roll pop music led to the creation of a new category, “easy
listening,” alternately referred to as “middle-of-the-road” or even “good” music. Despite the lack
of attention paid in this book and almost every history of popular music to this type of music
after the 1950s, it continued to be extremely popular; soundtracks and original cast recordings of
musicals remained among the best-selling albums up through the late 1960s.
125
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126 The 1960s
working with young singers, many of whom were African American
and female. Thus, the period 1961–63 witnessed the emergence and
success of numerous “girl groups,” marking the first time that female
subjectivity had been so widely represented, perhaps because many
of the people just noted who were involved with the songwriting and
production of the girl groups were women (also a new development).
Production teams in New York and Philadelphia also participated in the
creation and promotion of dance crazes: songs based in R&B and rock
‘n’ roll that named and described a particular dance (e.g., the “jerk,” the
“limbo,” the “mashed potatoes”). The most successful of these songs
was “The Twist,” which became a number one hit for Chubby Checker
twice, in 1960 and 1961.
The frequent collaborations of Brill Building songwriters, most of whom

were Jewish, with young African American female singers marked the
most recent reemergence of a partnership observed in Chapter 1 in the
discussion of Irving Berlin’s career. While most of the earlier writers on
the girl groups quite rightly trace the emergence of “girl” vocal groups
back to 1958 and the Chantels’ hit “Maybe,” the particular convergence
of production-songwriting teams based in the Brill Building with female
vocal groups first came to prominence in the Shirelles’ late-1960 hit,
“Will You Love Me Tomorrow,” which initiated one of the dominant trends
of the era. More hits followed by the Shirelles and other artists, such as
the Marvelettes and the Crystals, in which a particular approach to vocal
arrangement and a typical range of subjects coalesced.2 Vocal arrange-
ments relied on a modified call-and-response approach, adapted pri-
marily from African American gospel practice, with the lyrics frequently
arranged to simulate a dialogue between lead and backing vocalists.
Lest the forgoing description of the participants in the genre
appear monolithic, it is important to note that many girl group record-
ings occurred outside the orbit of the Brill Building, that some of the
singers were white (e.g., the Angels, the Shangri-Las), that some of the
songwriters and producers were black (e.g., Luther Dixon), and that
some recordings that are now understood as part of the girl group phe-
nomenon because of their musical arrangements were then credited to
individuals (e.g., Little Eva, Leslie Gore). The following passage from
Charlotte Greig’s book focuses on the experience of songwriters such
as Carole King and Ellie Greenwich and underscores the flexibility of the
working arrangements at the Brill Building, where songwriters could
quickly assume the role of producer and/or performer.
2. For more on the relationship between this approach to vocal arrangement and young
female identity, see Barbara Bradby, “Do-Talk and Don’t-Talk: The Division of the Subject in
Girl-Group Music,” in On Record: Rock, Pop and the Written Word, ed. Simon Frith and Andrew
Goodwin, 341–69 (New York: Routledge, 1990); for a more comprehensive study of the girl group
genre, see Jacqueline Warwick, Girl Groups, Girl Culture: Popular Music and Identity in the 1960s
(New York: Routledge, 2007).
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The Brill Building and the Girl Groups 127
from Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow? Girl Groups
from the 50s On . . .
Charlotte Greig
The Shirelles, as the first popular rock ‘n’ roll girl group, were largely responsible for
introducing what we think of as “pop” music to a wide public. In the fifties, there
had been two very separate strands of popular music: on the one hand, rock ‘n’ roll,
and on the other, the showbiz songs written by the professional songwriters of Tin
Pan Alley. The mostly Jewish songwriters of Tin Pan Alley traditionally looked to
Italian Americans, with their suitably romantic good looks and operatic vocal style,
as performers of their songs. The imitation-Elvis, teen-boy pop idols of the late fifties
and early sixties were essentially a continuation of this tradition. At the same time,
however, the music industry was changing. The songwriters of Tin Pan Alley were
no longer all middle-aged men churning out novelty songs; a new breed of young
men and women songwriters was coming up who looked to black artists to perform
their songs. Pete Waterman explains:
What happened in the early sixties is that white guys, people like Barry Mann, and
white girls like Carole King met, for the first time, black artists. So you had black
artists singing doo wop, but you had white songwriters writing white melodies.
Suddenly, there was an interpollination of black voices with white melodies; and
most of the writers at that time were of Jewish descent, so of course you got very
different chordal structures. There were these amazing black girls singing Jewish
melodies that didn’t quite work out; here was a new form of music. Because of the
white element, girls like Carole King, arrangers put strings on the records which
doo-wop bands could never have afforded. You had major companies like Liberty
and Roulette making records with full orchestras! They would pay the money, and
they were white; the only black thing about the records was the artists and the man-
agement. Suddenly you had this dichotomy of cultures; and it worked, it worked
perfectly.
These cultures were being forged together not just by a happy blending of musi-
cal styles, however; the essential element that bound the black artists and the white
songwriters and producers together was that they were young. They were, however
directly or indirectly, part of a teen culture built on the legacy of fifties’ rock ‘n’ roll
whose tendencies towards “aural miscegenation”—as Gerry Hirshey calls it in her
book Nowhere to Run—had so disturbed the establishment both morally and, in the
music business, financially. In a sense, the girl groups who were used to effect the
mass crossover of black music into white pop in the early sixties represented Tin Pan
Alley’s attempt to co-opt and control rock ‘n’ roll; but because the songwriters and
producers involved were so young and so much part of rock ‘n’ roll themselves, their
very attempt to sweeten up and sanitize the black sound to appeal to a teenage public
brought with it something genuine: a new, female-centred pop sensibility that was
wonderfully fresh.
Carole King entered the music business in New York as a teenage songwriter at
a time when the industry had recognized the huge profits to be made out of selling
pop records to teenagers. She was hired by a music publisher, Don Kirshner, one of
the first to gear his whole output towards the teenage market. Aldon, as his company
Source: Charlotte Greig, Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow? Girl Groups from the 50s On (London:
Virago Press, 1989), 37–43, 51–5.
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128 The 1960s
was called, was part of the Brill Building on Broadway, where virtually everyone in
the music business congregated. There was a frantic atmosphere of wheeling and
dealing in the building, almost like that of the stock exchange; songs were written,
demos were cut, and tracks were recorded and released, all at a speed which now
seems quite incredible; a song could be written in the morning, recorded in the after-
noon and released a few days later on one of the many small labels that operated
out of the Brill. It was a production line, as Carole King pointed out to writer Paula
Taylor in 1976:
We each had a little cubby hole with just enough room for a piano, a bench, and
maybe a chair for the lyricist—if you were lucky. You’d sit there and write, and
you could hear someone in the next cubby hole composing some song exactly like
yourself.
In the offices of another publisher, Leiber and Stoller, plans were also being made
to cash in on the teen boom. Ellie Greenwich was one of the star songwriters the duo
hired to give them those teen hits, and she did, coming up with such classics as “Da
Doo Ron Ron,” “Then He Kissed Me,” “Doh Wah Diddy” and “Chapel of Love.”
Today Ellie lives in a New York apartment not far from Broadway. A big brass
musical note adorns her front door, and the theme is continued throughout the apart-
ment, even to treble and bass clefs on the wallpaper in the bathroom and piano-key
motifs on the toilet seat. Still working in the music business, and looking a million
dollars with a Dusty Springfield hairdo, Ellie beams warmly at me, welcomes me like
an old friend and settles back to entertain me with stories of those early days. Chain
smoking her way through a heavy cold, which only improves her husky New York
tones, she remembers the past with affection:
I went to Leiber and Stoller’s office to wait for my appointment. They thought I was
Carole King, so they went, “Hey, Carole, come on in.” I told them who I was and
started playing away, a nervous wreck. They offered me a job writing, $75 a week.
I said, no, $100, and they agreed. Wow! I thought. A hundred bucks a week! I’m
flying here. And I have my own cubby hole where I can write my stuff to my heart’s
content, and who knows who I might meet . . . .
There were many small labels in the Brill Building that offered you the oppor-
tunity to just run up there and say, “Hey, listen to this song.” There was a spontane-
ity there, the doors were easy to walk through. If you played a song and they liked
it, they’d say, “Let’s think. Do we know anyone who can do this? Do you?” So then
you could go out and look for an artist, and a record label would give you a shot
to produce a single. If it did well, great, you started getting a name for yourself. If
it didn’t, so what, no big deal. Not any more. Now it’s album, album . . . nobody
would hire you just like that.
It was a happy time. Monetarily stupid, maybe, but on a creative level you just
weren’t bothered with any problems. All you did was come in and hone in on your
craft. We were very grateful to be signed to a music publisher and get our weekly
little paycheck. We always got our royalties. But we never knew to ask about retain-
ing songs. So I didn’t finally make $200,000. I got $25,000. Fine. Who knew those
songs would live on?
By 1962, when Ellie joined Leiber and Stoller, Carole King was already making
a name for herself as a songwriter after her success with “Will You Love Me
Tomorrow?” In partnership with lyricist Gerry Goffin, an ex-chemistry student she
married at the age of eighteen, Carole was now writing for white teen idols like
Bobby Vee. A whole industry was by this time building up around TV shows like
American Bandstand, which not only introduced a never-ending stream of wooden
boy idols to the nation’s teenagers but also created hundreds of dance crazes. When
bra43588_pt03_125-252.indd 128 05/27/19 05:02 PM

the Goffins came up with “The Locomotion,” a new dance tune, they asked their
babysitter—who had inspired the song by her style of d ancing—to cut the demo
for them. Kirschner liked the demo so much that he released it as it was on his
new Dimension label, and in no time, “The L ocomotion” had reached the number-
one spot. Little Eva, as she was now called, became an overnight sensation; such
a huge success by an unknown artist on a new label was extraordinary. Yet her
subsequent records, like “Let’s Turkey Trot” did not match “The Locomotion.”
Her sister Idalia was pulled in to make a record, a track called “Hula Hoppin”;
but by now the label was flogging a dead horse. Having been fêted in Europe and
America, in less than two years Eva’s career was over.
The tale of Little Eva showed the industry both at its best and at its worst. In the
Brill Building, individuals, often working freelance, could set up a series of loose rela-
tionships: songwriters could sell their songs to different publishers or record labels,
producers could look for songs amongst the many publishers, and so on. Often, a
single individual would perform some or all of these functions; many songwriters set
up their own labels, produced, and even sang on the records. The speed at which all
this happened meant that a trend could be quickly spotted and exploited. The sheer
volume of records that such a system produced made it likely that a certain percent-
age at least would chart.
The advantages of the system were that it allowed for an extraordinary degree of
creative flexibility and a fast response to an ever-changing market so that the small
labels could make it. Monolithic recording corporations like RCA Victor, although
they had all the financial muscle, simply could not keep up with what was going on.
But there were clear disadvantages for the artists, as the Shirelles had already seen.
Singers were at the very bottom of the hierarchy. Producers could take their pick
from the many talented young black singers who were desperate to succeed and sold
their skills cheap. For these singers, the world of entertainment was the only way out
from a life of poverty, unemployment or hard labour; they would characteristically
record songs for nothing, or for a flat fee, in order to get their start.
Also, because the functions of singing and songwriting were completely split at
the time, so that singers seldom wrote or recorded their own songs, their voices came
to be regarded virtually as sounds only, for the producer to use as he wished. Thus
for any singer who wanted to build a career in the music industry, the situation was
a disaster.
Little Eva at least had her moment of fame. The other girls that King and Goffin
were writing for did not fare so well. The Cookies were a trio who provided backing
vocals for many of the releases on Aldon’s label, and who also recorded songs writ-
ten for them by Goffin and King. Some of these did well at the time: “Chains” and
“Don’t Say Nothin’ Bad About My Baby” were hits for the Cookies, while Earl-Jean,
their lead singer, charted with “I’m Into Something Good.” The follow-up to “Don’t
Say Nothin’ Bad,” “Will Power,” didn’t do so well, but it is interesting as an example
of the kind of powerful, contained sexuality that the supposedly over-naive, roman-
tic girl groups actually presented their teenage listeners with:
It’s been an hour since we reached my door
I really ought to say goodnight
It’s been an hour since you said
won’t you give me five minutes more
don’t you see that I hardly even know you yet
I should be playing hard to get
oh baby what you do
to my will power
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130 The 1960s
The doo-wah, doo-wah choruses and the young, sweet voices of the Cookies dis-
guised the fact that what was being described here were not the joys of coy feminin-
ity but its awful restrictions.
As with Little Eva, Aldon was keener to make the most of the Cookies while the
going was good than to help the group sustain its popularity over the long term. The
group never got the attention they deserved, and soon disappeared from view. Their
songs are now best remembered for the cover versions they inspired: the Beatles’
“Chains” and Herman’s Hermits’ “I’m Into Something Good.” In the space of two
years, the sudden rise of black girl singers, whether singly or in groups, and their
equally sudden fall from popularity as they released a string of soundalike records
after their initial hit, was fast becoming a time-honoured tradition of Teen Pan Alley.
***
Over at Leiber and Stoller’s, Ellie Greenwich was beginning to rival Carole King as
the songwriting queen of teen pop. She had arrived in the business in 1962, later than
Carole King, and began by teaming up with several different writers until she settled
into a partnership with Jeff Barry. In the early days, she remembers:
Most of the women in the industry were background singers or lyricists. There
were very few women that played piano, wrote songs and could produce a session,
go into a studio and work those controls.
The studio would be booked from two to five and those singers would go in
there and read off the songs; maybe they’d do seventeen songs in three hours. I
couldn’t do that. I’d write a song and go in and put the background parts on myself;
I learnt about overdubbing and laying down tracks, so a different sound started
coming out.
Ellie had not set out to be a producer, but she soon found herself becoming one:
Myself and Carole King . . . we came into an industry strictly as songwriters. We also
sang. So we’d go in and make demos on our songs and they sometimes sounded
great. The publishers would take the demo off to a record label who would say,
“OK, let’s put this out.” And then they’d ask, “Who produced this?” Well, Carole
King, or Jeff and I . . . we didn’t think about being producers; it sort of happened to
us, we came in through the back door.
Not only was Ellie the songwriter finding herself in the position of producer, she
was also effectively becoming an artist too. Since record companies were beginning
to release the demos they got from publishers as records, Ellie soon became the voice
behind a host of fictitious teen groups:
A case like that was the Raindrops, which was just myself and Jeff doing all the
voices. We did this demo for a group called the Sensations; it was a song called
“What A Guy,” which we thought would be great for them. We made the demo,
and the publishers said, “This could be a record.” I said, “What do you mean?
There is no group.” But there had to be a group. So we released it as a record by
“The Raindrops.” Back then, a lot of labels put out “dummy groups.” We’d throw
a few people together and have them go out and lip synch the record. There really
wasn’t a Raindrops. . . .
As the tales of Little Eva and her sister Idalia and of groups like the
Shirelles and the Cookies demonstrate, the creative flexibility of the
Brill Building could work to the disadvantage of the singers. The fate
of recordings such as “Let’s Turkey Trot” and “Hula Hoppin’” showed
that singers were often viewed as interchangeable parts. It is also
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ifficult to ignore how the racial identities of the actors involved repro-
d
duced disparities in the larger society, even though a few of the tunes,
such as the Crystals’ “Uptown,” hinted at the heightened awareness,
fostered by the civil rights movement, of racial inequities (the song
was written in 1962 by Mann and Weil and begins “He gets up each
mornin’ and he goes downtown/Where ev’ryone’s his boss and he’s
lost in an angry land”).
In what is probably not a paradox, the most widely celebrated
figure connected with the singer-songwriter genre was male:
producer-songwriter Phil Spector (b. 1939). Spector developed a

trademark sonic quality on his recordings, known as the “Wall of
Sound,” that featured a dense, reverberant texture filled with instru-
ments that were often difficult to separate from one another and
undergirded by an R&B rhythm section, an approach that found frui-
tion in his productions from 1962 onward with artists such as the Crys-
tals, Bob B. Soxx and the Blue Jeans, Darlene Love, and the Ronettes.
Although this sound has often been inaccurately compared (occasion-
ally by Spector himself) to the textural approach of European Roman-
tics, such as Richard Wagner, what Spector shared with Wagner was
a grandiosity of vision and a tendency toward self-aggrandizement.
Taking the exploitation of singers that we have already noted to an
extreme, Spector assumed complete power and economic control over
the female artists who appeared in his productions.3 While a case can
be made that Spector’s achievements have been overglorified in his-
torical narratives about popular music, his recent well-publicized per-
sonal travails make him a tempting and all-too-easy object of ridicule
as well.4 His sound was widely influential, and Spector represented a
shift of power in the music business to people who were of the same
generation as the audience,5 a trend that intensified with the align-
ment of songwriter and performer that came to dominate American
popular music in the wake of the girl groups.
Darlene Love (b. 1938) sang on many of Spector’s best-known
recordings, including the first number one hit he produced, “He’s a
Rebel.” However, as she makes clear, she benefited little from the
prominent role she played in Spector’s success. While Spector allowed
her to make recordings under her own name, she also appeared on
recordings attributed to any number of other groups whose names
existed as trademarks controlled by Spector. Both the structure of the
3. A particularly disturbing case occurred with Ronnie Bennett, lead singer of the Ronettes,
who later married Spector; she presents her account in Ronnie Spector (with Vince Waldron), Be
My Baby: How I Survived Mascara, Miniskirts, and Madness or My Life as a Fabulous Ronette (New
York: HarperPerennial, 1990).
4. I am referring to his arrest for the murder of Lana Clarkson on February 3, 2003, and the
subsequent trial that ended with a verdict of “mistrial” on September 26, 2007. These events
seemed to cap years of revelations about Spector’s bizarre behavior.
5. This is a point made by Tom Wolfe in his celebrated profile of Spector, “The First Tycoon of
Teen,” in The Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby (New York: Pocket Books, 1966), 47–61.
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132 The 1960s
music business and the anonymity-by-design of the performers make
it little wonder, then, that Spector’s notoriety has far outstripped that
of the people who sang (and played and arranged and engineered) on
the recordings that are associated with him.
“He’s A Rebel” was the highest point of the Crystals’ career; but it was also one
of the lowest. Here, Darlene Love takes up the story. When I visited her, she was liv-
ing in style at the Royal Shakespeare Company in Stratford on Avon, during the first
run of the musical Carrie, which later bombed on Broadway. We sat in her dressing
room overlooking the river, and she told me:
I first met Phil in Los Angeles through his partner Lester Sill, because I was doing
a lot of sessions for Lester singing back-up. I was called in to do “He’s A Rebel.” I
went in, he showed me the song, and within three or four days, we had recorded it.
But why did Phil Spector choose Darlene rather than the real Crystals back in New
York to do the song?
Something had happened with their friendship at the time. Phil owned the name
of the Crystals. During that time, producers owned groups’ names so they could
record anyone they wanted under any name. Phil gave me my name, in fact; at that
time I was called Darlene Wright. He asked me if I liked the name “Love”—there
was a gospel singer called Dorothy Love that he admired—and I said yes . . . so I
became Darlene Love.
During the sixties, the scale for “after” background singers, for three or less,
was $22.50 an hour. I told Phil I’d do “He’s A Rebel” for him if he paid me triple
scale. So I got about 1,500 dollars.
I was nineteen when I met Phil, and I was a professional singer. That probably
gave me the edge on the rest of the girls he was working with, because they were
really young, about thirteen up. He always had to pay me because, as professionals,
me and the Blossoms went through the union; we always got paid session fees, but
not necessarily royalties. The only money I ever made in those days was through
sessions.
After “He’s A Rebel,” I wanted a contract. I wanted royalties—they were three
cents a record in those days, or something ridiculous like that. Well, I never got
what I felt was due to me.
Meanwhile, back in New York, the real Crystals were astonished to find themselves
with their first number-one hit, a record that they had not even made. There was
nothing they could do; indeed, they were helpless without Spector. To this day,
Dee Dee Kennibrew of the Crystals, who did finally manage to retrieve the group’s
name from Spector and work under it, refuses to acknowledge Darlene Love’s part
in the Crystals’ career.
Darlene’s story is, however, that Spector, like so many other producers in the
business, paid no regard to anyone’s names, including her own:
When we went to record with Phil we never knew which record was going to be
by who. After “He’s A Rebel,” the next thing he wanted was another record for the
Crystals. I said, this time you’re going to pay me a royalty, not just no $1,500. But I
didn’t get it. Well, the next record was “He’s Sure the Boy I Love” which was sup-
posed to be my Darlene Love record—I was going to record it under my own name.
But no. When I heard it on the radio, they announced that it was by the Crystals.
I asked for a contract again with “Da Doo Ron Ron.” Phil said OK, but I wasn’t
convinced and I never gave him a clean finish of the song so he brought La La
Brooks in from the Crystals and put her voice on top of what I had already done.
We didn’t sign contracts in the end until after “Da Doo Ron Ron.”
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Clearly, Spector’s by now very powerful role as the Boy Wonder of the pop industry
gave him carte blanche to override the inconvenient demands of his young singers.
Records were issued by fictitious groups, mere names dreamed up by Spector; pol-
ished, experienced session singers like Darlene would be brought in to record, and
then they or others who looked the part would pose for publicity shots. To all intents
and purposes, groups like the Crystals appeared only to exist now in Spector’s imagi-
nation as concepts for the next single.
The public did not seem to mind or notice what was going on. The Crystals—
whoever they were—scored big hits in 1963 with “He’s Sure the Boy I Love,” “Da
Doo Ron Ron” and “Then He Kissed Me.” The records were now usually in the con-
fident, romantic boy-meets-girl-they-fall-in-love-and-marry vein that had replaced
the plaintive, adolescent uncertainties of the early girl groups, but writers like Barry
Mann and Cynthia Weil still held out for a bit of social realism in songs like “He’s
Sure the Boy I Love”:
He doesn’t hang diamonds round my neck

all he’s got is an unemployment check
He sure ain’t the boy I’ve been dreaming of, but
He’s sure the boy I love
Besides recording as the Crystals, Darlene also then became—with Bobby Sheen and
Fanita James of the Blossoms—Bob B. Soxx and the Blue Jeans:
Phil had this idea of recording “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah.” We thought that was the
funniest thing we’d ever heard; everybody knew that song, what could he possibly
do with it? But it was a huge hit, and we became Bob B. Soxx and the Blue Jeans.
After that, I finally recorded as Darlene Love. Nobody knew who I was at all. They
were trying to figure out if there was one person doing all the singing on Phil’s
records. They thought it was Barbara Alston of the Crystals.
Darlene’s wonderful voice put her solo recordings, like “Today I Met the Boy I’m
Gonna Marry” and “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home),” in a class of their own
amongst Spector’s by now unbelievably successful teen pop discs. Yet she still did
not emerge as a solo artist in her own right:
I didn’t really push my career as Darlene Love. I was a very successful back-up
singer, and that was important, because I had something to fall back on; it was a
job, like being a secretary. I didn’t just depend on Phil, I had my own career. Also,
I had children and I didn’t want to tour. I’ve had a very full career; in the sixties,
I sang with all kinds of people, including Elvis on his comeback special in 1968.
From 1972 to 1981 I sang back-up for Dionne Warwick. In the eighties, my career
has really taken off; I got a part in “Lethal Weapon,” then there was Carrie, and my
new album is coming out too.
You know, I started off in 1959, and in 1981 I started a solo career. That’s kind
of unusual. It helps that no one has ever really seen me. I’m a fresh idea.
Further Reading
Bradby, Barbara. “Do-Talk and Don’t-Talk: The Division of the Subject in Girl-Group Music,”
in On Record: Rock, Pop and the Written Word, ed. Simon Frith and Andrew Goodwin,
341–69. New York: Routledge, 1990.
Brown, Mick. Tearing Down the Wall of Sound: The Rise and Fall of Phil Spector. New York: Al-
fred A. Knopf, 2007.
bra43588_pt03_125-252.indd 133 05/27/19 05:02 PM

134 The 1960s
Clemente, John. Girl Groups: Fabulous Females that Rocked the World. Iola, Wisc.: Krause Pub-
lications, 2000.
Emerson, Ken. Always Magic in the Air: The Bomp and Brilliance of the Brill Building Era. New
York: Viking, 2005.
Spector, Ronnie (with Vince Waldron). Be My Baby: How I Survived Mascara, Miniskirts, and
Madness or My Life as a Fabulous Ronette. New York: Harper Perennial, 1990.
Stras, Laurie. She’s So Fine: Reflections on Whiteness, Femininity, Adolescence and Class in
1960s Music. Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2010.
Warwick, Jacqueline. Girl Groups, Girl Culture: Popular Music and Identity in the 1960s. New
York: Routledge, 2007.
Wolfe, Tom. “The First Tycoon of Teen,” in The Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby,
47–61. New York: Pocket Books, 1966.
Discography
The Best of the Girl Groups, Vols. 1 and 2. Rhino/WEA, 1990.
The Chantels. The Best of the Chantels, Rhino. 1990.
Spector, Phil (with various artists). Back to Mono (1958–1969). Abcko, 1991.
26. From Surf to Smile
Concurrent with the dance crazes and girl-group phenomenon, the

American imagination increasingly shifted westward to the land of fruit
and nuts, as California rapidly became the most populous and economi-
cally important of the 50 states. Out of the sun-drenched expanses of
the rapidly growing suburbs in Southern California came surf music,
with its litany of beaches, blondes, and Bonneville sport coupes. Ini-
tially an instrumental genre led by guitarist Dick Dale (a real, live surfer)
and guitar-dominated instrumental bands such as the Ventures, surf
came to be associated most strongly with the Beach Boys, a band that
developed a distinctive, contrapuntal, falsetto-led vocal style.
The group was a family affair, consisting of three Wilson broth-
ers (Brian, Carl, and Dennis), cousin Mike Love, and pal Al Jardine. The
eldest brother, Brian (b. 1942), was the musical mastermind of the
group, concocting a potent brew of multipart harmony singing (derived
from 1950s vocal groups such as the jazz-influenced Four Freshmen and
the Hi-Los), Chuck Berry riffs, trebly guitar timbres (a holdover from surf
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From Surf to Smile 135
instrumental groups), and lyrics extolling the ennui of beach-loving,
middle-class white teens. The early hits of 1962–63 all hewed close
to these themes in one way or another, although the emotional range
and harmonic palette expanded in ballads like “Surfer Girl” and “In My
Room.” Their first major national hit, “Surfin’ U.S.A.,” owed so much to
Chuck Berry’s “Sweet Little Sixteen” that Berry was eventually awarded
songwriting credit for it.
The following excerpts from Brian Wilson’s autobiography describe a

period after Wilson suffered a nervous breakdown in 1964 and sub-
sequently stopped touring, a move that enabled him to devote more
energy to songwriting and production. While his songs had continu-
ously increased in musical complexity beginning with the Beach Boys’
first recordings in 1962, the Beatles’ Rubber Soul, released in December
1965, inspired Wilson to try and surpass his earlier efforts. The result?
Pet Sounds, one of the first “concept” albums and one of the first to fea-
ture overt studio experimentation (including elaborate overdubbing and
mixing, unusual instruments, and songs with multiple tempi). Although
Pet Sounds did not equal the success of earlier Beach Boys albums
(managing nevertheless to reach the Top 10), it, and the commercially
successful single that followed, “Good Vibrations,” subsequently estab-
lished critical high-water marks for the band. Here, Wilson describes
the creation of these recordings.1
“Interview with Brian Wilson”

Richard Cromelin
Pet Sounds, the masterpiece, was the first instance of commercial decline for the Beach
Boys, and it also marked a division between Brian, holed up in Beverly Hills, work-
ing his alchemy on the Spector sound, and the rest of the group, touring the world
with their surf music. . . .
Brian’s version of the Pet Sounds encounter: “I think they thought it was just for
Brian Wilson only. I think the problem was that they knew that Brian Wilson was
gonna be a separate entity, something that was a force of his own. . . . So with Pet
Sounds there was resistance in that I was doing most of the artistic work on it, and for
that reason there was a little bit of inter-group (sic) struggle. . . .
“Well, it resolved in the fact that they figured, ‘Well, sure, it’s a showcase for
Brian Wilson, but it’s still the Beach Boys.’ In other words—“ here he flashes a cagey
1. For a portrait of Wilson during the period following “Good Vibrations” while he worked
on Smile, the imploding follow-up to Pet Sounds, see Jules Siegel, “A Teen-age Hymn to God,” in
Rock and Roll Is Here to Stay: An Anthology, ed. William McKeen, 387–99 (New York: W. W. Norton,
[1967] 2000).
Source: “Brian Wilson, part 1.” Interview by Richard Cromelin, Sounds, 31 July 1976. Reprinted
under license from Backpages Limited.
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136 The 1960s
smile—“they gave in. They gave in to the fact that I had a little to say myself, so they
let me have my stint. . . .”
Since 1961, when he and Mike Love concocted the first surf song, everything Brian
Wilson has touched has attained mythic proportions: The Beach. The California Con-
sciousness. The Beach Boys, once again, and probably for good, an American Rock
institution. And Brian Wilson himself, the enigmatic genius whose shrouded pres-
ence pervades popular music. The prodigious weight of those myths, you feel, is one
of the adversaries in his silent struggle, but at the same time his pride in their creation
is certainly one of the forces that accounts for his emergence.
“Well, it grows on,” he reflects softly. “It grows on and on. At first it was the
thing of surfing, where we were the only things coming up with this new Chuck
Berry–orientated sound. And legends grew. Legends grew about Pet Sounds, legends
have grown about a lot of our music. ‘Good Vibrations’ was a legend. I’m proud that
we have created several different legends. . . . It’s a unique quality we have, which
I’m very proud of. The fact that we can be leaders at times—we have at least gone
through periods where we’re leaders. . . .”
As for the elevation of Brian’s Spectorian Pet Sounds to masterpiece status, Wil-
son gives and takes credit where due. “Well, I felt that the production was a master-
piece,” he says, somehow not sounding boastful. “Pet Sounds is an offshoot of the Phil
Spector production technique, and it was considered a masterpiece because it was
masterful in the tradition of Phil Spector records. . . . My contribution was adding the
harmonies, learning to incorporate harmonies and certain vocal techniques to that
Spector production concept.
“I hope that he enjoyed some of the techniques we used, and some of the sounds
that were created. That word ‘Pet Sounds,’ I think we wanted to get across the point
that this album was a concept in sound. . . . We wanted to show that you could
display instruments richly combined together. In other words, it was a concept in
mixing instruments together, to combine as one sound. . . . Yeah, there were some
good songs, but the basic concept was in production, and we’re very proud of the
continuity of the production.”
Smile, set to follow Pet Sounds but never completed, was conceived as a different sort
of theme album. “That,” explains Brian, “was a concept in humour. The humourous
aspect of each of the tracks. Some of the tracks, we left laughing on the tracks, where
Carl would go—“ Brian sings a line and breaks into a huge guffaw. “Dylan did that
in one of his songs. Which one was it?”
“ ‘All I Really Want To Do,’ ” I help.
“Yeah! He laughed in that damn thing and I laughed my head off! I thought
it was really funny. We did the same thing. Yeah, it was a concept in humour, like
‘She’s Goin’ Bald,’ obviously that’s a humour idea. . . .”
Mention of the Surf’s Up album evokes a cryptic response. “That I like, but I don’t
like discussing. I don’t know why.” After a pause, though, he offers a few comments:
“ ‘Surf’s Up,’ itself was a masterpiece of a song which Van Dyke and I wrote. I
thought it rambled beautifully and I thought it really said a lot, at the end. A chil-
dren’s song, you know, a song of freedom: ‘I heard the word, a wonderful thing,
a children’s song,’ you know, and I went into a high—“ Brian emits an awkward,
atonal falsetto noise, like a seagull’s eerie cry—“You know, that kind of childlike
sound in my voice.
“That album marked the first time the guys actually could produce, actually fol-
low through with dubbing down, producing the tracks, getting the instruments on
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From Surf to Smile 137
themselves separate from me. So I think it began a series of things where the guys
became independent of me. That was a good move.”
Of all his recordings, though, Brian reserves the most pride for what was,
strangely enough, the Beach Boys’ only million-selling single. “My mother used to
talk about vibrations a lot when I was a kid,” he says, “and she told me a lot about
that. . . . She told me that dogs bark at some people and don’t bark at others, and she
said this can be attributed to the fact that vibrations are picked up by dogs—and by
people, she said.
“And so I learned that, and then some 10 or 15 years later I came up with a
song, ‘Good Vibrations,’ which was about that very concept, about people picking
up vibrations from other people.
“It had a pocket symphony effect, and it was a series of intricate harmonies and
of mood changes. Using a cello for the first time in rock ‘n’ roll that way—the use
of the cello in that respect was an innovation. . . . The song took about a month to
develop. It was a long time structuring that song. We threw away a lot of pieces and
bits, and did some 10 different sessions on that song. . . .
“Yes, I had a feeling all along that we were in the midst of developing quite
an interesting piece of music, an interesting structure, that had something new and
fresh. I’m very proud of that. I’m very proud of the effects it had on it too, that
brought about that feeling.”
Brian sounds like a big, rhythmic bee as he hums the familiar, charging-cello riff.
“It was kind of denoting the pulsations of vibrations, you know,” he explains. “So it
really kind of said it. It said something, that record said something.” . . .
The brisk cadence of Brian’s conversational pace accelerates as he continues, and his
words seem to be whipping up some immense, if erratic energy inside his imposing
frame as he talks about the Brian Wilson competitive spirit: “I’d call up the guys and
say, ‘You guys, you think the last one was good, well wait till you hear this one.’
“I was a better-better-better type, what’s that called? One-upmanship, yeah. I
was glued to that aspect. I thought that was the way. And that is the way. The way to
think is that what you’re doing now is the best.”
Spector, it seems, isn’t the only egomaniac roaming the hills above the Los Ange-
les plain. “Oh yeah,” Brian admits, “I was considered an egomaniac myself. I’m like
Spector in that I have the egomaniac attitude for myself. I always consider myself
great and I pat myself on the back every day.
“I wake up in the morning and say, ‘You’re the greatest, you’re this and some-
day you’re gonna be this, and someday people are gonna hear about this and that.’
I’m that way. I’m just not as profound an egomaniac,” he adds with a hearty laugh
that turns into a dangerous-sounding cough spasm.
The Beach Boys’ greatest rivalry occurred a decade ago, and if they lost that
round, just look who’s working today and who isn’t. “I think we had a lot of competi-
tion with the Beatles,” says Brian, “and I think we held our own. It was an overflood
of airplay. Totally unfair airplay. It was unfair to a lot of American acts. Some of the
great artists of the mid-60s were neglected.
“With the Beatles, both of us too being on the same label made it even more com-
petitive. Both of our names started with B-E-A and both on the same label. I thought
that was very amusing.
“I think it was a very simple competition. I don’t think we competed directly
because they were making their completely own kind of records. Thank God that we
weren’t making similar kinds of records or it would have really been a competitive
thing.”
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138 The 1960s
Further Reading
Fitzgerald, Jon. “Creating Those Good Vibrations: An Analysis of Brian Wilson’s US Top 40
Hits 1963–66,” Popular Music and Society, 32:1 (2009): 3–24.
Gaines, Steven. Heroes and Villains: The True Story of the Beach Boys. New York: New American
Library, 1986.
Lambert, Philip. Inside the Music of Brian Wilson: The Songs, Sounds, and Influences of the Beach
Boys’ Founding Genius. New York: Continuum, 2007.
Wilson, Brian (with Todd Gold). Wouldn’t It Be Nice: My Own Story. New York: Harper Col-
lins, 1991.
Discography
Beach Boys. Pet Sounds. Capitol, 1966.
_______. Good Vibrations: Thirty Years of the Beach Boys. Capitol, 1993.
27. Urban Folk Revival
The whole notion of “urban folk” summons a number of paradoxes:

If we take “folk music” to mean music that survives in an oral, rather
than a written, tradition, preserved in face-to-face encounters between
people who recognize one another as belonging to the same commu-
nity, then the idea of “urban folk,” in which the music exists among
widely dispersed city dwellers and is shared through mass-mediated
technology, seems at least somewhat contradictory. If we try to retain
some sense of American folk music as connected to the rural folk in a
premodern era, the term “urban folk” similarly involves a suspension
of disbelief.
The idea of urban folk music first gathered momentum in the 1930s.
Many of the early performers were either black or white southerners
who had been brought (or encouraged to come) to New York City by
folklorist-musicologists who were associated with the leftist Popular
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Urban Folk Revival 139
Front political movement, such as John and Alan Lomax and Charles
Seeger.1 While early urban folk performers did include African American
blues singers like Leadbelly (Huddie Ledbetter) and Josh White among
their ranks, the dominant musical style derived in large part from the
ballad tradition of white, rural Southerners and thus shared qualities
with the “hillbilly” music of the period. Many of the differences between
“hillbilly” and “folk” were, in fact, more sociological than musicologi-
cal: rather than the utilitarian, overtly commercial aims of 1920s and
1930s hillbilly music, urban folk used the associations of rural, tradi-
tional music to evoke a sense of timeless purity.
Of all the performers who are associated with the urban folk move-
ment, Woody Guthrie (1912–67) became the most recognized. Born and
raised in Oklahoma, Guthrie wrote original songs (using melodies with
strong connections to traditional tunes) that chronicled the tribulations
of Dust Bowl refugees—“Okies” like those memorialized in John Stein-
beck’s Grapes of Wrath—and the hardships endured by the common
“folk.” Guthrie’s lyrics were pro-labor and pro–working class, but suffi-
ciently populist so that people from various political perspectives could
adopt a song like “This Land Is Your Land,” especially when the most
explicitly left-wing verses were excised. For example, the often deleted
fourth verse of “This Land Is Your Land” protests the negative effects
of land ownership: “Was a high wall there that tried to stop me/A sign
was painted said: Private Property.”2 Guthrie also developed a ramblin’,
gamblin’ persona in many witty talking blues that had much in common
with personae developed later by Beat writers such as Jack Kerouac, and
that influenced many male singers of the 1960s.
In 1941, Guthrie joined the Almanac Singers, a group that included
among its members Pete Seeger (b. 1919), son of the noted musicologist
Charles Seeger. The Almanac Singers continued to stress political and
social issues, such as the importance of civil rights and labor unions.
Seeger then formed the Weavers, a group that continued to be associ-
ated with the liberal themes of the Almanac Singers, while their richly
harmonized (and thickly orchestrated) versions of songs, such as Lead-
belly’s “Goodnight Irene” (number one for 13 weeks in 1950!) and Guth-
rie’s “So Long It’s Been Good to Know You” (number four in 1951) were
sufficiently successful to enter the popular music mainstream. Although
the Weavers’ hits eschewed strong political messages, their left-wing
1. For more on the popular front and the urban folk revival, see Michael Denning, The Cultural
Front: The Laboring of American Culture in the Twentieth Century (New York: Verso, 1997); Robert
Cantwell, When We Were Good: The Folk Revival (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1996);
Benjamin Filene, Romancing the Folk: Public Memory and American Roots Music (Chapel Hill: Univer-
sity of North Carolina Press, 2000); and Bryan Carman, A Race of Singers: Whitman’s W orking-Class
Hero from Guthrie to Springsteen (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2000).
2. The sixth verse of this song, also usually omitted, describes the devastating effects of pov-
erty in the United States.
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140 The 1960s
views brought them to the attention of Joseph McCarthy and the House
Un-American Activities Committee, the proceedings of which led to the
group’s demise in 1953.
Despite their blacklisting, the Weavers and other folk musicians
like Burl Ives planted seeds for the popularity of urban folk music that
led some of their fans to an awareness of Guthrie, Leadbelly, Josh White,
and others. Although the McCarthy hearings effectively suppressed
urban folk music, artists like Harry Belafonte—who found success with
several Caribbean-flavored recordings in 1956–57—and the Kingston
Trio—whose “Tom Dooley” went to number one in 1958—maintained the
mass-mediated presence of folk music, and the music gained popular-
ity among college-age audiences. Urban folk music also maintained its
paradoxical stature as the anticommercial form of popular music and
was heard by many as the antidote to mainstream pop music and early
rock ‘n’ roll.
The article that follows describes the links between many of the artists
associated with the urban folk music of the 1930s and 1940s and their
successors in the late 1950s and early 1960s. The article notes how,
from the late 1950s onward, urban folk reasserted its political conno-
tations (which for many it had never lost) and how distinctions were
already being made between overtly commercial folk groups (the Kings-
ton Trio) and artists who were viewed (rightly or wrongly) as making few,
if any, concessions to mass taste. The civil rights movement provided
the strongest public cause for this new confluence of folk music (dubbed
by historians the urban folk music revival) and politics, and, as the arti-
cle notes, the fight for civil rights provided the strongest motivation for
the “nonconformity” exhibited by folk music fans. It is significant that,
despite the prominence of several African American performers within
the movement and its strong commitment to civil rights, the vast major-
ity of the performers and audience members were white, college edu-
cated, and middle class, thereby forming another link with the 1930s
urban folk scene.
Songs of the Silent Generation

Gene Bluestein
Mademoiselle, the magazine which specializes in telling smart young women what
the bright young men of Madison Avenue think they ought to know, got around to
explaining (in its December 1960 issue) what the “folksong fad” is all about. Not-
withstanding a brief nod in the direction of anthropology and social psychology
Source: Gene Bluestein, “Songs of the Silent Generation” from The New Republic, March 13, 1961. ©
1961 New Republic. All rights reserved. Used by permission and protected under the Copyright
Laws of the United States. The printing, copying, redistribution, or retransmission of the Material
without express written permission is prohibited.
bra43588_pt03_125-252.indd 140 05/27/19 05:02 PM

(folksinging provides students with a sense of “togetherness,” it helps them chan-
nelize their feelings toward a “brutal and threatening” world), what Mademoiselle
wants to emphasize is the fact that this generation of college students are “hungry
for a small, safe taste of an unslick, underground world” and folksong, like pizza and
popcorn, takes the edge off their appetites.
Mademoiselle’s description of the college “folkniks” as a “student middle class”
which has adapted “the trappings and tastes of a Bohemian minority group” is based
on the assumption that the students draw their main inspiration from the bearded
“beatniks” who inhabit the countless coffee houses which have sprung up around
the country. But as Kenneth Rexroth has been pointing out from the beginning, the
“beatnik” is the creature of Time, Inc; it is a popular view of the artist as irrespon-
sible, incomprehensible, and “maladjusted.” And, as in the case of the new young
poets, the analogy is false.
Neither does the college folksong addict flip over the antics of commercial folk-
song groups which have become standard property in the stables of such bigtime
operators as RCA Victor, Decca, and Columbia. (The Kingston Trio was so out of
place at the first Newport Folk Festival that it did not appear at the second one.)
The repertoires of these groups do consist mainly of traditional songs but they are
adapted, dislocated, expurgated or, when the occasion is right, turned into popu-
lar songs. Often the appeal of the big time night club singers comes less from their
vocal or instrumental skill than from the patter in between the songs; the routines are
second-rate imitations of the humor developed by the “sick” comics.
But the interest of large numbers of college students in folksong goes far
beyond the limits of wisecracks accompanied by banjo and guitar. Even Mademoi-
selle noticed this, for its reporter can’t quite understand what attracts these middle
class kids to a music which evokes “the ideas and emotions of the downtrodden and
the heartbroken, of garage mechanics and mill workers and miners and backwoods
farmers”—a lineup of materials which reflects neither the world of the beats nor of
the slick trios.
Here is where a little historical perspective would help. As Harold Taylor has
pointed out recently, this generation of college students has begun to react against
being treated like adolescents. If they have not been ideological, Mr. Taylor points
out, they have been willing to associate themselves with non-conformist move-
ments, despite warnings by parents and teachers that such activities will endanger
their personal as well as their job security. The moral leadership for this so-called
“silent generation,” Mr. Taylor notes, was “established by the Negro students in
the South who quietly and courageously began to assert their rights with the sit-in
strikes at lunch counters.” And as TV coverage of events in the South has revealed,
the passive resistance movement of young people and adults is a singing move-
ment as well.
Martin Luther King’s meetings with Negro college students almost always
conclude with a song—a popular one has its roots in the spiritual: “We shall
overcome—Oh Lord, Deep in my heart, I do believe, we shall overcome some day.” A
Huntley-Brinkley special on the sit-ins showed students singing a West Indian work
song which they had sung in jail—“Daylight’s comin’ and I wanna go home.” The
same program featured snatches of a song which told how the “cops went wild over
me, and they locked me up and threw away the key.” The words were up to date, but
it was unmistakably the IWW protest song called the “Popular Wobbly.” Earlier, the
bus-boycotters in Montgomery, Alabama, had sung, “Walk Along Together.”
That spirituals, work songs, and other protest songs should figure prominently
in the expression of the students in the South is not surprising. What is significant is
that the main stream of the song traditions that interest college students in general
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142 The 1960s
derive from similar materials. Almost fifty years ago, John Lomax told a meeting of
academic folklorists that the significance of American folksong was to be seen not
in transplanted ballads, but in songs of the miners, lumbermen, Great Lakes sailors,
railroad men, cowboys, and Negroes. (A special category singled out “songs of the
down and out classes—the outcast girls, the dope fiend, the convict, the jail bird and
the tramp.”) It was a shocking revision of the academic approach to American folk-
song, for in 1913, as today, the professional folklorist tends to be concerned mainly
with ballads, and especially the relationship between American and British ballads.
But as Lomax continued to collect in the field the vitality of non-ballad traditions
impressed upon him. With the help of his son Alan, John Lomax explored the prisons
of the South, uncovering such singers as Huddie Ledbetter (Lead Belly), Vera Hall,
Dock Reed; they were impressed by the songs of the dust bowl songmaker, Woodie
Guthrie, but especially by “the singers who have moved us beyond all others that we
have heard . . . the Negroes, who in our opinion have made the most important and
original contributions to American folksong . . .”
Long before folksongs became commercially profitable, singers like Guthrie,
Lead Belly, and Pete Seeger were spreading the Lomax gospel on picket lines, at
union meetings, and through the recordings made by quixotic Moses Asch, whose
supreme devotion to traditional material kept his record companies producing even
when he had neither a large audience nor a source of capital. Through the thirties and
forties Guthrie kept a constant stream of songs flowing like an underground river—
about the dust bowl, hoboes, folk heroes (including the Oklahoma Robin Hood,
Pretty Boy Floyd), the Grand Coulee Dam, New York City, mining disasters, as well
as a Whitmanesque catalogue about America called “This Land Is Your Land.” Lead
Belly popularized such songs as “Good Night Irene,” “The Midnight Special,” The
Rock Island Line,” and dozens of blues including “Bourgeois Blues,” based on his
attempt to find housing in Jim Crow Washington, D.C. Seeger, whose sensitivity
to vocal and instrumental traditions is unrivalled, has been, since the early forties,
a Johnny Appleseed encouraging his audience to pick up a banjo and make music.
Lead Belly died in 1949, just before the Weavers put “Good Night Irene” at the
top of the hit parade, paving the way for a mass folksong audience. But like other
serious arts in America, folksongs resist the mass production and standardization
of tin-pan alley. (Lee Hays, who sings bass with the Weavers, commented that the
success of “Good Night Irene” made tin-pan alley believe America was ready for a
waltz revival!) Guthrie has become seriously ill and is unable to appreciate fully the
response to his songs and his artistry which has developed among enthusiasts in
America and in England. Pete Seeger is today the most sought after performer on col-
lege campuses, more often through the insistence of student groups than the promo-
tion by official university concert bureaus. With obvious respect for his materials and
the people who produced them, Seeger continues in the tradition of the Lomaxes,
Guthrie and Leadbelly.
This is still a young movement, composed of students who are filled with the
stubborn idealism that permeates the songs of Negro slaves, miners, hoboes, and
blues singers. If the Kennedy administration is serious in its proposal to recruit them
into a corps which will work to push the new frontiers, they will respond en masse
and bring their guitars with them.
In a manner curiously redolent of the girl group trend, the urban folk
music revival was also more egalitarian in terms of gender than many
genres that preceded and/or followed it. Notable females in the folk
revival included Judy Collins, Peggy Seeger, Odetta, Carolyn Hester,
bra43588_pt03_125-252.indd 142 05/27/19 05:02 PM

Mary (of Peter, Paul, and Mary), and Sylvia (of Ian and Sylvia), but
by far the best known (and most successful as a solo performer) was
Joan Baez (b. 1941). The following article from Time focuses on Baez
and makes plain that she was beloved by purists even as her success
superseded all but a handful of other folk artists.3 The beginning of
the article draws parallels among the “purity” of Baez’s voice, her una-
dorned appearance, and her commitment to “authentic” folk music;
the focus on her appearance and personal life sets the stage for a pro-
file in which the article’s anonymous author struggles to make sense of
Baez’s persona within the existing range of available roles for women.
While space is given to Baez’s own comments, which touch on some
of her political concerns, the overall tone of the article downplays
her musical and political activities, using the focus on her lifestyle,
romantic life, clothes, and appearance to accent her eccentricity.
This feature article on Baez in Time, one of the weekly publica-
tions with the widest circulation in the United States, illustrates the
high profile of the folk revival at the time. Indeed, not long after this
article appeared, a weekly show, Hootenanny, began its run on U.S.
national television and lasted from April 1963 to September 1964.
Folk Singing: Sibyl with Guitar

Time
Removed from its natural backgrounds, folk singing has become both an esoteric cult
and a light industry. Folk-song albums are all over the bestseller charts, and folk-
singing groups command as much as $10,000 a night in the big niteries. As a cultural
fad, folk singing appeals to genuine intellectuals, fake intellectuals, sing-it-yourself
types, and rootless root seekers who discern in folk songs the fine basic values of
American life. As a pastime, it has staggeringly multiplied sales of banjos and gui-
tars; more than 400,000 guitars were sold in the U.S. last year.
The focus of interest is among the young. On campuses where guitars and ban-
jos were once symptoms of hopeless maladjustment, country twanging has acquired
new status. A guitar stringer shows up once a week at the Princeton University Store.
The people who sit in the urban coffeehouses sipping mocha java at 60 a cup
are mainly of college age. They take folk singing very seriously. No matter how bad
a performing singer may be the least amount of cross talk will provoke an angry
shhhh.
3. For an account of the folk music revival that focuses on divisions within the movement, see
Dick Weissman, Which Side Are You On? An Inside History of the Folk Music Revival in America (New
York: Continuum, 2006); for a history that connects the earlier urban folk movement with its re-
vival, see Ronald D. Cohen, Rainbow Quest: The Folk Music Revival and American Society, 1940–1970
(Amherst and Boston: University of Massachusetts Press, 2002).
Source: “Folk Singing: Sybil with Guitar” from TIME, November 23, 1962. © 1962 Time Inc. Used
under license. TIME and Time Inc. are not affiliated with, and do not endorse products or services
of licensee.
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144 The 1960s
These cultists often display unconcealed, and somewhat exaggerated, contempt
for entertaining groups like the Kingston Trio and the Limeliters. Folk singing is a
religion, in the purists’ lexicon, and the big corporate trios are its money-changing De
Milles. The high pantheon is made up of all the shiftless geniuses who have shouted
the songs of their forebears into tape recorders provided by the Library of Congress.
These country “authentics” are the all but unapproachable gods. The tangible sibyl,
closer to hand, is Joan Baez.
Her voice is as clear as air in the autumn, a vibrant, strong, untrained and thrill-
ing soprano. She wears no makeup, and her long black hair hangs like a drapery,
parted around her long almond face. In performance she comes on, walks straight
to the microphone, and begins to sing. No patter. No show business. She usually
wears a sweater and skirt or a simple dress. Occasionally she affects something semi-
Oriental that seems to have been hand-sewn out of burlap. The purity of her voice
suggests purity of approach. She is only 21 and palpably nubile. But there is little sex
in that clear flow of sound. It is haunted and plaintive, a mother’s voice, and it has in
it distant reminders of black women wailing in the night, of detached madrigal sing-
ers performing calmly at court, and of saddened gypsies trying to charm death into
leaving their Spanish caves.
Impresarios everywhere are trying to book her. She has rarely appeared in night-
clubs and says she doubts that she will ever sing in one again; she wants to be some-
thing more than background noise. Her LP albums sell so well that she could hugely
enrich herself by recording many more, but she has set a limit of one a year. Most of
her concerts are given on college campuses.
She sings Child ballads with an ethereal grace that seems to have been caught
and stopped in passage in the air over the 18th century Atlantic. Barbara Allen (Child
84) is one of the set pieces of folk singing, and no one sings it as achingly as she does.
From Lonesome Road to All My Trials, her most typical selections are so mournful and
quietly desperate that her early records would not be out of place at a funeral. More
recently she has added some lighter material to create a semblance of variety, but
the force of sadness in her personality is so compelling that even the wonderful and
instructive lyrics of Copper Kettle somehow manage to portend a doom deeper than
a jail sentence:
Build your fire with hickory—
Hickory and ash and oak.
Don’t use no green or rotten wood,
They’ll get you by the smoke.
While you lay there by the juniper,
While the moon is bright,
Watch them jugs a-filling
In the pale moonlight.
That song is a fond hymn to the contemplative life of the moonshiner, but Joan
Baez delivers it in a manner that suggests that all good lives, respectable or not, are
soon to end.
The people who promote her records and concerts are forever saying that “she
speaks to her generation.” They may be right, since her generation seems to prefer
her to all others. If the subtle and emotional content of her attitude is getting through
to her contemporaries, she at least has an idea of what she is trying to say to them
and why they want to hear it. “When I started singing, I felt as though we had just so
long to live, and I still feel that way,” she says. “It’s looming over your head. The kids
who sing feel they really don’t have a future—so they pick up a guitar and play. It’s
a desperate sort of thing, and there’s a whole lost bunch of them.”
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Resentful Stones
After she finished high school, the family moved to Boston, where her father had
picked up a mosaic of jobs with Harvard, M.I.T., Encyclopaedia Britannica Films,
and the Smithsonian Institution. They had scarcely settled when Dr. Baez came
home one night and said, “Come, girls, I have something to show you.” He took
them to Tulla’s Coffee Grinder, where amateur folk singers could bring their guitars
and sing.
Joan was soon singing there and in similar places around Boston. She spent a
month or so at Boston University studying theater—the beginning and end of col-
lege for her—and she met several semipro folk singers who taught her songs and
guitar techniques. She never studied voice or music, or even took the trouble to study
folklore and pick up songs by herself. Instead, she just soaked them up from those
around her. She could outsing anybody, and she left a trail of resentful stepping-
stones behind her.
She sang in coffeehouses in and around Harvard Square that were populated
by what might be called the Harvard underworld—drifters, somewhat beat, with
Penguin classics protruding from their blue jeans and no official standing at Har-
vard or anywhere else. They pretended they were Harvard students, ate in the
university dining halls and sat in on some classes. Joan Baez, who has long been
thought of as a sort of otherworldly beatnik because of her remote manner, long
hair, bare feet and burlap wardrobe, actually felt distaste for these academic bums
from the start. “They just lie in their pads, smoke pot, and do stupid things like
that,” she says.
They were her first audiences, plus Harvard boys and general citizens who grew
in number until the bums were choked out. She was often rough on them all. She
ignored their requests if she chose to. When one patron lisped a request to her, she
cruelly lisped in reply. When another singer turned sour in performance, Joan sud-
denly stood up in the back of the room and began to sing, vocally stabbing the hap-
less girl on the stage into silence.
Sometime Thing
She made one friend. His name is Michael New. He is Trinidad English, 23 years old,
and apparently aimless—a sulky, moody, pouting fellow whose hair hangs down
in golden ringlets. He may go down in history as the scholar who spent three years
at Harvard as a freshman. “I was sure it would only last two weeks as usual,” says
Joan. “But then after three weeks there we were, still together. We were passionately,
insanely, irrationally in love for the first few months. Then we started bickering and
quarreling violently.” Michael now disappears for months at a time. But he always
comes back to her, and she sometimes introduces him as her husband.
In the summer of 1959, another folk singer invited her to the first Folk Festival at
Newport, R.I. Her clear-lighted voice poured over the 13,000 people collected there
and chilled them with surprise. The record-company leg-and-fang men closed in.
“Would you like to meet Mitch, Baby?” said a representative of Columbia Records,
dropping the magic name of Mitch Miller, who is Columbia’s top pop artists-and-
repertory man when he isn’t waving to his mother on TV.
“Who’s Mitch?” said Joan.
The record companies were getting a rude surprise. Through bunk and bally-
hoo, they had for decades been turning sows’ ears into silk purses. Now they had
found a silk purse that had no desire to become a sow’s ear. The girl did not want
to be exploited, squeezed, and stuffed with cash. Joan eventually signed with a little
outfit called Vanguard, which is now a considerably bigger outfit called Vanguard.
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146 The 1960s
Cats and Doctors

Somewhere along the line Joan Baez’ family became Quakers, but Joan herself is not
a Friend. “Living is my religion,” she says. She practices it currently on California’s
rugged coast. She has lived there for more than a year, including eight months in
the Big Sur region in a squalid cabin with five cats and five dogs. The cabin was
a frail barque adrift on a sea of mud, and sometimes when Joan opened the front
door, a comber of fresh mud would break over the threshold and flow into the
living room. When she couldn’t stand it any more, she moved to cleaner quarters in
nearby Carmel.
She does not like to leave the area for much more than a short concert tour, for
her psychiatrist is there and she feels that she must stay near him. He is her fourth
“shrink,” as she calls analysts, and the best ever. Mercurial, subject to quickly shift-
ing moods, gentle, suspicious, wild and frightened as a deer, worried about the bugs
she kills, Joan is anything but the harsh witch that her behavior in the Cambridge
coffeehouses would suggest. Sympathetic friends point out that her wicked manner
in those days was in large part a cover-up for her small repertory. She could not have
honored most requests if she had wanted to. Actually, friends insist, she is honest
and sincere to a fault, sensitive, kind and confused. She once worked to near exhaus-
tion at the Perkins School for the Blind near Boston.
Segregation and Sentiment

Like many folk singers, she is earnestly political. She has taken part in peace marches
and ban-the-bomb campaigns. Once in Texas she broke off singing in the middle of
a concert to tell the audience that even at the risk of embarrassing a few of them, she
wanted to say that it made her feel good to see some colored people in the room.
“They all clapped and cheered,” she says. “I was so surprised and happy.”
She is a lovely girl who has always attracted numerous boys, but her wardrobe
would not fill a hatbox. She wears almost no jewelry, but she has one material bauble.
When a Jaguar auto salesman looked down his nose at the scruffily dressed customer
as she peered at a bucket-seat XK-E sports model, she sat down, wrote a giant check,
and bought it on the spot. Wildly, she dashes across the desert in her Jaguar, as unse-
cured as a grain of flying sand. “I have no real roots,” she says. “Sometimes, when I
walk through a suburb with all its tidy houses and lawns, I get a real feeling of nostal-
gia. I want to live there and hear the screen door slam. And when I’m in New York, it
sometimes smells like when I was nine, and I love it. I look back with great nostalgia
on every place I’ve ever lived. I’m a sentimental kind of a goof.”
Further Reading
Cantwell, Robert. When We Were Good: The Folk Revival. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard Univer-
sity Press, 1996.
Carman, Bryan. A Race of Singers: Whitman’s Working-Class Hero from Guthrie to Springsteen.
Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2000.
Cohen, Ronald D. Rainbow Quest: The Folk Music Revival and American Society, 1940–1970.
Amherst and Boston: University of Massachusetts Press, 2002.
Donaldson, Rachel Clare. “I Hear America Singing”: Folk Music and National Identity.
Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2014.
Dunaway, David King. Singing Out: An Oral History of America’s Folk Music Revivals. New
bra43588_pt03_125-252.indd 146 05/27/19 05:02 PM

Bringing It All Back Home 147
Filene, Benjamin. Romancing the Folk: Public Memory and American Roots Music. Chapel Hill:
University of North Carolina Press, 2000.
Hajdu, David. Positively 4th Street: The Lives and Times of Joan Baez, Bob Dylan, Mimi Baez
Fariña, and Richard Fariña. New York: Picador, 2011.
La Chapelle, Peter. Proud to Be an Okie: Cultural Politics, Country Music, and Migration to South-
ern California. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2007.
Weissman, Dick. Which Side Are You On? An Inside History of the Folk Music Revival in America.
New York: Continuum, 2006.
Discography
Alan Lomax Collection Sampler. Rounder Select, 1997.
The Almanac Singers. Talking Union and Other Union Songs. Smithsonian Folkways, 2007.
Baez, Joan. Joan Baez. Vanguard Records, 1960.
_______. The First Ten Years. Vanguard Records, 1990.
Folk Hits of the ’60s. Shout Factory, 2003.
Guthrie, Woody. The Asch Recordings (4 vols.). Smithsonian Folkways, 1999.
In the Wind: The Folk Music Collection. Varese Fontana, 2003.
The Kingston Trio. The Essential Kingston Trio. Shout Factory, 2006.
Peter, Paul, and Mary. Peter, Paul, and Mary. Warner Brothers, 1962.
_______. The Very Best of Peter, Paul, and Mary. Rhino/WEA, 2005.
Seeger, Pete. Pete Seeger’s Greatest Hits. Sony, 2002.
Van Ronk, Dave. Inside Dave Van Ronk. Fantasy, 1991.
28. Bringing It All Back Home

DY L A N AT NE W POR T
Early in 1961, Bob Dylan (b. 1941) left Minneapolis, arrived in New York
City’s Greenwich Village, and quickly made his way to the forefront of
the folk music scene there. Early signs of outward encouragement came
in September 1961 with a glowing review from the New York Times critic
Robert Shelton1 and a contract from Columbia Records (the largest
record company at the time) that resulted in his first album, the epon-
ymous Bob Dylan, recorded in November 1961 and released in March
1962. In keeping with the practice of the folk revival at the time, the
1. “Bob Dylan: A Distinctive Folk-Song Stylist,” New York Times, September 29, 1961.
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148 The 1960s
album relied heavily on preexisting material, containing only two origi-
nals, both of which were largely indebted to Dylan’s idol Woody Guthrie.
The other songs on the album reveal what set Dylan apart from the rest
of the folk performers: an eclectic mixture of material, which included
renditions of hard-driving country blues that were first recorded by
Blind Lemon Jefferson and Bukka White.
In fact, Dylan’s performance style at this time owed a lot to the high-
energy performances of the musicians he had emulated in high school:
Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Hank Williams. This performance
style, which he combined with Chaplinesque physical humor and a
moodiness derived from the image of James Dean, makes it easy in ret-
rospect to see what made Dylan appear much hipper than the other
“pure” folkies, who tended to project a kind of somber earnestness.
Furthermore, in another atypical move for a “folky,” Dylan never denied
the influence of overtly commercial musicians, and he moved quickly
toward writing the majority of the songs he performed.
The political orientation of many folksingers was directly impli-
cated in the development of the protest song movement, which sought
to express the folk revival’s political concerns through newly com-
posed songs that addressed topical matters. Here, Seeger was again
a pioneer: he had written songs with topical themes dating back to the
1940s—“I Had a Hammer,” cowritten by Seeger and Weavers bandmate
Lee Hays in 1949, was a hit for Peter, Paul, and Mary in 1962—and sev-
eral of his songs, such as “Where Have All the Flowers Gone” and “Turn,
Turn, Turn,” figured prominently in the new wave of politically inspired
material. Many of Dylan’s earliest songs fell into the protest genre but
stood out from other songs of their ilk in their use of allusion, rather
than straightforward description, a quality evident in his most famous
song in this mode, “Blowin’ in the Wind.”
Peter, Paul, and Mary’s recording of “Blowin’ in the Wind” provided
a commercial breakthrough for Dylan, albeit as a songwriter, rather than
as a performer. The trio followed with another hit recording of Dylan’s
“Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright,” and Dylan himself performed in front of
200,000 people at one of the keystones of the civil rights movement in
August 1963—the March on Washington, an event that featured Dr. Mar-
tin Luther King’s famous “I Have a Dream” speech. These events sealed
an image of Dylan with the public as the conscience of his generation.2
With the arrival of the Beatles and other British groups, along with
the emergence of Motown in 1964, folk music slipped from its 1963
peak of popularity even as it retained its core audience. However, the
album Dylan recorded early in 1965, Bringing It All Back Home, along
2. For a vivid portrait of this period, see David Hajdu’s account of the relationships among
Dylan; Joan Baez; Baez’s sister, Mimi (a folksinger in her own right); and Richard Fariña, husband of
Mimi and author of Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up to Me (David Hajdu, Positively Fourth Street:
The Lives and Times of Joan Baez, Bob Dylan, Mimi Baez Fariña, and Richard Fariña [New York: Farrar,
Straus and Giroux, 2001]). And, for an almost hagiographical depiction of Dylan and Baez circa
1964, see Fariña’s article, “Baez and Dylan: A Generation Singing Out,” Mademoiselle, August 1964.
bra43588_pt03_125-252.indd 148 05/27/19 05:02 PM

with the single released from it, “Subterranean Homesick Blues,” con-
stituted a serious threat to the aesthetic and political beliefs of the folk
movement. Many of Dylan’s new songs featured a rock ‘n’ roll beat, and
his lyrics had become increasingly surrealistic, drawing from the Beat
poets, Walt Whitman, and the French symbolist Arthur Rimbaud. While
the songs did not directly address any recognizable political causes,
their sarcastic and bizarrely imaginative humor contained a critique
of society, albeit a fairly abstract one. Rather than specific causes, the
targets were now the moral fabric and cultural assumptions of West-
ern society itself, including sexual repression; materialism; received
notions of “normality”; and the taken-for-granted beliefs in “reality,”
“truth,” and “rationality.”
In June 1965, Dylan followed Bringing It All Back Home with “Like a
Rolling Stone,” which featured the organ and electric guitar–led back-
ing that would be most associated with him during this period. “Rolling
Stone” ran over six minutes long, an unheard-of length for a single, and
became his biggest hit, reaching number two on the pop charts. “Roll-
ing Stone” had been preceded onto the charts by an electrified version
of Dylan’s “Mr. Tambourine Man,” recorded by the Los Angeles–based
rock band the Byrds. While Dylan’s recording of “Tambourine Man”
had appeared on Bringing It All Back Home with a muted electric guitar
added to Dylan’s voice, acoustic guitar, and harmonica, the Byrds added
a rhythm used in recent hits such as the Beach Boys’ “Don’t Worry Baby”
and overlaid it with leader Roger McGuinn’s electric 12-string guitar and
the distinctive harmony singing of David Crosby. The music industry and
mass media recognized the combined impact of these recordings with
the swiftly coined label, “folk-rock.” Numerous cover versions of Dylan
songs with electric backing, as well as countless imitations, swiftly
appeared, all with “deep” and “relevant” lyrics—the most commercially
successful of these imitations was “Eve of Destruction,” recorded by
Barry McGuire and written by P. F. Sloan (August 1965).3
As the folk-rock craze was gathering momentum, Dylan appeared in late

July at the Newport Folk Festival, accompanied by members of the But-
terfield Blues Band. A storm of controversy followed: the folk movement
could no longer ignore Dylan’s “defection,” nor could certain contradic-
tions in folk music’s opposition to commerce be ignored. Dylan’s hit
single and his use of a rock ‘n’ roll band seemed to embody the very
commercial forces to which the folk revival had seen itself in revolt.
The following two articles appeared in Sing Out, a major publica-
tion devoted to folk music, and they chart the reaction to Dylan’s New-
port appearance and a subsequent appearance in August at Forest Hills,
New York. To folk purists, Dylan’s move toward amplification and rock
‘n’ roll smacked of a “sellout”; to supporters of his new style, Dylan’s
3. For a contemporary overview of some of these recordings, see Robert Shelton, “On Records:
The Folk-Rock Rage,” New York Times, January 30, 1966, 17–18.
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150 The 1960s
music was becoming more personalized and conveyed a truer picture
of the contemporary world. However, as the descriptions of the other
performers at Newport indicate, even the split between “pure” folk and
pop music revealed unsuspected complexity: all was not well with the
urban folk music world’s equation of simple acoustic music with left-
wing politics.
Newport Folk Festival, 1965

Irwin Silber
The Festival’s most controversial scene was played out on the dramatically-lit giant
stage halfway through the final night’s concert when Bob Dylan emerged from his
cult-imposed aura of mystery to demonstrate the new “folk rock,” and [sic] expres-
sion that has already begun to find its way into the “Top Forty” charts by which
musical success is measured. To many, it seemed that it was not very good “rock,”
while other disappointed legions did not think it was very good Dylan. Most of these
erupted into silence at the conclusion of Dylan’s songs, while a few booed their once-
and-former idol. Others cheered and demanded encores, finding in the “new” Dylan
an expression of themselves, just as teen aged social activists of 1963 had found them-
selves summed up in the angry young poet’s vision.
Shocked and somewhat disoriented by the mixed reaction of the crowd, a tearful
Dylan returned to the stage unelectrified and strained to communicate his sense of
unexpected displacement through the words and music of a song he made fearfully
appropriate, “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue.”
But if the audience thought that the Dylan scene represented a premature cli-
max to the evening, more was yet to come. A double finale (presumably a New-
port tradition by now) saw hordes of singers, musicians, self-appointed participants
and temporary freaks take over the stage in a tasteless exhibition of frenzied incest
that seemed to have been taken from a Hollywood set. One singer called it a “night-
mare of pop art,” which was one of the more apt and gentle of the comments heard
in the audience. The stage invasion took place during the singing of Mrs. Fannie Lou
Hamer, one of that incredible band of Mississippi heroines who are in the process
of reshaping America for us all. It seemed as though everyone wanted to make sure
they were in on the big “civil rights act,” and a moment that might have become the
highpoint of the entire weekend was suddenly turned into a scene of opportunistic
chaos—duplicated once again after the inevitable Peter, Paul and Mary finale and
reducing the meaning of Newport to the sense of a carnival gone mad.
At the height of the frenzy, it was easy to forget the music and the conviction that
had come before. There were many who thought they sensed a feeling of revulsion
even among some of the Newport directors who were themselves participating in the
debacle. And when the end finally came, the crowd filed out to the sound of a mourn-
ful and lonesome harmonica playing “Rock of Ages.” It was the most optimistic note
of the evening.
Here is a second account of the 1965 Newport Folk Festival.
Source: “Newport Folk Festival, 1965,” Irwin Silber, Sing Out!
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Newport Folk Festival, 1965
Paul Nelson
For all its emphasis on tradition and its quiet highpoints (Roscoe Holcomb and Jean
Ritchie singing “Wandering Boy” was my favorite among many), Newport is still a
place for the Big Moment, the Great Wham, that minuscule second of High Drama
that freezes the blood and sparks the brain into the kind of excitement that stays for-
ever in one’s memory. Nothing approaching such a moment happened at Newport
in 1964 (it was a dull circus), but Bob Dylan provided it on Sunday night this year:
the most dramatic scene I’ve ever witnessed in folk music.
Here are two accounts of it, the first sketched quickly in my notebook at the time:
“Dylan doing his new R&R, R&B, R&? stuff knocked me out. . . . I think his new
stuff is as exciting as anything I’ve heard lately in any field. The Newport crowd
actually booed the electric guitar numbers he did, and there followed the most dra-
matic thing I’ve seen: Dylan walking off the stage, the audience booing and yelling
‘Get rid of that electric guitar,’ Peter Yarrow trying to talk the audience into clapping
and trying to talk Dylan into coming back, Yarrow announcing that Dylan was com-
ing back, George Wein asking Yarrow in disbelief ‘Is he coming back?’ Dylan coming
back with tears in his eyes and singing ‘It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue,’ a song that I
took to be his farewell to Newport, an incredible sadness over Dylan and the audi-
ence finally clapping now because the electric guitar was gone, etc.” (Dylan did only
his first three numbers with electric guitar and band.)
The second account is from a long report on Newport by Jim Rooney of Cam-
bridge, Massachusetts:
“Nothing else in the festival caused such controversy. His (Dylan’s) was the
only appearance that was genuinely disturbing. It was disturbing to the Old Guard,
I think, for several reasons. Bob is no longer a neo-Woody Guthrie, with whom they
could identify. He has thrown away his dungarees and shaggy jacket. He has stopped
singing talking blues and songs about ‘causes’—peace or civil rights. The highway
he travels now is unfamiliar to those who bummed around in the thirties during the
Depression. He travels by plane. He wears high-heel shoes and high-style clothes
from Europe. The mountains and valleys he knows are those of the mind—a mind
extremely aware of the violence of the inner and outer world. ‘The people’ so loved by
Pete Seeger are ‘the mob’ so hated by Dylan. In the face of violence, he has chosen to
preserve himself alone. No one else. And he defies everyone else to have the courage
to be as alone, as unconnected . . . as he. He screams through organ and drums and
electric guitar, ‘How does it feel to be on your own?’ And there is no mistaking the
hostility, the defiance, the contempt for all those thousands sitting before him who
aren’t on their own. Who can’t make it. And they seemed to understand that night for
the first time what Dylan has been trying to say for over a year—that he is not theirs
or anyone else’s—and they didn’t like what they heard and booed. They wanted to
throw him out. He had fooled them before when they thought he was theirs. . . . Pete
(Seeger) had begun the night with the sound of a newborn baby crying, and asked
that everyone sing to that baby and tell it what kind of a world it would be growing
up into. But Pete already knew what he wanted others to sing. They were going to
sing that it was a world of pollution, bombs, hunger, and injustice, but that PEOPLE
would OVERCOME. . . . (But) can there be no songs as violent as the age? Must a folk
Source: “Newport Folk Festival, 1965,” Paul Nelson, Sing Out!
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152 The 1960s
song be of mountains, valleys, and love between my brother and my sister all over
this land? Do we allow for despair only in the blues? . . . (That’s all) very comfortable
and safe. But is that what we should be saying to that baby? Maybe, maybe not. But
we should ask the question. And the only one in the entire festival who questioned
our position was Bob Dylan. Maybe he didn’t put it in the best way. Maybe he was
rude. But he shook us. And that is why we have poets and artists.”
Indeed, that’s why we have poets and artists. Newport 1965, interestingly enough,
split apart forever the two biggest names in folk music: Pete Seeger, who saw in
Sunday night a chance to project his vision of the world and sought to have all others
convey his impression (thereby restricting their performances), and Bob Dylan, like
some fierce young Spanish outlaw in dress leather jacket, a man who could no longer
accept the older singer’s vague humanistic generalities, a man who, like Nathaniel
West, had his own angry vision to project in such driving electric songs as “Like a
Rolling Stone” and “Maggie’s Farm.”
And, like it or not, the audience had to choose. Whether, on the one hand, to take
the word of a dignified and great humanitarian whose personal sincerity is beyond
question but whose public career more and more seems to be sliding like that other
old radical Max Eastman’s toward a Reader’s Digest Norman Rockwell version of
how things are (Pete’s idea of singing peace songs to a newborn baby makes even the
most middlebrow Digest ideas seem as far-out as anything William Burroughs ever
did!); or whether to accept as truth the Donleavy-Westian-Brechtian world of Bob
Dylan, where things aren’t often pretty, where there isn’t often hope, where man isn’t
always noble, but where, most importantly, there exists a reality that coincides with
that of this planet. Was it to be marshmallows and cotton candy or meat and pota-
toes? Rose colored glasses or a magnifying glass? A nice guy who has subjugated
and weakened his art through his constant insistence on a world that never was
and never can be, or an angry, passionate poet who demands his art to be all, who
demands not to be owned, not to be restricted or predicted, but only, like Picasso, to
be left alone from petty criticisms to do his business, wherever that may take him?
Make no mistake, the audience had to make a clear-cut choice and they made it:
Pete Seeger. They chose to boo Dylan off the stage for something as superficially silly
as an electric guitar or something as stagnatingly sickening as their idea of owning
an artist. They chose the safety of wishful thinking rather than the painful, always
difficult stab of art. They might have believed they were choosing humanity over
a reckless me-for-me attitude, but they weren’t. They were choosing suffocation
over invention and adventure, backwards over forwards, a dead hand instead of a
live one. They were afraid, as was Pete Seeger (who was profoundly disturbed by
Dylan’s performance), to make a leap, to admit, to consider, to think. Instead, they
took refuge in the Seeger vision as translated by the other less-pure-at-heart singers
on the program, indeed, by all other than Seeger: the ghastly second half of Sunday
night’s program, where practically all forms of Social Significance ran completely out
of control in a sickening display of egomania and a desperate grasping for publicity
and fame [see Irwin Silber’s account earlier in this chapter]. The second half of Sun-
day night (from all reports) was more ugly and hysterical than anything in a Dylan
song; and, remember, the impetus for it was not Dylan at all, but Pete Seeger. (Ironi-
cally, although the audience chose the Seeger vision, it was a hollow victory for Pete,
who felt he’d failed badly.)
It was a sad parting of the ways for many, myself included. I choose Dylan, I
choose art. I will stand behind Dylan and his “new” songs, and I’ll bet my critical
reputation (such as it may be) that I’m right.
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“For a Man to Be at Ease, He Must Not Tell All He Knows, Nor Say All He Sees” 153
Further Reading
Bromell, Nick. Tomorrow Never Knows: Rock and Psychedelics in the 1960s. Chicago and Lon-
don: University of Chicago Press, 2000.
Cott, Jonathan, ed. Bob Dylan, The Essential Interviews. New York: Wenner Books, 2006.
Dettmar, Kevin J. H., ed. The Cambridge Companion to Bob Dylan. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge
Dylan, Bob. Chronicles: Volume One. New York: Simon & Schuster, 2004.
Hajdu, David. Positively 4th Street: The Life and Times of Joan Baez, Bob Dylan, Mimi Baez Fariña,
and Richard Fariña. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2001.
Heylin, Clinton. Bob Dylan: Behind the Shades, Revisited. New York: William Morrow, 2001.
Marcus, Greil. The Old, Weird America: The World of Bob Dylan’s Basement Tapes. New York:
Picador, 2011.
_______. Like a Rolling Stone: Bob Dylan at the Crossroads. New York: Public Affairs, 2005.
McGregor, Craig, ed. Bob Dylan: The Early Years, A Retrospective. New York: Da Capo, [1972]
1990.
Scaduto, Anthony. Bob Dylan: An Intimate Biography. New York: Signet Books, 1973.
Teehan, Mark. “The Byrds, ‘Eight Miles High,’ the Gavin Report, and Media Censorship of
Alleged ‘Drug Songs’ in 1966: An Assessment.” Popular Musicology Online 4 (2010).
Unterberger, Richie. Turn! Turn! Turn! The ’60s Folk-Rock Revolution. San Francisco: Backbeat
Books, 2002.
Wilentz, Sean. Bob Dylan in America. New York: Doubleday, 2010.
Discography
Dylan, Bob. Bob Dylan. Columbia, 1962.
_______. The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan. Columbia, 1963.
_______. Bringin’ It All Back Home, Bob Dylan, Columbia, 1965.
_______. Highway 61 Revisited. Columbia, 1965.
29. “For a Man to Be at Ease, He Must Not Tell

All He Knows, Nor Say All He Sees”
One amusing result of the sudden increase in public interest in Dylan,

much of it by media who had previously avoided popular music or con-
descended to it, was a vast increase in the number of interviews given
by Dylan. These media performances throughout 1965 and 1966 grew
increasingly surreal as Dylan took a creative approach to the interview
situation. Because his lyrics were more “serious” and “poetic” than
bra43588_pt03_125-252.indd 153 06/04/19 11:01 PM

154 The 1960s
those found in previous pop songs, he was barraged with questions
about what the songs meant, which he steadfastly refused to answer.
One of the most famous interviews from that period, conducted by Nat
Hentoff (a famous jazz critic, social commentator, and writer not likely
to ask naïve questions), provides a particularly amusing exchange on
the subject of “message songs.” When asked why he thought message
songs were vulgar, Dylan replied, “You’ve got to respect other people’s
right to also have a message themselves. Myself, what I’m going to do is
rent Town Hall and put about 30 Western Union boys on the bill. I mean,
then there’ll really be some messages. People will be able to come and
hear more messages than they’ve ever heard before in their life.”1
The following interview comes from 1968, a few years after the high
point of Dylan’s surrealist interview phase. The fact that the interview-
ers, John Cohen and Happy Traum, were long-time participants in the
Greenwich Village folk scene comes through in exchanges that reflect
a long acquaintance and numerous shared experiences with Dylan.2
Cohen begins by asking Dylan to reflect on one of his poetic epics, “A
Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall” from 1962, in order to assess how far songwrit-
ing and the folk/pop music audience had come since that time. This
question leads into a discussion of Dylan’s literary influences and how
these helped Dylan find his own voice, one that was different from that
of earlier songwriters he admired, like Woody Guthrie. Dylan paints
himself as a kind of naif, or at least as semi-literate, but this image is
contradicted by his own later accounts, like the one presented in his
autobiography Chronicles: Volume One (Simon & Schuster, 2004).
Somewhat later in the interview, Cohen expresses surprise at
Dylan’s notion of “training,” but Dylan provides an excellent account of
how popular musicians acquire their craft through aural and oral tradi-
tion. Cohen’s reaction may also be due to the widespread perception
of Dylan as a primitive, as he was often portrayed as someone lacking
any sort of technique, and the interview recapitulates reactions about
his voice and lack of musicianship that would have been very familiar to
Dylan’s fans and critics.
Other exchanges make it evident that the readers of Sing Out! (the
publication in which this interview first appeared, and one that was
directed largely toward the folk music audience) were still interested in
Dylan’s opinion of rock music, making it appear as though the “sell-out”
controversy of 1965 had not yet died out completely. Cohen and Traum
also press Dylan about his political involvement, both hearkening back
to the sense of disappointment his fans had felt three years earlier and
reflecting the political turmoil of the late sixties in general, of which
1968 is generally recognized as the high point.
1. Nat Hentoff, “The Playboy Interview: Bob Dylan—A Candid Conversation with the Icono-
clastic Idol of the Folk-Rock Set,” Playboy, March 1966; reprinted in Bob Dylan: The Early Years:
A Retrospective, ed. Craig McGregor, 132–33 (New York: Da Capo Press, Inc., [1972] 1990).
2. Cohen was a founding member of the New Lost City Ramblers, a group devoted to re-
creating the sound of 1920s old-time music, as well as a noted documentary filmmaker (and the
husband of folksinger Peggy Seeger, sister of Pete), while Traum recorded with Dylan on several
occasions.
bra43588_pt03_125-252.indd 154 05/27/19 05:02 PM

This interview also follows fairly closely upon the release of Dylan’s
eighth album, John Wesley Harding (December 1967), which was widely
perceived as a huge shift in style from Highway 61 Revisited and Blonde
on Blonde, featuring, as it does, Dylan on guitar or piano backed for
the most part by only bass and drums. The songs themselves are more
concise and parable-like, and many heard them as an implicit riposte
to the baroque intricacies of psychedelia that had dominated the world
of rock during 1967. John Wesley Harding was also Dylan’s first official
release since his motorcycle accident in June 1966 and thus was viewed
as a major cultural event. A year and a half between albums may not
seem like much nowadays, but when one considers that Dylan’s previ-
ous three albums had been released in a span of 14 months, the 19
months between Blonde on Blonde and John Wesley Harding consti-
tuted a major hiatus to an audience starved for Dylan-related informa-
tion of any kind.
“An Interview with Bob Dylan”

John Cohen and Happy Traum
JC: I recall a conversation we had in 1962 . . . I don’t know if I was seeing something, or
wishing something on you—but I had just come back from Kentucky and you showed me
“Hard Rain,” at Gerde’s or upstairs from the Gaslight. . .
I believe at the time, you were wondering how it fit into music. How I was going to
sing it.
JC: That was my initial reaction. That’s really ancient history now because a whole aesthetic,
a whole other approach has come into music since then, to make it very possible to sing
that kind of song.
Yes, that’s right.
JC: Before then it wasn’t so possible. The question I asked you on seeing this stream of words
was, if you were going to write things like that, then why do you need Woody Guthrie?
How about Rimbaud? And you didn’t know Rimbaud . . . yet.
No, not until a few years ago.
JC: Back then, you and Allen Ginsberg met.
Al Aronowitz, a reporter from the Saturday Evening Post, introduced me to Allen
Ginsberg and his friend Peter Orlovsky, above a bookstore on 8th street, in the
fall of ‘64 or ‘65. I’d heard his name for many years. At that time these two fellas
had just gotten back from a trip to India. Their knapsacks were in the corner and
they were cooking a dinner at the time. I saw him again at Washington Square,
at a party. . . .
JC: At that time, for you, was there a stronger leaning towards poetry, and the kind of thing
that Allen had dealt with? . . . as opposed to what Woody had dealt with.
Source: “An Interview with Bob Dylan, ”John Cohen and Happy Traum, Sing Out! October/
November 1968.
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156 The 1960s
Well, the language which they were writing, you could read off the paper, and
somehow it would begin some kind of tune in your mind. I don’t really know
what it was, but you could see it was possible to do more than what . . . not
more . . . something different than what Woody and people like Aunt Molly
Jackson and Jim Garland did. The subject matter of all their songs wasn’t really
accurate for me; I could see that they’d written thousands of songs, but it was
all with the same heartfelt subject matter . . . whereas that subject matter did not
exist then, and I knew it. There was a sort of semi-feeling of it existing, but as
you looked around at the people, it didn’t really exist the way it probably existed
back then, there was no real movement, there was only organized movement.
There wasn’t any type of movement which was a day by day, livable movement.
When that subject matter wasn’t there anymore for me, the only thing that was
there was the style. The idea of this type of song which you can live with in some
kind of way, which you don’t feel embarrassed twenty minutes after you’ve
sung it; that type of song where you don’t have to question yourself . . . where
you’re just wasting your time.
JC: I don’t know which was the cart and which was the horse, but people were asking about
your music (and Phil Ochs’ and others’), “Is this stuff poetry or is this song?”
Yes, well you always have people asking questions.
JC: What I’m trying to get at is whether you were reading a lot then, books, literature? Were
your thoughts outside of music?
No, my mind was with the music. I tried to read, but I usually would lay the book
down. I never have been a fast reader. My thoughts weren’t about reading,
no . . . they were just about that feeling that was in the air. I tried to somehow
get ahold of that, and write that down, and using my musical training to sort of
guide it by, and in the end, have something I could do for a living.1
JC: Training!
Yes, training. You have to have some. I can remember traveling through towns, and if
somebody played the guitar, that’s who you went to see. You didn’t necessarily
go to meet them, you just went necessarily to watch them, listen to them, and
if possible, learn how to do something . . . whatever he was doing. And usually
at that time it was quite a selfish type of thing. You could see the people, and if
you knew you could do what they were doing with just a little practice, and you
were looking for something else, you could just move on. But when it was down
at the bottom, everyone played the guitar, and when you knew that they knew
more than you, well, you just had to listen to everybody. It wasn’t necessarily a
song; it was technique and style, and tricks and all those combinations which
go together—which I certainly spent a lot of hours just trying to do what other
people have been doing. That’s what I mean by training.
JC: It’s hard for me, because this is an interview and can’t be just a conversation . . . like the
tape recorder is the third element . . . I can’t just say to your face that you did something
great, that I admire you. . . .
Well in my mind, let me tell you John, I can see a thousand people who I think are
great, but I’ve given up mentioning names anymore. Every time I tell somebody
who I think is pretty good, they just shrug their shoulders . . . and so I now do the
same thing. Take a fellow like Doc Watson, the fellow can play the guitar with
1
Dylan’s non-interest in literature is contradicted by passages in Chronicles: Volume 1.
bra43588_pt03_125-252.indd 156 05/27/19 05:02 PM

such ability . . . just like water running. Now where do you place somebody like
that in the current flow of music? Now he doesn’t use any tricks. But that has to
do with age, I imagine, like how long he lives.
JC: I think it’s also got to do with the age he comes from, he doesn’t come from yours or mine.
No, but I’m a firm believer in the longer you live, the better you get.
JC: But Doc is different from you and me. I know people who hate your voice. They can’t stand
that sound, that kind of singing, that grating. The existence of your voice and people like
you, like Roscoe Holcomb, it challenges their very existence. They can’t conceive of that
voice in the same breath as their own lives.
Well my voice is one thing, but someone actually having hate for Roscoe Holcomb’s
voice, that beautiful high tenor, I can’t see that. What’s the difference between
Roscoe Holcomb’s voice and Bill Monroe’s?
JC: I don’t think Bill likes Roscoe’s voice. Bill sings with such control. Roscoe’s voice is so
uncontrolled.
Well Bill Monroe is most likely one of the best, but Roscoe does have a certain
untamed sense of control which also makes him one of the best.
JC: I don’t think Doc Watson’s voice and your voice are compatible, it doesn’t bother me.
No, no . . . maybe some day, though.
***
JC: I’d like to talk about the material in the songs.
All right.
JC: Well, I mean your music is fine, it’s complete . . . but what I’m asking about is the develop-
ment of your thoughts . . . which could be called “words.” That’s why I was asking about
your poetry and literature. Where do these things come upon a person? Maybe nobody
asks you that.
No, nobody does, but . . . who said that, it wasn’t Benjamin Franklin, it was some-
body else. No, I think it was Benjamin Franklin. He said (I’m not quoting it right)
something like, “For a man to be—(something or other)—at ease, he must not tell
all he knows, nor say all he sees.” Whoever said that certainly I don’t think was
trying to cover up anything.
JC: I once got a fortune cookie that said “Clear water hides nothing.” . . . Three or four years
ago, there was an interview with you in Playboy. One particular thought stuck with me.
You said it was very important that Barbara Allen had a rose grow out of her head, and
that a girl could become a swan.
That’s for all those people who say, “Why do you write all these songs about mystery
and magic and Biblical implications? Why do you do all that? Folk music doesn’t
have any of that.” There’s no answer for a question like that, because the people
who ask them are just wrong.
JC: They say that folk music doesn’t have this quality. Does rock and roll music have it?
Well, I don’t know what rock and roll music is supposed to represent. It isn’t that
defined as a music. Rock and roll is dance music, perhaps an extension of the
blues forms. It’s live music; nowadays they have these big speakers, and they
play it so loud that it might seem live. But it’s got rhythm. . . . I mean if you’re
riding in your car, rock and roll stations playing, you can sort of get into that
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158 The 1960s
rhythm for three minutes—and you lose three minutes. It’s all gone by and you
don’t have to think about anything. And it’s got a nice place; in a way this place
is not necessarily in every road you turn, it’s just pleasant music.
JC: You’re part of it aren’t you? Or it’s part of you.
Well, music is a part of me, yes.
JC: From what I saw in that film Eat the Document, you were really in it.
I was in it because it’s what I’ve always done. I was trying to make the two things go
together when I was on those concerts. I played the first half acoustically, second
half with a band, somehow thinking that it was going to be two kinds of music.
JC: So acoustic would mean “folk” and band would mean “rock and roll” at that moment?
Yes, rock and roll is working music. You have to work at it. You just can’t sit down in
a chair and play rock and roll music. You can do that with a certain kind of blues
music, you can sit down and play it . . . you may have to lean forward a little.
JC: Like a ballad, or one of your “dreams”?2
Yes, you can think about it, you don’t necessarily have to be in action to think about
it. Rock and roll is hard to visualize unless you’re actually doing it. . . . Actually,
too, we’re talking about something which is for the most part just a commercial
item; it’s like boats and brooms, it’s like hardware, people sell it, so that’s what
we’re talking about. In the other sense of the way which you’d think about it,
it’s impossible.
JC: But the kids who are getting into it today, they don’t want to sell brooms.
It’s an interesting field . . .
JC: Could we talk about your new record John Wesley Harding?
There were three sessions: September, October, and December, so it’s not even a year
old. I know that the concepts are imbedded now, whereas before that record I
was just trying to see all of which I could do, trying to structure this and that.
Every record was more or less for impact. Why, I did one song on a whole side
of an album!3 It could happen to anybody. One just doesn’t think of those things
though, when one sees that other things can be done. It was spontaneously
brought out, all those seven record albums. It was generously done, the material
was all there. Now, I like to think that I can do it, do it better, on my own terms,
and I’ll do whatever it is I can do. I used to slight it off all the time. I used to get
a good phrase or a verse, and then have to carry it to write something off the top
of the head and stick it in the middle, to lead this into that. Now as I hear all the
old material that was done, I can see the whole thing. I can’t see how to perfect
it, but I can see what I’ve done. Now I can go from line to line, whereas yester-
day it was from thought to thought. Then of course, there are times you just pick
up an instrument—something will come, like a tune or some kind of wild line
2. This question about one of Dylan’s “dreams” probably refers two songs that Dylan wrote
with “Dream” in the title: “Bob Dylan’s Dream” (from his 1963 album The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan)
and “Bob Dylan’s 115th Dream” (from his 1965 album Bringing It All Back Home). As these two
songs are very different structurally, it is difficult to interpret Cohen’s question: these songs
hardly constitute a formal type, such as a blues, or the “talking blues” that was featured regularly
on Dylan’s early albums.
3.
This comment refers to “Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands” from Blonde on Blonde.
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will come into your head and you’ll develop that. If it’s a tune on the piano or
guitar—you’ll just be uuuuhhhh [hum] whatever it brings out in the voice, you’ll
write those words down. And they might not mean anything to you at all, and
you just go on, and that will be what happens. Now I don’t do that anymore. If I
do it, I just keep it for myself. So I have a big lineup of songs which I’ll never use.
On the new record, it’s more concise. Here I am not interested in taking up that
much of anybody’s time.
JC: That’s why I gave you Kafka’s Parables and Paradoxes, because those stories really get
to the heart of the matter, and yet you can never really decipher them.
Yes, but the only parables that I know are the Biblical parables. I’ve seen others.
Khalil Gibran perhaps. . . . It has a funny aspect to it—you certainly wouldn’t
find it in the Bible—this type of soul. Now Mr. Kafka comes off a little closer to
that. Gibran, the words are all mighty but the strength is turned into that of a
contrary direction. There used to be this disc jockey, Rosko. I don’t recall his last
name. Sometimes at night, the radio would be on and Rosko would be reciting
this poetry of Khalil Gibran. It was a radiant feeling, coming across it on the
radio. His voice was that of the inner voice in the night.
JC: When did you read the Bible parables?
I have always read the Bible, though not necessarily always the parables.
JC: I don’t think you’re the kind who goes to the hotel, where the Gideons leave a Bible, and
you pick it up.
Well, you never know.
JC: What about Blake, did you ever read . . .?
I have tried. Same with Dante, and Rilke. I understand what’s there, it’s just that the
connection sometimes does not connect. . . . Blake did come up with some bold
lines though . . .
JC: A feeling I got from watching the film—which I hadn’t considered much before folk music
and rock and roll got so mixed together—is about this personal thing of put ons, as a
personal relationship. Like with the press, they ask such idiotic questions that they are
answered by put ons.
The only thing there, is that that becomes a game in itself. The only way to not get
involved in that is not to do it, because it’ll happen every time. It even happens
with the housewives who might be asked certain questions.
JC: It’s become a way of imparting information. Like someone will come with an idea, a whole
thesis, and then they’ll ask, “Is this so?” and you might not have thought about it before,
but you can crawl on top of it.
It’s this question and answer business, I can’t see the importance of it. There’s so
many reporters now. That’s an occupation in itself. You don’t have to be any
good at it at all. You get to go to fancy places. It’s all on somebody else.
JC: Ridiculous questions get ridiculous answers, and the ridiculous response becomes the
great moment.
Yes, well you have to be able to do that now. I don’t know who started that, but it
happens to everybody.
JC: I wouldn’t have mentioned it, but to me, you’ve moved away from it . . . gotten beyond it.
I don’t know if I’ve gotten beyond it. I just don’t do it anymore, because that’s what
you end up doing. You end up wondering what you’re doing.
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160 The 1960s
JC: Hey. In the film, was that John Lennon with you in the car, where you’re holding your
head? He was saying something funny, but it was more than that . . . it was thoughtful.
He said “Money.” . . .
JC: Do you see the Beatles when you go there or they come here? There seems to be a mutual
respect between your musics—without one dominating the other.
I see them here and there.
JC: I fear that many of the creative young musicians today may look back at themselves ten
years from now and say “We were just under the tent of the Beatles.” But you’re not.
Well, what they do . . . they work much more with studio equipment, they take
advantage of the new sound inventions of the past year or two. Whereas I don’t
know anything about it. I just do the songs, and sing them and that’s all.
JC: Do you think they are more British or International?
They’re British I suppose, but you can’t say they’ve carried on with their poetic leg-
acy, whereas the Incredible String Band who wrote this “October Song” . . . that
was quite good.
JC: As a finished thing—or did it reach you?
As a finished song it’s quite good.
JC: Is there much music now that you hear, that reaches you?
Those old songs reach me. I don’t hear them as often as I used to. But like this other
week, I heard on the radio Buell Kazee and he reached me. There’s a lot . . . Scrap-
per Blackwell, Leroy Carr, Jack Dupree, Lonnie Johnson, James Ferris, Jelly Roll
Morton, Buddy Bolden, Ian and Sylvia, Benny Ferguson, Tom Rush, Charley
Pride, Porter Wagoner, The Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem. . . . Everything
reaches me in one way or another.
JC: How do you view the music business?
I don’t exactly view it at all. Hearing it and doing it, I’ll take part in that—but talking
about it . . . there’s not much I can contribute to it.
JC: I recall in ‘Billboard,’ a full page ad of you with electric guitar like in the movie. . . .
Sure, I was doing that.
JC: I’m interested in how you talk of it in the past tense, as if you don’t know what’s coming
next.
Well, I don’t in a sense . . . but I’ve been toying with some ridiculous ideas—just so
strange and foreign to me, as a month ago. Now some of the ideas—I’ll tell you
about them—after we shut off this tape recorder.
***
JC: I was pleased that you know the music of Dillard Chandler, and that you were familiar
with some unaccompanied ballads on a New Lost City Ramblers record. Do you think
you’ll ever try to write like a ballad?
Yes, I hope so. Tom Paxton just did one called “The Cardinal,” quite interest-
ing . . . it’s very clean . . . sings it unaccompanied. The thing about the ballad
is that you have to be conscious of the width of it at all times, in order to write
one. You could take a true story, write it up as a ballad, or you can write it up
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in three verses. The difference would be, what are you singing it for, what is it
to be used for. The uses of a ballad have changed to such a degree. When they
were singing years ago, it would be as entertainment . . . a fellow could sit down
and sing a song for a half hour, and everybody could listen, and you could form
opinions. You’d be waiting to see how it ended, what happened to this person
or that person. It would be like going to a movie. But now we have movies,
so why does someone want to sit around for a half hour listening to a ballad?
Unless the story was of such a nature that you couldn’t find it in a movie. And
after you heard it, it would have to be good enough so that you could sing it
again tomorrow night, and people would be listening to hear the story again.
It’s because they want to heat that story, not because they want to check out the
singer’s pants. Because they would have conscious knowledge of how the story
felt and they would be a part of that feeling . . . like they would want to feel it
again, so to speak.
JC: It must be terrific to try to write within those dimensions.
Well once you set it up in your mind, you don’t have to think about it any more. If it
wants to come, it will come.
JC: Take a song like “The Wicked Messenger.” Does that fit?
In a sense, but the ballad form isn’t there. Well, the scope is there actually, but in a
more compressed sense. The scope opens up, just by a few little tricks. I know
why it opens up, but in a ballad in the true sense, it wouldn’t open up that way.
It does not reach the proportions I had intended for it.
JC: Have you ever written a ballad?
I believe on my second record album, “Boots of Spanish Leather.”
JC: Then most of the songs on John Wesley Harding, you don’t consider ballads.
Well I do, but not in the traditional sense. I haven’t fulfilled the balladeer’s job. A
balladeer can sit down and sing three ballads for an hour and a half. See, on the
album, you have to think about it after you hear it, that’s what takes up the time,
but with a ballad, you don’t necessarily have to think about it after you hear it, it
can all unfold to you. These melodies on the John Wesley Harding album lack this
traditional sense of time. As with the third verse of “The Wicked Messenger,”
which opens it up, and then the time schedule takes a jump and soon the song
becomes wider. One realizes that when one hears it, but one might have to adapt
to it. But we are not hearing anything that isn’t there; anything we can imagine
is really there. The same thing is true of the song “All Along the Watchtower,”
which opens up in a slightly different way, in a stranger way, for we have the
cycle of events working in a rather reverse order.
HT: Has anyone picked up on your new approach—like on the album, clear songs and very
personal, as opposed to the psychedelic sounds?
I don’t know.
HT: What do you know?
What I do know is that I put myself out of the songs. I’m not in the songs anymore,
I’m just there singing them, and I’m not personally connected with them. I write
them all now at a different time than when I record them. It used to be, if I would
sing, I’d get a verse and go on and wait for it to come out as the music was there,
and sure enough, something would come out, but in the end, I would be deluded
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162 The 1960s
in those songs. Besides singing them, I’d be in there acting them out—just pull-
ing them off. Now I have enough time to write the song and not think about
being in it. Just write it for somebody else to sing, then do it—like an acetate. At
the moment, people are singing a simpler song. It’s possible in Nashville to do
that.
JC: I heard “Blowin’ in the Wind” played on the radio after the most recent assassination.
By who?
JC: It was Muzak style . . . music to console yourself by.
Airplane style.
JC: Do you think you’ll ever get a job playing for Muzak? The best musicians do that work,
Bob.
Well I’d give it a try if they ask.
JC: No one calls you into the studio to “Lay down some music” as they say.
Before I did the new album, I was waiting to meet someone who would figure out
what they would want me to do. Does anybody want any songs written about
anything? Could Bob be commissioned, by anybody? Nobody came up with
anything, so I went ahead and did something else.
JC: For a while a number of years ago, the songs you were writing, and that others were
writing along similar lines, were played a lot on popular radio. Today it’s not completely
disappeared, but it certainly is going in some other direction.
You just about have to cut something tailor-made for the popular radio. You can’t do
it with just half a mind. You must be conscious of what you’re involved in. I get
over-anxious when I hear myself on the radio, anyway. I don’t mind the record
album, but it’s the record company, my A & R man, Bob Johnston—he would
pick out what’s to be played on the radio.
HT: Did you ever make a song just to be a single?
Yes I did. But it wasn’t very amusing because it took me away from the album. The
album commands a different sort of attention than a single does. Singles just
pile up and pile up; they’re only good for the present. The trend in the old days
was that unless you had a hit single, you couldn’t do very well with an album.
And when you had that album, you just filled it up. But now albums are very
important.
Further Reading
See Chapter 28.
Discography
Dylan, Bob. Blonde on Blonde. Columbia, 1966.
_______. Bob Dylan Live, 1966: The “Royal Albert Hall Concert.” Sony, 1998.
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30. From R&B to Soul
The mid-1950s represented a time of relative rapprochement between

rhythm and blues and mainstream pop that found its greatest expres-
sion in early rock ‘n’ roll. Despite the overlapping of the two categories,
however, rhythm and blues did maintain a distinct style, as well as its
own audience and set of connotations. As Ray Charles noted in the
excerpt from his autobiography in Chapter 16, before the release of
“What’d I Say” in 1959, his music had not been programmed on Top
40 radio, nor had it found much support among the portion of the rock
‘n’ roll audience constituted by white teenagers. The same is true of
numerous other R&B stars, including Dinah Washington and James
Brown, who enjoyed a succession of hits on the R&B charts but rarely,
if ever, crossed over.1 These singers’ styles were heavily indebted to
gospel music, and the singers continued to embrace themes in their
lyrics that were not obviously directed toward teenagers. The use of
gospel vocal technique in secular music, as pioneered by Charles and
Clyde McPhatter, was increasingly adopted by R&B singers as the
1950s waned, and was one of the main musical factors involved in the
gradual acquisition of a new name for R&B: soul music. In addition to
its association with a cluster of musical practices, the ascendancy of
the term “soul music” is inextricably linked to the growth of the civil
rights movement.
Along with Ray Charles and James Brown (who began recording
in 1956), two other artists form an important link between the gospel-
influenced R&B of the 1950s and soul music of the 1960s: Sam Cooke
(1935–64) and Jackie Wilson (1934–84). Although both artists expe-
rienced crossover success in the late 1950s and early 1960s, Cooke’s
career formed an early template for the extensive mainstream success
of the African American singers who were to follow. Cooke used the
smooth and sophisticated vocal technique that he developed in the
popular gospel group the Soul Stirrers to record a major crossover hit in
1. Dinah Washington did enjoy several pop hits beginning in the late fifties until her death in
1963 after she started recording with increasingly lush arrangements.
163
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164 The 1960s
1957, “You Send Me,” as well as numerous other hits. Cooke’s approach
to ballads, which conveyed an understated spirituality and sensuality,
was a major influence on soul singers of the 1960s and 1970s, such as
Otis Redding and Al Green, while his involvement in the management of
his own career also established an important precedent for subsequent
black stars.
It was a number of newcomers, however, who signaled the stir-
rings of a recognizable soul genre when they began in the early
1960s to record songs that merged spiritual fervor with secular top-
ics. Among the many emerging talents were Solomon Burke (“Cry
to Me,” 1962), Wilson Pickett (“I Found a Love,” with the Falcons,
1962), Otis Redding (“These Arms of Mine,” 1962), and Etta James
(who, after an early hit as a teenager with “The Wallflower,” racked
up a string of hits in the early 1960s). In addition to the melismas,
bent notes, and wide range of timbres employed by these singers,
their hit recordings from this period (almost all of which were in a
slow tempo) prominently featured triplet subdivisions that were
often articulated in arpeggiations played by piano or guitar; they
also frequently featured interjected “sermons” that usually took the
form of romantic advice addressed to the audience. Many of these
artists recorded for either Atlantic or Stax, which had a distribution
deal with Atlantic for a time.
While it may seem as if no genre could make stronger claims about
cultural purity than soul music, Solomon Burke describes the unique
blend—“multicultural” before the phrase existed—that contributed to
the Atlantic sound:
Ahmet would come in to a session and ask you if you wanted a pastrami sandwich.
He’d order it from the Jewish deli, then start yakking in French on another phone.
Some wheezy cat from Bogalusa’s on tenor sax, working at a carton of takeout Can-
tonese. A pleasant Jewish man name of Wexler is cussing out a late drummer with
some mighty greasy Lenox Avenue jive. Me, the black preacher, the apprentice mor-
tician from Philadelphia, standing at the mike. Singing country and western. Now
what would I call those years at Atlantic? Broadway fricassee.2
Because of his position of importance at Atlantic, Jerry Wexler held

a good vantage point for recounting central events in the R&B world
during the early to mid-1960s. In this excerpt from his autobiogra-
phy, he describes his work with Wilson Pickett and Stax Records and
the memorable occasion of the recording of “In the Midnight Hour.”
2. Gerri Hirshey, Nowhere to Run: The Story of Soul Music (New York: Penguin Books, [1984]
1985), 80.
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From R&B to Soul 165
from Rhythm and the Blues: A Life in American Music
Jerry Wexler and David Ritz
Pickett was a pistol. I called him the Black Panther even before the phrase was politi-
cal. He had matinee-idol looks, flaming eyes, lustrous ebony skin, a sleek, mus-
cular torso. His temperament was fire, his flash-and-fury singing style a study in
controlled aggression, his blood-curdling scream always musical, always in tune. In
the mid-sixties Wicked Wilson Pickett mainlined American music with a hefty dose
of undiluted soul. Three decades later, his steel-belted hits like “Funky Broadway,”
“Mustang Sally,” “In the Midnight Hour,” and “Midnight Mover” have lost none of
their tread.
Pickett told me he wanted to be on Atlantic when we met in my Broadway office
in 1964. This was only a year after the fight over “If You Need Me”—Wilson Pickett
versus Solomon Burke—and I asked if that hadn’t pissed him off.3
“Fuck that,” he said. “I need the bread.”
I sent Wilson into the studio with Bert Berns . . . but all I got back was a single,
a seven-thousand-dollar production bill (outrageous for those days), and no hits.
Pickett was obstreperous, and Bert abrasive; the chemistry couldn’t work. So I took
it upon myself to find the songs; but what I liked, Wilson didn’t, and vice versa. For
a year we did the dance of the fireflies. We couldn’t get it together. I knew what a
powerhouse singer he was, and it was killing me.
Finally I got an idea—not for a song but for a trip: me and Pickett to Memphis,
whose freshness just might give us the edge. And instead of trying to provide mate-
rial, I urged him—with local genius Steve Cropper—to create his own. I put the two
of them in a hotel room with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and the simple exhortation—
“Write!”—which they did. When we got in that beat-up old movie theater on East
McLemore, the place was rocking, the speakers nearly blown by the power of Wayne
Jackson’s punctuated horns. One of the songs was “In the Midnight Hour.” I loved
the lyric and the gospel fervor; Cropper inspired Pickett’s truest passion. Originally
from Prattville, Alabama, the Wicked One was back home, raising hell.
I was taken with everything but the rhythm pattern. Jim Stewart was at the board
setting knobs, and I was working the talkback, directing the vocal, when I suddenly
realized I was on the wrong side of the glass.
“Jerry amazed us,” Cropper told Jann Wenner for a piece in Rolling Stone. “He
ran out of the booth and started dancing.”
“The bass thing was Wexler’s idea,” Duck Dunn said. “We were going another
way when Jerry started doing the jerk dance.”
I was shaking my booty to a groove made popular by the Larks’ “The Jerk,” a
mid-sixties hit. The idea was to push the second beat while holding back the fourth—
something easier demonstrated than explained. The boys caught it, put it in the
3. The previous year, Wexler and Atlantic Records had released a cover of Pickett’s “If You
Need Me,” recorded by Solomon Burke, that surpassed the sales of Pickett’s recording.
Source: From RHYTHM AND THE BLUES by Jerry Wexler and David Ritz, copyright © 1993
by Jerry Wexler and David Ritz. Used by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random
House, Inc. Any third party use of this material, outside of this publication, is prohibited. Inter-
ested parties must apply directly to Random House, Inc. for permission.
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166 The 1960s
pocket, and sent Pickett flying up the charts. “Midnight Hour” was a stone smash,
Wilson’s vocal a cyclone of conviction. The song became a bar-band anthem; the
MG’s incorporated the little rhythm variation into their playing from then on.
Further Reading
Broven, John. Record Makers and Breakers: Voices of the Independent Rock ‘n’ Roll Pioneers.
Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2009.
George, Nelson. The Death of Rhythm and Blues. New York: E. P. Dutton, 1989.
Guralnick, Peter. Sweet Soul Music: Rhythm and Blues and the Southern Dream of Freedom. New
York: Harper & Row, 1986.
Hirshey, Gerri. Nowhere to Run: The Story of Soul Music. New York: Penguin Books, 1984.
Ward, Brian. Just My Soul Responding: Rhythm and Blues, Black Consciousness, and Race Rela-
tions. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1998.
Wexler, Jerry, and David Ritz. Rhythm and Blues: A Life in American Music. New York: Alfred
A. Knopf, 1993.
Discography
Atlantic Rhythm and Blues 1947–1974. Atlantic, 1991.
Cooke, Sam. The Best of Sam Cooke. RCA Victor, 1962.
_______. Portrait of a Legend 1951–1964. Abkco, 2003.
James, Etta. At Last! Chess, 1961.
_______. The Definitive Collection. Geffen, 2006.
Wilson, Jackie. The Ultimate Jackie Wilson. Brunswick, 2006.
31. No Town Like Motown
As the term “soul music” began to enter mainstream usage, black popular
music increasingly cut its ties with 1950s rhythm and blues to establish
a distinctive sixties “soul” genre. At the same time, differences began to
emerge between a down-home, “southern” soul s tyle—identified with
the Stax and Atlantic recording companies and studios based in Memphis
and Muscle Shoals, Alabama—and a “northern,” “smooth,” or “uptown”
soul style identified primarily with Motown Records, based in Detroit.
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No Town Like Motown 167
The story of Motown is so remarkable that it has become the stuff of
myth: begun by aspiring songwriter Berry Gordy (b. 1929 and the writer
of Jackie Wilson’s biggest hit, “Lonely Teardrops”) on a family loan of
$700 in 1959, Gordy’s keen ear for catchy tunes and infectious rhythms,
his deft judgment of personnel, and his business sense combined to
establish Motown as both the most successful independent record
company and the most successful black-owned business in the United
States by the mid-1960s.
Initially, Motown’s musical style blended in with other develop-
ments in R&B and pop with its successful recordings of girl groups (e.g.,
the Marvellettes’ “Please Mr. Postman” [1961]) and soulful ballads (e.g.,
the Miracles’ “You Really Got a Hold on Me” [1963]). Gradually a distinc-
tive style began to coalesce, for which “Heat Wave” (1963) by Martha
and the Vandellas provides a template: written and produced by the
songwriting team of Holland-Dozier-Holland (the most successful of
such teams at the company), the recording features Martha Reeves’s
gospel-influenced vocal over an irresistibly danceable groove and an
instantly memorable melody. Between 1964 and 1972, Motown pro-
duced an extraordinary number of hits, and its artist roster included
many of the leading names of 1960s soul: in addition to those already
noted, the Supremes, the Four Tops, the Temptations, Marvin Gaye,
Mary Wells, Junior Walker and the All Stars, Smokey Robinson (song-
writer and leader of the Miracles), Stevie Wonder, the Isley Brothers,
and Gladys Knight and the Pips. The Motown sound, while frequently
stereotyped as being only “sweet” and “pop,” actually ranged from the
pop stylings of the Supremes (“Where Did Our Love Go?,” “Baby Love,”
“Come See About Me”—all from 1964–65) to the downright funkiness of
Junior Walker and the All Stars (“Shotgun” [1965]).1
The following interview with Gordy took place in 1995. Here, he dis-
cusses his early career as the owner of a jazz record store and his
eventual conversion to rhythm and blues. He describes the importance
of the Funk Brothers, Motown’s house band, and profiles many of the
record company’s luminaries, from early collaborator and singer-
songwriter Smokey Robinson to his last major “discovery,” Michael
Jackson.2
1. For more on the stylistic range of Motown, see Jon Fitzgerald, “Motown Crossover Hits
1963–1966 and the Creative Process,” Popular Music 14, no. 1 (1995): 1–12; and, for a less-than-flat-
tering account of the company, see Nelson George, Where Did Our Love Go? The Rise and Fall of the
Motown Sound (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1985). For a recent musicological study of Motown,
see Andrew Flory, I Hear a Symphony: Listening to the Music of Motown (Ann Arbor: University of
Michigan Press, 2017).
2. A documentary, “Standing in the Shadows of Motown” (2002), seeks to redress this neglect
of the Funk Brothers. George’s Where Did Our Love Go also gives the musicians their due.
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168 The 1960s
“Berry Gordy: A Conversation with Mr. Motown”

Harvey Kubernik
Goldmine: Goldmine readers might not know you had a life from age 18–29, before
Motown began. You talk about it in the book. The 3D Record Mart, writing songs,
a 10-year period where being in the real world probably paid advantages later.
Berry Gordy: The real world. I learned a lot. If I hadn’t worked in the factory at
Lincoln-Mercury I wouldn’t have had the assembly line idea, I wouldn’t have
written a lot of songs. I wouldn’t have been locked into a place where I had to
write a lot of thoughts I had. I saw what the real world was like and I saw what
I wanted and what I didn’t want.
Goldmine: After you were discharged from the Korean War, you opened a record shop,
3D Record Mart–House Of Jazz, that stocked exclusively jazz records in 1953.
Berry Gordy: Yes, that’s all we stocked. I did know a lot about the blues. I did hear
the old people playing it on the weekends. They had these parties, these house
parties on the weekends, drink beer, and the blues was wailing in the bars on
Hastings Street. B. B. King, you know? I was aware of it but it was beneath us,
my little group. We [liked] “The Bird,” Charlie Parker. If you weren’t hip to “The
Bird,” man, or Miles Davis could soothe you to death. I can still hear it today. I
really did love jazz.
So when I went in the record business I opened up a jazz record store. The
people in our neighborhood were factory workers and things like that and they
did not know jazz, nor care about it. They were older, and I said, “I’ve got a major
job to do. I’m gonna help these people with their life. I’m gonna teach them about
jazz. These people are ignorant about jazz.” And so I started telling them about
Charlie Parker and they keep saying, “You got Muddy Waters? Jimmy Reed?”
I said, “No. If you want that stuff you’ll have to go down Hastings Street.”
And I’d say, “Here’s jazz, let me explain it to you.” They did not want to
hear it. They wanted the blues. And so, anyway, when we started going out of
business, started losing money, I decided maybe I better listen to some of this
blues stuff, and then just get some stock around.
So that’s when I met the Mad Russian, who was a card, who was great, and
I had to communicate. But see, there again, it was communication. I communi-
cated with him. And I started buying boxes of records that I thought would hit.
Goldmine: He had a mark-up.
Berry Gordy: Five cents. He was a one-stop. He went to distributors and he could
buy ‘em from Chicago before they ever got here [Detroit] or he’d buy them all
out from the distributors. And when a record would come out that was unique
or different, by the Midnighters or something like that, you wouldn’t be able to
find them from the distributors. You’d like to go to four or five distributors for
different labels. He was a one-stop. He had them all. He only charged a nickel
more but he was this crazy guy that walked around there but he was crazy like
a fox. Because when you talked about buying a box, all of a sudden he wasn’t
crazy no more. “You want two? You want three? What do you want?” And then
you’d say, “I want a box of so-and-so.” “Okay.” Then he was kind of sane.
Source: Harvey Kubernik, “Berry Gordy: A Conversation with Mr. Motown,” Goldmine, 3 March,
1995. Reprinted under license from Backpages Limited.
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Goldmine: In the book you discuss the Motown session musicians. Some had played
with Dizzy Gillespie, and had a jazz background. There were a lot of jazz chops
goin’ on.
Berry Gordy: Absolutely. We had a big story in there [the book] about me and [bass-
ist] James Jamerson when I threatened him and gave him an ultimatum and I
was praying he would . . . I could have put him out. I wanted control of all the
guys ’cause I was the boss and I wanted to make sure they knew that, because
otherwise I couldn’t have any order. And Jamerson, I mean, he came very close
to me having a confrontation, but neither of us . . . he loved what he was doin’
and I loved him being there. But I still wanted him to have freedom in the restric-
tion and he took it and he was great.
Goldmine: What was your first impression of Smokey Robinson?
Berry Gordy: Well, Smokey Robinson, my first impression was he was a great, a great
poet, but he didn’t know how to really write songs or put songs together. When he
learned how to put stuff together and he really understood, Smokey was incredible.
When I turned down his first 100 songs, he got more excited with every song. I said,
“This guy has to be either crazy or one of the most special people I’ll ever meet.”
He was incredible. He turned out to be one of the most special people I ever met.
Goldmine: And with an angelic voice.
Berry Gordy: Oh, yes. Pure. And then, he got it and understood it. So now Smokey
has succeeded at the cycle of success. It takes a lot of character, because you are
tempted along the way. The cycle of success is a vicious cycle. It takes you into
places. People offer you things never offered before. To succeed and be success-
ful is tough so it takes a lot of character. You got to keep your same values. So
Smokey has done that. The Four Tops have done that. And most of the Motown
artists have it drilled into them and they were all very tight.
Goldmine: The Four Tops?
Berry Gordy: The epitome of loyalty, integrity, class. They’ve been together for 40
years, the same four members. That is unheard of, impossible, and I just admire
them so much. I admire them the most of any of the artists.
Goldmine: The Temptations?
Berry Gordy: Legends. They’ve managed to keep their look and their style all these
years and they’ve changed members constantly, but Otis and Melvin have done
just an amazing job of finding one major talent after another. Because they are
legends, people want to be with the Temptations, and they have proven that the
group is stronger than any of its parts. I don’t care how great that part was, the
Temptations are an institution.
Goldmine: Diana Ross?
Berry Gordy: Diana . . . Special, magic, sensitive. When she does a song like “Somewhere”
in front of an audience she still cries. I mean, I’ve never seen her do “Somewhere”
without crying. In fact, we used to stop her from doing it every night in the week.
The Bernstein song from West Side Story. She was so dramatic and then she did the
second ending and it was too much on her emotionally. She’s so emotional and she
gives all to her audience and she is sincere about it and serious about it.
Goldmine: Marvin Gaye?
Berry Gordy: The truest artist I’ve ever known. Whatever he was going through in
his life he put on records. So if you want to know Marvin just listen to one of his
records.
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170 The 1960s
Goldmine: Stevie Wonder?
Berry Gordy: Innovative. The most innovative person that I’ve ever known. But also
unique with his tones and his voice quality and all that. He was as close to a
genius, and I don’t like to use the word genius for any of them because, you
know, Marvin could have been a genius. I don’t like to throw it around, but Ste-
vie is one of those kind of special, special, special people that had a sound, and
he’s quick. He’s creative and can make up something very quick.
Goldmine: And he is involved in technological developments.
Berry Gordy: That’s what I’m saying. Contraptions. He would take technology. He
was the first in technology. He’s an innovator.
Goldmine: Michael Jackson?
Berry Gordy: Greatest entertainer in the world and one of the smartest people and
businessmen in the world. He conducted his own career, basically. He knew
what he wanted. And from nine years old he was a thinker. And I called him
“Little Spongy,” because he was a sponge and he learned from everybody.
He not only studied me, but he studied James Brown, Jackie Wilson, M
arcel
Marceau, Fred Astaire . . . Walt Disney. And, he bought the Beatles’ catalog.
Michael is nobody’s fool. Very bright. Very smart.
Goldmine: Jackie Wilson. People are rediscovering Jackie due to some of the repack-
ages.
Berry Gordy: The most natural artist that I’ve ever seen in terms of dancing, vocals.
His voice was the strongest. He could do opera, he could do rock, he could do
blues and he created the most creative singer that I’d known. As I said in the
book, he never sang a bad note. Maybe a bad song, but never a bad note . . .
one of the most talented artists I’ve ever seen. ‘Cause I’m talking about all great
people here. So when I say talented in another way, I mean he was the most
natural.
Goldmine: Was he more dynamic live than on record?
Berry Gordy: Yes, of course. He was more dynamic live than he was on record. And
he could dance, and could do flips and splits and stuff like that. Different than
Michael. Michael studied a lot of people who did a lot of things. Jackie did not
study anybody but Jackie. Jackie was Jackie, the most natural, innate performer,
probably, that I’ve ever seen. He had nobody to study that I know of. Jackie was
an original. Probably the most original artist that I’ve ever seen.
And he should be rediscovered. Because he created stuff and he could wink on
cue. I said it in the book. He could do things, do a spin, and then wink at the girls.
Goldmine: The Holland, Dozier and Holland production and songwriting team?
Berry Gordy: H-D-H was phenomenal. They came up with hit after hit. They started
a thing. They had a lock on the Supremes and they took them, and they did stuff
on Marvin. H-D-H was absolutely brilliant. The three of them were different and
they all complemented each other.
Eddie [Holland] did mostly vocals, Brian [Holland], I always thought was
the most talented, creative person. He was my protege for many years. I thought
Lamont [Dozier] was also a good writer, and he was good on backgrounds and
this and that and so forth. But Brian would do something, like he had their own
assembly line. And they were tremendous.
Goldmine: Norman Whitfield?
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Berry Gordy: Norman to me was probably the most underrated of all the producers,
because he was producing by himself. And he would deal with different sounds,
different beats, change with the times and write his stuff, and also Barrett Strong
would work with him as a writer on many of his things. Norman was innovative
and he had fire. And he had a different kind of style. His beat was different and
could go from “Cloud Nine,” “Psychedelic Shack,” “Papa Was A Rolling Stone,”
to “Just My Imagination.” He was sensitive and I think he could do so many
different types of things. Then he’d come right back with “War” and then “Ain’t
Too Proud To Beg.”
He could take one chord, like on “Papa Was A Rolling Stone,” and play the
same chord and do all these different beautiful melodies and stuff that many peo-
ple could not really imagine this guy doin’. And I would watch him and he did it
all by himself as a producer. He would work with five guys in the Temps and he
would change leads on each one. He would pick the right lead for the right song,
ya know, and he’d utilize all five of those leads in a song that was just incredible.
When I listen to ‘em today, now that I have time to listen to ‘em, I’m saying,
“Wow! This guy was probably the most underrated producer we had.”
Goldmine: My favorite Motown/Jobete song is the Supremes’ “Up The Ladder To
The Roof.”
Berry Gordy: Frank Wilson [the producer]. That’s one of those 95 percent. That was
Jean Terrell.
Further Reading
Coffey, Dennis. Guitars, Bars, and Motown Superstars. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan
Press, 2004.
Early, Gerald. One Nation Under a Groove: Motown and American Culture. Ann Arbor: Univer-
sity of Michigan Press, 2004.
Flory, Andrew. I Hear a Symphony: Listening to the Music of Motown. Ann Arbor: University of
Michigan Press, 2017.
Gordy, Berry. To Be Loved: The Music, the Magic, the Memories of Motown: An Autobiography.
New York: Warner Books, 1994.
Neal, Mark Anthony. What the Music Said: Black Popular Music and Black Popular Culture. New
York, Routledge, 1999.
Ward, Brian. Just My Soul Responding: Rhythm and Blues, Black Consciousness, and Race Rela-
tions. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998.
Warwick, Jacqueline. Girl Groups, Girl Culture: Popular Music and Identity in the 1960s. New
Werner, Craig. A Change Is Gonna Come: Music, Race and the Soul of America. Ann Arbor: Uni-
versity of Michigan Press, 2006.
Discography
The Four Tops. Reach Out. Motown, 1967.
Hitsville USA, The Motown Singles Collection, 1959–1971. Motown, 1992.
Martha and the Vandellas. Heatwave. Gordy, 1963.
The Marvelettes. Please Mr. Postman. Tamla, 1961.
The Supremes. Where Did Our Love Go. Motown, 1964.
The Temptations. The Temptations Sing Smokey. Gordy, 1965.
Wonder, Stevie. The 12 Year Old Genius. Tamla, 1963.
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32. The Godfather of Soul and
the Beginnings of Funk
James Brown (1933–2006) stands out as one of the most influential

and successful musicians in the history of R&B. While his innovations
as a singer, performer, composer, arranger, and bandleader virtually
defined the genre of funk and contributed mightily to the development
of hip-hop, his achievements cannot be measured only in terms of his
musical contributions: during the height of his popularity, he became a
cultural icon in the African American community, exploring the limits of
economic self-determination for a black performer and demonstrating
how crossover success could be achieved without forswearing the black
vernacular.
Born into extreme poverty in the rural South (in Barnwell, South
Carolina, near Augusta, Georgia), Brown began his career as a profes-
sional musician with the gospel-based Flames in the early 1950s. By
1956, the group had recorded the R&B hit “Please, Please, Please” and
changed its name to “James Brown and the Famous Flames.” This early
recording established what was to become a stylistic trademark: insis-
tent repetition of a single phrase (in this case, the song’s title) resulting
in a kind of ecstatic trance. This trademark and Brown’s characteris-
tic raspy vocal timbre and impassioned melismas display his debt to
the African American gospel tradition. His stage shows, dancing, and
inspired call-and-response interactions with the audience also convey
the fervor of a sanctified preacher.
The subsequent highpoints of his career are numerous: the sur-
prising smash success of his 1962 recording Live at the Apollo; his
development of funk during the years 1964–65 with three successive
hits, “Out of Sight,” “Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag,” and “I Got You
(I Feel Good)”; and his continued crossover success with a string of
recordings—including “Cold Sweat,” “Say It Loud (I’m Black and I’m
Proud),” “Superbad,” “Hot Pants”—that further defined the funk
genre during the years 1967–72. In recordings such as “Cold Sweat,”
verse-chorus structures were replaced by sections of irregular length,
defined by densely overlapping ostinati played by all the instruments.
Brown’s lyrics grew increasingly impressionistic, celebrating black
172
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The Godfather of Soul and the Beginnings of Funk 173
v ernacular speech (often creating slang in the process) and emphasiz-
ing racial pride.1
In a book organized by decades, where does one place a musician who

was active and influential in three of them (the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s)
and who continued to perform and record until his death? While funk
will be discussed at greater length in Part 4, I chose to place Brown
in this chapter because it was during the 1960s that he developed the
innovations that were felt and continue to be felt across a broad musi-
cal spectrum.
The following excerpts come from Brown’s autobiography, The God-
father of Soul, and detail his early experiences and eclectic influences,
his indebtedness to gospel music and charismatic preaching styles, the
importance of audience-performer interaction (also learned in church),
his firsthand experience of the ring shout, and the somewhat surprising
link between minstrel shows (and professional wrestling!) and the later
development of his stage act. He also charts the development of soul
and funk, the circumstances of the famous Live at the Apollo album, and
his business philosophy, and profiles several of the well-known musi-
cians who worked for him.
from The Godfather of Soul

James Brown (with Bruce Tucker)
I liked gospel and pop songs best of all. I got all the Hit Parade books and learned
all the pop tunes—Bing Crosby’s “Buttermilk Sky,” Sinatra’s “Saturday Night Is the
Loneliest Night of the Week,” “String of Pearls.” I also admired Count Basie’s “One
O’Clock Jump,” but I couldn’t play piano good enough to do it.
I heard a lot of church music, too, because I went to all the different churches
with a crippled man named Charlie Brown who lived in one of the shacks in Helmuth
Alley. He had to walk with two sticks or with somebody on each side holding his
arms. On Sundays when we weren’t shining shoes, Junior and I walked Mr. Charlie to
one or another of the churches because they’d take up collections for people like him.
1. For an essay exploring how Brown’s funk expressed an African American aesthetic in its
conjunction of music and lyrics, see David Brackett, “James Brown’s ‘Superbad’ and the Double-
Voiced Utterance,” Interpreting Popular Music (Berkeley: University of California Press, [1995]
2000), 108–56.
Source: From JAMES BROWN: THE GODFATHER OF SOUL by James Brown (with Bruce
Tucker). Copyright © 1986 by James Brown and Bruce Tucker. Reprinted with the permission of
Scribner, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.
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174 The 1960s
At the churches there was a lot of singing and handclapping and usually an
organ and tambourines, and then the preacher would really get down. I liked that
even more than the music. I had been to a revival service and had seen a preacher
who really had a lot of fire. He was just screaming and yelling and stomping his foot
and then he dropped to his knees. The people got into it with him, answering him
and shouting and clapping time. After that, when I went to church with Mr. Charlie,
I watched the preachers real close. Then I’d go home and imitate them because I
wanted to preach. I thought that was the answer to it.
Audience participation in church is something the darker race of people has
going because of a lot of trials and tribulations, because of things that we understand
about human nature. It’s something I can’t explain, but I can bring it out of people.
I’m not the only person who has the ability, but I work at it, and I’m sure a lot of my
stage show came out of the church.
One thing I never saw in the churches was drums until I went to Bishop Grace’s
House of Prayer. Those folks were sanctified—they had the beat. See, you got sanc-
tified and you got holy. Sanctified people got more fire; holy people are more
secluded—sort of like Democrats versus Republicans. I’m holy myself, but I have a
lot of sanctified in me.
Bishop Grace was a big man, the richest and most powerful of that kind of
preacher in the country, bigger than Father Divine or any of ‘em. He had houses
of prayer in more than thirty cities in the East and South, and he had these “Grace
Societies” that just took in the money. Every year when he came back to Augusta
there was a monstrous parade down Gwinnett Street for him, with decorated floats
and cars and brass bands. Everybody in the Terry2 turned out for it, and other
people came from as far away as Philadelphia to march in it. You could join in it
with your car or, if you had a musical instrument, you could fall in with one of
the bands.
He was called “Daddy” Grace, and he was like a god on earth. He wore a cape
and sat on a throne on the biggest float, with people fanning him while he threw
candy and things to the children. He had long curly hair, and real long fingernails,
and suits made out of money.
His House of Prayer on Wrightsboro Road in Augusta resembled a warehouse.
A sign over the door said: “Great joy! Come to the House of Prayer and forget your
troubles.” And everybody did come at one time or another, even people who didn’t
believe in him, because he put on such a show. Inside there were plank benches, a
dirt floor covered with sawdust, and crepe paper streamers on the ceiling. At one end
there was a stage where Daddy Grace sat on a red throne.
He’d get to preaching and the people would get in a ring and they’d go round
and round and go right behind one another, just shouting. Sometimes they’d fall out
right there in the sawdust, shaking and jerking and having convulsions. The posts in
the place were padded so the people wouldn’t hurt themselves. There was a big old
tin tub sitting there, too, and every time they went by the tub, they threw something
in it. See who could give the most. Later on he had various big vases out there, like
urns, one for five-dollar bills, one for tens and twenties, and one for hundreds. It
seemed like the poorest people sacrificed the most for him.
Daddy Grace had to be a prophet, but seeing him I knew I was an outsider
because I couldn’t believe in him. I believed in God so that made me an outsider
right away.
2. The name for the African American neighborhood where Brown lived.
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The Lenox [Theater in Augusta] was where I first saw films of Louis Jordan perform-
ing. Louis Jordan and His Tympany Five. They played a kind of jumping R&B and
jazz at the same time, and they were something else. They did a lot of comedy, but
they could play a blues if they had to, or anything in between. The films were shorts
of Louis doing whatever his latest song was, and they showed them before the regu-
lar picture. He played alto sax real good and sang pretty good. Louis Jordan was the
man in those days, though a lot of people have forgotten it. His stuff was popular
with blacks and whites, and he usually had several hits at one time, a lot of ‘em that
sold a million. “Choo Choo Ch’Boogie,” “Early in the Morning,” “Saturday Night
Fish Fry,” and “Ain’t Nobody Here but Us Chickens” were all his. When I first saw
him I think he had out “G. I. Jive” and “Is You Is, or Is You Ain’t (Ma’ Baby)?” but
the one that knocked me out was “Caldonia, What Makes Your Big Head So Hard?”
especially the way he’d go up real high; Cal-don-ya! I learned the words as quick as
I could, picked it out on the piano, and started playing it and singing it whenever I
got the chance.
“Caldonia” was a song you could really put on a show with, and I guess that
Louis Jordan short is what first started me thinking along those lines. That and
the preachers. The circus and the minstrel shows that came through town played a
part, too.
Johnny J. Jones was my favorite circus. Junior and I used to crawl through a hole
in the fence in the back of the fairgrounds to see him. Since he stayed for a whole
week, they called it a fair, but it was really a circus. A circus is supposed to do all its
stuff in one night and then move on to the next town, the way I did with my show
years later.
We had to pay to get into the minstrel shows, but only because we couldn’t fig-
ure out a way to sneak in. Silas Green from New Orleans was the best. He presented a
complete varied program with singers, dancers, musicians, and comics. That’s what I
tried to do fifteen years later when I put together the James Brown Revue.
It’s strange: Even though I’d seen just about everything there was to see in the
house on Twiggs Street,3 I thought the short dresses on Silas Green’s girls were unbe-
lievable. To me, those brown skinned models were the prettiest things in the world.
I saw some top talent in those shows, too, like Willie Mae Thornton, who first did
“Hound Dog.” I saw a lot of great comedians, too. In those days the comics still
worked in blackface, but like everybody else I just thought it was funny.
Ever since the Uptown we’d worked on our closing routine with “Please.” I’d fall to
my knees and out would come the coat to go around my shoulders. At first, we used
anybody’s coat that was laying around. Might belong to one of the Flames or one of
the fellas in the band. It worked fine until people started hiding their coats; cleaning
bills were mounting up, and didn’t nobody want their coat to be the one. So they
started bringing me a towel, like for a boxer. That was effective, too. Then one night
in Chattanooga on a bill with B. B. King and Bobby “Blue” Bland they brought me
the towel, and after a little bit I threw it into the audience. They loved it, so we did it
that way for a good while.
Later on in that tour, when we were in Atlanta, we sat around the hotel one
day watching wrestling on television. Gorgeous George was on, and when he got
through killing whoever he was killing, he started walking around the ring taking
3. The “house on Twiggs Street” refers to the whorehouse where Brown spent many of his
formative years.
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176 The 1960s
his bows. A handler followed him and threw a robe over his shoulders. Gorgeous
shook it off, went to another side of the ring, and took another bow. The fella threw
the robe over him again, and George shook it off and took another bow. Watching it,
I said, “We got to get a robe.” So we went out and got some store-bought robes. Later
on we got capes that I signed and had tailor-made, but the whole thing really started
coming together while watching Gorgeous George.
Willie John or somebody might have said we were using more tricks to get over,
but they didn’t understand that everything was developing at once—the stage show,
the band, the dancing, the music. There were a lot of different aspects to what we
were doing. I wanted people to appreciate them so I decided to record the band on
an instrumental and kind of popularize the mashed potatoes at the same time. Most
entertainers today never really understand that show business means just that, show
business.
You can hear the thing starting to change on the records I put out during the begin-
ning of 1960. I was changing before that, but that’s when you can hear it. “I’ll Go
Crazy” came out in January; “Think” and “You’ve Got the Power” were released in
May. “I’ll Go Crazy” is a blues, but it’s a different kind of blues, up-tempo, a kind
of jazz blues. “Think” is a combination of gospel and jazz—a rhythm hold is what
we used to call it. Soul really started right there, or at least my kind did. See when
people talk about soul music they talk only about gospel and R & B coming together.
That’s accurate about a lot of soul, but if you’re going to talk about mine, you have
to remember the jazz in it. That’s what made my music so different and allowed it to
change and grow after soul was finished.
Once Mr. [Syd] Nathan [owner of King Records] saw I was going to go ahead with
the live recording [from a performance at the Apollo in 1962], he started cooperat-
ing. Mr. Neely took care of getting the equipment from A-1 Sound in New York, the
only ones who had portable stuff—Magnacorders, I think. Matter of fact, Mr. Nathan
started cooperating too much. He sent word that he wanted us to use cue cards to
direct the audience participation. I said, “Now if y’all are going to pay for it, then I’ll
do it the way y’all want to, but if I’m going to pay for it, then please leave it alone.
All I want y’all to do is tape the stuff.”4 That was the end of it.
We had opened on the nineteenth and were building up to recording on the
twenty-fourth, a Wednesday, which meant amateur night. I wanted that wild
amateur-night crowd because I knew they’d do plenty of hollering. The plan was
to record all four shows that day so we’d have enough tape to work with. I think
Mr. Neely and Chuck Seitz, the engineers, had six or eight mikes, two crowd moni-
tors in front, one above the crowd, and then the mikes on me, the band, and the
Flames.
The other acts on the bill were Olatunji, the Sensations, Curley Mays, and Pig-
meat Markham. Yvonne Fair had a solo spot, and so did Baby Lloyd. On the twenty-
fourth I was going around backstage telling the Flames and the band not to get
nervous, and I guess I was probably the most nervous of all. I wasn’t worried about
performing; I was worried about the recording coming off good. I had a lot riding
on it, not just my own money but my reputation because here I was having to prove
myself to Mr. Nathan and them all over again, just like when I had to demo “Try
Me.” I was standing in the wings thinking about all this when Fats stepped up to the
microphone and did his intro:
4. Brown was paying for the recording because of Nathan’s initial objections.
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“So now, ladies and gentlemen, it is startime. Are you ready for startime?” Yeah!
“Thank you and thank you very kindly. It is indeed a great pleasure to present to you
at this particular time, nationally and internationally known as the Hardest Working
Man in Show Business, the man that sings, ‘I’ll Go Crazy’” . . . a fanfare from the band:
Taaaaa! “‘You’ve Got the Power’” . . . Taaaaa! “‘Think’” . . . Taaaaa! “‘If You Want
Me’” . . . Taaaaa! “‘I Don’t Mind’” . . . Taaaaa! “‘Bewildered’” . . . Taaaaa! “million-
dollar seller ‘Lost Someone’” . . . Taaaaa! “the very latest release, ‘Night Train’” . . .
Taaaaa! “Let’s everybody ‘Shout and Shimmy’” . . . Taaaaa! “Mr. Dynamite, the amaz-
ing Mr. ’Please Please’ himself, the star of the show . . . James Brown and the Famous
Flames.”
Then the band went into the chaser—the little up-tempo vamp we used between
songs—and I hit the stage. As soon as I was into “I’ll Go Crazy” I knew it was one of
those good times. That’s a hard feeling to describe—being on stage, performing, and
knowing that you’ve really got it that night. It feels like God is blessing you, and you
give more and more. The audience was with me, screaming and hollering on all the
songs, and I thought, “Man, this is really going to do it.”
It’s a funny thing, though. When I’m up on stage I’m very aware of everything
that’s going on around me—what the band and the backup singers are doing, how the
audience is reacting, how the sound system’s working, all that. When you work small
clubs you watch the door, check out how rough the crowd looks, listen for little pitch
changes in your one little amplifier that tell you it’s about to blow out. You can’t just
be thinking about the song or how pretty you look up there. You learn to be aware.
As the show went along I started noticing little things and filing them away in
my mind. Every now and then the band made a mistake or the Flames were a half
tone off. Sometimes I hollered where I usually didn’t in the song, and some of the
audience down front was too enthusiastic. A little old lady down front kept yelling,
“Sing it motherf——r, sing it!” She looked like she must have been seventy-five years
old. I could hear her the whole time and knew the overhead crowd mike was right
above her. Mr. Neely had strung it on a wire between the two side balconies. Most
times none of those things would’ve mattered, but we were recording and I was
thinking, “Oh, Lord, this take’s ruined.”
During a quiet stretch of “Lost Someone” the woman let out a loud scream, and
the audience laughed right in the middle of this serious song. I thought “Well, there
goes that song, too.” Then I thought I had better try to fix it some kind of way so I
started preaching: “You know we all make mistakes sometimes, and the only way
we can correct our mistakes is we got to try one more time. So I got to sing this song
to you one more time.” I stretched out the song, hoping we could get something we
could use; then I went into “Please.”
Mr. Neely brought the tape into a back room between the first two shows and
played it for us on a little tape recorder. As soon as we heard the little old lady, we all
busted out laughing. He didn’t understand. All he could hear was her high piercing
voice, but he didn’t really understand what she was saying even though it was clear
as a bell. Finally, somebody told him. Then he understood.
“Oh no,” he said. “I can’t have that. I have to get it out of there and make sure
she’s not here for the other shows, too. This is terrible.”
He was getting all worked up, while all the cats were listening to it over and
over, laughing, having a great time, and getting other cats to listen to it. After a
while, watching everybody carry on, Mr. Neely settled himself down and said, “Hey,
maybe we’ve got something here.”
He found the lady down front and told her he’d buy her candy and popcorn
and give her $10 if she’d stay for the other three shows—he didn’t tell her why. He
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178 The 1960s
moved the overhead mike so it wouldn’t pick her up so strong. We were using two-
track, which meant practically mixing as we went along. She stayed for the next three
shows and hollered the same thing every time I did a spin or something she liked. It
was like it was on cue. I think the shows got even better as the day went along. By the
end of the last one we had four reels of tape. Mr. Neely was so excited he brought the
master up to the dressing rooms and passed around the headphones for us to listen.
None of us had ever heard ourselves live like that. It sounded fantastic. We knew we
really had something.
By this time we had completely forgotten about the finale, where all the acts
change clothes and come out on stage together to close the show. Everybody else had
changed and was waiting backstage, but we were listening to the tape over and over.
Never did do that finale.
A lot of people don’t understand about the hollering I do. A man once came up to me
in a hotel lobby and said, “So you’re James Brown. You make a million dollars, and
all you do is scream and holler.”
“Yes,” I said, very quiet, “but I scream and holler on key.”
I was branching out in a lot of directions. At the end of 1962 I formed my own
song publishing company, Jim Jam Music, and got King to give me my own label,
Try Me. I had already been producing on Federal and King and Dade and wanted to
bring it all together on Try Me. I wasn’t content to be only a performer and be used
by other people; I wanted to be a complete show business person: artist, business-
man, entrepreneur. It was important to be because people of my origin hadn’t been
allowed to get into the business end of show business before, just the show part.
By this time Mr. Neely had finished editing the Live at the Apollo tape. He had a
good mix of the performance and the audience, and he had fixed all the cussing so it
wasn’t right up front. He figured it would become an underground thing for people
who knew what the lady was screaming; he was right too. He worked on the tape a
long time and did a fantastic job of mixing it.
When Mr. Nathan finally heard the tape he hated it. “This is not coming out,” he
said. “We have a certain standard, and we’re going to stick with it.” What he didn’t
like now was the way we went from one tune to another without stopping. He just
couldn’t understand that. I guess he was expecting exact copies of our earlier records,
but with people politely applauding in between. He had all kinds of theories about
how records should be. He wanted the hook right up front because he knew that
disc jockeys auditioned hundreds of records every week by putting the needle down
and playing only the first fifteen or twenty seconds. If that didn’t grab them, they
went on to the next record. The same thing happened in record stores, where they
usually let you hear fifteen or twenty seconds on a player on the counter. A lot of my
things were more like stage numbers, and he couldn’t understand that. After more
conversation, he finally agreed to put the album out. I think Mr. Neely was the one
who finally sold him on it.
After all the editing and all the arguing it was January 1963 before Live at the
Apollo was finally released. Then discussion began about what singles to release off it.
Byrd thought “Think” should be spun off it, especially since the live version was so
different from the version we’d put out before. Some people thought “Try Me” was
going to do it again, some people had faith in “Lost Someone.”
The idea of a smash album was far from anybody’s mind. Those were the days
when most popular albums had only one hit on them plus filler. Mr. Nathan was
waiting to see which tune the radio stations were going to play from the album, and
then he would shoot it out as a single. I said, “What do you mean? We’re not going
to take any singles off it. Sell it the way it is.”
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“James,” he said, “all the money I’ve made in this business I made off singles.
That’s how it’s done. As soon as we get the reports from the radio stations, we’re
going to start releasing singles.”
“Nosir, Mr. Nathan,” I said. “No singles.”
“You’ve been paid. You have no say in it anymore, James.”
I didn’t give him no more argument. I still had faith in the album. While he was
waiting to see what would break off the album, King put out the “Prisoner of Love”
single in April; it crossed over into the pop market and made it to the top twenty. It
was very different from the raw stuff on the Live album, which was starting to build
momentum.
When Mr. Nathan checked the radio stations to see what was being played off
the album, he got a surprise; they told him that there wasn’t a tune the stations were
playing. They were playing the whole album. It was unheard of for a station to play
a whole album uninterrupted, but a lot of stations with black programming were
doing it. You could tune in at a certain time each night to some of them and they
would be playing it. Mr. Nathan couldn’t believe it, but it convinced him to let the
album keep going on its own.
Meantime, it was a standoff between King Records and Mercury.5 I started to
think there was something funny about it; Mercury seemed more interested in put-
ting Mr. Nathan out of business than in recording me on vocals. The doors at King
were all but closed; they had beat him, he had nothing to fight with. I felt bad about
it, so I went to Arthur Smith’s studio in Charlotte, North Carolina, cut “Papa’s Got a
Brand New Bag,” and sent the tape to Mr. Nathan. It was done underground—I had
to sneak the tape to him.
The song started out as a vamp we did during the stage show. There was a little
instrumental riff and I hollered: “Papa’s got a bag of his own!” I decided to expand
it into a song and cut it pretty quick to help Mr. Nathan, so when we went into the
studio I was holding a lyric sheet in my hand while I recorded it. We were still going
for that live-in-the-studio sound, so we cranked up and did the first take.
It’s hard to describe what it was I was going for; the song has gospel feel, but
it’s put together out of jazz licks. And it has a different sound—a snappy, fast-hitting
thing from the bass and the guitars. You can hear Jimmy Nolen, my guitar player at
the time, starting to play scratch guitar, where you squeeze the strings tight and quick
against the frets so the sound is hard and fast without any sustain. He was what we
called a chanker; instead of playing the whole chord and using all the strings, he hit
his chords on just three strings. And Maceo played a fantastic sax solo on the break.
We had been doing the vamp on the show for a while, so most of it was fine, but the
lyrics were so new I think I might have gotten some of them mixed-up on the take.
We stopped to listen to the playback to see what we needed to do on the next take.
While we were listening, I looked around the studio. Everybody—the band, the stu-
dio people, me—was dancing. Nobody was standing still.
Pop said, “If I’m paying for this, I don’t want to cut any more. This is it.”
And that was it. That’s the way it went out. I had an acetate made and took it to
Frankie Crocker, a deejay in New York. He thought it was terrible, but he put it on
the air and the phones lit up. Then he admitted I was right about it.
5. Brown had tried to get out of his contract with King and had released a single on Mercury.
This single, “Out of Sight,” was an important precursor to “Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag” (see
The Godfather of Soul, 148–49, and Brown’s up-tempo performance of the song in the famous
T.A.M.I. Show from late 1964).
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180 The 1960s
“Papa’s Bag” was years ahead of its time. In 1965 soul was just really getting
popular. Aretha and Otis and Wilson Pickett were out there and getting big. I was
still called a soul singer—I still call myself that—but musically I had already gone
off in a different direction. I had discovered that my strength was not in the horns, it
was in the rhythm. I was hearing everything, even the guitars, like they were drums.
I had found out how to make it happen. On playbacks, when I saw the speakers
jumping, vibrating a certain way, I knew that was it: deliverance. I could tell from
looking at the speakers that the rhythm was right. What I’d started on “Out of Sight”
I took all the way on “Papa’s Bag.” Later on they said it was the beginning of funk. I
just thought of it as where my music was going. The title told it all: I had a new bag.
My music was changing as fast as the country. The things I’d started doing in “Papa’s
Bag” and “Cold Sweat,” and other tunes around that time, I was taking even further
now. In the middle of 1967 Nat Jones left the band and was replaced by Alfred “Pee
Wee” Ellis as musical director. He was really in sync with what I was trying to do. He
played alto, tenor, and some keyboards. Maceo, after a hitch in the army, came back
in April that year. I still had St. Clair Pinkney and L. D. Williams on saxes. Joe Dupars
and Waymond Reed played trumpets; Jimmy Nolen and Alphonso Kellum gave me
that distinctive scratch guitar sound; and John “Jabo” Starks and Clyde Stubblefield
were two of the funkiest drummers you could find. They did it to death.
I started off 1968 by buying my first radio station. I got into the radio business
because of all the things going on in the country. I believed in human rights—not
civil rights, human rights of all people everywhere—and I loved my country. But I
would speak out for my people, too. That was part of loving my country. I thought
we needed pride and economic power and, most important of all, education. So I
bought WGYW which I changed to WJBE, in Knoxville, Tennessee.
I know people might not believe it but I didn’t go into it to make money. First,
I thought black communities need stations that really served them and represented
them. The station I bought in Knoxville had been a black-oriented station, but it had
gone off the air. When I put it back on I kept a format of soul and gospel and jazz—
the whole spectrum of black music. We had talk shows, too, and editorials and pro-
grams directed at the kids to get them to stay in school. We directed a lot of it at their
parents, too, encouraging them to give their kids the support they needed.
Second, I wanted my station to be a media training ground so black people could
do more than just be jocks. I wanted them to learn advertising, programming, and man-
agement at all levels. Third, as owner I wanted to be a symbol of the black entrepreneur.
All three of these reasons were, to me, part of education. That was real black power.
Eventually I bought two more radio stations, WEBB in Baltimore and WRDW in
Augusta. At that time there were around five hundred black-oriented radio stations
in the country, but only five of them were owned by black people—three of those
were mine. I did the same thing with my other two stations that I did in Knoxville.
We used to joke that WEBB really stood for “We Enjoy Being Black.” WRDW was
really special because that was in my hometown.
We did many political things on the stations, editorials that irritated a lot of
people. Sometimes I would cut an editorial and just say what I was really thinking. I
wasn’t a radio professional, so some of ‘em were a little too raw for the FCC and they
got on us every now and then. With the war in Vietnam and the unrest at home, you
couldn’t avoid politics during that time.
Brown re-formed his band in 1970. New members included bassist

“Bootsy” Collins and his brother, guitarist “Catfish” Collins. Bootsy
later went on to fame with Parliament-Funkadelic and with his own
Rubber Band.
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Bootsy and the others turned out to be the nucleus of a very good band. They were
studio musicians so when I hummed out solos and things they knew how to give me
what I wanted. I think Bootsy learned a lot from me. When I met him he was playing
a lot of bass—the ifs, the ands and the buts. I got him to see the importance of the
one in funk—the downbeat at the beginning of every bar. I got him to key in on the
dynamic parts of the one instead of playing all around it. Then he could do all his
other stuff in the right places—after the one.
I think the first thing of my own I recorded with the new band was “Hot Pants
(She Got to Use What She Got to Get What She Wants),” and it was one of my big-
gest records.6 It came out in July 1971 and went to number 1 on the soul charts and
number 15 on the pop charts. At the same time I recorded another live album at the
Apollo, Revolution of the Mind, a two-record set that came out in December. In August
I followed up “Hot Pants” with “Make It Funky,” which went to number 1 on the
soul chart, and with “I’m a Greedy Man,” which went to number 7. Those songs did
well on the pop charts, too. Most of my music right on through the mid-seventies did,
but a funny thing was happening to music on the radio then. It was starting to get
segregated again, not just by black and white but by kinds: country, pop, hard rock,
soft rock, every kind you could name. Radio formats became very rigid. Because of
that and because of my political thing, about 80 percent of the popular stations in the
country would not play James Brown records. But my sales were so strong to Afro-
Americans and some hip whites that they couldn’t keep me off the pop charts. Matter
of fact, in all of the seventies I tied with Elvis for the most charted pop hits—thirty-
eight. The bad thing about it is that I was making some of my strongest music during
that period, and I think most whites have been deprived of it.
Because of my stuff, Polydor was really starting to hit the charts for the first time. My
first album for them, Hot Pants, came out soon after I signed. Revolution of the Mind
came out in December. At the beginning of 1972 I released “Talkin’ Loud and Sayin’
Nothing” and “King Heroin,” which was a rap song like “Get Up, Get Into It, Get
Involved” and “America Is My Home.” But, really the very first rap in my career was
a thing I did back in 1963 called “Choo-Choo (Locomotion).” We were in the studio
at King one night recording it and it just wasn’t happening. It was about two or three
in the morning, and Mr. Neely said, “Why don’t you just play conductor and call off
the names of the towns and talk about them?” So that’s what I did.
In August 1972 I opened the Festival of Hope at Roosevelt Raceway on Long
Island. It was the first rock festival held to help an established charity, the Crippled
Children’s Society. It was a big show: us, Chuck Berry, Ike and Tina Turner, Billy
Preston, Sly and the Family Stone, Stephen Stills, Jefferson Airplane, Commander
Cody, and so on. The festival didn’t bring in as much money as everybody hoped,
but it was worth it if it brought in anything. I had visited an Easter Seal summer day
camp in Albertson, New York, and my heart went out to those kids.
Right before the festival I put out “Get on the Good Foot.” Afrika Bambaataa
says it’s the song that people first started break dancing to. I feel solidarity with the
breakers and rappers and the whole hip hop thing—as long as it’s clean. Their stuff
is an extension of things I was doing for a long time: rapping over a funky beat about
pride and respect and education and drugs and all kinds of issues. I did what I said
in the songs: I got up, got into it, and got involved. I was determined to have a say,
6. The “new band” referred to here is the one Brown formed after the Collins brothers de-
parted and included Fred Wesley as arranger and trombonist.
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182 The 1960s
and I thought anybody with a big following had a responsibility to speak out like I’d
done with “America Is My Home” and with “Black and Proud.”
By the middle of 1975 disco had broken big. Disco is a simplification of a lot
of what I was doing, of what they thought I was doing. Disco is a very small part of
funk. It’s the end of the song, the repetitious part, like a vamp. The difference is that
in funk, you dig into a groove, you don’t stay on the surface. Disco stayed on the
surface. See, I taught ‘em everything they know, but not everything I know.
Disco was easy for artists to get into because they really didn’t have to do any-
thing. It was all electronic sequencers and beats-per-minute—it was done with
machines. They just cheated on the music world. They thought they could dress up
in a Superfly outfit, play one note, and that would make them a star. But that was not
the answer. It destroyed the musical basis many people worked so hard to build up in
the sixties. The record companies loved disco because it was a producer’s music. You
don’t really need artists to make disco. They didn’t have to worry about an artist not
cooperating; machines can’t talk back and, unlike artists, they don’t have to be paid.
What disco became was a lawyer’s recording; the attorneys were making records.
Disco hurt me in a lot of ways. I was trying to make good hard funk records
that Polydor was trying to soften up, while people were buying records that had no
substance. The disco people copied off me and tried to throw me away and go with
young people. You can’t do that. You have to come back to the source. Disco hurt live
music in general. The black concert business was already hurting. Whites wouldn’t
come even if the black artist had big record sales. Black America was in a serious
recession; there was just no money in the black community. Later on, that situation
hurt records sales, too. For everybody.
Further Reading
Brackett, David. “James Brown’s ‘Superbad’ and the Double-Voiced Utterance.” In Interpret-
ing Popular Music, 108–56. Berkeley: University of California Press, [1995] 2000.
Brown, Geoff. The Life of James Brown. London: Omnibus Press, [1996] 2008.
Brown, James (with Marc Eliot). I Feel Good: A Memoir of a Life of Soul. New York: New Ameri-
can Library, 2005.
Danielsen, Anne. Presence and Pleasure: The Funk Grooves of James Brown and Parliament. Mid-
dletown, Conn.: Wesleyan University Press, 2006.
McBride, James. Kill ’em and Leave: Searching for James Brown and the American Soul. New York:
Spiegel & Grau, 2016.
Ramsey, Guthrie P., Jr. Race Music: Black Cultures from Bebop to Hip-Hop. Berkeley: University
of California Press, 2003.
Smith, R. J. The One: The Life and Music of James Brown. New York: Gotham Books, 2012.
Stewart, Alexander. “‘Funky Drummer’: New Orleans, James Brown and the Rhythmic
Transformation of American Popular Music.” Popular Music 19 (2000): 293–318.
Wolk, Douglas. James Brown’s Live at the Apollo (33 1/3). New York: Continuum, 2004.
Discography
Brown, James. Live at the Apollo Theater. King/Polydor, 1963.
_______. Star Time. Polydor/UMGD, 1991.
The J. B. ’s. Pass the Peas: The Best of the J. B.’s. Polydor, 2000.
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33. “The Blues Changes from Day to Day”
During 1965–66, the Southern Soul sound gained prominence in tan-

dem with Motown. Southern Soul recordings tended to eschew some
of the complexities of Motown arrangements, emphasizing (like James
Brown) the gospel roots of the music and presenting a looser, more
spontaneous-seeming sound. Among these artists, Otis Redding
(1941–67), from Macon, Georgia, achieved a special sort of notoriety
with the white counterculture by being the only soul artist to appear at
the Monterey Pop Festival in 1967. While Redding had been one of the
most consistently successful artists associated with Stax and a staple
on the R&B radio for years, his exposure to the white audience had
been fairly limited up to that time. His greatest commercial triumph,
“(Sittin’ on) The Dock of the Bay” (number one on the pop and R&B
charts early in 1968), followed his death in a plane crash in December
1967. The following interview from 1967 reflects the newfound interest
in Redding among the pop and rock audiences and touches on Red-
ding’s views about the musical relationships between black and white
performers, as well as the differences between Motown and Stax. The
initials “J. D.” stand for Jim Delehant, the editor of Hit Parader who con-
ducted the interview in the summer of 1967.
Otis Redding Interview

Jim Delehant
J.D: What do you dislike about England?
Otis: Nothing. I loved England from head to toe. I love the weather, the people. I was
there in the summer and it was nice. The people are so groovy; they treated me
like I was somebody. They took me wherever I wanted to go. I loved Paris too.
J.D: Did you find any language problems with your audiences in Paris?
Otis: No, they sang along with almost all the songs. But England is a beautiful coun-
try. If I were to leave the U.S., I’d live in England. But I’d never leave the U.S. I
Source: Jim Delehant, “Otis Redding Interview,” Hit Parader (September 1967).
183
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184 The 1960s
own a 400-acre farm in Macon, Georgia. I raise cattle and hogs. I own horses too.
I love horses as much as singing. I’d like to hunt on horseback.
J.D: Tell us about the album you recorded with Carla Thomas.
Otis: Carla and I worked on this album for three days. We do things like “It Takes
Two” that Marvin Gaye and Kim Weston did. And we do “Tramp” by Lowell
Fulson. I wrote an original called “Oo Wee Baby.” We do “Tell It Like It Is.”
There’s a lot of great stuff on it.
J.D: Your voices are so different. Did you have any problems working together?
Otis: My voice right today is hoarse from working on the album. We didn’t have any
problems working at all. I went in first and sang my part, and then she came in
and overdubbed her part. We used Booker T. & MG’s too. Booker played both
the piano and the organ. We cut eleven songs in three days.
J.D: How did you write “Respect”?
Otis: That’s one of my favorite songs because it has a better groove than any of my
records. It says something too: “What you want, baby you got it. What you need
baby, you got it. All I’m asking for is a little respect when I come home.” The
song lyrics are great. The band track is beautiful. It took me a whole day to write
it and about twenty minutes to arrange it. We cut it once and that was it. Every-
body wants respect, you know.
J.D: Why did you choose to do “Satisfaction”?
Otis: That came from Steve Cropper and Booker. We were all in the studio one day to
record an album and they suggested I do “Satisfaction.” They asked me if I had
heard the new Rolling Stones song but I hadn’t heard it. They played the record
for me and everybody liked it except me. If you notice, I use a lot of words dif-
ferent from the Stones’ version—that’s because I made it up.
J.D: Were you in the music business before you joined Stax?
Otis: No, I used to be a well driller. I made a $1.25 an hour drilling wells in Macon,
Georgia. One day I drove a friend of mine, Johnny Jenkins, up to do a record-
ing session. They had thirty minutes left in the studio and I asked if I could do
a song, “These Arms of Mine.” They did it and it sold about 800,000 copies. I’ve
been going ever since. I wrote that song in 1960 when I wasn’t even thinking
about the music business. I recorded it in November, 1962. I tried the song out
with a small recording company but it didn’t do anything. I knew it was saying
something though. I dug the words.
J.D: What was the first music you heard that impressed you deeply?
Otis: My mother and father and I used to go to parties when I was a kid. We used
to go out to a place called Sawyer’s Lake in Macon. There was a calypso song
out then called “Run, Joe.” My mother and daddy used to play that for me all
the time. I just dug the groove. Ever since then I’ve been playing music. As I
was growing up, I did a lot of talent shows. I won fifteen Sunday nights straight
in a series of talent shows in Macon. I showed up the sixteenth night and they
wouldn’t let me go on anymore. Whatever success I had was through the help
of the good Lord.
J.D: What do you think of people like Muddy Waters and Jimmy Reed?
Otis: I dig them because they give me a lot of ideas. I listen to them a lot.
J.D: Do you like harmonica?
Otis: Yes, I love harmonica. I haven’t done one on record, yet, but I might try. I play
it a little. It’s easy. I play piano too—the chords. I write songs with my guitar.
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“The Blues Changes from Day to Day” 185
J.D: How many pieces do you have in your band?
Otis: I used to have ten, but now I have eight. I cut it down because it was getting
away from my sound. I have two trumpets, two tenors, guitar, bass, drums and
organ.
J.D: What do you think of Sam and Dave and the Righteous Brothers?
Otis: I’ll tell you. When I first heard the Righteous Brothers, I thought they were
colored. I think they sing better than Sam and Dave. But Sam and Dave are much
better showmen. Sam and Dave have been together for ten or twelve years. I
think Sam and Dave are my favorites.
J.D: Why do you think white blues performers are so much more successful than the
originals?
Otis: Because the white population is much larger than the colored. I like what these
rock and roll kids are doing. Sometimes they take things from us, but I take
things from them too. The things that are beautiful, and they do a lot of beautiful
things.
J.D: What do you think of Eric Burdon?
Otis: Now, Eric is one of the best friends I have. He’s a great guy. I like the way he
works. I like the way he sings, too. He’s a good blues performer. I’ve seen him
work in a club in England. This boy came on stage with a blues song and he tore
the house up. They called me up on stage after he finished and I wouldn’t go up.
I knew I couldn’t do anything to top it. Eric can really sing blues.
J.D: Any blues by the Stones you like?
Otis: No. I like their uptempo songs. They really groove on “Satisfaction.” It’s too
much. I like their original things better. They can’t do anybody else’s songs.
J.D: You’re a producer and manager now, aren’t you?
Otis: I have an artist that just came out on Atlantic Records named Arthur Conley. He
does one of my songs, “Sweet Soul Music.” It’s uptempo and he does it beauti-
fully. I manage him and record him. My band is on the record too.
J.D: What’s the difference between rock and roll and rhythm and blues?
Otis: Everybody thinks that all the songs by colored people are rhythm and blues
but that’s not true. Johnny Taylor, Muddy Waters and B. B. King are blues musi-
cians. James Brown is not a blues singer. He has a rock and roll beat and he can
sing slow pop songs. My own songs “Respect” and “Mr. Pitiful,” aren’t blues
songs. I’m speaking in terms of the beat and structure of the music. A blues is a
song that goes twelve bars all the way through. Most of my songs are soul songs.
When I go in to record a song, I only have the title and maybe a first verse. The
rest I make up as we’re recording. We’ll cut it three or four times and I’ll sing it
different every time. You know, once I cut a song, I can’t pantomime it on a TV
show. I’ve goofed TV shows every time. I missed the lyrics. I’d be going my own
way but then I’d catch up.
J.D: What’s the difference between the Stax sound and the Motown sound?
Otis: Motown does a lot of overdubbing. It’s mechanically done. At Stax the rule
is whatever you feel, play it. We cut everything together—horns, rhythm, and
vocals. We’ll do it three or four times, go back and listen to the results and pick
the best one. If somebody doesn’t like a line in the song, we’ll go back and cut the
whole song over. Until last year, we didn’t even have a four-track tape recorder.
You can’t overdub on a one-track machine. Like yesterday, we cut six songs in
five hours for my album with Carla. They were perfect songs, and they’ll all be
in the album.
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186 The 1960s
J.D: Do you think R&B has changed a great deal?
Otis: Yes, I’d like to say something to the R&B singers who were around ten years
ago. They’ve got to get out of the old bag. Listen to the beat of today and use
it on records. Don’t say we’re gonna go back ten years and use this old swing
shuffle. That’s not it. I know what the kids want today, and I aim all my stuff at
them. I’d like to see all those singers make it again. I’d like to take Fats Domino,
Little Richard, Big Joe Turner, Clyde McPhatter and bring them into the bag of
today. They’d have hits all over again. The blues changes from day to day. It all
depends on what the kids will be dancing to, what they’re moving to. I watch
people when I sing. If they’re stompin’ their foot, or snappin’ their fingers, then
I know I got something. But if they don’t move, then you don’t have anything.
Five years from now, I know the kids are going to be tired of my singing. If I
can keep a good mind with the help of the good Lord, I’m gonna keep produc-
ing records. You can’t have anything else on your mind but the music business.
When I go into the studio, I’m strictly for business. I can go in there any time
of the day and cut six songs if I want to. I don’t like any fooling around in the
studio.
J.D: Do you like country and western music?
Otis: Oh yeah. Before I started singing, maybe ten years ago, I loved anything that
Hank Williams sang. Eddy Arnold does some groovy things, too. Everybody’s
got their own bag and if they’re doing something good, I can hear it.
J.D: From your experience, what’s the best advice you could give to someone who wants to
get in the business?
Otis: If you want to be a singer, you’ve got to concentrate on it 24 hours a day. You
can’t be a well driller, too. You’ve got to concentrate on the business of entertain-
ing and writing songs. Always think different from the next person. Don’t ever
do a song as you heard somebody else do it. Concentrate and practice every sin-
gle day. It took me four years to get into show business in a big way. Also I think
it’s very important to write your own songs.
Further Reading
Bowman, Rob. Soulsville, U.S.A.: The Story of Stax Records. New York: Schirmer Books, 1997.
Freeman, Scott. Otis!: The Otis Redding Story. New York: St. Martin’s Griffin, 2002.
Hughes, Charles L. Country Soul: Making Music and Making Race in the American South. Uni-
versity of North Carolina Press, 2015.
Ware, Vron, and Les Back. Out of Whiteness: Color, Politics, and Culture. Chicago: University
of Chicago Press, 2002.
See also “Further Reading” for Chapter 34.
Discography
Booker T. and the M.G.s. The Definitive Soul Collection. Atlantic, 2006.
Redding, Otis. Pain in My Heart. Stax, 1964.
______. The Great Otis Redding Sings Soul Ballads. Stax, 1965.
______. The Dock of the Bay. Stax, 1968.
______. The Very Best of Otis Redding. Elektra/WEA, 1992.
______. and Carla Thomas. King and Queen. Stax, 1967.
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34. Aretha Franklin Earns Respect
In 1967–68, Aretha Franklin’s version of Otis Redding’s “Respect” and

James Brown’s “Say It Loud (I’m Black and I’m Proud)” signaled soul
music’s entry into a new phase of political engagement. The emergence
of Aretha Franklin (1942–2018), one of the first solo female stars in
the genre, had a huge impact: her tremendous range, mastery of all
aspects of gospel singing technique, and sturdy gospel piano playing,
applied to consistently excellent material (some of which she wrote or
cowrote), resulted in a series of brilliant recordings in 1967–70, during
which time she sold more records than any other African American art-
ist. Her recordings from the late 1960s include, in addition to “Respect,”
such anthems as “I Never Loved a Man (the Way I Love You),” “Natural
Woman (You Make Me Feel Like a),” “Chain of Fools,” and “Think.” While
her other recordings did not have quite the broad political resonance
of “Respect,” these hits did convey a sense of pride and strength not
previously expressed by black female singers.
Aretha Franklin’s success brought with it media coverage from a wide

range of publications. The following article from Ebony seeks to present
Franklin to a then-growing black middle-class readership. This orienta-
tion may be responsible for the emphasis on Franklin’s “homebody”
persona in the article, although it should be noted that other articles
and subsequent profiles on her also tend toward superficiality, perhaps
because she was a famously reticent interviewee. The opening passage
of the piece emphasizes the connection between Franklin and her audi-
ence, evoking gospel music’s ritualistic power in a secular setting—in
the words of the author Phyl Garland, Franklin exuded a “magnetic
appeal that exceeds simple entertainment.” Garland details Frank-
lin’s background in the Baptist church and the impact of the church
on her development as a musician, ranging from her father’s career as
a famous preacher to her own early experiences as a teenage gospel
singer; in one revealing passage, she reflects on the importance of tim-
ing in her music and observes how she owes this sense of timing to her
father’s singing and, perhaps a bit more surprising, to his preaching.
Her father’s position as a famous minister also brought Franklin into
187
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188 The 1960s
early contact with several musicians who influenced her, from famous
gospel singers such as James Cleveland and Clara Ward to gospel sing-
ers who achieved fame in popular music like Sam Cooke and Lou Rawls.
This piece also underscores the importance of Franklin’s switch from
Columbia to Atlantic Records and the simultaneous move from an “easy
listening” pop-jazz style to one based more on her gospel roots.
The relationship of soul music and “soul” in general to the black
church and to changing notions of black racial self-consciousness is
another focus of the article, which came at a moment when racial poli-
tics were assuming a higher and more militant profile, and as public
awareness about black nationalism and the black power movement was
increasing. These larger political currents form (at least part of) the con-
text that enabled recordings like “Respect” and “Think” to resonate so
strongly with African American audiences.1
Aretha Franklin—“Sister Soul”: Eclipsed Singer

Gains New Heights
Phyl Garland
It had been an ordinary evening, so far as the noisy, star-crowded events called jazz
festivals are concerned. Some considerate deity seemingly had answered the pro-
moter’s prayer that it wouldn’t rain as more than 35,000 fans huddled in the stands
or rocked their folding chairs on the grass of Downing Stadium on Randall’s Island,
a little bit of New York rising in the East River within walking distance of Harlem.
In a relaxed atmosphere suggestive of an evening picnic, they elbowed their way
through clusters of competitors for a dwindling supply of hot dogs and beer, grum-
bled about defects in the sound system, talked loudly during acts that were not their
favorites, and, above all, awaited the top-billed performers in a show heavily steeped
in gospel-flavored funk. They were pleased enough, but some singer or instrumen-
talist had yet to unleash their full capacity to enjoy. Then the moment came when
a full-bodied young woman with a chocolate-brown face offset by a pink brocade
gown came onto the stage to be greeted by a chorus of expectant shouts, cheers and
applause that were soon transformed into frenzied hand-clapping and foot-tapping.
It was the sort of unbridled response that is accorded only a star, a favorite, an enter-
tainer possessing the uncommon ability to electrify an audience.
1. For accounts of Franklin’s first recordings for Atlantic, a momentous event in the history of
recent popular music, see the following: Jerry Wexler and David Ritz, Rhythm and the Blues: A Life
in American Music (NewYork: Alfred A. Knopf, 1993), 208–11; Peter Guralnick, Sweet Soul Music:
Rhythm and Blues and the Southern Dream of Freedom (New York: Harper and Row, 1986), 339–42;
and Aretha Franklin (and David Ritz), Aretha: From These Roots (New York: Villard, 1999), 109–10,
123–24.
Source: Phyl Garland, “Aretha Franklin—Sister Soul: Eclipsed Singer Gains New Heights,” Ebony
(October 1967): 47–52. Reproduced by permission of EBONY Magazine. © 1967 Johnson Publish-
ing Company, Inc. All rights reserved.
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Aretha Franklin Earns Respect 189
For the singer, Aretha Franklin, the piano-plunking, earthy-sounding daughter
of a Detroit minister, it was a resounding “amen” to all the words and emotions she
has projected in a series of top-selling record hits that have added a new dimension
to her precocious but uneven career. Within less than a year, the one-time gospel
singer has returned from near obscurity to achieve a level of popularity where she
is regarded by many a fan as “sister soul herself.” Under a contract negotiated with
Atlantic Records in late 1966, she has released three consecutive million-selling sin-
gles. Her first album on that label, I Never Loved a Man the Way I Love You, is a certified
million-seller, with a second album, Aretha Arrives, nosing its way up on the charts.
Triumph in the recording world has, in turn, brought honors from the arbiters of
public taste—three awards from the National Association of Radio Announcers for
being the top female vocalist who produced the top single record and top album for
1967; recognition from Record World, Billboard and Cashbox magazines as a lead-
ing artist.
However, her success can be measured in more than monetary terms, for Are-
tha’s version of the Otis Redding composition Respect stands, week after week, at
the head of JET magazine’s Soul Brothers Top 20 Tunes poll and is considered by far
more than a few of those “brothers” to be “the new Negro national anthem.” Due to
this magnetic appeal that exceeds simple entertainment, Dr. Martin Luther King’s
Southern Christian Leadership Conference presented her with a special citation at
the organization’s convention in Atlanta, Ga., this summer.
All this sudden adulation might overwhelm some, but not Aretha, who endured
the experience of almost making it once before, only to become a comet that appar-
ently burnt out too soon. A reticent person whose basic shyness might be mistaken
for hostility or indifference, she is aware of where she has been and where she wants
to go. “I don’t feel very different,” she states with a quiet simpleness that belies her
ebullience in song. “People ask for my autograph now and that’s real nice, but I don’t
think it puts you up on any pedestal. You can’t get carried away with it.” She is quick
to acknowledge the ups and downs that came in the wake of her earlier success, in
1961, when John Hammond, the man credited with discovering Billie Holiday, said
she had “the best voice I’ve come across in 20 years,” and signed her to an exclusive
contract with Columbia Records.
Though some of her recordings from that period gained critical favor, namely
Today I Sing the Blues, Try a Little Tenderness and Skylark, she failed to break into the
top money-making level of the big hits and, after a while, her public following began
to fade. “Things were kinda hungry then,” she says of the interim years, adding, “I
might just be 25, but I’m an old woman in disguise . . . 25 goin’ on 63.”
If the appeal of her music can be linked to the sum of her experiences as a human
being, a significant portion of it lies in her early background. She was born in Mem-
phis, Tenn., one of three daughters and two sons of a Baptist minister father, the
Rev. C. L. Franklin, who went on to become a noted radio and recording artist, and
a musically gifted mother who died when Aretha was a child. Though the family
soon moved to Buffalo, N.Y., and later Detroit, Mich., the South left an imprint on
her speech with its softened endings on words. When Aretha was “about eight or
nine,” she began trying to teach herself how to play the piano by listening to Eddie
Heywood records, “just bangin’, not playin’, but finding a little somethin’ here and
there.” Her father noticed her efforts and hired a piano teacher whose approach was
scorned by the young Aretha. “When she’d come, I’d hide,” she recalls. “I tried for
maybe a week, but I just couldn’t take it. She had all those little baby books and I
wanted to go directly to the tunes.” This failure was overcome, shortly afterwards,
by the arrival of James Cleveland, the noted gospel singer, who came to live with
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190 The 1960s
the family. “He showed me some real nice chords and I liked his deep, deep sound,”
Aretha remembers. “There’s a whole lot of earthiness in the way he sings, and what
he was feelin’, I was feelin’, but I just didn’t know how to put it across. The more
I watched him, the more I got out of it.” Cleveland helped Aretha, her older sis-
ter Erma and two other girls form a gospel group that appeared at local churches
but lasted only eight months because “we were too busy fussin’ and fightin.’” But
in this group, Aretha got her first public experience as a singer and sometime pia-
nist. Another gospel artist who left a deep impression on Aretha was Clara Ward. “I
wasn’t really that conscious of the gospel sound,” she explains, “but I liked all Miss
Ward’s records. I learned to play ‘em because I thought one day she might decide she
didn’t want to play and I’d be ready.”
The Franklin household was a fertile one for the development of musical talent.
Because of her father’s prominence as an evangelist, Aretha had an opportunity to
meet artists of more than one genre. Mahalia Jackson, Arthur Prysock, B. B. King,
Dorothy Donegan and the late Dinah Washington were likely houseguests. She met
Lou Rawls when he was an unknown singer with the Pilgrim Travelers and became
a friend of the late Sam Cooke when he appeared at her father’s church with the Soul
Stirrers. She remembers Cooke as being “just beautiful, a sort of person who stood
out among many people.” Along with Sam Cooke, James Cleveland and Clara Ward,
one of the celebrities who impressed Aretha tremendously with “the way he could
just sit down and play” was the blind jazz pianist Art Tatum. “I just cancelled that
out for me and knew that I could never do that, but he left a strong impression on
me as a pianist and a person.” Above all others, Aretha credits her father with hav-
ing the greatest artistic influence on her in his singing style and his more broadly
acknowledged fusion of rhythm and words in preaching. “Most of what I learned
vocally came from him,” she readily admits. “He gave me a sense of timing in music
and timing is important in everything.”
Before entering her teens, Aretha had become a member of the youth choir at
New Bethel Baptist Church, which Rev. Franklin pastors in the heart of Detroit’s
black ghetto. Occasionally she was soloist and during four important years of her
adolescence, she toured the country with her father’s evangelistic troupe. During
one of those tours, she recorded her version of Never Grow Old and Precious Lord,
Take My Hand, which are still regarded as classics in the gospel vein and established
her reputation as a child singer. However, at the time, she had no dreams of becom-
ing a star or an entertainer of any sort. Her primary ambition was to become “just a
housewife.”
Fate didn’t play it that way.
When Aretha was 18, yet another friend, Major “Mule” Holly, bassist for the jazz
pianist Teddy Wilson, convinced her that she had a certain basic style that could be
commercially salable if applied to jazz or popular music. Though rumors persist that
the religiously oriented elder Franklin opposed his daughter’s pursuit of a secular
career, he actually escorted her to New York City when she made her first demon-
stration records to be presented to commercial firms. His opinion has been that “one
should make his own life and take care of his own business. If she feels she can do
what she is doing as successfully as she does it, I have nothing against it. I like most
kinds of music myself.” He observes that in his congregation there was “at first a
quiet and subdued resentment, but now they acclaim her in loud terms.”
For Aretha, the experience of being thrust into a different milieu was, if not trau-
matic, somewhat difficult. As she attended classes in New York that were intended to
polish her as a performer and personality, she was confronted with the problems that
face most fledgling entertainers. She was ensnarled in hassles with booking agents
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Aretha Franklin Earns Respect 191
and managers that earned her a reputation for being difficult to handle. As the first
glimmer of success began to vanish, she retreated into silence, returning to Detroit
and a personal life that she secludes from the public. In 1963, she did appear at the
Newport Jazz Festival and the Lower Ohio Jazz Festival, and in subsequent years
played Bermuda, the Bahamas and Puerto Rico. Yet the plum of a major success had
not come her way. There was some enthusiasm for a European tour, but her current
personal manager, Ted White, who is also her husband, contends that “Her earnings
wouldn’t have made it possible to take along the musicians who could back her up
and show off her talents in the best way. Even in this country, you have to work for
practically nothing if you don’t have a hit, so she just worked less.”
White, a native Detroiter whose experience in show business before his alliance
with Aretha was as “a sandlot” promoter not in the major leagues, contends that
part of his wife’s lag in her previous professional outing was due to the fact that her
Columbia recordings were not geared to the rhythm and blues or rock ‘n’ roll mar-
ket and, therefore, received limited jukebox and radio attention. A five-year contract
with a one-year option precluded any drastic change in approach. “We waited out
those years,” says White, “but when the time came to move, we were ready. We
knew we had something to offer.”
When the time did come for a change, Ted and Aretha got a helping hand from
Jimmy Bishop, a Philadelphia deejay, and his wife, Louise, who had access to the
interested ear of Jerry Wexler, vice-president of Atlantic Records. A new contract
resulted and ever since that momentous day, Aretha has been waxing hit after hit. If
there is any key to her resurgence, Wexler believes that it is based in the magnitude
of her talent as a singer, pianist and prolific song writer.
“I’d say that she’s a musical genius comparable to that other great musical
genius, Ray Charles,” says the bearded recording executive who has specialized
in “soul” artists for 15 years, having been involved with Wilson Pickett, Solomon
Burke, Ruth Brown and Charles during his earlier efforts. He believes that many
parallels can be drawn between Aretha and Ray Charles. “Both play a terrific gospel
piano, which is one of the greatest assets one can have today,” he states. “Since they
have this broader talent, they can bring to a recording session a total conception of
the music and thus contribute much more than the average artist.” According to
Wexler, Aretha’s recordings evolve out of “head arrangements.” She sets the tone
for the whole session. Afterwards, strings and other instrumental trappings can be
built around her effort. On her first album, Aretha accompanies herself at the piano,
though an arm injury sustained during a tour with the Jackie Wilson show early
this year prevented her from following through on many of the tunes on her second
album. Unknown to much of the public, she was backed, on most of her hit records,
through a process of over-dubbing, by a vocal group consisting of Aretha herself
and her two sisters, Erma, a recording artist in her own right, and Carolyn, a singer-
composer. On other outings, the Sweet Inspirations shared the spotlight. The combi-
nation seems to work and the proof is in the success of the sound.
For some artists, the “soul” sound might be a mere artifice, but for Aretha Frank-
lin, it is an element deeply imbedded in herself. She has never learned how to be
pretentious enough to build a false image and deeply identifies with people on all
levels who hear her music. “Everybody who’s living has problems and desires just
as I do,” she remarks. “When the fellow on the corner has somethin’ botherin’ him,
he feels the same way I do. When we cry, we all gonna cry tears, and when we laugh,
we all have to smile.” She is not eager to adopt any image of herself as a new queen
of the blues and asserts, “The queen of the blues was and still is Dinah Washington.”
Though her future engagements will include some of the nation’s top nightclubs,
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192 The 1960s
one-nighters are more suited to her as a rather withdrawn personality. “I dig playin’
at night and leavin’ in the morning,” says Aretha.
Away from the public, she shuns crowds, admitting, “When I’m not workin’, I
like to come in the house and sit down and be very quiet. Sometimes nobody even
knows I’m home. I don’t care too much about goin’ out. By the time I get home, I’ve
had enough of nightclubs.”
Her essential tastes are for the same “soul” things she sings about, and she makes
no bones about the fact that chitterlings are her favorite food, “with maybe some hot
water cornbread and greens or ham.”
In the flush of a new affluence that might reap for her a gross income of $500,000
this year, she anticipates, more than anything, moving into a new house she and
Ted have purchased in a quiet, tree-shaded section of Detroit that is fast becoming
a haven for middle-class Negroes. “I just want a big, comfortable house,” she says,
“where we can lock the door and have a lot of family fun.” There she hopes to pursue
a peaceful private life with her mate and her three sons.
While the lure of public acclaim is enticing and she wants to continue selling a
million on all her records, Aretha is, underneath it all, a homebody with interests
that she refuses to compromise in order to comply with public demands. During a
previous phase of her career, she provoked controversy by appearing, in 1963, before
an audience in Philadelphia, though eight months pregnant. The shadows of scandal
that enshrouded her at the time were fanned by the fact that her secret marriage to
her manager, Ted White, had not yet been revealed.
To those who might question anything she does onstage or off, she supplies a
single answer: “I must do what is real in me always. It might bug some and offend
others, but this is what I must live by, the truth, so long as it doesn’t impose on others.”
Further Reading
Awkward, Michael. Soul Covers: Rhythm and Blues Remakes and the Struggle for Artistic Identity:
Aretha Franklin, Al Green, Phoebe Snow. Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2007.
Dobkin, Matt. I Never Loved a Man the Way I Love You: Aretha Franklin, Respect, and the Making
of a Soul Music Masterpiece. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2004.
Franklin, Aretha (and David Ritz). Aretha: From These Roots. New York: Villard, 1999.
Ritz, David. Respect: The Life of Aretha Franklin. New York: Back Bay Books/Little, Brown and
Company, 2015.
Wexler, Jerry, and David Ritz. Rhythm and the Blues: A Life in American Music. New York:
Alfred A. Knopf, 1993.
Discography
Franklin, Aretha. Aretha. Columbia, 1961.
_______. Lady Soul. Atlantic, 1967.
_______. I Never Loved a Man the Way I Love You. Atlantic, 1968.
_______. Aretha Live at Fillmore West. Atlantic, 1971.
_______. The Definitive Soul Collection. Atlantic/WEA, 1993.
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35. The Beatles, the “British Invasion,” and
Cultural Respectability
The Beatles’ music emerged with such distinctiveness from the other
popular music of the time that the band’s popularity became a media sen-
sation, first in the United Kingdom during 1963, then in the United States
in 1964. In the United States, the novelty of a British pop group contrib-
uted to their singularity and set them apart. The energy and enthusiasm
conveyed by their recordings and performances, the variety of repertoire,
the musicality and skill of the singing and playing, all conveyed with an
irreverence toward establishment figures—these qualities created an
effect of overwhelming charisma, especially for the white, middle-class
teenagers who made up the bulk of their early audience.
The Beatles consisted of four members: rhythm guitarist John Lennon
(1940–80) and bass guitarist Paul McCartney (b. 1942) wrote most of the
songs and sang most of the lead vocals, while lead guitarist George Harri-
son (1943–2001) occasionally contributed songs and sang, with drummer
Ringo Starr (Richard Starkey, b. 1940) rounding out the group. In combin-
ing the functions of songwriting, singing, and playing, the band recalled
some of the pioneers of rock ‘n’ roll, particularly Chuck Berry, with the
important innovation that they were a band whose recordings reproduced
almost uncannily their sense of camaraderie (in this, they were preceded
to some extent by the girl groups and the Beach Boys). The producer of
all but one of their albums, George Martin, was also an unusually sym-
pathetic partner; he ensured that the recordings possessed remarkable
clarity, gave them a classically trained ear to help with arrangements, and
had a knack for recognizing and capturing peak performances.1 Martin
also contributed much to the originality of the Beatles’ use of orchestral
instruments when they began to use them in 1965. Despite the impor-
tance of his contribution, skeptics of the Beatles who assign all credit for
their success to Martin are surely overstating their case.
In light of the Beatles’ impressive originality, it is easy to lose sight
of where they came from. Somewhat in the manner of earlier interna-
tional multimedia superstars such as Bing Crosby and Elvis Presley, at
least some of that originality resulted from the synthesis of preexisting
1. Close listening to the Beatles’ Anthology sets (three double-CD albums filled with rare re-
cordings and alternate takes) provokes few quibbles about whether the best take of a given song
was included on the official release.
193
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194 The 1960s
strains of popular music that had been kept more or less separate.
From their start in “skiffle” (a form of folk music performed in a highly
rhythmic manner borrowed from “trad” jazz, a British adaptation of New
Orleans–style jazz), the Beatles’ early performing repertory in numerous
nightclub and dance performances consisted of liberal doses of 1950s
rhythm and blues (especially Chuck Berry and Little Richard), rockabilly
(especially Elvis, Carl Perkins, and the Everly Brothers), Brill Building–
produced pop music (especially the songs and arrangements of the girl
groups), and the songs and performing style associated with Motown.
The Beatles also occasionally included “standards” from pre–rock ‘n’
roll pop music, especially those that had been recently rerecorded by
other artists, and influences from British music hall, a style dating back
to the 19th century, also occasionally appeared in their compositions.
The Beatles’ first two albums, Please Please Me and With the Beatles,
released in the United Kingdom in 1963, mixed cover tunes of their
nightclub repertory with original compositions.
The significance of the Beatles extends far beyond their popularity or

their ability to create something fresh from a synthesis of previous
styles: the Beatles, along with Bob Dylan, did more than any other pop
musicians to shift the perception of popular music in the mainstream
media.2 The early article presented here—originally printed unsigned
but later attributed to the London Times music critic William Mann—
shows how critics were taking the Beatles seriously even during the
first year of their popularity. Mann, with his musicological terminology,
compares the Beatles’ musical processes to those used by Austrian
composer Gustav Mahler (1860–1911). While some of their most dedi-
cated fans may dispute the appropriateness of this terminology for the
Beatles’ music, the fact that a music critic for the London Times would
deign to analyze the music in this way (and approvingly, at that) was
significant and a harbinger of things to come.
What Songs the Beatles Sang . . .

William Mann
The outstanding English composers of 1963 must seem to have been John Lennon
and Paul McCartney, the talented young musicians from Liverpool whose songs
have been sweeping the country since last Christmas, whether performed by their
2. Bernard Gendron termed this phenomenon “cultural accreditation.” This chapter on the
Beatles is much indebted to the chapters in Gendron’s book dealing with the band; see From
Montmartre to the Mudd Club: Popular Music and the Avant-Garde (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 2002), chaps. 8–9.
Source: “From Our Music Critic: What Songs the Beatles Sang . . . ,” The Times, December 27, 1963, p. 4.
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The Beatles, the “British Invasion,” and Cultural Respectability 195
own group, The Beatles, or by the numerous other teams of English troubadours that
they also supply with songs.
I am not concerned here with the social phenomenon of Beatlemania, which
finds expression in handbags, balloons and other articles bearing the likenesses of the
loved ones, or in the hysterical screaming of young girls whenever the Beatle Quartet
performs in public, but with the musical phenomenon. For several decades, in fact
since the decline of the music-hall, England has taken her popular songs from the
United States, either directly or by mimicry. But the songs of Lennon and McCartney
are distinctly indigenous in character, the most imaginative and inventive examples
of a style that has been developing on Merseyside during the past few years. And
there is a nice, rather flattering irony in the news that The Beatles have now become
prime favourites in America too.3
The strength of character in pop songs seems, and quite understandably, to be
determined usually by the number of composers involved; when three or four peo-
ple are required to make the original tunesmith’s work publicly presentable, it is
unlikely to retain much individuality or to wear very well. The virtue of The Beatles’
repertory is that, apparently, they do it themselves; three of the four are composers,
they are versatile instrumentalists, and when they do borrow a song from another
repertory, their treatment is idiosyncratic—as when Paul McCartney sings “Till there
was you” from The Music Man, a cool, easy, tasteful version of this ballad, quite with-
out artificial sentimentality.
Their noisy items are the ones that arouse teenagers’ excitement. Glutinous
crooning is generally out of fashion these days, and even a song about “Misery”
sounds fundamentally quite cheerful; the slow, sad song about “This boy,” which
figures prominently in Beatle programmes, is expressively unusual for its lugubrious
music, but harmonically it is one of their most intriguing, with its chains of pandia-
tonic clusters, and the sentiment is acceptable because voiced cleanly and crisply. But
harmonic interest is typical of their quicker songs too, and one gets the impression
that they think simultaneously of harmony and melody, so firmly are the major tonic
sevenths and ninths built into their tunes, and the flat—submediant key—switches,
so natural is the Aeolian cadence at the end of “Not a second time” (the chord pro-
gression which ends Mahler’s Song of the Earth).
Those submediant switches from C major into A-flat major, and to a lesser extent
mediant ones (e.g. the octave ascent in the famous “I want to hold your hand”) are a
trademark of Lennon-McCartney songs—they do not figure much in other pop rep-
ertories, or in The Beatles’ arrangements of borrowed material—and show signs of
becoming a mannerism. The other trademark of their compositions is a firm and pur-
poseful bass line with a musical life of its own; how Lennon and McCartney divide
their creative responsibilities I have yet to discover, but it is perhaps significant that
Paul is the bass guitarist of the group. It may also be significant that George Harri-
son’s song “Don’t bother me” is harmonically a good deal more primitive, though it
is nicely enough presented.
I suppose it is the sheer loudness of the music that appeals to Beatles admirers
(there is something to be heard even through the squeals), and many parents must
have cursed the electric guitar’s amplification this Christmas—how fresh and eupho-
nious the ordinary guitars sound in The Beatles’ version of “Till there was you”—but
parents who are still managing to survive the decibels and, after copious repetition
3. This statement was a bit premature when this article was published; no Beatles’ recordings
entered Billboard’s Hot 100 until January 11, 1964.
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196 The 1960s
over several months, still deriving some musical pleasure from the overhearing, do
so because there is a good deal of variety—oh, so welcome in pop music—about
what they sing.
The autocratic but not by any means ungrammatical attitude to tonality (closer
to, say, Peter Maxwell Davies’s carols in O Magnum Mysterium than to Gershwin
or Loewe or even Lionel Bart); the exhilarating and often quasi-instrumental vocal
duetting, sometimes in scat or in falsetto, behind the melodic line; the melismas with
altered vowels (“I saw her yesterday-ee-ay”) which have not quite become man-
nered, and the discreet, sometimes subtle, varieties of instrumentation—a suspicion
of piano or organ, a few bars of mouth-organ obbligato, an excursion on the claves or
maracas; the translation of African blues or American Western idioms (in “Baby, it’s
you,” the Magyar 8/8 meter too) into tough, sensitive Merseyside.
These are some of the qualities that make one wonder with interest what The
Beatles, and particularly Lennon and McCartney, will do next, and if America will
spoil them or hold on to them, and if their next record will wear as well as the others.
They have brought a distinctive and exhilarating flavour into a genre of music that
was in danger of ceasing to be music at all.
The following article by Theodore Strongin (music critic for the New York
Times), published two months after Mann’s piece, demonstrates how
the intellectual apparatus of high culture could be marshaled against
pop music. Strongin’s article perpetuates a tradition that goes back to
dismissive academic descriptions of jazz and swing.4
Musicologically . . .
Theodore Strongin
“You can tell right away it’s the Beatles and not anyone else,” is the opinion of a
15-year-old specialist on the subject who saw the Beatles on the Ed Sullivan show last
night. The age of 15 or 16 or 14 or 13 is essential in a Beatles expert.
Taking the above axiom as gospel, this listener made an attempt to find out just
what is musically unique about the British visitors.
The Beatles are directly in the mainstream of Western tradition: that much may be
immediately ascertained. Their harmony is unmistakably diatonic. A learned British
colleague, writing on his home ground, has described it as pandiatonic, but I disagree.
The Beatles have a tendency to build phrases around unresolved, leading tones.
This precipitates the ear into a false modal frame that temporarily turns the fifth of
the scale into a tonic, momentarily suggesting the Mixylydian [sic] mode. But every-
thing always ends as plain diatonic all the same.
4. For numerous examples of such descriptions, see Robert Walser, Keeping Time: Readings in
Jazz History (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999).
Source: Theodore Strongin, “Musicology . . . ” from The New York Times, February 10, 1964. © 1964
The New York Times. All rights reserved. Used by permission and protected under the Copyright
Laws of the United States. The printing, copying, redistribution, or retransmission of the material
without express written permission is prohibited.
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The Beatles, the “British Invasion,” and Cultural Respectability 197
Meanwhile, the result is the addition of a very, very slight touch of British coun-
tryside nostalgia with a trace of Vaughan Williams to the familiar elements of the
rock and roll prototype. “It’s just that English rock and roll is more sophisticated,”
explained the 15-year-old authority.
As to instrumentation, three of the four Beatles (George Harrison, Paul
McCartney, and John Lennon) play different sizes of electronically amplified

plucked-stringed instruments. Ringo Starr (“He’s just like a little puppy, he’s so
cute,” said our specialist) plays the drums. The Beatles vocal quality can be described
as hoarsely incoherent, with the minimal enunciation necessary to communicate
schematic texts.
Two theories were offered in at least one household to explain the Beatles’ popu-
larity. The specialist said “We haven’t had an idol in a few years. The Beatles are dif-
ferent, and we have to get rid of our excess energy somehow.”
The other theory is that the longer parents object with such high dudgeon, the
longer children will squeal so hysterically.
Further Reading
The Beatles (John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison, and Ringo Starr). The Beatles
Anthology. San Francisco: Chronicle Books, 2000.
Bromell, Nick. Tomorrow Never Knows: Rock and Psychedelics in the 1960s. Chicago: University
Davies, Hunter. The Beatles: The Authorized Biography. New York: McGraw-Hill, 1968.
Everett, Walter. The Beatles as Musicians: Revolver through the Anthology. New York: Oxford
_______. The Beatles as Musicians: The Quarry Men through Rubber Soul. New York: Oxford
Gendron, Bernard. Between Montmartre and the Mudd Club: Popular Music and the Avant-Garde.
Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002.
Rorem, Ned. “The Music of the Beatles.” Music Educators Journal 55 (1968): 33–34, 77–83.
Spitz, Bob. The Beatles: The Biography. Boston: Little, Brown, 2005.
Thomson, Elizabeth, and David Gutman, eds. The Lennon Companion: Twenty-Five Years of
Comment. New York: Schirmer Books, 1987.
Wenner, Jann. Lennon Remembers: The Rolling Stone Interviews. New York: Popular Library,
1971.
Womack, Kenneth, ed. The Cambridge Companion to the Beatles. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge
Discography
The Beatles. Please Please Me. Parlophone, 1963.
_______. With the Beatles. Parlophone, 1963.
_______. A Hard Day’s Night. Parlophone, 1964.
_______. Beatles for Sale. Parlophone, 1964.
_______. Help! Parlophone, 1965.
_______. Rubber Soul. Parlophone, 1965.
_______. Yesterday and Today. Capitol, 1966.
_______. Revolver. Capitol, 1966.
_______. Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. Capitol, 1967.
_______. 1962–1966. Capitol, 1993.
_______. 1967–1970. Capitol, 1993.
_______. Anthology 1. Capitol, 1995.
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36. A Hard Day’s Night and Beatlemania
The Beatles’ third British album, A Hard Day’s Night (1964, also the title
of their first movie), was their first to consist entirely of original compo-
sitions. The movie, however, rather than the album, won them a whole
legion of new converts among high-middlebrow cultural authorities and
audiences. Andrew Sarris’s review is indicative of the pleasantly sur-
prised reception that greeted A Hard Day’s Night from the intelligentsia,
and Sarris was not alone in applauding the film for its incorporation of
sophisticated cinematic style derived, at least partly, from the French
nouvelle vague (or “New Wave”).1
Bravo Beatles!
Andrew Sarris
A Hard Day’s Night is a particularly pleasant surprise in a year so full of unexpectedly
unpleasant surprises. I have no idea who is the most responsible—director Rich-
ard Lester or screenwriter Alun Owen or the Messrs John Lennon, Paul McCartney,
George Harrison, and Ringo Starr, better known collectively as The Beatles. Perhaps
it was all a happy accident, and the lightning of inspiration will never strike again in
the same spot. The fact remains that A Hard Day’s Night has turned out to be the Citi-
zen Kane of jukebox musicals, the brilliant crystallisation of such diverse cultural par-
ticles as the pop movie, rock ‘n’ roll, cinéma vérité, the nouvelle vague, free cinema, the
affectedly hand-held camera, frenzied cutting, the cult of the sexless sub-adolescent,
the semi-documentary, and studied spontaneity. So help me, I resisted The Beatles
as long as I could. As a cab driver acquaintance observed, “So what’s new about The
Beatles? Didn’t you ever hear of Ish Kabibble?” Alas, I had. I kept looking for open-
ings to put down The Beatles. Some of their sly crows’ humour at the expense of a
Colonel Blimp character in a train compartment is a bit too deliberate. “I fought the
war for people like you,” sez he. “Bet you’re sorry you won,” sez they. Old Osborne
1. For another, even more surprised-sounding review, see Bosley Crowther, “The Four Beatles
in ‘A Hard Day’s Night,’” New York Times, August 12, 1964, 41.
Source: Andrew Sarris, “Bravo Beatles!” Village Voice, August 27, 1964, p. 13.
198
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A Hard Day’s Night and Beatlemania 199
ooze, sez I. But just previously, the fruitiest looking of the four predators had looked
up enticingly at the bug-eyed Blimp and whimpered “Give us a kiss.” Depravity of
such honest frankness is worth a hundred pseudo-literary exercises like Becket.
Stylistically, A Hard Day’s Night is everything Tony Richardson’s version of Tom
Jones tried to be and wasn’t. Thematically, it is everything Peter Brook’s version of
Lord of the Flies tried to be and wasn’t. Fielding’s satiric gusto is coupled here with
Golding’s primordial evil, and the strain hardly shows. I could have done with a bit
less of a false sabre-toothed, rattling wreck of an old man tagged with sickeningly
repetitious irony as a “clean” old man. The pop movie mannerisms of the inane run-
ning joke about one of the boys’ managers being sensitively shorter than the other
might have been dispensed with at no great loss.
The foregoing are trifling reservations, however, about a movie that works
on every level for every kind of audience. The open-field helicopter-shot sequence
of The Beatles on a spree is one of the most exhilarating expressions of high spirits
I have seen on the screen.2 The razor-slashing wit of the dialogue must be heard to be
believed and appreciated. One as horribly addicted to alliteration as this otherwise
sensible scribe can hardly resist a line like “Ringo’s drums loom large in his legend.”
I must say I enjoyed even the music enormously, possibly because I have not yet
been traumatised by transistors into open rebellion against the “Top 40” and such.
(I just heard “Hello, Dolly” for the first time the other day, and the lyrics had been
changed to “Hello, Lyndon.”) Nevertheless I think there is a tendency to underrate
rock ‘n’ roll because the lyrics look so silly in cold print. I would make two points
here. First, it is unfair to compare R&R with Gershwin, Rodgers, Porter, Kern, et al.,
as if all pre-R&R music from Tin Pan Alley was an uninterrupted flow of melodious-
ness. This is the familiar fallacy of nostalgia. I remember too much brassy noise from
the big-band era to be stricken by the incursions of R&R. I like the songs The Beatles
sing despite the banality of the lyrics, but the words in R&R only mask the pound-
ingly ritualistic meaning of the beat. It is in the beat that the passion and togetherness
is most movingly expressed, and it is the beat that the kids in the audience pick up
with their shrieks as they drown out the words they have already heard a thousand
times. To watch The Beatles in action with their constituents is to watch the kind of
direct theater that went out with Aristophanes, or perhaps even the Australian bush-
man. There is an empathy there that a million Lincoln Center Repertory companies
cannot duplicate. Toward the end of A Hard Day’s Night I began to understand the
mystique of The Beatles. Lester’s crane shot facing the audience from behind The
Beatles established the emotional unity of the performers and their audience. It is
a beautifully Bazinian deep-focus shot of hysteria to a slow beat punctuated by the
kind of zoom shots I have always deplored in theory but must now admire in prac-
tice. Let’s face it. My critical theories and preconceptions are all shook up, and I
am profoundly grateful to The Beatles for such a pleasurable softening of hardening
aesthetic arteries.
As to what the Beatles “mean,” I hesitate to speculate. The trouble with sociolog-
ical analysis is that it is unconcerned with aesthetic values. A Hard Day’s Night could
have been a complete stinker of a movie and still be reasonably “meaningful.” I like
The Beatles in this moment in film history not merely because they mean something
2. This scene, accompanied by “Can’t Buy Me Love” on the soundtrack, was one of the clear-
est antecedents of post-MTV music video and contemporary rock film scoring; see Jeff Smith, The
Sounds of Commerce: Marketing Popular Film Music (New York: Columbia University Press, 1998),
159–60.
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200 The 1960s
but rather because they express effectively a great many aspects of modernity that
have converged inspiredly in their personalities. When I speak affectionately of their
depravity, I am not commenting on their private lives, about which I know less than
nothing. The wedding ring on Ringo’s finger startles a great many people as a subtle
Pirandellian switch from a character like Dopey of the Seven Dwarfs to a performer
who chooses to project an ambiguous identity. It hardly matters.
What interests me about The Beatles is not what they are but what they choose to
express. Their Ish Kabibble hairdos,3 for example, serve two functions. They become
unique as a group and interchangeable as individuals. Except for Ringo, the favour-
ite of the fans, the other three Beatles tend to get lost in the shuffle. And yet each
is a distinctly personable individual behind their collective façade of androgynous
selflessness—a façade appropriate, incidentally, to the undifferentiated sexuality of
their sub-adolescent fans. The Beatles are not merely objects, however. A frequent
refrain of their middle-aged admirers is that The Beatles don’t take themselves too
seriously. They take themselves seriously enough, all right; it is their middle-aged
admirers and detractors they don’t take too seriously. The Beatles are a sly bunch of
anti-Establishment anarchists, but they are too slick to tip their hand to the authori-
ties. People who have watched them handle their fans and the press tell me that they
make Sinatra and his clan look like a bunch of rubes at a county fair. Of course, they
have been shrewdly promoted, and a great deal of the hysteria surrounding them has
been rigged with classic fakery and exaggeration. They may not be worth a paragraph
in six months, but right now their entertaining message seems to be that everyone is
“people.” Beatles and squealing sub-adolescents as much as Negroes and women and
so-called senior citizens, and that however much alike “people” may look in a group
or a mass or a stereotype, there is in each soul a unique and irreducible individuality.
Previous articles on the Beatles mentioned the remarkable reaction

of the audience to their performances; for the most part, these refer-
ences are deprecatory—“hysterical screaming of young girls” (Mann),
“squealing adolescents” (Sarris), and “children [who] squeal so hys-
terically” (Strongin)—and gendered (hysteria has had clear associa-
tions with femininity at least since Freud’s earliest theories). In the
next essay, Barbara Ehrenreich, Elizabeth Hess, and Gloria Jacobs note
that this intensity had its precedents in the reaction of fans to Frank
Sinatra (see Chapter 4) and Elvis Presley, but they then explain what
separates Beatlemania from these previous phenomena in terms of
both the audience and the mass media response.4 In brief, they con-
tend that the ”experts” were slow to recognize the sexual dimension
of the fans’ excitement because asserting an active, powerful sexual-
ity was revolutionary and because the received wisdom of the day dic-
tated that the life of the middle-class, white American left nothing to
be discontent about. Yet later in this essay (in a passage not reprinted
here), the authors connect the intensity of Beatlemania to an emerging
form of female awareness that began to rebel against the twin dangers
3. Ish Kabibble was a trumpeter and novelty singer with Kay Kyser’s swing band during the
1930s and 1940s. Kabibble wore a distinctive “pudding basin”–style haircut.
4. The title of this essay refers to Cyndi Lauper’s 1983 recording of the same name.
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of sexuality for middle-class girls: that of being either too sexual or too
puritanical. If “publicly advertis[ing] this hopeless love [represented by
Beatlemania] was to protest the calculated, pragmatic sexual repres-
sion of teenage life,” then it mattered that the Beatles were “while not
exactly effeminate, at least not easily classifiable in the rigid gender
distinctions of middle-class American life.”5 It is also surely significant
that this androgynous image was a product of the gay sensibility of
the Beatles’ manager, Brian Epstein, providing yet another twist on the
strict heterosexual dichotomies that ruled public perceptions of sexu-
ality.6 In other, more general terms, the Beatles represented the free-
dom the girls wished they could have, even as these girls celebrated
their power in creating Beatlemania.
Beatlemania: Girls Just Want to Have Fun

Barbara Ehrenreich, Elizabeth Hess, and Gloria Jacobs
. . . witness the birth of eve—she is rising she was sleeping she is fad-
ing in a naked field sweating the precious blood of nodding blooms . . .
in the eye of the arena she bends in half in service—the anarchy that
exudes from the pores of her guitar are the cries of the people wailing
in the rushes . . . a riot of ray/dios . . .
—Patti Smith, “Notice,” in Babel
The news footage shows police lines straining against crowds of hundreds of young
women. The police look grim; the girls’ faces are twisted with desperation or, in some
cases, shining with what seems to be an inner light. The air is dusty from a thousand
running and scuffling feet. There are shouted orders to disperse, answered by a ris-
ing volume of chants and wild shrieks. The young women surge forth; the police line
breaks . . .
Looking at the photos or watching the news clips today, anyone would guess that
this was the sixties—a demonstration—or maybe the early seventies—the beginning
of the women’s liberation movement. Until you look closer and see that the girls are
not wearing sixties-issue jeans and T-shirts but bermuda shorts, high-necked, prep-
pie blouses, and disheveled but unmistakably bouffant hairdos. This is not 1968 but
1964, and the girls are chanting, as they surge against the police line, “I love Ringo.”
5. Barbara Ehrenreich, Elizabeth Hess, and Gloria Jacobs, “Beatlemania: Girls Just Want to Have
Fun,” in Re-making Love: The Feminization of Sex (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1987), 27, 34.
6. A history remains to be written on the impact of gay style on British rock of the 1960s,
whether it be through managers such as Brian Epstein and Andrew Loog Oldham or the artists
themselves, such as Ray Davies of the Kinks (in a song like “See My Friends”) or, a little bit later,
David Bowie and Elton John.
Source: Excerpt(s) from RE-MAKING LOVE: THE FEMINIZATION OF SEX by Barbara

Ehrenreich, copyright © 1986 by Barbara Ehrenreich, Elizabeth Hess and Gloria Jacobs. Used by
permission of Doubleday, an imprint of the Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of
Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved.
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202 The 1960s
Yet, if it was not the “movement,” or a clear-cut protest of any kind, Beatlemania
was the first mass outburst of the sixties to feature women—in this case girls, who
would not reach full adulthood until the seventies and the emergence of a genuinely
political movement for women’s liberation. The screaming ten- to fourteen-year-old
fans of 1964 did not riot for anything, except the chance to remain in the proximity of
their idols and hence to remain screaming. But they did have plenty to riot against,
or at least to overcome through the act of rioting: In a highly sexualized society (one
sociologist found that the number of explicitly sexual references in the mass media had
doubled between 1950 and 1960), teen and preteen girls were expected to be not only
“good” and “pure” but to be the enforcers of purity within their teen society—drawing
the line for overeager boys and ostracizing girls who failed in this responsibility. To
abandon control—to scream, faint, dash about in mobs—was, in form if not in con-
scious intent, to protest the sexual repressiveness, the rigid double standard of female
teen culture. It was the first and most dramatic uprising of women’s sexual revolution.
Beatlemania, in most accounts, stands isolated in history as a mere craze—quirky
and hard to explain. There had been hysteria over male stars before, but nothing on
this scale. In its peak years—1964 and 1965—Beatlemania struck with the force, if not
the conviction, of a social movement. It began in England with a report that fans had
mobbed the popular but not yet immortal group after a concert at the London Palladium
on October 13, 1963. Whether there was in fact a mob or merely a scuffle involving no
more than eight girls is not clear, but the report acted as a call to mayhem. Eleven days
later a huge and excited crowd of girls greeted the Beatles (returning from a Swedish
tour) at Heathrow Airport. In early November, 400 Carlisle girls fought the police for
four hours while trying to get tickets for a Beatles concert; nine people were hospital-
ized after the crowd surged forward and broke through shop windows. In London and
Birmingham the police could not guarantee the Beatles safe escort through the hordes
of fans. In Dublin the police chief judged that the Beatles’ first visit: was “all right until
the mania degenerated into barbarism.”* And on the eve of the group’s first U.S. tour,
Life reported, “A Beatle who ventures out unguarded into the streets runs the very real
peril of being dismembered or crushed to death by his fans.”†
When the Beatles arrived in the United States, which was still ostensibly sobered
by the assassination of President Kennedy two months before, the fans knew what to
do. Television had spread the word from England: The approach of the Beatles is a
license to riot. At least 4,000 girls (some estimates run as high as 10,000) greeted them
at Kennedy Airport, and hundreds more laid siege to the Plaza Hotel, keeping the
stars virtual prisoners. A record 73 million Americans watched the Beatles on “The
Ed Sullivan Show” on February 9, 1964, the night “when there wasn’t a hubcap sto-
len anywhere in America.” American Beatlemania soon reached the proportions of
religious idolatry. During the Beatles’ twenty-three-city tour that August, local pro-
moters were required to provide a minimum of 100 security guards to hold back the
crowds. Some cities tried to ban Beatle-bearing craft from their runways; otherwise it
took heavy deployments of local police to protect the Beatles from their fans and the
fans from the crush. In one city, someone got hold of the hotel pillowcases that had
purportedly been used by the Beatles, cut them into 160,000 tiny squares, mounted
them on certificates, and sold them for $1 apiece. The group packed Carnegie Hall,
*Frederick Lewis, “Britons Succumb to ‘Beatlemania,’” New York Times Magazine, December 1,
1963, p. 124.
†
Timothy Green, “They Crown Their Country with a Bowl-Shaped Hairdo,” Life, January 31,
1964, p. 30.
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Washington’s Coliseum and, a year later, New York’s 55,600-seat Shea Stadium, and
in no setting, at any time, was their music audible above the frenzied screams of the
audience. In 1966, just under three years after the start of Beatlemania, the Beatles
gave their last concert—the first musical celebrities to be driven from the stage by
their own fans.
In its intensity, as well as its scale, Beatlemania surpassed all previous outbreaks
of star-centered hysteria. Young women had swooned over Frank Sinatra in the for-
ties and screamed for Elvis Presley in the immediate pre-Beatle years, but the Fab
Four inspired an extremity of feeling usually reserved for football games or natural
disasters. These baby boomers far outnumbered the generation that, thanks to the
censors, had only been able to see Presley’s upper torso on “The Ed Sullivan Show.”
Seeing (whole) Beatles on Sullivan was exciting, but not enough. Watching the band
on television was a thrill—particularly the close-ups—but the real goal was to leave
home and meet the Beatles. The appropriate reaction to contact with them—such
as occupying the same auditorium or city block—was to sob uncontrollably while
screaming, “I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die,” or, more optimistically, the name of a
favorite Beatle, until the onset of either unconsciousness or laryngitis. Girls peed in
their pants, fainted, or simply collapsed from the emotional strain. When not in the
vicinity of the Beatles—and only a small proportion of fans ever got within shrieking
distance of their idols—girls exchanged Beatle magazines or cards, and gathered to
speculate obsessively on the details and nuances of Beatle life. One woman, who now
administers a Washington, D.C.–based public interest group, recalls long discussions
with other thirteen-year-olds in Orlando, Maine:
I especially liked talking about the Beatles with other girls. Someone would say,
“What do you think Paul had for breakfast?” “Do you think he sleeps with a differ-
ent girl every night?” Or, “Is John really the leader?” “Is George really more sensi-
tive?” And like that for hours.
This fan reached the zenith of junior high school popularity after becoming the only
girl in town to travel to a Beatles’ concert in Boston: “My mother had made a new
dress for me to wear [to the concert] and when I got back, the other girls wanted to
cut it up and auction off the pieces.”
To adults, Beatlemania was an affliction, an “epidemic,” and the Beatles them-
selves were only the carriers, or even “foreign germs.” At risk were all ten- to
fourteen-year-old girls, or at least all white girls; blacks were disdainful of the Bea-
tles’ initially derivative and unpolished sound. There appeared to be no cure except
for age, and the media pundits were fond of reassuring adults that the girls who had
screamed for Frank Sinatra had grown up to be responsible, settled housewives. If
there was a shortcut to recovery, it certainly wasn’t easy. A group of Los Angeles
girls organized a detox effort called “Beatlesaniacs, Ltd.,” offering “group therapy
for those living near active chapters, and withdrawal literature for those going it
alone at far-flung outposts.” Among the rules for recovery were: “Do not mention the
word Beatles (or beetles),” “Do not mention the word England,” “Do not speak with
an English accent,” and “Do not speak English.”* In other words, Beatlemania was as
inevitable as acne and gum-chewing, and adults would just have to weather it out.
But why was it happening? And why in particular to an America that prided
itself on its post-McCarthy maturity, its prosperity, and its clear position as the
number one world power? True, there were social problems that not even Reader’s
Digest could afford to be smug about—racial segregation, for example, and the newly
*“How to Kick the Beatle Habit,” Life, August 28, 1964, p. 66.
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204 The 1960s
discovered poverty of “the other America.” But these were things that an energetic
President could easily handle—or so most people believed at the time—and if “the
Negro problem,” as it was called, generated overt unrest, it was seen as having a
corrective function and limited duration. Notwithstanding an attempted revival by
presidential candidate Barry Goldwater, “extremism” was out of style in any area
of expression. In colleges, “coolness” implied a detached and rational appreciation
of the status quo, and it was de rigueur among all but the avant-garde who joined
the Freedom Rides or signed up for the Peace Corps. No one, not even Marxist phi-
losopher Herbert Marcuse, could imagine a reason for widespread discontent among
the middle class or for strivings that could not be satisfied with a department store
charge account—much less for “mania.”
In the media, adult experts fairly stumbled over each other to offer the most reas-
suring explanations. The New York Times Magazine offered a “psychological, anthro-
pological,” half tongue-in-cheek account, titled “Why the Girls Scream, Weep, Flip.”
Drawing on the work of the German sociologist Theodor Adorno, Times writer David
Dempsey argued that the girls weren’t really out of line at all; they were merely “con-
forming.” Adorno had diagnosed the 1940s jitterbug fans as “rhythmic obedients,”
who were “expressing their desire to obey.” They needed to subsume themselves
into the mass, “to become transformed into an insect.” Hence, “jitterbug,” and as
Dempsey triumphantly added: “Beatles, too, are a type of bug . . . and to ‘beatle,’ as
to jitter, is to lose one’s identity in an automatized, insectlike activity, in other words,
to obey.” If Beatlemania was more frenzied than the outbursts of obedience inspired
by Sinatra or Fabian, it was simply because the music was “more frantic,” and in
some animal way, more compelling. It is generally admitted “that jungle rhythms
influence the ‘beat’ of much contemporary dance activity,” he wrote, blithely endors-
ing the stock racist response to rock ‘n’ roll. Atavistic, “aboriginal” instincts impelled
the girls to scream, weep, and flip, whether they liked it or not: “It is probably no
coincidence that the Beatles, who provoke the most violent response among teen-
agers, resemble in manner the witch doctors who put their spells on hundreds of
shuffling and stamping natives.”*
Not everyone saw the resemblance between Beatlemanic girls and “natives”
in a reassuring light however. Variety speculated that Beatlemania might be “a
phenomenon closely linked to the current wave of racial rioting.”† It was hard
to miss the element of defiance in Beatlemania. If Beatlemania was conformity, it
was conformity to an imperative that overruled adult mores and even adult laws.
In the mass experience of Beatlemania, as for example at a concert or an airport,
a girl who might never have contemplated shoplifting could assault a policeman
with her fists, squirm under police barricades, and otherwise invite a disorderly
conduct charge. Shy, subdued girls could go berserk. “Perky,” ponytailed girls of
the type favored by early sixties sitcoms could dissolve in histrionics. In quieter
contemplation of their idols, girls could see defiance in the Beatles or project it
onto them. Newsweek quoted Pat Hagan, “a pretty, 14-year-old Girl Scout, nurse’s
aide, and daughter of a Chicago lawyer . . . who previously dug ‘West Side Story,’
Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost, and Elizabeth Barrett Browning: ‘They’re tough,’
she said of the Beatles. ‘Tough is like when you don’t conform. . . . You’re tumul-
tuous when you’re young, and each generation has to have its idols.’”* America’s
*David Dempsey, “Why the Girls Scream, Weep, Flip,” New York Times Magazine, February 23,
1964, p. 15.
†
Quoted in Nicholas Schaffner, The Beatles Forever (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1977), p. 16.
*“George, Paul, Ringo and John,” Newsweek, February 24, 1964, p. 54.
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favorite sociologist, David Riesman, concurred, describing Beatlemania as “a form
of protest against the adult world.”†
There was another element of Beatlemania that was hard to miss but not always
easy for adults to acknowledge. As any casual student of Freud would have noted,
at least part of the fans’ energy was sexual. Freud’s initial breakthrough had been the
insight that the epidemic female “hysteria” of the late nineteenth century—which
took the form of fits, convulsions, tics, and what we would now call neuroses—was
the product of sexual repression. In 1964, though, confronted with massed thousands
of “hysterics,” psychologists approached this diagnosis warily. After all, despite eve-
rything Freud had had to say about childhood sexuality, most Americans did not
like to believe that twelve-year-old girls had any sexual feelings to repress. And no
normal girl—or full-grown woman, for that matter—was supposed to have the libid-
inal voltage required for three hours of screaming, sobbing, incontinent, acute-phase
Beatlemania. In an article in Science News Letter titled ”Beatles Reaction Puzzles Even
Psychologists,” one unidentified psychologist offered a carefully phrased, hygienic
explanation: Adolescents are “going through a strenuous period of emotional and
physical growth,” which leads to a “need for expressiveness, especially in girls.”
Boys have sports as an outlet; girls have only the screaming and swooning afforded
by Beatlemania, which could be seen as “a release of sexual energy.”‡
For the girls who participated in Beatlemania, sex was an obvious part of the
excitement. One of the most common responses to reporters’ queries on the sources
of Beatlemania was, “Because they’re sexy.” And this explanation was in itself a
small act of defiance. It was rebellious (especially for the very young fans) to lay
claim to sexual feelings. It was even more rebellious to lay claim to the active, desir-
ing side of a sexual attraction: The Beatles were the objects; the girls were their pur-
suers. The Beatles were sexy; the girls were the ones who perceived them as sexy
and acknowledged the force of an ungovernable, if somewhat disembodied, lust. To
assert an active, powerful sexuality by the tens of thousands and to do so in a way
calculated to attract maximum attention was more than rebellious. It was, in its own
unformulated, dizzy way, revolutionary.
Further Reading
See Chapter 35.
Discography
See Chapter 35.
†
“What the Beatles Prove About Teen-agers,” U.S. News & World Report, February 24, 1964,
p. 88.
‡
“Beatles Reaction Puzzles Even Psychologists,” Science News Letter, February 29, 1964, p. 141.
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37. Two Takes on Sergeant Pepper
The album A Hard Day’s Night, along with the two that followed—Beatles
for Sale (1964) and Help! (1965, also the title of their second movie)—fea-
tured a steady expansion of musical and technological resources. The
Beatles had begun to use four-track recording on A Hard Day’s Night,
which increased the possibilities of overdubbing (i.e., layering vocal
and instrumental parts in succession, rather than recording everything
at once). The expansion of instrumentation was modest on these albums
but nonetheless significant as more songs featured acoustic guitars,
additional percussion instruments, and piano and organ, as well as
unusual instrumental effects, such as the guitar feedback that opens
“I Feel Fine” (1964, from Beatles for Sale). One song from Help!, “Yes-
terday,” was the first Beatles’ song to feature orchestral instruments.
Compared to the thick texture found in most pop recordings employing
orchestral instruments, the chamber ensemble texture of the string quar-
tet on “Yesterday” produced a novel and relatively transparent sound.
The modest sense of evolution found in the Beatles’ early albums,
regardless of its novelty for a rock ‘n’ roll group, did little to prepare
the public for what was to happen next. On Rubber Soul, released late
in 1965, the combination of subtle instrumentation with introspection
of lyric content and an “artsy” cover photo was novel within the pop
music context of the time.1 The U.S. version of the album enhanced the
effect of seriousness by deleting several of the songs with clearer ties
to rock ‘n’ roll and adding some quieter acoustic tracks that had been
left off the U.S. release of Help.2 On the eve of the explosion of media
attention to the counterculture and psychedelia, Rubber Soul and its
successor Revolver (1966), along with the concurrent albums of Bob
Dylan, convinced many that rock could be the music of adults, even
those with intellectual inclinations. While Dylan had primarily brought
notions of artistic sincerity with him from the folk music movement,
1. One article described the cover of Rubber Soul as “the first suggestion of psychedelia . . .
with its hallucinatory photo of the band and distorted Art Nouveau-derived lettering.” See Steve
Jones and Martin Sorger, “Covering Music: A Brief History and Analysis of Album Cover De-
sign,” Journal of Popular Music Studies 11–12 (1999–2000): 68–102.
2. British albums typically contained 14 songs, rather than the 12 that were on U.S. albums,
resulting in different versions of albums released on both sides of the Atlantic.
206
bra43588_pt03_125-252.indd 206 05/27/19 05:02 PM

Two Takes on Sergeant Pepper 207
where such notions were connected to creating a sense of community
between performer and audience, the Beatles achieved their sense
of authenticity through their allusions to high art. Sarris’s review in
Chapter 36 described how A Hard Day’s Night helped accomplish this
cultural accreditation, but many of the songs released in 1965–66
achieved a sense of artiness musically via formal complexity, textural
variety, and lyrical introspection.
The criticism of popular music underwent a transformation in
1966–67 that in many respects paralleled the musical changes taking
place. With Richard Goldstein’s column for the Village Voice, the ’zine
Crawdaddy, writing in “underground” publications such as Mojo Navi-
gator, The Berkeley Barb, and the East Village Other, and critics such as
Robert Christgau and Ellen Sanders, we enter the realm of a new form
of criticism that arises from a sensibility and milieu similar to that of
the music it describes. While earlier critics such as Robert Shelton, Nat
Hentoff, and Ralph J. Gleason had written sympathetically about popu-
lar music, their critical sensibilities were honed in the 1940s and 1950s
on jazz and folk music. The new breed of critics had come of age with
“rock music” (now distinct from the earlier “rock ‘n’ roll”) and were try-
ing to articulate an alternative aesthetic that would correspond with
the rock music circa 1966.3 In an early review of The Beatles’ album
released in August 1966, Revolver, Goldstein asserts his belief in the
validity of aesthetic contemplation for rock when he writes, “We will
view this album in retrospect as a key work in the development of rock
‘n’ roll into an artistic pursuit.”4 That Goldstein (and other early rock
critics) devoted a lot of space to the Beatles was not fortuitous: he wrote
in a later piece (on Sgt. Pepper) that “without [the Beatles] there could
be no such discipline as ‘rock criticism.’ The new music is their thing.”5
Revolver saw the Beatles further expanding their use of the
recording studio (notably with tape techniques derived from musique
concrete) and musical influences (North Indian classical music, Brit-
ish Music Hall, early psychedelia, hard rock, modernist Western art
music). The album that followed, Sergeant Pepper (June 1967), was
experienced as a seismic event among rock music audiences and crit-
ics. Recorded over an unprecedented long stretch of time, logging
an untold number of hours in the studio, and resulting in staggering
costs, Sergeant Pepper also benefited from an enormous buildup: the
3. For a more in-depth account of the development of rock criticism, see Gendron, From
Montmartre to the Mudd Club: Popular Music and the Avant-Garde (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 2002); Steve Jones and Kevin Featherly, “Re-Viewing Rock Writing: Narratives of Popular
Music Criticism,” in Steve Jones, ed., Pop Music and the Press (Philadelphia: Temple University
Press, 2002), 19–40; and other essays in Pop Music and the Press; and Ulf Lindberg, et al, Rock Criti-
cism from the Beginning: Amusers, Bruisers, and Cool-Headed Cruisers (New York: Peter Lang, 2005).
Richard Meltzer, another critic who began with Crawdaddy!, authored a book with the title, The
Aesthetics of Rock (New York: Something Else Press, 1970).
4. “Pop Eye: On ‘Revolver’,” Village Voice, August 25, 1966, 23, 25.
5. Richard Goldstein, “Pop Eye: I Blew My Cool through the New York Times,” Village Voice,
July 20, 1967, 25. Reprinted below in this volume.
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208 The 1960s
Beatles were no longer touring or making public appearances, and
ten months had elapsed since the release of Revolver, with only one
single released during that time (“Strawberry Fields”/”Penny Lane”).
Many believed that the album lived up to expectations: based loosely
on a concept—that of a concert performed by the imaginary namesake
band of the title, and of “characters who appear to form a gallery of
Lonely Hearts”6—and inspired by the Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds from the
previous year, Sergeant Pepper broke all precedents for lavish orches-
tration and studio production. Most critics, such as Tom Phillips in the
review reprinted below, responded rapturously.
Review of Sergeant Pepper: The Album as Art Form

Tom Phillips
A lot of people seem to have misunderstood the new Beatles album. Richard Gold-
stein, reviewing “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” in last Sunday’s Times,
calls it “an album of special effects, dazzling but ultimately fraudulent.” He likes
only the last song, “A Day in the Life,” but calls it “a coda to an otherwise undis-
tinguished collection of work.” It’s a coda, all right, but not to an undistinguished
collection of work. Goldstein says the songs preceding it are “at best … only vaguely
related,” and that’s where he misses the boat.
Without attempting a point-by-point refutation of Goldstein, I must say that I
think the Beatles have scored a genuine breakthrough with “Sgt. Pepper.” Specifically,
I think they’ve turned the record-album itself into an art form, and a form that works.
To explain: unlike all past long-playing records that I know of, this one has a
metaphorical structure, very much like a work of fiction. It takes the form of a perfor-
mance by Sgt. Pepper’s band, complete with background buzzings and circus-type
audience reactions. The band itself, starring the fictional “one and only Billy Shears,”
is the central symbol. On the album cover we see the performers assembled, with the
Beatles front and center in fluorescent satin bandleaders uniforms. Next to them are
Madame Tussaud’s wax figures of the Beatles, and behind them are about 50 other
band members, including Marilyn Monroe, Bob Dylan, Aubrey Beardsley, Tom Mix,
and Shirley Temple. The band then is the world of performance, a world within a
world created by and for its audience. And that is all of us, the Lonely Hearts Club
of the world.
There are 13 cuts on the record, beginning with the traditional introduction of
the band. We are, they announce,
The act you’ve known for all these years…
Sgt. Pepper’s lonely, Sgt. Pepper’s lonely,
Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.
6. Tom Phillips, “Review of Sergeant Pepper,” Village Voice (22 June 1967), 15. Reprinted in this
volume.
Source: Tom Phillips, “Beatles’ ‘Sgt. Pepper’: The Album as Art Form,” Village Voice, June 22, 1967,
Vol. XII, No. 36. Reprinted with permission of Tom Phillips.
bra43588_pt03_125-252.indd 208 05/27/19 05:02 PM

The show begins. Without the usual time-lapse between bands on the record,
Ringo Starr starts whining in his impoverished baritone, slightly flat:
What would you think if I sang out of tune,
Would you stand up and walk out on me.
Cuts two through 11 are widely disparate in mood and sound, but the significant
thing is that the characters who appear form a gallery of Lonely Hearts, leading lives
that range from quiet to raucous desperation. Among them are a solipsistic acid-
head, an aging only child running away from home, a troupe of circus exhibitionists,
a silly man worrying about his old age, and a nutty kid in love with a meter maid. All
the songs here are by John Lennon and Paul McCartney, except for one Oriental-type
number by George Harrison. This one fits the format but does not make the grade:
it’s corny and obvious compared to the rest of the songs.
To continue: Cut 12 is a reprise of the opening song; the show is over. And cut
13, “A Day in the Life,” is a kind of epilogue. Here the whole substance of the work
is turned inside out, and what has been an insane world taken as normal is now the
normal world viewed as insane. The narrator reads a newspaper:
And though the news was rather sad
Well I just had to laugh…
What you have here is not a weird coda to a series of unrelated songs, but a
comment on a world created by those songs. The internal relationships may not
be blatant, but they are real; and one way you can tell this is by noticing the strong
sense of having been through something when you finish listening to all of “Sgt.
Pepper.”
My verdict: the most ambitious and most successful record album ever issued,
and the most significant artistic event of 1967.
Tom Phillips refers to Richard Goldstein’s early, negative review of Ser-

geant Pepper, which appeared in the New York Times. Goldstein, who
received many outraged responses to his review in addition to Phillips’,
attempts in the following to clarify his reasoning. One way of supporting
his previous argument is to place Sergeant Pepper within the context of
the Beatles’ previous work. Goldstein’s larger project, however, has to
do with clarifying which musical values are specific to rock. He recog-
nizes that much of the acclaim that has already accrued to Sergeant
Pepper derives from high art values, like the “unity” of large works, or
even the adoption of experimental techniques from avant-garde West-
ern art music, such as musique concrete and the use of dissonance and
sound masses (as in the famous crescendo in “A Day in the Life”). The
debate over defining a rock aesthetic interested a generation of critics,
some of whom either addressed the topic directly in essays devoted to
the question of rock aesthetics, or indirectly through the publication of
reviews in publications such as Rolling Stone, Crawdaddy, and Creem.7
7. For a few examples of critics who directly address the issue of a rock aesthetic, see Paul
Williams, “Get Off of My Cloud,” Crawdaddy! February 7, 1966: 2; Richard Goldstein, “Pop Eye:
Evaluating Media,” Village Voice, July 14, 1966: 6–7; Jon Landau, “Rock and Art,” Rolling Stone,
July 20, 1968: 18–19; Ellen Willis, “Musical Events—Records: Rock, Etc.,” The New Yorker, July 6,
1968: 56–58.
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210 The 1960s
I Blew My Cool through the New York Times

Richard Goldstein
If being a critic were the same as being a listener I could just enjoy Sergeant Pepper’s
Lonely Hearts Club Band. Other than one cut which I detest (“Good Morning, Good
Morning”), I find the album better than 80 per cent of the music around today; It is
the other 20 per cent (including the best of the Beatles’ past performances) which
worries me as a critic.
These misgivings I presented in a review which appeared in the New York Times
a few Sundays ago. Now, after additional exposure to Sergeant Pepper in various
states and moods, I still feel that if I had to write that review tonight, instead of this
defense, it would sound a lot like its predecessor.
When the Beatles’ work as a whole is viewed in retrospect, it will be Rubber Soul
and Revolver which stand as their major contributions. When the slicks and tricks of
production on this album no longer seem unusual, and the compositions are stripped
to their musical and lyrical essentials, Sergeant Pepper will be Beatles baroque — an
elaboration without improvement.
I find it easier to explain that statement by comparing a song like “She’s Leaving
Home” with “Eleanor Rigby” because while the musical motifs are similar, a pro-
found sense of tragedy is conveyed in the earlier song through a series of poignantly
ironic vignettes. This “tactile” agony within detail has exercised a profound influence
on the poetry of rock; you can see it in Donovan’s brooding “Young Girl Blues” and
in the Bee Gees’ stark “New York Mine Disaster.”
“She’s Leaving Home” is unlikely to influence anyone except the Monkees. Its
lyrical technique is uninspired narrative, with a dearth of poetic irony. All the despair
is surface, and so, while “Eleanor Rigby” seethed with implication, “She’s Leaving
Home” glistens with a flourish of tragedy. Even the instrumentation is explicit in its
portrayal of irony. One of the most important things about past Beatle music was its
intrinsic quality. Orchestration flowed from melody; you dug “Norwegian Wood”
without even knowing it used a sitar because the melancholy moan-sound fit the
mood. “Yesterday” felt baroque on its own melodic terms; it didn’t depend on its
arrangement. And “A Day In the Life” works because production always follows,
never determines, function. You can debate the intent of “A Day In the Life” for
hours, but not its significance. “She’s Leaving Home” is too apparent to be worth the
trouble. Its harps, strings, and vocal flourishes dominate what is essentially a weak
song. Not the background instrumentation, but a lack of depth up front, in the lyric
and melody, makes this piece overproduced.
I feel the same about most of the music on this album. It is dazzling because it is
the most spectacularly produced record in pop, but fraudulent because, beyond the
razzmatazz, the songs just aren’t as good as they were on Revolver. Even Rubber Soul,
with a much simpler production schema, is more profound because of the tightness
and originality of its compositions. Sergeant Pepper illustrates for me the great danger
in obsession with studio effect: abandoning concern with the basics of composition
for the surrogate magic of production.
In Revolver I found a complexity that was staggering in its poignancy, its innova-
tion, and its empathy. I called it a complicated masterpiece. But in Sergeant Pepper I
Source: Richard Goldstein, “I Blew My Cool through the New York Times,” Village Voice, 20 July
1967. Reprinted under license from Backpages Limited. © Richard Goldstein, 1967.
bra43588_pt03_125-252.indd 210 05/27/19 05:02 PM

sense a new distance, a sarcasm masquerading as hip, a dangerously dominant sense
of what is stylish.
Much of the radicalism on Sergeant Pepper has appeared elsewhere, in a less
sophisticated form. There was musical posturing in a song like “Something Hap-
pened to Me” (on the Rolling Stones’ Between the Buttons) which resembles Sergeant
Pepper. It was possible months ago to predict the emergence of the extended pop
song, because it had already appeared in its infancy (the Fugs: “Virgin Forest”; Love:
“Revelation”; the Doors: “The End”). The Beach Boys developed the multimelody
with “Good Vibrations.” The Mothers of Invention — not the Beatles — are the pio-
neers of the pop oratorio. And for the past few months “bandless” albums have been
appearing in a trickle. None of these new releases is disciplined enough to deserve
special attention, but the innovation is there.
Sergeant Pepper is not a work of plagiarism, but neither does it represent a break-
through. It is an in-between experience, a chic.
The Beatles, I am informed, are “head composers.” To turn on, goes the rea-
soning, will admit the enlightened to a whole range of associations and subtleties
unfathomable to the straight mind. My experience till now has been that what I like
straight, I like all the time. The idea that certain progressions, tonal nuances, or lyrical
flights, are comprehensible only to the turned-on smacks of critical fascism. I think
of the psychedelic experience as an elaboration of a given reality — not a substitute.
Since Lennon-McCartney reflect almost all of pop in 1967 (this should be, since
they define it), it would be difficult to avoid a thorough awareness of their interests
and influence. The Beatles are the creators of the rock ethic. Without them there could
be no such discipline as “rock criticism.” The new music is their thing.
All this history makes it perfectly legitimate to expect meaning and significance
from a Beatle album. Yet, that subject seems to be causing the most confusion among
Sergeant Pepper’s devotees. In the Times, I declared that there seemed to be no appar-
ent continuity on the album, except the juxtaposition of musical styles. The bulk of
my audience disagrees, and among their theories of structure are the following, from
my mail:
• — this is a farewell album, with the Beatles standing encased in wax, while
their successors, the Lonely Hearts Club Band, exult beside them.
• — this is a picturesque salute to English life, from its “carnies” to its
“meter-maids” to the landmarks in “When I’m Sixty-Four.”
• — the album is an attack on lower and middle class England. The background
of “She’s Leaving Home” is ironic counterpoint to a bourgeois melodrama.
Phrases such as “cottage on the Isle of Wight” are sarcastic references to
parvenu pettiness; “Lovely Rita” is a “devastating comment on the desexu-
alization of the public servant.” “Good Morning, Good Morning” is small
town misery. The reprise’s “Sergeant Pepper’s lonely” refrain should be read
“Sergeant Pepper is lonely.” And so on till the final “Albert Hall” blast.
• — this was the first album meant to be heard in the new stereophonic sound.
Suspected drug references abound.
• — the Beatles superimposed their pictures over the lyrics to Harrison’s song
because it was either so bad they wanted to make it difficult to read, or so
obscure they intentionally obscured the words.
By far the most tempting assumption appeared in The Voice recently. It claims
Sergeant Pepper is all about the despair of loneliness. But is anxiety really the mes-
sage we get in “Lovely Rita,” “Fixing a Hole,” “A Little Help From My Friends,”
“Within You and Without You,” or even “When I’m Sixty Four”? The mood created
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212 The 1960s
by the “solipsistic acidhead” on “A Day In the Life” does dominate the other songs
in retrospect, because he is the most authentic thing on the album. But are the other
protagonists up-tight, or just mischievous? Listen, beyond the sound effect barrier,
to the words.
The physical continuity on this album invites a structure, just as the printed lyr-
ics cry for textual analysis, but in unadorned fact, the Beatles had composed a healthy
chunk of this new work before they wrote the “Sergeant Pepper” theme and thought
of centralizing it. The “banding” innovation came later too. Only in m id-production
then did the thought of producing an album which would resemble a concert take
hold, and the finished product shows this late commitment to the idea or unity.
George Harrison’s piece has no place in a band concert, and neither do “A Day in
the Life” or “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.” The confusion is compounded on the
jacket. What is Karl Marx doing in a collage of “show people”? What is the meter-
maid, a choice bit of American Idiom doing in a salute to England?
The only conceivable way to treat Sergeant Pepper would seem to be as caprice.
“Sit back and let the evening go.” But you and I know the best Beatle music is only
deceptively casual. Part of the trouble with Sergeant Pepper is its determination to be
a game, and the shallowest cop-out is to excuse this work by reporting jubilantly that
it has no meaning. It does. “A Day in the Life” is no caprice, and it knocks me out to
hear it. “When I’m Sixty Four” is delicately melancholy; they are not just funning.
All the cuts on this album have something to say. The difficulty comes in inter-
preting the work as a whole. It is much more sensible to talk of mood than actual
structure on Sergeant Pepper. The Beatles have always avoided producing “theme”
albums, and despite its quasi-continuity, Sergeant Pepper represents no significant
break with this tradition. There are no recurrent themes (outside of the reprise), and
only hints (in the background vocalising) of what should have been repeating motif.
Nevertheless, the album has a mood, even if it is only defined by its aims. Rubber Soul
strove for tonal beauty and it is super-melodic. Revolver attempted to be eclectic; its
compositions stand as utterly distinct and self-contained. Sergeant Pepper is a circus
of sour.
“The Beatles” are dead; we are all watchers at their wake, where “a splendid time
is guaranteed for all.” They are no longer screaming “yeah yeah yeah,” or crooning
“Meeechelle.” The new thing is pop destruction; the new technique is inundation; the
new mood is merry nihilism. It shows everywhere in current English music.
Lennon and McCartney are destroying the popsong and with it, the old melodic
Beatles. The new single is another blow at image and memory, with its harsh tune-
lessness, shattered rhythms, and gargly reprise from “She Loves You.” It is not nos-
talgia that the Beatles are projecting in “All You Need Is Love,” but self-destruction.
Too much of this new album is concerned with denial for it to be a realized work.
Sergeant Pepper feels like the prelude to something solid and historic, another album
which could open with “A Day in the Life” — if the Beatles do not lose themselves in
the padded forest of their own electric studio.
Sergeant Pepper is an interim, and that is why, in retrospect, it is an “engaging
curio” and not more. Nothing is real therein, and nothing to get hung about. Too bad.
I have a sweet tooth for reality. I like my art drenched in it, and even from fantasy
I expect authenticity. What I worship about the Beatles is their forging of rock into
what is real. It made them artists; it made all of us fans; and it made me think like a
critic when I turned on my radio.
The old cliché has a teen vixen in cinch belt and penny loafers observing with a
snarl: “It has a beat; you can dance to it.” If the Beatles succeed next time around —
and I think they might — we may just find ourselves admitting sheepishly of an old
McCartney ballad: “It has a tune; you can listen to it.”
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The British Art School Blues 213
Further Reading
See Chapter 36.
Discography
See Chapter 36.
38. The British Art School Blues
The Beatles hailed from Liverpool, a seaport on England’s northwest

coast. Liverpool had long had access to the latest releases from the
United States, and, consequently, other bands (in addition to the Bea-
tles) developed a blend of rockabilly, pop, and R&B for playing in local
dance halls and nightclubs, resulting in a style dubbed “Merseybeat”
by the British music press. In the wake of the Beatles, other Merseybeat
artists, such as Gerry and the Pacemakers, Billy J. Kramer and the Dako-
tas, and Peter and Gordon (not from Liverpool but with a song written
by Lennon and McCartney), had hits in the United States, thus inspiring
the media to coin the term “British Invasion” to describe the phenom-
enon. It had been rare for any British artists to penetrate the American
pop market until that time, and this sudden success set off a fad for all
things British.
Concurrent with the pop-oriented Merseybeat artists, a more
blues-oriented music scene was thriving down in London. Fueled by
record enthusiasts and collectors, along with refugees from British art
schools, this British “R&B” (as it was called in the UK at the time) grew
out of a network of clubs, bands, and listeners previously devoted to
“trad” jazz (similar to New Orleans or “Dixieland” jazz) and other forms
of African-American–associated musics. The role of art schools cannot
be underestimated in the development of a distinctive form of British
rock ‘n’ roll: with no real equivalent in the United States, art schools
in Britain filled a gap somewhere between university (which during
the 1950s and 1960s was still a fairly exclusive affair) and technical or
trade schools. Better-than-average students with some vague artistic
inclination were often sent to art school, where they would p resumably
bra43588_pt03_125-252.indd 213 06/04/19 10:50 PM

214 The 1960s
learn a trade, such as graphic design. These schools became hotbeds
for aspiring pop musicians, some of whom even absorbed fashionable
theories about art along the way.1 The Rolling Stones’ lead guitarist
Keith Richards (b. 1943) memorably described his experience:
I mean in England, if you’re lucky, you can get into art school. It’s somewhere they
put you if they can’t put you anywhere else. If you can’t saw wood straight or file
metal. It’s where they put me to learn graphic design because I happened to be
good at drawing apples or something. Fifteen . . . I was there for three years and
meanwhile I learned how to play guitar. Lotta guitar players in art school. A lot of
terrible artists too. It’s funny.2
Several groups from the London blues and British art school
scenes achieved commercial success during this period, most notably
the Kinks, the Who, the Yardbirds, and the Rolling Stones. The Kinks
scored three hits in a row in the United States in late 1964–early 1965
with “You Really Got Me,” “All Day and All of the Night,” and “Tired
of Waiting.” The first two of these songs were proto–heavy metal,
constructed around primal riffs played on a highly distorted electric
guitar. Subsequent Kinks’ recordings saw them developing a style
based on British music hall influences and ironic, detached personae
(“Well Respected Man,” “Sunny Afternoon”), presenting an interest-
ing antithesis to the “authentic” ethos so prevalent during the era.
Many have viewed this self-consciousness and the nonblues sound
of their later music as peculiarly representative of a British-identified
pop, with main songwriter Ray Davies (b. 1944) seen as particularly
responsible for this sensibility.
The Yardbirds, on the other hand, came out of the same London
blues scene as the Rolling Stones and recorded numerous covers of
American blues recordings, especially songs associated with the Chi-
cago blues. Their American hits included both bluesy songs such as
“I’m a Man” and the more pop-oriented “For Your Love.” The Yard-
birds are also notable for having featured a succession of guitarists
who eventually became famous on their own or as leaders of other
groups: Eric Clapton (b. 1945), Jeff Beck (b. 1944), and Jimmy Page
(b. 1944).
The Who had a main songwriter, Pete Townshend (b. 1945), who
did time in art school. The band was associated with the Mods, a
London subculture of the mid-1960s that worshipped American R&B
and had a particular fondness for motor scooters, smart clothes, and
amphetamines. The Who’s music included blues influences at times,
along with generous dollops of ironic self-consciousness. Master
manipulators of mass cultural symbols, the band began wearing cloth-
ing redolent of “old England” years before Sgt. Pepper. They were also
1. For an extensive study of the impact of British art schools on the development of British
rock, see Simon Frith and Howard Horne, Art into Pop (London: Methuen, 1987).
2. Robert Greenfield, “Keith Richard: Got to Keep It Growing,” in The Rolling Stone Interviews,
Vol. 2 (New York: Straight Arrow, 1973), 218; first published in Rolling Stone in August 1971.
bra43588_pt03_125-252.indd 214 05/27/19 05:02 PM

practitioners of performance art—their stage act featured a kind of
highly theatricalized violence, which for a time included the destruc-
tion of their equipment. Pete Townshend became one of the more
articulate spokespeople for understanding 1960s rock through the
prism of modernist theories about art. The Who’s music presented two
somewhat opposing tendencies: an emphasis on performance and the
enduring values of early rock ‘n’ roll and the blues, and an exploration
of extended forms associated with art music, which reached its apo-
gee in the “rock opera” Tommy.3
The Rolling Stones were the most famous band to emerge from the
early 1960s London R&B scene, and they had roots in art school as
well. The following article was written by Giorgio Gomelsky, owner
of a popular R&B club, the Crawdaddy, and one of the first entrepre-
neurs to offer the Stones steady employment; the band’s long-running
residency at the Crawdaddy played a large role in their early success.
Published in the specialist magazine, Jazzbeat (which catered to trad
jazz and R&B fans), this piece profiles the band in the early stages of
success after their first two singles had been released. The band is very
much situated with the London R&B scene of the time, and poised on
the verge of a breakthrough to a mainstream, mass audience. After an
introduction, Gomelsky interviews lead singer Mick Jagger, and guitar-
ists Brian Jones and Keith Richards. Two topics of particular interest to
subsequent critics and scholars of popular music are the relationship
between faithfulness to tradition and originality in the band’s work
(they had yet to record or perform any original compositions), and ar-
guments about the connection between “authenticity,” commercial-
ism, genre, and racial identity.
The Stones were eventually pegged in the press as a scruffy foil
to the Beatles’ bohemian charm. The music press did little to hide
its complicity in the production of this image: an article appearing in
March 1964, a month after the article reproduced here, featured a sen-
sationalistic headline asking an imaginary reader if he/she “Would
You Let Your Sister Go with a Rolling Stone?”; the headline, however,
had little to do with the content of the article, which was little more
than a profile of “life on the road” with the band.4
3. For Pete Townshend’s witty appraisal of the Who’s career from 1965 to 1971, see Peter
Townshend, “Review of ‘The Who: Meaty, Beaty, Big, and Bouncy,’” Rolling Stone, December 7,
1971, 36–38.
4. Ray Coleman, “Would You Let Your Sister Go with a Rolling Stone?” Melody Maker, March
14, 1964, 8.
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216 The 1960s
The Rolling Stones Stake a Claim in the R&B Race

Giorgio Gomelsky
If 1963 has been anyone’s year in the small but vigorous R&B world it certainly has
been that of THE ROLLING STONES. From a virtually unknown group twelve
months ago it has become the first British R&B band to hit the “big time.” Now the
“Stones” command the same fees as the most successful “beat” groups in the country –
how has this come about?
To start with, they knew what they were doing. Although their musical back-
grounds were very different – Brian Jones used to play with a Dixieland group and
Mick Jagger was a collector of “obscure rock ‘n’ roll records” – they were all search-
ing for a new sound which would be capable of exciting them. Several gradually
developed a very precise taste. Brian Jones, for instance, declares that he has always
had great suspicions of what he calls “pretentiousness in music.” For him, it’s a mat-
ter of “the sound” and of being “straight-forward,” or to quote another of his favour-
ite words “basic.”
Their liking for R&B grew out of practicing it, by getting to know it more and
more. They are not “purists,” their concept of R&B is a “popular” one in the best
sense of the word and their appeal to the mass-audience proves their claim. It so
happens that even if their visual appearance is dead in line with present teenage
fashions, their music is fairly uncompromising and those who know them personally
have often wondered at the incredible wealth of information they possess about their
particular brand of R&B.
They are – in a way – rebels, and this is perhaps why the surprisingly conserva-
tive jazz world at first snubbed them. But luckily for them the “trend” was towards
R&B and their very modest beginnings at the Richmond CRAW DADDY CLUB soon
turned into a fantastic success. Afterwards it was relatively easy: a record and then
another, both big sellers.
What is going to happen to them now, no one can tell. The uncertainties of show-
business are many and it requires a great deal of imagination and resources to stand
the pace. The ROLLING STONES are young people with strong views and ideas.
They are not inarticulate, possessing the sort of restlessness of mind and determina-
tion which comes after a considerable fight for affirmation. Their restlessness also
reflects a great deal of what goes on today and their dedication to express it through
the idiom of R&B is very genuine indeed.
Performing, to them, is something like a ritual, something they have to do to feel
themselves alive and to keep themselves alive. This, audiences can possibly feel and
participate in, and with the kind of disruption that surrounds us today this kind of
“collective” experience doesn’t seem to be at all unnecessary or out of place.
Some months ago, the writer had the opportunity of recording a conversa-
tion with several of the boys in the group. Brian Jones, the leader, Mick Jagger, the
singer and Keith Richards, the guitar-player. Some of the points made are repro-
duced here.
Source: Giorgio Gomelsky, “The Rolling Stones Stake a Claim in the R&B Race,” Jazzbeat (January
1, 1964), pp. 22–23; and Giorgio Gomelsky, “Personal View: The Rolling Stones,” Jazzbeat (February
1964). p. 24.
bra43588_pt03_125-252.indd 216 05/27/19 05:02 PM

Question: How did you come to play R&B?
Brian: We like it. We are all the type of person that if we like something we want to do
it. At the beginning a lot of people objected to us playing R&B. They used to come
and hear us in clubs, they didn’t like it and so they used to stop talking to us.
Mick: Yeah, there was a crowd of people in South London we used to sit and knock
around with. These people were different from those in clubs, for them R&B was
a sort of religion – Jimmy Reed, Bo Diddley, Chuck Berry, and all that stuff, these
were gods to them and nobody else could do it. When a bunch of white kids like
us came along and started producing something which came surprisingly close
to it, they didn’t like that either. . .
Brian: It’s really a matter for a sociologist, a psychiatrist, or something. . .
Mick: At first I wasn’t really very different from the usual “rock-type.” But after a
while you could see from my record collection that I was searching for something
and I seemed to find it in what you would call “obscure rock-records.” Things
like Chan Romero’s “Hippy, hippy, shake,” good American rock-records.
Brian: If you ask some people why they go for R&B you get pretentious answers.
They say that in R&B they find “an honesty of expression, a sincerity of feeling,”
and so on, for me it’s merely the sound. . .
Keith: Yeah… I heard Chuck Berry records years ago and it was just another rock-
record: “Sweet Little Sixteen.” But then I heard him again and again and at the
end of last year, all of a sudden, it was a real “sound” and it meant something
to me…
Brian: It’s definitely the sound. I mean, I like all sorts of sounds, like church-bells,
for instance, I always stop and listen to church-bells. It doesn’t express damn all
to me, really… but I like the sound… Later on, especially if you play, you get to
know more about it and you acquire a “technical” interest on top of the “aes-
thetic” one if you like, and so your involvement becomes complete.
Mick: I never really liked “official” rock, you know. I always used to go for the wild
stuff, Little Richard and so on…
Brian: Yes; you always did go for that. Myself, I used to play dixieland, but it really
never excited me. My tastes are becoming more and more basic, really. I don’t
like pretentiousness.
Question: Your music is basic and exciting. Do you ever make conscious efforts to
create that effect?
Brian: We all think about the effect we want to create, don’t we? With our playing, in
a way, it is rather superficial. It’s a matter of beat, rhythm and excitement. I don’t
think it’s true to say that we want to get across “emotionally”…
Mick: This really applies more to the others than to me, you know. Most things I sing
have some slight shade of me in them, but I find that people don’t really notice
that anyway. It might get across, my feelings I mean, and then it might not, there
are so many different “moods”…
Brian: Analysing something as basic as R&B is not really fair, it kind of breaks it
up… we all have different reasons for liking the music… like we have different
reasons to do different things, but our aim, when playing is to become one – if
you like – “corporate” thing and, for instance, the moods we find ourselves in
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218 The 1960s
before playing don’t affect the music at all. As soon as we get on stage things
just become “one mood.” Because we have strived so hard to get this integrated
sound and integrated mood, as soon as we start to play we become the cells mak-
ing up an organ.
Mick: That’s right, you know, I mean last night for instance if instead of playing with
the group I’d been sitting in with other guys I couldn’t have stood it for more
than half an hour…
Brian: In many groups you get big clashes of personality which are almost com-
pletely absent in our group. On the stage we don’t consider ourselves as indi-
viduals but as parts of the group. We’re very lucky…
Question: How do you go about choosing your material?
Brian: Most of our material comes from the work of American artists. We feel quite
strongly about being accused of “aping” but we do take our ideas from their re-
cords and “adapt” them to our own “sound.” To start writing your own material
you really need to have absorbed the “idiom.” Of course we are getting more
and more closer to it and probably soon we’ll start working out our own stuff.
Sometimes, though, we find – to our surprise – that we can improve some of the
material we get from records and give it our particular “treatment.” This music
is really essentially “alien” to us and we have to do a lot of listening… until we’re
completely drenched in it.
Mick: This goes on all day and all night, it’s absolutely normal though. After a while
we’ve absorbed so much it becomes “natural” to us. Sometimes we are all listen-
ing to different records, one in the kitchen, the other in the living room, the third
in the bedroom…
Brian: Funnily enough, Keith and I always want to hear the same stuff at the same
time…
Keith: Yeah, Jimmy Reed…
Question: Have you your own original ideas about “sounds”?
Brian: Oh yes, we have always developed the habit of going for “new” sounds for
our group and this is definitely paying off. I mean some people like the sort of
“guttiness” we get, others the “way-out” sounds, and so on.
Mick: Most of the time we all contribute ideas and work things out together. We
discuss things like tempo, style, like “Let’s do this like Chuck Berry or Jimmy
Reed…” and so on.
Question: Talking about tempo, in your club performances you always manage to
create a splendid continuity of tension ending on the now famous last “rave
up”. Is this intentional?
Exhausted
Brian: No, not really, it just happens. We know that the crowd likes to go home ex-
hausted. On the other hand we also need to let up sometimes and we can best do
that after a really raving session.
Mick: While we are playing we can always feel exactly what is happening to a num-
ber. Sometimes it lasts three minutes and never really gets going and sometimes
it goes on and an… [sic.]
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Brian: Yes, but it’s almost always subconscious. A number can go so-so for two or
three weeks and suddenly, bang, something happens and there you go. Funnily
enough it happens almost always in cycles. If it goes well one night, it’s pretty
certain it will go well for the next week or so…
Question: People in the jazz-world have at times accused you of being a rock group.
R&B is supposed to be more “ethnically” connected, more “racial” in a way.
Mick: Yeah, in a way it is and in a way it isn’t. A lot of the stuff that we do, like the
Chuck Berry numbers, are not awfully different, at least from the singing point
of view; they are in fact very similar to a lot of the Jerry Lee Lewis numbers,
sort of wild; I mean there are differences between a rock number and a Muddy
Waters number but they are not really so marked. Jerry Lee Lewis is a blues-
influenced performer and Muddy Waters is a blues-performer. There isn’t re-
ally much difference between a good rocker or a white r&b singer and a Negro
r&b artist…
Authentic?
Question: R&B though bears more relation to a “lived” experience, it’s more “au-
thentic,” less “manufactured” than pop or rock.
Mick: A lot of present-day R+B is not exactly manufactured but it’s made for a
commercial market. I mean the Negro’s pop music, of which r+b is part, is a
“commercial” music. Of course, some r+b or some r+b material is not at all
“commercial.” This doesn’t mean that it’s not good r+b, it’s just not sold very
much, at least not as much as getting into the top ten. On the other hand, r+b
that gets into the hit parade – in America at least – needn’t be “manufactured.”
It all depends on the artist and the number.
Brian: A lot of American r+b records, including Muddy’s and Jimmy Reed’s, are
released for precisely the same reasons as a Billy Fury record or a Cliff Richard
one: to sell! Some make it “commercially” and some don’t!
Mick: There’s nothing different really. Check Berry for instance has been playing in
the same style for a long time, before he became “commercial.”
Brian: I read somewhere that whereas the content of pop songs are about life
as the singer or the composer and for that matter, the audience, would like
it to be, the blues – and r+b – are about life as it really is, at least generally
speaking.
Mick: You don’t get the directness you get in the blues. I mean like: “I shot my baby
‘cause she done me wrong…”
Brian: Yeah, that’s great: “I shot my baby ‘cause she done me wrong…” That’s fair…
reasonable… straightforward!
Further Reading
Booth, Stanley. The True Adventures of the Rolling Stones. Chicago: Chicago Review Press, 2000.
Frith, Simon, and Howard Horne. Art into Pop. London: Methuen, 1987.
Groom, Bob. The Blues Revival. London: Studio Vista, 1971.
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220 The 1960s
Jagger, Mick, Keith Richards, Charlie Watts, and Ronnie Wood. According to the Rolling Stones,
ed. Dora Loewenstein and Philip Dodd. San Francisco: Chronicle Books, 2003.
Kitts, Thomas. Ray Davies: Not Like Everybody Else. New York: Routledge, 2007.
Lorre, Sean. “British R&B: A Study of Black Popular Music Revivalism in the United King-
dom Between 1960–1964.” Ph.D. Dissertation, McGill University, 2017.
Marsh, Dave. Before I Get Old: The Story of the Who. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1983.
Marten, Neville, and Jeff Hudson. The Kinks. London: Bobcat Books, 2007.
Schwartz, Roberta Freund. How Britain Got the Blues: The Transmission and Reception of Ameri-
can Blues Style in the United Kingdom. Aldershot, UL and Burlington, VT: Ashgate Pub-
lishing, 2007.
Discography
The Kinks. The Kinks. Pye, 1964.
_______. The Singles Collection. Sanctuary UK, 2004.
The Rolling Stones. Hot Rocks, 1964–1971. Abkco, [1972] 2002.
_______. More Hot Rocks: Big Hits and Fazed Cookies. Abkco, [1972] 2002.
The Who. My Generation. Brunswick, 1965.
_______. Tommy. Polydor, 1969.
_______. Thirty Years of Maximum R&B. MCA, 1994.
The Yardbirds. Having a Rave Up with the Yardbirds. Epic, 1965.
_______. The Yardbirds—Greatest Hits, Vol. 1: 1964–1966. Rhino/WEA, 1990.
39. The Stones versus the Beatles
The preceding chapter described some of the ways in which the Rolling
Stones, especially lead singer Mick Jagger (b. 1942), projected an ironic
detachment, arrogance, and aggressive sexuality that made them seem
as if they were the opposite of the cuter, more polite public image of
the Beatles. The rawer, blues-based sound of the Stones also seems at
odds with the polished, more conventionally melodic pop of the Bea-
tles. This apparent difference masked many similarities: both bands
were influenced by the rock ‘n’ roll of the 1950s (the Stones more by
Chicago blues, the Beatles more by rockabilly) and the soul music of the
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The Stones versus the Beatles 221
early 1960s (the Stones more by “downhome” singers, such as Solomon
Burke, and the Beatles more by Motown). As the Stones began writ-
ing their own material, the Beatles’ influence became clearer. Although
they tended to retain a less polished sound, the Stones followed the
Beatles closely in the use of strings (“As Tears Go By,” late 1965, after
“Yesterday”), the sitar (“Paint It Black,” 1966, after “Norwegian Wood”),
and psychedelia (Their Satanic Majesties Request, late 1967, after Sgt.
Pepper). Following Satanic Majesties, the Stones began developing
their own brand of hard rock; “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” (1968) stands as both
the inaugural and archetypal song in this style, with its hypnotic synco-
pated riff based on a fragment of the blues scale.
The following article by Ellen Willis dates from 1969 and explicitly
compares what were then the two latest releases of the Stones and
Beatles, Beggars Banquet and The Beatles (aka, “The White Album”).
Willis captures well the Stones’ appeal and uniqueness within the pop
context. She also refers to debates about the Stones’ imitations of the
Beatles that were rampant at that point and discusses the connection
between rock and politics, another hot topic among critics, fans, and
musicians. Both bands had produced songs that had brought politi-
cal involvement into the foreground—the Stones with “Street Fighting
Man,” the Beatles with “Revolution”—during 1968, the year when the
relationship between the counterculture and politics began to become
more pressing and contentious. The sources of this shift were numer-
ous: the growth of the antiwar movement, riots at the Democratic con-
vention in Chicago, and the assassinations of Dr. Martin Luther King,
Jr., and Robert Kennedy all played a role.
A curious aspect of this article, in retrospect, is Willis’s failure to
mention the Stones’ misogyny, something she was to comment upon
later. Willis was one of the first female rock critics, and the lack of con-
sciousness on this subject was symptomatic of the lack of feminism
within the counterculture at this time. The paradox becomes more pal-
pable in that Willis subsequently became better known as a writer about
cultural politics and feminism than as a rock critic.1
1. Curiously, this issue had been debated in a series of articles on the Stones in the Marx-
ist New Left Review. See Alan Beckett/Richard Merton, “Stones/Comment,” in The Age of Rock:
Sounds of the American Cultural Revolution, ed. Jonathan Eisen, 109–17 (New York: Random House,
1969); and Michael Parsons, “Rolling Stones,” in The Age of Rock, 118–20. These articles originally
appeared in the New Left Review in 1968, issues 47 and 48. For more of Willis’s writings, see Begin-
ning to See the Light: Sex, Hope, and Rock-and-Roll (Hanover, N.H.: Wesleyan University Press and
University Press of New England, 1992).
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222 The 1960s
Records: Rock, Etc.—the Big Ones

Ellen Willis
It’s my theory that rock and roll happens between fans and stars, rather then between
listeners and musicians—that you have to be a screaming teen-ager, at least in your
heart, to know what’s going on. Yet I must admit I was never much of a screaming
teen-ager myself. I loved rock and roll, but I felt no emotional identification with the
performers. Elvis Presley was my favorite singer, and I bought all his records; just
the same, he was a stupid, slicked-up hillbilly, a bit too fat and soft to be really good-
looking, and I was a middle-class adolescent snob. Jerry Lee Lewis? More revolting
than Elvis. Buddy Holly? I didn’t even know what he looked like. Fats Domino? He
was comic—and black. When I went to rock shows, I screamed, all right, but only so
I wouldn’t be conspicuous. Actually, I grooved much more easily with records than
with concerts, which forced me to recognize the social chasm separating me from
the performers (and, for that matter, from much of the audience). The social-distance
factor became more acute as I got older; that was one reason I defected to folk music.
By the time the Beatles came on the scene, I wasn’t paying much attention to rock.
Naturally, I was aware of them, but I didn’t have the slightest inkling of their impor-
tance. Their kookiness had the same effect on kids that Elvis’s dirtiness had had; as
far as I was concerned, the two phenomena were identical, and neither had much to
do with me. I didn’t realize that Elvis was to the Beatles as a Campbell Soup can is
to an Andy Warhol replica. (Of course, the Beatles probably didn’t realize it, either.)
At first, I reacted to the Stones with equal incomprehension. Mick Jagger had his
gimmick: he was a hood. The j.-d. [juvenile delinquent] image was a familiar one,
though Mick played the role with more than the usual élan. He was so aggressively
illiterate, his sexual come-on was so exaggerated and tasteless that it never occurred
to me he might be smart. (I didn’t know then that he’d gone to the London School
of Economics.) But his songs, which had all the energetic virtues of rock and roll,
also displayed the honesty and clear-headedness I expected only from blues. I loved
both rock and blues, but in each case my response was incomplete: rock was too
superficial, blues too alien. The Stones’ music was the perfect blend. And, I came to
realize, so was Mick’s personality; he was an outcast, but he was also thoroughly
indigenous to mass society. Because he was so unequivocally native, he touched a
part of me that the black bluesmen and alienated folk singer could never reach. And
because I couldn’t condescend to him—his “vulgarity” represented a set of social
and aesthetic attitudes as sophisticated as mine, if not more so—he shook me in a
way Elvis had not. I became a true Stones fan—i.e., an inward screamer—and I’ve
been one ever since.
As a fan, I feel ambivalent about “Beggars Banquet.” It’s a good album—the
Stones have never put out a bad one—but something of an anti-climax. This is the
first Stones L.P. in a year, and there have been no major performances since 1966.
When stars have as little contact with their public as this, everyone’s fantasies get so
baroque that the eventual reality rarely satisfies. (Bob Dylan has got away with this
sort of thing twice; if he tries it again, he’ll be pressing his luck.) Besides, “Beggars
Banquet” had an unusually long gestation—the rumors of its imminent appearance
began back in August. Through the fall, I followed the Stones’ hassle with ( British)
Source: Ellen Willis, “Records: Rock, Etc.—The Big Ones,” The New Yorker, 44, No. 50, February 1,
1969, pp. 55–63. Reprinted by permission of the Charlotte Sheedy Agency.
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Decca over that men’s-room-with-graffiti-album cover. I took it for granted they’d
win. The cover was really pretty innocent, and, anyway, what mere record com-
pany could thwart the Rolling Stones? But they lost. For the first time, I had to think
of the Stones as losers. So even before I heard the record the reality—that black and
white jacket designed to look like an engraved invitation—was a letdown from the
fantasy.
There’s another reason, also having to do with contact, that “Beggar’s Banquet”
doesn’t quite make it: I have the feeling that Jagger is responding more to the Bea-
tles than to the world, and that the album gets to us only after bouncing off John
Lennon. In a very general way, the Stones’ sensibility has always been—at least in
part—a revision of and a reaction to the Beatles. But the symbiosis—or, rather, the
competition—has become more pronounced and specific since “Sergeant Pepper”
forced them to respond with “Their Satanic Majesties Request.” I’m not putting
down “Satanic Majesties” as a mere imitation, or parody, or comment. There was
nothing mere about that album. The Stones showed they could do the studio thing;
they did it with just the right amount of extravagance and wit, and with beautiful
songs. Anyway, they could scarcely have ignored an event of “Sergeant Pepper’s”
magnitude. But “Satanic Majesties” was a special record for a special time. In prac-
tice it was good, in principle very dangerous. While “Satanic Majesties” was still
in the works, the Beatles released “All You Need Is Love,” and the Stones coun-
tered with “We Love You,” a better-conceived and more powerful song. Now the
best track on “Beggars Banquet” is “Street Fighting Man,” which is infinitely more
intelligent than “Revolution.” I sense an unworthy effort to expose John as callow.
(Callowness is part of his charm anyway.) It may be that anything the Beatles do,
the Stones can do better, but it never pays to work on someone else’s terms. In
this case, there is a special risk. What has made the Stones the Stones, more than
anything else, is a passionate, thrusting ego. The Beatles’ identity is collective, but
the Stones are Mick Jagger. The Beatles’ magic inheres in their glittering surface,
the Stones’ in Jagger’s genius for visceral communication. Yet in this album, as in
“Satanic Majesties,” Mick is—the only word for it is “leashed.” “Parachute Woman”
and “Stray Cat Blues” do show traces of the old self-assertion, but in both of them
bad production has made the lyrics nearly impossible to catch. In the other songs
that have an “I” at all, it is weak, even passive—“Take me to the station,/And put
me on a train./I’ve got no expectations/To pass through here again,” or “But what
can a poor boy do/’Cept to sing for a rock-and-roll band?/Guess in sleepy London
town there’s just no place for a street fighting man”—or else, as in “Sympathy for
the Devil,” it belongs to a stock character. Most of the songs are impersonal artifacts.
The “Factory Girl” is just described, not loved or sneered at. “Salt of the Earth” is
positively alienating, in the Brechtian sense. What can it mean for Mick Jagger to
toast the workers? Is he being sarcastic? Is the song just a musical exercise? Or is
he making a sincere, if rather simple-minded, political statement? Like the Beatles,
the Stones play with forms: “Prodigal Son,” flawless folk blues (another political
statement?); “Dear Doctor,” a rather overdone parody of country music; “Jig-Saw
Puzzle,” proof that Jagger (or Richard) can write lyrics exactly like Dylan’s. My
response to these songs is purely cerebral. “Street Fighting Man” is my favorite,
because it really gets down to the ambiguous relation of rock and roll to rebellion. It
does with politics what early rock did with sex. (Are they deliberately using the tra-
dition, or unconsciously re-creating it?) The lyrics of the old songs had to be bland
enough to be played on the radio, but the beat and arrangements that emphasized
a phrase out of context here, a double-entendre there got the message across. Taken
together, the words of “Street Fighting Man” are innocuous. But somehow the only
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224 The 1960s
line that comes through loud and clear is “Summer’s here, and the time is right for
fighting in the streets.” Then, there’s the heavy beat and all that chaotic noise in the
background. So Mick leaves no doubt where his instincts are. (And he didn’t fool
the censors, either; the single of “Street Fighting Man” was virtually boycotted by
AM stations, though “Revolution” was played constantly.) But what can a poor boy
do—if he wants to make some bread—‘cept to sing for a rock and roll band? There
it is. Rock is a socially acceptable, lucrative substitute for anarchy; being a rock and
roll star is a way of beating the system, of being free in the midst of unfreedom. And
I know Jagger understands the ironies involved and has no illusions about himself.
(Which isn’t to say he’s cynical—I suspect that his famous cynicism has always been
more metaphor than fact.) Still, there was a time when he applied equal energy
to having no illusions about other people. It’s the direct link between subject and
object that I miss.
Apparently, the Stones, too, are worried that all is not right; I hear they’re plan-
ning an American tour in the spring. Whether that decision stems from a desire for
artistic renewal or from nervousness about declining sales doesn’t matter. It’s won-
derful news. The Stones were never meant to be studio recluses. They need to get out
and face the people.
The Beatles have also found it necessary to define themselves politically. But unlike
the Stones, they have little insight into their situation. Instead, they have taken refuge
in self-righteousness, facile optimism, and status mongering (revolution isn’t hip,
you’ll scare away the chicks). Not that I believe the Beatles have any obligation to be
political activists, or even political sophisticates. There are many ways to serve man-
kind, and one is to give pleasure. Who among the Beatles’ detractors has so enriched
the lives of millions of kids? No, all I ask of the Beatles is a little taste. When Bob
Dylan renounced politics, he also renounced preaching. “Revolution,” in contrast,
reminds me of the man who refuses a panhandler and then can’t resist lecturing him
on the error of his ways. It takes a lot of chutzpah for a millionaire to assure the rest
of us, “You know it’s gonna be alright.” And Lennon’s “Change your head” line is
just an up-to-date version of “Let them eat cake”; anyone in a position to follow such
advice doesn’t need it.
We may as well face it. Deep within John Lennon, there’s a fusty old Tory
struggling to get out. Yet I think “Revolution” protests too much. It had been obvi-
ous for a while—ever since all the Beatles grew beards and/or mustaches and
George announced “We’re tired of that kiddie image”—that they’re suffering grow-
ing pains from the who-am-I-and-where-am-I-going-and-how-do-my-money-and-
my-fame-fit-in variety. When they were four silly kids jumping around on a stage,
making tons of money was a rebellious act—they were thumbing their noses at
the Protestant ethic. But once Leonard Bernstein had certified them as bona-fide
artists they began in the eyes of society to deserve all that money. They could no
longer accept it as part of the lark. It’s no accident that the Maharishi was not only a
believer in transcendental meditation but a believer in the virtue of material things.
And would John have needed to write “Revolution” if on some level he hadn’t felt
a little defensive? He can see that all those student revolutionaries are sufficiently
well-off to do more or less what he’s done, if on a less spectacular scale—that is,
to find a personal solution within the system—yet, they’ve chosen a far less com-
fortable route. I notice that in the album version of “Revolution” he has put the
ambivalence right into the song: “Don’t you know that you can count me out—in?”
And he admitted to a Rolling Stone reporter that if he were black, he might not be so
“meek and mild.” Good.
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Everybody has to grow up, but few people have done it as late and publicly
as Lennon. Though Dylan also went through a protracted adolescence in front of
a mass audience, he at least battled the media for every scrap of his private life.
John takes us through all the changes—LSD, religion, politics, broken marriage, love
affair.2 In the context of this openness, the nude pictures of him and Yoko are very
touching. I’m sure he didn’t analyze what he was doing—isn’t everyone undress-
ing these days?—But he certainly gets my most-inspired-whim-of-the-year award.
What makes the pictures beautiful is that the bodies aren’t beautiful; by choosing to
reveal them, John is telling his fans that celebrities aren’t gods, that people shouldn’t
be ashamed of their bodies just because they’re imperfect, that even a Beatle can
love a woman who isn’t a pinup. When I think of both of them looking so vulner-
able, I don’t resent “Revolution” so much. How can I expect someone to be right all
the time?
About the new album. To get it over with, here’s what I don’t like:
1. Calling the album “The Beatles” and packaging it in a white cover. Every-
one’s going back to the basics, and it’s getting boring. The right cover should
have been John and Yoko, clothed.
2. The slowed-down version of “Revolution.” Aside from the lyrics, the song
was fine: good, heavy hard rock. You could even dance to it. Why do it at half
the speed? So that we can hear the words better?
3. “Revolution 9.” Though I know nothing about electronic music, it sounds to
me like the worst kind of pretentious nonsense. Friends who are more knowl-
edgeable than I am concur.
4. The album is just a bit too in-groupy. It parodies Bob Dylan, Tiny Tim, the
Beach Boys, fifties gospel, rock, blues, and music-hall songs; a whole song is
devoted to discussing the Beatles’ previous work; and one of the songs on the
record alludes to another. But it’s all done so well that this is a minor criti-
cism.
Otherwise, this album is very satisfying. The Beatles have always blended sen-
timentality with irreverence. Lately, the sentimentality has become fantasy and the
irreverence a whimsical disregard of linguistic conventions. Whether or not it has
anything to do with their politics, “The Beatles,” even more than “Magical Mys-
tery Tour,” belongs to a private world. And what doesn’t work in life works fine as
art. By “private” I don’t mean exclusive; the Beatles’ world is one anybody can get
into. “The Beatles” is a terrific children’s album—much better than Donovan’s “For
the Little Ones”—yet there is nothing prohibitively childish about it. The songs are
funny (especially “Piggies” and “Why Don’t We Do It in the Road?”), moving (“I’m
So Tired” and “Julia”), clever (“Rocky Raccoon”), singable (“Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da” and
“Back in the U.S.S.R.”). For sheer fun with language, none of the lyrics quite come up
to “I Am the Walrus,” but the general level is high. A special treat is Ringo Starr’s first
song, “Don’t Pass Me By.” It’s beautiful, especially the verse that goes, “I’m sorry
that I doubted you,/I was so unfair./You were in a car crash,/And you lost your
2. Lennon discussed these topics at great length in a famous interview published in Rolling
Stone following the Beatles’ breakup. See Jann Wenner, Lennon Remembers: The Rolling Stone In-
terviews (New York: Popular Library, 1971). This interview is also important in that Lennon goes
to great lengths to debunk what he already saw as the dominant myth of the sixties as a period
dominated by an ethos of “peace and love.” For another contemporary debunking (albeit an al-
legorical one), see the “fictional review” by J. R. Young reprinted in Chapter 46.
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226 The 1960s
hair.” Ringo, you keep us all sane. The Beatles might still be with the giggling guru
if you hadn’t turned up your nose at the curry. “Don’t Pass Me By” makes up for all
George Harrison’s Indian songs, plus “The Fool on the Hill.” The screaming teenager
in me wants to know how your Beatle museum is coming along, and sends her love
to Maureen and the kids—and to you.
Further Reading
Burke, Patrick. “Rock, Race, and Radicalism in the 1960s: The Rolling Stones, Black Power,
and Godard’s One Plus One.” Journal of Musicological Research 29, no. 4 (Oct–Dec 2010):
275–94.
Eisen, Jonathan, ed. The Age of Rock: Sounds of the American Cultural Revolution. New York:
Random House, 1969.
MacPhail, Jessica Holman Whitehead. Yesterday’s Papers: The Rolling Stones in Print, 1963–
1984. Ann Arbor, Mich.: Pierian Press, 1986.
See also Chapters 35 and 38.
Discography
The Beatles. The Beatles. Apple, 1968.
The Rolling Stones. Aftermath. Decca, 1966.
_______. Their Satanic Majesties Request. Decca, 1967.
_______. Beggars Banquet. Decca, 1968.
40. If You’re Goin’ to San Francisco . . .
Psychedelic rock provided rock critics with more evidence (in addition
to the work of Dylan and the Beatles) for their belief that rock music had
become a form of “art.” Taking its cue from a hodgepodge of elements
derived from early 20th-century modernism, psychedelic rock was par-
ticularly enamored with notions of the unconscious derived from Freud.
The Symbolist poetry of Rimbaud and Baudelaire, filtered through
Beat writers such as Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg; “stream of con-
sciousness” writing as practiced by James Joyce and Virginia Woolf;
existentialist philosophy as espoused by Jean-Paul Sartre and Albert
Camus; visual imagery drawn from surrealism and expressionism;
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If You’re Goin’ to San Francisco . . . 227
astern philosophy: all were cultural threads that the counterculture
E
and psychedelic music drew upon. The first flowering of psychedelic
rock occurred in San Francisco, also one of the geographic centers for
the Beat movement and the place where liberal politics and the lack of
a “blue-blood” social hierarchy conjoined to encourage artistic experi-
mentation.
The lyric style of psychedelic rock, while drawing on the literary
influences just noted, was filtered most directly through Dylan’s work of
1965–66. In musical terms, psychedelic rock drew from many sources,
most notably from the emphasis on improvisation found in blues, jazz,
and South Asian classical music, particularly that of the North Indian,
or Hindustani, tradition. The earliest songs recognized as psychedelic,
such as the Byrds’ “Eight Miles High” or the Beatles’ “Tomorrow Never
Knows” (both recorded early in 1966), combined surrealistic lyrics with
drones and modal improvisation influenced by Indian classical music.
“Tomorrow Never Knows” used musique concrète (recorded sounds
manipulated with a tape recorder), a technique borrowed from avant-
garde art music, to create an “otherworldly” effect, a technique soon
adopted by many other bands.1 Dissonance and atonality were other
musical elements derived from avant-garde jazz and classical music
that came to connote the “psychedelic” within the rock music context.
Psychedelic rock, as it developed in the San Francisco Bay Area,
London, Los Angeles, and elsewhere, was connected to local hippie
subcultures through large outdoor concerts and other, more experi-
mental performance practices. These performances incorporated mul-
timedia approaches from the avant-garde and included light shows,
projections, and film. In San Francisco, many of these events were
connected to mass “dosings” of LSD, in which much of the audience
ingested the hallucinogen. Author Ken Kesey (One Flew Over the Cuck-
oo’s Nest) and his gang of cohorts, the Merry Pranksters, were impor-
tant organizers of many of these events, dubbed the “Acid Tests.”2 The
“Human Be-In,” a public concert held in San Francisco’s Golden Gate
Park in January 1967, brought these happenings into public aware-
ness. The three-day-long Monterey Pop Festival (held in June 1967)3
demonstrated some of the commercial potential of such gatherings
and impressed even the “straight” press with how peaceful the par-
ticipants were.
The San Francisco psychedelic rock scene was one of the first popu-
lar music movements ever to receive attention by the mass media before
many people had heard the music or before much of it had even been
1. The Mothers of Invention were probably the pioneers in the use of musique concrète in popu-
lar music, since their Freak Out! was released prior to Revolver (the Beatles’ album containing
“Tomorrow Never Knows”). Despite this, it is safe to say that the Beatles did the most to expose
the public (and other pop musicians) to this practice. See Richard Goldstein’s review of Sergeant
Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, reprinted in Chapter 37.
2. This scene was memorably recorded by Tom Wolfe in his Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test.
3. Commemorated in a documentary by D. A. Pennebaker, Monterey Pop.
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228 The 1960s
recorded. The first group to record, the Jefferson Airplane, was also the
first to achieve commercial success; after an initial album, The Jefferson
Airplane Takes Off (1966), failed to attract many buyers, the second,
Surrealistic Pillow (1967), sold several million copies and, much to the
surprise of the group and its followers, generated two Top 10 singles,
“Somebody to Love” and “White Rabbit.”
The Airplane, with their backgrounds in folk music and blues;
their modal harmonies and dissonant, contrapuntal textures; and
their charismatic female vocalist, Grace Slick, were only the most pub-
lic face of the San Francisco scene. The colorful names of other San
Francisco bands caught the fancy of the national media: the Grateful
Dead, the Quicksilver Messenger Service, Moby Grape, Country Joe
and the Fish, Big Brother and the Holding Company. Of these, the
Grateful Dead enjoyed the most sustained success and influence, sur-
viving as primarily a concertizing unit until leader Jerry Garcia’s death
in 1995.
The entry on psychedelic rock that follows is an article by Ralph J. Glea-

son. Gleason was the jazz and pop music critic for the San Francisco
Chronicle from the 1940s through the 1960s and one of the first estab-
lished critics to write about rock music with the seriousness previously
accorded jazz. Gleason became an advocate of the San Francisco bands
and cofounded Rolling Stone with Jann Wenner in 1967. Gleason’s essay
portrays the Grateful Dead circa 1967 and reflects on the development
of their style and the San Francisco psychedelic scene in general.
Dead Like Live Thunder

Ralph J. Gleason
San Francisco has become the Liverpool of America in recent months, a giant pool of
talent for the new music world of rock.
The number of recording company executives casing the scene at the Fillmore
and the Avalon is equaled only by the number of anthropologists and sociologists
studying the Haight-Ashbury hippy culture.
Nowhere else in the country has a whole community of rock music developed
to the degree it has here.
At dances at the Fillmore and the Avalon and the other, more occasional affairs,
thousands upon thousands of people support several dozen rock ‘n’ roll bands
that play all over the area for dancing each week. Nothing like it has occurred
Source: Republished by permission of Hearst Corporation. From Ralph J. Gleason, “Dead Like
Live Thunder,” San Francisco Chronicle, March 19, 1967, pp. iv–v; permission conveyed through
Copyright Clearance Center, Inc.
bra43588_pt03_125-252.indd 228 05/27/19 05:02 PM

If You’re Goin’ to San Francisco . . . 229
since the heyday of Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman, and Tommy Dorsey. It is a new
dancing age.
The local band with the greatest underground reputation (now that the Jefferson
Airplane has gone national via two LP’s and several single records) is a group of
young minstrels with the vivid name, The Grateful Dead.
A Celebration
Their lead guitar player, a former folk musician from Palo Alto named Jerry Garcia
and their organist, harmonica player and blues singer Pig Pen (Ron McKernan) have
been pictured in national magazines and TV documentaries. Richard Goldstein in
the Village Voice has referred to the band as the most exciting group in the Bay Area
and comments, “Together, the Grateful Dead sound like live thunder.”
Tomorrow The Grateful Dead celebrate the release of their first album on the
Warner Brothers label. It’s called simply “The Grateful Dead” and the group is
throwing a record promotion party for press and radio at Fugazi Hall.
The Dead’s album release comes on the first day as their first single release, two
sides from the album—“Golden Road” and “Cream Puff War.”
The Dead, as their fans call them, got their exotic name when guitarist Garcia,
a learned and highly articulate man, was browsing through a dictionary. “It just
popped out at me. The phrase—‘The Grateful Dead.’ We were looking for a name at
the time and I knew that was it.”
The Grateful Dead later discovered the name was from an Egyptian prayer: “We
grateful dead praise you, Osiris. . . . “
Garcia, who is a self-taught guitarist (“my first instrument was an electrical guitar;
then I went into folk music and played a flat-top guitar, a regular guitar. But Chuck Berry
was my influence!”) is at a loss to describe the band’s music, despite his expressiveness.
The Grateful Dead draws from at least five idioms, Garcia said, including Negro
blues, country and western, popular music, even classical. (Phil Lesh, the bass player,
is a composer who has spent several years working with serial and electronic music.)
“He doesn’t play bass like anybody else; he doesn’t listen to other bass players,
he listens to his head,” Garcia said.
Pig Pen, the blues vocalist, “has a style that is the sum of several styles,” Garcia
pointed out, including that of country blues singers such as Lightnin’ Hopkins, as
well as the more modern, urban blues men.
“When we give him a song to sing, it doesn’t sound like someone else, it comes
out Pig Pen’s way.” Pig Pen’s father, by the way, is Phil McKernan, who for years had
the rhythm and blues show on KRE, the predecessor of KPAT in Berkeley.
Bill Sommers [usually known as Bill Kreutzmann], the drummer, is a former jazz
and rhythm and blues drummer. “He worked at the same music store I did in Palo
Alto. I was teaching guitar and he was teaching drums,” Garcia said. He is especially
good at laying rhythms under a solo line played by the guitars. Bob Weir, the rhythm
guitarist, “doesn’t play that much straight rhythm,” Garcia said, “he thinks of all
these lovely, pretty things to do.”
The Dead (they were originally known as the Warlocks) have been playing
together for over two years now. They spend at least five or six hours a day rehears-
ing or playing or “just fooling around,” Garcia continued.
“We’re working with dynamics now. We’ve spent two years with loud, and
we’ve spent six months with deafening! I think we’re moving out of our loud stage.
We’ve learned after these past two years, that what’s really important is that the
music be groovy, and if it’s groovy enough and it’s well played enough, it doesn’t
have to be too loud.”
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230 The 1960s
Dance Band
The Dead’s material comes from all the strains in American music. “We’ll take an
idea and develop it; we’re interested in form. We still feel that our function is as a
dance band and that’s what we like to do; we like to play for dancers. We’re trying
to do new things of course, but not arrange our material to death. I’d say we’ve sto-
len freely from everywhere, and we have no qualms about mixing our idioms. You
might hear some traditional style classical counterpoint cropping up in the middle of
some rowdy thing, you know!”
The eclectic electric music has won the Dead its Warner Brothers contract, offers
of work in films, a dedicated group of fans who follow them faithfully and the pros-
pect of national tours, engagements in New York and elsewhere. But Garcia, who
is universally loved by the rock musicians and fans, is characteristically calm about
it all. “I’m just a student guitar player,” he concluded, “I’m trying to get better and
learn how to play. We’re all novices.”
Further Reading
Burke, Patrick. “Tear Down the Walls: Jefferson Airplane, Race, and Revolutionary Rhetoric
in 1960s Rock.” Popular Music 29, no. 1 (January 2011): 61–79.
Dodd, David G., and Diana Spaulding. The Grateful Dead Reader. New York: Oxford Univer-
sity Press, 2000.
Echard, William. Psychedelic Popular Music: A History Through Music Topic Theory. Blooming-
ton: Indiana University Press, 2017.
Gleason, Ralph J. The Jefferson Airplane and the San Francisco Sound. New York: Ballantine
Books, 1969.
Lesh, Phil. Searching for the Sound: My Life with the Grateful Dead. New York: Back Bay Books,
2006.
Meriwether, Nicholas G., ed. All Graceful Instruments: The Contexts of the Grateful Dead Phe-
nomenon. Newcastle, UK: Cambridge Scholars Press, 2007.
O’Dair, Barbara. Trouble Girls: The Rolling Stone Book of Women in Rock. New York: Random
House, 1997.
Perry, Charles. The Haight-Ashbury: A History. New York: Wenner Publications, [1984] 2005.
Tamarkin, Jeff. Got a Revolution! The Turbulent Flight of Jefferson Airplane. New York: Atria
Books, 2003.
Tuedio, James Alan, and Stan Spector. The Grateful Dead in Concert: Essays on Live Improvisa-
tion. Jefferson, N.C.: McFarland, 2010.
Unterberger, Richie. Eight Miles High: Folk-Rock’s Flight from Haight-Ashbury to Woodstock. San
Francisco: Backbeat Books, 2003.
Wolfe, Tom. The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1968.
Discography
Big Brother and the Holding Company. Cheap Thrills. Columbia, 1968.
Country Joe and the Fish. Electric Music for the Mind and Body. Vanguard, 1967.
The Grateful Dead. The Grateful Dead. Warner Brothers, 1967.
_______. Anthem of the Sun. Warner Brothers, 1968.
_______. Live Dead. Warner Brothers, 1970.
Jefferson Airplane. Surrealistic Pillow. RCA Victor, 1967.
_______. After Bathing at Baxter’s. RCA Victor, 1967.
Moby Grape. Moby Grape. Columbia, 1967.
Quicksilver Messenger Service. Happy Trails. Capitol, 1969.
bra43588_pt03_125-252.indd 230 05/27/19 05:02 PM

41. The Kozmic Blues of Janis Joplin
Although she first gained prominence as the lead singer with the San
Francisco psychedelic band Big Brother and the Holding Company, Janis
Joplin’s (1943–70) fame soon superseded her band’s. She departed Big
Brother in 1968, following a successful year that included a critically
acclaimed performance at the Monterey Pop Festival, a major recording
contract with Columbia Records, and a pop hit with the single “Piece
of My Heart.” The career of this dynamic, blues-influenced singer was
riddled with contradictions: Joplin was labeled the first “hippie poster
girl,” yet was claimed by progressive writers as a proto-feminist for her
assertive performing style, extroverted public persona, and status as a
bandleader.
Often described as the “the best white blues singer of all time,”
she clearly modeled her style after blues and R&B singers in contrast
to the more folk-influenced vocal approach favored by other popular
white female singers of the era (with the obvious exception of Grace
Slick, with whom she was often compared). These influences also con-
trasted with the effort by some of the San Francisco bands to distance
themselves from African American sources.1 The perception of her per-
formances as completely uninhibited was reinforced by her hard-living,
hard-drinking image, which she emphasized on stage and in interviews.
Another contradiction surfaces in the contrast between this “one-of-the-
boys” image and the image of Joplin as a “victim,” an image promoted
by the tales of suffering outlined in many of her songs and by reports of
her personal life.2 Regardless of these aspects of her persona, her brief
1. For examples of this “anxiety of (African American) influence,” see the following: the ex-
change between Ralph Gleason and Nick Gravenites in Rolling Stone over white bluesman Mike
Bloomfield’s “cultural authenticity”—Gleason, “Perspectives: Stop This Shuck, Mike Bloomfield,”
Rolling Stone, May 11, 1968, 10; and Gravenites, “Gravenites: Stop This Shuck, Ralph Gleason,”
Rolling Stone, May 25, 1968, 17; Ed Ward’s review of The Worst of the Jefferson Airplane, Rolling
Stone, February 4, 1971; and many of Gleason’s comments and questions in The Jefferson Airplane
and the San Francisco Sound (New York: Ballantine Books, 1969). In the piece reprinted here, Joplin
betrays her own anxieties about seeming to be too influenced by black singers.
2. These aspects of Joplin’s persona are brilliantly addressed by Ellen Willis in “Janis Joplin,”
in Beginning to See the Light: Sex, Hope, and Rock-and-Roll (Hanover, N.H.: Wesleyan University
Press and University Press of New England, [1976] 1992), 61–67.
231
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232 The 1960s
recording career, which included four albums released between 1967
and 1971, displays increasing vocal refinement from the all-out, larynx-
shattering performance of “Ball and Chain” on Cheap Thrills with Big
Brother and the Holding Company (1968; also captured in the film Mon-
terey Pop, 1967) to the carefully nuanced buildup in her most commer-
cially successful recording, “Me and Bobby McGee,” recorded shortly
before her death in 1970 and released posthumously in 1971 on Pearl.
The article that follows charts the broadening public awareness of Jop-
lin and her reception in New York early in 1968 shortly before her split
with Big Brother and the Holding Company. This portrayal of Joplin by
Nat Hentoff is based on an interview in which Joplin discusses her influ-
ences, the connection between “soul” and race, and her approach to
performing. Hentoff’s role in the criticism of rock music resembles that
of Ralph J. Gleason’s in that Hentoff was well known initially as a jazz
critic in the 1950s; the “oral history” of Bessie Smith in Chapter 7 is
excerpted from a volume coedited by him. Hentoff’s relationship with
jazz musicians was less adversarial than that of many white critics,
sharing close personal relationships with musicians otherwise known
for their irascible personalities, such as Charles Mingus. Hentoff moved
into writing about other forms of popular music somewhat earlier than
Gleason, however, writing a well-known profile of Bob Dylan in 1964
and conducting one of the most-celebrated interviews of Dylan late in
1965.3 Clearly, Hentoff had a gift for earning the trust of musicians who
were wary of journalists. His empathy for Joplin is clearly apparent in
the profile that follows.
We Look at Our Parents and . . .

Nat Hentoff
The only girl in the group (Big Brother and the Holding Company), Janis Joplin has
exploded the increasingly mandarin categories of rock music by being so intensely,
so jovially herself. Her singing with that unit is a celebration—her voice and body
hurled with larruping power that leaves her limp and this member of her audience
3. Nat Hentoff, “The Crackin’, Shakin’, Breakin’, Sounds,” New Yorker, October 24, 1964, reprinted
in Bob Dylan: The Early Years—A Retrospective, ed. Craig McGregor (New York: Da Capo, 1990),
44–65; Hentoff, “The Playboy Interview,” Playboy, March 1966, reprinted in Bob Dylan: The Early
Years—A Retrospective, ed. Craig McGregor (New York: Da Capo, 1990), 124–45.
Source: Nat Hentoff, “We Look at Our Parents and . . . ,” from The New York Times, April 21, 1968.
© 1968 The New York Times. All rights reserved. Used by permission and protected under the
Copyright Laws of the United States. The printing, copying, redistribution, or retransmission of
the material without express written permission is prohibited.
bra43588_pt03_125-252.indd 232 05/27/19 05:02 PM

The Kozmic Blues of Janis Joplin 233
feeling that he has been in contact with an overwhelming life force. Part of that force
is an open sensuality, with no tinge of coyness or come-on. It’s not that she is beauti-
ful by ordinary standards (a phrase that makes her wince). Rather, she brings all of
herself into a performance. “The sex thing they keep trying to lay on me,” Miss Joplin
says, “is always in the receiver’s head, which is where it should be. If I turn on any-
one that way—great! Because that’s what it’s all about.”
The triumphs of Janis Joplin began last June when she lifted a huge audience
at the Monterey International Pop Festival to a standing ovation. The glory of her
abandon has continued to draw open-mouthed attention as she and the group travel
more and more widely from their San Francisco base, most recently having touched
here at Generation, a new rock cellar room in Greenwich Village. The hosannas from
the most flinty of the rock critics sound like hyperbole until you see her—“the best
rock singer since Ray Charles”; “the best popular stylist since Billie Holiday, and
certainly the most impressive woman on the rock scene”; “the major female voice of
her generation.”
The best single description of Janis Joplin I’ve seen appeared in Cashbox, not
usually a source of memorable metaphor: “She’s a kind of a mixture of Leadbelly,
a steam engine, Calamity Jane, Bessie Smith, an oil derrick, and rot gut bourbon
funneled into the 20th century somewhere between El Paso and San Francisco.”
Not entirely complete: her drink of preference is Southern Comfort, not bour-
bon, and that choice also indicates the gentleness at the core of her corybantic
devotions.
Having seen her at Fillmore East on Second Avenue a few weeks ago, I wanted
to know more. More than the biological facts—born in Port Arthur, Texas; a dropout
from four colleges; a singer of country music in Texas and blues in San Francisco;
a drifter until she found a molten center of gravity in Big Brother and the Holding
Company two years ago.
We met in the darkly uninviting bar of the Chelsea Hotel, where she stays
when she is in New York. Her long hair is brown, her eyes blue-gray, her figure
trim, and her hands are always moving. When she’s not wielding a microphone,
her voice is soft but not guarded; and her face, as on stage, is a kaleidoscope of
swiftly changing emotions. I asked her, because I was concerned, how long her
voice can hold out since she spends it without stint in performance. “I was worried
about that for a while,” she grinned, “and so for a couple of weeks, I consciously
held back—like maybe a third of what I could do. And it was nothing! I’m not
doing that anymore. Maybe I won’t last as long as other singers, but I think you
can destroy your now by worrying about tomorrow. If I hold back, I’m no good
now, and I think I’d rather be good sometimes than holding back all the time. I’m
25 and, like others of my generation and younger, we look back at our parents and
see how they gave up and compromised and wound up with very little. So the
kids want a lot of something now rather than a little of hardly anything spread
over 70 years.”
She frowned, “But that’s what I think. I’m still not used to being asked about
my opinions, I’m still not used to all this attention. Nobody gave a damn about me
before the Monterey Festival. Look, I’m not a spokesman for my generation. I don’t
even use acid. I drink.” She laughed. “The reason I drink,” she had had enough of the
generation talk, “is that it loosens me up while the guys are tuning their instruments.
I close my eyes and feel things. If I were a musician, it might be a lot harder to get all
that feeling out, but I’m really fortunate because my gig is just feeling things.” She
laughed, again. “I’m really lucky. It doesn’t always happen the way I want. It’s not
always a supreme emotional experience, but when everything is together—the band,
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234 The 1960s
me, the audience, it’s boss! It’s just like magic. I don’t think I could ever feel that way
about a man. It seems to be the kind of feeling a woman would like to have about a
man. I hope I do someday.”
New York had gotten in the way of that boss feeling for a while. “At first,” she
shook her head in exasperation, “this city seemed to have made us all crazy; it was
dividing the unity of the band.” Miss Joplin hadn’t received quite the drink she’d
ordered and I waved to the waiter. Slowly, grumblingly, he acceded to the request.
“The first three weeks here,” she went on, “we all got superaggressive, separate,
sour. Something like that waiter there. San Francisco’s different. I don’t mean it’s
perfect, but the rock bands there didn’t start because they wanted to make it. They
dug getting stoned and playing for people dancing. Here they want to MAKE it.
What we’ve had to do is learn to control success, put it in perspective and not lose
the essence of what we’re doing—the music. Well, we played a gig in Philadelphia
recently, and the minute we walked offstage after the first set, it all fell back into
place. We all looked at each other, like ‘Remember me?’ We all remembered what it
was all about. We’re learning how to handle New York.”
San Francisco had been a saving place for her. “In Texas, I was a beatnik, a weirdo,
and since I wasn’t making it the way I am now, my parents thought I was a goner.
Now my mother writes and asks what kinds of clothes a 1968 blues singer wears.
That’s kind of groovy, since we’ve been on opposite sides since I was 14. Texas is
O.K. if you want to settle down and do your own thing quietly, but it’s not for outra-
geous people, and I was always outrageous. I got treated very badly in Texas.” She
smiled grimly. “They don’t treat beatniks too good in Texas.”
Janis Joplin didn’t get into music until she was 17, when hard, basic blues
changed her from being a painter. “It was Leadbelly first. I knew what it was all
about from the very front. I was right into the blues.” She moved into a bluegrass
band in Austin, dug Bob Dylan and Woody Guthrie, but the blues were always her
base. She went to San Francisco to stay in 1962, and sang in folk clubs and bars until
she joined the Holding Company.
I told her that she was the first white blues singer (female) I’d heard since
Teddy Grace who sang the blues out of black influences but had developed her own
sound and phrasing. She’d never heard of Teddy Grace, also a Southern girl, but she
beamed. “God, I’m glad you think that. I keep trying to tell people that whites have
soul too. There’s no patent on soul. It’s just feeling things. I sure loved Otis Redding,
and Bessie Smith before him, but I don’t think I copy anybody much. I’ve got country
in my music too, but what changed things was singing with an electric band. All that
power behind you—that pulsating power. I had to react to what was behind me, and
my style got different. You can’t sing a Bessie Smith vocal with a rock band, so I had
to make up my own way of doing it.”
Do you categorize yourself at all? I asked. Would you call yourself a jazz singer?
“No, I don’t feel quite free enough with my phrasing to say I’m a jazz singer. I sing
with a more demanding beat, a steady rather than a lilting beat. I don’t riff over the
band; I try to punctuate the rhythm with my voice. That’s why Otis Redding is so
great. You can’t get away from him; he pounds on you; you can’t help but feel him.
He was a man! Still is! Categories? I regard myself as a blues singer but then I regard
myself as a rock singer. Actually, I don’t feel there’s any separation now. I’m a chick
singer, that’s what I am.”
We had another drink. “You know how that whole myth of black soul came
up? That only they have soul?” She wasn’t asking, she was telling. “Because white
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The Kozmic Blues of Janis Joplin 235
people don’t allow themselves to feel things. Housewives in Nebraska have pain and
joy; they’ve got soul if they’d give in to it. It’s hard. And it isn’t all a ball when you
do. Me, I never seemed to be able to control my feelings, to keep them down. When
I was young, my mother would try to get me to be like everybody else. ‘Think before
you speak.’ ‘Learn how to behave yourself.’ And I never would. But before getting
into this band, it tore my life apart. When you feel that much, you have superhor-
rible downs. I was always victim to myself. I’d do wrong things, run away, freak
out, go crazy. Now, though, I’ve made feeling work for me, through music, instead
of destroying me. It’s superfortunate. Man, if it hadn’t been for the music, I probably
would have done myself in.”
She looked tired, not so much from present feeling as from an all-night record session
the night before. Being made for Columbia, the album, due this spring, will be the
first to fully reflect—she hopes—what Big Brother and the Holding Company are all
about. (A previous, poorly recorded set, made much earlier, was issued despite the
group’s vehement protests.) “Making this record hasn’t been easy,” she said. “We’re
not the best technicians around. We’re not the kind of dispassionate professionals
who can go into a studio and produce something quick and polished. We’re pas-
sionate; that’s all we are. And what we’re trying to get on record is what we’re good
at—insisting, getting people out of their chairs.
“What also makes it hard for John Simon, who’s producing the album, is that
we’re kinda sloppy at the same time as we’re happy. Last night he was trying to get
something done and said ‘Come on, who’s the head of this band?’ There was a pause
because, well, no one is. We vote on things. We’re democratic. But I think we’re get-
ting what we want into the recording.” She sighed. “We’ve got complete control over
this one, and if it’s no good, it’s our fault.”
Janis leaned back, smiled again. “Like I said, it’s hard to be free, but when it
works, it’s sure worth it.”
Further Reading
Dalton, David. Piece of My Heart: A Portrait of Janis Joplin. New York: Da Capo Press, 1991.
Echols, Alice. Scars of Sweet Paradise: The Life and Times of Janis Joplin. New York: Holt Paper-
backs, 2000.
Joplin, Laura. Love, Janis. New York: Villard, 1992.
Reynolds, Simon. The Sex Revolts: Gender, Rebellion, and Rock’n’roll. Cambridge, Mass.: Har-
vard University Press, 1995.
Willis, Ellen. “Janis Joplin,” in Beginning to See the Light: Sex, Hope, and Rock-and-Roll, 61–67.
Discography
Big Brother and the Holding Company. Cheap Thrills. Columbia, 1968.
_______. Live at Winterland ‘68. Columbia Legacy, 1998.
Joplin, Janis. I Got Dem Ol’ Kozmic Blues Again Mama! Columbia, 1969.
_______. Pearl. Columbia, 1971.
_______. Box of Pearls. Sony Legacy, 1999.
bra43588_pt03_125-252.indd 235 05/27/19 05:02 PM

42. Jimi Hendrix and the Electronic Guitar
Like Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix (1942–70) first achieved prominence

through a form of highly amplified blues merged with psychedelic rock.
Hendrix’s path to that point, however, followed a very different trajec-
tory from Joplin’s: an African American raised in Seattle, Hendrix toured
as a sideman for R&B artists such as Wilson Pickett and Little Richard
before he moved to London, where he launched his solo career. While
clearly steeped in the blues, Hendrix made the most significant contri-
bution of any guitarist of his generation toward conceiving of the elec-
tric guitar as an electronic instrument, rather than merely an amplified
guitar. Distortion no longer occurred as a byproduct of turning up an
amplifier: Hendrix made sustain and feedback an integral part of his
technique, and he pioneered the use of electronic devices such as fuzz-
tones and wah-wah pedals (he may not have been the first to use these,
but he was the first to incorporate them fully as more than gimmicks).
Again, like Joplin, Hendrix first came to the attention of American
audiences during the 1967 Monterey Pop Festival. Early commentaries
(including those about this festival) all center on his highly theatrical stage
performance, which involved playing the guitar behind his head and with
his teeth, licking it (all techniques used by earlier blues and R&B musi-
cians, such as T-Bone Walker), lighting it on fire, and finally destroying
it (in a gesture perhaps adopted from the Who’s Peter Townshend). The
highly sexualized performance of a black man in front of a white band and
(mostly) white audience also attracted attention and evoked some uncom-
fortable contradictions within the counterculture, which (as I discussed
earlier) was almost entirely white, despite a professed ethos of inclusion.1
Hendrix’s compositions drew not only on blues and R&B, but
also on psychedelic innovations in sound and recording, as well as on
Dylan’s approach to lyrics; as such, he was an innovator and synthesizer
with few previous peers among rock musicians.2 Hendrix freely acknowl-
edged his indebtedness to Dylan, both in interviews and by recording
Dylan’s “Like a Rolling Stone” (at Monterey Pop) and “All Along the
1. For a fuller discussion of these issues, see Steve Waksman, Instruments of Desire: The Electric Gui-
tar and the Shaping of Musical Experience (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1999), 167–206.
2. See Greg Tate’s comments in his interview with George Clinton in Flyboy in the Buttermilk:
Essays on Contemporary America (New York: Fireside/Simon and Schuster, 1992), 39–40, 92–93.
236
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Jimi Hendrix and the Electronic Guitar 237
Watchtower” (which Dylan later said he preferred to his own version).
His performance of the “Star Spangled Banner” was a highlight of the
Woodstock festival; Hendrix used his guitar wizardry to simulate explod-
ing bombs and sky-diving aircraft, turning the U.S. national anthem into
an antiwar protest song. Some of his comments to interviewers and his
abandonment of the Jimi Hendrix Experience (which was two-thirds
white) toward the end of his career revealed that Hendrix was wrestling
with the relationship of his music to his identity as an African American.3
He died in September 1970 in his sleep from an accidental overdose of
barbiturates.
The critical response to Jimi Hendrix during his life featured much
debate about whether the highly theatrical performances early in
his career were a “gimmick” or not. Also common in the press were
comparisons to Eric Clapton and Cream, who achieved prominence at
roughly the same time with the same trio format and also featured long,
blues-based improvisations. While all writers conceded the quality of
Hendrix’s guitar playing, many criticized his singing and his ability as
a lyricist. The English music press viewed him as part of the London
scene (as indeed he was for several years), and this article from the
British music magazine Melody Maker provides a good example of that
perspective. The article also shows Hendrix in transition from the flashy
theatrics of his trio and reveals his awareness of earlier criticisms. Like
so many articles from this period (and after), this article raises the
opposition of art to mass culture. Because the author accepts the terms
of this opposition, “showmanship” of the kind associated with Hendrix
must result from an artistic compromise—appealing to teenyboppers—
rather than from continuity with previous African American approaches
to performance.
Second Dimension: Jimi Hendrix in Action

Bob Dawbarn
Jimi Hendrix—like Eric Clapton, the Nice, the Pink Floyd and many others—is faced
with one major problem.
3. Again, see Waksman, Instruments of Desire, for a discussion of Hendrix in the context of the
black arts movement; and Samuel A. Floyd, The Power of Black Music: Interpreting Its History from
Africa to the United States (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995), for a discussion that includes
Hendrix within a broader, theoretically informed conception of “black music.”
Source: Bob Dawbarn, “Second Dimension: Jimi Hendrix in Action,” Melody Maker, March 1, 1969,
pp. 14–15. © TI MEDIA LTD.
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238 The 1960s
He is trying to produce music with claims to permanent value, yet the outlets for
that music are the mass media which, as yet, seem unable to distinguish between a
Jimi Hendrix or a Donald Peers.
This means that a Hendrix must continually compromise in order to conform to
the patterns demanded by his means of communication.
To stay in business he must make singles, he finds he is forced into acts of show-
manship to get his music across, he must make use of publicity machines geared to
the needs of teenyboppers.
Before his Albert Hall concert last Tuesday he told me: “I just hope the concert
turns out all right. We haven’t played in a long time and we concentrate on the music
now.
“As long as people come to listen rather than to see us, then everything will be
all right. It’s when they come to expect to see you doing certain things on stage that
you can get hung up.”
Jimi dislikes miming on TV. “If you play live, nobody can stop you or dictate
what you play beyond setting a time limit.”
A good example was his recent appearance on the Lulu show when he surprised
everybody in the studio by suddenly shifting from “Hey Joe” into “Sunshine Of Your
Love” as a tribute to Cream.
“It was the same old thing,” explained Jimi, “with people telling us what to do.
They wanted to make us play ‘Hey Joe.’ I was uptight about it, so I caught Noel’s and
Mitch’s attention and we went into the other thing.
“I dream about having our own show where we would have all contemporary
artists as guest stars. Everybody seems to be busy showing what polished performers
they are and that means nothing these days—it’s how you feel about what you are
doing that matters.
“I just cross off people who are just in it for their own ego scene instead of trying
to show off another style of music.”
Jimi admits that he feels a little restricted by the Trio format.

“It restricts everybody—Noel and Mitch, too,” he said. “Now and then I’d like
to break away and do a bit of classic blues. Mitch wants to get into a jazz thing and
Noel has this thing with Fat mattress and wants to go on an English rock thing—how
about Anglo Rock. A patriotic blues-rock music.”
As a performer, Hendrix seems to be going through a period of change at the
moment leaning towards extended performances.
Personally, I find his playing has great impact when disciplined by a four-minute
track. The longer things on the “Electric Ladyland” album don’t always come off, his
ideas seem to get diffused. But this is no doubt a time of transition.
Nobody is better at conveying an atmosphere in a few phrases—there was the
menace of “Purple Haze,” the raw, immensely masculine “Hey Joe,” the blues influ-
ence of “Foxy Lady.” And listen to the way guitar and voice complement each other
on something like “51st Anniversary.” Or the way he shows blues can be utterly
contemporary on “Voodoo Chile.”
“You have to make people identify with the music,” explains Jimi. “You make a
record in the hope that the public may want to buy it, so you have to make it present-
able in some way. They have to have an identification mark.
“The trouble is that a single has to be under six minutes—it used to be under
three, which was a real hang-up. It’s like you used to be able to give them just one
page of a book, now you can give them two or three pages—but never the whole book.
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Jimi Hendrix and the Electronic Guitar 239
“The music is what matters. If an audience are really digging you on a show,
then naturally you get excited and it helps. But a bad audience really doesn’t
bother me that much because then it is a practice session, a chance to get things
together.
“I always enjoy playing, whether it’s before ten people or 10,000. And I don’t
even care if they boo, as long as it isn’t out of key.
“I don’t try to move an audience—it’s up to them what they get from the music.
If they have paid to see us then we are going to do our thing.
“If we add a bit of the trampoline side of entertainment then that is a fringe ben-
efit but we are there to play music. If we stand up there all night and play our best
and they don’t dig it, then they just don’t dig us and that’s all there is to it.”
Jimi is rather underrated as a songwriter—the imagery of the lyric of “The Wind
Cries Mary,” for example, could not have been written by anyone else.
“I’ve not written too many heavy things recently,” he told me. “Most of what
I have done will come out on the next LP in the late summer. I don’t try to make a
thing about my songs when I put them on record. I try to make them honest and
there doesn’t seem too much point in talking about them.
“The people who listen to them are the ones who will know whether they are
successful or not.”
One of the things Jimi seems to be cutting out of his personal appearances is
playing guitar with his teeth.
“The idea of doing that came to me in a town in Tennessee,” he recalled. “Down
there you have to play with your teeth or else you get shot. There’s a trail of broken
teeth all over the stage.
“It was another way of letting out things and you have to know what you are
doing or you might hurt yourself. The trouble was audiences took it as something
they must see or they don’t enjoy the show. So I don’t do it much any more. We don’t
do too much of anything any more, except play music.”
Jimi says it is usually the lyrics that attract him to a song.
“Maybe a lyric has only five words and the music takes care of the rest,” he
said. “I don’t mean my lyrics to be clever. What I want is for people to listen to the
music and words together, as one thing. Sometimes you get wrapped up in the
words and forget the music—in that case I don’t think the song can be completely
successful.
“Generally, I don’t do other people’s songs unless they really say something to
me.”
Jimi laughed when I said I thought I could detect church music influences in
some of his things.
“Spiritual music, maybe,” he said. “But if you say you are playing electric church
music people go ‘gasp, gasp’ or ‘exclaim, exclaim.’
“The word church is too identified with religion and music is my religion.
Jesus shouldn’t have died so early and then he could have got twice as much
across.
“They killed him and then twisted so many of the best things he said. Human
hands started messing it all up and now so much of religion is hogswash.
“So much of it is negative—Thou Shalt Not. Look at sex. It’s been screwed
around so much I’m surprised babies are still being born.
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to stop people going to church. But as long
as I’m not hurting anybody else I don’t see why they should tell me how to live and
what to do.”
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240 The 1960s
Further Reading
Chenoweth, Lawrence. “The Rhetoric of Hope and Despair: A Study of the Jimi Hendrix
Experience and the Jefferson Airplane.” American Quarterly 23 (1971): 25–45.
Cross, Charles R. Room Full of Mirrors: A Biography of Jimi Hendrix. New York: Hyperion, 2005.
Hendrix, Jimi, and Steven Roby. Hendrix on Hendrix: Interviews and Encounters with Jimi Hen-
drix. Chicago, Ill: Chicago Review Press, 2012.
Murray, Charles Shaar. Crosstown Traffic: Jimi Hendrix and the Post-War Rock ‘N’ Roll Revolu-
tion. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1991.
Zak, Albin J., III. “Bob Dylan and Jimi Hendrix: Juxtaposition and Transformation: ‘All along
the Watchtower.’” Journal of the American Musicological Society 57 (2004): 599–644.
Discography
The Jimi Hendrix Experience. Are You Experienced. Track Records, 1967.
_______. Axis: Bold as Love. Track Records, 1967.
_______. Electric Ladyland. Reprise, 1968.
_______. Band of Gypsies. Capitol, 1970.
43. Rock Meets the Avant-Garde

FR A NK Z A PPA
Frank Zappa’s (1940–93) persona presents an imposing conundrum:

immensely talented and witty to his fans, unbearably obnoxious to his
detractors. After involvement in a diverse range of musical activities and
genres, Zappa formed the Mothers of Invention, signed a recording con-
tract with Verve Records (known primarily as a jazz label), and recorded
Freak Out! (released in August 1966), one of the first, if not the first,
album to be organized around a concept, rather than simply presenting
an assemblage of songs (the other contender for this distinction is the
Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds, released in May 1966). Freak Out! was also one
of the first rock albums to feature classical avant-garde approaches to
composition, electronics, and sound—in fact, even describing the album
as “rock” demonstrates the breadth of that generic label. Other artists,
primarily the Beatles, received more attention for their incorporation of
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Rock Meets the Avant-Garde 241
such techniques, primarily because their music was heard by a larger
audience, but none pursued the use of such experimentation within a
rock context as zealously as Zappa.
Zappa’s use of parody also stands out in the context of the time:
he seemed simultaneously to belong to the counterculture and to mock
it. Although it is doubtful that a figure like Zappa could have emerged
at any other time and found an audience even as large as the one he
had (meaning that he owed something to the social context of the time,
and, hence, to the counterculture), the parodic aspects of his music and
his separation from the counterculture became more obvious with the
release of successive albums. His incorporation of an avant-garde clas-
sical performance approach also became more aggressive over time, as
did his guitar pyrotechnics. While not really part of the (mostly British)
progressive- or art-rock genre per se, Zappa’s concern with integrating
art music approaches to rock overlaps to some extent with that of such
progressive rock bands as King Crimson and Yes.
This 1968 article captures Frank Zappa’s role in his band, the Mothers
of Invention, as analogous to that of a conductor of a classical music
ensemble and comments upon and provides examples of Zappa’s ironic
verbal style. The description of Zappa as a modernist is apt, particularly
with regard to his disdain of the audience; his attitude seems to per-
sonify the modernist credo—“if it’s popular, it must be bad.” Neverthe-
less, the tone of general approval in the article reveals the increasing
acceptance of such high-art notions within the public discourse of rock
music. At this moment, the rock audience, writ large, was understood to
have room for highly intellectualized parodies of itself.
Zappa and the Mothers: Ugly Can Be Beautiful

Sally Kempton
It is 1 a.m. on a Friday night and the Mothers of Invention are recording part of the
soundtrack for their forthcoming movie. Ian is playing the harpsichord and Bunk is
playing the flute. They huddle together in a cluster of microphones, Bunk leaning
over Ian’s shoulder to read the music propped up on the harpsichord stand. Bunk
wears a goatee and a matching moustache, and his long thick hair is gray (in the stu-
dio light it looks like a powered [sic] wig). Resembling a figure in an old etching, he
bends closer to Ian, his flute poised, and Ian straightens his back and places his fin-
gers on the harpsichord keys. Poised like musicians at a nineteenth-century musicale,
they wait for a signal to begin. One feels they are waiting to play a Mozart sonata.
Inside the control booth Frank Zappa, wearing a T-shirt bearing the legend
“Herzl Camp, Garner, Wisconsin,” is fiddling with knobs on the control board.
Source: Sally Kempton, “Zappa and the Mothers: Ugly Can Be Beautiful,” Village Voice, January 11,
1968, pp. 1, 10. Reprinted here with permission of Sally Kempton.
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242 The 1960s
“You’re going to have to do the parody notes more staccato, Ian,” he says through
the intercom.
“You want a little bebop vibrato on that too?” calls Ian.
“Yeah, a little bebop a go go,” says Frank. Dick Cunk, the engineer, flips the
“record” switch.
“OK, for fame and stardom,” says Frank. “You ready?”
Ian and Bunk begin to play a series of dissonant, rhythmic, oddly beautiful
chords. The people in the control booth listen intently.
“This is going to be a nice soundtrack,” someone says.
Frank Zappa is bent over a music sheet, writing out the next piece. “Yeah,” he
says. “This is one the folks can enjoy listening to at home.”
Frank Zappa is an ironist. He is also a serious composer, a social satirist, a pro-
moter, a recording genius, but his most striking characteristic is his irony. Irony per-
meates his music, which is riddled with parodies of Charles Ives and Guy Lombardo,
of Bartók and the Penguins and Bo Diddley and Ravel and Archie Shepp and Stravin-
sky and a whole army of obscure fifties rhythm and blues singers. It permeates his
lyrics, which are filled with outlandish sexual metaphors and evocations of the cul-
ture of the American high school and the American hippie.
Irony is the basis of his public image. In pursuit of absurdity he has had him-
self photographed sitting naked on the toilet. His latest album is titled We’re Only
in It for the Money. And he has appeared on television speaking in well-rounded
periods about music and society and The Scene, all the while emanating a kind of
inspired freakishness. Zappa’s is the sort of irony which arises from an immense self-
consciousness, a distrust of one’s own seriousness. It is the most modernist of defense
mechanisms, and Zappa is an almost prototypically modernist figure; there are
moments when he seems to be living out a parody of the contemporary sensibility.
And now he and his group are teenage idols, or anti-idols, and Zappa’s irony,
which, because it is so often expressed through contemporary clichés, is the most
accessible part of his musical idiom, turns on audiences and makes the Mothers, in
addition to everything else, a splendid comedy act. Until recently Zappa’s voice,
the paradigm California voice, could be heard on the radio doing “greasy teen-age
commercials” for Hagstrom Guitars. During the Mothers’ live appearances he sits
on a stool, his expression deadpan above his bandillero moustache, and occasionally
he will lean over and spit on the floor under the bandstand, saying to the audience:
“Pigs!”
“Actually, we don’t turn on audiences,” he said the other day. “Not in the sense
that other groups do, anyway. I think of that sort of thing as the strobes going and
everybody dancing and love-rock-at-the-Fillmore bullshit—if anybody felt like that
about us it’d be for the wrong reasons. Last week we were playing in Philadelphia
and we got seven requests, so we played them all at once. It was fantastic. Sherwood
was playing the sax part to one song: the whole thing, even the rests. It was really
great. But nobody knew what we were playing. They couldn’t even tell the songs
apart. Half the time, when we’re really doing something, the audience doesn’t know
what it is. Sometimes the guys in the band don’t know.”
But the Mothers’ first album sold a quarter of a million copies and the second has
done almost as well. And when they played a long stretch at the Garrick last sum-
mer they were beset by loyal groupies. Perhaps the groupies sensed the presence of a
governing intelligence, perhaps they simply dug perversity. In any case, the Mothers
have an audience.
Frank Zappa is twenty-seven years old. He was born in Baltimore and began
playing drums in a rock-and-roll band in Sacramento when he was fifteen.
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Rock Meets the Avant-Garde 243
“It’s almost impossible to convey what the r and b scene was like in Sacra-
mento,” he says. “There were gangs there, and every gang was loyal to a particular
band. They weren’t called groups, they were called bands. They were mostly Negro
and Mexican, and they tried to get the baddest sound they could. It was very impor-
tant not to sound like jazz. And there was a real oral tradition of music. Everybody
played the same songs, with the same arrangements, and they tried to play as close
as possible to the original record. But the thing was that half the time the guys in the
band had never heard the record—somebody’s older brother would own the record,
and the kid would memorize it and teach it to everybody else. At one point all the
bands in Sacramento were playing the same arrangement of ‘Okey Dokey Stomp’ by
Clarence Gatemouth Brown. The amazing thing was that it sounded almost note for
note like the record.”
Zappa was lying in bed, eating breakfast and playing with his three-month-old
baby. He lives with his wife, Gail, and the baby, in a long basement apartment in the
West Village. The apartment has a garden and its walls are papered with posters and
music sheets and clippings from magazines; there is a full-length poster of Frank in
the hall and a rocking chair in the living room with a crocheted cover that says “Why,
what pigs?”
Frank was in bed because he had been up all night before, recording. “The reason
I can stand New York is because I spend all my time here or at the studio,” he said.
“Mostly at the studio,” said his wife, smiling.
“Let’s see, my life,” he said. “Well, when I was sixteen my father moved us to
a little town out in the country. That was terrible, I hated it. I was used to Sacra-
mento, you see. I was the strangest thing that ever hit that high school. They were
so anxious to get rid of me they even gave me a couple of awards when I gradu-
ated. After that my father wanted me to go to college. I said no, I was interested in
music, I didn’t want to go to college. So I hung out at home for awhile, but there was
nobody to talk to, everybody else being at college, so I finally decided I should go
too. That was very ugly. I stayed for a year. In the meantime I had shacked up with
this girl and married her. We stayed married for five years during which time I held
a number of jobs” (he listed the jobs). “Then in 1963 we were living in Cucamonga
and there was a recording studio there which I bought for $1000, also assuming the
former owner’s debts. He had hundreds of tapes, among them such big hits as” (he
named three or four obscure songs) “and I took the tapes and the equipment and
began fooling around. About that time I got divorced and moved into the studio.
I spent all my time experimenting; a lot of stuff the Mothers do was worked out
there.”
A year later the studio was torn down to make room for a widened road, but by
that time he had gotten the Mothers together. “We were playing at local beer joints
for like six dollars a night. I finally decided this would not do, so I began calling up
all the clubs in the area. This was in 1965, and to get work you had to sound like the
Beatles or the Rolling Stones. You also had to have long hair and due to an unfortu-
nate circumstance all my hair had been cut off. I used to tell club managers that we
sounded exactly like the Rolling Stones. Anyway we finally got a booking in a club
in Pomona, and were something of a hit. It was more because of our act than because
of our music. People used to go away and tell their friends that here was this group
that insulted the audience.
“Then M-G-M sent someone around to sign us to a contract. Their guy came into
the club during a set of ‘Brain Police’ and he said, ‘Aha, a protest rhythm and blues
group,’ so they paid us accordingly. The fee we got for signing was incredibly small,
particularly considering the number of guys in the group.”
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244 The 1960s
Nowadays, of course, Zappa runs something of an empire. He has an advertis-
ing agency (“mostly to push our own products, at least so far”), and a movie coming
out which someone else shot but for which they are going to do the soundtrack. The
movie is a surrealistic documentary called “Uncle Meat”; it is shot in a style Zappa
refers to as “hand-held Pennebaker bullshit,” and it will be edited to fit the music.
“Then we’re going to do a monster movie in Japan—Japan is where they do the
best monster work. And we’re starting our own record company. We’ll record our
own stuff and also some obscure new groups.”
It was time for him to go to the studio. The Mothers have rented Apostolic
Studios on Tenth Street for the entire month of January. “One hundred and eighty
hours—not as much time as the Beatles use, of course, we can’t afford that”—and
that is where Zappa spends most of his time. He puts on a brown leather greatcoat,
pulls a red knitted cap over his ears, and sets out, talking about his music as he
walks.
“Stockhausen isn’t really an influence,” he says. “That is, I have some of his
records but I don’t play them much. Cage is a big influence. We’ve done a thing with
voices, with talking that is very like one of his pieces, except that of course in our
piece the guys are talking about working in an airplane factory, or their cars.
“It was very tough getting the group together in the beginning. A lot of guys
didn’t want to submit to our packaging. They didn’t like making themselves ugly,
but they especially didn’t like playing ugly. It’s hard getting a musician to play ugly,
it contradicts all his training. It’s hard to make them understand that all that ugliness
taken together can come out sounding quite beautiful.”
The studio, when he arrived, was nearly deserted, except for Mother Don Pres-
ton, who sat at the organ wearing earphones and playing a piece audible only to
himself. “Can you run a playback on the violins?” he asked when Frank came in.
“Sure,” said Frank. “We recorded this thing last night. I found some violins in
a closet and I gave them to three of the guys. None of them had ever played a violin
before. They were making all these weird sounds on them, and then in the middle I
got them to add some farts. It’s a concerto for farts and violins.”
But instead of playing back the violin thing, Dick put on a tape of “Lumpy
Gravy,” one of the Mothers’ new records, an instrumental piece, framed at the begin-
ning and end with cocktail music, and interspersed with quiet, hollow, surreal voices
talking behind a continuous hum of resonating piano strings. The music has over-
tones of Bartòk and Ives, but by some stylistic alchemy it ends by sounding like
nothing but Zappa. It is an impressive record. Three or four people had drifted into
the control room while it was playing, and after it was over someone said, “I love
that piece.”
“Yeah, but will the kids go for it,” said Frank.
“It’s good to have it out,” said Don, “so people will know what you can do.”
“No, no,” Frank said. “It’s good to have it out so I can take it home and listen to it.”
Further Reading
Ashby, Arved. “Frank Zappa and the Anti-Fetishist Orchestra.” The Musical Quarterly 83
(1999): 557–606.
Carr, Paul. Frank Zappa and the And. Farnham, Surrey, UK England ; Burlington, Vt.: Ashgate
Publishing, 2013.
Kostelanetz, Richard. The Frank Zappa Companion: Four Decades of Commentary. New York:
Schirmer Books, 1997.
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Festivals—The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly 245
Lowe, Kelly Fisher. The Words and Music of Frank Zappa. Westport, Conn.: Praeger, 2006.
Watson, Ben. Frank Zappa: The Negative Dialectics of Poodle Play. New York: St. Martin’s Press,
1995.
Wragg, David. “‘Or Any Art at All?’ Frank Zappa Meets Critical Theory.” Popular Music 20
(2001): 205–22.
Discography
The Mothers of Invention. Freak Out! Verve, 1966.
Zappa, Frank, and the Mothers of Invention. Lumpy Gravy. Verve, 1967.
_______. We’re Only in It for the Money. Verve, 1968.
_______. Weasels Ripped My Flesh. Bizarre Records, 1973.
44. Festivals—The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly
While stadium concerts featuring several bands had occurred since

at least 1964, the Monterey Pop Festival in the summer of 1967 inau-
gurated a new era in which a rock festival spanned several days and
somehow managed to connote anti-materialism within what were still
basically capitalist enterprises. The decade ended with two major fes-
tivals. Woodstock, held in August 1969, was widely viewed as a suc-
cessful event by the national media and attendance became a kind of
retroactive litmus test for hipness. The idea of “Woodstock Nation”
gained widespread currency among hippies and media observers and
became a metonym for the “new age” of peace and love that many
hoped the change in lifestyles would bring.
Less than four months later, however, the Altamont festival (actu-
ally a one-day event) brought such fantasies to a crashing halt. Orga-
nized at the behest of the Rolling Stones as the finale of their tour late
in 1969, the concert took place near the San Francisco Bay Area and fea-
tured local bands such as the Jefferson Airplane and Santana. The Hell’s
Angels were hired as security and were at least partially responsible
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246 The 1960s
for the feelings of paranoia that many audience members remember as
characterizing the event.1
Some of the most thoughtful accounts of Woodstock discuss the contra-

dictions between the peace-and-love ethos projected by the event and
the effort required by entrepreneurs to produce that effect. At the same
time, few writers could resist an optimistic interpretation of Woodstock,
still believing in the “reality of a new culture of opposition” that was basi-
cally anti-materialist.2 Mike Jahn’s article, published some 10 months
after the festival, did manage to resist a positive narrative, emphasiz-
ing (in an ironic tone that displays the influence of New Journalism) its
difference over the stories that would come to dominate subsequent
coverage. The retroactive accounts (especially the Woodstock movie and
three-LP album) stressed the high quality of the music and the commu-
nal atmosphere pervading the event. Jahn, on the other hand, describes
the tedium of long waits, unpassable roads, the absence of food and
toilets, the contrast between the experience of the performers and the
audience, and the culpability of the promoters. Although Jahn is critical
of the subsequent myths that came to be associated with Woodstock,
he strongly implies that the ability of the audience to tolerate the dif-
ficult conditions might give a small amount of credibility to the idea that
Woodstock was about “the peace and the freedom to explore. . . . [and]
that incredible good feeling that existed in the mud.”
Recollected in Tranquility: Woodstock

Mike Jahn
In August 1969 we pulled into Woodstock, feeling about half-past dead. I had to go
there and write about three days of love, peace and rock and roll music for The New
1. It is interesting to compare the films from all three of these events: Monterey Pop and Wood-
stock both seem in sympathy with the hippy milieu. Woodstock, in particular, coordinated as it was
with the release of a triple-album (perhaps the first of its kind), ran over three hours in length,
meaning that consumption of both album and movie required feats of endurance similar to those
needed to survive the original event. Gimme Shelter, on the other hand, is a different story alto-
gether: begun as a documentary of the Rolling Stones “triumphal” 1969 American tour as the
“greatest rock ‘n’ roll band in the world” (now that the Beatles were no longer touring), the har-
rowing footage of Altamont turns the movie into a tragedy.
2. See Andrew Kopkind, “Woodstock Nation,” in Jonathan Eisen (ed.), The Age of Rock 2: Sights
and Sounds of the American Cultural Revolution (New York: Random House, 1970), pp. 312–18.
Originally published in Hard Times in 1969. For an exception to these optimistic accounts, see J. R.
Young’s entertaining fictional review, “Record Review of Woodstock (Cotillion SD 3-500), Rolling
Stone (July 9, 1970).
Source: Mike Jahn, “Recollected in Tranquility: Woodstock,” Music & Artists, June 1970. Reprinted
bra43588_pt03_125-252.indd 246 05/27/19 05:02 PM

York Times. My friend, Richard, was with me, and my wife, Catherine and the dog,
Marcellus (after Cassius Marcellus Clay). Marcellus was my introduction to rock
criticism a few years ago when he made friends with critic Richard Goldstein’s dog,
Jerome, in Riverside Park. The fact that the two of us have German Shepherds prob-
ably says more about the art of criticism than anything Kenneth Tynan has ever put
on paper. Anyway, Marcellus was responsible for my considering a career in rock
and roll writing, so we felt we should bring him along to this epic.
We rented an Avis car and left New York on the Friday the festival was to begin.
Smart. Going to get there early. The Woodstock Music and Art Fair didn’t start until
four in the afternoon. We left at 10 in the morning. Wise guys. We could have walked.
We got to Monticello, which is where we had reservations in a motel. We got there
at two. Decided to eat supper before we went. There was no traffic, and it was only
seven miles to White Lake, where the festival site was. No traffic at all.
We went to a Place called D’s, which is a small-town businessmen’s luncheon
type restaurant. London broil. . . . after that the closest we came to food was the stale
hot dogs one member of the love and peace phenomenon was selling for 50¢ each.
We stuck Marcellus in the room. We looked at the carpet and the expensive bed-
spreads, then gave him a doggie tranquilizer so he would sleep and put him in the
bathroom. We went to sleep. We left for the site at 3 p.m. Smart, they left early and
didn’t see any traffic. We spent the next nine hours driving down the seven miles of
Route 17B to the festival site.
The traffic moved so slowly most people just left their cars on the side of the road
and walked. The crawling traffic was fused with lines of people walking with sacks;
jumping on top of cars during those rare and beautiful moments when the traffic
started to move. Overhead a small plane trailed a banner reading “Peace” and giving
the name of a Brooklyn boutique. Two girls with aprons were walking in and around
the cars selling copies of The Village Voice.
A small shack by the side of the road used to be a snack bar. A worn sign
said “submarines, 50”. If the place was still in business it would have been $3.00.
Behind us was a sports car without a top. When it started to rain about 8 p.m. they
hoisted a large umbrella and the four people huddled under it. A roadside bar
showed a large banner reading “Welcome Aquarians”. Everywhere you went, this
kind of hospitality. All the local store owners loved the kids. Two guys were playing
football with people in and on the cars. A Volkswagen tried to go along the right
shoulder. It rolled over but was back up again within 30 seconds when dozens of
kids ran over to help.
In a situation like this, a traffic jam became another excuse for a party. There is
a lot of togetherness among the presence of a common enemy, in this case the street.
A car with a California license plate had a girl sleeping in its cartop luggage rack.
You would not have been surprised if she was there all the way from San Jose. A
gas station owner painted a peace symbol next to his Quaker State Motor Oil sign.
The people on the street turned their motors off and after a while they turned to
each other and, before the traffic jam had been going two or three hours, all of Route
17B between Monticello and White Lake, N.Y., was a big party. We made it to the
entrance around midnight.
This was a narrow country road called Hurd Street. We turned on to it, out of
the main traffic stream. A cop stopped us to look for press credentials, saw the press
sticker and let us through. As soon as we turned onto Hurd Street there were a dozen
people on top of the car. They stayed with us while we drove through the rain and
the bodies slogging through it. Hurd Street was choked with people and knapsacks.
There were no lights, except those on the car and the occasional flashlights.
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248 The 1960s
On either side of the road was ten yards of grass, then weeds. All along the road,
which is maybe a mile long, were campsites. Tents rose like soggy boulders, fires in
them and people trying very hard to cook things in the rain. We couldn’t drive any
faster than the crowd was walking, so we just idled along with the stream of people.
It was like Napoleon’s retreat from Russia, I wrote in my blue notebook right after the
section describing Elvis Presley in Las Vegas. The people were tramping on, wet and
resigned to some fate or another. We drove with them, feeling alternately arrogant
and embarrassed about our air-conditioned car. We pulled into the press parking
lot. This was a field, a small one which had been taken over by campers. We parked
next to two couples in sleeping bags with a little fire. The rain was now just a drizzle.
We went looking for the place where you get press credentials. There is no such
thing, we were told after being sent to four different places. The people were coming
in small clumps. We walked over a ridge and looked over the natural amphitheater
that held the stage and those people who could hear the music. It was well after mid-
night. There was nobody on stage then. You couldn’t approach the stage anyway,
the amphitheater was the size of a large baseball stadium, but filled with mud and
manure and people sitting in it on blankets.
It was really deep. The rain, the people sitting around fires. Another idea; if
not Napoleon’s retreat from Russia, then the aftermath of the Battle of Gettysburg.
It was a spectacular, no doubt. In the rain and the misery I looked at the stage and
wondered when Charlton Heston was going to walk out with his arms raised. Little
pathetic trails of smoke rose from the campfires. We walked around for an hour. I
didn’t have to file a story until three the next afternoon or thereabouts. Fifteen hours.
Well, this night is over. There are no communications out of the festival site, I
was told. Back to the motel and then to find someone to yell at. We got the car and
started back. We couldn’t back it up because of a slight lip on the edge of the field,
so we drove straight out and through the field between sleeping bodies and tents
and crashed onto Hurd Street, horn blaring and lights flashing. We bounced over the
lip onto the road. People scattered, then swallowed us again. Another dozen people
boarded the car, and we drove back. We got back to 17B, waved at the cop, and
turned back toward Monticello. We got two miles and were stopped for good. What
before was a party had turned, at two in the morning, into a massive bunk. People
slept in their cars, on their cars, under cars and all over the road. All four lanes were
blocked with abandoned cars. We sat there for a long time. Then at four in the morn-
ing we remembered Marcellus, abandoned our car by the side of the road and started
walking. It took us three hours to walk back to the motel.
Marcellus came bouncing out. We looked in the bathroom. Apparently he woke
up from the tranquilizers and thought the bathroom was Jerome. He pulled a wall
heater off the wall, and mauled everything else within sight. Lovely. Catherine went
to bed. Richard went to his room, and I sat up for a while and listened to a man on
a local radio station discussing the disaster called The Woodstock Music and Art Fair.
Three days of peace, love and music. I really need this. I left my nice apartment in
New York City with visions of running through country fields with the sound of
nice, fresh music bouncing through the country air. I would rather be back home sit-
ting downwind of a Con Edison smokestack.
I went to sleep at nine a.m. The Times woke me up at noon. Filed a story by 2:30,
spent half an hour on the phone yelling at the Festival’s press agents, and Richard
and I took a cab to Liberty, a town on the other side of the site. Most of the groups at
the festival were staying at the Holiday Inn at Liberty. They were getting to the site
by two routes: helicopter from a small airport adjoining Grossinger’s; and limousine
caravan guided through back roads by local men. We got on one of the caravans with
bra43588_pt03_125-252.indd 248 05/27/19 05:02 PM

The Who, Sly and The Family Stone, and Country Joe & the Fish’s bassist. We got
there about six, five cars trailing behind a local auxiliary cop who led us in behind his
Corvair (red light flashing). Peter Townshend is probably writing a song about this,
it occurred to me at the time.
We sneaked in through back roads that very few people apparently knew about.
There were few people along the road. Only when we got within a few hundred
yards of The Site (they began referring to the festival grounds as The Site, it made
the whole thing more mystical and military; “did you get to The Site today?”), only
when we got close to the site did crowds appear. There were some camped around
the edges of the cow pastures there, but relatively few. The lucky few, as it turned
out, were probably the only ones to camp on grass, as opposed to mud.
We slid through the mud-covered celebrity parking lot and were let out next to
a grotesque tall tent formed by throwing a huge canvas on top of a 50-foot-high con-
struction of tree trunks. This was the stars’ lunchroom; as it turned out it was their
portable Scene, where they griped away the hours before and after their appearances
(the poor transportation made them have to wait hours for rides; The Who got to the
site about eight hours before they went onstage). We spent most of our time there.
The press section, right in front of the stage, was crowded with paparazzi. These
are very important photographers; the ones who try to establish a reputation by tak-
ing pictures of rock groups. These people were filling the press section, fumbling
over each other to see who would get closest to Grace Slick or Janis Joplin. I went
in there once, at its most-crowded moment, and didn’t see one working press in the
place.
I spent that evening walking around in the crowd on the rim of the a mphitheater,
or sitting backstage drinking coffee and talking. There was a fence around the area
to separate the stars from their public. On one side, a hill sloped down into the
natural amphitheater. Beyond two fences you could see the stage and most of the
50,000-60,000 people who were within listening distance. To the other side, the hill
continued up to the hospital tent. Near it, helicopters came and went constantly,
some bringing medical supplies and some musicians. We walked up there one
time to see what was going on. A roomful of people on cots was attended by two
doctors and four or five nurses. In another room of the tent, local women were
making food. A huge table was covered with clothes donated by local people. The
call had gone out for used clothing, and people went to stores and bought new
clothing and sent the clothing to the site. A pile of clothes still with the tags on.
The clothing, wasn’t, at that time anyway, being used. This was just one of the
immaculate contradictions presented at the festival. The other was food; the half-
million people couldn’t get food. They lived on stale hamburgers and cokes. The
food situation for them was really bad. At the musicians’ tent they were making ice
cream sundaes. To order. With real whipped cream in big metal cans like they used
to have at The Dugout where I went as a kid. And they had cases of beer.
A lot of musicians have lost contact with things like beer as a result of the drug
age. Most of the time, beer was all they had to drink. And also, remember the jokes
about the sadist who throws a beer party and then locks the bathroom door? The
celebrities’ bathroom consisted of a two-room (male and female) affair built into a
trailer. The sanitary facilities would disgust a cockroach. Three days of love, peace &
music . . . We stayed at the site and listened to the acts until three a.m. Sunday, when
we decided to try to rescue the car.
We left the celebrity area to the celebrities, went out of the backstage area and
up around the rim of the amphitheater. Around the rim of this stadium-sized natu-
ral amphitheater were the connecting dirt roads that had been taken over by the
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250 The 1960s
ever-moving mass of muddied and soggy people. We walked out then. The rain had
slowed to a drizzle. As we reached the highest point of the site area, directly uphill
from the stage, Sly and The Family Stone were finishing their set. This was the beauty
and the peace that they have been talking about ever since.
Sly was playing his very happy and funky soul music and everybody was on
their feet. Everybody in the amphitheater, about 50,000, were standing and danc-
ing or just bouncing up and down.  It was beautiful. He came onstage at exactly
the right moment. Everybody was dancing together. A few people had lit sparklers
and tossed them high into the air each time Sly yelled “higher!” as part of a song.
I put this in my review and Time magazine called Sly’s record company to get
the words of the song. Curious people, these flower children and their drugs! But
it was beautiful. People really felt together. They walked and stood and hugged
together and it was good. I felt like crying. It was very beautiful, at that moment,
very beautiful. We walked out of the main entrance, slogged down Hurd Street
with everyone else, and walked three or four miles down the road to where we
had left the car.
The Times sent reinforcements as soon as The Woodstock Music and Art Fair
showed signs of being more than just another rock concert. Their coverage turned
out to be the fairest, most accurate reportage I have ever seen of an event concern-
ing masses of kids. I woke up at noon Sunday after another three-hour sleep and
sent them 750 snappy words reviewing Saturday’s concerts. Most of the review was
about Sly’s coup of the night before, but some of it was given to a negative review of
Janis Joplin’s backup band. [. . . .]
I thought about the news reports. Drugs rampant, some sex and a good deal of
nudity. This all was true. Rock music, mud, rain, sleeping on blankets and in trees
and under cars parked in the middle of Route 17B. This also was true. Drug use was
fairly heavy, and although there supposedly were 3,000 bad trips, that’s not such a
large number out of a population of 500,000 stoned groovers. There was a good deal
of nudity. Also the distinct impression that the best looking people were not the ones
without clothes. But though some of the choicer vices were explored at will, I felt
there was less actual freedom than fascination with the availability of freedom. We
can if we want to, and that’s enough. Good God Almighty, free at last! There seemed
to be more contact highs, ecstasy that just hangs in the air rather than being passed
chemically or physically, there seemed to be more contact highs than real highs. A
lot of the after-talk was bragging, like kids used to talk about how drunk they got
the night before. There was a lot of genuinely human emotion, and lovely shared
moments, both tragic and happy.
In light of all the real things that were happening, it is interesting that Wood-
stock, the film about the festival, served only to solidify and perpetuate the myths.
As a documentary, it’s terrible. Almost nothing happened the way it’s depicted in
the film. The film chose to live off the love, peace, eternal beauty, hopes and fan-
tasies of Woodstock Nation, rather than explore its human struggles. It also went to
great lengths to avoid criticism of the concert promoters. If nothing else, Michael
Wadleigh, who produced Woodstock, has shown that you do not have to be in Hol-
lywood to make a Hollywood movie.
At midnight I phoned in a new beginning for Monday’s review. At 10 in the
morning, as Hendrix wound up his set by playing a psychedelic version of the
national anthem, Richard and I got into a station wagon and were driven out. We
were all tired and over-adrenalined from lack of sleep, and we wanted to beat the
crowds out. The New York State Thruway, we were warned, would be packed all the
way down to Manhattan because of this. I phoned in the review and we left.
bra43588_pt03_125-252.indd 250 05/27/19 05:02 PM

When we finally escaped in the last official car out we were driving down a
small country road under trees and an elderly farmer, who actually was standing by
the side of the road with a hoe, or shovel, or something like that, this elderly farmer
showed us the “V.” What is going on here? It was true, about the peace and the free-
dom to explore. It was true that incredible good feeling existed in the mud. We have
to sit in the mud and we can’t eat and people are giving out bad drugs and there is no
place to go to the bathroom except on the ground, and the ground is our bed!
Look what happens to us! Can the Nixon administration control the weather
over White Lake? Was it planned? All we want to do is listen to rock music, which is
our umbilical chord, our connection to each other. All we want to do is listen to rock
and be together and be left alone, and look what happens. It comes down from the
sky! It was such a beautiful weekend. The 10th largest city in the United States, they
called it. The 10th largest city, and there was no crime! No fights! No brawls! There
was a certain problem with the sewer system, but, in general.....Love, peace. . . All
the people in Monticello were talking about how well the kids acted and what bums
the promoters were.
So all we can do is be together. Share our food and ourselves and our misery.
Share our good times when they occur; and when we go back home, share the myth!
Share and keep alive the myth of youth chauvinism, symbolized by three days of
peace, love and rock and roll music at The Woodstock Music and Art Fair.
We drove home through thousands of hitchhikers and scores of “V” signs from
passing cars. We listened to the people being interviewed on the radio about love
and peace; we listened to a rock station. The cool morning air of August, 1969, roared
through the Avis Plymouth. The big song on what used to be called The Lucky Strike
Hit Parade was “Give Peace a Chance,” by the Plastic Ono Band. John Lennon again,
and his peace crusade.
Give peace a chance. A kid in the back of an old panel truck waved at us and
smiled. He was sitting on his pack. The side of his hand where he was making the
“V” had Woodstock mud on it. He looked happy. Give peace a chance. . . I wonder.
Further Reading
Bennett, Andy, ed. Remembering Woodstock. London: Ashgate, 2004.
Eisen, Jonathan, ed. The Age of Rock 2: Sights and Sounds of the American Cultural Revolution.
New York: Random House, 1970.
Makower, Joel. Woodstock: The Oral History. New York: Doubleday, 1989.
Mayes, Elaine. It Happened in Monterey: Modern Rock’s Defining Moment. London: Britannia
Press, 2002.
Discography
Monterey International Pop Festival. Razor and Tie, 2007.
Woodstock: Music from the Original Soundtrack and More. WEA International, 1970.
Videography
The Complete Monterey Pop Festival. Criterion, 2002.
The Rolling Stones—Gimme Shelter. Criterion, 2000.
Woodstock—3 Days of Peace and Music. Warner Home Video, 1997.
bra43588_pt03_125-252.indd 251 05/27/19 05:02 PM

bra43588_pt03_125-252.indd 252 05/27/19 05:02 PM
PART 4
The 1970s
45. Where Did the Sixties Go?
Histories of popular music often describe the late sixties/early

seventies as a time of “splintering” when the counterculture audi-
ence divided itself among an ever-growing assortment of genres.
According to this view, middle-class, college-educated listeners
gravitated toward singer-songwriters, art rock, and what remained
of improvisation-oriented blues and psychedelic rock, while younger,
middle- and working-class listeners favored heavy-metal and hard
rock. At the same time, top 40 music for early teens grew increas-
ingly disconnected from all of the above, ending the brief convergence
of the most experimental rock and soul with mainstream pop. Such
generalizations are true up to a point, but they obscure divisions that
already existed as well as commonalities that persisted. Earlier large-
scale divisions between and within white pop, black pop, and country
continued, but in new forms, while fissures appeared in the critical
firmament. New bands such as Led Zeppelin, for example, appealed to
many readers of Rolling Stone, but elicited the approbation of critics
on Rolling Stone’s staff.
The music industry did seem to recover from its bewildered
response to the anarchic eclecticism that had reigned between
1965 and 1969. Top 40 radio more and more featured bubblegum
groups and one-off novelties while some of the most challenging funk,
soul, and rock faded from mass circulation. This is not to say that all one
could hear on Top 40 were the Archies, the Partridge Family, and the
1910 F ruitgum Company: hits by Aretha Franklin, James Brown, Sly and
the Family Stone, Santana, the Rolling Stones, Janis Joplin, and many
others still were played heavily for several years into the seventies.
Nevertheless, the playlists of soul radio, FM progressive, and AM top
40 diverged d
uring this period. “Easy Listening” pop, the holdover from
253
bra43588_pt04_253-356.indd 253 05/24/19 03:22 PM

254 The 1970s
pre-rock ‘n’ roll popular music, continued to fade although chestnuts
such as “Theme from Love Story” by Andy Williams (from 1971) surfaced
occasionally.
While many saw the end of the sixties as representing the end of
the counterculture, quite a few of the musical predilections of the late
sixties continued. Bands such as the Beatles (and the solo efforts of
former Beatles once the band split up), the Band, the Grateful Dead,
Led Zeppelin, the Allman Brothers, Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young, and
many others shared an emphasis on technical virtuosity, and either
formal complexity or improvisational ability (or both), while featuring
lyrics that displayed psychedelic influences and expressed utopian sen-
timents. Although all these bands might—only a short time later—have
been categorized according to different genres, this wasn’t necessarily
apparent to listeners at the beginning of the seventies.
The continuities between the late sixties and early seventies illus-
trate the difficulties with periodization schemes organized by decades.
When thinking of that cultural-historical moment known as “the sixties”
in terms of how the subculture of white, Western youth usually referred
to as “hippies” intersected with larger political and economic patterns,
a strong case can be made for the persistence of “the sixties” until 1972
or 1973. In this scheme, the end of the sixties is marked by (take your
pick) the failed U. S. presidential campaign of George McGovern, the oil
crisis of 1973, the Watergate scandal of 1973–74, or the re-consolidation
of the recording industry. The musical analogy of these various crises
and scandals was the near banishment of hard funk and deep soul to
black radio, and of countercultural rock to “progressive” FM by the mid-
seventies.
The continuing and almost subliminal emphasis on technique derived

from “high art” music within many evolving genres of rock music forms
a large part of the context for the excerpt by Lester Bangs included
here, first published in 1970. Bangs advances an aesthetic similar to
that advanced by Richard Goldstein and other critics in the late 1960s,
one that opposes the virtues of rock ‘n’ roll to those of “artiness.” For
Bangs, the artless simplicity of Iggy and the Stooges represents an anti-
dote to the pretentiousness of the “heavy” rock bands, with the Stooges’
music synthesizing desirable qualities taken from both free jazz and the
garage bands of the mid-sixties, both of which Bangs applauds for their
acceptance and creative use of noise. A particularly influential aspect
of this account is how the Velvet Underground emerges as an important
link between the proto-punk of the sixties and the Stooges. Both free
jazz and the Velvet Underground (and hence the Stooges) reveal affini-
ties for the New York avant-garde aesthetic of the sixties, sharing the
avant-garde’s enthusiasm for confronting and shocking the audience.
To support his argument, Bangs presents a synopsis of rock music
from the mid-sixties to 1970 when this article was written. Bangs adds
crucially to previous accounts of a rock aesthetic by enlarging the frame
bra43588_pt04_253-356.indd 254 05/24/19 03:22 PM

Where Did the Sixties Go? 255
of reference to include jazz. He also recognizes the connection between
the influence of ex-folkies and the attitudes of purism and of disdain for
simple rock ‘n’ roll that wielded a large influence over late sixties’ rock.
Bangs became one of the most important theoreticians of punk
rock, and this article serves as an early statement of the values that
found fruition in musical developments of the mid- to late-seventies.
The major forum for the dissemination of Bangs’s views was Creem
magazine, a publication whose aesthetic tone was set primarily by
Bangs and his colleague, Dave Marsh beginning in 1970. Creem draped
its proto-punk philosophy in proletarian garb, appearing as a populist
alternative to Rolling Stone, which largely valued the continuation of a
sixties, countercultural aesthetic. In Creem’s scheme of things, the main
culprits in the decline of rock were Elton John, James Taylor, Led Zeppe-
lin, and Chicago—i.e., bloated, “professional” entertainers.
Of Pop and Pies and Fun

Lester Bangs
The first thing to remember about Stooge music is that it is monotonous and simplis-
tic on purpose, and that within the seemingly circumscribed confines of this fuzz-
feedback territory the Stooges work deftly with musical ideas that may not be highly
sophisticated (God forbid) but are certainly advanced. The stunningly simple two-
chord guitar line mechanically reiterated all through “1969” on their first album, for
instance, is nothing by itself, but within the context of the song it takes on a muted
but very compelling power as an ominous, and yes, in the words of Ed Ward which
were more perceptive (and more of an accolade) than he ever suspected, “mindless”
rhythmic pulsation repeating itself into infinity and providing effective hypnotic
counterpoint to the sullen plaint of Iggy’s words (and incidentally, Ig writes some
of the best throwaway lines in rock, meaning some of the best lines in rock, which is
basically a music meant to be tossed over the shoulder and off the wall: “Now I’m
gonna be twenty-two /I say my-my and-a boo-hoo”—that’s classic—he couldn’t’ve
picked a better line to complete the rhyme if he’d labored into 1970 and threw the
I Ching into the bargain—thank God somebody making rock ‘n’ roll records still
has the good sense, understood by our zoot-jive forefathers but few bloated current
bands, to know when to just throw down a line and let it lie).
Now there’s a song just packed with ideas for you, simplistic and “stupid”
though it may seem and well be. A trained monkey could probably learn to play that
two-chord line underneath, but no monkeys and very few indeed of their cousins
half a dozen rungs up on the evolutionary ladder, the “heavy” white rock bands,
could think of utilizing it in the vivid way it is here, with a simplicity so basic it’s
Source: “Of Pop and Pies and Fun” from PSYCHOTIC REACTIONS AND CARBURETOR DUNG
by Lester Bangs, copyright © 1987 by The Estate of Lester Bangs. Used by permission of Alfred
A. Knopf, an imprint of the Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random
House LLC. All rights reserved.
bra43588_pt04_253-356.indd 255 05/24/19 03:22 PM

256 The 1970s
almost pristine. Seemingly the most obvious thing in the world, I would call it a
stroke of genius at least equal to Question Mark and the Mysterians’ endless one-
finger one-key organ drone behind the choruses of “96 Tears,” which is one of the
greatest rock and roll songs of all time and the real beginning of my story, for it was
indeed a complex chronology, the peculiar machinations of rock ‘n’ roll history from
about 1965 on, which ultimately made the Stooges imperative.
Part Two: Brief History Lesson

I used to hate groups like Question Mark and the Mysterians. They seemed to repre-
sent everything simpleminded and dead-endish about rock in a time when groups
like the Who and the Yardbirds were writing whole new chapters of musical proph-
ecy almost monthly; certainly we’ve never known music more advanced at the time
of its inception than the likes of “I’m a Man,” “Anyway Anyhow Anywhere,” “My
Generation” and “Shapes of Things.” The Yardbirds I especially idolized. Eventually,
though, I wised up to the fact that the Yardbirds for all their greatness would finally
fizzle out in an eclectic morass of confused experiments and bad judgments, and hard-
est of all to learn was that the only spawn possible to them were lumbering sloths like
Led Zeppelin, because the musicians in the Yardbirds were just too good, too accom-
plished and cocky to do anything but fuck up in the aftermath of an experiment that
none of them seemed to understand anyway. And similarly, the Who, erupting with
some of the most trail-blazing music ever waxed, got “good” and arty with subtle
eccentric songs and fine philosophy, a steadily dilating rep, and all this accomplish-
ment sailing them steadily further from the great experiment they’d begun.
So all these beautiful ideas and raw materials were just lying around waiting for
anybody to pick them up and elaborate them further into vast baroque structures
that would retain the primordial rock and roll drive whilst shattering all the accu-
mulated straitjackets of key and time signature which vanguard jazz musicians had
begun to dispose of almost a decade before. By now jazz was in the second stage
of its finest experimental flowering, in that beautiful night of headlong adventure
before the stale trailoff workaday era which has now set in. The Albert Ayler who
is now spooning out quasi-cosmic concept albums cluttered with inept rock ripoffs
and sloppy playing was then exploding with works like Spiritual Unity’s free-flying
Ozark-tinged “Ghosts,” and Archie Shepp had not yet passed from Fire Music into
increasingly virulent Crow-Jim nihilism. Jazz was way out front, clearing a path into
a new era of truly free music, where the only limits were the musician’s own con-
sciousness and imagination, a music that cut across all boundaries yet still made
perfect sense and swung like no music had ever swung before.
Clearly, rock had a lot of catching up to do. We could all see the possibilities
for controlling the distortions of Who/Yardbirds feedback and fuzz for a new free
music that would combine the rambling adventurousness of the new free jazz with
the steady, compelling heartbeat of rock, but the strange part was that nobody with
these ideas seemed to play guitar or any of the necessary instruments, while all the
budding guitarists weaned on Lonnie Mack and Dick Dale and Duane Eddy and
now presumably ready to set out for the unknown were too busy picking up on the
sudden proliferation of borrowed, more accessible forms that came with the sixties
renaissance. Christ, why go fuck with screaming noise when there were Mike Bloom-
field’s and George Harrison’s newest ideas and all that folk rock to woodshed with?
About this time it also began to look like a decided majority of the rising bands
were composed of exfolkies, as opposed to previous waves whose roots had lain in
fifties rock and R&B but never crossed paths with the college mobs of coffee house
banjo-pickers, who almost unanimously, from Kingston Trio frat sweaters to hip
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Baez/Lightnin’ Hopkins “purists,” looked down their noses at that ugly juvenile
noise called rock ‘n’ roll which they all presumed to have grown out of into more
esthetically rewarding tastes (or, in other words, a buncha fuckin’ effete snobs).
Well, I never grew out of liking noise, from Little Richard to Cecil Taylor to John
Cage to the Stooges, so I always liked rock and grabbed hungrily at the Yardbirds/
Who development, expecting great things. Meanwhile, all these folkies who grew out
of the jolly Kennedy era camaraderie of “This Land Is Your Land” singalongs into
grass and increasing alienation were deciding that the rock ‘n’ roll stuff warn’t so
bad: it, not they, was getting better (I’m sure I’m simplifying this a bit, but not much, I
fear, not much). So they got electric guitars and started mixing all the musics stored in
their well-educated little beans up together, and before we knew it we had Art-rock.
Some of the groups that came out of this watershed were among rock’s best ever:
the Byrds, the early Airplane, etc. But the total effect, I think, was to set the experi-
ment begun by those second-string English bands back by at least two years. You kept
listening for something really creative and free to emerge from all the syntheses, but
in the end it mostly just seemed competent and predictable. Raga-rock and other such
phases with marginal potential came and went, and the Byrds did a few far-out but sel-
dom followed-up things like “Eight Miles High,” while the Stones kept on being great
following the trends like the old standbys they had already become. The Airplane
hinted at a truly radical (in the musical sense) evolution in After Bathing at Baxter’s,
but the most advanced statement they could seem to manage was the Sandy Bull-like
standardized electric guitar raga of “Spare Chaynge.” Clearly something was wrong.
Rock soaked up influences like some big sponge and went meandering on, but no
one in the day’s pantheon would really risk it out on the outer-edge tightrope of true
noise. 1967 brought Sgt. Pepper and psychedelia: the former, after our initial acid-vibes
infatuation with it, threatening to herald an era of rock-as-movie-soundtrack, and the
latter suggesting the possibility of real (if most likely unconscious) breakthrough in all
the fuzztone and groping space jams. Even local bands were beginning to experiment
with feedback but neither they nor the names they followed knew what to do with it.
Meanwhile, rumblings were beginning to be heard almost simultaneously on
both coasts: Ken Kesey embarked the Acid Tests with the Grateful Dead in Frisco,
and Andy Warhol left New York to tour the nation with his Exploding Plastic Inevi-
table shock show (a violent, sadomasochistic barrage on the senses and the sensi-
bilities of which Alice Cooper is the comparatively innocuous comic book reflection)
and the Velvet Underground. Both groups on both coasts claimed to be utilizing the
possibilities of feedback and distortion, and both claimed to be the avatars of the psy-
chedelic multimedia trend. Who got the jump on who between Kesey and W arhol is
insignificant, but it seems likely that the Velvet Underground were definitely eclips-
ing the Dead from the start when it came to a new experimental music. The Velvets,
for all the seeming crudity of their music, were interested in the possibilities of noise
right from the start, and had John Cale’s extensive conservatory training to help
shape their experiments, while the Dead seemed more like a group of ex-folkies just
dabbling in distortion (as their albums eventually bore out).
By the time the Velvets recorded “Sister Ray,” they seemed to have carried the
Yardbirds/Who project to its ultimate extension, and turned in their third album to
more “conventionally” lyrical material. Also, their two largely experimental albums
had earned them little more than derision (if not outright animosity) among critics
and the listening audience at large. Their music, which might at first hearing seem
merely primitive, unmusicianly and chaotic, had at its best sharply drawn subtleties
and outer sonances cutting across a stiff, simplistic beat that was sometimes (“Her-
oin”) even lost, and many of the basic guitar lines were simple in the extreme when
compared with the much more refined (but also more defined, prevented by its very
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258 The 1970s
form and purposes from ever leaping free) work of groups like the Byrds and Air-
plane. I was finally beginning to grasp something.
Sixties avant-garde jazz is in large part a very complex music. The most basic,
classic rock, on the other hand, is almost idiotically simple, monotonous melodies
over two or three chords and a four-four beat. What was suddenly becoming appar-
ent was that there was no reason why you couldn’t play truly free music to a basic
backbeat, gaining the best of both worlds. Many jazz drummers, like Milford Graves
and Sunny Murray, were distending the beat into a whirling flurry that was almost
arrhythmic, or even throwing it out altogether. So if you could do that, why couldn’t
you find some way of fitting some of the new jazz ideas in with a Question Mark and
the Mysterians type format?
It was also becoming evident that the nascent generation of ex-folkie rock stars,
like the British beat and R&B groups which preceded them in ’64, were never going
to get off their rich idolized asses to even take a fling at any kind of free music. They
simply knew too much about established musical forms which the last three decades
of this century should make moribund, and were too smug about it to do anything
else. So the only hope for a free rock ‘n’ roll renaissance which would be true to the
original form, rescue us from all this ill-conceived dilettantish pap so far removed
from the soil of jive, and leave some hope for truly adventurous small-guitar-group
experiments in the future, would be if all those ignorant teenage dudes out there
learning guitar in hick towns and forming bands to play “96 Tears” and “Wooly
Bully” at sock hops, evolving exposed to all the eclectic trips but relatively fresh and
free too (at least they hadn’t grown up feeling snobbish about being among the intel-
lectual elite who could appreciate some arcane folksong), if only they could some-
how, some of them somewhere, escape the folk/Sgt. Pepper virus, pick up on nothing
but roots and noise and the possibilities inherent in approaching the guitar fresh in
the age of multiple amp distorting switches, maybe even get exposed to a little of the
free jazz which itself seemed rapidly to be fading into its own kind of anachronism,
then, just maybe, given all those ifs, we might have some hope.
Well, maybe the gods were with us this time around, because sure enough it
happened. On a small scale, of course—the majority of people listening to and play-
ing rock were still mired in blues and abortive “classical” hybrids and new shitkicker
rock and every other conceivable manner of uninventively “artistic” jerkoff. But there
were some bands coming up. Captain Beefheart burst upon us with the monolithic
Trout Mask Replica, making history and distilling the best of both idioms into new
styles undreamed of, but somehow we still wanted something else, something closer
to the mechanical, mindless heart of noise and the relentless piston rhythms which
seemed to represent the essence of both American life and American rock ‘n’ roll.
Bands were sprouting and decaying like ragweed everywhere. The MC5 came
on with a pre-records hype that promised the moon, and failed to get off the launch-
ing pad. Black Pearl appeared with a promising first album—no real experiments, but
a distinct Yardbirds echo in the metallic clanging cacophony of precisely distorted
guitars. Their second LP fizzled out in bad soul music.
Part Three: The Outline of Cure

And, finally, the Stooges. The Stooges were the first young American group to
acknowledge the influence of the Velvet Underground—and it shows heavily in
their second album. The early Velvets had the good sense to realize that whatever
your capabilities, music with a simple base was the best. Thus, “Sister Ray” evolved
from a most basic funk riff seventeen minutes into stark sound structures of incred-
ible complexity. The Stooges started out not being able to do anything else but play
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rock-bottom simple—they formed the concept of the band before half of them knew
how to play, which figures—probably just another bunch of disgruntled cats with ideas
watching all the bullshit going down. Except that the Stooges decided to do something
about it. None of them have been playing their instruments for more than two or three
years, but that’s good—now they won’t have to unlearn any of the stuff which ruins so
many other promising young musicians: flash blues, folk-pickin’, Wes Montgomery-
style jazz, etc. Fuck that, said Asheton and Alexander, we can’t play it anyway, so why
bother trying to learn? Especially since even most of those styles’ virtuosos are so fuck-
ing boring you wonder how anyone with half a brain can listen to them.
Cecil Taylor, in A. B. Spellman’s moving book Four Lives in the Bebop Business,
once told a story about an experience he had in the mid-fifties, when almost every
club owner, jazz writer and listener in New York was turned off to his music because
it was still so new and so advanced that they could not begin to grasp it yet. Well,
one night he was playing in one of these clubs when in walked this dude off the street
with a double bass and asked if he could sit in. Why not, said Taylor, even though the
cat seemed very freaked out. So they jammed, and it soon became apparent to Taylor
that the man had never had any formal training on bass, knew almost nothing about
it beyond the basic rudiments, and probably couldn’t play one known song or chord
progression. Nothing. The guy had just picked up the bass, decided he was going to
play it, and a very short time later walked cold into a New York jazz club and bluffed
his way onto the bandstand. He didn’t even know how to hold the instrument, so
he just explored as a child would, pursuing songs or evocative sounds through the
tangles of his ignorance. And after a while, Taylor said, he began to hear something
coming out, something deeply felt and almost but never quite controlled, veering
between a brand-new type of song which cannot be taught because it comes from an
unschooled innocence which cuts across known systems, and chaos, which playing
the player and spilling garble, sometimes begins to write its own songs. Something
was beginning to take shape which, though erratic, was unique in all this world:
Quite abruptly, though, the man disappeared, most likely to freak himself into obliv-
ion, because Taylor never saw or heard of him again. But he added that if the cat had
kept on playing, he would have been one of the first great free bassists.
The Stooges’ music is like that. It comes out of an illiterate chaos gradually tak-
ing shape as a uniquely personal style, emerges from a tradition of American music
that runs from the wooly rags of backwoods string bands up to the magic promise
eternally made and occasionally fulfilled by rock; that a band can start out bone-
primitive, untutored and uncertain, and evolve into a powerful and eloquent ensem-
ble. It’s happened again and again; the Beatles, Kinks, Velvets, etc. But the Stooges
are probably the first name group to actually form before they even knew how to
play. This is possibly the ultimate rock ‘n’ roll story, because rock is mainly about
beginnings, about youth and uncertainty and growing through and out of them. And
asserting yourself way before you know what the fuck you’re doing. Which answers
the question raised earlier of what the early Stooges’ adolescent mopings had to
do with rock ‘n’ roll. Rock is basically an adolescent music, reflecting the rhythms,
concerns and aspirations of a very specialized age group. It can’t grow up—when it
does, it turns into something else which may be just as valid but is still very different
from the original. Personally I believe that real rock ‘n’ roll may be on the way out,
just like adolescence as a relatively innocent transitional period is on the way out.
What we will have instead is a small island of new free music surrounded by some
good reworkings of past idioms and a vast sargasso sea of absolute garbage. And the
Stooges’ songs may have some of the last great rock ‘n’ roll lyrics, because everybody
else seems either too sophisticated at the outset or hopelessly poisoned by the effects
of big ideas on little minds. A little knowledge is still a dangerous thing.
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260 The 1970s
Further Reading
Bangs, Lester. “Dead Lie the Velvet Underground.” Creem (May 1971): 44–49, 64–67.
Chester, Andrew. “Second Thoughts on a Rock Aesthetic: The Band.” New Left Review 62
(1970): 75–82. Reprinted in On Record: Rock, Pop, and the Written Word, ed. Simon Frith
and Andrew Goodwin, 315–19. New York: Pantheon, 1990.
Gendron, Bernard. “Punk Before Punk.” In Between Montmartre and the Mudd Club, 227–47.
Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002.
Discography
Albert Ayler Trio. Spiritual Unity. ESP Disk Ltd., 1964
Captain Beefheart. Trout Mask Replica. Reprise/Ada, 1969.
Jefferson Airplane. After Bathing at Baxter’s. RCA, 1967.
Question Mark & the Mysterians. Feel It! The Very Best of Question Mark & the Mysterians.
Varese Sarabande, 2001.
The Stooges. The Stooges. Elektra, 1969.
________. Fun House. Elektra, 1970.
Velvet Underground. The Velvet Underground & Nico. Verve, 1967.
________. White Light/White Heat. Verve, 1967.
________. Peel Slowly and See. Polydor/UMGD, 1995.
The Who. Thirty Years of Maximum R&B. MCA, 1994.
The Yardbirds. Greatest Hits, Vol. 1: 1964–66. Rhino/WEA, 1986.
46. The Sound of Autobiography

SINGER-SONGW R I T ERS, C A ROLE K ING
From the ashes of the folk revival rose the singer-songwriter genre.
While Bob Dylan’s early work up through Blonde on Blonde forms the
obvious prototype for this genre, one can look back further and find
an even earlier model in Woody Guthrie, who wrote his own songs,
accompanied himself on guitar, and presented a romantic image of
poetic individualism, albeit without the strong autobiographical cur-
rents that run through Dylan’s work. While Dylan acknowledged Guth-
rie as his major influence, we should not forget the blues and country
musicians (especially a figure such as Hank Williams who wrote songs
with strong autobiographical connotations) who also embodied many
of the qualities just ascribed to Guthrie.
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The Sound of Autobiography 261
Among the many musicians influenced by Dylan, two in particular
were important for setting the stage for the singer-songwriter movement:
Joan Baez (b. 1941), who, while not known primarily as a songwriter,
projected a strong image of personal sincerity as she accompanied her-
self on the guitar and was the most successful of the early 1960s folk
singers; and Paul Simon (b. 1941), whose earnest, melodic anthems
(which were not without a sense of humor), performed in partnership with
Art Garfunkel, struck a strongly resonant note with collegiate audiences.
In the early work of Dylan and Simon, lyrics focused on personal
issues in a realistic way, and songs therefore took on strong auto-
biographical associations. After hearing Simon sing “Kathy’s Song”
(on Simon and Garfunkel’s Sounds of Silence, late 1965), one would not
be surprised to learn later that Simon wrote the song about a young
woman named Kathy with whom he was involved during a sojourn in
England (as the story has emerged from the biographical literature on
Simon). When Simon and Garfunkel were accompanied by a band, the
arrangements grew not out of riffs, as in the blues-rock or psychedelic
rock of the mid- to late 1960s, but, rather, out of the accompaniment
patterns played by Simon on the guitar. The same tendency was true of
the singer-songwriter genre in general, since band arrangements were
based on the guitar or piano part played by the singer-songwriter who
was accompanying herself or himself. These patterns were rhythmic
arpeggiations, known as “fingerpicking” on the guitar (the style has no
specific designation when originating on the piano). In terms of p olitics,
singer-songwriters might espouse antiwar and (especially) antimate-
rialist views, but they tended to eschew the affiliation with specific
causes that was characteristic of the 1960s folk revival.
The most prominent musicians associated with the singer-songwriter
genre came from diverse backgrounds. Carole King (b. 1940) had honed
her songwriting craft in the Brill Building, writing for rhythm and blues
artists such as the Drifters and the Shirelles in the early 1960s and bub-
blegum, rock, and soul artists like the Monkees, the Byrds, and Aretha
Franklin in the late 1960s. Joni Mitchell (b. 1943) and James Taylor (b.
1948) wrote and performed music with clearer ties to the folk revival,
while Carly Simon (b. 1945) betrayed more mainstream pop and Broad-
way show tune influences. Yet all these artists released influential
albums between 1970 and 1972 that were recognized as introducing a
new “introspective,” “intimate” quality into rock music.1 They were solo
artists primarily, employing other musicians as necessary to amplify their
own accompaniments. And their lyrics were heard as somehow referring
1. That these attributes have been widely accepted as exemplifying the genre can be seen from
a recent blurb in the Spring 2002 Time-Life music catalogue:
During the 1960s, thanks in large part to Bob Dylan, singers started believing they
should write their own material. The singer-songwriter movement was born, and
it has influenced rock ever since. This TIME-LIFE MUSIC series gathers hits from
the Singer-Songwriter era: sincere, sensitive, deeply personal songs, performed by
the artists who created them.
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262 The 1970s
to their own lives: critics frequently introduced biographical elements
into articles and reviews as important information that might explain the
meaning of the songs. Many writers also recognized that a relatively high
number of women were involved in the singer-songwriter genre and fre-
quently attributed this to the “gentler,” ”prettier” quality of the music.2
We already encountered Carole King as one of the creative forces behind

the girl groups in Chapter 25. The following article recounts King’s early
career and transition from a behind-the-scenes songwriter to a popu-
lar performer in her own right in the wake of the massive success of her
album Tapestry (1971). All the major ideas that dominated writing about
singer-songwriters in the music press may be found here: the emphasis
on autobiography, the “softer” sound, and the “mature” tone of the music
that positioned it as the antidote to hard rock. The author, Robert Windeler,
notes the new prominence of female singers who wrote their own mate-
rial as a preamble to discussing King’s success, but then quickly moves to
stress how she shuns the accoutrements of fame; her love of privacy and
dislike of interviews; and, of course, her domesticity—as her producer Lou
Adler states at the end of the article, “She’s a Laurel Canyon housewife.”3
All this highlights how neither the mainstream press (represented by Ste-
reo Review, the publication where this article originally appeared) nor the
publications most associated with rock criticism (there are remarkably few
articles from this period on female singer-songwriters) could accommodate
the new musical roles afforded to women by the singer-songwriter genre.
Carole King: “You Can Get to Know Me

through My Music”
Robert Windeler
The unquestioned queen of the singer/songwriter phenomenon that has already
led to some quieter sounds and more thoughtful lyrics in the music of the 1970’s is
Carole King. (The question of kingship remains highly debatable and must be taken
up another day.) And where Carole has led, others have followed. In fact, the disc
jockeys and record buyers of the United States haven’t had such an array of female
2. See, for example, Noel Coppage, “Troubadettes, Troubadoras, and Troubadines . . . or . . .

What’s a Nice Girl Like You Doing in a Business Like This?” Stereo Review, September 1972, 58–61.
Two years later, Time featured an article on the same subject (with a focus on Joni Mitchell) as its
cover story, “Rock ’n’ Roll’s Leading Lady,” Time, December 16, 1974, 63–66 (the title on the cover
is “Rock Women: Songs of Pride and Passion”).
3. This description is strangely reminiscent of the profile of Aretha Franklin given in Chapter 34.
Source: Robert Windeler, “Carole King: ‘You Can Get to Know Me through My Music,’ ” S
tereo Review
(May 1973): 76–77.
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The Sound of Autobiography 263
voices to choose from since the days when Patti Page, Jo Stafford, and Rosemary
Clooney were singing about sand dunes on Cape Cod, jambalaya and crawfish pie
in New Orleans, waltzes in Tennessee, and pyramids along the Nile, and that was
so long ago that it only cost a nickel a song to hear Teresa Brewer on the jukebox.
However, there is a crucial difference between now and those earlier times: most of
today’s women write their own material.
Carole King was a successful songwriter for a dozen years before she released,
at the age of thirty-two, her second solo album as a performer. The record was called
“Tapestry,” and the songs on it do weave a highly subjective view of life. They have
also kept Carole King and half a dozen other singers at the top of music surveys ever
since. “Tapestry” at last count had sold more than 5,500,000 copies in this country
alone and has long since surpassed the movie soundtrack of The Sound of Music, the
original Broadway-cast recording of My Fair Lady, and Simon & Garfunkel’s “Bridge
over Troubled Water” as the best-selling record album of all time. Carole won three
Grammy Awards at the 1972 ceremonies of the Academy of Recording Arts and Sci-
ences in Hollywood. Such artists as Peggy Lee, Barbra Streisand, and James Taylor
sing Carole King songs, as do Blood, Sweat and Tears and Dionne Warwicke, but so
far no one sings You’ve Got a Friend, I Feel the Earth Move, or Where You Lead as suc-
cessfully as Carole herself does.
She is a near-recluse who is married for the second time and the mother of three.
She didn’t attend her triple-win Grammy ceremonies because she was still nursing her
latest baby. When not rehearsing, performing, or recording, she keeps house in Laurel
Canyon, West Hollywood, and still considers herself a writer rather than a performer.
Carole’s long climb to the top has been dazzling, but she is most reluctant to talk
about it. She likes her three dogs, her privacy, and most other musicians. She dislikes
interviews, and even the very rare one she grants will have to take place after a whole
long list of other more important things get done, such as taking empty soda bottles to
the recycling center. The young woman who stuns audiences whenever she appears on
tour, and sits at the piano nearly mesmerized by her own music, says simply “I want
my music to speak for me. You can get to know me through my music.” Music indus-
try insiders have been doing just that since 1959 when she wrote (ironically, with her
ex-husband) Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?, a Shirelles hit then and a standard now.
She was born in New York, went to high school in Brooklyn, attended college
in Manhattan (City) and Queens (Queens), married her high-school sweetheart, and
had two children (her third was not born until November 1971). Carole and her
husband-collaborator, Gerry Goffin, had a string of hits, including a song they wrote
and produced for their maid, who billed herself as Little Eva when she performed
her employers’ Loco-Motion. Goffin and King survived rather than participated in the
brasher sounds of the 1960’s, and created songs in their own style for Aretha Franklin
(Natural Woman), the Drifters (Up on the Roof), and others. The marriage did not survive,
however, and in 1968 Carole left New York for Los Angeles. “I needed to get together
a new identity,” Carole says. “It’s very hard to maintain a marriage writing together.”
But the Goffins found they were occasionally able to collaborate after their breakup.
As early as 1961, Carole had auditioned as a recording artist, doing a demonstra-
tion record of her own It Might as Well Rain Until September, which was eventually
recorded by Bobby Vee. And Atlantic Records’ president Ahmet Ertegun says he
remembers “this little Jewish girl constantly hanging around begging me to let her
make a record.” But Carole didn’t really get the chance to record until she joined
with guitarist Danny Kootch and a drummer in a Los Angeles group called the City
in 1968. James Taylor came to L.A., and Kootch, who had worked with him in New
York, introduced Taylor to Carole. Taylor played guitar in jam sessions with the City,
and they produced a nice, straightforward sound that was slightly ahead of its time.
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264 The 1970s
Taylor asked Carole to play piano on his second album, “Sweet Baby James,” which
introduced the phenomenal Fire and Rain. Carole then approached Lou Adler, pro-
ducer of “Tapestry” and founder/head of Ode Records, Carole’s label, to help her do a
solo record. She had known him in the late Fifties and early Sixties when she was under
contract to Colgems Music Publishing and he was their West Coast manager. Although
a fan of Carole’s who had often tried to persuade her to record, Adler was still busy
with the Mamas and the Papas, so he turned her over to a friend, John Fishback, who
produced her first album. “Carole King: Writer,” as it was called, contained twelve
King songs and ten lyrics by Gerry Goffin, who also mixed the recording. “Writer” sold
all of eight thousand copies, mostly to friends and fans in the business who had been
collecting her old demos and tapes all those years anyway. But the album was critically
acclaimed, and Adler, one of the boy wonders of the music business since his Dunhill
days, took personal charge of Carole’s second, third, and fourth albums.
Taylor, Kootch, and Charles Larkey (a bass player with a group called Jo Mama
and Carole’s current husband), played on her first album and all subsequent ones.
Carole began touring with Taylor, at first just playing the piano for him, then doing
an occasional solo, finally as second act on the bill (with Jo Mama opening the show).
She electrified audiences, but the album remained a dud commercially. Adler, who
speculates that it was because “Writer” was soft-sell and had more of a jazz feel than
“Tapestry,” which managed to be commercial without compromising Carole’s basic
musical integrity, said, “Nothing discouraged me. I’m a fan and in love with her.”
Suddenly it was Carole King, performer, and she, for one, was scared. “As a
writer it’s very safe and womb-like,” is Carole’s view, “because somebody else gets
the credit or the blame.” She was nervous about performing live, and credits the
laconic country-tinged singer/composer Taylor with teaching her how to relax. As
for the singer/songwriter phenomenon she finds herself such an important part of,
“It’s a question of everything moving in cycles. In the Sixties, after President Ken-
nedy’s death, everything got very ‘anti.’ The Beatles in all their glorious insolence
were the start of anti-heroism, anti-romanticism. Now the cycle has gone back to
romanticism. People got sick of the psychedelic sound and wanted softer moods.”
She counts herself fortunate to have “happened to be there at the right time.”
And Carole characterizes herself as not being success-motivated. “I want to play
music, but I have no particular desire for the limelight itself.”
“I have always written more in the direction of my friends and family,” she says.
“I like to touch them with my songs; touching a mass of people is a whole other trip—it
is a high-energy trip and it’s very exciting, but it’s another trip. I don’t want to be a Star
with a capital S. The main reason I got into performing and recording on my own was
to expose my songs to the public in the fastest way. I don’t consider myself a singer.”
Carole’s husband Charles is several years her junior (Carole is quite hung up
on being 34, an advanced age for a pop heroine, and wishes she were a good deal
younger). She lives with him, her two daughters by Goffin, who are now eleven and
thirteen, and the Larkeys’ own child in her white frame house in Laurel Canyon.
When she writes a song (now often serving as her own lyricist), Carole has a general
idea about what she wants, discusses it with Adler, and then sits down with the
musicians selected, always including Taylor and her husband. “We play it a couple
of times and we learn it just by listening because we are all so close,” she says. “Then
it’s only a question of polishing and refining it, until it has a degree of spontaneity
about it but is still tight.”
Carole’s third and fourth albums, “Music” and “Rhymes and Reasons,” have come
and gone. Although “Music” did not come close to the sales total for “Tapestry,” it sold
1,200,000 copies, hardly an embarrassment in an industry in which $1,000,000 in sales
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Joni Mitchell: The Power of Insight 265
is recognized by a gold record award. The acceptance she’s received as a composer
is what keeps her going as a performer. And it is in writing that she really expresses
herself, as in her poignant Child of Mine (which Anne Murray and others have also
recorded), a song written to and rejoicing in her daughter. If others like to listen—and
today’s increasingly sophisticated and honest audiences apparently do—that’s fine too.
“But she’s still basically a writer,” says Lou Adler. “The performing part is
amazing to her. All of those artist trips don’t interest her at all. She’s a Laurel Canyon
housewife. She’s always been writing and thinking in much the same way; the only
difference is that now, with a different kind of music listener, she’s being heard.”
Further Reading
Browne, David. Fire and Rain: The Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel, James Taylor, CSNY, and the Lost
Story of 1970. New York: Da Capo, 2011.
Emerson, Ken. Always Magic in the Air: The Bomp and Brilliance of the Brill Building Era. New
York: Viking, 2005.
Hoskyns, Barney. Hotel California: The True-Life Adventures of Crosby, Stills, Nash, Young,
Mitchell, Taylor, Browne, Ronstadt, Geffen, the Eagles, and Their Many Friends. Hoboken,
N.J.: John Wiley & Sons, 2006.
Weller, Shelia. Girls Like Us: Carole King, Joni Mitchell, Carly Simon—and the Journey of a Genera-
tion. New York: Atria Books, 2008.
Discography
Browne, Jackson. For Everyman. Asylum, 1973.
King, Carole. Tapestry. Ode, 1971.
Simon, Carly. Reflections: Carly Simon’s Greatest Hits. Arista, 2004.
Simon and Garfunkel. The Best of Simon and Garfunkel. Sony, 1999.
Taylor, James. Sweet Baby James. Warner Brothers, 1970.
47. Joni Mitchell: The Power of Insight
Of all the early ’70s singer-songwriters, Mitchell best exemplifies what

might be called the “autobiographical effect”: the impression that
the songs are directly relaying events from her life (as well as convey-
ing her psychologically acute reflections upon them). A quote from a
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266 The 1970s
review of her 1971 album Blue in Rolling Stone typifies this perception
of Mitchell’s work: “Her primary purpose is to create something mean-
ingful out of the random moments of pain and pleasure in her life.”1
This is not to say that her lyrics are without humor; nevertheless, the
main persona that emerges in her work from Song to a Seagull (1968,
sometimes called Joni Mitchell) through Don Juan’s Reckless Daughter
(1977) is that of a restless romantic torn between adventurousness and
stability. And, as noted in the interview in the piece that follows, the
persona created by her songs is that of one “intent on having freedom
even if it’s a deceptive kind of freedom.”
The following conversation with the British journalist Penny Val-
entine comes from 1972, in the period immediately after a string of
concerts in London’s Festival Hall and the release of Mitchell’s fifth
album, For the Roses (the “two-year hiatus” mentioned in the article
refers to Mitchell’s temporary cessation of performing activities in
1970). Mitchell touches on the autobiographical nature of her work
and the importance of introspection and analysis to her creative activ-
ity. Other themes emerge as well: a search for remnants of a natural
state unblemished by industrialized society (shared by many other
popular musicians during this period) and the idea of creativity as
catharsis.
Joni Mitchell: An Interview (part 1)

Penny Valentine
A lot of new songs have emerged from the two-year hiatus and in themselves are
interesting insights into the change in Joni’s outlook. The loving humor of “You Turn
Me On (I’m a Radio),” the pain in “Cold Blue Steel and Sweet Fire,” retrospective bit-
terness in “Lesson in Survival,” but then there is that feeling—haven’t all her songs
been directly autobiographical, total personal emotions?
“Well, some of them are, yes, directly personal and others may seem to be
because they’re conglomerate feelings. Like, remember we were talking about before
about that song for Beethoven and I was telling you that’s written from the point
of view of his Muse talking to him. But that comes from an understanding that
I thought I perceived. By reading books about Beethoven I got a feeling which I felt
was familiar, as I had felt about people that are friends of mine. So that’s from my
own experience, because it’s my feeling for other people.”
And yet one had stuck particularly in my mind—“Cactus Tree”—the song about
a girl who everyone loved and yet who was “too busy being free” to concentrate on
returning that feeling properly. . . .
1. Timothy Crouse, review of Blue, Rolling Stone, August 5, 1971, 42.
Source: Penny Valentine, “Joni Mitchell: An Interview (part 1).” Sounds, 3 June 1972. Reprinted
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Joni Mitchell: The Power of Insight 267
“I feel that’s the song of modern woman. Yes, it has to do with my experiences,
but I know a lot of girls like that . . . who find that the world is full of lovely men but
they’re driven by something else other than settling down to frau-duties.”
But then, I say, there is this impression she gives out—someone on the move
all the time, someone intent on having freedom even if it’s a deceptive kind of
freedom.
“Freedom is deceptive, though. It’s like that line of [Kris] Kristofferson’s: ‘Free-
dom’s just another way of nothing left to lose’ [sic]. Freedom implies a lot of loneli-
ness you know, a lot of unfulfillment. It implies always the search for fulfillment,
which sometimes is more exciting than the fulfillment itself. I mean, so many times
I’ve talked to friends of mine who are just searching for something and one day they
come to you and they’ve FOUND IT! Then two weeks later you talk to them and
they aren’t satisfied. They won’t allow themselves to think they’ve found it—because
they’ve come to enjoy the quest so much. They’ve found it—then what?
“I think that there’s a new thing to discover in the development of fulfillment. I
don’t think it necessarily means trading the search, which is more exciting than the
actual fulfillment. I still have this dream that you can come to a place where there’s
a different kind of medium—a more subtle kind of exploration to do of one thing
or one place or one person. Like, drifting through lives quickly and cities quickly,
you know, you never really get to understand a person or a place very deeply. Like,
you can be in a place until you feel completely familiar with it, or stay with a person
until you may feel very bored. You feel you’ve explored it all. Then all of a sudden, if
you’re there long enough, it’ll just open up and flash you all over again. But so many
people who are searching and traveling come to that point where it’s stealing out on
them and they just can’t handle that and have to move on.”
We talk about the time she spent traveling and how—although songs came out
of it and so it was a productive experience—there was an innate disappointment. A
sense—and this came out in her spoken intros at the Festival Hall—of disillusion-
ment that what she had believed would be magical somehow never turned out that
way. She was affected by that too, she admits, and yet after a thought she smiles
at her own naivete in expecting places to be untouched, in expecting to be totally
absorbed into them and accepted.
“You tailor make your dreams to ‘it’ll be this way’ and when it isn’t . . . like, if
you have a preconceived idea of anything, then inevitably it can’t live up to your
hopes. Hawaii had so many really beautiful parts to it, and the island of Kuwaii is
still agricultural. I guess I had thought of [Hawaii] from all those Occa Occa movies I
had seen—sacrificing the maidens to the volcano, rivers running with blood and lava,
guava trees and,” she laughs, “Esther Williams, you know, swimming through the
lagoon. And you get there and have to sort through the stucco and the pink hotels.
Crete was for the most part pretty virgin, and if you walked to the market you’d find
farmers with burros and oranges on the side; it was wonderful. Matela was full of
kids from all over the world who were seeking the same kind of thing I was, but they
couldn’t get away from ummm—I mean they may as well have been in an apartment
in Berkeley as in a cave there because the lifestyle continued the same wherever they
were. And the odd thing to me was that after my initial plans to be accepted into the
home of a Greek family fell apart, we came to this very scene—the very scene we
were trying to escape from—and it seemed very attractive to us. There were so many
contradictions, so much I noticed about life generally on those trips. Like, the kids
couldn’t get used to seeing all the slaughtered meat hanging in the shops—they’d
only ever seen bits of meat wrapped in cellophane, and to see it there on it’s frame
turned their stomachs. Most people have that reaction—look at last night over dinner
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268 The 1970s
when we started to complain because people were talking about eating birds. We got
so upset, and yet at the same time we were eating chicken by the mouthful without
even thinking. I go on vegetarian things every so often—well, fruitarian really. In
California it’s easy because it’s warm most of the time. I think you need meat in win-
ter. I have this friend who’s a vegetarian and helped me build my house in Canada.
We lived on fruit all summer, and he was a fanatical vegetarian—sneering at me
when I looked at sirloin—but as winter approached he got colder and colder and
I said ‘Look you’ve got to eat some meat if we’re going to finish this house.’ I had
visions of him collapsing. He actually did break down finally and have a steak, and I
felt really terrible corrupting, breaking down a man’s principles like that.”
I wonder if the house in Canada is a permanent move, whether she’s had enough
of the California scene and is moving back to her roots.
“Not really—moving back is like burning your bridges behind you. For one
thing, I don’t want to lose my alien registration card, because that enables me to work
in the States. So I have a house in California—not the one in Laurel Canyon I used to
have—for an address. The house in Canada is just a solitary station. I mean, it’s by
the sea and it has enough physical beauty and change of mood so that I can spend
two or three weeks there alone.
“The land has a rich melancholy about it. Not in the summer, because it’s usu-
ally very clear, but in the spring and winter it’s very brooding and it’s conducive to
a certain kind of thinking. But I can’t spend a lot of time up there. Socially I have old
schoolfriends around Vancouver, Victoria and some of the islands, but I need the
stimulation of the scene in Los Angeles. So I really find myself down there almost as
much now as when I lived there—because then I was on the road most of the time
anyway.
“I’m so transient now that even though I have the house in Canada I really don’t
feel like I have a home—well, it’s home when I’m there, you know, but then so is the
Holiday Inn in its own weird way.”
We get on to the two-year break and I wonder how she’ll take the intrusion into
her reasons and her personal kick-back. But she’s relaxed and forthright and some-
how you feel it’s a question she feels right in answering now that it’s in the past and
she hasn’t spoken of it before publicly. . . .
Did it help her in that troubled time to get her feelings out on paper?
“Yes, it does, you know, it translates your mood. You can be in a really melan-
cholic depressive mood, you’re feeling downright bad and you want to know why.
So you sit down and think ‘why?’ You ask yourself a lot of questions. I find if I just
sit around and meditate and mope about it all, then there’s no release at all, I just get
deeper and deeper into it. Whereas in the act of creating—when the song is born and
you’ve made something beautiful—it’s a release valve. And I always try and look for
some optimism, you know, no matter how cynical my mood may be. I always try to
find that little crevice of light peeking through. Whatever I’ve made—whether it’s a
painting, a song, or even a sweater—it changes my mood. I’m pleased with myself
that I’ve made something.”
Further Reading
Luftig, Stacey, ed. The Joni Mitchell Companion: Four Decades of Commentary. New York: Schirmer
Books, 2000.
O’Brien, Karen. Joni Mitchell: Shadows and Light. London: Virgin, 2001.
Papayanis, Marilyn Adler. “Feeling Free and Female Sexuality: The Aesthetics of Joni
Mitchell.” Popular Music and Society 33: 5 (2010): 641–655.
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Sly Stone 269
“Rock ‘n’ Roll’s Leading Lady.” Time, December 16, 1974, 63–66.
Shumway, David R. “Joni Mitchell: The Singer Songwriter and the Confessional Persona.”
In RockStar: The Making of Musical Icons from Elvis to Springsteen, 148–174. Baltimore:
The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2014.
Whitesell, Lloyd. The Music of Joni Mitchell. New York: Oxford University Press, 2008.
Discography
Mitchell, Joni. Song to a Seagull. Warner Bros./WEA, 1968.
______. Blue. Warner Bros./WEA, 1971.
______. Court and Spark. Elektra/WEA, 1974.
______. Don Juan’s Reckless Daughter. Elektra/WEA, 1977.
______. Hits. Warner Bros./WEA, 1996.
______. Both Sides Now. Warner Bros./WEA, 2000.
The Very Best of Singers and Songwriters. Time Life Records, 2003.
48. Sly Stone

“ T HE M Y T H OF S TAGGER LEE ”
The phenomenal popularity of Aretha Franklin, the ongoing success

of James Brown along with the grittiest practitioners of Southern
Soul, and the continued ubiquity of the pop-oriented productions of
Motown attested to soul music’s continued relevance to a broad cross
section of the U.S. audience in the late 1960s. However, the activity and
popularity of many of the first wave of soul practitioners declined after
1968. Producer/songwriters Holland-Dozier-Holland, who had been
responsible for the bulk of the hits for the Supremes and the Four Tops
during the peak 1964–67 period, left Motown, while Stax, following the
death of Otis Redding, underwent administrative reorganization and
became increasingly inconsistent in both artistic and commercial terms
(by 1975, the company had filed for bankruptcy).
Nevertheless, soul music was far from finished; instead, it split in
two directions: a “sweet” soul style taking its cue from Motown and bal-
ladeers such as Curtis Mayfield, and a “funky” soul style taking its cue
from James Brown, the “Southern Soul” practitioners, and Aretha Franklin.
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270 The 1970s
The discussion of funk rightfully began in Chapter 32 with the excerpts from
James Brown’s autobiography. Brown’s innovations and their adoption by
other artists in the late 1960s also had an explicit political component,
since these musical innovations coincided with a shift in African American
politics from the integrationist stance of the civil rights movement (associ-
ated with the rise of soul music) to the more radical stance of the black
power movement, a shift heralded by Brown’s recording “Say It Loud, I’m
Black and I’m Proud” (1968).1 These shifts were discussed in Part 3 in con-
junction with artists like Aretha Franklin and songs such as “Respect.”
Concurrent with the developments in Brown’s band, other bands
created their own forms of funky soul music, including Booker T. and the
MGs, the Bar-Kays, the Meters, and Charles Wright and the Watts 103rd
Street Rhythm Band. In an important contrast to earlier rhythm and blues
and soul performers, these bands were self-contained, writing their
own material and producing all vocal and instrumental parts. The first
band to absorb Brown’s rhythmic approach and extend it was Sly and
the Family Stone. The San Francisco Bay Area–based aggregation joined
Brown’s rhythmic and textural innovations with a fragmented doo-wop
vocal style featuring rapidly alternating voices and with aspects of psy-
chedelic rock, a fusion evident in their first successful single, “Dance to
the Music” (1968). The psychedelic influence (particularly that of Jimi
Hendrix) was felt by other funk bands as well, most notably Funkadelic
(“Maggot Brain,” 1971) and the Isley Brothers (“Who’s That Lady,” 1973).
Sly and the Family Stone played a significant role in another impor-
tant development in funk: the role of the bass expanded as the band’s
Larry Graham created an innovative thumb-popping technique particu-
larly evident in an early 1970 release, “Thank U Falettin Me Be Mice Elf
Agin.” Brown’s new bass player, William “Bootsy” Collins, was another
crucial influence on subsequent bassists in recordings such as “Sex
Machine” and “Superbad” from 1970–71.
Greil Marcus’s piece on Sly Stone (b. 1944) documents how Sly’s stylistic
blend satisfied a particular need within the white c ounterculture, as
well as within the soul music audience. In Marcus’s words, the music
of Sly and the Family Stone “fill[ed] a vacuum” in which “the racial
contradictions of the counterculture” were worked out.2 Marcus’s over-
riding concern, here as in the rest of Mystery Train (the book from which
this essay was taken), is to illuminate how Sly articulates “shared uni-
ties in the American imagination” through the connections between
his music and certain American myths.3 In this case, Marcus relates Sly
1. The fullest (and most entertaining) account of funk to date may be found in Rickey Vincent,
Funk: The Music, the People, and the Rhythm of the One (New York: St. Martin’s Griffin, 1996).
2. Greil Marcus, Mystery Train: Images of America in Rock ’n’ Roll Music, 3rd rev. ed. (New York:
Plume, [1975] 1990), 69.
3. Ibid., xvii.
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Sly Stone 271
Stone’s public persona to the myth of Staggerlee, the archetypal “bad
man.” Marcus spends much of the chapter discussing Sly’s dystopian
album Riot (1971), a recording that underscored the self-destructive
nature of Sly’s attachment to the Staggerlee character.
By the time of Mystery Train, Marcus was already well known to
readers as a critic for Rolling Stone and its close competitor Creem. In
addition to exemplifying Marcus’s music criticism, which displays an
unusual talent for making music come alive with prose, the essay that
follows conveys vividly the history of an extraordinary wave of black
popular music during the early 1970s. In providing a broader context for
the understanding of Sly Stone’s brand of funk and the reception of Riot,
Marcus details the relationship of black popular music of the time to
social changes, the emergent black cinema known as “blaxploitation,”
and political developments such as black nationalism as embodied by
the Black Panther Party, all of which are tied together by their connection
to the myth of Staggerlee.
from Mystery Train: Images of America

in Rock ‘n’ Roll Music
Greil Marcus
Sly versus Superfly

The best pop music does not reflect events so much as it absorbs them. If the spirit of
Sly’s early music combined the promises of Martin Luther King’s speeches and fire
of a big city riot, Riot represented the end of those events and the attempt to create a
new music appropriate to new realities. It was music that had as much to do with the
Marin shootout and the death of George Jackson as the earlier sound had to do with
the pride of the riot the title track of this album said was no longer going on.
“Frightened faces to the wall,” Sly moans. “Can’t you hear your mama call? The
Brave and Strong—Survive! Survive!”
I think those faces up against the wall belonged to Black Panthers, forced to strip
naked on the night streets of Philadelphia so Frank Rizzo and his cops could gawk
and laugh and make jokes about big limp cocks while Panther women, lined up with
the men, were psychologically raped.
A picture was widely published. Many have forgotten it; Sly probably had not.
This again is why Riot was hard to take. If its spirit is that of the death of George
Jackson it is not a celebration of Jackson, but music that traps what you feel when you
are shoved back into the corners of loneliness where you really have to think about
dead flesh and cannot play around with the satisfactions of myth.
Source: “Sly Stone: The Myth of Staggerlee,” copyright © 1975 by Greil Marcus; from MYSTERY
TRAIN: THIRD EDITION by Greil Marcus. Used by permission of Dutton, an imprint of Penguin
Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved.
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272 The 1970s
The pessimism of Riot is not the romantic sort we usually get in rock ‘n’ roll.
Optimistic almost by definition, pop culture is always pointing toward the next
thing and sure it is worth going after; rock ‘n’ roll is linked to a youthful sense of
time and a youthful disbelief in death. Pop culture pessimism is almost always self-
indulgent; not without the power to move an audience, but always leaving the audi-
ence (and the artist) a way out. In retrospect, records made in this spirit often seem
like reverse images of narcissism. Riot is the real thing: scary and immobile. It wears
down other records, turning them into unintentional self-parodies. The negative of
Riot is tough enough to make solutions seem trivial and alternatives false, in personal
life, politics, or music.
Rock ‘n’ roll may matter because it is fun, unpredictable, anarchic, a neatly pack-
aged and amazingly intense plurality of good times and good ideas, but none save
the very youngest musicians and fans can still take their innocence for granted. Most
have simply seen and done too much; as the Rolling Stones have been proving for ten
years, you have to work for innocence. You have to win it, or you end up with nothing
more than a strained naïveté.
Because this is so pop needs an anchor, a reality principle, especially when
the old ideas—the joy of the Beatles, the simple toughness of the Stones—have
run their course and the music has begun to repeat its messages without repeat-
ing their impact. Rock ‘n’ roll may escape conventional reality on a day-to-day level
(or remake it, minute-to-minute), but it has to have an intuitive sense of the reality
it means to escape; the audience and the artists have to be up against the wall before
they can climb over it. When the Stones made “Gimmie Shelter,” they had power
because their toughness had taken on complexity: they admitted they had doubts
about finding even something as simple as shelter, and fought for it anyway. But
because the band connected with its audience when they got that across, and because
the music that did it was the best they ever made, the song brought more than shel-
ter; it brought life, provided a metaphor that allowed the Stones to thrive when Alta-
mont proved toughness was not the point, and gave them the freedom to go on to
sing about other things—soul survivors, suffocation, a trip down a moonlight mile.
Riot matters because it doesn’t just define the wall; it makes the wall real. Its
sensibility is hard enough to frame the mass of pop music, shuffle its impact, jar the
listener, and put an edge on the easy way out that has not really been won. It is not
casual music and its demands are not casual; it tended to force black musicians to
reject it or live up to it. Some months after Riot was released—from the middle of
1972 through early 1973—the impulses of its music emerged on other records, and
they took over the radio.
I don’t know if I will be able to convey the impact of punching buttons day after
day and night after night to be met by records as clear and strong as Curtis May-
field’s “Superfly” and “Freddie’s Dead,” the Staple Singers’ “Respect Yourself” and
the utopian “I’ll Take You There,” the O’Jays’ “Back Stabbers,” War’s astonishing
“Slipping into Darkness” and “The World Is a Ghetto,” the Temptations’ “Papa Was
a Rolling Stone,” Johnny Nash’s “I Can See Clearly Now,” Stevie Wonder’s “Super-
stition,” for that matter the Stones’ Exile on Main Street (the white Riot)—records that
were surrounded in memory and still on the air as recent hits, by Marvin Gaye’s
deadly “Inner City Blues,” by the Undisputed Truth’s “Smiling Faces Sometimes
(Tell Lies),” by the Chi-Lites’ falsetto melancholy, by Riot itself. Only a year before
such discs would have been curiosities; now, they were all of a piece: one enormous
answer record. Each song added something to the others, and as in a pop explosion,
the country found itself listening to a new voice.
To me, the Temptations took the prize. Imagine—or simply remember—the chill
of driving easily through the night, and then hearing, casually at first, then with
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Sly Stone 273
interest, and then with compulsion, the three bass patterns, repeated endlessly,
somewhere between the sound of the heart and a judge’s gavel, that open “Papa Was
a Rolling Stone.” The toughest blues guitar you have heard in years cracks through
the building music like a curse; the singer starts in.
More than one person I knew pulled off the road and sat waiting, shivering, as
the song crept out of the box and filled up the night.
Four children have gathered around their mother to ask for the truth about
their father, who has been buried that very day. They don’t know him; he was just
another street-corner Stagolee. So they ask. Was he one of those two-faced preach-
ers, mama—“Stealing in the name of the Lord?”* A drunk? A hustler? A pimp? With
another wife, more kids? They slam the questions into their mother, and all she can
give them is one of the most withering epitaphs ever written, for them, as well as for
him “When he died, all he left us was alone.”
Some thought “Back Stabbers” hit even harder. It moved with a new urgency,
heading into its chorus with an unforgettable thump; it was like hearing the Drifters
again, but the Drifters robbed of pop optimism that let them find romance even in
the hard luck of “On Broadway.” The O’Jays sounded scared when they climaxed
the song with an image that was even stronger than the music: “I wish somebody’d
take/Some a’ these knives outta my back!”
Stevie Wonder reached number one with “Superstition”—his first time on top
in ten years. It was the most ominous hard rock in a long while, a warning against a
belief in myths that no one understood; Wonder made the old chicka-chicka-boom
beat so potent it sounded like a syncopated version of Judgment Day.
All these records were nervous, trusting little if anything, taking Riot’s spirit of
black self-criticism as a new aesthetic, driven (unlike Riot) by great physical energy,
determined to get across the idea of a world—downtown or uptown, it didn’t
matter—where nothing was as it seemed. These black musicians and singers were
cutting lose from the white man’s world to attend to their own business—and to do
that, they had to tell the truth. And so they made music of worry and confinement
that, in their very different way, the Chi-Lites took to even greater extremes.
The Chi-Lites—like all the artists discussed here—had been around for many
years, but they broke into the Top 40 in the seventies, with a dark chant called “(For
God’s Sake) Give More Power to the People.” Stylistically, this was an old kind of
record, but it was a new kind of politics; instead of a demand, or an affirmation, it
was a plea, and a desperate one at that. The Chi-Lites’ persona was open and vulner-
able, the antithesis of machismo (something they explicitly dismissed with the great
“Oh, Girl”). Other hits—“A Lonely Man,” “Have You Seen Her,” and “The Coldest
Day of My Life”—undercut the high-stepping burst of mastery on which Wilson
Pickett and so many other black artists of the sixties had based their careers; the Chi-
Lites made Pickett’s old bragging music sound fake. Pickett had told his audience
that ninety-nine and a half won’t do and made them believe it, but the Chi-Lites
seemed ready to settle for a lot less—or to beg for something else altogether. The key
to any black singer is in that old catch phrase about the way you talk and the way you
walk; the Chi-Lites spoke softly and moved with great care.
This new music was a step back for a new look at black America; it was a finger
pointed at Staggerlee and an attempt to freeze his spirit out of black culture. On many
levels—direct, symbolic, commercial, personal—this music was a vital, conservative
*A reference to Paul Kelly’s single of the same name, which, along with Jerry Butler’s “Only
the Strong Survive,” had opened up the new territory the Tempts were exploring.
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274 The 1970s
reaction to the radical costs Sly had shown that Staggerlee must ultimately exact.
And since Stack was roaming virtually unchallenged in the new black cinema, this
musical stance amounted to a small-scale cultural war.
All the new black movies—from Hit Man to Trouble Man to Detroit 9000 to Cleopa-
tra Jones—were cued by the reality behind one very carefully thrown-away line from
The Godfather (a movie, it is worth remembering, that attracted millions of black
Americans, even though it had no black characters, let alone any black heroes).
“They’re animals anyway,” says an off-camera voice, as the Dons make the cru-
cial decision to dump all their heroin into the ghettos. “Let them lose their souls.”
The Mafia may have missed the contradiction in that line, but Francis Coppola
certainly did not; neither did the black men and women in the theaters. They suffered
it; in Lady Sings the Blues, Diana Ross was stalking screens all over the country show-
ing just what it meant. The audience had a right to revenge.
And so the fantasy went to work again. If that line had opened up the abyss, the
old black hero shot up from the bottom and pushed in the white man instead. Stack
slipped through the hands of the white sheriff, won his fight, got his girl, and got
away.
Superfly summed up the genre; perhaps its first scene did, more than it was meant
to. The hero, cocaine dealer Priest (played by Ron O’Neal, who looked uncomfort-
ably like a not-very-black Sean Connery) stirs in the bed of his rich white mistress.
Some black fool has made off with his stash. Priest chases him through the alleys, up
the side of a building, and traps him in a tiny apartment. There, in full view of the
man’s family, Priest beats him half to death.
Still, Priest is nervous. Hustling’s all the Man has left us, he tells his partner, who
thinks that’s just fine; Priest wants out of the Life, but the invisible whites who run
the show want him in—or dead. He bets everything on one last big deal. He turns on
the pressure; one of his runners, Freddie, can’t take it, and he panics and gets himself
killed. Another man, a sort of father figure (who started Priest out peddling reefers
when just a lad) is talked into the game, and he too loses his life to Priest’s bid for
freedom. Priest’s partner weighs the odds and sells him out.
Moving fast, Priest penetrates the white coke hierarchy, takes out a first-class
Mafia contract on Mr. Big to cover his bet, unmasks Mr. Big as a queer, and, with his
money and his strong black woman, gets away clean. He turned up one movie later
as a crusader for social justice in Africa, where life was simpler.
It was a fairy tale; but like most of the Staggerlee movies, Superfly had a
soundtrack by an established soul singer, and in this case Curtis Mayfield’s songs
were not background, but criticism. (Mayfield had appeared in the picture sing-
ing in a dealers’ bar, grinding out an attempted parody of his audience—but they
thought it was a celebration.) His music worked against the fantasy, because to him
one incident in the movie counted for more than all its triumphs: Freddie’s dead.
“Pushin’ dope for the Man!” he sang, incredulous and disgusted. The movie hadn’t
even slowed to give Freddie an epitaph, but Mayfield clearly aimed his song at the
hero as well.*
Superfly had a black director, Gordon Parks, Jr.; there was a surface ghetto
realism, and there were touches of ambiguity, but the movie had Hollywood in its
*Interestingly, these lyrics were not in the movie, even though the backing track was. Mayfield
held off until the film was in the theaters, then wrote the words, released the record, and so took
on the picture on his own turf: the radio. You could say he chickened out, and you could also say
he was very smart.
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Sly Stone 275
heart, and that was enough to smother everything else. Most of the pictures that fol-
lowed simply shuffled Superfly clichés, but they kept coming.
One movie was different, but it never found its audience, not among blacks, or
whites either. Across 110th Street (directed by Barry Shear, who earlier made Wild in
the Streets, the most paradoxical youth exploitation picture; written by Luther Davis)
looked enough like all the others to make it easy for nearly all critics to dismiss it.
The film was almost unbelievably violent, which gave reviewers license to attack it.
It began with the same clichés everyone else used, but intensified them mercilessly.
It pumped so much pressure into the world of the new black movies that it blew that
world apart.
Three black men—Jamaica, Superflake, and Dry Clean—murder a pack of black
and white Mafia bankers and make off with the week’s take for all of Harlem. They
don’t steal because they hate the mob; they steal because they want the money. A
Mafia lieutenant—played by Tony Franciosa—is sent out to bring back the money
and execute the thieves, knowing full well he can forget his future if he fails. Anthony
Quinn plays a bought cop caught in the middle. He has to take the case straight to
make his pension, and a new black cop is keeping an eye on him, but he has to do it
without losing his payoff—or his life—to the Mafia hirelings who control his district:
a black man who runs a taxi company and looks like Fats Domino risen from the
swamp of evil, and his bodyguard, a Staggerlee who watches over the entire film
with the cold eyes of someone who sold his soul to the devil the day he was old
enough to know he had one.
You paid for every bit of violence, perhaps because the film refused its audience
the pleasures of telling the good guys from the bad guys, and because the violence
was so ugly it exploded the violence of the genre. It wasn’t gratuitous, but it wasn’t
“poetic” either. Every character seemed alive, with motives worth reaching for, no
matter how twisted they might turn out to be; every character (save for Taxi Man and
his gunman) fled through the story scared half out of his wits, desperate for space, for
a little more time, for one more chance.
The thieves speed away from the litter of corpses, divide up the money, and go
into hiding. Superflake is too proud of himself to stay holed up; good times are what
it was all for, right? His best hustler’s clothes—tasteless Sly Stone, but gaudy—have
been hanging for this moment. Down at the best whorehouse in Harlem Superflake
has a dozen women and he’s bragging.
Franciosa picks up the scent, and with Taxi Man’s Staggerlee at his side, his
eyes glazing over with a sadism that masks his own terror, he rips Superflake out of
the whorehouse bar. When Quinn finds Superflake crucified, castrated, and skinned
alive, you realize that along with no heroes, this movie may offer no way out. It was
made to take your sleep.
Jamaica and Dry Clean pass the word and panic; they know that Superflake
had to finger them. Dry Clean shoves his money into a clothes bag from his shop
and hails a cab for Jersey. The driver spots the markings on the bag, radios back to
Taxi Man, and delivers Dry Clean straight to Franciosa at 110th Street—the border of
Harlem and the one line the movie never crosses. Dry Clean breaks away; Franciosa
traps him on a roof, ties a rope to his leg, and hangs him over a beam, dangling him
into space. Staggerlee holds the rope; his eyes show nothing as he watches the white
man torture the black. If Dry Clean talks, they say, they won’t kill him; he is so scared
he believes them. He talks, and the rope shoots over the side.
Jamaica and his girl meet in his wretched apartment (there is a little torn-out
picture of Martin Luther King taped to the wall, a gray reminder of some other time)
to plan an escape, or a better hideout. And in one of the most extraordinary scenes
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276 The 1970s
in any American movie, a death’s-head reversal of every warm close-up you have
ever seen, Jamaica begins to talk—about green hills and a blue sky; about quiet, rest,
peace of mind; about going home. He has only killed nine men to get there. His face
is scarred by smallpox; his eyes try hard to explain. Jamaica goes on; you don’t hear
him; the camera stays in tight. Every few seconds his whole face shudders, seems
almost to shred, as a ghastly, obscenely complex twitch climbs from his jaw to his
temple, breaks, and starts up again.
It is the visual equivalent of that last song on Riot, “Thank you for talkin’ to
me Africa,” another reach for a home that isn’t there. Like Sly’s music, the scene is
unbearably long, it makes you want to run, but each frame like each note deepens the
impact, until everything else in the world has been excluded and only one artistic fact
remains. Jamaica’s twitch traces the fear of every character in the movie; it is a map
of the ambiguities the other movies so easily shot away; and in this film, it is most of
all the other side of Staggerlee’s face, which never moves.
Finally, Franciosa, Quinn, and their troops converge on the abandoned tene-
ment where Jamaica and his girl are hiding. Taxi Man gets word of the showdown.
“Wanna watch,” says Staggerlee. “No,” says Taxi Man. “I know how it’s gonna turn
out.”
A bullet cuts through the girl’s forehead and pins her to the wall behind Jamaica.
She stays on camera, standing up dead, a blank ugliness on her face. When Jamaica
turns to see her you can feel the life go out of him, but he keeps shooting. Franciosa
is killed; the cops take over. Jamaica flees to the roof with his gun and his bag of
money, still firing. He kills more. Staggerlee, sent to cover for Taxi Man, watches
from another rooftop. Jamaica falls, and in the only false moment in the picture,
flings his money down to children in a playground. Staggerlee sets up a rifle, takes
aim on Quinn, who has proved himself too weak to be worth the mob’s time, and
kills him.
In one way, then, this movie was like all the others: Staggerlee wins. But this
time, the audience was not given the benefit of any masks; they had to take him as he
came, and they were not about to pay money to see that.
Further Reading
Marcus, Greil. Mystery Train: Images of America in Rock ‘n’ Roll Music, 3rd rev. ed. New York:
Plume, 1990.
_______. “Muzak with Its Finger on the Trigger: The New Music of Sly Stone.” Creem, April
1972.
Selvin, Joel, and Dave Marsh, eds. Sly and the Family Stone: An Oral History. New York: Avon,
1998.
Vincent, Rickey. Funk: The Music, the People, and the Rhythm of the One. New York: St. Martin’s
Press, 1996.
Discography
Mayfield, Curtis. Superfly. Custom, 1972.
Sly and the Family Stone. Anthology. Sony, 1990.
_______. Stand! Sony, 2007.
_______. There’s a Riot Goin’ On. Sony, 2007.
_______. Dance to the Music. Sony, 2007.
Soul Hits of the 70s: Didn’t It Blow Your Mind!, Vol. 10. Rhino/WEA, 1991.
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49. Not-so-“little” Stevie Wonder
Stevie Wonder (b. 1950) blended funk, jazz, reggae, rock, African and
Latin rhythms, and electronic experimentation with old-fashioned song-
writing craft to create a fusion that made him the most popular black
musician of the early- to mid-1970s.
Wonder’s career has superficial similarities to that of another
Motown artist, Marvin Gaye. Like Gaye, Wonder’s music became
noticeably more eclectic, and his lyrics more personal and politi-
cal as his career progressed. Unlike Gaye, who came to Motown in
his early twenties, Wonder’s first success came at the age of 13:
billed as “Little Stevie Wonder,” his novelty instrumental hit, “Fin-
gertips, Pt. 2,” hit the top of Billboard’s pop chart in 1963. By the
late 1960s he was recording jazz-influenced ballads such as “My
Cherie Amour” (1969), and u ptempo songs with an almost manic
vocal intensity such as “I Was Made to Love Her” (1967). This variety
only hinted at the transformation in style that would occur after his
twenty-first birthday in 1971. In a development that paralleled the
release of Gaye’s creative breakthrough What’s Going On (1971),
Wonder signed a new c ontract with Motown that gave him vastly
increased artistic a utonomy. The albums that followed—Where I’m
Coming From (1971), Music of My Mind and Talking Book (both 1972),
Innervisions (1973), Fulfillingness’ First Finale (1974), and Songs in
the Key of Life (double album, 1976)—all displayed an increased
social awareness and utopianism in his lyrics, as well as an adven-
turousness as a performer of both the synthesizer and conventional
instruments (he played almost all the instruments on the albums
listed above). His use of the s ynthesizer was p
articularly i nnovative,
as he introduced many experimental timbres and techniques to
popular music.
Source: Chris Welch, “Stevie Wonder: ‘Hah—the boy is getting MILITANT! You get back to
“Fingertips” now!’,” Melody Maker, 10 February 1973.
277
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278 The 1970s
The following profile and interview by Chris Welch appeared early
in 1973, as it became clear that Talking Book was quickly becoming an
unprecedented critical and commercial success for Wonder. This article,
as did others from this period, addresses the notion that Wonder’s
audience has expanded to include increasing numbers of white,
countercultural listeners without losing his core fan base of African
Americans.1 The emphasis on Wonder’s work with British musicians Eric
Clapton and Jeff Beck derives no doubt from the publication of this arti-
cle in Melody Maker, one of the leading British music magazines. The
title of the article echoes Wonder’s commentary on how the recent turn
in his music had been received by critics—that his move toward “seri-
ous” music, and the philosophical tone and the greater prominence of
social issues in his lyrics signified a new, more “militant” attitude.
Stevie Wonder: “Hah—the boy is getting MILITANT!

You get back to ‘Fingertips’ now!”
Chris Welch
Stevie Wonder’s new album, Talking Book, struck me as one of the better releases
of recent times. It has those qualities that draw Man to music, as opposed to other
sundry diversions.
There is a spark of creativity, and that irresistible sound of talent releasing pent
up energy. Yet there are those who claim Talking Book is not a patch on Where I’m
Coming From, or Music Of My Mind. Others yearn for the Wonder of yesteryear, a
harp playing Motown child star.
With regard to appreciation of his latest work, I was fortunate in not having been
over exposed to his past triumphs. I come with fresh ears to Wonder. And as far as
I’m concerned, Talking Book says it all.
And as far as Stevie Wonder is concerned, his music says it all. His way of con-
ducting an interview is to ask: “Have you heard this?” and produce a sophisticated
cassette tape machine. Music bubbles forth, and you know right away what he’s
talking about.
Babble
As Stevie yawned and stretched and fellow journalists queued in the corridor out-
side his London hotel room, as I had done an hour before, the question loomed large;
was all this babble really necessary?
1. For an interview exploring similar themes that places Wonder’s stylistic transformation within
the context of his early development at Motown, see Ben Fong-Torres, “The Formerly Little Stevie
Wonder,” Rolling Stone (April 26, 1973): 48–50. For a lengthy profile of Wonder from two years later
that rehabilitates this idea, see Jack Slater, “A Sense of Wonder,” New York Times Magazine (23 Feb 1975):
18, 21–23, 26–32. In one telling passage, Slater compares the effect of Wonder’s synthesis to that of
Bob Dylan in the mid-sixties (pp. 30–32).
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Not-so-“little” Stevie Wonder 279
He had been in London last week, for a guest TV spot, and courteously agreed
to stay over for interviews. But it meant a rota system of press and radio men, cram-
ming all discussion in a kind of marathon Talk-In at the Royal Garden.
Not that Stevie was undisposed to talk. With his hat firmly planted over his ears,
tinted glasses in position, hands seeking the warmth of a cup of tea, he chuckled
drily, groaned in mock despair and occasionally bellowed in the manner of a New
York radio deejay. Mostly he answered questions, with due consideration.
One of the songs on his new LP is ‘Big Brother’ which to people who have read
and been frightened by George Orwell’s 1984, is a title with powerful meaning. For
some reason, I was surprised to find that Stevie had read the book, and yes indeed
the song was inspired, at least in part, by Orwell’s vision of a police state controlled
by “telescreens”, that watch the public, instead of vice-versa.
“I saw the play on TV and read the book about six years ago, as a kid. I don’t
know his prediction will ever happen, and it didn’t really frighten me. It’s kinda hard
to be frightened by that, anymore than you would be by War Of The Worlds. I guess
the song is about watching a certain kind of person, black people in the ghettos, peo-
ple who don’t have too much; and about force against force.”
The sting in some of his lyrics seemed to come out at unexpected moments on
the album . . .
“Hah — the boy is getting kinda MILITANT! You get back to ‘Fingertips’ now!”
Stevie laughed. “You see, Talking Book is a combination of things that were left over
from Music Of My Mind and some new songs. The newest were ‘Superstition’, and
‘Big Brother’. People seem to have changed in their attitude towards me as a musi-
cian, and well yeah, it does faze me.
“But I don’t feel I’ve got to get down and do the same kinda stuff forever. I’ve
had chances before to change, and blown them. You have to be cool to new ideas, and
today I am able to work more than ever. I always have a lot of tunes in my head that I
put together, and work ideas around them. I’m always a year ahead of what’s on the
last album. But however people compare the latest album to Music Of My Mind, this
one felt good to me and it felt right.
“Basically . . . I never worry about what other people think and say about me. I
want to play a track for you — one song I just put down myself . . . ”
And Steve slipped on the tape machine resting on his lap. After we heard the
tune — an inconclusive, but funky piece of music — Steve said: “Motown basically
didn’t understand what I wanted to do at first. They said — why don’t you do THIS?
And a lot of people said: ‘Stevie — you should stick to your OWN kind of style.’
People said I was getting into rock and that I should come on back home. I said —
what are you talking about? We as a people, are not interested in ‘baby, baby’ songs
anymore. There’s more to life than that! I think singles are very important, but they
are only one page in the book. An album is a book.
“I know some of the rock artists don’t want to do singles. I don’t put aside what
I’ve done in the past. It’s just that I don’t want to do it anymore. At the same time,
you shouldn’t allow yourself to become too self-indulgent.”
Excited
How did Stevie relate to his success, when young? “It didn’t faze me. I was very
happy and excited. In fact, I couldn’t believe it. When I was a kid, I’d sing and eve-
ryone seemed to like it. But at that age, I was more interested in candy, and I didn’t
want to know about Cadillacs. I still don’t want to know — either.
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280 The 1970s
“I had the experience of going up the chart, and down again, and when people
don’t want to know you. That way, you don’t get no big head! And there’s the time
when people who you think are buddies don’t come round anymore.”
How did he think Michael Jackson would cope with his brand of teenage success?
“Kids are more cool nowadays. They have much more control over their situa-
tion. Mind you, I didn’t want to have much say when I was 15.”
Did Stevie enjoy material success?
Success
“I don’t think so. As far as luxuries go, I like a Mercedes, and the only reason I like it,
is ‘cos it rides well. Actually, I’d like a palace. I get tired of hotel rooms.”
One of the pleasant surprises on Talking Book was the presence of Jeff Beck on one of
the tracks, and Steve enjoys working with British musicians, particularly Eric Clapton.
“I’ve spent more time with Eric than most other people — just as people. I
remember when we went to see Roland Kirk together.” Steve smiled and rocked back
on the sofa. “Old Roland really started to come down heavy on English musicians . . .
“I cut around four to five tracks with Eric, and I hope some of them will be on
the next LP. For me, this is like only the beginning of my career and there’s all sorts of
things I want to do. There’s more freedom to do what you believe. But in the South,
it seems like people don’t come out to see me, and in those big halls, well it really
sounds bad when they’re empty.”
Did Steve manage to re-create his album sound live on stage?
“I like to get a more spontaneous thing going. We’ve got some horns, and I’ll
play the drums on the first tune, but I’m not looking for the same sound we get on
the album. To me, the audience is more important. My name is in the studios, but the
excitement comes when we put it across to an audience.
“Black music is changing. It’s not supposed to stay in one area. You hear people
say — soul music is dead. That’s what they say (adopts deejay voice that brooks no
argument) . . . soul music is dead. But there’s no such thing as soul music. If it’s a riff,
and you’re black, then you’re a ‘soul singer’.”
Asleep
Stevie seemed on the verge of falling asleep as his voice tailed off and fingers caressed
the digits of his tape recorder.
“He does that all the time,” said Coco, his pretty lady friend, peeping around the
bedroom door. “Thanks a lot,” said a suddenly alert Steve.
How long had he been doing interviews?
“All day,” he responded simply. One of the tape controls responded to a firm
poke, and music flooded forth, bringing light into Stevie’s darkness.
On his American album covers, he has the title, “Talking Book,” printed on the
sleeve in Braille, the writing of the blind. Some British copies have also been produced
in this way, and Steve was presented with one. He ran his fingers over the cover, and
seemed puzzled. “Why did they do that?” he asked. “It says ‘Picture Book’!”
Further Reading
Lodder, Steve. Stevie Wonder—A Musical Guide to the Classic Albums. San Francisco: Backbeat,
2005.
Ribowski, Mark. Signed, Sealed, and Delivered: The Soulful Journey of Stevie Wonder. Hoboken,
N.J.: John Wiley & Sons, 2010.
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Parliament Drops the Bomb 281
Rockwell, John. “Stevie Wonder.” In Calling Out around the World: A Motown Reader, ed.
Kingsley Abbott, 131–34. London: Helter Skelter, 2000.
Selvin, Joel. “Stevie Wonder.” Mojo, April 2003.
Slater, Jack. “A Sense of Wonder.” New York Times Magazine, February 23, 1975, 18, 21–23,
26–32.
Werner, Craig. Higher Ground: Stevie Wonder, Aretha Franklin, Curtis Mayfield, and the Rise and
Fall of American Soul. New York: Crown, 2004.
Discography
Gaye, Marvin. What’s Going On. Motown, 2003.
Wonder, Stevie. Music of My Mind. Motown, 1972.
_______. Talking Book. Motown, 1972.
_______. Innervisions. Motown, 1973.
_______. Songs in the Key of Life. Motown, 1976.
_______. The Definitive Collection. Motown, 2002.
50. Parliament Drops the Bomb
Funk as a genre really came into its own during the early 1970s. Bands
as diverse as the Latin-influenced War; the jazz-influenced Tower of
Power and Kool and the Gang; the earthy Ohio Players; the utopian,
Afro-centric Earth, Wind, and Fire; and the adjective-defying Parliament-
Funkadelic, all began to achieve success during this period. Parliament,
with mastermind George Clinton (b. 1940), began a string of recordings
with “Up for the Down Stroke” that succeeded on the R&B charts for the
duration of the 1970s, including “Tear the Roof Off the Sucker” (1976),
“Flash Light” (1977), “One Nation Under a Groove—Part 1” (by Parliament
alter-ego, Funkadelic), and “Aqua Boogie (A Psychoalphadiscobeta-
bioaquadoloop)” (both 1978). Clinton created a striking form of funk:
emphasizing a clear backbeat (often reinforced with electronic hand
claps), he thickened the texture with a wealth of contrasting, overlap-
ping parts, featuring “Bootsy” Collins’s (following his tenure with James
Brown) extroverted bass lines, Bernie Worrell’s innovative synthesizer
work (including the use of the “synthesizer bass” on “Flashlight”),
horn players from Brown’s band, and gospel-rooted group vocals.
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282 The 1970s
Clinton expanded the Parliament stage show into a spectacle that set
new standards for grandiosity in black popular music. Beginning with
the album Mothership Connection (1975), Clinton developed a cosmo-
logical narrative that proselytized the redemptive power of funk. Con-
certs would enact the landing of the “Mothership” while Clinton and up
to 50 performers would hold forth in outlandish garb. Clinton’s utopian
vision of a black “Nation [United] Under a Groove” and his commit-
ment to undiluted funk have continued to influence numerous hip-hop
musicians.
George Clinton’s popularity and influence were at their peak in the

late 1970s, the period from which the following interview comes. The
epigraph by Sun Ra underscores the continuity between the science
fiction–inspired visions of Sun Ra’s interplanetary “Arkestra” and
Clinton’s various intergalactic projects; both point to a continuing
African American fascination with the possibility of a society beyond
the reach of racism, and one that can be imagined only in outer space.
The article-interview also adopts the language of Clinton and of funk
music in general and provides background on Clinton in a fanciful man-
ner while outlining a basic history of funk. Clinton’s empire of bands,
which arose as a creative response to elude music industry control, is
described here, as are Clinton’s views on the relationship between his
music and a socially responsible politics.
George Clinton: Ultimate Liberator of

Constipated Notions
W. A. Brower
If you are not a reality whose myth are you?

—Sun Ra
A concept can just be thrown in the air around the funk and before
it hit the ground you got two albums. You know? What I am saying
is that a mafunkah will shoot holes in that bad boy ‘fore it hits the
ground, like you do in the ghetto.
—George Clinton
George Clinton (a.k.a. the Long Haired Freaky Sucker, Star Child, Dr. Funkenstein,
just plain Dr. Funk, and now Mr. Wiggles the Worm—“ultrasonic, semi-bionic
clone of Dr. Funkenstein,” who was specially grafted for Clinton’s latest on-stage
Source: W. A. Brower, “George Clinton: Ultimate Liberator of Constipated Notions,” DownBeat,

April 5, 1979, pp. 16–18, 44. Courtesy of the DownBeat archives.
bra43588_pt04_253-356.indd 282 05/24/19 03:22 PM

e xtravaganza and recording Motor Booty Affair, Casablanca 7125) is no one’s myth.
Although the lineup from his newest production, which includes Queen Freakalene,
Monkey Sea and Monkey Woo, Minus Mouf, Howard Codsell, Octave Pussy, Rita
Mermaid and P-Nut Booty Jellyfish sounds like a cast of renegade cartoon characters
from a Motor Bugged Out Affixation, George Clinton is fo’ real, alllllll the way, live
and in 3-D, Dig—
Clinton walks around dressed like it’s Halloween 365 days a year. He is Head
Funkentelecktual-In-Charge of P-Funk Labs from which such uncontrolled sub-
stances as the Bomb, the P. Funk, the Uncut Funk, the Pee, Supergroovalisticprosi-
funkstication, Flash Lights, DooDoo Chasers and Liquid Sunshine originate. Dr.
Clinton told me, in an unguarded moment, that his work is dedicated to ego reduc-
tion and the eradication of mental ghettos. Clinton is also Head Referee of the Funk-
Mob, a voluntary association of barnstorming funkateers, who get their hard core
jollies off funkin’ with folks’ heads. Through the Dr.’s own funkreative mitosis, the
First Family of Funk has grown to include Parliament, Funkadelic, Bootsy’s Rubber
Band, Brides of Funkenstein, Parlet, the Horny Horns, and Bernie Worrell’s Woo.
George Clinton is the main purveyor of the funk which, along with rock and disco,
dominates the popular music market.
Recently, George Clinton has also become a wizard of finance and a big reality
in the record business. Everythang he touches turns funky. The P. Funk Earth Tour
made 30 million funky dollar bills in two years. A few months ago, Funkadelic’s
album One Nation Under A Groove (Warner Bros. 3209) went platinum funk.
The success of One Nation put Clinton in a funkified dilemma. For sure, One
Nation was the Pee, a monstrous hit, but it came right on the heels of three years of
touring with such huge productions as the Mothership Connection. The Mothership,
an Apollo 15 lookalike from which the Dr. disembarked on stage, cost a stankin’
quarter of a million all by his lonesome.
Clinton’s problem was mounting a stage show that could outfunk the last two.
His response to the situation says a bunch about how his mind funktions. “We had
just come off that [major tour] one month before One Nation came out, which meant
we had to do somethang. We had to go back out on the road and we couldn’t go back
in them same places. And the Brides was comin’ out so they had to have some place
to play.
“So we said, ‘We’ll take a tour of small joints where we can play three or four
hours and we’ll call it the anti-tour, which will de-program our heads from that big
20,000 seats. Let all the young members see what it’s really like to have to play a gig,’
you know, where you have to play fo’ real. And they could get off on it because they
can play their shit. And best of all, in going to these cities under One Nation, playin’
small places, we could get down with the people.
“The people that get in, the real fans, will say, ‘Them mathahfunkahhhaas played
three hours and turned that mathahfunkah out!’ With no props, no nothing.” In
Washington, D.C. (which he has dubbed a Chocolate City encircled by a Vanilla Sub-
urbia) Clinton took the anti-tour into the legendary Howard Theatre. Instead of three
hours the show ran nearly five. At 1:30 a.m. 2000 militants of the funk were damn
near tearin’ the roof off the sucker, hyperventilating to One Nation for the umpteenth
time.
P-Funk was mega-funk that night. The Dr. was decked out in red beret and
fatigues, and looked more like Captain Zero, the Sandinista guerilla, than the Star
Child, as he pumped the audience with stuff like, “Get funky . . . get loose . . . free
your mind . . . let your ass follow . . . let your booty do its duty.” The anti-tour was
typical of Clinton’s “anti-logic or expanded framework for logic.” Instead of shooting
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284 The 1970s
for an even bigger production and possibly reaping a diminished return he did just
the opposite and funked better.
The Dr. is big fun to talk to, being that he is an advanced student of mentalcourse—
which is to say mindfunkin’ and gamin’ on ya as necessary. He studied signifying for
ten years in a Plainfield, New Jersey barbershop which he ended up owning. In the
process he specialized in conking heads. “ . . . pre-Superfly . . . just scorchin’ heads in
the name of the cool.”
When the bloods put the torch to Plainfield Ave. during the ‘67 riots, George
Clinton’s barbershop was the only thang left standing. By then Clinton had a Mas-
ter’s in street rhythms and consense, the highest form of game. He survived the ’60s
and went on to get his doctorate in poetic licentiousness from the Universal Cor-
ner . . . hanging out and eating reality sandwiches from Harvard Square to the Motor
City. George Clinton is a deep dude. Dig.
The Dr. is from Cannapolis, North Carolina—if they’ve got olfactory glands
strong enough to claim him. He spent his early years funkin’ up in the Chocolate
City and in Chase City, Virginia, before his family settled in Plainfield. That’s where
he started Parliament in ‘55, lifting their name from a still-popular oral fixation.
“It was ego,” says Clinton. “I was a little Leo. If I couldn’t have a baseball team I
wanted a singing group. You know that was our only out . . . out of the ghetto . . . if
you could sing, dance, or some shit.” Ego is okay with the Dr. if it motorvates you
to some goal beyond yourself. But, in itself, ego will “do-loop,” that is to say, self—
destruct. Self—destruction through dysfunktional ego rhythms is something Clinton
manages to avoid by diggin’ on the One.
He runs it down like so: “No one person can do it. No philosophy, no religion, no
scientist, no state. This shit takes a whole mathahfunkin’ band and singers and every-
thang. To actually get out there takes planets because they are all connected . . . mag-
netic . . . revolving around. All this shit is connected. So any one mafunker sayin’,
‘Hey, I’m going to do it myself.’ You know? Let the sun stop shinin’ on that mafun-
kah. He be a dull mathahfunkah and that’s all it is to it. He’ll need a dynamite Flash
Light. . . . I’ll put it that way. Ain’t no one mafunkah can do this shit. And no one
species . . . no one state . . . no one nothin’. ‘Cause it’s all on the One. I mean I am not
one. I am part of one. We are all part of one.
“All this shit put together . . . all life . . . it takes it all. I mean anybody thinking
that he is deep enough to be One is truly trippin’. You know what I mean? Truly trip-
pin’. I mean, we ego trip on stage. We got a spaceship. But we park that mafunker
when it’s snowing cause it ain’t got no snow tires.”
Believe it. If you don’t feel this funk one way or the other you better get your
family physician to check your bottom inside out because it just may be false, phony
as play money, devoidoffunk and other et ceterasses. This is dancing music, be it the
Freak, the Rock or the Wiggle. The Dr.’s funk is, first of all, plenty of feet in the bass
drums and thumping ostinatos in the bass guitars. The sock cymbal is steady against
them bootin’ feet. The Dr.’s idea of bottom is to find a groove, even it out, and hold it
dead, as they say, in the pocket. At base the funk is rhythmic, and being in the pocket
is a rhythmic concept analogous to the classical idea of swing. Once time is in the
pocket, the funk is ready to roll.
Funk is the rawest rhythm and blues happening today. It is minimalist gut-
bucket in the space age. It descends from the jump band school that spawned r&b,
with doses of sock hop doowop and street corner harmonizing. It asscends directly
from the sound of Papa James Brown, Godfather of Soul and precursor of funk.
It incorporates the innovations of Sly Stone and Jimi Hendrix, who between them
foreshadowed the liberation of r&b from its song form limitations and introduced
freer instrumental styles. The funk, to a large extent, represents the assimilation of
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endrix and Sly’s influences into the r&b mainstream. Funk is the antithesis of its
H
main contender in the r&b world, disco.
The Dr. has two basic brands of the funk. The number one selling funk is Par-
liament, which draws heavily from the James Brown style. The current edition of
Parliament nods in JB’s direction, featuring the Horny Horns, led by JB alumni, Fred
Wesley and Maceo Parker, and their punching, brass-heavy riffs. The Funkadelic,
on the other hand, is basically a guitar band bordering black rock with its own cult-
like following. Funkgeetarists Gary Shider and Mike “Kid Funkadelic” Hampton lay
down supercharged heavy metal in the tradition of Hendrix. Whichever way the funk
is going, the Dr. calls upon two of the finest keyboard players in pop music—Bernie
“DaVinci” Worrell, a Funk Mob veteran, and Walter “Junie” Morrison, formerly of
the Ohio Players. Clinton is a master at layering each collaborator’s contribution into
a series of massive crescendos aimed at Tearin’ The Roof Off The Sucker.
Like most all of what the Dr. knows, the concept of diversifunkation was born of
cold realities. When Parliament ventured to Detroit in ‘67 it was basically a doo-wop
group, aspiring to success in the Motown mold. They cut a mini-hit called I Wanna
Testify and seemed on their way to plenty of that golden chicken scratch. Then came
what the Dr. likes to call the “big blow.”
“Dig,” the Dr. says, “the label we was with, that had I Wanna Testify out, went
out of business. And they had our name and we couldn’t use it because the court
wouldn’t clear it. The problem was immediate. We had to survive. So the only thing
to do was to take the musicians that we had and put them up front and the singers
became backup. We just said that the musicians are the Funkadelic and the singers
sing with them as opposed to them playing with the singers. They were friends of ours
from Jersey; they came with us. The only shift we had to make was one of ego. Could
we stand our brothers to be up front? It was just who’s singing lead and who’s not.
That was easy to say because it was basically my group.
“So they couldn’t stop us from doing that. In the meantime Parliament became
free from that record thang. We had records out as Funkadelic by then. So we had
two names because the Parliament was known. It made sense to me to get a separate
deal on a separate label for them, not with any person’s name on it, just the name
Parliament. We had to do it for survival because a group gets shelved when it’s only
one group and they funk up or they don’t get no hits. The companies just automati-
cally think, ‘Well, they thang ain’t happenin’.’ When you got two names you got a
better chance. I have know that since ‘68. The only way to justify having two groups
was to have different personalities.”
With the emergence of funk as a real power in the market, Clinton began generat-
ing contracts for members of the Mob as solo acts or groups as the major labels bid
for their piece of the funk. Thus there are five female singers playing various charac-
ters and popping in and out of a Parliament-Funkadelic show. Two of them open the
evening as Brides of Funkenstein while the other three (who back them) are billed as
the Bridesmaids. The Brides record for Atlantic while the Bridesmaids have become
Parlet when recording for Casablanca. To manage his funky conglomerate Clinton
employs Leber and Krebs, the people who handle Aerosmith, Ted Nugent and Beatle-
mania . . . all biggies. Yes, the Dr. and his family are a big reality in the record business.
The Dr. has it in his head to be even bigger. Parliament-Funkadelic returned
stateside in December from three months in France, Holland and Germany, and now
the Dr. talks about the possibility of “one planet under a groove.” Moreover, Clin-
ton claims, “We are negotiating higher—I mean higher—than any thang that’s ever
been done, black or white. We are negotiating from the point of view that we are the
biggest thang ever happened. But we know we have to do it five times bigger than
anybody, just to be equal.”
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286 The 1970s
Does the Dr. worry about the inherent personal vulnerabilities that come with
that kind of power? Will he become a target? “Not really,” he grins, “because again, it
ain’t me, you know, it’s the funk, and I am careful not to let it get into that rhythm. It
only—self-destructs you when it’s personality . . . dominant personality. Right now
it’s all flattery and amazement and shit. But that’ll wear off and it’ll just be the funk.
I ain’t gon’ provoke it, is what I am saying. And that’s not a dangerous position. It’s
a good position to be in as long as you don’t do it really out of rhythm and you can
back up what you say with some good funk.
“It’s the same concept that Muhammad Ali used, ‘I am the baddest mafunkah
around.’ You know what I am saying? When you knock out enough people you
can even get knocked out yourself and people still say, ‘Cool.’ But you got to know
when to back off, when you did a thing enough, ’cause the novelty wear offa any-
thang.”
Clinton is way ahead of the game when it comes to keepin’ the novelty from
wearing offa his thang. Many of the major groups in pop music augment their per-
formances with fantastic special effects and props. Players appear and disappear in
large clouds of pastel colored smoke, or play their axes suspended in air. The Dr.
takes multi-media dramatization to its logical conclusion, creating his own funky
operettas. Every Parliament-Funkadelic recording is programmatic in concept. His
themes include: Standing On the Verge Of Gettin It On, Maggot Brain, America Eats Its
Young, Funkenteleckty vs. The Placebo Syndrome, Chocolate City, the Mothership Connec-
tion, The Clones Of Dr. Funkenstein, Hard Core Jollies, One Nation Under A Groove, and
now, the Motor Booty Affair. On stage, the First Family perform these themes with the
aid of rather graphic scatological and sexual imagery, special effects, costumes and
scenarios.
The Motor Booty Affair takes the funk underwater. “It’s basically the same themes
that we have been doing for a while,” he explained: “Two meanings. One is that
Sir Nose and Dr. Funkenstein is rivalring. And the other is Psychoalphadiscobeta-
bioaquadoloop, which is a rhythm that is compatible to dancing in the streets and not
getting funked up. It’s the same rhythm you can have under water and not get wet.
That’s about how deep you have to be in this world and not really get funked up.”
On stage, Clinton leaves most of the singing to the five ladies, Gary Shider and
the Funkateer of longest tenure, basso-profunkdo Ray Davis. Clinton’s funktion
is to run down the rap, the rhythm, the onomatopoeia. The Dr. cuttin’ loose with
the funk is poetic licentiousness on the bizarre side, and that aspect of his “rhythm
and business” has caused consternation in some quarters of the black commu-
nity. The Rev. Jesse Jackson, whose organization, People United to Save Humanity
(PUSH) has launched a national self-improvement campaign, “Push for Excellence,”
among inner city youth, has raised questions about the impact of Clinton’s lyrics on
the impressionable, youthful segment of the audience. But the Dr. sees himself as a
deprogrammer in a culture that is telling its youth, particularly black youth of the
urban underclass, that they can’t handle themselves, that they are dysfunktional,
and that the system is their solution. Rather than exploiting sex, Clinton defetishizes,
satirizing an already demeaned subject. He views his slogans (e.g., “Get off your ass
and jam”) as exhorting youth, in language they can clearly understand, to burn down
the ghettos in their minds. Thus each production portrays blacks in an alternative
reality—dealing in space, underwater, or whatever. Apparently the impetus to pro-
ject alternative realities is an imperative in black culture. The analogies to be found in
Sun Ra and the Nation of Islam are too uncanny to be coincidental.
“The language,” Clinton says, “helps deprogram you, too—and it’s market-
able. It’s really the rhythm. Actually, the only communication that can penetrate the
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semantics and the structure, the straightjacket of what’s happening with the logic
and language of today, is to do it the way we do it, which is the same language but
with our own rhythm and a few words Xed out because certain words have emo-
tional value. This other shit is cold and calculated and no emotion. So when you say
‘shit’. . . no matter if you sayin’ it to be funny, it penetrates.”
It’s the same attitude toward language that permits “nigger,” which has its own
odious history, to be a term of endearment when uttered by the proper party with the
proper rhythm. The sense of double entendre which pervades Clinton’s lyrics, like
the various vocalisms with which they are delivered, are as old as the blues.
“So,” Clinton reasons, “I try to give them something interesting, give them what
they want. I just don’t be up there, talkin’ about, ‘I’m into my music . . . I’m for peace
and happiness and there is a message in my music and I hope the brothers and sis-
ters . . .’ That one has a patent on it and people don’t even hear it. But when you say
‘Promentalshitbackwashpsychosis Enema Squad (The Doodoo Chasers) comin’ to
tidy the bowl of your brain, giving you music to get your shit together by,’ muth-
afunkahs have to say what the funk?—and just that what is cool. That’s enough,
‘cause then they have got to think about it. It’s not telling you what to think. All we
do is say, ‘think.’ We don’t preach and we don’t guru, other than, ‘Hang loose for the
night.’ It’s that basic mother wit shit. It’s a party tonight and if they don’t get nothin’
else out of it but the party, that’s cool. And the rest of it they talk about until they get
something else out of it. It’s multi-sided.”
George Clinton puts his money where his motor mouth is. Dig: “When you think
about it, it’s another thing when groups come in the community and take all the
money and keep moving. And just to make sure we ain’t gettin’ absorbed into the
they, we dedicate from now on, throughout the rest of our career, 25¢ on every ticket
we sell to the United Negro College Fund. All our groups gonna do it and gonna
challenge all the other groups to do it. Those people are the ones that buy our records
and come to our concerts and they trying to phase out black colleges anyway—too
much vibes and rhythm in it. We think we should, because the only people that’s
gonna be able to do anything about what is happening is the young people. And
the thang for them to do is think. We can’t tell them what to do. We don’t know no
answers. But giving them a chance to think is one thang that we can do.
“It’s all relative, you know, ‘cause I have found so much about the funk that
I had no idea of. It’s got such heavy meaning. In a German dictionary it’s got the
rhythm of life from the heartbeat, of amoebas coming out of the water. So that’s a
definition of the shit of the funk. ‘Cause I had it as a good excuse after I did the best I
could do. The next best thing to saying funk it. Now I done the best I could do and I
ain’t jumpin’. And to me that’s a rhythm and I guess that’s the rhythm of life. Cause
if you got a funk, a good one, you ain’t goin’ commit suicide.”
Further Reading
Clinton, George. Brothas Be, Yo Like George, Ain’t That Funkin’ Kinda Hard on You?: A Memoir.
New York: Atria Books, 2014.
Vincent, Rickey. Funk: The Music, the People, and the Rhythm of the One. New York: St. Martin’s
Press, 1996.
Ward, Ed. “The Mothership Sails at Dawn! Roots It Ain’t.” Creem, 8, 1977.
Willhardt, Mark, and Joel Stein. “Dr. Funkenstein’s Supergroovalisticprosifunkstication:
George Clinton Signifies.” In Reading Rock and Roll: Authenticity, Appropriation, Aesthetics,
ed. Kevin J. H. Dettmar and William Richey, 145–72. New York: Columbia University
Press, 1999.
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288 The 1970s
Discography
Funkadelic. Maggot Brain. Westbound Records US, 2005.
________. Motor City Madness: The Ultimate Funkadelic Westbound Compilation. Westbound
Records US, 2006.
Parliament. Funkentelechy vs. the Placebo Syndrome. Island/Mercury, 1977.
_______. Motor Booty Affair. Island/Mercury, 1978.
Pure Funk. UTV Records, 1998.
_______. 20th Century Masters—The Millennium Collection: The Best of Parliament. Island/
Mercury, 2000.
_______. Mothership Connection. Island/Mercury, 2003.
51. Heavy Metal Meets the Counterculture
The thriving London blues-rock scene; the riff-oriented songs of the

Kinks, the Who, and the Yardbirds; and the improvisatory flights of
psychedelic rock gradually coalesced into a genre forming the antithesis
of the “soft rock” of the singer-songwriters. Jimi Hendrix, Cream, and
the Jeff Beck Group stand as the main intermediaries and progenitors of
the new genre, retrospectively named “heavy metal.”1 What separated
bands such as Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, and Deep Purple from their
blues revival antecedents was not a lesser reliance on the blues but,
rather, a less reverent attitude toward the form. These new bands were
not so interested in faithful re-creation as in taking certain elements—
the tonality, riff orientation, sexual imagery, and sense of aggression—
found in some blues songs and heightening or refashioning them for
1. This genealogy is borne out by Hit Parader’s Top 100 Metal Albums (Spring 1989) and Hit Parad-
er’s “Heavy Metal: The Hall of Fame” (December 1982), reprinted in Robert Walser, R unning with
the Devil: Power, Gender, and Madness in Heavy Metal Music (Hanover, N.H.: Wesleyan U niversity
Press and University Press of New England, 1993), 173–74. The account here is also indebted to
Steve Waksman’s in Instruments of Desire: The Electric Guitar and the Shaping of Musical Experience
(Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1999), 263; and Walser’s in Running with the Devil.
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Heavy Metal Meets the Counterculture 289
an audience that was less interested in folklore and more interested
in visceral power.2 In metal, the peace-loving idealism of folk-rock and
psychedelia also diminished in favor of darker visions and expressions
of crude sexuality that spoke to another aspect of the countercultural
experience.
The “power chord”—the root and fifth of a chord sounded with-
out the third but magnified by distortion in a sonic emblem of trans-
gressive masculinity—joined forces with riffs played in unison by
guitar and bass and a heavy “bottom” (bass and bass drum mixed
up front, memorialized by Spinal Tap in their anthem “Big Bottom”)
to create a genre of unparalleled volume, and one that found a large
audience of working- and middle-class white youths. The initial rum-
blings from England were aided and abetted by sheets of noise from
late 1960s American aggregations such as Blue Cheer and the highly
political MC5.
The early 1970s witnessed a dispersion of a hard rock style, as writ-
ers of the time lumped bands like Alice Cooper, Grand Funk Railroad,
and Iggy and the Stooges together with Black Sabbath and Led Zep-
pelin.3 New attitudes toward showmanship emerged in the mid-1970s
with Kiss, and hard rock reached a peak of pop stylization with one-
word bands—Journey, Foreigner, Boston, and Toto. Of these bands, the
crown for longevity goes to Aerosmith, a band whose hard rock (and
lead singer’s lips) owed more to the Stones than to anybody else (note:
critics often used “hard rock” and “heavy metal” interchangeably at
this time).
Heavy metal spoke to class and age divisions in the audience: lower
and lower-middle class versus bourgeois, and college students versus
high school students. The following entry features a record review of Led
Zeppelin’s first album that appeared in Rolling Stone and the response
of some readers to this review. This exchange reveals early public
recognition of divisions in the rock audience and a divide between part
of the audience and the aesthetic of Rolling Stone’s rock critics. John
Mendelsohn, the reviewer, compares Led Zeppelin’s album unfavorably
to the first album by the Jeff Beck Group, which had received positive
reviews a short time before.
2. Walser, in fact, focuses on the concept of “power” as a defining feature of the heavy metal
genre and traces this connection in the historical usage of the term dating back two hundred years;
see Running with the Devil, 1–3.
3. Lester Bangs wrote several essays exploring these interconnections; see the following: “Heavy
Metal,” in The Rolling Stone Illustrated History of Rock and Roll, ed. Anthony DeCurtis and James Henke
with Holly George Warren, 459–63 (New York: Random House, [1976] 1992); “Bring Your Mother to
the Gas Chamber (Part 1),” Creem, June 1972, 40ff; “Bring Your Mother to the Gas Chamber: Black
Sabbath and the Straight Dope on Blood-Lust Orgies, Part 2,” Creem, July 1972, 47ff.
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290 The 1970s
Review of Led Zeppelin

John Mendelsohn
Led Zeppelin
Led Zeppelin (Atlantic SD 8216)

The popular formula in England in this, the aftermath era of such successful British
bluesmen as Cream and John Mayall, seems to be: add, to an excellent guitarist who,
since leaving the Yardbirds and/or Mayall, has become a minor musical deity, a
competent rhythm section and pretty soul-belter who can do a good spade imitation.
The latest of the British blues groups so conceived offers little that its twin, the Jeff
Beck Group, didn’t say as well or better three months ago, and the excesses of the
Beck group’s Truth album (most notably, its self-indulgence and restrictedness), are
fully in evidence on Led Zeppelin’s debut album.
Jimmy Page, around whom the Zeppelin revolves, is, admittedly, an extraor-
dinarily proficient blues guitarist and explorer of his instrument’s electronic capa-
bilities. Unfortunately, he is also a very limited producer and a writer of weak,
unimaginative songs, and the Zeppelin album suffers from his having both pro-
duced it and written most of it (alone or in combination with his accomplices in
the group).
The album opens with lots of guitar-rhythm section exchanges (in the fashion of
Beck’s “Shapes of Things” on “Good Times Bad Times,” which might have been ideal
for a Yardbirds’ B-side). Here, as almost everywhere else on the album, it is Page’s
guitar that provides most of the excitement. “Babe I’m Gonna Leave You” alternates
between prissy Robert Plant’s howled vocals fronting an acoustic guitar and driving
choruses of the band running down a four-chord progression while John Bonham
smashes his cymbals on every beat. The song is very dull in places (especially on the
vocal passages), very redundant, and certainly not worth the six-and-a-half minutes
the Zeppelin gives it.
Two much-overdone Willie Dixon blues standards fail to be revivified by being
turned into showcases for Page and Plant. “You Shook Me” is the more interesting
of the two—at the end of each line Plant’s echo-chambered voice drops into a small
explosion of fuzz-tone guitar, with which it matches shrieks at the end.
The album’s most representative cut is “How Many More Times.” Here a jazzy
introduction gives way to a driving (albeit monotonous) guitar-dominated back-
ground for Plant’s strained and unconvincing shouting (he may be as foppish as Rod
Stewart, but he’s nowhere near so exciting, especially in the higher registers). A fine
Page solo then leads the band into what sounds like a backwards version of the Page-
composed “Beck’s Bolero,” hence to a little snatch of Albert King’s “The Hunter,”
and finally to an avalanche of drums and shouting.
In their willingness to waste their considerable talent on unworthy material the
Zeppelin has produced an album which is sadly reminiscent of Truth. Like the Beck
group they are also perfectly willing to make themselves a two- (or, more accurately,
Source: “Led Zeppelin” by John Mendelsohn from Rolling Stone issue dated March 15, 1969.
Copyright © Rolling Stone LLC 1969. All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission.
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one-and-a-half) man show. It would seem that, if they’re to help fill the void created
by the demise of Cream, they will have to find a producer (and editor) and some
material worthy of their collective attention.
JOHN MENDELSOHN
3-15-69
SIRS:
Mendelsohn’s review of Led Zeppelin was a 100% lie. Pure bullshit. Never has there
been such a great band since Winwood’s departure from Traffic.
Eric Charles
Brooklyn, N.Y.
SIRS:
If I used your record reviews as a guide to my personal record purchases, I would
have the worst pile of garbage in the history of record collecting.
A few issues back, your unbelievably fucked review of Led Zeppelin. This, plus
past reviews of Creedence Clearwater, Cream, etc.
I don’t know where the musical taste of San Francisco is at, but if your magazine
is an indicator—perhaps you all ought to come east on your vacation this summer.
Charles Laquidara
WBCN-FM
Boston, Massachusetts
In discussions of heavy metal’s genealogy, heated debates often rage

over whether Led Zeppelin or Black Sabbath were the “first.” The two
bands share instrumentation (a trio of guitar, bass, and drums fronted
by a noninstrumentalist singer), images featuring the occult and super-
natural, and an unenthusiastic reception by rock critics. While it is true
that Led Zeppelin sometimes used a textural approach strongly identi-
fied with heavy metal on songs such as “How Many More Times” and
“Whole Lotta Love” (both from 1969), many of their songs also reveal
ties to psychedelic rock and even folk-rock: “Babe I’m Gonna Leave
You,” from their first album, was a cover of an early 1960s recording
by Joan Baez, and “Stairway to Heaven,” perhaps their most famous
song, evokes these earlier genres in its lyrics, elaborate instrumenta-
tion, and arrangement. In general, then, Led Zeppelin share certain
aesthetic conceits with their 1960s forbears in a way that seems anti-
thetical to Black Sabbath.
Black Sabbath’s first two albums, Black Sabbath (released February,
Friday the 13th, 1970) and Paranoid (1971), feature songs stripped down
almost entirely to their riff-infused bones. Their gloomy, religious-tinged
lyrics portending doom and offering moral advice are light years away
from the alternately flowery, hedonistic, and sometimes conventionally
romantic images of Led Zeppelin. Sabbath’s tempos and textures ooze
primordial sludge, lending their music a monolithic gravity. For example,
the title song from their first album (“Black S
abbath” from the album Black
Sabbath, as performed by Black Sabbath) begins with the sound of rain,
thunder, and tolling church bells, followed by a riff played by guitar and
bass at a dirgelike tempo consisting entirely of the pitches G, G an octave
higher, and C-sharp, thereby outlining the tritone, or diabolus in musica,
the interval symbolizing the “devil in music” in the middle ages. The band
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292 The 1970s
maintains this riff and tempo for the first 4΄30� of the song, with only soft-
loud dynamics used to provide contrast. The lyrics of “Black Sabbath”
speak of the “chosen one,” “Satan,” and immolation, announcing the
song’s difference forcefully from the rock music that had preceded it.
Black Sabbath posed a riddle for rock critics similar to, but even
more extreme than, Led Zeppelin: How could such apparent disdain for
complexity and artfulness be reconciled with enormous popularity? In
this respect, Black Sabbath presented a conundrum similar to that of
the American hard rock group Grand Funk Railroad. Both bands came
from regions far removed from the carnivalesque celebrations of the
counterculture in San Francisco and London or from the hipster scene
of New York City: Black Sabbath from Birmingham (England), Grand
Funk from Flint, Michigan. Critics like Greil Marcus and Richard Gold-
stein speculated that this phenomenon was related to the emergence
of a younger audience that had not absorbed the aesthetic premises of
1960s rock.4 The most sympathetic critic, however, was Lester Bangs,
for whom Black Sabbath’s rejection of artifice fit nicely into his “outline
of a cure,” continuing a line established by the Velvet Underground
and the Stooges; in the words of Bangs, “since when is monotony so
taboo in rock and roll, anyway? . . . [Black Sabbath’s music is] naïve,
simplistic, repetitive, absolute doggerel—but in the tradition.”5
Shunned by both critics and radio, where the playlists of ”under-
ground” rock stations usually aligned with critical taste, heavy metal
had to wait until the development of the album-oriented rock format in
the late 1970s to acquire a true mass media outlet.
Black Sabbath Don’t Scare Nobody

Ed Kelleher
Ozzy Osbourne talking:
“I was standing out at the back of the club between sets and this guy says, ‘Is it
true you’ve gone insane?’ I said, ‘what?’ And he says, ‘The word’s out on you that
you’re mad, didn’t you hear?’ I just shook my head, ‘I dunno.’”
4. See Steve Waksman’s discussion of this critical debate in the context of the response to Grand
Funk Railroad in “Grand Funk Live! Staging Rock in the Age of the Arena,” in Listen Again: A Mo-
mentary History of Pop Music, ed. Eric Weisbard, 157–71 (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2007).
5. Lester Bangs, “Review of Black Sabbath, Master of Reality,” in The Rolling Stone Record Review
Volume II (New York: Pocket Books, 1974), 309, 310 (first published in Rolling Stone, November 25,
1971). See also Bangs’s extended essay on Black Sabbath, “Bring Your Mother to the Gas Cham-
ber (parts 1 and 2),” cited in the introduction to this chapter. For a history of heavy metal placing
Black Sabbath unequivocally as its progenitor, see Ian Christe, Sound of the Beast: The Complete
Headbanging History of Heavy Metal (New York: HarperEntertainment, 2003).
Source: “Black Sabbath Don’t Scare Nobody,” Ed Kelleher, Creem, Vol. 3, no. 7.
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It’s the morning after. Ozzy looks like the morning after. His expression says
that if he was losing his mind he would probably be the last to know. Or care.
He stares into a cup of hotel coffee which has turned cold. Ozzy is exhausted.
He’s been sick most of the night from the too many ups he took to get through the
last show. Black Sabbath has just wound up their third American tour, a rigor-
ous coast to coast excursion of one-nighters that’s taken its toll in the bags under
Ozzy Osbourne’s eyes and in the similarly weary faces of fellow band mem-
bers, guitarist Tony Iommi, drummer Bill Ward, and bass player Terry “Geezer”
Butler.
“Any group from England that can do an American tour deserves credit,” says
Ozzy. “At home there’s no great distances to travel, no time changes and no planes to
catch. It’s really very tiring here.” Last time over, Ozzy had to enter a hospital with a
bad case of nervous fatigue. Proof that Sabbath is beginning to adjust to the rigors of
being a visiting supergroup: all four members managed to stagger through this tour
relatively intact.
Even their instruments made it. Three and a half tons of equipment which was
shipped and air freighted from city to city. During this trip there were no major
hitches, but the group and road manager Michael Double remember nights like the
one they spent in Paramus, New Jersey earlier this year. Their equipment had been
stranded at the Chicago airport and they had to work with power supplied by the
local Catholic church. The concert was a disaster. After half of the first number, Ozzy
led the band off the stage. Some amateur engineers came out and toyed with the
equipment. The audience sat for about an hour and didn’t bitch. Finally, Sabbath
returned, played an additional five songs in desultory fashion and split. Despite the
disappointment of the set, they received a standing ovation. Black Sabbath fans may
be a hard lot, but they’re also understanding.
It wasn’t always so. The early stages of the band’s career were marked by
incidents of performer-audience confrontations. Thinking back on it now, Ozzy
can manage a smile as he recalls a gig Sabbath played in Northern Scotland. “It
was one of those horrible little towns, you know the type: three shops and about
ten boozers. To get there we had to drive for hours over these bumpy dirt roads.
There were three people in the whole club for our entire first set. Then it got to
be ten o’clock and that’s the hour when the pubs close, so pretty soon all these
farmers started coming in. They were all drunk out of their minds and started
shouting things like, ‘Play something we can dance to, you cunt!’ Some of them
had these pennies they would heat over a flame and throw at the stage. There we
were trying to play music and they were pelting us with these horrible bloody
hot coins that stick to your skin when they hit you. Then they started complaining
about our volume. They sent up a note ‘Turn down or . . .’ and below that was a
large bloodstain.”
“What did you do?”
“We turned up!”
“We had to,” adds Geezer. “After all, we’re only in it for the volume.”
Volume. Loudness. For some that is what Black Sabbath is all about. The lights
come up. The group kicks into the opening bars of “War Pigs” with bass vying with
drums vying with guitar in a heads-on battle for decibel supremacy—and over all
comes the insistent voice of Ozzy, loud, louder, loudest! The true fans revel, smiling
as their brains are bathed in it. The uninitiated are startled (“This is loud shit.” “You
mean I was supposed to play their records at high volume?”). Those whose job it is
to be there even come prepared. One record company exec packs a pair of earplugs
whenever he attends a Sabbath show.
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294 The 1970s
“Louder than Led Zeppelin” was a line from the early promotion copy on Black
Sabbath. It was only partly a put-on. Loudness, particularly when accompanied by
intensity, is mighty marketable, just as softness blended with innocence can be. In the
agora of the record business, extremities and aberrations turn a nice dollar. Ask Tiny
Tim. If you can find her, ask Mrs. Miller.
Actually, Sabbath had something else going for them in the extremities depart-
ment. Witchcraft. Age old, but new gold. In England witchcraft was already sacred.
There was widespread interest in Satanism and magic. The time was right for a rock
and roll band which personified all the cults and rituals of the day. Let them frown
into the hearts of our children. Let their lyrics play upon infant fears. Dress them in
sombre raiment, iron crosses gleaming on their breasts. Give them all the darkest
crayons to draw with. Have them set a funereal beat to march to. And there was
Black Sabbath, just hanging out, calling themselves Earth and wondering why they
hadn’t made it yet, even while they spent a good part of the time explaining that no,
they weren’t Rare Earth, they were not to be confused with Mother Earth and they
sure weren’t the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band.
The story of how they made their name change is splashed with the wash of
press-agentry and gimmickry. After an unsuccessful tour of the Continent, the
boys were coming back to England by boat and decided to chuck the Earth tag
for something more mysterioso. Right after returning, they got word that one of
the fellow’s aunts had died. They took a trip to Holland. When they got back,
you guessed it. Another relative had bit the dust. The pattern continued. The
group got scared. Enter Ozzy Osbourne’s father who fashioned for them iron
crosses to wear around their necks. Presto! No more family funerals. And, for
extras, the band starts to prosper. The tale is a natural. Does it matter if it’s true?
We’re dealing with myth here just as surely as if we were skimming a page of
Homeric verse.
For a time Sabbath were confused in many people’s minds with Black Widow, a
group whose main claim to fame was that they simulated a black mass ritual as part
of their concert act. Some say that on special occasions Widow raped the girl serving
as victim right on the stage. One ecstatic admirer of the group told me in all serious-
ness that one night they murdered her! Confusing the bands was far less prevalent in
England than here in the U.S. where neither was really known. While Sabbath’s first
LP, entitled simply Black Sabbath, established their identity for most American fans,
mix-ups continued. The most striking appeared in the pages of Rolling Stone. In its
April 15, 1971 issue, Sabbath’s second album, Paranoid was reviewed. After the music
had been written off as “bubblegum Satanism,” the critic blew it. He launched into
a put-down of “lead singer Kip Treavor.” Kip, of course, had been the vocalist with
Black Widow.
***
New York record producer talking:

“For a long time I was just vaguely aware of Black Sabbath. Then I heard a cou-
ple of their things and I dismissed them. You know what happened? It’s a year later
and I’m an absolute Sabbath freak! My kid sister turned me on to them.”
Black Sabbath got the predictable amount of bad press when they first came
along. Predictable because the usual number of people weren’t willing to give them
a chance. “Witches and devils? What is this shit?” And another album went flying
into the dustpile of the rock cognoscenti. “People say they didn’t really hear what we
were doing,” Ozzy laughs. “How could they not hear us?”
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What critics didn’t figure on was word of mouth. Sabbath is the kind of band
that a friend comes over, plunks the record on your turntable, hands you a thick
joint, points you to your favorite easy chair, turns up the juice and says, “Hey listen.”
It’s this variation on missionary zeal that has put the group over and helped them to
succeed against really phenomenal odds. How phenomenal? Take the last two years.
Make a list of the supergroups which have emerged during that period. Not your
personal favorites, necessarily, just an objective list of the groups that sell records in
the millions and fill concert halls wherever they go. Now cross out the names of all
the bands which were formed as offshoots of already successful groups. Only a very
few names will be left and among them will be Black Sabbath.
In the grand tradition of British groups, Sabbath came out of dead end streets.
It’s a downer just to drive through Birmingham; to actually live there must be
mind-strangling. It’s a factory town but with a difference — it’s spread out in all
directions, a big sprawling splotch in the center of England. “There are so many
suburbs to it,” says Ozzy, “that there is no such thing as a ‘Birmingham sound.’”
The boys were headed down the usual badass road until rock and roll bailed them
out. “If I hadn’t got with a band,” says Ozzy soberly, “I really would be in prison
right now.”
Of the four only Geezer had any aspirations of escaping a boring working-class
life. And he was only studying for it. Yes, Geezer wanted to be an accountant. The
others were more realistic. Bill Ward alternated between lorry driving and laboring
in a rubber mill. Tony Iommi fixed typewriters (“I was also a part time bully.”). Ozzy
worked in a slaughterhouse.
“What did you do there?”
No reply. He makes a cutting motion with his fingers. He grins in what he must
think is fiendish fashion. Yeah, Ozzy, you would have gone to the slam.
***
Lillian Roxon talking:

“If I was a little kid and I saw those four up on the stage looking like that and
with those iron crucifixes, I’d be scared!”
Nobody is really scared of Black Sabbath but I know what Lillian means. There
is a very delicious quality to fear, something that as children we understand com-
pletely but that we lose hold of as we get older. Sabbath, with their images of rat
salad, iron men and bits of finger, get right through to the dark areas of our memory.
It’s Saturday matinee, the lights go out and the horror show begins. Slip into the
weird world. A doctor brings corpses from the grave. Slip back and laugh. An actor
is mugging outrageously. The same combination of the vivid and the comic works
for Black Sabbath.
“We are serious about our music,” declares Ozzy and he means it. “We write
about things that are true.” But the send-up is there too. A person doesn’t have to
look very deeply into the Black Sabbath songbook to come up grinning at some of
the lyrics. “What is this that stands before me?” asks Ozzy in the opening verse
of their very first song. You might well arsk, as John Lennon might well say. Sab-
bath is having their fun and why shouldn’t they? What the hell is rock and roll if
it isn’t fun?
A closer look at their lyrics reveals that the boys have gotten their heads together
and come up with some relevant ideas on topics of the day. Nothing intensely intel-
lectual, you understand, just a few observations on the planet and mostly in their
latest LP, Master Of Reality. The despair of their earlier songs has given way to a kind
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296 The 1970s
of cautious optimism. “Children Of The Grave,” probably the most relentless rocket
on the album, offers the hope that love can be a force for survival:
Show the world that love is still alive, you must be brave
Or you children of today are children of the grave.*
Another song, “After Forever,” examines survival on a personal plane and is
almost religious in tone:
Perhaps you’ll think
before you say that God is dead and gone
Open your eyes, just realize that he is the one
The only one who can save you now
from all this sin and hate.
Or will you just jeer at all you hear?
Yes! I think it’s too late.*
The last line is pure Sabbath. When they say “it’s too late,” it’s a whole lot heav-
ier than Carole King. It’s over! Still, the idea of the verse isn’t entirely negated by the
tagline. Sabbath is asking you to believe in something.
Usually they don’t ask much. They dish it out. Cruelty has been a common char-
acteristic of their songs. Sometimes it takes the form of judgment and retribution in a
manner which is almost Calvinistic— in “War Pigs” the generals who have perpetrated
death and destruction on the world are stripped of their power and made to crawl on
their knees for mercy. Other times it is just dismissal. “Finished with my woman ‘cause
she couldn’t help me with my mind” is the matter-of-fact opener to “Paranoid.”
Instrumentally, too, they are uncompromising, and often when they hit on a good
hard riff they will bring it back over and over. On records this can be exciting or boring,
depending on your mood, but in concert when you’re primed for the Sabbath sound, it’s
exhilarating. Other bands might try to entice your mind. Sabbath drives a spike into it.
Instrumentally they are really just a three man band. Occasionally, Ozzy will pitch
in with a bit of harmonica, but mostly it’s a three way street as far as axes are concerned.
Rarely mentioned too is the fact that Tony Iommi is fast becoming one of rock’s most
technically proficient guitarists. What he might lack in showbusiness-y flash he more
than makes up for in ability. On the last album he also emerged as a talented composer—
his surprisingly gentle, almost medieval songs give a nice balance to the record.
Now that they have achieved recognition, Sabbath seems interested in widening
their spectrum. They’re glad that their audience is becoming more diverse. “After we
had a number one single in England,” says Ozzy, “we started attracting very young
kids and nothing else. So we never followed ‘Paranoid’ up with another single. We’re
not interested in just appealing to a lot of knickerwetters.” More and more, older fans
like the New York record producer quoted earlier are showing up at Sabbath gigs
and this has got to have an effect on which way the group will go.
“When we play, we try to get off,” explains Ozzy. “If we can get the audience off
too, that’s all the better ‘cause then we get a good thing going back and forth between
us and we play better.”
The next album, their fourth, hasn’t been worked out yet. “We’ve got a little cot-
tage in the country,” says Ozzy. “We’ll stay there a few weeks, get loaded all the time
and write some new songs.” Look for some surprises. Sabbath worked hard to get
where they’re at and they’re not about to let up. Next time you see Ozzy Osbourne,
make a cutting motion with your fingers. He’ll know what you mean.
*Copyright Tro/Essex Music International, Inc. (ASCAP)
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Led Zeppelin Speaks! 297
Further Reading
Christe, Ian. Sound of the Beast: The Complete Headbanging History of Heavy Metal. New York:
Harper Entertainment, 2003.
Cope, Andrew L. Black Sabbath and the Rise of Heavy Metal Music. Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 2010.
Iommi, Tony, and T. J. Lammers. Iron Man: My Journey Through Heaven and Hell with Black
Sabbath. Cambridge, Mass.: Da Capo Press, 2011.
———. This Ain’t the Summer of Love: Conflict and Crossover in Heavy Metal and Punk. Berkeley:
University of California Press, 2009.
Walser, Robert. Running with the Devil: Power, Gender, and Madness in Heavy Metal Music.
Weinstein, Deena. Heavy Metal: The Music and Its Culture. Rev. ed. New York: Da Capo Press, 2000.
Discography
Beck, Jeff. Truth. Sony, 1968.
Black Sabbath. Black Sabbath. Warner Bros./WEA, [1970] 1990.
_______. Paranoid. Warner Bros./WEA, [1970] 1990.
_______. Master of Reality. Warner Bros./WEA, [1971] 1990.
Blue Cheer. The History of Blue Cheer: Good Times Are So Hard to Find. Island Mercury, 1990.
British Rock, Vol. 1. Original Sound, 1988.
Cream. Disraeli Gears. Polydor/UMGD, 1967.
Deep Purple. The Very Best of Deep Purple. Rhino/WEA, 2000.
Heavy Metal. Rhino/WEA, 2007, esp. disc 1.
Heavy Metal: The First 20 Years. Time Life Records, 2006.
Led Zeppelin. Led Zeppelin I. Atlantic/WEA, 1969.
_______. Led Zeppelin II. Atlantic/WEA, 1969.
52. Led Zeppelin Speaks!
The following interview of Jimmy Page by Dave Schulps originally

appeared in Trouser Press over three successive issues in 1977. While
several years had passed since the critical disdain that greeted Led Zep-
pelin’s early albums, this interview is littered with references to the gap
between their success with audiences and the negative response from
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298 The 1970s
critics. Numerous interviews with Led Zeppelin were published in the
mid-1970s (usually with Robert Plant), but Schulps’s piece is unusual in
its focus on Zeppelin’s music.1 Other interviews tended to obsess about
Plant and Page’s mystical predilections or about other aspects of Zep-
pelin’s image, such as their reputation for destroying hotel rooms and
ravaging groupies. This interview covers the entirety of Page’s career,
including his background in art school and London-area blues bands,
his experiences as a session guitarist, his stint with the Yardbirds, and
his friendship with Jeff Beck. Page comes across as thoughtful and
humble—a far cry from the public perception of heavy metal guitarists
as craven wildmen. In passages that may be responding directly to Men-
delsohn’s review, Page answers charges about a lack of originality in
relation to the Jeff Beck Group and discusses another somewhat con-
troversial issue: Led Zeppelin’s use of traditional blues lyrics and tunes
on their early albums without attribution.2
The Crunge: Jimmy Page Gives a History Lesson

Dave Schulps
Were you into the blues as much as the Stones or was it more rock ‘n’ roll for you?
I was an all-arounder, thank God.
Do you think that’s helped your career?
Immensely. I think if I was just labeled a blues guitarist I’d have never been able to
lose the tag. When all the guitarists started to come through in America—like
Clapton, Beck, and myself—Eric, being the blues guitarist, had the label. People
1. This interview was not alone in this approach, however; for an interview that goes to great
lengths to convince readers of Page’s seriousness as a musician from earlier in his career, see Chris
Welch, “Jimmy Page, Part Three,” Melody Maker, February 28, 1970, 10. For another interview that
gives both Page and Plant space to talk about music, see Cameron Crowe, “Jimmy Page and Robert
Plant Talk,” Rolling Stone, March 13, 1975, 33–37. Perhaps the strangest interview, and one that does
dwell on Page’s interest in the occult, is his interview with William Burroughs (Beat-associated
author of Naked Lunch, a hallucinatory chronicle of a junkie), “Rock Magic: Jimmy Page, Led Zep-
pelin, and a Search for the Elusive Stairway to Heaven,” Crawdaddy, June 1975, 34–35, 39–40.
2. For a musicological defense of Led Zeppelin against charges of appropriation and pla-
giarism, see Dave Headlam, “Does the Song Remain the Same? Questions of Authorship and
Identification in the Music of Led Zeppelin,” in Concert Music, Rock, and Jazz since 1945: Essays and
Analytical Studies, ed. Elizabeth West Marvin and Richard Hermann, 313–63 (Rochester, N.Y.: Uni-
versity of Rochester Press, 1995). For the most thorough and sophisticated scholarly study of Led
Zeppelin to date, see Susan Fast, In the Houses of the Holy: Led Zeppelin and the Power of Rock Music
(New York: Oxford University Press, 2001). See also “Heavy Music: Cock Rock, Colonialism, and
Led Zeppelin,” in Steve Waksman, Instruments of Desire: The Electric Guitar and the Shaping of Musi-
cal Experience (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1999), 237–76.
Source: “The Crunge: Jimmy Page Gives a History Lesson,” © Dave Schulps/Trouser Press.
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just wanted to hear him play blues. I saw the guitar as a multifaceted instrument
and this has stayed with me throughout. When you listen to the various classical
guitarists like Segovia and Julian Bream, brilliant classical players, and Manitas
de Plata doing flamenco, it’s two totally different approaches to acoustic. Then
there’s Django Reinhardt and that’s another approach entirely.
In those early days I was very interested in Indian music, as were a lot of
other people too. Most of the “textbook” of what I was forced to learn was while
I was doing sessions, though. At that point you never knew what you were
going to be doing when you got to the session. In America, you were a specialist.
For example, you would never think of Steve Cropper to do a jazz session or film
session or TV jingles, but in Britain you had to do everything. I had to do a hell
of a lot of work in a short time. I still don’t really read music, to be honest with
you. I read it like a six-year-old reads a book, which was adequate for sessions,
and I can write it down, which is important.
What got you into guitar playing? You listened to a lot of music being a collector, so was it
just hearing it on record?
Exactly. I’ve read about many records which are supposed to have turned me on
to want to play, but it was “Baby, Let’s Play House” by Elvis Presley. You’ve
got to understand that in those days “rock ‘n’ roll” was a dirty word. It wasn’t
even being played by the media. Maybe you’d hear one record a day during the
period of Elvis, Little Richard, and Jerry Lee Lewis. That’s why you were forced
to be a record collector if you wanted to be part of it. I heard that record and I
wanted to be part of it; I knew something was going on. I heard the acoustic
guitar, slap bass, and electric guitar—three instruments and a voice—and they
generated so much energy I had to be part of it. That’s when I started. Mind you,
it took a long time before I got anywhere, I mean any sort of dexterity. I used to
listen to Ricky Nelson records and pinch the James Burton licks, learn them note
for note perfect. I only did that for a while, though. I guess that after one writes
one’s first song you tend to depart from that. It’s inevitable.
How old were you when you left Neil Christian3 and started going heavily into sessions?
I left Neil Christian when I was about 17 and went to art college. During that period,
I was jamming at night in a blues club. By that time the blues had started to
happen, so I used to go out and jam with Cyril Davies’s Interval Band. Then
somebody asked me if I’d like to play on a record, and before I knew where I was
I was doing all these studio dates at night, while still going to art college in the
daytime. There was a crossroads and you know which one I took.
You mentioned you were good friends with Beck before the Yardbirds. How did your friend-
ship come about? Did you see the Yardbirds often when Beck was with them?
When I was doing studio work I used to go see them often, whenever I wasn’t work-
ing. I met Beck through a friend of mine who told me he knew this guitarist I had
to meet who’d made his own guitar. Beck showed up with his homemade guitar
one day and he was really quite good. He started playing this James Burton and
Scotty Moore stuff; I joined in and we really hit it off well.
We used to hang out a hell of a lot when he was in the Yardbirds and I was
doing studio work. I remember we both got very turned on to Rodrigo’s Guitar
Concerto by Segovia and all these sorts of music. He had the same sort of taste
3. “Neil Christian” is a reference to Page’s first band, Neil Christian and the Crusaders.
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300 The 1970s
in music as I did. That’s why you’ll find on the early LPs we both did a song like
“You Shook Me.” It was the type of thing we’d both played in bands. Someone
told me he’d already recorded it after we’d already put it down on the first Zep-
pelin album. I thought, “Oh dear, it’s going to be identical,” but it was nothing
like it, fortunately. I just had no idea he’d done it. It was on Truth but I first heard
it when I was in Miami after we’d recorded our version. It’s a classic example of
coming from the same area musically, of having similar taste. It really pissed me
off when people compared our first album to the Jeff Beck Group and said it was
very close conceptually. It was nonsense, utter nonsense. The only similarity was
that we’d both come out of the Yardbirds and we both had acquired certain riffs
individually from the Yardbirds.
Under what circumstances did you finally join the Yardbirds when Paul Samwell-Smith quit
in late summer of 1966?
It was at a gig at the Marquee Club in Oxford which I’d gone along to. They
were playing in front of all these penguin-suited undergraduates and I think
Samwell-Smith, whose family was a bit well to do, was embarrassed by the band’s
behavior. Apparently Keith Relf had gotten really drunk and he was falling into
the drum kit, making farting noises into the mike, being generally anarchistic.
I thought he’d done really well, actually, and the band had played really well that
night. He just added all this extra feeling to it. When he came offstage, though,
Paul Samwell-Smith said, “I’m leaving the band.” Things used to be so final back
then. There was no rethinking decisions like that. Then he said to Chris Dreja, “If
I were you, I’d leave too.” Which he didn’t. They were sort of stuck.
Jeff had brought me to the gig in his car and on the way back I told him I’d
sit in for a few months until they got things sorted out. Beck had often said to
me, “It would be really great if you could join the band.” But I just didn’t think
it was a possibility in any way. In addition, since I’d turned the offer down a
couple of times already, I didn’t know how the rest of them would feel about
me joining. It was decided that we’d definitely have a go at it; I’d take on the
bass, though I’d never played it before, but only until Dreja could learn it as he’d
never played it before either. We figured it would be easier for me to pick it up
quickly, then switch over to a dual guitar thing when Chris had time to become
familiar enough with the bass.
What about your own desire for stardom, did that have any role in your quitting sessions to
join the Yardbirds in the first place?
No. I never desired stardom, I just wanted to be respected as a musician.
Do you feel the extent of your stardom now has become a burden for you in any way?
Only in relation to a lot of misunderstandings that have been laid on us. A lot of
negative and derogatory things have been said about us. I must say I enjoyed the
anonymity that was part of being one fourth of a group. I liked being a name but
not necessarily a face to go with it. The film, The Song Remains the Same, I think,
has done a lot to put faces to names for the group.
And after Relf and McCarty said they were quitting the Yardbirds, you planned to keep the
group going with Chris Dreja and bring in a new drummer and singer, is that right?
Well, we still had these dates we were supposed to fulfill. Around the time of the
split John Paul Jones called me up and said he was interested in getting some-
thing together. Also, Chris was getting very into photography; he decided he
wanted to open his own studio and by that time was no longer enamored with
the thought of going on the road. Obviously, a lot of Keith and Jim’s attitude of
wanting to jack it in had rubbed off on him, so Jonesy was in.
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I’d originally thought of getting Terry Reid in as lead singer and second
guitarist but he had just signed with Mickie Most as a solo artist in a quirk of
fate. He suggested I get in touch with Robert Plant, who was then in a band
called Hobbstweedle. When I auditioned him and heard him sing, I immediately
thought there must be something wrong with him personality-wise or that he
had to be impossible to work with, because I just could not understand why,
after he told me he’d been singing for a few years already, he hadn’t become
a big name yet. So I had him down to my place for a little while, just to sort of
check him out, and we got along great. No problems. At this time a number of
drummers had approached me and wanted to work with us. Robert suggested
I go hear John Bonham, whom I’d heard of because he had a reputation, but
had never seen. I asked Robert if he knew him and he told me they’d worked
together in this group called Band of Joy.
So the four of you rehearsed for a short time and went on that Scandinavian tour as the New
Yardbirds.
As I said, we had these dates that the Yardbirds were supposed to fulfill, so we went
as the Yardbirds. They were already being advertised as the New Yardbirds fea-
turing Jimmy Page, so there wasn’t much we could do about it right then. We
had every intention of changing the name of the group from the very beginning,
though. The tour went fantastically for us, we left them stomping the floors after
every show.
What were the original ideas behind Zeppelin when the band first got together? Was it im-
mediately decided to be a high energy thing?
Obviously, it was geared that way from the start. When Robert came down to my
place the first time, when I was trying to get an idea of what he was all about, we
talked about the possibilities of various types of things, “Dazed and Confused,”
for example. Then I played him a version of “Babe I’m Gonna Leave You.” It was
the version by Joan Baez, the song is traditional, and I said, “Fancy doing this?”
He sort of looked at me with wonder and I said, “Well, I’ve got an idea for an
arrangement,” and started playing it on acoustic guitar. That’s indicative of the
way I was thinking with regards to direction. It was very easy going.
There was a bit of a fuss made at one point because on the first couple of albums you were
using a lot of traditional and blues lyrics and tunes and calling them your own.
The thing is they were traditional lyrics and they went back far before a lot of the
people that one related them to. The riffs we did were totally different, also,
from the ones that had come before, apart from something like “You Shook Me”
and “I Can’t Quit You,” which we attributed to Willie Dixon. The thing with
“Bring It on Home,” Christ, there’s only a tiny bit of that taken from Sonny Boy
Williamson’s version and we threw that in as a tribute to him. People say, “Oh,
‘Bring It on Home’ is stolen.” Well, there’s only a little bit in the song that relates
to anything that had gone before it, just the end.
Your next album, Led Zeppelin III, presented a very different image of Led Zeppelin from
the first two albums. Most importantly, it was predominantly acoustic. It was a very
controversial album. How and why did the changes that brought about the third album
take place?
After the intense touring that had been taking place through the first two albums,
working almost 24 hours a day, basically, we managed to stop and have a proper
break, a couple of months as opposed to a couple of weeks. We decided to go off
and rent a cottage to provide a contrast to motel rooms. Obviously, it had quite
an effect on the material that was written.
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302 The 1970s
Did you write the whole album there?
Just certain sections of it. “That’s the Way,” “Bron-Y-Aur Stomp,” quite a few things.
It was the tranquility of the place that set the tone of the album. Obviously, we
weren’t crashing away at 100 watt Marshall stacks. Having played acoustic and
being interested in classical guitar, anyway, being in a cottage without electricity,
it was acoustic guitar time. It didn’t occur to us not to include it on the album
because it was relative to the changes within the band. We didn’t expect we’d get
thrashed in the media for doing it.
Was there a rethink by the band about the stage act, since you were faced with having to
perform material from a predominantly acoustic LP?
It just meant that we were going to have to employ some of those numbers onstage
without being frightened about it. They were received amazingly well.
Had you wanted to bring in more of the English folk roots to Zeppelin or was it just the influ-
ence of living in the cottage that gives the album a pastoral feeling?
It has that because that’s how it was. After all the heavy, intense vibe of touring which
is reflected in the raw energy on the second album, it was just a totally different
feeling. I’ve always tried to capture an emotional quality in my songs. Transmit-
ting that is what music seems to be about, really, as far as the instrumental side
of it goes, anyway. It was in us, everything that came out on Zeppelin III can still
be related to the essence of the first album when you think about it. It’s just that
the band had kept maturing.
Were you surprised when the critical reaction came out?
I just thought they hadn’t understood it, hadn’t listened to it. For instance, Melody
Maker said we’d decided to don our acoustic guitars because Crosby, Stills and
Nash had just been over here. It wasn’t until the fourth LP that people began to
understand that we weren’t just messing around.
You did take a lot of stock in the criticism of the third record. Personally, you seemed to be hit
hard by it at the time.
To pave the way for 18 months without doing any interviews, I must have. Silly,
wasn’t I? That was a lot of the reason for putting out the next LP with no informa-
tion on it at all. After a year’s absence from both records and touring, I remember
one agent telling us it was professional suicide. We just happened to have a lot
of faith in what we were doing.
Was the cover of the fourth album meant to bring out the whole city/country dichotomy that
had surfaced on the third record?
Exactly. It represented the change in the balance which was going on. There was the
old country man and the blocks of flats being knocked down. It was just a way of
saying that we should look after the earth, not rape and pillage it.
Do you think the third record was good for the band, regardless of the critical reaction, because
it showed people that the band was not just a heavy metal group, that you were more
versatile than that?
It showed people that we weren’t going to be a stagnant group. There were some
people who knew that already and were interested to see what we’d come up
with; there were others who thought we were just an outright hype and were
still living back in the ’60s. They just didn’t take anything we did seriously. A
lot of them have since come around. You should read that Melody Maker review,
though, it’s absolutely classic. I felt a lot better once we started performing it,
because it was proving to be working for the people who came around to see
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us. There was always a big smile there in front of us. That was always more
important than any proxy review. That’s really how the following of the band
has spread, by word of mouth. I mean, all this talk about a hype, spending thou-
sands on publicity campaigns, we didn’t do that at all. We didn’t do television.
Well, we did a pilot TV show and a pilot radio show, but that’s all. We weren’t
hyping ourselves. It wasn’t as though we were thrashing about all over the
media. It didn’t matter, though, the word got out on the street.
Once a band is established it seems to me that bad reviews can’t really do anything to a band.
No, you’re right. But you’ve got to understand that I lived every second of the albums.
Whereas the others hadn’t. John Paul and Bonzo would do the tracks and they
wouldn’t come in until needed. And Robert would do the vocals. But I’d be there
all the time and I’d live and cringe to every mistake. There were things that were
right and wrong on a subjective level.
The fourth album was to my mind the first fully realized Zeppelin album. It just sounded like
everything had come together on that album.
Yeah, we were really playing properly as a group and the different writing depar-
tures that we’d taken, like the cottage and the spontaneity aspects, had been
worked out and came across in the most disciplined form.
“Rock and Roll” was a spontaneous combustion. We were doing something
else at the time, but Bonzo played the beginning of Little Richard’s “Good Golly
Miss Molly” with the tape still running and I just started doing that part of the
riff. It actually ground to a halt after about 12 bars, but it was enough to know
that there was enough of a number there to keep working on it. Robert even
came in singing on it straight away.
I do have the original tape that was running at the time we ran down “Stair-
way to Heaven” completely with the band. I’d worked it all out already the night
before with John Paul Jones, written down the changes and things. All this time
we were all living in a house and keeping pretty regular hours together, so the
next day we started running it down. There was only one place where there was
a slight rerun. For some unknown reason Bonzo couldn’t get the timing right
on the twelve-string part before the solo. Other than that it flowed very quickly.
While we were doing it Robert was penciling down lyrics; he must have writ-
ten three quarters of the lyrics on the spot. He didn’t have to go away and think
about them. Amazing, really.
“Black Dog” was a riff that John Paul Jones had brought with him. “Battle
of Evermore” was made up on the spot by Robert and myself. I just picked up
John Paul Jones’s mandolin, never having played a mandolin before, and just
wrote up the chords and the whole thing in one sitting. The same thing hap-
pened with the banjo on ”Gallows Pole.” I’d never played one before either. It
was also John Paul Jones’s instrument. I just picked it up and started moving my
fingers around until the chords sounded right, which is the same way I work on
compositions when the guitar’s in different tunings.
When did Sandy Denny come in to sing on “Gallows Pole”?
Well, it sounded like an old English instrumental first off. Then it became a vocal and
Robert did his bit. Finally we figured we’d bring Sandy by and do a question-
and-answer-type thing.
“Misty Mountain Hop” we came up with on the spot. “Going to California”
was a thing I’d written before on acoustic guitar. “When the Levee Breaks” was
a riff that I’d been working on, but Bonzo’s drum sound really makes the differ-
ence on that point.
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304 The 1970s
You’ve said that when you heard Robert’s lyrics to “Stairway to Heaven” you knew that he’d
be the band’s lyricist from then on.
I always knew he would be, but I knew at that point that he’d proved it to himself
and could get into something a bit more profound than just subjective things.
Not that they can’t be profound as well, but there’s a lot of ambiguity implied in
that number that wasn’t present before. I was really relieved because it gave me
the opportunity to just get on with the music.
Did you know you’d recorded a classic when you finished?
I knew it was good. I didn’t know it was going to become like an anthem, but I did
know it was the gem of the album, sure.
Was the idea of the symbols on the cover of the fourth album yours?
Yeah. After all this crap that we’d had with the critics, I put it to everybody else that
it’d be a good idea to put out something totally anonymous. At first I wanted just
one symbol on it, but then it was decided that since it was our fourth album and
there were four of us, we could each choose our own symbol. I designed mine
and everyone else had their own reasons for using the symbols that they used.
Do you envision a relationship between Zeppelin cover art and the music on the albums?
There is a relationship in a way, though not necessarily in a “concept album” fashion.
Does Robert usually come into sessions with the lyrics already written?
He has a lyric book and we try to fuse song to lyric where it can be done. Where it
can’t, he just writes new ones.
Is there a lot of lyric changing during a session?
Sometimes. Sometimes it’s more cut and dried, like on “The Rain Song.”
There are a few tracks on the fifth album that seemed to exhibit more of a sense of humor than
Zeppelin had been known for. “The Crunge” was funny and “Dyer Mak’er” had a joke
title which took some people a while to get.
I didn’t expect people not to get it. I thought it was pretty obvious. The song itself
was a cross between reggae and a ’50s number, “Poor Little Fool,” Ben E. King
things, stuff like that. I’ll tell you one thing, “The Song Remains the Same” was
going to be an instrumental at first. We used to call it “The Overture.”
You never performed it that way.
We couldn’t. There were too many guitar parts to perform it.
But once you record anything with overdubs, you end up having to adapt it for the stage.
Sure. Then it becomes a challenge, a tough challenge in some cases. “Achilles” is the
classic one. When Ronnie Wood and Keith Richard came to hear us play, Keith
said, “You ought to get another guitarist; you’re rapidly becoming known as
the most overworked guitarist in the business.” Quite amusing. There are times
when I’d just love to get another guitarist on, but it just wouldn’t look right to
the audience.
Further Reading
Bordowitz, Hank, Jonathan Hahn, and Keith Altham. Led Zeppelin on Led Zeppelin: Interviews
and Encounters. Chicago, Ill.: Chicago Review Press, 2014.
Burroughs, William. “Rock Magic: Jimmy Page, Led Zeppelin, and a Search for the Elusive
Stairway to Heaven.” Crawdaddy, June 1975, 34–35, 39–40.
bra43588_pt04_253-356.indd 304 05/24/19 03:22 PM

“I Have No Message Whatsoever” 305
Crowe, Cameron. “Jimmy Page and Robert Plant Talk.” Rolling Stone, March 13, 1975, 33–37.
Fast, Susan. In the Houses of the Holy: Led Zeppelin and the Power of Rock Music. New York:
Oxford University Press, 2001.
Headlam, Dave. “Does the Song Remain the Same? Questions of Authorship and Identifica-
tion in the Music of Led Zeppelin.” In Concert Music, Rock, and Jazz since 1945: Essays and
Analytical Studies, ed. Elizabeth West Marvin and Richard Hermann, 313–63. Rochester,
N.Y.: University of Rochester Press, 1995
Discography
Led Zeppelin. Led Zeppelin III. Atlantic/WEA, 1970.
_______. Led Zeppelin IV (aka ZOSO). Atlantic/WEA, 1971.
_______. Houses of the Holy. Atlantic/WEA, 1973.
_______. Physical Graffiti. Atlantic/WEA, 1975.
_______. Presence. Atlantic/WEA, 1976.
The Yardbirds. Little Games. Capitol, 1996.
_______. Roger the Engineer. Warner Bros/WEA, 1966.
53. “I Have No Message Whatsoever”
The stars of glam (or glitter) rock in the early 1970s—David Bowie, T‑Rex,
Slade, Gary Glitter, and Sweet—all hailed from the United Kingdom,
and all (with the eventual exception of Bowie) achieved greater s uccess
there than in the United States. Part of the resistance in the United
States stemmed from how glam artists emphasized the artificial at the
expense of the authentic passion so carefully cultivated by other genres
of the era. However, campiness and androgyny gradually became hip in
the United States in the mid- to late 1970s, as evidenced by the success
of films such as the Rocky Horror Picture Show and some of the later
new-wave bands like the B-52s. Not accidentally, this development
coincided with the mass acceptance of Bowie in the United States.
In the early 1970s, however, when he first became a phenomenon
in the United Kingdom, Bowie (David Jones, b. 1947), along with the
other glitterati just mentioned, shared a style founded on a riff-based,
hard rock with rather exaggeratedly stiff rhythms. While the actual
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306 The 1970s
eyday of glam was brief, its emphasis on androgyny and campy pos-
h
ing influenced many other rock stars of the time, such as Mick Jagger,
Rod Stewart, Elton John, and Lou Reed. Although not necessarily glam,
Alice Cooper emerged during the early 1970s with a sound that is some-
times described as the prototype for a kind of American heavy metal.
In addition to a hard-rock sound, Cooper shared with glam an empha-
sis on the theatrical, at first with gender-bending androgyny and then
with an act that relied on images gleaned from horror movies and pulp
magazines.
The following interview with Bowie, conducted by teenage phenom

reporter Cameron Crowe,1 highlights Bowie’s unabashed acknowl-
edgment that his performances present him as an actor playing
a part. This apparent distance from his persona places him at the
opposite end of the authenticity spectrum from singer-songwriters,
who had made self-revelation the cornerstone of their art. Within
the flow of his exaggerated egocentricity, Bowie touches on differ-
ent perceptions about gender and sexual identity on opposing sides
of the Atlantic, glories in his superficiality and lack of depth, takes
a jab at Elton John for allegedly ripping off aspects of his persona,
and expresses pride in artistic theft and lack of originality. Calculated
to offend the rock establishment of the day, Bowie presents an anti-
dote to the pompousness and self-seriousness pervading other rock
genres and anticipates the media machinations of later stars such as
Madonna.
David Bowie Interview

Cameron Crowe
Playboy: Let’s start with the one question you’ve always seemed to hedge: How
much of your bisexuality is fact and how much is gimmick?
Bowie: It’s true—I am a bisexual. But I can’t deny that I’ve used that fact very well.
I suppose it’s the best thing that ever happened to me. Fun, too. We’ll talk all
about it.
Playboy: Why do you say it’s the best thing that ever happened to you?
1. Crowe may be better known to readers as a writer and/or director of many films, including
Fast Times at Ridgemont High (1982) and Almost Famous (2001), his semiautobiographical account
of coming of age as a rock critic in the early to mid-1970s.
Source: “David Bowie Interview,” Cameron Crowe. David Bowie, Playboy magazine (September
1976). Archival material from Playboy magazine. Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved.
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Bowie: Well, for one thing, girls are always presuming that I’ve kept my heterosexual
virginity for some reason. So I’ve had all these girls try to get me over to the other
side again: “C’mon, David, it isn’t all that bad. I’ll show you.” Or, better yet,
“We’ll show you.” I always play dumb.
On the other hand—I’m sure you want to know about the other hand as
well—when I was 14, sex suddenly became all important to me. It didn’t really
matter who or what it was with, as long as it was a sexual experience. So it was
some very pretty boy in class in some school or other that I took home and neatly
fucked on my bed upstairs. And that was it. My first thought was, Well, if I ever
get sent to prison, I’ll know how to keep happy.
Playboy: Which wouldn’t give much slack to your straighter cellmates.
Bowie: I’ve always been very chauvinistic, even in my boy-obsessed days. But I was
always a gentleman. I always treated my boys like real ladies. Always escorted
them properly and, in fact, I suppose if I were a lot older—like 40 or 50—I’d be
a wonderful sugar daddy to some little queen down in Kensington. I’d have a
houseboy named Richard to order around.
Playboy: How much of that are we supposed to believe? Your former publicist, the
celebrated ex-groupie Cherry Vanilla, says she’s slept with you and that you’re
not gay at all. She says you just let people think you like guys.
Bowie: Oh, I’d love to meet this impostor she’s talking about. It sure ain’t me. That’s
actually a lovely quote. Cherry’s almost as good as I am at using the media.
Playboy: Why, at a time when nobody else in rock would have dared allude to it, did
you choose to exploit bisexuality?
Bowie: I would say that America forces me into it. Someone asked me in an inter-
view once—I believe it was in ‘71—if I were gay. I said, “No, I’m bisexual.” The
guy, a writer for one of the English trades, had no idea what the term means.
So I explained it to him. It was all printed—and that’s where it started. It’s so
nostalgic now, isn’t it? ‘Seventy-one was a good American year. Sex was still
shocking. Everybody wanted to see the freak. But they were so ignorant about
what I was doing. There was very little talk of bisexuality or gay power before
I came along. Unwittingly, I really brought that whole thing over. I never,
ever said the word gay when I first got over here to America. It took a bit of
exposure and a few heavy rumors about me before the gays said, “We disown
David Bowie.” And they did. Of course. They knew that I wasn’t what they
were fighting for.
Nobody understood the European way of dressing and adopting the asex-
ual, androgynous everyman pose. People all went screaming, “He’s got make-up
on and he’s wearing stuff that looks like dresses!” I wasn’t the first one, though,
to publicize bisexuality.
Playboy: Who was?
Bowie: Dean. James Dean did, very subtly and very well. I have some insight on
it. Dean was probably very much like me. Elizabeth Taylor told me that once.
Dean was calculating. He wasn’t careless. He was not the rebel he portrayed so
successfully. He didn’t want to die. But he did believe in the premise of taking
yourself to extremes, just to add a deeper cut to one’s personality.
James Dean epitomized the very thing that is so campily respectable today—
the male hustler. It was part of his incredible magnetism. You know, that he
was . . . a whore. He used to stand in Times Square to earn money so he could go
to Lee Strasberg and learn how to be Marlon Brando. He had quite a sordid little
reputation. I admire him immensely—that should take care of any question you
may have about whether or not I have any heroes.
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308 The 1970s
Playboy: Thanks. Now what about you posing in drag for the cover of the English
album of The Man Who Sold The World?
Bowie: Funnily enough, and you’ll never believe me, it was a parody of Gabriel Ros-
setti. Slightly askew, obviously. So when they told me that a drag-queen cult
was forming behind me, I said, “Fine, don’t bother to explain it; nobody is going
to bother to try to understand it.” I’ll play along, absolutely anything to bring
me through. Because of everybody’s thirst for scandal—look at how big People
is—they gave me a big chance. All the papers wrote volumes about how sick I
was, how I was helping to kill off true art. In the meantime, they used up all
the space they could have given over to true artists. That really is pretty indica-
tive of how compelling pretension is, that it commanded that amount of bloody
writing about what color my hair was gonna be next week. I want to know why
they wasted all that time and effort and paper on my clothes and my pose. Why?
Because I was a dangerous statement.
The follow-up to that, now that I’ve decided to talk a little more—if only to
you—was, “How dare he have such a strenuous ego?” That, in itself seemed a
danger to some people. Am I, as a human being, worth talking about? I frankly
think, Yes, I am. I’ve got to carry through with the conviction that I am also
my own medium. The only way I can be effective as a person is to be this con-
foundedly arrogant and forthright with my point of view. That’s the way I am. I
believe myself with the utmost sincerity.
Playboy: But aren’t you having trouble getting other people to believe you? Take,
for example, your well-publicized farewells to showbiz. You’ve retired twice,
swearing you’d never have another thing to do with rock ‘n’ roll. Yet you’ve just
finished a six-month world concert tour, promoting your newest rock-’n’-roll
album, Station to Station. How do you rationalize these contradictions?
Bowie: I lie. It’s quite easy to do. Nothing matters except whatever it is I’m doing
at the moment. I can’t keep track of everything I say. I don’t give a shit. I can’t
even remember how much I believe and how much I don’t believe. The point is
to grow into the person you grow into. I haven’t a clue where I’m gonna be in a
year. A raving nut, a flower child or a dictator, some kind of reverend—I don’t
know. That’s what keeps me from getting bored.
Playboy: In the song Station to Station, though, you do refer to cocaine—
Bowie: Yes, yes. The line is, “It’s not the side effects of the cocaine. . . . I’m thinking
that it must be love.” Do the radio stations bleep it out?
Playboy: None that we’ve heard. Did you have any reservations about using the line
in the song?
Bowie: None whatsoever.
Playboy: One might easily construe it as advocating the use of cocaine. Or is that the
message?
Bowie: I have no message whatsoever. I really have nothing to say, no suggestions or
advice, nothing. All I do is suggest some ideas that will keep people listening a
bit longer. And out of it all, maybe they’ll come up with a message and save me
the work. My career has kind of been like that. I get away with murder.
Playboy: Do you have trouble deciding which is the real you?
Bowie: I’ve learned to flow with myself. I honestly don’t know where the real David
Jones is. It’s like playing the shell game. Except I’ve got so many shells I’ve for-
gotten what the pea looks like. I wouldn’t know it if I found it. Being famous
helps put off the problems of discovering myself. I mean that. That’s the main
reason I’ve always been so keen on being accepted, why I’ve striven so hard to
put my brain to artistic use. I want to make a mark. In my early stuff, I made
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it through on sheer pretension. I consider myself responsible for a whole new
school of pretensions—they know who they are. Don’t you, Elton? Just kidding.
No, I’m not. See what I mean? That was a thoroughly pretentious statement.
True or not. I bet you’ll print that. Show someone something where intellec-
tual analysis or analytical thought has been applied and people will yawn. But
something that’s pretentious—that keeps you riveted. It’s also the only thing
that shocks anymore. It shocks as much as the Dylan thing did 14 years ago. As
much as sex shocked many years ago.
Playboy: You’re saying sex is no longer shocking?
Bowie: Oh, come on. Sorry, Hugh. Sex has never really been shocking, it was just
the people who performed it who were. Shocking people, performing sex. Now
nobody really cares. Everybody fucks everybody. The only thing that shocks
now is an extreme. Like me running my mouth off, jacking myself off. Unless
you do that, nobody will pay attention to you. Not for long. You have to hit them
on the head.
Playboy: Is that the Bowie success formula?
Bowie: That’s always been it. It’s never really changed. For instance, what I did with
my Ziggy Stardust was package a totally credible, plastic rock-’n’-roll singer—
much better than the Monkees could ever fabricate. I mean, my plastic rock-’n’-
roller was much more plastic than anybody’s. And that was what was needed at
the time. And it still is. Most people still want their idols and gods to be shallow,
like cheap toys. Why do you think teenagers are the way they are? They run
around like ants, chewing gum and flitting onto a certain style of dressing for
a day; that’s as deep as they wish to go. It’s no surprise that Ziggy was a huge
success.
Playboy: Is that why you said you became Ziggy at one point?
Bowie: Without even thinking about it. At first, I just assumed that character onstage.
Then everybody started to treat me as they treated Ziggy, as though I were the
Next Big Thing, as though I moved masses of people. I became convinced I was
a messiah. Very scary. I woke up fairly quickly.
Playboy: Do you ever worry about your fans’ giving up on you—not wanting to hear
Bowie as a soul singer or whatever?
Bowie: Well, they must understand what my trip was in the beginning. I’ve never
been a musician.
Playboy: What have you been?
Bowie: The unfortunate thing is that I’ve always wanted to be a film director. And the
two media got unconsciously amalgamated, so I was doing films on record. That
creates your basic concept album, which becomes a bit of a slow pack horse in
the end. Now I know that if I’m going to make albums, I’ve got to make albums
that I enjoy musically, or else just make the fucking film. A lot of my concept
albums, like Aladdin Sane, Ziggy and Diamond Dogs, were only 50 percent there.
They should have been visual as well. I think that some of the most talented
actors around are in rock. I think a whole renaissance in film making is gonna
come from rock. Not because of it, though, despite it.
Playboy: But you’ve said that you find rock depressing and sterile, even evil.
Bowie: It is depressing and sterile and, yes, ultimately evil. Anything that contributes
to stagnation is evil. When it has familiarity, it’s no longer rock ‘n’ roll. It’s white
noise. Dirge. Just look at disco music—the endless numb beat. It’s really danger-
ous.
So, I’ve moved on. I’ve established the fact that I am an entertainer, David
Bowie, not just another boring rock singer. I’ve got a film out, Nicolas Roeg’s
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310 The 1970s
The Man Who Fell to Earth. And I’ll be doing a lot more, taking a lot of chances.
The minute you know you’re on safe ground, you’re dead. You’re finished.
It’s over. The last thing I want is to be established. I want to go to bed every
night saying, “If I never wake again, I certainly will have lived while I was
alive.”
Playboy: Let’s go back to disco music. You say it’s a dirge, yet you had the biggest
disco hit of last year in Fame and you scored again this year with Golden Years.
How do you explain that?
Bowie: I love disco. It’s a lovely escapist’s way out. I quite like it, as long as it’s not
on the radio night and day—which it is so much these days. Fame was an incred-
ible bluff that worked. Very flattering. I’ll do anything until I fail. And when I
succeed, I quit, too. I’m really knocked out that people actually dance to my
records, though. But let’s be honest: my rhythm and blues are thoroughly plastic.
Young Americans, the album Fame is from, is, I would say, the definitive plastic
soul record. It’s the squashed remains of ethnic music as it survives in the age
of Muzak rock, written and sung by a white limey. If you had played Young
Americans to me five years ago and said, “This is an R&B album,” I would have
laughed. Hysterically.
Playboy: How about if we had said, “This is going to be your album five years from
now”?
Bowie: I would have thrown you and the record out of my house.
Playboy: How did you become a rock-’n’-roller anyway?
Bowie: Truth? I was broke. I got into rock because it was an enjoyable way of mak-
ing my money and taking four or five years to puzzle my next move out. I was a
painter before that, studying commercial art at Bromley Technical High School.
I tried advertising and that was awful. The lowest. But I was well into my little
saxophone, so I left advertising and thought, Let’s give rock a try. You can have
a good time doing that and usually have at least enough money to live on. Espe-
cially then. It was the Mod days; nice clothes were half the battle.
Playboy: What do you believe in?
Bowie: Myself. Politics. Sex . . .
Playboy: Since you put yourself first, do you consider yourself an original thinker?
Bowie: Not by any means. More like a tasteful thief. The only art I’ll ever study
is stuff that I can steal from. I do think that my plagiarism is effective. Why
does an artist create, anyway? The way I see it, if you’re an inventor, you can
invent something that you hope people can use. I want art to be just as practi-
cal. Art can be a political reference, a sexual force, any force that you want, but
it should be usable. What the hell do artists want? Museum pieces? The more I
get ripped off, the more flattered I get. But I’ve caused a lot of discontent because
I’ve expressed my admiration for other artists by saying, “Yes, I’ll use that,”
or, “Yes, I took this from him and this from her.” Mick Jagger, for example, is
scared to walk into the same room as me even thinking any new idea. He knows
I’ll snatch it.
Playboy: Is it true that Jagger once told you he was hiring the French artist Guy Peel-
laert for the jacket of a Rolling Stones album and you ran right off to hire Peel-
laert for your own album, Diamond Dogs, which was released first?
Bowie: Mick was silly. I mean, he should never have shown me anything new. I went
over to his house and he had all these Guy Peellaert pictures around and said,
“What do you think of this guy?” I told him I thought he was incredible. So I
immediately phoned him up. Mick’s learned now, as I’ve said. He will never do
that again. You’ve got to be a bastard in this business.
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Playboy: You stated in Rolling Stone that you’d like to use your music to “rule the
world . . . subliminally.” Would you care to elaborate?
Bowie: I think subliminal advertising is great. If it hadn’t been outlawed, it would
have gone out of advertising very quickly and straight into politics. I would have
excelled at it. Think of it, an empty screen that people could stare at for an hour
and a half and not actually see anything but leave with an entire experience in
their heads.
Of course, Rolling Stone got hate mail. So did Dali in his day. He knew
exactly what he was doing when he painted his paintings. He knew what all
the objects meant. Should his work have been destroyed and he forced to paint
a vase of flowers? The attitude that says the artist should paint only things that
the proletarian can understand, I think is the most destructive thing possible.
That sounds a little like Hitler’s going around to museums and tearing modern
paintings down, doesn’t it?
You mustn’t be scared of art. Rock ‘n’ roll is only rock ‘n’ roll. People hold it
so sacred—mustn’t tamper, in case you find out that it really does govern kids.
Those old Fifties antirock movies were right. Rock-’n’-roll records are danger-
ous to the moral fiber. But then, records are a thing of the past now, so who
knows?
Playboy: We’re not quite sure how you made the leap from subliminal advertising
to reporting the death of the record industry, but since you have, what do you
propose will happen to music in the future?
Bowie: It will return to the sensitivities of the working class. That excites me. Sound
as texture, rather than sound as music. Producing noise records seems pretty
logical to me. My favorite group is a German band called Kraftwerk—it plays
noise music to “increase productivity.” I like that idea, if you have to play
music.
Playboy: Do you feel you’ve been taken advantage of over the years?
Bowie: Not taken advantage of. Exploited.
Playboy: Are you suggesting you haven’t made all that you should have?
Bowie: What, moneywise? Oh, Lord no—we made nothing. All I’ve made is an
impact and a change, which of course, is worth a lot. I keep telling myself that.
The best thing to say about it all is that it’s archetypal rock-’n’-roll business. Read
the reports of the Beatles, the Stones and a lot of other big entertainers and take
some kind of amalgamation of all that; it’s a pretty accurate picture of my busi-
ness. John Lennon has been through it all. John told me, “Stick with it. Survive.
You really go through the grind and they’ll rip you off right and left. The key is
to come out the other side.” I said something cocky at the time like, “I’ve got a
great manager. Everything is great. I’m a Seventies artist.” The last time I spoke
to John, I told him he was right. I’d been ripped off blind.
Playboy: You’re not a rich man? After five gold albums?
Bowie: Now, yes, exceedingly. No! Wait, America! Not at all. Haven’t got a penny
to my name. I’m pleading poverty at the moment, but I’m potentially very rich.
Theoretically rich but not wealthy.
Playboy: Are you as bitter about the music business as Lennon and Jagger have said
they are?
Bowie: No, no, no. You see, I needed to learn about it. You’ve got to make mistakes.
It’s very important to make mistakes. Very, very important. If I glided through,
I wouldn’t be the man I’m not today.
Playboy: Last question. Do you believe and stand by everything you’ve said?
Bowie: Everything but the inflammatory remarks.
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312 The 1970s
Further Reading
Doggett, Peter. The Man Who Sold the World: David Bowie and the 1970s. New York: HarperCollins,
2012.
Geyrhalter, Thomas. “Effeminacy, Camp and Sexual Subversion in Rock: The Cure and
Suede.” Popular Music 15 (May 1996): 217–24.
Hoskyns, Barney. Glam! Bowie, Bolan and the Glitter Rock Revolution. New York: Pocket Books, 1998.
Reynolds, Simon. Shock and Awe: Glam Rock and Its Legacy from the Seventies to the Twenty-first
Century. New York, N.Y.: Dey St., an imprint of William Morrow Publishers, 2016.
Sontag, Susan. “Notes on ‘Camp.’” In Against Interpretation, 275–92. New York: Anchor
Books, [1964] 1990.
Discography
Bowie, David. Space Oddity. RCA Victor, 1972.
_______. The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust. RCA Victor, 1972.
_______. Aladdin Sane. RCA Victor, 1973.
_______. Diamond Dogs. RCA Victor, 1974.
_______. Young Americans. RCA Victor, 1975.
_______. Station to Station. RCA Victor, 1976.
_______. Best of Bowie. Virgin Records US, 2002.
Dynamite: Best of Glam Rock. Repertoire, 1998.
John, Elton. Goodbye Yellow Brick Road. Island, 1973.
54. Rock Me Amadeus 1
The spawn of psychedelic rock and European art music (“classical”

music), progressive rock (alternately known as “art rock,” “prog rock,” or
simply “prog”), emerged from a complex of genres (including heavy metal
and glam) that formed in the late 1960s–early 1970s. What distinguished
1. I stole the title of this section from the 1986 hit single of that name by Austrian pop star
Falco. The song is only allusively related to the subject of the chapter, progressive rock, but my
title of choice, “Rocking the Classics,” was already taken by Edward Macan’s book on prog rock,
which is, by the way, the most systematic history of the genre; see Macan, Rocking the Classics:
English Progressive Rock and the Counterculture (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997).
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Rock Me Amadeus 313
prog from other contemporary genres with similar influences was the
tendency to include overt references to classical music in terms of form
and texture. Occasionally, the melody and harmony of a particular piece
of art music might influence a specific song.
Mostly a British phenomenon, several stages of classicizing influ-
ence can be observed in the genre as it developed.2 The first of these
influences was the incorporation of orchestral instruments, not in the
manner of pre–rock ‘n’ roll background filler, but as active participants
in the texture. The Beatles’ use of a string quartet in “Yesterday” (1965)
and the Baroque-influenced harpsichord break in “In My Life” (1965)
may have initiated this phenomenon, which was echoed by other
Baroque–influenced pop hits in the mid-1960s, like the Left Banke’s
“Walk Away Renee” (1966) and Procul Harum’s “A Whiter Shade of Pale”
(1967).3 Another phase involves the use of complex forms: suites, multi-
movement works, and so forth. While the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely
Hearts Club Band (1967) arguably inaugurated this trend with its reca-
pitulation of the title track and its overall framework of a “show,” works
such as King Crimson’s In the Court of the Crimson King and side two of
the Beatles’ Abbey Road extended the idea to more complex notions of
musical unity.4 The Who also contributed to this direction, first with a
mini-opera “A Quick One” (1966); then with a concept album, The Who
Sell Out (1967); and, finally, with the first “rock opera,” Tommy (1969).
Eventually, Emerson, Lake, and Palmer, as well as other bands,
rearranged classical pieces, basing their new “works” on themes taken
from the classical canon. Finally, in the apotheosis of the progressive
rock style as realized by groups like Yes and Gentle Giant, one finds rock
instrumentation and sections featuring improvisation embedded within
complex multimovement forms alternating with carefully worked-out
contrapuntal textures. Progressive rock bands also incorporated other
influences, such as jazz, avant-garde electronic sounds, and musical
processes borrowed from 1960s minimalism.
An interesting point of departure between progressive rock
musicians and other rock or soul artists of the period is the e mphasis
on artifice. The “authentic” baring of the soul, so important to the
2. John Rockwell, in an excellent overview of the genre, ascribes the British domination of prog
rock to the more overt persistence and awareness of class difference in the United K ingdom ver-
sus the United States; see “The Emergence of Art Rock,” in The Rolling Stone Illustrated History of
Rock and Roll, ed. Anthony DeCurtis and James Henke with Holly G eorge-Warren, 493 (New York:
Random House, [1976] 1992). Greg Lake (the “Lake” of “Emerson, Lake and Palmer”) explains
it thusly: “I think it’s a question of heritage. European musicians tend to come from a classical
heritage. American bands tend to come from a blues-based heritage”; see Eric Gaer, “ Emerson,
Lake and Palmer: A Musical Force,” Down Beat, May 9, 1974, 14.
3. The connection in these songs with European art music may be felt as much or more in the
classically influenced voice leading and harmonic progressions as in the instrumentation.
4. And, as I stated in Part 3, “Rock Meets the Avant-Garde,” Freak Out! by the Mothers of
Invention and Pet Sounds by the Beach Boys (both 1966) are both sometimes put forward as the
first concept album.
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314 The 1970s
esthetics of other genres at this time, is avoided in favor of technical
a
prowess that does not necessarily emphasize spontaneity. This is not to
say that prog rock fans necessarily eschewed “authenticity” as an aes-
thetic criterion; rather, “authenticity” in prog is earned by the display of
mastery over the materials and in lofty intellectual ambitions projected
through formal manipulation and “deep,” cosmic lyrics (another legacy
from psychedelic rock).
These excerpts from interviews with the members of Yes discuss two
of their best-known recordings: the single “Roundabout” (1971) and
the album Close to the Edge. Of particular interest here is Yes’s ad hoc
process of assembling their most ambitious tracks, which turn out to
result from an extensive trial-and-error method of collective composi-
tion, rather than from the master plan of a single composer (as in the
writing of art music).5
from Yesstories: Yes in Their Own Words

Tim Morse
“Roundabout”
Steve [Howe, guitarist] (1987): When we recorded “Roundabout” we thought we
had made one of the all-time epics. Jon Anderson and I wrote that in Scotland. It
was originally a guitar instrumental suite. You see, I sort of write a song without a
song. All the ingredients are there—all that’s missing is the song. “Roundabout” was
a bit like that; there was a structure, a melody and a few lines. When the Americans
wanted us to edit it for a single we thought it was sacrilege. Here the song was so
well-constructed and quite over the top—but in the end we did have to edit it. The
song did very well. In fact Jon and I won an award for it in 1972.
Jon [Anderson, vocalist] (1989): We were traveling from Aberdeen through to Glas-
gow and we’d started this song . . . me and Steve were singing it in the back of the
van on the way down. One of the things you’ll drive through is a very winding
small road that goes through this incredible valley and the mountains are sheer from
both sides of the road—they just climb to the sky. And because it was a cloudy day,
we couldn’t see the top of the mountains. We could only see the clouds because it
was sheer straight up. . . . I remember saying, “Oh, the mountains—look! They’re
5. For more on Close to the Edge, see John Covach, “Progressive Rock, ‘Close to the Edge,’ and
the Boundaries of Style,” in Understanding Rock: Essays in Musical Analysis, ed. John Covach and
Graeme M. Boone (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997) 3–32.
Source: from Yesstories: Yes in Their Own Words © Tim Morse/St. Martin’s Press.
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Rock Me Amadeus 315
c oming out of the sky!” So we wrote that down: Mountains come out of the sky
and they stand there. And we came to a roundabout right at the bottom of this road
and within twenty-four hours we were back in London. We’d been on tour then for
about a month. So it was sort of twenty-four hours before I’ll be home with my loved
one, Jennifer. So the idea as twenty-four before my love and I’ll be there with you.
In around the lake—just before you get to Glasgow there’s a lake—a very famous
one—the Loch Ness. So we were driving in around the lake—mountains come out of
the sky—they stand there.
Steve (1982): [The intro is] the easiest thing in the world to play. I could show any-
body and they could play it. But because of sound and the intensity, so nice and
strong . . . that in itself is a different kind of connection. It’s not that the music or
musical idea is that good. It’s the come-on, the intensity. One of the secret ingredi-
ents of Yes wasn’t only the sort of material we were using, it was the intensity of the
color. Maybe the beginning of “Roundabout” without the backward piano wouldn’t
have been so dramatic. People don’t even know it’s a backward piano, all they hear
is “mmmmmweeng!” But it really intensified that idea and I think that’s a good side
to the music that I have been involved in.
Chris [Squire, bassist] (1994): I overdubbed my entire part an octave higher on one
of Steve’s old Gibson hollow-body jazz guitars. We just miked it acoustically and
mixed it in with the bass. That’s what gave the part such a bright sound.
(1985): “Roundabout” was done in a series of edits. That was the time when we
started getting into that idea. Although we’d already played the song in rehearsal,
we’d go in the studio and get the first two verses really good.
Jon (1989): We always tried to make sure we had a lot of harmony. Me, Steve, and
Chris singing together had a certain texture and we worked on that all the way
through that period of time. And the strong melody [was] sometimes very, very sim-
ple. On the end of “Roundabout” we sing “Da-da-da-da-duh-duh-da” a very simple
melody repeated eight times. Over that there’s another melody “Ba-ba-ba” . . . “Three
Blind Mice!”
Close to the Edge
Released September 1972

This is considered by many to be the definitive Yes album. Everything the band was
trying to do was uniquely realized on this recording, so that even now it sounds as
fresh as the day it came out. It was a very successful and progressive release at the
time, featuring just three songs: the celestial “And You and I,” the fiery “Siberian
Khatru,” and their first masterpiece epic, “Close to the Edge.”
The making of this record was not without the loss of some blood in the pro-
cess. After the laborious rehearsals and endless late nights at Advision Studios, Bill
Bruford decided to leave Yes when the album was completed, to join King Crim-
son. His decision left his band mates in shock and desperate because an American
tour was to start within a week. (Bruford did offer to do the tour, but the band
decided to try to find someone else.) Luckily for the group, Alan White (of the
Plastic Ono Band) agreed to climb up the drum riser and he has been with them
ever since.
Bill [Bruford, drummer] (1989): Close to the Edge had a sense of discovery for us—and
presumably for the people who bought it. I’m sure it sounds trite now, but in those
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316 The 1970s
days it was quite a big deal. Rock musicians hadn’t been capable of an arrangement
of any kind of complexity at all. But now I find it’s fundamentally good music, its
form, its shape are timeless.
Jon (1992): Close to the Edge is close to the edge of realization, of self-realization, that’s
what the theme was all about. It was based on a book I’d read called Siddhartha by
Hermann Hesse. So there we were on the edge of learning about our potential as art-
ists, as musicians, in order to jump into a new world of music. That’s what Close to the
Edge was all about and it did push us in a direct fashion into the limelight, one could
say, of total progressive music. To the point where today, we can perform nearly
twenty years later “And You and I” and it has more power now than it ever had. It’s
a remarkable piece of music, as though it was crafted by the heavens and we were
just the vehicles to pull it together.
Bill (1992): If we’d known how horrible it was going to be, we would have never
done it. But it’s like five guys trying to write a novel at the same time. One guy has
a good beginning and the second guy had quite a good middle and the third guy
thinks he knows what the ending is, but the fourth guy doesn’t like the way the mid-
dle goes towards the ending, and the second guy who used to like the third section
has changed his mind and now likes the first section.
It was torture. None of these arrangements were written and they weren’t really
composed. We all sat in the rehearsal room and said, “Let’s have the G after the G#.”
And every instrument was up for democratic election, you know and everyone had
to run an election campaign on every issue. And it was horrible. I mean it was incred-
ibly unpleasant and unbelievably hard work. And Squire was always late for every
rehearsal. And after about two months of this unbelievable punishment, people still
say to me, “Bill, why didn’t you do another one?”
People always imagine that there was this carefully structured plan. Like they do
with King Crimson, they always imagine Robert Fripp enters the room and scowls
at everybody and lays out sheet music, which of course is the exact opposite. And
they always think that Jon Anderson somehow knew how Close to the Edge was
going to be right from the beginning to the end. [Which is] not true at all . . . it
was kind of a shambles from beginning to end, the whole thing. It was a miracle
that we managed to make anything of this stuff. If we’d actually find a rehearsal
room, could we actually get to it? Would Squire turn up? Would we have enough
equipment to do it with? Was anyone starving? Was the band about to run out of
money?
We were well served in all of this by having the ability to tape-edit. And having
Eddie Offord, who would slash a two-inch master tape without even thinking about
it and just glue another bit onto it. Tape editing was fundamental to this band creat-
ing this music at all. Because we couldn’t play any of it through until we’d learned
it. We’d play a thirty-second segment and say, “What happens now?” We’d stop
the tape and write another thirty-second segment. It would go on like that, [like]
climbing Mount Everest.
Steve (1991): We had to hang on to our ideas and develop and arrange them and
try not to forget them the next day. Because sometimes we would come in and say,
“God, what did we do to this?” Many classic Yes bits of arranging have gone out
the window. We actually forgot them. They were too intricate, too specialized, or
one guy was the key to it and he was the guy who didn’t remember it the next day.
So obviously we taped things and started to have tapes of rehearsals going on all the
time.
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Rock Me Amadeus 317
“Close to the Edge”
Chris (1995): I think it was Jon’s idea to open the song with the sound effects. He got
hold of a bunch of those environmental tapes and I think that’s why it appeared there.
Jon (1976): The lyrical content became a kind of dream sequence in a way. The end
verse is a dream that I had a long time ago about passing on from this world to
another world, yet feeling so fantastic about it that death never frightened me ever
since. I think in the early days when I was very small I used to be frightened of this
idea of not being here—where else can there be if there isn’t “here”? And it just
seemed a matter of course that death being such a beautiful experience for a man
physically to go through as being born is. That’s what seemed to come out in this
song, that it was a very pastoral kind of experience rather than a very frightening and
“Oh gosh, I don’t want to die” kind of thing.
(1973): There are several lines that relate to the church. Churchgoers are always
fighting about who’s better and who’s richer and who’s more hip. So at the end of the
middle section there’s a majestic church organ. We destroy the church organ through
the Moog. This leads to another organ solo rejoicing in the fact that you can turn your
back on churches and find it within yourself to be your own church.
Bill (1994): The thing about “Close to the Edge” is the form, I think. The shape of it is
perfect. It’s a real little part of history and it just fit on the side of an album perfectly.
Again as we were making that I don’t think anyone really knew how we were going
to finish it. It felt like we were going on and on adding section after section. Lots of
music in different meters and things without anybody really knowing what the con-
clusion to this piece of music would be. I don’t think we had any idea of its length
and I don’t think we said, “Oh! Let’s make this the side of an album.” The other
thing I remember was everybody saying that Simon and Garfunkel had spent three
months on “Bridge Over Troubled Water” and that seemed like a record that needed
to be smashed. (TMI)
Further Reading
Covach, John. “Progressive Rock, ‘Close to the Edge,’ and the Boundaries of Style.” In Under-
standing Rock: Essays in Musical Analysis, ed. John Covach and Graeme M. Boone, 3–31.
New York: Oxford University Press, 1997.
Gaer, Eric. “Emerson, Lake and Palmer: A Musical Force.” DownBeat, May 9, 1974, 14.
Hegarty, Paul, and Martin Halliwell. Beyond and Before: Progressive Rock Since the 1960s.
New York: Continuum, 2011.
Holm-Hudson, Kevin. Progressive Rock Reconsidered. New York: Routledge, 2001.
Macan, Edward. Rocking the Classics: English Progressive Rock and the Counterculture. New York:
Discography
E.L.O. The Essential Electric Light Orchestra. Sony, 2003.
Emerson, Lake and Palmer. Trilogy. Rhino/WEA, 1972.
_______. Works, Vol. 1. Rhino/WEA, 1977.
King Crimson. In the Court of the Crimson King. Discipline Us, 1969.
Pink Floyd. Dark Side of the Moon. Capitol, 1973.
Yes. Close to the Edge. Elektra/WEA, 2003.
_______. Roundabout and Other Hits. Rhino Flashback, 2007.
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55. The Global Phenomenon of Reggae
Jamaica, first as an English colony beginning in 1655, and then as a

former colony after 1962, possessed the status of being a part of the
Western European–North American cultural nexus, yet simultaneously
remaining separate. The development in the 1950s of the first indige-
nous music designed for mass production, ska, suggests this curious
quality of not-quite-belonging, merging as it did the Jamaican tradi-
tional music of mento and Trinidadian calypso with rhythm and blues
from the United States. The ease of this merger discloses the back-
ground of Afro-diasporic musical practices and Protestant hymn singing
shared by Jamaicans and African Americans. The mode of presenta-
tion of ska was at least as influential as its musical-stylistic features,
with recordings, “sound systems” (large playback systems consisting
of powerful amplifiers and larger speakers), and DJs often supplanting
live performances. The transformation of ska into the slower tempi and
socially conscious lyrics of rock steady and then into reggae paralleled
a boom in J amaican-produced recordings and created international rec-
ognition by the late 1960s for recordings like Desmond Dekker’s “Isra-
elites” (although countrywoman Millie Small had preceded Dekker in
1964 with “My Boy Lollipop”). Reggae took the offbeat accents of ska
and the slower tempi, more active basslines, and identification with the
marginalized found in rock steady, and created a style with complex,
neo-African-inspired drumming and a moral outlook influenced by the
indigenous Jamaican Rastafari movement. The Rastafari movement advo-
cates the repatriation of people of African descent to “Zion,” located in
Africa; recognizes Haile Selassie (emperor of Ethiopia from 1930 to 1974)
as the son of Jesus; and treats the smoking of cannabis as a sacrament.
Although very few people in Jamaica were (and are) adherents of the
Rastafari movement, the philosophy as espoused in many reggae songs
proved to be influential beyond the boundaries of that movement.
Bob Marley (1945–81) became the best-known exponent of Jamai-
can music in general and reggae in particular, and is sometimes referred
to (presumably by people in the “first world”) as the first “third world
superstar.” Marley began recording ska in 1962 and enjoyed local suc-
cess in a series of recordings with his band, The Wailers. “Simmer Down”
(1964) is an early example of a song with lyrics that feature social com-
mentary, anticipating themes in both Marley’s later work and the rock
318
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The Global Phenomenon of Reggae 319
steady genre in general. After several years of fluctuating levels of suc-
cess, Marley signed with Chris Blackwell’s Island Records in 1972, which
led to his breakthrough album, Catch a Fire (1973). Marley’s access to
audiences outside of Jamaica was aided by the almost-simultaneous
release of the Jamaican movie The Harder They Come (featuring songs
by Jimmy Cliff, the Wailers, Toots and the Maytals, and others) and
the interest of several North American artists in reggae, such as Paul
Simon (“Mother and Child Reunion,” 1972) and Johnny Nash (“I Can See
Clearly Now,” 1972). Marley’s career grew steadily, with artists such as
Nash (“Stir It Up,” 1973) and Eric Clapton (“I Shot the Sheriff,” 1974)
having hits with cover versions of his songs, and with the release of his
albums Burnin’ (1973) and Natty Dread (1974), which featured his first
international hit, “No Woman, No Cry.”
The following article by Robert Hilburn captures Marley at the moment

of his breakthrough, following the release of the album Rastaman
Vibration (1976). Hilburn sets the stage by comparing the breakthrough
of reggae in The Harder They Come to rock ‘n’ roll in Blackboard Jungle,
as well as with the most highly touted new star of the previous year
(1975), Bruce Springsteen. He provides an excellent concise history
of reggae, emphasizing its combination of musical accessibility and
social critique, and of Marley, who reminds Hilburn of other pop cul-
tural heroes of then-recent vintage, such as Bob Dylan and John Lennon.
Although Hilburn was dubious that the coiffure associated with reggae
would become popular, what he could not have known is that Ameri-
can teenagers, both black and white, would begin wearing their hair
in the “long, uncombed Rasta strands” known as dreadlocks. He also
could not have predicted that Marley’s powerful charisma would con-
tinue to exert its force for over 30 years after his untimely death in 1981,
sustaining his status as an international cultural hero.
Third-World Theme of Bob Marley

Robert Hilburn
Wouldn’t it be ironic if it turns out we’ve been looking in the wrong place during the
1970s in our continuing, often intense search for the Next Big Thing in pop music?
There’s no guarantee, in short, that the first signs of a major new musical style or
direction has to come through the clubs or the often hopelessly stagnant radio. As in
the 1950s, the catalyst for change could once again be a film. If so, “The Harder They
Come” may turn out to be the “Blackboard Jungle” of the 1970s.
Source: “Third-World Theme of Bob Marley,” Robert Hilburn, Los Angeles Times published May 16,
1976. Copyright © 1976. Los Angeles Times. Used with permission.
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320 The 1970s
Just as it was difficult for any teenager who saw “Blackboard Jungle” in its early
showings to forget the exciting emotional chill that came from hearing Bill Haley’s “Rock
Around the Clock” over the film’s opening credits, it’s likely that many pop music fans
who see “The Harder They Come” will be able to escape the spell of reggae—a highly
infectious and distinctive blend of rhythm & blues, calypso and early rock influences.
And that spell ultimately leads to Bob Marley. In his triumphant U.S. tour last
year, 31-year-old Marley displayed the kind of stunning musical stance and convinc-
ing persona that has made him the most important and acclaimed new arrival in rock
since Bruce Springsteen.
If he can now stay free of the covers of Newsweek and Time (and the resultant
backlash and suspicion which that kind of mass media attention often creates in pop
music), Marley may well emerge as one of the most influential figures in all of pop in
the 1970s. His following among rock musicians is already staggering.
Despite the hundreds of hit albums and singles each year in the multi-billion-
dollar record industry, there are only a dozen or so artists of each generation (Elvis,
Chuck Berry, Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis, among the most prominent in the 1950s;
the Beatles, Stones, Dylan, Hendrix, among others, in the 1960s) who carry both the
artistic vision and popular appeal to be truly influential.
Marley is an artist with enough impact, originality and purpose to join them.
While it is unlikely that large numbers of American teen-agers will begin wearing
their hair in long, uncombed Rasta strands or embrace other aspects of his special-
ized religious sect, the fact that Marley reflects such vitality and conviction in music
should be some kind of inspiration during a period when so much of pop music is
clearly vapid.
But Marley’s problem (and reggae music’s problem in general) has been the dif-
ficulty of attracting a mass audience in this country. Some of his songs—“I Shot the
Sheriff,” “Stir It Up”—have been hits here, but only through cover versions by Eric
Clapton and Johnny Nash.
The crucial difference between “Blackboard Jungle”—a tale of juvenile delin-
quency set in a New York City high school—and “The Harder They Come”—a
haunting, striking look at socio-economic oppression in both the slums and music
industry in Jamaica—is that the former was a box-office smash while the latter was a
low-budget effort that has received only spotty distribution in this country.
But the film, with its magnificent soundtrack album, has helped build something
of an audience for reggae. Indeed, there are signs the music is on the verge of a break-
through. The irony of the film, however, is that Jimmy Cliff, the man whose music
was featured in the movie, has no more turned out to be the strongest artistic spokes-
man for reggae than Bill Haley proved to be rock’s ultimate spokesman in the 1950s.
Just as Haley proved unacceptable to rock audiences two decades ago (for rea-
sons ranging from the diluted nature of his music to his post-30s family-man image),
Cliff—who portrays the struggling, victimized musician in the film and wrote many
of its songs—has not lived up to the promise of his role.
Besides the highly infectious syncopation of the music itself, part of the appeal of
“The Harder They Come” was the strong, convincing sense of socio-cultural purpose
behind such songs as Cliff’s “Many Rivers to Cross”—a masterfully crafted expres-
sion of one’s burdens that Linda Ronstadt has included on her latest album—to the
Slickers’ “Johnny Too Bad,” a look at the way crime is bred in the hopelessness and
poverty of the slums.
Indeed, the soul of reggae music—despite the light, inviting, sing-along nature
of such reggae-based hits as Johnny Nash’s “I Can See Clearly Now” or Paul Simon’s
“Mother and Child Reunion”—is built in large part around a strict political dedication.
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The Global Phenomenon of Reggae 321
Many reggae songs, for instance, reflect aggressive Third World aspirations and/
or hostilities. Often using Biblical allegories in the lyrics, much of the music speaks
out against racial, economic, political injustices in both Jamaica and elsewhere. Con-
sider, for example, Marley’s “Slave Driver”: “Every time I hear the crack of a whip/My
blood runs cold/I remember on the slave ship/How they brutalized my very soul/ . . . The tables
have turned . . . /You’re gonna get burned.”
Several reggae artists, including Marley, adhere to the religious beliefs of the Ras-
tafarian sect, which encourages its members to wear their hair in the long, uncombed
strands and live in communes.
But Cliff fell outside this strict, independent stance. His post-”Harder” albums
and concert appearances failed to capitalize on the momentum the film had built for
him. He began diluting his reggae sounds in a way that was out of keeping with the
convictions suggested in the heart of the film.
While Marley was much closer to the fierce, rebellious mood of the film, his first
U.S. album (titled “Catch a Fire”) lacked the appeal and variety of the film’s music.
He also seemed distant in his initial concerts here. Thus, he, too, was a disappoint-
ment. With neither Cliff nor Marley able to live up to expectations, the first wave of
the reggae “invasion” fizzled.
While Marley’s second and third U.S. albums (“Burnin’ ” and “Natty Dread”)
gained him increasing critical attention, the key factor in his approaching commercial
breakthrough was a 1975 tour that proved him to be a compelling, even electrifying
performer. He had replaced the old distance and uncertainty with bold, aggressive
manner and sound.
In his best moments on stage, the vitality of his music erased the occasional ste-
rility that marred some of his recordings. The combination of musical purpose and
dynamic presence on stage led him to be labeled both the Bob Dylan (for Marley’s
social consciousness) and the Mick Jagger (for his sensualness) of reggae. He had, in
short, the moves, music, charisma and image to excite. His albums began appearing
on the lower rungs of the national album charts. His name began slowly filtering
through the mass pop consciousness.
Sensing the building interest, Island Records mapped out a promotion/publicity
campaign for Marley’s new album that makes Columbia’s controversial campaign for
Springsteen (the campaign that stirred so many “hype” charges) seem downright paltry.
Though there is always the danger of a backlash in such a massive publicity
push (especially in the case of an artist whose music is built, in part, on fiercely anti-
capitalist sentiments), the new Marley album—“Rastaman Vibration”—burst on the
Billboard album charts this month at No. 40. It was a major breakthrough in the effort
to establish reggae.
While a live album that is available only in English import copies remains per-
haps the best introduction to Marley, “Rastaman Vibration” (Island ILPS 9838) is his
most appealing and balanced studio album. Crucially, Marley has extended his basic
reggae approach (by incorporating various U.S. soul music tendencies, from some of
the Philadelphia slickness to the old Memphis funk) without invalidating his original
stance. He has also broadened his themes.
But the album opens on two disastrous notes. “Positive Vibrations” and, espe-
cially, “Roots, Rock, Reggae”—a particularly absurd bit of reggae promotion that
speaks about the music’s status on the record charts—are just the kind of pointless
fluff that caused many “The Harder They Come” enthusiasts to sour on Cliff.
Once those tracks are past, however, the album begins reflecting the power
and punch that has characterized Marley’s finest work. While the main thrust of
the songs (“Want More,” “Crazy Bald Head.” “Who the Cap Fit,” “War” and “Rat
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322 The 1970s
Race”) continues to deal with sociopolitical matters, there is an increasing emphasis
on melodic structure and a more flexible instrumental base.
In fact, “Cry to Me,” one of the two songs on the album written by Marley, is as
close to a pure rhythm & blues ballad style as Marley or his band, the Wailers, have
yet offered. It’s a rare, but particularly effective, excursion by Marley into the roman-
tic as opposed to social arena:
You’re gonna walk back through the heartaches
You’re gonna walk back through the pain
You’re gonna shed those lonely teardrops
The reaction of your cheating game.
While those lyrics fit easily and quite smoothly into the traditional pop mold,
most of Marley’s lyrics (either his own or those by other writers) are more effective
in part than in whole. As with early rock and R&B, it’s the performance that matters
most. And it is in the area of performance that Marley excels.
Whether he is singing with defiance or tenderness, Marley has the rare ability to
embellish the words without appearing false or self-conscious. When, for instance,
he sings the title phrase in “Cry to Me,” he treats the word “cry” differently each
time. He divides it into three syllables the first time, keeps it as an extended single
syllable later in the song and somehow merges the two approaches the final time.
Despite the bite and trigger-edge that seems such a basic part of Marley’s music,
there is a compassion in “Johnny Was”—a song about a mother’s grief over the acci-
dental death of her son by (apparently) a policeman’s stray bullet—that keeps his
music from being simply one-dimensional.
But Marley can still be fiercely combative. He has felt the sting and agony and anger
of the socially oppressed. Born in Kingston, Jamaica, Marley is the son of a white British
Army captain from Liverpool—“I only remember seeing him twice when I was small”—
and a black Jamaican who wrote spirituals and sang in the local Apostolic church.
Marley sang in church, too, as a child, but he eventually found greater satisfac-
tion in the rock records of such American artists as Ricky Nelson, Elvis Presley and
Fats Domino. He studied welding in school, but longed for a career in music.
With an assist (ironically) from Jimmy Cliff, Marley made a record in 1964, but
it flopped. A bit later he decided to form a group which came up with several hits,
but received few if any royalties, Marley claims. Thus, Marley again ran into a web of
social manipulation and economic mistreatment. Frustrated, he moved to the United
States where he worked for several months in an auto assembly factory in Delaware.
But that too left him dissatisfied.
So, he returned to Jamaica, where two things happened that would greatly affect
his future: He met Island Records’ Chris Blackwell, and he joined the Rastafarian sect.
While the latter gave him a purpose and direction in his music, Blackwell’s guid-
ance and resources gave Marley the chance to grow and experiment as an artist.
“Rastaman Vibration” is the latest example of that growth. It should make him a
major force in American pop. Marley will be at the Roxy on May 26 (sold out) and
Shrine Auditorium May 27.
Further Reading
Bordowitz, Hank. Every Little Thing Gonna Be Alright: The Bob Marley Reader. Cambridge,
Mass.: Da Capo Press, 2004.
Daynes, Sarah. Time and Memory in Reggae Music: The Politics of Hope. Manchester, UK:
Manchester University Press, 2010.
bra43588_pt04_253-356.indd 322 05/24/19 03:22 PM

Get On Up Disco 323
Grant, Colin. I and I: The Natural Mystics: Marley, Tosh and Wailer. London: Jonathan Cape,
2011.
Katz, David. Solid Foundation: An Oral History of Reggae. New York: Bloomsbury, 2003.
Salewicz, Chris. Bob Marley: The Untold Story. New York: Faber & Faber, 2010.
Discography
Marley, Bob. Catch a Fire. Tuff Gong/Island, 1973.
_______. Burnin’. Tuff Gong/Island, 1973.
_______. Natty Dread. Tuff Gong/Island, 1974.
_______. Rastaman Vibration. Tuff Gong/Island, 1976.
_______. Exodus. Tuff Gong/Island, 1977.
_______. Legend. Tuff Gong/Island, 1984.
The Harder They Come. Island, 1972.
Tougher than Tough: The Story of Jamaican Music. Mango, 1993.
56. Get On Up Disco
From an underground phenomenon at the outset of the 1970s, disco

grew to dominate popular music by the end of the decade. In its heyday,
“disco” referred to at least three distinct phenomena: a musical style,
a performance site, and a mode of participation and musical fandom.
While the rock music embraced by the counterculture increasingly made
dancing difficult (if not impossible), clubs catering to gay, African Ameri-
can, and Latino subcultures in New York City began relying on music
featuring a blend of Motown soul; Latin-inflected funk; and a new,
sophisticated type of uptown soul associated with Philadelphia-based
producers (discussed earlier in Greil Marcus’s essay; see Chapter 48).
Artists such as Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes, Barry White, White’s
Love Unlimited Orchestra, and Cameroonian jazz-pop artist Manu
Dibango, had national hits that “crossed over” from dance clubs to pop
radio. The genre name “disco” was applied first to such “rockin’” dance
hits as The Hues Corporations’ “Rock the Boat” and George McCrae’s
“Rock Your Baby,” both from 1974, while another important early disco
recording, Van McCoy’s “The Hustle” (early 1975), launched the most
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324 The 1970s
popular dance step of the era. Disco’s impact extended beyond its musi-
cal style, challenging prevalent notions in popular music criticism about
authorship and creativity.
The central figure in this challenge to the critical status quo was
the disc jockey or “DJ.” Because DJs were responsible for selecting and
sequencing songs, it was their taste that dictated disco’s sense of style,
rather than the singers and instrumentalists of soul and rock musics,
and successful DJs could acquire their own following in much the same
way as a recording artist. DJs shared the creative locus of the disco
scene with the audience itself, since the focus on dancing stressed
social interaction (this is vividly portrayed in Andrew Kopkind’s article,
reprinted here).
During 1975–76, disco began to concentrate on three main ten-
dencies. The first, “R&B disco,” was derived more directly from pre-
vious styles of soul and funk, often retained gospel-oriented vocals
and syncopated guitar and bass parts, and was sometimes recorded
by self-contained bands associated with funk, such as the Ohio Play-
ers, Kool and the Gang, the Commodores, and KC and the Sunshine
Band. A second trend, “Eurodisco,” tended to feature simple, chanted
vocals, less-syncopated bass parts, and thicker arrangements filled
with orchestral instruments and synthesizers, and relied on a pro-
ducer who directed anonymous studio musicians. Eurodisco record-
ings often filled entire album sides and attempted to usurp some of
the DJ’s creative role by sequencing a series of contrasting episodes
over an unvarying tempo. The style could be said to have arrived with
Donna Summer’s “Love to Love You Baby,” in which producers Pete
Bellote and Giorgio Moroder embedded Summer’s suggestive moan-
ing in a 17-minute orchestrated epic. A third variant, “pop disco,”
was represented by mainstream pop artists such as the Bee Gees, an
Australian trio who hopped on the disco bandwagon in 1975 to revive
their dormant careers; pop disco’s importance grew throughout the
decade.1
The final transformation of disco from a genre associated with
gays, blacks, and Latinos to one embraced by straight, white Americans
occurred with the success of the film Saturday Night Fever, released late
in 1977. The film’s soundtrack featured new songs by the Bee Gees and
an assortment of songs from the preceding two years by the Bee Gees,
Kool and the Gang, Walter Murphy, and the Trammps. The soundtrack
yielded four number one singles and became the best-selling album up
to that time. The most popular disco clubs, such as Studio 54 in New
York City, became celebrity-studded hangouts where high society and a
1. This typology-taxonomy is used by Stephen Holden in his article “The Evolution of a Dance
Craze,” Rolling Stone, April 19, 1979, 29. Rolling Stone dedicated its August 28, 1975, issue to disco,
just as disco was becoming more than an underground phenomenon. Of special note in that issue
is Vince Aletti’s discussion of early disco’s history, aesthetics, and musical influences; see Vince
Aletti, “Dancing Madness: The Disco Sound,” Rolling Stone, August 28, 1975, 43, 50, 56.
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Get On Up Disco 325
gay sense of style intertwined.2 The Eurodisco and pop disco styles had
clearly superseded R&B disco in the public notion of what constituted
the genre, although a few artists on the borderline between funk and
disco continued to succeed. The most important of these artists was
Chic, whose last major hit, “Good Times” (1979), is notable for provid-
ing the musical basis for the first rap hit, “Rapper’s Delight,” by the
Sugarhill Gang (1979).
Andrew Kopkind addresses the broader cultural significance of disco

at the height of its popularity in the wake of Saturday Night Fever. Writ-
ing at the end of the 1970s, he uses disco as a way of discussing shifts
in popular music, the music industry, and the relationship of popu-
lar music to politics and lifestyle. Most strikingly, he sees the rise of
disco as representing the triumph of artifice over the authenticity so
valued by the 1960s counterculture (a quality that underscored a not-
so-obvious link among glam, disco, and some new wave). An important
point in this article is how the popularity of disco marks the acceptance
(albeit somewhat unconsciously) of a kind of gay sensibility into the
mainstream. As Kopkind notes, however, the heightened visibility of
gay subcultures also occasioned a backlash among rock fans.3
The Dialectic of Disco: Gay Music Goes Straight

Andrew Kopkind
Disco is the word. It is more than music, beyond a beat, deeper than the dancers
and their dance. Disco names the sensibility of a generation, as jazz and rock—and
silence—-announced the sum of styles, attitudes, and intent of other ages. The mind-
less material of the new disco culture—its songs, steps, ballrooms, movies, drugs, and
drag—are denounced and adored with equal exaggeration. But the consciousness
that lies beneath the trendy tastes is a serious subject and can hardly be ignored: for
it points precisely where popular culture is headed at the end of the American ’70s.
Disco is phenomenal—unpredicted and unpredictable, contradictory and con-
troversial. It has spawned a new $4 billion music industry, new genres in film and
2. For an account of Studio 54 that paints a portrait of corruption, celebrities, and Steve Ru-
bell’s obnoxious chutzpah during the club’s high point from April 1977 to March 1978, see Henry
Post, “Sour Notes at the Hottest Disco,” Esquire, June 20, 1978, 79–86.
3. This led most infamously to a riot in Chicago’s Comiskey Park during the intermission of
a White Sox doubleheader; see Don McLeese, “Anatomy of an Anti-Disco Riot,” In These Times,
August 29–September 4, 1979, 23.
Source: “The Dialectic of Disco: Gay Music Goes Straight,” Village Voice, February 12, 1979, pp. 1,
11–14, 25.
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326 The 1970s
t heatre, new radio stations, a new elite of promoters and producers, and a new atti-
tude about the possibilities of party going. It has also sparked major conflicts: “Death
to Disco” is written on SoHo walls and “Disco Sucks!” rises from the throats of belea-
guered partisans of rock, punk, or jazz who find their cultural identity threatened by
disco’s enormous commercial power.
Scenes from disco wars erupt across the landscape. Gangs of rockers and hus-
tlers (the dancing kind) fight furiously in the streets outside disco clubs in provincial
cities. When Mick Jagger or Rod Stewart “goes disco” (with “Miss You” and “Do You
Think I’m Sexy?” respectively), their cultural conversion is debated in hip salons as
well as in the New York Times. The rock critical establishment still treats disco music
as an adolescent aberration, at best; many cultural commentators look on the whole
sensibility as a metaphor for the end of humanism and the decline of the West.
The sense of the ’60s provided coherence, contest, and validity to rock, when the crit-
ics of an earlier era proclaimed such sounds to be junk. Rock was “our music”: only
“we”—-whoever we were—knew that it was good and what parts of it were best. The
music was riding an historical tide; it was the sound of the politics, the expectations,
the explorations, and the institutions of an era. It was the background music as well
as the marching melody for civil disobedience, sexual liberation, crunchy granola,
and LSD. The Buffalo Springfield’s “For What It’s Worth” was perfect music-to-
avoid-the-FBI-by. “Street Fighting Man” was made for trashing draft boards. “Mr.
Tambourine Man” was for smoking dope. “Up the Country” was for dropping out of
the city. “Let It Be” was for letting it be.
History hardly stops. Disco in the ’70s is in revolt against rock in the ’60s. It is the
antithesis of the “natural” look, the real feelings, the seriousness, the confessions, the
struggles, the sincerity, pretensions and pain of the last generation. Disco is “unreal,”
artificial, and exaggerated. It affirms the fantasies, fashions, gossip, frivolity, and fun
of an evasive era. The ’60s were braless, lumpy, heavy, rough, and romantic; disco
is stylish, sleek, smooth, contrived, and controlled. Disco places surface over sub-
stance, mood over meaning, action over thought. The ’60s were a mind trip (mari-
juana, acid); Disco is a body trip (Quaaludes, cocaine). The ’60s were cheap; disco is
expensive. On a ’60s trip, you saw God in a grain of sand; on a disco trip, you see
Jackie O. at Studio 54.
In describing “camp” in her influential essay 15 years ago, Susan Sontag
remarked that “a sensibility (as distinct from an idea) is one of the hardest things
to talk about.” It is “not only the most decisive, but also [the age’s] most perishable,
aspect. To name a sensibility, to draw its contours and to recount its history, requires
a deep sympathy modified by revulsion.”
The performance and production of disco music creates a technical and economic
foundation on which the intangible aspects of culture and sensibility develop.
The ways in which the sounds are chosen, the records produced, the performers
packaged, and the cultural artifacts marketed will profoundly influence the styles
we see.
Disco, first of all, is not a natural phenomenon in any sense. It is part of a sophis-
ticated, commercial, manipulated culture that is rooted exclusively in an urban envi-
ronment. Disco music is produced in big cities and its fashions are formed in big cities,
at considerable expense, by high-priced professionals. Almost as an afterthought is
the product then disseminated to the provinces. All the sparkle, speed, cynicism, and
jaded irony associated with metropolitan life is attached to disco. It is far from whole-
some. Provincials may either envy or abhor it. But it belongs to the city.
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Get On Up Disco 327
“Disco is a New York thing. It happened here,” says Kenn Friedman, the 26-year-
old promotion wizard of Casablanca Records. “And it still happens here.” Of a week-
end evening in the city, Friedman may commandeer the label’s limo—or slip out on
his own—and make the rounds of the hottest New York clubs: Infinity, Flamingo,
Les Mouches, Studio 54, 12 West. He holes up with the disc jockeys in their sound
booths, then quickly moves out onto the dance floors, soaking up the spirit of the
music and catching the response of the crowds. He and his crew are eminently suc-
cessful (Casablanca is the new miracle mogul in the disco record business) because
he can feel the hits.
“I know what will be number one, what the hottest record is going to be on the
street this weekend,” Friedman told me matter-of-factly. At the time we spoke he
predicted it would be James Wells’s “My Claim to Fame”; and sure enough, when I
went round to the clubs the next Saturday, it was the song that provoked the peak
excitement of the night. “I can’t tell you exactly how I know, but it’s because I’m part
of the culture, I love to dance, I love the music.”
Dancing is what does it. Last week at Casablanca’s “Casbah”—the company’s
New York digs in an arabesque townhouse on 55th Street—I found Casablanca’s
top disco director, Marc Simon, boogying excitedly in Friedman’s cramped office.
Just back from the world record industry’s annual congress in Cannes, Simon was
effusive about the “completely new sound” his label will introduce as its 1979
line later this month. The first group making this as-yet unknown music is called
Nightlife, and Simon says he’s banking his business ($100 million last year) on
his intuitions.
“I heard a different producer’s sound every 15 minutes, five hours a day, all the
time I was in Cannes,” Simon said coolly, “and I picked the ones I felt were going to
be the dance hits.” While the sounds of disco are highly synthesized, the hits cannot
be completely determined. Nobody dreamed up the whole disco promotion cam-
paign in the first place. “In the beginning we used to dance to the best rhythms from
Motown and other rhythm-and-blues records,” Simon recalled. “There was noth-
ing called ‘disco’ back in the ’60s—just Diana Ross, Freda Payne, the Temptations.”
Then the producers in Philadelphia—Gamble and Huff—started making a specific
disco sound, with the familiar heavy beat and the modified samba rhythm.
By reckonings, the first big disco hit—as disco—was Gloria Gaynor’s 1974 top-
of-the-charts “Never Can Say Good-bye.” Others pick “Love’s Theme,” by Love
Unlimited Orchestra. But the record companies seemed bewildered by what they
had, and promo people continued their quirky disregard of the disco category in
their portfolios. Instead, they inflated passing fancies into seismic cultural events:
Peter Frampton, reggae, and punk, for example. Not that some of those sounds or
stars lacked merit; certainly Springsteen, Bob Marley, and the best of the New Wave
deserve seats high in rock and roll heaven. But disco would soon swamp them all,
and nobody was watching.
There are real differences in disco numbers that those who have learned to appreci-
ate the music—and dance to it—can easily distinguish but may be missed by others.
“All disco sounds alike” is commonly heard among rock fans; it is a bit like Cauca-
sians saying, “All Chinese people look alike.” Certain features of disco songs hardly
vary from one tune to another (compare: flat noses or epicanthic folds). If you look
for continuous changes in beat or for nuances of poetry in the lyrics, you will find few
differences among disco songs. But the lengthy construction of a disco record (more
than a “song”) and its emotional intensity are highly changeable aspects, and may
account for success or failure.
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328 The 1970s
Or they may not. The fact is that while disco is racing to new levels of sophistica-
tion and elaboration at high speed, there is yet no reliable test for a hit. The reason is
that the disco phenomenon has turned the pop industry upside-down, as no devel-
opment has since the advent of ’60s rock.
First, the disco wave crashed on unseen shores, catching producers and musi-
cians without adequate cultural or commercial bearings. There were few critics to
say what was good or bad—that is, what their readers or listeners should buy. There
were no researchers to test the market; no one knew what questions to ask. The one
or two music writers who dove into disco—notably the Voice’s frequent contributor,
Vince Aletti—often felt overwhelmed by the legitimacy and power wielded by the
rock establishment, and they hid their opinions under barrels or in closets.4
Second, the primary sales medium of popular records changed, from radio for
rock to dance clubs for disco. The shift entailed no small change: billions of dollars
had come to rest on the “airplay” system of marketing music. Consumers heard their
tunes on the air and rushed to their dealer for the vinyl version. Now, there were no
stations, AM or FM, playing disco music as a regular feature of their format.
The third major change that disco wrought in the industry was the concentration
of performance. For all its New York and L.A. stars, rock was a decentralized popular
form. It carried provincial and suburban values with it as it came up the river from
Mississippi, or down the slopes from Colorado, or down the pike from Greenwich.
Any four young people with axes and amps could start a band in the hinterlands,
playing local clubs with a repertoire of original songs and “covered” hits of national
stars. Some groups would work their way up to regional fame (J. Geils in Boston, the
Allman Brothers in Atlanta) and then make it big in the continental markets.
But disco must be produced in a few studios in the urban centers—here and
abroad. If there is talent in the small towns it must travel to the big city before that
process begins; and in so doing, the performers must shed their innocent attitudes
and naïve notions before they open their mouths. Donna Summer began in Boston
and in Germany and Austria (singing pop and folk opera, as well as other genres)
before Casablanca launched her record career as a cosmopolitan sex siren.
“People don’t want local bands anymore,” says John “T.C.” (for Top Cat)
Luongo, an impresario in MK Promotions, one of the country’s leading disco pro-
motional companies (it is largely responsible for the success of the C’est Chic album).
“They’d rather hear the stars on records over sensational sound systems than listen
to the local rock band play third-rate versions of old hits.”
Many of the disco “stars,” of course, are nonpeople—interchangeable studio
musicians who shuttle between group names, from one album to the next. MFSB,
Love Unlimited, and many of the Philadelphia bands of the mid-’70s were composed
of the same people, give or take the odd sideman. Salsoul, the Ritchie Family, and
other current hot groups are wholes that add up to less than the sum of their parts.
Only recently have genuine musicians broken through disco anonymity into star-
dom: Donna Summer and the Bee Gees, for better and worse, are the best example of
the new personalized wave.
Fourth, disco facilitated the birth of a lucrative subcategory of record sales—the
new 33 rpm 12-inch “disco mix” or “long version.” The Salsoul group, originally
an Hispanic manufacturer of ladies’ lingerie, made a more substantial fortune by
4. Aletti, cited earlier for his insightful early article on disco, eventually became involved in
running RFC Records, a label devoted to disco.
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Get On Up Disco 329
turning from schmatas to the sounds of the Latin Hustle; Salsoul brought out some of
the first big disco-mix 12‑inches six years ago. The industry yawned. Now a 12-inch
disco single can sell 17,000 copies in New York City alone, and the companies care-
fully regulate the availability of the various versions of a hit song to maximize sales.
For example, Atlantic put 200,000 copies of the “Le Freak” disco mix on sale to stimu-
late interest in the C’est Chic album—then withdrew the long 12-inch single to elimi-
nate competition for the high-priced package and the mass-volume 45 rpm versions.
Finally, the music business has been jolted by the sudden prominence of the
record producer which the technical requirements of disco now entails. The European
producers of the suave, lush “Eurodisco” sounds are perhaps the brightest lights:
Giorgio Moroder, Cerrone, Alex Costandinos, Roger Tekarz. Many of them use their
own names instead of their performers’ to identify albums; thus, the latest album
produced by Cerrone is called, simply, “Cerrone IV.” Moroder uses the name ”Gior-
gio” both as an album title and also as an advertisement for his productions; a sticker
slapped on the new Three Degrees album announces “Produced by Giorgio,” as rock
albums feature the most familiar cut.
Today, the disco record industry is a mammoth $4 billion enterprise—bigger than

television, movies, or professional sports in America. “Disco accounts for about 40
percent of all the ‘chart activity,’” Friedman estimated. By the end of the decade,
half the top 100 songs on Billboard’s lists will be disco numbers. Disco radio stations
are sweeping the country. New York’s WKTU is a story in itself: in nine months of
disco programming (it used to send out “mellow rock”) it has gone from the dregs
of stations too low to rate to the number one broadcaster in the country, either AM
or FM—beating out the gargantuan WABC. Boston’s WBOS was miniscule before it
went all-disco; it now tops the biggest FM rock stations in America’s hottest “youth
market.” And there are 20,000 disco clubs in the U.S., earning $6 billion annually.
What all this means is that a sizable hunk of capital in the entertainment indus-
try is now in the hands of the disco elite—a mixed breed of newcomers, switchovers
and fast dancers who had the sense to accommodate themselves to the sensibility of
the ’70s.
The new disco elite has its own vocabulary and its own values, and they are
quite different from those of the rock entrepreneur. For one thing, the disco people
have to feel like dancing—not autistic, explosive fits of movement but the more con-
trolled, stylized dancing of the disco clubs. And for another, they have to be able to
mingle and mix in gay discos as well as straight ones, for the locus of the emerging
disco culture is pointedly in urban male homosexual society.
“There is a big cultural difference between rock and disco,” Kenn Friedman said
firmly, “and it’s gayness. Some people don’t like to talk about it, but it’s true. Disco
began in gay clubs. At first, it was just a case of speeding up the gap between records
on the juke box. But that’s how the concept of continuous music began. The disco
club was the first entertainment institution of gay life, and it started in New York, as
you would expect.”
Disco promoter John Luongo agrees. “In the beginning, there was the gay audi-
ence for disco. The ‘primo’ disc jockeys were gay. Gays couldn’t find any rock bands
to play in their clubs, so they had to make records their own form of entertainment.”
Not long ago, Kenn Friedman took John Brody around to several clubs on his
Saturday night rounds, and Brody gave me this report:
“The intensity was different at Infinity, which is predominantly straight, and
at 12 West, which is mostly gay. At Infinity the energy was lower, there was less
emphasis on dancing. At 12 West everybody was dancing, and it was a kind of sexual
thing. It was very powerful. There was a strong smell of poppers—amyl nitrate—in
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330 The 1970s
the air, and I guess a lot of people were high on whatever. That must be part of the
mood. But the gays seemed a lot less hung up in their environment than the hetero-
sexuals seemed in theirs. At 12 West, I looked at these people dancing at four in the
morning; it looked like the last night of their lives.”
Even so, Friedman did not take Brody to Flamingo, the most intense and emo-
tionally powerful gay disco in New York. “I didn’t think he could handle it,” Fried-
man joked.
What Brody would have seen was this:
Flamingo is an enormous loft on the edge of SoHo, undistinguished by signs or
lights. Members (who pay $75 a year plus a substantial fee for each visit) start wan-
dering in well after midnight on Saturday nights, the only day of the week the club
is regularly open. By 3 a.m., several thousand people, almost entirely men, mostly
shirtless and universally stoned, are dancing feverishly to the most imaginatively
mixed, most persistently powerful music ever assembled in one continuous set. One
wall of the danceroom is paneled with colored lights, which flicker and race at appro-
priate intervals in harmonious correlation to the music. Along another wall, a dozen
or so men dance by themselves on a raised banquette, acting as erotic cheerleaders to
the swirling crowd. The fume of poppers is overpowering.
Many Saturday night dances at Flamingo have a theme like a senior prom.
Late last month there was a “Western/Tattoo” night, which featured a raised plat-
form in the lobby where party-goers could be tattooed in their moments of relaxa-
tion from dancing. Another annual feature is the “Black Party”—named not for
the race of the customers but for the suggested color of attire, the decorations,
and the mood of the evening. Last spring’s black party was one of the final Satur-
days of the season—before Flamingo closes for the summer while its thousands of
members repair to Fire Island for whatever adventures await them in dunes. Now
this was some senior prom. In the entrance hall there were cages, platforms, and
theatrical sets where various happenings were in progress, all in accordance with
a vaguely S&M, “black,” leather-gear theme. Some of the goings-on were semi-
mentionable: people (actors?) were in chains, under the whip, groveling and grop-
ing, disheveled. Other attractions were unmentionable, and getting more so as the
evening wore on. There were more people in the loft at 6 a.m. than there were at 1.
When do these people sleep?
A strange fascination kept me at Flamingo past my bedtime, and I have returned
many times in the months since then. Most often, the mood is lighter than on that
black night (the “White Party” is coming up later this month), but the extravagant
sense of theatricality is maintained. The throbbing lights, the engulfing sound, the
heightened energy, and the hyperbolic heat of Flamingo gives me the sense (which
I have heard that others share) that the world is enclosed in this hall, that there is
only now, in this place and this time. It can be extraordinarily assaultive; I have felt
trapped forever in a theater of sound, of flesh, like a character in Bunuel’s The Exter-
minating Angel, unable to leave a party even after its positive appeal has fled. But
what is worse is the prospect of a chill gray Manhattan dawn outside. Leaving is
more depressing than staying: the disco beat is like a life rhythm, and to stop would
be to create a killing thrombosis.
Danae—it’s his nom de disco—is a well-known disc jockey on the New England
and New York circuit. I asked him what he does to make the special blend of music
that distinguishes the disco club sound from just “playing records”:
“The mix starts at a certain place, builds, teases, builds again, and then picks up
on the other side. The break is the high point. It’s like asking a question, repeating
and repeating it, waiting for an answer—and then giving the answer. That is the
great, satisfying moment.”
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Get On Up Disco 331
In practice, a “hot” disco mix in a dance club is a sexual metaphor; the deejay
plays with the audience’s emotions, pleasing and teasing in a crescendo of feeling.
The break is the climax.
“That’s the rush,” Danae says. “The dancers cheer, they pump the air with their
fists, they wave and shout. It’s very exciting. I played at 12 West last Christmas, and
it was one of the best nights I’ve ever had. After a while, someone came up to me, all
excited, and said, ‘You were fucking me with your music! Do me a favor, fuck me
again with your music.’ I took it as a great compliment.”
“There’s gay disco and straight disco, although there’s overlap between the two,”
Danae continued. “Straight disco is heavy-duty funk, the driving sound, that has all
the power without much of the emotion. Gays like to hear black women singers; they
identify with the pain, the irony, the self-consciousness. We pick up on the emotional
content, not just the physical power. The MFSB sound was gay; Barry White was
a gay sound, so is Donna Summer, Gloria Gaynor. We knew the Trampp’s ‘Disco
Inferno’ was a great song years before it got into the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack.
To me, the epitome of gay disco this year is Candi Staton. She’s all emotion, you can
feel it when she says, ‘I’m a victim of the very song I sing.’”
There are contradictions within contradictions in the sexual implications of disco.
Consider The Village People, the singing group that claims to hail from Greenwich
Village and parodies the macho styles of its homosexual culture. One of the members
is dressed as a leather biker, another as a construction worker, a third as an Indian, a
fourth as a cowboy, and so on. They perform songs that extend the parody—notably
“Macho Man” and “YMCA.” For gays, the line “I want to be a macho man” from the
mouths of these butch impersonators is a bit like “I want to be white” if it were sung
by Stevie Wonder for a black audience.
Gays are amused by The Village People, but the group is finding its biggest
fans among straights. “YMCA” is never heard at Flamingo. Kenn Friedman, whose
Casablanca label produces the group (one of the most profitable in his stable) agrees:
“‘Macho Man’ did not happen in gay clubs but in straight ones. The Village Peo-
ple is the first gay-to-straight ‘crossover’ group, a group with an originally gay image
and following that’s made it in straight discos. The funny thing is that straights don’t
really believe the group is gay. They love ‘em in Vegas and in tacky suburban din-
ner theaters in Midwestern shopping centers. Did straights ever catch on with Paul
Lynde? With Liberace? People will protect their identity at all costs, they’ll pretend
to the last possible minute that it’s all an act.”
Gay activists have protested that Casablanca is deliberately closeting The Village
People to make the act “safe” for straights. A Casablanca PR functionary says that
producer Jacques Morali (who reportedly picked all the members except possibly the
accomplished lead singer because of their tough good looks rather than their musi-
cal talent) became visibly upset when a Newsweek interviewer began probing into
the gay issue. But the group is coming out, as it were, with ever more outrageous
lyrics and postures. Their biggest hit to date is “YMCA,” which concerns a young
boy who comes into the big city, looks around for a place to hang out, and lands in
a hostelry that is legendary in the gay community as a cruising spot. What did Mid-
dle America think it all meant when The Village People sang that number, with all
the appropriate gestures, at the height of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade on
national television?
There are two levels on which The Village People’s campiness works: the first is
with the “knowing” gay audience, the listeners who are in on the joke, the images,
the allusions (Fire Island, the bushes, Castro Street, Key West, the Y). The other is
with the “naive” straight audience, the listeners who either don’t know (or mind)
what’s going on in the lyrics, or else think it is all theatrical drag.
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332 The 1970s
In much the same way, disco music as a whole appeals to a “knowing” audience
that sees what Friedman calls the “cultural gayness” in it, and a naive audience that
simply likes the fashion and the beat.
“The straights don’t see the gay culture, they’ve only seen what they’ve made—
the styles,” Friedman says. Just before Casablanca’s disco movie, Thank God It’s
Friday, opened across the country last year, Friedman took a short segment of it to
several cities and showed it on videotape to selected audiences. Casablanca boss
Bogart was worried that straight Americans would be offended if they detected the
goings-on in the background of one sequence on the tape: two men were dancing
together and sniffing amyl nitrate.
“I interviewed hundreds of people, showed it to thousands, and as far as I know
not one straight person ever saw the men dancing, even after I showed the segment
to them two or three times,” Friedman reported. “And yet the gay viewers saw it
immediately.”
One more example: Paul Jabara’s song, “Disco Queen,” on the TGIF soundtrack,
concerns a “queen” who is “known from L.A. to San Francisco to the Fire Island
shore.” She “even sleeps with her tambourine.” She flirts with a handsome young
marine. The chorus asks: “Where does she get her energy? Where does she get her
energy?” Really. The images in the song are all attached to male homosexual styles.
This queen is certainly a queen. But I’ll bet heterosexuals never even consider the
possibility that the disco queen is not a woman. To them, it’s just another nice dance
tune; which it is.
Disco became the theme music of gay culture in the ’70s (not only in America but in
Europe and Latin America as well). Of course, the straight audience now far outnum-
bers the gay one, but the music still has a special meaning for gays: if ’60s freaks could
say that rock was “our music,” gays now say the same for disco. It is the background
music for the activities and institutions of the burgeoning urban gay culture—for the
shops, the bars, the restaurants, and the offices where gays go about their business. It is
music for sex, for dancing, and for looking at the straight world go by. It is reassuring
and supportive; in an important way, it is the sensational glue that unites a community.
But disco has deep roots and strong attachments in other cultural groups as well.
Disco is, after all, a mixture of certain black rhythm-and-blues sounds, Latin forms,
and an African beat.
New York’s first major disco station was WBLS, a “black” radio outlet. Many
of the best disco performers are black—while rock is bleached and white. For years
disco suffered several disadvantages to total acceptance: major disco artists were
black or Latin, many were women, the principal white audience was gay, and the
nongay white audience was located in the urban ethnic working class—all reasons
for cultural disability.
Saturday Night Fever illustrated the class aspect of disco for urban whites. While
rock was infused with middle-class attitudes (although often downwardly mobile in its
aspirations), disco was originally proletarian. One clue: the “weekend” theme reappears
in disco lyrics, as in “Thank God It’s Friday,” “I Just Can’t Wait for Saturday,” “Funky
Weekend,” and, of course, in the film title Saturday Night Fever itself. Working-class kids
toil all week and wait for their one big shot at fun, escape, and dreams on the weekend;
they dress up, get drunk, and play out sexual fantasies in a community context.
Quite the other way with the rock culture: hippies hang out all week and can’t
tell Saturday night from Tuesday afternoon. They don’t do much dancing, and when
they do, they do not care much for dressing up, spending money, having dates, and
controlling their movements on the dance floor.
There are certain immutable characteristics of rock culture: it is white, straight,
male, young, and middle class. The exceptions to those rules prove them. For example,
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Get On Up Disco 333
female stars and their songs must conform to male sexual fantasies—Linda Ronstadt,
Christine McVie. Black musicians must be chlorinated to make it up the rock charts—
Jimi Hendrix, Stevie Wonder, Chubby Checker. What may appear to be lower-class
images in rock usually turn out to be middle-class myths and fantasies: punk violence,
“Working Class Hero” radicalism, dropout dreams. And performers who tinker with
sexual stereotypes must remain determinedly “ambiguous” or turn up with partners
of the opposite sex from time to time, to beard their offensive nakedness: Bowie with
Angie, Jagger with Bianca, Elton John, Alice Cooper, the Kinks. Jagger may French
kiss Ron Wood on Saturday Night Live, but it’s fortunate that he can lose a paternity
suit with, figuratively, the same breath. Sexual deviation (like gender, class, and race
aberrations from the norms) must be playful and let’s pretend: it cannot seriously
threaten straight identity.
For a time, it appeared that disco culture might change those rules to a degree,
particularly in the case of sexual identity. It now looks as if the dominant demands
of American society will prevail, to no one’s great surprise. The past year has seen
several disco stars or groups achieve the necessary “cross-over” effect, bringing the
music out of the subcultural ghettoes into mainstream life. The Bee Gees were crucial
to that passage; they made disco safe for white, straight, male, young, and middle-
class America. What Elvis Presley did for black rhythm and blues, and Diana Ross
did for soul, and Elvis Costello did for punk, the Brothers Gibb have done for disco.
Now all Nassau County is lining up for disco lessons. ’60s survivors who steadfastly
resisted disco because it was apolitical, or dehumanized, or feminine, or homosexual,
or too Bay Ridge, are suddenly skipping to the beat. They have found what Gladys
Knight calls out, in one of the best songs of the season: “It’s better than a good time.”
The rise of disco music occurred alongside the decline of rock, but whether there
is connection between these two aesthetic events is not at all clear.
“Rock and roll is at an all-time low in creativity,” promoter John Luongo fretted.
“It’s all rehashed material, there’s no freshness. I love rock,” he insisted, “and it’s
where I started. But the music has let people down. There was a big hole, and disco
filled it. There’s no other form of music that offers the power, the excitement, the
party atmosphere of disco.”
Disco is the word, as grease was the word. It is a handle on the ’70s, as the other
was a metaphor for the ’50s, for in the extraordinary cultural and commercial suc-
cess of disco several of the new elements of this generation can be identified. Disco
has many functions, but one of the most essential may be as a drug: it feeds artificial
energy, communal good feelings, and high times into an era of competition, isola-
tion, and alienation. As drugs go, it is not egregiously harmful, but it is easily abused,
quickly tolerated, and naggingly addictive.
Sensibility is dialectical—which is to say that it grows from the material of his-
tory and the experience of society. It does not descend from the heavens of invention
or corporealize out of thin air. The ’70s sensibility emerged from the achievements
and excesses, the defeats and triumphs of the years before. Our end is always in our
beginning, and we are, as Candi Staton croons, the victims of the very songs we sing.
Further Reading
Aletti, Vince. “Dancing Madness: The Disco Sound.” Rolling Stone, August 28, 1975, 43, 50, 56.
Echols, Alice. Hot Stuff: Disco and the Remaking of American Culture. New York: W.W. Norton,
2010.
Holden, Stephen. “The Evolution of a Dance Craze.” Rolling Stone, April 19, 1979, 29.
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334 The 1970s
Krasnow, Carolyn. “Fear and Loathing in the 70s: Race, Sexuality, and Disco.” Stanford Hu-
manities Review 3 (Fall 1993): 37–45.
Lawrence, Tim. Love Saves the Day: A History of American Dance Music Culture, 1970–1979.
Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2003.
McLeese, Don. “Anatomy of an Anti-Disco Riot.” In These Times, August 29–September 4,
1979, 23.
Shapiro, Peter. Turn the Beat Around: The Secret History of Disco. London: Faber and Faber, 2006.
Discography
Chic. Dance, Dance, Dance: The Best of Chic. Atlantic/WEA, 1991.
Moroder, Giorgio. From Here to Eternity. Repertoire, 1977.
Saturday Night Fever: The Original Movie Sound Track. Polydor/UMGD, 1977.
Summer, Donna. Love to Love You Baby. MCA Special Products, 1975.
Ultimate Disco: 30th Anniversary Collection. Madacy Records, 2003.
Van McCoy. The Hustle and the Best of Van McCoy. Amherst Records, 1995.
Village People. The Best of Village People. Island/Mercury, 1994.
White, Barry. Can’t Get Enough. Island/Mercury, 1974.
57. Punk
T HE SOUND OF CR I T ICISM?
At the end of the preceding article, promoter John Luongo decried the
creative stasis that had overcome rock music during the 1970s. Many
musicians working in rock (and critics devoted to it) could not have
agreed more. While Kopkind’s essay mentions punk and new wave in
passing, these genres arose as rock musicians’ response to the same
crisis that spurred the popularity of disco.
Punk, a favorite subject of rock critics,1 is one of the few genres in
the history of rock ‘n’ roll in which the people who read about it may have
outnumbered the people who heard it (at least during its initial heyday
1. For an excellent discussion of rock criticism from this period, and one to which the following
discussion is much indebted, see Bernard Gendron, Between Montmartre and the Mudd Club (Chicago:
University of Chicago Press, 2002), chaps. 10–13.
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Punk 335
in the late 1970s). The genre may also be the first to have followed the
aesthetic imperatives of rock criticism, rather than the reverse. We need
only think back to the impassioned manifestos of Lester Bangs and his
colleagues at Creem magazine in the early 1970s, many of which antici-
pated the style of mid-1970s punk as represented, in particular, by the
Ramones. The self-consciousness of the participants (musicians and
audience members alike) about style—in musical, sartorial, and politi-
cal terms—made it a rich field for sociologists as well as critics.2
The critics and musicians who either identified with or took an
interest in punk in the mid-1970s were also aware of the legacy of the
Velvet Underground, the band established by Bangs as the sine qua non
of punk in his early writings.3 A genealogy gradually evolved that gained
tacit acceptance by most other writers:
(ca. 1966) Velvet Underground (+ 60s garage bands +
“rave-ups” of Yardbirds and Kinks) →
(ca. 1969) Stooges/MC5 →
(ca. 1973) Modern Lovers/New York Dolls →
(ca. 1975) Ramones/Patti Smith/Talking Heads →
(ca. 1976) Sex Pistols/Clash
In musical terms, this genealogy emphasizes a deliberately simplistic,
“do-it-yourself” amateur aesthetic; many writers referred to this quality
with the term “minimalism,” by which they meant the stripping of rock
music down to its most basic elements (not to be confused with the
music of Terry Riley, Philip Glass, Steve Reich, et al.). By 1975, the term
“punk” included a great diversity of musical styles under its rubric, held
together by a common attitude toward the growing gentrification of rock
and the common use of a performance venue in New York City, CBGB’s.
Writing in 1977, Robert Christgau provided a pithy summary of punk:
The underlying idea of this rock and roll will be to harness late industrial capitalism
in a love hate relationship whose difficulties are acknowledged, and sometimes dis-
armed, by means of ironic aesthetic strategies: formal rigidity, role-playing, humor.4
James Wolcott was one of the first critics to recognize the historical
and potential theoretical importance of punk rock as it developed in
New York City. The following article describes a festival presented at
CBGB’s in the summer of 1975 and gives an overview of the scene at
2. For a classic academic study dating from this period, see Dick Hebdige, Subculture: The
Meaning of Style (London: Methuen, 1979).
3. In addition to Bangs, the connection between the Velvet Underground and punk was explic-
itly addressed by James Wolcott in “Lou Reed Rising” (entitled “The Rise of Punk Rock” on the
inside), Village Voice, March 1, 1976, back page, 87–88.
4. Robert Christgau, “A Cult Explodes—and a Movement Is Born,” Village Voice, October 24,
1977, 57, 68–74.
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336 The 1970s
that moment. Wolcott uses the term “underground” (i.e., unrecorded
bands) to describe the music and calls the festival “the most important
event in New York rock since the Velvet Underground played the Bal-
loon Farm.” Like other writers of the time, he views punk as opposed to
the “baroque theatricality of rock” and observes the stagnant quality
of rock music, sensing that dance music is where “the scenemakers”
are.5 Wolcott’s usage of “conservative” here means “to carry on the rock
tradition,” and he approves of the manner in which the CBGB’s bands
are accomplishing it.
The article also mentions the use of past styles in punk, not as
parody or homage, but as pastiche, somewhat in the manner of the
camp sensibility found in Andy Warhol’s “pop art.”6 This is particularly
prominent in bands such as Television and Talking Heads, and Wolcott
captures well their affectless presentation with phrases like “banal
façade” and “a sense of detachment.” Tina Weymouth, bassist for
Talking Heads, sums up the attitude behind such self-presentation
when she states: “Rock isn’t a noble cause.”7
A Conservative Impulse in the New Rock Underground

James Wolcott
Arabian swelter, and with the air-conditioning broken, CBGB resembled some abba-
toir of a kitchen in which a bucket of ice is placed in front of a fan to cool the room
off. To no avail of course, and the heat had perspiration glissading down the curve of
one’s back, yeah, and the cruel heat also burned away any sense of glamour. After all,
CBGB’s Bowery and Bleeker location is not the garden spot of lower Manhattan, and
the bar itself is an uneasy oasis. On the left, where the couples are, tables; on the right,
where the stragglers, drinkers and love-seekers are, a long bar; between the two, a high
double-backed ladder which, when the room is really crowded, offers the best view.
5. For an earlier example that discusses the New York Dolls in these terms, see Lorraine
O’Grady, “Dealing with the Dolls Mystique,” Village Voice, October 4, 1973, 52.
6. Since the preceding article by Kopkind already referred to a camp sensibility as one of the as-
pects of disco’s appeal, the mention of that term here may suggest an unsuspected affinity between
disco and punk. Interested readers are encouraged to seek out Susan Sontag’s influential essay on the
subject, “Notes on ‘Camp,’” in Against Interpretation (New York: Anchor Books, [1964] 1990), 275–92.
7. For a later discussion of Talking Heads that further discusses their music and the impact of
their art school background, see John Rockwell, “The Artistic Success of Talking Heads,” New York
Times, September 11, 1977, D14, 16. Rockwell, longtime music critic for the New York Times, is cer-
tainly as well positioned as anyone to discuss the artistic aspirations of rock music. His All-American
Music: Composition in the Late Twentieth Century (New York: Vintage Books, 1984), in its inclusion of
rock music, salsa, jazz, Broadway, and a wide range of classical music, presciently anticipates the
crossing of musical categories that has since become more common for music critics and academics.
All-American Music also contains an in-depth examination of Talking Heads (pp. 234–45).
Source: James Wolcott, “A Conservative Impulse in the New Rock Underground,” Village Voice,
August 18, 1975, pp. 6–7.
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Punk 337
If your bladder sends a distress signal, write home to your mother, for you must make
a perilous journey down the aisle between seating area and bar, not knock over any
mike stands as you slide by the tiny stage, squeeze through the piles of amplifiers, duck
the elbow thrust of a pool player leaning over to make a shot . . . and then you end up
in an illustrated bathroom which looks like a page that didn’t make The Faith of Graffiti.
Now consider the assembly-line presentation of bands, with resonant names like
Movies, Tuff Darts, Blondie, Stagger Lee, the Heartbreakers, Mink de Ville, Dancer,
the Shirts, Bananas, Talking Heads, Johnny’s Dance Band and Television; consider
that some nights as many as six bands perform, and it isn’t hard to comprehend
someone declining to sit through a long evening. When the air gets thick with noise
and smoke, even the most committed of us long to slake our thirst in front of a Johnny
Carson monologue, the quintessential experience of bourgeois cool.
So those who stayed away are not to be chastised, except for a lack of adventur-
ousness. And yet they missed perhaps the most important event in New York rock
since the Velvet Underground played the Balloon Farm: CBGB’s three-week festival
of the best underground (i.e. unrecorded) bands. The very unpretentiousness of the
bands’ style of musical attack represented a counter-thrust to the prevailing baroque
theatricality of rock. In opposition to that theatricality, this was a music which sug-
gested a resurgence of communal faith.
So this was an event of importance but not of flash. Hardly any groupies or
bopperettes showed up, nor did platoons of rock writers with their sensibilities
tuned into Radio Free Zeitgeist brave the near satanic humidity. When the room was
packed, as it often was, it was packed with musicians and their girlfriends, couples
on dates, friends and relatives of band members, and CBGB regulars, all dressed in
denims and loose-fitting shirts sartorial-style courtesy of Canal Jeans. The scenemak-
ers and chic-obsessed were elsewhere.
Understandable. Rock simply isn’t the brightest light in the pleasure dome any
longer (my guess is that dance is), and Don Kirschner’s Rock Awards only verifies the
obvious: rock is getting as arthritic, or at least as phlegmatic, as a rich old whore. It
isn’t only that the enthusiasm over the Stones tour seemed strained and synthetic,
or that the Beach Boys can’t seem able to release new material until Brian Wilson
conquers his weight problem, or that the album of the year is a collection of base-
ment tapes made in 1967. “The real truth as I see it,” said the Who’s Pete Townshend
recently, “is that rock music as it was is not really contemporary to these times. It’s
really the music of yesteryear.”
He’s right and yet wrong. What’s changed is the nature of the impulse to cre-
ate rock. No longer is the impulse revolutionary—i.e., the transformation of oneself
and society—but conservative: to carry on the rock tradition. To borrow from Eliot,
a rocker now needs a historical sense; he performs “not merely with his own genera-
tion in his bones” but with the knowledge that all of pop culture forms a “simultane-
ous order.” The landscape is no longer virginal—markers and tracks have been left
by, among others, Elvis, Buddy Holly, Chuck Berry and the Beatles—and it exists not
to be transformed but cultivated.
No, I’m not saying that everyone down at CBGB is a farmer. Must you take me
so literally? But there is original vision there, and what the place itself is doing is
quite extraordinary; putting on bands as if the stage were a cable TV station. Public
access rock. Of course, not every band which auditions gets to play, but the proprie-
tor, Hilly, must have a wide latitude of taste since the variety and quality of talent
ranges from the great to the God-condemned. As with cable TV, what you get is
not high-gloss professionalism but talent still working at the basics; the excitement
(which borders on comedy) is watching a band with a unique approach try to articu-
late its vision and still remember the chords.
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338 The 1970s
Television was once such a band; the first time I saw them everything was
wrong—the vocals were too raw, the guitar work was relentlessly bad, the drummer
wouldn’t leave his cymbals alone. They were lousy all right but their lousiness had
a forceful dissonance reminiscent of the Stones’ Exile on Main Street, and clearly Tom
Verlaine was a presence to be reckoned with.
He has frequently been compared to Lou Reed in the Velvet days, but he most
reminds me of Keith Richard. The blood-drained bone-weary Keith on stage at Madi-
son Square Garden is the perfect symbol for Rock ‘75, not playing at his best, some-
times not even playing competently, but rocking, swaying back and forth as if the
night might be his last and it’s better to stand than fall. Though Jagger is dangerously
close to becoming Maria Callas, Keith, with his lanky grace and obsidian-eyed men-
ace, is the perpetual outsider. I don’t know any rock lover who doesn’t love Keith;
he’s the star who’s always at the edge and yet occupies the center.
Tom Verlaine occupies the same dreamy realm, like Keith he’s pale and aloof.
He seems lost in a forest of silence and he says about performing that “if I’m think-
ing up there, I’m not having a good night.” Only recently has the band’s technique
been up to Verlaine’s reveries and their set at the CBGB festival was the best I’ve ever
seen; dramatic, tense, tender (“Hard On Love”), athletic (“Kingdom Come”), with
Verlaine in solid voice and the band playing as a band and not as four individuals
with instruments. Verlaine once told me that one of the best things about the Beatles
was the way they could shout out harmonies and make them sound intimate, and
that’s what Television had that night: loud intimacy.
When Tom graduated from high school back in Delaware, he was voted “most
unknown” by his senior class. As if in revenge, he chose the name Verlaine, much as
Patti Smith often invokes the name Rimbaud. He came to New York, spent seven years
writing fiction, formed a group called Neon Boys, then Television. The name suggests
an aesthetic of accessibility and choice. It also suggests Tom’s adapted initials: T.V.
“I left Delaware because no one wanted to form a band there,” he says. “Then I
came to New York and no one wanted to form a band here either.” Verlaine came to
New York for the same reason every street-smart artist comes to New York—because
it’s the big league—even though he realizes “New York is not a great rock & roll town.”
Still, they continue to arrive: Martina Weymouth, bassist, born in California;
Chris Frantz, drummer, in Kentucky; David Byrne, singer and guitarist, in Scotland.
All attended the Rhode Island School of Design, and according to their bio, are “now
launching careers in New York”—a sonorous announcement, yes?
These people call themselves Talking Heads. Seeing them for the first time is trans-
fixing: Frantz is so far back on drums that it sounds as if he’s playing in the next room;
Weymouth, who could pass as Suzi Quatro’s sorority sister, stands rooted to the floor,
her head doing an oscillating-fan swivel; the object of her swivel is David Byrne, who
has a little-boy-lost-at-the-zoo voice and the demeanor of someone who’s spent the
last half-hour whirling around in a spin-drier. When his eyes start ping-ponging in his
head, he looks like a cartoon of a chipmunk from Mars. The song titles aren’t tethered
to conventionality either: “Psycho Killer” (which goes, “Psycho killer, qu’est-ce c’est?
Fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa-fa”), “The Girls Want To Be With The Girls,” “Love is Like A Building
On Fire,” plus a cover version of that schlock classic by? and the Mysterians, “96 Tears.”
Love at first sight it isn’t.
But repeated viewings (precise word) reveal Talking Heads to be one of the most
intriguingly off-the-wall bands in New York. Musically, they’re minimalists: Byrne’s
guitar playing is like a charcoal pencil scratching a scene on a note pad. The songs
are spined by Weymouth’s bass playing which, in contrast to the glottal buzz of most
rock bass work, is hard and articulate—the bass lines provide hook as well as bottom.
Visually, the band is perfect for the cable-TV format at CBGB; they present a clean,
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Punk 339
flat image, devoid of fine shading and colour. They are consciously anti-mythic in
stance. A line from their bio: “The image we present along with our songs is what
we are really like.”
Talking to them, it becomes apparent that though they deny antecedents—“We
would rather advance a ‘new’ sound rather than be compared to bands of the past”—
they are children of the communal rock ethic. They live together, melting the distinc-
tion between art and life, and went into rock because as art it is more “accessible.”
They have an astute sense of aesthetic consumerism, yet they’re not entirely under
the Warholian sway, for as one of them told me, “We don’t want to be famous for the
sake of being famous.” Of all the groups I’ve seen at CBGB, Talking Heads is the clos-
est to a neo-Velvet band, and they represent a distillation of that sensibility, what John
Cale once called “controlled distortion.” When the Velvets made their reputation at
the Balloon Farm, they were navigating through a storm of multi-media effects; mir-
rors, blinking lights, strobes, projected film images. Talking Heads works without
paraphernalia in a cavernous room projecting light like a television located at the end
of a long dark hall. The difference between the Velvets and Talking Heads is the dif-
ference between phosphorescence and cold gray TV light. These people understand
that an entire generation has grown up on the nourishment of television’s accessible
banality. What they’re doing is presenting a banal façade under which run ripples of
violence and squalls of frustration—the id of the vid.
David Byrne sings tonelessly but its effect is all the more ominous. The uneasy
alliance between composure and breakdown—between outward acceptance and
inward coming-apart—is what makes Talking Heads such a central seventies band.
A quote from ex-Velvet John Cale: “What we try to get here [at the Balloon Farm] is
a sense of total involvement.” Nineteen sixty-six. But what bands like Television and
Talking Heads are doing is ameliorating the post-’60s hangover by giving us a sense
of detachment. We’ve passed through the Dionysian storm and now it’s time to nurse
private wounds. Says Tina Weymouth, quite simply: “Rock isn’t a noble cause.”
The Ramones recently opened at a Johnny Winter concert and had to dodge flying
bottles. During one of their CBGB sets, they had equipment screw-ups and Dee Dee
Ramone stopped singing and gripped his head as if he were going to explode and
Tommy Ramone smashed the cymbal shouting, “What the FUCK’S wrong?” They went
off-stage steaming, then came back and ripped into “Judy Is A Punk.” A killer band.
“Playing with a band is the greatest way of feeling alive,” says Tom Verlaine.
But the pressures in New York against such an effort—few places to play, media
indifference, the compulsively upward pace of city life—are awesome. Moreover, the
travails of a rock band are rooted in a deeper problem: the difficulty of collaborative
art. Rock bands flourished in the sixties when there was a genuine faith in the effi-
cacious beauty of communal activity, when the belief was that togetherness meant
strength. It was more than a matter of ”belonging”; it meant that one could create
art with friends. Playing with a band meant art with sacrifice, but without suffering.
Romantic intensity without Romantic solitude.
What CBGB is trying to do is nothing less than to restore that spirit as a force
in rock & roll. One is left speculating about success: will any of the bands who play
there ever amount to anything more than a cheap evening of rock & roll? Is public
access merely an attitude to be discarded once stardom seems possible, or will it
sustain itself beyond the first recording contract? I don’t know, and in the deepest
sense, don’t care. These bands don’t have to be the vanguard in order to satisfy.
In a cheering Velvets song, Lou Reed sings: “A little wine in the morning, and some
breakfast at night. Well, I’m beginning to see the light.” And that’s what rock gives:
small unconventional pleasures which lead to moments of perception.
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340 The 1970s
Further Reading
Christgau, Robert. “A Cult Explodes—and a Movement Is Born.” Village Voice, October 24,
1977, 57, 68–74.
Gendron, Bernard. Between Montmartre and the Mudd Club. Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 2002, chaps. 10–13.
Nehring, Neil. “The Situationist International in American Hardcore Punk, 1982–2002.” Pop-
ular Music & Society 29, no. 5 (2006): 519–30.
O’Grady, Lorraine. “Dealing with the Dolls Mystique.” Village Voice, October 4, 1973, 52.
Stalcup, Scott. “Noise Noise Noise: Punk Rock’s History Since 1965.” Studies in Popular Cul-
ture 23, no. 3 (2001): 51–64.
Waksman, Steve. This Ain’t the Summer of Love: Conflict and Crossover in Heavy Metal and Punk.
Berkeley: University of California Press, 2009.
Wolcott, James. “Lou Reed Rising” (“The Rise of Punk Rock”). Village Voice, March 1, 1976,
back page, 87–88.
Discography
The Heartbreakers. What Goes Around. Bomp Records, 1991.
New York Dolls. New York Dolls. Island/Mercury, 1973.
No Thanks! The ’70s Punk Rebellion. Rhino/WEA, 2003.
The Ramones. Ramones. Rhino/WEA, 2001.
_______. Greatest Hits. Rhino/WEA, 2006.
Smith, Patti. Horses. Arista, 1975.
58. The Punk Rimbaud
In the previous article on the early New York City punk scene around
CBGB’s, James Wolcott mentioned Patti Smith in passing. Smith
participated in the beginning of punk in lower Manhattan and had
already been active as a rock journalist and published poet before
commencing her performing activities. Like many punks, she had
one foot firmly in the New York avant-garde art world: she shared
an apartment with famed artist James Mapplethorpe, who shot the
cover photos of her first two albums. Smith’s music exemplifies the
eclecticism already noted in conjunction with early New York punk.
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The Punk Rimbaud 341
Some of her songs have the stripped-down, minimal sound now asso-
ciated with punk, while others, such as her cover of Them’s “Gloria”
that opens Horses (her first album from 1975) are evocative of gospel
music. The album’s producer, John Cale, provided a living connection
to the band that was already becoming recognized as the musical-
spiritual antecedent for punk, the Velvet Underground (Cale played
bass and viola), as well as to the New York City experimental music
scene. Another type of affiliation—to the theoretical basis of punk—
could be found in Smith’s guitarist, Lenny Kaye, a well-known rock
journalist, who, along with Lester Bangs and Greg Shaw, advocated
for an aesthetic that anticipated punk.
Robin Katz’s profile on Smith appeared in Sounds magazine, a British

music weekly known for its early coverage of punk. The article, from
December 1975, coincided with the release of Horses and captures
aspects of Smith’s public persona that audiences found both auda-
cious and revelatory. Katz documents Smith’s influences, ranging
from French Symbolist poet Arthur Rimbaud to the Marvelettes to Bob
Dylan to John Coltrane. Katz’s many quotations of Smith underscore
the resemblance between her speech and the improvised quality of
her lyrics and poetry. Spontaneity also characterizes her approach to
recording, and her relatively unstructured approach became a source
of conflict between Cale and her while recording Horses. When the
issue of Smith’s androgynous appearance arises, she responds by
questioning categories of identity in general.
Patti Smith: Poetry in Motion

Robin Katz
Patti Smith cannot compromise. She functions on her very own level of strato-
sphere, creating poetry, writing songs, lapping up the more elusive statics of life. She
describes herself as “an energy eater” and has the magnetic kind of personality that
makes anyone walking within fifty yards of her an automatic piece of iron. Swish.
One second you’re minding your own business, the next you’re listening to her rattle
out a story with your mouth hanging open and your concentration pivoting on one
point.
On stage this spindly little creature pants, screams, whines, whimpers, whis-
pers and punctuates the heavy air with her punching, gyrating fists. She wails with
the commitment of both Van Morrison and Connie Francis (the lump of tears in the
throat).
Source: Robin Katz, “Patti Smith: Poetry in Motion,” Sounds, 13 December 1975. Reprinted under
license from Backpages Limited.
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342 The 1970s
When Patti communicates, she makes fanzine a form of art, moves poetry to
become the rhythm section of rock, and switches outspoken sensuality from the tra-
ditional male throne to the descendants of Adam’s rib.
Her charisma as an artist stems from the very fact that she will not appeal to eve-
ryone. Another Lou Reed, Nikki Giovanni, or Laura Nyro to be preciously cherished,
absorbed and emulated.
A lithe figure, you first notice an almost white face in contrast to an uncombed
straw swatch of jet black (dyed) hair. Her usually black clothing hangs off her like a
crinkled raincoat on an upright coat rack.
She talks in rough cut New Yorkese (though she’s from south Jersey), dropping
“writing” and “singing” to “writin’” and “singin’.”
She can talk for five minutes without grabbing a breath and will sidetrack a point
for twenty minutes before returning to the original question. Take, for instance, Ms
Smith on her earliest musical influence.
“The first record I ever heard was ‘Girl Can’t Help It’, when I was around six.
This boy I knew had an RCA Victor Victrola with one of those big round spindles. He
said, ‘Listen to this’. I remember it had a maroon label.
“The first record I ever owned was Jerry Lewis singing ‘Rockabye Your Baby
With A Dixie Melody’ and Harry Belafonte’s ‘Shrimp Boats’ (breath).
“But my favourite was ‘Come Josephine On Your Flying Machine’ by Les Paul
and Mary Ford. That was like the first drug song. I wanted to do it on my album like
Hendrix. But when this boy put on ‘The Girl Can’t Help It’, and when you’re that
little and someone puts on Little Richard… I just stood there (breath). I didn’t know
what to do.
“Now, when I heard Mick Jagger I knew what to do. Drop my pants.”
Smith is committed to Jagger, Hendrix and Dylan. There are several of her
favourite recurring themes. There is even the instance during one of her shows when
guitar player Lenny Kaye was having extended technical trouble.
“I don’t really mind,” Smith told the crowd. “I mean, Mick would wait all night
for Keith.”
“Little Richard,” she continued, “was a big part of my life as a kid. It was really
important especially in high school cause I was a great dancer. One of the reasons I
was so bad in school was because I was up all night dancing, mimicking.
“I can mimic every Marvelettes Record. I got all their hand gestures down. (She
goes into an enthusiastic ‘Don’t Mess With Bill’ complete with pseudo-coy vocals
and determined batting eyelashes). That’s where I got a lot of the stage motions I use
now. Boxing gestures in little space, (breath).
“I remember when Ben E. King played at the Airport Drive In and taught me
and 400 other kids how to do The Monkey. He introduced us to Little Stevie Wonder.
He carried him onstage like a little monkey on his back, and everyone went nuts.
Smokey Robinson did ‘Mickey’s Monkey’ and Ben E. King, who had done ‘Spanish
Harlem’, started doing this dance. And like the next day, The Monkey had wiped out
South Jersey.
“At that time, it was all James Brown, all black. I didn’t like white music. It was
either John Coltrane or Smokey Robinson. We didn’t have no time for the Beach Boys
or the Beatles. ‘CEPT when Jagger came out. Then, I was happy to be white. There
was nothing like him.
“I was into James Brown and Smokey but I didn’t want to fuck them. All of a
sudden I looked at Jagger and I knew.
“Dylan was the same. There was this whole new consciousness. Lou Reed too.
“Hey,” she sidetracks, “we’re doing this song where we sing ‘Pale Blue Eyes’ (she
sings) and then it goes into ‘Louie Louie’.
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So, Patti Smith, survivor of scarlet fever and willing carrier of Stones fever, grew
out of a rocky adolescence in the pits of South Jersey. Patti’s supersonic metabolism
needed an outlet and in true student prince fashion, she took to art.
She followed the sewers to New York City where she found an artist/boyfriend
named Robert Mapplethorpe and hung around Pratt Institute for Art to try to pick
up on the smells of creativity.
But Patti Smith’s muse was about to identify itself. She found out the hard way,
that her love for Dylan and Rimbaud was not just fanfare. It was the essence of her
own greatest gift. Psychic poetry.
“It used to be,” she rambled almost as bewildered at her own discovery as any
listener would be, “that I’d have my piece of paper, and I’d improvise. Then it got
to the point where the drawin’ (pronounced by Patti as “drawlin”) would flash in
front of the piece of paper and all I’d have to do is follow the lines. It wasn’t fast
enough.
“So then I made a transition. I’d draw (drawl) a figure, then the figure would
be saying something. So I’d write down the words. I got into calligraphy. Then the
whole piece of paper was just in my way. It became a material object that I had to
take care of. Taking care of the words is much easier than taking care of the art of the
word. It’s a slow transition.
“In a space of a year I moved from the character to the balloon. Then I’m the
words in the balloon. Then the words get bigger and they obliterate the balloon. Like
words in the air became my new hallucination.
“I began to see language: Mary Jane, heart, wing, plane, tunnel of love. I began to
get these phrases just like the train rhythms and that started haunting me.
“I’d go to a party and I just wanted to have a good time. And these crazy rhythms
started and I thought, ‘I’m going to write a poem’, and I would rebel and say, ‘I’m not
going to write it’. And so it started getting louder in my ear. So I had to start carrying
a notepad with me all the time.”
At this time, there are some people who are going to pinch themselves and won-
der if Patti Smith is really a woman under the influence of genius, or is just a raving
nutter like other people they know.
Patti knows. She’s had to live with her mutant-ness long enough. She laughs
about it more than you would give such a deep character credit for.
“All my friends who were takin’ acid wouldn’t let me have any. They said,
‘You’re too weird. You’ll have us all committing suicide’. So they’d be on acid and I’d
be on nothing and I’d be’ the most stoned person in the room. Eatin’ energy again,”
she deduced.
“They’d have to ask me to leave. But that’s when I discovered Hendrix. And
do you know why I loved him? Because everyone always wanted him to talk about
black is beautiful. But he’d talk about how Mars is beautiful.”
And then there’s the trip to Paris with best friend and younger sister Kimber-
ley. In the midst of trying to decide which road art would take, Smith began hav-
ing nightmares. The Stones were about to split and each night she’d see Brian Jones
drowning in his own soup.
Patti even created a chant: “Brian, Brian / I’m not lyin’ / I’m just tryin’ to reach
you.” But she didn’t reach him in time. Jones’ death added more kindling to the fire
under her rock poetry.
More than ever, Patti Smith became determined to search for the universal lan-
guage of telepathy we all spoke before the stake out at the Tower of Babel.
“We’ve got to find the lost tongue. And we’re getting closer. And the first lead
is right there,” she cried pointing to the poster from the film, Ladies and Gentlemen,
The Rolling Stones.
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344 The 1970s
“Ever since I was a kid I’ve been looking for the lost tongue and look at that
logo. The Stones are one of the most important things of this century. It’s no acci-
dent that after following Dylan as a young girl, we’re friends now. We influence
each other, discuss poetry together. It had to happen because we’re looking for the
same thing.
“We can help each other and this whole line between artist and fan will have to
be erased because we all have to move faster to reach some illuminated moment.”
On return to New York, five years ago, Patti Smith slowly but surely began to
get her lightning quick ideas into solid form. Gravitating to the Chelsea Hotel, much
frequented home away from home of groups like The Airplane and The Doors, Smith
began reciting her poetry to an audience of performers.
“I had to tell ’em good,” she smiles proudly, “cause when your audience is per-
formers you gotta be right in there. And if there’s a guy in the room who’s foxy, I’m
going to do my best.”
It was a woman, however, Jane Friedman, who gave Patti her first regular stint
as the opening act for anyone at the Mercer Arts Centre, a conglomerate building in
the Village that simultaneously housed three off Broadway plays, small rock concerts
and a coffee shop.
The only thing ancient to be seen, (or not seen) were the building’s support
beams which collapsed a couple of years ago taking the building with them. Fried-
man became Smith’s manager and it was time to find a new place to play.
“At Mercer I’d have no microphone. I’d do poems about car crashes, mama’s
boys having to prove themselves, tributes to Hendrix and Jones. Whatever propelled
me into physical action I did.”
Rock journalist Lenny Kaye turned guitarist for her, and pianist Richard Sohl
a.k.a. D.N.V. (Death in Venice) rounded out the mini-band. Smith describes Kaye as
“a fellow fan” and Sohl as “a hustler who loves sailors, the seamier Dorian Grey side
of life with a Genet sense of existence.”
“One of the reasons the club scene underground happened is because bands like
us and Television had to create them. There was no place to play. Jane would push to
have us open anywhere, Max’s for Phil Ochs, Reno Sweeny (a nauseatingly pseudo
trendy club). It was hard but I started gettin’ a following and good reviews.”
By ’74 Patti was able to give up her job as a book clerk for Scribners, was living
with Alan Lanier of Blue Oyster Cult and had released a single called ‘Piss Factory’.
It was privately financed by Robert Mapplethorpe.
Smith unearthed CBGB’s, a tiny bar in the derelict Bowery where the owner’s
pet afghan gives the room a permanent odor of dog shit and neon beer ads brighten
the loo-like walls. Jim Wilcott [sic] of the Village Voice found Smith’s energy likened
to that of a “Wild Mustang’, and she returned the astute observation by following his
advice and adopting the horse as her motto and album title.
When Dylan caught her show, Wilcott reported: “She was positively playing to
Dylan . . . and he, being an expert at gamesmanship sat there crossing and uncrossing
his legs, playing back.” The article was dubbed “Tarantula Meets Mustang.” And
this is the electricity that heroines are made of.
The static from CBGB’s filtered down to a record contract with the newly formed
Arista Records; in uncharacteristic form, president Clive Davis eagerly awaited Pat-
ti’s first album without pushing for a single as part of the parcel. By this time Smith
added another guitarist, Ivan Krai.
“It was like when Keith Moon joined The Who,” said Patti in another energy rush.
“He just came in and said he was going to play with us and we said all right. He
looks the most like me, or Keith Richard. He wears all black and likes the ‘Privilege’
concept of a rock messiah taking over the world.”
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And just as they headed for the studios, Jay Dee Daugherty became their drum-
mer. John Cale became their producer. And in a very harried, haggard and hurried
fortnight they produced Horses. The album to split threeds between the rumours and
the real thing. Define your own idea of strangeness. Poetry in Motion/Rimbaud with
too much pepper. Obsessive, compelling, disjointed and disturbing.
“The record is a document of a group becoming a group,” testified Patti.
“Not only is it a document of where we were at, for the last two years, but it’s the
document of the group all coming together.
“Our next record is going to be the first record we do as a group. This record to
me is a magnet. I think of the group as a magnet.
“The thing with Cale is that we fought constantly. It was fantastic. The thing
is, he’s intense and I’m intense and I’m relentless. I wanted it to be that our record
would not sound like anyone else’s. And he wanted to help but we had different
ways of approaching things.
“I think things should happen fast. I don’t believe in overdub and all that mix-
ing. I believe in doing it and just doing it right. Spontaneity…
“I just don’t look at anything in the future to fix up what’s happening in the present.
I don’t like the idea of doing scratch vocals. Why can’t I do it great at this moment?”
Smith scratches her head and the creative process takes off once more. She dis-
misses any talk of androgynous appeal by citing Jagger as rock’s first two-way trou-
ble shooter and jumps into words from a poem called ‘Beyond Gender’.
“I’m totally vulnerable as a girl,” she admitted. “But when you’re doing art you
have no time for divisions. I don’t want to start with exclusions. It’s like Marley and
Rasta. You know white people aren’t surprised that black people do great stuff. Why
should black people be surprised that white people aren’t all stupid? And the Mor-
mons, and their belief that you have to be white to get to God. We’re all conspiring
for the same thing, to get back to the Tower of Babel.
“Like I don’t want to be anything yet. People say, are you a rock poetess, a girl
singer, a rock singer? I’m not anything.
“I don’t want to be anything. As soon as I find out, it’s over. Then I can die or go
onto the next stage of life. I want to stay alive as long as possible, probably because I
was such a late bloomer.
“I think Hendrix was one of the heaviest people of the twentieth century, but I
don’t want to be dead. I am like my father, a constant student. Except now, I’m like
a rock and roll star student.
“There are millions of things, I want to be, a jazz singer, a movie star. When I get
older as I get all of this stuff down, I want to be a fantastic story teller.
“It’s no accident that the greatest storyteller in history was a woman,
Scheherazade, right? It doesn’t matter if a man wrote them. And for the future, I
won’t need g rammar.
“What I need grammar for is poetry. Don’t ever put grammar down. You don’t
know how much I struggle with every poem I do. I struggle for hours, days, months.
I don’t know how to write it down. I don’t know how to write a sentence or put in
tenses.
“I was a speed reader, too, which means I don’t read sentences, I read the essence
of a sentence. That’s cool, but I can’t make my poetry diamond-hard like Rimbaud.
“I’m teaching myself. I’m 29 and I’m teaching myself all that stupid stuff I should
have learned as a kid (breath and turn next corner).
“Hendrix as a kid got his chords down. He got all that out of his way when he
was young. And when he got older he could be totally free like jazz guys. They got
all that virtuoso crap down and then they can go anywhere.
“I’m still like the reaper who uses the sickle.”
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346 The 1970s
Further Reading
Bayley, Roberta and Victor Bockris. Patti Smith: An Unauthorized Biography. New York City:
Simon & Schuster, 1999.
Johnstone, Nick. Patti Smith: A Biography. London: Omnibus Press, 1997.
Shaw, Philip. Horses (33 1/3). New York: Bloomsbury, 2008.
Smith, Patti. Patti Smith Complete: Lyrics, Notes and Reflections. New York: Anchor Books, 1999.
Discography
Smith, Patti. Horses. Arista, 1975.
_______. Radio Ethiopia. Arista, 1976.
59. Punk Crosses the Atlantic
Punk’s musical style, do-it-yourself attitude, and disdain for the bour-
geois hedonism of rock superstars resonated strongly among sectors
of British youths. With pub-rock, older styles of rock ‘n’ roll, and the
Ramones forming the immediate musical backdrop, the stage was set
for a distinctive British punk to emerge. Punk in the United Kingdom was
felt to have more social and political relevance than U.S. punk because
of the identification of British working-class youths with punk’s nihilism,
an identification facilitated by rampant unemployment and a depressed
economy.1 While a band like the Sex Pistols emphasized the nihilist
aspects of punk, the Clash pursued a more overt political agenda.
1. Robert Christgau was drawn to British punk for its projection of a greater sense of political
engagement; see his “A Cult Explodes—and a Movement Is Born,” Village Voice, October 24, 1977,
57, 68–74. Simon Frith explores the political contradictions of British punk in “Beyond the Dole
Queue: The Politics of Punk,” Village Voice, October 24, 1977, 77–79. For the first in-depth portrait
of the Sex Pistols to appear in Rolling Stone, and one that conveys some of the shock felt by certain
sectors of the rock establishment, see Charles M. Young, “Rock Is Sick and Living in London: A
Report on the Sex Pistols,” Rolling Stone, October 20, 1977, 68–75.
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Punk Crosses the Atlantic 347
Another major difference between U.S. and U.K. punk was the amount
and type of attention they received in the press. As early as 1976, near-
hysterical reports surfaced in Britain, some of them appearing before
any recordings had even been released. As a writer for the British publi-
cation Melody Maker, Caroline Coon was well positioned to observe the
burgeoning punk scene from close range. Coon’s sympathetic account
focuses as much on what British punk was reacting against as it does
on punk itself. While some might quibble with claims of British punk’s
autonomy from New York City punk, this belief was widespread at the
time, and it is certainly true that the British punks were free of the
“retro” influences favored by some of the New York bands. In addition to
describing the music, Coon captures the distinctive sartorial approach
and “subcultural style” of the British scene.2 For Coon, the dynamic ful-
crum of this scene revolves around the most notorious band of the era,
the Sex Pistols, and its equally notorious lead singer, Johnny Rotten.
Rebels Against the System

Caroline Coon
Johnny Rotten looks bored. The emphasis is on the word “looks” rather than, as
Johnny would have you believe, the word “bored.” His clothes, held together by
safety pins, fall around his slack body in calculated disarray. His face is an under-
nourished grey. Not a muscle moves. His lips echo the downward slope of his wiry,
coat-hanger shoulders. Only his eyes register the faintest trace of life.
This malevolent, third generation child of rock & roll is the Sex Pistols’ lead
singer. The band play exciting, hard, basic punk rock. But more than that, Johnny is
the elected generalissimo of a new cultural movement scything through the grass-
roots disenchantment with the present state of mainstream rock.
You need look no further than the letters pages of any Melody Maker to see that
fans no longer silently accept the disdain with which their heroes, rock giants, treat
them.
They feel deserted. Millionaire rock stars are no longer part of the brotherly rock
fraternity which helped create them in the first place.
Rock was meant to be a joyous celebration; the inability to see the stars, or to
play the music of those you can see, is making a whole generation of rock fans feel
depressingly inadequate.
Enter Johnny Rotten. Not content to feel frustrated, bored and betrayed, he and
the Sex Pistols, Glen Matlock (bass), Paul Cook (drums), and Steve Jones (guitar),
have decided to ignore what they believe to be the elitist pretensions of their heroes
2
From roughly the same period, see Caroline Coon, “Punk Alphabet,” Melody Maker, November
27, 1976, 33, in which she gives more space to the interconnections between British and American
punk and stresses the increased role of women in punk relative to other genres.
Source: Caroline Coon, “Rebels against the System,” Melody Maker, August 7, 1976, pp. 10–22.
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348 The 1970s
who no longer play the music they want to hear. The Pistols are playing the music
they want to hear. They are the tip of an iceberg.
Since January, when the Sex Pistols played their first gig, there has been a slow
but steady increase in the number of musicians who feel the same way—bands like
the Clash, the Jam, Buzzcocks, the Damned, the Subway Sect and Slaughter and the
Dogs. The music they play is loud, raucous and beyond considerations of taste and
finesse. As Mick Jones of the Clash says: “It’s wonderfully vital.”
These bands’ punk music and stance is so outrageous that, like the Rolling Stones
in the good old days, they have trouble getting gigs. But they play regularly at the
100 Club, which is rapidly becoming the venue at which these bands cut their teeth.
The musicians and their audience reflect each other’s street-cheap, ripped-apart,
pinned-together style of dress. Their attitude is classic punk: icy-cool with a perma-
nent sneer. The kids are arrogant, aggressive, rebellious. The last thing any of these
bands make their audience feel is inadequate.
Once again there is the feeling, the exhilarating buzz, that it’s possible to be and
play like the bands on stage.
We’re back where we were in 1964. The Beatles, Stones, Kinks, Who, Them, Ani-
mals and the Yardbirds—in effect, a new wave—blasted out of the national charts
the showbiz pop of Adam Faith, Bobby Vee, Cliff Richard and Paul Anka, which had
replaced the initial vibrant explosion triggered by Bill Haley’s “Rock Around The
Clock” and Elvis’s ”Heartbreak Hotel” in 1956.
The last five years of rock can be compared to the early sixties when the rock
stars of the fifties were wiped out. Buddy Holly’s plane crashed. Elvis was drafted
into the army, Chuck Berry was jailed. Car crashes killed Eddie Cochran and hospi-
talized Gene Vincent and Carl Perkins. The field was left open to the businessmen.
The parallels with today are uncanny.
What happened to the rock stars—the new wave—who revolutionized the scene
from 1964–7? Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Brian Jones and Janis Joplin are dead.
Clapton retired, and is only just returning, Dylan rested up for several years with a
broken neck. Those who are left—the ex-Beatles, Stones, Who, Kinks, have become
businessmen. OK, some are still playing rock & roll—but aren’t they a little more
motivated by making money than making music?
When these bands first shook the foundations of the established musical order
they reveled in their image as rebels: misfits, outcasts. The Beatles played in Hamburg
with toilet seats around their necks, the Who smashed expensive equipment they
could ill afford every night, the Rolling Stones, with their long hair and tieless shirts,
were chucked out of hotels and restaurants wherever they went.
These rock & rollers were the heroes of their generation because they rejected
and broke through the restrictions which had kept teenagers bound to the outdated
authority of their parents. Their music was loud, the clothes outrageous.
Most important of all, they were anti-elitist, voices from and of the people—or
so we believed. They spoke our language. Every kid who sang along to “My Genera-
tion,” “All Day And All Of The Night” and “Let’s Spend The Night Together” felt
that he was as involved with the music as the musicians.
And the bands tried to keep it that way. When the Beatles felt they were becom-
ing the acceptable face of rock with songs like “Michelle,” “Norwegian Wood” and
“Yesterday,” they zapped it back to the true believers with a mind-blowing concoc-
tion of backward tapes, multi-tracking and psychedelic weirdness that only youth
could really understand.
The trouble is, in the last five years, the rock stars have become “adults”; they
have forgotten that crucial to their appeal was their rebellious stance. Instead they
are bending over backwards to become acceptable.
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Mick Jagger, once the arch-deacon of iconoclasm, now couldn’t be farther removed
from his fans. It’s no longer possible to imagine him as a man of the people, if he ever
was—his yobbo accent doesn’t wash any more. He’s elitist, the aristocracy’s court
jester, royalty’s toy. How long before his name appears on the Queen’s honours list?3
The Who are becoming Pete Townshend’s private nightmare—trotting out their
musical history, the seventies’ Chuck Berry.
The Beach Boys and the Byrds, America’s initial reply to the British eruption,
haven’t been a vital force in rock for eight years.
The Beatles are the fastest-expanding nostalgia industry yet conceived. On an
individual level Paul McCartney and Wings is the only one to have maintained the
tradition of an artist consistently performing for an audience, and he speaks mainly
to the generation he grew up with.
To his credit, although Lennon is now a quiet family man, he, with Yoko, was
the only rock giant to attempt to bring the rebellious protest of his generation to a
political level which transcended the rhetoric of rock.
With few exceptions, the interim bands, the ones who sprang up while the old
wild men were moving from cellar to penthouse, never transcended their music
to become cultural heroes. The psychedelic bands like Jefferson Airplane, Grateful
Dead, Soft Machine and Pink Floyd were musically important until they disinte-
grated with the underground, or disappeared into their own insularity.
Basically middle class, affluent or university academics, they set the stage for
bands like Genesis, Jethro Tull, ELP, Yes, Rick Wakeman, Roxy Music and Queen,
whose “progressive rock” uses an increasing amount of technical apparatus, has
become increasingly quasi-orchestral and quotes liberally from the classics.
All these bands have been acclaimed by the critics, sometimes justifiably. But the
crucial element is missing. These musicians have always been gentlemen rockers and
their music can only be played by people with similar academic temperaments. The
music, although inspired, is far beyond what the average teenager, without expen-
sive equipment, can reproduce in his own front room.
David Bowie is the one person the growing wave of third-generation rock fans
seem to identify with. Although a musical stylist rather than an innovator, he’s cap-
tured their imagination with a film and stage persona creating him as a mutant alien
from another planet.
Thus he has brilliantly detached himself from the conventional jet set, rock star
establishment. Unlike other stars whose private lives are totally disparate with their
rock stance, Bowie’s private life seems freaky enough, weird and secret enough to get
him elected the first Punk Space Cadet.
There was a time when it looked as though Led Zeppelin and Bad Company
might have carried the torch for raw, raunchy rock & roll but they became multi-
national corporations, casualties of the business ethic.
The present state of rock came to a dramatic climax in May and June of this year,
at the series of businessmen’s conventions held at Wembley, Earls Court and Charlton.
The Who, the Stones, Elton John, David Essex, Steve Harley, David Bowie, Uriah
Heep, all put on shows which, whatever they may have said and whatever attempts
they may have made to overcome their self-imposed problems, had little to do with
music and everything to do with the kind of gestures these stars think is all that’s
needed to keep their fans happy.
The fans, wanting to give their heroes the benefit of the doubt, weren’t as angry as
they had the right to be. But a great many were heartsick, disillusioned and bored rotten.
3. Coon’s worst fears were realized in December 2003 when Jagger was knighted.
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350 The 1970s
Of course, thousands of people, especially those who grew up with Rock Giants,
were still loyal fans, still buying the albums and having a good time. But this is sim-
ply not the atmosphere in which the new generation of rock musicians can thrive or
have any desire to carry on from where the old guard has left off.
There is a growing, almost desperate, feeling that rock music should be stripped
down to its bare bones again. It needs to be taken by the scruff of its bloated neck and
given a good shaking, bringing it back to its sources and traditions.
The time is right for an aggressive infusion of life-blood into rock.
It’s no coincidence that the week the Stones were at Earls Court, the Sex Pistols
were playing to their ever-increasing following at London’s 100 Club. The Pistols are
the personification of the emerging British punk rock scene, a positive reaction to
the complex equipment, technological sophistication and jaded alienation which has
formed a barrier between fans and stars.
Punk rock sounds simple and callow. It’s meant to.
The equipment is minimal, usually cheap. It’s played faster than the speed of
light. If the musicians play a ballad, it’s the fastest ballad on earth. The chords are
basic, numbers rarely last longer than three minutes, in keeping with the clipped,
biting cynicism of the lyrics.
There are no solos. No indulgent improvisations.
It’s a fallacy to believe that punk rockers like the Sex Pistols can’t play dynamic
music. They power through sets. They are never less than hard, tough and edgy.
They are the quintessence of a raging, primal rock-scream.
The atmosphere among the punk bands on the circuit at the moment is posi-
tively cutthroat. Not only are they vying with each other but they all secretly aspire
to take Johnny Rotten down a peg or two. They use him as a pivot against which they
can assess their own credibility.
It’s the BSP/ASP Syndrome. The Before Or After Sex Pistols debate which wran-
gles thus: “We saw Johnny Rotten and he changed our attitude to music” (the Clash,
Buzzcocks), or “We played like this ages before the Sex Pistols” (Slaughter and the
Dogs), or “We are miles better than the Sex Pistols” (the Damned). They are very
aware that they are part of a new movement and each one wants to feel that he
played a part in starting it.
All doubt that the British punk scene is well under way was blitzed two weeks
ago in Manchester, when the Sex Pistols headlined a triple, third-generation punk
rock concert before an ecstatic capacity audience.
Participation is the operative word. The audiences are reveling in the idea that
any one of them could get up on stage and do just as well, if not better, than the bands
already up there. Which is, after all, what rock & roll is all about.
When for months, you’ve been feeling that it would take ten years to play as
well as Hendrix, Clapton, Richard (insert favourite rock star’s name), there’s nothing
more gratifying than the thought: Jesus, I could get a band together and blow this lot
off the stage!
The growing punk rock audiences are seething with angry young dreamers who
want to put the boot in and play music, regardless. And the more people feel “I can
do that too,” the more there is a rush on to that stage, the more cheap instruments
are bought, fingered and played in front rooms, the more likely it is there will be the
“rock revival” we’ve all been crying out for.
There’s every chance (although it’s early days yet) that out of the gloriously rau-
cous, uninhibited melee of British punk rock, which even at its worst is more vital
than most of the music perfected by the Platinum Disc Brigade, will emerge the musi-
cians to inspire a fourth generation of rockers.
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The arrogant, aggressive, rebellious stance that characterizes the musicians who
have played the most vital rock and roll has always been glamorized. In the fifties it was
the rebel without a cause exemplified by Elvis and Gene Vincent, the Marlon Brando
and James Dean of rock. In the sixties it was the Rock & Roll Gypsy Outlaw image of
Mick Jagger, Keith Richard and Jimi Hendrix. In the seventies the word “rebel” has
been superseded by the word “punk.” Although initially derogatory it now contains
all the glamorous connotations once implied by the overused word—“rebel.”
Punk rock was initially coined, about six years ago, to describe the American
rock bands of 1965–8 who sprung up as a result of hearing the Yardbirds, Who, Them,
Stones. Ability was not as important as mad enthusiasm, but the bands usually dis-
sipated all their talent in one or two splendid singles which rarely transcended local
hit status. Some of the songs, however, like “Wooly Bully,” “96 Tears,” “Psychotic
Reaction,” “Pushin’ Too Hard,” have become rock classics.4
In Britain, as “punk rock” has been increasingly used to categorize the livid, excit-
ing energy of bands like the Sex Pistols, there has been an attempt to redefine the term.
The new British bands emerging have only the most tenuous connections with
the New York punk rock scene which has flourished for the last four years. Bands
like the New York Dolls, the Ramones, Patti Smith, Television and the Heartbreak-
ers are much closer, musically, to the Shadows of Knight, the Leaves and other punk
rock bands of the sixties.
And they dress almost exclusively in the classic punk uniform. Those not in
Levis, sneakers, T-shirts and leather jackets are still pretending to be English rock
stars circa 1965.
On the other hand, the British punk scene, far from glorifying, is disgusted by
the past. Nostalgia is a dirty word. The music’s only truck with yesterday’s rock is
an affection for one or two classics, “Substitute,” “What’cha Gonna Do About It,”
“Help,” “I Can’t Control Myself,” “Stepping Stone”: all vitriolic outbursts mirroring
the spirit of the bands’ own songs, which have titles like “Pretty Vacant,” “No Feel-
ings,” “Anarchy In The UK,” “You’re Shit!” or “I Love You, You Big Dummy.”
While New York cultivates avant-garde and intellectual punks like Patti Smith
and Television, the British teenager, needing and being that much more alienated
from rock than America ever was, has little time for such aesthetic refinements.
British punk rock is emerging as a fierce, aggressive, self-destructive onslaught.
There’s an age difference too. New York punks are mostly in their mid-twenties.
The members of the new British punk band squirm if they have to tell you they are
over eighteen. Johnny Rotten’s favourite sneer is: “You’re too old.” He’s twenty.
British punk rock garb is developing independently too. It’s an ingenious hodge-
podge of jumble sale cast-offs, safety-pinned around one of the choice, risqué T-shirts
especially made for the King’s Road shop, Sex.
Selling an intriguing line of arcane fifties cruise-ware, fantasy glamour-ware,
and the odd rubber suit, this unique boutique is owned by Malcolm McLaren, ex-
manager of the New York Dolls, now the Sex Pistols’ manager.
His shop has a mysterious atmosphere which made it the ideal meeting place for
a loose crowd of truant, disaffected teenagers. Three of them were aspiring musicians
4. This description of punk is a reference to articles such as one by Lester Bangs (“Of Pop and
Pies and Fun,” in The Pop, Rock, and Soul Reader: Histories and Debates, second edition, ed. David
Brackett [New York: Oxford University Press, 2009], 273–78), or to other early classics such as Greg
Shaw’s “Punk Rock: The Arrogant Underbelly of Sixties Pop,” Rolling Stone, January 4, 1973, 68–70.
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352 The 1970s
who, last October, persuaded McLaren to take them on. They wanted to play rock &
roll. They weren’t to know what they were about to start and even now no one is sure
where it will lead. All Steve, Glen and Paul needed then was a lead singer.
A few weeks later Johnny Rotten strayed into the same murky interior. He was
first spotted leaning over the jukebox, looking bored. . . .
Further Reading
Coon, Caroline. “Punk Alphabet.” Melody Maker, November 27, 1976, 33.
_______. 1988: The New Wave Punk Rock Explosion. London: Orbach and Chambers Limited, 1977.
Frith, Simon. “Beyond the Dole Queue: The Politics of Punk.” Village Voice, October 24, 1977,
77–79.
Hebdige, Dick. Subculture: The Meaning of Style. London: Methuen, 1979.
Laing, Dave. One Chord Wonders. Philadelphia: Open University Press, 1985.
Savage, Jon. England’s Dreaming: Sex Pistols and Punk Rock. London: Faber and Faber, 1991.
Young, Charles M. “Rock Is Sick and Living in London: A Report on the Sex Pistols.” Rolling
Stone, October 20, 1977, 68–75.
Discography
Buzzcocks. Singles Going Steady. EMI International, 2001.
The Clash. The Clash. Epic, 1977.
_______. London Calling. Epic, 1979.
No Thanks! The ’70s Punk Rebellion. Rhino/WEA, 2003.
Sex Pistols. Never Mind the Bollocks, Here’s the Sex Pistols. Warner Bros./WEA, 1977.
_______. Kiss This: The Best of the Sex Pistols. EMI/Virgin, 1992.
60. Punk to New Wave?
“New wave” began to be used as a complementary term to “punk”

during 1976 and 1977. The term did not originate in order to supplant
“punk” or to provide a competing category, but, rather, in the words of
Bernard Gendron, “to capture in punk bands what the designator ‘punk’
left out—the arty, avant-gardish, studied, and ironic dimension that
accompanied the streetwise, working-class and raucously ‘vulgar’
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Punk to New Wave? 353
dimension.”1 Initially, the terms were used interchangeably or, when
distinctions were attempted, confusingly. Gradually, by 1978, consis-
tent usages developed whereby the “punk” label was affixed retroac-
tively to bands that had fit the definition developed by Bangs: loud, fast,
crude, and angry or pseudo-angry, while “new wave” began to be used
exclusively for bands that tended toward the ironic, cool, and distant.2
Of the original CBGB bands, the Talking Heads most clearly fit the “new
wave” label.
By the time the punk–new wave labeling crisis began to subside,
musicians and critics in New York City shared a growing sense that the
scene was stagnating. Among rock critics, this sense was fueled by
the fact that punk represented the first critically acclaimed genre not
to find a large audience. Several new directions arose that constituted
a ”second” wave of new wave bands. One branch was represented by
the decidedly noncommercial turn of “no wave,” led by Lydia Lunch,
the Contortions, and the D. N. A., which became a new underground
and shared much with the downtown avant-garde art scene. Another
aspect of this second wave was directed toward a wider audience, had
more in common with the Talking Heads than the Ramones, and was
best represented by bands such as Devo and the B-52s (from Ohio and
Georgia, respectively).
Stephen Holden’s article on the B-52s focuses on the “retrotrash”

aesthetic of the band, one that was most clearly anticipated by a “first
wave” new wave band like Blondie (who, curiously enough, belatedly
achieved popularity around the same time as the B-52s). The “histori-
cist” approach of the band has much in common with aspects of what
cultural theorist Fredric Jameson later labeled “postmodernism,” but
perhaps more responsible for the B-52s’ impact was their sense of fun
and the danceability of the music.3
1. Bernard Gendron, Between Montmartre and the Mudd Club (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 2002), 270. Also see Gendron’s chapter on “no wave” (pp. 275–97).
2. An article from early 1978 begins with a discussion of this dilemma of terminology: “One of
the more interesting aspects of the current popular music scene is the discussion surrounding the
admittedly hairsplitting distinction between punk and new wave. . . . Taken as two sides of a con-
stantly fluctuating and dynamic equation, these terms help describe what is so fascinating about
the current renaissance in rock ’n’ roll. . . . What has distinguished the local scene, of course, are
the ties that join the N.Y. art community with the rock ’n’ roll world” —the implication here being
that this is also what distinguishes new wave from punk; see Roy Trakin, “Avant Kindergarten
(Sturm and Drone),” Soho Weekly News, January 26, 1978, 31.
3. The classic formulation of Jameson’s theory may be found in “Postmodernism, or the
Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism,” New Left Review 146 (July–August 1984): 59–92; reprinted
in Postmodernism, or the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism (Durham, N.C.: Duke University
Press, 1991), 1–54.
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354 The 1970s
The B-52s’ American Graffiti

Stephen Holden
Though they’ve arrived some 15 years after Andy Warhol made the cover of Time,
the B-52s strike me as the ultimate pop art rock band. Urbane, funny, and sharp, they
use American Graffiti–era trash with the precision and purpose of “serious” artists.
Yet the actual content of their lyrics is defiantly nonserious. If 15 years ago the Vel-
vet Underground-Fugs art/rock nexus nudged rock & roll along the road to literary
respectability, the B-52s nudge it back toward silliness. I haven’t seen them perform,
but their first album is the most likable New Wave debut since Talking Heads. You
can spend hours sifting through its trivia, but you can also frug to it. They may have
a New York sensibility, but that sensibility is so ubiquitous in 1979 that they could
develop their sound in southern Georgia, a locale which probably accounts for their
funkwise rhythm section.
Through a scrupulous compilation of kitsch, the B-52s lovingly reconstruct
the sounds and attitudes of post-Sputnik, pre-Vietnam pop America within a New
Wave context. Their mining of the past is so thorough that it becomes the basis
of a rock style—one that implies almost as much by what it omits (literary sense,
adult emotion) as by what it enshrines (nonsense). If I got on my critical high horse,
I could mount an argument about how their music consciously reflects a media-
disintegrated environment, an electronically blitzed-out culture in which all values
have been leveled. But I won’t, because the B-52s’ music is too much fun. It’s not the
slightest bit polemical, and they have a great time making it. Clearly, the group cher-
ishes all the detritus—the cultural backdrop of their collective adolescence—that’s
gone into the album. At their best, they’re awesomely convincing in their assertion
of the positive side of culture shock, by pointing out the democracy of pop culture.
Among dozens of references, some subliminal but most deliberate, they treat early
Kinks, Peter Gunn, the Shangri-Las, Star Trek, early Motown, Duane Eddy, “Telstar,”
“Pipeline,” Petula Clark, and Beach Blanket Bingo all with equal respect and humor.
No rock group has made me so aware that pop culture, even its dregs, has had a lot
more to do with shaping my fantasy life than the “high” culture I was brought up
to revere.
Their song lyrics seem consciously McLuhanist in their post-literate allusive-
ness. The language is fractured, reduced to telegraphic popisms. “This is the Space
Age/Just don’t worry/This is the Space Age/Others like you,” they proclaim in the
robot chorus that winds up “There’s a Moon in the Sky (Called the Moon).” The rest
is a confused catalog of pseudo-sci-fi catch-phrases that jumble reality and fantasy so
casually you begin to question not only if there’s a difference between kiddie-show
space travel and the real thing, but also if it matters whether there’s a difference.
Gamma rays and kryptonite—aren’t they finally the same thing, catch words to the
stars in a child’s garden of TV trash? If the TV screen literally shrinks everything to
the same size and degree of reality, don’t the transistor radio and even the walkie-
talkie do the same thing? In the B-52s’ world, all these communications devices are
operating at once. Mediums and styles are scrambled together, so that one’s time
sense finally collapses under the barrage, and all modern culture becomes as simulta-
neous as the rerun of an instant replay—20 years of trash compacted into a 40-minute
docudrama.
Source: Stephen Holden, “The B-52s’ American Graffiti,” Village Voice, August 13, 1979, p. 60.
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Punk to New Wave? 355
At the very least, the B-52s is a superb exercise in camp nostalgia. But I think
it’s more than that. The best cuts burst with a spirit of real celebration. “Dance This
Mess Around,” in which they invent wonderful dance names like the Shy Tuna and
the Aqua-velva, is an affectionate tribute to the Mashed Potato-Frug era and also a
killer boogie cut that’s eager to compete with “Stop! In the Name of Love,” which
it proudly quotes. The quintet’s tense, post-primal vocals brim with excitement;
Fred Schneider sounds like a Devo-ed Ringo Starr finally “getting back,” while Kate
Pierson, pleading that she “ain’t no limburger,” does Patti Smith doing Yoko Ono
just about perfectly. “Lava” is a hot, funny, sexual anthem that gets hilarious mile-
age out of its lava-love-Mauna Loa alliteration. It’s also a beautifully constructed
call-and-response rock song—terse, catchy, with a knockout punchline (Schneider:
“I’m gonna jump in a crater.” Girls, gleefully: “See ya later.”). “Planet Clare” is a deft
exercise in ’60s sci-fi kitsch with an absurdist satiric edge (“She drove a Plymouth
Satellite/Faster than the speed of light”). “Rock Lobster” conjures up a surrealistic
’60s beach party where bikini-clad mermen frug with warbling manta-rays and nar-
whales. The instrumentation is transcendently tacky, a rollicking farce of guitar and
Farfisa.
Is it “great” rock? Maybe. The three major charges that could be leveled against
the B-52s are that they’re hopelessly arty, hopelessly New Yorky, and hopelessly
silly. But for all its arty precision, their music is totally accessible. It may lack classic
American roots, but in the endless garbage heap of modern pop culture, the band
has found a tradition—and an American one at that. To me, their silliness shows
considerable courage. They recapture rock & roll innocence—or at least this 38-year-
old writer’s idea of innocence—in the only way that seems possible nowadays, by
reconstructing it. Their trash rock anthem squirming with animated sea creatures
belongs squarely in the tradition of “Tutti Frutti.”
Further Reading
Cateforis, Theo. Are We Not New Wave?: Modern Pop at the Turn of the 1980s. Ann Arbor:
University of Michigan Press, 2011.
Press, 2002.
Jameson, Fredric. “Postmodernism, or the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism.” New Left
Review 146 (July–August 1984): 59–92; reprinted in Fredric Jameson, Postmodernism, or
the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 1991), 1–54.
Rockwell, John. “The Artistic Success of Talking Heads.” New York Times, September 11,
1977, D14, D16.
Trakin, Roy. “Avant Kindergarten (Sturm and Drone).” Soho Weekly News, January 26, 1978,
31, 37.
Discography
The B-52s. The B-52s. Reprise/WEA, 1979.
Blondie. Greatest Hits. Capitol, 2002.
Devo. Q: Are We Not Men? A: We Are Devo! Warner Bros./WEA, 1978.
The Knack. Get the Knack. Capitol, 2002.
Lydia Lunch. Deviations on a Theme: Retrospective. Provocateur Media, 2006.
Talking Heads. The Best of Talking Heads. Rhino/WEA, 2004.
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bra43588_pt04_253-356.indd 356 05/24/19 03:22 PM
PART 5
The 1980s
61. A “Second British Invasion,” MTV, and Other
Postmodernist Conundrums
The twin prongs of critical attention in late 1970s’ pop music—disco and
punk—became strangely irrelevant as the 1980s began. Punk, the dar-
ling of rock writers and sociologists of popular culture, never attained
any sort of widespread commercial success, although it did receive a
burst of mainstream media attention in 1977 due to the antics of the
Sex Pistols. Disco flamed out, a victim of overexposure and resent-
ment among rock and R&B fans whose music had been all but oblit-
erated from top 40 and black radio. Neither punk nor disco actually
disappeared, but punk remained underground minus the media expo-
sure, and disco temporarily retreated to dance clubs, emerging from
seclusion periodically with the occasional pop hit.
In the void left by the temporary demise of disco, Album-Oriented
Rock or Album-Oriented Radio (AOR), a radio format developed in the
early 70s, began to assert a stronger presence in the mainstream.1 A
formulaic outgrowth of late-sixties “progressive” radio (in that it used a
rigidly limited playlist of album cuts), AOR featured the one-name hard
rock outfits mentioned in Chapter 4 (e.g., Boston, Journey, Foreigner, and
Styx) along with “rootsy” rockers such as Bruce Springsteen and Bob
Seger. AOR fans formed the most virulent strain of the anti-disco back-
lash, and the increasing importance of AOR relative to AM-based top 40
led to a reduction in the number of crossover hits between black radio
and the mainstream. At the same time, mid-1970s AOR favorites such as
the Eagles, Linda Ronstadt, and Fleetwood Mac began to lose steam, tak-
ing with them some of the melodic pop sensibility from that era.
1. For an extensive overview of radio formats in the 1980s, see Ken Barnes, “Top 40 Radio: A
Fragment of the Imagination,” in Simon Frith (ed.), Facing the Music (New York: Pantheon Books,
1988), 8–50.
357
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358 The 1980s
The declining fortunes of AOR were not occurring in a vacuum—the
crash of disco, an increasing “blockbuster” mentality in the music indus-
try following Saturday Night Fever,2 and the economic recession of the
early 1980s in the United States all contributed to a slump in the music
industry. Two new and related developments arose to shake the indus-
try from its doldrums: on August 1, 1981, the Music Television channel,
better known as MTV, began broadcasting, introducing both a new way
of disseminating pop music and a new way for audiences to experience
it. A group of aspiring musicians capitalized on the new medium. Filling
the void in music videos created by the relative paucity of, and lack of
quality in, videos made by American bands, a number of British artists
emerged who combined the ironic detachment of punk with the height-
ened fashion sense, danceable beat, and synthesized instrumentation
of disco. This new genre, dubbed alternately “blitz,” “New Romantic,”
“new wave,” “new music,” “synth-pop,” “electro-pop,” or “techno-pop”
(and this list does not exhaust the monikers), made a strong impact on
both sides of the Atlantic in the early 1980s and featured a visual style
that made other videos seem drab—what Parke Puterbaugh tellingly
termed “pop modernism with a British bias.” 3
Robert Christgau’s work formed an important part of the first wave of

rock criticism, and he has been active ever since. A prolific critic (primar-
ily) for the Village Voice, his essay reprinted here on the music industry
and large-scale shifts in the cultural position of popular music in the
early 1980s is particularly incisive.4 Christgau recounts media reports
that were circulating about the music industry at the time and enumer-
ates two factors usually cited for the industry’s problems in the early
eighties: the collapse of disco, and home taping. The argument about
the impact of home taping may sound familiar to contemporary readers
who are acquainted with current debates around file-sharing, the Inter-
net, and downloading. Though his article is framed by sections focusing
on the music industry, he uses that focus as an opening through which
to analyze the most significant musical trends of the period, including
the “Second British Invasion” of techno-pop groups, and the impact
of MTV. Christgau questions the glibness with which certain aspects
of these trends were currently being discussed, especially the idea of
the “Second British Invasion,” and the notion that music videos were
nothing more than advertisements (which doesn’t mean that he wasn’t
critical of music videos). One of his most original moves in the context
2. Other mega-hits of the mid- to late-seventies period included Peter Frampton’s Frampton
Comes Alive (1976—10 million copies sold), the Eagles’ Hotel California (1976—11 million), and
Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours (1977—25 million).
3. Parke Puterbaugh, “Anglomania: America Surrenders to the Brits—But Who Really Wins?,”
Rolling Stone (10 Nov. 1983): 31–32.
4. This is an edited version of the original article, which Christgau cut by about one-third. The
complete article is available at <www.robertchristgau.com>.
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A “Second British Invasion,” MTV, and Other Postmodernist Conundrums 359
of criticism of the time is to show how the success of Michael Jackson’s
Thriller connects to both of these trends.
Yet the significance of this article for our understanding of popu-
lar music history goes beyond the insightful analysis of these specific
trends. Christgau describes a general transformation in the role of “rock
culture,” especially the loss of its sense of being “cutting edge.” This
was not a claim that “rock was dead,” but rather an observation that rock
was now doomed to be one genre among many. Christgau’s point is sup-
ported by the current constitution of the rock canon, focused as it is in the
1960s and 1970s.5 This transformation in the status of rock was further-
more reflected in the changing relationship between the popular music
audience and musicians, and in the types of cultural meanings that differ-
ent genres might claim. While such a discussion could easily turn nostal-
gic, this one does not: Christgau may be pessimistic about the long-term
effects of capitalism on art, but he remains a populist and skeptical about
claims for value that are not connected to popularity on a broad scale.
“Rock ‘n’ Roller Coaster: the Music Biz on a Joyride”

Robert Christgau
Woe Is Us
Because only those willing to suspend their disbelief in eternal youth invest any real
confidence in the staying power of rock and roll, premature obituaries have been as
much a tradition of the music as teen rebellion and electric guitars. Ever since the
’60s–-in fact, ever since the ’50s—I’ve scoffed at them. The nasty rumors of 1982,
however, proved so persistent, pervasive, and persuasive that by the fall of that
year I was half a believer myself. And now that they’ve vanished as utterly as Peter
Frampton, I find it difficult to shake that bad feeling. Teen rebellion and electric gui-
tars aren’t looking particularly eternal themselves these days.
As often happens, 1982’s rumors surfaced at the top of the information
pyramid—it was major stories in Time and Newsweek that seemed to crystallize gen-
eral unease into near panic. In February and April, Jay Cocks and Jim Miller filed
trend pieces reflecting the gloom that first gripped the record industry after the Great
Disco Disaster of 1979 and took another turn for the worse after the Bad Christmas
of 1981. Essentially, both were laments for what used to be called rock culture, but
Miller, who is less sentimental than Cocks, got the scoop in the process. Rather than
indulge in blanket critical condemnations of a music that had made successes out of
the Police, Rick James, and X, he concentrated on the slump in the music business
5. In a Rolling Stone feature on the “500 Greatest Albums of All Time” albums from the 1960s
and 1970s account for 64%, while albums since the 1980s account for 31%. Of the top 10, nine
were from the period 1965–1975. The voters were largely critics, musicians, and others working in
the music industry (Rolling Stone, 11 December 2003). A later article that discusses the fading im-
portance of rock within the sphere of popular music is Kelefa Sanneh’s “The Rap Against Rock-
ism,” New York Times (October 31, 2004).
Source: Robert Christgau, “Rock ‘n’ Roller Coaster: the Music Biz on a Joyride,” Village Voice, Feb.
7, 1984, pp. 37–45. Reprinted with permission of Robert Christgau.
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360 The 1980s
and the dubious utility of marketing strategies designed to combat it. His conclusion
was grim: “Rock ‘n’ roll has a future all right. But whether it can ever recapture its
cutting edge and resume a leading role in defining the frontiers of America’s popular
culture is another matter entirely.”
As 1982 slogged on, the music business was analyzed in major dailies and the
consumer music press and bewailed week after week in the trades. The story was
there, too. Right on time for Robert Palmer’s August feature in the Times, CBS closed
10 of Columbia’s branch offices and laid off 15 per cent of its total staff—300 jobs.
Other companies also retrenched. In arenas and auditoriums, concerts were fewer
and more sparsely attended. By year’s end record sales, off 11.4 per cent in 1981, were
rumored (somewhat hyperbolically) to have dipped 15 per cent more. Gold albums
were reported down from 153 to 128, platinum from 60 to 54. Where REO Speedwag-
on’s Hi Infidelity had moved six million copies in 1981, 1982’s apparent pacesetters,
Asia and John Cougar’s American Fool, hadn’t sold half that many. And the first casu-
alty of this lost revenue was venture capital—money for new and marginal talent.
The official explanation for these misfortunes concentrated on that well-known
social evil, home taping. The audiocassette industry is still fighting off a Record-
ing Industry Association of America (RIAA) campaign that seeks legislation to con-
trol record rentals and institute a hefty surcharge on blank tape sales—despite the
Supreme Court’s recent Betamax decision, which holds that home taping doesn’t
violate copyright law. In the beginning the theory that such consumer “theft” was
costing the record business upwards of $1 billion a year looked fishy to most observ-
ers, but eventually it gained some converts—last spring, with recovery already in
the air, the Chicago Tribune quoted with apparent equanimity RIAA president Stan
Gortikov’s remarkable claim that for every record bought another is home taped.
Although a suspiciously unspecific October 1983 RIAA study asserts that 425 million
hours of prerecorded music were home taped annually (1982 blank tape sales were
barely half that), detached analysis of the more detailed 1982 Warners survey which
kicked off the furor suggests a maximum annual loss of around $350 million, much
of it absorbed by distributors and retailers. Though this isn’t chicken feed, it no more
accounts for a billion-dollar slump than that other slant-eyed bogeyman, videogames.
But if leisure activities cut into each other than (sic) mechanistically, the sports equip-
ment boom of the late ’70s would have done music in.
The no-nonsense social science analysis is that the “recession-proof” music
industry simply wasn’t that in tandem with the demographic dip that always
awaited rock and roll as the baby boom grew up, the near depression of the early
’80s was just too much for it to take. Without doubt the much-bruited Reaganomic
“recovery” occasioned a mood shift that helped bring record buyers back into the
stores. But the biz earned its recession-proof rep by surviving several recessions, and
it got beat in the latest one for the most fanciful reason of all: quality. By this I hardly
mean that if only the big labels had promoted Blood Ulmer or the Human Switch-
board or Southside Johnny or Black Flag, the world would now be safe for rock and
roll. I’ve never sung that old song. But I’ll settle for the follow-up, popularly known
as “Nobody Loves You When You’re Bored and Bland.” One thing about cults—they
do love what they like, enough to seek it out and if necessary pay a premium for it.
All of the industry’s payola and market research and super-group status-mongering
couldn’t instill that kind of enthusiasm in the passive audience shaped by radio’s
cowardice and conservatism—its consultancies, its racism, its fear of tuneouts. What-
ever excitement people are once again finding in music begins with content—or any-
way, with form/content. As bizzers like to say, it’s in the grooves—or anyway, that’s
half the story. And if there were hypes at work too, well, they damn near hit the
record business upside its pointy little head.
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New Technology, MTV, MR, “New Music,” and Michael
Jackson
So many accounts of rock and roll’s recovery dwell on new technology—business
analysts always prefer machines, which can be owned, to human beings, who
(according to enlightened capitalist theory) can’t. But in fact bizzers progressed with
science only after first clambering headlong in the opposite direction. It took years
of ghetto blasters and walkmen, both far more stimulating to the public appetite for
music than high-end hi-fi, before the tape crusaders had the bright idea of lowering
the price of prerecorded cassettes. The digitally recorded super-fidelity laser discs
now causing such a tizzy are much more to their taste in toys—high per-unit profit,
perhaps even with music that’s already in the can. Indeed, laser playback may even-
tually be as big as stereo. But it may also die like quad, or (more likely) wind up
almost as specialized as vinyl audiophile discs.
A similar pattern is evident in video. Before their misreading of disco ate up all
that venture capital, forward-looking record execs used to dream about producing
and selling consumer videos, which five years later is still risky business. But even
Warners, half of MTV’s parent corporation, had little inkling of the vast hype poten-
tial of the 24-hour rock-video cable service. For all its infinite venality, MTV provided
a breath of proverbial fresh air for the rock audience and a shot in the proverbial arm
for record sales. Of course, if the majors had been prepared with Linda Ronstadt
and REO Speedwagon videos when the channel went on the air in 1981, it’s conceiv-
able it would have flopped, or meant very little. Instead, bizzers handed the ball to
mostly British “new wave” longshots. Appearance-obsessed art-school types who
were eager to stake some of their Eurodollars on the stateside profits rock and rollers
dream of, these young musicians came up with lots of snazzy clips. Thus MTV was
the making of such bands as Men at Work, whose debut eventually outsold both Asia
and American Fool in 1982; the Stray Cats, London-trained Massapequabillies whose
midline-priced compilation is now double platinum; A Flock of Seagulls, with their
high-IQ haircuts and dumb hooks; and let us not forget Duran Duran.
Much as I hate typing with my fingers crossed, I’m willing to venture that MTV
won’t ever be as conservative a cultural force as AOR. The circumstances that thrust
it briefly into the commercial forefront of “new wave” were temporary, and that was
never the whole story—the rampaging “new” heavy metal has also been a major
beneficiary, as have “Puttin’ on the Ritz” and Linda Ronstadt’s Nelson Riddle album.
But because visual information is so specific that people quickly get bored with it,
the channel craves novelty by nature. And thus, inexorably, “(sic) it has shaken radio
up. MTV was certainly in Lee Abrams’s AOR mastermind, when he took a quick
look at KROQ, which had jumped to the top of the Los Angeles Arbitron ratings
after switching to a new wavish format in 1981, and ordered his faltering Super-Stars
consultancy network to double the new music it played. Although Abrams reserved
special praise for “techno stuff,” he apparently can use a dictionary. So he defined
new as recently released, which often turned out to mean Huey Lewis and Quiet Riot
rather than “Free Bird” and “Stairway to Heaven.”
For many younger bizzers, of course, the innocent words “new music” resonate
with significance, and the annual New Music Seminar, launched by Rockpool and
Dance Music Report in July 1980, is their very own industry confab. The term “new
music” was apparently appropriated from the downtown minimalist avant-garde
just as “new wave” was taken over from the French auteurist avant-garde, and no
one knows exactly how to define it—the Wall Street Journal has called it “futuristic
‘technopop’” and “a blend of rock, soul and reggae” in the same sentence. I’d sug-
gest that, as with “postmodernism,” the sweeping yet abjectly relative vagueness
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362 The 1980s
of the term signifies above all a fervent desire to deny antecedents which are in fact
inescapable. Having once defined “rock,” an equally amorphous category, as “all
music derived from the energy and influence of the Beatles,” I would now define
“new music” as “all music deriving primarily from the energy and influence of the
Ramones and the Sex Pistols.” Then I would hope against hope that two qualifica-
tions were understood: first, that “energy and influence” refer more to sociological
movement than to formal musical development, and second, that I’m making fun.
The New Music Seminar began as a mildly bohemian one-day affair in a friendly
recording studio, and it was still pretty bohemian in 1982, when it attracted 1100 to
the Sheraton Centre. In 1983 it was at the Hilton, enrollment had more than doubled,
and bohemian it wasn’t. “Everyone realizes that they are the future of the indus-
try, so there is less rowdiness,” opined organizer Joel Webber, and with the Police,
Eddy Grant, Kajagoogoo, David Bowie, Culture Club, and Madness in the top 10 and
Duran Duran, Naked Eyes, the Eurythmics, Prince, the Human League, and Men at
Work bubbling up from 30, this sense of destiny was understandable. Not that some
bohemian stragglers didn’t hoot at the chasm between the Sex Pistols and Kajagoo-
goo, and not that all the skepticism came from disillusioned punks—“It’s our busi-
ness to give the audience what they want,” announced Ocean City, Maryland, deejay
Brian Krysz, who clearly didn’t think these New Yorkers had any idea what that
might mean where he was from. But somewhere in between the old bohos and the
old pros there was a comfortable consensus that the ailing music industry had pulled
itself back from the brink by finally coming to terms with the progress it had resisted
so pigheadedly for so long.
One factor was missing from this analysis, however: Michael Jackson. “New
music” is such an all-encompassing concept that an enthusiast could claim it sub-
sumes all others. But there’s no way it subsumes Michael. The overwhelming suc-
cess of Thriller, which has long since surpassed Bridge Over Troubled Water as CBS’s
biggest album of all time, is the fulfillment of the blockbuster fantasy that has pos-
sessed the industry ever since Saturday Night Fever. For years retailers argued that if
only the nudnicks over in production could suck people into the stores with another
piece of product like that, they’d take care of the rest. And there are those who
believe—cynically, in my judgment—that Thriller is the whole secret of the recovery.
The thing is, Thriller couldn’t have happened in a vacuum. Insofar as new music
is basically Anglodisco, its rapprochement between the white rock audience and
dance music worked to the enormous advantage of Thriller: for all its whiteskin pro-
vincialism, its defanged funk and silly soul, the world of new music is somewhat
more open to black artists than the world of AOR. (What isn’t?) Certainly neither
Prince nor Eddy Grant could have crossed over without first proving themselves
in the white dance clubs, and while Michael Jackson didn’t need this more hospi-
table atmosphere—not with Paul McCartney and Eddie Van Halen on his side—he
benefited from it. But here too it was MTV that made the biggest difference. Once
again indulging in disgraceful if not unconstitutional reluctance to air black music,
MTV at first turned down Jackson’s videos and only after CBS president Walter
Yetnikoff threatened to withdraw CBS clips from the channel—the story is denied
on both sides, but it’s clear some heavy muscle was applied—did MTV capitulate.
Soon thereafter the $200,000 production number Jackson contrived around “Beat It”
turned into the channel’s most widely popular item ever. With MTV fallen, AOR
jumped in and a hit album was transformed into an unprecedented megacrossover.
The triumph of Thriller makes an edifying record-biz fable. A heroic tale of music
marketers moving the news from the grooves to the yearning masses, it would seem
to refute my brave assertion that the recovery owes more to art than it does to hype.
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But I did hedge, because just like the neat binary opposition between form and con-
tent, the division of hype and art is a middlebrow convenience, useful in obscur-
ing the vulgar details of the pop process, which needn’t be deep to be enduring or
meaningful. With Michael Jackson or the Stray Cats or Culture Club, it‘s hard to say
where art leaves off and hype begins, because all three devote unmistakable aesthetic
energy to the promulgation of image as well as to the invention of music. Now, as
we learned in the ’60s, image promulgation is tricky business and trickier art, but I’m
proud to admit that after a dull gray decade of grind-it-out professionalism I’m rather
enjoying the current flashstorm. My pleasure is sure to diminish as the most cunning
of the ignorant young posers currently overrunning the London video industry dig
in for the careerist haul. But if hype it’s gotta be, I’ll take mine tacky, thanks.
Kajagoogoomania
All descriptions of the current pop moment invoke the British Invasion hook sooner
or later, so why not. But let’s get one thing straight. Unless you favor the formulation
in which the second British wave began Hollies-Donovan-Cream circa 1967 (making
the current incursion number seven or so), the so-called Invasion was more like an
occupation, or an endless parade. Granting a fair share of misses—most significantly
T. Rex and Slade, two seminal singles band (sic) who were huge in England by 1971
but scored one real hit between them here—it lasted from 1964 all the way till 1977,
when Malcolm McLaren, who didn’t invent punk but did do his damnedest for his
nation’s economy, set about revitalizing the troubled U.K. branch of an industry that
was marching off a cliff without knowing it.
Many armchair promo men, ignoring the stylistic precedents of T. Rex and
Slade as well as the Sex Pistols’ unseemly politics, actually professed surprise when
this latest London phenomenon failed to conquer America, where disco and AOR
were reaching sizable new markets. This besmirched Britannia’s image among the
captains of America’s music capital for half a decade. Which is why all this talk of
a “second” British Invasion is basically bullshit. What we have here is a reactive
return to normalcy, with conveniently prepackaged Brits regaining their customary
advantage in the musical balance of trade. I insist on this not to beef up my pitch for
American music, a worthy cause that’s turning into one more pious cliché, but to take
the barb off the British Invasion hook, the hidden intent of which is to make this pop
moment seem altogether more . . . gear than it actually is. Oh, it’s different, sure; times
change. Still, all the headline-writers hope to intimate, isn’t it kind of like Swinging
London all over again?
I should remind my more mature readers that in 1964 most new music fans
were still in diapers if that. They may be acquainted with the music of the “first”
British Invasion, but its excitement comes to them secondhand. British punk was
a great pop moment, but it was also a great antipop moment, excluding potential
listeners far more antagonistically than any generation gap. When it didn’t put new
clothes on the old radical fallacy that youth is sitting out there eagerly (if passively)
awaiting an Alternative, it worked off the supposed truism that rock and roll thrives
on shock—just outrage the Establishment and every teenager in the NATO alli-
ance will throw money at you. It would have been wonderful if some synthesis of
these ideas had reunified the pop world, and in fact it was wonderful anyway. But
it’s hardly a surprise that unity didn’t ensue, because punk’s antagonisms weren’t
aimed solely at the Establishment; they were also aimed at the complacent or self-
deluded or indifferent or just plain different rock fans who failed to get the mes-
sage. Some of these were converted, others quickly became very pissed off, others
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364 The 1980s
remained indifferent, and still others changed their minds a little. Very roughly
speaking you could say that Swinging London II comprises most of the people
who changed their minds plus many indifferents and a significant admixture of
re-converted converts. And for all its backbiting, infighting, and ridiculously sec-
tarian trendiness, its pop impulse—which in this case means nothing more noble
than its craving for commercial success—is more wholehearted, though not more
idealistic, than punk’s ever was.
Yet, avant-garde polemicism notwithstanding, 1977 does stand as a great pop
moment, and reconciliations notwithstanding, 1983 remains a dubious one. That’s
because 1977 held out a promise far more radical and far more realistic than that of Elvis
or the Beatles or the hippies. Where the myth of rock culture had vitiated rock and roll’s
rebel strain by glamorizing it, punk amplified it by focusing it, and though it despised
all ’60s-style utopian folderol, it refused to surrender its idealism-in-the negative. In
contrast, all 1983 could offer was 15 minutes of pleasure in the limelight. Or make that
three minutes. Punk’s populist strategy was to reclaim the quick hooky virtues of the
then-moribund pop single, and though “new music” could be quicker, it’s definitely
taken over that punk idea. In the process it’s also inherited two kinds of burnout—not
only the no-future cynicism affected by 1977’s cynosures and penny-rockets, but the
flash-in-the-pan one-shotism of the pre-“rock” era. There’s nothing more British Inva-
sion about it than the bewildering profusion of new names on the charts.
Nevertheless, I can’t go along with McLaren, who claims that the new Brit
wave broke because American bizzers “don’t want black music taking over.” It’s
not just that he’s oversimplifying with an ulterior motive as usual. Nor is it that
Michael J. has rendered further race war superfluous—sure it was Thriller’s year,
but Afrika Bambaataa and Blood Ulmer and the perennial George Clinton did
great work in 1983 too, and none of them has cracked MTV quite yet. My skepti-
cism has more to do with the sometimes useful, often unavoidable, but here merely
obfuscatory vagueness of the term “black music” itself. Insofar as Anglomania
kept conciliatory, professional black pop down in a strong year for the genre, it
did so in fairly open competition; James Ingram may be a nice fellow, but Boy
George has more to tell the world. And there’s no reason to believe that if every
fop in England were suddenly to expire of synthesizer poisoning, hard, eccentric
black funk would fill the vacuum. Like punk, funk is an avantish style that articu-
lates megapolitan street values. If they’ve failed to change middle America, that’s
largely middle America’s fault, and choice: hegemony is subtle and not altogether
undemocratic stuff.
If this seems like a retreat from my traditionally staunch affirmative action
stand, I’m sorry, but it isn’t. Of course black music would be more popular if it got
the exposure it’s denied by the manipulatively racist assumptions of AOR and MTV.
But that doesn’t mean those assumptions have no basis in white listeners’ actual
tastes—tastes that don’t necessarily reduce to race, and tastes they have a right to
even though they live worse for them. Anyway, current music is too multifarious
to justify any kind of single-genre campaign. Always craning their necks at the next
big thing, opportunists like McLaren make pop music happen, but their perspective
is screwy by definition. Even in the heady punk years of 1977 and 1978, there was
great work from old farts like Fleetwood Mac and the Stones and Pete Townshend
and oddballs like the McGerrigles and Joe Ely and Ronnie Lane, not to mention all
the soul and funk and disco and blues and folk and country professionals who rolled
merrily along as if Johnny Rotten didn’t exist, which for them he didn’t. More often,
several promising-to-exciting things will go on at once. And then there are times
that throw up no markers at all. This patternlessness doesn’t have to mean there’s no
significant action. But it can be a bitch to figure out.
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Wha?
Perhaps my dismay merely reflects an awareness that the skeptical but positive pic-
ture of the recovery I outlined was nowhere near skeptical enough. For instance, it
may have given the impression that I can watch MTV for an hour without gastric
distress. It’s a distortion to label rock videos commercials; at worst they’re promos,
which is not the same thing, and if they borrow advertising techniques that’s an
inevitable consequence of their brevity, their lyric structure, and their roots in rock
and roll’s hook aesthetic. But to excuse the directors a little is only to blame the music
more. Great exceptions and pleasant surprises notwithstanding, most rock videos
diminish the second-rate songs they’re supposed to enhance; however circumscribed
rock artistes may be musically, their literary and dramatic endowments are usually
even narrower. Because videos visualize lyrics and compel contemplation of the art-
ists’ mugs, they bring home how slick, stunted, smug, self-pitying, and stupid rock
culture has become. Even more offensive than the racism the channel promulgates
by omission is the way sexism that’s only implicit in words and live performance
is underlined again and again by the vaguely sadie-maisie mannequins who sing
backup or play their mute rules (sic) in male jackoff and/or revenge fantasies. The
clips make it all but impossible to reimagine songs you like—Billy Idol’s fake-gothic
misogyny and adolescent fear of commitment have ruined “White Wedding” for me
forever. And they replace participation with spectatorism on the physical level as
well—fans watch raptly instead of dancing or at least boogieing in the aisles.
True, whenever I think such thoughts I remind myself that early media-brainwash
theorists once leveled similar charges at talkies. Because pop culture evolves like any-
thing else, there’s a chance that great exceptions and pleasant surprises—“Atomic
Dog” and “Burning Down the House” and “Thriller” and “Atlantic City” and “TV
Dinners” and “One on One” and even (Phil Collins’s) “You Can’t Hurry Love”—will
eventually prevail, enabling rock video to escape its current box, the one with genre
movies, film school dream sequences, Helmut Newton and Midnight Special at the
corners. Who knows, maybe it will turn into a Genuinely Innovative Art Form that
melds technological flash with aesthetic insouciance over a beat that makes it all
happen.
But even in this best instance the little matter of capital would make MTV one of
the bad guys. Clips cost $15,000 for technically acceptable concert footage, with 40 or
50 grand about par for concept videos and $200,000 not unheard of. As an accepted
part of promotion, videos raise the ante for struggling artists even more inescapably
than high-tech audio; eight years after the first Ramones album seemed to harbinger
a new era of rock and roll access because it cost $6400 to record, they put the game
squarely back into the hands of the money boys. And while I don’t buy the Mass
Culture 1 fantasy of a nation of suburbanized adolescents lulled into a passive, con-
sumerist pseudo-community by their television sets, I do believe that every popular
form has its optimum audience size, and that rock and roll climbs above five million
or so at its (occasionally invigorating) peril. In the stagnant information system of
AOR, MTV provided liberating alternative input—pluralism has always been one
secret of good rock and roll. But MTV’s tuneout-sensitive national programming cut
the roots of that secret.
Nor has MTV moved radio to the left. On the contrary, the latest shake-up has
come in the form of a “new music backlash” already rumored at the Hilton in July.
In a typically visionary memo, Lee Abram’s SuperStars HQ warned its stations that
“progressive music is out.” Artists such as Elvis Costello, Graham Parker, and Joan
Armatrading (as well as many heavy metal acts) had “no business being on the radio”
because the nation’s tastes had turned “horizontal”—consultant talk for top 40, music
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366 The 1980s
that crosses demographic boundaries, which under the initials CHR (Contemporary
Hits Radio) is the new hot programming idea. In New York, AOR bellwether WPLJ
set tongues wagging a year ago when it added “Little Red Corvette” (performed by a
black person, you know) and by June was playing nothing but hits, which in current
radio parlance is not the same thing at all as “rock,” which designated all popular
music except country and disco five years ago but is now considered too “vertical.”
Soon WPLJ was joined and vanquished by the smarmier (if more integrated) Z-100,
which is momentarily tops among the city’s music stations.
There’s something comic about all this commotion—just imagine, maybe people
actually want to listen to hit records. But in fact the pop single had become almost theo-
retical during the slump—if it weren’t for MTV, its attendant Anglomania, and let us
not forget a reintegrated black pop, the format mightn’t have come back at all. And
insofar as it brings down bastions of white power like WPLJ, CHR is incontrovertibly
a good thing. You can listen to it, too. But this in no way justifies eager comparisons
to top 40’s Beatlemaniac glory years by bright-eyed populists old enough to know
better. Top 40 commands neither the consensus nor the excitement it did in the mid-
dle ’60s. It can’t, because that excitement was bound up in a sense of imminent social
possibility, with rock and roll more reflection than source, that for the moment is
effectively dead.
And one more thing—horizontal radio ain’t necessarily so great for the record
business. One survey indicates that for every CHR fan who buys six LPs a year there
are three AOR faithful, and while CHR can’t be the root cause of such deplorable
penny-pinching (the younger, predominantly female audience it attracts has never
been all that long on music dollars), it’s not helping any. The phenomenal growth
of the album market was predicated on the passionate, committed, “vertical” myth
of rock culture; pop commitments aren’t as steady and wide-ranging. So perhaps
it shouldn’t be surprising that, just as the slump was never as severe as the tape-
obsessed doomsayers in an emotional industry said it was, the current recovery
doesn’t qualify as any sort of boom. When the tally was in, it turned out that the great
comeback of 1983 had been good for only 111 gold albums while the great slump of
1982 had produced 130, with platinum albums down from 55 to 49. Not that there
hasn’t really been a recovery of sorts, though even in the unlikely event of a final gain
of 10 per cent, more will still have been lost between 1981 and 1982. The dollar vol-
ume of four albums—Thriller, Flashdance, Def Leppard’s Pyromania, and the Police’s
Synchronicity, all reportedly well over five million—made up most of it.
This is inauspicious, because it commits venture capital to a blockbuster men-
tality. Experience has shown that blockbusters can’t be predicted positively—except
maybe for Synchronicity, nobody knew for sure that any of the albums I’ve named
would sell a quarter of what they did. But they can be predicted negatively, and
they will be: it’s going to get even harder for marginal artists with zero-plus plati-
num potential to find backing. Because make no mistake, folks, the big problem
with the music business is capitalism. What did you think it was—the natural order
of things?
Eternal Youth
I’m aware that such rhetoric is apt to exasperate many readers, especially when I
fail to lay out an alternative. Because make no mistake about this either: rock and
roll is capitalist in its blood. Its excitement has always been bound up in the indi-
vidualistic get-up-and-go of ambitious young men who looked around their land of
plenty and decided that they deserved—hell, just plain wanted—a bigger piece, and
it would never have reached its constituency or engendered its culture without the
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e ntrepreneurial derring-do of countless promoters, hustlers, petty criminals, and
other small businessmen. But though there are still more than enough young rock
and rollers to go around, the most ambitious are rarely as likable or as visionary as
they were 20 and 30 years ago. Where the pursuit of an audience was once a fair
equivalent to the education of a community, in a self-proclaimed scarcity economy
any kind of marketing smacks of exploitation. And the derring-do of the big busi-
nessmen involved is often on a grandly international scale. Like the man says, it’s
a jungle out there, and for those who aspire to a musical vocation what might have
seemed like a dream or a lark in 1967 or even 1977 now feels more like a gamble—
all-or-nothing, go-for-broke.
The obvious alternative attracts many gifted musicians: avant-gardism, pop or
renegade. Devolving into three-chord clamor or forging toward total cacophony,
recombining root musics or traversing alien structural and improvisational concepts,
these artists put the limits of their acquiescence in boldface and let the fans fall where
they may. Inaccessibility both formal and physical assures that their audiences won’t
be passive, and sometimes they make music galvanizing enough to jar some free-
floating complacency loose as well. But by definition avant-gardists sacrifice the
unique political purchase of popular form—the way it speaks to and for the popu-
lace. The charm of a walking tolerance advert like Boy George or a raving idealist
like U2’s Bono Vox is that their refusal to make that sacrifice evinces the kind of
willful provisional naivete that these days is rarer and wiser than irony. The endur-
ing beauty and pleasure of black music from pop to rap likewise inheres in its will
to keep on keeping on—nowhere are the material satisfactions of living in the U.S.A.
evoked more seductively, and nowhere do they sound more earned.
Nor did punk destroy the rock faith among those it moved most directly, so
that now two otherwise adverse youth populations—AOR’s 12–24 white male demo-
graphic and the tiny core of perhaps 50,000 (?) postpunk clubgoers and record collec-
tors who send their elected representatives to hoot at functions like the New Music
Seminar—continue to make music the measure of things. We veterans are loathe to
pass the flame to either side because in rock and roll populists and avant-gardists are
supposed to work together, keep each other honest—on our kind of cultural frontier,
you need both numbers and acuteness. But if that hasn’t happened, the reason isn’t
the music’s breakdown as a cultural organism so much as capitalism’s breakdown as
a nexus of social possibility.
I mean, just exactly what frontier is it supposed to take? In the present go-for-
broke environment, all the arts are fucked. Those popular forms that remain cheer-
ful avoid making stringent demands on themselves, as in the rich but complacent
neoclassicism enjoyed by jazz musicians and Hollywood folk. Network television is
network television, and while video artists are bursting with technological impera-
tive, their visions of a public-access future are tinged with utopian folderol. It’s also
worth noting that video artists are rarely disdainful of rock and roll—or rather, of
the capital that will be ventured if rock video opens up a little. And among poets
and visual artists, for instance, the punk and funk subcultures that seem so trun-
cated to participant-observers like me are viewed more positively, as a means to
the “vitality” of their fitful dreams. There’s still a profusion of good rock and roll
coming down, of every conceivable description and in a state of continual superplu-
ralistic international cross-fertilization. In fact, the music’s shapeless quality these
days sometimes seems a virtue—a metaphor redolent with democratic fecundity.
It pleases me to remember that the myth of the Great Artist has become a quintes-
sential capitalist hype.
And if I then conclude that for all that the current situation really won’t
do, it’s not because I pine for rock culture; it’s because I refuse to suspend my
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368 The 1980s
isbelief in eternal youth. That theme has been turning sour for a decade now, but
d
the older I get the surer I am that it carries meaning—something like what Bob
Dylan called busy-being-born before life got to him. Rather than a simple matter
of age, it’s an idealism-in-the-negative that might conceivably foster the kind of
cross-generational alliances that have always been too rare among white Ameri-
cans. Even after you factor in America’s inferiority complex and dead-ass bizzers,
what puts the U.K.’s young rock and rollers in the chips and ours in day jobs
boils down to style, by which I do not mean haircuts. The good young rock and
rollers here still partake of enough of our tattered national optimism to act as if
youth rebellion is a real-life possibility, complete with a hearty fuck-you-if-you-
can’t-take-the-heat that as always I could do without, but also with a depth of
commitment that seems to come naturally. In London, on the other hand, youth
rebellion looks like a desperate game, a flamboyant and probably fleeting mas-
querade. What fascinates the new Brits about youth is that like everything else it’ll
betray you eventually, and unless I’m mistaken their fans everywhere find comfort
in that. Expectations are such a burden these days.
It will be said that like rock culture itself, eternal youth is an illusion worth
discarding—that kids today are realistic and good for them. But that kind of realism
is exactly what the neoconservative thrust of capitalist culture means to inculcate,
and I’m against it. Of course I believe people should grow up, and yes, I think it’s the
better part of grace to accept the inevitable decline of body-pride, the purely physical
exuberance behind rock and roll’s fabled energy. But the fact that people grow up
doesn’t mean they have to stop growing, and if that sounds like some Marin County
bromide, well, I learned it from Chuck Berry and John Lennon and George Clinton
and, indirectly, Karl Marx too. Only people who insist on changing themselves are
liable to end up changing the world around them, and although it would be nice to
think rock and roll could change the world all by itself, I’ve never had much use for
that fallacy. All I expect from rock and roll is what rock and roll taught me to expect:
more.
Further Reading
Frith, Simon, ed. Facing the Music. New York: Pantheon Books, 1988.
Goodwin, Andrew. Dancing in the Distraction Factory: Music Television and Popular Culture.
Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1992.
Jameson, Fredric. “Postmodernism, or the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism.” New Left Re-
view 146 (July - August 1984): 59 – 92; reprinted in Frederic Jameson, Postmodernism, or
the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 1991), 1–54.
Kaplan, E. Ann. Rocking Around the Clock: Music Television, Postmodernism, and Consumer Cul-
ture. New York: Methuen, 1987.
Rimmer, David. New Romantics: The Look. London: Omnibus, 2003.
Straw, Will. “Popular Music and Postmodernism in the 1980s.” In Sound and Vision: the Music
Video Reader, edited by Simon Frith, Andrew Goodwin, and Lawrence Grossberg, 3–24.
London and New York: Routledge, 1993.
Discography
Just Can’t Get Enough: New Wave Hits of the ’80s, Vols. 2–13. Rhino/WEA, 1994, 1995.
Like, Omigod! The ’80s Pop Culture Box. Rhino/WEA, 2002.
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62. Thriller Begets the “King of Pop”
We were already introduced to Michael Jackson (1958–2009) briefly in

Berry Gordy’s account of Motown in the 1960s (see Chapter 31). J ackson
was arguably the greatest child prodigy in the history of post-1955
popular music, and his early recordings with the Jackson Five intrigued
adults as much for their maturity (and uncanny absorption of James
Brown’s vocal style) as they did teenagers and preteens with their vis-
ceral excitement.
Jackson’s first records as a solo artist in 1971, like those of the
Jackson Five, were remarkably successful. However, Jackson’s solo
career did not really take off until the late 1970s. In 1978, while star-
ring in the film musical The Wiz as the Scarecrow, Jackson met producer
Quincy Jones. The two collaborated on Jackson’s next album, Off the
Wall, which outsold his previous solo efforts and garnered favorable
critical notices. Jones and Jackson successfully updated Jackson’s
sound, presenting Jackson as a mature artist capable of appealing to
dancers and Top 40 radio programmers alike. Off the Wall only hinted
at what was to come. Thriller, Jackson’s next album (again produced by
Jones), released late in 1982, became an international phenomenon,
breaking all sales records and selling over 110 million copies to date.
Thriller did not so much create a new style as it successfully synthe-
sized aspects of preexisting ones: on it, one hears soulful, middle-
of-the-road ballads (“The Girl Is Mine,” sung with Paul McCartney),
slick funk-disco (“Billie Jean”), and funky heavy metal (“Beat It”). This
stylistic blending enabled Jackson to transcend boundaries between
audiences that music industry experts believed were unassailable.
Robert Christgau offered an alternate explanation when he argued that
synth-pop had helped prepare and create an audience for the album
through “its rapprochement between white rock and dance music.”1
Videos provided another key to Jackson’s success, since he began
conceiving of his songs as soundtracks. The videos for “Billie Jean,”
“Beat It,” and “Thriller” were more than mere promotional vehicles for
the recordings—they were “minifilms,” small narratives with budgets
that dwarfed those of previous videos. Jackson’s understanding of how
to employ his singing and dancing skills within the rhetoric of video
1. “Rock ’n’ Roller Coaster,” p. 40. For an account in a music trade publication, see Paul Grein,
“Michael Jackson Cut Breaks AOR Barrier,” Billboard, December 18, 1982, 1, 58.
369
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370 The 1980s
enabled him to exploit his abilities as a performer, rather than as a
musician per se. Viewed in this way, the magnitude of his success is
inextricable from the age of music video.
The years following Thriller were tumultuous ones for Jackson: he
released “We Are the World” (1985, cowritten with Lionel Ritchie and
coperformed with many other stars to benefit famine relief); another Jones-
produced album, Bad (1987); and an autobiography, Moonwalker (1988),
and he began to receive an increasing amount of media attention, much
of it sensationalistic. Bad was a very successful recording by any standard
other than that set by Thriller and, like its predecessor, was extremely
eclectic, featuring funk, heavy metal–influenced songs, love ballads, and
humanitarian anthems in the vein of “We Are the World.” But the reception
of the album betrayed a split between the rapturous adoration of Jackson’s
fans and the lukewarm reaction of critics, especially in the United States,
a reaction fanned by negative media attention over changes in Jackson’s
appearance and rumors about other personal eccentricities.
For many listeners and viewers, Jackson’s physical transformation gave

a new inflection to the concept of “crossover,” and these cosmetic
changes constitute the focus of Greg Tate’s review of Bad. Tate revisits
the idea of Jackson’s precocity and discusses the relationship of
Jackson’s 1980s recordings to the legacy of Berry Gordy and the Motown
recordings of the 1960s. Tate considers the relationship of black iden-
tity to the process of middle-class acculturation, an approach that
cautions against the easy dismissal of Motown or Thriller as a racial
“sellout.” Yet, at the same time, he implies some connection between
the a esthetic disappointment of Bad and Jackson’s ongoing physical
repudiation of his racial heritage. Tate is not alone: many other cul-
tural critics have taken up the subject of Jackson’s fluctuating physical
appearance, which generates so much attention that it threatens to
obscure appreciation of his musical achievements.2
I’m White! What’s Wrong with Michael Jackson

Greg Tate
There are other ways to read Michael Jackson’s blanched skin and disfigured A
frican
features than as signs of black self-hatred become self-mutilation. Waxing fanci-
ful, we can imagine the-boy-who-would-be-white as a William Gibson-ish work of
2. See, for example, Michele Wallace, “Michael Jackson, Black Modernisms and ‘The Ecstasy of
Communication,’” in Invisibility Blues: From Pop to Theory (London: Verso, 1990), 77–90; Kobena Mer-
cer, “Monster Metaphors: Notes on Michael Jackson’s Thriller,” in Sound and Vision: The Music Video
Reader, ed. Simon Frith, Andrew Goodwin, and Lawrence Grossberg, 93–108 (London and New
York: Routledge, 1993); and Susan Willis, “I Want the Black One: Is There a Place for Afro-American
Culture in Commodity Culture,” in A Primer for Daily Life (London: Routledge, 1991), 108–32.
Source: Greg Tate, “I’m White! What’s Wrong with Michael Jackson,” Village Voice, September 22,
1987 95–99.
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Thriller Begets the “King of Pop” 371
science fiction: harbinger of a trans-racial tomorrow where genetic deconstruction
has become the norm and Narcissism wears the face of all human Desire. Musing
empathetic, we may put the question, who does Mikey want to be today? The Pied
Piper, Peter Pan, Christopher Reeve, Skeletor, or Miss Diana Ross? Or Howard
Hughes? Digging into our black nationalist bag, Jackson emerges a casualty of
America’s ongoing race war—another Negro gone mad because his mirror reports
that his face does not conform to the Nordic ideal.
To fully appreciate the sickness of Jackson’s savaging of his African physiog-
nomy you have to recall that back when he wore the face he was born with, black
folk thought he was the prettiest thing since sliced sushi. (My own mother called
Michael pretty so many times I almost got a complex.) Jackson and I are the same
age, damn near 30, and I’ve always had a love-hate thing going with the brother.
When we were both moppets I envied him, the better dancer, for being able to
arouse the virginal desires of my female schoolmates, shameless oglers of his (and
Jermaine’s) tenderoni beefcake in 16 magazine. Even so, no way in those say-it-loud-
I’m-black-and-I’m-proud days could you not dig Jackson heir to the James Brown
dance throne. At age 10, Jackson’s footwork and vocal machismo seemed to scream
volumes about the role of genetics in the cult of soul and the black sexuality of myth.
The older folk might laugh when he sang shake it, shake it baby, ooh, ooh or teach-
er’s gonna show you, all about loving. Yet part of the tyke’s appeal was being able to
simulate being lost in the hot sauce way before he was supposed to know what the
hot sauce even smelt like. No denying he sounded like he knew the real deal.
In this respect, Jackson was the underweaned creation of two black working-
class traditions: that of boys being forced to bypass childhood along the fast track to
manhood, and that of rhythm and blues auctioning off the race’s passion for song,
dance, sex, and spectacle. Accelerated development became a life-imperative after
slavery, and R&B remains the redemption of minstrelsy—at least it was until Jackson
made crossover mean lightening your skin and whitening your nose.
Slavery, minstrelsy, and black bourgeoisie aspirations are responsible for three
of the more pejorative notions about blacks in this country—blacks as property, as
ethnographic commodities, and as imitation rich white people. Given this history,
there’s a fine line between a black entertainer who appeals to white people and one
who sells out the race in pursuit of white appeal. Berry Gordy, Bürgermeister of
crossover’s Bauhaus, walked that line with such finesse that some black folk were
shocked to discover via The Big Chill that many whites considered Motown their
music. Needless to say, Michael Jackson has crossed so way far over the line that
there ain’t no coming back—assuming through surgical transformation of his face a
singular infamy in the annals of tomming.
The difference between Gordy’s crossover dream world and Jackson’s is that
Gordy’s didn’t preclude the notion that black is beautiful. For him the problem was
his pupils not being ready for prime time. Motown has raised brows for its groom-
ing of Detroit ghetto kids in colored genteel manners, so maybe there were people
who thought Gordy was trying to make his charges over into pseudo-Caucasoids.
Certainly this insinuation isn’t foreign to the work of rhythm and blues historians
Charles Keil and Peter Guralnick, both of whom write of Motown as if it weren’t hot
and black enough to suit their blood, or at least their conception of bloods. But the
intermingling of working-class origins and middle-class acculturation are too mixed
up in black music’s evolution to allow for simpleminded purist demands for a black
music free of European influence, or of the black desire for a higher standard of living
and more cultural mobility. As an expression of ’60s black consciousness, Motown
symbolized the desire of blacks to get their foot in the back door of the American
dream. In the history of affirmative action Motown warrants more than a footnote
beneath the riot accounts and NAACP legal maneuvers.
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372 The 1980s
As a black American success story, the Michael Jackson of Thriller is an extension
of the Motown integrationist legacy. But the Michael Jackson as skin job represents
the carpetbagging side of black advancement in the affirmative action era. The fact
that we are now producing young black men and women who conceive of their
African inheritance as little more than a means to cold-crash mainstream America
and then cold-dis—if not merely put considerable distance between—the brothers
and sisters left behind. In this sense Jackson’s decolorized flesh reads as the buppy
version of Dorian Gray, a blaxploitation nightmare that offers this moral: Stop, the
face you save may be your own.
In 1985 black people cherished Thriller’s breakthrough as if it were their own
battering ram against the barricades of American apartheid. Never mind how many
of those kerzillon LPs we bought, forget how much Jackson product we had bought
all those years before that—even with his deconstructed head, we wanted this cat to
tear the roof off the all-time-greatest-sales sucker bad as he did. It’s like Thriller was
this generation’s answer to the Louis-Schmeling fight or something. Oh, the Pyrrhic
victories of the disenfranchised. Who would’ve thought this culture hero would be
cut down to culture heel, with a scalpel? Or maybe it’s just the times. To those living
in New York City and currently witnessing a rebirth of black consciousness in protest
politics, advocacy journalism (read The City Sun! read The City Sun!) and the arts,
Jackson seems dangerously absurd.
Proof that God don’t like ugly, the title of Michael’s new LP, Bad (Epic), accu-
rately describes the contents in standard English. (Jackson apparently believes that
bad can apply to both him and L.L. Cool J.) No need to get stuck on making compari-
sons with Thriller, Bad sounds like home demos Michael cut over a long weekend.
There’s not one song here that any urban contemporary hack couldn’t have laid in a
week, let alone two years. Several of the up-tempo numbers wobble in with hokey
bass lines out of the Lalo Schifrin fakebook, and an inordinate number begin with
ominous science fiction synthnoise—invariably preceding an anti-climax. Bad has
hooks, sure, and most are searching for a song, none more pitifully than the fly-
weight title track, which throws its chorus around like a three-year-old brat.
The only thing Bad has going for it is that it was made by the same artist who
made Thriller. No amount of disgust for Jackson’s even newer face (cleft in the chin)
takes anything away from Thriller. Everything on that record manages a savvy bal-
ance between machine language and human intervention, between palpitating
heart and precision tuning. Thriller is a record that doesn’t know how to stop giving
pleasure. Every note on the mutha sings and breathes masterful pop instincts: the
drumbeats, the bass lines, the guitar chicken scratches, the aleatoric elements. The
weaving of discrete details into fine polyphonic mesh reminds me of those African
field recordings where simultaneity and participatory democracy, not European har-
mony, serve as the ordering principle.
Bad, as songless as Thriller is songful, finds Jackson performing material that he
has absolutely no emotional commitment to—with the exception of spitefully named
“Dirty Diana,” a groupie fantasy. The passion and compassion of “Beat It,” “Billie
Jean,” and “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’” seemed genuine, generated by Jackson’s
perverse attraction to the ills of teen violence and teen pregnancy. There was some-
thing frightful and compelling about this mollycoddled mama’s boy delivering lapi-
dary pronouncements from his Xanadu like “If you can’t feed your baby, then don’t
have a baby.” While the world will hold its breath and turn blue in the face awaiting
the first successful Michael Jackson paternity suit, he had the nerve to sing, “This kid
is not my son.” Not even David Bowie could create a subtext that coy and rakish on
the surface and grotesque at its depths.
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Only in its twisted aspects does Bad, mostly via the “Bad” video, outdo Thriller.
After becoming an artificial white man, now he wants to trade on his ethnicity. Here’s
Jackson’s sickest fantasy yet: playing the role of a black preppie returning to the
ghetto, he not only offers himself as a role model he literally screams at the brothers
“You ain’t nothin’!” Translation: Niggers ain’t shit. In Jackson’s loathsome concep-
tion of the black experience, you’re either a criminal stereotype or one of the Beauti-
ful People. Having sold the world pure pop pleasure on Thriller, Jackson returns on
Bad to see his own race hatred. If there’s 35 million sales in that, be ready to head for
the hills ya’ll.
After the record-setting Bad tour, Jackson released Dangerous late in

1991. With the assistance of producer Terry Riley, Jackson updated his
sound to incorporate elements of hip-hop and new jack swing. Like Bad,
the album was hugely successful in commercial terms (with worldwide
sales eventually surpassing 40 million) but drew mixed critical notices.
The release of the album was preceded by a single, “Black or White,”
the video of which premiered simultaneously on television channels
around the world. The 14-minute video attracted attention for a famous
“morphing” sequence toward the end of the song in which people of
various races, ages, and genders blurred into one another, and for a
long musicless coda in which Jackson dances, destroys property in a
rage, and grabs his crotch.3
In 1993, negative media attention came to a head when Jackson
became involved in a court case on charges of child molestation that
were eventually settled out of court. The firestorm of publicity led to can-
cellation of Jackson’s ongoing Dangerous tour and the withdrawal of tour
sponsorship by Pepsi. Although he had devoted much effort to humani-
tarian causes throughout the eighties and early nineties—donating
huge sums to charities for children, AIDS research, and scholarship
funds for African Americans—by the mid-nineties his career was in dan-
ger of being overshadowed by scandals. His brief marriage to Lisa Marie
Presley (daughter of Elvis) from 1994 to 1996 only seemed to add to the
aura of strangeness that increasingly engulfed him.
Despite these personal setbacks, throughout the rest of the 1990s
and into the early years of the new millennium Jackson remained quite
active artistically, producing HIStory: Past, Present and Future, Book I
(1995), a double CD that combined a greatest hits collection with 15 new
tracks; Ghosts (1996), a mini-film with Stephen King described as the
longest music video ever (it ran 38 minutes); Blood on the Dance Floor:
HIStory in the Mix (1997), a CD combining remixes of tracks from HIS-
tory with five new songs; and, finally, Invincible (2001), the last album
of new material released during his life. While the music and the vid-
eos all featured new touches (e.g., the increase of “industrial” timbres
and other sounds associated with techno, sampling, collaborations
with rappers), the dominant themes in his lyrics of paranoia, predatory
3. For more on “Black or White,” see Eric Lott, “The Aesthetic Ante: Pleasure, Pop Culture, and
the Middle Passage,” Callaloo 17, no. 2 (Spring 1994): 545–55; and David Brackett, “Black or White?
Michael Jackson and the Idea of Crossover,” Popular Music and Society 35, no. 1 (2012): 1–17.
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374 The 1980s
women, and the need to address various humanitarian crises could all
be traced back to his work in the 1980s, as could the seamless musical
blend of genres that he pioneered in Thriller.
At the time of his death in 2009, Jackson had established himself
as the most successful individual popular musician of all time, surpass-
ing the sales records and global reach of Elvis Presley. To understand
the international reach of his popularity, one need consider the fact
that only 10 percent of the sales of his last three albums came from the
United States, and that his record-setting tours after 1989 avoided the
United States except for Hawaii. He virtually redefined the stylistic basis
of the popular music mainstream in the early 1980s and established
the music video as both a central feature of popular music promotion
and an art form. Even as he experienced unprecedented celebrity, his
physical transformations, androgynous appearance, and reclusive life-
style provoked public debates on the nature of identity. When he died
on June 25, 2009, Jackson was in the midst of preparations for a series
of 50 concerts planned for the O2 arena in London. These preparations
were edited into a film, This Is It (2009), which showed Jackson in top
form working with musicians and dancers. Michael, a CD released in
2010, began what promises to be a long string of posthumous releases.
The following article is one of numerous career retrospectives on Jackson

released in the wake of his death. This profile of Bruce Swedien, engi-
neer on Jackson’s most successful recordings, reveals a different side
of the singer’s personality, as Swedien focuses on Jackson’s profession-
alism and musicality. That said, this article does not ignore Jackson’s
peccadillos, but rather presents them within the milieu responsible for
producing the work through which he will be remembered.
Don’t Stop ’Til You Get Enough: Bruce Swedien Remembers

the Times with Michael Jackson
Daryl Easlea
Here’s irony for you: there were several things timed for the release of Michael
Jackson’s London shows that were to provide testimony to the man’s craft and
heritage rather than focus on the walking National Enquirer story he had become.
At the end of July, the superlative Hip-O Select box set, Hello World, put all of his
solo Motown recordings in one place. The other, Bruce Swedien’s touching, technical
book In The Studio With Michael Jackson gave a vital insight to Jackson the performer
and craftsman.
Source: Daryl Easlea, “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough: Bruce Swedien Remembers the Times with
Michael Jackson,” Record Collector, Summer 2009.
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Something he has been working on for the best part of three years, it’s definitely
a book for the aficionado, detailing the methods (and frequently, the microphones)
that the pair used in the studio. These records are so perfectly formed; I’d rather like
to think they were beamed in from Pluto than ascertaining what Shure™ high per-
formance microphone they used. But find out, in a good way, we do. Swedien is an
engaging raconteur and makes the occasionally dry text in his book come along with
his joyous American Scandinavian.
There is a brilliant picture on the cover of Quincy Jones, Michael Jackson and
Swedien in the studio from the mid-’80s that goes a long way to defining their rela-
tionship: Jones is looking to the left, his eye on the bigger picture, Jackson looking
straight ahead, his afro growing out; and Swedien looking at them both with the air
of a concerned relative. This care permeates his work. Can you think of a snare so
crisp as on Billie Jean or a gospel choir so contained as that on another of his works,
Donna Summer’s on “Love Is In Control (Finger On The Trigger).”
Like the best work Jackson produced, “Love Is In Control” is one of those
records that if you have a problem with, you have a problem with life itself. There
must have been something in the water, Jones and Swedien created this bright oth-
erworldly pop-funk that sounds like tomorrow, even thirty years later. And let us
not forget that one of the records that they made together, Thriller, sold 104 million
copies worldwide, which is why the global outpouring of grief for its maker has been
so spectacular. . . .
Jones and Swedien first worked with Jackson on The Wiz in 1977, but their first
true collaboration was Jackson’s grown-up debut album, Off The Wall, released in
August 1979. It remains Jackson’s most exuberant statement. Keen to celebrate his
maturity, Jackson stepped outside of the family cocoon and made a record that
sounded at once futuristic and adventurous, bending and shaping the genre of pop.
“The real transition was Off The Wall—he wanted that to be his coming of age musi-
cal statement, and if you really listen to that and compare it to the stuff before, that
is exactly what it is.”
The years of Motown schooling had paid off: “Michael was the complete profes-
sional,” Swedien recalls. “Always prepared. When we did a vocal with Michael, I
don’t ever remember him ever having the lyrics on the music stand in front of him.
He’d been up the night before and committed them all to memory. This is the mark of
a true professional. Punch-ins weren’t even an issue. They were the exception rather
than the rule.”
The opening track and lead single, “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough” is one
of the best singles of all-time. Take away the contemporaneous references to “the
force,” and you have something that is timeless; from its itching bass synth intro and
Jackson’s vocal explosion, it is one of the greatest side one, track one records ever. The
detail in the track is astonishing, yet this is hardly a clinical exercise in studio trickery.
It even involves a lot of glass being tapped with sticks. “At the beginning of ‘Don’t
Stop,’ that’s Michael, his brothers and even Janet playing soda bottles. I got out all my
classic ribbon microphones to capture it.” From rattling bottles to the smooth disco
of “Rock With You” and the emotion of “She’s Out Of My Life,” Off The Wall was
an enormous seller, and bridged the ’70s and ’80s effortlessly, seeing off the death
of disco and founding the sort of pop-dance that no-one in the world could escape.
Recorded between April and November 1982, Thriller will be the album for
which Jackson is remembered. Swedien remembers with great affection the ease of
it all. “The main part of Thriller only took three months to record. That’s the result of
their musical understanding—talk about prepared, holy cow. Everything was writ-
ten before it came to the studio. Most people would have been delighted to have
material the strength of Michael’s demos!”
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376 The 1980s
Jackson, as he did for his entire career, did not just drop by for his vocals and
leave. “Michael hung through the whole process. He was so different from anybody
else I ever worked with. A lot of people would be very late to a session. Michael was
always early, always. And he was totally prepared. He’d have his lyrics, have a little
briefcase. He used to carry a lot of stuff in a grocery bag, but always prepared, no
exceptions.”
It was a time of magic, experiment—from Rod Temperton writing the rap for
Vincent Price on Thriller in a back of a cab on the way to the session, to Paul McCa-
rtney dropping by and being the consummate professional to Eddie Van Halen pop-
ping in and rocking out to the undisputed pop masterpiece of Billie Jean,4 the album
was the height of the A team’s collaborative work. And that was before the four foot
by three piece of plywood with Masonite (the all-purpose hardwood best used in wobble
board—-carpentry Ed.) known as the “bathroom stomp board” on the album’s opener,
“Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin.” “The bathroom stomp board was Michael’s idea—we
brought it in the studio, we had to mic it up and he played it. Michael had drum cases
set up that he would use as musical instruments that he always played those things
himself.” The effect is used for all of three seconds half way through the record. Such
was the detail.
The final collaboration with Quincy Jones, Bad saw the whole Michael Jackson
zoo in full effect. And, in this instance, it was an actual zoo. “Bubbles was in the stu-
dio with us,” Swedien chuckles. “He was a juvenile delinquent though. When he’d
get out of line, Michael would take off his black loafer and whap him on the head to
shape him up a little. He would be up in the control room with us with his trainer
Bob Hughes. After a while when we’d all had enough of Bubbles, Michael would
send him home.” And if the chimp wasn’t enough, the snake would be there too.
“The boa, Muscles, was with us during Bad as well. Quincy was absolutely terrified
of snakes. Rod [Temperton] loved Muscles, though. We let him crawl all over the
control console and he could not bump a button. He liked it because it was warm.
He was everywhere.” The chimp and the snake did Jackson’s work rate or the hit
rate, and Bad was one of the most eagerly anticipated album releases of all time when
it appeared at the end of August 1987. Although chock-full of pop nuts, it was no
Thriller, and only sold around 30 million. That said, it remains the only album in US
history to contain five No. 1 singles.
By the time of the recording of the near 80 minute-long Dangerous, between June
1990 and October 1991, the mania really had kicked in; Jackson was self-producing;
everything had become exaggerated. He was listening to the street, getting collabo-
rators like new jack swing pioneer Teddy Riley to assist him. The album needed a
grand statement to kick it off. Swedien co-wrote the album’s opener, Jam. “It was
no accident that Jam was such a huge song. I wrote it with René Moore; we had this
idea of looping hi-energy drum tracks. Michael got really involved and we took it to
the sky. It gives me chills thinking about those sessions. Michael and I had a saying
when we were recording Dangerous—‘the quality goes in before the name goes on,’
and we believed that.”
HIStory was recorded in the mid 90s, after Jackson’s first court case; “I noticed
a difference as the albums we worked together on progressed but his musicality
never wavered. With Michael the musical boundaries were always very wide no
matter how you looked at it.” The studio became a place for Michael to escape, to
retreat to what he knew. “I set up a room for him in the studio, where he had all
his stuff in there and he could go in there and keep everybody out. He used to take
4. Eddie Van Halen played on “Beat It” rather than “Billie Jean.”
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a nap every day for 45 minutes and he’d lock the damn door! I used to worry that
there would be a fire, but he told me repeatedly not to worry. He was a little out
there.”
For Swedien, he has been able to make his hobby his job for the best part of 50
years, and shows few signs of flagging. “It’s been rather interesting, you could say.
It kept me off the street. When anybody needs some high-class mixing here I am.”
And what next for the avuncular engineer? “I’m going to be messing around with
Michael’s stuff. I have been involved with some of the new material, but I have no
idea of what they are intending to do with it. There is some wonderful stuff there.”
Swedien, ever the gentleman, would not divulge any more. His favourite artist has
gone, and everything is rightfully a little raw.
Considering that Swedien worked with Jackson from “Ease On Down The
Road” from 1977’s The Wiz to his most recent work; to finish, what would be the
one track if he had to distil it all down, that would encapsulate Michael’s work?
Swedien takes another long and considered pause. “I’d have to say one that isn’t
his, but it is Michael Jackson unique. It’s his version of Smile, the Charlie Chaplin
thing. That was his favourite song. And we’d long talked about recording it. We
recorded it at the Hit Factory and Jeremy Lubbock did the orchestration, David
Foster is on it. Michael sang that vocal live with the orchestra. Not many singers
full stop could do that quality of vocal performance with the orchestra. Granted,
we did some little fixes in it but not very much. That’s the way he sang it. When
we got to the end of it, it gets real quiet and Michael says to me, ‘Bruce can I talk
to the orchestra?’ I held them in place and Michael comes out and thanked each
and every one of them. They applauded him by tapping their bows on their music
stands. I saw tears in his eyes.” For those of you not familiar with his version, it’s
at the end of the second disc of HIStory. It’s good, but it’ll never be “Don’t Stop ‘Til
You Get Enough.”
As we say our goodbyes, Swedien says in a low, sombre voice. “Michael Jackson
was the best. Not just as a vocalist but as musician. He took it to the sky. He could
play piano a little but he wasn’t that kind of a musician. Michael’s instrument was
his voice and his ideas. Quincy’s instrument, and mine I guess, was the studio. It was
such a great thing working with Michael; we just kept pushing the musical bounda-
ries. Was I lucky or what?”
Further Reading
Brown, Geoff. The Complete Guide to the Music of Michael Jackson and the Jackson Family. New
York: Omnibus Press, 1996.
George, Nelson. The Michael Jackson Story. London: Dell, 1984.
Hidalgo, Susan, and Robert G. Weiner. “‘Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’: MJ in the Scholarly
Literature: A Selected Bibliographic Guide.” Journal of Pan African Studies 3, no. 7 (March
2010): 14–28.
Jackson, Michael. Moonwalk. New York: Doubleday, 1988.
Mercer, Kobena. “Monster Metaphors: Notes on Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller.’” In Sound and
Vision: The Music Video Reader, ed. Simon Frith, Andrew Goodwin, and Lawrence Gross-
berg, 93–108. London and New York: Routledge, 1993.
Special Issue on Michael Jackson. Journal of Popular Music Studies 23, no. 1 (2011).
Special Issue on Michael Jackson. Popular Music and Society 35, no. 1 (2012).
Taraborrelli, Randy J. Michael Jackson—The Magic, the Madness, the Whole Story, 1958–2009.
New York: Grand Central Publishing, 2009.
Wallace, Michelle. Invisibility Blues: From Pop to Theory. London: Verso, 1990.
Willis, Susan. A Primer for Daily Life. New York: Routledge, 1991.
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378 The 1980s
Discography
Jackson, Michael. Off the Wall. Epic, 1979.
______. One Day in Your Life. Motown, 1981.
______. Thriller. Epic, 1982.
______. Bad. Epic, 1987.
______. Dangerous. Epic, 1991.
______. HIStory: Past, Present and Future, Book I. Epic, 1995.
______. Blood on the Dance Floor: HIStory in the Mix. MJJ Music, 1997.
______. Invincible. MJJ Music, 2001.
63. Madonna and the Performance of Identity
Along with Michael Jackson, Madonna (b. 1958) was one of the first stars
to truly understand and exploit the potential of music video and MTV.
Even more than Jackson, she relied less on conventional musical chops
than on creative visual self-presentation, choreography, and dancing.
Both Michael Jackson’s hits from his Thriller album and Madonna’s
early hits proved that a significant audience existed for dance-oriented
recordings. In fact, Madonna’s early recordings found success in dance
clubs before they were played on mainstream pop radio and before
she ever made a video. Her early videos projected a kind of ironic pas-
tiche, playing off well-known cinematic sequences; this occurred most
strikingly in her video for “Material Girl” (1985), in which Madonna pre-
sented herself as a Marilyn Monroe–type character in a scene based on
the performance of the song “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend” (from
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, the 1954 film featuring Monroe).1 Madonna’s
early image also made much of her thrift-store attire, a look that had a
lot in common with another female star from this period who figured
prominently on MTV: Cyndi Lauper.
Madonna subsequently proved herself adept at manipulating
her image and in maintaining media interest in her career—Jon Pareles
memorably described her as a “virtuoso of the superficial.”2 Her
1. See E. Ann Kaplan’s analysis in Rocking around the Clock: Music Television, Postmodernism and
Consumer Culture (London: Methuen, 1987), 117–27.
2. Jon Pareles, “Madonna’s Return to Innocence,” New York Times, October 23, 1994, sec. 2, 1, 38.
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Madonna and the Performance of Identity 379
aunting of her sexuality while presenting herself as being “in control”
fl
(i.e., consciously choosing to flaunt her sexuality) provided a particu-
larly potent model for young female fans (dubbed “wannabes”) and
fueled debate about whether the Madonna persona represented a new
form of feminism or the repudiation of it. Because of her obvious delight
and skill in publicly manipulating this persona, Madonna has become a
favorite of cultural critics.3
The following essay by Camille Paglia presents a good overview of

Madonna’s career up through the early 1990s, with a particularly strong
focus on her videos. While Paglia’s views on feminism provoked a storm
of controversy in the early 1990s, her enthusiasm for Madonna is related
to her ideas about the importance of instinctual sexuality, which, in
turn, formed part of her critique of feminism. Since Madonna’s presen-
tation of her sexuality constituted an undeniable part of her fascination,
Paglia’s account illuminates Madonna’s enormous impact in ways that a
more conventional, “distanced” academic account could not.
Venus of the Radio Waves

Camille Paglia
I’m a dyed-in-the-wool, true-blue Madonna fan.
It all started in 1984, when Madonna exploded onto MTV with a brazen, inso-
lent, in-your-face American street style, which she had taken from urban blacks, His-
panics, and her own middle-class but turbulent and charismatic Italian American
family. From the start, there was a flamboyant and parodistic element to her sexual-
ity, a hard glamour she had learned from Hollywood cinema and from its devotees,
gay men and drag queens.
Madonna is a dancer. She thinks and expresses herself through dance, which
exists in the eternal Dionysian realm of music. Dance, which she studied with a gay
man in her home state of Michigan, was her avenue of escape from the conventions
of religion and bourgeois society. The sensual language of her body allowed her to
transcend the over-verbalized codes of her class and time.
3. For an examination of Madonna as feminist and a musicological analysis of how her record-
ings encode empowering messages for women, see Susan McClary, “Living to Tell: Madonna’s
Resurrection of the Fleshy,” in Feminine Endings (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1991),
148–66. For a contrasting view, see bell hooks, “Madonna: Plantation Mistress or Soul Sister?” in
Black Looks: Race and Representation (Boston: South End Press, 1992), 157–64. For collections of essays
by cultural studies scholars, see Paul Smith, ed., Madonnarama: Essays on Sex and Popular Culture
(Pittsburgh, Penn.: Cleis Press, 1993); and Cathy Schwichtenberg, The Madonna Connection: Repre-
sentational Politics, Subcultural Identities, and Cultural Theory (Boulder, Colo.: Westview Press, 1993).
Source: “Venus of the Radio Waves” © Camille Paglia/Sex, Art, and American Culture (Vintage Books).
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380 The 1980s
Madonna’s great instinctive intelligence was evident to me from her earliest
videos. My first fights about her had to do with whether she was a good dancer or
merely a well-coached one. As year by year she built up the remarkable body of her
video work, with its dazzling number of dance styles, I have had to fight about that
less and less. However, I am still at war about her with feminists and religious con-
servatives (an illuminating alliance of contemporary puritans).
Most people who denigrate Madonna do so out of ignorance. The postwar baby-
boom generation in America, to which I belong, has been deeply immersed in popu-
lar culture for thirty-five years. Our minds were formed by rock music, which has
poured for twenty-four hours a day from hundreds of noisy, competitive independ-
ent radio stations around the country.
Madonna, like Venus stepping from the radio waves, emerged from this giant
river of music. Her artistic imagination ripples and eddies with the inner currents in
American music. She is at her best when she follows her intuition and speaks to the
world in the universal language of music and dance. She is at her worst when she
tries to define and defend herself in words, which she borrows from louche, cynical
pals and shallow, single-issue political activists.
Madonna consolidates and fuses several traditions of pop music, but the major
one she typifies is disco, which emerged in the Seventies and, under the bland com-
mercial rubric “dance music,” is still going strong. It has a terrible reputation: when
you say the word disco, people think “Bee Gees.” But I view disco, at its serious best,
as a dark, grand Dionysian music with roots in African earth-cult.
Madonna’s command of massive, resonant bass lines, which she heard in the
funky dance clubs of Detroit and New York, has always impressed me. As an Italian
Catholic, she uses them liturgically. Like me, she sensed the buried pagan religiosity
in disco. I recall my stunned admiration as I sat in the theater in 1987 and first expe-
rienced the crashing, descending chords of Madonna’s “Causing a Commotion,”
which opened her dreadful movie Who’s That Girl? If you want to hear the essence of
modernity, listen to those chords, infernal, apocalyptic, and grossly sensual. This is
the authentic voice of the fin de siècle.
Madonna’s first video, for her superb, drivingly lascivious disco hit “Burnin’
Up,” did not make much of an impression. The platinum-blonde girl kneeling and
emoting in the middle of a midnight highway just seemed to be a band member’s
floozie. In retrospect, the video, with its rapid, cryptic surrealism, prefigures Madon-
na’s signature themes and contains moments of eerie erotic poetry.
“Lucky Star” was Madonna’s breakthrough video. Against a luminous, white
abstract background, she and two impassive dancers perform a synchronized series
of jagged, modern kicks and steps. Wearing the ragtag outfit of all-black bows, see-
through netting, fingerless lace gloves, bangle bracelets, dangle earrings, chains, cru-
cifixes, and punk booties that would set off a gigantic fashion craze among American
adolescent girls, Madonna flaunts her belly button and vamps the camera with a
smoky, piercing, come-hither-but-keep-your-distance stare. Here she first suggests
her striking talent for improvisational floor work, which she would spectacularly
demonstrate at the first MTV awards show, when, wrapped in a white-lace wedding
dress, she campily rolled and undulated snakelike on the stage, to the baffled con-
sternation of the first rows of spectators.
I remember sitting in a bar when “Lucky Star,” just out, appeared on TV. The
stranger perched next to me, a heavyset, middle-aged working-class woman, watched
the writhing Madonna and, wide-eyed and slightly frowning, blankly said, her beer
held motionless halfway to her lips, “Will you look at this?” There was a sense that
Madonna was doing something so new and so strange that one didn’t know whether
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Madonna and the Performance of Identity 381
to call it beautiful or grotesque. Through MTV, Madonna was transmitting an avant-
garde downtown New York sensibility to the American masses.
In “Lucky Star,” Madonna is raffish, gamine, still full of the street-urchin mis-
chief that she would portray in her first and best film, Susan Seidelman’s Desperately
Seeking Susan (1984). In “Borderline,” she shows her burgeoning star quality. As the
girlfriend of Hispanic toughs who is picked up by a British photographer and makes
her first magazine cover, she presents the new dualities of her life: the gritty, multi-
racial street and club scene that she had haunted in obscurity and poverty, and her
new slick, fast world of popularity and success.
In one shot of “Borderline,” as she chummily chews gum with kidding girl-
friends on the corner, you can see the nondescript plainness of Madonna’s real face,
which she again exposes, with admirable candor, in Truth or Dare when, slurping
soup and sporting a shower cap over hair rollers, she fences with her conservative
Italian father over the phone. Posing for the photographer in “Borderline,” Madonna
in full cry fixes the camera lens with challenging, molten eyes, in a bold ritual display
of sex and aggression. This early video impressed me with Madonna’s sophisticated
view of the fabrications of femininity, that exquisite theater which feminism con-
demns as oppression but which I see as a supreme artifact of civilization. I sensed
then, and now know for certain, that Madonna, like me, is drawn to drag queens for
their daring, flamboyant insight into sex roles, which they see far more clearly and
historically than do our endlessly complaining feminists.
Madonna’s first major video, in artistic terms, was “Like a Virgin,” where she
began to release her flood of inner sexual personae, which appear and disappear like
the painted creatures of masque. Madonna is an orchid-heavy Veronese duchess in
white, a febrile Fassbinder courtesan in black, a slutty nun-turned-harlequin flapping
a gold cross and posturing, bum in air, like a demonic phantom in the nose of a gon-
dola. This video alone, with its coruscating polarities of evil and innocence, would be
enough to establish Madonna’s artistic distinction for the next century.
In “Material Girl,” where she sashays around in Marilyn Monroe’s strapless red
gown and archly flashes her fan at a pack of men in tuxedos, Madonna first showed
her flair for comedy. Despite popular opinion, there are no important parallels
between Madonna and Monroe, who was a virtuoso comedienne but who was inse-
cure, depressive, passive-aggressive, and infuriatingly obstructionist in her career
habits. Madonna is manic, perfectionist, workaholic. Monroe abused alcohol and
drugs, while Madonna shuns them. Monroe had a tentative, melting, dreamy solip-
sism; Madonna has Judy Holliday’s wisecracking smart mouth and Joan Crawford’s
steel will and bossy, circus-master managerial competence.
In 1985 the cultural resistance to Madonna became overt. Despite the fact that
her “Into the Groove,” the mesmerizing theme song of Desperately Seeking Susan, had
saturated our lives for nearly a year, the Grammy Awards outrageously ignored her.
The feminist and moralist sniping began in earnest. Madonna “degraded” woman-
hood; she was vulgar, sacrilegious, stupid, shallow, opportunistic. A nasty mass
quarrel broke out in one of my classes between the dancers, who adored Madonna,
and the actresses, who scorned her.
I knew the quality of what I was seeing: “Open Your Heart,” with its risqué
peep-show format, remains for me not only Madonna’s greatest video but one of the
three or four best videos ever made. In the black bustier she made famous (trans-
forming the American lingerie industry overnight), Madonna, bathed in blue-white
light, plays Marlene Dietrich straddling a chair. Her eyes are cold, distant, all-seeing.
She is ringed, as if in a sea-green aquarium, by windows of lewd or longing voyeurs:
sad sacks, brooding misfits, rowdy studs, dreamy gay twins, a melancholy lesbian.
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382 The 1980s
“Open Your Heart” is a brilliant mimed psychodrama of the interconnections
between art and pornography, love and lust. Madonna won my undying loyalty
by reviving and re-creating the hard glamour of the studio-era Hollywood movie
queens, figures of mythological grandeur. Contemporary feminism cut itself off
from history and bankrupted itself when it spun its puerile, paranoid fantasy of male
oppressors and female sex-object victims. Woman is the dominant sex. Woman’s
sexual glamour has bewitched and destroyed men since Delilah and Helen of Troy.
Madonna, role model to millions of girls worldwide, has cured the ills of feminism
by reasserting woman’s command of the sexual realm.
Responding to the spiritual tensions within Italian Catholicism, Madonna
discovered the buried paganism within the church. The torture of Christ and the
martyrdom of the saints, represented in lurid polychrome images, dramatize the pas-
sions of the body, repressed in art-fearing puritan Protestantism of the kind that still
lingers in America. Playing with the outlaw personae of prostitute and dominatrix,
Madonna has made a major contribution to the history of women. She has rejoined
and healed the split halves of woman: Mary, the Blessed Virgin and holy mother, and
Mary Magdalene, the harlot.
Madonna’s inner emotional life can be heard in the smooth, transparent “La Isla
Bonita,” one of her most perfect songs, with its haunting memory of paradise lost.
No one ever mentions it. Publicity has tended to focus instead on the more bla-
tantly message-heavy videos, like “Papa Don’t Preach,” with its teen pregnancy, or
“Express Yourself,” where feminist cheerleading lyrics hammer on over crisp, glossy
images of bedroom bondage, dungeon torture, and epicene, crotch-grabbing Weimar
elegance.
“Like a Prayer” gave Pepsi-Cola dyspepsia: Madonna receives the stigmata,
makes love with the animated statue of a black saint, and dances in a rumpled silk
slip in front of a field of burning crosses. This last item, with its uncontrolled racial
allusions, shocked even me. But Madonna has a strange ability to remake symbol-
ism in her own image. Kitsch and trash are transformed by her high-energy dancer’s
touch, her earnest yet over-the-top drag-queen satire.
Madonna has evolved physically. In a charming early live video, “Dress You
Up,” she is warm, plump, and flirty under pink and powder-blue light. Her voice
is enthusiastic but thin and breathy. She began to train both voice and body, so that
her present silhouette, with some erotic loss, is wiry and muscular, hyperkinetic for
acrobatic dance routines based on the martial arts. Madonna is notorious for monthly
or even weekly changes of hair color and style, by which she embodies the restless
individualism of Western personality. Children love her. As with the Beatles, this is
always the sign of a monumental pop phenomenon.
Madonna has her weak moments: for example, I have no tolerance for the gig-
gling baby talk that she periodically hauls out of the closet, as over the final credits of
Truth or Dare. She is a complex modern woman. Indeed, that is the main theme of her
extraordinary achievement. She is exploring the problems and tensions of being an
ambitious woman today. Like the potent Barbra Streisand, whose maverick female
style had a great impact on American girls in the Sixties, Madonna is confronting the
romantic dilemma of the strong woman looking for a man but uncertain whether she
wants a tyrant or slave. The tigress in heat is drawn to surrender but may kill her
conqueror.
In “Open Your Heart,” Madonna is woman superbly alone, master of her own
fate. Offstage at the end, she mutates into an androgynous boy-self and runs off.
“What a Tramp!” thundered the New York Post in a recent full-page headline. Yes,
Madonna has restored the Whore of Babylon, the pagan goddess banned by the last
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Bruce Springsteen 383
book of the Bible. With an instinct for world-domination gained from Italian Catholi-
cism, she has rolled like a juggernaut over the multitude of her carping critics. This is
a kaleidoscopic career still in progress. But Madonna’s most enduring cultural con-
tribution may be that she has introduced ravishing visual beauty and a lush Mediter-
ranean sensuality into parched, pinched, word-drunk Anglo-Saxon feminism.
Further Reading
Fouz-Hernández, Santiago, and Freya Jarman-Ivens. Madonna’s Drowned Worlds: New Ap-
proaches to Her Cultural Transformations, 1983–2003. Burlington, Vt.: Ashgate, 2004.
McClary, Susan. Feminine Endings. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1991.
Metz, Allan, and Carol Benson. The Madonna Companion: Two Decades of Commentary. New
York: Schirmer, 1999.
Vernallis, Carol. “The Aesthetics of Music Video: An Analysis of Madonna’s ‘Cherish.’” Pop-
ular Music 17 (1998): 153–85.
Discography
Madonna. Madonna. Sire, 1983.
______. Like a Virgin. Sire, 1984.
______. True Blue. Sire, 1986.
______. Who’s That Girl. Sire, 1987.
______. Like a Prayer. Sire, 1989.
______. The Immaculate Collection. Sire, 1990.
______. Ray of Light. Warner Bros./WEA, 1998.
64. Bruce Springsteen

R EBOR N IN T HE US A
Hailed as the latest in a series of “New Dylans” upon the release of

his first albums in 1973 and 1975, lauded by critic Jon Landau (who
later became his manager and producer) in a review that exclaimed,
“I saw rock & roll’s future and its name is Bruce Springsteen,”1 Bruce
Springsteen (b. 1949) had to wait for the beginning of the video era in
1. Jon Landau, “I Saw Rock and Roll’s Future . . . ,” The Real Paper, May 23, 1974; reprinted in
Clinton Heylin, ed., The Da Capo Book of Rock and Roll Writing (New York: Da Capo Press, [1992]
2000), 227–28.
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384 The 1980s
the early 1980s to achieve superstar status. Springsteen’s early suc-
cess relied as much as on his epic-length performances as on his early
recordings, which ranged from the Spectoresque “Born to Run” (1975),
to early rock ‘n’ roll à la Gary “U.S.” Bonds and Roy Orbison, to bleak
acoustic ballads of resignation. The subjects of his songs vacillated
between sensitive portraits of working-class people stuck in dead-end
lives and rousing, celebratory rockers.
A yearning for a return to rock’s roots (that may have been related
to the critical manifestos leading to punk) ran through the ecstatic
responses to Springsteen in the mid- to late 1970s. References to rock
‘n’ roll’s past also figure in Springsteen’s aesthetic, and it is this nos-
talgic, or “retro,” aesthetic, in which pastiche as a strategy is never far
away, that links successful early 1980s artists that may be as stylisti-
cally disparate as Springsteen and Madonna. Can it be a coincidence
that Springsteen’s first two albums, Greetings from Asbury Park, N.J.,
and The Wild, the Innocent and the E Street Shuffle both appeared in
1973, the same year as that cinematic evocation of the innocence of the
pre-1964 era, American Graffiti?
David Marsh came to prominence as a rock critic in the early 1970s on

the staff of Creem. He wrote the first biography of Springsteen, Born
to Run: The Bruce Springsteen Story (1979), which he followed with a
second volume in 1987, Glory Days: Bruce Springsteen in the 1980s. The
following may be Marsh’s first article on Springsteen—it appeared in
1975 immediately prior to the release of Springsteen’s album Born to
Run—and it represents well the enthusiasm expressed by critics over
Springsteen’s early efforts. Marsh’s predictions of breakthrough suc-
cess proved to be on the money, since Born to Run and the single bear-
ing the same title became Springsteen’s first hits.
Little Egypt from Asbury Park—and Bruce Springsteen Don’t

Crawl on His Belly, Neither
David Marsh
Bruce Springsteen sits cross-legged on his half-made bed, and surveys the scene.
Records are strewn across the room, singles mostly, intermixed with empty Pepsi
bottles, a motley of underwear, socks and jeans, half-read and half-written letters, an
assortment of tapes, and a copy of Richard Williams’s Out of His Head, the biography
of Phil Spector.
Source: “Little Egypt from Asbury Park—and Bruce Springsteen Don’t Crawl on His Belly, Nei-
ther,” David Marsh © 1975 Duke & Duchess Ventures Inc.
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“Here,” he says, “I’ll play ya something else.” He puts on a tape of he and the
E Street Band at the Main Point in Philadelphia. Suddenly, out of the speakers booms
his own voice, cracking up at what he’s singing. (“That song has some of the best
lines,” he says shaking his head, “and some of the dumbest.”) “Stan-din’ on a moun-
tain lookin’ down at the city, the way I feel t’nite is a dawgawn pity.” When the band
comes in, the room is charged. The playing and the singing is rough, even ragged, but
it is alive, sparked with the discovery of something vital in an old, trashy song. It has
been a long time since I heard anyone get this interested in rock and roll, even classic
old rock and roll. It has been a lot longer since anyone has gotten me so interested.
Song done, Springsteen snaps the tape recorder off. “There,” he says, with the
characteristic delinquent twinkle in his eye, “If that don’t get a club goin’, nothin’ will.”
Bruce Springsteen is determined to get ‘em going. The magic is that he doesn’t
have to be so determined to get himself going. Without being constantly “on,” like
a performer, Springsteen is constantly on, like someone who knows how good he is.
He is full of himself, confident without being arrogant, almost serene in his aware-
ness of what he is doing with his songs, his singing, his band. . . . Unlike say, Roxy
Music, which makes very exciting music out of a nearly desperate sense of boredom,
Springsteen makes mesmerizing rock out of an inner conviction that almost every-
thing is interesting, even fascinating.
Take the three songs which, at this point, form the focus of the long awaited
third Springsteen album. “Born to Run” is almost a rock opera. But, rather than
building his concept piece around a derivative European anti-funk motif, Spring
steen has built his masterwork around a guitar line ripped straight from the heart of
“Telstar.” It may be too long (4:30) and too dense (layer upon layer of glockenspiel,
voice, band, strings) to be a hit, but it does capture the imagination with its evocation
of Springsteen’s usual characters—kids on the streets and ‘tween the sheets—and its
immortal catch-line: “Tramps like us, baby we was born to run.”
The sense that he is special has begun to pervade even Springsteen’s semi-private
life. When he showed up at a party for label mates Blue Oyster Cult, Springsteen
completely dominated the room. So much so that Rod Stewart and a couple of
the Faces, no slouches at scene-stealing themselves, were all but ignored when
they made a brief appearance. Yet he has yet to lose his innocence. Going to visit the
Faces later that night, at the ostentatiously elegant Plaza Hotel, Springsteen feigned
awe—although you wondered if it were entirely feigned—at the mirrored, plushly
carpeted lobby.
Fragments of a legend have begun to build. There are the stories about school—
in high school, the time when he was sent to first grade by a nun, and, continuing
to act the wise-ass, was put in the embarrassing position of having the first grade
nun suggest to a smaller child: “Johnny, show Bruce how we treat people who act
like that down here.” Johnny slapped Springsteen’s face. Or in college, the story of
how the student body petitioned the administration for his expulsion, “because I
was just too weird for ‘em, I guess.” The news that his father was a bus driver, which
gives added poignancy to “Does This Bus Stop at 82nd Street?” (Which begins, “Hey,
bus driver, keep the change.”) Aphorisms are not beyond him: On Led Zeppelin:
“They’re like a lot of those groups. Not only aren’t they doing anything new, they
don’t do the old stuff so good, either.” On marriage: “I lived with someone once for
two years. But I decided that to be married, you had to write married music. And I’m
not ready for that.” On the radio: “I don’t see how anyone listens to [the local pro-
gressive rock station]. Everything’s so damn long. At least if you listen to [the local
oldies station] you know you’re gonna hit three out of five. And the stuff you don’t
like doesn’t last long.”
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386 The 1980s
All of this goes only so far, of course. A record, a hit record, is a crucial necessity.
Sales of the first two albums are over 100,000 but that’s nothing in America. There
are still large areas of the country where Springsteen hasn’t played—even important
large cities such as Detroit have been left out—and though the word travels fast,
and frequently, articles like this ultimately seem like just the usual rhetoric without
something to back them up. As one Californian put it, “I’ve heard enough. It’s like
having everyone tell me I’m really missing something by not seeing Egypt. When’s
he going to come out here?”
Presuming he has the hit he deserves, Springsteen should be hitting most of
America over the rest of the year. After an abortive arena journey with Chicago, he
is, he says, reluctant to play large halls ever again. But he is one of the few rockers
who would have any idea of what to do—except blast—in a room the size of a hockey
rink. (Mick Jagger is about the only example who comes to mind, though Rod Stew-
art and Elvis do pretty well now that I think of it.)
Suppose that he does hit the big time. Even, suppose that he really is, as the ads
have it, “rock and roll future.” What happens then?
Since I believe that all of the above is true, and is going to happen, I have been
at some pains to try to figure it out. Certainly, not a new explosion, à la Beatles and
Elvis. Those phenomena were predicated upon an element of surprise, of catching
an audience unaware, that is simply no longer operative. Not with rock on nation-
wide TV too many times a week. And not the kind of quiet, in-crowd build-up that
propelled Dylan into the national eye. What Springsteen is after—nothing less than
everything—has to be bigger than that, in mass terms, though it obviously cannot
exceed Dylan in influence, his biggest achievement.
Springsteen’s impact may very well be most fully felt as a springboard, a device
to get people to do more than just pay attention. He can, potentially, polarize people
in the way that Elvis, the Beatles, the Stones, Dylan—all the great ones—initially did.
(Already, some early Springsteen fans feel alienated by his ever more forceful occu-
pation with his soul influences.) The key to the success of those four is that as many
hated them as loved them—but everyone had to take a position. God knows who
he’ll drag into the spotlight with him—it might have been the N.Y. Dolls, whose pas-
sion for soul oldies was equal to his, or Loudon Wainwright, whose cool, humorous
vision parallels Bruce’s in a more adult (sort of) way—but that ought to be something
like what will happen. Sort of the way Carl Perkins, Jerry Lee Lewis and the other
rockabilly crazies followed Elvis.
He’s smart though. He said it all, one night, introducing “Wear My Ring Around
Your Neck,” the Presley oldie. “There have been contenders. There have been pre-
tenders. But there is still only one King.”
But no king reigns forever.
Springsteen’s second album of the 1980s, the introspective Nebraska
(1982), was recorded at home on a four-track tape recorder, after which
he radically reversed directions with Born in the U.S.A. (1984). On that
album Springsteen retooled the populist themes of his earlier work in
anthemic settings, while placing an American flag on the album cover
and using the flag on his stage sets. The inherent political ambiguity
of populism meant that Springsteen’s message could be appropriated
by people with whose political stance he was not necessarily sympa-
thetic: Ronald Reagan cited the title song approvingly during his presi-
dential reelection campaign in 1984. The singles taken from Born in the
U.S.A. also marked Springsteen’s successful entry into the video arena
with his newly buffed-up bod. No fewer than seven Top 10 singles were
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released from the album in 1984–85, attesting to new legions of fans,
and his videos were constant features on MTV.
Simon Frith’s 1987 article followed the release of Springsteen’s

immensely successful box set, Live/1975–85. Frith documents well
the contradictions of mass-market populism and analyzes several of
the myths attached to the Springsteen image, one of which asserts that
his disdain for commerce renders him impervious to charges of commer-
cialism. Frith uses the discussion of these myths to take up the issue
of authenticity, an issue that he has addressed many times in other
writings (and an issue that, as we have seen, has been central to rock
criticism since it began in the mid-1960s).2 Springsteen’s authenticity
springs from both his image and his storytelling technique: a “refusal
to sentimentalize social conditions, a compulsion to sentimentalize
human nature,” a celebration “of the ordinary, not the special.” Frith
is not necessarily insisting that Springsteen is a sham, but rather that
“music can not be true or false, it can only refer to conventions of truth
and falsity.” Frith voices a European counterweight to the celebratory
tones of many American critics, remaining skeptical about divisions
between “democratic populism” and “market populism.”3
The Real Thing—Bruce Springsteen

Simon Frith
Introduction
My guess is that by Christmas 1986 Bruce Springsteen was making more money per day
than any other pop star—more than Madonna, more than Phil Collins or Mark Knop-
fler, more than Paul McCartney even; Time calculated that he had earned $7.5 million
in the first week of his Live LP release. This five-record boxed set went straight to the top
of the American LP sales charts (it reputedly sold a million copies on its first day, gross-
ing $50 million “out of the gate”) and stayed there throughout the Christmas season. It
was the nation’s best-seller in November and December, when more records are sold
than in all the other months of the year put together. Even in Britain, where the winter
2. Frith’s most thorough explorations of this issue may be found in Sound Effects (New York:
Pantheon Books, 1981); and Performing Rites: On the Value of Popular Music (Cambridge, Mass.:
Harvard University Press).
3. Daniel Cavicchi noted in a book on Springsteen fandom how arguments about the construct-
edness of Springsteen’s authenticity are bound to have little weight for fans of the Boss; for them,
“authenticity is about Springsteen as a real person.” See Tramps Like Us: Music and Meaning among
Springsteen Fans (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998), 65.
Source: “The Real Thing—Bruce Springsteen,” Simon Frith, Music for Pleasure: Essays in the Sociol-
ogy of Pop (Routledge). Originally published in 1987 in Musica E Dossier, pp. 94–101.
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388 The 1980s
charts are dominated by TV-advertised anthologies, the Springsteen set at £25 brought
in more money than the tight-margin single-album compilations. (And CBS reckon
they get 42% of their annual sales at Christmas time.) Walking through London from
Tottenham Court Road down Oxford Street to Piccadilly in early December, passing
the three symbols of corporate rock—the Virgin, HMV and Tower superstores—each
claiming to be the biggest record shop in the world, I could only see Springsteen boxes,
piled high by the cash desks, the safest stock of the season.
Whatever the final sales figures turn out to be (and after Christmas the returns of
the boxes from the retailers to CBS were as startling as the original sales), it is already
obvious that Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band Live is a phenomenal record, a
money-making achievement to be discussed on the same scale as Saturday Night
Fever or Michael Jackson’s Thriller. Remember, too, that a live record is cheaper to
produce than a new studio sound (and Springsteen has already been well rewarded
for these songs from the sales of previous discs and proceeds of sell-out tours). Nor
did CBS need the expensive trappings or promo videos and press and TV advertising
to make this record sell. Because the Springsteen box was an event in itself (the only
pop precedent I can think of is the Beatles’ 1968 White Album), it generated its own
publicity as “news”—radio stations competed to play the most tracks for the longest
times, shops competed to give Bruce the most window space, newspapers competed
in speculations about how much money he was really making. The Springsteen box
became, in other words, that ultimate object of capitalist fantasy, a commodity which
sold more and more because it had sold so well already, a product which had to be
owned (rather than necessarily used).
In the end, though, what is peculiar about the Springsteen story is not its marks
of a brilliant commercial campaign, but their invisibility. Other superstars put out
live sets for Christmas (Queen, for example) and the critics sneer at their opportun-
ism; other stars resell their old hits (Bryan Ferry, for example) and their fans worry
about their lack of current inspiration. And in these sorry tales of greed and pride
it is Bruce Springsteen more often than not who is the measure of musical integrity,
the model of a rock performer who cannot be discussed in terms of financial calcula-
tion. In short, the most successful pop commodity of the moment, the Springsteen
Live Set, stands for the principle that music should not be a commodity; it is his very
disdain for success that makes Springsteen so successful. It is as if his presence on
every fashionable turntable, tape deck and disc machine, his box on every up-market
living-room floor, are what enables an aging, affluent rock generation to feel in touch
with its “roots.” And what matters in this post-modern era is not whether Bruce
Springsteen is the real thing, but how he sustains the belief that there are somehow,
somewhere, real things to be.
False
Consider the following:
Bruce Springsteen is a millionaire who dresses as a worker. Worn jeans, singlets, a head
band to keep his hair from his eyes—these are working clothes and it is an important
part of Springsteen’s appeal that we do see him, as an entertainer, working for his liv-
ing. His popularity is based on his live shows and, more particularly, on their spectac-
ular energy: Springsteen works hard, and his exhaustion—on our behalf—is visible.
He makes music physically, as a manual worker. His clothes are straightforwardly
practical, sensible (like sports people’s clothes)—comfortable jeans (worn in) for easy
movement, a singlet to let the sweat flow free, the mechanic’s cloth to wipe his brow.
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But there is more to these clothes than this. Springsteen wears work clothes even
when he is not working. His off-stage image, his LP sleeves and interview poses, even
the candid “off duty” paparazzi shots, involve the same down-to-earth practicality
(the only time Springsteen was seen to dress up “in private” was for his wedding).
Springsteen doesn’t wear the clothes appropriate to his real economic status and
resources (as compared with other pop stars), but neither does he dress up for spe-
cial occasions like real workers do—he’s never seen flashily attired for a sharp night
out. It’s as if he can’t be seen to be excessive or indulgent except on our behalf, as
a performer for an audience. For him there is no division between work and play,
between the ordinary and the extraordinary. Because the constructed “Springsteen,”
the star, is presented plain, there can never be a suggestion that this is just an act (as
Elvis was an act, as Madonna is). There are no other Springsteens, whether more real
or more artificial, to be seen.
Springsteen is employer-as-employee. It has always surprised me that he should be nick-

named “the Boss,” but the implication is that this is an affectionate label, a brotherly
way in which the E Street Band honor his sheer drive. In fact “boss” is an accurate
description of their economic relationship—Springsteen employs his band; he has
the recording contracts, controls the LP and concert material, writes the songs and
chooses the oldies. And whatever his musicians’ contributions to his success (ful-
somely recognized), he gets the composing/performing royalties, could, in principle,
sack people, and, like any other good employer, rewards his team with generous
bonuses after each sell-out show or disc. And, of course, he employs a stage crew too,
and a manager, a publicist, a secretary/assistant; he has an annual turnover now of
millions. He may express the feelings of “little” men and women buffeted by distant
company boards but he is himself a corporation.
Springsteen is a 37-year-old teenager. He is 20 years into a hugely successful career,

he’s a professional, a married man old enough to be the father of adolescent chil-
dren of his own, but he still presents himself as a young man, waiting to see what
life will bring, made tense by clashes with adult authority. He introduces his songs
with memories—his life as a boy, arguments with his father (his mother is rarely
mentioned)—but as a performer he is clearly present in these emotions. Springsteen
doesn’t regret or vilify his past; as a grown man he’s still living it.
Springsteen is a shy exhibitionist. He is, indeed, one of the sexiest performers rock and
roll has ever had—there’s a good part of his concert audience who simply fancy him,
can’t take their eyes off his body, and he’s mesmerizing on stage because of the con-
fidence with which he displays himself. But, for all this, his persona is still that of a
nervy, gauche youth on an early date.
Springsteen is superstar-as-friend. He comes into our lives as a recording star, a radio

sound, a video presence and, these days, as an item of magazine gossip. Even in
his live shows he seems more accessible in the close-ups on the mammoth screens
around the stage than as the “real” dim figure in the distance. And yet he is still the
rock performer whose act most convincingly creates (and depends on) a sense of
community.
Springsteen’s most successful “record” is “live.” What the boxed set is meant to do is
reproduce a concert, an event, and if for other artists five records would be excessive,
for Springsteen it is a further sign of his album’s truth-to-life—it lasts about the same
length of time as a show. There’s an interesting question of trust raised here. I don’t
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390 The 1980s
doubt that these performances were once live, that the applause did happen, but this
is nevertheless a false event, a concert put together from different shows (and alter-
native mixes), edited and balanced to sound like a live LP (which has quite different
aural conventions than an actual show). Springsteen fans know that, of course. The
pleasure of this set is not that it takes us back to somewhere we’ve been, but that it
lays out something ideal. It describes what we mean by “Springsteen live,” and what
makes him “real” in this context is not his transparency, the idea that he is who he
pretends to be, but his art, his ability to articulate the right idea of reality.
True
The recurring term used in discussions of Springsteen, by fans, by critics, by fans-as-
critics is “authenticity.” What is meant by this is not that Springsteen is authentic in
a direct way—is simply expressing himself—but that he represents “authenticity.”
This is why he has become so important: he stands for the core values of rock and
roll even as those values become harder and harder to sustain. At a time when rock is
the soundtrack for TV commercials, when tours depend on sponsorship deals, when
video promotion has blurred the line between music-making and music-selling,
Springsteen suggests that, despite everything, it still gives people a way to define
themselves against corporate logic, a language in which everyday hopes and fears
can be expressed.
If Bruce Springsteen didn’t exist, American rock critics would have had to invent
him. In a sense, they did, whether directly (Jon Landau, Rolling Stone’s most signifi-
cant critical theorist in the late sixties, is now his manager) or indirectly (Dave Marsh,
Springsteen’s official biographer, is the most passionate and widely read rock critic
of the eighties). There are, indeed, few American rock critics who haven’t celebrated
Springsteen, but their task has been less to explain him to his potential fans, to sus-
tain the momentum that carried him from cult to mass stardom, than to explain him
to himself. They’ve placed him, that is, in a particular reading of rock history, not
as the “new Dylan” (his original sales label) but as the “voice of the people.” His task
is to carry the baton passed on from Woody Guthrie, and the purpose of his carefully
placed oldies (Guthrie’s “This Land Is Your Land,” Presley and Berry hits, British
beat classics, Edwin Starr’s “War”) isn’t just to situate him as a fellow fan but also to
identify him with a particular musical project. Springsteen himself claims on stage to
represent an authentic popular tradition (as against the spurious commercial senti-
ments of an Irving Berlin).
To be so “authentic” involves a number of moves. Firstly, authenticity must
be defined against artifice; the terms only make sense in opposition to each other.
This is the importance of Springsteen’s image—to represent the “raw” as against the
“cooked.” His plain stage appearance, his dressing down, has to be understood with
reference to showbiz dressing up, to the elaborate spectacle of cabaret pop and soul
(and routine stadium rock and roll)—Springsteen is real by contrast. In lyrical terms
too he is plain-speaking; his songwriting craft is marked not by “poetic” or obscure
or personal language, as in the singer/ songwriter tradition following Dylan, folk-
rock (and his own early material) but by the vivid images and metaphors he builds
from common words.
What’s at stake here is not the authenticity of experience, but authenticity of
feeling; what matters is not whether Springsteen has been through these things him-
self (boredom, aggression, ecstasy, despair) but that he knows how they work. The
point of his autobiographical anecdotes is not to reveal himself but to root his music
in material conditions. Like artists in other media (fiction, film) Springsteen is con-
cerned to give emotions (the essential data of rock and roll) a narrative setting, to
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s ituate them in time and place, to relate them to the situations they explain or confuse.
He’s not interested in abstract emotions, in vague sensation or even in moralizing.
He is, to put it simply, a story-teller, and in straining to make his stories credible he
uses classic techniques. Reality is registered by conventions first formulated by the
nineteenth-century naturalists—a refusal to sentimentalize social conditions, a com-
pulsion to sentimentalize human nature. Springsteen’s songs (like Zola’s fictions) are
almost exclusively concerned with the working-class, with the effects of poverty and
uncertainty, the consequences of weakness and crime; they trawl through the murky
reality of the American dream; they contrast utopian impulses with people’s lack of
opportunity to do much more than get by; they find in sex the only opportunity for
passion (and betrayal). Springsteen’s protagonists, victims and criminals, defeated
and enraged, are treated tenderly, their hopes honoured, their failure determined by
circumstance.
It is his realism that makes Springsteen’s populism politically ambiguous. His
message is certainly anti-capitalist, or, at least, critical of the effects of capitalism—as
both citizen and star Springsteen has refused to submit to market forces, has shown
consistent and generous support for the system’s losers, for striking trade unionists
and the unemployed, for battered wives and children. But at the same time, his focus
on individuals’ fate, the very power with which he describes the dreams they can’t
realize (but which he has) offers an opening for his appropriation, appropriation
not just by politicians like Reagan but, more importantly, by hucksters and advertis-
ers, who use him to sell their goods as some sort of solution to the problem he out-
lines. This is the paradox of mass-marketed populism: Springsteen’s songs suggest
there is something missing in our lives, the CBS message is that we can fill the gap
with a Bruce Springsteen record. And for all Springsteen’s support of current causes,
what comes from his music is a whiff of nostalgia and an air of fatalism. His stories
describe hopes-about-to-be dashed, convey a sense of time passing beyond our con-
trol, suggest that our dreams can only be dreams. The formal conservatism of the
music reinforces the emotional conservatism of the lyrics. This is the way the world
is, he sings, and nothing really changes.
But there’s another way of describing Springsteen’s realism. It means celebrating
the ordinary not the special. Again the point is not that Springsteen is ordinary or
even pretends to be, but that he honors ordinariness, making something intense out
of experiences that are usually seen as mundane. It has always been pop’s function to
transform the banal, but this purpose was to some extent undermined by the rise of
rock in the sixties, with its claims to art and poetry, its cult-building, its heavy metal
mysticism. Springsteen himself started out with a couple of wordy, worthy LPs, but
since then he has been in important ways committed to common sense. Springsteen’s
greatest skill is his ability to dramatize everyday events—even his stage act is a pub
rock show writ large. The E Street Band, high-class professionals, play with a sort of
amateurish enthusiasm, an affection for each other which is in sharp contrast to the
bohemian contempt for their work (and their audience) which has been a strand of
“arty” rock shows since the Rolling Stones and the Doors. Springsteen’s musicians
stand for every bar and garage group that ever got together in fond hope of stardom.
His sense of the commonplace also explains Springsteen’s physical appeal. His
sexuality is not displayed as something remarkable, a kind of power, but is coded
into his “natural” movements, determined by what he has to do to sing and play. His
body becomes “sexy”—a source of excitement and anxiety—in its routine activity;
his appeal is not defined in terms of glamour or fantasy. The basic sign of Spring
steen’s authenticity, to put it another way, is his sweat, his display of energy. His body
is not posed, an object of consumption, but active, an object of exhaustion. When the
E Street Band gather at the end of a show for the final bow, arms around each other’s
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392 The 1980s
shoulders, drained and relieved, the sporting analogy is clear: this is a team which
has won its latest bout. What matters is that every such bout is seen to be real, that
there are no backing tapes, no “fake” instruments, that the musicians really have
played until they can play no more. There is a moment in every Springsteen show
I’ve seen when Clarence Clemons takes center-stage. For that moment he is the real
star—he’s bigger than Springsteen, louder, more richly dressed. And he’s the saxo-
phonist, giving us the clearest account all evening of the relationship between human
effort and human music.
To be authentic and to sound authentic is in the rock context the same thing.
Music can not be true or false, it can only refer to conventions of truth and falsity.
Consider the following.
Thundering drums in Springsteen’s songs give his stories their sense of unstop-
pable momentum, they map out the spaces within which things happen. The equation
of time and space is the secret of great rock and roll and Springsteen uses other clas-
sic devices to achieve it—a piano/organ combination, for example (as used by The
Band and many soul groups), so that melodic-descriptive and rhythmic-atmospheric
sounds are continually swapped about.
The E Street Band makes music as a group, but a group in which we can hear
every instrumentalist. Our attention is drawn, that is, not to a finished sound but to
music-in-the-making. This is partly done by the refusal to make any instrument the
“lead” (which is why Nils Lofgren, a “lead” guitarist, sounded out of place in the last
E Street touring band). And partly by a specific musical busy-ness—the group is
“tight,” everyone is aiming for the same rhythmic end, but “loose,” each player makes
their own decision as to how to get there (which is one reason why electronic instru-
ments would not fit—they’re too smooth, too determined). All Springsteen’s musi-
cians, even the added back-up singers and percussionists, have individual voices;
it would be unthinkable for him to appear with, say, an anonymous string section.
The textures and, more significantly, the melodic structures of Springsteen’s
music make self-conscious reference to rock and roll itself, to its conventional line-
up, its cliched chord changes, its time-honoured ways of registering joys and sadness.
Springsteen himself is a rock and roll star, not a crooner or singer/songwriter. His
voice strains to be heard, he has to shout against the instruments that both support
and compete with him. However many times he’s rehearsed his lines they always
sound as if they’re being forged on the spot.
Many of Springsteen’s most anthemic songs have no addresses (no “you”) but
(like many Beatles songs) concern a third person (tales told about someone else) or
involve an “I” brooding aloud, explaining his situation impersonally, in a kind of
individualised epic. Listening to such epics is a public activity (rather than a private
fantasy), which is why Springsteen concerts still feel like collective occasions.
Conclusion
In one of his monologues Springsteen remembers that his parents were never very
keen on his musical ambitions—they wanted him to train for something safe, like law
or accountancy: “they wanted me to get a little something for myself; what they did
not understand was that I wanted everything!”
This is a line that could only be delivered by an American, and to explain Spring-
steen’s importance and success we have to go back to the problem he is really fac-
ing: the fate of the individual artist under capitalism. In Europe, the artistic critique
of the commercialization of everything has generally been conducted in terms of
Romanticism, in a state of Bohemian disgust with the masses and the bourgeoisie
alike, in the name of the superiority of the avant-garde. In the USA there’s a populist
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anti-capitalism available, a tradition of the artist as the common man (rarely woman),
pitching rural truth against urban deceit, pioneer values against bureaucratic rou-
tines. This tradition (Mark Twain to Woody Guthrie, Kerouac to Credence Clear-
water Revival) lies behind Springsteen’s message and his image. It’s this tradition
that enables him to take such well-worn iconography as the road, the river, rock and
roll itself, as a mark of sincerity. No British musician, not even someone with such
a profound love of American musical forms as Elvis Costello, could deal with these
themes without some sense of irony.
Still, Springsteen’s populism can appeal to everyone’s experience of capitalism.
He makes music out of desire aroused and desire thwarted, he offers a sense of per-
sonal worth that is not determined by either market forces (and wealth) or aesthetic
standards (and cultural capital). It is the USA’s particular account of equality that
allows him to transcend the differences in class and status which remain ingrained
in European culture. The problem is that the line between democratic populism (the
argument that all people’s experiences and emotions are equally important, equally
worthy to be dramatized and made into art) and market populism (the argument
that the consumer is always right, that the market defines cultural value) is very thin.
Those piles of Bruce Springsteen boxes in European department stores seem less a
tribute to rock authenticity than to corporate might.
“We are the world!” sang USA for Africa, and what was intended as a state-
ment of global community came across as a threat of global domination. “Born
in the USA!” sang Bruce Springsteen, on his last great tour, with the Stars and
Stripes fluttering over the stage, and what was meant as an opposition anthem to
the Reaganite colonization of the American dream was taken by large sections of
his American audiences as pat patriotism (in Europe the flag had to come down).
Springsteen is, whether he or we like it or not, an American artist—his “commu-
nity” will always have the Stars and Stripes fluttering over it. But then rock and
roll is American music, and Springsteen’s Live—1975–85 is a monument. Like all
monuments it celebrates (and mourns) the dead, in this case the idea of authentic-
ity itself.
Further Reading
Bruce Springsteen, the Rolling Stone File: The Ultimate Compendium of Interviews, Articles, Facts
and Opinions from the Files of Rolling Stone. New York: Hyperion Books, 1996.
Carman, Bryan K. A Race of Singers: Whitman’s Working-Class Hero from Guthrie to Springsteen.
Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2000.
Cavicchi, Daniel. Tramps Like Us: Music and Meaning among Springsteen Fans. New York: Ox-
ford University Press, 1998.
Guterman, Jimmy. Runaway American Dream: Listening to Bruce Springsteen. Cambridge,
Mass.: Da Capo Press, 2005.
Marsh, Dave. Bruce Springsteen: Two Hearts, the Story. New York: Routledge, 2003.
Discography
Springsteen, Bruce. Greetings from Asbury Park, N.J. Columbia, 1973.
______. Born to Run. Columbia, 1975.
______. Born in the USA. Columbia, 1984.
______. Live 1975–85. Columbia, 1986.
______. Tunnel of Love. Columbia, 1987.
______. The Essential Bruce Springsteen. Sony, 2003.
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65. R&B in the 1980s
T O CROS S OV ER OR NO T T O CROS S OV ER?
Thriller opened the door to blockbuster, “crossover” hits by black

artists. In addition to Jackson’s album, the increasingly visible main-
stream successes of Prince and Lionel Richie in the mid-1980s owed
something to the end of apartheid policies on MTV. Changes in the
music industry and in the number of small, black-owned record stores,
however, raised the question of whether these crossover artists, in the
process of reaching a large audience, had somehow forsaken the black
community or were “selling out” to white commercial dictates in some
other fashion (we already read Greg Tate’s criticism of Michael Jackson
along those lines in Chapter 62).
During the 1980s, Nelson George was one of the music critics who
was the most consistently devoted to articulating the links between
African American popular music and arguments about black economic
self-sufficiency. George advanced his views in a column on black music
from a perch on Billboard’s staff throughout much of the decade.1 His
1988 book The Death of Rhythm and Blues presented the most cogent
version of a recurring argument in his writing: looking at the history of
African American popular music through the prism of the opposition
between early 20th-century views advanced by W. E. B. DuBois on eco-
nomic self-determination and those advanced by Booker T. Washington
on assimilation, George contended that R&B in the 1980s had lost much
of its expressive power because of its separation from the black com-
munity. In this excerpt, George looks at the well-known crossover art-
ists just mentioned, as well as artists such as Anita Baker (b. 1957) and
Frankie Beverly (b. 1946), whom he terms “retronuevo”: musicians who
celebrate the history of rhythm and blues by remaining true to previous
standards of musicianship and soulfulness.2
1. For a more in-depth discussion and analysis of George’s Billboard articles and of the is-
sues involved in crossover in the early 1980s, see David Brackett, Categorizing Sound: Genre
and Twentieth-Century Popular Music (Oakland: University of California Press, 2016), 280–323.
2. For a response to George’s theories about crossover that views the process as akin to posi-
tive effects of racial integration, see Steve Perry, “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough: The Politics of
Crossover” in Facing the Music, ed. Simon Frith (New York: Pantheon Books, 1988), 51–87.
394
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R&B in the 1980s 395
from The Death of Rhythm and Blues
Nelson George
Sometimes it seems really funny, but it’s also quite sad that in surveying black
America through its music in the eighties, much of the discussion revolves not
around music but skin color, cosmetic surgery, and the rejection of Negroid features.
Case in point: Compare current photographs of George Benson with pictures from
early in his career. You will be confronted with facial alterations that have n othing
to do with age. Surgery has reshaped him into a commercial product for mass
consumption. It’s as simple and, I think, as frightening as that. Change your face to
sell a h
undred thousand more units, to do the movies, to make more money. Stop
looking like your mother and father, in the name of commerce. Maybe, like Whoopi
Goldberg, Oprah Winfrey, and the otherwise sweet Janet Jackson, wear blue or green
contact lenses. After all, it might help you achieve that most tempting symbol of
eighties a ssimilation: an MTV video.
The two greatest black stars of the decade, Michael Jackson and Prince, ran
fast and far both from blackness and conventional images of male sexuality (and
their videos got on MTV). Michael Jackson’s nose job, often ill-conceived makeup,
and artificially curled hair is, in the eyes of many blacks, a denial of his color that
constitutes an act of racial treason. Add to that a disquieting androgyny and you
have an alarmingly un-black, unmasculine figure as the most popular black man
in America.
Prince is similarly troublesome. Where Jackson’s androgyny was like that of
an innocently unaware baby, Prince preached sex as salvation in explicit and often
clumsy terms. “Head” (oral sex), “When You Were Mine” (sexual ambiguity), and
“1999” (sex as resignation in the face of nuclear war) were just a few of the songs in
which Prince expressed his funky yet fanciful fascination with physical engagement.
Onstage, he went from wearing black bikini, g-strings, and leg warmers to taking
seductive pseudobaths and dry-humping his piano, all with a wink and shimmy that
suggested his lover could be of any sexual persuasion. No black performer since Little
Richard had toyed with the heterosexual sensibilities of black America so brazenly.
Prince’s more irksome trait was that, like Jackson, he aided those who saw black-
ness as a hindrance in the commercial marketplace by running from it. Unlike the
many black stars who altered their face to please “the mass market,” Prince didn’t
have to; his features suggested he was a product of the interracial marriages so
popular in Minneapolis. But he really wasn’t. Both his parents were black. Yet in
the quasi-autobiographical film Purple Rain, Prince presented his mother as white, a
“crossover” marketing strategy as unnecessary as Jackson’s tiresome claims to “uni-
versality.” In fact, it can be argued that Prince’s consistent use of mulatto and white
leading ladies convinced many black male (and some female) artists to use roman-
tic interests of similar shading in their videos, hoping to emulate Prince’s success.
The resulting videos seem to reinforce the stereotypic idea that dark-skinned black
women are not as attractive as their lighter sisters. As icons of style, Jackson and
Prince were assimilation symbols as powerful as Bill Cosby. But thankfully, there
was more to them than image. There was music, but we’ll deal with that a bit later. . . .
On November 18, 1982, I wrote a story for the front page of Billboard, “Times Tough
for Black Retailers,” that revealed the social schism found between the assimilated
and unassimilated in the R&B world and in the larger black society. “Black-oriented
Source: George, Nelson. The Death of Rhythm and Blues. New York: Pantheon Books, 1988,
pp. 173–175, 177–178, 181–183, 186–188, 194–196.
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396 The 1980s
mom-and-pop retailers are going out of business in increasing numbers, and are not
being replaced by new enterprises. At the same time, black music is holding its own
in the depressed sales environment and is generating a slew of popular new perform-
ers. This dichotomy emerges from a Billboard survey of black retailers, label execu-
tives, and other industryites. As reasons for the problems of the small operator, they
cite unemployment, poor management, locations in declining inner-city neighbor-
hoods, and competition from stores in active city centers. General market retail chains
are said to be increasing their awareness and sales of black music.”
Counting the Losses

The Commodores’ black manager, Benny Ashburn—“the sixth Commodore”—who
died of a heart attack in 1982, was one of the few black managers to build and hold
on to a mainstream rhythm & blues group capable of million-selling albums. It was
not unexpected that after Ashburn’s death, Richie split from the Commodores and
signed with Kenny Rogers’s manager, Ken Kragen. But it was surely disheartening
to those who hoped he’d give a brother or sister a shot at managing one of the indus-
try’s most promising careers.
Richie went for a manager who had turned a country singer, for a time, into
America’s most popular male vocalist. Richie wanted the same thing, and Kragen, if
not for the incredible ascendence of Michael Jackson into pop heaven, would have
accomplished it. However, Richie’s acceptance by Middle America didn’t mean he
had escaped the turmoil of the rhythm & blues world. Richie, like Jackson, Prince,
and other crossover stars, was a target of verbal abuse and boycott threats from black
concert promoters, as the bitterness revealed at the 1979 BMA conference continued
into the next decade.
[The lack of talented songwriter-producers in R&B] played a role in the growing
difficulty black artists found reaching the pop charts. Musically the songs weren’t as
good as in the sixties and early seventies. As dance records, the grooves were still
inventive, but they were hampered by a disco backlash at pop radio. As a cultural
force, the term “disco” went out as quickly as it had come in. Unfortunately, all black
dance music was for a time labeled “disco.” It was stupid. It was racist. It revealed
again how powerful a force semantics can be in the reception of pop music. Just as
rock & roll came to mean white music, disco came to represent some ugly amalgam
of black and gay music. The Bee Gees went straight down the tubes because of such
labeling. They were, after all, disco’s biggest white group.
As for the decline in black crossover, you can look it up.2 Of the fourteen records
to reach number one on the black chart in 1983, only one reached the pop top-ten.
“She Works Hard for the Money” by Donna Summer, the only disco-bred artist
to escape the genre’s career-deflating stigma. In contrast, some of that year’s great
number one black singles—Mtume’s sensual “Juicy Fruit,” the hard-core funk of
Rick James’s “Cold-Blooded” and George Clinton’s “Atomic Dog,” the melodic and
danceable “Candy Girl” by New Edition, the soulful boogie songs “Get It Right” by
Aretha Franklin and “Save the Overtime for Me” by Gladys Knight and the Pips—
only went to number forty or lower on the pop chart. That of course was the same
year that Michael Jackson’s Thriller sold 20 million copies in the U.S. and Lionel
Richie’s singles “All Night Long” and “Can’t Slow Down” sold over 10 million, only
2. Perhaps George meant to precede this sentence with “Excluding recordings by Michael
Jackson and Lionel Richie . . . ,” since recordings by Jackson and Richie released during 1983
made both the pop and R&B Top 10, in several cases going to number one. George implies as
much in his comments later in this paragraph.
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c onfirming the feast-or-famine cycle in popular music. A black who crossed over
could sell a humongous number of records. And the fact that so few succeeded didn’t
stifle the dream.
For many black entertainers, chasing that dream was a fixation, and one that
could destroy a career. Peabo Bryson, a smooth, soulful vocalist and distinctive, if lim-
ited, songwriter, began his career in the early seventies as a songwriter-vocalist with
a number of bands on independent labels. In 1977, he signed with Capitol and imme-
diately became one of the best-loved singers in black America. Deep in the heart of
disco he recorded ballads like “Reaching for the Sky,” “I’m So Into You,” and one of
the rare soul classics to be written and recorded in the 1975–85 period, “Feel the Fire.”
With its devotional lyrics, dramatic piano chords, and wonderful arrangement by
coproducer Johnny Pate, a former Curtis Mayfield collaborator, “Feel the Fire” was
one of the most respected and covered R&B compositions of the period.
From 1977 to 1983, every new album released by Bryson sold at least half a
million copies, and he became a major concert attraction. However, in the age of
crossover, Bryson wanted what Lionel Richie and Michael Jackson had, a white audi-
ence, and he attempted to get it. A duet with Roberta Flack on the Barry Manilow-
like ballad “Tonight I Celebrate My Love” in 1984 gave him his first taste of pop
success. In 1985, he jumped to Elektra and had another top-ten hit with “Whenever
You’re in My Arms Again,” another mushy mainstream ballad. Bryson did not see
the drop-off in his album sales during this transition as a bad omen. Sure that a pop
audience awaited him, Bryson changed his image: gone were the white suits and
modest Afro of his Capitol years. He draped himself in ultratrendy English threads
and had his low Afro styled into a “fade” cut, high on top, low on the sides. His
Elektra debut was synthesized, uptempo, and contemporary, and it was received
with all the enthusiasm of a broken computer chip. His old audience hated it, and
without a breakthrough single, whites paid no attention. It was clear that the whites
who had bought his hit singles had liked the record but didn’t know who Bryson,
the artist, was. As a result, this album sold a meager 200,000 copies and his concert
bookings dwindled. Peabo Bryson, once a staple of what was left of the old R&B
world, had tried to leap the barrier and stumbled. It remains to be seen whether he
can pick himself back up.
Retronuevo
It was in studying the history of rhythm & blues that I came to admire those in the
eighties who have been able to break away from, ignore, or battle the crossover con-
sciousness and remain true to the strength of R&B, while not conceding that that
approach left them unacceptable to white America. Inspired by that attitude and the
music it produced, I created in 1986 the term “retronuevo,” which can be defined
as an embrace of the past to create passionate, fresh expressions and institutions. It
doesn’t refer just to music. The willingness of broadcaster Percy Sutton to revive the
Apollo Theater in New York and of black haircare kingpin Robert Gardner to do the
same in Chicago for the Regal Theater showed that some black businesspeople pos-
sessed the heart and moxie to understand how much symbolic importance and eco-
nomic potential these once grand R&B showcases hold for now downtrodden inner
city neighborhoods. With She’s Gotta Have It and Hollywood Shuffle, Spike Lee and
Robert Townsend used hustle and comedy to create non-Hollywood, profoundly
black films that partially realized the ambitious dreams of Booker T. Washington in
the 1920s and Melvin Van Peebles in the 1970s.
But mostly retronuevo means black music that appreciates its heritage. Until the
eighties, R&B never emphasized looking back—one reason for its ongoing creativity,
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398 The 1980s
as I’ve said in earlier chapters. But as too much of the music became as enticing as a
ripped diaphragm and not nearly as dangerous, artists emerged to bring back some
of the soul and subtlety its audience deserves.
Maze, featuring Frankie Beverly, had been retronuevo from record one. From
1977 to 1985, this Bay Area band released five albums on Capitol, each selling half a
million but never breaking the million mark. Many a black artist would have been
frustrated by this inability to crack the magical million mark, and Beverly often com-
plained about Capitol’s inability to cross him over. But, crucially, Beverly wasn’t
willing to sell his soul to cross over. He just continued with an idiosyncratic sound
that balanced the street feel of his native Philadelphia with the relaxed mood of his
Bay Area home. He’d been signed by Larkin Arnold after touring as an opening
act for Marvin Gaye. Arnold was a black attorney who’d been brought in to mas-
termind the expansion of Capitol’s black music. Coming on the heels of the jazzy
Earth, Wind and Fire and the raunchy Parliament-Funkadelic, Beverly’s Maze estab-
lished itself as a less frantic, less abrasive alternative. Moreover, Maze had the kind
of cross-generational appeal that eluded most other young black acts of the time.
The 1981 Live in New Orleans double album was classic Beverly, with all but one of
the twelve songs featuring slow to medium tempos with arrangements rich in glow-
ing electric pianos, humming organs, and tasteful synthesizer figures. The rhythm
section—drummer Billy Johnson, bassist Robin Duhe, and percussionists McKinn-
ley William and Roame Lowery—-interlocked as smoothly as the keyboards, never
pushing the beat, a discipline vital to the aura of Beverly’s soothing compositions.
With these sultry grooves as the frame, Beverly paints his wholesome pictures on
top with voice and pen. In his phrasing, I hear echoes of his benefactor, Marvin Gaye,
and his idol, Sam Cooke. But Beverly’s voice has an understated, more working-class
quality that differentiates him from those love men. Instead, he sounds like a dedi-
cated husband still madly in love with his wife after all these years. His love songs
exist in a world where one-night stands are spurned and real affection is sought,
appreciated, returned.
Beverly also has a real gift for nonspecific protest songs in the tradition of the
Isley Brothers’ “Fight the Power”—songs that refer to the troubles of black America
without the nuts-and-bolts rhetoric of an overtly political songwriter like Gil Scott-
Heron. In addition to “We Need to Live,” a tribute to Atlanta’s murdered children,
Live includes two inspirational numbers with the upbeat sixties flavor of Mayfield’s
“People Get Ready” and Cooke’s eloquent “A Change Is Gonna Come.” “Chang-
ing Times” assures us, “We’ll get through these changing times,” while “Running
Away” preaches, like Booker T. Washington, that “the things you want are the things
you have to earn.”
Just as Beverly grew stronger by swimming against the tide, so did the radio for-
mat originated by WHUR in 1976 called “the Quiet Storm.” Ten years later, stations
in every major market and in many of the secondary markets made three- to five-
hour blocks of mellow music a crucial part of their programming day. Some stations,
like Los Angeles’ KUTE went totally Quiet Storm, while others utilized the format,
if not the title, from late evening into the morning. The program gave new life to the
title of one of Smokey Robinson’s last great compositions and proved a comfortable
home, not just for Beverly, but for singers more interested in ballads than boogie. My
favorite example is the woman who originally inspired the retronuevo idea: Anita
Baker.
Baker’s brilliant Rapture album, one of the surprise hits of 1986, was an album of
contemporary intelligence and old-fashioned pipes. The intelligence was primarily
Baker’s. As executive producer, Baker made an eight-cut album with no uptempo
songs, a complete reversal of the norm for black female vocalists in the post-disco
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era. In making that decision she displayed an understanding of her voice as instru-
ment and demonstrated why more women should demand control of their record-
ings. The pipes were Baker’s, too. Wrapping her voice in supportive arrangements
and using real live bass players and drummers, Baker shone with the maturity of a
Dinah Washington. It is unashamedly adult music that, as did her 1982 Beverly Glen
hit “Angel,” sounds progressive despite its old-fashioned values.
Baker’s impact was profound because it exposed how superficially so many
vocal divas had pursued their crossover dreams, diluting the power of their voices
in the process, and because in Rapture’s wake the industry allowed some of its most
gifted young voices (Miki Howard, Regina Belle) to record with a minimum of pro-
duction overkill.
Yes, Baker made music for assimilated black Americans, though unlike that of
crossover artists, her work tapped into the traditions of jazz and blues with a feeling
that suggested being middle class didn’t make your taste the musical equivalent of
a Big Mac.
Considering my earlier comments, the following conclusion may be a surprise,
but the two most important retronuevo artists have been Michael Jackson and Prince.
Despite the unfortunate impact of their imagery, this dynamic duo proved to be the
decade’s finest music historians, consistently using techniques that echoed the past
as the base for their superstardom.
During his epochal 1983 performance on Motown 25, Jackson suggested Jack
Wilson’s athleticism, James Brown’s camel walk, the intensity of the Apollo ama-
teur night, and the glitter of Diana Ross. In Purple Rain, Prince with the sensitiv-
ity of a poet, made historical allusions to Hendrix, Little Richard, Patti LaBelle, and
Brown, while his employee, the Time’s Morris Day, was molded into a modern-day
Louis Jordan. Both Jackson (on “Beat It”) and Prince (on “Let’s Go Crazy” and “Pur-
ple Rain”) made rock & roll for black folks while injecting their own idiosyncratic
perspective into black dance music. Jackson’s “Billie Jean” and “Wanna Be Startin’
Something” raise superstar paranoia to a high art over grooves just as technologi-
cally assured as they were funky. “Don’t Stop ’Til You Get Enough” is an incredible
dance record, an anthem of spiritual and physical liberation in a wonderful synthesis
of disco, the Philly sound, and Quincy Jones’s own understanding of the drama in
musical arrangement.
Prince, the auteur of the Minneapolis sound and himself a major talent scout,
created the only competition to hip hop in the eighties, injecting fresh musical ideals
into black music. Vanity, Morris Day, Jesse Johnson, the production team of Jimmy
Jam Harris and Terry Lewis, Alexander O’Neal, Monte Moir, Andre Cymone, Sheila
E., and quite a few others were ripples that came to our attention when Prince hit
the shore. Not all these folks have great affection for Prince, but either their image or
their music owes a debt to his fertile, cunning mind. Prince says that when he was
a kid he didn’t hear much black radio or music, but if his Brownesque 1986 Parade
tour and the dancing in the film, Sign “O” the Times, is any indication, this retronuevo
innovator had done a lot of catching up.
More, if we look at Jackson and Prince from the perspective of economic
self-sufficiency, there is no question that this duo exercise a control over their careers
and business that neither James Brown nor Sam Cooke, as ambitious as they were,
could have envisioned. All major decisions, and even a great many minor ones,
involving their money and artistic direction are determined personally by these
performers. In Jackson’s case this has meant, most significantly, the multimillion-
dollar acquisition of the song catalogues of Sly Stone and the Beatles, two of his major
influences, and the willingness to pay major directors like John Landis and Martin
Scorsese big-budget money to expand the scope of music videos.
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400 The 1980s
Where most of Jackson’s business activities have been designed to promote and
perpetuate his larger-than-life persona (much as with James Brown), Prince has used
his energy to build and direct a multi-media empire that has spawned a slew of art-
ists, launched a record label (Paisley Park), and led to the production of three feature
films (Purple Rain, Under the Cherry Moon, and Sign “O” the Times), two of which he’s
directed himself.
Also as with James Brown, of course, there are disagreeable elements in the
way that they each manifest their power and in the images of themselves they
choose to project to both black and white audiences. However, to ignore their
power, artistically and within their own organizations, solely because of their cos-
metics would be ignorant. By using star clout to further their own interests (and,
yes, whims) in unprecedented directions, Michael Jackson and Prince have set
new standards of autonomy for black musicians—and for black-music business-
people, too.
Further Reading
Brackett, David. “(In Search of) Musical Meaning: Genres, Categories, and Crossover.” In
Popular Music Studies, ed. David Hesmondhalgh and Keith Negus, 65–82. London:
Arnold, 2002.
Garofalo, Reebee. “Crossing Over: 1939–1989.” In Split Image: African-Americans in the Mass
Media, ed. Jannette L. Dates and William Barlow, 57–121. Washington, D.C.: Howard
_______. “Black Popular Music: Crossing Over or Going Under?” In Rock and Popular Music:
Politics, Policies, Institutions, ed. Tony Bennett, Simon Frith, Lawrence Grossberg, John
Shepherd, and Graeme Turner, 231–48. New York: Routledge, 1993.
George, Nelson. The Death of Rhythm and Blues. New York: Pantheon Books, 1988.
Harper, Philip Brian. “Synesthesia, ‘Crossover,’ and Blacks in Popular Music.” Social Text 23
(Fall–Winter 1989): 102–21.
Perry, Steve. “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough: The Politics of Crossover.” In Facing the
Music, ed. Simon Frith, 51–87. New York: Pantheon Books, 1988.
Discography
Baker, Anita. Rapture. Elektra, 1986.
Benson, George. Twice the Love. Warner Bros., 1988.
Bryson, Peabo. Straight From the Heart/Take No Prisoners. Collectables, 2003.
The Commodores. Night Shift. Motown, 1985.
Houston, Whitney. Whitney Houston. Arista, 1985.
Prince. Ultimate Prince. Rhino/WEA, 2006.
Prince and the Revolution. Purple Rain. Warner Bros., 1984.
_______. Parade: Music from the Motion Picture Under The Cherry Moon. Warner Bros., 1986.
Richie, Lionel. Dancing on the Ceiling. Motown, 1986.
Ross, Diana. Swept Away. RCA, 1984.
Turner, Tina. Private Dancer. Capitol, 1984.
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66. Heavy Metal Thunders On!
Chapter 51 discussed the dispersion of heavy metal approaches in genres

such as hard rock, glam, and punk. Heavy metal persisted in its own right,
however, becoming more stylized, with bands like Judas Priest, Iron
Maiden, and AC/DC focusing on a riff-oriented approach while empha-
sizing guitar heroics and high-pitched vocals. A uniquely American form
of metal developed in the United States in the late 1970s, with bands such
as Van Halen recording catchy, hook-laden material that eschewed the
more arcane lyrics of their British counterparts. The guitarist for the band,
Eddie Van Halen, developed the most significant addition to rock guitar
playing since Hendrix with his mastery of the two-handed “tapping” tech-
nique, enabling him to slur rapid-fire arpeggios that would have been
physically impossible using conventional guitar technique.1 “Tapping”
would soon become standard practice among metal guitarists.
If during the mid- to late 1970s heavy metal had been a very popu-
lar “underground” phenomenon (in terms of media attention and radio
play), the early 1980s saw the genre emerge into the bright light of the
mass media. During the time that mainstream outlets were ignoring
heavy metal, metal bands were nonetheless filling arenas and sell-
ing millions of records. As the sound of metal became associated with
lower- and lower-middle-class white youths and suburban ennui, bands
from both sides of the Atlantic began to build on Van Halen’s blend of
pop hooks with guitar virtuosity. The result? “Glam metal” or “hair
metal” bands, such as Def Leppard and Mötley Crüe, began to cross
over to the pop charts, inflecting the legacy of Foreigner-Boston et al.
with a harder edge and a fashion sense derived from glam via Queen.
The following article by J. D. Considine was published in 1984 at a time

when media attention documenting the widespread appeal of heavy
metal was growing more common. The two bands discussed in the
1. See Robert Walser’s chapter analyzing Eddie Van Halen’s solo guitar tour de force, “Erup-
tion,” and its influence on subsequent heavy metal guitarists (Walser, Running with the Devil:
Power, Gender, and Madness in Heavy Metal Music [Hanover, N.H.: Wesleyan University Press and
University Press of New England, 1993], 67–107).
401
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402 The 1980s
article, Judas Priest and the Scorpions (the section on the Scorpions
is largely deleted), do not hail as much from the pop end of the heavy
metal spectrum, although both bands nudged their way onto MTV dur-
ing the early to mid-1980s. Instead, what this article captures is the
emphasis on visceral power and excitement and on an un-ironic seri-
ousness about technique that Priest’s lead singer, Rob Halford, com-
pares to that of Western classical music (much to the amusement of
Considine).2 We also hear a description of why heavy metal caught on
in Britain from Priest guitarist K. K. Downing and a few ideas about the
appeal of metal to its audience.
Purity and Power—Total, Unswerving Devotion to Heavy Metal

Form: Judas Priest and the Scorpions
J. D. Considine
No doubt about it, heavy metal is the Music Which Gets No Respect. Oh, sure, the
fans like it. For some of them, metal is the very marrow of their cultural existence. And
there are even a few broad-minded critics who are willing to let the music, like any
other dog, have its day, even if their appreciation is more sociological than musical.
But for most folks, heavy metal is a musical moron joke, fodder for frustrated
teens and dominion of dim-witted devil-worshippers. At best, the phrase conjures
up the likable lunkheads of Rob Reiner’s satiric This is Spinal Tap; at worst, the mind
turns to Ozzy Osbourne, biting the heads off dead bats in Des Moines or pissing on
the Alamo. In all, not exactly what you’d call positive images.
“You get narrow-minded critics reviewing the shows, and all they think about
heavy metal is that it is just total ear-splitting, blood-curdling noise without any defi-
nition or point,” complained Judas Priest’s Rob Halford. “This is a very, very pro-
fessional style of music. It means a great deal to many millions of people. We treat
heavy metal music with respect.”
Halford paused to gaze out the window at the passing Texas countryside. It was
a bright Saturday afternoon. Judas Priest were en route from Houston to San Antonio,
smack in the middle of a nine-month American tour which had found the band play-
ing to both narrow-minded critics and adoring heavy metal fans, the latter being in the
distinct majority. Nevertheless, the question of heavy metal’s aesthetic worth is one
which Halford takes very much to heart. Heavy metal, he insisted, was genuine art.
“This might sound like a bizarre statement,” he said, leaping back into the fray,
“but I don’t think playing heavy metal is that far removed from classical music. To do
either, you have to spend many years developing your style and your art, whether
you’re a violinist or a guitarist, it still takes the same belief in your form of music to
achieve and create. It is very much a matter of dedication.”
As a herd of cattle receded in the distance, I tried to imagine Halford, in white tie
and tails, standing center-stage in a New York recital hall to sing the celebrated art
song “Eat Me Alive,” while somewhere in the Midwest, a leather-clad Robert Mann of
2. This connection is not as ridiculous as it seemed to some critics, and it is the focus of the
chapter cited in note 1 from Walser’s Running with the Devil.
Source: J. D. Considine, “Purity and Power—Total, Unswerving Devotion to Heavy Metal Form,”
Musician, September 1984, pp. 46–50.
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Heavy Metal Thunders On! 403
the Julliard String Quartet is screaming into a microphone, asking a rowdy coliseum
crowd if they’re “ready for some Beethoven?” Somehow the image refused to come.
No, heavy metal isn’t exactly serial composition, but then again, art isn’t always
a matter of complexity. Sometimes, getting and keeping things simple takes as much
or more skill.
“A funny story,” said Judas Priest’s Glenn Tipton, backstage one night, “When
we were recording Defenders Of The Faith in Spain, this guy from South America came
up, a friend of mine. He plays guitar—amazing things, rhythms, phrases, strange
South American-type beats, stuff I couldn’t begin to play, much more complex than
those Police things. Real sambas and stuff, and difficult as hell. All he wanted off me
was to learn how to play things with rock accents.
“He couldn’t play ‘em,” Tipton laughs. “An entirely different feeling.”
It’s that bone-headed simplicity, the art of knowing what not to play, that Tipton
feels makes heavy metal so ultimately British.
“To me, and I can say this honestly, there are not very many American heavy
metal bands. There are some great rock bands, the best rock bands in the world. But
it’s not heavy metal. The American bands are too sophisticated. And I think that’s
it—English bands, like ourselves, have that lack of sophistication which, I suppose,
has to do with upbringing, the fact that we were born and raised poverty-struck. I
think you can lose that out of your music, if you’re not careful.”
In other words, great heavy metal turns its limitations into assets, its insularity
into a sense of community, and ends up doing everything art is expected to do. True,
heavy metal is often musically limited, culturally reactionary and too damned loud,
but at its best, it is transcendently so. Which is why, ludicrous as it may seem, Rob
Halford’s analogy between heavy metal and classical music contains a grain of truth:
both disciplines ultimately aim for the triumph of emotion over form.
It’s Saturday night in San Antonio, the last night of the city’s annual Easter Fiesta.
There’s a buzz of excitement throughout the city and a roar inside the Civic Arena.
When the lights go down for Judas Priest’s set, 12,000 kids are on their feet, fists in the
air, screaming. As a taped synthesizer growl drones ominously, the curtains part to
reveal “the Metallian,” a twenty-foot high aluminum gargoyle who holds the drum
kit in its left claw. Fog wafts across the stage as the Metallian’s vari-light eyes scan
the audience: then, in a blinding burst of flashpots, the members of Priest materialize,
leaping headlong into the hyper-adrenal pulse of “Love Bites.”
As spectacle, it’s pretty impressive. With the Metallian looming above like a
malevolent building, Halford’s macho strut and the rest of the band’s leather-clad
choreography seem less a matter of vainglorious posturing than an assertion of will,
a dance against the demons of the city. Even at the end of the set, as the Metallian
breathes fire through the final, crashing chords to “The Green Manalishi (With The
Two-Pronged Crown),” it wields its menace almost in defeat, a vanquished dragon.
Granted, that’s a lot of meaning to read into an elaborate prop, but it would be
foolish to overlook the resonances of such devices. As Halford puts it, “When we
use those props, people see them and they say, ‘Oh, what is this?’ But when they
suddenly connect with the props, it’s a total unification, music and material object
working together.”
The night before, in Houston, guitarist K. K. Downing had begun to explain his the-
ory of heavy metal. “In certain parts of Great Britain, some bands started taking progres-
sive blues and playing them in their own way. Heavy metal is our own blues, actually.”
This “white man’s blues,” as Downing is fond of calling it, worked because it
translated the emotional impact of American blues into a form that young musi-
cians in Britain’s industrial heartland could more easily understand. “It was more
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404 The 1980s
ggressive,” Downing said. “It’s a way of getting rid of your blues by expending
a
energy. And it’s a way for the audience to expend energy as well.”
This makes sense if you look at the music’s structure. “All the licks that we play,”
explained Glenn Tipton, who shares the lead guitar role with Downing, “form around
the blues. You get something like the lead break in ‘Another Thing Comin’,’ it’s all
blues stuff, all the same runs. Even the fast stuff.” Grabbing a guitar and practice amp,
he plugged in. “Something like this,” he said, spinning off a fast splatter of notes, “is
just from cadences like this.” He began to play a typical blues riff—up from the 7th to
the tonic, up again to the minor 3rd, and back down to the tonic—and slowly sped it
up, letting the syncopation bleed out as the figure turned into insistent eighth-notes,
moving the pattern up the neck by half-steps. Pure metal, “and it’s all blues stuff.”
Except, of course, that the rhythm is completely different. Where American blues,
whether country acoustic or urban electric, maintain an easy rhythmic bounce, heavy
metal surges with almost mechanical regularity, pushing the downbeat instead of lay-
ing behind the backbeat. It’s not a party energy, certainly not dance music; it’s more
like a football cheer, group aggression focused through rhythm and sheer v olume.
Of course, no football crowd could ever hope to muster a sound like Judas
Priest’s (much to the relief of Pete Rozelle). Despite the volume, Priest’s sound isn’t
noisy or brittle, but sits comfortably in the midrange with a presence so great you
could immerse yourself in it. “A total wallow,” Halford cheerfully admitted. And
during the three Priest shows I attended, the fans did almost seem to be floating,
reacting to shifts in dynamics like toy boats in a bathtub.
“A lot of the access and understanding of our music for so many people is that
they’re able to relate to what we’re singing about,” Halford continued. “Beyond the
vocals, it’s the way a guitar makes you feel when someone hits a particular chord, the
way a snare drum is cracked.”
Flashing back to Halford’s classical analogy, I suddenly realized that the differ-
ence between the kid playing air guitar in his bedroom to “Rock Hard, Ride Free”
and his father in the family room, conducting the last movement of the Symphonie
Fantastique along with Herr von Karajan, is not much more than a matter of props.
That’s not to say that classical music and heavy metal are necessarily equivalents, just
that the listener’s experience can be, because for both father and son, it’s a matter of
release through pure sound. So it wasn’t hard to nod appreciatively when Halford
concluded by remarking, “I just hope that, after seeing us for the first time, people go
away from a show fulfilled by what they’ve experienced.”
I’ll bet Herr von Karajan feels the same way.
Call it another side-effect to adolescent glandular mayhem, or just call it zit cream
for the soul. In any case, both Priest and the Scorps agree that the key to the heavy
metal’s popularity is the power transfer between performer and audience. “We have
a high energy level,” says Scorpion Matthias Jabs, “and when the audience is great,
they feel that and give it back to you.”
“You can’t analyze it much beyond the fact that there are 11,000 separate indi-
vidual human beings getting off on what you’re doing,” concludes Priest’s Halford,
“each of them experiencing an emotional vibe and throwing it back at you. I mean,
that’s what art is all about. We all need each other.”
Further Reading
Bennett, Andy, and Kevin Dawe, eds. Guitar Cultures. New York: Berg, 2001.
bra43588_pt05_357-448.indd 404 05/27/19 05:05 PM

Metal in the Late Eighties 405
Cope, Andrew L. Black Sabbath and the Rise of Heavy Metal Music. Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate, 2010.
Laing, Dave. “‘Sadeness,’ Scorpions and Single Markets: National and Transnational Trends
in European Popular Music.” Popular Music 11 (1992): 127–40.
Walser, Robert. Running with the Devil: Power, Gender, and Madness in Heavy Metal Music.
Discography
AC/DC. Back in Black. Atlantic, 1980.
Def Leppard. Pyromania. Mercury, 1983.
Iron Maiden. Powerslave. EMI, 1984.
Judas Priest. Sad Wings of Destiny. Janus, 1976.
_______. Screaming for Vengeance. Columbia, 1982.
Racer X. Street Lethal. Shrapnel Records, 1986.
Ratt. Out of the Cellar. Atlantic, 1984.
Scorpions. Blackout. EMI, 1982.
Van Halen. Van Halen. Warner Bros., 1978.
_______. Fair Warning. Warner Bros., 1981.
67. Metal in the Late Eighties

GL A M OR T HR A SH?
Many of the bands of the “hard” heavy metal school were influenced not
only by earlier metal bands, but by hardcore punk, and they developed
new subgenres of metal, dubbed “speed metal,” “thrash metal,” and
“death metal.” Within the heavy metal subculture, these latter bands
represented the “purer,” “non-commercial” strains of metal in contrast
to the “glam metal” bands. If one of the best examples of a pop metal
band in the late 1980s was Bon Jovi, then the clearest example of a
band that seemed to follow its own inclinations and respond to a core
audience of metal fanatics was Metallica (which, by the way, went on to
become wildly popular themselves).1
1. For a profile of Metallica on the cusp of mass popularity as they struggle with the contradic-
tions engendered by their shifting status, see David Fricke, “Heavy Metal Justice,” Rolling Stone,
January 12, 1989, 42–49.
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406 The 1980s
In the following piece, Richard Gehr portrays Metallica on the verge

of moving from an extremely popular cult band to a band with mass
popularity, a topic that comes to the fore in the band’s comments
about their “outsider” status. Particularly fascinating is the description
of Metallica’s songwriting process, one of the factors responsible for
song structures that were unusually complex within the context of other
metal of the time. Gehr also describes how the content of Metallica’s
lyrics was one of the factors separating their brand of “thrash” from
“pop metal.” The highpoint of heavy metal’s popularity in the late 1980s
and early 1990s created a situation in which bands like Metallica could
simultaneously maintain “underground” status and experience mass
popularity, a balancing act taken over by grunge after 1991. Gehr begins
the article writing in the voices of the two members of Metallica who are
profiled in this piece, James Hetfield and Lars Ulrich.
Metallica
Richard Gehr
Ulrich has recently risen from the sleep, dreamless or otherwise, of the very suc-
cessful. His band, billed fourth (between Led Zep wannaboys Kingdom Come and
metal morons Dokken) on the Monsters of Rock tour—a.k.a. the “Fucking Monsters
of Fucking Rock” tour, a.k.a. the “weekend” tour—has garnered at least as much criti-
cal oom-pah as their co-“Monsters,” even Van Fucking Halen.
During their non-touring weekdays, Metallica was ensconced in the bucolic
environs of Woodstock, New York, feverishly mixing tracks for their fourth LP, . . .
And Justice for All! Ulrich doesn’t remember that the studio where they’re working
is named Bearsville; he only knows that it’s several miles from the nearest watering
hole. But when bleary-eyed singer/guitarist James Hetfield joins us a little later, he’ll
helpfully add, “It’s out in the middle of the forest up there. I heard something about
The Band.”
Ulrich and Hetfield formed Metallica in Los Angeles in 1981 as a hard-edged
response to late-Seventies mainstream rock. Inspired in equal parts by the so-called
“new wave of British heavy metal” and by the Southern California hardcore scene,
Metallica stripped away the gothic excesses of the former and expanded the short-
form song structures of the latter to produce five- to eight-minute mini-epics of
ear-shattering volume and mind-boggling speed. They compounded multiple riffs
within single tunes, linking them with subject matter that rejected “gonna-rock-ya-
all-night-long” HM cliches (not to be confused with “gonna-love-ya-all-nite-long”
HM cliches) in favor of darker meditations on power, violence, aggression and death.
Young and hungry, Metallica evinces absolutely no influence prior to, say, 1976.
For example: an AOR “oldies” station plays quietly in the background as we talk. At
one point, a strange expression passes across Hetfield’s face. He looks at the radio
Source: Richard Gehr, “Metallica,” Music Sound and Output (September 1988). Reprinted under
license of Backpages Limited.
bra43588_pt05_357-448.indd 406 05/27/19 05:05 PM

and, almost complaining, asks, “What’s this?!” The scrap that caught his attention
was Leigh Stevens’s guitar solo on “Help Me Doctor” from Blue Cheer’s first LP,
Vincebus Eruptum—arguably the finest heavy metal album ever recorded.
Rather than subsisting as just another metal band from L.A., the group, which
included lead guitarist Kirk Hammett and bassist Cliff Burton, moved to New York
in 1983. After signing with Megaforce, they released their first LP, Kill ‘Em All, whose
leather-roots popularity kept them on the road in the United States and Europe
for the next nine months. The band’s second Megaforce LP, a post-adolescent death
trip titled Ride the Lightning, was quickly snatched up by Elektra and went on to
sell more than half a million copies. As to the record’s morbid theme, Ulrich says,
“around then we were talking about capital punishment and had a lot of fucking
thoughts about dying and death.”
“We were putting ourselves in various situations,” adds Hetfield, “like the elec-
tric chair and cryonics.”
Both make a big deal about how none of their records, including Lightning, is a
concept album. “I think records reflect whatever shit you’re going through at that
point in time,” noted Ulrich sagely.
With the success of Lightning, Metallica’s stock quickly ascended. They were still
a cult band, but they were a cult band like Pee-Wee Herman is a cult comedian. By
the time Elektra released Master of Puppets in 1986, Metallica had welded shut their
position in the metal pantheon, despite the fact that virtually no radio station dared
to air their savagely sophisticated megawattage and they made no music videos.
Collectively, Metallica’s members thrive on their independence and outsider
status, scorning anything short of total musical and personal autonomy. Ulrich
describes Puppets, for example, as being about the dangers of “drugs, manipulation,
anything that takes you over.” The lyrics’ syntax may scan in the most bizarre of
fashions—just try and parse lines like “Not dead which eternal lie/Stranger eons
death may die”—but the impact and emotion is unmistakable. What do you expect
from a metal band, after all. Cole Porter?
An American tour with Ozzy Osbourne following the release of Puppets nailed
their appeal. The album has since sold more than 750,000 copies domestically and
penetrated Billboard’s Top 30.
Sadly, bassist Cliff Burton was killed in Scandinavia when the band’s tour bus
crashed that summer. Rather than fade into oblivion, however, the band resuscitated
itself in his honor and added bass player Jason Newsted (of Flotsam & Jetsam fame).
After touring Japan, they even returned to Europe and made up the dates they’d
missed.
For Metallica, writing and recording an album is an extremely piecemeal, even

abstract process. Their songwriting begins literally in a garage, where Ulrich and
Hetfield sift through riff tapes compiled by the four band members.
“We’ve got riffs from years and years,” explains Hetfield. “On the road we con-
stantly riff and write it down.”
“The riffs have feels,” says Ulrich. “First we start separating the riffs into . . . “
“. . . Categories. . . .” says Hetfield.
“Like, some shit is strong enough to be the main idea of a tune. Then we go
through the tapes and try to find possible bridges, choruses, middle bits or what-
ever. After we have the skeleton of a song, we start getting a feel for what the song’s
really like. Then we search for a title from a list of titles that fits with the riffing’s
mood.”
After assembling the song, the group works it out on a demo.
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408 The 1980s
Hetfield: “Then Lars and I sit with the demos and go, Well, this is a little too fast
here, and this is a little too slow. We’ll play it live and see if it really grooves. If not,
we’ll try it a little faster.”
Ulrich and Hetfield next assemble a click track that schematizes the song’s vari-
ous tempos.
Hetfield: “First I’ll lay down a scratch rhythm, then he’ll go in and do his drums.
I think our click track situation is something unique from what other bands do
because some songs have between 10 and 15 click-track samples, which really freaks
people out. They can’t understand it. Usually clicks keep the time steady, but we
have many moods and grooves within each eight- or nine-minute song. So for every
riff we figure out what tempo it sounds best at, to make it fit better with the whole
thing’s overall feel.
“Putting down the clicks for a couple of songs on Justice! took two days each. But
when I tell that to other people they think I mean two hours or something.”
After completing the click track, the group is ready to record. Here again Metal-
lica differ from standard procedure by going after a full, “live” sound in the most
roundabout of ways.
“We record about as nonlive as possible,” says Ulrich. “There’s never more than
one guy in the studio at any one point in time.”
Building the click track, says Hetfield, takes “a lot longer, probably, than it
would to actually do it live.” The recording procedure goes something like this:
Hetfield lays down his scratch rhythm, Ulrich records his drum tracks, Hetfield
returns and completes his final rhythm-guitar parts, Newsted adds the bass, then
Hetfield and Hammett alternate leads and vocals, “so we don’t burn ourselves out.”
Metallica’s last two LPs were recorded in Copenhagen’s Sweet Silence Studios. One
of the differences between most studios in Los Angeles and their European equiva-
lents, says Ulrich, is how “all that shit’s included. You don’t have to fucking rent
anything.” Another difference is the tendency of European studios to employ an in-
house engineer, which is how the group discovered Flemming Rasmussen.
During their ‘84 European tour, the band decided to concentrate their energies
on an extended stay on the continent, where they could tour, record an album, blitz
the press and “really spread a lot of shit around.”
They met the man with whom they would record their next three albums during
their first day in Sweet Silence Studios. “Flemming had done some Rainbow stuff
that sounded pretty good and he was supposedly a really happening engineer,”
recalls Ulrich. “At that point in time we had had a really bad experience with an
I-use-the-term-loosely ‘producer’ on the first album [Paul Curcio on Kill ‘Em All], and
we were glad to have two more weeks of studio time instead of spending $10 or $15
thousand on someone who really didn’t know anything about the band. So we went
in and did it with Flemming, and instantly there was some sort of happening vibe
there. There still is, and it’s been growing stronger, really. He’s like the fifth member
when it comes to recording.”
Unfortunately, Rasmussen wasn’t immediately available after Metallica began
recording . . . And Justice for All!, so the band hooked up with Guns N’ Roses producer
Mike Clink for their first sessions at One on One. On Master of Puppets, according to
Ulrich, “we booked studio time and fucking got all the decisions together way too
early in the songwriting. But when it came time to go into the studio, we weren’t
really ready.” With Justice!, however, the situation was exactly the opposite.
“This time around we didn’t want to make any recording decisions until we
had all the songs written. So we started writing in October and it only took eight or
nine weeks to write the songs. It went a lot quicker than we thought it would.” By
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January, they were ready to record, but Rasmussen wasn’t, having been unavoid-
ably detained by a prior commitment to a band amusingly called Danish Pregnant
Woman. But Metallica wanted him bad, and did everything in their power to snare
him, but to no avail.
“We fucking tried everything, but there was no fucking way to get this fucking
Danish Pregnant Woman to fucking give Flemming up. We offered to fucking fly
engineers in at our expense, pay for studio time, anything, right? No. See ya.
“So basically we were faced with the situation of whether we wanted to sit
around and dwell for fucking three months, let the fuckin’ songs get burned out, and
kind of fuckin’ start hating things. We’re all sitting around on our couch going flump,
we’ve gotta fuckin’ start doing something with our time.”
The decision was made to go into the studio with Mike Clink, get comfortable by
wailing on a couple of Diamondhead and Budgie chestnuts, work out some B-sides
and prepare for Rasmussen’s availability. But, according to Ulrich, “The Clink situa-
tion emphasized that we really can’t work, or at least record, with anyone other than
Flemming.”
“Well, we can.” Adds Hetfield, “but it’s a slow process.”
“We’d still be in there right now doing drum tracks,” moans Ulrich.
Rasmussen finally came to the rescue, and the drummer and guitarist acknowl-
edge that their time with Clink wasn’t totally wasted. Rather, it was just enough to
loosen the group up and enable them to start recording within a couple of days of
Rasmussen’s arrival six weeks into their studio block. “If we’d started from scratch it
probably would have taken us three weeks,” says Ulrich.
Metallica mixed . . . And Justice for All! with Michael Barbiero and Steve
Thompson, whose credits include Whitney Houston, Madonna, the Rolling Stones,
Prince, Cinderella, Tesla and Guns N’ Roses. Ulrich and Hetfield are optimistic about
the collaboration.
“Looking back,” opines Ulrich, “I don’t think we’ve been too comfortable with
any of the mixes we’ve ever done.”
Hetfield agrees, adding, “I think the problem with a lot of people who specialize
in mixing is they set up the mix the way they’re used to mixing bands, and everyone
ends up sounding like those mixes. What’s great about these guys is they go out of
their way to keep the band’s identity completely together.”
How does Justice differ from Puppets?
“It’s a lot . . .” begins Ulrich.
“Drier,” continues Hetfield.
“A lot drier, and a lot more . . .”
“In your face,” Hetfield pipes in again. “Everything’s way up front and there’s
not a lot of ‘verb or echo. We really went out of our way to make sure that what we
put on the tape was what we wanted, so the mixing procedure would be as easy as
possible and not like the old saying, ‘We’ll save it in the mix.’”
“Puppets was very well recorded,” says Ulrich, “and had a very huge sort of
sound, but didn’t really fuckin’ come out of the speakers and hit you in the face.”
“Compared to Ride the Lightning it did,” Hetfield reminds him.
“I don’t want to listen to Ride the Lightning,” groans Ulrich.
“Flemming was in a reverb daze,” explains Hetfield.
Did the experience of recording The $5.98 EP affect Justice’s sound?
“I think we were pretty pleased with the way it was so upfront and raw,” reck-
ons Hetfield.
“We learned something from that mix,” says Ulrich.
“We learned that the bass is too loud,” says Hetfield.
“And when is the bass too loud?” chants Ulrich.
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410 The 1980s
Together: “When you can hear it!”
Upon completion, . . . And Justice for All! will be another Metallica mouthful
of supercharged riffs and vaguely upsetting lyrics just this side of deeply disturb-
ing. Although they joke flippantly about its content, Ulrich and Hetfield obvi-
ously place much greater existential stock in their work than your typical metal
numbskulls.
What’s it about? I inquire.
“Walking your dog in the park,” quips Ulrich.
“And not wanting to clean up after it,” continues Hetfield, as usual. “But there’s
a law, so you have to. It’s basically about independence and freedom, and how they
are stopped in certain ways.”
“How they’re very surfacey things,” adds Ulrich. “At a certain point they really
start shoving those words in your face, but when you really start thinking about a
lot of shit . . .”
“. . . how free is it?” concludes Hetfield.
Ulrich goes on. “You have freedom of choice, but how many choices do you
have? It’s easy to say you can make up your own mind, but you can only make up
your mind about two or three different things.”
Like, for example, between Dokken, the Scorpions, Kingdom Come, Poison,
Venom, Van Fucking Halen, and a skidillion other munsters of rock. Metallica
prove it that Sunday afternoon in Foxboro, where they play an abbreviated, prob-
ably even mediocre set for several thousand curious complexions. No matter. It’s
clear that Metallica embody an electrically overamped power and passion that
rings a hundred times truer than their monster mates. Like free jazz, New York
noise or even composer Krystof Penderecki, Metallica are original dynamos,
weekend warriors outstanding in a very loud field of their own. And that’s the
fucking truth.
Further Reading
Fricke, David. “Heavy Metal Justice,” Rolling Stone, January 12, 1989, 42–49.
Garofalo, Reebee. “Setting the Record Straight: Censorship and Social Responsibility in Pop-
ular Music.” Journal of Popular Music Studies 6 (1994): 1–37.
Irwin, William, ed. Metallica and Philosophy: A Crash Course in Brain Surgery. Oxford, UK:
Blackwell, 2007.
Masciotra, David. Metallica (The Black Album). 33 1/3 Series. New York: Bloomsbury, 2015.
Pillsbury, Glenn T. Damage Incorporated: Metallica and the Production of Musical Identity. New
Discography
Guns N’ Roses. Appetite for Destruction. Geffen, 1987.
Metallica. Master of Puppets. Elektra, 1986.
________. . . . And Justice for All. Elektra, 1988.
Poison. Look What the Cat Dragged In. Capitol, 1986.
Quiet Riot. Mental Health. Pasha, 1983.
W.A.S.P. W.A.S.P. Capitol, 1984.
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68. Parents Want to Know: Heavy Metal, the
PMRC, and the Public Debate over Decency
The popularity of heavy metal could not remain underground forever:

Top 40 hits by Def Leppard, Quiet Riot, Ratt, Mötley Crüe, and the Scor-
pions and the growing ubiquity of metal-influenced guitar solos in the
early to mid-1980s presaged the genre’s full-scale breakthrough. A clear
sign of this change of status was the addition to MTV’s schedule in 1985
of a show devoted entirely to metal, Heavy Metal Mania, which was
renamed Headbanger’s Ball in 1987. This reflected a change in MTV’s
format as the video channel moved away from continuous 24-hour video
flow into a schedule broken down into specialized time slots, as well
as the recognition that heavy metal was now acceptable to the demo-
graphic represented by MTV’s audience.
This development in the realm of music video was paralleled by
increased radio play for metal bands, not only for the ever-expanding
progeny of “glam” or “lite” metal bands such as Poison and Warrant,
but also for bands that followed the “harder” Judas Priest/Iron Maiden
approach. Earlier distinctions between British and American metal
began to erode, and a band like Guns N’ Roses (probably the most popu-
lar metal band of the late eighties) successfully combined several of the
different strands of the genre.
The rise in popularity of heavy metal in the guise of glam metal
occasioned an increase in media attention by the mid-1980s. As these
artists’ songs, public personae, and images (from music videos and
album covers) became more widely known, they disturbed the sensi-
bilities of those outside their main fan base. The look (long, frequently-
blond hair, “glam” makeup, black leather with spiked gauntlets), music
(high-pitched, semi-screamed male vocals, power chords, distortion),
and imagery of male domination were all perceived as shocking by
people who had previously had little exposure to the genre. The fact
that selected song lyrics and video and album images contained explic-
itly sexual and/or violent content was enough to set off mass-mediated
alarm bells. At the same time, more mainstream artists such as Prince
and Sheena Easton were also featuring explicit sexual details in their
lyrics, a coincidence sufficient to ignite a full-blown moral panic. Con-
trary to what its subsequent history might suggest, rap sailed beneath
the radar of moral righteousness at this time, perhaps because its pub-
lic profile was too low, or perhaps because prior to the large-scale emer-
gence of gangsta rap around 1987, the frequency of explicit lyrics in rap
411
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412 The 1980s
songs was lower than that in the other genres that became the focus of
public debate.
At any rate, greater public awareness of these now-controversial
artists and their attendant lyrics and images led to a response from the
national Parent Teacher Association (PTA) and the founding of the Par-
ent Music Resource Center (PMRC) by the wives of several prominent
Washington politicians. The PMRC was led by Tipper Gore (wife of then–
U.S. Senator Al Gore, a Democrat) and Susan Baker (wife of then–U.S.
Secretary of the Treasury James Baker, a Republican). In a rare display
of bipartisanship, the founders of the PMRC focused on several exam-
ples of what they called “porn rock”: the namesake of Prince’s “Darling
Nikki,” who masturbates in a hotel lobby; the video of Mötley Crüe’s
“Looks That Kill,” which features “scantily clad women being captured
and imprisoned in cages by a studded-leather-clad male band”; and
the lyrics of Judas Priest’s “Eat Me Alive,” which describe “oral sex at
gunpoint.”1 During the period of these media campaigns by the PTA and
PMRC, the subjects of the newly dubbed “porn rock” received a wave of
attention from journalists in op-ed pieces.2
Public concern with the level of sexual and violent images in this
music (and in entertainment in general) came to a head when Congress
opened hearings on the subject in September 1985. Neither the posi-
tions for nor the positions against were as simple as have sometimes
been portrayed. The PMRC voiced the concerns of parents of all political
stripes about the desire to control the kind of material to which their
kids had access (a concern that continues to the present day in issues
such as how to control children’s access to Internet and cable TV). The
aspect of the PMRC’s campaign that most troubled critics, however,
concerned the slippage between a request for greater information and
the promotion of a “cause and effect,” or “hypodermic,” cultural mod-
el.3 Social ills, according to the PMRC’s point of view, were caused by
1. Quotes are drawn from the book that most fully explains the PMRC’s position: Tipper Gore,
Raising PG Kids in an X-Rated Society (New York: Bantam, 1988), 3, xi.
2. For a sample, see the following: Patrick Goldstein, “Parents Warn Take the Sex and Shock out
of Rock,” Los Angeles Times, August 25, 1985; George F. Will, “No One Blushes Anymore,” Washing-
ton Post, September 15, 1985; and Barbara Jaeger, “Sex, Violence, and Rock n’ Roll, Young Fans Can
See It All,” Denver Post, April 28, 1985. An article from the same period by Deborah Frost (“White
Noise—How Heavy Metal Rules,” Village Voice, June 18, 1985) stands out for its thoughtful social
analysis rather than the moral proselytizing featured by the other articles cited here. These articles
and several others were produced as evidence and included in the published proceedings of the
congressional hearings that form the focus of this chapter.
3. For a discussion of the PMRC that highlights this slippage, see Robert Walser, Running with
the Devil: Power, Gender, and Madness in Heavy Metal Music (Hanover: Wesleyan University Press,
1993), 137–60; for more on censorship and the PMRC, see Reebee Garofalo, “Setting the Record
Straight: Censorship and Social Responsibility in Popular Music,” Journal of Popular Music Studies
6 (1994): 1–37. The moral panic over popular music resurfaced later in the decade in a more aca-
demic, yet still populist, form in Allan Bloom’s Closing of the American Mind (New York: Simon &
Schuster, 1987). Like Gore and the PMRC, Bloom anchors his argument in the defense of supposed
universal humanist ideals.
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Parents Want to Know 413
music and other forms of entertainment, rather than the social inequi-
ties and negative social interactions supported by powerful institutions;
according to this outlook, a song with violent, misogynistic lyrics cre-
ates young men who are violent and misogynistic, a song about suicide
causes a teenager to commit suicide, and so on. Surfacing frequently
in these critiques was the nostalgic view that these forms of entertain-
ment were making it impossible for the nuclear family to act as the posi-
tive foundation that it once had been, or, alternately, that these songs
reflected the decay of the nuclear family. Furthermore, the PMRC and its
supporters did not account for variations in reception of cultural texts,
that is, why everyone who hears a song that mentions suicide does not
commit suicide, and they overstated the frequency of the most extreme
lyrics and images and the centrality of lyrics to the listening experience,
thereby exaggerating the seriousness of the threat. Opponents of the
PMRC, for their part, often expressed sympathy with the stated aims of
the group to control children’s access to the relevant materials while
criticizing the cause-and-effect model and voicing concern about the
implications for future censorship.
The following proceedings from the 1985 congressional hearings

give voice to these different positions. On one side, we meet Senator
Ernest F. Hollings from South Carolina and Susan Baker, whose con-
cern with the effect of popular music on society leads them to consider
(or advocate) censorship; representing a somewhat different point of
view, Tipper and Al Gore lean more toward the “voluntary” approach,
which would have the record industry of its own volition label its prod-
ucts with warning stickers. Among critics, the most famous response
came from Frank Zappa. Perhaps the most surprising aspect of Zappa’s
statement is his concession that parents are justified to request that
some type of additional information accompany albums; in this case,
Zappa suggests adding a lyric sheet, a request for which Senator Gore
(in a passage not reproduced here) subsequently voiced his support.
A recurring theme in the statements of many of the participants is
confusion over the purpose of the hearing: was it simply a discussion
about some kind of system to warn parents about content, or were
they gathered in order to advocate for legislation that would actively
censor the music industry? Not included here is testimony by several
senators and scholars, as well as musicians Dee Snider of Twisted
Sister (one of the targets of the PMRC) and John Denver (not one of
the targets of the PMRC), both of whom argue against the PMRC’s
proposals. Although parental advisory stickers were recommended in
November 1985 and have accompanied selected new recordings since
1988, they did not create the sea change that was predicted (though
they did limit access to products thus labeled in certain large chain
stores such as Walmart). The true disaster for the music industry had
to wait until the advent of improvements in digital file-sharing tech-
nology.
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414 The 1980s
Record Labeling: Hearing before the Committee on

Commerce, Science, and Transportation, United States
Senate, 99th Congress, September 19, 1985
Opening Statement by the Chairman

The Chairman: Ladies and gentlemen, this hearing is on the subject of the content
of some, and I want to underscore the word “some,” not all rock music, which it
has been pointed out by a number of people as having really broken new ground
as to the content of music and the lyrics that are used in music.
There have, I suppose, always been cases of songs that are suggestive in one way or
another. However, certain rock music that is now being sold deals very explicitly
with sexual subjects. Some music glorifies violence in various forms, sexual vio-
lence. Some music advocates the use of drugs, drug abuse, and so on.
And so, the reason for this hearing is not to promote any legislation. Indeed, I do not
know of any suggestion that any legislation be passed. But to simply provide a
forum for airing the issue itself, for ventilating the issue, for bringing it out into
the public domain.
The concern is that the public at large should be aware of the existence of this kind
of music, and the fact that it is now available to kids, and that kids of all ages are
able to buy it.
It is my understanding that various private groups have been holding discussions
with people who are in the music publishing and music industry to try to
achieve some sort of understanding with respect to the labeling of records so
that at least the whole family knows what is in them, and not just the child who
buys the record.
That seems to me to be a reasonable suggestion, but the point of this hearing is not
for me to make any particular suggestions, but to simply provide [a] forum so
that the whole issue can be brought to the attention of the American people. . . .
Opening Statement by Senator Hollings

Senator Hollings: Mr. Chairman, I first want to commend the Parents Music Re-
source Center for bringing this to the Nation’s attention. I have had the oppor-
tunity to attend a showing, you might say, or presentation of this porn rock, as
they call it. In the test of pornography, one of the things to look at is whether or
not it has any redeeming social value. There could be an exception here, because
having attended that presentation, the redeeming social value that I find is in-
audible. . . .
In all candor, I would tell you it is outrageous filth, and we have got to do some-
thing about it. I take the tempered approach, of our distinguished chairman,
Source: RECORD LABELING: HEARING BEFORE THE COMMITTEE ON COMMERCE,

SCIENCE, AND TRANSPORTATION. UNITED STATES SENATE, NINETY-NINTH CONGRESS.
FIRST SESSION ON CONTENTS OF MUSIC AND THE LYRICS OF RECORDS. SEPTEMBER 19,
1985. Printed for the use of the Committee on Commerce, Science, and Transportation. U.S.
GOVERNMENT PRINTING OFFICE, WASHINGTON: 1985.
bra43588_pt05_357-448.indd 414 05/27/19 05:05 PM

and commend it. Yet, I would make the statement that if I could find some way
constitutionally to do away with it, I would. . . .
I want everyone to know I am keeping that foremost in mind, and I am asking the
best of constitutional minds, if there is some way in the world to try to limit it
as we go along with the voluntary labeling. I commend those who are now be-
ginning to label. That is what we would like to have, truth in labeling. I do not
think we can outlaw pornography. I do not have that in mind at all. But take 6
to 7 hours daily—the average listening time, Senator, as I understand, by the
youngsters of this particular porn rock and rock music and everything else of
that kind. Well, let us say rock music and intersperse it with pornography. This
is a matter of national concern, and it is something that we have got to give some
kind of attention to within the constrictions of free speech.
So, I will be looking from the Senator’s standpoint, not just to bring pressures to try to
see if there is some constitutional provisions to tax, but an approach that can be
used by the Congress to limit this outrageous filth, suggestive violence, suicide,
and everything else in the Lord’s world that you would not think of. Certainly
the writers and framers of our first amendment never perhaps heard this music
in their time, never considered the broadcast airwaves and certainly that being
piped into people’s homes willy nilly over the air. I will be listening closely. . . .
Opening Statement by Senator Gore

Senator Gore: Thank you very much, Mr. Chairman. I would like to thank you and
commend you for calling this hearing. Because my wife has been heavily in-
volved in the evolution of this issue, I have gained quite a bit of familiarity with
it, and I have really gained an education in what is involved.
The two most important things I have learned which have changed my initial at-
titude to this whole concern are, No. 1, the proposals made by those concerned
about this problem do not involve a Government role of any kind whatsoever.
They are not asking for any form of censorship or regulation of speech in any
manner, shape, or form.
What they are asking for is whether or not the music industry can show some self-
restraint and working together in a manner similar to that used by the movie
industry, whether or not they can come up with a voluntary guide system for
parents who wish to exercise what they believe to be their responsibilities to
their children, to try to prevent their children from being exposed to material
that is not appropriate for them. . . .
Mrs. Baker: Before I begin, I would like to introduce the president of the PMRC, Pam
Howar, and our treasurer, Sally Nevius.
The Parents Music Resource Center was organized in May of this year by mothers of
young children who are very concerned by the growing trend in music toward
lyrics that are sexually explicit, excessively violent, or glorify the use of drugs
and alcohol.
Our primary purpose is to educate and inform parents about this alarming trend as
well as to ask the industry to exercise self-restraint.
It is no secret that today’s rock music is a very important part of adolescence and
teenagers’ lives. It always has been, and we don’t question their right to have
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416 The 1980s
their own music. We think that is important. They use it to identify and give ex-
pression to their feelings, their problems, their joys, sorrows, loves, and values.
It wakes them up in the morning and it is in the background as they get dressed
for school. It is played on the bus. It is listened to in the cafeteria during lunch.
It is played as they do their homework. They even watch it on MTV now. It is
danced to at parties, and puts them to sleep at night.
Because anything that we are exposed to that much has some influence on us, we be-
lieve that the music industry has a special responsibility as the message of songs
goes from the suggestive to the blatantly explicit.
As Ellen Goodman stated in a recent column, rock ratings: “The outrageous edge of
rock and roll has shifted its focus from Elvis’s pelvis to the saw protruding from
Blackie Lawless’s codpiece on a WASP album. Rock lyrics have turned from ‘I
can’t get no satisfaction’ to ‘I am going to force you at gunpoint to eat me alive.’”
The material we are concerned about cannot be compared with Louie Louie, Cole
Porter, Billie Holliday, et cetera. Cole Porter’s “the birds do it, the bees do it,” can
hardly be compared with WASP, “I f-u-c-k like a beast.” There is a new element
of vulgarity and violence toward women that is unprecedented.
While a few outrageous recordings have always existed in the past, the proliferation
of songs glorifying rape, sadomasochism, incest, the occult, and suicide by a
growing number of bands illustrates this escalating trend that is alarming.
Some have suggested that the records in question are only a minute element in this
music. However, these records are not few, and have sold millions of copies,
like Prince’s “Darling Nikki,” about masturbation, sold over 10 million copies.
Judas Priest, the one about forced oral sex at gunpoint, has sold over 2 million
copies. Quiet Riot, “Metal Health,” has songs about explicit sex, over 5 million
copies. Motley Crue, “Shout at the Devil,” which contains violence and brutality
to women, over 2 million copies.
Some say there is no cause for concern. We believe there is. Teen pregnancies and
teenage suicide rates are at epidemic proportions today. The Noedecker Report
states that in the United States of America we have the highest teen pregnancy
rate of any developed country: 96 out of 1,000 teenage girls become pregnant.
Rape is up 7 percent in the latest statistics, and the suicide rates of youth between 16
and 24 has gone up 300 percent in the last three decades while the adult level has
remained the same.
There certainly are many causes for these ills in our society, but it is our contention
that the pervasive messages aimed at children which promote and glorify suicide,
rape, sadomasochism, and so on, have to be numbered among the contributing
factors.
Some rock artists actually seem to encourage teen suicide. Ozzie [sic] Osbourne sings
“Suicide Solution.” Blue Oyster Cult sings “Don’t Fear the Reaper.” AC/DC sings
“Shoot to Thrill.” Just last week in Centerpoint, a small Texas town, a young man
took his life while listening to the music of AC/DC. He was not the first.
Now that more and more elementary school children are becoming consumers of rock
music, we think it is imperative to discuss this question. What can be done to help
parents who want to protect their children from these messages if they want to?
Today parents have no way of knowing the content of music products that their
children are buying. While some album covers are sexually explicit or depict
violence, many others give no clue as to the content. One of the top 10 today is
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Morris Day and the Time, “Jungle Love.” If you go to buy the album “Ice Cream
Castles” to get “Jungle Love,” you also get, “If the Kid Can’t Make You Come,
Nobody Can,” a sexually explicit song.
The pleasant cover picture of the members of the band gives no hint that it contains
material that is not appropriate for young consumers. . . .
We believe something can be done, and Tipper Gore will discuss the possible solu-
tion. Thank you.
Mrs. Gore: Thank you, Mr. Chairman.

We are asking the recording industry to voluntarily assist parents who are concerned
by placing a warning label on music products inappropriate for younger chil-
dren due to explicit sexual or violent lyrics.
The Parents Music Resource Center originally proposed a categorical rating system for
explicit material. After many discussions with the record industry, we recognize
some of the logistical and economic problems, and have adjusted our original sug-
gestions accordingly. We now propose one generic warning label to inform con-
sumers in the marketplace about lyric content. The labels would apply to all music.
We have asked the record companies to voluntarily label their own products and as-
sume responsibility for making those judgments. We ask the record industry to
appoint a one-time panel to recommend a uniform set of criteria which could serve
as a policy guide for the individual companies. Those individual recording compa-
nies would then in good faith agree to adhere to this standard, and make decisions
internally about which records should be labeled according to the industry criteria.
We have also asked that lyrics for labeled music products be available to the con-
sumer before purchase in the marketplace. Now, it is important to clearly state
what our proposal is not.
A voluntary labeling is not censorship. Censorship implies restricting access or sup-
pressing content. This proposal does neither. Moreover, it involves no Gov-
ernment action. Voluntary labeling in no way infringes upon first amendment
rights. Labeling is little more than truth in packaging, by now, a time honored
principle in our free enterprise system, and without labeling, parental guidance
is virtually impossible.
Most importantly, the committee should understand the Parents Music Resource
Center is not advocating any Federal intervention or legislation whatsoever. The
excesses that we are discussing were allowed to develop in the marketplace, and
we believe the solutions to these excesses should come from the industry who
has allowed them to develop and not from the Government.
The issue here is larger than violent and sexually explicit lyrics. It is one of ideas and
ideal freedoms and responsibility in our society. Clearly, there is a tension here,
and in a free society there always will be. We are simply asking that these cor-
porate and artistic rights be exercised with responsibility, with sensitivity, and
some measure of self-restraint, especially since young minds are at stake. We are
talking about preteenagers and young teenagers having access to this material.
That is our point of departure and our concern. . . .
Senator Rockefeller: Is there any serious doubt with serious people to whom you
have talked that there is a direct relationship between violence and disturbing
tendencies and occurrences among young people and the proliferation of this
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418 The 1980s
type of material that we have seen this morning. Is there any serious doubt that
there is not a direct relationship between those two?
Or are there some who would argue that you are simply trying to suppress first
amendment rights?
Mrs. Baker: Well, some make the point—and it is certainly true—that sex and vio-
lence pervade every level of our society today. So we would just say that music,
which is a very important part of young people, young people who are forming
their characters and developing their value systems, learning how to relate to the
opposite sex—even what they think about sex is not defined in their minds yet.
We think that it does have an influence on these young minds. But we certainly do
not blame music for the ills, all the ills that exist in the teenage population, the
younger children.
Senator Rockefeller: Is the relationship between the escalation of the so-called MTV
phenomenon and the things that we have seen this morning, and the problems
that exist in the teenage population is incontrovertible in your mind?
Mrs. Baker: Absolutely. . . .
Mr. Zappa: These are my personal observations and opinions. I speak on behalf of no
group or professional organization.
The PMRC proposal is an ill-conceived piece of nonsense which fails to deliver any
real benefits to children, infringes the civil liberties of people who are not chil-
dren, and promises to keep the courts busy for years dealing with the interpreta-
tional and enforcemental problems inherent in the proposal’s design.
It is my understanding that in law First Amendment issues are decided with a prefer-
ence for the least restrictive alternative. In this context, the PMRC demands are
the equivalent of treating dandruff by decapitation.
No one has forced Mrs. Baker or Mrs. Gore to bring Prince or Sheena Easton into their
homes. Thanks to the Constitution, they are free to buy other forms of music for
their children. Apparently, they insist on purchasing the works of contemporary
recording artists in order to support a personal illusion of aerobic sophistication.
Ladies, please be advised: The $8.98 purchase price does not entitle you to a kiss
on the foot from the composer or performer in exchange for a spin on the family
Victrola.
Taken as a whole, the complete list of PMRC demands reads like an instruction man-
ual for some sinister kind of toilet training program to house-break all compos-
ers and performers because of the lyrics of a few. Ladies, how dare you? . . .
Is the basic issue morality? Is it mental health? Is it an issue at all? The PMRC has
created a lot of confusion with improper comparisons between song lyrics, vid-
eos, record packaging, radio broadcasting, and live performances. These are all
different mediums and the people who work in them have the right to conduct
their business without trade-restraining legislation, whipped up like an instant
pudding by “The wives of Big Brother.” . . .
Children in the vulnerable age bracket have a natural love for music. If as a parent
you believe they should be exposed to something more uplifting than “Sugar
Walls,” support music appreciation programs in schools. Why have you not con-
bra43588_pt05_357-448.indd 418 05/27/19 05:05 PM

sidered your child’s need for consumer information? Music appreciation costs
very little compared to sports expenditures. Your children have a right to know
that something besides pop music exists.
It is unfortunate that the PMRC would rather dispense governmentally sanitized
heavy metal music than something more uplifting. Is this an indication of PM-
RC’s personal taste or just another manifestation of the low priority this admin-
istration has placed on education for the arts in America?
The establishment of a rating system, voluntary or otherwise, opens the door to an
endless parade of moral quality control programs based on things certain Chris-
tians do not like. What if the next bunch of Washington wives demands a large
yellow “J” on all material written or performed by Jews, in order to save helpless
children from exposure to concealed Zionist doctrine?
Record ratings are frequently compared to film ratings. Apart from the quantitative
difference, there is another that is more important: People who act in films are
hired to pretend. No matter how the film is rated, it will not hurt them personally.
Since many musicians write and perform their own material and stand by it as their
art, whether you like it or not, an imposed rating will stigmatize them as indi-
viduals. How long before composers and performers are told to wear a festive
little PMRC arm band with their scarlet letter on it?
Bad facts make bad law, and people who write bad laws are in my opinion more dan-
gerous than songwriters who celebrate sexuality. Freedom of speech, freedom of
religious thought, and the right to due process for composers, performers and
retailers are imperiled if the PMRC and the major labels consummate this nasty
bargain. . . .
Now, I have done a number of interviews on television. People keep saying, can you
not take a few steps in their direction, can you not sympathize, can you not em-
pathize? I do more than that at this point. I have got an idea for a way to stop all
this stuff and a way to give parents what they really want, which is information,
accurate information as to what is inside the album, without providing a stigma
for the musicians who have played on the album or the people who sing it or the
people who wrote it. And I think that if you listen carefully to this idea that it
might just get by all of the constitutional problems and everything else.
As far as I am concerned, I have no objection to having all of the lyrics placed on the
album routinely, all the time. But there is a little problem. Record companies do
not own the right automatically to take these lyrics, because they are owned by
a publishing company. . . .
If you consider that the public needs to be warned about the contents of the records,
what better way than to let them see exactly what the songs say? That way you
do not have to put any kind of subjective rating on the record. You do not have
to call it R, X, D/A, anything. You can read it for yourself.
But in order for it to work properly, the lyrics should be on a uniform kind of a sheet.
Maybe even the Government could print those sheets. Maybe it should even be
paid for by the Government, if the Government is interested in making sure that
people have consumer information in this regard.
And you also have to realize that if a person buys the record and takes it out of the
store, once it is out of the store you can’t return it if you read the lyrics at home
and decide that little Johnny is not supposed to have it.
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420 The 1980s
I think that that should at least be considered, and the idea of imposing these ratings
on live concerts, on the albums, asking record companies to reevaluate or drop
or violate contracts that they already have with artists should be thrown out.
That is all I have to say.
The Chairman: Thank you very much, Mr. Zappa. You understand that the previous
witnesses were not asking for legislation. And I do not know, I cannot speak for
Senator Hollings, but I think the prevailing view here is that nobody is asking
for legislation.
The question is just focusing on what a lot of people perceive to be a problem, and
you have indicated that you at least understand that there is another point of
view. But there are people that think that parents should have some knowledge
of what goes into their home.
Mr. Zappa: All along my objection has been with the tactics used by these people in
order to achieve the goal. I just think the tactics have been really bad, and the
whole premise of their proposal—they were badly advised in terms of record
business law, they were badly advised in terms of practicality, or they would have
known that certain things do not work mechanically with what they suggest.
Further Reading
Garofalo, Reebee. “Setting the Record Straight: Censorship and Social Responsibility in Pop-
ular Music.” Journal of Popular Music Studies 6 (1994): 1–37.
69. Postpunk Goes Indie
As stated earlier, the critical attention given to the initial wave of New
York and British punk in the late 1970s surpassed its popular appeal.
Punk, as both musical and subcultural style, nevertheless continued to
spread, branching out into a variety of subgenres. As we have already
seen, the most commercial of these branches resulted in the synth-pop
“New Romantic” movement. A variety of underground genres, based on
different regional scenes and supported by a loose network of fanzines,
independent record labels, college radio stations, and clubs in urban
areas and college towns, gradually earned the label “indie rock.” The
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Postpunk Goes Indie 421
many “scenes” that developed were one of the ways that college-age,
post–baby boomers created a distinction between themselves and the
long shadow cast by the musical dispositions of their boomer parents
and older siblings.1 Indie scenes sprang up in college towns as far flung
as Athens, Georgia; Austin, Texas; and Champaign, Illinois.2
The liveliest scene most directly descended from Ramones-style
punk was the Los Angeles–based hardcore movement. Memorialized in
Penelope Spheeris’s documentary, The Decline of Western Civilization,
this scene featured bands such as X, Black Flag, and the Minutemen, who
gloried in life on the margins while their songs focused on speed, anger,
and aggression. That being said, the Los Angeles bands were hardly of a
piece; X combined the quasi-folk harmonizing of husband-wife team John
Doe and Exene Cervenka with the rockabilly-flavored antics of guitarist
Billy Zoom; Black Flag could be humorous (“TV Party”), as well as sca-
brous (“Fuck the Police”); and the Minutemen showed what could be done
in a rock song lasting 60 seconds or less. In Minneapolis, an active club
scene developed around bands like the Replacements and Hüsker Dü,
who added a melodic edge to their distorted guitars and up-tempo songs.
The following article by Al Flipside (copublisher of the fanzine Flipside)

presents a brief history of punk’s transformation into hardcore. Flipside
makes an important connection between the policies of then-president
Ronald Reagan and the emergence of hardcore, and he observes how in
some ways the new political realities of the early 1980s parallel those
in the United Kingdom five years earlier. The latter part of the article
presents a survey of hardcore scenes around the United States, but I
include here only the section on Los Angeles, because that is the area that
developed the most widely known scene; this section provides a taste of
the thorough cataloguing provided by Flipside in the rest of the article.
What Is This Thing Called Hardcore?

Al Flipside
What is this “hardcore” movement anyway? Doesn’t it mean slam dancing like
there’s no tomorrow? Is it beating people violently on the dance floor and doing
1. This is one of the conclusions drawn by Holly Kruse in “Subcultural Identity in Alternative
Music Culture,” Popular Music 12, no. 1 (January 1993): 33–41.
2. For an in-depth examination of the scene in Austin, see Barry Shanks, Dissonant Identities: The
Rock ’n’ Roll Scene in Austin, Texas (Hanover, N.H.: Wesleyan University Press and University Press
of New England, 1994). The Holly Kruse article cited in note 1 focuses on the scene in Champaign.
On the scene in Athens, see Anthony DeCurtis, “The Athens Scene,” in Rocking My Life Away:
Writing about Music and Other Matters (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, [1981] 1998), 21–27.
Source: “What Is This Thing Called Hardcore?” © Al Flipside/Trouser Press. First published in
August 1982.
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422 The 1980s
a back flip off the p.a. column? Is it loud as you can go, fast as you can play? Is
it beach punks, surf punks or skate punks? An excuse for excessive drug and
alcohol imbibition? Does it mean you hate your parents, teachers and the police?
Is it kids too young to know any better or too frustrated to want anything else?
Is it the youth of the nation speaking up for what they believe in and what they
see is wrong with today’s world? Is it just another fad? Is it another name for
“punk rock”?
Hardcore is all of the above, in various combinations and proportions. To some
of us it is simply punk by another name. The term “punk” is still acceptable in
England, and the English rallying cry, “punk’s not dead” refers to the same music
as the American expression “hardcore.” The recent explosion of hardcore punk
comes after years of development. It is the work of many dedicated people and
was inspired (directly and indirectly) by America’s decaying social, political and
economic situation.
Let’s start by looking where “punk” came from in the first place. Cities have
always had their own music scenes. In the late ’60s and early ’70s, local activity dwin-
dled as ”stadium rock” reigned. By the mid-’70s, though, rock musicmaking again
became a more personal concern. Local groups emerged playing original music and
clubs emerged to showcase them.
Around 1976 punk rock sprang up simultaneously in New York, London and
Los Angeles. Each area developed an individual style while being influenced by the
others. London borrowed the Ramones’ guitar style and leather jackets, but devel-
oped the pogo dance, safety pin look and political grounding. Los Angeles sped up
the basic sound, adding its own dress, dances, political twists, etc. This exciting and
energetic new punk scene was alive and kicking by 1977. However, with the breakup
of the Sex Pistols in 1978 the media declared punk rock dead. Disco became the next
fad, and for the most part that’s what teenage America was all about. But the media
were wrong about punk. It hadn’t died, it just went underground.
Most of the London punk bands put out great first albums and then sold out with
shitty second releases; many disbanded. New York’s so-called punk rockers turned
out to be just plain flakes. The Los Angeles punk bands (those of San F rancisco too)
never got anything going, and most disappeared or were incorporated into other
projects. The original attitude, however, was firmly established. Punk would not die;
the seeds were sown.
All was not lost as the pioneering punk bands disappeared. “New wave” came
along to gloss over any remaining sore spots, but the scars were too deep to heal.
Out of this new music rage came many important independent record labels and
distributors, in America as well as England.
Where does hardcore fit into this ancient history? I first saw the word used as a
noun on a poster announcing a new tour by Vancouver band D.O.A. The term signi-
fied dedication and defiance, and at the same time named the new breed.
This new breed developed on a foundation that the early punks had no idea they
had set up. In 1977 there were almost no independent record labels in the US willing
to sign a new act, let alone a network to distribute such a record. Today there are
literally hundreds of labels willing to take the chance and a handful of distributors
eagerly awaiting any new releases. The pattern has repeated itself all over the coun-
try: One band forms a label as its only means to release its own material. That label
then offers the opportunity for other bands to be heard. A distribution network set
up once can work again and again. Where there was one single, now there are EPs,
LPs and compilation albums. Although new labels spring up all the time, the older
labels find themselves with growing catalogues.
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Postpunk Goes Indie 423
The machinery, then, is waiting. But I would have to think an entire scene could
develop out of sheer opportunity—and this wasn’t the case.
London’s punk scene re-emerged in a big way with bands like Crass, Discharge
and Exploited. They had a new look (mohawk haircuts) and new seriousness to
their pro-anarchy, anti-war stance. In America the remaining hardcore bands, in
an amazing act of faith, were making cross-country tours. Their records were out
there, but the record-buying public still wasn’t aware of them and radio stations
(except for a few) were hopeless. Black Flag, D.O.A., the Dead Kennedys and others
screamed their messages to anyone who would listen and inspired more than they
could imagine.
Who was inspiring the bands themselves? Time now to pay tribute to hardcore’s
chief impetus: President Ronald Reagan.
Listen to any hardcore band’s lyrics: recession, depression, WWIII, nuclear war,
the arms race, unemployment—Reagan brainstorms every one. There are probably
more “I hate Reagan” songs around than on any other topic. As federal aid cutbacks
hit close to home, political theories become frighteningly real, just as they did for
English punks five years ago. Most hardcore bands are dead serious.
On the other hand, there are opportunists and hordes of hardcore recruits who
are into the scene only because it’s cool to be a punk in their high school. As with any
movement, these imbeciles can only ruin hardcore for its sincere fans. There’s always
hope the new punks will listen to what the bands are saying and be enlightened.
They’re obvious at every gig, with their mindless fighting, drug abuse and peer pres-
sure that punk never stood for.
The hardcore scene is full of people with ideals who have healthy things to say
(like the Washington, DC bands). There are also people—sometimes I think in the
majority—who are just plain assholes out to exploit punk’s reckless reputation. Eve-
ryone and every place has to be judged individually. The second half of this article
is a rundown on the American hardcore punk scene based on reading and talking to
fanzine editors and bands themselves.
Los Angeles
We’ll start on the west coast, just as American hardcore did. Los Angeles, of course,
is at the heart of the movement. The LA punk scene has remained strong, although
underground at times, since its beginnings. Clubs open and close but there’s always
somewhere to play. The vast suburbs, stretching for at least 100 miles from one end
of the San Fernando valley to the edge of Orange County, supply new faces and
room for individual development. There are undoubtedly more hardcore bands and
gigs here than in any city in the US.
The LA hardcore scene started around 1980 with the beach punks and the Fleet-
wood club at Redondo Beach. But not everyone lives at the beach. Today’s hardcore
bands come from all over the giant suburb that is Los Angeles.
Black Flag is probably America’s best and best known hardcore band. They’ve
been around for quite a while in many forms, and are admired for their hardcore
stance in both music and lifestyle. Few LA groups come close to matching Black
Flag’s dedication.
Los Angeles has many hardcore bands who have been around for several years,
among them Fear, Circle Jerks, Social Distortion, Red Cross—even the Dickies.
The Fleetwood/beach punk era saw bands rise to prominence like TSOL, Adoles-
cents, Bad Religion, Channel 3, China White and Saccharine Trust. Most of these
bands have released records and now headline at smaller clubs. The hardcore
club Godzillas has hosted a new crop, including Circle One, Sin 34, Symbol Six,
bra43588_pt05_357-448.indd 423 05/27/19 05:05 PM

424 The 1980s
uicidal Tendencies, Public Nuisance, Social Dismay, Modern Protest, Moral Decay
S
and Lost Cause.
Other bands, like Wasted Youth, the Dischords and RE7, have just begun gaining
popularity from gigs and records. There’s also a “horror band” contingent that some
consider hardcore. TSOL used to be among them: these bands have names like Chris-
tian Death, Super Heroines, Voodoo Church and 45 Grave. The Sins are a hardcore
band from Riverside, not far from LA although it might as well be another country.
Further Reading
DeCurtis, Anthony. “The Athens Scene,” in Rocking My Life Away: Writing about Music and
Other Matters (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, [1981] 1998), 21–27.
Kruse, Holly. “Subcultural Identity in Alternative Music Culture.” Popular Music 12 (January
1993): 33–41.
MacLeod, Dewar. Kids of the Black Hole: Punk Rock in Postsuburban California. Norman: Univer-
sity of Oklahoma Press, 2010.
Shanks, Barry. Dissonant Identities: The Rock ‘n’ Roll Scene in Austin, Texas. Hanover, N.H.:
University Press of New England, 1994.
Discography
Black Flag. My War. SST, 1984.
Circle Jerks. VI. Combat, 1987.
Hüsker Dü. Flip Your Wig. SST, 1986.
The Minutemen. Double Nickels on the Dime. SST, 1984.
R.E.M. And I Feel Fine . . . : The Best of the I.R.S. Years 1982–1987. Capitol/IRS, 2006.
The Replacements. Let It Be. Twin/Tone, 1984.
Social Distortion. Prison Bound. Restless Records, 1988.
X. Los Angeles. Slash, 1980.
70. Indie Brings the Noise
Underground groups didn’t simply disappear in New York City at the

end of the seventies. The fruitful union of art school bohemian atti-
tudes with a rebellious, no-frills approach to music-making continued
in the “No Wave” movement and the Downtown avant-garde. No Wave
incorporated a more explicit relationship with avant-garde tendencies
while rebelling against what No Wavers viewed as the institutionalized
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Indie Brings the Noise 425
quality of punk. The Downtown scene featured musicians, such as
John Zorn, with credentials in the art gallery, jazz improvisation, or art
music scenes, who adopted punk’s embrace of noise, and combined
it with approaches derived from classical music. Another notable par-
ticipant in this scene, Glenn Branca, created noisy, minimalist mani-
festoes with an orchestra of electric guitars. Two members of one of
Branca’s ensembles, Lee Ranaldo (b. 1956) and Thurston Moore (b.
1958), brought the dissonant textures of Branca’s (and No Wave’s)
music to a more conventional rock group format with the formation of
Sonic Youth. Eventually Sonic Youth applied this avant-garde approach
to songs with more obvious connections to pop structures, alternating
extended textural instrumentals with vocal passages led by Moore or
bassist, Kim Gordon (b. 1953), singing-speaking in a style recalling that
of Lou Reed and ur-punkers, the Velvet Underground.
Kim Gordon’s account of life on the road with Sonic Youth is instructive
for several reasons. First of all, it provides an insider’s view of touring
on the indie-circuit in the 1980s, and shows how tours were built on
shows in small clubs in college towns, relying on personal connections
to set up the show and make local arrangements. Secondly, her jour-
nal tells us something about the still somewhat unusual (at the time)
perspective of the female rock musician, including her motivation for
playing rock music, and about some of the issues raised by being the
only female in a band.
Boys Are Smelly: Sonic Youth Tour Diary,’87

Kim Gordon
Before picking up a bass I was just another girl with a fantasy. What would it
be like to be right under the pinnacle of energy, beneath two guys crossing their
guitars, two thunderfoxes in the throes of self-love and male bonding? How sick,
but what desire could be more ordinary? How many grannies once wanted to rub
their faces in Elvis’s crotch, and how many boys want to be whipped by Steve
Albini’s guitar?
In the middle of the stage, where I stand as the bass player of Sonic Youth, the
music comes at me from all directions. The most heightened state of being female is
watching people watch you. Manipulating that state, without breaking the spell of
performing, is what makes someone like Madonna all the more brilliant. Simple pop
structures sustain her image, allowing her real self to remain a mystery—is she really
that sexy? Loud dissonance and blurred melody create their own ambiguity—are we
really that violent? —a context that allows me to be anonymous. For my purposes,
Source: Kim Gordon, “Boys Are Smelly: Sonic Youth Tour Diary, ‘87,” The Village Voice Rock &
Roll Quarterly, Fall 1988. Reprinted here with permission of Kim Gordon.
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426 The 1980s
being obsessed with boys playing guitars, being as ordinary as possible, being a girl
bass player is ideal, because the swirl of Sonic Youth music makes me forget about
being a girl. I like being in a weak position and making it strong.
we’re the archies!

People who can’t even believe we have an audience are always curious about who
they are. Maybe half the crowd who shows up in New York are real fans: noise buffs,
death rockers, yuppies who have never heard a Sonic Youth record but know who
Lydia Lunch is, rock writers, fanzine moguls, and sexual misfits, each and every one
of them dressed in black. In L.A. everyone is more power-shag. In other cities audi-
ences are younger, mostly fourteen- and fifteen-year-olds from areas that have cable
(MTV’s 120 Minutes), get exposed to us, and unlike college students, have nothing
better to do. New Yorkers familiar with Sonic Youth never consider us a teenybopper
band, but that just goes to show how provincial New Yorkers really are. They should
get out of the city more often and see the world.
A lot has changed, though, since Sonic Youth began in ’81. Cofounder and gui-
tarist Thurston Moore named a show he was booking Noisefest. That’s where we
met guitarist Lee Ranaldo and the band came together. The festival’s name was a
joke, inspired by the owner of Hurrah, who had said he was gonna close the club
because all the bands just sounded like a bunch of noise. Nobody even knew what
a noise band was. I wondered if people would be disappointed in Europe, the easi-
est place for New York bands to get gigs, because we didn’t fit the image. Next to
our friends the Swans, who were very loud and had a percussionist who pounded
metal, we were total wimps.
every night, a different gig

Lyle Hysen, drummer for Das Damen, a New York band with a Deep Purple-like
zest for guitar curdle and intricate song structures that frame a tragicomic persona (if
comedian Richard Lewis were a band, they’d be it), told me about this vision he had
that would change the face of indie rock. Instead of the band going on the road, from
city to city, the audience would tour. For instance, they could do the Midwest. Head
out to Minneapolis and see the Replacements, Soul Asylum, and Run Westy Run. Get
back on the bus and drive to Madison to Killdozer, Die Kreuzen, and the Tar Babies.
Just think, every night a different gig.
You’d be better off than the typical small touring band. There’d be no endless bick-
ering about where-what-when to eat, all the draining decision-making. The tour man-
ager would take care of everything, so you could just concentrate on watching the bands
play. If the bus broke down, well, maybe you’d miss a gig, but it’s not your responsibility.
Personally, I like to know that a band has suffered by the time they get onstage.
Like the first time Redd Kross toured. Out of some thirty dates they did six. They
drove out of L.A. in some crappy station wagon they bought with a record company
advance, and they had big suitcases filled with their gear—high heeled sneakers,
spangled bell-bottoms, poly-coated blouses—and everything got all messy and wrin-
kled, but a half dozen times they shimmied onstage and played their hearts out.
richmond, 9/14
I never feel like we’re really on tour till we hit Richmond. The wide streets feel
different, slow and empty, and then I know we’ve left NYC/New Jersey/Philly/
Baltimore/D.C. That turnpike shit is the ugliest anywhere.
bra43588_pt05_357-448.indd 426 05/27/19 05:05 PM

“Mom, I Gave the Cat Some Acid” was the funny industrial rock song by Happy
Flowers we covered tonight when we played with them. They covered Sonic Youth’s
“Catholic Block” and wailed all over us, ’cause they’re so fucking cute. There were a
couple guys from Fishbone hanging out, trying to be funnier than anyone else. One
guy was trying to impress me, telling me what neighborhood he comes from in L.A.
He said that he could be making a lot of money selling crack, but he preferred to play
music. I really felt like saying to him, “Yeah, so fucking what, I’m a girl and here’s
my ghetto pal.”
chapel hill, 9/15

The Cat’s Cradle was packed and too hot to remember anything. The last time we
played in Chapel Hill, ’82, it was the old Cat’s Cradle, which was filled with the kind
of dreariness that comes from redneck bars.
That was our first tour, us and the Swans. Yeah, we thought we were hot shit.
(We had a record out and had played CBGB, the Mudd Club, and Danceteria.) It
was raining and sad as hell, and the headlining Swans played their set to six jeering
cowboys. Chapel Hill is one of the hippest places on earth to play, but in 1982 we
were too underground or something. Mike Gira, the leader of the Swans, introduced
a song amid giggles and chants for “Freebird” by saying, “This next song is about
getting butt-fucked by a cop,” or something to that effect. We stood around waiting
to see if Harry Crosby, then the English bass player for the Swans, who was as drunk
as anyone, would feel the need to defend their honor. But nothing happened, a fitting
end to a stupid evening.
All ten of us piled into the van, and the Swans fought among themselves.
Morale was very low, tempers short, and our expectations not as high as Mike’s,
which is why they scream at one another. One night Mike and his drummer started
strangling each other and calling each other “dickhead” and “asshole.” Meanwhile
everyone else is crammed around them trying to mind his or her own business,
being really cool.
atlanta, 9/16
On the drive from Athens to Atlanta there’s this great Sno-Kone stand run by a six-
year-old who offers a million different flavors—poppy seed or corn dog, for instance.
We’ve totally given up on Athens, where we played twice and nobody came. The
first time was the night Gira jumped off the stage and pushed someone who was
pogoing. Mike thought the guy was a poser who was making fun of him. In reality
he was a nerd, and Mike had never seen a nerd before.
We played at the Metroplex in Atlanta. As wholesome as Athens likes to think it
is, Atlanta is self-consciously decadent. For instance, when my bass amp broke dur-
ing the set, I felt pressured to go through the motions, pretending that sound was still
blasting out, dry-humping as it were. Someone in the audience shouted, “Play some
fucking noise, that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Stop complaining that the PA isn’t
loud enough.” This is the kind of expert who will later review the show, complaining
that no one stuck a drill up his butt.
Anyhow, Atlanta used to have a super bad reputation as an evil punk scene,
lots of kids hanging out and slashing the tires of touring bands, a real pit. Thurs-
ton tried to discourage his sister, Susan, from coming to the Metroplex. He must’ve
thought we were gonna suck, or that he had to protect her. Thurston is really hung
up about having to protect women, must be his upbringing. (Thurston and I even
bra43588_pt05_357-448.indd 427 05/27/19 05:05 PM

428 The 1980s
had a C atholic wedding.) He told Susan she’d be raped and murdered if she came.
A handsome redhead, thirty, the mother of four, she ignored him and appeared at
the club with a camera around her neck, gasping to their cousins, “God, I’m the only
nerd here!” Someone asked Susan for her autograph.
We stayed at her house and awoke to food flying around the room and babies
crawling all over us. I know many people think we indulge in twisted sex and ingest
massive amounts of drugs on tour, and of course we do. But I’ll always remember
Susan, standing in the driveway with the kids and waving good-bye.
texas, 9/17
On our way to Dallas, we just melt, sleep, and nag our drummer Steve Shelley about
driving too slow and Thurston for driving too much like he plays guitar. Lee Ranaldo
is holding his movie camera out the window again, and Terry Pearson, our sound
man, is ripping through another rock ‘n’ roll autobiography. He can read one in ten
minutes. Suzanne Sasic is also with us.
Suzanne is our T-shirt vendor and runs the lighting board. Tomboyish, but with
long red hair, she wears spurs and keeps her money in her boots. Her penchant
for wearing glitter and silver, combined with her almost translucent skin, are other
reasons we call her our goddess of light. Suzanne and I sit in the last row of the van
and complain about something or other or just voice our opinions in general. No one
ever listens to us. It’s so far back, what with the windows open and stereo blasting,
that we have to shout to be heard. “Turn that shit off.” “Stop the car, I have to pee.”
Thurston complains that we’re always mumbling.
Suzanne has a diet that’s a challenge to accommodate. She won’t eat anything
green, except guacamole, and will only eat the middle of various foods like pancakes
and cheese omelettes. (She hates the egg part.) Spaghetti, chocolate, and orange juice
are staples. I’m writing this as a warning for all the boys across the country who write
to ask who the vixen with the devastating eyes is. Does she care? No, she’s a heart-
breaker. Just send obscure vinyl, After Eights, and forget the rest.
boston, 10/18
There was a point when I started getting sickened by the violence onstage. Thurs-
ton’s fingers would swell up all purple and thick from banging his guitar. Usu-
ally, I never know what’s happening onstage, I would just see guitarlike objects
whizzing through the air out of the corner of my eye. A couple of times Thurston
pushed Lee into the audience, as the only way to end a song, but that was harm-
less fun.
At our first gig in Boston about four years ago, Conflict editor Gerard Cosloy,
Forced Exposure’s Jimmy Johnson, and this drunken fan-boy were just about the only
ones there. During the first song the fan-boy picked up this broken drumstick that
had flown onto the floor and threw it back. It speared into my forehead. At first I
thought it had bounced off Thurston’s guitar. Shocked, I didn’t know whether to cry
or keep playing, but then I just felt incredibly angry. It took a long time to resolve
that incident, ‘cause it really made me feel sick, violated, like walking to the dressing
room after a set, having some guy say, “Nice show,” then getting my ass pinched as
I walk away.
I blamed it on the music for a while, because it did draw fans who really want to
see you hurt yourself. It’s not that I don’t share similar expectations; there’s beauty
in things falling apart, in the dangerous (sexual) power of electricity, which makes
bra43588_pt05_357-448.indd 428 05/27/19 05:05 PM

our music possible. But what was once a hazy fantasy has since clarified itself. I don’t
want my blood to be entertainment.
When we most recently played the Channel in Boston, some kid threw a handful
of firecrackers in my face. I threw down my bass and left the stage, and so did the rest
of the band. We figured out what happened and went back on to finish the set, while
bouncers were throwing the kid out. I was actually beginning to feel sorry for him,
probably a misplaced Aerosmith fan.
naugatuck, connecticut, 10/24

There’s nothing like Naugatuck on a Saturday night. It was just about the last gig on
the tour. The club is next to a Chinese restaurant in a shopping plaza. River’s Edge
could have been filmed here. I’ve never seen so many metalheads cruising the roads.
They make perfect sense, though, when you look at the barren trees, the discount
store, all this desolation and quietness—you want to crank up something really
loud and ugly. I couldn’t help wondering what the girls did while the boys were off
playing with Satan. Maybe they also crave electricity, swirling around their heads,
through their legs.
I know what they feel like. When Iggy Pop came onstage in Naugatuck (or was
it London?) to sing “I Wanna Be Your Dog,” Lee and Thurston were ready to rock.
I was amazed that he was so professional. He expressed the freakiness of being a
woman and an entertainer. I felt like such a cream puff next him. I didn’t know what
to do, so I just sort of watched.
secret message
This guy writes me letters. He tells me up front he’s been hospitalized for mental
disturbances several times and asks that I stop sending messages to him through our
music. Guys like this take over your whole life if you give them even a smidgen of
attention. So if you read this baby, stop sending those letters.
Further Reading
Foege, Alec. Confusion Is Next: The Sonic Youth Story. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1994.
Press, 2002.
Stearns, Matthew. Sonic Youth’s Daydream Nation (33 1/3). New York: Continuum, 2007.
Discography
Chatham, Rhys. An Angel Moves Too Fast to See: Selected Works, 1971-1989. Table of Elements,
2003.
Happy Flowers. I Crush Bozo. Homestead, 1988.
Killdozer. Snake Boy. Touch & Go, 1985.
Sonic Youth. Confusion Is Sex. Neutral, 1983.
_______. Bad Moon Rising. Homestead, 1985.
_______. Daydream Nation. Torso, 1988.
The Swans. Cop. K. 422, 1984.
bra43588_pt05_357-448.indd 429 05/27/19 05:05 PM

71. Hip-Hop, Don’t Stop
“Rap” had been around for years in African American neighborhoods

in the New York City area before the first hit recording appeared in
1979 with “Rapper’s Delight” by the Sugarhill Gang. Rap music existed
as part of a larger complex of cultural practices known as “hip-hop,”
which, in addition to rap, included breakdancing, graffiti writing, and
a distinct fashion sense. However, rap, like rhythm and blues in the
1950s, did not initially elicit much public disapproval because it was
(in the words of the 1955 Variety editorial included in Chapter 18)
“restricted to special places” and “off in a corner by itself . . . [as part
of] the music underworld—not the main stream.”
The history of hip-hop has been voluminously detailed since its
debut in the South Bronx during the 1970s, and the story gives new
meaning to the idea of “making the best of a bad situation.” On the one
hand, the South Bronx post-1970 qualifies as one of the most disas-
trous examples of “urban renewal” in recent U.S. history: a combina-
tion of declining manufacturing jobs and affordable housing, along
with decreased funding for public education, left a whole generation
without the resources that had sustained decades of optimism about
upward mobility. On the other hand, rap arose from the combination of
people thrown together by adversity and the happy collusion of DJ’ing
practices from disco; the sound systems and “toasting” of recent
Jamaican émigrés, such as the legendary Kool DJ Herc; and centuries
of African American rhyming, which lends credence to the notion of rap
as the product of an overarching ”Afrodiasporic” cultural background.1
The following two articles on hip-hop may have been the first to appear
in print. In the first article, published in the summer of 1978, Billboard
writer Robert Ford, Jr., reported on an unusual phenomenon in the
Bronx: young DJs, led by Kool Herc (Clive Campbell, b. 1955), were
seeking out obscure records with hot rhythm breaks. Herc describes
the emergence of a new aesthetic, one more attuned to rhythm than
1. My account is most indebted to Tricia Rose’s in Black Noise: Rap Music and Black Culture in
Contemporary America (Hanover, N.H.: Wesleyan University Press and University Press of New
England, 1994). For another excellent history of rap up to 1991, see David Toop, Rap Attack 2:
African Rap to Global Hip Hop (London: Serpent’s Tail, 1991).
430
bra43588_pt05_357-448.indd 430 06/04/19 11:30 PM

Hip-Hop, Don’t Stop 431
to singing or lush textural enhancements such as string tracks. The
second article, also by Ford from a year later, documents the rise of rap-
ping as a popular practice that was being joined to spinning records in
black clubs in the Bronx and Manhattan. This article also attests to the
circulation of self-produced rap tapes before the release of “Rapper’s
Delight” and, as a point of curiosity, points to how the roles of DJ and
MC were not yet defined as separate entities.
B-Beats Bombarding Bronx: Mobile DJ Starts

Something with Oldie R&B Disks
Robert Ford, Jr.
NEW YORK—A funny thing has been happening at Downstairs Records here.
The store, which is the city’s leading disco product retailer, has been getting calls
for obscure R&B cutouts, such as Dennis Coffy’s “Son Of Scorpio,” on Sussex, Jean-
nie Reynolds’ “Fruit Song” on Casablanca, and the Incredible Bongo Band’s “Bongo
Rock” on Pride.
The requests, for the most part, come from young black disco DJs from the Bronx
who are buying the records just to play the 30 seconds or so of rhythm breaks that
each disk contains.
The demand for these records, which the kids call B-beats, has gotten so great
that Downstairs has had to hire a young Bronxite, Elroy Meighan, to handle it.
According to Meighan the man responsible for this strange phenomenon is a
26-year old mobile DJ who is known in the Bronx as Cool Herc. It seems Herc rose to
popularity by playing long sets of assorted rhythm breaks strung together.
Other Bronx DJs have picked up the practice and now B-beats are the rage all
over the borough and the practice is spreading rapidly.
Herc, who has been spinning for five years, says that his unique playing style grew
from his fascination with one record, “Bongo Rock.” “The tune has a really great rhythm
break but it was too short so I had to look for other things to put with it,” Herc relates.
Since Herc was not completely satisfied with the new disco product coming out
at the time, he started looking in cutout bins for tunes with good rhythm breaks.
Herc’s intensive searching for tunes has now even come up with a new remake
of “Bongo Rock.” The ’73 tune has been covered by a group called the Arawak All-
Stars on an apparently Jamaican-based label, Arawal records.
Herc has also found that some of the rhythm breaks get better response when
they are played at a faster speed. Herc plays tunes such as the Jeannie Reynolds
record at 45 rather than the 33 1/3 at which it was recorded.
Herc thinks the popularity of B-beats stems from the kids’ dissatisfaction with
much of today’s disco product. “On most records, people have to wait through a lot
of strings and singing to get to the good part of the record,” Herc believes. “But I give
it to them all up front.”
Herc hopes that someday he will be able to produce an entire B-beat album fea-
turing “Bongo Rock” and other obscure numbers. Till then he plans to keep packing
them in at the clubs and dances he works in the Bronx.
Source: “B-Beats Bombarding Bronx: Mobile DJ Starts Something with Oldie R&B Disks”/
Robert Ford Jr./Billboard/Wright’s Media, Published July 1, 1978, pg. 65. Copyrighted 1978.
Prometheus Global Media. 289858:1218DD.
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432 The 1980s
Jive Talking N.Y. DJs Rapping Away in Black Discos

Robert Ford, Jr.
NEW YORK—Rapping DJs reminiscent of early R&B radio jocks such as Jocko and
Dr. Jive are making an impressive comeback here—not in radio but in black discos
where a jivey rap commands as much attention these days as the hottest new disk.
Young DJs like Eddie Cheeba, DJ Hollywood, DJ Starski and Kurtis Blow are
attracting followings with their slick raps. All promote themselves with these snappy
show business names.
Many black disco promoters now use the rapping DJs to attract young fans to
one-shot promotions and a combination of the more popular names have filled the
city’s largest hotel ballrooms.
The young man credited with reviving the rapping habit in this area is DJ Hol-
lywood, who started gabbing along with records a few years ago while working his
way through school as a disco DJ.
Hollywood is now so popular that he has played the Apollo with billing as
a support act. It is not uncommon to hear Hollywood’s voice coming from one of
the countless portable tape players carried through the city’s streets. Tapes of Hol-
lywood’s raps are considered valuable commodities by young blacks, here.
A close friend and disciple of Hollywood’s, Eddie Cheeba, has been working
as a mobile jock for five years and talking over the records for the last two. He now
travels with an entire show, which includes seven female dancers and another DJ,
Easy Gee, who does most of the actual spinning. Cheeba and his Cheeba Crew are
now booked two months in advance.
Cheeba says the rapping craze grew out of a need for something more than records.
“These people go to discos every week and they need more than music to motivate
them,” Cheeba observes. “I not only play records, but I rap to them and they answer me.”
Though they often work before crowds in the thousands, Cheeba and most of the
popular rapping DJs do not get records from labels or from pools. Most of them buy
their own product and do so without complaining.
As DJ Starski puts it, “Most of the records the labels send us won’t go up here
anyway, so I’d rather buy what I want.”
Starski is one of the most popular DJs with high school and college age blacks in the
Bronx and Manhattan. He has played almost every major black club and ballroom in the
area. He generally works with Cool DJ AJ, who does not rap but is a master of B-beats.
B‑beats are series of short rhythm breaks strung together to sound like one song.
Starski is proud of his ability to excite a crowd with his rapping. “It’s a beautiful
thing to see a dance floor full of people dancing to your music and answering your
rap,” Starski says.
Kurtis Blow, the most popular rapping DJ in Queens, hopes disco will be a
springboard into broadcasting for him. Blow, a student at CCNY, has been working
about a year and got his first break at the now defunct Small’s Paradise. Blow built a
following at Small’s and is now booked solid for weeks.
Cheeba already had a shot at radio during a fill-in run last summer at Fordham’s
WFUV-FM.
Source: “Jive-Talking N.Y. DJs Rapping Away in Black Discos,” Robert Ford Jr./Billboard/
Wright’s Media, published May 5, 1979, pg 3. Copyrighted 1979. Prometheus Global Media.
289858:1218DD.
bra43588_pt05_357-448.indd 432 05/27/19 05:05 PM

“The Music Is a Mirror” 433
Further Reading
Chang, Jeff. Can’t Stop Won’t Stop: A History of the Hip-Hop Generation. New York: St. Martin’s
Press, 2005.
Forman, Murray, and Mark Anthony Neal. That’s the Joint! The Hip-Hop Studies Reader.
London: Taylor and Francis, 2007.
Greenwald, Jeff. “Hip-Hop Drumming: The Rhyme May Define, but the Groove Makes You
Move.” Black Music Research Journal 22 (2002): 259–71.
Hager, Steven. Hip Hop: The Illustrated History of Break Dancing, Rap Music, and Graffiti. New
York: St. Martin’s Press, 1984.
Harrison, Anthony Kwame, and Craig Arthur. “Reading Billboard 1979–89: Exploring Rap
Music’s Emergence through the Music Industry’s Most influential Trade Publication,”
Popular Music and Society, 34:3 (2011): 309–27.
Rose, Tricia. Black Noise: Rap Music and Black Culture in Contemporary America. Hanover, N.H.:
Tate, Greg. Flyboy in the Buttermilk: Essays on Contemporary America. New York: Simon and
Schuster, 1992.
Toop, David. Rap Attack 2: African Rap to Global Hip Hop. London: Serpent’s Tail, 1991.
The Vibe History of Hip-Hop. New York: Three Rivers Press, 1999.
Discography
Bambaataa, Afrika. Planet Rock: The Album. Tommy Boy Records, 1986.
Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five. The Message. DBK Works, [1982] 2005.
The Hip-Hop Box. Hip-O Records, 2004.
Kurtis Blow Presents the History of Rap: Vols. 1–2. Rhino, 1997.
Run-D.M.C. Run-D.M.C. Profile, 1984.
_______. Run-D.M.C. Greatest Hits. Arista, 2002.
Sugarhill Gang. Sugarhill Gang. Sugarhill Records, 1980.
72. “The Music Is a Mirror”
Following the commercial success of “Rapper’s Delight,” rap contin-

ued to transform rapidly, albeit still as a largely underground phenom-
enon. In the wake of Kool Herc came the further exploitation of “break
beats” (i.e., the repeating of a drum break taken from the middle of a
recording), led by virtuosi of the turntable such as Grandmaster Flash
(Joseph Saddler, b. 1958), who developed those staples of hip-hop
bra43588_pt05_357-448.indd 433 05/27/19 05:05 PM

434 The 1980s
craft—scratching (moving the needle rapidly back and forth across the
grooves of a record) and backspinning. Breakdancers, many of them
Puerto Rican residents of the South Bronx, also formed an integral part
of the scene, as nearly every early account attested.1
Subsequent developments included the electro-funk and social
activism of Afrika Bambaataa (Kevin Donovan, b. 1960), especially in
his “Planet Rock” (1982); the political protest and social realism of
Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five featuring Melle Mel in “The
Message” (1982); and the emergence of commercially savvy Def Jam
Records with stars like Run-DMC. Instrumental tracks were largely col-
lages, built up from fragments of previous recordings, synthesizer riffs,
drum machines, and the efforts of skilled studio funk musicians.
Run-DMC developed the first successful crossover strategy for rap
by explicitly incorporating rock elements into their music. Videos for
recordings like “The King of Rock” (1985) presented the group entering
a “Rock and Roll Hall of Fame” (only two years before the actual Rock
and Roll Hall of Fame opened) and commenting on the racial politics
involved in the construction of conventional rock histories. The record-
ing itself uses a heavy metal guitar riff throughout, backed by a thun-
derous drum machine track. “Walk This Way” (1986) adopted an even
bolder strategy, using the 1970s hit by the rock band Aerosmith as the
backing track, newly rerecorded by members of Aerosmith with Run-
DMC for the occasion. The video also included members of both bands;
the narrative climaxes with Run-DMC breaking through the barriers
that separate them from Aerosmith and, by implication, from the larger
record-buying public of white consumers of rock music.
In another sense, however, the use of rock music had been a part of
hip-hop from the beginning. Many rap DJs discuss how they delighted
in getting a crowd of hip-hop fans to get down to the drum break from
the Monkees’ “Mary, Mary,” and heavy metal riffs had long formed a
staple of the DJ’s repertoire.2 Def Jam records was also home to the first
successful white rap act, the Beastie Boys, who projected jokey-punky
personas while taking a few pages out of Run-DMC’s musical playbook.
The invention and commercial accessibility in the mid-1980s of the
digital sampler was quickly exploited by hip-hop musicians. Samplers,
which make possible the manipulation of recorded sounds (or “sam-
ples”), played right into the collage aesthetic of hip-hop, greatly easing
the looping of grooves previously accomplished through backspinning.
Sampling also made it easier to use fragments of previous recordings
as historical references or homages that could place a recording within
a lineage of African American popular music. This greater control over
sonic sources and the enhanced ability to manipulate them also led
to new possibilities for the musical use of what might have previously
1. For an example, see Tim Carr, “Talk That Talk, Walk That Walk,” Rolling Stone, May 26, 1983,
20–25.
2. For an account of this playful approach to source material, see the interviews with Grand-
master Flash and Afrika Bambaataa in The History of Rock and Roll (PBS/BBC video series), “The
Perfect Beat.”
bra43588_pt05_357-448.indd 434 05/27/19 05:05 PM

been considered “noise.”3 Eric Sadler of the Bomb Squad, the produc-
tion team responsible for the instrumental tracks of Public Enemy’s
recordings, put it this way:
Turn it all the way up so it’s totally distorted and pan it over to the right so you really
can’t even hear it. Pan it over to the right means put the sound only in the right side
speaker, and turn it so you can’t barely even hear it—it’s just like a noise in the side.
Now, engineers . . . they live by certain rules. They’re like, “You can’t do that. You
don’t want a distorted sound, it’s not right, it’s not correct.” With Hank (Shocklee) and
Chuck (D) it’s like, “Fuck that it’s not correct, just do this shit.” And engineers won’t
do it. So if you start engineering yourself and learning these things yourself—[get]
the meter goin’ like this [he moves his hand into an imaginary red zone] and you hear
the shit cracklin’, that’s the sound we’re lookin’ for.4
Indeed, Public Enemy’s “Bring the Noise” (1988), with its densely lay-
ered, noisy backing track, sounds almost like a credo for this aesthetic,
calling into question received notions of both music and musicianship
(with lines like “Run-DMC first said a deejay could be a band”). On this
and other recordings, the band’s frequent use of samples of James
Brown’s recordings emphasized the linkage between the grooves of rap
and those of the Godfather.
While bands like Public Enemy extended the use of political content
pioneered in “The Message,” women began to take a greater role in the
genre, with Salt ‘n’ Pepa becoming the first female hip-hop superstars.
These developments were part of the increasing inclusion of rap in the
mainstream initiated by Run-DMC. By 1989, recordings such as “Wild
Thing” by Tone Loc had entered heavy rotation on MTV, and the cable
channel had made the ultimate concession to hip-hop by creating a
show devoted entirely to the genre, “Yo! MTV Raps.”
The growth of rap’s popularity forms the immediate backdrop for the fol-
lowing article by Harry Allen, which appeared in Essence, the “preemi-
nent lifestyle magazine for today’s African-American woman.” Allen’s
article provides a history of hip-hop, placing it within other African
American cultural practices, and raises such issues as the relationship
of rap to black identity, the appropriate terms for the criticism of rap,
and the growing commentary about misogyny. Allen started writing
about hip-hop in 1983 and has continued to be involved with hip-hop
since the publication of this article, acting as the “Media Assassin” for
3. For more on the use of “noise” in rap, see David Brackett, “Music, “ in Key Terms in Popular
Music and Culture, ed. Bruce Horner and Thomas Swiss, 124–40 (Malden, Mass.: Blackwell, 1999);
and Robert Walser, “Rhythm, Rhyme, and Rhetoric in the Music of Public Enemy,” Ethnomusicol-
ogy 39 (1995): 193–217. See Part 6 of this volume for more on the media debates about whether rap
was “noise” or “music.”
4. Tricia Rose, Black Noise: Rap Music and Black Culture in Contemporary America (Hanover, N.H.:
University Press of New England, 1994), 74–75.
bra43588_pt05_357-448.indd 435 05/27/19 05:05 PM

436 The 1980s
Public Enemy and even uttering the title line in the group’s recording
“Don’t Believe the Hype.”
Hip Hop Madness: From Def Jams to Cold Lampin’,

Rap Is Our Music
Harry Allen
The young, brown-skinned woman stood in the middle of the group, patting out a
beat on the ground with her feet, at the same time beating out a rhythm on her chest
and legs with her hands. People crowded closer, caught by the quiet, distinct, funky
sound. Suddenly she began to rhyme, fast and furiously. As people listened, swayed
and swung to the beat, she shot poetic insults at friends nearby, to their chagrin and
the crowd’s delight. She rhymed about her experiences, things that both she and her
audience had seen and experienced. She kept that same funky rhythm as the dancing
crowd went crazy with loud screams and shouts.
Basement party beat-box in the Bronx? L.A. street-corner performer? Neither. A
description of “pattin’ juba,” circa 1850, from historian Eileen Southern’s revelatory
work The Music of Black Americans.
Nearly 140 years later, over the sound of a drum machine and one eerily repeat-
ing, mournful, four-note horn riff, 20-year-old Mike G matter-of-factly drops science
on the Jungle Brothers’s recording “In Time”: “In time this rhyme will be more than just
a fantasy/A Black man will be the man to claim presidency/Is it hard to see? So try to see as I
see/In time I see a better Black reality/It took one man to open the door/He let in one million
more/And I don’t think/That this country knows/What the hell that it’s in for. . . .”
You won’t hear lyrics like that from 50,000 of today’s R&B artists. Such frank
talk will only be found in hip-hop music, or “rap,” to use a term that we invented
and whites coopted to rename, defame or claim the music. If sales, influence and
visibility are any indication, hip-hop is now runnin’ thangs; it’s the dominant
African-American music. It’s about time. Hip-hop is youthful, strong. It exhibits
none of the creative listlessness with which much of R&B is currently burdened.
Nor does it have the hands-off, gloves-on reverence with which jazz often finds itself
draped. Rather than pretending to bourgeois standards of style, or attempting musi-
cally to evoke a time dead and gone, as many jazz and R&B artists are wont to do,
rappers instead sling the rawest, most realistic insights at your ear. Deejays take your
favorite records, cut ‘em up, mix ‘em around and serve ‘em to you on a record plat-
ter. Meanwhile their crowds move and shake their bodies in ways that Grandmother
once said would definitely get you pregnant or arrested. It all comes together in a
whole: funky. Youknowhumsayin?
“Rats in the front room, roaches in the back/Junkies in the alley with the baseball bat/I
tried to get away, but I couldn’t get far/ ‘Cause a man with a tow truck repossessed my car. . . .”
“To me, hip-hop’s always been around,” says Melvin Glover, aka Melle-Mel,
lead vocalist for Grandmaster Flash & the Furious Five, who gave us “The Message,”
above, and are no doubt the most important crew in the music’s short history. “It’s
the same shit that Black people was chantin’ on the chain gang, and that they was
Source: “Hip Hop Madness: From Def Jams to Cold Lampin’, Rap Is Our Music” © Harry Allen/
Essence. First published in April 1989, pp. 78–80, 114, 117, 119.
bra43588_pt05_357-448.indd 436 05/27/19 05:05 PM

sayin’ when they was slaves. ‘Hi-de-ho!’—all that shit is rap. Pigmeat Markham and
‘Heah Comes De Judge’. . . . That’s rap! Rap always been out there. It was just waitin’
for somebody to claim it.”
Pigmeat Markham, Muhammad Ali, Cab Calloway, Isaac Hayes, Moms Mabley,
Millie Jackson, Joe Tex, Malcolm X. As Mel says, “That’s always been our essence—
just to talk, you know what I’m sayin’?”
“Now what you hear is not a test/I’m rappin’ to the beat/And me, the groove, and my
friends/Are gonna try to move your feet. . . .”
When many people think of the beginnings of hip-hop, they head back to the Sug-
arhill Gang’s “Rapper’s Delight,” a 15-minute jam quoted above whose “Ho-tel, mo-tel,
Holiday Inn” refrain drove dancers wild back in September 1979. That wasn’t the first
“rap” record, however. The honor goes to Fatback Band’s “King Tim III,” which was
released earlier that same year. Says Pebbles Riley, aka Pebblee-Poo, one of hip-hop’s
first female vocalists, “I started in ‘78, and I was definitely hearing people rapping at
block parties in ‘76, ‘77.” And, according to Ralph Blandshaw, aka Van Silk, who was
one of the music’s earliest, most ardent party promoters, you could hear mobile dee-
jays, the rhythmic founders of hip-hop, in New York City parks as early as 1974. Hmm.
Trying to pin down a start time for hip-hop is, as RUN-D.M.C. would say, tricky.
Andrei L. Strobert, a Brooklyn-based scholar, musician and artist, says that to
get to the real roots of hip-hop, you have to go back even farther than “King Tim III,”
mobile deejays, Pigmeat Markham, or slavery—say, to the Yoruba people of Nigeria,
or the Nago of Dahomey (now Benin). “The scratch that you hear in hip-hop is simi-
lar to the African sekere,” says Strobert. “A sekere is a big gourd with beads around
it. If you think about scratching, you see how it connects. ‘Cause, see, the scratch is
shk shk-shk shk-shk. The sekere sound is basically the same thing. Rappers come to my
studio to record rhythms that they want to use to their rhymes. A lot of the rhythms
that they use are Ibo rhythms, from the Ibo tribe of Nigeria.”
For all African music, including African-American music, rhythm is the key, the
point of entry. The only way you could get us to pay attention to and love something
as fundamentally antimusical as a turntable scratch was to make it funky, and in this
is hip-hop’s genius. I believe that this concept of “funky” is the dividing line between
people of African descent, people of non-African descent, and our respective tradi-
tions. That is to say, Picasso copied West African art, but couldn’t make his painting
“guitar” nowhere near as funky as a Dogon mask. The difference between the late Jimi
Hendrix and an acre of white rock guitarists was funk. Elvis was loud, but he was
never funky. Little Richard’s “Rip It Up” still does. Knowhumsayin?
“Cause the ‘D’ is for ‘dangerous’/You can come and get some of this/I teach and speak so
when it’s spoke it’s no joke/The Voice of Choice; the place shakes with the bass/Go one for the
treble/The rhythm is the rebel!”
To get from the Yoruba Nation to Public Enemy’s “Louder Than a Bomb,”
quoted above, you have to jet through 400 not-so-hot years in America. Stop just long
enough to hear early forms of rapping from Douglas “Jocko” Henderson, the Last
Poets and Parliament/Funkadelic. Eventually you’ll wind up in a place where three
Black guys called RUN-D.M.C. sell more than 3 million copies of Raising Hell . . . and
four white guys called the Beastie Boys, after being coached by those three Black
guys, sell 4 million copies of Licensed to Ill. You’ve entered . . . the twilight zone,
the point where this very African art “is being accepted by middle America,” in the
words of Hurby Azor, producer of million-selling crew Salt-n-Pepa. “That’s one of
the biggest developments. The white people are gettin’ into it now. Which is funny.
The music business is always interested in the white people.”
And vice versa. White music critics and cultural historians are talking about hip-
hop and find themselves tossing long, funny words into the air to describe it. Words
bra43588_pt05_357-448.indd 437 05/27/19 05:05 PM

438 The 1980s
like deconstruction, appropriation, iconography and recontextualization. But those words
have little to do with the way African-American people live or make music, and
hip-hop is no more or less than Black life on black vinyl. Whatever one finds in the
community, they’ll find in the records. This has a lot to do with why it’s so attractive
to some people and repulsive to others.
For African-Americans, especially young people, the music is a mirror. “These
aren’t cheap records,” says Nat Robinson, president of MC Lyte’s label, First Prior-
ity Music. “These are natural records.” Hip-hop talks like us; it’s rooted in African-
American wordplay, like “snapping” or “the dozens.” It moves like us. It homes
in like radar on our “musicultural” values. Rhythm. Call and response. Repetition.
Reinterpretation of original ideas via improvisation. The voice as instrument, and as
rhythmic and tonal ideal. And other values . . .
“Rappers take a step back or you will soon regret that you ever had to confront me and
you can bet that I come correct perfect in full effect/Disconnect dissect eject as I wreck/Shop/
Stand in command with the clan/Caravan or band/We go man for man. . . .”
Hip-hop speaks to a view of life that is expressly communal in nature. In Africa,
there are cultures with musical categories solely for the praise of friends, for instance.
When Big Daddy Kane ends the elastic “Set It Off,” quoted above, by naming more
than 30 friends one at a time, when Kool Moe Dee turns the names of his neighbor-
hood crew into exultant, defiant poetry on “Wild Wild West,” when Public Enemy
thanks 240-plus people and groups on the crew’s liner notes, that’s African. That’s
“posse,” “brotherhood,” “community” being expressed on the terms of African-
American young people. “I say the names of my posse to look out for ‘em, to acknowl-
edge that they do exist,” admits 19-year-old Dana Owens, aka Latifah, who thanks
the R.E. (Ram Enterprise) Posse on her fluid, funky single, “Wrath of My Madness/
Princess of the Posse,” quoted below. “Had it not been for them, I probably wouldn’t
have even started in this. You know what I’m saying?”
“I-ray/The lesson of today/You have to listen to each and every single word I have to say
because/The Ruler Lord Ramsey is on my side/And I’m the Princess of the Posse so, yo . . .
take it light. . . .”
So, yo. Why is hip-hop so hype? What are those millions of rappers and record
buyers really getting out of it? Fab 5 Freddy, cohost of MTV’s (Ooh! Now it’s hip)
hip-hop video show Yo! MTV Raps!, puts it like this: “There’s sum’n in hip-hop that
makes it good, that you can’t even really record, because a lot o’ hip-hop is about
attitude, feeling and style, as opposed to musical virtuosity as we know it, dealing
with Western forms of music. Like L. L. Cool J said, when you hear a good hip-hop
record, you make that face, youknowhumsayin’? You hear a regular record, you just
go, ‘Yeah, that’s pretty good.’ But when you hear a good hip-hop record, you make
that face like, ‘Yeeeah!’”
“Flowin’ in file with the new style/Barrels are cleaned then loaded for salute/Chanters
with the choice standing steady like my mouthpiece/Paragraph preacher is now introduced/
Drums are heard sounding off in each and every person/Vocal confetti is thrown at top stage/
Roses and violets aren’t proper for throwing for showing in appreciation (why?)/This is the
D.A.I.S.Y age!”
Listen to “Plug Tunin’,” above, by the trio De La Soul, or to almost any cut from
their 3 Feet High and Rising. You’ll make that face all album long. But some think that
when people hear a good hip-hop record, they do other things. Like stick chemicals
up their noses, snatch gold chains, rampage and even kill, if you’re talking about the
murder of Julio Fuentes at Long Island’s Nassau Coliseum on September 10, 1988.
Ask the usually serene Latifah what the most common misconception about hip-hop
is, and you touch a nerve. “Definitely that it’s violent, that it’s a bunch of hoodlums
and nondescripts making records about bullshit. That we can’t put out a goddamn
bra43588_pt05_357-448.indd 438 05/27/19 05:05 PM

positive message. If they took a second to listen to the words, then they would know
that wasn’t the case.”
Word. The fact is that drugs and crime live in our communities. Their habitation
there predates the music called hip-hop. These ills have less to do with Schoolly D
calling his album Smoke Some Kill than they do with the government drug-jogging
with Manuel Noriega. They have less to do with beeper-carrying brothers than they
do with the U.S. banks and other multinationals for which we work. These corpora-
tions know that drug money is the only thing that’ll keep a flow of American dollars
going into the debt-ridden Latin American countries they lend to.
To say that hip-hop is surrounded by violence and drug use sounds like a
captive African blaming work songs and field hollers for the perpetuation of slav-
ery, don’t you think? Hip-hop is descriptive and often attempts to be prescriptive.
African-American people are, again, using music to make sense of and mediation for
our circumstances.
However, there is certainly one real problem. Hip-hop has taken a rap for being
sexist. It is. When Ice-T releases a record called “Girls, Let’s Get Butt Naked and Fuck”
(“Girls, L.G.B.N.A.F.” on the album cover), when 2 Live Crew on a cut called “S & M”
calls to women to bring their “d- k-sucking friends,” when Ultramagnetic M.C.’s Kool
Keith on “Give the Drummer Some” talks about smacking up his bitch in the manner
of a pimp, sisters understandably scream. Hip-hop is sexist. It is also frank.
As I once told a sister, hip-hop lyrics are, among other things, what a lot of Black
men say about Black women when Black women aren’t around. In this sense, the
music is no more or less sexist than your fathers, brothers, husbands, friends and
lovers, and, in many cases, more up-front. As an unerringly precise reflection of the
community, hip-hop’s sexist thinking will change when the community changes.
Because women are the ones best able to define sexism, they will have to challenge
the music—tell it how to change and make it change—if change is to come. Only then
will record companies cease the release of cuts that call for bitch-smacking.
“How could I keep my composure/When all sorts of thoughts fought for exposure?”
Hip-hop is here to stay. As Eric B. & Rakim note in their “Musical Massacre” above,
the music is bursting with ideas. It is, says Kay Gee The All from the seminal crew Cold
Crush Brothers, “up-to-date music,” and it speaks to a change in the way we socialize
and get our music. When Billboard, the bible of the music industry, began its charts
in the 1940’s, they tallied sales of sheet music. Today they tally records-by-ethnicity,
compact discs and videos. That reflects a huge change in the way we get music and
think about it. So do cassettes, almost nonexistent 20 years ago. So does a Walkman,
non-existent ten years ago. Music we choose goes where we do. Says master percus-
sionist and composer Max Roach in New York Newsday music used to go where we did
in another way. “When I was growing up in Bedford-Stuyvesant [Brooklyn], there was
always an instrument a student could take home from school; if a student wanted to
study rhetoric, he could. That’s all been wiped out; our urban centers are in shambles.”
How are you going to get kids to read music if they can’t read? “These kids were
never exposed to poets or playwrights in school,” continues Roach. “They had all
this talent, and they had no instruments. So they started rap music. They rhymed on
their own. They made their own sounds and their own movements.”
I couldn’t have said it any better. Why hasn’t this hip-hop “fad” died out? The
same reason we haven’t. If nothing else, hip-hop speaks most directly to African-
American pride and sense of self, failures of the American mess, our history, the
things we lack and, ultimately, hope. Hope that people without the benefit of a com-
mon musical language, articulated by bars, staffs and bass clefs, will come up with
one on their own, made from the stuff of their lives. Hope that, for at least a moment,
an average Joe-Ski from around the way will have his place in the spotlight. Hope
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440 The 1980s
that we survive and prosper as a people into the twenty-first century and beyond.
We will. It promises to be a ferocious, funky future.
In the same issue of Essence that published Harry Allen’s article, Carol
Cooper looks at the gender-specific obstacles faced by female rap-
pers and at the progress made by them in the late 1980s. By detailing
the institutional obstacles to women’s access to creative roles in rap
recordings, she offers an implicit riposte to Allen’s assertion that it is
up to female rappers to challenge misogyny in rap. Like Allen, Cooper
had already been active writing about hip-hop for several years before
this article appeared. She has continued since that time writing for
a wide range of publications, as well as occasionally working for the
music industry in positions like East Coast director of black music
⁄artists and repertoire for A&M Records.
Girls Ain’t Nothin’ but Trouble

Carol Cooper
For all its immense popularity, rap music is still very much a man’s world. Women
are buying the records, but by and large they aren’t on them nor are they produc-
ing them—though as the music progresses, that’s beginning to change. Women
rap artists such as Princess (Criminal/WTG), Salt-n-Pepa (Next Plateau) and The
Real Roxanne (Select) are excited about getting on the mike and on vinyl; for the
moment, issues of creative and financial autonomy are taking a backseat. Don’t
expect these women to address sexism directly. Much as we might like them to,
that’s not happening—yet.
As a popular art form that, like standup comedy, draws inspiration from “out-
law” oral traditions such as pimp toasts, prison doggerel and urban childhood’s
“dirty dozens,” rap is accepted by its practitioners—male and female—as the most
brutally honest form of self-expression possible.
“Rap is cultural,” says Princess, whose first records came out on Arthur Baker’s
Criminal/WGT label only this winter, despite the fact that she has been writing and
producing her own raps for three years. “I grew up with it, and it’s here to stay. But
when I started making and shopping my own tapes as a teen, because I thought the
things other people wanted to produce on me were too commercial, the male label
owners were very unreceptive. I spoke to people at Uptown Enterprises, at Next
Plateau, Sleeping Bag, Reality . . . I made the rounds. Only when I led them to believe
that a man had written or produced my stuff did they show interest.”
Along the same lines, when Roxanne Shante defended the skeezer’s (groupie’s)
low-slung lifestyle on Rick James’s “Loosey’s Rap,” she was just doing a job. Female
rappers are often invited to participate in a statement devised by a male artist and
expected to contribute “something appropriate.” As professionals, these girls deliver
what is asked, get paid and get credit—relatively oblivious to how that participation
might be perceived by others.
“There are a lot of rhymes we write on our album, but we don’t go for the credit,”
admits Cheryl James (Salt), of platinum rap duo Salt-n-Pepa. “And I guess we should,
Source: “Girls Ain’t Nothing but Trouble.” © Carol Cooper/Essence. First published in April 1989,
pp. 80, 119.
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because people are on this kick about why we don’t write. It doesn’t bother us, but it
bothers us that it bothers other people. Most singers don’t write all their own lyrics,
either, and nobody cares about that. I guess because Hurby Azor is our producer,
manager and one of our songwriters, it gives the impression that he has total control.
But we all got into this business together, it’s like a family. And if he ever came up
with a song or a video concept we didn’t want to do, we wouldn’t do it.”
Most contemporary rap women (coming along in a time when rap is so much
more profitable than it was for their sister pioneers of five or six years back) are
philosophical about the internecine name-calling and cross-gender “dissing” that
sometimes make it into the grooves. None of them seem to think that “explicit” or
sexist lyrics are harmful in and of themselves, and all of them are aware that there is
a definite cash-money fandom out there for dirty talk. The Puerto Rican rapper, The
Real Roxanne, co-wrote her single ”Respect” around that very dilemma. The Real
Roxanne has felt pressure toward “propriety” both from within and as the young
mother of an articulate first-grader: “Girls disrespecting each other on stage is just
not me; not the image I want to promote. But at the beginning, with all the Roxanne
answer records and all these girls coming onstage to challenge me and each other,
my production company back then who’d had the original ‘Roxanne’ concept had to
show them what time it was!” Roxanne laughs.
“Now, with my first album out, I hear that [fellow rapper] MC Lyte has started
in on me. I hear that she has a girl dressed like me in one of her videos and has some-
thing to say. Oh boy,” she grins wryly, “sounds like fun.”
Because rap prides itself on staying thematically true to the African-American
experience in America today, it stands to reason that every issue—good or bad—
that manifests itself in our communities will eventually be exposed in a rap forum.
In the case of normally touchy subjects such as sex, sexism, racism, crime, VD, homo-
phobia and light-skin privilege, a rap dialogue may be the only discussion certain
youngsters ever have on these subjects. If so, perhaps we ought to take advantage of
rap’s daring to start the discussion, so that we, as knowledgeable adults, can finish it.
Further Reading
Chuck D (with Yusuf Jah). Fight the Power: Rap, Race, and Reality. New York: Delacorte Press,
1997.
Gaunt, Kyra. The Games Black Girls Play: Learning the Ropes from Double Dutch to Hip-Hop. New
York: NYU Press, 2006.
Hess, Mickey. Icons of Hip Hop: An Encyclopedia of the Movement, Music, and Culture. Westport,
Conn.: Greenwood Press, 2007.
Walser, Robert. “Rhythm, Rhyme, and Rhetoric in the Music of Public Enemy.” Ethnomusicol-
ogy 39 (1995): 193–217.
Discography
Classics—Fat Beats and Brastraps: Women of Hip-Hop. Rhino/WEA, 1998.
Public Enemy. Yo! Bum Rush the Show. Def Jam, 1987.
________. It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back. Def Jam, 1988.
________. Fear of a Black Planet. Def Jam, 1990.
Salt-n-Pepa. Hot, Cool and Vicious. Next Plateau, 1986.
________. Blacks’ Magic. London, 1990.
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73. Where Rap and Heavy Metal Converge
The sense of panic over rap in the mass media grew in proportion
to its increased visibility on outlets such as MTV and its increased
audibility on the radio. This reaction was further exacerbated by
the fact that MTV was widely watched in the suburban hinterlands,
previously believed to be hostile to rap, and by the emergence of
an angrier, more militant style spearheaded by Public Enemy and
N.W.A. (Niggas with Attitude). The following article by Jon Pareles
makes clear, however, that it was public statements made by Pub-
lic Enemy’s “minister of information” Professor Griff that attracted
attention, rather than the political statements in Public Enemy’s
songs.1 Yet, as Pareles notes, while they may have received more
attention than other entertainers, rap artists were not alone in
projecting volatile messages via mass cultural products. And
Pareles also raises interesting points about the amount of atten-
tion received by Public Enemy for controversial statements in rela-
tion to bigoted statements made by white heavy metal band Guns
N’ Roses and white comedian Andrew Dice Clay. Pareles has been
the main pop music critic at the New York Times since the late 1980s
and was one of the first critics at a major daily to write sympatheti-
cally about hip-hop (much to the chagrin of many stodgy readers of
the Times).2
1. Public Enemy continued to attract attention both for its militant messages critiquing rac-
ism and advocating African American economic self-determination, and for its anti- Semitic
references, which they have never fully retracted. For more on the debate, fueled in particular
by the release of “Welcome to the Terrordome” shortly after the Pareles article reprinted here,
see Robert Christgau, “Jesus, Jews, and the Jackass Theory,” Village Voice, January 16, 1990,
83–86. Chuck D’s fullest account may be found in his autobiography; see Chuck D (with Yusuf
Jah), “Black and Jewish Relationships,” in Fight the Power: Rap, Race, and Reality (New York: Del
acorte Press, 1997), 205–39.
2. Some of these other articles by Pareles, and readers’ responses to them, are discussed at the
beginning of Part 6.
442
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Where Rap and Heavy Metal Converge 443
There’s a New Sound in Pop Music: Bigotry
Jon Pareles
Has hatred become hip? From isolated spots in pop culture, racial and sexual preju-
dice have slithered back into view. Andrew Dice Clay, a comedian whose Nassau
Coliseum performance on Saturday sold out immediately, mixes dirty-word jokes
with vicious put-downs of women, homosexuals, blacks and Japanese. During a
sketch on “The Tonight Show” Aug. 11, Johnny Carson, as his yokel character Floyd
R. Turbo, invoked “baseball the way it was meant to be played, on real grass, with
no designated hitter and all white guys”; the studio audience gasped, then tittered
nervously.
In a recent Rolling Stone magazine cover story, Axl Rose of the heavy metal band
Guns N’ Roses, whose debut album sold nine million copies, defends his song “One
in a Million,” which includes the verse: “Immigrants and faggots/They make no
sense to me/They come to our country/And think they’ll do as they please/Like
start some mini-Iran or spread some [expletive] disease.” He also savors the word
“niggers” in a verse that continues, “Get outta my way/Don’t need to buy none/Of
your gold chains today.”
Across the color line, the rap group Public Enemy fired, then rehired Richard
(Professor Griff) Griffin, who as its “minister of information” said in a May inter-
view with the Washington Times: “The Jews are wicked. And we can prove this.” He
went on to say that Jews are responsible for “the majority of wickedness that goes on
across the globe.” Mr. Griffin was made the group’s liaison to the black community
and local youth programs, but no longer gives interviews. In a statement announc-
ing the rehiring, Public Enemy’s leader, Carlton (Chuck D.) Ridenhour, said, “Please
direct any further questions to Axl Rose.”
Meanwhile, numerous rappers include homophobic asides in the course of an
album. For example, Heavy D. and the Boyz, whose album “Big Tyme” recently
reached No. 1 on Billboard’s black-music chart, boast that with their rhymes, “you’ll
be happy as a faggot in jail.”
It’s ugly stuff, and, as the sticker on Mr. Clay’s album package puts it, “offen-
sive.” While those examples are vastly outnumbered by nonracist, nonhomophobic
cultural messages, they are like cockroaches in a clean kitchen, signaling more trou-
ble to come.
Ethnic stereotyping runs deep in American popular culture. Blacks have been car-
icatured since the days of slavery; during World War II, the Japanese were portrayed
as evil incarnate. Ethnic jokes have always been comedians’ staples. But the triumphs
of the civil rights movement of the 1960’s, and the feminist and homosexual-rights
movements that followed, made prejudicial statements less tolerable in mainstream
society, almost taboo. Now, that taboo is cracking.
“On the one hand, it seems like a new openness,” said Alvin Poussaint, associate
professor of psychiatry at Harvard Medical School and a consultant to “The Cosby
Show.” “But on the other, it shows a new acceptance, a license to say derogatory
things about other people. The argument is that the people making these statements
Source: Jon Pareles, “There’s a New Sound in Pop Music: Bigotry,” from The New York Times,
Sept. 10, 1989. © 1989 The New York Times. All rights reserved. Used by permission and protected
under the Copyright Laws of the United States. The printing, copying, redistribution, or retrans-
mission of the material without express written permission is prohibited.
bra43588_pt05_357-448.indd 443 05/27/19 05:05 PM

444 The 1980s
are being for real and not covering anything up, and they have a point. Young kids,
particularly kids from working-class backgrounds, have had these racist attitudes for
a long time. But until recently, it was not publicly acceptable to say so.”
Popular culture, like the regulator that jiggles atop a pressure cooker, vents ten-
sions in the society it addresses. “One in a Million” and Mr. Clay’s comedy suggest
not only deep resentment but an attempt to reassert white male heterosexual power
over others. Whether it is a last gasp backlash or a new majoritarianism remains
unclear. Meanwhile, minorities battle one another.
Prejudice against and among minorities isn’t confined to popular culture, where
it is still relatively rare. But culture shifts with politics. Surveys have shown renewed
prejudice in the United States across all income levels and classes in recent years, not
least among young people—who, experts in race relations point out, face competi-
tion for entry-level jobs and may resent newly franchised, visibly distinguishable
minorities. Another factor they cite has been the Reagan Administration’s opposition
to affirmative-action programs, a signal that minority rights were vulnerable.
Joel Kovel, a social science professor at Bard College who teaches a course on ide-
ology in mass culture, said, “The need in our society to express identity by excluding
others has always been very, very strong. With the decline of the cold war, demoniz-
ing the Soviets doesn’t carry the symbolic weight it used to, and there’s a resurgence
of more old-fashioned nativism and racism.”
Racial divisions have made headlines in recent politics. This week’s mayoral
primary in New York takes place under the shadow of a racial killing in Bensonhurst.
David Duke, a former Ku Klux Klan official, was elected to the Louisiana Legislature;
George Bush’s Presidential campaign was accused of stirring racial fears with its Wil-
lie Horton commercial about a black convicted murderer who raped a white woman
while on furlough from prison.
“That commercial legitimized prejudicial speech, and the Bernhard Goetz case
legitimized it,” Dr. Poussaint said, “And the Reagan Administration set the tone.
They were openly militant against affirmative action and for giving Federal money to
segregated, church-related schools. Reagan didn’t even make any symbolic gestures
toward the black community. He set a tone that you can keep blacks shut out and
they can’t do anything about it.”
Increasing Prejudice in the Age of AIDS

Another longstanding prejudice, homophobia, has been rekindled by fear of AIDS,
which was at first stigmatized as the “gay disease.” The offhand virulence of homo-
phobia in music with a largely teen-aged audience is particularly telling. “Male teen-
agers generally go through a period of fear that they’re going to be homosexual,” Dr.
Poussaint said. “Some teenagers, especially those with a lot of conflict, go through
a very homophobic stage to reinforce their heterosexuality.” Heavy D.’s rap, Guns
N’ Roses’s heavy metal and Mr. Clay’s comic universe are all overwhelmingly male
clubhouses; they flaunt homophobia.
Randy Shilts, author of “And the Band Played On,” a book about the AIDS epi-
demic, sees resurgent homophobia as a political backlash. “Whenever you have a
group that begins to assert itself, you’re going to have a reaction. Something like
Guns N’ Roses is obviously emblematic of the alienation that some younger people
feel from what they presume to be a reigning liberal morality—it’s a way of rebelling
against authority. But to me, it’s an incredibly unsophisticated analysis that sees gay
people as part of the power structure. Nobody can look at what’s gone on around
AIDS and gay people in the United States and think that gay people are in power.”
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As power relationships are re-drawn and an us-against-them mentality sets in,
sexual and ethnic lines make convenient divisions. “For young men growing up,”
said Peggy R. Sanday, an anthropologist at the University of Pennsylvania, “their
manhood seems to be based on expressing their rights, but with those rights phrased
in terms of power over others.”
Prejudicial statements have slipped through the mass media. Many radio sta-
tions, especially in the South and Middle West, broadcast “One in a Million,” with
its four-letter word bleeped out; rappers, however, generally save their homophobic
lines for album tracks rather than more widely broadcast singles. Mr. Clay had his
own Home Box Office special, and he serves up his milder material on talk shows.
Mr. Carson’s line came out of the mouth of a comic character, and in that context
was approved for broadcast after discussion between programming and network
standards executives, said Pat Schultz, an NBC spokeswoman. In context, she added,
the line, “clearly did not represent the opinion of Johnny Carson or of ‘The Tonight
Show.’”
Record companies’ main concerns are commercial. Although they regularly
work with performers on everything from packaging to song choices, they obviously
didn’t expect Heavy D.’s homophobia or Mr. Rose’s scapegoating to hurt their pros-
pects. Most popular music steers away from divisiveness in order to garner larger
audiences; rock has a tradition of embracing (or exploiting) the contributions of racial
and sexual outsiders. Yet in an increasingly fragmented pop market, it is also pos-
sible to succeed by rallying a single constituency against outsiders.
Mr. Rose in his interview indicated that to him, racial epithets represent
artistic freedom, a position echoed by his recording company, Geffen Records.
According to Bryn Bridenthal, Geffen Records’ director of media and artist rela-
tions, “There were a lot of discussions about ‘One in a Million,’ and if it were
totally a label decision, the decision would probably have been not to release it.
But if you’re going to start censoring your artists, it’s going to damage your rela-
tionship. There’s always somebody who’s going to release it, and if you’ve got an
artist like Guns N’ Roses, you want to keep the relationship with the company. In
the end, Geffen Records just does not support censorship of the artist’s creative
desires.
“Guns N’ Roses have a lot of power because they’ve sold a lot of records,” she
added. “But if they hadn’t sold a lot of records, no one would have paid any attention
to that song.” Interestingly, Geffen also released Mr. Clay’s album, “Dice,” produced
by its Def American subsidiary—but the album was deemed so controversial that
no Geffen information appears on the package. Mr. Clay’s next album is tentatively
titled “No Tolerance.”
Censorship of popular culture would not eliminate prejudice, although censor-
ship efforts are rising. Universities are trying to regulate prejudicial statements pub-
lished by students; pressure groups are battling what they see as permissiveness on
television; the United States Senate recently moved to restrict public support of con-
troversial art. (The Parents’ Music Resource Center in Washington, which monitors
rock lyrics, has concerned itself with violence, sexual explicitness, drug references
and blasphemy, not bigotry.)
Racist and sexist statements are a byproduct of societal tensions, and they belong
well within constitutionally defined free speech. They’re worth allowing because the
alternative, the imposition of governmental regulations—like Senator Jesse Helms’s
guidelines for government financed arts programs—could hobble virtually all con-
troversial expression. Politically correct art, under any definition of political correct-
ness, tends to be strangulated art.
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446 The 1980s
Free Speech Allows Denunciation of Bigotry

But legal tolerance need not mean acceptance. Free speech allows those who are dis-
gusted by prejudicial conduct to denounce it, as Jewish groups did after Public Ene-
my’s actions; the Anti-Defamation League of B’nai Brith called Mr. Griffin’s firing
and rehiring a “repugnant charade.” Yet Guns N’ Roses, 10 times as commercially
successful as Public Enemy, have generated hardly a peep. According to Ms. Bri-
denthal, Mr. Rose’s comments to Rolling Stone brought not protests but requests for
more interviews, which he has refused.
“Axl does not believe that what he said was a horrible racist thing,” she said.
“I think he’s reflecting a whole stratum of our society that feels the same way. That
may be a scary thing, but part of what art is supposed to do is to make people look at
things, and that’s how it changes the world.”
There are differences between Public Enemy and Guns N’ Roses. The rap group’s
overall message is one of self-determination for blacks. Mr. Ridenhour’s lyrics are
angry—one song describes Public Enemy as “prophets of rage”—and on stage he
performs surrounded by what the group calls a “security force,” young men in uni-
form who hold plastic Uzis. (Mr. Griffin used to lead them through quasi-military
maneuvers; now his successor does.) The stance is militant, confrontational.
But Mr. Ridenhour kept racism out of Public Enemy’s songs. While he calls him-
self a “follower of Farrakhan,” referring to the Nation of Islam leader Louis Far-
rakhan, who has made inflammatory, anti-Semitic statements, he does not include
such sentiments in his songs. His adversaries are the likes of “the media” and “the
government,” not targeted groups. In “Party for Your Right to Fight,” mostly about
the history of the Black Panther Party, he uses the phrase, “grafted devils,” alluding
to black-supremacist Nation of Islam theories that consider whites the end result of
a diabolical genetic bleaching process. But the lyrics charge the “devils” with specific
offenses.
Yet Public Enemy’s actions outside its music send a different message.
When Mr. Griffin’s statements led to a public outcry, Mr. Ridenhour fired him
and issued public apologies. But he effectively annulled those apologies when he
rehired Mr. Griffin. Although Mr. Ridenhour has said Mr. Griffin apologized to
him for his statements, Mr. Griffin has made no public apology, and in his final
interview on Aug. 3, with the Kansas City Jewish Chronicle, he called his statements
“100 percent pure.”
Caving in to Pressure
Public Enemy is clearly torn privately (Mr. Griffin and Mr. Ridenhour are longtime
friends) and publicly; Mr. Ridenhour does not want to be seen within the black com-
munity as caving in to pressure from whites. But in his actions self-contradiction
reigns. A group that intends to fight racism should distance itself decisively from
all forms of bigotry, including anti-Semitism. Public Enemy may already have been
penalized for its actions; it was negotiating a new recording contract with MCA
Records, but the deal collapsed during the controversy.
Guns N’ Roses, meanwhile, addresses a white majority and remains unrepen
tant. While 1980’s rock has had an obscure fringe of white-supremacist “skinhead’’
and, in Britain, “oi’’ bands, none has had major-label support or concert and radio
exposure like Guns N’ Roses, although standard heavy-metal boasting and sexism,
not racism, is the band’s main message. (On stage, Guns N’ Roses goes through
the motions of strutting narcissism and macho camaraderie.) Mr. Rose spewed his
bra43588_pt05_357-448.indd 446 05/27/19 05:05 PM

r acism in a song on a Top 10 recording, the two-million-selling “G N’ R Lies,” and he
considers himself brave and forthright.
“Why can black people go up to each other and say, ‘nigger,’ but when a white
guy does it all of a sudden it’s a big put-down?” Mr. Rose complains in the Rolling
Stone interview. “I used the word ‘nigger’ to describe somebody that is basically a
pain in your life, a problem. The word ‘nigger’ doesn’t necessarily mean black.”
Mr. Rose ascribed the “immigrants’’ verse to his being harassed at a convenience
store run by immigrants, and to “very bad experiences with homosexuals”— inad-
vertently supplying classic examples of bigoted illogic, which extrapolates from indi-
viduals to demonize whole groups. Although the Gay Men’s Health Crisis dropped
Guns N’ Roses from a June benefit concert for AIDS research, the band has been
otherwise unscathed. Its record company is still solicitous about their ”relationship.”
In popular culture’s market system, it is up to listeners to repudiate messages
they dislike, passively or actively—and to disabuse bigots of any claim to the main-
stream. Rock and comedy have a mandate to probe taboos, and they should be
expected to go too far now and then. But what’s pitiable about the current outbursts
is how timid they are. They don’t break new artistic ground—or, as Public Enemy
chant, “fight the powers that be”—they scapegoat groups perceived as weaker. While
the promise of American popular culture is its willingness to defy conventional wis-
dom and established hierarchies, performers who spew prejudice offer only their
own ignorance and cowardice.
Further Reading
Asim, Jabari. The N Word: Who Can Say It, Who Shouldn’t, and Why. Boston: Houghton Mifflin,
2007.
Forman, Murray. The ‘Hood Comes First: Race, Space, and Place in Rap and Hip-Hop. Middle-
town, Conn.: Wesleyan University Press, 2002.
Discography
Clay, Andrew Dice. The Day the Laughter Died. American Recordings, 1990.
Guns N’ Roses. G N’ R Lies. Geffen, 1988.
Heavy D and the Boyz. Big Tyme. Uptown Records, 1989.
N.W.A. Straight Outta Compton. Ruthless, 1988.
________. 100 Miles and Runnin’. Priority, 1990s.
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bra43588_pt05_357-448.indd 448 05/27/19 05:05 PM
PART 6
The 1990s
74. Hip-Hop into the 1990s
hip-hop without wit is like sushi without wasabi
—Greg Tate1
The surge of mainstream popularity experienced by rap at the close of

the 1980s continued into the 1990s. One of the most curious aspects
of this, because it was so unexpected at the time, was the commercial
ascendance of “gangsta rap.” Gangsta rap, although pioneered by
northeast rappers, such as Schoolly D and Boogie Down Productions,
achieved its broadest early circulation as a product of South Central Los
Angeles and the nearby black communities of Long Beach and Comp-
ton. With lyrics featuring raw language in an unprecedented description
of graphic violence, sex, and anger, N.W.A. (or Niggas with Attitude—
mentioned briefly at the start of Chapter 73) brought a new sense of
urban, quasi-cinematic realism to popular music. The majority of mass
media reportage focused on the sensationalistic aspects of the record-
ings, thereby missing two important components of N.W.A.’s approach:
the driving, noisy, hard-edged, and funk-inflected grooves of the instru-
mental tracks produced by Dr. Dre (Andre Young, b. 1965), accentuated
by the rhythmic declamations of the group’s rappers (especially Ice
Cube and Easy-E), and the way in which N.W.A.’s depictions of violence
criticized how social institutions (especially law enforcement) perpetu-
ated systemic racism.2
While the “hardcore” aspects of gangsta rappers and some other
flamboyantly outré groups, such as 2 Live Crew, seized media attention
for flaunting public taboos, the late 1980s and early 1990s witnessed
1. “Above and Beyond Rap’s Decibels,” New York Times, March 6, 1994, sec. 2, 36.
2. Robin D. G. Kelley presents a thorough and sympathetic scholarly account of gangsta rap in
“Kickin’ Reality, Kickin’ Ballistics: ‘Gangsta Rap’ and Postindustrial Los Angeles,” in Race Rebels:
Culture, Politics, and the Black Working Class (New York: Free Press, 1994), 183–227.
449
bra43588_pt06_449-526.indd 449 05/27/19 06:18 PM

450 The 1990s
some other, less controversial developments in rap that were every
bit as notable. Prominent among them was what the music press later
dubbed “alternative” or “progressive” hip-hop, represented by groups
like De La Soul and A Tribe Called Quest. Greg Tate defined progressive
hip-hop as “hiphop praxis wherein lyric content and raising the art form
to the next level outweighs the profit margin.”3 Albums such as De La
Soul’s Three Feet High and Rising used the flow of radio variety shows
from the pre-TV era to reinvent the album format (an innovation that
was soon widely adopted), but with material that could only come from
growing up in the post-TV era.4 Combining skits that were takeoffs on
TV game shows and witty, insightful, and (above all) nonviolent lyrics
with samples taken from all over the pop music spectrum, De La Soul
and other progressive hip-hop groups became critical darlings. Another
development, the politically oriented rap initiated by Public Enemy, was
extended by female artists such as Queen Latifah, who also received
much favorable critical attention at the time.5
Nevertheless, mainstream media coverage of hip-hop almost
single-mindedly conveyed a sense of moral outrage and panic, focused
on the most lurid examples of hardcore rap. Articles in not-so-new pub-
lications ranging from Newsweek to the New Republic deplored what
the authors viewed as the mindless glorification of violence and misog-
yny. Many of the writers directed their attention toward the “anger”
that such writers heard in the music, although these accounts rarely
seemed aware of how this anger was often politically motivated by a
critique of white privilege (especially in recordings by Public Enemy and
Boogie Down Productions/KRS-One). The growing appeal of gangsta
rap to young, white listeners caused the writer of a 1991 article in the
New Republic to claim that rap music was neither “music” nor “black.”6
In contrast, Jon Pareles wrote a series of sympathetic articles in the
New York Times, which, however, invariably elicited a round of letters to
the editor protesting that hip-hop should not be included in the music
section of Arts and Leisure, since rap, after all, was not really music.7
3. Greg Tate, “Diatribe,” Village Voice, September 3, 1996, 46.

4. Jon Pareles explores the TV–hip-hop connection in “How Rap Moves to Television’s Beat,”
New York Times, January 14, 1990, sec. 2, 1–2.
5. See, for example, Michelle Wallace, “When Black Feminism Faces the Music, and the Music
Is Rap,” New York Times, July 29, 1990.
6. The title says it all: David Samuels, “The Rap on Rap: The ‘Black Music’ that Isn’t Either,”
New Republic, November 11, 1991, 24–29. The articles referred to in Newsweek were David Gates
et al., “The Rap Attitude,” Newsweek, March 19, 1990, 56–63; and John Leland, “Rap and Race,”
Newsweek, June 29, 1992, 47–52.
7. See Pareles, “How Rap Moves to Television’s Beat”; letters to the editor, New York Times,
February 4, 1990; Pareles, “Rap: Slick, Violent, Nasty and, Maybe, Hopeful,” New York Times, June
17, 1990; idem, “On Rap, Symbolism and Fear,” New York Times, February 2, 1992, sec. 2, 1, 23; let-
ters to the editor, New York Times, February 16, 1992.
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Hip-Hop into the 1990s 451
We already heard from J. D. Considine in Chapter 66 in the article on
Judas Priest and the Scorpions. Displaying impressive critical range,
Considine turns his attention to many of the issues (described earlier)
that dominated media discussions about hip-hop in the early 1990s.
Considine uses interviews with Chuck D (Carlton Ridenhour, b. 1960)
and Ice Cube (O’Shea Jackson, b. 1969, who left N.W.A. to embark on a
successful solo career in 1990) to rebut many of the criticisms directed
toward hip-hop, while paying particular attention to the “is it music?”
question (posed here by nonrap musicians Al Di Meola, Lita Ford, and
Ozzy Osbourne) and the social context for the violent imagery found in
much rap.
Fear of a Rap Planet

J. D. Considine
In the 12 years since “Rapper’s Delight” bum-rushed the Top 40, it would seem that
rap has developed an unshakeable grip on popular culture. It’s heard everywhere—
on MTV, in movies, in advertising, even in Saturday morning cartoons, where Ham-
merman just replaced Kid ’N Play as the networks’ favorite animated rapper.
Granted, a lot of people don’t particularly like rap. They aren’t down with
“O.P.P.,” have no memories of bliss concerning P.M. Dawn, and don’t want to talk
about sex—or anything else with Salt-N-Pepa.8 These are the folks for whom rap is
just noise with a beat, and they feel the same things their parents felt about rock ‘n’
roll: disinterest, distaste and disgust.
But fear? Who could possibly be afraid of rap?
Well, Bob Greene, for one. In his Chicago Tribune column last month, he wrote
about a mugging in New York which happened to have been videotaped by the
perpetrators themselves. Although he reports that police, who eventually arrested
two teens, were “puzzled” by the event, what sparked this not-ready-for-prime-time
crime was no mystery to Greene—rap music made them do it. Or, to be specific, rap
videos, which, writes Greene, “are purposely glorifying armed violence and crimi-
nality. Most Americans probably have not seen these rap videos. But they are broad-
cast day and night by various cable channels, and they are frightening.”
But not as frightening as the rap audience itself. Just ask all those radio stations
that not only refuse to play rap records, but actually boast about it, courting listen-
ers with slogans like “All the Best Music—And No Rap.” Some are so petrified that
they’ll even excise rap-like passages from recordings by non-rap acts, as WLLZ-FM
in Detroit did recently when it cut a few bars of unsung rhyming from “Roll the
Bones” by Rush.
If you really want a sense of how deep this fear of a rap planet goes, however,
check out the mass media, for whom rap seems to be a never-ending source of
scare stories. When a white New York investment banker was beaten, raped and
left for dead in the celebrated Central Park “wilding” incident, it was widely (and,
8. This sentence refers to then-recent hits by those artists.
Source: J. D. Considine, ”Fear of a Rap Planet,” Musician, February 1992, 34–43, 92.
bra43588_pt06_449-526.indd 451 05/27/19 06:18 PM

452 The 1990s
pparently, erroneously) reported that the suspects after their arrest were happily
a
chanting Tone-Loc’s “Wild Thing”—the implication being that the rap had somehow
inspired the rampage. Indeed, when Newsweek published its 1990 cover story lam-
basting rap culture, the magazine made sure it was Tone‑Loc’s face that was framed
by the “Rap Rage” headline.
Then, after N.W.A.’s Efil4zaggin entered the Billboard album charts at number
one (the first rap album ever to do so), the New Republic ran a cover story suggesting
that rap, described in a subhead as “The ‘black music’ that isn’t either,” isn’t even lis-
tened to by blacks. According to the TNR story, rap’s primary audience is suburban
white kids, and N.W.A.’s sex-and-violence posturing is little more than minstrelsy,
cartoonish blacks doing their best to entertain thrill-seeking Caucasians.
And now there’s the controversy over Ice Cube’s Death Certificate, which has
been denounced by anti-defamation activists, Korean citizen groups, syndicated col-
umnists and even the editors of Billboard. Granted, Ice Cube has provided his critics
with plenty of ammunition, what with lyrics that characterize Korean store owners
as “Oriental one-penny-countin’ motherfuckers,” that insist “true niggas ain’t gay,”
and that suggest his former bandmates in N.W.A. dispose of manager Jerry Heller:
Get rid of that devil real simple
Put a bullet in his temple
Because you can’t be a Niggaz 4 Life crew
With a white Jew telling you what to do.
It’s ugly, sure. Angry, too. But Ice Cube refuses to consider the quatrain quoted
above to be anti-Jewish. “I’m really surprised that people would take that record so
out of proportion,” he says. “The record is not geared towards Jerry Heller or the
Jewish community; the record is geared towards the group who attacked me. In most
cases I felt that Jerry Heller attacked me—in the Rolling Stone interview, and the Spin
articles.
“They even attacked me on the record, and said that when they caught me,
they was going to cut my hair and fuck me with a broomstick. Now, I’ve seen them
a couple of times after that record—they haven’t cut my hair, and they definitely
haven’t fucked me with a broomstick.” In other words, it’s all just “woofing,” with
both sides making outrageous verbal threats they have no intention of following
through on.
“So why are you taking rap music literally?” he asks, rhetorically. “It’s stupid to
take anything that literally, other than news. This is a form of entertainment. People
keep forgetting that. I’m not a schoolteacher or a professor at any university. I’m a
rapper. I entertain.”
The question is, are you amused? Or are you afraid?
It’s a Black Thing, You Wouldn’t Understand

Ask Public Enemy’s Chuck D why people are afraid of rap, and at first he just shakes
his head. “That’s ridiculous,” he says, “because we don’t tear up hotels, we don’t tear
up arenas.” It isn’t, after all, as if he and his fellow rappers are inciting youths to riot
on a nightly basis.
Chuck D’s no dummy, though, and it doesn’t take him long to come up with a
real answer. “Anything that comes from a black point of view that the establishment
doesn’t have full control over or understanding of, they view as being offensive,”
he says. “And now even more so, since that point of view is coming across to
white kids.”
bra43588_pt06_449-526.indd 452 05/27/19 06:18 PM

That’s not to say Public Enemy’s audience is entirely white, mind you. The
crowd of young Baltimoreans he plays to this evening, for example, is almost 95 per-
cent black (don’t they read the New Republic?). But overall, the audience P.E. attracts
is as broad as it is big, and that, as the establishment sees it, makes the group doubly
dangerous.
“I look at this country as being a predominantly white male-dominated society,”
Chuck says. “It has never even given a black male his chance or his due, because we
are seen as being not even part of that whole structure. It’s a white male structure
versus everything else.
“Now, some of the frustration is coming across. This stuff is coming out from all
different angles, but the media have been built by white men, and the first maneuver
when you can’t control the play is to attack it.”
If that seems a little paranoid from where you’re sitting, it makes perfect sense
from Public Enemy’s perspective. After all, this group has spent much of its record-
ing career articulating the black community’s anger and taking flak for its efforts.
First it was lambasted for endorsing Louis Farrakhan in “Bring the Noise,” then for
anti-Jewish remarks Professor Griff, its former Minister of Information, made in an
interview with the Washington Times. The current controversy, for those keeping
score at home, stems from a gay-bashing rhyme uttered by Flavor Flav in “A Letter
to the New York Post”—“ask James Cagney/He beat up on a guy when he found he
was a fagney.”
Chuck shrugs off the “Letter” controversy. “I mean, you really can’t take it that
serious on Flavor,” he says, “because he just found something that rhymes.” Beyond
that, though, he says he’s more concerned with the motives behind these attacks than
with what his attackers have to say. “I don’t judge criticism, I judge the critic,” he
says, adding that as far as he can see, the only thing these anti-rap diatribes are meant
to do is maintain the status quo.
“You have certain defense mechanisms up to keep things the way they are sup-
posed to be and maintain order in this structure,” he says. “That’s because you have a
lot of people who are paranoid, with no really full grasp of what they believe in, and
they feel that they have something to lose. They lose belief in themselves and in their
structure. They feel like they’ll lose a grip on their future.
“In our view, that’s not necessarily so. The black race is just trying to get a grip
on itself to survive. I mean, the thing with black people in this country is they’re real
beat-down people. And it’s really more serious than a lot of white people take to
heart, because we have everything to lose—and we lost a lot. I try to tell our people,
‘There’s no time for making excuses, we’ve got to make the best of it.’ But many of
them are damaged goods, you know what I’m saying?
“To make a long story short, white people have to understand that black people
already have respect for [them], because we’ve been trained to do so. We just don’t
have respect for ourselves. When a level of self-respect comes, then you’ll see that it
gets better. But self-respect has never been taught, so right now, black people are still
slaves to that.”
Unfortunately, what some rappers see as their efforts to uplift the race, their
critics take as attacks on others. Ice Cube, for instance, explains in the liner notes to
Death Certificate that the album is divided into two parts, with the “Death Side” being
“a mirrored image of where we are today,” while the “Life Side” pictures “where
we need to go.” But it’s disturbingly easy to translate that message as “Let’s stop
destroying ourselves, and start destroying others.”
Which, Cube says, is dead wrong. “They figure when you’re pro-black, you’ve
got to be anti-whatever,” he says. “But see, that’s guilt from the pain that they inflicted
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454 The 1990s
on blacks. We aren’t pro-black to be anti-white or anti-Korean, anti-Jewish. We’re
pro-black so we can look back at history and make sure that it doesn’t repeat itself.”
Being pro-black doesn’t necessarily mean articulating your ideas as violently as
Ice Cube does. Take the Afrocentric movement. Although the Allan Blooms of the
world consider it a threat to the very foundations of Western Civilization, Afrocen-
tricity as expressed by the likes of Queen Latifah is simply a means for young blacks
to learn who they are, and have some pride in that knowledge.9
“It’s very hard, because we’re brainwashed in this country in a lot of ways,” she
says. “It’s like when a little black kid grows up, what do they see on TV? They see so
much white. What are they supposed to connect to? They connect to what this white
thing is. So they think their hair is supposed to be long and their eyes are supposed
to be light and their skin is supposed to be light and it’s not, and they feel low about
it. When they go out with the girls, all the guys want to talk to the light ones, or the
one with long hair.
“We have a lot of stereotypes to fight, a lot of barriers to break down. And it’s
hard, because nobody’s perfect. Nobody can just change all this stuff in one day. It’s
going to take years and years of barrier-breaking for things like this to change.”
Rap Isn’t Music

“I have a problem with rap,” admits Guitarist Al Di Meola. “It’s not music. It’s not
like I’m hearing an instrumentalist play, with some harmony and a good vocalist.
Where are the people who’ve learned to play their instrument?”
“I’m really bored with this rap music,” says fellow fretboarder Lita Ford. “I think
it’s about time that it was on its way out. It sounds like gang music to me.”
“I’m a believer in melody,” says singer Ozzy Osbourne. “Rap I can appreciate,
but it drives me nuts after about an hour. I mean, if you haven’t got a melody. . . .”
When musicians talk about what they don’t like about rap, the points that come
up rarely concern racial politics; instead, it’s the rap musical value they question.
It hasn’t got a melody. They don’t play instruments, they don’t have any ideas, they steal
everything. It’s just not music.
Rappers, naturally, counter that such talk is just so much sour grapes. “It’s not
their instrument [on the record], so it’s not music,” laughs Russell Simmons, presi-
dent of Def Jam Records. “Drummers are the same—they say there’s no live drum-
mers on it, so it’s not real, it’s not a record. ‘Course, now that live drums are back,
drummers think those same records are fine. I think they’re ridiculous.”
“A lot of people don’t like that we could take a song that’s been done before and
probably sold 300,000, and do 1.3 million with it,” adds Ice Cube. “Like Hammer
took ‘Super Freak,’ and made it into a bigger hit than Rick James did. That’s why I
think people get mad at us. They’ve got to understand that we took something and
just made it better. The talent we put on top of it was better than the talent that was
on it originally.”
Not that it takes a sampler to steal a groove. A decade ago, the pioneering rap-
pers at Sugar Hill all recorded with a live rhythm section. But as Matt Dike, whose
production credits include Tune-Loc’s “Wild Thing,” points out, “What they were
9. Allan Bloom, author of conservative diatribe against late 20th-century mass culture The
Closing of the American Mind (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1987), which was widely discussed
during this period.
bra43588_pt06_449-526.indd 454 05/27/19 06:18 PM

doing was playing grooves from other records, that they had stolen. Like the bass in
‘White Lines’ was from a song by Liquid Liquid, this underground New York band.
They were ballsier than anybody! They just replayed the whole thing, and acted like
they wrote it.”
Besides, if it takes no talent to make rap records, Ice Cube has a simple question:
“I say, ‘Why don’t you try to do a hit rap record?’
“They’d be lost, in most cases.”
Maybe so, but rap’s critics do raise some valid questions. For instance, given
that rap vocals rarely change pitch (and certainly aren’t “sung” in any conventional
understanding of the term), is it fair to say that rap records don’t have any melody?
No way, answers producer Bill Laswell. “That’s just people who have been
conditioned into thinking a certain chord sequence ending on middle C is the abso-
lute concept of melody,” he argues. “If you’re familiar with Asian or African music,
you realize that a lot of the melody is inherent in the drumming. In African drum-
ming, you hear all kinds of melodies and phrases, and there’s as much melody in
hip-hop and rap as in African drumming—and that’s a lot of melody. You just have
to listen.”
True enough. Even a seemingly simple rap record, like Naughty By Nature’s
“O.P.P.,” reveals unexpected complexity if you know where to look. Sure, it has
the “ABC” piano hook, looped right off the original, which is probably the only
“melodic” element anyone noticed when it first came up on the radio. But there’s
also a reggae-style bassline churning up a nice rhythmic cross-current with the syn-
copated kick drum, a fair amount of percussive interplay (check out the parallelism
between the two-note piano part that sets up each two-bar phrase and the two-beat
cowbell accent that leads into three each measure), and, of course, the raps them-
selves, which spin clever variations on the bassline’s cadence—sometimes stretching
across the bar, sometimes double-timing the beat, sometimes pulling up short to add
to the track’s rhythmic tension.
Even though they use samplers, sequencers and drum machines instead of gui-
tars, bass and drums, rap acts orchestrate their rhythm frameworks as thoughtfully
as any rock act would. Take Public Enemy, for example. “They’re the only rap group
I know of that can take five or six snippets of a record, put it together and make it
sound like one band,” said Branford Marsalis after contributing a tenor solo to “Fight
the Power.”
“They’re not musicians, and don’t claim to be—which makes it easier to be
around them. Like, the song’s in A minor or something, then it goes to D7, and I
think, if I remember, they put some of the A minor solo on the D7, or some of the D7
stuff on the A minor chord at the end. So it sounds really different. And the more
unconventional it sounds, the more they like it.”
On the latest Public Enemy album, Apocalypse 91 . . . The Enemy Strikes Black, the
group extends that approach. “We’ve taken a lot of instruments and processed them
through computers,” says Chuck D, who explains that the P.E. approach often relies
on playing the samples on a keyboard to lend more of a live feel to the tracks. “The
only difference between sampling and live sound is change,” he says. “When a bass
player plays bass, he makes mistakes sometimes. But he fixes the mistake so quick
that it’s just a change in the pattern, an ad-lib. But your programming is not going to
program a mistake. So what we try to do is, we don’t program it so much. We play
the keys. Like ‘Homey Don’t Play That’ from the Terminator X record. I played the
bass on keys.”
Then there’s the rap itself. Those who don’t rap often assume that rap lyrics are
little more than simply metered rhyming doggerel—which, to be honest, a certain
bra43588_pt06_449-526.indd 455 05/27/19 06:18 PM

456 The 1990s
amount of them are. But the best rappers take as much care with their cadences as
they do with the rhythm beds, so that the words flow along with the music instead of
just hammering home the beat.
Chuck D, for instance, won’t even start writing until he has a groove to work
from, and often sketches out his rhythmic ideas with nonsense syllables before filling
out his raps. “I’ll have a groove that inspires me, do my vocals in a certain way and
then fill it with words,” he says. “And if it doesn’t fit the groove, I’m not going to
fuck with it.”
Ironically, once he’s finished recording, Chuck then has to go through the
laborious process of relearning what he has written. “I have a bad memory for
remembering words,” he laughs. “People say, ‘Didn’t you write it?’ I say, ‘Yeah,
I wrote it, and it’s on a piece of paper. Is it in my head? It came out of my head, but
now I have to relearn it.’ A lot of people don’t understand that.
“You know who’s got a crystal-clear memory? Ice-T. Ice-T recites records
from back in 1981, line for line. He can recite every single one of his records line
for line, word for word. Ice Cube is the same thing. They’re like Michael Jordan
or Magic Johnson. I guess I’m like [Charles] Barkley—I gotta work for everything
I got.
“The only thing that might be natural about me is my voice. But a voice doesn’t
mean nothing if you don’t know how to use it.”
“It all comes with style,” explains Ice Cube. “A lot of raps that come straight
on the beat were written without a beat, know what I’m saying? They put a beat
in their head and just write from that. Then they get the music and the music
isn’t exactly what they had in their head, but they can come down on every beat
and make it work. I choose to have my music first. I’ll write a rap that fits it like a
glove, or at least try to. I can take breaths here, I can slow down here, I can speed
up here, and just try to throw some style and flavor on it without sounding so
robotic.”
As for material, Ice Cube says there’s never any shortage of things for him to
write about. “Living just gives me records to do,” he says. “I just finished Death
Certificate, and I’ve thought of three topics that I might want to write on for my new
album.
“I just live life, man, however it comes. When things come up that I think need
to be talked about, then I do it. I just start writing.”
Further Reading
Chang, Jeff. “Word Power: A Brief, Highly Opinionated History of Hip-Hop Journalism.”
In Pop Music and the Press, ed. Steve Jones, 65–71. Philadelphia: Temple University Press,
2002.
_________. Can’t Stop, Won’t Stop: A History of the Hip-Hop Generation. New York: Picador:
St. Martin’s Press, 2005.
Chuck D (with Yusuf Jah). Fight the Power: Rap, Race, and Reality. New York: Delacorte Press,
1997.
McLeod, Kembrew. “The Politics and History of Hip-Hop Journalism.” In Pop Music and the
Press, ed. Steve Jones, 156–67. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2002.
Pough, Gwendolyn D. Check It While I Wreck It: Black Womanhood, Hip Hop Culture and the
Public Sphere. Boston: Northeastern University Press, 2004.
Rose, Tricia. Black Noise: Rap Music and Black Culture in Contemporary America. Hanover, N.H.:
Walser, Robert. “Rhythm, Rhyme, and Rhetoric in the Music of Public Enemy.” Ethnomusicology
39 (1995): 193–217.
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Nuthin’ but a “G” Thang 457
Discography
De La Soul. Three Feet High and Rising. Tommy, 2001.
Ice Cube. AmeriKKKa’s Most Wanted. Priority, 1990.
_______. Death Certificate. Priority Records, 1991.
N.W.A. Straight Outta Compton. Priority Records, 1989.
Public Enemy. Apocalypse 91 . . . The Enemy Strikes Black. Def Jam, 1991.
Queen Latifah. Black Reign. Motown, 1993.
Schoolly D. The Best of Schoolly D. Jive, 2003.
75. Nuthin’ but a “G” Thang
In the wake of the successes of N.W.A. and Ice Cube, gangsta rap
became the dominant form of hip-hop in the early 1990s. The level of
censorship and political attention that rap received rose correspond-
ingly. Political militancy assumed heightened levels of confrontational
violence in tracks such as N.W.A.’s “Fuck tha Police” (1988), Public Ene-
my’s “Arizona” (1991, criticizing Arizona’s failure to recognize Dr. Martin
Luther King’s birthday), Ice-T with Body Count’s “Cop Killer” (1992), and
Dr. Dre’s (now recording on his own) “Deep Cover” (1992). Many of the
songs emanating from Southern California seemed eerily to anticipate
or comment upon the May 1992 uprising following the exoneration of Los
Angeles police officers in the beating of Rodney King. With the PMRC’s
rating system already in place (and with the recordings just mentioned
all receiving “parental advisory” stickers), pressures mounted on record-
ing companies to limit such confrontational r ecordings. Time-Warner, in
response to the pressure, first dropped “Cop Killer” from the Body Count
album and then released Ice-T (a Los Angeles rapper who had recorded
an album called O.G. Original Gangster in 1991) from his contract.
Dr. Dre’s The Chronic became the best-selling hip-hop album of
1992 (the title is a reference to test-grade marijuana). Dre had modified
his sound from N.W.A., producing a smoother form of funk that featured
high‑pitched, whiny synthesizers and (frequently) sung choruses. Now
recording with soon-to-be-notorious Death Row Records, Dre i ntroduced
rapper Snoop Dogg (then known as “Snoop Doggy Dogg,” born Calvin
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458 The 1990s
Broadus, 1971) on The Chronic and “Deep Cover,” the single that pre-
ceded it. Dre and Snoop shared rapping duties on about half the tracks
on The Chronic, the lyrics of which were written mainly by Snoop. The
critique of racist institutional policies that had featured prominently
in early N.W.A. recordings became increasingly implicit in The Chron-
ic’s detailed depictions of sex and violence, which fans appreciated
because of their humorous language and apparent fidelity to experi-
ence. The notion of “keeping it real” thus assumed greater importance
in the evaluation of hip-hop.
Snoop Dogg’s solo album Doggystyle, repeatedly described in the press

of the time as the “most anticipated rap album of all time,” was released
in late 1993 and quickly became the best-selling rap album ever.
As described in the following article by Touré, the notion of “keeping it
real” took on a macabre cast when Snoop was arrested in conjunction
with a shooting while finishing the album. Yet, as he notes here ( echoing
the words of Ice Cube in Chapter 73), the words of his songs should not
be taken literally, but rather as entertainment. Clearly, the line was blur-
ring between the way in which the words “should be taken,” and how
rappers and listeners were actually taking them. Also of interest here
are Snoop’s comments on his delivery and approach to rhythm, which,
again, confirm the statements by Chuck D and Ice Cube in the previous
article.1
Snoop Dogg’s Gentle Hip-Hop Growl

Touré
It’s past midnight on a cool Friday in September, and a photo shoot for a beer ad
is breaking up. The photographer’s lights still illuminate a small parking lot in
West Hollywood, Calif., which is empty save for a few Mercedes-Benzes, Jeeps and
low-riders and a handful of young black men.
At the center of the group, looming over all, is the shoot’s subject, a thin,
dark-skinned 6-foot-4 rapper with sunken cheeks and a razor-sharp nose. He leans at
what appears a 45‑degree angle, surveying the scene around him out of the corners
1. For a more in-depth portrait of Snoop around this time, see dream hampton, “Snoop
Doggy Dogg: G-Down,” The Source 48 (September 1993): 64–70. Particularly interesting in this
article are Snoop’s comments about the early stages of the West Coast–East Coast rivalry and
his connections with the Crips and Bloods—rival African American gangs in Southern California.
Source: Touré, “Snoop Dogg’s Gentle Hip-Hop Growl,” from The New York Times, Nov. 21, 1993.
© 1993 The New York Times. All rights reserved. Used by permission and protected under the
copyright laws of the United States. The printing, copying, redistribution, or retransmission of the
material without express written permission is prohibited.
bra43588_pt06_449-526.indd 458 05/27/19 06:18 PM

of his eyes. Hours ago he had turned himself in to the police on the charge of murder
and was released on $1 million bail; in minutes he will return to the studio to work on
his debut album, “Doggystyle,” the most anticipated hip-hop album ever. His name
is Snoop Doggy Dogg.
Over this past year the 22-year-old rapper has been the most ubiquitous man
in hip-hop. His voice has flowed from Walkmans, DJ turntables and Jeep stereos as
his face graced MTV and the cover of Rolling Stone, all thanks to his featured role
on Dr. Dre’s album, “The Chronic,” which has sold more than three million copies,
becoming the fifth-biggest-selling rap album.
On Tuesday, Death Row Records will release “Doggystyle,” from the man
born Calvin Broadus in Long Beach, Calif., and nicknamed Snoop by his mother.
The album follows the first single and video, “What’s My Name?” and is expected
to enter Billboard’s pop album chart at No. 1, a first for a debut album. “This is
the biggest buzz I’ve ever seen,” says Chris Lighty, president of Rush Management,
which handles many of the top rappers. “The last time there was anything close
was p robably Jimi Hendrix, no, N.W.A.’s Niggaz4Life. People are going to the store
asking, ‘Is it in yet? Is it in yet?’”
Snoop’s music is gangster rap, a genre marked by rhymes that describe the
violent challenges of urban living. Gangster rap is probably hip-hop’s best-known
subset, but it is no more the definitive expression of hip-hop than fusion is of jazz.
Like jazz, all hip-hop may sound the same to the inexperienced ear, but beneath
the posturing and booming beat lies one of pop’s most complex forms. With its
collagist ethic, hip-hop pulls from all of popular culture, from old television
shows to up-to-the-minute slang, to inform the rapper’s often autobiographical
presentation. But just as jazz celebrates mastery, hip-hop prizes originality; in
(now dated) hip-hop parlance, the word fresh meant excellent. At the moment,
“dope” means great.
There are rappers with greater rhythmic flexibility and tonal dynamism
than Snoop, but where newness is the virtue, Snoop matters, because his
vocal approach is, in every sense, fresh. “Snoop ain’t the dopest,” says Jermaine
Dupri, the producer of the platinum-selling rap group Kris Kross, “but he’s king
right now.”
Snoop’s vocal style is part of what distinguishes him: where many rappers
scream, figuratively and literally, he speaks softly. Compare the treatment of the
murder of a police officer in the song “Deep Cover,” from the soundtrack of the 1992
movie of that name, with that of Ice-T’s “Cop Killer.” Both songs gained popularity in
the summer of 1992, but “Deep Cover” did not provoke the controversy “Cop Killer”
did because of Snoop’s subtlety: to understand “Deep Cover” ’s refrain—“ ’cuz it’s
one eight seven on a undercover cop”—one has to know that in Los Angeles police
terminology the number 1-8-7 means homicide.
“It’s the way you put it down,” Snoop explains. “I put it down with a twist.
Everybody in the whole world knew ‘Cop Killer’ meant kill a cop. And every
policeman knows the municipal code is 187, but everybody in the whole world
didn’t know that.”
Soft tones mark Snoop as vocal descendent of the soul vocalists Al Green
and Curtis Mayfield. His voice is a nasal tenor, especially distinct because of his
Southernish twang (derived from his Mississippi-born parents and grandparents)
and the considerable restraint of his delivery. It all projects the aura of a man who is
ultra-cool.
“It’s a basic conversation,” Snoop says of his style. “I don’t rap, I just talk. I don’t
like to get all pumped up and rap fast ’cause that ain’t me. I want to be able to relax
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460 The 1990s
and conversate with my people. It’s a distinction between Steven Seagal and Clint
Eastwood. Seagal ain’t laid back. Eastwood is.”
Laid-back cool places Snoop in the African-American tradition of making light
of personal horror. From the same emotional source from which bluesmen found the
grace to understate the weight of their pain comes Snoop’s nonchalance in the mid-
dle of warring gangs and the police.
Snoop Doggy Dog sounds even cooler when that conversation is juxtaposed
against the ominous, sinister, funk-inspired music of his producer, Dr. Dre, an inno-
vator as important in hip-hop as Quincy Jones has been in jazz. Unlike most hip-hop
producers who create tracks by sampling from original sources, Dr. Dre uses a band.
It’s led by T-Green, a one-time George Clinton collaborator and a longtime member
of the funk band the Dramatics.
“You know how you would be real sensitive and delicate with a newborn baby,”
Snoop asks. “That’s how I treat the beat when I’m rapping: like a newborn baby.
Even if it’s a hard track, what I’m saying will move you, because I’m delicately put-
ting it down.”
Rage, a female rapper who appears on “The Chronic” and “Doggystyle,” says
Dr. Dre has contributed much to Snoop’s success. “I don’t know if Snoop would be
as big, because Dre’s production plays a big part,” she says. “If you don’t have good
beats, then you might not get as much recognition.”
While Snoop delivers rhymes delicately, the content is anything but. Growing
up poor, often surrounded by violence, and having served six months in the Way-
side County jail outside of Los Angeles (for cocaine possession) gave Snoop experi-
ences upon which he draws: “My raps are incidents where either I saw it happen to
one of my close homies or I know about it from just being in the ghetto,” he says.
“I can’t rap about something I don’t know. You’ll never hear me rapping about no
bachelor’s degree. It’s only what I know and that’s the street life. It’s all everyday
life, reality.”
It’s all reality is the most-repeated refrain in hip-hop, a proclamation of integrity
in a world where it’s cool to be from the inner city with a checkered past and many lie
about their background. Hip-hop fans prefer artists who are honest, but, in fact, the
argument over “realness” may be pointless: they are entertainers. As Rakim, widely
considered one of the best rappers, puts it: “You got groups that come out saying
they’re killing, but in all reality, they’re just rappers.”
It is important that the rapper’s voice and stories be realistic, but must they
be the author’s own? To thoughtful fans, what’s important is how credible the lyr-
ics sound. Here again Snoop stands out: his attention to detail makes him sound
extremely credible. According to Mr. Dupri, the producer, “The details in Snoop’s
writing makes people think, ‘Damn, he must’ve really seen that.’”
For example, in Snoop’s favorite song on “The Chronic”—whose title is laden
with obscenities—he describes a hot day, when, minutes after completing six months
in prison, the protagonist is driven to his girlfriend’s house, bursts in brandishing a
Glock pistol and finds her having sex with his cousin. He considers shooting her but
does not, deeming women not worth killing.
Snoop may sound—and be—more honest than most, but that does not mean he
is as tough as his gangster posture or his handlers would suggest. Snoop began rap-
ping in the sixth grade, sang in the choir of Golgotha Trinity Baptist Church in Long
Beach and graduated from Long Beach Polytechnic High School. He maintains that
he never joined a gang, though he hung out with gang members. Watching them
gave Snoop his subject matter; imprisonment focused him.
“I started thinking about my life,” he says. “Do I want to keep coming back
to this place, or do I want to elevate myself and make my mother proud of me?
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At Wayside I listened to all the stories people told, wrote them down on my note
pad and turned them into raps. That’s the first time I really started getting serious
about rapping. The older inmates would take me aside and say, ‘Youngster, you
don’t need to be inside this place. God gave you some talent, and you ought to
use it.’”
The assertion that lyrics are drawn from reality is also hip-hop’s biggest excuse
for not passing judgment on what it describes. Rappers routinely discuss violent and
obscene situations without taking responsibility for the implications, like reporters
from the street willfully lacking a worldview.
Snoop contends he does take a stand against what he describes. “I feel like it’s
my job to play the backup role for parents who can’t get it across to their kids,” he
says. “For little kids growing up in the ghettos, it’s easy to get into the wrong types of
things, especially gangbanging and selling drugs. I’ve seen what that was like, and I
don’t glorify it, but I don’t preach. When my momma would whoop me and tell me,
‘You can’t do this,’ it made me want to go do that; I bring it to them rather than have
them go find out about it for themselves.”
It takes very critical listening to hear Snoop’s implicit message. Far easier is los-
ing oneself in his accounts of renegade days and nights. He may not intend to, or
want to admit it, but Snoop adds epic gloss to his life with the skill of a Hollywood
movie star.
Yet soon, all of Snoop’s talent may be overshadowed. On Aug. 25, Snoop’s
bodyguard, Malik (McKinley Lee), shot a man named Philip Woldermariam twice—
once in the back—from the passenger seat of the Jeep that Snoop was driving. Other
details surrounding the event are in dispute. Snoop says the shooting was in self-
defense and pleaded not guilty at his arraignment on Oct. 1; his next hearing is set
for Nov. 30.
Back in the parking lot, Snoop speaks of his dream. “After I take care of my
album,” he says, “I’m going to try to eliminate the gang violence. I’ll be on a mission
for peace.” If the trial is on his mind, it does not appear so as he speaks of the future,
neglecting to note that on Aug. 25 he could not prevent the 187 that may destroy his
life. “I know I have a lot of power,” Snoop says. “I know if I say, ‘Don’t kill,’ niggers
won’t kill.”
Further Reading
Garofalo, Reebee. “Setting the Record Straight: Censorship and Social Responsibility in
Popular Music.” Journal of Popular Music Studies 6 (1994): 1–37.
hampton, dream. “Snoop Doggy Dogg: G-Down.” The Source 48 (September 1993): 64–70.
Kelley, Robin D. G. “Kickin’ Reality, Kickin’ Ballistics: ‘Gangsta Rap’ and Postindustrial Los
Angeles.” In Race Rebels: Culture, Politics, and the Black Working Class, 183–227. New York:
Free Press, 1994.
Discography
Body Count. Body Count. Sire/London/Rhino, 1992.
DeVaughn, William. Be Thankful for What You Got. Roxbury, 1974.
Dr. Dre. The Chronic. Death Row Koch, 1992.
N.W.A. Niggaz4Life. Priority Records, 1991.
Snoop Doggy Dogg. Doggystyle. Death Row Records, 1993.
_______. The Doggfather. Interscope Records, 1996.
bra43588_pt06_449-526.indd 461 05/27/19 06:18 PM

76. Keeping It a Little Too Real
Gangsta rap and the notion of “keeping it real” continued to dominate

hip-hop music following Doggystyle. New rappers emerged in the New
York City area who modified elements of the West Coast style, either
by emphasizing partying and material acquisitions, as in the record-
ings of Biggie Smalls (Christopher Wallace, a.k.a. the Notorious B.I.G.,
1972–97), or through heightened obscurantism and bizarrely imagina-
tive humor and music, as in the Wu-Tang Clan. Wu-Tang Clan, which
boasted up to nine members, illustrated the tendency toward increas-
ingly large posses or crews among rap artists. Touré, writing in 1995,
describes the development as a move from the late 1980s–early 1990s
emphasis on Afro-centrism to “blockism,” this being the idea that your
neighborhood block is the center of the world, the people there the most
important audience to impress. It’s also the directive that if you get off
the block, your peeps come too. . . . It’s led to the family-like structure
behind the three biggest entities in hip-hop today: the Wu-Tang Clan,
Death Row, and the Biggie Smalls clique.1
The contradictions and ambiguity embedded in notions of “keeping

it real” and rap as “only entertainment,” which the arrest of Snoop in
1993 had begun to expose, intensified with the arrest of 2Pac (Tupac
Shakur, 1971–96) late in 1994 on sexual assault charges, followed by
the shooting of Shakur (from which he recovered) under mysterious
circumstances before the trial began. Tensions began to build between
West Coast rappers, centered on Death Row Records, and East Coast rap-
pers, many of whom recorded for Bad Boy Records (the “Biggie Smalls
clique” referred to earlier, which included Sean “Puff Daddy” Combs).
A crisis point was reached in the murders, first of 2Pac in S
eptember
1996, and then of Biggie Smalls in March 1997. The following articles
provide background on the West Coast–East Coast feud and show
a range of reactions to the murders. While many decried how mass
media accounts misrepresented the victims by implying that everyone
involved with hip-hop was a criminal, even committed fans could not
1. Touré, “The Family Way: The Hip-hop Crew as Center of the World,” Village Voice, October
10, 1995, 49.
462
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Keeping It a Little Too Real 463
ignore the relationship between the deaths of two of hip-hop’s biggest
stars and the increasing rate of black-on-black violence.2
Rap Sheet
Sam Gideon Anso and Charles Rappleye
The murder of Brooklyn rapper Notorious B.I.G. early Sunday morning in Los Ange-
les cast a pall over a rap industry that had for weeks basked in the glow of a declared
truce in the so-called East Coast/West Coast wars—an outbreak of peace that infused
the festivities of the annual Soul Train Awards the night before.
Instead, the shooting recalled the scene at the 1996 Soul Train Awards, an event
marred by a guns-drawn confrontation between delegations including Tupac Shakur
of L.A.’s Death Row Records, and Biggie Smalls, who’d sold platinum for New York’s
Bad Boy Entertainment. Shakur was gunned down in September in Las Vegas; now
B.I.G., whose real name was Christopher Wallace, is dead as well.
Kevin Kim, who was on the scene providing security for Faith Evans, W allace’s
estranged wife, said he believes the shooting was a planned attack on Wallace.
“They knew who they were shooting at,” Kim said in an interview Sunday afternoon.
“Look at the shot pattern—tight shots, not like a regular West Coast drive-by where
gang members are spraying bullets all over the place.”
However, Kim cautioned against speculation that Wallace’s murder was linked
to the much publicized rivalry between Wallace, Shakur, and the respective compa-
nies. “The East Coast/West Coast thing is all blown up,” Kim said. “At the party that
night, everybody was dancing together, artists hugging each other. . . . They squashed
that beef, and it is still squashed.”
Kim is referring in part to the truce, memorialized last month in an episode of
the sitcom The Steve Harvey Show, in which Death Row’s Snoop Doggy Dogg and
Sean “Puffy” Combs, CEO of Bad Boy Entertainment, publicly laid aside the dispute
that has been simmering between rap’s leading labels for more than two years.
In the twisted logic of the rap game, even the coziness between Snoop and Puffy,
who had been seen together in recent weeks in New York, raised eyebrows and fueled
talk that Puffy—and by extension B.I.G.—was disrespecting Death Row and its chief
Marion “Suge” Knight, who’d been sentenced to nine years in state prison the week
before. “Puffy and Biggie thought with Suge put away it was all good,” said one
West Coast rap insider. “But it’s not all good. There is still a lot of tension out there.
And Snoop and Puffy hanging out like they are best friends—that shit ain’t right.”
The chronology of the feud begins with gunfire in the building lobby of a
Manhattan recording studio, where Tupac Shakur, then on trial for the rape of a fan,
was shot five times and robbed of $40,000 worth of jewelry. In a jailhouse interview
with Vibe following his conviction, Shakur left no doubt that he suspected Wallace,
who was upstairs in the studio at the time of the shooting, had set him up. Wallace
and Combs denied any involvement in the shooting.
From there the events unfold in rapid succession. In August 1995, Knight “disre-
spected” Combs from the podium of The Source Awards at Manhattan’s Paramount
2. Particularly moving in this account was Touré’s eulogy for hip-hop in the form of a letter to
a cousin, “It Was a Wonderful World,” Village Voice, March 18, 1997, 41.
Source: “Rap Sheet” © Sam Gideon Anso and Charles Rappleye/Village Voice. Originally published
on March 18, 1997, p. 40.
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464 The 1990s
Theater. A month later, Knight accused Combs of having a hand in the shooting
death of Death Row employee (and reputed member of a Compton Blood set) Jason
“Big Jake” Robles at an industry party in Atlanta. Combs again denied involvement,
but Knight was sufficiently suspicious that he allegedly assaulted an independent
record promoter named Mark Anthony Bell at yet another party—this one following
an MTV awards show in Los Angeles in December 1995—in an effort to get informa-
tion about Combs, including his home address.
While Knight and Combs issued repeated denials that a beef existed at all, their
albums and videos were peppered with incendiary remarks directed coast to coast,
most notoriously Shakur’s boast, “I fucked your bitch, you fat motherfucker,” on last
year’s “Hit ‘Em Up.” All of which helped sell millions of records and magazines, and
all of which made fertile ground for speculation when Shakur was slain in Las Vegas.
Las Vegas police have named a suspect in Shakur’s murder—a Compton resi-
dent and reputed member of the Southside Crips gang named Orlando Anderson,
who fought with Shakur and his entourage in the lobby of the MGM hours before the
shooting. According to a search warrant affidavit made public last month, the fight
at the MGM grew out of an earlier incident in which Anderson and a group of seven
or eight Southside Crips stole a Death Row Records medallion from Travon Lane,
a Death Row associate and reputed member of the MOB Piru Blood set, at a Foot
Locker store in the Lakewood Mall. Anderson denies any involvement in the Shakur
killing. Police detained him for questioning in September, but have made no arrests.
While this would seem to lay to rest any East Coast connection in Shakur’s
killing, the affidavit also suggests a link between Wallace’s label and Anderson’s
Southside Crip set. Bad Boy Entertainment, according to the affidavit, “employed
Southside Crips gang members as security.”
The Compton connection figures prominently in some informed speculations on
the killing. According to one source, the hit on Wallace was pulled off by Compton
Bloods, who came to the party in the entourage of a well-known Compton rap art-
ist, and coordinated the shooting over cell phones. Another report put an individual
dressed in red standing outside the party with a cell phone saying “Biggie is here now.”
“This was a hit, something pre-planned,” said one Blood from Compton. “And
there’s going to be a few more hits.”
The killing is harder to swallow coming in the midst of a reduction of hostilities
in the hip hop nation. At last year’s Soul Train Awards, says one source, “Biggie had
half a dozen or so bodyguards and they were very conscious of looking over their
shoulders.” With the exception of a smattering of boos from the balcony as Wallace
and Combs came onstage to present an award, this year’s festivities were marked by
positive vibes. Which may have something to do with the fact that Suge Knight was
cooling his heels in the L.A. County jail.
“For the next six months no one is going to feel comfortable,” says Kevin Kim.
“Can I trust this person? Or is he setting me up?”
Party Over
Selwyn Seyfu Hinds
As with Tupac, much has been made of the self-prophetic element in Big’s passing.
Ready To Die, his classic debut, was an organic mesh of Brooklyn bad boy narratives
and the flossy party aesthetic, all tinged by no meager dose of suicidal musings—a
Source: “Party Over” © Selwyn Seyfu Hinds/Village Voice. Originally published March 18, 1997, p. 42.
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Keeping It a Little Too Real 465
phenomenon encapsulated by a frighteningly realistic video that featured a scream-
ing Puff, a depressed Biggie dying from a self-inflicted gunshot wound, and the
pound of a reverberating, eventually stilling heartbeat.
Big’s pending album, Life After Death . . . ‘Til Death Do Us Part, is very different,
although certain elements remain consistent. Part cinematic (and calculated) tie-in
to the debut, it is the creation of a once desperate, now well-paid baller negotiating
the pitfalls endemic to rap success—jealousy, envy, and the like. It is celebratory and
triumphant at some junctures, remorseful and contemplative in others.
Life After Death also possesses no small degree of tragic irony—the intro, which
picks up where Ready to Die left off, with a morose Puffy mourning the passing of his
man: “Damn/We was supposed to rule the world baby/We was unstoppable/The shit
can’t be over”; the enthusiastic “Going Back to Cali”: “Y’all niggas is a mess/Thinkin’
I’m gon stop/Giving L.A. Props”; an interlude where an anonymous caller threatens
to kill Big and urges him to “watch his fucking back”; and “You’re Nobody ‘Til . . .”
(“somebody kills you”), a piece of metaphoric tough talk that now packs a heartbreak.
Big’s gone and this album is his last artistic testament. An MC who felt that he’d
never received his due props Life After Death would have allowed Big to witness the
’cross-the-board affirmation he so desired. And although it’s too late to pour this sen-
timent out, maybe Christopher Wallace can still feel it somewhere and rest satisfied:
you were the best, baby baby.
Town Criers
Natasha Stovall
Radio station Hot 97 acted as town crier and community center, just as they did after
Tupac. In one of the most painful moments of the day’s broadcast, Biggie protégé
Delvico, from Junior M.A.F.I.A., called in from Brooklyn, in tears and waiting for
the call to go to the West Coast. “I don’t believe it, yo. I just don’t believe it’s real.”
The DJs let him know, “Y’all are our family, on the air, off the air, we’re here for you.
Ain’t nothing fake going on here.”
“I’m turning on the news and that’s really what’s getting me upset,” the Fugees’
Wyclef told 97 DJ Dr. Dre. “Let’s get one thing straight. Biggie Smalls was an
inspiration to us MCs and the whole hip hop community. Every time it’s hip hop
they’re t rying to bring us down.” “I look at it this way,” said Public Enemy’s Chuck
D, also on Hot 97. “When the magazines and the newspapers and the radio shows all
come out and go ‘Whoop! Whoop! East Coast/West Coast,’ it becomes a big story.
It becomes a hysteria. If you add hype and hysteria to a situation, it can bring crazi-
ness from any direction.”
Chuck D spoke at length about the larger picture, in which Biggie Smalls’s death
is only a puzzle piece. “It’s bigger than rap. Until black people control our reality,
not only will art imitate life, but life will start to imitate art.” The fact that Biggie’s
and Tupac’s deaths were just larger manifestations of the staggering number of black
men under 30 who are murdered each year loomed large in the minds of Brooklyn
residents. Back in front of Baker’s, Janice’s friend Tasha sighed, “It was just a murder,
not a West Coast/East Coast thing.”
Source: “Town Criers” © Natasha Stovall/Village Voice. Originally published March 18, 1997, p. 42.
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466 The 1990s
Ultimately, the most numbing thing about Biggie’s death is its proximity to
Tupac’s. “I feel like I just hung up with you about Tupac,” Roxanne Shante told Hot
97. Brooklyn lost another son way too early, but next week another death will eclipse
his. “I loved the brother. He was a good brother, a righteous young man,” a man sell-
ing pictures of Biggie for $2 outside KFC put it. “Now I’m a capitalist, and I’ve got
two of these left. Do you want to buy one?”
Further Reading
Dyson, Michael Eric. Between God and Gangsta Rap: Bearing Witness to Black Culture. New York:
Touré. “It Was a Wonderful World.” Village Voice, March 18, 1997, 41.
_______. “The Family Way: The Hip-hop Crew as Center of the World.” Village Voice,
October 10, 1995, 49.
Discography
Jay-Z. Reasonable Doubt. Roc-A-Fella, 1996.
Nas. Illimatic. Columbia, 1994.
Notorious B.I.G. Ready to Die: The Re-master. Bad Boy, 2006.
_______. Life after Death. Bad Boy, 1997.
Puff Daddy. No Way Out. Bad Boy, 1997.
2Pac. Greatest Hits. Interscope Records, 1998.
Wu-Tang Clan. Legend of the Wu-Tang Clan: Wu-Tang Clan’s Greatest Hits. RCA, 2004.
77. Women in Rap
It may be that the death of gangsta rap’s stars hastened its demise, or
that the genre had simply run its course; whatever the reasons, gangsta
rap seemed to fade from view following the shootings of Biggie and
2Pac. As mentioned earlier, the recordings and videos of Biggie Smalls,
while depicting gang life and violence, had also featured grandiose dis-
plays of wealth. Biggie’s producer, Sean “Puff Daddy” (later “P-Diddy”)
Combs, heightened this trend in many of the songs and videos for his
first solo album, No Way Out, which followed closely on the heels of
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Women in Rap 467
Biggie’s Life after Death (both 1997). Combs, while a weak rapper, was a
great judge of talent and an astute reader of the audience. His image, in
both his appearances in Life after Death and his own album, attempted
to project hipness via association with material success, rather than
with the “hardness” associated with gangsta rap, and, as such, dem-
onstrated the increasing importance of “image” relative to the MC’ing
skills that defined “old-school” artists of the 1980s.
Another aspect of some of the songs on No Way Out and Life after
Death was the use of large sections of previous songs, which inaugu-
rated a new era in sampling and quotation. Fans and critics debated
whether this new development in sampling differed from the types of
creative reuse of materials that have characterized previous forms of
African American music. Writers such as Neil Strauss highlighted the
connections between Puff Daddy’s work and the recordings of earlier
rappers such as MC Hammer and Vanilla Ice, who were often ridiculed
in their day.1 Such critiques did not explain, however, the difference
between these recordings and those that were already forming part
of the hip-hop canon, such as Sugarhill Gang’s “Rapper’s Delight”
and Run-DMC’s “Walk This Way,” which were also constructed almost
entirely around preexisting recordings.
The increased use of sampling was only one aspect of the new plu-
ralism in hip-hop in the mid-1990s, which also expanded the role of
women. Rappers such as Foxy Brown and L’il Kim emerged who used
their sexuality aggressively, often presenting men in their songs as
important only for how they might satisfy their (the rappers’) needs.2
This development might be viewed as resurrecting the classic blues
singer’s persona: a strong woman who knows what she wants and isn’t
afraid to demand it, while refusing to be defined by her relationship
with a man. In another vein, Lauryn Hill (b. 1975) broke through with
the Fugees in The Score, which became the hip-hop smash of 1996—an
album viewed as “progressive hip-hop” and a critical favorite by some,
while being dismissed as inauthentic fluff by others. Hill impressed with
her verbal skills and rapping dexterity, as well as with her R&B singing
chops: the biggest hit on the album, a remake of Roberta Flack’s “Killing
Me Softly,” featured Hill’s alto in a faithful re-creation of Flack’s vocal.
The following year Missy “Misdemeanor” Elliot (Melissa Elliot,
b. 1971) released her first solo album after writing songs for and per-
forming on many other people’s recordings. Her wacky, surreal, and
decidedly nonglamorous (in the conventional sense) persona/image
has proved remarkably durable, and her subsequent releases, aided
and abetted by the innovative production of Timbaland, resulted in a
string of successful albums.
1. Neil Strauss, “Sampling Is (a) Creative or (b) Theft?” New York Times, September 14, 1997.
2. See “Nuthin’ but a G String,” a forum featuring two articles: Robert Marriot, “Starring
L’il Kim as the Posthip-hop Hussy,” and Kweli I. Wright, “. . . and Foxy Brown as the Moschino
Macktress,” Village Voice, December 24, 1996, 63.
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468 The 1990s
Although the careers of many female rappers thrived in the late 1990s,
it was Lauryn Hill who became the first big crossover female superstar
in hip-hop. Her solo album The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill received
five Grammy awards in 1999, and her photo appeared on the Febru-
ary 8, 1999, cover of Time next to the caption, “Hip-Hop Nation: After
20 Years—How It’s Changed America.” Hill’s crossover (and the largely
favorable Time article) signaled a new level of acceptance of hip-hop by
the mainstream audience, and it was safe to say that, in terms of record-
ing sales at any rate, hip-hop had become the mainstream. Hill seemed
to be the perfect figure to accomplish this: multitalented, a philoso-
phy major at Columbia, attractive, articulate, and adamantly religious,
she was a far cry from the denizens of Death Row. The rest of the Time
article and the portrait of Hill, which are reprinted here, discuss the turn
in hip-hop toward the glorification of materialism and the withering of
political content. In discussing figures such as Hill and Puff Daddy, it
becomes clear that the popularity of hip-hop had largely transcended
racial boundaries and that the influence of hip-hop had spread to other
genres. Whether this symbolized a breakthrough in race relations or
new opportunities for white voyeurism of African Americans remained
an open question. Although this change in status raised worries about
whether hip-hop could maintain its creativity and “underground” cred-
ibility, changes in recording technology meant that an increasing num-
ber of people who were not successful enough to worry about such
issues could create their own high-quality demos. The contrast between
the generally favorable tone of this article and a number of articles that
appeared in mass circulation publications in the 1980s and early 1990s
(cited in Chapters 70 and 73) reveals how rapidly the social position of
hip-hop had changed. Of course, a lot of this change may have been due
to hip-hop’s increasing slice of the music industry pie, as noted in the
beginning of the article that follows.
Hip-Hop Nation
Christopher John Farley
Now tell me your philosophy

On exactly what an artist should be.
—Lauryn Hill, “Superstar”
It’s a Friday night, early December 1998, and you’re backstage at Saturday
Night Live. You’re hanging out in the dressing room with Lauryn Hill, who is sit-
ting on the couch, flipping through a script. The 23-year-old rapper-singer-actress
is the musical guest on this week’s show. It’s her coming-out party, the first live
Source: Christopher John Farley, “Hip-Hop Nation” from TIME, February 8, 1999. © 1999 Time Inc.
Used under license. TIME and Time Inc. are not affiliated with, and do not endorse products or
services of licensee.
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Women in Rap 469
TV p erformance she’s done since releasing her critically acclaimed and best-selling
album The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill. She might also do a little acting on the show—
SNL staff members have asked her to appear in a skit. But as Hill reads, her small
rose-blossom lips wilt into a frown. She hands you the script. It’s titled Pimp Chat—
it’s a sketch about a street hustler with a talk show. Hill’s role: a ’ho. Or if she’s
uncomfortable with that, she can play a female pimp. Hmmm. Now, being in an SNL
sketch is a big opportunity—but this one might chip away at her image as a socially
conscious artist. What’s it going to be?
It’s all about the Benjamins, baby.
— Sean (“Puffy”) Combs, “It’s
All About the Benjamins”
You are in a recording studio in midtown Manhattan, hanging out with hip-
hop superproducer Sean (“Puffy”) Combs. It’s 1997, and Puffy is keeping a low pro-
file, working on his new album, his first as a solo performer. This album will be his
coming-out party. He’s eager to play a few tracks for you. People have him all wrong,
he says. He majored in business management at Howard. He’s not just about gangsta
rap. Sounds from his new album fill the room. One song is based on a bit from the
score to Rocky. Another, a sweeping, elegiac number, uses a portion of Do You Know
Where You’re Going To? That’s what he’s about, Combs says. Classic pop. “I’m living
my life right,” he says. “So when it comes time for me to be judged, I can be judged
by God.”
You’re mad
because my style
you’re admiring
Don’t be mad—UPS is hiring.
—The Notorious B.I.G., “Flava in Your Ear (Remix)”
Hip-hop is perhaps the only art form that celebrates capitalism openly. To be
sure, filmmakers pore over weekend grosses, but it would be surprising for a charac-
ter in a Spielberg film to suddenly turn toward the camera and shout, “This picture’s
grossed $100 million, y’all! Shout out to DreamWorks!” Rap’s unabashed material-
ism distinguishes it sharply from some of the dominant musical genres of the past
century. For example, nobody expects bluesmen to be moneymakers—that’s why
they’re singing the blues. It’s not called the greens, after all. As for alternative rock-
ers, they have the same relationship toward success that one imagines Ally McBeal
has toward food; even a small slice of the pie leaves waves of guilt. Rappers make
money without remorse. “These guys are so real, they brag about money,” says Def
Jam’s Simmons. “They don’t regret getting a Coca-Cola deal. They brag about a
Coca-Cola deal.”
Major labels, a bit confused by the rhythms of the time, have relied on smaller,
closer-to-the-street labels to help them find fresh rap talent. Lauryn Hill is signed to
Ruffhouse, which has a distribution deal with the larger Columbia. Similar arrange-
ments have made tens of millions of dollars for the heads of these smaller labels, such
as Combs (Bad Boy), Master P (No Limit), Jermaine Dupri (So So Def), and Ronald
and Bryan Williams (Co-CEOs of Cash Money, home to rising rapper Juvenile).
“I’m not a role model,” rapper-mogul-aspiring-NBA-player Master P says.
“But I see myself as a resource for kids. They can say, ‘Master P has been through a
lot, but he changed his life, and look at him. I can do the same thing.’ I think anyone
who’s a success is an inspiration.”
Master P introduced something new to contemporary pop: shameless, r elentless
and canny cross-promotion. Each of the releases on his New Orleans-based No Limit
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470 The 1990s
label contains promotional materials for his other releases. His established artists
(like Snoop Dogg) make guest appearances on CDs released by his newer acts, help-
ing to launch their debuts. And his performers are given to shouting out catchphrases
like “No Limit soldiers!” in the middle of their songs—good advertising for the label
when the song is being played on the radio.
Madison Avenue has taken notice of rap’s entrepreneurial spirit. Tommy Hilfiger
has positioned his apparel company as the clothier of the hip-hop set, and he now
does a billion dollars a year in oversize shirts, loose jeans and so on. “There are no
boundaries,” says Hilfiger. “Hip-hop has created a style that is embraced by an array
of people from all backgrounds and races.” However, fans are wary of profiteers look-
ing to sell them back their own culture. Says Michael Sewell, 23, a white congressional
staff member and rap fan: “I’ve heard rap used in advertising, and I think it’s kind of
hokey—kind of a goofy version of the way old white men perceive rap.”
But the ads are becoming stealthier and streetier. Five years ago, Sprite recast
its ads to rely heavily on hip-hop themes. Its newest series features several up-and-
coming rap stars (Common, Fat Joe, Goodie Mob) in fast-moving animated clips that
are intelligible only to viewers raised on Bone-Thugs-N-Harmony and Playstation.
According to Sprite brand manager Pina Sciarra, the rap campaign has quadrupled
the number of people who say that Sprite is their favorite soda. . . .
Corporate America’s infatuation with rap has increased as the genre’s political
content has withered. Ice Cube’s early songs attacked white racism; Ice-T sang about
a Cop Killer; Public Enemy challenged listeners to “fight the power.” But many newer
acts such as DMX and Master P are focused almost entirely on pathologies within
the black community. They rap about shooting other blacks but almost never about
challenging governmental authority or encouraging social activism. “The stuff today
is not revolutionary,” says Bob Law, vice president of programming at WWRL, a
black talk-radio station in New York City. “It’s just, ‘Give me a piece of the action.’”
Hip-hop is getting a new push toward activism from an unlikely source—
Beastie Boys. The white rap trio began as a Dionysian semiparody of hip-hop, rap-
ping about parties, girls and beer. Today they are the founders and headliners of
the Tibetan Freedom Concert, an annual concert that raises money for and aware-
ness about human-rights issues in Tibet. Last week Beastie Boys, along with the hip-
hop-charged hard-rock band Rage Against the Machine and the progressive rap duo
Black Star, staged a controversial concert in New Jersey to raise money for the legal
fees of Mumia Abu-Jamal, a black inmate on death row for killing a police officer.
Says Beastie Boy Adam Yauch: “There’s a tremendous amount of evidence that he
didn’t do it and he was a scapegoat.”
Yauch says rap’s verbal texture makes it an ideal vessel to communicate ideas,
whether satirical, personal or political. That isn’t always a good thing. “We’ve put out
songs with lyrics in them that we thought people would think were funny, but they
ended up having a lot of really negative effects on people. [Performers] need to be
aware that when you’re creating music it has a tremendous influence on society.” . . .
Wu-Tang Clan producer-rapper RZA is also concerned about maintaining stand-
ards. He believes many performers are embracing the genre’s style—-rapping—but
missing its essence, the culture of hip-hop. “I don’t think the creativity has been big.
I think the sales have been big, and the exposure has been big,” says RZA. “Will
Smith is rap. That’s not hip-hop. It’s been a big year for rap. It’s been a poor year for
hip-hop.” . . .
Other groups, signed to major labels, are trying to perpetuate rap’s original
spirit of creativity. The rapper Nas’s forthcoming album I Am . . . the Autobiography
promises to be tough, smart and personal. And the Atlanta-based duo OutKast’s Big
Boi: “We’re not scared to experiment.”
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Women in Rap 471
One of the most ambitious new CDs is the Roots’ Things Fall Apart (named after
the book by the Nigerian Nobel laureate Chinua Achibe). The CD features live instru-
mentation, lyrics suitable for a poetry slam and a cameo from Erykah Badu. Roots
drummer Ahmir hopes, in the future, the more creative wing of performers in hip-
hop will form a support network. “There are some people in hip-hop that care about
leaving a mark,” he says. “There are some of us that look at Innervisions as a bench-
mark, or Blood on the Tracks or Blue or Purple Rain. Leaving a mark is more important
than getting a dollar. I think Lauryn’s album is one of the first gunshots of hip-hop
art the world is gonna get.”
You could get the money
You could get the power
But keep your eyes on the final hour.
—Lauryn Hill, “Final Hour”
It’s Puffy’s 29th birthday party, and the celebration is being held on Wall Street.
Inside the party, women in thongs dance in glass cages. Above the door a huge pur-
ple spotlight projects some of Puffy’s corporate logos: Bad Boy (his record company)
and Sean John (his new clothing label). But where’s Puffy?
The music stops. The crowd parts. Muhammad Ali arrives. He’s only the appe-
tizer. The score to Rocky booms over the speakers. Only then does Puffy enter, in
a light-colored three-piece suit. Forget being street. He’s Wall Street, he’s Madison
Avenue, he’s le Champs Elysées. Donald Trump is at his side. It’s Puffy’s moment.
His album No Way Out played on some familiar gangsta themes, but it’s a smash hit.
Puffy is a household name, a brand name. In fact his name comes up again and again,
in gossip columns and other people’s rap songs. He has transformed himself into a
human sample. He is swallowed by the crowd.
You are at the Emporio Armani store on Fifth Avenue in downtown Manhattan.
There’s a benefit here tonight for the Refugee Project, a nonprofit organization Lau-
ryn Hill founded to encourage social activism among urban youth. Hill is here, and
the cameras are flashing. Her musical performance on Saturday Night Live has boosted
her album back to the upper reaches of the charts. In a few days she will receive 10
Grammy nominations, the most ever by a female artist.
She never did do that SNL skit about the hooker. She says she feels too connected
to hip-hop to do a movie or TV role that compromises the message in her music. She
addresses the crowd. “I’m just a vehicle through which this thing moves,” she says.
“It’s not about me at all.” You think back to some of the rappers you’ve talked to—
Jay-Z, Nas, the Roots, Grandmaster Flash. A record cues up in your mind: “Ain’t no
stopping us now . . .”
Lauryn Hill
Strange that something so alive now could have begun in a museum. In late 1997,
Lauryn Hill was visiting Detroit to produce a song that she wrote for her child-
hood hero, Aretha Franklin. On the way to the airport, she stopped at the Motown
Museum. The Supremes, Stevie Wonder, the Jackson 5—these were the perform-
ers she was reared on. She could picture their 45s scattered across her bed. “It was
incredible to me and really inspiring,” says Hill. Now she was ready to push forward
on her own solo album.
Looking back, looking back, Hill grew up in South Orange, N.J.; her father was
a management consultant, her mother a grade-school English teacher. From an early
age, Lauryn (she has an elder brother Malaney) was into singing and performing.
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472 The 1990s
When she was in middle school, she was invited to sing the national anthem at a high
school basketball game. “People went wild,” says LuElle Walker-Peniston, Hill’s
guidance counselor at Columbia High School. “I don’t think we had a winning team,
but she was inspiring.” Fans liked her rendition so much that recordings of it were
played at subsequent games.
While still in high school, Hill landed a recurring role as the troubled runaway,
Kira, on the TV soap As The World Turns. In 1993 she was cast as a difficult teen in
Sister Act 2. There’s a scene in that film in which Hill’s character reels off a rap as her
classmates look on. “None of that was scripted,” says director Bill Duke. “That was all
Lauryn. She was amazing.” While in high school, she formed the rap trio the Fugees
(short for refugees) with classmate Prakazrel (“Pras”) Michel and Wyclef Jean, who
went to a nearby school. The group’s debut album, Blunted on Reality, sold poorly.
Hill spent about a year at Columbia University but left school when the Fugees’ sec-
ond album, The Score, took off. It has sold more than 17 million copies worldwide.
But Hill wasn’t satisfied. In the studio, she and Jean were “innocently competi-
tive,” gently sparring to see who could spin off the wittiest rhymes. Hill was eager to
see what she could do solo. She booked a recording studio in New York City and gath-
ered up every instrument she could think of—a harpsichord, a timpani, a trombone,
a Hammond B-3 organ. She wanted to create hip-hop with live instruments.
She still needed another spark. So she flew to Jamaica. Hill is engaged to Rohan
Marley, the son of reggae superstar Bob Marley and the father of her two children,
one-year-old Zion and three-month-old Selah. (“We haven’t been in front of a minis-
ter yet, but we will be soon,” says Hill. “Our marriage right now is more a spiritual
one.”) As part of the extended Marley clan, she was allowed to record in the studio
in the Bob Marley Museum. She says she could feel Marley’s spirit as soon as she
arrived. The first day there she wrote Lost Ones. As she began to rap, the various
young Marley grandchildren who happened to be wandering around that day joined
in, chanting the last word of every line. Everyone could feel the energy.
Hill says that before Rohan, she had “dysfunctional” relationships. She tried
to channel the pain of those experiences into her music. “It wasn’t someone writ-
ing for me; it wasn’t someone telling me what I felt,” says Hill, who wrote and pro-
duced the songs on Miseducation. “It was exactly how I felt the moment I felt it.” Her
maverick vision hasn’t been without controversy. Late last year a group of four musi-
cians who worked on Miseducation filed a suit claiming they deserved additional
songwriting credits. Hill denies the allegations. Gordon Williams, who worked as
the sound engineer on every song says, “Definitely the driving force behind that
record was [Hill].”
Her colleagues worry about Hill’s frantic pace. “She’s a workaholic,” says
Williams. “She doesn’t stop. To be a mother, two times, and then have all this stuff
going on is crazy. Sometimes I just look at her and go, ‘Lauryn, take it easy.’”
But Hill plans to push ahead. She says the Fugees “definitely aren’t broken up,”
though the members have to “sit down and see where all our heads are at.” She has
her own production company, and she might steer it in a unique direction: “I’m
looking to produce black science-fiction films.” Then there’s her tour. She’ll perform
her first solo show in the U.S. on Feb. 18 in Detroit. But she’ll take time out to attend
the Grammys in Los Angeles on Feb. 24, for which she has received 10 nominations.
“There are kids in the audiences now who weren’t born when there wasn’t hip-hop,”
says Hill. “They grew up on it; it’s part of the culture. It’s a huge thing. It’s not seg-
regated anymore. It’s not just in the Bronx; it’s all over the world. That’s why I think
it’s more crucial now that we, as artists, take advantage of our platform.”
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Women in Rap 473
Further Reading
Berry, Venise. “Feminine or Masculine: The Conflicting Nature of Female Images in Rap
Music.” In Cecilia Reclaimed: Feminist Perspectives on Gender and Music, ed. Susan Cook
and Judy Tsou, 183–201. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1994.
Cepeda, Raquel. And it Don’t Stop: The Best American Hip-Hop Journalism of the Last 25 Years.
New York: Faber and Faber, 2004.
Chang, Jeff. Total Chaos: The Art and Aesthetics of Hip-Hop. New York: Basic Books, 2008.
Demers, Joanna. Steal This Music: How Intellectual Property Law Affects Musical Creativity. Ath-
ens: University of Georgia Press, 2006.
Gaunt, Kyra. The Games Black Girls Play: Learning the Ropes from Double Dutch to Hip-Hop.
New York: NYU Press, 2006.
Goodwin, Andrew. “Sample and Hold: Pop Music in the Digital Age of Reproduction.” In
On Record: Rock, Pop and the Written Word, ed. Simon Frith and Andrew Goodwin, 258–
73. New York: Pantheon Books, 1990.
Lysloff, René T. A., and Leslie C. Gay, Jr. Music and Technoculture. Hanover, N.H.: Wesleyan
Peterson-Lewis, Sonja. “A Feminist Analysis of the Defenses of Obscene Rap Lyrics.” Black
Sacred Music: A Journal of TheoMusicology 5 (Spring 1991): 68–79.
Reynolds, Simon. Bring the Noise: 20 Years of Writing about Hip Rock and Hip Hop. Berkeley,
Calif: Soft Skull Press, 2011.
Rose, Tricia. The Hip Hop Wars: What We Talk about When We Talk about Hip Hop—and Why It
Matters. New York: BasicCivitas, 2008.
Schloss, Joseph G. Making Beats: The Art of Sample-Based Hip-Hop. Middletown, Conn.: Wes-
leyan University Press, 2004.
Shelton, Marla L. “Can’t Touch This! Representations of the African American Female Body
in Urban Rap Videos.” Popular Music and Society 21 (Fall 1997): 107–16.
Volgsten, Ulrik. “Copyright, Music, and Morals: Artistic Expression and the Public Sphere.”
In Music and Manipulation: On the Social Uses and Social Control of Music, ed. Steven Brown
and Ulrik Volgsten, 336–64. New York: Berghahn Books, 2006.
Wallace, Michelle. “When Black Feminism Faces the Music, and the Music is Rap.” New York
Times, July 29, 1990.
Discography
Brown, Foxy. Ill Na Na. Def Jam, 1996.
DJ Shadow. Entroducing . . . Fontana Island, 1996.
Fugees. The Score. Sony, 1996.
Hill, Lauryn. The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill. Sony, 1998.
Jackson, Janet. The Velvet Rope. Virgin Records US, 1997.
Jean, Wyclef. Greatest Hits. Sony, 2003.
Lil’ Kim. Hard Core. Big Beat/WEA, 1996.
———. Not Tonight. Atlantic/WEA, 1997.
Marley Marl. In Control, Vol. 1. Warner Bros./WEA, 1988.
MC Hammer. U Can’t Touch This. Capitol Records, 1990.
Men In Black: The Album. Sony, 1997.
Missy Elliot. Supa Dupa Fly. East/West Records, 1997.
New MCs—Fat Beats and Brastraps: Women of Hip-Hop. Rhino/WEA, 1998.
Notorious B.I.G. Life after Death. Bad Boy Records, 1997.
Puff Daddy. No Way Out. Bad Boy Records, 1997.
Sugarhill Gang. The Best of Sugarhill Gang: Rapper’s Delight. Rhino/WEA, 1996.
Vanilla Ice. Ice Ice Baby. SBK Records, 1990.
bra43588_pt06_449-526.indd 473 05/27/19 06:18 PM

78. From Indie to Alternative to . . . Seattle?
At the close of the 1980s, no earth-shattering developments appeared

to be on the horizon for indie rock. The “indie” genre label was prov-
ing increasingly capacious, including everything from the “goth” of
the Cure to the “dream pop” of My Bloody Valentine to bands bear-
ing a more obvious allegiance to punk. In fact, articles attempting to
explain and identify the almost bewildering multiplication of subgenres
appeared frequently throughout the 1990s.1 Yet, in the late 1980s and
early 1990s, an indie scene that had been developing in Seattle around
the local label Sub Pop displayed a new fusion of musical styles and
a new alliance of social groups and subcultural symbols that would
ultimately remap and reorient the entire idea of indie rock. Around
this time, a new term, ”alternative,” was increasingly substituted for
“indie,” indicating a turn toward populism and a rapprochement with
non-indie rock practices, both musically (through more obvious “pop”
music influences) and institutionally (through bands moving from indie
record labels to majors).
Grant Alden’s article situates grunge in the dystopian suburbs ringing

Seattle and spread throughout the Pacific Northwest. Alden provides
a history of Seattle’s Sub Pop record label and the development of
the local live music scene. A point of interest is how the participants
of this scene emphasized their debt to other centers of indie music
that preceded Seattle, such as those associated with Minneapolis and
1. See, for example, Jim Sullivan, “The Age of Hyphen-Rock,” Chicago Tribune, October 13,
1991, sec. 13, 26–27 (a good overview of the splintering of rock genres); David Browne, “Turn that
@#!% Down,” Entertainment Weekly, August 21, 1992, 16–25 (describes the many varieties/ sub-
genres of alternative); Neil Strauss, “Forget Pearl Jam: Alternative Rock Lives,” New York Times,
March 2, 1997 (a brief introduction to the many subcategories that function as alternatives to al-
ternative); and Ben Ratliff, “A New Heavy-Metal Underground Emerges,” New York Times, Febru-
ary 15, 1998 (a taxonomy of metal subgenres).
474
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From Indie to Alternative to . . . Seattle? 475
Athens, Georgia.2 The grunge-alternative scene in Seattle privileged
concepts such as artistic “honesty,” and was as closely related to heavy
metal and 70s hard rock as to punk. “Honesty” in this case emphasized
the “indie” roots of alternative music, with “indie” in this case equat-
ing to “independence” from large corporate entities. Related to the rise
of awareness of a post-baby-boom demographic, dubbed “Generation
X,” was the basis of this demographic in a “loser” or “slacker” identity
based on expectations of downward mobility in a world with a rapidly
deteriorating environment and the possibility of fatally unsafe sex. The
article also discusses the contradictions of the term “alternative” as
bands became successful (explored further in chapter 80), and started
to spawn their own imitations. 3
Grunge Makes Good

Grant Alden
Federal Way, Washington, was incorporated as a city two years ago. It’s a narrow
strip of Americana 25 miles south of Seattle, with shopping malls and franchise con-
cepts linked to featureless subdivisions—71,000 souls sandwiched between the cold
waters of Puget Sound and the international headquarters of timber giant Weyer-
haeuser. A constant, stubborn misinterpretation of the American dream that has all
the sophistication of a small town, and none of the charm.
It’s a special kind of hell, an anonymous nowhere, and I live there.
Down the street is a house with two children, two parents, and one rock band.
They practice three nights a week; a Dodge van with bald tires parks on the street,
across from a low-slung Ford station wagon and a cherry-red 1957 Chevy pickup.
Tonight, in the basement, the band is methodically learning to play—at three-quarter
speed—Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.”
Of course, you can’t learn to play “Teen Spirit”; you’re either born with it or it’s
not worth bothering.
By 1988, when Seattle’s Sub-Pop released Mudhoney’s landmark single, “Touch
Me I’m Sick,” only two small bars and one equally small all-ages club were willing
to host live, original music. The only available model for success seemed to involve
relocating. The Blackouts, a brilliant art punk band, moved to Chicago and somehow
mutated into Ministry. Guitarist Duff McKagan left Ten Minute Warning for Los
2. The idea of the music scene as a confluence of musical genre and locality was developed
into a theoretical concept by Will Straw in his widely influential article, “Systems of Articulation,
Logics of Change: Communities and Scenes in Popular Music,” Cultural Studies, Vol. 5, No. 3
(1991): 368-88.
3. For views of the Seattle scene after grunge broke nationally, see Michael Azzerad, “Grunge
City,” Rolling Stone (April 16, 1992): 43-48; and John Book, “Seattle Heavy,” Goldmine (April 17,
1992): 46-54.
Source: Reprinted with permission of SPIN MEDIA LLC from Grant Alden,“Grunge Makes Good.”
SPIN, September 1992 (52, 54–57); permission conveyed through Copyright Clearence Center, Inc.
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476 The 1990s
Angeles and ended up playing bass in Guns N’ Roses. The Melvins left Aberdeen
(Nirvana’s home town) for San Francisco, and, well, stayed the Melvins.
“A lot of people weren’t even poking their heads out the door,” the Walkabouts’
Chris Eckman said five years ago. “They were just sitting there woodshedding. Then
a lot of people collectively started thinking about getting into recording studios
instead of making live music the central focus. It was the beginning of the whole
independent record thing; you’d be reading about the stuff happening in Minneapo-
lis, in Athens, and God, those people were making records.”
The developing aesthetic was rooted in punk rock’s already hoary adjectives—
direct, honest, crude, and confrontational. Except that these new ensembles, con-
stantly evolving and dissolving as roommates and bandmates came and went, were
as fond of Kiss as they were of the Sex Pistols. The result was a sound equal parts
Black Sabbath, Black Flag, and Big Black, along with an insistence on absolute inde-
pendence. “It’s an attitude that we’re not really setting out to do anything,” says
Mudhoney’s Steve Turner. “I mean, we generally make it through our songs, but our
objective’s not to be sloppy, either. That’d be a really dumb objective.”
Not counting the era of the proto-grunge Melvins, the first evidence of these new
bands appeared in 1985 though few took notice. C/Z Records’ Deep Six compilation,
now hopelessly out of print (and never to be reissued: “Most of the bands would
be pissed off and embarrassed,” says C/Z’s owner and Skin Yard veteran Daniel
House), includes Soundgarden, the Melvins, Skin Yard, Green River, Malfunkshun
(Andrew Wood’s band before Mother Love Bone), and the second recordings from
the U-Men.
“The whole grunge thing seemed to occur naturally,” House says. The institu-
tion of Sub Pop began as Bruce Pavitt’s fanzine (sometimes accompanied by cassette
samplers of independent music), and then became a column in Seattle’s monthly
music magazine, the Rocket, before metamorphosing into the record label now syn-
onymous with the scene. “We started the company on about $19,000,” remembers
Jonathan Poneman, Pavitt’s partner. “We spent it on [renting] space, a little bit of
advertising, and putting out the first Soundgarden single and the first Green River
EP.” And, until last fall, when sales of Nevermind started spilling over onto Nirvana’s
first album, Bleach, the label hovered at the edge of insolvency.
Sub Pop’s operating philosophy and the perspective of most of its artists was
neatly captured in a T-shirt slogan (and a later TAD single): “Loser.” “The loser is the
existential hero of the ‘90s,” TAD’s Kurt Danielson says. “You’ve got nothing left to
lose because you’re already in the poverty-level income bracket. You pay high taxes,
you can never get ahead, and you live in a shitty apartment. You work overtime
every week and still can’t get ahead. You’ve got credit cards and you’re up to your
neck in debt.”
The credits on the back sleeve of Bleach read in part: “Recorded in Seattle at
Reciprocal Recordings by Jack Endino for $600.” That figure’s a little misleading
since it doesn’t include mixing, but you get the idea. Endino, who began his adult life
as an engineer at the Bremerton shipyards, was Skin Yard’s guitar player and more
than any other figure in the scene, was responsible for the signature “Seattle sound.”
Because he understood the bands he was working with, and because he took the time
to think through the best ways to record their music, he was able to quickly, cheaply,
and cleanly capture their sounds on tape.
Modest success hasn’t changed that aesthetic. Mudhoney’s 1991 LP Every Good
Boy Deserves Fudge was recorded for $3,000. Screaming Trees recorded their 1990 Epic
LP Uncle Anesthesia, for an estimated $25,000. Budgets like that probably wouldn’t
cover the cost of the drum sounds on Queensryche’s last disc.
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From Indie to Alternative to . . . Seattle? 477
See, the “Seattle sound” is only vaguely about music. The shock, for the rest of
the world, seems to be in discovering the rage of a generation expected to go gen-
tly into the good life—waking up one quiet morning and hearing that anger spew-
ing over the radio, voiced in hard-core rap, the same fury that boiled over in the
Rodney King riots, only voiced by underground musicians who come from different
musical and ethnic traditions. Nirvana, Alice in Chains, Soundgarden, Pearl Jam,
Mudhoney—they’ve all risen from the shoals of a stagnating culture like some great,
unkempt beast. And, to their shock, they found that their alienation was broadly
shared.
The punks, from whose ashes spring most of Seattle bands, insisted we had no
future. Our generation—and I write from the cusp between the baby boom and gen-
eration X—is living in that future. We face hopeless demographic, economic, and
ecological imperatives. Our older brothers and sisters have all the good jobs (at least
those who haven’t been cast from grace by recession and corporate restructuring).
The American dream is no longer to start a business and hand it down to your chil-
dren, but to sell out to a large corporation, or buy into a franchise. And the environ-
ment has been so relentlessly savaged that getting a suntan has become almost as
much a high-risk statement of personal disregard as engaging in unsafe sex.
“Apart from the personal benefits of being able to make a lot of money,” Sub
Pop’s Poneman says, “the success of Seattle bands reinforces what to me is still a
very important American dream. A lot of these people have no other options in our
society.”
“Right now,” adds Pavitt, “when you graduate from high school, you don’t
think about going to college, but you do ask your older brother for some tips about
recording contracts. And then you go for it.”
“I still have a lot of hope for younger musicians around here,” Soundgarden’s
Matt Cameron says. “They seem somewhat pissed off by what’s going on right now
[politically], and hopefully that’ll add to the desire not to follow any formula and go
for a big record contract. Just try to make that music or that art or whatever—totally
stand up to what’s going on right now.”
Around 1988, somebody called the music “Grunge,” now a term broadly applied
to every guitar band from Seattle (in rough chronological order): the Melvins, Ten
Minute Warning, Malfunkshun, U-Men, Bundle of Hiss, Soundgarden, Skin Yard,
Green River, Screaming Trees, TAD, Nirvana, Mudhoney, Blood Circus, Coffin
Break, Treepeople, Mother Love Bone, Alice in Chains, Love Battery, Gruntruck,
Hammerbox, Pearl Jam, Mono Man, 7 Year Bitch . . .
What began as an assertion of independence in a far corner of the continent
became a national phenomenon. The recording industry feeds on regional scenes
(Athens, Minneapolis, Austin, Seattle) like sharks on fresh flesh. But the sudden
prominence of bands from Seattle (this includes Sir Mix-A-Lot) is emblematic of the
changing role of independent labels.
Indies used to stand for something—freedom, rebellion, integrity. “It was actu-
ally twice as exciting for me to sign to SST than to sign to Epic,” former Screaming
Trees drummer Mark Pickerel said in 1990. “Yeah,” bass player Van Conner added.
“When Greg Ginn called us up, man, we were just jumping for joy. It was a totally
uplifting experience.”
Now, as bands such as Sonic Youth, R.E.M., and Nirvana achieve commer-
cial success without perceptibly sacrificing their indie ethic, their former labels are
increasingly being used as farm clubs by the remaining majors.
“Bands in Seattle see their friends getting signed,” C/Z’s Daniel House says.
“When it all started, that wasn’t even a consideration because it wasn’t something
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478 The 1990s
that could happen. Now it not only could happen, but you’ve got majors looking for
the next thing. Bands vying for the attention of major labels also realize how competi-
tive it is and know the benefit of having releases out on an indie label first.”
“Bruce and I entered into this thing not so much as business people but as fans,”
Poneman said before Nirvana’s major-label Nevermind was released last year. “We
want to see our bands go all the way. It took me a while to get to this place, but I am
exalted and overjoyed by the prospect of seeing Nirvana on DGC with the potential
of selling hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of records. I’ve just come to find
that the thing I enjoy most about doing this is finding new bands and working with
them on their first few records. Because that’s usually when I find that those bands
are most exciting.”
At the same time, bands are finding that the aesthetic differences between major
labels and indies are narrowing. When Mudhoney decided it was time to leave Sub
Pop, the band was pleasantly surprised. “Warner Bros. seemed the most lax on tell-
ing us what to do,” guitarist Steve Turner says. “Basically, they said that if we ask
for help on something, they’ll give us help. If we don’t ask for anything, they’re not
going to do anything. And I like that.”
“The roots of the word ‘alternative’ really come from working outside of the sys-
tem,” Pavitt says. “Much in the same way that somebody like Spike Lee may cooper-
ate with the system but ultimately works outside it, developing things individually
and hiring who he wants to. That comes out of an alternative network of people.”
Almost two years ago, Soundgarden returned to Seattle to headline the final
night of the annual four-day Bumbershoot music and arts festival. Pearl Jam’s Jeff
Ament spent the day fixing up Spinal Tap’s papier-maché skull, abandoned years
earlier, and the Coliseum filled with 14,000 fans who came to share the joy of home-
town success. Chris Cornell finished the night in the mosh-pit, and it felt like we had
all finally won.
In March 1992, Soundgarden sold out two dates at Seattle’s 3,000-seat Para-
mount Theater, where it filmed another video for MTV and was awarded its first
gold record. There were faces in the audience from the old days, the stage divers
competed for camera angles, and Cornell—almost plaintive—said, “You know what
this really means” as they broke into “Big Dumb Sex.” Few caught the irony of the
song, which, among other things, is a caustic appraisal of the arena rock acts Sound-
garden now tours with. It hurt to watch.
Today a dozen or so Seattle clubs encourage three and four bands a night to
become the next big thing. The irony is that a style of music that evolved as a repu-
diation of the Reagan ‘80s now, in part, fills the clubs with musicians who copy that
sound as a way to make money. That hurts more.
Further Reading
Arnold, Gina. Route 666: On the Road to Nirvana. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1993.
Azzerad, Michael. “Grunge City.” Rolling Stone, April 16, 1992, 43–48.
Book, John. “Seattle Heavy.” Goldmine, April 17, 1992, 46–54.
Browne, David. “Turn that @#!% Down.” Entertainment Weekly, August 21, 1992, 16–25.
Howells, Tom, ed. Late Century Dream: Movements in the US Indie Music Underground. London:
Black Dog Publishing Ltd., 2013.
Strauss, Neil. “Forget Pearl Jam: Alternative Rock Lives.” New York Times, March 2, 1997.
Strong, Catherine. Grunge: Music and Memory. Burlington, Vt.Sullivan, Jim. “The Age of
Hyphen-Rock.” Chicago Tribune, October 13, 1991, sec. 13, 26–27.
Yarm, Mark. Everybody Loves Our Town: An Oral History of Grunge. New York: Crown
Archetype, 2011.
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Riot Girl 479
Discography
Alice in Chains. The Essential Alice in Chains. Sony, 2004.
The Grunge Years: A Sub Pop Compilation. Sub Pop, 1991.
Here Ain’t the Sonics. PopLlama, 1993.
Mother Love Bone. Mother Love Bone. Island/Mercury, 1992.
Nirvana. Nevermind. Geffen Records, 1991.
Pearl Jam. rearviewmirror (Greatest Hits 1991–2003). Sony, 2004.
Soundgarden. Badmotorfinger. A&M, 1991.
79. Riot Girl
The Riot Girl (or “Riot Grrrl”) movement developed from indie-punk insti-
tutions such as fanzines and indie record companies, and from the DIY
attitude toward performance, recording, and promotion developed in
the postpunk hardcore scenes. To this foundation was added a second-
wave feminist critique of the limits of patriarchy for females who would
participate in aspects of popular music formerly assumed to be male
preserves. With music based in hardcore punk, the musicians associ-
ated with Riot Grrrl adopted an in-your-face approach to expressions
of femininity, and a confrontational attitude toward male intransigence
(though it must be added that the musicians most commonly considered
to be part of the riot girl movement often resisted being characterized as
“Riot Girls” or as part of any movement).1
The following written statements come from the end of the fanzine Bikini
Kill, and provide background about the involvement of band members
1. See, for example, the liner notes to Bikini Kill: The C.D. Version of the First Two Records (1994),
especially the section written by Tobi Vail.
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480 The 1990s
from Olympia, Wash. and Washington, D.C. in groups such as Bikini Kill
and Bratmobile, while illustrating the manifesto-like approach of much
of the writing in the fanzine. The opening essay of the fanzine, titled
“Lame Lame So Very Lame” lists ten typical sayings which men use
“in order . . . to maintain the unequal power distribution of male over
female.” To do this “without looking like assholes . . . they must find more
subtle ways of discounting and discouraging you.” These sayings include
1. You take things too seriously. You are paranoid.

2. You are exclusionary and alienating to men.
3. You know, some women manage to “go beyond” sexism.
4. You are not really a feminist because . . .
5. You are just bored. You are inventing the problem by talking about
it so much.
6. You are just trying to be political.
7. What you are doing is sexist to men.
8. Don’t worry—be happy!!!!!!
9. But I know a girl who lied about being raped . . .
10. Complain, complain, complain.. . . . At least you don’t have it as
bad as
a) women used to
b) people of color
c) women in other countries2
Although it may not be evident from this list, one aspect of the riot grrrl
critique is how it links gender oppression to the operations of capitalism,
a critique that features prominently in the brief excerpts that follow. While
recordings of musicians associated with the Riot Grrrl movement never
achieved the sales figures of some of the male alternative bands, their
militant approach did heighten awareness of how limited female participa-
tion in rock music had been up until that time, and of how these limits were
linked to broader, institutionalized manifestations of patriarchal authority.
RIOT GRRRL . . . Believe in me!

“Once upon a time. . .” last spring (’91), Molly and Allison (Girl Germs, Bratmobile)
went to Washington DC, shook things up and got shook up, and connected with this
radsoulsister Jen Smith who wanted to start this girl network and fanzine called Girl
Riot. (This was also inspired by the Cinco de Mayo riots occurring in her neighbor-
hood at the time.) So that summer a bunch of us Olympia kids (Bratmobile and Bikini
Kill) lived in D.C. to make something happen with our friends there. Tobi (Bikini Kill,
Jigsaw) had been talking about doing weekly zines in the spirit of angry grrrl zine-
scene, and then one restless night, Molly made this little fanzine stating events in the
girl lives of the Oly-D.C. scene connection—and Riot Grrrl was born. Kathleen (Bikini
Source: Kathleen Hanna, “Riot Grrrl Manifesto,” Bikini Kill/Girl Power 2 (1991). Reprinted with
permission of Kathleen Hanna.
2. “Lame Lame So Very Lame,” Bikini Kill (July 1991).
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Riot Girl 481
Kill) took it a step further in that she wanted to have weekly D.C. grrrl meetings too, to
connect with and see what’s up with the grrrls in D.C. With a lot of effort and organiz-
ing on the part of Kathleen and other D.C. and Oly grrrls, weekly Riot Grrrl meetings
started happening at the Positive Force house. It was great, like 20 girls came and we
talked about female scene input (or lack of it) and how we could support each other,
etc. And the fanzines kept coming out each week with certain contributors like Jen
Smith, Kathleen, Molly, Allison, Tobi, Tiffany, Christina, Ne Sk8 Rock and Billy. And
the coolest thing is that even though many of us went back to Olympia, the meetings
and zines are still happening. (Soon Bikini Kill are moving to D.C. and Molly and
Allison will be back and forth between Olympia and D.C. til forever.)
Now Kathleen and Allison (and anyone else who wants to) are starting Riot
Grrrl records and press. Allison is gonna do the records/tapes and Kathleen is gonna
do the press/mail order stuff, which will include grrrl fanzines. We want to distrib-
ute fanzines by girls all over the country. So if you’re a girl and you make a fanzine,
you can send Kathleen (in D.C.) a good flat unstapled copy of your zine so she can
xerox it, list it in the mail order catalogue and mail it to whoever orders it. We don’t
really have much cash so we can’t pay you for your zine, but we plan to give each
contributor copies of other girls’ zines. Cool deal. This can be a way to support and
participate in a cool girl network nationwide (or internet?)
With this whole Riot Grrrl thing, we’re not trying to make money or get famous;
we’re trying to do something important, to network with grrrls all over, to make
changes in our own lives and the lives of other girls. There is no concrete vision or
expectation. We Riot Grrrls aren’t aligning ourselves with any one position or con-
sensus, because in all likelihood we don’t agree on everything. One concrete thing we
do agree on so far is that it’s cool/fun to have a place where we can safely and sup-
portively confront, express ourselves, and bring up issues that are important to us.
So if you want to be on the mailing list, please send a postcard (or your fanzine
flat copy) with your address on it to:
RIOT GRRRL
c/o The Embassy
3217 19th St. NW
Washington DC 20010
Riot Grrrl is………

BECAUSE us girls crave records and books and fanzines that speak to US, that WE
feel included in and can understand in our own ways.
BECAUSE we wanna make it easier for girls to see/hear each other’s work so that we
can share strategies and criticize-applaud each other.
BECAUSE we must take over the means of production in order to create our own
meanings.
BECAUSE viewing our work as being connected to our girlfriends-politics-real

lives is essential if we are gonna figure out how what we are doing impacts, reflects,
perpetuates, or DISRUPTS the status quo.
BECAUSE we recognize fantasies of Instant Macho Gun Revolution as impractical

lies meant to keep us simply dreaming instead of becoming our dreams AND THUS
seek to create revolution in our own lives every single day by envisioning and creat-
ing alternatives to the bullshit christian capitalist way of doing things.
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482 The 1990s
BECAUSE we want and need to encourage and be encouraged, in the face of all our
own insecurities, in the face of beergutboy rock that tells us we can’t play our instru-
ments, in the face of “authorities” who say our bands/’zines/etc are the worst in the
U.S. and who attribute any validation/success of our work to girl bandwagon hype.
BECAUSE we don’t wanna assimilate to someone else’s (Boy) standards of what is

or isn’t “good” music or punk rock or “good” writing AND THUS need to create
forums where we can recreate, destroy and define our own visions.
BECAUSE we are unwilling to falter under claims that we are reactionary “reverse
sexists” and not the truepunkrocksoulcrusaders that WE KNOW we really are.
BECAUSE we know that life is much more than physical survival and are patently
aware that the punk rock “you can do anything” idea is crucial to the coming angry
grrrl rock revolution which seeks to save the psychic and cultural lives of girls and
women everywhere, according to their own terms, not ours.
BECAUSE we are interested in creating non-hierarchical ways of being AND mak-

ing music, friends, and scenes based on communication+understanding, instead of
competition+good/bad categorizations.
BECAUSE doing/reading/seeing/hearing cool things that validate and challenge us

can help us gain the strength and sense of community that we need in order to figure
out how bullshit like racism, able-bodieism, eyeism, speciesism, classism, thinism,
sexism, anti-semitism and heterosexism figures in our own lives.
BECAUSE we see fostering and supporting girl scenes and girl artists of all kinds as
integral to this process.
BECAUSE we hate capitalism in all its forms and see our main goal as sharing infor-
mation and staying alive, instead of making profits or being cool according to tradi-
tional standards.
BECAUSE we are angry at a society that tells us Girl=Dumb, Girl=Bad, Girl=Weak.
BECAUSE we are unwilling to let our real and valid anger be diffused and/or turned
against us via the internalization of sexism as witnessed in girl/girl jealousies and
self defeating girltype behaviors.
BECAUSE self defeating behaviors (like fucking boys without condoms, drinking to
excess, ignoring truesoul girlfriends, belittling ourselves and other girls, etc. . .) would
not be so easy if we lived in communities where we felt loved and wanted and valued.
BECAUSE I believe with my holeheartmindbody that girls constitute a revolutionary

soul force that can, and will, change the world for real.
Further Reading
Gottlieb, Joanne, and Gayle Wald. “Smells Like Teen Spirit: Riot Grrls, Revolution, and
Women in Independent Rock.” In Microphone Fiends: Youth Music and Youth Culture, ed.
Andrew Ross and Tricia Rose, 250–74. New York: Routledge, 1994.
bra43588_pt06_449-526.indd 482 05/27/19 06:18 PM

Grunge Turns to Scrunge 483
Nehring, Neil. “The Riot Grrrls and ‘Carnival.’” In Reading Rock and Roll: Authenticity,
Appropriation, Aesthetics, ed. Kevin J. H. Dettmar and William Richey, 209–35. New York:
Columbia University Press, 1999.
O’Meara, Caroline. “The Raincoats: Breaking Down Punk Rock’s Masculinities.” Popular
Music 22 (2003): 299–313.
Discography
Bikini Kill. The CD Version of the First Two Records. Kill Rock Stars, 1992.
_______. The Singles. Kill Rock Stars, 1998.
Bratmobile. Pottymouth. Kill Rock Stars, 1993.
_______. Ladies, Women, and Girls. Lookout Records, 2000.
80. Grunge Turns to Scrunge
While the move of postpunk music toward mainstream popularity

excited rock fans who longed for an “oppositional” quality in their
music, as well as music critics who welcomed music that highlighted
interesting sociological issues, it also occasioned a crisis within the
remnants of the indie scene itself. This mainstreaming of bohemian-
ism threatened the indie-punk notion that certain kinds of consumer-
ism might somehow resist commodification. If this reaction of indie
fans sounds suspiciously reminiscent of that old modernist credo
“if it’s popular, it must be bad,” then that’s because the arguments
about authenticity versus commerce that developed in the wake of
Dylan’s “going the rock and roll route” were never fully vanquished.
As Eric Weisbard states in the article that follows (in a section not
reprinted here),
On some basic level, the fundamental unresolved issue here—one that

artists and fans alike have to work out individually—is not major labels
versus indies, but the extent to which rock gains in glory by seeking or
attaining popularity.1
1. Eric Weisbard, “Over and Out: Indie Rock Values in the Age of Alternative Million Sellers,”
Village Voice Rock and Roll Quarterly (Summer 1994): 19.
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484 The 1990s
The signs in the transformation of indie include (as was indi-
cated earlier) the signing of an increasing number of bands by
major record companies, the airing of indie-alternative videos on
MTV, and the emergence of scrunge—music by bands that took
elements of grunge—alternative’s sound but left its indie values
behind.2
Eric Weisbard was for many years a critic with Spin, the Village
Voice, and other publications. The article of his that is reprinted here
describes a moment three years after the release of Nevermind by
Nirvana during which time numerous alternative acts reached a large
audience of rock fans. The question “alternative to what?” arises
(both for Weisbard and other critics) when the idea of a style’s mar-
ginality (and oppositionality) remains central to its appeal even as
the style has been accepted by the mainstream. The strength of this
essay lies in the historical perspective and broad view that Weisbard
brings to his discussion of alternative rock and the specificity pro-
vided by several anecdotes of what happens when bands move (or
contemplate moving) from indie to major record labels. Weisbard
clarifies the links to prior bohemian movements while not being
uncritical, noting the privileged place within alternative music of
what he calls “white guy angst,” even though many critics (and fans)
included certain types of hip-hop within the category. This article
also captures a moment when major record companies had begun to
grant alternative acts the same type of creative freedom allowed to
rock bands in the late 1960s, hiring young experts in much the same
fashion that companies in the 1960s hired “house hippies.” In other
ways, though, 1990s alternative represents the inverse of 1960s rock:
as Weisbard notes, “Alternative strives clunkily for the massification
of hip, as boomer rock was the hipification of mass.”3 This moment
was doomed to be short-lived: in a year-end report for Spin maga-
zine reflecting on developments in popular music for 1995 (only a
year later), Weisbard echoed the sentiments of many critics when he
pronounced the “indie” part of the “indie-alternative” movement all
but dead.4
2. Eric Weisbard, “The Year in Music: The Great Pretenders,” Spin, January 1996, 50.
3. Weisbard, “Over and Out,” 17.
4. Weisbard, “The Year in Music,” 48–54. By late 1997, Weisbard could offer a more definite
eulogy: “Ultimately American postpunk insisted on rock at a human scale; that’s why it dissolved
when major-label muscle was put behind it” (Eric Weisbard, “The Me, Myself, and I Decade,”
Spin, December 1997, 157). Of course, the physical demise of grunge-alternative’s biggest star
Kurt Cobain (1967–94) did nothing to slow the dissolution of the indie ethos. For an exploration
of the relationship between Cobain’s suicide and indie ideology, see Dave Marsh, “Live through
This,” Rock ’n’ Roll Confidential, May 1994.
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Over and Out: Indie Rock Values in the Age
of Alternative Million Sellers
Eric Weisbard
Indier Than Thou, a New Jersey zine is called, and it’s an attitude I can tell you all
about. Where’d I learn to care and sneer at the same time? From [Alex] Chilton, Lou
Reed, the Feelies, Paul Westerberg, and dozens more, some brimming with energy
and hope like Hüsker Dü and the Pixies, others prematurely jaded, like D inosaur Jr.
and Sonic Youth. Indie rock, it was called, though some of the heroes, like
R.E.M. and X, had major-label deals or distribution from very near the beginning,
and many of the ancestors, like the Velvet Underground and the Stooges, were never
on small or “independent” record labels at all. Then too, these were the ’80s, rock’s
postpunk interregnum. Smart, nonmetal guitar bands were a corporate taboo, at best
signed, pressured to “broaden” their sound with an outside producer for that crucial
mainstream appeal, then left to flop with no promo budget. In retrospect, the inde-
pendence of a Big Black was about as coveted as the Gaza Strip.
But for those who were part of the indie rock network in those years—the musi-
cians, label staffs, college radio DJs, zine writers, club workers, Drunks With Guns
collectors—both pride and scars remain. Pride in creating a form of rock that could
thrive on voluntarism, subsistence, and obscurity, where the distance between fan-
ship and participation was no distance at all, so one could be a consumer without
the traditional associations of gross commodification, audience passivity, and mass-
ness. Indie rockers essentially formed a cultural community, people whose attitudes
toward consumption give them an oppositional identity similar (if weaker and less
widely recognized) to that provided for others by race, gender, class, or sexuality.
In many ways indie resembled ’80s radical movements, especially in its ingrained
conviction that real power over the mainstream was unattainable, so the only workable
model for resistance had to be small-scale change and self-transformation—the personal
as political. Putting out a record by a friend’s band that you loved but knew ordinary
people would never like was indie’s neighborhood recycling project. And such attitudes
changed the nature of rock. Punk still required major labels so the Sex Pistols could
at least spit in EMI’s face. But indie rockers were content to discover a garage obscu-
rity like “The Hunch” by Mad Mike & the Maniacs, or feud with Gerard Cosloy in the
college-radio trade magazine CMJ, or yell out a request for a b-side at a hipster shrine
like Maxwell’s and briefly convince the band struggling onstage it was legendary.
The best account of these years to date is Gina Arnold’s Route 666: On the Road to
Nirvana, a book whose subtitle explains what happened next. R.E.M.’s rise had con-
vinced indie to believe in itself; Nirvana’s explosion onto the charts convinced the rest
of the world to believe in indie. Artists who’ve never made any pretense of accessibility,
from Daniel Johnston to the Boredoms, get signed by Atlantic and Warner Bros., who,
reversing the assumptions of the postpunk interregnum, presume that fanzine follow-
ings indicate a basis for wider popularity, not hopeless obscurantism. The same labels
hire A&R people with indie label and college radio backgrounds. MTV proves enor-
mously willing to give “Buzz Clip” exposure to artists like the Breeders or Green Day,
who would previously have been dismissed as too subtle or obnoxiously adolescent.
Source: Eric Weisbard, “Over and Out: Indie Rock Values in the Age of Alternative Million Sellers,”
Village Voice Rock & Roll Quarterly, Summer 1994, 15–19. Used by permission of Eric Weisbard.
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486 The 1990s
Rock, these last couple of years, has in effect been revised. A new canon now
gives marginal bohemians like Big Star equal status with long popular favorites.
Rock stars no longer make a pageant of their power, as modesty and constant allu-
sions to little-known underground bands become required decorum. At the level
of ideology as much as music, today’s alternative marketplace now offers a large-
scale, corporate-sponsored version of indie rock. Green Day appears on Letterman
the night Belly does Leno; Lollapalooza’s the only sure money-making ticket in the
business, apart from boomer nostalgia tours like the Eagles, who sold out five nights
in San Francisco the week Big Star played. The word mainstream has virtually disap-
peared, even if the mainstream hasn’t.
But as a result, the scars of the indie-only years have started to manifest them-
selves. In a recent issue of Chicago’s indier-than-thou zine The Baffler headlined
”Alternative To What?” Tom Frank writes: “Now we watch with interest as high-
powered executives offer contracts to bands they have seen only once, college radio
playlists become the objects of intense corporate scrutiny, and longstanding inde-
pendent labels are swallowed whole in a colossal belch of dollars and receptions.
Now Rolling Stone magazine makes pious reference to the pioneering influence of
bands like Big Black and Mission of Burma whose records they ignored when new.”
Can the indie values of smallness, marginality, antipop as a basis for community
formation and everything else, really serve as a blueprint for ’90s mainstream rock?
Isn’t that a contradiction in terms, or something even worse—a betrayal of values?
Such questions are starting to seem inescapable. Kurt Cobain kills himself in a
manner that indicts his own celebrity. Maximumrocknroll, bible to the hardcore punk
scene that’s always been indie’s dumber big brother, runs a cover with an image
of a man putting a gun in his mouth and the caption “Major Labels: Some Of Your
Friends Are Already This Fucked.” Sassy, which has been giving glossy coverage to
the riot grrrl movement since practically before riot grrrl existed, gets an angry letter
from Bratmobile’s Molly Neuman. “Did you actually think the majority of your read-
ers would know many indie labels or zines? . . . I think I speak for many girl bands
(I’m in one) and punks when I say we don’t want your attention or support. Stick
to exploiting models.” And [in] the next issue, Jenny Toomey of Tsunami responds
to Neuman with a letter denouncing “an alternative community that claims to be
inclusive and yet remains so enamored of the ‘fringes’ . . . that its main concern is not
communication or accessibility but, ultimately cliquishness.”
To give Frank credit as more than a subcultural purist, his Baffler piece recognizes a
crucial dialectic at work. “Consumerism’s traditional claim to be the spokesman for our
inchoate disgust with consumerism was hemorrhaging credibility, and independent
rock, with its Jacobin ‘authenticity’ obsession, had just the things capital required.”
Is this brave new alternative world creepy, even for those of us who understand that
we’re all better off that Elvis Presley got signed to a major from Sun Records after a few
promising indie singles? (Today RCA would have Sam Phillips keep producing Elvis,
then publicize his refusal to compromise.) Of course. I think the indie credo of fatalistic
marginality is badly outdated in a Clintonian era where power is there for the taking.
I was rooting for Big Star to seize the day on Leno. And I still resented having to share
the live reunion with a crowd of neophytes. Was I being elitist?
Alternative Nation
Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails is bored with the grunge look. “I guess the state-
ment was, ‘Look this is honest; we don’t need to pretend we’re rock stars and all this
shit,’” he told Moon Unit Zappa in a recent issue of Raygun. “I think that mindset is
bra43588_pt06_449-526.indd 486 05/27/19 06:18 PM

a good one . . . it killed off the Bon Jovis and those type of bands with our new ear-
nest attitude. But that’s become contrived now. . . . [W]hen I see a show, I want to be
entertained. I’d rather see David Bowie/Ziggy Stardust on stage than that guy that
just pumped gas for me.”
Reznor is reenacting an almost hallowed argument, the sort of thing Depeche
Mode might have said about R.E.M. clones 10 years ago; that is, the rock/pop split
that drove primarily English bands in the New Wave era in the direction of dance
rhythms, polished production, and visual style, while American outfits by and large
clung belligerently to their street clothes and guitars. It went without saying, through-
out the 1980s, that bands who went the former route would sign to major labels and,
escaping the postpunk media ghettoes, be seen on MTV and heard on radio stations
that called the music “modern rock.” Indie bands on SST or Homestead, on the other
hand, mostly got to claim the mantle of rock integrity; opposition to mass culture
and unbridled experimentalism if you bought into the rhetoric; a space for privileged
white guy angst to reign unchecked if you didn’t.
In truth, a variety of stylish outfits found idiosyncratic ways to flourish during
the postpunk interregnum with one foot in indie’s door—New Order, Joan Jett, Vio-
lent Femmes, the Beastie Boys, R.E.M., and the Smiths, to name a few. By the time
of 1991’s first Lollapalooza, conceived by the leader of one such band, Jane’s Addic-
tion, and a breakthrough moment for another, Nine Inch Nails, such artists were
cementing a new genre, “alternative,” that seemed destined to heal the rock/pop
split. (At the same time, a generation of former speed metal bands on indie labels, led
by Metallica, staged a coup in the metal world, dooming the big hair and spandex
crowd.) Even today, the indie guitar bands in pop abundance are only one musi-
cal subculture among many, especially if you set aside groups like Green Day, Bad
Religion, and the Offspring, whose allegiances are to the separate hardcore set. Kurt
Cobain, Sub Pop, K, and the appropriation of the indie aesthetic are hardly the only
story in alternative 1994.
Nevertheless, it’s Henry Rollins, once of Black Flag, and Sonic Youth’s Thurston
Moore who are MTV’s favorite alternative faces. U2 act more like Negativland and
less like Springsteen with every new album, realizing that the essence of rock’s moral
leadership has shifted. Lollapalooza ‘94, looking to regain its credibility, first begs
Nirvana to appear, then in their absence features an indie-identified lineup including
Smashing Pumpkins, the Breeders, L7, Nick Cave, and the Boredoms. Sassy would
rather write about Fugazi than the Cure. Kurt Cobain is deemed the John Lennon of
his generation. Why? Because of indie’s status as the emblem of integrity, its owner-
ship of rock’s new yardstick: resistance to mass culture. Thus, it wasn’t until “Smells
Like Teen Spirit,” when (mostly former) indie rockers started receiving media expo-
sure without being pressured to revise their sound or stance, and the walls of the
post-punk ghetto came down, that the interregnum ended and alternative came to
be fully accepted as the new rock.
In trying to fuse modern rock’s cynicism about traditional rock sounds and imagery
with indie rock’s commitment to modesty and a notion of the underground, alterna-
tive has discovered that you can’t get by without that most traditional and immod-
est of animals: the rock star. Only given that selling records, exerting power, and
reveling in stardom are all etiquette no-no’s now, celebrity can only be seen as an
aesthetic embarrassment—when the Pet Shop Boys sang “How Can You Expect
To Be Taken Seriously?” did they have any idea how much further the kill rock star
creed would take it? The role of the rock star is one of many crucial questions that
alternative’s emergence has left unanswered. What does the indie onslaught of new
guitar bands do to modern rock’s perfectly valid efforts to push the music away from
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488 The 1990s
sounding like the umpteenth version of AOR? Why are seemingly all the new gods of
alternative white men? Must our integrity heroes be so cartoonish?
As an oppositional movement grounded in the tension between small-scale
consumption and mass culture, indie has proven unable to articulate a cause that
goes beyond remaining pure of outside influence—a nearly impossible position for
a megastar to maintain. Yet, without megastars able to translate indie values into
something socially meaningful, alternative loses whatever shred of justification it
had left. All that remains is to wince as the process turns indie rhetoric into the worst
possible parody of itself. Like the Bud Dry “reach for an alternative—Bud Dry” radio
commercials, heard on modern rock stations, where an alternative musician spouts
“some bands strive for artistic integrity and expressing their free creative identities.
Us, hey, we just want free beer.”
Eddie Vedder, Rollins, Perry Farrell, Cobain, Michael Stipe, and yes, Trent
Reznor if he’d like, ultimately became sacrificial lambs for alternative’s failure of
self-definition. Their ability to hold up the tent allows dozens of other bands to flour-
ish within, but what sort of a movement can survive by so thoroughly ripping apart
its leaders? Mike Dirnt of Green Day said of Cobain: “To some extent he’s like Jesus
to me. He died for my sins, so I could get signed to a major label?”
Still, alternagods can’t help seeming desperately ridiculous. They’ve become mass
men. Vedder ostentatiously refuses to shoot a video for the new Pearl Jam album. Rol-
lins is invited to The Tonight Show, not to perform “Liar” but to sit on the couch and
talk with Jay. Hardly the sort to chicken out like Alex Chilton, he shows and the two
cover Black Flag, Rollins’s free-jazz fanship and poetry readings (is the guy a beatnik
or what?) and then the big question: “So you haven’t compromised at all?” “Zero.”
Major or Minor?
Back in Indieland, Steve Albini starts another Baffler essay imagining major labels as a
big long trench “filled with runny, decaying shit” that bands desiring contracts have
to swim across. Then back. Mac, from Superchunk, is a little more reasonable, though
his conclusion is exactly the same. “It just makes you feel that the bands are there
to be used by someone else. Their bottom line is not the music.” On Merge, his own
label, of late grown large enough to employ full-time staff, “you’re totally in control of
everything. You know where your money’s going, because it’s you and not some far-
reaching department of a company you don’t know how big it really is.” Why should he
take an advance that’s a loan, not a gift, spend more money to record than he needs to,
and ultimately face the prospect of being dropped? Even the traditional reason for sign-
ing to a major—better distribution—makes less sense now that the chain stores have
started to stock product from independent distributors like Merge’s Touch and Go.
Major labels could supply the promotional capital to help Superchunk sell five
or 10 times what they do already—a more than respectable 30,000 copies of the new
Foolish in its first two months out. But then, to Mac, “the popular bands have usu-
ally been the crappiest bands.” I wonder, though: let’s say Mac did sign, took the
advance, burned his bridges to the indie world, recorded with an outside producer,
worried about getting dropped, thought about how to make Superchunk translate
to the people outside his secure constituency. Isn’t it possible that after five nearly
identical albums he’d start making the best music of his life? Worked for Green Day.
A few days later, I’m talking all this over with Kim Deal, who made a similar jump
between the first and second Breeders albums. She explodes into laughter at Mac’s
reticence. “Fucking turn up your vocals, please! I hate it when people make things so
difficult that they actually don’t work ’cause they’re being so indie. That was one of
bra43588_pt06_449-526.indd 488 05/27/19 06:18 PM

the things recording Last Splash. I had to constantly remind myself, turn up the fuck-
ing vocals. I tried to do that so I wouldn’t sound like this wimp indie band. Really,
I thought it was cowardly not to.” For Deal, a gold album has changed little in her
life. “We’re not that big.” She contrasts herself to Hammer, whose album marketing
plans once included Saturday cartoons and ads for Kentucky Fried Chicken. “With
the Breeders it’s like, ‘Here’s an article in Spin, do you want to do it?’”
Eddie Roeser of Urge Overkill, a band that started tweaking the indie rock staid-
ness Trent Reznor hates, then caused serious bad feelings when it left Touch and Go for
Geffen, basically concurs that signing to a major isn’t necessarily stepping in shit. “At
this stage of the game, if you have something that has some merit, the record company
is not going to say well, we’re not releasing it, it’s not polished enough. You have to go
back and record it again. They’re not stupid. They’re not going to fuck with us. And
they haven’t, at all. The real worrying starts when you’ve sold a million records, and
they want you to sell a million records again, and maybe the band doesn’t.” Roeser
knows what he’s talking about—Urge Overkill spent time touring with Pearl Jam.
The Breeders and Urge Overkill are in the closest thing to an ideal position the
alternative age has to offer. They’ve met the artistic challenge of reaching outside the
hipoisie, while avoiding the point where artists are forced into the role of public fig-
ures. With their indie backgrounds, neither Deal nor Roeser, it’s clear, feels comfort-
able aspiring to more. It’s as if Grand Funk Railroad, instead of hoping to supplant
the Rolling Stones, expressed a desire to remain cool like the New York Dolls. Roeser
may play the star onstage and in videos, but he’s careful to mention that he was just
talking to Spiral Stairs of Pavement about how embarrassing it is to meet “these kids
who really think you’re a rock star. And in your own mind you’re definitely not one.
And you don’t know how to treat someone who thinks that about you.” “Who wants
to wear spandex?” says Deal. “To communicate in a festival setting, you’ve got to do
those moves and things. You just feel dumb. ‘All right everybody, let’s rock and roll!’
No way. I’ll do something if I think it makes sense musically.”
Power? Pop?
Indie rock’s cultural community most closely resembles two earlier eras when even
smaller groups of musicians and consumer cultists developed subcultures that would
eventually be diverted away from them. The hot jazz fans of the 1930s and 1940s
maintained a rigorous distinction between “true” and “commercial” jazz, favoring
small combo jams and Dixieland arrangements, even after their comrade Benny
Goodman brought the mainstream a lot closer to the real thing by ushering in swing.
The beat generation, who emerged in the later 1940s and early 1950s, later found
themselves unexpectedly spawning beatniks—the six years On the Road waited to be
published (to enormous media onslaught, from which Kerouac never recovered) is
not unlike the gap between New Day Rising and Nevermind.
The fate of these predecessors offers interesting lessons. Jazz cultists, mostly
white, would eventually be challenged by beboppers who could supplement their
consumption-based ethic of oppositionality with the politics of race—much as
women and queers seem to be doing within indie rock today. The beats, demoral-
ized and fragmented by commercialization, watched hippies willingly use the media
to gain social influence. Will a new wave of alternative, sufficiently distanced from its
indie rock sources, eventually achieve the same mediated flamboyance?
It would be specious to argue that the last few years have shown that indie rock’s
qualities cannot survive on major labels. Even a cursory list of emergent a rtists—
Nirvana, P.M. Dawn, My Bloody Valentine, A Tribe Called Quest, P. J. Harvey,
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490 The 1990s
avement—shows how, if anything, “alternative” has opened up possibilities within
P
rock to women, blacks, the English, and others mostly left out of the Homestead/SST
years, without in the least penalizing bands of determinedly indie sensibilities. Ironi-
cally, many of the more close-minded indie types, like former Amphetamine Reptile
acts Helmet and Surgery, have proven the most irresistible to the majors, since as
arrogant metallic white boys they’re hardly a huge divergence.
But the clash between indie values and the realities of an alternative-rock obsessed
pop world are real—and almost impossible to resolve. Why should Mac risk mutilat-
ing his fan base so I can hear a better record? How do we want our Eddie Vedders to
behave, anyway? (For what it’s worth, I think he’s a terrible musician but a great star—
for initiating antitrust inquiries against Ticketmaster he deserves the thanks of every-
one.) And anyway, why should alternative fans be expected to work out questions
of politics, art, consumption, and commodification that the left in general falls over
itself trying to deal with? The only commentary on Cobain’s death as pigheadedly
determined to blame major labels as Maximumrocknroll ran in, no surprise, The Nation.
The tragedy here is that rock has lost its cultural populism, a sense that the most
popular can be the best. Without that, rock will produce challenging and sophisti-
cated works, some of them again on major labels. It will unite groups of people who
aren’t anybody’s Generation X but share symbolic hipster affiliations. But it won’t
upset the applecarts of cultural hierarchy the same way it did with Presley or the
Stones. It won’t be the king of the popular arts. It won’t be as powerful.
Power. That’s what this [is] all about, isn’t it? Indie, a genre bred out of pow-
erlessness over mainstream rock, nevertheless, through the triumph of alternative,
ended up reinscribing a certain notion of power back into rock. By prefiguring, at the
level of cliques and individuals, the kind of unbridled rock culture that wasn’t being
tolerated at a corporate level, indie set a standard for how seriously rock needed to
be taken. It provided a necessary counterbalance to modern rock’s rejection of “rock-
ism,” the Depeche Mode/Cure argument that spins on fashion and style matter just
as much as the frontier individualism of a distorted guitar. In pop art terms, Depeche
Mode were right. But socially, they always seemed like market accomodationists,
further proof that, as a legacy of their class system, the English inevitably rend popu-
lar culture trivial and ineffective.
Indie rock gave the notion that rock should speak truth to power, or at least offer
the powerless a way to speak, a safe hiding place during the postpunk interregnum.
(Go back and listen to songs like Hüsker Dü’s “It’s Not Funny Anymore” and “In a
Free Land” and you’ll see exactly what I mean.) Yet, interregnums end. The reshuffling
of rock’s elite has more than commenced. (To make one last Fillmore reference, when
the place reopened this April, Smashing Pumpkins, not a ’60s holdover, headlined the
first night.) And it’s time to see whether alternative can find enough power within itself
to push rock’s new momentum back into the culture at large. Because there, the posi-
tive aspects of alternative’s bohemian-hipster legacy—a love for the diverse and eclec-
tic, hostility to established sexual and gender norms, and a politics that, like MTV, is
always at least liberal—are thoroughly needed. But the conditioned reflexes—toward
smallness, away from the popular, in love with power as an ideal, not a reality—that
indie culture instilled in so many of us are starting to stand in the way.
My head tells me all this, then my heart sends me off to the Thread Waxing Space in
lower Manhattan to see Guided By Voices, indie’s latest best hope. I’m compelled to
point out that they were much better when, during a previous visit, I saw them in
this same location over the winter. Was the summer heat to blame? Maybe it was a
crowd at least three times as large. Or a guy onstage the whole time with a camera,
filming for MTV.
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“We Are the World”? 491
Further Reading
Arnold, Gina. Route 666: On the Road to Nirvana. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1993.
Azerrad, Michael. Come as You Are: The Story of Nirvana. New York: Main Street Books, 1993.
Marsh, Dave. “Live through This.” Rock and Rap Confidential, June 1995.
True, Everett. Live through This: American Rock Music in the Nineties. Virgin, 2002.
Discography
The Breeders. Last Splash. Elektra/WEA, 1993.
Green Day. Insomniac. Reprise/WEA, 1995.
Hüsker Dü. Warehouse: Songs and Stories. Warner Bros./Ada, 1987.
Nine Inch Nails. The Downward Spiral. Nothing, 1994.
R.E.M. In Time: The Best of R.E.M. 1988–2003. Warner Bros./WEA, 2003.
Smashing Pumpkins. Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness. Virgin Records US, 1995.
Sonic Youth. Daydream Nation. Geffen Records, 1988.
X. The Best: Make the Music Go Bang. Elektra/WEA, 2004.
81. “We Are the World”?
Going back to at least the 1950s, a category has existed for recordings
produced outside of the U.S.–U.K. axis of mainstream popular music.
This category, initially dubbed “international” in the 1950s, brought the
sounds of Parisian cafés and Polynesian luau orchestras into the living
rooms of North American and British listeners, who might find, upon
careful perusal of the liner notes, that the polka recording they had just
purchased was actually recorded not too far down the road from them.1
As noted in Chapter 27, an audience hankering for popular music with
the allure of the noncommercial might have been tempted in the 1950s
to plunk down their hard-earned cash for a Harry Belafonte “calypso”
1. Keir Keightley, “Around the World: Musical Tourism and the Globalization of the Record
Industry, 1946–66,” unpublished manuscript, 1998.
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492 The 1990s
record or a “folk” recording by the Kingston Trio. During the 1960s,
other sounds began emerging from beyond the Western metropole. In
addition to such one-off novelties as Kyu Sakamoto’s “Sukyaki,” the
influence of “ska” (or “bluebeat” as it was known in Britain) began to be
felt outside the Jamaican sound-system parties where it had developed,
both in hits by West Indian artists like Millie Small and Desmond Dekker
and in the incorporation of ska rhythms in recordings by the Beatles
(1964’s “I Call Your Name”).
However, in the early 1970s, the success of the soundtrack from
The Harder They Come, featuring reggae star Jimmy Cliff (James Cham-
bers, b. 1948), followed by the international triumph of Bob Marley
(1945–81), brought a new level of attention to Jamaican popular music
and, in particular, to reggae. Jamaica subsequently had an impact on
global popular music far out of proportion to its tiny population. The
rise of what is sometimes called “second-wave ska” in Great Britain in
the late 1970s, with its politically conscious “two-tone” bands, is but
one example. Another example is the continuation of ska-punk hybrids
throughout the 1980s and 1990s (in what could be called “third-wave
ska”), and the fusions of hip-hop and reggae that continue to flourish in
recordings of Jamaican dance-hall artists and U.S. hip-hop stars.
With Bob Marley’s death in 1981, record companies sought to fill
the void in a variety of ways. The first move by Marley’s former company
(Island) was to promote Nigerian jújù star King Sunny Adé as the next
Marley, an attempt that failed woefully. However, a type of sub-Saharan
African music was destined to make an impact in the world of Western
pop, but in a way that could not have been foreseen. Paul Simon, whose
career had more or less stalled in the late 1970s, happened across some
recordings of South African pop music. Simon subsequently traveled to
Johannesburg to record with the musicians he heard on those record-
ings, and the rest, as they say, is history.2 The resultant album, Grace-
land (1986), revived Simon’s dormant career and succeeded in exposing
millions of listeners to African popular music where Island’s campaign
had failed. Thus was born “World Music” as we now know it.
Simon’s recording tapped into an urge felt by consumers of West-
ern pop music for something new, yet familiar. Sales of other recordings
from Africa and the Caribbean grew, but no one category yet existed in
which to place the music (and thus no easy-to-find location in record
stores), no Billboard chart, and no radio format. Aware of this dilemma,
some 25 record industry executives met in a pub in London in 1987 and
invented the name “World Music.” The term has shifted since the late
2. This history includes a debate sparked by the album among music critics and academics;
for a sample, see Steven Feld, “Notes on World Beat,” in Music Grooves: Essays and Dialogues, ed.
Charles Keil and Steven Feld, 238–46 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994); Veit E
rlmann,
“The Aesthetics of the Global Imagination: Reflections on World Music in the 1990s,” Public
Culture 8 (1996): 467–87; Charles Hamm, “Graceland Revisited,” Popular Music 8 (October 1989):
299–304; and Louise Meintjes, “Paul Simon’s Graceland, South Africa, and the Mediation of
Musical Meaning,” Ethnomusicology 34, no. 1 (1990): 37–73.
bra43588_pt06_449-526.indd 492 05/27/19 06:18 PM

1980s; from its initial emphasis on music from sub-Saharan Africa and
the Caribbean (also known at the time as “World Beat”), it has increas-
ingly included European “ethnic” musics and various new age, dance,
and ambient fusions (which subsequently became the most successful
varieties of “World Music”).3
Much writing on the subject has focused on questions of power and
economics. When Western pop stars and Western corporations record
and produce recordings with non-Western musicians, who benefits? Are
these Western entities exploiting Western consumers’ naive fascination
with the exotic for profit? If the answer to the last question is yes, is a
nonexploitative involvement with non-Western music possible? How we
respond to these questions will be affected by which musical projects
we consider, some of which function more obviously to the advantage
of the Western musicians and corporations involved than do others.4
In contrast to the notion of World Music, the emphasis in the follow-

ing essay by George Lipsitz is on what may be termed “global music.”
Rather than focus on how Western-based multinational music corpora-
tions are profiting from the “raw material” of non-Western music or on
famous Western musicians’ interactions with non-Western musicians,
Lipsitz focuses on how global flows of people, music, and technol-
ogy have resulted in new fusions reflecting the experience of immi-
grants who fashion intriguing blends of tradition with sounds from the
metropolis. By emphasizing creative responses to marginalization, this
account performs an important disruption of what may otherwise seem
like a unified narrative told from the perspective of dominant groups
in the West (as in many accounts of World Music). At the same time,
Lipsitz is careful to emphasize that the resourcefulness of Algerians
in France, West and East Indians in the United Kingdom, and Mexican
Americans in the United States does not negate the effects of racial
domination and economic exploitation. Lipsitz’s work here on the
“poetics of place” builds upon previous work he has done on working-
class and subaltern cultural practices and struggles in books such as
Time Passages and Class and Culture in Cold War America.5 One of the
few overtly “academic” entries in this book, Lipsitz’s clear prose and
the timeliness of the issues he discusses blur the line between aca-
demic and well-researched nonacademic criticism.
3. A useful overview and analysis of these developments may be found in Timothy D. Taylor,
Global Pop: World Music, World Markets (New York: Routledge, 1997), 1–37.
4. For a particularly tendentious critique of the World Music phenomenon, see Herbert Mattelart,
“Life as Style: Putting the ‘World’ in the Music,” Baffler (1993): 103–09.
5. George Lipsitz, Time Passages: Collective Memory and American Popular Culture (Minneapolis:
University of Minnesota Press, 1990); idem., Class and Culture in Cold War America: A Rainbow at
Midnight (South Hadley, Mass.: Bergin and Garvey, 1982).
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494 The 1990s
Immigration and Assimilation: Rai, Reggae,

and Bhangramuffin
George Lipsitz
During the 1980s, popular-music listeners and enthusiasts throughout Europe
began to notice new musical forms that captured their fancy. In London, the band
Alaap blended bhangra music from the Indian state of Punjab with Greek, Middle
Eastern, Spanish, and Anglo-American pop styles. At the same time, Joi Bangla,
made up of immigrants from Bangladesh, mixed African-American funk sounds
with traditional Bengali folk songs.* For their part, listeners in Paris expressed
enthusiasm for a techno-pop album displaying “a faintly Moorish” sound under-
neath English, French, and Arabic lyrics by a Mauritanian singer recording under
the name Tahra.†
Soaring to popularity at the same time that immigrant populations in London
and Paris faced increasing hostility and even attacks from anti-foreign thugs, these
recordings demonstrate the complicated connections and contradictions that char-
acterize the links between popular music and social life. Audiences and artists in
these cities carried the cultural collisions of everyday life into music, at one and the
same time calling attention to ethnic differences and demonstrating how they might
be transcended. Sophisticated fusions of seemingly incompatible cultures in music
made sense to artists and audiences in part because these fusions reflected their lived
experiences in an inter-cultural society.
Of course, inter-cultural communication and creativity does not preclude politi-
cal or even physical confrontations between members of groups fighting for a share
of increasingly scarce resources. But the very existence of music demonstrating the
interconnectedness between the culture of immigrants and the culture of their host
country helps us understand how the actual lived experiences of immigrants are
much more dynamic and complex than most existing models of immigration and
assimilation admit.
Government control over the production and distribution of popular music and
the peculiarities of French culture have left French citizens with far less connection
to international rock ‘n’ roll than their neighbors in Germany, Spain, or the Nether-
lands. In fact, the cultural fit over the years between rock ‘n’ roll and French culture
has been so bad that it gave rise to a saying that “le rock français, c’est comme la cuisine
anglaise” (“French rock is to rock as English cooking is to cooking”). But with the
rise of rap, French musicians of African descent have become more involved with
the currents of international popular music. Members of the rap group I.A.M. come
from North African neighborhoods in the southern city of Marseilles. They titled
their album From the Planet Mars, as a pun about Marseilles, but also as a statement
about how different their experiences are from those of cosmopolitan and metro-
politan French citizens. I.A.M. stands for “Imperial Asiatic Men,” but their music
*Sabita Banerji, “Ghazals to Bhangra in Great Britain,” Popular Music vol. 7, no. 2 (May) 1988,
208, 213.
†
Philip Sweeney, The Virgin Directory of World Music (New York: Henry Holt, 1991), 17.
Source: “Immigration and Assimilation: Rai, Reggae, and Bhangramuffin” © 1994 George Lipsitz,
from Dangerous Crossroads: Popular Music, Postmodernism, and the Poetics of Place (Verso).
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and lyrics deal mostly with Egypt, Algeria, and America.†† The African-born Parisian
rapper M. C. Solaar has immersed himself in the French hip hop subculture which he
describes as “the cult of the sneaker,” and “pretty much a U.S. branch office.”*
The complicated culture mixing that has given rise to new forms of inter-cultural
communication within French popular music has also had important political impli-
cations. Salif Keita of Mali recorded a powerful and popular French-language song,
“Nous Pas Bouger,” which championed the cause of immigrants resisting deporta-
tion.† Similarly, the men and women in the anti-racist folk/punk/new wave band
Les Négresses Vertes base their music on French multi-culturalism. Their name
means green black women, and the band’s members are male and female, European
and African, white and black. “It’s music from the street today,” explains Mathias,
who plays accordion. “We all grew up with a large variety of different people who
might have different roots but who are, nevertheless, French. Our musical hybrid
wasn’t a deliberate policy, it’s the way we are. It mirrors the reality of France today.”‡
Clearly the most important and most complicated expression of musical mul-
ticulturalism in France comes from the popularity of Algerian “rai” music. During
the 1980s, political and cultural mobilizations by young people of North African ori-
gin competed with intense anti-Arab and anti-foreign organizing by French right
wingers for the power to define “French” culture and citizenship.§ Rai music took on
extra-musical importance as a visible weapon in that struggle.
Referenced by many artists including Les Négresses Vertes and I.A.M., rai music
blends Arabic lyrics and instruments with synthesizers, disco arrangements, blues chord
progressions, and Jamaican reggae and Moroccan gnawa rhythms. Rai originated as
women’s music in the Algerian port city of Oran where meddahas sang to other women at
weddings and other private occasions and by chiekhas who sang for men in taverns and
brothels. In a city where French, Spanish and Arabic are all spoken, the music known as
“Oran Modern” emerged from interactions among Spanish, French, and North African
musicians.¶ Now sung by both female Chebas and male Chebs, the term “rai” comes
from the Arabic phrase “Ya Rai” (“It’s my opinion”).|| Reed flutes and terracotta drums
provided the original instrumentation for rai, but over the years musicians added violin,
accordion, saxophone, and trumpet. B ellemou Messaoud played a particularly impor-
tant role in the emergence of m odern rai when he added guitars, trumpets, and synthe-
sizers to rai ensembles.** Disco-influenced arrangements and blues chord progressions
came later to bring rai closer to the Anglo-American international style.
A product of cultural collision between Europe and North Africa, rai music has
its defenders and its detractors in both places. Some factions in Algeria see rai as too
French, too Western, too modern, too obscene. At the same time, there are those in
††
John Rockwell, “Felicitous Rhymes and Local Roots,” New York Times, August 23, 1992,
section 2, 23.
*Jay Cocks, “Rap Around the Globe,” Time (October 19, 1992), 70.
†
Banning Eyre, “Routes: The Parallel Paths of Baaba Maal and Salif Keita,” Option no. 53
(November–December, 1993), 45.
‡
Jo Shinner, “Zzzzzobie!,” Folk Roots vol. 74 (August) 1989, 35.
§
Azouz Begag, “The ‘Beurs,’ Children of North-African Immigrants in France: The Issue of
Integration,” Journal of Ethnic Studies vol. 18, no. 1, 2–4.
¶
Philip Sweeney, The Virgin Directory of World Music, 9.
||
Miriam Rosen, “On Rai,” Artforum vol. 29, no. 1 (September) 1990, 22; David McMurray and
Ted Swedenburg, “Rai Tide Rising,” Middle East Report (March–April) 1991, 39.
**Miriam Rosen, “On Rai,” 22; Philip Sweeney, The Virgin Directory of World Music, 9.
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496 The 1990s
France who dismiss rai as too foreign, too primitive, too exotic, too strange. It is not
easy to tell if a North African immigrant to France is being assimilationist or sepa-
ratist by listening to rai music. Cheb Khaled spends more time in Marseilles than
in Algiers, and uses rai music to comment on “racism in France, about what’s hap-
pening in Algeria, and of course, I always sing about love.”* Cheba Fadela created a
sensation as a mini-skirted seventeen-year-old on French television in the late 1970s
and helped start modern “pop rai” with her 1983 song “N’sel fik” (“You are Mine”).†
Cheb Sid Ahmed is openly homosexual and performs with a troupe of traditional
female wedding singers.‡ At the other extreme, Cheba Zahouania performs mainly
at women’s events, does not allow herself to be photographed, and does not appear
on television, reportedly because her husband threatened to take her children from
her if she sang in public for men.§
Not surprisingly, rai has been embroiled in repeated political controversies.
“The history of rai is like the history of rock and roll,” explains Cheb Khaled, one of
the genre’s premier performers.
Fundamentalists don’t want our concerts to happen. They come and break things
up. They say rai is street music and that it’s debauched. But that’s not true. I don’t
sing pornography. I sing about love and social life. We say what we think, just like
singers all over the world.¶
The Algerian government has sporadically looked with favor on rai as a source of
revenue and as a cultural voice capable of competing with Islamic fundamentalism.
Its popularity in France persuaded the authorities in Algiers to sponsor international
youth festivals featuring rai performers in Algiers and Oran in 1985.|| In France, rac-
ist attacks on Arabs led to the formation of SOS-Racisme, a massive anti-racist organ-
ization affiliated with the Socialist Party. It embraced rai as an expression of faith
in France’s inter-cultural future.** They helped persuade the French government to
sponsor a rai festival in a Paris suburb in 1986, which seemed to mark the emer-
gence of rai as a permanent force in French popular music.†† In fact, rai may have
become more secure in France than it is in Algeria. When anti-government rioters in
Algiers adopted Cheb Khaled’s “El Harba Wine” (“Where to Flee?”) as their unof-
ficial anthem in what became known as the “rai rebellion,” many rai artists hastened
to disassociate themselves from the violence.‡‡
Yet, the popularity of rai music among French and “world beat” audiences
may mean little for children of immigrants facing massive unemployment and rac-
ist attacks. In Lyons, for example, seventy percent of the children of immigrants
between the ages of 16 and 25 have no jobs and no vocational training. Even the
success of an assimilationist group like France-Plus which has managed to elect close
*Banning Eyre, “A King in Exile: The Royal Rai of Cheb Khaled,” Option vol. 39 (July–August)
1991, 45.
†
Miriam Rosen, “On Rai,” 23.
‡
§
Miriam Rosen, “On Rai,” 23.
¶
Banning Eyre, “A King in Exile,” 45.
||
Miriam Rosen, “On Rai,” 23; Philip Sweeney, The Virgin Directory of World Music, 10.
**David McMurray and Ted Swedenburg, “Rai Tide Rising,” Middle East Report (March–April)
1991, 42.
††
‡‡
David McMurray and Ted Swedenburg, “Rai Tide Rising,” 42; Miriam Rosen, “On Rai,” 23.
bra43588_pt06_449-526.indd 496 05/27/19 06:18 PM

to 400 people of North African lineage to municipal offices throughout France may
increase rather than decrease the pressures on those immigrants and their children
who seem less assimilated.§§
Traditional arguments about immigration, assimilation, and acculturation assume
that immigrants choose between two equally accessible cultures that are clearly dif-
ferentiated and distinct from one another. But what if immigrants leave a country
that has been shaped by its colonizers and enter one that has been shaped by those it
colonized? What if immigrants leave a modernizing country that turns anti-modern
and fundamentalist while they are gone? What happens if the host country becomes
deeply divided between anti-foreign nativists and anti-racist pluralists? Which culture
do the immigrants carry with them? Into which culture do they assimilate? Rai music
might be defended as either Algerian or French music, but a more exact interpreta-
tion would establish it as a register for the changing dimensions and boundaries of
Algerian, French, and Beur (a popular term for Arab mostly used in Paris) identities.
Afro-Caribbean and Southwest Asian immigrants to Britain experience many
of the same dynamic changes facing North African immigrants to France. Here
again, musical syncretisms disclose the dynamics of cultural syncretisms basic to
the processes of immigration, assimilation, and acculturation in contemporary socie-
ties. Immigrants leaving the Caribbean and Asia took on new identities in Britain.
If nothing else, they became “West Indian” or “East Indian” in England instead of
Jamaican or Bahamian, Bengali, or Hindi as they had been at home. But they also
became “Black” in Britain, an identity that they generally do not have in their home
countries, but which becomes salient to them in England as a consequence of racism
directed at them from outside their communities as well as from its utility to them
as a device for building unity within and across aggrieved populations. Of course,
the influx of immigrants changes England too. Once immigrants from the Indian
subcontinent or the Caribbean arrive in the U.K., they transform the nature of British
society and culture in many ways, changing the nature of the “inside” into which
newer immigrants are expected to assimilate.
Mass migration from the West Indies to Britain began shortly after World War II.
The expanding English economy offered jobs to immigrants, but the nation’s cultural
institutions rarely acknowledged their presence. According to Anthony Marks, as
late as 1963, when some 15,000 records from Jamaica entered England every month,
the British Broadcasting Corporation studiously ignored West Indian music and
record shops rarely carried products from the Caribbean.* Denied the dignity of rep-
resentation in the mainstream media, Afro-Caribbeans in England created spaces for
themselves with neighborhood sound systems and record collections that enabled
them to express their own culture and share it with others. At the heart of these new
spaces was music from Jamaica.
While immigration flows included residents of all Caribbean islands, Jamaicans
accounted for more than sixty percent of England’s Caribbean population by the
1960s. Because of the size of the Jamaican-British community and because of
the ways in which the politically-charged doctrines of Rastafarianism helped all
diasporic Blacks in Britain understand and endure their treatment, Jamaican culture
became the crucial unifying component in the composite Caribbean culture created
§§
Azouz Begag, “The ‘Beurs,’”9.
*Anthony Marks, “Young, Gifted and Black: Afro-American and Afro-Caribbean Music in
Britain 1963–88,” in Paul Oliver, ed., Black Music in Britain: Essays on the Afro-Asian Contribution to
Popular Music (Milton Keynes and Philadelphia: Open University Press, 1990), 106.
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498 The 1990s
in England. Differences between island identities that might be deeply felt in the
West Indies, and even in England, receded in importance because of the unifying
force of Jamaican music, but even more because of the uniformity of British racism
against all West Indians. “When you’re in school you all get harassed together,”
explained one immigrant.* Another adds, “I think most of my friends feel Jamaican,
the English helped us do it.”†
Popular music affirms the positive qualities of the unity forged in part by nega-
tive experiences with British racism. Through shared experiences with music, car-
nival celebrations, and the political activism that sometimes grows out of them,
primary groups dispersed over a broad territory find themselves united by elements
of a Jamaican culture that many of them had never known first hand.‡ Jazzie B of
the British group Soul II Soul remembers the prominence of Jamaican “sound sys-
tems”—record players and amplified speakers—in his neighborhood as he grew up,
and what they meant to him as the British-born son of immigrants from Antigua.
“By the time I was 15 or 16, there was a sound system on every single street in the
community. I’d guess that eight out of every 10 black kids would be involved in one
way or another in a sound system.”§ These devices offered a focal point for social
gatherings, allowed disc jockeys opportunities to display their skills, and provided
a soundtrack to mark the experiences and aspirations of inner-city life. But they also
served as one of those sites where people made new identities for themselves as West
Indians and as Black Britons.
Just as the Paris described by Simon Njami functions as an African city offer-
ing opportunities found nowhere in Africa, London and other British cities became
important centers of West Indian and Jamaican cultural forms found nowhere in
the Caribbean. But these forms have important uses and implications for Southwest
Asians in Britain as well. The pervasive practices of British racism and occasional
self-defense strategies by immigrants lead West Indians and East Indians to a shared
identity as “Black” in England. Interactions between Afro-Caribbeans and Southwest
Asians have a long if not completely comfortable history in the Caribbean, especially
in Trinidad, but in Britain the antagonisms can be even sharper. For members of both
groups, the things that divide them often seem more salient than those bringing them
together. One survey showed that more than eighty percent of West Indians and
more than forty percent of East Indians felt they had more in common with British
whites than with each other. Almost a third of Indians and Pakistanis stated that they
had nothing in common with either white Britons or West Indian Blacks. Only eight
percent of West Indians and twenty percent of Pakistanis and Indians felt they had
more in common with each other than they had in common with the English.¶ In a
few extremely significant cases, Afro-Asians and Afro-Caribbeans have successfully
repressed their differences to defend themselves and each other from white racist
attacks or judicial frame-ups, but sustained political and cultural alliances have been
elusive.||
*Winston James, “Migration, Racism, and Identity: The Caribbean Experience in Britain,” New
Left Review, no. 193 (May–June 1992), 32.
†
Winston James, “Migration, Racism, and Identity,” 28.
‡
Abner Cohen, Masquerade Politics, 36.
§
Robert Hillburn, “Tracing the Caribbean Roots of the New British Pop Invasion,” Los Angeles
Times, September 24, 1989, Calendar section, 6.
¶
Winston James, “Migration, Racism, and Identity,” 45.
||
Ibid., 34, 46.
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Yet, alliances between Southwest Asians and other groups that might appear
unlikely in political life already exist within popular culture. Bhangra musicians
fuse folk songs from the Indian state of Punjab with disco, pop, hip hop, and house
music for appreciative audiences made up of people from many different groups.
Like Algerian rai, bhangra originated in a part of the world characterized by
extensive inter-cultural communication, but remained largely a music played for
private parties, weddings, and harvest festivals before its emergence as a s yncretic
popular form. Bhangra brings together Punjabis of many religions (Hindu, Sikh,
Muslim, Jain, and Christian) and from many countries (India, P akistan, and
Bangladesh), but in the past decade has started to speak powerfully to new audi-
ences and interests.*
Like West Indians, East Indians came to England in the years after World War
II, and like West Indians they found that their labor was more welcome than their
culture in their new nation. As Sabita Banerji notes in an apt phrase, “South Asian
communities in Britain have remained invisible, and their music inaudible, for a sur-
prisingly long time.”† In the early 1980s, South Asian youths following the Jamaican
example set up sound systems to play reggae, soul, jazz, and funk records during
“daytimer” discos in dance halls and community centers. At first the disc jockeys
and sound systems took Caribbean-sounding names, but when they started to mix
bhangra with the other musical styles they used Punjabi names like “Gidian de Shin-
gar” and “Pa Giddha Pa.”‡ Almost a decade after Jamaican reggae established itself
as a popular form capable of attracting audiences from every ethnic background,
bhangra broke on the British scene as a viable commercial force. Alaap’s 1984 album,
Teri chunni di sitare drew an enthusiastic response from listeners for its blend of disco,
pop, and Caribbean styles with bhangra. Holle Holle and Heera drew large crowds
to mainstream venues including the Hammersmith Palais by adding digital sam-
pling to the mix in their music, while bhangra groups in the Midlands blended bhan-
gra with house music.§ But the ultimate fusion awaited—the mixture of Jamaican
“ragamuffin” and African-American hip hop with “bhangra” to create the “bhangra-
muffin” sound of Apache Indian.
Steve Kapur took the name Apache Indian as a reference to his Punjabi ancestry
and as a tribute to the Jamaican ragamuffin star “Super Cat,” sometimes known as
“the wild Apache.”¶ But he took his art from the cultural crossroads he negotiated
every day. He told a reporter,
As a young Asian in Britain, you constantly lead a double life. At home, everything
is as it was—very traditional, very strict. But when you close the front door and
move onto the streets everything changes. I’ve had so many relatives disown my
family because of my love for reggae. Now, after hearing my music, and hearing
the Indian influences in it, it appeals to them. But my music is first and foremost
street music.||
*Sabita Banerji and Gerd Bauman, “Bhangra 1984–8: Fusion and Professionalization in a Genre
of South Asian Dance Music,” in Paul Oliver, ed., Black Music in Britain, 137–8.
†
Ibid., 138.
‡
Ibid., 146.
§
Ibid., 142.
¶
Thom Duffy, “Apache Indian’s Asian-Indian Pop Scores U.K. Hit,” Billboard, February 20,
1993, 82.
||
Brooke Wentz, “Apache Indian,” Vibe (November) 1993, 9.
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500 The 1990s
For Apache Indian, the “street” is a place where Afro-Caribbean and South Asian
youths learn from each other. As a teenager he wore his hair in dreadlocks, danced to the
blues, and spent hours shopping for reggae records.** His first recording, “Move Over
India,” paid tribute to the India that he had only visited once but knew well from the
Indian films that his parents watched “every time I went home.”* Apache Indian knew
that his music was a success when his West Indian neighbors began saying hello to him
in Punjabi. His song “Come Follow Me” offers a hip hop history and travelogue of India
for the edification of a West Indian friend who closes the number by telling Apache
Indian that his country sounds “lovely, and next time you go send a ticket for me.”†
Standing at the crossroads of Punjabi and Jamaican cultures, Apache Indian
shows that Afro-Asian and Afro-Caribbean Britons share more than a common
designation as Black people, that they share a common history of using culture to
strengthen their communities from the inside and to attract support from the outside.
Punjabis and Jamaicans both come from regions that contain diverse cultures and
beliefs, and they both belong to populations that transnational capital has dispersed
all over the globe. From their historical experiences at home no less from what they
have learned in order to survive abroad, Punjabis and Jamaicans draw upon long-
standing and rich traditions when they create cultural coalitions that transcend eth-
nic and political differences.
The music made by Apache Indian uses performance to call into being a com-
munity composed of Punjabis and Jamaicans, South Asians and West Indians, reggae
fans and bhangra enthusiasts. But it also demonstrates the potential for all of Britain
to learn a lesson from the extraordinary adaptability and creativity of its immigrant
cultures. Apache Indian reads “British” culture selectively, by venerating Mahatma
Gandhi and Bob Marley rather than Winston Churchill or George Frederick Handel.
He assimilates into the culture of the country where he was born by proudly dis-
playing the diverse identities that he has learned in its schools and streets. He cre-
ates problems for nation states with their narratives of discrete, homogeneous, and
autonomous culture, but he solves problems for people who want cultural expres-
sions as complex as the lives they live every day.
Yet, we should not let the brilliance and skill of Jamaican or Punjabi musicians in
securing space for themselves within popular culture blind us to the harsh realities
facing immigrants all over the world. Despised and degraded, they face unremit-
ting racism and exploitation with few opportunities to communicate their condition
to others. People making popular music for communities like these must address
immediate issues of survival and self-respect within their group before they can
think about reaching a larger audience.
For example, on the west coast of North America Los Tigres del Norte (the
Tigers of the North) sing for and about migrant communities shuttling back and
forth between the U.S.A. and Mexico. The five musicians in the band grew up poor
in a rural family with eleven children and a disabled father. They have lived the lives
they sing about in their songs, and constantly receive suggestions for new stories
from farm workers who tell them about their troubles. With expressly political lyrics,
they turn their listeners’ lives into poignant and powerful songs. “We talk a lot about
immigration,” explained group leader Jorge Hernandez to a reporter, “because it has
given problems to a lot of people. We talk about families who come from different
**Paul Bradshaw, “Handsworth Revolutionary,” Straight No Chaser, no. 23 (Autumn) 1993, 13, 26.
*Ibid., 29.
†
Brooke Wentz, “Apache Indian,” 86; Apache Indian, No Reservations, Mango 162–539, 932–3.
bra43588_pt06_449-526.indd 500 05/27/19 06:18 PM

countries to learn a different language and lose where they came from. We tell them
it’s important not to lose where you are from.”‡
Los Tigres del Norte have appeared in ten Mexican films, sold millions of albums,
and regularly draw huge crowds to their live performances. Yet they have secured almost
no “mainstream” commercial recognition in the U.S.A., perhaps because they sing in
Spanish in a country dominated by Anglophone markets, but also perhaps because their
lyrics contain values that threaten vested interests too much. In “La Jaula de Oro” (‘The
Gilded Cage”), an undocumented worker laments his decade of labor in the U.S.A.,
claiming that “even if the cage is made of gold it does not cease being a prison.”*
The mechanisms of commercial culture that deprive Los Tigres del Norte of
exposure to a broader audience also deprive Anglo listeners of needed knowledge
about their country. As Jose Cuellar, Chairman of San Francisco State’s La Raza
Studies Department observes, “Those of us who are English-dominant would learn
a great deal of the needs and aspirations of our immigrant population, of their frus-
trated hopes, their frustrated dreams. In these songs, it’s all there.”†
Anti-immigrant and anti-foreign sentiment plagues de-industrialized nations in
the West as well as de-Stalinized countries in the East. During times of economic decline
and social disintegration, it is tempting for people to blame their problems on others,
and to seek succor and certainty from racist and nationalist myths. But the desire to
seek certainty and stability by depicting the world solely as one story told from one
point of view is more dangerous than ever before. As technology and trade inevitably
provide diverse populations with common (although not egalitarian) experiences, the
ability to adapt, to switch codes, and to see things from more than one perspective
becomes more valuable. In the last analysis, nation states may be best served by those
who refuse to believe in their unified narratives, and who insist instead on cultural and
political practices that delight in difference, diversity, and dialogue. These do not need
to be conjured up by political theorists, or wished into existence by mystics and vision-
aries. They already exist (albeit in embryonic form) in the communities called into exist-
ence by rai, ragamuffin, bhangra, and many other unauthorized and unexpected forms
that people have for understanding and changing the world in which they live.
Further Reading
Banerji, Sabita. “Ghazals to Bhangra in Great Britain.” Popular Music 7 (May 1988): 207–13.
Erlmann, Veit. “The Aesthetics of the Global Imagination: Reflections on World Music in the
1990s.” Public Culture 8 (1996): 467–87.
Feld, Steven, and Charles Keil, eds. Music Grooves: Essays and Dialogues. Chicago: University
Jatta, Sidia. “Born Musicians: Traditional Music from the Gambia.” In Repercussions:
A Celebration of African-American Music, ed. Geoffrey Haydon and Dennis Marks, 14–29.
London: Century, 1985.
Manuel, Peter. Caribbean Currents: Caribbean Music from Rumba to Reggae. Philadelphia:
Temple University Press, 1995.
Meintjes, Louise. “Paul Simon’s Graceland, South Africa, and the Mediation of Musical
Meaning.” Ethnomusicology 34 (1990): 37–73.
Taylor, Timothy D. Global Pop: World Music, World Markets. New York: Routledge, 1997.
‡
Carolyn Jung, “S.J. Band’s Rhythms Transcend Borders,” San Jose Mercury News, March 5,
1994, 10.
*Ibid., 10.
†
Ibid., 10.
bra43588_pt06_449-526.indd 501 05/27/19 06:18 PM

502 The 1990s
Discography
Best of Ska. Disky Records, 2002.
Cliff, Jimmy, and Various Artists. The Harder They Come. Island, 1972.
Cooder, Ry, and the Buena Vista Social Club. The Buena Vista Social Club. Nonesuch, 1997.
King Sunny Ade. E Dide. Atlantic/WEA, 1995.
Marley, Bob. Legend—The Best of Bob Marley and the Wailers. Def Jam, 2002.
Rough Guide to Bhangra Dance. World Music Network, 2006.
Rough Guide to Raï. World Music Network, 2002.
Simon, Paul. Graceland. Rhino/WEA, 2004.
Tougher than Tough: The Story of Jamaican Music. Mango, 1993.
82. Genre or Gender?

T HE R E SURGE NCE OF T HE SINGER-SONGW R I T ER
As almost any woman (and many men) interested in popular music

will attest, a category or genre determined primarily by the gender
of its participants is rather odd (though not necessarily any odder
than one determined by race, a linkage that is largely taken for
granted). Despite the inconsistencies of such a category, through-
out the 1990s (and into the 2000s), publications could not resist
special issues with titles such as “The Girl Issue,” and “The Women
of Rock,” or articles with titles like “When Women Venture Forth,”
or “The Angry Young Woman.”1 While the female artists discussed
in these articles were by no means consistent in terms of musi-
cal style, the surge of publisher/reader interest in the topic did
derive from a general shift in how young women were conceiving
1. See “The Girl Issue,” Spin, November 1997; “The Women of Rock,” Rolling Stone, November
13, 1997 (Rolling Stone publishes a special issue with a title like this every few years); Ann Pow-
ers, “When Women Venture Forth,” NY Times, Section 2, Oct. 9, 1994: pp. 32, 39; Jon Pareles, “The
Angry Young Woman: The Labels Take Notice,” NY Times, Section 2, January 28, 1996: 24.
bra43588_pt06_449-526.indd 502 05/27/19 06:18 PM

Genre or Gender? 503
their identities; this was reflected not only in an increased number
of prominent female artists, but in the emergence of a different kind
of female artist. Not limited to the “riot girl” phenomenon discussed
earlier in this book, these musicians incorporated frank sexuality
into a rebelliousness that was more aggressive than the second-
wave feminism of the 1970s. Seemingly in tune with the critical per-
spective of books like Susan Faludi’s Backlash: The Undeclared War
Against Women,2 many of these women merged the confessional
stance of the singer-songwriter with the confrontational attitude of
punk and elements of avant-garde experimentation, emphasizing
the importance of female desires that did not revolve around the
need for male approval. A number of these musicians—“alternative”
artists such as Polly Jean Harvey, Liz Phair, and Björk—received a
relatively large amount of critical acclaim and commercial success in
the mid-90s.3
The release of Alanis Morissette’s Jagged Little Pill (1995), the
biggest-selling album of the 1990s, seemed to signify the triumph of
a new sensibility—a successor to male-dominated alternative of the
early 90s. Morissette’s success quickly occasioned its own backlash:
despite the grunge-influenced first single, the vitriolic “You Oughta
Know,” those who listened to the whole album quickly realized that
it had stronger links to the confessional singer-songwriter genre than
to grunge. Despite this backlash, the years 1996–1997 witnessed the
success of an unprecedented number of female artists. Sarah McLachlan
(b. 1968) organized an all-female summer tour beginning in 1997, titled
“Lilith Fair,” that presented women pop musicians in their own forum,
and appeared at the time to champion the triumph of a new kind of
“girl culture.”4
2. And, I might add, with a scholarly counterpart such as Tania Modleski’s Feminism Without
Women: Culture and Criticism in a “Postfeminist Age” (New York: Routledge, 1991). Both Faludi
and Modleski discuss the “backlash” against the gains made by feminism in the 1970s, and the
subsequent incorporation of feminist ideas and imagery into patriarchal narratives during the
1980s.
3. For a fascinating group interview with PJ Harvey, Björk, and Tori Amos, see Adrian
Deevoy, “PJ Harvey, Björk, and Tori Amos: Hips. Lips. Tits. Power,” Q (May 1994). Despite
the sexist overtones of the title (and some of Deevoy’s patronizing comments in the introduc-
tion), this interview is unusual in providing a space for dialogue among three outspoken
female artists. Amos may seem less overtly avant-garde than Harvey or Björk, but is notable
for (according to Ann Powers) “cultivat[ing] a forthright sexuality that is more concerned
with capturing what women feel than turning men on” (Ann Powers, “When Women Venture
Forth,” NY Times [Oct. 9, 1994]: 39).
4. Lilith Fair was seen by the press as a symbol of the triumph of female musicians; see
Christopher John Farley, “Galapalooza,” Time, July 21, 1997: 60–64; Neal Karlen, “On Top of
Pop, But Not with One Voice,” NY Times, June 29, 1997; and Ann Powers, “Wannabes: Lilith
Fair,” VV, August 5, 1997, 63–64.
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504 The 1990s
Lilith Fair: If You Want toSee a Show,

Put on a Festival—Sarah McLachlan
Takes the Girls on the Road
Carla DeSantis
MOVE OVER, Lollapalooza. This year’s summer traveling festival to watch is the Lilith Fair,
the brain-child of Canadian artist Sarah McLachlan.
Billed as a celebration of women artists, McLachlan has enlisted an amazing line-up of
performers, including Tracy Chapman, Joan Osborne, Sheryl Crow, Shawn Colvin, Jewel,
Paula Cole, Lisa Loeb, Fiona Apple, The Cardigans, Mary Chapin-Carpenter, Indigo Girls,
Emmylou Harris, Suzanne Vega, Wild Colonials, Victoria Williams and of course, McLach-
lan herself. What does it take to put together a new album and a 35-city tour simultane-
ously? We spoke with the energetic McLachlan recently to get the scoop on how and why this
ground-breaking, female-driven mega-tour came to be.
Why did you come up with the concept of an all-female based summer festival?
A lot of reasons. The biggest and most selfish one was that most of the people who
I love in music these days happen to be women and because I’m always on the
road I never get to see any of them perform. Generally I love artists way better
live than on the records. It’s beautiful; it’s immediate; and I was looking at Lol-
lapalooza and all the summer festivals last year and thought, “God, there are no
women represented here.”
It was the Testosterone Fest last year.
It sure was. The year before was great because they had Sinead [O’Connor] on, at least
for the beginning of it, and a few other artists. It was a little more of a cross-section.
But (last year) it really became a cock rock tour and I just thought, “gosh, it would
be really nice to have an alternative to that.” I like all those bands once in awhile
too, but a whole day of it is too much. So I talked to my manager about it and he
was super excited about the concept. He talked to our agent and then I went off and
made a record. They just took the ball and ran with it, bless their hearts. It’s pretty
ironic that a woman thought of the idea, and then three men actually produced it.
I don’t have any of the know-how to run anything like that. That’s not my
job. My job is to make music and I was supposed to be in the studio making a
record. It takes an incredible amount of time to set up something like this prop-
erly. They’ve been working for eight months now, and doing 80 hour weeks. And
I’m sitting here sipping my tea and getting up at ten. But it is all coming together,
though. It is all coming together.
What were the four cities where you test marketed the idea last year?
We did it in Vancouver, in LA, San Francisco and Detroit.
And who was on the bill? Are there any of the same people this year?
Mostly the same, actually. Let’s see. There’s myself, Paula Cole, Lisa Loeb, Aimee
Mann, Suzanne Vega, Patti Smith in Detroit, Emmylou Harris. I’m trying not to
forget anybody. The Vancouver show especially was such a blur.
Source: *Carla DeSantis, “Lilith Fair: If You Want to See a Show, Put on a Festival—Sarah McLachlan
Takes the Girls on the Road,” Rockrgrl (July 1997). Reprinted under license from Backpages Limited.
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Was Vancouver the first one?
It was the last one, but it was a blitz of friends, media and it was just nuts. Every-
thing descended all at once. There was media all day long. It was like, “Fuck!”
The reason I wanted to do this is so I can see the show, and I can’t!”
Well, this time you’ll really get to see the show, because there are 35 dates now.
Exactly, so there’ll be no excuse.
What sort of music will you have on the second stage?
Bands like Garbage and some of the harder, bigger bands didn’t want to do it because
of their schedules or whatever and I really wanted to have a wide cross-section
of music. The main stage is quite diverse and I wanted to be as diverse as pos-
sible. So on the B-stage we’re going to try and have even more diverse stuff.
There’s a third stage, too, because Border’s Books and Music has come into the
picture as one of the sponsors. They’re going to have a little coffee house stage
where they’re going to be doing in-store appearances with a lot of the artists that
are there, and signing sessions and stuff like that. They’ll also have other bands,
like local bands, come and play there as well.
Will Lilith Fair be showcasing many emerging artists?
We started out with that idea for the B-stage, and just got bombarded with seven
hundred tapes and CDs. We had to go through all these and we had to make
hard choices. We’re giving everybody four to five shows and that gives us 25 art-
ists that we can put on that B-stage. So it was really tough. And we wanted to get
people who were just starting out. Truthfully, I don’t think there’s anybody on
there who doesn’t have a record deal, which I’m a bit disappointed with because
I really wanted that to be a little more of a developmental thing, but at the same
time, the way record companies are churning out artists now, they give you one
chance. You sell that record or you might not get another record. So I’m calling
all the artists with first records “developmental” artists.
We did a story a couple of years back with Paula Cole, and she said that there
was some resistance about her touring with you when you originally had sug-
gested her as an opening act.
That definitely added to it for sure. Three years ago, local promoters were aghast
when I suggested having two women on the same bill. I thought, “What do you
think? People aren’t going to come?”
And what was their reasoning? That it would be less of a novelty?
I didn’t ask for a reason. I was too disgusted. It’s just that old-school mentality that
it hasn’t been done, or hasn’t been done very much and there was that same,
stupid old fear that you can’t play two women back to back on the radio because
people will change the channel. It will be too much of one thing, which is just so
ridiculous.
Do you get comments that you should put some guys on the bill just to balance
it out?
No, but someday there are going to be men on the bill. I want this to be about the
music first and foremost, and there’s a lot of incredible male talent out there too.
The reason I was thinking about this is because there are a few male singer/
songwriters in particular who I just adore, and I think if they were women right
now, they’d be huge. But because they’re men, they’re nowhere. There’s no place
for them right now because they’re beautiful, delicate, sensitive singer/song-
writers who happen to be men. And there’s still this sort of bullshit out there that
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506 The 1990s
women are somehow this interesting sexual novelty or something. It’s sad, but
I think in men’s minds, it helps them be able to accept it a little more.
Women have been making music as long as history exists. Look at the ’60s.
Look at Joni Mitchell, look at Joan Baez, look at Joan Armatrading. They were
making music a long time ago and they were hugely successful at it. And they
were getting played on the radio, too. So I don’t know what happened around
the ’70s and the ’80s.
I think what changed was that women began playing more aggressive instru-
ments. If you played an acoustic guitar you were okay, but if you plugged the
thing in, you were the Anti-Christ. Or pick up some drum sticks, and you’re
in uncharted territory.
And then you’re threatening.
I’m completely in sync with you. I just can’t stand to see the inequality.
Yeah, and that’s more what this is about. I love men, I really do. On tour I would
tell little stories, which tended to be about female empowerment because it was
me telling them and it was about me feeling empowered and because yes, I’m a
woman. I’d have guys coming up to me after the show saying. “Do you hate men
or something?” merely because I was touting this positive story about myself
and about how I felt good and strong for standing up to this asshole. And I got
told I hated men because of that and I thought, “man, that’s really screwed up.”
So I want to nip that in the bud for all the guys out there who might think it’s a
man-hating tour and not come.
Do you have any concerns that there are just so many competing festivals this
summer?
Not at all. Ticket sales so far have showed that people don’t care either. They want
to come see this. A lot of talent is always rotating so every region is getting a
different show. And I think every one of the shows is so strong. You get to hear
four or five artists out there who you love and the ticket price is between $25.00
and $40.00 max. That’s a good deal, considering Lollapalooza’s usually $50.00 or
$60.00. We’re making damn sure we keep the ticket price down because we want
people to be able to afford to come.
How much say do you have with what’s going on with Lilith Fair?
I’m linked to the outside world with my trusty Macintosh. I get about 30 e-mails a
day about every single little detail—what color the tents are for the mall to all
the different vendors and all the different charities in each city. We’re donating
money to local charities in every city through ticket sales as well as big donations
to RAINN and LIFEbeat through corporate sponsorship.
What is it about RAINN and LIFEbeat that particularly strikes a chord with you?
I’ve been affiliated with LIFEbeat for a number of years and I feel really stongly about
any kind of organization that is willing to offer aid and compassion and finances
to something like AIDS, a disease that there’s still such a taboo around. LIFEbeat
is the music industry fighting against AIDS. They get lots of incredible musicians
involved and put on a benefit every year in New York City. They’ve raised tons
of money and a lot of awareness. They get artists to go into hospitals where peo-
ple living with AIDS are very sick, and it’s amazing. These people don’t have too
much joy in their lives, and for someone to come in and take the time to sing to
them gives them such a huge boost. There’s so much lack of compassion to our
world these days.
bra43588_pt06_449-526.indd 506 05/27/19 06:18 PM

And RAINN is Tori Amos’ project?
I’m not really sure but I know she’s hugely involved with it. It’s a rape crisis
center and basically helps women in need. I think that’s very, very important
too.
Are you getting a lot of requests from other charities as well?
Oh yeah, tons and tons and tons, which is good because I want to be able to go
through all of them and try to get a feeling for what they’re about. The trouble
is, it’s really hard because, of course, all of them are really worthwhile. You sort
of have to take the ones that really cry out to you and say, “I’m going to support
these,” and make a decision based on how you feel. We’re donating a dollar from
every ticket sale, to between one and three local charities in every city where we
play.
Do you want to do this again next year?
Oh, yeah. I want this to have longevity. I want it to go on for a number of years.
I don’t know whether or not I’m going to have direct involvement with it, but
I probably will.
You’re a far cry from [Lollapalooza founder] Perry Farrell.
I’ve only got my ears pierced.
You’re kind of an antithesis in some ways.
He had a great idea, and more power to him for going for it. It’s very exciting to be
able to do something like this.
Further Reading
Farley, Christopher John. “Galapalooza.” Time, July 21, 1997, 60–64.
Karlen, Neal. “On Top of Pop, But Not with One Voice.” New York Times, June 29, 1997.
Lankford, Ronald D. Women Singer-Songwriters in Rock: A Populist Rebellion in the 1990s.
Lanham: Scarecrow Press, 2010.
Pareles, Jon. “The Angry Young Women: The Labels Take Notice.” New York Times, January
28, 1996, sec. 2, 24.
Powers, Ann. “Wannabes: Lilith Fair.” Village Voice, August 5, 1997, 63–64.
_______. Tori Amos. Piece by Piece. New York: Random House, 2006.
Woodworth, Marc. Solo: Women Singer-Songwriters in Their Own Words. New York: Delta,
1998.
Discography
Amos, Tori. Little Earthquakes. Atlantic/WEA, 1992.
_______. Tales of a Librarian: A Tori Amos Collection. Atlantic/WEA, 2003.
Bush, Kate. The Dreaming. Capitol, 1982.
_______. The Whole Story. Capitol, 1986.
Chapman, Tracy. Collection. WEA International, 2001.
Harvey, P. J. To Bring You My Love. Island, 1995.
McLachlan, Sarah. Surfacing. BMG, 1997.
Morissette, Alanis. Jagged Little Pill. Maverick, 1995.
Vega, Suzanne. Solitude Standing. A&M, 1987.
_______. Retrospective: The Best of Suzanne Vega. Interscope, 2003.
Wilson, Cassandra. Blue Light ’Til Dawn. Blue Note Records, 1993.
bra43588_pt06_449-526.indd 507 05/27/19 06:18 PM

83. Electronica Is in the House
After its tremendous success in the late 1970s, disco assumed a lower
profile during the 1980s. Yet electronically based dance music main-
tained a lively existence in clubs, and DJs and studio producers never
ceased producing variations on grooves that would prompt listeners
to shake their booties. While many pop stars, most notably Madonna,
brought some of these developments to the wider pop music audi-
ence, during the 1980s many of the changes in dance music remained
out of the view of the mainstream. Frankie Knuckles in Chicago at
the Warehouse Club and Larry Levan in New York City extended the
embrace of purely synthesized sound initiated by Giorgio Moroder in
Eurodisco. The new recordings produced for clubs like the Warehouse
(largely black and mostly gay) emphasized those aspects of disco that
the “disco sucks” crowd had found the most alienating, further “dehu-
manizing” their dance music with “tracks” that were often no more
than rhythm patterns realized on drum machines. The new producers
and DJs then superimposed simple synthesizer patterns and maybe a
few chanted phrases sung by an African American woman onto these
rhythm tracks.
Concurrently during the early and mid-1980s, DJs and record
producers in Detroit, including Derrick May, Juan Atkins, and Kevin
Saunderson, began producing recordings that sought to extend the
futuristic techno sound of European groups such as Kraftwerk (at around
the same time as Afrika Bambaataa used Kraftwerk as the basis for
electro-funk). The resultant dance genre, “techno,” moved at a slightly
faster tempo than house and emphasized experimental “noisy” timbres
rather than the remnants of disco elegance still prominent in house.
According to Jon Savage, “Derrick May once described techno as ‘just
like Detroit, a complete mistake. It’s like George Clinton and Kraftwerk
stuck in an elevator.’”1
Beginning in 1986–87, both techno and house (and its psychedeli-
cized descendant, acid house) began to catch on in the United Kingdom
1. Jon Savage, “Machine Soul: A History of Techno,” Village Voice Rock and Roll Quarterly
(Summer 1993): 19.
508
bra43588_pt06_449-526.indd 508 06/04/19 11:09 PM

Electronica Is in the House 509
and Europe. “Techno,” the umbrella term used in the United Kingdom
for electronic dance music, rapidly split off in numerous directions. One
of these, “hardcore,” emerged around 1990 in the context of “raves”:
huge, all-night dance parties in which a large number of the partici-
pants ingested psychedelic drugs, especially MDMA, or Ecstasy. DJs
achieved their reputations through their ability to produce sounds that
were appealing to listeners in this particular altered state. Hardcore
specialized in industrial “noise” and industrial-strength beats, join-
ing the relentless four-to-the-bar bass drum of techno with syncopated
patterns derived from the breakbeats beloved by hip-hop DJs. Another
development, ”ambient” or “intelligent” techno, relied on slightly
slower tempos and softer, “spacier” sounds and was designed either
for listening or for “chilling out” at the end of a night-long bacchanal.
Ambient techno also drew on the latent avant-garde aspect of electronic
music, tracing the interest back both to Kraftwerk’s interest in futurism
and to Brian Eno’s percussionless “ambient” music.
Raves reached the United States in the early 1990s, but the devel-
opment from the United Kingdom that really attracted the attention of
the music press in the States was “jungle.” Developing out of hardcore,
jungle speeded up the tempo to ca. 160 bpm (“beats per minute”—the
typical house track is around 125 bpm) and sampled dance-hall reggae
drum patterns, often further scrambling them with a computer once they
were sampled. The most rhythmically complex form of electronic dance
music, jungle joins these fast, dauntingly syncopated drum patterns
with slow-moving bass lines and ethereal, sustained synthesizer parts.
An important sociological factor of jungle was its connection to the black
British community, leading some commentators to view it as the British
corollary to gangsta rap.2 The origins of the term ”jungle” were debated,
but by the end of 1995, the term “drum ‘n’ bass” seemed to have replaced
“jungle,” presumably because of its less-racist connotations.
Another term, “electronica,” began to come into play during 1996–
97 as part of a larger campaign to promote electronic music as the next
big thing in American popular music. Drum ‘n’ bass, trip hop, and big
beat were all subgenres that featured prominently. While electronica
never really became the next grunge, it has established itself as part
of the larger field of North American popular music. Some artists, such
as the Chemical Brothers (exemplars of “big beat”) and Moby, have
achieved mainstream recognition and success, while “illbeint” and
“trip hop” artists (like DJ Spooky, Tricky, and DJ Shadow) have pushed
the artsy envelope. Electronic music’s subgenres continue to proliferate
at an amazing rate, making electronica the successor to indie-rock in
terms of what it requires from its fans for insider status.3
2. Simon Reynolds, “Will Jungle Be the Next Craze from Britain?” New York Times, August 6,
1995, sec. 2, 28.
3. This aspect of electronic dance music is the focus of Sarah Thornton’s Club Cultures: Music,
Media and Subcultural Capital (Hanover, N.H.: Wesleyan University Press and University Press of
New England, 1996).
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510 The 1990s
The preceding passages offer only the barest sketch of electronic dance
music in the 1980s and 1990s. For a fuller discussion, readers should
turn to Simon Reynolds, Generation Ecstasy: Into the World of Techno
and Rave Culture, the fullest treatment of the history presented here.4
In the next entry, Reynolds discusses many of the factors that separate
electronica from other forms of post–rock ‘n’ roll popular music, factors
that are central to the enjoyment of its fans and the revulsion felt by its
detractors. Not surprisingly, the issues that emerge bear more than a
passing resemblance to those discussed in Chapter 56 in reference to
disco.
As with discussions of the value of disco, dismissals of electronic
dance music (EDM) can be related to the role of EDM in gay and lesbian
identification. Thus, the overt artificiality of EDM may constitute a threat
to the sincerity and substance found (or heard) in other, more critically
sanctioned genres.5
Historia Electronica Preface

Simon Reynolds
Every so often, people ask me: “Why are you so into electronic music and this whole
dance culture thing? What’s it all about? What makes it different?” Some add a
slightly combative edge to the question, pointing out that there’s always been “dance
music,” and that anyway people will dance to any music if they like it, even a group
as overtly non-funky as The Smiths or REM. If they’re really sharp, these people also
point out that almost all pop today is “electronic,” using synthesizers, sequencers,
sampling, and digital editing software like Pro Tools, or processing “natural” acous-
tic sounds like the human voice or drums through effects, filters, and studio sorcery
of all kinds. And after all, what’s an electric guitar if not an electronic instrument?
These are all good points, but the fact remains that electronic dance culture is a
distinct entity. What follows here is my attempt to sketch the broad foundational prin-
ciples that give electronic dance music its coherence as a defined cultural field. Not
every exponent of this music, not every scene or genre, fits each single criteria, and
4. Simon Reynolds, Generation Ecstasy: Into the World of Techno and Rave Culture (New York:
Routledge, [1998] 1999). An excellent earlier overview is provided by Jon Savage, “Machine
Soul,” 18–21. A more recent overview may be found in Bill Werde, “Talking Music: Sounds
from the Dance Floor,” New York Times, March 24, 2000.
5. For more on the social context of rave culture, see Matthew Collins, Altered State: The Story
of Ecstasy Culture and Acid House (London: Serpent’s Tail, 1997); for an account of the role of raves
in the “gay circuit” of dance parties, see Mireille Silcott, Rave America: New School Dancescapes
(Toronto: ECW Press, 1999).
Source: “Historia Electronica Preface” © Simon Reynolds, Loops: Una Historia de la Musica
Electronica (Reservoir Books). Originally published in 2002.
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some actively flout “the rules.” But taken en masse, these parameters define a kind
of “field of possibility” within which the vast, variegated sprawl of electronic dance
exists. For sure, it’s a terrain with porous boundaries, through which seep influences
from neighbouring areas of music. Sonically, the most influential of these neighbours
are hip hop, avant-garde electronic experimentalism, industrial, and dub reggae. In
terms of attitudes and values, rock in all its various forms, from psychedelia to punk,
has had the most impact on electronic dance culture. From full-on rave madness to
self-consciously avant-garde experimentalism, electronica has become the inheritor
of rock’s seriousness: its belief that music can change the world (or at least an individ-
ual’s consciousness), rock notions of “progression” or “subversion,” the conviction
that music needs to be more than entertainment. Yet at the same time, the founding
principles I sketch below frequently challenge and dismantle rock ideas of how crea-
tivity works, what defines art, and where the meaning and power of music is located.
1. Machine Music
Dance music isn’t unique in being obsessed with technology: rock has its share of
songs hymning cars, while guitars are fetishized as noise-weapons. But electronica
goes further by defining itself as machine-music. This is upfront in the genre name
“techno,” and it comes through in the reverence for specific pieces of equipment:
drum machines like the Roland 808 and Roland 909 to antique synths like the Moog
and Wasp. You even have artists naming themselves in homage to gear: House
of 909, 808 State, Q-Bass (a pun on the Cubase programming software). And you
can see the cult of machinery in names that sound hyper-technical, robotic, or like
models of cars or computers: Electribe 101, LFO, Nexus 21. Electronic musicians
also love to describe what they do as scientific research, imagining the studio as a
sound-laboratory.
Electronic music is driven by a quest to find the most radical or futuristic-
sounding potential in brand-new technology. And that involves essentially (re)
inventing the machines: producers are always claiming the first thing they do after
acquiring new gear is to throw away the instruction manual and start messing
around. Often creativity entails abusing the machines, employing them incorrectly.
Mistakes—sometimes genuinely accidental, sometimes “deliberate errors”—become
aestheticized. This is a pop echo of the 20th-Century classical avant-garde’s project of
pushing the envelope of what is conventionally regarded as “music,” via the incor-
poration of noise-sound and environmental sonorities.
You can hear this in the contemporary genre of “glitch,” where artists like Oval
and Fennesz make radically beautiful music using the snaps, crackles and pops
emitted by damaged CDs, malfunctioning software, etc. In dancefloor genres like
speed garage and jungle, you can hear the same approach in the deliberate misuse of
timestretching, a digital effect that allows a sample to be compressed or prolonged
in duration without its pitch going up or down. Previously when producers speeded
up a vocal sample to fit the ever-faster tempos of dance music, the effect was squeaky
and cartoon-absurd, like the vocalist had inhaled helium. Timestretch was invented
to enable producers to achieve pleasanter, more “musical” results, but ironically it’s
been seized on for the opposite effect: stretching out a vocal until the sample cracks
up, creating a terrifying metallic rattle like a stuttering robot.
Even when machines aren’t being used in ways never intended by the
manufacturer, electronic dance music aestheticizes the mechanistic and industrial-
sounding—sonic attributes opposite to the traditional musicianly premium on hands
on “feel” and nimble dexterity. In electronic music, the cold precision and unin-
flected regularity of drum-machine beats and sequenced basslines aren’t c onsidered
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512 The 1990s
nmusical or lacking in “swing.” Riffs tend to be angular rather than curvaceous;
u
timbres are blatantly synthetic and artificial-sounding (unlike in pop music, where
synthesisers are mostly used to inexpensively simulate acoustic instruments like
horns or strings). The very inhuman aura of electronic music is part of the culture’s
obsession with the future, whether that is conceived as a utopia of streamlined
pleasure-tech, or a dystopia of control and automation.
A lot of electronica is not “played” in any traditional instrumental sense, but is
assembled using computers. Riffs are “step-written” one note at a time on a sequencer
(sometimes resulting in note-patterns that would be unplayable by human hands).
With the ever-more complex “virtual studio technology” software that’s available,
you can “draw” the music on a computer screen as a visually represented wave-
form; sonic material can be endlessly edited and recombined, layered and subjected
to all kinds of treatments and effects. As a result, what you hear rarely correlates
with physical human actions in the way that the sounds in rock music (even heavily
studio-manipulated and overdubbed rock) still correlate to recognisable manual ges-
tures. So you rarely visualize a person or band when you hear electronic music. Some
find this unnerving, an erasure of humanity, but for others it frees up the imagina-
tion: the music becomes an intricate, maze-like environment, or an abstract machine
taking the listener on a journey through a soundscape.
2. Texture/Rhythm Versus Melody/Harmony

Another aspect of electronica’s break with traditional musicality is the way that pro-
cessing is more important than playing; the vivid, ear-catching textures matter more
than the actual notes played. For conventionally trained musicians, the chord pro-
gressions and harmonic intervals used in electronic music can seem obvious and
trite. But this misses the point, for the real function of the simple vamps and melody-
lines is as a device to display timbre, texture, tone-colour, chromatics. That’s why
so much electronica uses naive child-like melodies that sound like a music-box’s
chimes. Complicated melodies would distract from the sheer lustrous materiality of
sound-in-itself; the pigment is more important than the line. Recent technology like
DSP (digital signal processing) and “plug-ins” (the computer age equivalent to guitar
effects pedals) allow for a fantastical palette of timbral colours.
In electronic dance, every element works as both texture and rhythm. Beats are
filtered to sound metallic, crunchy, spongy, shiny, wet. Melodic units are mostly
simple, little vamps and riffs that work as rhythmic cogs interlocking to form a
groove. And rhythm usurps the place of melody. In much of this music, it’s the drum
patterns—off-kilter breakbeat arrangements in drum ‘n’ bass, intricate hi-hat figures
in house and garage—that are the hooks, the most memorable element of a track.
Each year the rhythmic subdivision of time gets ever more fantastically complex:
micro-syncopations, assymetrical patterns riddled with hesitations, multiple tiers
of polyrhythm. Factor in DSP treatment of the beats and the spatial distribution of
drums across the stereo-mix, and the result is a kind of rhythmic psychedelia.
3. You’re So Physical
With almost everything in the music working as rhythm, electronic dance is supremely
physical music, engaging the body’s psychomotor reflexes and tugging at your
limbs. But this doesn’t make the music “mindless.” Rather, electronic dance music
dissolves the old dichotomy between head and body, between “serious” music for
home-listening and “stupid” music for the dancefloor. As British critic Kodwo Eshun
argues, at its most sophisticated electronica makes your mind dance and your body
think. There is a kinaesthetic intelligence in this music that involves your muscles and
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nerves, and which is seen at its utmost in the extraordinary grace and fractal fluidity
of the dancing style, “liquid,” that’s popular at American raves. Yet still you get peo-
ple who uphold a dichotomy between music for listening and music for dancing.
Actually, a good dancer is “listening” with every sinew and tendon in her body.
Electronic dance is intensely physical in another sense: it’s designed to be heard
over massive club sound systems. Sound becomes a fluid immersive medium enfold-
ing the body in an intimate pressure of beat and bass. The low-end frequencies perme-
ate your flesh, make your body vibrate and tremble. The entire body becomes an ear.
4. Against Interpretation
Electronic music appeals to the mind in a quite particular way, however. Not by
engaging the listener’s interpretative mechanism (the traditional rock mode of
treating songs as stories or statements), but rather through heightening perception
through the sheer intricacy of the music: its rhythmic detail, otherworldly textures,
and spatial depth. Most of this music is devoid of lyrics, and when it does have
them, they tend to be simple catchphrases or cliched evocations of celebration, hope,
intensity, mystical feelings. Ultimately, this music is not really about communication
but about communion: a sensory unity experienced by everybody on the dancefloor.
Hence the slogan “House is a feeling,” used in countless dance tracks. The word
“feeling” refers both to an emotional mood (elation tinged with a hint of blues, the
sense of the club space as a blissful sanctuary circumscribed by a hostile, unstable
outside world) and to a physical sensation: the waves of sound caressing your body,
the collective feeling of being locked in a groove, every body in the house synchro-
nized, entrained to the same rhythmic cycle, on the same track. Dance tracks are like
vehicles, taking you on a journey, a pleasure-ride; there’s a reason DJs use the term
“train wreck” to describe when they do a bad mix between records.
The vagueness of the saying “house is a feeling” contains its own eloquence:
this sensational sensation is hard to verbalize, almost impossible to explain to those
who’ve never felt it. It bypasses “meaning” in the rock sense but is intensely mean-
ingful. Hence dance music’s recurrent use of religious imagery, its references to a
knowledge that is privy only to initiates: slogans like “you know the score,” “this is
for those who know.” Crucial distinction: this secret knowledge isn’t elitist, but it is
tribal, working through a powerful inclusion/exclusion effect.
5. Surface Versus Depth

People coming to this music from “outside”—that’s to say with no direct club
experience—often complain about an “emptiness” to the music: the sense that it is
superficial, lacking in real-world referents, mere escapism. One of the most radical
aspects of the music, though, is the way that electronica abolishes the depth model
used by most criticism (in which some art is profound, some shallow) because all
its pleasures are out there on the surface. The music is a flat plane of sensuous bliss.
You can see this in the way dance music uses the human voice. House divas have
always been somewhat anonymous and depersonalized, rarely being the star focus
of a song but more like a technically skilled artisan playing a role in a team effort. As
the music evolved, producers increasingly used vocals in a non-expressive way, treat-
ing the singer as a source of raw material, a plastic substance to be folded, snipped,
recombined, processed. From the simple voice-riffs in early house music (vocal sam-
ples distributed across a sampling keyboard and played, so that the voice becomes
just an instrumental color) this has evolved into the complicated “vocal science” in
today’s 2step garage. Here samples from R&B songs are chopped up, resequenced,
and turned into percussive elements of the groove, effectively transforming the singer
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514 The 1990s
into an adjunct to the drum kit. “Soul” is emptied out, and the human voice becomes
two-dimensional, just one of an array of special effects and sonic pyrotechnics.
This depersonalising of the voice connects to a general anxiety that many people
feel about electronic music: because it is not “saying” anything, its pleasures seem
vicarious, indulgent, mere empty hedonism devoid of spiritual nourishment. Often
detractors use metaphors like “ear-candy” to convey this sense of something that
isn’t good for you but just offers an empty sugar-rush.
6. Drug Me
Talking of getting a rush, electronic dance music is intimately bound up with drug
culture. Even when it isn’t designed explicitly to enhance drugs like Ecstasy, the way
the music works on the listener is drug-like, and seems to demand drug metaphors.
People use the music as a mood-modifier, something that swiftly transports them
into a different emotional state with no necessary connection to their life-situation.
Drugs have played a crucial role in dance music’s evolution. Specific music-
technology innovations have synergized with particular drugs at different points:
for instance, Ecstasy meshed with the trippy bass-patterns of the Roland 303 bass-
synthesiser to catalyze the acid house revolution of the late Eighties. Changing drug
use patterns also propel the music’s evolution: escalating Ecstasy and amphetamine
use in the early Nineties caused techno to get faster and faster, leading to hyperki-
netic styles like jungle and gabba. Ultimately, what has happened is that the drug-
sensations get encoded into the music, abstracted. By itself, the music trips you out,
stones you, gives you a speed-rush.
This drug-tech interface syndrome is not unique to dance music, of course.
You can see it with psychedelic rock (LSD coincided with the arrival of 24 track stu-
dios), and even late Seventies soft rock (the endlessly overdubbed guitar lines and
excessively shiny sound of The Eagles or Fleetwood Mac reflect superstar cocaine
abuse—the cocaine ear likes bright treble frequencies and tiny detailed sounds, while
stimulant abuse makes people obsessive-compulsive, fussy, perfectionist). Electronic
dance music is unique, however, in the way it has developed an entire musical lan-
guage of sounds, riffs, and effects that are explicitly designed to trigger Ecstasy rushes
or accompany the aural hallucinations induced by LSD, the coma-like disassociation
caused by ketamine, etc. Moreover, because drug-states are essentially excursions out-
side normal consciousness, a lot of this music can be seen as involving temporary
trips into insanity and schizophrenia: the paranoid rhythmic delirium of jungle, the
catatonic trance of minimal techno DJs like Richie Hawtin, the psychotic fury of gabba.
7. This Is a Journey into Sound

Electronic dance music is all about being lost in music, whether it’s being engulfed
by the sonic tsunami streaming out of a gigantic rave sound system, or being med-
itatively absorbed by the microscopic sonic events that pervade more experimen-
tal forms of electronica. These states of ego loss and oceanic connection, of being
overwhelmed or entranced, are the reason why drug imagery is central to electronic
imagination. And they also explain the recourse to religious language, whether taken
from the Christian mystical tradition of surrender and Gnostic grace, or Eastern spir-
itual notions of nirvana and kundalini.
In some Eastern religions, the universe is sounded into being; hearing is the pri-
mary sense. Electronic dance culture likewise overthrows sight in the Western hierar-
chy of the senses, which privileges the eye. There’s a good reason why clubs take place
in the dark, why some warehouse raves are almost pitch black: diminishing the visual
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makes sound more vivid. Retinal perception is eclipsed by the audio-tactile, a vibra-
tional continuum in which sound is so massively amplified it’s visceral. This orienta-
tion toward sound can be seen in the way that ravers will literally hug speakers stacks,
sometimes even climbing inside the bass-woofer’s cavity and curling up like a foetus.
Beyond this worship of sound, electronic dance culture resists the tyranny of the
visual in pop culture. The electronica revolution will not be televised (at least, not
without being hugely compromised). Video channels like MTV are looking for stellar
faces and heavenly bodies, but electronica promos tend not to feature either (indeed
the video signature of some artists—The Chemical Brothers, Fatboy Slim—is only
appearing in their own promos for a few seconds!). Success in pop depends on vide-
ogenic charisma, dance moves, even acting skill (with videos increasingly like mini-
movies). All this is irrevelant to electronic dance music, which is simply not in the
business of selling personalities. Moreover, electronic dance music simply sounds
terrible through a television’s mono speakers and non-existent bass: it is mixed for
big club sound systems, with panoramic stereo and seismic sub-bass. A large propor-
tion of this record’s auditory content is inaudible on a television set.
Part of electronica’s “underground”-ness relates to precisely this refusal of our
contemporary culture of the icon. Video is about spectatorship, whereas dance cul-
ture is about participation. And so the more underground a club is, the less there
will be in terms of visual distractions: the more hardcore the scene, the less there is
to be seen. Clubs will always skimp on visuals and decor before cutting back on the
sound-system. Many rock fans who go to see a DJ spin or a dance outfit play “live”
find it dull because there’s nothing to look at: no theatrics, no performance vocabu-
lary of flamboyant gestures as there is with rock—just a few unglamorous looking
guys twiddling knobs on machines. But that misses the point, because you’re not
supposed to focus on the artist. The crowd is the star.
8. Faceless Techno Bollocks

When rave culture first took off in the UK, some diehard rock fans started to rail
against “faceless techno bollocks.” Soon the slogan started appearing on T-shirts,
but worn by techno fans who’d flipped it around into a badge of pride. In its pur-
est forms, electronic dance music is a revolt against celebrity culture and the cult of
personality. Artists deliberately seek anonymity by adopting an array of alter-egos.
Marc Acardipane, the German hardcore techno pioneer, may have the world record,
having used over twenty different pseudonyms. Richard D. James illustrates how
contact with the record business can conventionalize someone’s career: early on, he
used multiple aliases, but as he became an iconic figure with a long-term album deal,
he started to release his output via only one identity, Aphex Twin.
Sometimes there are pragmatic reasons for having multiple names. The artist’s
primary identity may be signed to one label, but they allow him to release stuff on
different labels using other names. Some artists actually have discernibly different
sonic characters in their different names. But the main effect of all this is to create an
effect of distancing, a break with the traditional pop impulse to connect the music to
an actual human being. Along with the use of depersonalized, technical-sounding or
numeric names, this intensifies the music’s posthuman aura, its abstract, disembod-
ied quality. Unlike with rock or rap, you don’t identify with the music-maker, you
“intensify” with the music’s energy. Facelessness also has the effect of disrupting the
mechanism of band or brand loyalty, the rock fan’s habit of following artists through
their careers. Some connoisseurs of electronic music do this, priding themselves on
collecting every last item of their favorite artist’s oeuvre, under all the different alter-
egos. But for hardcore dance fans, producers are only as good as their latest track.
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516 The 1990s
The group Underground Resistance use anonymity as part of their anti-
corporate, we-are-guerrillas-of-techno aura: they are literally faceless, refusing to be
photographed except wearing masks. This militant stance is all the more resonant
given the rise of a dance music industry in which DJs are sold as pseudo-personalities
and magazines conduct interviews that ignore the only things interesting about them
(their taste in music and mixing skills) and instead talk about the DJ’s career strug-
gles, drug intake, sex lives, and VIP lifestyles.
9. Death of the Auteur

We look at rock music in terms of innovators: the individual artists who revolution-
ized music and influenced others (or, if they failed in the marketplace of their day,
who were “ahead of their time”). We look always to trace things back to the trailblaz-
ing originators, and deplore the swarm of copyists following in their wake. One of
the worst insults that can be directed at a rock group is “generic.” In electronic dance
music, things work quite differently. It is often difficult, and pointless, to strive to
identify who first came up with a breakthrough in rhythm or sound. Ideas mostly
emerge through anonymous processes of collective creativity. Look at the genesis
of acid house in mid-Eighties Chicago or the emergence of jungle in early Nineties
England, and you’ll see the cultural equivalent of an ecosystem. Maybe one indi-
vidual happens to stumble upon an untapped potential in a piece of music-making
technology, like the weird “acid” noises inside the Roland 303 bass synthesiser. But
almost immediately this idea was seized upon by other producers and instead of being
diluted in the process (as usually happens with rock) the new sound was i ntensified.
Over the course of a year, the acid tracks got weirder, fiercer, more deranging, thanks
to the intense competition between producers to drive dancefloor crowds wilder,
until the new effect was taken as far as it could go and became exhausted.
With jungle’s chopped-up, sped-up breakbeats, it’s impossible to work out who
came up with the idea first, or when exactly the style crystallized. Dozens, maybe scores,
of rave producers started to experiment with the idea of using sampled breakbeats instead
of programmed rhythms. Through a collective musical conversation stretched across
1990–1993, “breakbeat science” (digital techniques of micro-editing and resequencing
beats) emerged in an incremental process: weekly instalments of small-scale innovation,
a ping-pong match of ideas going back and forth between people who never met.
Brian Eno has dubbed this syndrome “scenius,” punning on the words “scene”
and “genius.” He argues that our old Romantic notions of the auteur as an autono-
mous, endlessly fertile individual were precisely that: overly romanticized, out-of-
date. And he called for a more depersonalized notion of creativity influenced by
cybernetic theory, ideas of self-organizing systems and feedback loops. Another
way of conceptualizing “scenius” is in terms of biogenetics or virology, metaphors
of mutation or cultural viruses (memes). Like a successful gene characteristic, elec-
tronic dance innovations achieve their highest success by becoming clichés: sounds
so good that nobody can resist using them. (At least until they’re all used up, at
which point the underground abandons them to mainstream pop, and dismisses the
sounds as “corny” and “cheesy.” Some sounds do enjoy an afterlife, though, coming
back under the sign of camp ironic nostalgia.)
Ideas in dance music sometimes seem to evolve according to an immanent non-
human logic of their own. It’s tempting to talk mystically of machines like the 303
having their own agenda. In reality, the creativity is entirely human, it’s just collec-
tive rather than auteur-driven. Because dance cultures have a very fast turnover, a
track can come out and within a week another producer has picked up the baton. The
life-cycles of sonic evolution are incredibly rapid. Unlike with rock music, even the
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rip-off artists, the clone merchants and copyists, play a role, because each replication
of a sound unavoidably warps it. Indeed, in dance music, “bastardisation” is posi-
tive, productive, progressive.
Another reason “generic” isn’t an insult in electronic dance discourse is that tracks
exist in a context. A “generic” track is a functional track: it has the right elements to
enable the DJ to mix the tune in with a bunch of similar tracks, thereby creating a
flow. This play of sameness and difference is something that electronic dance music
has in common with black music, where what initially seems homogenous reveals
subtle inflections and shifts through concentrated immersion by the listener. From
the Motown sound in the Sixties through James Brown-style funk to the stop-start
rhythms in modern R&B, black American music goes through different Beat-Geists (i.e.
rhythmic Zeitgeists). These innovations may originate with specific labels (Motown)
or producers (like Timbaland with contemporary R&B), but they become the rhythmic
template used by everybody. Jamaican music culture goes even further, being based
not just on generic sounds but rhythms that are literally identical: different singers and
MCs do new vocals over the same currently hot, endlessly reused riddim track.
One side effect of all this is that dance music has a different distribution of
brilliance than other kinds of music. Rock’s aesthetic hierarchy divides everything
between the handful of visionary geniuses and a vast mass of mediocre non-originals.
But in electronic dance music, there’s a huge number of good (meaning useful-to-
DJs) tracks, and a much smaller number of true landmark records. In a word, dance
music is democratic.
10. We Bring You the Future

Another aspect to all this is that genres and scenes take the place of stars and artists—
this is the level on which it’s most productive to talk about the music. In dance culture,
a huge amount of energy goes into cultural taxonomy: identifying genres and subgen-
res like species. This profusion of new sounds, scenes and genre names is also what is
off-putting to some newcomers to the music, who understandably find it confusing,
and suspect that hype or willful obscurantism is involved. Actually, the endless generic
splintering is simply a result of dance culture’s 20 years of existence, the huge number
and diversity of people involved, and the global span of the culture. Anything that big
is going to fracture, and many of the fractures are going to be worth talking about.
Mostly the names emerge for practical reasons. In the beginning (meaning the
mid-Eighties) people talked about “house” and that was pretty much it. Later, dif-
ferent flavors of the music were distinguished, using prefix terms: deep house, hard
house, tribal house. Why? More and more records were being made, and the stylistic
parameters were starting to drift apart. Clubs found it useful to specify what their
sound was, and people working in record stores started to get terminologically pre-
cise, to help customers find exactly what they wanted. Some of the terms achieved
currency and became established throughout the culture. Eventually, stylistic disper-
sal increased to the point where the primacy of “house” was overthrown, and brand
new words—jungle, trance, gabba—came into use (often after an intermediary phase
where people talked of jungle house or gabba house).
Confusing to the uninitiated and offensive to genrephobes this may be, but
these definitions become urgent and crucial once you get involved in the culture. It
becomes a way of talking about the music, arguing about where it should go next. It’s
an expression of enthusiasm and excitement, not hairsplitting or an attempt to baffle
and exclude by talking in code. Above all, the hunger for the next big thing or new
sound is an expression of electronic dance culture’s neophilia, its impatience for the
future to arrive.
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518 The 1990s
11. Let’s Submerge

Along with “living for the future,” electronic dance culture is united by a vague, open-
ended ideology of “underground-ism,” in which grass-roots scenes are positioned
against the pop mainstream and the corporate record industry. “Underground” as a
concept doesn’t have a huge amount of political content, though; it’s not attached to
any specific revolutionary aspirations, ideas about a utopian form of social organi-
zation, or even counter-cultural ideals (beyond a libertarian attitude towards drug-
taking). Anti-corporate without being anti-capitalist, “undergroundism” expresses
the struggle of micro-capitalist units (independent record labels, small clubs) against
macro-capitalism (the mainstream leisure-and-entertainment industry).
Electronic indie labels can be as small as a single individual making music in his
bedroom and putting out the tracks himself. More often, it’ll be a small gang or crew that
is tightly loyal, almost communistic, and typically clustered around a central figure—
an engineer/producer who owns the equipment and enables DJs to realise their ideas
and become producers. Another common syndrome is independent labels that start off
based around a record store. The people who work in the store, who are often aspiring
DJs, develop a good sense of what is selling and what works in the clubs; they also get
to know more established DJs and aspiring producers who come in to check the latest
releases. The obvious next step is to take this developing A&R instinct and start releas-
ing records by new talent. And so, to give just one example, the East London record
store Boogie Times gave birth to the influential jungle label Suburban Base.
This sort of small independent tends to be unstable, though, and often doesn’t sur-
vive the high turnover of dancefloor trends. Inevitably the indies that do endure are
those who adopt sound business plans and managerial structures—in other words, start
to behave like small corporations. Warp Records started from a record store in Sheffield,
England, but watching other labels of the early rave era fall by the wayside, they devel-
oped long-term album based deals with their artists (like Aphex Twin), and evolved
into a successful company specializing in “electronic listening music” (also known as
IDM, short for “intelligent dance music”). For many in the hardcore underground,
Warp now represents the new establishment, catering to an audience of ex-clubbers and
lapsed ravers with sounds that are basically dance music for the home environment.
Electronic dance music’s antagonism towards the corporate music industry isn’t
based on political principles but aesthetic ones: the idea that the mainstream dilutes
the underground’s music, blunts the music’s edge, tones down its harsh futurism,
turns it into mere pop. In a crucial paradox, dance scenes are populist but opposed
to pop culture in the “weak,” universal sense of the word. Their populism takes the
form of tribal unity against what they perceive as a homogenous, blandly uninvolv-
ing mass culture. Subcultural initiates are felt to have a more committed, active,
participatory relationship with the music than the desultory, passive pop consumer.
Often people who believe in underground music use military rhetoric, and talk of
being a “soldier” or crusader, fighting for the cause, staying hardcore.
12. Site-Specific
Part of the inclusive/exclusive aura of these subcultures is that the music is site-
specific. You have to go to clubs to get the full experience. This doesn’t apply to home-
oriented IDM, obviously, but there is a vast swathe of this music that simply doesn’t
really make sense outside the club context. Often I’ll buy a house or 2-step 12 inch
single and play it at home, and it’ll sound weak, the beat monotonous and numbing.
Hear the same song through a huge sound system, though, and the unrelenting pump
and pound of the groove becomes the whole point. Massively amplified, the kick drum
becomes so thick and wide, it’s a cocooning environmental pulse: you feel like you’re
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actually inside the beat. Similarly, there are numerous genres of dance music based
around floor-quaking sub-bass frequencies that are barely audible on a domestic hi-fi,
let alone a boom box. And there’s an entire vein of “big room” dance tracks designed
for superclubs, whose dancefloors hold a thousand plus people and are surrounded
by towering speaker stacks. Often these “big room” tracks contain hardly any music
in the traditional sense—only the most rudimentary two-note bass-pulses, barely any
melody-lines. They don’t sound good at home but they work in the superclub context
because they’re full of effects and whooshing noises that swoop and pan across the
stereo-field, sounds that are literally spectacular, designed to astonish your ears.
The more functionalist kinds of dance music can sound “flat” at home because the
tracks are essentially unfinished work. They are raw material for the DJs to transform
into music by mixing very minimal tracks together: superimposing or cutting back
and forth, creating dynamics by using EQing effects to boost certain frequencies, and
all manner of turntable tricks. These records are often described as “DJ tools.” With
other genres, particularly those—jungle, 2step—that have a strong influence from
dancehall reggae and hip hop—the tracks really come alive through the combination
of the DJ’s mixing and the MC chanting over the music: hyping the crowd, ordering
the DJ to do a “rewind” (i.e., stop the track mid-song and go back to the start).
Beyond this, there’s a sense in which the music is like the screenplay to a movie, and
is completed by “the cast”—the crowd on the dancefloor. Styles like jungle and trance
are full of behavioral cues encoded in the music—breakdowns, drum builds, bass drops,
climaxes—all of which trigger certain mass responses: ritualized gestures of abandon-
ment, like hands shooting up in the air at the entrance of a certain kind of riff or noise.
The music sounds diminished in the absence of such tableaux of crowd frenzy. Ulti-
mately, most dance tracks are components in a subcultural engine—heard decontextual-
ized and isolated, they can seem as perplexing and functionless as a carburettor outside
the car. And while it might have a certain surreal appeal to keep an engine part in the
middle of your living room, you’d definitely not be getting full use of that component.
“Context” can be really specific. There are some tracks that are associated with
just one specific club, like the song “Twilo Thunder,” made in homage to the now-
defunct New York club Twilo. Its sound was tailored to the immense Twilo sound
system and designed to fuel the special atmosphere generated by the crowd who
religiously attended Sasha & Digweed’s eight-hour DJ sets. For a culture that typi-
cally boasts of its global reach and its transcendence of geography, electronica can
be disconcertingly fixated on a sense of place. What these privileged sites, these tem-
ples of sound, create is a form of postmodern tribalism: people from different back-
grounds and locations gather together to experience the same “tribe-vibe.”
Part of the conditions of existence for these transient communities is that people
check their ideologies at the door with their coats. This isn’t apolitical so much as
anti-political, or perhaps pre-political: an attempt to cut through all the divisions
and rediscover some primal basis of connection, even if that unity is as simple as
sharing the same sonic (and often drug) sensations, occupying the same space (“Eve-
rybody In the Place,” as the Prodigy titled one of their early rave anthems). Which
helps explain electronic dance culture’s suspicion of words, its urge to dispense with
language. Because words divide. And this music is about the urge to merge, about
becoming part of something larger than yourself, whether it’s the dancing crowd, a
sublime vastness of sound, or the cosmos.
13. Only Connect

One of the key words in dance culture is “mix,” a term with multiple applications and
resonances. Mixed crowds: most dance scenes at least pay lip service to the idea that all
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520 The 1990s
are welcome and that clubs with a good social/racial/gender mix are the ones with the
best vibe. Mix-and-blend: the musical ethos shared by most genres of electronic dance
is a belief in stylistic border-crossing—a notion of hybridity similar to mesticagem, the
national ideology of Brazil which takes pride in that country’s miscegenated culture
and music. (Which may explain why a lot of house producers have an almost utopian
vision of Brazil and are infatuated with samba and bossa nova rhythms.) Remixes:
rather than a definitively complete and inviolate work of art, a dance track is treated
as a provisional collection of sonic resources to be rearranged—hence the vogue for
multiple remixes (sometimes as many as 10 different versions), and for remix albums
where DJ/producers pay tribute to an admired artist by reworking, sometimes to the
point of obliteration, their music. Mix: the art of DJing involves taking disparate tracks
and connecting them into a meta-track, a potentially interminable flow. Repetition
and interconnection evoke a feeling of boundless pleasure. Time is abolished (“3-AM
Eternal,” as one track title put it), and so is lack. The music insists “go with the flow”
and “be here now,” lose yourself in a never-ending present of pure sensation.
As you can see, my list of foundational principles is just a partial blueprint: culture
is always messy, evading our attempts at definition.6 The aspects I’ve highlighted,
though, represent this music’s claims to radicalism. They are the “emergent” ele-
ments, to use a concept from cultural studies referring to tendencies that point
toward future aesthetic and social formations. Any cultural phenomenon that has
real impact in the present, however, must inevitably be a mixture of “emergent”
and “residual” (meaning traditional). Generally speaking, music that is totally avant-
garde and ahead-of-its-time subsists in the academic ghetto, depending on state sub-
sidies or institutional support. You can see this with the most advanced forms of
“sound art” or “sound design”: they can’t survive in the rough-and-tumble of the
pop marketplace, but inhabit the world of art galleries, museums, seminars and sym-
posiums and festivals. Which is fine, but for me the most exciting thing about elec-
tronic dance music is that you get avant-garde ideas working in a popular context,
carried by groove and catchy hooks, and enlivened by a context of fun and collective
celebration. One example is jungle’s vibrant blend of “roots ‘n’ phuture” (as one early
jungle track put it). The “emergent,” avant-garde elements in jungle wouldn’t have
worked without the “residual” stuff: to have “breakbeat science,” you need to have
breakbeats (sweaty, human musicians playing hot funky percussive breaks) in the
first place, providing the raw material to be sampled and digitally recombined.
Ultimately, electronic dance music is at its most enjoyable when it’s impure:
rhythm/texture colliding with songcraft, soul-less machinery fighting it out with tra-
ditional ideas of sonic beauty, avant-garde auteur impulses checked by the crowd’s
demand for danceable grooves. These tensions are what keep the music vital.
Further Reading
Bradby, Barbara. “Sampling Technology: Gender, Technology and the Body in Dance Music.”
Popular Music 12/2 (1993): 155–76.
Brewster, Bill, and Frank Broughton. Last Night a DJ Saved My Life. New York: Grove Press,
2000.
Collin, Matthew. Altered State: The Story of Ecstasy Culture and Acid House. London: Serpent’s
Tail, 1998.
6. I omitted a section in which Reynolds discusses exceptions to his “foundational principles.”
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R&B Divas Go Retro 521
Moorefield, Virgil. The Producer as Composer: Shaping the Sounds of Popular Music. Cambridge,
Mass.: MIT Press, 2005.
Redhead, Steve, with Derek Wynne and Justin O’Connor, eds. The Clubcultures Reader: Read-
ings in Popular Cultural Studies. Oxford, UK: Blackwell, 1997.
Scott, Mireille. Rave American: New School Dancescapes. Toronto: ECW Press, 1999.
Sicko, Dan. Techno Rebels: The Renegades of Electronic Funk. New York: Billboard Books, 1999.
Thornton, Sarah. Club Cultures: Music, Media and Subcultural Capital. Middletown, Conn.:
Wesleyan University Press, 1995.
Discography
The Chemical Brothers. Singles 93-03. Astralwerks, 2003.
Classic Acid. Moonshine Music, 1998.
Classic House Mastercuts, Vol. 2. Mastercuts, 1995.
House Sound of Chicago. Vibe, 1996.
Jungle Massive, Vol. 1. Payday, 1995.
Kraftwerk. Minimum-Maximum. Astralwerks, 2005.
May, Derrick. Innovator. Transmat Records, 1997.
Moby. Go: The Very Best of Moby. V2, 2006.
Model 500. Classics. R&S, 1995.
The Orb’s Adventures beyond the Ultraworld. Island, 1991.
Tricky. Maxinquaye. Island, 1995.
84. R&B Divas Go Retro
As Nelson George indicated in Chapter 65, old-school soul singing and

R&B remained alive in the late 1970s and 1980s alongside the develop-
ment of funk and disco. In addition to artists such as Chaka Khan (b. 1954)
and Aretha Franklin, younger singers like Frankie Beverly (of Maze) and
Anita Baker continued the tradition of impassioned gospel-schooled
vocals that addressed romantic and social concerns. Another generation
of R&B “divas,” typified by Whitney Houston (b. 1963) and Mariah Carey
(b. 1970), emerged in the late 1980s–early 1990s and merged superb
vocal technique with well-crafted (some might say “slick”) productions
that were unusually attuned to the current tastes of the pop marketplace.
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522 The 1990s
Ann Powers (at the time a pop music critic for the New York Times)
describes another trend that became evident in the mid- to late 1990s
as younger African American singers sought to merge the rhythms and
tough attitude of hip-hop with some of the vocal technique and lyric sub-
ject matter of 1970s soul. These artists, led by Mary J. Blige’s early 1990s
recordings and D’Angelo’s 1995 release Brown Sugar, were predomi-
nantly female, adding a different inflection to the subject of “women in
pop music” discussed earlier in chapter 82. The year 1999 represented
the crest of a wave that began in 1997 with releases by Erykah Badu
(b. 1972) and Missy Elliot and surged in 1998 with the Miseducation
of Lauryn Hill. While this trend represents continuity with earlier soul
music, the nostalgic or “retro” element is new and links the late 1990s
soul revival with other forms of musical recycling going on concurrently
in popular music.1
The New Conscience of Pop Music

Ann Powers
During “Not Lookin,’” a new duet with her former beau, the urban love man K-Ci
Hailey, Mary J. Blige demonstrates how to stop a man cold. The song, from Ms.
Blige’s new album, “Mary,” pits a woman seeking true affection against a man out
for pure pleasure. The two vocalists trade diatribes over a steady rocking rhythm,
their wails building as the impossibility of resolution grows clear.
Mr. Hailey soothes and cajoles in his sexy baritone. Ms. Blige cries to any women
listening to stand up with her and fight such “player” nonsense. “I hear you,” moans
Mr. Hailey, though he obviously doesn’t. Finally, Ms. Blige just snaps. “I know
you’re sorry!” she exclaims. The track ends, without another sound.
This abrupt dismissal is a conveniently dramatic way for Ms. Blige to win a
musical cutting contest. But it also captures the mood of the rhythm-and-blues being
made by young artists eager to create something more than slick background for
the well-appointed bedroom. This new style has been building for a few years, but
only now is it reaching full flower. And although its pioneers include men like Mr.
Hailey and D’Angelo, there is no question that the fragrance of this blossom is boldly
feminine.
Throughout the 1990’s, most discussions of women’s increased power in pop
have focused on alternative-rock transgressors like Tori Amos and Courtney Love
or the songbirds of Sarah McLachlan’s Lilith Fair. Rhythm-and-blues artists sold
1. Almost two years later, Powers examined the continuing pressures and contradictions faced
by women in popular music, focusing on the then-current success of R&B “girl group” Destiny’s
Child; see Ann Powers, “In Tune with the New Feminism,” New York Times, April 29, 2001.
Source: Ann Powers, “The New Conscience of Pop Music,” from The New York Times, Sept. 19,
1999. © 1999 The New York Times. All rights reserved. Used by permission and protected under the
copyright laws of the United States. The printing, copying, redistribution, or retransmission of
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albums but were rarely viewed as culture shapers. Now, though, with mainstream
rock again becoming a male bastion, it is clear whose music matters within the con-
tinuing emergence of women as equal players in contemporary music.
Ms. Blige, the standard-bearer for hip-hop-inflected soul, has reached a peak
in her career. She has evolved from a passionate but erratic inner-city princess to a
mature artist tackling the same complexities expressed by her idols, Aretha Franklin
and Chaka Khan. Lauryn Hill, a professed Blige fan who wrote and produced “All
That I Can Say,” the first single from “Mary” (MCA), herself exceeded all expecta-
tions with her solo debut, “The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill.” The girl group TLC is
at its apex, ruling the charts with two singles, “No Scrubs” and “Unpretty,” that have
sparked spirited public conversations about sex, money and self-respect.
These are only the most visible forces in a renaissance that includes girl groups
like Destiny’s Child, answering TLC’s challenge with its own fresh summer single,
“Bills, Bills, Bills”; Missy Elliott, an artist growing ever more influential behind the
scenes as a producer; seasoned songwriters now in the spotlight, like Faith Evans,
Kelly Price and Angie Stone, and left-field contenders like Macy Gray and Melky
Sedeck. These artists are as carefully packaged as the elegant stars they join in the
spotlight, from Whitney Houston to Toni Braxton. But they are selling a very differ-
ent sensibility.
They are more individualistic, more confrontational. They grew up loving hip-
hop, and in their songs they tangle with that genre’s cold-blooded male pronounce-
ments instead of merely floating past them on a cushion of strings and strummed
guitars. Some find allies in brash rappers like Lil’ Kim. But while the female rapper’s
role remains mostly that of the sexual warrior, contesting masculine power with the
easily available weapon of her own body, these singers also confront the emotional
costs of such battles.
The new soul queens take advantage of nostalgia’s ability to conjure authentic-
ity. Their songs invoke forebears like Ms. Khan in music thick with funk and flecked
with jazz, but the mix is salted with gritty hip-hop beats. These artists’ lyrics, too,
resurrect old-school domestic protests within a strikingly contemporary context, as
they debate proper behavior within today’s seeming sexual free-for-all.
The rising stars of female soul demand attention with audacity rather than
coaxing it out through prettiness. Undoubtedly sexy, they are also unapologetically
human. They embody not merely the dream girls of glossy magazines but also the
“unpretty” women reading those magazines. And they are earning respect, so much
so that pop angels like Ms. Houston, Mariah Carey and Janet Jackson have made
themselves over to look rougher and tougher in their midst—and, in the process,
have made some of the best music of their careers.
This current cycle is just the latest in the rebirth of soul. Two larger commercial
trends have spurred it on: the triumph of hip-hop and the return of rhythm-and-blues
as the basic form of teen-age pop. After briefly being displaced by punk-flavored rock
in the mid-1990’s, black music is again the essence of American pop music. But the
new soul queens consciously invoke a side of that music that others have avoided.
Virtually all popular music centers on romance, and historically, black music has
frankly celebrated love’s sexual side. But, as the historian Brian Ward points out in
“Just My Soul Responding: Rhythm-and-Blues, Black Consciousness and Race Rela-
tions” (University of California, 1998), black styles from the blues to disco have not
just glorified bodily pleasures.
They have given artists a way of confronting the sexual stereotypes that rac-
ism has created—what Michelle Wallace famously called “black macho and the
myth of the superwoman.” Through songs ranging from Wynonie Harris’s “Adam,
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524 The 1990s
Come and Get Your Rib” to Gwen Guthrie’s “Ain’t Nothin’ Goin’ On but the Rent,”
rhythm-and-blues artists have encapsulated the struggles waged in every room of
the black household, from the bedroom to the kitchen.
In times of political pessimism, this debate has grown more vicious. The blues
painted a bleak image of love, grounded in paranoia and murderous lusts. At the
height of the civil rights movement, when integration seemed possible both in pub-
lic spaces and on the pop charts, romantics like Aretha Franklin gained popularity.
Then, in the early 1970’s, when the radical Black Power movement arose in response
to social setbacks, female artists once again found themselves metaphorically embat-
tled.
“The women of soul rejected the role of helpless victims, not by articulating a
discernibly feminist program, but by giving as good as they got in the male-defined
sex wars of the late 1960’s and early 1970’s,” Mr. Ward writes. “It was the equivalent
of women in the Panthers earning the respect of their male colleagues by picking up
the gun—the ultimate symbol of phallocentric power—and behaving as much like
men as possible.”
The rhetoric of hip-hop is firmly linked to this era. Its stars constantly mimic the
styles seen in blaxploitation movies of the early 1970’s, and when they do venture
into political speech, they most often invoke radicals like Malcolm X and the Black
Panthers. Rappers like Jay-Z and Master P take an outlaw stance with overtones of
social revolt, if not genuine political rebellion. Today’s most successful female rap-
pers have adopted the image of the “ho” as a feminine counterpart in criminality.
The new soul queens are taking on the often vicious representations of women
in hip-hop, assessing what real strength those images may offer and when they
need to be defused. They are speaking to female hip-hop fans about the contradic-
tions facing young women in a culture that craves female power but remains deeply
suspicious of it. And they are confronting the men who, in rap and in contemporary
rhythm-and-blues, so often describe seduction as a theft and love as a game.
Mary J. Blige has been working on gaining equality with her male counterparts
since she released her debut album, “What’s the 411?” in 1992. That album posited
Ms. Blige as a fingernail-flaring, Kangol cap-wearing little sister whom B-boys could
dream of and ghetto girls could identify with. (The future hip-hop kingpin Sean
[Puffy] Combs is listed as “stylist” on the album’s credits.)
Singing with passion if not technical mastery, Ms. Blige immediately distin-
guished herself from stars like Ms. Carey, who possessed better instruments but lit-
tle of her street credibility. With her second album, “My Life,” she began writing
more of her material and showed herself to be given to dark pronouncements, like
her magnificent version of the Norman Whitfield–Joel Schumacher ballad “I’m Goin’
Down” from the movie “Car Wash” as well as optimistic hits like “Real Love.” For
many fans, she became a Lady of the Sorrows, expressing their anxieties and regrets
in a powerful but always vulnerable voice.
The moody Ms. Blige wore her own troubles on her sleeve. She had adversarial
encounters with the press and publicly indulged in drugs and alcohol. Gradually,
she grew up, and her track record of hits has turned her into a soul matriarch by age
28. Her new album is not as obviously commercial as her previous studio efforts, nor
is it as closely linked to hip-hop. With “Mary,” Ms. Blige is making her case for really
deserving the regal title hip-hop fans have given her from the beginning.
It is a crossover effort, with appearances by the distinctly non-ghettocentric
guests Sir Elton John and Eric Clapton. Only one rapper, Jadakiss, appears; a cut
featuring DMX and Nas was ultimately reserved for the B-side of “All That I Can
Say.” But if “Mary” gestures toward an older, non-hip-hop audience, it also makes
the claim for Ms. Blige’s canonization within the rhythm-and-blues hall of fame.
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The album’s two duets enforce her status: her reunion with Mr. Hailey, who is also
outrunning his bad-boy past via increasingly sophisticated recordings, and the spir-
ited “Don’t Waste Your Time,” in which she receives a mentor’s advice from that
other queen of soul, Aretha Franklin.
The time is right for Ms. Blige to assert herself because her dramatic, direct vocal
style is again soul’s paradigm. Once, even the voices of Ms. Blige’s imitators were
heavily obscured within mixes where the producer’s signature mattered more than
the singer’s. It was hard to find the real woman inside the work of vocally gifted
artists like Ms. Braxton or Ms. Houston. The individual quirks that distinguished
greats like Ms. Franklin, Ms. Khan and Patti LaBelle were processed out of most
radio-ready mixes.
Gradually, though, outsiders began making commercial breakthroughs. Not
only Ms. Blige, but Erykah Badu and Missy Elliott, neither of whom looked or
sounded like the standard-model soul babe, became stars. Faith Evans and Kelly
Price, writers who have collaborated with Ms. Blige, had hits that emphasized their
unvarnished voices and dramatic range. The multiplatinum, multi-Grammy triumph
of Ms. Hill, a boisterous singer and rapper whose most striking talent is for spacious
vocal arrangements, cemented the change.
A shift was visible, too, among the often seemingly interchangeable girl groups
of contemporary rhythm-and-blues. The trio that made the difference has progressed
in much the same way Ms. Blige has. Tionne (T-Boz) Watkins, Rozonda (Chilli)
Thomas and Lisa (Left Eye) Lopes, collectively known as TLC, started out as perky
but artistically unremarkable teens. “Crazysexycool,” the group’s 1994 sophomore
effort, solidified its sound by emphasizing the internal, almost conversational sing-
ing of T-Boz and Chilli and using Left Eye’s sassy raps as zest. “Crazysexycool” sold
upwards of eight million copies, guaranteeing that its formula would be endlessly
imitated.
Before TLC’s triumph, the most successful girl group was En Vogue, a quartet
with stellar vocal prowess and a taste for glamour. Like Ms. Blige, the women of TLC
seemed more accessible, partly because of their connections to streetwise hip-hop.
“Fanmail,” this year’s long-awaited follow-up to “Crazysexycool,” does not totally
diverge from the tried and true, but its best tracks take on soul’s classic conversation
about gender in adventurous ways.
The album’s monster hit, “No Scrubs,” is a vintage dressing-down of a finan-
cially shifty man, while the group’s current single, “Unpretty,” bravely considers
the downside of the beauty myth most women in pop eagerly cultivate. But the most
daring song on “Fanmail” is “I’m Good at Being Bad,” a musical re-enactment of the
conflicting stereotypes that envelop black women.
The track begins as a silky ballad, like a bubble bath with a beat, but it gives way
to a huge hip-hop beat and a snarling, obscenity-laced vocal. Here is the “ho” taking
on the dream girl, the woman using sex as a weapon versus the one too dependent
on love. The scenario remains unresolved, and the more powerful for it.
TLC’s inside view of a sexual woman’s split psyche is hardly the only song to
confront hip-hop’s ever-present ho. Ms. Hill cautioned young girls to preserve them-
selves in “Lost Ones,” a song that has earned her accusations of self-righteousness.
Because she is openly religious, Ms. Hill is blunt about her distaste for the mercenary
sexual stance of some female artists.
For all the backlash it has caused, Ms. Hill’s critique of hip-hop’s skewed value
system reflects another element of soul’s artistic revitalization. Her challenge, “How
you gonna win when you ain’t right within?” echoes through this new music.
New artists like Angie Stone, Melky Sedeck and Macy Gray make such ques-
tions of conscience part of their metier. These new soul queens are not moralistic;
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526 The 1990s
their songs toast sensuality more often than they dissect social ills. But they also
consider the consequences of the hunger for sex, drugs and money, especially in the
context of racism. Doing so, they invoke not only past soul queens but progenitors
like Sly Stone and Marvin Gaye.
The history of rhythm-and-blues is full of unruly divas like the ones currently steal-
ing the microphone. They are lucky that popular taste is shifting their way, saving
them from the outsider status that has long afflicted soul singers who push against
the stereotypes of urban style. These women are determined to give voice to their
own views on the matters that shape the intimate lives of their listeners, and they
are artists enough to render those perspectives in tones as vibrant as the heritage
they mine. Whether tackling emotional profundities or sticking to the plain facts of
woman versus man, black women are the conscience of today’s pop scene.
Further Reading
Gardner, Elysa. “Hip Hop Soul.” In The Vibe History of Hip Hop, ed. Alan Light, 307–17.
New York: Three Rivers Press, 1999.
McIver, Joe. Erykah Badu: The First Lady of Neo-Soul. London: Sanctuary Publishing, 2002.
Powers, Ann. “In Tune with the New Feminism.” New York Times, April 29, 2001.
Discography
Badu, Erykah. Baduizm. UMVD Labels, 1997.
Blige, Mary J. My Life. MCA, 1994.
Carey, Mariah. Greatest Hits. Sony, 2001.
Gray, Macy. On How Life Is. Sony, 1999.
Hill, Lauryn. The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill. Sony, 1998.
Houston, Whitney. The Greatest Hits. Arista, 2000.
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PART 7
The 21st Century

85. Country in the Post–Urban Cowboy Era
We last left country music in the early 1950s; this may create the m
istaken
impression that country music existed only insofar as it could contribute
to the formation of rock ‘n’ roll and that it quietly faded away once that
purpose was served. Of course, nothing could be further from the truth:
Country music has its own rich history and has continued to thrive up
to the present, although one could argue that its interactions with “race
music” and “popular music” were more vigorous in the decades before
1955 than after. However, for the purposes of this book (which cannot pos-
sibly give due justice to country’s semiautonomous history), it is impor-
tant to note that country music has had numerous points of contact with
the popular music mainstream in the past 50-odd years. Rockabilly, men-
tioned in the context of Elvis Presley’s early career, displayed the clear-
est relationship to country music of all the varieties of early rock ‘n’ roll;
almost concurrently, Nashville produced the lush “countrypolitan” sound
that enjoyed crossover success with performers such as Jim Reeves,
Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline, Faron Young, and Skeeter Davis, although,
strangely enough, at the height of the countrypolitan crossover trend in
1962, the biggest country hit of the year was “Don’t Let Me Cross Over”
by Carl Butler and Pearl.
In the late 1960s, former session guitarist Glen Campbell presented
an urbane updating of the countrypolitan sound and was given the bully
pulpit of his own network television variety show in which to expose him-
self to the masses. Another strand of crossover country song was the “nov-
elty” number, represented by Jeannie C. Riley’s “Harper Valley P.T.A” (1968)
or Jerry Reed’s “Amos Moses” (1970). Kris Kristofferson wrote numerous
songs during the early seventies, the appeal of which transcended music
industry categories, whether they were recorded by country artists such as
527
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528 The 21st Century
Johnny Cash (“Sunday Morning Comin’ Down,” 1970), Sammi Smith (“Help
Me Make It through the Night,” 1970), and Ray Price (“For the Good Times,”
1970), or by rock musicians like Janis Joplin (“Me and Bobby McGee,” 1971).
The “urban cowboy” trend beginning in the late 1970s (and derived from
the film of the same name) provides yet another example of a country
crossover boomlet, and during this period country artists such as Dolly
Parton and Kenny Rogers had numerous crossover hits.1
Yet the strongest indicator of the pervasive popularity of country
music came not from an individual artist or a cross-marketing trend, but
from a change in the way that the music industry calculated popularity
itself. On May 25, 1991, the readers of Billboard magazine awoke to find
that there were almost twice as many country albums in the “Hot 200”
album chart than there had been the week before. The explanation?
Billboard had replaced reports from individual retailers, which were
previously used to compile their charts, with SoundScan, an automated
system that recorded sales at the point of purchase at stores, most of
which belonged to large chain networks. The results threw the pur-
ported objectivity of the previous charts into question and revealed that
country artists, such as Garth Brooks, whose album Ropin’ the Wind was
the first album to debut at number one on both pop and country album
charts on September 10, 1991, commanded a heretofore-unsuspected
large appeal.
The following article captures Brooks at the height of his fame in early
1992, immediately after the success of Ropin’ the Wind (1991) and its
predecessor, No Fences (1990). It becomes clear that Brooks’s popu-
larity is due both to elements of personal style—a fusion of the auto-
biographical voice of 1970s singer-songwriters and the theatrics and
sonic density of arena rock with country new traditionalism—and to
institutional factors such as the rise of cable channels devoted to coun-
try music and the growth of country radio. The author calls attention to
what appeared to be a change in the audience demographics for country
music: not only people living in the southern United States, but those
throughout North America, both urban and rural. Brooks’s musical val-
ues may have been conservative and his loyalty to core country music
fans unquestioned, but his approach to marketing, live performance,
and video cannily employed techniques from other types of music that
gave his music a contemporary edge that is still pervasive in country
music today.
1. Aaron Latham, “The Ballad of the Urban Cowboy: America’s Search for True Grit,” Esquire,
September 12, 1978, 21–30.
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 528 05/27/19 06:19 PM

Country in the Post–Urban Cowboy Era 529
Garth Brooks: Meet Nashville’s New Breed of Generously
Stetsoned Crooner
Mark Cooper
Bandy-legged and pigeon-toed, Garth Brooks has finally taken off his stetson and
is staggering around the stage of Atlanta’s Omni like a man who’s just won a
particularly gruelling marathon.
Fists whirling at an invisible punchbag suspended just above his head, Brooks
paces up and down in front of his band, chuckling maniacally. Suddenly he sprints
up a ramp, leans backwards over his drummer with paper cups poised and douses
him with water. Country singers simply aren’t supposed to carry on like this but
Brooks is no ordinary country singer and is clearly having too much fun to care.
Earlier, Brooks had sat alone on a stool with an acoustic guitar and had the
19,000-strong Omni crowd singing along with the homespun philosophising of a
folksy ballad entitled “Unanswered Prayers.” Now the lighters have been pocketed
and the stoic fatalism of Brooks’s tenderer moments have been replaced by a man
intent on raising hell.
“You’ve taken 1991, wrapped it up and put it under my tree,” he tells the crowd,
before shimmying up a rope ladder handily suspended from a lurching lighting rig. As
Brooks himself remarked earlier this year, “Not bad for a fat boy from Oklahoma . . . ”
Garth Brooks is undoubtedly a country singer but his success is an American
pop phenomenon that has placed him alongside the likes of U2 and Michael Jackson
at the top of the charts proper. His third album, Ropin’ The Wind, entered the Billboard
pop album chart at Number 1 in the last week of September and proceeded to keep
the likes of Michael Bolton, Metallica and Hammer at bay for an incredible seven
weeks. Ropin’ The Wind has sold over five million copies to date and still hasn’t over-
taken the six million sales of its predecessor, No Fences, which, at one point, rejoined
Ropin’ The Wind in the Top 10. Since his debut in ’89, Brooks has sold over 14 mil-
lion albums in the US without even attempting to release a single to pop radio and
“crossover.” Ropin’ The Wind was the first country album to top the American pop
charts since Johnny Cash At San Quentin in ’69 but Brooks has taken country into the
mainstream on his own terms.
Country has been gaining ground since the mid-’80s, thanks to the rise of cable
channels such as Nashville Network, the growth of country radio (2,400 radio stations
now programme country, making it the third-biggest radio format in America—
behind Adult Contemporary and News but ahead of Top 40) and the emergence of a
bunch of handsome young crooners spearheaded by Randy Travis and including the
likes of Clint Black and Alan Jackson. Television hasn’t been slow to spot country’s
new audience with NBC launching Hot Country Nights—the first live music show on
network TV in 15 years—last November. Brooks got his own 1-hour concert special
on NBC in January. Country audiences now spread from the American South to the
urban centres of the West and East and, judging from Brooks’s crowd at the Omni,
include as many tots and teenagers as good ole boys and gals.
This Omni show sold out in a mere 19 minutes back in November and seats
were being scalped for as much as 500 dollars. There’s a predominance of denim and
Source: Mark Cooper, “Garth Brooks: Meet Nashville’s New Breed of Generously Stetsoned
Crooner,” Q Magazine, March 1992. Reprinted under license from Backpages Limited.
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 529 05/27/19 06:19 PM

silk and plenty of young Garth clones in hats and shirts buying their “You’ve Gotta
Believe!” T-shirts. Brooks is not a conventional sex symbol but he makes plenty of
knees tremble. “He has a voice like no other,” one teenage female fan explains. “I’m
just here to hear him sing ‘Shameless’ and I won’t be responsible for my reaction.”
Surprisingly, this young crowd reserves its most spontaneous applause for the
most traditional country moments—a fiddle break, a fill from the pedal steel, a sud-
den curl in Garth’s voice. The kids may also be into Turtles and New Kids but they’ve
taken to Garth’s style of country like a kind of Nintendo.
Brooks’s own rise has undoubtedly been aided by country’s recovery from the
recession that succeeded the Urban Cowboy fad of the early ’80s. When the Billboard
charts were revamped this summer to rely more accurately on actual sales, Brooks
was ready with Ropin’ The Wind to prove that country couldn’t be dismissed as a
minority music. But Brooks’s phenomenal success is ultimately more than the crest
of a wave.
A marketing and advertising graduate, Brooks has succeeded by remaining
remarkably faithful to the retro musical values pioneered by his hero George Strait
while taking country’s conservative and often lazy approach to video and live per-
formance by the scruff of the neck. Brooks’s mainstream success was ensured by the
video for “The Dance,” a single from No Fences which employed footage of the likes
of JFK, Martin Luther King and the Challenger crew. The song affirms Brooks’s faith
in American dreamers in the face of doubt; the video captured the imagination of an
America besieged by recession and the tremblings of the Gulf War. Brooks emerged
as a downhome boy-next-door, reaffirming traditional American values at a time of
doubt.
Another single, the rowdy “Friends In Low Places,” became a Gulf anthem and
proved that Brooks could also be something of a yahoo. When he followed up these
releases by “The Thunder Rolls,” a tale of marital infidelity complete with a video
which portrayed Brooks as a wife abuser who eventually gets smoked by his spouse,
Nashville threw up its hands and temporarily banned the clip. Brooks was publicly
hurt by the rejection but he had already proved that he had more of a finger on the
public pulse than his critics; the “Thunder Rolls” promo duly won Video Of The Year
at the ‘91 Country Music Association Awards.
Brooks proved he is his own man once again by releasing a cover of Billy Joel’s
“Shameless” as the second single from Ropin’ The Wind and by gradually transform-
ing his stage shows from the usual tight-lipped country outing into the rock-derived
extravaganza on display at the Omni.
He may not be as good-looking as most of his country peers but he oozes an
approachable charisma that his more wooden rivals must envy. In addition he is
blessed with an almost unhealthy intensity, while his ambition knows no bounds:
more than a hint of steel glints behind his pale blue eyes and painstaking country
manners.
Prior to the Omni show, Brooks wanders affably around backstage, clad in
sweatpants and without a hat anywhere in sight. Only 29, his hair is already thin-
ning and he clearly has to work to keep his weight in check. Without his trademark
stetson and striped shirts, Brooks is an unlikely superstar—more aging college jock
than national pin-up. But then country artists traditionally have little time for the
vanities that beset your average rock’n’roller, treating their fans with humility rather
than contempt. Brooks is no exception and spends three or four hours after every
show signing autographs into the wee small hours. Yet John Wayne is still his great-
est idol and, as his rise has continued unhindered and unchecked, Brooks’s modesty
has begun to blend into a sense of manifest destiny befitting an all-American boy
with an unquenchable thirst for conquest.
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 530 05/27/19 06:19 PM

“The only way we can rationalise what’s happening is to say that Garth Brooks
isn’t at the controls of this thing,” Brooks observes with a scratch of his head, refer-
ring to himself as a third-person phenomenon. “We like to think that that seat is
reserved for the Good Lord and the people. And the Good Lord and the people,
when they want to move mountains—they can. I don’t want to cop out or be modest
but that’s the only way I can explain what’s going on. I’m more or less a passenger
on this train . . . ”
The Good Lord helps those who help themselves, however, and Brooks sheep-
ishly admits that success has turned him into a workaholic who now has to think
about the business side of music constantly. “This thing has gotten so competitive
within myself that I don’t sleep any more. The rush of this kind of success is addic-
tive. It’s 24 hours a day trying to make the last wave you made look small. It’s mov-
ing and I want it to go bigger, I want it to go faster. I just want to be part of the
biggest machine there ever was, just eatin’ ‘em up. I’ll kill myself but it’s something
that I can’t stop. When I eat something that tastes good, I just want more and more
of it. This thing here—once you get a taste of the rush—you want that feeling every
second of the day.”
Brooks wasn’t always so driven. The sixth son of an Oklahoman oil engineer
and a mother who was a country recording artist herself in the ’50s, Brooks grew
up in the small town of Yukon. He sailed through school, went to Oklahoma State
on an athletics scholarship and is now profoundly critical of what he regards as his
mis-spent youth. “I took everything for granted when I was growing up and wasted
every opportunity,” he remembers with a sigh. “Everything came so easy for me but
I was a drifter and couldn’t make any commitments to work or to women.”
Just before he went to Oklahoma State, Brooks heard George Strait’s debut sin-
gle, “Unwound,” on the radio and was immediately hooked. Previously he’d divided
his musical loyalties between the stadium rock of Journey and Kansas and the sensi-
tive introspection of Dan Fogelberg and James Taylor but when Brooks heard Strait,
his fate was sealed. “I sat there and that fiddle kicked off and I just fell in love with it.
All that time I’d been screaming at the top of my lungs to Journey and ELO, I’d never
felt comfortable singing along because I couldn’t sound like those guys, suddenly
there was George Strait. Throughout the whole ’80s, I became a George wannabe.”
When Brooks failed to make it as a jock, he began to take the notion of a career in
country more seriously. His degree in advertising was almost complete when he met
his future wife Sandy in the ladies room of a club called Tumbleweeds. Brooks was
working as a bouncer and Sandy had put her fist through the wall in a brawl. The
couple are now expecting their first baby and Brooks is taking the first few months of
this year off the road to get re-acquainted with the wife who supported him when he
was nobody. It was Sandy who taught Brooks the value of commitment, a value that
he has most conspicuously applied to his career.
“It never seemed logical to me that you could reach higher if you were tied down.
Well, I got married to Sandy and I realised that you can sit on someone’s shoulders or
you can sleep while the other one is driving. All of a sudden, I could reach 10 times
higher than I could on my own.”
Brooks first ventured to Nashville in ’85 but left 23 hours later with his tail between
his legs. He’d failed to take the town by storm, and the streets weren’t exactly paved
with gold. Finally, the recently married couple gambled their last $1,500 on another
stab in ’87. Eventually, Garth was spotted by a Capitol talent scout at a showcase. His
career took off when producer and industry veteran Jimmy Bowen took over at Capi-
tol Nashville and began to put serious promotional muscle behind that debut album.
Once Brooks started scoring country hits with his one-two punch of explora-
tions of mortality and hellraising hoedowns, his shows gradually began to take on a
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 531 05/27/19 06:19 PM

distinctly rock‘n’roll edge. “There have been times when I’ve had a crowd and I’ve
looked around at the band and the band were scared and I was scared and we knew
we had the gas to push them over the cliff. You’re holding a sword in your hands
and you have to use it responsibly. We never know what’s going to happen but we
know we’re not going to go over the edge. We stay in that little zone; it’s a little strip,
a warning track that I like to live my life upon on stage.”
Brooks has even been known to surprise himself when the joint is really jump-
ing. “I do some crazy things. I had this beautiful guitar that I just loved. But this
one night I just couldn’t help it. I had to. You could just feel it. Everything went
into that slow-motion mode. And the crowd is screaming, you can actually see the
veins in their throats, they’re screaming so loud but you can’t hear nothing and
you just start spinning in that silence. I just remember the guitar coming up, I had
the crown of it in the palm of my hand and I just took it and started smashing it
into the stage. The whole time I’m smashing it, I’m thinking, What in the hell are
you doing?”
Such moments have turned Brooks into a concert attraction to rival his own
early heroes, heroes like Billy Joel. Brooks has already borrowed Joel’s “Shameless”
and encores every night with a stirring version of “You May Be Right, I May Be
Crazy.” Joel now seems equally smitten and recently joined Brooks on stage. When
the pair first talked on the telephone, Joel said he couldn’t wait to see Brooks live.
“Don’t bother,” Brooks responded. “Just take a look at all your old videos—I stole it
all from you!”
Certainly Brooks’s insistence that country can be a rip-roaring live music relies
heavily on his teenage grounding in the rock shows of the ’70s. “I’m not here to mess
with the tradition of country music but I would like to mess with the traditional way
that country is portrayed on stage. I don’t know how to say this without sounding
contradictory but country music rocks! It hurts when I go to a country concert and
I’m sitting in my seat going, Wow, man, what a tune, what a tune! but the band is
just standing there like statues. Journey was one of the bands that totally spun my
head around. In the late ’70s you would go to one of those arena rock shows and
those guys went after it. They didn’t have lasers back then but they had lights upon
lights: when they’d throw ’em, the city outside would just go dim because they had
the power. Their sound was so thick and the crowd was allowed to participate in the
shows.”
Brooks’s approach to video has proved similarly visionary in country circles.
“Video is the future of all musics. It’s plain and simple to me that soon a 10-cut CD
will have 10 videos on it too. You’ll be able to play it in the car without the visuals
or at home with the TV. People in country are starting to realise that video is a hell
of a marketing tool. It’s a three-minute advert and if all you’re going to do is stand
there and lip-synch, cash it in, because the viewers are going to go get the potato
chips or flip to another channel. In the past six months, country music television
has come a million miles but still people will go to pick up a phone in a video and
the phone will be from 1930. Wake up! Country is 1991, 1992. Country is not a way
of life as much as it was any more, country is more a way of thinking. Why make
people feel, Well, if I’m going to be a country fan, I’ve gotta be ignorant, I’ve gotta
be behind the times?”
Brooks’s eyes have taken on an almost messianic gleam as he delivers this speech.
Here is a man from Oklahoma who likes to dress in sweatpants, who’s reportedly
uneasy around a horse but who is absolutely at ease wearing a cowboy hat and sing-
ing songs about rodeos. He clearly understands country’s metaphorical appeal to the
American nation.
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 532 05/27/19 06:19 PM

“For me, country is morals,” explains Brooks. “It’s tough to draw a line some-
where but it’s funny how freedom of speech or freedom of the press might have been
the thing that liberated this country and becomes the thing that kills it. Or, I don’t
want to work or pay my way—I think the government owes me this or that. That’s all
overshot. To me, country is a frame of mind; it’s about what’s right. There’s a balance
between what’s right and what’s wrong and I’m just worried that people are losing
the little man inside, the conscience.”
It is country caution as much as country morality that has caused Brooks to keep
his music away from pop radio even while he sits astride the pop album charts. He
isn’t about to go the way of Kenny Rogers, currently obliged to slog his way round
radio stations trying to win back their support. “I’m a huge fan of Kenny Rogers the
man,” observes Brooks. “What happened to him, he was playing country music, this
Urban Cowboy thing came along and he got some crossover success and went for it.
When you’re over there, country says, Well, he’s gone to pop, and closes the door.
Pop rapes you, uses everything you have, usually for about two months, then you’re
stuck in no man’s land. I’d rather stay with country radio so people know where they
can find me. As far as crossovering goes, if right now is as good as it gets, that’s OK
with me. This way, we don’t have to kiss anybody’s ass.”
The music industry reorganized in order to take the increased popular-

ity of country music into account, and the 1990s thus provided a more
receptive context for the mainstream acceptance of country acts.2 On
the heels of Brooks, Canadian Shania Twain appealed to both coun-
try and pop audiences, benefiting from the music industry acumen of
her manager-producer-husband Mutt Lange, who formerly provided
these services to pop-metal band Def Leppard. The Dixie Chicks first
appeared as the heirs to both Twain, because of their genre, gender,
and catchy tunes, and the Spice Girls, owing to their gender and the
way in which their exhortation to “Chicks” in the audience seemed to
echo the feel-good message of “Girl Power” promulgated by the Spice
Girls. However, the “Chicks” confounded easy categorization because
of the instrumental prowess of former child-prodigy sisters Emily Robi-
son (née Erwin) and Martie Maguire (née Erwin) and rock-influenced
lead singer Natalie Maines. Even listeners to their first album, Wide
Open Spaces (1998), might have noticed the presence of older country
styles (especially bluegrass) that played only a small role in the music
of Shania Twain and Garth Brooks.
As early as 2000 with “Goodbye Earl,” the Chicks showed an
interest in the topical in a song that told the story of the murder of an
abusive husband by his former wife and her best friend in an almost
giddy fashion. “Goodbye Earl” and subsequent songs that highlighted
social issues, such as “Long Time Gone,” which criticized the histori-
cal amnesia of country radio, could hardly have prepared listeners for
what was to ensue. At a concert in London on March 10, 2003, shortly
before the beginning of the U.S.-led attack on Iraq, Maines told the
audience, “Just so you know, we’re on the good side with y’all. We do
2. For more on this change within the music industry, see Keith Negus, Music Genres and Cor-
porate Cultures (London and New York: Routledge, 1999), 103–30.
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 533 05/27/19 06:19 PM

not want this war, this violence, and we’re ashamed that the President
of the United States is from Texas.”3
The article included here returns us to those feverish moments
in the wake of September 11, 2001, when tolerance for dissent in the
United States declined, a sentiment that was only amplified by the
invasion of Iraq in spring 2003. Both the reactions of country music
fans, which included death threats and bulldozing Chicks’ CDs, and
the mainstream news media, which had asked few hard questions of
the Bush administration in the run-up to war, had difficulty assimi-
lating Maines’s statement into an atmosphere in which there was no
official public voice of opposition. The article begins with the first tel-
evised interview of the Chicks after “the statement” in April 2003 on
ABC’s “Primetime” show hosted by Diane Sawyer. The article implies
that the indignity greeting the Chicks’ statement was exacerbated by
their gender—nice girls, after all, are not supposed to know about poli-
tics, let alone make controversial remarks. The author, Charles Taylor,
makes clear, though, that the virulence of the reaction to the Chicks
cannot be credited solely to their political views or their gender, but
must take into account widely shared ideas among their massive audi-
ence about how a country musician should act. Taylor, in recognizing
the affinity of spirit that the Chicks have with female punks associ-
ated with the riot-grrrl movement, reminds us that the homogeneity
of country music performers and their audience has long been a myth.
As a case in point, Merle Haggard, to whom the Chicks paid tribute in
“Long Time Gone,” came to their defense in words and conveyed his
own opinion about the war when he released a song critical of U.S.
media coverage.
Chicks Against the Machine

Charles Taylor
April 28, 2003 | Scandal in American public life follows a script as predictable as
pornography. First come the initial scanty press reports. Then the “He/she/they
said/did what?” reaction from the disbelieving public. After that the backlash, both
condemnation and defense. And ultimately, in a carefully selected media forum, the
public mea culpa.
This final act is what was supposed to have played out last week on ABC’s
“Primetime Thursday” during Diane Sawyer’s hour-long interview with the Dixie
Chicks. Except for one thing: The Chicks weren’t following anybody’s script but their
own. Over the course of the interview, filmed in band member Martie Maguire’s
3. This is the full quote; it is often, as in the article that follows, printed as “Just so you know, [. . .]
we’re ashamed that the President of the United States is from Texas.”
Source: Charles Taylor, “Chicks Against the Machine.” This article first appeared in Salon.com, at
http://www.salon.com. An online version remains in the Salon archives. Reprinted with permission.
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 534 05/27/19 06:19 PM

Austin, Texas, home, Maguire, her sister Emily Robison and Natalie Maines, whose
March 10 comment from the stage of London’s Shepherd’s Bush Empire—“Just so
you know, we’re ashamed that the president of the United States is from Texas”—
started the controversy that continues to engulf the trio, the three refused to back
down.
Forget the apology Maines issued to Bush a few days after the Associated Press
first reported her words, or the stories that her comments had brought the band to
the point of dissolution. Offered the chance to take it all back and make nice, the
Dixie Chicks instead chose to turn the interview around. Sawyer wanted answers;
the Chicks offered questions, hard questions. Sawyer wanted to talk about the dam-
age they may have done to their career; the Chicks talked about the damage being
done to America in an era where Vice President Dick Cheney has proclaimed “You’re
either with us or against us.”
The band may have gotten more attention posing nude for the cover of the cur-
rent Entertainment Weekly, with phrases like “Dixie Sluts,” “Saddam’s Angels” and
“Traitors” stamped on their bodies. But it was the stubborn refusal they showed
Sawyer that cut deepest. Yes, Maines, as she did in her apology, said that her state-
ment was “disrespectful” and “the wrong wording with genuine emotion and ques-
tion and concern behind it.” But she didn’t apologize for those questions. “I ask
questions. That’s smart, that’s intelligent, to find out facts,” she said.
The sisters, Emily and particularly Martie, not only defended Maines but
amplified her comments. Given an hour for prime-time damage control, the Dixie
Chicks instead stopped the network cheerleading for the war dead in its tracks and
expressed the honest confusion many people are feeling far more effectively than any
of the strident rhetoric that has emanated from the left as well as the right.
With the Chicks not following the preset P.R. script for smoothing over a public
brouhaha, it was up to Sawyer to provide the pornography. You couldn’t find it in
her connecting narration, which was simply the typical pap that passes for writing
in television journalism—“Freewheeling . . . high-spirits . . . the famously untamed
lead singer . . . the rebel daughter of a renowned steel-guitar player . . . the refined
sisters . . . in that friendly, country way, we know all about their lives. . . . There
would be frightening threats, towering rage, in the words of another of their hit
songs, a landslide.” The pornography came from the way Sawyer, frustrated in her
attempt to offer the band up for ritual sacrifice, chose to stand in for the bullies.
Since Maines’ comment, the band has received death threats and had round-the-
clock security posted at their homes. The people who attend their upcoming concert
tour will have to pass through metal detectors. The threats haven’t just come from
yahoos, like the caller to a radio show heard during the “Primetime” interview who
said, “I think they should send Natalie over to Eye-rack, strap ’er to a bomb, and just
drop ’er over Baghdad.” A San Antonio DJ claimed to know where Maines lived
and said a posse should go over to her house and straighten her out. And in South
Carolina, where the band will open its tour later this week, a legislator rose in the
state assembly and said, “Anyone who thinks about going to that concert ought to be
ready, ready, ready to run away from it.”
Sawyer didn’t descend to this level of bullying. And she didn’t adopt the strate-
gies of the higher thugs like Bill O’Reilly, who simply talk their opponents into sub-
mission. Sawyer’s tactics were subtler, more insidious. Instead of journalist, the role
Sawyer chose to play was the junior high school principal who aims to shame you
into jelly with a combination of starch and steel.
From the beginning, Sawyer aimed to put the Dixie Chicks in their place. She
began the show by saying, “They’re not exactly the people your civics teacher would
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 535 05/27/19 06:19 PM

expect to find at the center of a raging debate over free speech in America.” These are
just country singers, after all, she was saying. Who would expect thought from them?
And then, at every turn, the Dixie Chicks simply outthought Diane Sawyer.
Instead of playing a plea for forgiveness, the interview played out as a drama
between two sharply different views of what it means to be an American citizen.
There was Sawyer’s view, in which only certain people are qualified to speak their
minds, and the view of the Dixie Chicks, a vision shot through with contingencies
and uncertainties far more complex than Sawyer could process. “I guess on some
level I feel like me speaking out, not only that particular statement, but here today, is
the most patriotic thing I can do,” Maines said. . . .
One of the remarkable things about the interview was the Chicks’ lack of
invective—toward the troops, toward people who supported the war and even
toward Bush. What they expressed about the president was honest disappointment.
At one point, Maines imagined what she would have liked to have heard Bush say
about the protesters. “You know,” she imagined the president saying, “I saw them.
I appreciate the sentiment that they’re coming from. I appreciate that these are pas-
sionate citizens of the United States. But I feel, I really feel, that this is the right thing
to do.” Sawyer attempted to counter by saying the president had affirmed the right
to protest.
But the clip that followed, of Bush on March 6 following worldwide antiwar
protests, told a different story. Dripping contempt, Bush said, “First of all, size of
protests, it’s like deciding, well I’m going to decide policy based on a focus group.”
It’s the perfect distillation of the arrogance of the Bush administration, reducing the
fears and concerns of people all over the world to “a focus group.” It’s exactly what
Maguire meant when she said, “I felt like there was a lack of compassion every time
I saw Bush talking about this . . . for people questioning this, for people about to die
for this on both sides.”
At one point in the interview, Maines said, “People have died to give you this
right. That’s what I’m doing. I’m using that right.” But she is speaking at a par-
ticularly ugly time in American history, when using that right is enough to get you
branded a traitor. As Dick Cheney has said, “You’re either with us or against us.”
“That’s not true—it’s not true,” Maines said of Cheney’s comment. Though to
many Americans, it is true. This weekend, I was walking through the central New
York town of Clinton and came upon a flier in a store window for a rally in support
of the troops. The legend on the top of the flier read “Loyalty Day.” The meaning was
clear: If you don’t support the war, you’re a disloyal American.
This is what public discourse has come down to in America right now. The litany
is depressing and familiar, from Ari Fleischer’s admonition to Bill Maher after 9/11
that Americans have to watch what they say, to the suspension of habeas corpus for
thousands of people who’ve been arrested, to the even more onerous dissolution of
civil liberties that would come under the PATRIOT II act. In the New York Times on
April 27, Thomas Friedman wrote, “It feels as if some people want to use this war to
create a multiparty democracy in Iraq and a one-party state in America.”
And it cuts both ways. The left in no way holds power in America at this moment,
but its vision of what politics should be often seems to partake of the same either/or
dogmatism. In the current issue of Dissent, Michael Wreszin writes in response to an
article by Michael Kazin, which he feels exemplifies the dangers of the magazine’s
belief that the left should speak “patriotically to our fellow citizens.”
Wreszin writes, “Anyone seriously engaged in activist politics wants to
develop a constituency and see it grow. But did Kazin expect [Martin Luther] King
to communicate with the average white citizen in racist Mississippi and Cicero,
Illinois?” The vision of politics that this statement reveals is remarkable. Wreszin
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 536 05/27/19 06:19 PM

apparently believes that Martin Luther King was preaching only to the choir, that
he didn’t try to communicate to the people who disagreed with him. (How then,
you wonder, did he expect to change anything?) It’s the opposite of the belief that
politics is about engagement, and an affirmation of a politics that speaks only to
true believers. In other words, it’s a rejection of everything that it reasonably means
to be political.
As much as I loathe the determination of the Bush administration to use the
threat of terrorism to abolish civil liberties and create a government that feels it has
no obligation to disclose the reasons for the decisions it takes, you can understand
why people buy into that when you see protesters holding signs equating Bush with
Saddam, or the placard shown in footage during “Primetime” that read “Bombing Is
Terrorism.” Real politics are not possible when people abdicate the responsibility to
think in favor of ideology, because ideology is always the enemy of thought.
This is the atmosphere in which Natalie Maines chose to speak out. And it’s the
atmosphere in which she and Martie Maguire and Emily Robison maintain that their
questioning of the government and of Bush’s willingness to respect the opinions of
others marks them as good patriots.
It’s not just the clarity and persistence of what they’ve said that marks their brav-
ery, but who they are. As “Primetime” pointed out, they are hardly the only celebri-
ties to have spoken out against the war. The show noted that Susan Sarandon had
been disinvited from a United Way fundraiser, and that her partner, Tim Robbins,
had been barred from a celebration of “Bull Durham” at the Baseball Hall of Fame
in Cooperstown, N.Y. But nobody is bulldozing cassettes of Sarandon and Robbins’
movies, or Sean Penn’s, who took a trip to Iraq a few months back. Nobody is boycott-
ing “The West Wing,” although Martin Sheen is a longtime activist. And nobody is
burning Michael Moore’s book Stupid White Men. Not to suggest that those celebrities
haven’t taken grief, but it’s no surprise when Sarandon or Robbins or Sheen or Moore
speak out against the war. That’s a logical action, given their very public politics.
But none of these people reach as wide an audience as the Dixie Chicks, who
are the biggest-selling female recording artists of all time. When my Salon colleague
Stephanie Zacharek wrote a few weeks back that the backlash against the Chicks was
certainly due in part to the traditional conservatism of country music, she got letters
accusing her of painting country fans as a bunch of ignorant hicks. Those responses
fail to take into account the simple fact of the disapproval that has traditionally been
leveled at country stars who don’t toe the line.
In the ’60s, after saying he was a fan of the Beatles and recording versions of
Chuck Berry’s “Memphis” and “Johnny B. Goode,” Buck Owens took out an ad in
a Nashville fan magazine called “Pledge to Country Music” where, among other
things, he said, “I Shall Sing No Song That Is Not a Country Song.” Johnny Cash
alienated many country fans with songs like “The Ballad of Ira Hayes” and later pro-
test numbers like “Man in Black” and “Singin’ in Vietnam Talkin’ Blues” (an amaz-
ing song that has much to say about how you can be against a war and care about the
safety of the troops). That didn’t fit in with a format where a song like Merle Hag-
gard’s “Okie From Muskogee” (reactionary as hell and still a great song) could be a
huge hit, or where, at the height of Watergate, Nixon was welcomed by Roy Acuff
onto the stage of the Grand Ole Opry.
The simple fact is that country plays to a huge demographic, and often an older
one, and the majority of Americans support the war. It was inevitable that the Dixie
Chicks were bound to have, among their fans, people who would be upset by any
antiwar statements. In the “Primetime” interview, Maguire talked about trying to
convert friends to country music, people who said, “That’s redneck music, those
people are so backward and conservative.” It was obvious how that attitude pained
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 537 05/27/19 06:19 PM

her. But it’s hardly painting a large segment of the country audience as rednecks to
acknowledge the conservatism of country music.
“It’s all about being country-music artists,” Maguire told Entertainment Weekly.
“And [country radio not playing our music] is proving that it is about country music.”
Maguire told Sawyer of their colleagues in country music, “I was surprised at how
many would come forward but didn’t want to come forward publicly.” Among the
things reported in the Entertainment Weekly cover story was the fact that Vince Gill
has had his patriotism questioned for saying it was time to lay off the Dixie Chicks.
EW also reported that Toby Keith projects a doctored image of Maines with Saddam
Hussein during his stage show, and that Travis Tritt, that mullet that passes for a
man, has called the band “cowardly.”
On March 20, RCA Nashville publicity sent out an e-mail headed “Sara Evans
Voices Her Views in Glamour Magazine,” in which the country singer is quoted as
saying, “I trust [President Bush] to do whatever is necessary to protect our nation
from al-Qaeda, Saddam Hussein and other terrorists. It’s disheartening to me to hear
negativity about our President during this highly critical time—and it is especially
disheartening to hear comments made outside the United States. Republican or
Democrat, we have an immediate duty as Americans to rally around our President
and troops.” Wonder who she was talking about?
For all the talk about how the Dixie Chicks have destroyed their career, people
haven’t pointed out (or pointed out tangentially, as Sawyer did) that “Home” is still
No. 3 on the country charts and selling about 33,000 copies a week, and that most
of the shows on their upcoming tour have sold out. It makes no business sense for
country radio to ban the band, but I think that the boycott was just the excuse that
country radio was looking for to stick it back to the Dixie Chicks. The trio had already
challenged the format with “Long Time Gone,” the first single from “Home.” One of
the verses went “We listen to the radio to hear what’s cookin’/But the music ain’t got
no soul/Now they sound tired but they don’t sound haggard/They got money but
they don’t have cash/They got Junior but they don’t have Hank.”
Since the Chicks were the biggest stars in country, country radio had no choice
but to play a single that slammed most of the music it played as prefab and anony-
mous. “Country music doesn’t need the Dixie Chicks,” said one caller to a radio
show heard on “Primetime.” But since the band has proved a huge crossover success,
and did it with an album more “country” than their previous two, country music
may find that it needs the Chicks more than they need it.
Given their huge success—which shows no signs of dissipating—you have to
be a special kind of ass to claim, as some have done, that all this has been a bid for
publicity. The biggest stars in country music didn’t need publicity, especially coming
off an album that debuted at No. 1 on the pop charts and stayed there for weeks. You
would have to be very cynical or very stupid to believe that anyone would choose the
kind of publicity that would bring them death threats.
Still, it seems to me that the Dixie Chicks are operating now less in the realm of
country music than they are in the realm of punk, which, in his book Ranters & Crowd
Pleasers, Greil Marcus called “infinitely more than a musical style, period . . . an event
in a cultural time [that was] an earthquake . . . throwing all sorts of once-hidden phe-
nomena into stark relief.” The Entertainment Weekly cover, another example of how
the band has refused to affect the demure pose that would prove they are backing
down, appropriates the tactic used initially by the Riot Grrrl bands, who appeared
onstage with words like “Bitch” and “Slut” scrawled on their midriffs. Again, it is
impossible to divorce the courage of the Dixie Chicks’ stance from the place they
occupy in mainstream pop.
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I don’t mean to lessen the determination to find their own voice that character-
ized riot-grrrl bands like Bikini Kill, and Heavens to Betsy, Excuse 17, and that still
characterizes Sleater-Kinney. But the fringe offers a safer place for people to pursue
that voice. As the Dixie Chicks have seen, there is more at stake for mainstream per-
formers who decide not to play by the rules. Implicitly, they call everything around
them into question. And so it seems a harbinger when you go back and listen to
“Home” and hear Natalie Maines sing “You don’t like the sound of the truth/Com-
ing from my mouth . . . I don’t think that I’m afraid anymore to say that I would
rather die trying,” or see the roadside sign on the back of the CD booklet “We Are
Changing the Way We Do Business.”
But it’s not just the terms of their own success, or even the terms of pop music,
in which the Dixie Chicks are causing tremors. It’s the very terms in which public
discourse is conducted—or not conducted—in America at the moment. “The people
who are calling for a boycott are also exercising their right to free speech,” some are
bound to write to me. Of course they are. But I question anyone’s dedication to free
speech when they express it by trying to shut down other voices—not by engaging
them or debating them or making a case why they’re wrong, but just trying to shut
them down. “In wartime only the clandestine press can be truly free,” Marcus wrote
in an earlier essay about punk. For all the willingness of the mainstream press to roll
over and frolic at the feet of the Bush administration, for all the ways in which Bush
and Ashcroft are using the Constitution as a piece of toilet paper, I do not believe
that a fascist takeover is imminent in America. That is an excuse to shy away from
the work that needs to be done to defeat Bush and restore the civil liberties he has
trashed.
What I do believe is that for all the fear in the air, fear of the terror without
and the repression within, there is also open to us at this moment the chance of
exhilaration. Freedom may never seem so alluring as when it is most threatened,
when the Republic reaches a moment where, as Norman Mailer wrote in 1968, it
can bring forth “the most fearsome totalitarianism the world has ever known . . . or
a babe of a new world brave and tender, artful and wild.” There’s exhilaration in
any moment when the country has the choice of living up to either the best or the
worst version of itself. I’m grateful to the Dixie Chicks for reminding us of that
exhilaration, for carrying on, aware of the social limits that have been placed on
doubt and dissent, and still insisting that questioning and digging for facts are the
mark of patriotism.
That was the freedom offered by the civil rights movement, and it’s one of those
voices I hear now, the voice of Fannie Lou Hamer, delegate of the Mississippi Free-
dom Democratic Party, addressing a committee at the 1964 Democratic Convention
in Atlantic City, N.J., to challenge the seating of the state delegation elected under the
system that prohibited many blacks from voting. “Is this America?” Hamer asked.
“The land of the free and the home of the brave? Where we have to sleep with our
telephones off the hook, because our lives be threatened daily?”
The comparison only goes so far. As rich pop stars, the Dixie Chicks have
security options open to them that were not open to Hamer and the other people
working for voters rights in Mississippi. But when people fantasize about strapping
Natalie Maines to a missile headed for Baghdad, when a state legislator suggests that
anyone who thinks about going to a Dixie Chicks’ concert better be “ready to run”
(from what—a lynch mob?), when it’s held that you cannot question a war and still
desire the safety of the troops, when you’re told that it’s OK to question policy but
not the president, Hamer’s question remains. Is this America? The thrill, and maybe
the sorrow, of the months to come will be finding out.
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 539 05/27/19 06:19 PM

Further Reading
Gumbel, Andrew. “Country Fans Spurn the Anti-war Dixie Chicks.” The Independent, August
9, 2006. Accessed July 2007 at www.news. independent.co.uk/world/ middle_east/
Article1217824.ece.
Hubbs, Nadine. Rednecks, Queers, and Country Music. Berkeley: University of California Press,
2014.
Latham, Aaron. “The Ballad of the Urban Cowboy: America’s Search for True Grit.” Esquire,
September 12, 1978, 21–30.
Malone, Bill C. Country Music U.S.A. Rev. ed. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1985.
Peterson, Richard A. Creating Country Music: Fabricating Authenticity. Chicago: University of
Tosches, Nick. Country: Living Legends and Dying Metaphors in America’s Biggest Music.
New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1985.
Tyrangiel, Josh. “Chicks in the Line of Fire.” Time, May 21, 2006. Accessed July 2007 at www
.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1196419-1,00.html.
Discography
Dixie Chicks. Taking the Long Way. Sony, 2006.
_______. Home. Sony, 2002.
_______. Wide Open Spaces. Sony, 1998.
Brooks, Garth. Ropin’ the Wind. Capitol, 2001.
Cash, Johnny. The Essential Johnny Cash. Sony, 2002.
Cline, Patsy. The Definitive Collection. MCA Nashville, 2004.
Parton, Dolly. Ultimate Dolly Parton. RCA, 2003.
Rogers, Kenny. 42 Ultimate Hits. Capitol, 2004.
Twain, Shania. Come on Over. Mercury Nashville, 1997.
86. New Adventures in Mediation
In the late 1990s, teen pop and, in particular, the popularity of boy
bands represented the cresting of a trend that had long been part of
mainstream popular music. The tradition of four or five men singing
together in harmony can be found in the barbershop quartets and Afri-
can American gospel quartets that thrived at the turn of the last century,
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New Adventures in Mediation 541
which then transformed into 1940s-era groups like the Ink Spots and
then into doowop in the 1950s. Add to this musical tradition the pur-
suit of a young teen or “tween,” predominantly female audience estab-
lished by the marketing of first the girl groups and then the Beatles and
the Monkees in the mid-1960s, and all the elements were in place for
the blossoming of the millennial boy bands. The Jackson Five estab-
lished the clearest prototype for the genre in the late 1960s: five young
men, some of whose voices had not yet changed, sang and danced in
a pop-inflected soul (or R&B) style. In a pattern that continues to the
present day, the Jackson Five begat a white version of themselves, the
Osmonds, a musical family of seasoned professionals (they were “dis-
covered” singing barbershop quartets on Main Street in Disneyland)
who shot to fame following a change to a style closely approximating
that of the Jacksons.
New variations on this theme were produced in the early 1980s
by the Puerto Rican group Menudo and Boston-area producer Maurice
Starr, who formed first an African American group, New Edition, and
then, shortly thereafter, a white group, New Kids on the Block. Starr
subtly updated the Jackson Five sound, adding elements of hip-hop and
electro-funk. Early nineties groups such as Boyz II Men (African Ameri-
can) experienced great success in the format, but that only dimly pre-
saged the explosion of popularity that greeted the Backstreet Boys and
’N Sync (both white) at the end of the decade.
The late 1990s were also notable for two other cultural phenom-
ena: the growth of “reality TV,” and the “dot-com” bubble. Reality TV,
like the boy band genre, could boast a long history preceding the late
1990s, dating back to the beginning of TV in the form of shows like
Candid Camera, in which unsuspecting people were caught in the act
of responding to pranks. However, not until the international success
of Big Brother (Netherlands, 1997; U.S., 2000) and Survivor (Sweden,
1997; U.S., 2000) did these shows dominate programming and elicit
their own genre name. The dot-com bubble was created by the belief
that Internet-based companies that neither produced anything nor
made a profit were nevertheless worth something—namely, whatever
people thought they were worth, which from 1997 to 2000 was quite a
lot. However, the effect of “reality” created by reality TV resembled the
effect of market value created by dot-com stocks: what media theorist
Jean Baudrillard termed a “simulacrum”—that is, a copy of an object for
which there exists no original.1
Joshua Clover’s article on the boy band phenomena came at the

craze’s height in the summer of 2000 and discusses the show that
combined the boy band and reality TV manias, Making the Band, in
1. Baudrillard’s fullest exposition of his notion of the simulacrum may be found in Simulacra
and Simulation, trans. Sheila Faria Glaser (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, [1981] 1994),
1–42.
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 541 05/27/19 06:19 PM

which teen pop Svengali Lou Pearlman chose five contestants to form
a new boy band, subsequently christened O-Town. “O-Town” stands
for “Orlando,” home of Disney World, and Clover makes plain that boy
bands stand in the same relation to more “authentic” genres of popular
music as Disney World stands to the world outside its gates. In other
words, and to paraphrase Baudrillard, Disney World exists to convince
us that the world outside of Disney World is real.2 In a circle that comes
close to being complete, turn-of-the-century pop stars Britney Spears,
Christina Aguilera, and Justin Timberlake were cast members on the
Mickey Mouse Club (broadcast on the Disney Channel), forming a (har-
monized) echo to the barbershop quartet singing of the Osmond Broth-
ers in Disneyland (ancestor of Disney World) almost 40 years earlier.
Clover clarifies that the connection between these phenomena might
lie in the heady delirium prompted by the gravity-free ascent of the
dot-com stocks. Middle-class tweens, flush with their parents’ excess
cash, could buy boy band CDs while their parents’ fantasies of instant
wealth that they hoped to achieve through IPOs (initial public offerings)
of dot-com stocks were fed by hybrid reality-TV game shows such as
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire (the most-watched show in the United
States during the 1999–2000 season).
Jukebox Culture: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love

the Boy Band
Joshua Clover
“The tortured misunderstandings between elitist taste and popular culture are to
agonize the coming century: The potentially sublime is criticized for being cheap
and unreal.” So said architect-theorist Rem Koolhaas about Coney Island amusement
parks circa 1900, but that goes double circa right about now for the gazillion-selling
‘N Sync. And Backstreet Boys. And Britney and Christina. And LFO. And a thousand
more waiting in the wings. They are the new world economy, they are the most bril-
liant dance pop ever made, and if you’re still worried about how unreal they are, you
are made to be faded.
Fakeness simply isn’t a problem anymore (just ask pro wrestling, formerly an
absurd sport and now a fab soap opera). What’s mysterious is why it ever was. Con-
sider it this way: Recorded music bears the same relationship to live music that mov-
ies do to plays. They are synthesized, technologized phantasmagorias that sacrifice
realism for unalloyed pleasure. (Pssst…when the Death Star blows up, it doesn’t
really blow up.)
Hence the potentially sublime genius of Making the Band, the television series that
synthesizes a new boy band from an ocean of auditioning w anna-be-a-millionaires.
The products of the dream-making machinery will go on to live their lives on the
2. Baudrillard, Simulacra and Simulation, 12–13.
Source: Joshua Clover, “Jukebox Culture: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Boy
Band,” Spin (July 2000): 157. Reprinted with permission from SPIN magazine.
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 542 05/27/19 06:19 PM

charts as well as the airwaves. Nobody cares that the real artist here is no musician
but grotesque Svengali Lou Pearlman, businessman behind ’N Sync and Backstreet
Boys. And even the “boys” who make it know this isn’t about Art: Finalist Trevor
Penick notes that the selections were about “what five they thought looked best
together.” The kids can now admit what Milli Vanilli, fatally, could not: They are
finely-tooled spokesmodels for a concept called O-Town. That’s the band’s name, as
in their home base, Orlando, Florida, teen-pop’s Emerald City.
Bryan Chan, who reached the final eight, says “The thing being based out of
Orlando was very apropos. It’s Theme Park City; everything that surrounds you is
surreal.” Sure, the local soundstages of Disney (which just happens to own ABC,
which just happens to air Making the Band) gave you Mesdemoiselles Spears and
Aguilera and any number of boy-bandits. But this town isn’t about music any more
than Space Mountain is about space or mountains. It’s about contrived pleasure in its
purest forms, as divorced from reality as possible.
The famous argument about the original Disneyland was that, in being such
a fantasy, it made the bizarre world outside its gates—Beverly Hills, Compton,
Hollywood—seem normal, acceptable. Teen pop does the same job with music,
insuring that the formulaic and stylized performances of “real” rock and rap seem
authentic by comparison. Blink-182 should lick the Backstreet Boys’ boots in return
for whatever shred of credibility they have.
But boy bands shouldn’t be seen as simple unreal versions of actual musicians;
they’re complex versions of, say, Pokémon figures. If you like Pikachu, you’ll go for
Justin Timberlake; if you like Gengar, you’re bound for A.J. If you don’t know who
these are, get out of the way. There are 27.6 million “tweens” (eight- to 14-year-olds)
who do.
Beneficiaries of a bizarrely blossoming economy, tweens have pocket green
and they know how to use it, feeding off the imperial power of their own market
share. And just as wandering the mall is a kid’s first taste of what it means to be
part of a diversified multinational, committing to your first favorite boy band at
the turn of the millennium is practice for owning the perfect tech stock. Call it
“adventure capital”; the thrill that goes with owning a scrap of a massive winner
and checking the Top 40 every week like it’s the Nasdaq. The tween population
will expand through 2010. And after that? When I asked Trevor Penick what he
expected to be doing in 35 years, he paused for only a second and suggested, “A
35-year reunion tour?”
The boom in reality TV led to a great variety of hybrid shows that

applied aspects of the reality format to other genres. The most suc-
cessful of these, American Idol, combined aspects of the Star Search
type of talent show with the ongoing narrative of the Big Brother type
of reality show. Idol topped the U.S. television ratings for seven years
in a row, while also confirming a new sort of vocal lingua franca, since
reinforced in another top-rated TV drama, Glee: a breathy yet power-
ful melisma-infused style derived both from post-1980 R&B singers
like Whitney Houston and Mariah Carey and from contemporary musi-
cal theater, which could be applied willy nilly to almost any sort of
material. In what could be termed the “karaoke” approach to popular
music, both Idol and Glee provided further evidence that the ability to
provide a good performance of a well-known song had supplanted the
notion of 60s-era authenticity based on the idea that the singer was
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 543 05/27/19 06:19 PM

also the songwriter and was thus expressing his or her own feelings.
The emphasis thus shifts in discussions of value from a performance
of the self to the evaluation of craft. An interesting aspect of this
change in pop music aesthetics is the presence of judges on American
Idol who attempt to produce a critical discourse that will be intelligible
to a lay audience.
Nina Ayoub’s interview of Katherine Meizel highlights many aspects

of Idol that are arguably responsible for its appeal: the breakdown
of production and consumption, so that the audience is perceived as
creating the commodity that they will eventually purchase; the use of
“American Dream” narratives as a thread to create interest and sym-
pathy for the contestants; and what Meizel calls the “postmodern col-
lapsing of boundaries.”
Idol Pursuits
Nina C. Ayoub
American Idol has long topped the ratings on television. In scholarly publishing, how-
ever, it has been more of a blip. This month, in what appears to be the first university-
press book on Idol, Katherine Meizel’s Idolized: Music, Media, and Identity in American
Idol (Indiana University Press) hits the stage.
The author, a visiting assistant professor at the Oberlin Conservatory of Music,
brings an intriguing background to all things Idolatrous. The new book derives from
her Ph.D. work in ethnomusicology at the University of California at Santa Barbara.
Meizel has also written extensively about the show for Slate, a site she thanks for
allowing her to “work out my ideas without using words like ‘postmodern’ and
‘teleological.’” However, with a nod to Fredric Jameson and Claude Lévi-Strauss
on page one, the new book is firmly in the academic realm. Along with analyzing
TV footage, commercial recordings, and discourse on Idol, Meizel conducted inter-
views with contestants as well as with an Idol music director and a vocal coach. She
attended broadcast rehearsals and accompanied some of her former singing students
to auditions. (Meizel has a second doctorate, in musical arts, also from UCSB.) Her
next project will be on the crossover genre of “popera.”
One is curious: Did the scholar audition for Idol? Alas, she was past the cutoff
age, 28. “I absolutely would have,” Meizel says, “but only for research. I know I
would never have made it past the first round!”
Via e-mail, the author answered some questions on her work.
Q. American Idol is an unusual subject for an ethnomusicologist. You’ve suggested that the
field is changing. How so?
Source: Nina C. Ayoub, “Idol Pursuits,” The Chronicle of Higher Education, February 13, 2011. Copy-
right © 2011, The Chronicle of Higher Education. Reprinted with permission.
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 544 05/27/19 06:19 PM

A. I began as a graduate student, when ethnomusicology was seeing an intense
broadening of approach and topics of study, and an increase in c ross-disciplinary
work. And there has been much more interest in popular music in general over
the past decade. The Popular Music section at the Society for Ethnomusicol-
ogy has grown exponentially every year that I’ve been a member—since 2003, I
think.
Most importantly for my own work, there is a burgeoning interest in main-
stream, commercial pop music—though to be honest, I think in certain ways that
other kinds of popular music (rock, metal, jazz, hip-hop) that are understood as bas-
tions of “art” or valued as musics of resistance are still privileged as research mate-
rial. People will tell you that this is a battle that’s already been won in academe, but
though I’ve had lots of support, I’m also aware from experience that there is still
some real resistance to acknowledging mainstream culture-industry phenomena like
Idol as significant and legitimate for study. I hope that my book will join the work
of my “poptimist” colleagues in solidifying the understanding of mainstream pop as
socially meaningful.
Q. What do you see as the “serious cultural work” done by Idol?
A. American Idol was born nine months to the day after 9/11. That’s a bit coinci-
dental, since while it was conceived as an American show, it ended up being
initially developed in the U.K. the year before—but its success has been anything
but accidental. At this historical moment when everything was suddenly called
into question—America’s place in the world, who is American, and what that
means—how could a show about exactly those things, embedded in a frame-
work of American music, fail? American Idol at once reaffirms old ideas and
ideologies of American culture, and helps to reshape it for the new 21st century.
There is the constant, careful reiteration of particular American Dream narratives
(crystallized during an earlier time of national crisis) and an associated centrality
of movement (geographical and class) in the imagining of Americanness. There
are clearly delineated, packaged-for-sale American identities, while at the same
time Idol capitalizes on the tension between multiculturalist and assimilationist
goals, and on the postmodern collapsing of boundaries—between music genres,
between producer and consumer, and between politics and entertainment. The
incorporation of audience voting is key here.
Q. What is the wider significance of the voting?
A. The voting process is one of the most important things about Idol, the way the
show plays with the idea of consumer choice dressed up as the quintessential act
of democracy. The process is basically deciding what you are going to buy, but
it’s made to look like an election. It’s a very compelling feeling, that you have
this choice (“you decide”), and it’s also very smart business because it provides
a guaranteed consumer market for a product (in Idol’s case, albums or concert
tickets, etc.). If people vote for something and believe that they have a part in
creating it as a commodity, they’ll be invested in it and more likely to buy it. And
voting is an idea that’s caught on like wildfire throughout popular culture and
the media over the past 10 years—everything is about voting now, about making
consumers feel like they have this cultural agency.
In the widest sense, Idol voting has gotten tangled up in discourse about
democracy. Every year there are murmurs in the press asking why, if Idol got
500 million votes, a presidential election doesn’t draw equivalent participation
among American citizens. Of course, it isn’t the same thing at all; Idol viewers can
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 545 05/27/19 06:19 PM

vote multiple times, or when they’re 12 years old. But the fact that we draw this
contrast is important. It points to our concerns about the conflation of entertain-
ment and politics, about a perceived loss of boundaries (see “reality TV”) in our
21st-century lives.
Q. One of your subjects is William “She Bangs” Hung, a rejected contestant in the audition
phase who drew much ridicule but went on to become a celebrity. You link his winning
by losing to the American Dream. How so?
A. We tend to focus on the idea of success as the ultimate and only possible outcome
of the American Dream, but failure is an important part of Dream discourse, too.
We have to fall down if we’re going to move on up, and being cut down to size is
part of the process of making it big. In Dream terms, initial failure keeps us hum-
ble, makes us stronger, gives us something to overcome, and ultimately becomes
a stepping stone on the way to success. William Hung’s story (while there is
certainly more to it) as presented on Idol exemplifies this.
Q. Singers on Idol, you note, have been alternately praised and rebuked for melisma, a
kind of ornamentation in singing also known as riffing or runs. What are the politics of
melisma?
A. This is how I got into Idol in the first place, when I read some journalism criti-
cizing Idol singers for an “overuse” of melisma in comparison to older singers
like Aretha Franklin. At first, I actually went and measured melisma use in some
older singers and in Idol singers (that part didn’t make it into the book, because
I didn’t feel like my process was controlled enough), and didn’t find an increase
in occurrence so much as changes in practice—so I started to wonder, what are
the real issues at stake here? Just aesthetics? The more I talked to people, the
more I found that there’s a history of critical and public resistance to melisma,
linked to ideas about race and religion and nation, and the difficult balance that
is required in covering famous repertoire, to acknowledge pop history but at the
same time establish individuality as a singer.
Q. The new season is still in its audition stage, but do you have first impressions of Jennifer
Lopez and Aerosmith’s Steven Tyler as Idol’s new judges? What’s your take on Tyler’s
“appreciation” of female contestants?
A. They haven’t had much of a chance to shine yet, but there’s a lot that’s familiar
so far. I think I said in my first Slate post this season that Steven Tyler is like the
judging love child of Simon Cowell’s wandering eye and Paula Abdul’s wander-
ing mind.
Further Reading
Levy, Frederick. The Ultimate Boy Band Book. New York: Pocket, 2000.
Meizel, Katherine. Idolized: Music, Media, and Identity in American Idol. Bloomington: Indiana
Rushfield, Richard. American Idol: The Untold Story. New York: Hyperion, 2011.
Discography
98 Degrees. 98 Degrees and Rising. Motown, 1998.
Backstreet Boys. Millennium. Jive, 1999.
’N Sync. No Strings Attached. Jive, 2000.
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 546 05/27/19 06:19 PM

87. The End of History and the Mass-Marketing
of Trivia
Several scholars of popular music have alluded to changes in the way

young listeners consume popular music.1 For those who grew up with
the continuous broadcasting of music videos, linking music with visual
media has become commonplace. Changes in the way multinational
entertainment corporations operate, along with mergers between what
were once companies devoted to separate media, have resulted in
ever-new alliances between music and a range of other media forms,
including music video, video games, and cinema. Reports that DVD sales
outstripped sales of CDs in 2002 may come as a surprise, but with the
advent of MP3 computer files that allow virtually unlimited download-
ing and storage of music, combined with the continuing inflated price of
retail CDs, such a shift may have been predicted. In the latest twist in the
decline of the value of three-dimensional objects, streaming video ser-
vices have now rendered the idea of purchasing a DVD almost obsolete.
Accompanying this shift in the role of music as the privileged form of
entertainment for the under-25 crowd has been a new kind of eclecticism
among younger listeners of pop music. The claim “I listen to everything,”
familiar as a response to those who ask a student about his or her prefer-
ence in music, is becoming more and more accurate. Such a development
suggests a shift in the type and level of involvement with particular genres
experienced by a significant part of the audience for popular music.
Yet another facet of the changing relationship between the youth of
today and popular music is a new view of the history of popular music.
Formerly the terrain of collectors and obsessives, historical trivia is now
mass-marketed in the form of CD reissues, DVDs, websites, documen-
taries, and trade books about every well-known genre and artist. One
can note several factors in this transformation dating back to the 1980s:
the rise of the “classic rock” radio format, which demonstrated that the
popularity of music from the mid-1960s to the mid-1970s was not only a
baby-boomer nostalgia trip, but also had formed a genre retroactively
1. See Lawrence Grossberg, “Same As It Ever Was? Rock Culture. Same As It Ever Was! Rock
Theory,” in Stars Don’t Stand Still in the Sky: Music and Myth, ed. Karen Kelly and Evelyn McDon-
nell, 99–121 (New York: New York University Press, 1999); Jason Middleton and Roger Beebe,
“The Racial Politics of Hybridity and ‘Neo-Eclecticism’ Contemporary Popular Music,” Popular
Music 21, no. 2 (May 2002): 159–72.
547
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 547 06/04/19 11:11 PM

that provided a viable listening choice for Generation X’ers; the reissue
of long out-of-print CDs, often in compilations and box sets containing
“rarities” that were previously unavailable commercially; the multipli-
cation of specialized ’zines; and finally (somewhat later in the 1990s),
the blossoming of the Internet as a source of information (in the form of
websites) and as a marketplace where seemingly any recording (sonic
and visual) ever released could be tracked down. As examples of the
mass-marketing of former collectibles, one can point to the release of
Bob Dylan’s The Bootleg Series—Volumes 1–3 [Rare and Unreleased]
1961–1991 in 1991 as a key moment—“bootlegs” had previously been
defined by their scarcity and unavailability through official channels.
This collection of Dylan’s studio outtakes and live performances, which
had circulated through unmarked albums in used record stores or on
tapes passed from fan to fan, could now be consumed with considerably
less effort. Offering proof that box sets make great stocking stuffers, all
three of the Beatles Anthology CDs—a series of two-CD sets released
over a period of 11 months beginning in late November 1995—sold mil-
lions of copies and made number one on Billboard’s best-selling album
charts, marking the definitive massification of musical marginalia.
The following article details the impact of this sea change on the mate-
rial culture of popular music, described here in the music of numerous
new, young bands that seem to evoke pre-1980 music without a self-
consciously “retro” attitude. Babcock’s references to how these young
groups reproduce “good music” also testifies to how the aesthetics of
classic rock have been successfully transmitted, a phenomenon that he
attributes to a “critical consensus” and the development of a canon.
Babcock reveals how critical and commercial canons often invert the
sense of which music was significant at the time by bringing music
from the margins into the center of a historical sequence.2 Although
not stated overtly in this article, critical canons are also situated within
particular notions of artist and audience identity; as Rilo Kiley sing in
their “Absence of God” from 2004 (evoking nothing so much as singer-
songwriter Jim Croce’s 1972 recording “Operator”), “Folk singers sing
songs for the working, baby/We’re just recreation for all those doctors
and lawyers.”
A factor not discussed by Babcock is the basic musical continuity
of post–rock ‘n’ roll popular music: today’s listeners can feel and hear
a connection in much contemporary popular music to “classic rock”—
some of which is more than 50 years old—that simply was not possible
in the 1970s and 1980s, when the popular music from 40 years earlier
was typified by Bing Crosby and Guy Lombardo. And even if popular
music fans 30 years ago expanded their interests into jazz from the
2. For a discussion of a related phenomenon, see Greil Marcus, “Death Letters,” in Listen
Again: A Momentary History of Pop Music, ed. Eric Weisbard, 296–305 (Durham, N.C.: Duke
University Press, 2007).
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The End of History and the Mass-Marketing of Trivia 549
1930s and 1940s, the connection between jazz and 1970s popular music
was still relatively weak. Another ramification of the changed sense of
history discussed in this article is a shift in academic legitimation: the
past 20 years have witnessed an enormous growth in academic socie
ties, conferences, journals, and, yes, courses in the history of popular
music.3
The Kids Aren’t Alright . . . They’re Amazing

Jay Babcock
It happened again a few weeks ago. I was checking out Kings of Leon, a band made
up of three brothers and one cousin from Tennessee who do an amazing, uptempo
’70s Allmans/Faces/gospel/Southern-fried beast of a slurred boogie–rock & roll
thing. That these guys were playing this well at 7:45 p.m. on a weeknight to a House
of Blues that was at best one-quarter filled was noteworthy. That they had ballads
this good and a stage presence this intriguing was special. But it was their ages (16,
18, 21 and 23) that left me in a state of mild shock. I couldn’t believe how young these
guys are.
Maybe I shouldn’t have been so surprised. In the last year and a half, there’s been
a host of notable debut recordings and performances by other deep-past-influenced
youngsters: Starsailor, the Coral, the Cuts, the Black Keys, Devendra Banhart, Whirl-
wind Heat, Entrance, Jet, Sondre Lerche—young artists looking not just a few years
back for inspiration, but decades, to a time before they were even born. This phe-
nomenon seemed counterintuitive—interesting work is rarely done by retro-heads,
and artists chasing a strange vintage are usually older, not younger—and perhaps
even unprecedented. How and why are these artists, from all across the English-
speaking world, arriving on the scene near-simultaneously, playing music rooted
in styles templated before their births? How could a kid be so nostalgic for a non-
experienced past that he shapes his own art in its image? And why is this happening
to the unprecedented degree that it is right now?
Well, it wasn’t always 2003. In 1987, when I was still in high school and trying
to find out about the Sex Pistols, the search was difficult. The songs weren’t played
on the radio. The record wasn’t available at the Wherehouse. There were no books
on the subject at the public library or the local B. Dalton. Music magazines like Roll-
ing Stone, Spin and Musician wrote mostly about contemporary bands, with only the
slightest occasional reference to mysterious characters named Johnny Rotten and Sid
Vicious, who’d apparently made the most controversial music ever. In Upland, just
50 miles east of Los Angeles, if you didn’t have a cool older brother or sister, or didn’t
know someone else who did, you were stuck—no Bollocks for you. The scope of the
music you knew about was only what you’d heard on the radio in the previous years,
and maybe whatever records your parents had lying around from high school or
college. And if you were a musician, that would be where you would start—and the
results could be good. As Brit musician-scholar Julian Cope noted recently:
3. One could argue that the reference to the past noted in this article as a recent phenomenon
had been anticipated by hip-hop’s (ir)reverence for history dating back to the 1980s.
Source: “The Kids Aren’t All Right . . . They’re Amazing,” © Jay Babcock/LA Weekly.
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 549 05/27/19 06:19 PM

In those bad old days, it used to be that certain of the more eclectic pop groups had
such a wide range of styles that once in a while a song might be released that the
public definitely needed more of. But the originators were just so totally on one that
it surely weren’t gonna be them who provided it . . . [Take] the Zombies’ 1964 epic
“She’s Not There,” which the band themselves never even came close to revisiting
but whose bass parts, drum parts, keyboard stylings and minor-key melodrama
was lifted with extraordinary vision and percipient thoroughness by the Doors for
a magnificent (and genuinely exploratory) six-album career of sub-Nietzschean
post-Jungian pub-banter.
It had been like that for years. Teenage musicians and music fans would have
memories of, at best, the previous five to eight years; everything older than that was
kind of mysterious and shadowy and rumorlike. It was like this in 1987, and it had
been like that in 1981, in 1977 and so on. The upshot, in rock-music-history terms,
was that, generally speaking, you’d get occasional stylistic or formal innovations,
followed by a simplified imitation of said innovation, which would eventually fade.
Then, a decade or so down the line, you’d hear that style being played again: a revival
played by bands making something like the music they’d grown up on; thus you got
the god-awful hair-metal of the ’80s, a devolution from the glam and glitter of the
early to mid-’70s. Sometimes these bands would be good, sometimes they’d be silly,
sometimes they’d sell, sometimes they wouldn’t. (Late-’60s/early–early’70s revival-
ists in the late ’80s to ’90s, such as the Black Crowes, Lenny Kravitz or Oasis, man-
aged to do all four of these things.) The point is that their absorption of musical ideas
would be pretty much limited to the biggest-selling pop from the 20-year period
prior to each band’s emergence, because information about music styles earlier than
that—and/or less popular than that—was so limited and so arbitrarily distributed.
In other words: We all knew about the Beatles and the Stones, but how many of us
really knew much about Tim Buckley or Love or the Raspberries or the Voidoids or
Gang of Four?
Come 2000, and things have changed. The rapid, broad-based spread of the Inter-
net means that information about bands from all eras, in all styles, whether popular
or obscure, has become widely available and easily accessible to the curious young
musician. The advent of the compact disc meant that during the ’90s both familiar
and obscure albums came back into print. A friend in his mid-40s recently reminded
me that before the CD appeared, the only way you could hear a lot of music from
the ’70s—and nearly everything from the ’60s—was by borrowing or buying original
vinyl copies, usually at great expense and in beat-up condition. Albums by Zappa,
Beefheart, the Doors and even the Beatles had the status of antique artifacts—if you
saw copies at all. That you can now buy Love’s Forever Changes, say, in a pristine copy
(with extra tracks) is a major development. And, of course, there’s file trading and
downloading and all that as well.
There is also the classic-rock radio format that is present in almost every sub-
stantial radio market in the country, occasionally (as in Los Angeles) on more than
one station. If you like guitar-based music but you don’t like what’s on the “alterna-
tive” channel, then your place of refuge is the classic-rock station—to wit, the past.
If KROQ is in yet another Korn–Limp Bizkit–Linkin Park–Staind spelling-impaired
angry-moper frenzy, there’s always KLOS or “the Arrow,” where you’ve got a decent
chance of hearing something genuinely good and well-crafted (Beatles, Stones, Zep-
pelin, Dylan, Hendrix, Bowie, Elton John, Neil Young, Queen, AC/DC) every few
minutes, even if the playlists are shamefully narrow.
Then there are the ancillary media that have evolved around rock-music his-
tory and culture. There is now a pervasive nostalgia that far outstrips the level of
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 550 05/27/19 06:19 PM

nostalgia in the past, consolidating and enumerating and assessing the substantial,
unprecedented artistic achievements of ’64–’82, with a special emphasis on that
golden period of ’66–’74. At the supercultural level, there’s VH1 and VH1 Clas-
sics; you might not see a program on Love or Captain Beefheart or Television or
the Voidoids on VH1’s Behind the Music, but you might get clues there about them,
or about certain histories, styles and lineages. At the minimum, you get the sense
that there’s a lot out there to explore, that current rock styles aren’t the only ones
to be tapped.
At the midcultural level, there are the “past master” articles that have been run-
ning in Spin and other music magazines in the last few years, perhaps in response
to the success of pop-music nostalgia magazines like Mojo, and at the subcultural
level there are zines like Ugly Things that bring a microscopic, obsessive perspective
to all this stuff. Finally, there’s the flood of books we’ve seen over the last decade,
published by major houses, available in mega-bookstores in shopping malls across
the English-speaking world, devoted to seemingly every band, genre and episode in
music history, no matter how minute or obscure. Information that used to be either
lost or passed along via word of mouth and low-circulation zines is now out there
for everyone.
Something has shifted: You don’t need a hip older brother anymore to know
about the Sex Pistols; you’ll hear about them via any of the aforementioned venues,
even the most mainstream ones. Because even if the Velvet Underground, the Sex
Pistols, the Ramones and Iggy Pop didn’t experience mainstream success in the ’60s
and ’70s, time has been kind to them. Critical consensus has ensured that these giants
have earned their place, and music history has been rewritten so that the dross has
fallen away. Look back at the music charts of those years and you’ll see a million
songs you’ve never heard by thousands of artists you’ve never heard of. Where did
they go, why aren’t they talked about, why aren’t they played?
The simple truth is that what we call the media—from fanzines to The New
York Times—like any curators of culture, have seized upon a lot of musical artifacts
that were initially passed over and declared that this is what was important. So
now you get articles saying, “1977: It was the year of Star Wars and the Sex Pis-
tols,” when, in fact, in the USA the Sex Pistols weren’t played on the radio, didn’t
sell many records and, to the extent that they were regarded at all, were generally
seen as a joke/ novelty band. But now, after years of magazine articles, feature-
length documentaries, books, TV shows, TV commercials, movie soundtracks,
concert DVDs and such, we’ve all got it in our heads that what was culturally
significant about ’77 was Never Mind the Bollocks. Cultural history isn’t written by
the early victors.
What this means for musicians born since 1980 is that they’re being fed the good,
fertile stuff from way back when. Critics and fans always go for the art they perceive
as pure, authentic, less compromised, and that sort of thing is more likely to exist
at the margins than at the center, though as the years go by, the fringe moves from
the edge to the mainstream. Nirvana has already been determined to be significant,
while Candlebox hasn’t even though there was a long period when Kevin Martin,
Peter Klett, Scott Mercado and Bardi Martin (Who? Exactly) were outselling Kurt
Cobain. The same thing has happened with music from the ’60s and ’70s: The impor-
tant, purer sounds (popular or not) have been drawn out, or preserved, and made
available.
This is why these young musicians we’re seeing now have such seemingly good
taste: That taste has been shaped by a media consensus about what was truly of qual-
ity back then. Call it the formulation of a rock canon, the imposition of marginal/elitist
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 551 05/27/19 06:19 PM

values on the mainstream—it don’t matter none, the outcome is the same: The purer the
fertilizer, the stronger the plants that grow in the garden.
But is this interest by young people in the deep past new? Ex-Minuteman/art-
punk lifer Mike Watt—the kind of guy who would know—thinks it is. He noted
recently in his online tour diary that “The younger folks now are so much more open
to music before them than in my days in the ’70s. We would’ve been hard-pressed to
dig anything from the ’40s or ’50s in those days.”
So, why exactly does music back-sourced so far in time resonate with the new
generation of musicians? Well, consider the crap they grew up inhaling in the pop
mediasphere; an Island A&R man observed recently in The New York Times, “For
young, middle-class, suburban American kids of above-average intelligence, there
hasn’t been any challenging, soulful music for them, ever. It’s all either pop or rap-
rock—music with no sensitivity, no intellectual heft.” You can see why the young
bands might be looking for inspiration to music that hasn’t had currency with youths
for decades. Also, they’re the first generation to grow up with parents who experi-
enced the late ’60s and ’70s as teenagers. . . .
If you’ve got a voice like Devendra Banhart’s, or James Walsh’s of the Tim
and Jeff Buckley–inspired Starsailor, it makes no sense to look to contemporary
music for ideas. You can page through rock history’s encyclopedia and find where
you fit in—or, better yet, where you can start. And you have the courage to do it
because of the example of others: The White Stripes, the Hives, the Strokes, the
Soundtrack of Our Lives, etc., have all emerged in the last few years with sounds
derived totally from other than the usual ’90s/’00s sources, and they’ve absorbed
and disgorged them with style and success and, most important, via skillful song-
writing.
Perhaps it’s the willingness of internationally successful bands like the Strokes
and the White Stripes to point backward at music more than 20 years old that has
inspired, or at least encouraged, so many young artists in the last couple of years
to look to other long-abandoned tributaries from that same period. As a rather self-
congratulatory Yes keyboardist Rick Wakeman told the Manchester Guardian recently,
“What’s happening is that young people are opening a lot of drawers and finding
things that were buried, and going. ‘What’s this?’ Prog-rock used to be the porn of
the record industry, and people would almost ask for it in a brown paper bag. But
bands are stealing bits of it now, because they want to progress.”
The key here is that, Yes aside, there’s so much good material to reboot and
recombine, and the bands doing it are for the most part proficient enough, that
this consciousness-of-rock’s-past isn’t devolving into mere tribute bands. In L.A.
clubs recently, there’s been the knockout Raspberries-meet-Television tuneful-
ness of the Cuts at Spaceland; primo Devo–Pere Ubu–Chrome–James Chance
art-rock freakazoidery from Whirlwind Heat at El Rey, opening for the White
Stripes; Devendra Banhart sharing the Silverlake Lounge stage with the almost
comically Tim Buckley-enamored Entrance. Just three months ago, Jet, a young
Australian band following in the footsteps of Badfinger, Cheap Trick, AC/DC
and Sticky Fingers–era Stones, opened a show at Spaceland for the Blue Cheer/
Junior Kimbrough/Funkadelic–inflected Black Keys at Spaceland. There were the
Kings of Leon that same night at House of Blues, opening for the Coral, a fantas-
tical, charming outfit from Liverpool steeped in Kevin Ayers–era Soft Machine,
Scott Walker and Love.
Now, it’s not that other bands in rock history haven’t looked more than 10 years
into the past for inspiration. Bobby Zimmerman was checking out Harry Smith’s
anthologies of obscure old American music when he was in high school in the ’50s.
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 552 05/27/19 06:19 PM

And we all know how the Beatles, the Stones, the Yardbirds and other British musi-
cians studied whatever old blues records they could find in the late ’50s and early
’60s. But something happened after punk hit in the late ’70s. Young musicians were
told—or decided, depending on your ideological position—that the old stuff was
obsolete. A line was drawn, earth was scorched, babies and bathwater and a lot of
bathtubs were thrown out. Somewhere along the line, probably around the time
people were digging Johnny Rotten’s dismissal of Pink Floyd and the Beatles while
simultaneously tuning out his praise for experimental rockers Van Der Graaf Gen-
erator and Can, old paths were covered up, paths that are only now being reopened
for exploration.
You can call it pop eating itself and say that all we’re hearing now is a recapitula-
tion and regurgitation of old gestures and styles—musicians as antique dealers, the
pop equivalent of those weird Civil War re-enactors. There’s doubtless some truth in
that, especially when Starsailor is recording with Phil Spector, but . . . shit, it’s Phil
goddamn Spector, for crissakes, and watch how goosed your bumps get when you
hear the song! (Recorded during sessions that were aborted two months prior to the
death of Lana Clarkson at Spector’s estate, the thrilling “Silence Is Easy” is the most
intense vocal Walsh has ever done.)
Anyway, given the relatively rapid creative exhaustion of various genres and
styles during the last decade (grunge, indie rock, alternative rock, electronica, Brit-
pop, post-rock, mainstream hip-hop) and the obvious artistic dead ends of surviving
genres (pop-punk, electroclash, rap-rock, emo, nu-metal and underground hip-hop),
taking three decadelong steps back to go forward four begins to look like a reason-
able artistic strategy, whether it’s conscious or unconscious. (In Kings of Leon’s case,
there’s a hint of contrivance, given the presence of Nashville-based songwriter-for-
hire Angelo Petraglia in the credits for every one of their songs. So yeah, they’re good,
but perhaps not as impressive as you might at first think.) Losing the self-defeating
straitjacket that is punk-rock ideology—i.e., that technical facility is automatically
suspect—has also got to be healthy for artists whose visions can’t and shouldn’t be
confined to two chords (maybe three) and a half-truth. Given the quality of most of
these born-after-1979 artists’ first records, there really may be no time like the present
for the deep past.
You might even say it’s been a long time coming.
One final word on the Sex Pistols. With the Internet, VH1, Mojo, Spin, the endless
books and such, you sure as shit don’t need a hip older brother anymore to know
about these geezers. In fact, at this point, 26 years after the release of Never Mind the
Bollocks, you’re more likely to have a hip father. The Cuts’ Andy Jordan laughs, “My
dad played me the Sex Pistols when I was like 13 or 14.” Perhaps that’s the new initia-
tion rite into adulthood for budding musicians in the 21st century: having your pop
introduce you to the wonders of “God Save the Queen.”
Further Reading
Grossberg, Lawrence. “Same As It Ever Was? Rock Culture. Same As It Ever Was! Rock
Theory.” In Stars Don’t Stand Still in the Sky: Music and Myth, ed. Karen Kelly and Evelyn
McDonnell, 99–121. New York: New York University Press, 1999.
Marcus, Greil. “Death Letters.” In Listen Again: A Momentary History of Pop Music, ed. Eric
Weisbard, 296–305. Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2007.
Middleton, Jason, and Roger Beebe. “The Racial Politics of Hybridity and ‘Neo- Eclecticism’
Contemporary Popular Music.” Popular Music 21 (May 2002): 159–72.
Ross, Alex, “Rock 101: Academia Tunes In.” New Yorker, July 14 and 21, 2003, 87–93.
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 553 05/27/19 06:19 PM

Discography
Banhart, Devendra. Oh Me Oh My . . . Young God Records, 2002.
Beatles. Anthology 1. Capitol, 1995.
Dylan, Bob. The Bootleg Series, Volumes 1–3: Rare and Unreleased, 1961–1991. Sony, 1991.
Kings of Leon. Youth and Young Manhood. RCA, 2003.
Rilo Kiley. More Adventurous. Brute/Beaute, 2004.
Starsailor. Love Is Here. Capitol, 2002.
88. A World of Copies without Originals
If a new sense of the history of popular music informed its production

and reception in the early 2000s, technological innovations provided
a material counterpart. Dating back to the 1920s, successive waves of
new technologies gripped the music industry in a panic. Industry pub-
lications in the 1920s fretted over the destructive effect of radio and
phonograph on music publishing; in the late 1930s–early 1940s, fears
centered on the use of records on radio, which were believed to threaten
the livelihood of performing musicians; the use of cassettes for home
taping in the late 1970s–early 1980s supposedly portended the collapse
of commercial music as we know it (discussed by Robert Christgau in
chapter 61); and last, but not least, MP3s, file-sharing and download-
ing of music stored in digital formats have been blamed for the latest
decline in sales figures for recorded music. This is not to say that the
fears are always unfounded: revenues for music publishing did decline
in favor of mechanically reproduced music; the use of records on radio
did cut into the incomes of performing musicians; and the argument
for the contributing role of digital copies to the precipitous decline of
the music industry’s fortunes throughout the early 2000s is convinc-
ing. The music industry has always recovered in the past by making the
new technology work for it or by introducing a new, putatively superior
technology that (initially, at any rate) consumers could not control. The
crisis over home taping is a fine case in point: the compact disc arrived
just in time, with its purportedly better sound quality and its u
narguably
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 554 05/27/19 06:19 PM

A World of Copies without Originals 555
greater ease of access to individual tracks, to derail the long-term
impact of cassettes. The music industry used commercial incentives to
hasten the end of the vinyl LP and succeeded in convincing many con-
sumers not only to purchase new CDs, but to replace their entire collec-
tion of recorded music.
The CD, however, may now be understood as an intermediate stage
in the development of digitally stored music; the digital encoding of
tracks on a CD proved to be a “genie in a bottle” that, once unleashed,
threatened to erode the centuries-old centralized control of consumable
musical objects. Computer software developed during the late 1990s
that allowed users to “rip” tracks from a CD onto a computer and then
“burn” them onto another CD, enabling virtually unlimited reproduction
with minimal sonic degradation. Around the same time, MP3 technology
emerged that permitted the compression of large files with little loss of
audio quality (although some would argue this last point), leading to
the creation of small, portable MP3 players that could store individual-
ized “mixes” of tracks. This may have looked like home taping retooled
in digital form, but another practice soon spread that constituted more
of a threat to the music business; it involved circulating digital sound
files through the Internet, leading to peer-to-peer (P2P) file sharing. The
Napster controversy of 2000–01 pitted music corporations and a few
musicians against consumers who were exchanging tracks through the
Internet and, in some cases, acquiring access to recordings prior to their
official release. Courts in the United States eventually decided that file-
sharing was an infringement of copyright, and Napster was shut down
in its original form. While countless other peer-to-peer networks have
sprung up in its place, legal Internet delivery services also grew in prom-
inence. In other developments, i-Pods and i-Tunes (and other similar
devices and computer programs) made the digital transfer and storage
of individual tracks more common among certain demographic groups
than three-dimensional forms of musical storage (prior to the popular-
ization of streaming), and the release of Radiohead’s In Rainbows (2007)
was only the most-publicized case of direct-to-consumer marketing via
the Internet. Of course, the more vigorously one attempts to document
such a rapidly changing facet of contemporary musical life, the more one
risks seeming outdated before the description appears in print.
Unlike the previous cassette-taping controversy, however, few
observers of the music industry can doubt that digital duplication and
circulation have cut into corporate profits, although some argue that
the slump is due to the lack of creativity in an increasingly oligopo-
listic industry in which four corporations reap the rewards from the
sale of music. Furthermore, some have argued that file-sharing has
harmed corporations far more than artists, asserting that the Internet
has provided access for listeners to lesser-known artists.5 Indeed, the
5. See Kembrew McLeod, “MP3s Are Killing Home Taping: The Rise of Internet Distribution
and Its Challenge to the Major Label Music Monopoly,” Popular Music and Society 28 (October
2005): 521–31. For a cultural history of the MP3, of the conditions of the format’s possibility, see
Jonathan Sterne, MP3: The Meaning of a Format (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2012).
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 555 05/27/19 06:19 PM

rowing “company store” mentality of record companies has meant
g
that it is increasingly difficult for recording artists to recoup their
expenses through sales, and performances and T-shirts have become
more lucrative to the vast majority of popular musicians than record-
ing royalties. Yet such utopian arguments also miss how the use of
the Internet has broadened the possibilities of surveillance and, there-
fore, of marketing, into the most intimate recesses of our daily lives.
Another twist to this argument is how the content industry (i.e., media
corporations, the music industry) has tried to use file-sharing to its
advantage even as it has officially fought against the practice in court.
Elements of once-illegal P2P file-sharing have now been incorporated
into legal, capitalistic practices, for which P2P practices have provided
the blueprint for ideas about licensing subscriptions and plans.1
The testimony of Lars Ulrich, drummer for the thrash-metal band, Metal-
lica (discussed earlier in chapter 67) for the Senate Judiciary Committee
in 2000 occurred as the Napster controversy reached its peak. Pushing
back against ideas that file-sharing is an unmitigated benefit for con-
sumers that only harms corporations, Ulrich makes an argument about
intellectual property—that artists should control the rights to what they
produce. In outlining the time and expense required to make a com-
mercial recording at that time, Ulrich also calls attention to how many
other workers depend on the music industry for their livelihood, not
only musicians and corporate executives. Toward the end of his testi-
mony, he indirectly addresses an attitude that will be familiar to all art-
ists who are trying to earn a living: the idea that making art is something
“we’re passionate about” does not negate that “it’s what we do for our
living. . . . it’s our job.”
Testimony of Mr. Lars Ulrich Member and Co-founder Metal-

lica (Senate Judiciary Committee on Downloading Music on
the Internet, July 11, 2000)
Mr. Chairman, Senator Leahy, Members of the Committee, my name is Lars Ulrich.
I was born in Denmark. In 1980, as a teenager, my parents and I came to America. I
started a band named Metallica in 1981 with my best friend James Hetfield. By 1983
we had released our first record, and by 1985 we were no longer living below the
poverty line. Since then, we’ve been very fortunate to achieve a great level of success
1. The complicity of the content industry in P2P file sharing practices is analyzed by Eliot Van
Buskirk in “Why File Sharing Will Save Hollywood, Music,” Wired (April 17, 2009); see also Jeff
Howe, “Big Champagne Is Watching You,” Wired, October 2003.
Source: “Testimony of Mr. Lars Ulrich Member and Co-founder of Metallica (Senate Judiciary
Committee on Downloading Music on the Internet, July 11, 2000.)
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 556 05/27/19 06:19 PM

in the music business throughout the world. It’s the classic American dream come
true. I’m very honored to be here in this country, and to appear in front of the Senate
Judiciary Committee today.
Earlier this year, while completing work on a song for the movie Mission
Impossible-2, we were startled to hear reports that a work-in-progress version was
already being played on some U.S radio stations. We traced the source of this leak
to a corporation called Napster. Additionally, we learned that all of our previously
recorded copyrighted songs were, via Napster, available for anyone around the
world to download from the Internet in a digital format known as MP3. As you are
probably aware, we became the first artists to sue Napster, and have been quite vocal
about it as well. That’s undoubtedly why you invited me to this hearing.
We have many issues with Napster. First and foremost: Napster hijacked our
music without asking. They never sought our permission—our catalog of music sim-
ply became available as free downloads on the Napster system.
I don’t have a problem with any artist voluntarily distributing his or her songs
through any means the artist elects—at no cost to the consumer, if that’s what the artist
wants. But just like a carpenter who crafts a table gets to decide whether to keep it, sell
it or give it away, shouldn’t we have the same options? My band authored the music
which is Napster’s lifeblood. We should decide what happens to it, not Napster—a
company with no rights in our recordings, which never invested a penny in Metallica’s
music or had anything to do with its creation. The choice has been taken away from us.
What about the users of Napster, the music consumers? It’s like each of them
won one of those contests where you get turned loose in a store for five minutes and
get to keep everything you can load into your shopping cart. With Napster, though,
there’s no time limit and everyone’s a winner—except the artist. Every song by every
artist is available for download at no cost and, of course, with no payment to the art-
ist, the songwriter or the copyright holder.
If you’re not fortunate enough to own a computer, there’s only one way to
assemble a music collection the equivalent of a Napster user’s: theft. Walk into a
record store, grab what you want and walk out. The difference is that the familiar
phrase a computer user hears, “File’s done,” is replaced by another familiar phrase-
“You’re under arrest.”
Since what I do is make music, let’s talk about the recording artist for a moment.
When Metallica makes an album we spend many months and many hundreds of
thousands of our own dollars writing and recording. We also contribute our inspi-
ration and perspiration. It’s what we do for a living. Even though we’re passionate
about it, it’s our job.
We typically employ a record producer, recording engineers, programmers,
assistants and, occasionally, other musicians. We rent time for months at recording
studios which are owned by small businessmen who have risked their own capital
to buy, maintain and constantly upgrade very expensive equipment and facilities.
Our record releases are supported by hundreds of record company employees and
provide programming for numerous radio and television stations. Add it all up and
you have an industry with many jobs—a very few glamorous ones like ours—and
a greater number of demanding ones covering all levels of the pay scale for wages
which support families and contribute to our economy.
Remember too, that my band, Metallica, is fortunate enough to make a great liv-
ing from what it does. Most artists are barely earning a decent wage and need every
source of revenue available to scrape by. Also keep in mind that the primary source
of income for most songwriters is from the sale of records. Every time a Napster
enthusiast downloads a song, it takes money from the pockets of all these members
of the creative community.
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 557 05/27/19 06:19 PM

It’s clear, then, that if music is free for downloading, the music industry is not via-
ble; all the jobs I just talked about will be lost and the diverse voices of the artists will
disappear. The argument I hear a lot, that “music should be free,” must then mean that
musicians should work for free. Nobody else works for free. Why should musicians?
In economic terms, music is referred to as intellectual property, as are films, tel-
evision programs, books, computer software, video games, and the like. As a nation,
the U.S has excelled in the creation of intellectual property, and collectively, it is this
country’s most valuable export.
The backbone for the success of our intellectual property business is the protec-
tion that Congress has provided with the copyright statutes. No information-based
industry can thrive without this protection. Our current political dialog about trade
with China is focused on how we must get that country to respect and enforce copy-
rights. How can we continue to take that position if we let our own copyright laws
wither in the face of technology?
Make no mistake, Metallica is not anti-technology. When we made our first
album, the majority of sales were in the vinyl record format. By the late 1980’s, cas-
sette sales accounted for over 50% of the market. Now, the compact disc dominates.
If the next format is a form of digital downloading from the Internet with distribution
and manufacturing savings passed on to the American consumer, then, of course, we
will embrace that format too.
But how can we embrace a new format and sell our music for a fair price when
someone, with a few lines of code, and no investment costs, creative input or marketing
expenses, simply gives it away? How does this square with the level playing field of the
capitalist system? In Napster’s brave new world, what free market economy models
support our ability to compete? The touted “new paradigm” that the Internet gurus tell
us we Luddites must adopt sounds to me like old-fashioned trafficking in stolen goods.
We have to find a way to welcome the technological advances and cost sav-
ings of the Internet while not destroying the artistic diversity and the international
success that has made our intellectual property industries the greatest in the world.
Allowing our copyright protections to deteriorate is, in my view, bad policy, both
economically and artistically.
To underscore what I’ve spoken about today, I’d like to read from the “Terms of
Use” section of the Napster Internet web site. When you use Napster you are basi-
cally agreeing to a contract that includes the following terms:
This web site or any portion of this web site may not be reproduced, duplicated,
copied, sold, resold, or otherwise exploited for any commercial purpose that is not
expressly permitted by Napster.
All Napster web site design, text, graphics, the selection and arrangement
thereof, and all Napster software are Copyright 1999–00 Napster Inc. All rights
reserved Napster Inc.
Napster, the logo and all other trademarks, service marks and trade names of
Napster appearing on this web site are owned by Napster. Napster’s trademarks,
logos, service marks, and trade names may not be used in connection with any
product or service that is not Napster’s.
Napster itself wants—and surely deserves—copyright and trademark protec-

tion. Metallica and other creators of music and intellectual property want, deserve
and have a right to that same protection.
In closing, I’d like to read to you from the last paragraph of a New York Times
column by Edward Rothstein:
Information doesn’t want to be free; only the transmission of information wants to
be free. Information, like culture, is the result of labor and devotion, investment and
risk; it has a value. And nothing will lead to a more deafening cultural silence than
ignoring that value and celebrating….[companies like] Napster running amok.
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 558 05/27/19 06:19 PM

Mr. Chairman, Senator Leahy and Members of the Committee, the title of today’s
hearing asks the question, “The Future of the Internet: Is there an Upside to Down-
loading”? My answer is yes. However, as I hope my remarks have made clear, this
can only occur when artists’ choices are respected and their creative efforts protected.
Thank you.
The previous entry on digital downloading and files-sharing rein-

forced a statement from the introduction to this chapter: “Of course,
the more vigorously one attempts to document such a rapidly chang-
ing facet of contemporary musical life, the more one risks seeming
outdated before the description appears in print.” The portrayal of
digital downloading and the curation of digital music libraries on per-
sonal computers and iPods as the “latest thing” has since become
outmoded due to the rise of streaming services. As the following arti-
cle clarifies, however, a service like Spotify arose as a reaction to the
failure (and success) of Napster, and even involves some of Napster’s
principal players. Such services may appear to answer Ulrich’s call for
the licensing of the Internet, but royalties have still not flowed in the
direction of musicians. In other words, they have been good for the
record companies, Internet providers (like Spotify), and (maybe) con-
sumers, but results have been ambiguous at best for artists.
The following article by John Seabrook clarifies the connections

between subscription services like Spotify and a website like You-
Tube, which is available to anyone with Internet access. As Seabrook
summarizes, “Nothing is for sale, because everything is available.”
Streaming services have contributed to the rise of the playlist, a sort
of contemporary update of the “mixtape” concept from the cassette
era.
This article also provides more evidence for a statement that
appeared in the introduction to Lar Ulrich’s testimony about how uto-
pian arguments in favor of the Internet miss how “the use of the Internet
has broadened the possibilities of surveillance.” With the collaboration
of Facebook and Echo Nest—a “kind of A.I. hipster”—Spotify is able to
coordinate knowledge about music with knowledge about the listener,
and match the music it suggests to consumers with their location,
activity, time of day, and relationship status on Facebook.
Revenue Streams
John Seabrook
Daniel Ek, the C.E.O. of Spotify, is a rock star of the tech world, but he is not long
on charisma. At thirty-one, he is pale, boyish, cerebral, and calm. Jantelagen, the
Source: John Seabrook, “Revenue Streams,” The New Yorker, November 24, 2014. Reprinted with
permission of John Seabrook.
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 559 05/27/19 06:19 PM

candinavian code of humility and restraint, is strong in him. He doesn’t greet you
S
with a firm handshake from behind an imposing desk; he doesn’t have a desk. He
sprawls on a couch with his laptop, like a teen-ager doing homework. Or he wanders
the company’s offices, which form an oval around the open core of a big building
on Birger Jarlsgatan, in central Stockholm. The design encourages “random encoun-
ters,” which Ek once read was Steve Jobs’s plan in laying out Pixar’s offices.
Ek’s phlegmatic manner makes his unshakable, almost spiritual belief in Spotify
burn all the more brightly. His vision, that Spotify is a force for good in the world of
music, is almost Swedenborgian: salvation in the form of a fully licensed streaming-
music service where you can find every record ever made. Spotify doesn’t sell music;
it sells access to it. Instead of buying songs and albums, you pay a monthly subscrip-
tion fee ($9.99), or get served an ad every few songs if you’re on the free tier. You can
listen to anything on the service—the Beatles (as with iTunes, the surviving members
are not rushing in) and Taylor Swift (who left the service in a flurry of publicity in
early November) notwithstanding—and there is an astonishing amount of music.
When Spotify launched, in October, 2008, in Sweden and a handful of other Euro-
pean countries, Ek’s dream seemed like the longest of long shots. Now Spotify is the
Netflix of music sites. Mark Zuckerberg, Facebook’s founder, says, “Daniel just saw
the opportunities of streaming music before anyone else.”
Spotify appeared nine years after Napster, the pioneering file-sharing service,
which unleashed piracy on the record business and began the cataclysm that caused
worldwide revenues to decline from a peak of twenty-seven billion dollars, in 1999,
to fifteen billion, in 2013. The iTunes store, the industry’s attempt, in partnership
with Apple, to build a digital record shop, opened in 2003 to sell downloads, but
that didn’t alter the downward trajectory; indeed, by unbundling tracks from the
album, so that buyers could cherry-pick their favorite songs, Apple arguably has-
tened the decline. Legal actions against individuals—thousands of people in the U.S.
were sued for downloading music illegally—only alienated potential customers. As
bad as the bloodbath was in the U.S., the situation was even worse in Sweden. Pelle
Lidell, an executive with Universal Music Publishing in Stockholm, told me that by
2008 “we were an inch away from being buried, and Spotify single-handedly turned
that around.”
Ek was one of the pirate band. Before starting the company, he had briefly been
the C.E.O. of uTorrent, which made money in part by monetizing pirated music and
movies on BitTorrent, a major file-sharing protocol. Later, the Napster co-founder
Sean Parker, for years Public Enemy No. 1 to record-company executives, joined
forces with Ek. Who would have imagined, as one label head put it recently, that
“your enemy could become your friend”?
Spotify is now in fifty-eight countries. (Canada, its latest market, got the service
at the end of September.) It has raised more than half a billion dollars from investors,
including Goldman Sachs, to fund its expansion, and there are rumors of an I.P.O. in
its future, to raise more. Spotify’s user base exceeds fifty million globally, with twelve
and a half million paying subscribers. At the current rate of growth, that number
could reach forty million subscribers by the end of the decade. To date, it has paid out
more than two billion dollars to the record labels, publishers, distributors, and artists
who own the rights to the songs. “I’m very bullish on it,” Tom Corson, the president
of RCA Records, said. “The all-you-can-eat access model is starting to make sense to
people. And we expect that free is going to roll into subscription and that is going to
be a really huge part of our business.”
The question of whether Spotify is good for artists is considerably more vexed.
The service has been dogged by accusations that it doesn’t value musicians highly
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enough. In 2013, Radiohead’s Thom Yorke memorably called Spotify “the last des-
perate fart of a dying corpse,” a remark that “saddened” Ek. In July, Taylor Swift
wrote in a Wall Street Journal editorial, “In my opinion, the value of an album is, and
will continue to be, based on the amount of heart and soul an artist has bled into a
body of work.” For Swift, streaming is not much different from piracy. “Piracy, file
sharing and streaming have shrunk the numbers of paid album sales drastically, and
every artist has handled this blow differently,” she wrote.
In early November, when Swift’s new album, “1989,” was released, her label, Big
Machine Records, not only declined to make the album available on Spotify but also
removed her entire catalogue from the service. Is this a gesture of artistic solidarity,
or, as one insider put it, “a stunt to wring the last drop of blood out of what is a dying
model”—i.e., album sales? Swift’s impressive first-week sales of “1989,” which were
just under 1.3 million albums, making her the year’s top seller, are still well short of
the all-time first-week high, 2.4 million, set by ’N Sync, in 2000. And the sixty-nine-
per-cent drop-off in “1989”’s second-week sales suggests that Swift’s seventy-one
million Facebook fans didn’t rush out and buy the album when they couldn’t get it
on Spotify. They just streamed whatever was available on YouTube, which pays art-
ists even less than Spotify does, or on other sites. Or they set sail for the Pirate Bay,
where the album was also No. 1.
On Spotify, music consumption is “frictionless”—a favorite word of Ek’s. In tech
terms, we’ve gone from a world of scarcity to one of abundance. Nothing is for sale,
because everything is available. The kind of calculations you make on iTunes, such as
“I like this song, but not enough to buy it,” don’t matter. It is a music nerd’s dream,
which may be why the user population on Spotify tends to lie outside the main-
stream. On Spotify, the Pixies’ top songs have about four times as many streams as
Neil Diamond’s biggest hits.
The difference between Spotify and Internet radio services, like Pandora, is that
Spotify is interactive. You can sample the complete catalogue of most artists’ record-
ings. (Spotify also has a non-interactive radio component.) Spotify now has some
twenty million songs on the service, and twenty thousand new ones are added every
day. If you are a “lean forward” listener—that is, the kind of motivated fan who
takes the time to discover the music you want—Spotify is a celestial jukebox. But,
for Spotify to continue its rapid growth, it must bring in the “lean backers” Pandora
caters to. Spotify tries to do this with playlists. It has staff-curated playlists, and users
can also make their own—there are more than a billion on the site. The playlist is the
album of the streaming world. Spotify is working on getting its service into car ste-
reos, and is negotiating agreements with automobile companies; one such agreement
was announced this week. The power of playlists will only grow.
When Spotify launched in the U.S., in 2011, it relied on simple, usage-based
algorithms to connect users and music, a process known as “collaborative filter-
ing.” These algorithms were more often annoying than useful. You think because I
listened to Neil Young that I want to listen to America? America ripped Neil Young off!
But over time the algorithms have improved. Earlier this year, Spotify bought a
Boston-based startup called the Echo Nest, which has developed a form of artificial
music intelligence—a kind of A.I. hipster that finds cool music for you. The Echo
Nest powers Spotify’s automated radio stations and is also behind an in-house
programming tool called Truffle Pig, which can be told to sniff out music with com-
binations of more than fifty parameters, such as “speechiness” and “acoustic-ness.”
Now that the Echo Nest is part of Spotify, its team has access to the enormous
amount of data generated by Spotify users which show how they consume music.
Spotify knows what time of day users listen to certain songs, and in many cases
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 561 05/27/19 06:19 PM

their location, so programmers can infer what they are probably doing—studying,
exercising, driving to work. Brian Whitman, an Echo Nest co-founder, told me that
programmers also hope to learn more about listeners by factoring in data such as
“what the weather is like, what your relationship status is now on Facebook.” (In
2011, Facebook entered into a partnership with Spotify.) He added, “We’ve cracked
the nut as far as knowing as much about the music as we possibly can automati-
cally, and we see the next frontier as knowing as much as we possibly can about
the listener.”
All this, Ek explained, will help Spotify to better program the “moments” of
a user’s day. “We’re not in the music space—we’re in the moment space,” he told
me. The idea is to use song analytics and user data to help both human and A.I.
curators select the right songs for certain activities or moods, and build playlists for
those moments. Playlists can be customized according to an individual user’s “taste
profile.” You just broke up with your boyfriend, you’re in a bad mood, and Justin
Timberlake’s “Cry Me a River,” from the “Better Off Without You” playlist, starts.
Are you playing the music, or is the music playing you? [. . . .]
[. . . .] Like many teen-agers around the turn of the millennium, Ek had become
infatuated with Napster—in particular, with the idea of a site where all the world’s
music was available for free. Radio offered free music, too, of course, but radio
wasn’t interactive; you couldn’t pursue your own interests, the way you could
on Napster. Ek said, “Before that, I was listening to Roxette,” a Swedish pop-
rock band from the eighties. “I discovered Metallica and learned that they were
inspired by Led Zeppelin, and King Crimson, and then I got into the Beatles. And
from there I went to Bowie and the whole British scene from the Eurythmics to the
Sex Pistols. Hearing the anger and frustration of the Sex Pistols or the Clash made
you feel like you were in the seventies. You started to understand culture. It was
pretty magical.
“It came back to me constantly that Napster was such an amazing consumer
experience, and I wanted to see if it could be a viable business,” Ek went on. “We
said, ‘The problem with the music industry is piracy. Great consumer product, not a
great business model. But you can’t beat technology. Technology always wins. But
what if you can make a better product than piracy?’”
Ek continued, “Piracy was kind of hard. It took a few minutes to download a
song, it was kind of cumbersome, you had to worry about viruses. It’s not like people
want to be pirates. They just want a great experience. So we started sketching what
that would look like.”
Their “product vision,” in tech parlance, was that the service had to give the
impression that the music was already on your hard drive. “What would it feel like?”
Ek asked. “That was the emotion we were trying to invoke.” The key was to build
something that worked instantly. Streaming, whether audio or video, tends to have
built-in delays while you wait for the file, which is stored on a server in the cloud.
But if the music starts in two hundred milliseconds or less—about half the time it
takes, on average, to blink—people don’t seem to perceive a delay. That became Ek’s
design standard. He told his lead engineer, Ludvig Strigeus, a brilliant programmer
he had worked with before, “I don’t accept anything that isn’t below two hundred
milliseconds.”
Strigeus responded, “It can’t be done. The Internet isn’t built like that.”
“You have to figure it out,” Ek insisted.
The solution involved designing a streaming protocol that worked faster than
the standard one, as well as building their own peer-to-peer network, a decentralized
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architecture in which all the computers on it can communicate with one another. In
four months, they had a working prototype.
“And I knew when we had it that it was going to be very special,” Ek said.
Ek’s original idea was to launch Spotify in the U.S. at the same time that he
launched the service in Europe. Ken Parks, Spotify’s chief content officer, said, “Dan-
iel thought he could just go down to the corner store in Stockholm and pick up a
global license.” He didn’t realize that he would have to negotiate directly with all
the different copyright holders, a herculean task. Not surprisingly, the labels weren’t
interested. Ek was an outsider—a techie, and a Swedish one at that. Parks, an attor-
ney who’d worked at E.M.I., recalled, “We needed to overcome the music-is-free
mentality that Spotify represented.” Of the labels’ attitude, he went on, “If you have
something you’ve invested a ton of money in, and you’ve been selling it for a lot, and
you feel raped by piracy—to say to that person, ‘The only way to beat this is to co-opt
the people who are stealing from you,’ that was a challenge.” Ek said, “If anyone had
told me going into this that it would be three years of crashing my head against the
wall, I wouldn’t have done it.”
Eventually, Ek decided to start regionally and prove that his concept worked.
“And I invested all of my personal money in it,” he told me, “saying, you know,
here’s my balls on the table. For them, the risk of trying it was kind of zero.” Swedish
labels, gutted by piracy, literally had nothing to lose.
Sean Parker lives in the Plaza Hotel, in a private residence in the northeast cor-
ner of the building, looking out at Fifth Avenue and Central Park South. The grand,
high-ceilinged dining room has commanding views in both directions, and it was
there that the thirty-four-year-old billionaire was sitting on a warm fall afternoon,
dressed in jeans and rust-colored high-tops, drinking tea from a white china cup. It
was a setting that would have impressed Edith Wharton, even if the owner’s attire
might not have.
Parker was talking about Napster, which he and Shawn Fanning started back
in 1999. “Napster had been this cultural revolution, much more than it was ever a
legitimate company,” he said, stroking his neatly trimmed beard. Napster, which
had sixty million registered users at its peak, taught the world how to get music from
the Internet. Parker says he had always wanted to go legit, by making a deal with the
record industry, but instead the labels put Napster to sleep. “There was this unique
opportunity in history. We said, ‘If you shut down Napster, it’s going to splinter,
and you’re going to have a Whac-A-Mole problem on your hands, where you’re
fighting service after service and you’re never going to get all those users back in one
place.’ And that’s what happened.” From the dragon’s teeth sprang Kazaa, Grokster,
Morpheus, and Limewire. “It was one of those things where it can be totally clear
to you and everyone in your generation and you can explain it in the clearest of
terms, not as a threat or a negotiating tactic—just, ‘Look, you just have to see this.’
And they couldn’t see it.” Napster was the enemy, pure and simple, and it had to
be killed. “This was the biggest existential threat to the music business and they
wouldn’t listen.”
Parker sipped his tea. “So I went off and did other things”—he became president
of Facebook in 2004, and helped turn it into a company, which helped turn him into a
billionaire—“but in the back of my mind I was thinking about the untimely fate that
Napster had met. That aborted mission.” He had watched while other entrepreneurs
tried to realize the dream that was Napster. “They’d try to negotiate with the record
labels and they really didn’t speak the language and they’d end up adapting their
product vision to the terms they were able to get,” he said. In 2009, a friend told him
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 563 05/27/19 06:19 PM

about a Swedish service called Spotify. Parker had never heard of it. He sent Daniel
Ek an e-mail and they arranged to meet.
“The thing that made Spotify very different when I first met Daniel and Martin
[Lorentzon, Ek’s business partner] was that they had this incredible stubbornness,”
Parker went on. “In a good way. They were willing to let the product vision lead the
business deals.” He agreed to invest in the company and help Ek in his negotiations
to enter the U.S. market. “Daniel said, ‘I think it’s going to take six weeks to get our
licenses complete.’ It ended up taking two years.” Of the four global music compa-
nies at that time—E.M.I., Sony, Warner Music, and Universal—Ek had managed to
get E.M.I. and Sony on board, but Universal and Warner were holdouts. The latter
was led by Edgar Bronfman, Jr., who had spearheaded the move to close down Nap-
ster, back in 2001.
This time, Parker was more persuasive. “He did know a lot of people,” one top
label executive said. “Daniel Ek didn’t. And he worked it non-stop.” The Swed-
ish trial period was key. The record industry’s total revenues in Sweden grew by
more than a third between 2008 and 2011. Piracy plummeted. As the label executive
recalled, “It was like—O.K., proof of concept, we should be doing this if we can get
the right license.” [. . . .]
When Spotify began in the U.S., labels demanded up-front payments as the
price of getting in the game. These payments were not always passed along to
the content creators, even though it is their work that makes the catalogues valu-
able in the first place. Month by month, Spotify pays the major labels lump sums
for the entire market share of their catalogues. How the labels decide to parcel
these payments out to their artists isn’t transparent, because, while Spotify gives
detailed data to the labels, the labels ultimately decide how to share that informa-
tion with their artists. The arrangement is similar on the publishing side. Artists
and songwriters basically have to trust that labels and publishers will deal with
them honestly, which history suggests is a sucker’s bet. As one music-industry
leader put it, “It’s like you go to your bank, and the bank says, ‘Here’s your salary,’
and you say, ‘But what is my employer paying me? I work for them, not you!’ And
the bank says, ‘We are not going to tell you, but this is what we think you should
get paid.’” [. . . .]
[. . . .]The deals that Spotify made with the major labels launched on-demand
streaming in earnest. But although the way the consumer gets access to music had
changed, the way the creators of music are paid for their work had not. Somehow,
the billions of micro-payments parcelled out in the form of streams have to be
reconciled with a royalty-payments system that is rooted in a century-old sales
model. No economic infrastructure exists for that apples-to-oranges transforma-
tion. [. . . .]
Some artists are already making real money from Spotify. Swift’s music was
earning about five hundred thousand dollars a month at the time she pulled it.
E.D.M. artists like Avicii and David Guetta are seeing payouts in the millions.
Avicii’s “Wake Me Up,” the most streamed song on Spotify, has more than three
hundred million spins, which, using Spotify’s benchmark per-stream rate, would be
worth about two million dollars to the rights holders. Daniel Glass, a music-industry
veteran who is the founder of Glassnote Records, an indie label, told me that he is
very happy with the royalties Spotify pays his artists, who include Mumford & Sons,
Phoenix, Childish Gambino, and Chvrches. “We’re getting big beautiful checks from
them!” he exclaimed. [. . . .]
Spotify does offer undiscovered musicians new opportunities to break through.
Playlists tend to be much broader in scope than commercial-radio playlists. Lorde
is often cited around Spotify as an artist who gained crucial early exposure after
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 564 05/27/19 06:19 PM

Sean Parker heard her song “Royals” when a friend played it for him. In April, 2013,
before the song was a hit anywhere, Parker added it to his “Hipster International”
Spotify playlist, which currently has seven hundred and ninety thousand followers.
Parker’s followers added it to their playlists, as did their followers; users shared it
with one another; and within weeks “Royals” was the second most popular song on
Spotify. Spotify’s director of economics, Will Page, says, “Now, remember, there is
no Old World business model here, no radio pluggers or traditional marketing—just
a playlist. But it’s like becoming a broadcaster. And you could see the viral nature of
growth that led to this artist becoming No. 1 in America before Christmas.” Still, the
fact is that Lorde had a major label and its marketing budget behind her. Jason Flom
signed Lorde to his Lava label months before Parker playlisted her. “‘Royals’ was not
to be denied,” Flom told me. “Nothing could stop it.” Even so, he said, “Spotify—and
especially Sean—was definitely helpful in establishing Lorde the way we wanted to
establish her. It gave her a foundation with the cool kids.” [. . . .]
But there is another class of musicians whom Ek hasn’t helped so far. For them,
Spotify has further eroded their CD and download sales, without coming close to
making up the difference in streaming revenues. Ek acknowledges that the switch
from a sales model to a streaming model could be bumpy for some artists. “In Swe-
den, there was one tough year and then the debate changed,” he said. “That will
happen in the larger markets. The end goal is to increase the entire pool of music.
Anything else is part of the transition.” He added, “This is the single biggest shift
since the beginning of recorded music, so it’s not surprising that it takes time to edu-
cate artists about what this future means.”
Two artists who are part of that transition are Marc Ribot, an esteemed jazz
guitarist, and Rosanne Cash, whose work has won a Grammy and received twelve
nominations. Both are mid-level, mid-career musicians who are a vital part of the
New York City music scene. Both have worked with major labels. (Ribot is currently
releasing his music on indies.)
I met them in New York one October afternoon. Ribot and Cash brought along
their Spotify numbers. In the past eighteen months, Ribot reported, his band made
a hundred and eighty-seven dollars from sixty-eight thousand streams of his lat-
est album, available on Spotify in Europe and the U.S. Cash had made a hundred
and four dollars from six hundred thousand streams. The math doesn’t fit Spotify’s
benchmarks, but that is how their labels and publishers did the accounting.
When I mentioned that both Ek and Parker seemed to be sincere in their desire
to help artists, Ribot replied, “Well, our ‘friends’ in the online-distribution business
have helped artists to go from a fourteen-billion-dollar domestic record business to
a seven-billion-dollar one, and now Spotify wants to help us reduce it even further.
With friends like that, give me the old Brill Building system.”
He went on, “Here’s the simple fact that no one wants to talk about. Spotify says
it pays out seventy per cent of its revenues to rights holders. Well, that’s very nice,
that’s lovely. But if I’m making a shoe, and it costs me a hundred dollars to make
it, and the retailer is selling that shoe for ten dollars, then I don’t care if he gives me
seventy per cent, I don’t care if he gives me one hundred per cent—I’m going out of
business. Dead is dead.”
Cash said, “I don’t think any of us want to make the streaming services go away.
We are not Luddites. We just want to be paid fairly.”
“And we’re not going to say a model is viable unless it’s viable for the creators,”
Ribot added. “I know Daniel Ek is going to do just fine. I don’t know that about the
people in my band.”
“And, if the artist can’t afford to work, the music is going to suffer,” Cash added,
with feeling. “Spotify is not acting in its own self-interest by obliterating us.”
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 565 05/27/19 06:19 PM

Or maybe Spotify itself will get obliterated. Apple, Amazon, and Google have
recently begun to enter the on-demand streaming market. (YouTube débuts Music
Key, an ad-free paid-subscription service, this week, which will include access to
Google Music Play.) Spotify’s advantage, Ek maintains, is its data and its ability to
analyze that information. “We’ve been doing this for years,” he said. “And what
we’ve built is the largest set of data of the most engaged music customers. I think it
would be really hard for anyone to come in and do what we do better. Maybe some-
one could lower the cost of a streaming service and make it hard for us to survive. But
am I concerned that someone will build a better product? No, because they can’t.”
James McQuivey, an analyst with the Boston-based Forrester Research, is less
optimistic about the company’s prospects. “Spotify has shown people value stream-
ing,” he said, “and that means somewhere someone could use that value in a bigger
chess game. Someone like an Apple or a Google is already realizing how valuable
music is as a customer-engagement tool and will offer something quite similar to
this, without making you pay for it, the way Amazon has included video in the Prime
membership without expressly charging. And then suddenly you’ve disrupted Spot
ify.” He added, “If I have to say yes or no will Spotify be as big and strong as it is five
years from now, the answer will be no.” [. . . .]
Apple could pose a real threat to Spotify, by pre-installing a service—iStream,
maybe—on the next generation of iPhones and including the price of a subscription
in the plan. Siri could be your d.j. That would insure a paying user base in the hun-
dreds of millions almost instantly, easily eclipsing Spotify’s. And, since Apple makes
money primarily from its hardware, it could afford to undercut Spotify on the price
of a subscription—a scheme it is currently promoting to the labels. Of course, that
would require the support of the labels, and they are Spotify’s business partners in
streaming. “You might want to take a discount in a business you have equity in,” one
label head told me. “You might not want to take a discount in a business you don’t
have equity in. Would we subsidize Apple with no real upside for us? We did that
once before. It was called unbundling the album.” In any case, the downward pres-
sure on price from increased competition seems likely to diminish the pot of money
that the rights holders get to divide.
Even if Spotify does manage to survive Apple, it will take years to complete the
paradigm shift to streaming. Meanwhile, album sales will continue to decline—even
albums recorded by Taylor Swift. The labels, feeling the pinch in their bottom line,
may try to squeeze more money out of Spotify, imperilling its future growth. They
may even try to cash in their equity stakes. Proving that, while your enemies can
indeed become your friends, the reverse can also be true.
A passage in the previous article alluded to new ways in which social

media can influence the circulation of music, leading to the “viral
nature of growth” of Lorde’s “Royals,” as one Spotify user after another
added it to his/her playlist and turned it into a hit. The following arti-
cle speaks to how other platforms, such as Twitter, used Rae Srem-
murd’s recording “Black Beatles” as a soundtrack to the “Mannequin
Challenge”—a phenomenon in which people made and posted videos
of themselves in stationary poses. From there, a dizzying stream of
events ensued that made “Black Beatles” a major hit, and also rede-
fined what it means for a recording to be a “hit” in the current media
environment. Illustrating that historical referents can become actors in
their own right, even Paul McCartney gets in on the act.
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 566 05/27/19 06:19 PM

Riding an Online Craze to the Top
Joe Coscarelli
There was no stopping “Black Beatles” once Paul McCartney got involved.
Though the song by the rambunctious young rap duo Rae Sremmurd had been
bubbling up steadily, it hit No. 1 on the Billboard singles chart this week in a most
unexpected fashion after becoming the de facto soundtrack to the Mannequin Chal-
lenge, the online video craze of the moment, where subjects hold a pose as the cam-
era pans across a comically eerie tableau.
“Love those Black Beatles #MannequinChallenge,” the 74-year-old Mr. McCart
ney posted to Twitter last Thursday, along with a video of him—still—at a piano as
the song’s spare, ominous intro blooms into a joyous number about partying and
“rocking John Lennon lenses.”
He wasn’t the only catalyst for the track’s spectacular rise: While the New York
Giants, Dane Cook, the West Point men’s gymnastics team and Blac Chyna, in a hos-
pital delivery room scene, all starred in Mannequin Challenge clips that went viral,
most crucial were the California high school students who, by chance, made “Black
Beatles” the score of choice for the rampant trend.
Love those Black Beatles #MannequinChallenge pic.twitter.com
/aAu9umHKI7
— Paul McCartney (@PaulMcCartney) November 10, 2016
With its jump to No. 1 from No. 9 in one meme-filled week, “Black Beatles” joins
a peculiar lineage of recent hits — also including the dance-along “Juju On That Beat
(TZ Anthem),” currently No. 8 on the Hot 100 — that have been boosted by organic
user-generated content on social media, outside of the traditional channels of music
promotion.
“As the charts have evolved, the components of what makes a hit have changed
so dramatically,” said David Bakula, a senior analyst for Nielsen Music, which sup-
plies the data for Billboard. “This is not a world that is dominated by just radio and
sales. There are new creative outlets to market songs, albums and artists.”
Luckily for major labels such as Interscope, which released Rae Sremmurd’s
sophomore album, “SremmLife 2,” to modest sales in August, fans can now take it
upon themselves to spread music on an almost unimaginable scale.
Colony high school #MannequinChallenge pic.twitter.com
/A9vDqj6x3u
— joseph (@Daddy_jayy) November 3, 2016
On Nov. 2, students at Colony High School in Ontario, Calif., choreographed an

elaborate #MannequinChallenge video just as the fad was taking off among young
people, having not yet reached the “Today” show or the White House.
Source: Joe Coscarelli, “Riding an Online Craze to the Top,” from The New York Times, Nov. 26,
2016. © 2016 The New York Times. All rights reserved. Used by permission and protected under the
Copyright Laws of the United States. The printing, copying, redistribution, or retransmission of
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 567 05/27/19 06:19 PM

A student there, Joseph Day, 17, became the first to use “Black Beatles” with the
video because, as he explained via direct message on Twitter, “It’s my favorite song
and I wanted my friends and the internet to all hear it and enjoy it as well.”
The next night, at a concert in Denver, Rae Sremmurd led the crowd in its own
rendition of the meme, eventually earning nearly 60,000 retweets of the video and
inextricably linking “Black Beatles” to the challenge.
#Mannequinchallenge live pic.twitter.com/y0aUTIfyTn
— Swae Lee Lee Swae (@goSwaeLee) November 4, 2016
The synergy could not have come at a better time, said John Janick, the chair-
man and chief executive of Interscope, because the label had recently begun pushing
“Black Beatles” as a single.
“It was like a lightning strike,” Mr. Janick said. “Without the Mannequin Chal-
lenge, this song would’ve been a hit — who knows how far it would go. But with the
Mannequin Challenge, it’s gigantic.”
Streams of “Black Beatles” have nearly tripled from 15 million in the final week
of October to 43 million last week. And paid downloads of the track shot up even
more, reaching 144,000 in the most recent chart period, compared to just 22,000 two
weeks prior, according to Nielsen Music. Even radio play — far from guaranteed for
viral hits — has been rising consistently.
Such a trajectory, from social media to the top of the charts, has become increas-
ingly common since Billboard began tweaking its formulas, factoring in YouTube
views in 2013 and adding digital streams and downloads the following year.
Psy’s “Gangnam Style” was an early beneficiary, as was “Harlem Shake” by
Baauer, an obscure electronic track that hit No. 1 after fans began making clips of
themselves thrashing to the song’s breakdown. More carefully choreographed
dance crazes that all but demand homemade videos, such as “Juju On That Beat
(TZ Anthem),” by the Detroit teenagers Zay Hilfigerrr and Zayion McCall, are more
pointed attempts to go viral, but have found near-instant success as well.
When the #TZAnthemChallenge ascended to meme-level in September, thanks
in large part to Instagram and teenage girls, the track was not even available at digi-
tal retailers. But Atlantic Records soon announced that it had signed the pair, in what
has become an annual occurrence. (Last year’s model, “Watch Me (Whip/Nae Nae)”
by Silento, is but a memory.)
DAS MY BEST FRAN. DONT STAWP RETWEETING pic.twitter
.com/2rAOFlF3ri
— Han (@hannah_nicole56) September 8, 2016
“Black Beatles” may have wider reach. While fans’ #MannequinChallenge clips
that use the song on Twitter and Instagram are not properly licensed through Inter-
scope, and therefore do not count as official streams on the Billboard chart, the videos
have succeeded in driving people back to Rae Sremmurd’s music.
“This isn’t ‘Gangnam Style,’ this isn’t ‘Harlem Shake,’” which did not find as
much success removed from their videos, Mr. Bakula of Nielsen said. (“Juju On That
Beat,” too, tallied about three times more video streams than audio last week, not
necessarily translating to downloads and radio play.)
But “Black Beatles” has so far proven to be a gateway. Recent Facebook chatter
about Rae Sremmurd was up 250 percent, according to Nielsen, while the group’s
previous hits have also seen an uptick. “It’s not just this one song, it’s not just this one
video,” Mr. Bakula said. “That’s the kind of thing that can buoy a career.”
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 568 05/27/19 06:19 PM

Political Engagement and African American Popular Music in the 21st Century 569
Further Reading
Anderson, Tim. Popular Music in a Digital Music Economy: Problems and Practices in an E merging
Service Industry. New York: Routledge, 2014.
Drott, Eric. “Music as a Technology of Surveillance.” Journal of the Society for American Music.
Volume 12, Number 3 (2018): 233-67.
Frith, Simon, and Lee Marshall, eds. Music and Copyright. 2nd ed. New York: Routledge, 2004.
Garofalo, Reebee. “I Want My MP3: Who Owns Internet Music?” In Policing Pop, ed. Martin
Cloonan and Reebee Garofalo, 30–45. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2003.
Katz, Mark. Capturing Sound: How Technology Has Changed Music. Berkeley: University of
McLeod, Kembrew. “MP3s Are Killing Home Taping: The Rise of Internet Distribution and
Its Challenge to the Major Label Music Monopoly.” Popular Music and Society 28 (Octo-
ber 2005): 521–31.
Morris, Jeremy Wade. Selling Digital Music, Formatting Culture. Oakland: University of Cali-
fornia Press, 2015.
Ross, Alex, “Rock 101: Academia Tunes In.” The New Yorker, July 14 and 21, 2003, 87–93.
Sterne, Jonathan. MP3: The Meaning of a Format (Durham and London: Duke University Press,
2012).
Taylor, Timothy D. Strange Sounds: Music, Technology and Culture. New York: Routledge, 2001.
Théberge, Paul. Any Sound You Can Imagine: Making Music/Consuming Technology. Hanover,
N.H.: University Press of New England, 1997.
Théberge on digital technology, recording, the networked studio
Van Buskirk, Eliot. in “Why File Sharing Will Save Hollywood, Music,” Wired, April 17, 2009.
Zak, Albin, III. The Poetics of Rock: Cutting Tracks, Making Records. Berkeley: University of
89. Political Engagement and African American

Popular Music in the 21st Century
African American musicians’ engagement with politics has a long his-

tory, from Spirituals, such as “No More Auction Block,” “Lift Every
Voice and Sing,” and “We Shall Overcome,” through to the Civil Rights
Movement up to the present day. This chapter looks at two artists who
have recently revitalized that tradition in their own way. Greg Tate (see
chapter 62), long one of the most astute writers about African American
music declared that “Thanks to D’Angelo’s Black Messiah and Kendrick
Lamar’s To Pimp a Butterfly, 2015 will be remembered as the year radical
black politics and for-real black music resurged in tandem to converge
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 569 05/27/19 06:19 PM

on the nation’s pop mainstream.”1 Although this chapter will not dis-
cuss D’Angelo’s release, it will discuss To Pimp a Butterfly and Beyon-
cé’s Lemonade (released a year later in 2016) in the context of a general
resurgence of political commitment in African American popular music.
Beyoncé Giselle Knowles-Carter’s (b. 1981) career spans the twenti-
eth and twenty-first centuries, and the changes in her music and public
persona register some of the shifts in popular music during that period.
Beyoncé first achieved success as a member of Destiny’s Child, which
appeared to many as the latest (and a particularly skillful) update of
the late ’90s “girl group,” in line with SWV, En Vogue, and TLC, that
combined gospel-influenced singing, references to old-school R&B
and soul, and contemporary hip-hop production and grooves. The girl
groups evoked by the band range historically from the Shirelles and
Supremes through to more recent predecessors like the Spice Girls,
whose “girl power message” Destiny’s Child adapted, expressed in
terms of assertive behavior in relationships. From 1999 to 2001, the
group had a string of hit songs, like “Bills, Bills, Bills” (1999), “Say My
Name” (2000), “Independent Woman, Part 1” (2000), “Survivor” (2001),
and “Bootylicious” (2001). Beyonce’s solo career, launched in 2003
with Dangerously in Love, quickly superseded the commercial success
of her work with Destiny’s Child, with all six of her albums going to num-
ber one on the Billboard charts. She continued her work with Destiny’s
Child until that group officially broke up in 2006 (although the group
still performs together occasionally).
Beyoncé’s sixth solo album, Lemonade (2016), broke new ground
in terms of its eclecticism in many domains: genre references, collabo-
rators, media, and variety of samples of previously recorded music, to
name a few. Her earlier albums were notable for the range of the refer-
ences to different types of music that are usually regarded separately,
but Lemonade surpassed her previous efforts with its nods to hard rock,
reggae, electronic dance music, and avant-garde experimentalism,
not to mention Beyoncé’s “base” styles of R&B, soul, funk, hip-hop,
and gospel.2 Her collaborators range from Kendrick Lamar, Jack White,
the Dixie Chicks (on the remix of “Daddy Lessons”), James Blake, and
the Weeknd; and the album was released simultaneously as an audio
and a video download. The Lemonade movie featured artists such as
filmmaker Kahlil Joseph and Somali poet Warsan Shire, and included
cameos of tennis star Serena Williams, actors Zendaya and Quven-
zhané Wallis, and the mothers of slain African Americans Eric Garner,
Trayvon Martin, Michael Brown. Samples included the well-known—
Isaac Hayes, Andy Williams, Outcast, Led Zeppelin—and the relatively
obscure—1960s Puerto Rican psychedelic band, Kaleidoscope. Critical
1. Greg Tate, “Kendrick Lamar: To Pimp a Butterfly,” Rolling Stone, March 19, 2015.
2. In terms of evoking such a diverse range of genres while creating a context in which R&B/
soul/gospel represent a kind of musical “home base,” Beyoncé’s process recalls that of Michael
Jackson in his work in Thriller and subsequently.
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 570 05/27/19 06:19 PM

reaction was divided into at least two camps: those who saw Lemonade
as a breakthrough, uniting Beyoncé’s artistry with progressive politics,
pride in black womanhood and its legacy in Southern history, and soli-
darity with the Black Lives Matter movement; and those who viewed
Beyoncé as able to transmute these noble ideas into commodities
through her star power and glamorous image.3 Reaction also divided
between tabloid-like obsession with the references to her recent marital
struggles with hip-hop mogul Shawn Carter (aka Jay-Z) and an apprecia-
tion of how her personal struggles were embedded within a broader
history of the oppression of black people more generally, and of black
women specifically.
2013’s eponymous Beyoncé had been released as an audio and
visual album, a format that Lemonade repeated with a twist: Lemonade,
musically and visually, is a concept album focused around themes of the
interlinking of the personal and political for black women, and the his-
tory of black women in the south. Some critics found evocations of song
cycles like those by Schubert or Schumann. Such Euro-cultural refer-
ences may be relevant, although one could also look to predecessors
such as classic rock (the Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds from 1966), or, per-
haps, even more pertinently, to spectacular Afro-centric productions,
such as those by George Clinton and P-Funk.
Zandria F. Robinson’s article articulates the larger dimensions and

implications of Lemonade. Yes, Robinson admits, listeners/viewers
cannot disconnect their experience of the album from what they know
about Beyoncé’s personal life, but the album is so much more than
that: it opens up a space for black women to celebrate their history,
to understand their relationship “to modern systems of oppression,”
and to explore the full range of emotions in response to these experi-
ences. In affirming the positive aspects of Beyoncé’s work, Robinson
also points out the African American lineage of Lemonade with con-
nections to previous artists beginning with John Coltrane and Erykah
Badu.
3. For examples of negative assessments, see Hilton Als, “Beywatch: Beyoncé’s Reformation,”
The New Yorker, May 30, 2016; and, especially bell hooks’ strongly Marxist-flavored analysis
in “Moving Beyond Pain,” http://www.bellhooksinstitute.com/blog/2016/5/9/moving-
beyond-pain. The following critics read/heard/saw the album more in terms of its symbolic
(rather than economic) interventions: Regina Bradley and dream Hampton, “Close to Home:
A Conversation About Beyoncé’s ‘Lemonade’,” NPR Music, http://www.npr.org/sections/
therecord/2016/04/26/475629479/close-to-home-a-conversation-about-beyonc-s-lemonade;
Evan Sawdey, “Beyoncé—Lemonade,” Pop Matters, April 27, 2016. For a scholarly take, see Lauron
Kehrer, “Review of Beyoncé, Lemonade,” Journal of the Society for American Music, Vol. 11, No. 2
(2017): 250–52.
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 571 06/04/19 11:17 PM

How Beyonce’s ‘Lemonade’ Exposes the Inner Lives of Black

Women
Zandria F. Robinson
Lemonade continues Beyoncé Knowles’ longstanding engagement with black South-
ern regionalism. The video album writes black women back into national, regional
and diasporic histories by making them the progenitors and rightful inheritors of
the Southern gothic tradition. Beyond “strong” and “magic,” Lemonade asserts that
black women are alchemists and metaphysicians who are at once of the past, present
and future, changing and healing the physical, chemical and spiritual world around
them. Rihanna uses her “glitter to make [your shit] gold,” Erykah Badu compels men
to “change jobs and change gods” and Janelle Monáe’s Cindi Mayweather is secretly
leading the Android Revolution. But Beyoncé accounts for the method behind black
women’s alchemy. Traversing genre and space, she fundamentally transforms the
Southern platitude about what one should do when life hands her lemons.
Part of black women’s magic, born of necessity, has been the ability to dissemble:
to perform an outward forthrightness while protecting our inner, private lives and
obscuring our full selves. We have drawn on this culture of dissemblance, as North-
western University historian Darlene Clark Hine has called it, to deflect physical and
discursive violence, cultivating rich inner lives that play out behind the enduring
walls of Jim Crow. Beyoncé rejects any magic predicated on constraint with Lemonade,
a meditation on the process of becoming a black woman in a society in which black
women matter the least, are “the mule of the world” and are the most disrespected,
neglected, and unprotected. Through the metaphor of lemonade — the South’s other
cold drink, sweet tea’s antithesis and sometimes nemesis, but perhaps its best collab-
orator — Beyoncé insists on alternative forms of inner magic that demand emotional
disclosure for healing, wholeness and a freer kind of freedom.
Lemonade is an extended introduction to “Formation,” the song, visual and live
performance that transformed our collective 2016 Super Bowl weekends. As the cul-
mination of a different kind of Great Migration story, “Formation” foreshadowed
the movements between space (rural and urban) and time that Lemonade takes up.
But “Formation” tells us little of the physical, emotional and social labor — the trans-
formation, as it were — it took to get in-formation. We learn from Lemonade that “For-
mation,” the last track on the audio album, is the result of a dissembling and silenced
black womanhood, broken, baptized, forged in fire and resurrected through the
strength of intergenerational mother wit to sing and signify resilience and resistance.
Black women’s expression of emotion can be discursively and physically dan-
gerous for us, and sometimes telling our truth leads to violence or death. But on
screen and in our minds, Lemonade provides a risk-free emotional space that soni-
cally and visually highlights what we all miss when we dismiss and neglect black
women’s emotional lives. In a musical landscape replete with black men’s emoting
— Kanye West’s misogynist breakup screed, Drake’s perpetual hurt from the good
girls who get dressed and go out too much, Kendrick Lamar’s struggles against a
depression-inducing capitalism — Lemonade takes up a bittersweet space to explore
how it feels, and how it has felt for so long, for black women to be so black and blue.
Lemonade is a womanist sonic meditation that spans from the spiritual to the trap,
with stops at country soul and rock & roll in between. Its visual landscape is packed
Source: “How Beyoncé’s ‘Lemonade’ Exposes the Inner Lives of Black Women” by Zandria F.
Robinson from RollingStone.com published April 28, 2016. Copyright © Rolling Stone LLC 2016.
All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission.
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 572 05/27/19 06:19 PM

tightly with a consistent iconography of black Southern women’s history and move-
ment through the rural and urban Souths of the past and present. The film signifies
on Eve’s Bayou and Julie Dash’s Daughters of the Dust, centers sacred Nigerian body
art practices, draws on the words of Warsan Shire and grandmothers’ reflections and
returns again and again to Louisiana plantation spaces where black women become
both the hoodoo man and the conjure woman, setting things ablaze from their very
depths and surviving and healing. This rich, multilayered backdrop is not the canvas
for the revelation of trite tabloid tidbits.
Although there are some underlying tensions between verisimilitude and reality
in Lemonade, Beyoncé invites us to the work as a memoir, a meditation and a celebra-
tion. Like much work that has emerged in the age of Black Lives Matter, we are to
read the literal relationship turmoil as a metaphor for black women’s relationship to
modern systems of oppression. By offering up a prayer first, Lemonade spurns from
the outset the unrelenting hate-consumption of black women’s hurt and anger that
other media, notably reality television, encourage. Instead, with Beyoncé’s account of
her black girl alchemist journey as only a starting point, Lemonade concerns itself with
legitimating and creating space for a range of black women’s emotions, pushing back
against the generational curse of hurt patriarchs and unrelenting state actors who
refuse to stop hurting the women and girls who sacrifice the most and love them best.
In still and quiet formation, black women, donning white, watch us from planta-
tion porches, returning the gaze to remind us that they are people who are feeling.
Serena looks at us. Leah Chase’s eyes smile at us. Quvenzhané watches us. Beyoncé
meets and holds our eyes. Lesley McSpadden, Sybrina Fulton and Gwen Carr, moth-
ers of the slain Mike Brown, Trayvon Martin and Eric Garner, look at us, asking us
to look at them and the pictures they hold of their murdered sons. Southern black
women, their hair freshly Marcel-curled, look and smile. We are to be seen, they say,
not just watched and consumed.
The film’s thesis is made evident in the transition from “Pray You Catch Me” to
“Hold Up.” Diving from atop a building into herself, the transition finds Beyoncé’s true
self under water, slumbering, while she outwardly tries to dissemble, to bracket the
hurt and anxiety of a potentially cheating partner. What follows is an emergence from
baptismal waters. Donning the saffron garb associated with Yoruba Orisha Oshun,
whose presence endures in black Southern religious practice, Beyoncé emerges from
the water un-dissembled. As such, she is both joy and rage, bringing forth more water
in which the street’s children can play, busting out windows with her bat Hot Sauce,
and relishing a theretofore unrealized freedom to be emotionally human.
Lemonade’s multiple chapters — intuition, denial, anger, apathy, emptiness,
accountability, reformation, forgiveness, resurrection, hope, redemption — are at
once about one couple; many couples; the sometimes complicated relationships
between black women, men, fathers and daughters; and black women’s relationship
to an unequal America. In their number, the chapters deliberately obscure alternative
organizations of the work, like those deployed by Erykah Badu’s “Denial,” “Accept-
ance” and “Relapse” on “Green Eyes” or Coltrane’s “Acknowledgement,” “Resolu-
tion,” “Pursuance,” and “Psalm” on A Love Supreme. This refusal to group emotions
into larger categories compels us to experience a broader spectrum of black women’s
emotional lives.
Lemonade is Beyoncé’s intimate look into the multigenerational making and
magic of black womanhood. In its moves through genre, space, place and time, it
offers new tools to see black women, to listen to us, and to say our names. To black
women, it offers up a saffron-tinged blueprint for love and salvation through love
— of ourselves, of our significant others, of our children, of our spiritual lives —
when we are so often treated as fundamentally unloveable. And though it is for cer-
tain a work of black girl alchemy, it contains infinite lessons for our fraught political
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 573 05/27/19 06:19 PM

moment, teaching us to register a range of emotion so we might begin our own col-
lective journeys of transformation.
Kendrick Lamar is the most celebrated hip-hop artist of his genera-

tion: multiple-Grammy Award winner, platinum-selling artist, critically
acclaimed by hip-hop and mainstream critics alike, and, most improb-
ably, winner of the 2017 Pulitzer Prize for Music for his album DAMN!.4
Bursting onto the Southern California rap scene in the mid-2000s under
a series of pseudonyms, Lamar released his first album for a major label
in 2012, good kid, m.A.A.d city, after collaborating with numerous other
artists for several years, and releasing many recordings for independent
companies. Even his earliest hit single, “Swimming Pool (Drank)” dem-
onstrated the social awareness and verbal brilliance that he has subse-
quently become widely known for. His 2015 album, To Pimp a Butterfly,
was a concept album, as was it predecessor, good kid, m.A.A.d city, and
its successor, DAMN, with the songs creating a narrative that conjures
up an almost cinematic sweep. The quote from Greg Tate at the begin-
ning of the chapter already credited To Pimp a Butterfly for the surge
of politically engaged black music in recent years; another critic, Jon
Caramanica, described the album’s meshing of aesthetic and political
goals with the highest praise: “At its best, it’s a howling work of black
protest art on par with Amiri Baraka’s incendiary play ‘Dutchman,’ or
David Hammons’s moving decapitated hoodie ‘In the Hood’.”5
As with Lemonade, the range of musical references is extremely
broad, but, in the case of To Pimp a Butterfly, the references are more
focused than Beyoncé’s album on recent black popular music and jazz—G-
funk, P-funk, free jazz, bebop, soul music, neo-soul music, with participa-
tion from, or explicit references to (in the form of samples/interpolations)
Dr. Dre, Snoop Dogg, George Clinton, the Isley Brothers, and 2Pac.
Aisha Harris’s article, reprinted next, analyzes how Lamar’s fierce
critique of the current state of race relations in the United States found
resonance with the political movement, Black Lives Matter, that arose in
response to a series of well-publicized murders of African Americans by the
police. A striking insight of the article is how a sense of struggle pervades
interactions in the African American community that might otherwise not
have obvious political overtones. After a period in which materialism and
intra-genre competition dominated the activities of many hip-hop artists,
Lamar has been the most prominent rapper of his generation to fore-
ground the political. Harris also makes plain the historical associations
of “Alright” with previous anthems of African American protest, including
two of the songs mentioned at the beginning of this chapter.
4. I write “improbably” here, not because of any aesthetic judgment on my part but because of
the legacy of the Pulitzer Prize. From 1943 to 1997, the award was given exclusively to composers
of Western Art Music; of these, all were white, and 52 of 55 were male. Wynton Marsalis, in 1997,
was the first winner to be identified with a different type of music (jazz), and the first person of
color to win the award. From 1997 to 2016, only classical and jazz artists were represented.
5. Jon Caramanica, “Kendrick Lamar, Emboldened, but Burdened, by Success,” New York
Times, March 17, 2015.
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 574 05/27/19 06:19 PM

Has Kendrick Lamar Recorded the New Black National
Anthem? Singing “Alright” in a Summer of Protest, Despair,
and Hope
Aisha Harris
Last week, video of Black Lives Matter protesters in Cleveland made the rounds, and
they were chanting the chorus to one of the most acclaimed songs of 2015 so far: “We
gon’ be alright! We gon’ be alright!”
The song is Kendrick Lamar’s “Alright,” from his sprawling, topical master-
piece To Pimp a Butterfly, and I’m surprised it took this long for it to be used during
a protest. (Or at least, for it to be caught on camera and made viral.) The chorus
is simple yet extraordinarily intoxicating, easy to chant, offering a kind of com-
fort that people of color and other oppressed communities desperately need all too
often: the hope—the feeling—that despite tensions in this country growing worse
and worse, in the long run, we’re all gon’ be all right. And more than that—the
specific kind of comfort that comes from repeating that line over and over. When
protesting police brutality and police duplicity—when reminding the authorities
and the watching world that we can survive this, too—what more timely, relevant
chant could there be?
I’ve been returning to this song again and again this spring and summer. In
part that’s because “Alright” is just damn good ear candy, with its breezy Pharrell-
produced harmonies, its swinging, laid-back production contrasting with Lamar’s
skittering wordplay. But I also listen to it because it’s been a long and difficult year
since Ferguson, and the world sometimes seems like a terrible place, and I need
Lamar’s reminder that we’ve been down before. Another black person shot by
police? Turn on “Alright.” A young black teenager’s graduation party turns into an
unnecessarily horrifying police encounter? Turn on “Alright.” A white suprema-
cist murders black church members during a prayer session? Guess it’s time for
“Alright.” A black woman found hanging in her jail cell under suspicious circum-
stances? Well . . .
I’m not alone in this. Just in the past few months I’ve attended dance parties
in which the majority of the attendees were people of color. When “Alright” comes
on, the sense of community in the room has been astounding, people exuberantly
shouting the chorus in a way that echoes that of those protesters (though obviously,
under radically different circumstances). On a recent episode of the BuzzFeed pod-
cast Another Round, co-hosts Tracy Clayton and Heben Nigatu discussed the power
of the song at this moment, with Clayton saying she also turned to it when things
in the news made her sorrowful. In a blog post for Very Smart Brothas, Jozen Cum-
mings wrote about “things we can’t do while black,” including: “Listen to some
song about being in love or being happy without listening to Kendrick Lamar’s
‘Alright’ first.”
Lamar clearly means for the song to echo across the news of the summer. His
late-June performance at the BET Awards, perched atop a police cruiser, American
Source: Aisha Harris, “Has Kendrick Lamar Recorded the New Black National Anthem? Singing
‘Alright’ in a Summer of Protest, Despair, and Hope,” from Slate, August 3, 2015. © 2015 The Slate
Group. All rights reserved. Used by permission and protected under the copyright laws of the
United States. The printing, copying, redistribution, or retransmission of the material without
express written permission is prohibited.
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 575 05/27/19 06:19 PM

flag waving behind him, seemed to be making a kind of argument for the role the
song might play in black communities and black protests. When Fox News unsur-
prisingly attacked this unflinching stage performance—“Hip hop has done more
damage to young African Americans than racism in recent years,” opined Geraldo
Rivera—Lamar responded, “Hip-hop is not the problem. Our reality is the prob-
lem. . . . This is our music. This is us expressing ourselves.” Could “Alright” be, as
one Twitter user suggested, “the new Black national anthem?”
“Alright” has replaced “We Shall Overcome” as the new Black
national anthem
— Haitian Derulo (@BosNaud) July 30, 2015
It’s a complicated question. The widely recognized black American national

anthem is actually “Lift Every Voice and Sing,” not “We Shall Overcome.” Both
songs are associated with the protests of the civil rights movement and bear some
thematic similarity to “Alright.” In “Lift Every Voice and Sing,” for example, the
lyrics, written as a poem by school principal James Weldon Johnson and first pub-
licly performed in 1900 in honor of Abraham Lincoln’s birthday, are proud and
uplifting:
Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us,
Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us,
Facing the rising sun of our new day begun,
Let us march on till victory is won.
“We Shall Overcome,” which in its early incarnation had slightly different lyrics (and
the title “I’ll Be All Right”), is likewise optimistic:
The Lord will see us through, The Lord will see us through,
The Lord will see us through someday;
Oh, deep in my heart, I do believe,
We shall overcome someday.
It’s worth looking at the context in which those Black Lives Matter protesters
were chanting “Alright.” The activists had convened for a conference in Cleveland
when an allegedly drunk 14-year-old boy was arrested outside the venue and alleg-
edly roughed up by police. Demonstrators gathered around the scene, locked arms,
and were pepper sprayed by police. What the viral clip of the Cleveland protesters
doesn’t make clear is that, according to ABC 5 Cleveland, the chanting of “Alright”
came after the boy was treated by emergency medical technicians and then released
to family members, instead of being taken to the police precinct—what some at the
scene considered a small victory. The song, for those protesters, seems both a way to
be defiant and proud in the face of those who don’t see you as anything more than
a “race-baiter” or a “thug”—and a way to mark the moments when protest seems to
make a difference.
Whether “Alright” can truly become the next “Lift Every Voice and Sing”
or “We Shall Overcome” depends, that is, not just on whether it continues to
appear at protests but on whether those protests can help yield real progress for
the movement—giving even greater weight to the song’s promise that we’ll push
on through. For now it’s clear that “Alright” is the absolute perfect song for this
moment, in the way that Nina Simone’s “Mississippi Goddam,” James Brown’s
“Say It Loud—I’m Black and I’m Proud,” and Public Enemy’s “Fight the Power”
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 576 05/27/19 06:19 PM

all captured their eras. It’s blunt and fed up: “We hate po’ po’/ Wanna kill us dead
in the streets fo’ sho’.” Like the rest of To Pimp a Butterfly, it is completely, unapolo-
getically black, with all the complexity that implies. It’s unafraid to bring up the
vices of its author (namely, materialism)—“Painkillers only put me in the twilight/
Where pretty pussy and Benjamin is the highlight”—but stresses that those only
make him human. (Think of the specious arguments people make to suggest that
black people dead at the hands of police somehow “had it coming” because they
smoked weed or sold loose cigarettes or just weren’t deferential enough at a traffic
stop.) And the song holds out hope that things will get better—because how else
do you carry on?
Further Reading
Anderson, Claire. “Empowerment, Agency, and Nuance at the 2013 Super bowl Halftime
Show,” Ethnomusicology Review, Vol. 19 (2014): 1–9.
Barrett, Ciara. “ ‘Formation’ of the Female Author in the Hip Hop Visual Album: Beyoncé
and FKA Twigs,” Soundtrack, Vol. 9, No. ½ (December 2016): 41–57.
Durham, A. “ ‘Check on It’: Beyoncé, Southern Booty, and Black Femininities in Music Vid-
eos,” Feminist Media Studies, Vol. 12, No. 1 (2012): 35–49.
Eubanks, Kevin. “After Blackness, Then Blackness: Afro-Pessimism, Black Life, and Classi-
cal Hip Hop as Counter-Performance,” The Journal of Hip-Hop Studies, Vol. 4, No. 1 (Fall
2017): 5–22.
Fulton, Will. “The Performer as Historian: Black Messiah, To Pimp a Butterfly, and the Matter
of Albums,” American Music Review, Vol. 44, No. 2 (Spring 2015): 1–11.
Hansen, Kai Arne. “Empowered or Objectified? Personal Narrative and Audiovisual
Aesthetics in Beyoncé’s ‘Partition’.” Popular Music and Society, Vol. 40, No. 2 (2017):
164–80.
Hiatt, Brian. “The Humble King,” Rolling Stone, Issue 1294 (August 24, 2017): 38–43.
Utley, Ebony A. “What Does Beyoncé Mean to Young Girls?” Journal of Popular Music
Studies, Vol. 29, No. 2 (June 2017). https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/epdf/10.1111/
jpms.12212.
Discography
Beyoncé. 2003. Dangerously in Love. Columbia, 2003.
_________. B’Day. Columbia, 2006.
_________. I Am . . . Sasha Fierce. Columbia, 2008.
_________. 4. Columbia, 2011.
_________. Beyoncé. Columbia, 2013.
_________. Lemonade. Columbia, 2016.
Destiny’s Child. The Writing’s on the Wall. Columbia, 1999.
_________. Survivor. Columbia, 2001.
Lamar, Kendrick. Good Kid, M.A.A.D. City. Top Dawg/Aftermath/Interscope, 2011.
_________. To Pimp a Butterfly. Top Dawg/Aftermath/Interscope, 2015.
__________. Damn. Top Dawg/Aftermath/Interscope, 2017.
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 577 05/27/19 06:19 PM

90. EDM Grooves Onward
Back in chapter 83, Simon Reynolds presented his chronicle of elec-

tronic dance music (EDM) circa the mid-1990s. At that time, denizens
largely experienced EDM in clubs or large dance parties (“raves”), but
it remained either a functional form of music (i.e., music for a night
out dancing) or a cult taste, not generally embraced by mainstream
audiences. By 2010 or so, EDM’s position within the world of popular
music had shifted significantly, with EDM-affiliated artists playing at
festivals with huge audiences, while becoming a dominant force in
the sound of contemporary hit formats (radio, online, streaming). Per-
haps most striking, Reynolds’ earlier claim that “electronic dance
music . . . is simply not in the business of selling personalities” would
beg for modification of some sort given the rise of EDM stars like
Skrillex and Avicii.
Simon Reynolds would not argue this last point as evidenced by the
article reprinted in this chapter, to which I will turn for an explanation
of how the transformation of EDM occurred. Along with noting how DJs
are now treated like rock stars, Reynolds provides a history of the genre
in the years between this article and the earlier one, and focuses on
several points of difference: the move in venue from raves to festivals,
the change of labeling from techno to EDM, an increased emphasis on
visuals, and the substitution of “molly” for ecstasy in terms of intoxicant
of choice. Reynolds explores the relative importance and viability of each
of these factors, and touches on debates around aesthetics and value,
with participants in the scene taking different positions on whether
these changes are positive or negative. The article also provides an
excellent analysis of the most significant sub-genre of EDM, “dubstep,”
and an account of the most prominent dubstep starts as well.1
1. For a discussion among key industry figures in the EDM renasissance, see “RA Roundtable:
EDM in America.” Resident Advisor. September 11, 2012. https://www.residentadvisor.net/
features/1709.
578
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EDM Grooves Onward 579
How Rave Music Conquered America
Simon Reynolds
For anyone who lived through the 90s, the electronic dance music (EDM) explo-
sion in America has an uncanny air of history-repeats about it. Massive gatherings
of dancing youths dressed in garish freakadelic clothes? DJs treated like rock stars?
Teenagers dropping dead from druggy excess? Didn’t this all happen once already?
But the phenomenon isn’t so much deja vu as a rebranding coup. What were once
called “raves” are now termed “festivals”; EDM is what we used to know by the
name of techno. Even the drugs have been rebranded: “molly,” the big new chemical
craze, is just ecstasy in powder form (and reputedly purer and stronger) as opposed
to pills.
The main difference between then and now is the sheer scale of the phenom-
enon. Earlier this summer Electric Daisy Carnival (EDC), the most famous of the
new wave of whatever-you-do-don’t-call-them-raves, drew 320,000 people to Las
Vegas Motor Speedway over the course of three days. The crowds are lured to
EDC and to similar dance-fests like Ultra, Electric Zoo, and IDentity not just by the
headliner-piled-upon-headliner bills of superstar DJs but by the no-expense-spared
spectacle of LED graphics, projection mapping and other cutting-edge visual
technology.
Why did it take so long—20 years—for techno-rave to conquer the Ameri-
can mainstream? Commentators sometimes compare the delay to the 15-year gap
between Never Mind the Bollocks and Nevermind: 1991 as the Year Punk Broke
America. But in both cases that’s a simplistic view of history: the Clash were stars
in America by 1980 along with other New Wave acts, and likewise electronic dance
music made a series of incursions into the US pop charts over the last two decades,
only to be returned each time to the underground.
In the early 90s, KLF and C&C Music Factory, Deelite and Crystal Waters took
house into the Billboard Top 40, while raves both illegal and commercial sprouted
on the east and west coasts—an escalation that climaxed with 1993’s Rave Amer-
ica, which drew 17,000 to the Californian amusement park Knots Berry Farm. Then
came a lull until the electronica buzz of 1997, when MTV threw its weight behind
the Prodigy, the Chemical Brothers, and Underworld. In the immediate years that
followed, Fatboy Slim and Moby achieved ubiquity in TV commercials and movie
soundtracks, while trance music of the fluffy Paul van Dyk/Paul Oakenfold type
spurred a resurgence of raves in southern California, which by the turn of the millen-
nium reached the 20–40,000 range.
Once again, the momentum dissipated. Radio remained hostile to electronic
dance music unless it had a conventional pop song structure and vocals (as with the
Prodigy’s punk-rave or Madonna’s coopting of trance on Ray of Light). Major labels
couldn’t work out how to develop electronic acts into albums-selling career artists.
The next downturn for electronic music was drastic and for a while seemed termi-
nal. Thanks to nu-metal and cool-hair bands like the Strokes and the White Stripes,
rock was in the ascendant again; guitars once more sold more than turntables, a
reversal of how things were trending in the 90s. In California, always America’s
Source: Simon Reynolds, “How Rave Music Conquered America,” The Guardian, August 2, 2012.
Copyright Guardian News & Media Ltd 2018.
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 579 05/27/19 06:19 PM

rave stronghold, large-scale parties all but disappeared, while all across the country,
clubs moved to smaller premises and weekly events went monthly. The period from
2004–5 was the nadir: some American DJs even emigrated to Berlin, where the work
prospects were better.
How did the US electronic dance scene claw its way back? Basically, by doing
its best to shed the word “rave” and all its associations: drugged-up kids slumped
on dancefloors, hospitalisations, and the statistically rare but reputation-tarnishing
deaths. Repeatedly through the 90s, governments at the state and city level enacted
laws and policies designed to stamp out what concerned parents and alarmist news-
papers typically called “drug supermarkets.” In Chicago, people who threw a party
for friends in their own loft apartment, with no paid admission and the DJing per-
formed by the host, could find themselves ticketed for a $10,000 fine. In New Orleans,
laws originally drafted to close down crack houses were used against raves and clubs
where drug taking was taking place, regardless of whether the promoter or owner
was involved in selling the substances.
“The association of techno with ecstasy, we really had to overcome that stigma,”
says Gary Richards of the LA-based promotions company Hard Events. “If you
approach a venue owner or local authority for permits and you use the word ‘rave,’
your business model is doomed.” Richards went further than most, actually banning
from his Hard Festivals such rave-era “silly stuff” as glow-sticks, dummies, and cud-
dly toys.
The word “festival” itself represents an attempt by promoters to draw a line
between today’s EDM and 90s rave. From bluegrass and folk to indie and heavy
metal, music festivals take place all over the US. Some have their own problems
with excessive drug/alcohol use and rowdy, mob-like behaviour (remember the
arson and riots at Woodstock in 1999?). But festivals don’t have the media stigma
or face the punitive legislation and policing that raves do. Older and shrewder
by the late 2000s, the early 90s pioneers involved in Hard Events and Insomniac
(the company behind Electric Daisy Carnival) learned how to work with the sys-
tem, going through the bureaucratic hoops required to get permits, and providing
the level of intensive security, entrance searches and overall safety provisions that
would give political cover to their local government enablers. In contrast with the
90s ethos of throwing raves in exotic and out-of-the-way places such as abandoned
buildings, remote farms, and desert wilderness, promoters deliberately sought
out in-plain-sight sites: ultra-mainstream venues like sports stadiums and motor
sports courses.
The big breakthrough came with the 2010 Electric Daisy Carnival, for which
Insomniac’s Pasquale Rotella secured the LA Memorial Coliseum: an iconic foot-
ball stadium that is home to the USC Trojans and also hosted the Olympics. Yet
this moment of crossover triumph for the resurgent EDM movement almost turned
to catastrophe: Insomniac’s bid for respectability was dealt a near-fatal blow with
the ecstasy-related death of a 15-year-old girl who somehow managed to bypass
the Electric Daisy’s age restrictions and get into the event. The outcry that ensued
forced EDC out of Los Angeles altogether. Insomniac now stage the Carnival in
Las Vegas, a much more congenial and permissive environment that has lately
become the Ibiza of North America, a place where superstar deejays like Tiesto
have residences.
“I would never want our scene to grow out of something tragic,” says Rotella.
“But all that media attention was something that opened people’s eyes to how big
this scene was getting. It did, I believe, assist in the explosion. Because we were pull-
ing 130,000 people and no one knew.“ He points out that before the Coliseum, there
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 580 05/27/19 06:19 PM

were no other dance festivals in the US on anything like that scale. Now there’s half
a dozen. [. . . .]
[. . . .] Right from the early days, there’s always been a carnivalesque side to rave
culture, from the free party sound systems with names like Circus Warp to the com-
mercial UK raves with their bouncy castles, gyroscope rides, and merry-go-rounds.
Clubs, likewise, featured all sorts of eye-candy, from lasers and intelligent lighting
to trip-tastic projections of cyber-kitsch graphics. The flicker and dazzle was condu-
cive to hallucinatory drugs and the hi-tech fun ‘n’ frolics found the perfect interzone
between futurism and regression to childhood. The new electronic dance festivals in
America have taken this side of rave to the next level.
Daft Punk’s set at the Coachella festival in 2006, where they performed inside a
huge glowing pyramid, is often cited as a turning point. Soon performers like Dead-
mau5 were pouring as much effort and money into LED panels and beat-synchronised
animated graphics as they did into their music.
What’s different about this new breed of audio-visual entertainer is that
what they offer are “custom-branded visuals predesigned to fit specific songs. So
says Drew Best, a prime mover in the US dubstep scene with his Los Angeles club/
label Smog, but also the motion-graphics designer behind the fledgling company
Pattern & Noise. In the old days, Best explains, what a VJ (video jockey) or lighting
director did was provide improvised accompaniment to the DJ’s set. But nowadays
Deadmau5 will get a designer such as Best, who worked on the former’s recent tour,
to create “Pacman-type ghosts” to go with the track Ghosts ‘N’ Stuff or a “Tron-
style” factory with clanking pistons to accompany Professional Griefers. The lead-
ing performers on the EDM scene are engaged in fierce competition to out-dazzle
each other. Skrillex’s Skrill Cell combined projection mapping and motion capture.
“Skrillex wore a suit and he had CG characters rigged to it, these 20 foot monsters on
a giant wall behind him,” explains Best. “The monsters would match Skrillex’s every
movement as he deejayed onstage.”
This A/V glitz-blitz costs a lot, but then artists at the Deadmau5 level earn
a lot: as much as $1m for a festival appearance, while hardest-gigging-man-in-
EDM Skrillex is reportedly worth $15m. With day tickets selling at around $125 and
well over 300,000 attending over three days, the Las Vegas EDC must have grossed in
the region of $40m. The big money is attracting even bigger money: the mogul Rob-
ert FX Sillerman declared his intent to spend $1bn acquiring companies in the EDM
field, while Live Nation, America’s leading concert promotions company, recently
purchased outright Hard Events.
The increasingly bread-head and circus-like aspects of EDM have provoked
a backlash from those who feel dance culture is swapping underground intimacy
in favour of soul-less bombast that stuns and stupefies audiences into slack-jawed
submission. The Wall Street Journal, of all places, recently railed against “The
Dumbing Down of Electronic Dance Music.” Long time west coast rave watcher
Dennis Romero penned a caustic verdict for LA Weekly on this June’s Vegas EDC:
“A press-play parade of millionaires going through the motions.” DanceSafe’s
Messer, a veteran of the idealistic PLUR (peace, love, unity, respect) oriented rave
underground of the 90s, complains that the dance festivals offer a “packaged, con-
tainerised experience . . . These events are all about raging hard, getting as fucked
up as you can. Not necessarily even about dancing, just being a face in this giant
extravaganza.”
At the core of many of the complaints is the belief that these entertainment
spectaculars are tyrannical in their inflexibility. “There’s a lot of stuff that’s pre-
programmed,” says Drew Best. “The tracks in a Deadmau5 set precisely trigger
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the visual and lighting systems. All the imagery is absolutely on beat, and that
beat is 128 bpm. If you see Deadmau5 several times in a row, you might see the
same show.” Earlier this year Deadmau5 incited a furor with his candid admis-
sion that everybody at his level basically presses “play” and his assertion that the
true artistry comes into play in the recording studio beforehand, not on the stage.
In other words, he’s a producer who chooses to publicly represent his sound in
person, but not a DJ in the traditional sense: a selector who responds to the mood
of the crowd. EDM today has come a long way from the early days of house and
techno, when sound was privileged over vision, an ethos enshrined in the title of
the 1992 Madhouse compilation A Basement, a Red Light, and a Feeling. In those
murky, atmospheric clubs, the deejay booth was often tucked away in a corner
rather than placed up on a stage: dancers weren’t meant to all be looking in one
direction, they were meant to get lost in music, and in the collective intimacy of
the dancefloor.
While festivals like Electric Daisy Carnival have amplified the fantasy and fancy
dress side of 90s rave, other sectors in the resurgent scene have gone in the opposite
direction, concentrating on the music. Hard Festival’s Richards wanted to lose the
“goofy fashion” side of rave that EDC revels in. “Why do we have to dress up like
idiots to listen to this music? All those girls in the furry boots, they look like Clydes-
dale horses!” As “hard” suggests, Richards presents electronic music as modern
rock: an old spirit encased in new digital flesh. [. . . .]
[. . . .] Paralleling the rocktronica approach of Gary Richards, the rise of dubstep
in America represents a countervailing force of hardness and darkness at odds with
the escapist fantasy side of EDM developed by the mega-festivals. Best points to a
September 2006 Radio One show by Mary Ann Hobbs as a critical moment in dub-
step’s dissemination through North America. “Dubstep Warz was this session where
she had all the key DJs on the scene playing tracks, but more importantly talking
about the music and the culture. It really painted a picture of what dubstep meant.
That show was traded throughout the Internet, to the point where it’s almost a cliche
to say that it influenced you. Hobbs also talked about Dubstepforum in that broad-
cast. At that point it had a few hundred users. But subsequently it just grew and grew
until it now has a million.”
The internet helped to obliterate the time-lag that always used to hamper the US
outposts of UK-based scenes like jungle. Because of the dubplate system, whereby
the leading British drum & bass DJs played the latest sounds months before their
official release, by the time American deejays got hold of the tracks as expensive
imports, the UK scene was already six months into the future. But dubstep, as the
first fully networked dance scene, is globally synchronized: sound-files are traded
more freely and new tracks get edited out of DJ mixes on pirate radio and posted on
YouTube by fans.
By 2007, not only was dubstep accessible in a way that jungle, UK garage and
grime had never been, but the music itself was getting more accessible: increasingly
in your face, full-on, and hard-riffing. In its formative years, dubstep had been a
connoisseur’s sound: deep and dark, moody and meditational, appealing to an audi-
ence largely composed of former junglists and 90s-rave veterans. Gradually the
sound gathered new, younger recruits, proving particularly popular with students.
DJs such as Skream and Plastician found themselves playing bigger halls and, con-
sciously or unconsciously, started gearing both their sets and their own productions
to what would make a big crowd go nuts. Some observers say the ban on smoking in
clubs played its role: with a sly, discreet spliff no longer an option, punters switched
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 582 05/27/19 06:19 PM

to pills and energy levels accordingly rose. Whatever the case, dubstep transformed
into a big-room, peak hour sound: proper rave music.
New populist heroes such as Caspa and Rusko emerged, amping up the
aggression levels and intensifying the wobble basslines that drove dancers crazy.
In the early dubstep, the bass drop was a tectonic quake of sub-low frequencies.
But now it shifted into the mid-range, with intricately edited, brutally baroque
basslines that contorted and backfired like the solo of a lobotomized guitarist.
Multiple bass-patterns and bass-timbres were layered to form a churning slurry,
like a chainsaw shearing through sewage. Track titles and artist names played
up the expulsive and repulsive aspect of the new style (Stenchman’s discogra-
phy includes Puking Over and The Taste of Vomit) and fans enthused about
“filthstep.” These abject-yet-inorganic basslines largely stemmed from a single
music-making program, Massive. Made by Native Instruments, it’s a synthesizer
plug-in that sits in a producer’s laptop or digital audio workstation and allows
him or her to slather different synth-textures together to make the sickest, slimi-
est bassline.
The Massive sound basically made dubstep massive in the US. A key moment
was another widely circulated mix, this time created by the Vancouver-based deejay
Excision for the 2008 Shambalaya festival. “Excision isolated the most aggressive,
industrial sounding tracks around,” says Best. “Nothing but the hardest dubstep.
People here ate that up.”
Meanwhile, many original dubstep believers were recoiling from the rowdy,
macho atmosphere that had descended on the scene. “Brostep” was the derisive
term coined to discourage the masculinist tendency, mock it out of existence.
According to Best, “bro” brings to mind steroid-stacked frat boys and t ruck-driving
dudes into Monster Energy drinks. But the term began to be embraced as a posi-
tive identity. “I’ve actually been sent demo tracks by people who say: ‘I make
brostep.’”
Ultimately dubstep’s drift towards harder-and-crazier sounds proved unstop-
pable. In the UK, many of the scene’s guardians refused to go along with it and dis-
persed into the milder, semi-experimental or house-ified realms of “post-dubstep.”
But in America, outfits like Smog embraced the new direction. For Best, dubstep
was moving in to claim the space abandoned by rock, through its retreat during the
2000s into either antiquarian retro irrelevance or the non-visceral gentility of indie,
all wordsmith craft and over-embellished arrangements. That space was the peren-
nial demand for a tough, aggressive but forward-looking sound for the release of
pent-up frustration.
Choosing venues for their increasingly frequent and well-attended dubstep
events, Smog deliberately gravitated to Los Angeles’s rock’n’roll venues. “Before
I’d done drum’n’bass nights and whenever we’d booked into anywhere polished, it
always ended in flames. Bathrooms got trashed, mirrors had tags etched into them.
When we started doing Smog, it was same kind of aggressive crowd, so we avoided
fancy nights with a dress code and bottle service and went for dark, gritty basement
bars. Then a punk rock club called the Echo hooked up with us. Next thing you know
at our Smog nights, there’s kids moshing and deejays stage-diving.”
Nu-skool dubstep has become a locus for generational identity in America, says
Best. “The mid-range bass sound just captured the attention of young people. It’s
like the high-pitched, aggravating sound of a guitar solo in the 70s. Something your
parents are going to hate.” A video on YouTube, Elders React to Dubstep, plays on
this idea: various old folk, exposed to a barrage of bass-screech, offer comments such
bra43588_pt07_527-584.indd 583 05/27/19 06:19 PM

as “incomprehensible,” “like Jackass in a bottle,” and, revealingly, “it make me feel
like the future is now.” They also suggest genre names for the music, one of which is
even better than brostep: metalla-purge.
Although not a dubstep artist per se, Skrillex incorporates elements from the
genre into his own eclectic brand of high-energy electro-dance. (The name Skrillex
could almost be onomatopoeia for brostep’s shredded, twisting bass lines.) Accord-
ing to Best, Skrillex attended some of the early Smog nights and noticed the rock-
of-the-future vibe, which resonated with his own background as the singer in the
screamo band From First to Last.
“In America now, Skrillex is the biggest thing since Nirvana,” says Best.
“You’re witnessing a whole new cultural revolution happening.” He thinks the
rocktronica tendency is set to intensify with the emergence of artists like Knife
Party (two former members of Pendulum, the Australian outfit who turned
drum’n’bass into a new form of arena rock) and Mosquito (“Daft Punk meets
Prodigy meets Skrillex”). Then there’s a figure like Bassnectar, who can play the
big carnival-style festivals but also takes his gnarly-but-trippy version of dubstep
to events like Electric Forest, where he’ll play on the same bill as jam bands like
String Cheese Incident. Descendants of the Deadhead culture that was left in the
lurch when the Grateful Dead expired, jam band fans have turned onto dubstep
in a huge way.
Right now the EDM scene is an uneasy coalition between the slamming rock-
tronica of Skrillex and Bassnectar and the fluffy feel-good trance-house of DJs like
Avicii, Kaskade, Swedish House Mafia, and Steve Aoki. On one side, there’s Hard’s
Gary Richards who wants to push electronic music even further away from rave’s
disreputable and daft past. On the other, there’s Electric Daisy Carnival, which has
preserved not just rave’s hands-in-the-air euphoria but some of its subcultural ritual
aspects too.
Rituals like “tutting,” which evolved out of the glove-dances performed by
American ravers in the 90s but which now enhances the intricate hand-movements
with glowing and flickering LED fingertips. Tutting is both a competitive form of
creative expression (breakdancing for hands) and a practice inextricably entwined
with drug culture (it’s kids putting on mini-lightshows for their tripped-out com-
panions). Hard’s Gary Richards can’t stand the glove-dance phenomenon: “I’m like,
‘look at the stage, not your friend’s fingers.’” But by suppressing this element from
his events, he’s effectively reducing the participatory aspects of rave that gave it so
much of its charm and distinctiveness as a subculture.
“Without the people, it’s nothing,” says Pasquale Rotella. “The day it turns into
just a concert, I’m not going to be inspired anymore.” What the success of Electric
Daisy Carnival shows is that if you provide people with a forum in which they can
experience a sense of collectivity and occasion along with sheer sensory overload,
they don’t really care whether it’s “underground” or not. Rotella says his dream and
long-term plan is to build “an adult Disneyland.”
Further Reading
Butler, Mark J. Electronica, Dance, and Club Music. Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate, 2012.
Farrugia, Rebekah. Beyond the Dance Floor: Female DJs, Technology and Electronic Dance Music
Culture. Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 2012.
Montano, Ed. “Festival Fever and International DJs: The Changing Shape of DJ Culture in
Sydney’s Commercial Electronic Dance Music Scene,” Dancecult: Journal of Electronic
Dance Music Culture, Vo. 2, No. 1 (2011): 63–89.
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Index
Abbey Road (Beatles), 313 Amazon, 566 Ayoub, Nina C., 544–46
Abdul, Paula, 546 Ament, Jeff, 478 Azor, Hurby, 437
Abernathy, Marion, 53 America Eats Its Young (Parliament- Azpiazu, Don, 25
Abolition movement, 33 Funkadelic), 286
Abrams, Lee, 361 “America Is My Home” (Brown, B-52s, 305, 353–55
Abramson, Herb, 56, 74–75 James), 181 Babcock, Jay, 548–53
Abu-Jamal, Mumia, 470 American Bandstand (television), 118 “Babe I’m Gonna Leave You” (Led
Acardipane, Marc, 515 American Idol (television), 543–46 Zeppelin), 291
“Acceptance” (Badu), 573 American Society of Composers and “Baby” (Little Richard), 102
AC/DC, 416, 552 Publishers (ASCAP), 54, 92, 117 “Back in the U.S.S.R.” (Beatles), 225–26
Ace, Johnny, 72 Amos, Tori, 507 Backlash: The Undeclared War Against
Acid Tests, 227 Amos, Willie, 100 Women (Faludi), 503
“Acknowledgment” (Coltrane), 573 “Amos Moses” (Reed, Jerry), 527 “Back Stabbers” (O’Jays), 272, 273
Acuff, Roy, 64 Amphetamine Reptile, 490 the Backstreet Boys, 541
“Adam, Come and Get Your Rib” Anderson, Jon, 314, 316 Bad (Jackson, Michael), 370–74
(Harris, Wynonie), 524 And Justice for All (Metallica), 406, 408 Bad Boy Records, 462, 469
Adams, Jo Jo, 53 androgyny, 306 Badfinger, 552
Adams, Justin, 101 And the Band Played On (Shilts), 444 Bad Religion, 423
Adler, Lou, 262, 265 “And You and I” (Yes), 315–17 Badu, Erykah, 525, 571–72
the Adolescents, 423 Anka, Paul, 348 Baez, Joan, 143–47, 261, 291, 506; early
Adorno, Theodor, 205 “Another Thing Comin’” (Judas career of, 145; on politics, 146
Aerosmith, 285 Priest), 404 the Baffler (magazine), 486
African Americans: Afro-diasporic Anti-Defamation League, 446 Bailey, Buster, 39, 41–42
musical practices, 318; political anti-Semitism, 443 Baker, Anita, 394, 398–99, 521, 568
engagement of, 569–77; stereotypes Aoki, Steve, 584 Baker, Arthur, 440
of, 443–44. See also race AOR. See Album-Oriented Rock Baker, James, 412
After Bathing at Baxter’s (Jefferson Apache Indian, 499–500 Baker, LaVern, 76–77, 89–91
Airplane), 257 Aphex Twin, 515 Baker, Susan, 413
“After Forever” (Black Sabbath), 296 Apocalypse 91 . . . The Enemy Strikes Bakula, David, 567
Aguilera, Christina, 542 Black (Public Enemy), 455 Baline, Israel. See Berlin, Irving
Ahmed, Cheb Sid, 496 Apostolic Studios, 244 Baline, Moses, 3
AIDS, 444–46, 506 Apple, 566 “The Ballad of Ira Hayes” (Cash,
“Ain’t Nobody Here but Us Chickens” Applebaum, Stan, 59, 560 Johnny), 537
(Jordan, Louis), 175 “Aqua Boogie” (Parliament- ballads, Dylan on, 160–61
“Ain’t Nothin’ Goin’ On but the Rent” Funkadelic), 281 Bamalama, 100
(Guthrie, Gwen), 524 Arawak All-Stars, 431 Bambaataa, Afrika, 181, 364, 434, 508
Alaap, 494, 499 Aretha Arrives (Franklin, Aretha), 189 Bananas, 337
Aladdin Sane (Bowie), 309 “Arizona” (Public Enemy), 457 the Band, 254
“Albert Hall” (Beatles), 211 Armatrading, Joan, 365–66, 506 Band of Joy, 301
Albini, Steve, 425, 488 Armstrong, Louis, 16, 28 Bangs, Lester, 254–59, 292, 341, 353; on
Album-Oriented Rock (AOR), 357; Arnold, Eddy, 63, 64, 186 art, 254; on jazz, 258; on punk, 335;
audience of, 367 Arnold, Gina, 485 on rock ‘n’ roll, 256
Alden, Grant, 474–78 Arnold, Kokomo, 28 Banhart, Devendra, 549, 552
Aldon, 128–30 Aronowitz, Al, 155 banjo, 11
Aletti, Vince, 328 art: Bangs on, 254; Bowie on, 311 Baraka, Amiri, 31–38, 574
“Alexander’s Ragtime Band” (Berlin), ASCAP. See American Society of Barker, Danny, 39, 41
8 Composers and Publishers Barnet, Charlie, 16
Algiers, 495–96 Ash, Moe (Moses Asch), 88, 142 Baroque, 313
Ali, Muhammad, 437, 471 Ashburn, Benny, 396 Barry, Jeff, 130
Alice in Chains, 477 Atkins, Juan, 508 Bart, Lionel, 196
“All Along the Watchtower” (Dylan), Atlantic Records, 164, 166, 189; Brown, Bartley, Dallas, 51
236–37 Ruth, on, 76 Basie, William “Count,” 16, 19, 30,
“All Day and All of the Night” “Atomic Dog” (Clinton, George), 88, 173
(Kinks), 214 365, 396 “Battle of Evermore” (Led Zeppelin),
Allen, Harry, 435–40 auteur, 516–17 303
Allen, Hoss, 88 authenticity, 314, 483; indie rock and, Battle of Gettysburg, 248
Allen, Lee, 101, 102 486; soul and, 523; of Springsteen, Battle of the Gospels, 100
Allman Brothers, 254, 328 390 Baudrillard, Jean, 541
“All Night Long” (Richie), 396–97 autobiography, 260–65 B-beats, 431
“All That I Can Say” (Blige), 524–25 Autry, Gene, 28, 64 the Beach Boys, 134–37, 149, 208
“All You Need Is Love” (Beatles), 212 avant-garde jazz, 258 Beardsley, Aubrey, 208
Almanac Singers, 139 Avicii, 564, 578, 584 the Beastie Boys, 434, 470, 487
Altamont, 245–46 Ayers, Kevin, 552 “Beat It” (Jackson, Michael), 369, 372
alternative rock, 474, 484 Ayler, Albert, 256 Beatlemania, 200–205
591
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592 Index
Beatles, 83, 97, 198–213, 348–49; Black Panther Party, 271, 524 Brasfield, Red, 68
breakup of, 254; classical influence Black Pearl, 258 Bratmobile, 480, 486
in, 313; Dylan and, 160, 206–7; Black Sabbath, 288–89, 291–92; Braxton, Toni, 523
emergence of, 193; fans of, 200, instrumental talent of, 296; break beats, 433–34
202–3; originality of, 193–94; naming of, 294; as performers, 293; Bream, Julian, 299
politics and, 202–3; popular music recognition of, 296 the Breeders, 485, 487,
and, 212; Rolling Stones and, Black Sabbath (Black Sabbath), 291–92 488
220–26; sentimentality of, 225–26; “Black Sabbath” (Black Sabbath), 292 Brenston, Jackie, 104
sexuality of, 205; as songwriters, Black Star, 470 Brewer, Teresa, 263
196–97; songwriting of, 195; Blackwell, Bumps, 99–104 Bridenthal, Bryn, 445
television and, 202–3; in United Blackwell, Chris, 319 the Bridesmaids, 285
States, 202–3 Blackwell, Otis, 111 Brides of Funkenstein, 285
Beatles for Sale (Beatles), 206 Blackwell, Scraper, 160 “Bridge Over Troubled Water” (Simon
Beat movement, 227 Black Widow, 294 & Garfunkel), 317
Bechet, Sidney, 16 Blake, Eubie, 5 Brill Building, 125–34, 194
Beck, Jeff, 214, 278, 290, 298; Page, Blake, James, 570 Bringing It All Back Home (Dylan), 148
Jimmy, on, 299–300 Blake, William, 159 “Bring It on Home” (Led Zeppelin),
“Beck’s Bolero” (Led Zeppelin), 290 Blanchard, Edgar, 101 301
Bee Gees, 210, 324, 333 Blandshaw, Ralph, 437 “Bring the Noise” (Public Enemy), 435
Beggars Banquet (Rolling Stones), 221 Bleach (Nirvana), 476 British Broadcasting Corporation, 497
Belafonte, Harry, 140, 342, 491–92 Blige, Mary J., 522, 524 Broadcast Music Incorporated (BMI),
Bell, Mark Anthony, 464 Blonde on Blonde (Dylan), 260 54, 117
Bellote, Pete, 324 Blondie, 337 Broadus, Calvin. See Snoop Dogg
Belly, 486 Blood on the Dancefloor: HIStory in the Broadway, 1–2
Berg, Billy, 50 Mix (Jackson, Michael), 373–77 “Bron-Y Aur Stomp” (Led Zeppelin),
The Berkeley Barb (magazine), 207 Bloomfield, Mike, 256 302
Berlin, Irving, 1–2, 86, 126; the Blossoms, 133 Brooks, Garth, 528, 529–34; on country
collaborations of, 5–7; education of, Blow, Kurtis, 432 music, 532–33; on music video, 532;
3; originality of, 5–7; as singer, 3–4 “Blowin’ in the Wind” (Dylan), 148, on religion, 531; success of, 529
Berman, Bess, 89 162 Brooks, George, 41
Berns, Bert, 59, 165 “Blowtop Blues” (Washington, Dinah), brostep, 583
Berry, Chuck, 16, 82, 88, 95–98, 217, 102 Brown, Charles, 58, 78
538 Blue (Mitchell), 266 Brown, Clarence Gatemouth, 243
Best, Drew, 581, 584 Blue Cheer, 289, 407, 552 Brown, James, 72, 172–82, 269, 342,
Beverly, Frankie, 394, 398 “Blue Moon of Kentucky” (Presley, 400; on disco, 182; early career
Beyoncé, 570–71 Elvis), 109 of, 172; influences of, 173–74;
bhangramuffin, 494–501 Blue Note, 88 on politics, 180; popularity of,
the Bible, 159 Blue Oyster Cult, 344, 385 180; on publishing, 178; on radio
Bigard, Bamey, 86 blues, 38; Charles, R., on, 81–82; broadcasting, 180; on religion,
Big Black, 486 classic, 34–36; country, 44; Delta, 44; 174; on rhythm and blues, 163; on
“Big Bottom” (Spinal Tap), 289 development of, 32; Joplin on, 234 singles, 179
Big Brother (television), 541 Bluestein, Gene, 140–43 Brown, Johnny, 74
“Big Brother” (Wonder), 279 “Blue Suede Shoes” (Presley, Elvis), Brown, Mike, 573
Big Brother and the Holding 110 Brown, Roy, 101
Company, 228, 231, 232, 235 Bolden, Buddy, 160 Brown, Ruth, 56, 59, 70, 74–77, 86, 191;
Big Daddy Kane, 438 the Bomb Squad, 435 on Atlantic Records, 76; as Queen
“Big Dumb Sex” (Soundgarden), 478 Bones, Goon, 56 of the One-Nighters, 75–76
Biggie Smalls. See Notorious B.I.G. “Bongo Rock” (Incredible Bongo Brown, Willie, 45, 46
Biggs, Howard, 59 Band), 431 Brown Singers, 100
bigotry, 443–47; free speech and, 446 Bonham, John, 290, 301, 303–4 Brown Sugar (D’Angelo), 522
Big Star, 486 Bono, 367 Brown v. Board of Education, 114
Big Tyme (Heavy D. and the Boyz), 443 Boogie Times, 518 Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band
Bihari, Jules, 89 Booker, James, 101 Live (Springsteen), 388
Bihari, Saul, 89 Booker T. & MG’s, 184 Bruford, Bill, 315–16
Bikini Kill, 480 Boone, Pat, 82 Bruner, Cliff, 60
Bikini Kill (fanzine), 479–80 “Boots of Spanish Leather” (Dylan), Bryson, Peabo, 397
Billboard, on folk music, 61–63 161 Bubbles, 376
Bill Haley & His Comets, 91, 113, “Bootylicious” (Destiny’s Child), 570 Buckley, Jeff, 552
319, 348 “Boppin’ the Blues” (Perkins), 110 Buckley, Tim, 550, 552
“Billie Jean” (Jackson, Michael), 369, “Borderline” (Madonna), 381 Buffalo Springfield, 326
372 the Boredoms, 485 Bunzel, Peter, 119–22
“Bills, Bills, Bills” (Destiny’s Child), Born in the U.S.A. (Springsteen), 386 Burke, Solomon, 163, 191
523, 570 “Born to Run” (Springsteen), 385 Burnin’ (Marley, Bob), 319, 321
Billy Ward and the Dominoes, 78 Boston, 289 “Burning Down the House” (Talking
Birth of a Nation (Griffiths), 33 “Bourgeois Blues” (Lead Belly), 142 Heads), 365
bisexuality, 307 Bowen, Jimmy, 531–32 “Burnin’ Up” (Madonna), 380
Bishop, Jimmy, 191 Bowie, David, 305–6, 349, 362, 562; Burroughs, William, 152
“Black and Proud” (Brown, James), on advertising, 311; on art, 311; on Burton, Cliff, 407
182 disco, 309–10; on drug use, 308; on Bush, George, 444, 535–36
“Black Beatles” (Rae Sremmurd), plagiarism, 310; on sexuality, 307; Butler, Carl, 527
566–68 on Ziggy Stardust, 309 Butler, Terry “Geezer,” 293
Blackboard Jungle (film), 319–20 Boy George, 367 “Buttermilk Sky” (Crosby, Bing), 173
“Black Dog” (Led Zeppelin), 303 Boyz II Men, 541 Byrne, David, 338
blackface, 33 Braceland, Francis J., 112
Black Flag, 360, 421, 423, 488 Bradford, Perry, 86 “Cactus Tree” (Mitchell), 266
the Black Keys, 549, 552 “Brain Police” (Zappa, Frank), 243 Cage, John, 244, 257
Black Lives Matter, 571, 573; Lamar Branca, Glenn, 425 “Caldonia, What Makes Your Big
and, 575–77 Brando, Marlon, 307, 351 Head So Hard?” (Jordan, Louis),
Black Messiah (D’Angelo), 569 Brantley, Clint, 101 175
bra43588_idx_591-604.indd 592 05/30/19 07:12 PM

Index 593
Cale, John, 339, 341 “Choo-Choo (Locomotion)” (Brown, the Commodores, 324, 396
Calhoun, Charles, 88 James), 181 Common, 470
Calloway, Blanche, 73 “Choo Choo Ch’Boogie” (Jordan, Como, Perry, 50, 64, 91, 107–8
Calloway, Cab, 19, 437 Louis), 175 Conley, Arthur, 185
calypso, 318, 491–92 the Chords, 87 Connors, Chuck, 5
Cameron, Matt, 477 Christgau, Robert, 207, 358–68, 554; on Considine, J. D., 401–5, 451–56
Campbell, Glen, 527–28 punk, 335 Constandinos, Alex, 329
Camus, Albert, 226 Christian, Charlie, 96 consumerism, 486
Candid Camera (television), 541 Christian, Neil, 299 the Contortions, 353
Candlebox, 551 Christian Death, 424 Cook, Dane, 567
“Candy Girl” (New Edition), 396 Christianity, 37 Cook, Paul, 347–48
canon, 548 “Christmas (Baby Please Come Cooke, Sam, 163, 188, 190, 398
“Can’t Buy Me Love” (Beatles), 199 Home),” 133 the Cookies, 129
“Can’t Slow Down” (Richie), 396–97 Chrome, 552 Cool DJ AJ, 432
capitalism, 482; hip-hop and, 469 The Chronic (Dr. Dre), sales of, 457–58 Coon, Caroline, 347
Capitol, 398 Chuck D., 443, 446, 451, 455; lyrics of, Cooper, Alice, 257, 306
Captain Beefheart, 258, 551 456; on Notorious B.I.G., 465; on Cooper, Bob, 86
Caramanica, Jon, 574 race, 452–53 Cooper, Carol, 440–42
“The Cardinal” (Paxton), 160 Chudd, Lew, 89 Cope, Julian, 549–50
the Cardinals, 86 Churchill, Winston, 500 “Cop Killer” (Body Count), 457
Carey, Mariah, 521, 523 Chvrches, 564 Coppola, Francis, 274
Carr, Gwen, 573 Chyna, Blac, 567 copyright, 121, 558; Napster and, 555
Carr, Leroy, 160 Circle Jerks, 423 the Coral, 549
Carson, Fiddler John, 27 Circle One, 424–25 Cordon, Mike, 87
Carson, Johnny, 337, 443, 445 Civil Rights movement, 140, 569 Cornell, Chris, 478
Carter, Asa, 115 Civil War, 33 Corson, Tom, 560
Carter, Benny, 16 the Clancy Brothers, 160 Coscarelli, Joe, 567–68
Carter, Shawn. See Jay-Z Clapton, Eric, 52, 70, 214, 237, 278, 319, Cosloy, Gerard, 428, 485
Carter Family, 28 320, 348 Costello, Elvis, 333, 365–66
Casablanca Records, 327, 328, 331 Clark, Dick, 118; payola and, 120–22 country blues, 44
Cash, Johnny, 57, 527, 537 Clarkson, Lana, 553 Country Joe and the Fish, 228, 249
Cash, Rosanne, 565 classic blues, 34–36 country music, 60, 186; Brooks, Garth,
Cash Money, 469 Clay, Andrew Dice, 442–45 on, 532–33; popular music and, 527
Caspa, 583 Clayton, Tracy, 575 cowboys, 61–63
Catch a Fire (Marley, Bob), 319 Clement, Jack, 110 Cowell, Simon, 546
“Causing a Commotion” (Madonna), Clemons, Clarence, 392 Cox, Ida, 36, 42
380 Cleveland, James, 188–90 Cozy Cole, 16
Cave, Nick, 487 Cliff, Jimmy, 319, 320, 492 Crass, 423
CBGB’s, 336–39 Cline, Patsy, 527 Crawdaddy (magazine), 207
C&C Music Factory, 579 Clink, Mike, 408–9 Cream, 237, 238, 291
Cerrone, 329 Clinton, George, 281–87, 364–65, 368, Creem (magazine), 255, 335
Cervenka, Exene, 421 460; dress of, 283; on funk, 285; on the Crewcuts, 87, 91
C’est Chic (Chic), 329 life, 284; on race, 286–87; on record Crichton, Kyle, 25–29
“Chain of Fools” (Franklin, Aretha), industry, 283; on touring, 283–84 Criminal/WTF, 440–41
187 The Clones of Dr Funkenstein Croce, Jim, 548
“Chains” (Cookies), 129 (Parliament-Funkadelic), 286 Crocker, Frankie, 179–80
Chan, Bryan, 543 Clooney, Rosemary, 263 Cromelin, Richard, 135–37
Chance, James, 552 Close to the Edge (Yes), 314–17 Cropper, Steve, 165, 184, 299
Chandler, Dillard, 160 “Close to the Edge” (Yes), 315–17 Crosby, Bing, 21, 76, 97, 121, 173,
“Chapel of Love” (Greenwich), 128 Clover, Joshua, 541–44 395, 548
Chappelear, Leon, 28 the Clovers, 86 Crosby, David, 149
Charles, Eric, 291 Coachella, 581 Crosby, Harry, 427
Charles, Ray, 70, 78–85, 89; on blues, Cobain, Kurt, 486, 487, 488, 551 Crosby, Stills, and Nash, 302
81–82; on Franklin, Aretha, 191; cocaine, 308 Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young, 254
on hillbillies, 84; on rhythm and Cochran, Eddie, 348 Crowe, Cameron, 306–11
blues, 163; on rock ‘n’ roll, 82–83; Cocks, Jay, 359–60 Crowes, Black, 550
songwriting of, 81 Coffy, Dennis, 431 Crown Electric, 107
the Charms, 91 Cohan, George M., 5 “The Crunge” (Led Zeppelin), 304
Chase, Leah, 573 Cohen, John, 155–62 “Cry Me a River” (Timberlake), 562
Cheap Thrills (Big Brother and the “Cold-Blooded” (James, Rick), 396 the Crystals, 126, 131–32
Holding Company), 232 “Cold Blue Steel and Sweet Fire” “Cry to Me” (Marley, Bob), 321–22
Cheap Trick, 552 (Mitchell), 266 Cuellar, Jose, 501
Checker, Chubby, 126, 333 Cold Crush Brothers, 439 Culture Club, 362
Cheeba, Eddie, 432 “The Coldest Day of My Life” (Chi- Cummings, Jozen, 575
Chemical Brothers, 509, 515, 579 Lites), 273 Curcio, Paul, 408
Cheney, Dick, 535, 536 “Cold Sweat” (Brown, James), 172, 180 the Cure, 474, 490
Chess, Leonard, 89 Cole, Nat “King,” 78, 80, 115 the Cuts, 549, 552
Chess, Phil, 89 Cole, Paula, 505 Cymone, Andrew, 399
Chic, 329 Collins, Bootsy, 180, 181, 281 C/Z Records, 476, 477–78
Childish Gambino, 564 Collins, Catfish, 180
“Child of Mine” (King, Carole), 265 Collins, Floyd, 26 “Da Doo Ron Ron” (Greenwich),
“Children of the Grave” (Black Collins, Phil, 387 128, 133
Sabbath), 296 Coltrane, John, 341, 571, 573 Daffan, Ted, 60, 61
Chile, Honey, 103 Columbia (label), 26–27, 141, 145, Daft Punk, 581
Chi-Lites, 27 147, 189 Dale, Dick, 134, 256
Chilton, Alex, 485, 488 Combs, Sean. See Puff Daddy Dalhart, Vernon, 27
China White, 423 “Come Follow Me” (Apache Indian), DAMN! (Lamar), 574
Chocolate City (Parliament- 500 Danae, 330–31
Funkadelic), 286 Commander Cody, 181 Dancer, 337
bra43588_idx_591-604.indd 593 05/30/19 07:12 PM

594 Index
dancers, 12–13 Eurodisco, 324; Friedman, Kenn, 160–61; Springsteen and, 386; on
“Dance This Mess Around” (B-52s), on, 329; funk and, 324; growth of, training, 156
355 325–26; homosexuality and, 329–31;
D’Angelo, 522, 569 Madonna and, 380; pop, 324; R&B, “Early in the Morning” (Jordan,
Dangerous (Jackson, Michael), 373–77 324; record sales of, 328–29; rock ‘n’ Louis), 175
Dangerously in Love (Beyoncé), 570 roll and, 326; success, 324–26 Earth, Wind, and Fire, 281
Danielson, Kurt, 476 “Disco Inferno” (Trampps), 331 Easlea, Daryl, 374–77
Danish Pregnant Women, 409 “Disco Queen” (Jabara), 332 Eastman, Max, 152
Dante, 159 Disneyland, 543 Easton, Sheena, 411
“Darling Nikki” (Prince), 412, 416 distortion, 236 East Village Other (magazine), 207
Das Damen, 426 the Dixie Chicks, 533; Sawyer and, “Eat Me Alive” (Judas Priest), 402–3,
Dash, Julie, 573 535–36 412
Daugherty, Jay Dee, 345 dixieland, 38 Eat the Document (film), 158
Davies, Peter Maxwell, 196 Dixon, Willie, 290 Echo Nest, 561
Davies, Ray, 214 DJ Hollywood, 432 Eckman, Chris, 476
Davis, Clive, 344 DJ Kool Herc, 430, 431 Eckstine, Billy, 56
Davis, Jimmie, 26 DJs, in disco, 324 ecstasy, 509, 514
Davis, Luther, 275 DJ Starski, 432 Eddy, Duane, 121, 256
Davis, Mac, 111 DMX, 524 Ed Sullivan Show, 202–3
Davis, Miles, 168 D.N.A., 353 Efil4zaggin (N.W.A.), 452, 459
Davis, Ray, 286 D.O.A., 423 Ehrenreich, Barbara, 201–5
Davis, Skeeter, 527 Doe, John, 421 808 State, 511
Davis, Wild Bill, 51 “Does This Bus Stop at 82nd Street?” “Eight Miles High” (Byrds), 257
Dawbarn, Bob, 237–39 (Springsteen), 385 Eisenhower, Dwight, 87
Dawn, P. M., 451 Doggystyle (Snoop Dogg), 458, 459 Ek, Daniel, 559–61; Parker, Sean, and,
Dawson, John William, 28–29 “Doo Wah Diddy” (Greenwich), 128 564–65
Day, Morris, 399, 416–17 do-it-yourself aesthetic, 335 Eldridge, Roy, 19
“A Day in the Life” (Beatles), 208, Domino, Fats, 59, 82, 91, 95, 101, 186, “Eleanor Rigby” (Beatles), 210
209, 212 222, 275 Electribe 101, 511
the Dead Kennedys, 423 Don Juan’s Reckless Daughter (Mitchell), Electric Daisy Carnival, 579–80
Deadmau5, 581 266 Electric Zoo, 579
Deal, Kim, 488 Donovan, 210 electronica, 508–9; drugs and, 514;
Dean, James, 307, 351 “Don’t Be Cruel” (Presley, Elvis), 110 genres in, 517; home listening,
“Dear Doctor” (Rolling Stones), 223 “Don’t Fear the Reaper” (Blue Oyster 518–19; musicality in, 512; record
Death Certificate (Ice Cube), 452–54 Cult), 416 labels, 518; religion and, 514–15
Death Row Records, 457–58, 462 “Don’t Pass Me By” (Beatles), 225–26 electronic dance music (EDM), 510,
Decca, 26, 28, 76, 141 “Don’t Say Nothin’ Bad About My 578–84; drugs and, 580
The Decline of Western Civilization Baby” (Cookies), 129 Ellington, Duke, 19, 20, 30, 82
(Spheeris), 421 “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough” Elliott, Ken, 88
Deelite, 579 (Jackson, Michael), 377 Elliott, Missy, 467–68, 522
“Deep Cover” (Dr. Dre), 457 “Don’t Worry Baby” (Beach Boys), 149 Ellis, Ray, 59
Deep Purple, 288 the Doors, 211 Elman, Mischa, 12
Deep Six (compilation album), 476 Dootone, 91 Ely, Joe, 364
Def Jam Records, 434, 454, 469 Dorsey, Jimmy, 16, 20, 28, 87–88 Emerson, Lake, and Palmer, 313
Def Leppard, 366 Dorsey, Tommy, 28, 30–31, 229 “The End” (Doors), 211
DeJohn Sisters, 91 Dowd, Tom, 75–77, 89 Endino, Jack, 476
Dekker, Desmond, 318, 492 Down Hearted Blues (Smith, B.), 40 Eno, Brian, 516
De La Soul, 438, 449 Downing, K. K., 403 Entrance, 549
Delehant, Jim, 183–86 Downstairs Records, 431 En Vogue, 525
Delmore Brothers, 57 Drake, 572–73 Epstein, Brian, 201
Delta blues, 44 Dr. Dre, 449, 457; innovations of, 460 Eric B. & Rakim, 439
Delta Rhythm Boys, 75, 86 Dreja, Chris, 300 Ertegun, Ahmet, 58, 73–75, 80, 85, 87,
Dempsey, David, 205 Dresser, Paul, 1 89, 164
Denny, Sandy, 303–4 the Drifters, 78, 263 escapism, 513
Denver, John, 413 drugs: disco and, 326; EDM and, Eshun, Kodwo, 512–13
Depeche Mode, 487, 490 580; electronica and, 514; hip-hop Essence (magazine), 435
Depression, 151 and, 438–39; techno and, 509; at essentialism, 15
DeSantis, Carla, 504–7 Woodstock, 250 Estes, Sleepy John, 29
Desperately Seeking Susan (film), 381 DSP, 512 ethnicity, 2
Destiny’s Child, 523, 570 DuBois, W. E. B., 394 Eurodisco, 324
Devo, 353 dubstep, 578, 582–84 the Eurythmics, 362
Diamond, Chuck, 101 Duhe, Robin, 398 Evans, Faith, 463, 525
Diamond, Lee, 101 Duke, Bill, 472 Everly Brothers, 97, 194
Diamond, Neil, 561 Duke, David, 444 Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge
Diamond Dogs (Bowie), 309 Dunn, Duck, 165 (Mudhoney), 476
Dibango, Manu, 323 Dupars, Joe, 180 Exile on Main Street (Rolling Stones),
Diddley, Bo, 217 Dupree, Jack, 160 272
Dike, Matt, 454 Dupri, Jermaine, 459, 460, 469 Exploding Plastic Inevitable, 257
Di Meola, Al, 451, 454 Duran Duran, 361, 362 Exploited, 423
“Directly from My Heart to You” van Dyk, Paul, 579 extremism, 204
(Little Richard), 103 Dylan, Bob, 147–52, 225, 342, 368, 548;
Dirnt, Mike, 488 on ballads, 160–61; Beatles and, Facebook, 560
“Dirty Diana” (Jackson, Michael), 372 160, 206–7; folk music and, 148–49, “Factory Girl” (Rolling Stones), 223
Discharge, 423 157–58; Hendrix on, 236–37; Fadela, Cheba, 496
the Dischords, 425 influence of, 261; literary influences Fair, Yvonne, 176
disco: backlash, 396; Bowie on, of, 154; at Newport Folk Festival, Fairfield Four, 71
309–10; Brown, James, on, 182; 150–52; on poetry, 156; public Faith, Adam, 348
clubs, 329–30; development of, interest in, 153–54; rock ‘n’ roll and, the Falcons, 163
323–24; DJs in, 324; drugs and, 326; 148–49, 157–58; as songwriter, 154, Faludi, Susan, 503
bra43588_idx_591-604.indd 594 05/30/19 07:12 PM

Index 595
“Fame” (Bowie), 310 Franklin, Aretha, 71, 180, 187–92, 263, “Gimme Shelter” (Rolling Stones), 272
“Fanmail” (TLC), 525 523, 546; Charles, Ray, on, 191; on Ginsberg, Allen, 155, 226
Farley, Christopher John, 468–73 crowds, 192; emergence of, 187; on Gira, Mike, 427
Farrakhan, Louis, 446, 453, 507 fame, 192 Girl Germs, 480
Farrell, Perry, 488 Franklin, Benjamin, 157 “The Girl Is Mine” (Jackson, Michael),
Farrow, Mia, 24 Franklin, C. L., 189 369
Fatback Band, 437 Frantz, Chris, 338 “Girls, Let’s Get Butt Naked and
Fatboy Slim, 515, 579 “Le Freak” (Chic), 329 Fuck” (Ice-T), 439
Fat Joe, 470 Freak Out! (Mothers of Invention), 240 “The Girls Want To Be With The Girls”
Fear, 423 “Freddie’s Dead” (Mayfield), 272 (Talking Heads), 338
the Feelies, 485 “Free Bird” (Led Zeppelin), 361 Gladys Knight and the Pips, 167, 396
Feller, Sid, 84 Freed, Alan, 100, 118; payola and, 122 glam, 305–6
Fennesz, 511 Freedman, Marvin, 14–17 glam metal, 401; popularity of, 411
Ferguson, 575 freedom, 267 Glass, Daniel, 564
Ferguson, Benny, 160 free speech, bigotry and, 446 Glassnote Records, 564
Ferris, James, 160 Freud, Sigmund, 205 Gleason, Ralph J., 207, 228–30
Festival of Hope, 181 Friedman, Jane, 344 Glee (television), 543
festivals, 580–81 Friedman, Kenn, 327; on disco, 329; on glitch, 511
Fields, Frank, 101 homosexuality, 332 Glitter, Gary, 305
“51st Anniversary” (Hendrix), Friedman, Thomas, 536 “Gloria” (Them), 341
238 “Friends in Low Places” (Brooks, Glover, Henry, 100
“Fight the Power” (Isley Brothers), 398 Garth), 530 Glover, Melvin. See Melle-Mel
“Fight the Power” (Public Enemy), Fripp, Robert, 316 Goetz, Bernhard, 444
576–77 Frith, Simon, 387 Goetz, Dorothy, 5
file-sharing, 554 “Fruit Song” (Reynolds, Jeannie), 431 Goffin, Gerry, 128
“Final Hour” (Hill, Lauryn), 471 “Fuck tha Police” (N.W.A.), 457 “Going to California” (Led Zeppelin),
fingerpicking, 261 “Fuck the Police” (Black Flag), 421 303
Fire and Rain (Taylor, James), 264 Fuentes, Julio, 438 Golden Gate Quartet, 31, 71
Fiscus, Kathy, 64 Fugazi, 487 Goldstein, Richard, 207, 210–12, 247
Fishbone, 427 the Fugees, 467 Goldwater, Barry, 204
Fisher, Eddie, 108 Fugs, 354 Gomelsky, Giorgio, 215
Fisher, Freddie, 18 the Fugs, 211 “Goodbye Earl” (Dixie Chicks), 533
Fitzgerald, Ella, 19, 50 Fulson, Lowell, 72, 184 “Good Golly Miss Molly” (Little
Five Blind Boys, 31 Fulton, Sybrina, 573 Richard), 104, 303
the Five Keys, 91 funk, 364; Clinton on, 285; Goodie Mob, 470
“Fixing a Hole” (Beatles), 211 development of, 172–73, 281; disco good kid, m.A.A.d city (Lamar), 574
Flack, Roberta, 397, 467 and, 324; history of, 281–82; success Goodman, Benny, 17, 18, 20, 229, 489
the Flames, 176 of, 285 Goodman, Ellen, 416
Flamingo (club), 329–30 Funkenteleckty vs The Placebo Syndrome “Goodnight Irene” (Lead Belly), 139,
“Flashlight” (Parliament-Funkadelic), (Parliament-Funkadelic), 286 142
281 Fury, Billy, 219 “Good Rockin’ Tonight” (Presley,
“Flava in Your Ear (Remix)” Elvis), 109
(Notorious B.I.G.), 469 Gaines, Charlie, 49 “Good Times” (Chic), 325
Flavor Flav, 453 “Gallows Pole” (Led Zeppelin), 303 “Good Vibrations” (Beach Boys),
Fleetwood Mac, 364 Gandhi, Mahatma, 500 137, 211
Fleischer, Ari, 536 “Gangnam Style” (Psy), 568 Google, 566
Flipside, Al, 421–24 Gang of Four, 550 Gordon, Kim, 425–29
A Flock of Seagulls, 361 Gans, Rudolph, 11 Gordy, Berry, 167–71, 371; on Gaye,
Flom, Jason, 565 Garbage, 505 179–80; on Jackson, Michael, 170;
Foley, Red, 64, 67 Garcia, Jerry, 229 on jazz, 168; on Robinson, Smokey,
folk music: Billboard on, 61–63; Dylan Garland, Jim, 156 169; on Ross, 169; on Temptations,
and, 148–49, 157–58; English, 302; Garland, Phyl, 187 169; on Whitfield, 170–71; on
Led Zeppelin on, 302 Garner, Eric, 573 Wonder, 170
Folkways, 88 Garner, Erroll, 86 Gore, Al, 412
Fontane Sisters, 91 Gaye, Marvin, 167, 184; Gordy on, Gore, Tipper, 412, 415, 417
“The Fool on the Hill” (Beatles), 226 179–80 Gorgeous George, 175
Ford, Lita, 451 Gaynor, Gloria, 327 Gortikov, Stan, 360
Ford, Mary, 342 Geffen Records, 445 gospel music, 31
Ford, Robert, Jr., 430, 431–32 Gehr, Richard, 406–10 Grace, Teddy, 234
Ford, Tennessee Ernie, 67 Geils, J., 328 Graceland (Simon, Paul), 492
Foreigner, 289 gender, 502–3; inequality and, 506 Grainger, Porter, 35
Forest, Earl, 72 Gendron, Bernard, 352 Grand Funk Railroad, 289, 292, 489
Forever Changes (Love), 550 Generation Ecstasy (Reynolds, Simon), Grandmaster Flash, 433, 436–37
“(For God’s Sake) Give More Power to 510 Grand Ole Opry, 54, 67–69, 84
the People” (Chi-Lites), 273 Genesis, 349 Grant, Eddy, 362
“Formation” (Beyoncé), 572 Gentle Giant, 313 Grateful Dead, 228, 229, 254
For the Roses (Mitchell), 266 George, Nelson, 394, 521 Graves, Milford, 258
45 Grave, 424 “Get on the Good Foot” (Brown, Gray, Glen, 16, 28
“For What It’s Worth” (Buffalo James), 181–82 Gray, Macy, 525–26
Springfield), 326 “Get Up, Get Into It, Get Involved” Grayson, Kathryn, 23
“For Your Love” (Yardbirds), 214 (Brown, James), 181 “Great Balls of Fire” (Lewis, Jerry
Foster, Stephen, 8 Gibbs, Georgia, 76, 82, 90 Lee), 111
the Four Tops, 167, 169 Gibran, Khalil, 159 Green, Al, 163, 459
fox trot, 11, 12, 116; development of, 13 Gibson, Steve, 71 Green, Charlie, 28
Foxy Brown, 467 Gideon, Sam, 463–65 Green, Silas, 175
“Foxy Lady” (Hendrix), 238 “G. I. Jive” (Jordan, Louis), 175 Green, Tuff, 72
Frampton, Peter, 327 Gilbert, Jerry, 45–47 Green Day, 485–86
France, 494–95 Gilbert, William, 120 Greene, Bob, 451
Francis, Connie, 341 Gillespie, Dizzy, 53, 81, 86, 169 Green River, 476
bra43588_idx_591-604.indd 595 05/30/19 07:12 PM

596 Index
Greenwich, Ellie, 126, 128 Henderson, Fletcher, 16, 28, 40, 49–50 human rights, 180
Greer, Corny Allen, 28 Hendrix, Jimi, 250, 333, 348, 350; on Human Switchboard, 360
Greetings from Asbury Park, N.J. Dylan, 236–37; as performer, 236, Hung, William, 546
(Springsteen), 384 239; on singles, 238–39; Smith, Hunter, Alberta, 39, 42–43
Greig, Charlotte, 127–33 Patti, on, 343, 345; as songwriter, Hunter, Ivory Joe, 59
Griffin, Richard. See Professor Griff 236–37 “The Hunter” (Led Zeppelin),
Griffiths, D. W., 33 Hentoff, Nat, 39–43, 207, 232–35 290
Grimes, Tiny, 86 Herbert, Victor, 5 Hüsker Dü, 490
Grokster, 563 Herman’s Hermit’s, 130 “The Hustle” (McCoy), 323–24
grunge, 475–78, 483–84 “He’s a Rebel” (Love, Darlene), 132 Hysen, Lyle, 426
Guetta, David, 564 Hess, Elizabeth, 201–5 hysteria, 205
Guided By Voices, 490–91 Hesse, Hermann, 316
Guns N’ Roses, 408, 442, 445, 446 “He’s Sure the Boy I Love” (Love, I.A.M., 494–95
Guralnick, Peter, 371 Darlene), 132–33 I Am . . . The Autobiography (Nas), 470
Guthrie, Gwen, 524 Heston, Charlton, 248 “I Am the Walrus” (Beatles), 225–26
Guthrie, Woody, 139, 142, 151, 234, Hetfield, James, 406, 409–10, 556 Ian and Sylvia, 160
260, 390, 393 “Hey Joe” (Hendrix), 238 Ibo, 437
Heywood, Eddie, 189 “I Can See Clearly Now” (Nash),
Hagan, Pat, 204–5 Hickman, Leo, 51 320–21
Haggard, Merle, 534 Hi Infidelity (REO Speedwagon), 360 “I Can’t Quit You” (Led Zeppelin), 301
Hailey, K-Ci, 522 Hilburn, Robert, 319–22 Ice Cube, 451–55
hair metal, 401 Hilfiger, Tommy, 470 Ice-T, 439, 456
Haley, Bill, 88, 93 Hilfigerrr, Zay, 568 IDentity, 579
Halford, Rob, 402 Hill, Chippie, 36, 42 IDM, 518
Hall, Vera, 142 Hill, Lauryn, 467, 468; childhood of, “I Feel Fine” (Beatles), 206
Hamer, Fannie Lou, 150, 539 471–72 Iggy Pop, 254, 429, 551
Hamm, Charles, 2 hillbillies, 25–29, 57, 61–63, 139; “I Got You (I Feel Good)” (Brown,
Hamman, Bob, 88 Charles, R., on, 84 James), 172
Hammond, John, 189 Hinds, Selwyn Seyfu, 464–65 “I Had a Hammer” (Seeger, P., and
Hammons, David, 574 Hine, Darlene Clark, 572 Hays), 148
Hampton, Lionel, 16, 19, 53 hip-hop: capitalism and, 469; “I’ll Go Crazy” (Brown, James), 176,
Hampton, Mike, 285 censorship of, 457; community and, 177
Hancock, Hunter, 88 438; drugs and, 438–39; East Coast “I’m a Greedy Man” (Brown, James),
Handel, George Frederick, 500 and West Coast, 462; heavy metal 181
Handy, W. C., 26, 59 and, 442–43; in late 90s, 449–57; “I’m Going Down” (Blige), 524
Happy Flowers, 427 lyrics of, 436, 456; in mainstream, “I’m Good at Being Bad” (TLC), 525
“El Harba Wine” (Khaled), 496 468; musicality of, 439–40, 454; “I’m Into Something Good” (Cookies),
hardcore, 421–24; in Los Angeles, 423 origins of, 430; politics and, 457, 129
Hard Core Jollies (Parliament- 470; race and, 439–40; sampling in, “I’m Just a Lonely Guy” (Little
Funkadelic), 286 467; sexism in, 439, 440–42; women Richard), 102, 103
A Hard Day’s Night (Beatles), 198–206 in, 466–72 immigration, 497
The Harder They Come (film), 319–20, Hirshey, Gerry, 127 Incredible Bongo Band, 431
492 HIStory: Past, Present and Future, Book I Incredible String Band, 160
Hard Events, 580 (Jackson, Michael), 373–77 “Independent Woman, Part 1”
“A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall” (Dylan), Hit Parader (magazine), 183 (Destiny’s Child), 570
154, 155 Hobbs, Mary Ann, 582 indie rock, 420–21, 474; authenticity
hard rock, 289 Hobbstweedle, 301 and, 486; integrity and, 487;
Harlem Renaissance, 30 Holcomb, Roscoe, 151, 157 transformation in, 484
Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes, Holden, Stephen, 353–55 Indier Than Thou (fanzine), 485
323 “Hold Up” (Beyoncé), 572 inequality, gender and, 506
Harris, Aisha, 574–77 Holiday, Billie, 39, 189 “I Never Loved a Man (the Way I Love
Harris, Charles K., 1, 7 Holland-Dozier-Holland, 170, 269 You)” (Franklin, Aretha), 187
Harris, Jimmy Jam, 399 Holliday, Billie, 416 I Never Loved a Man the Way I Love You
Harris, Oren, 121 Hollings, Ernest F., 413–15 (Franklin, Aretha), 189
Harris, Wynonie, 53, 58, 523–24 Holly, Buddy, 222 Ink Spots, 541
Harrison, George, 193, 209, 212, 256; as Holly, Major “Mule,” 190 “Inner City Blues” (Gaye), 272
songwriter, 195 Holzman, Nettie, 24 Innervisions (Wonder), 277
Harvey, P. J., 489 homophobia, 444–46 In Rainbows (Radiohead), 555
Hawkins, Coleman, 19 homosexuality: culture of, 331–32; integrity, indie rock and, 487
Hawkins, Erskine, 19 disco and, 329–31; Friedman, Kenn, intellectual property, 558
Hayes, Isaac, 437 on, 332 international music, 491–92
Hays, Lee, 142, 148 Hope, Bob, 22 In the Court of the Crimson King (King
Headbanger’s Ball (television), 411 Horses (Smith, Patti), 341 Crimson), 313
the Heartbreakers, 337 Horton, Vaughn, 51 “In the Midnight Hour” (Pickett), 165
“Heartbreak Hotel” (Presley), 110, 348 Horton, Willie, 444 “In Time” (Jungle Brothers), 436
“Heat Wave” (Martha and the “Hot Pants” (Brown, James), 172, 181 Invincible (Jackson, Michael), 373–77
Vandellas), 167 “Hound Dog” (Thornton), 175 Iommi, Tony, 293, 296
Heavy D. and the Boyz, 443 House, Daniel, 477–78 iPhones, 566
heavy metal, 288–97; hip-hop and, House, Son, 45–47 iPods, 555
442–43; masculinity and, 289; in house music, 513 irony, 242
1980s, 401–10; popularity of, 411 House of 909, 511 “I Shot the Sheriff” (Marley, Bob), 320
Heller, Jerry, 452 Houston, Whitney, 521 “La Isla Bonita” (Madonna), 381
Hell’s Angels, 245–46 Howar, Pam, 415 Island Records, 319, 321
Helmet, 490 Howe, Steve, 314–17 the Isley Brothers, 167, 398
Helms, Jesse, 445 “How Many More Times” (Led “Israelites” (Dekker), 318
Help! (Beatles), 206 Zeppelin), 290, 291 iStream, 566
“Help Me Doctor” (Blue Cheer), 407 “Hula Hoppin’,” 129, 130 “Is You Is, or Is You Ain’t (Ma’ Baby)?”
Henderson, Douglas, 437 the Human League, 362 (Jordan, Louis), 175
bra43588_idx_591-604.indd 596 05/30/19 07:12 PM

Index 597
It Might as Well Rain Until September Johnny’s Dance Band, 337 Keyes, Bert, 59
(King, Carole), 263 “Johnny Too Bad” (Slickers), 320 Khaled, Cheb, 496
“It’s All About the Benjamins” (Puff “Johnny Was” (Marley, Bob), 321–22 Khan, Chaka, 521, 523
Daddy), 469 Johnson, Billy, 398 Kid ‘N’ Play, 451
iTunes, 555, 560 Johnson, Budd, 59, 89 Killdozer, 426
Ives, Burl, 140 Johnson, Enortis, 103 Kill ‘Em All (Metallica), 408
Ives, Charles, 8, 242, 244 Johnson, Guy B., 36 “Killing Me Softly” (Flack), 467
“I Wanna Be Your Dog” (Stooges), 429 Johnson, James Weldon, 576 Killion, Billy Jay, 119
“I Wanna Hold Your Hand” (Beatles), Johnson, Jesse, 399 Kim, Kevin, 463, 464
97 Johnson, Lonnie, 160 Kimbrough, Junior, 552
“I Was Made to Love Her” (Wonder), Johnson, Pete, 87 King, Albert, 290, 316
277 Johnson, Robert, 44, 46 King, B. B., 70, 101, 168, 190
Johnston, Bob, 162 King, Ben E., 304, 342
Jabara, Paul, 332 Johnston, Daniel, 485 King, Carole, 126, 127, 130, 261, 262
Jackson, Bull Moose, 58 John Wesley Harding (Dylan), 158 King, Martin Luther, 141, 148, 189,
Jackson, George, 271 Jones, Brian, 215–19, 343 221, 275
Jackson, Janet, 395, 523 Jones, David. See Bowie, David King, Pee Wee, 62, 64
Jackson, Jesse, 286 Jones, Hank, 89 King, Rodney, 457, 477
Jackson, Mahalia, 31, 78, 190 Jones, Johnny J., 175 King Crimson, 241, 313, 562
Jackson, Michael, 167, 358, 365, 388; Jones, John Paul, 300 “King Heroin” (Brown, James), 181
charges against, 373; complexion Jones, Mick, 348 King of Pop. See Jackson, Michael
of, 371; early solo works of, 369; Jones, Quincy, 375, 376, 460 “The King of Rock” (Run-DMC), 434
Gordy on, 170; music videos of, Jones, Slick, 48 King Records, 176, 179
369–70; as performer, 399; Prince Jones, Spike, 64 Kings of Leon, 552
and, 399–400; race and, 371–72; Jones, Steve, 347–48 Kings of Rhythm, 104
rock ‘n’ roll and, 399; in studio, 376 Joplin, Janis, 39, 231–35, 348; on blues, Kingston Trio, 140, 144, 256–57
Jackson, Mike, 51 234; on drinking, 233–34; on race, “King Tim III” (Fatback Band), 437
Jackson, Millie, 437 234–35; on soul, 234–35 the Kinks, 214
Jackson, Molly, 156 Jopling, Norman, 96–98 Kirby, John, 19
Jackson 5, 369 Jordan, Andy, 553 Kirk, Andy, 19
the Jackson Five, 541 Jordan, Louis, 47–49, 50, 53, 71, 175 Kirk, Roland, 280
Jacobs, Gloria, 201–5 Jordan, Taft, 77 Kirschner, Don, 127–28, 337
Jacquet, Illinois, 53 Joseph, Kahlil, 570 Kiss, 289
Jadakiss, 524 Journey, 289 kitsch, Madonna and, 382
Jagged Little Pill (Morissette), 503 Judas Priest, 402–5, 412, 416, 451 Klett, Peter, 551
Jagger, Mick, 215–20, 306, 310, 342, “Judy Is A Punk” (Ramones), 339 KLF, 579
345, 349, 351 “Juju On That Beat (TZ Anthem)” Knight, Gladys, 167
Jahn, Mike, 246–51 (Hilfigerrr and McCall), 568 Knight, Marion “Suge,” 463
jali singers, 43–44 “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” (Rolling Stones), Knopfler, Mark, 387
Jamaica, 322; as colony, 318; influence 221 Knowles-Carter, Beyoncé. See Beyoncé
of music from, 492 jungle, 509, 582 Kolak, King, 72
Jamerson, James, 169 Jungle Brothers, 436 Kolodin, Irving, 17–20
James, Cheryl, 440–41 Juvenile, 469 Kool and the Gang, 281, 324
James, Elmore, 44 Koolhaas, Rem, 542
James, Etta, 52, 88, 163 Kafka, Franz, 159 Kool Keith, 439
James, Fanita, 133 Kajagoogoo, 362–64 Kool Moe Dee, 438
James, Harry, 16–17 Kapp, David, 26, 28 Kootch, Danny, 263–64
James, Richard D. See Aphex Twin Kapur, Steve, 499–500 Kopkind, Andrew, 325–33
James, Rick, 359–60, 396, 440 karaoke, 543 Korn, 550
James, Skip, 45 Kaskade, 584 Kovel, Joel, 444
Jameson, Fredric, 353, 544 “Kathy’s Song” (Simon and Kraftwerk, 311, 508
Jamie Record Company, 121 Garfunkel), 251 Kramer, Billy J., 213
Jane’s Addiction, 487 Katz, Karen, 121–22 Kravitz, Lenny, 550
Jardine, Al, 134 Katz, Robin, 341–45 Kreutzmann, Bill, 229
Jarman, Rufus, 68–69 Kay, Connie, 77, 89, 344 Die Kreuzen, 426
Jay-Z, 524, 571 Kay, Monte, 88 Kris Kross, 459
jazz, 38; avant-garde, 258; Bangs on, Kaye, Lenny, 341 Kristofferson, Kris, 267, 527
258; Gordy on, 168; history of, 10; Kazaa, 563 KROQ, 550
race and, 15–20 Kazee, Buell, 160 Krupa, Gene, 19
Jazzbeat (magazine), 215 Kazin, Michael, 536 Krysz, Brian, 362
Jean, Wyclef, 472 Keepnews, Orrin, 88 Kubernick, Harvey, 168–71
Jeff Beck Group, 290 “Keep Your Hand on Your Heart” Ku Klux Klan, 444
Jefferson, Blind Lemon, 44, 45, 72, 148 (Little Richard), 101
Jefferson Airplane, 181, 228, 245, 257 Keil, Charles, 371 La Bostrie, Dorothy, 102
The Jefferson Airplane Takes Off Keisker, Marion, 107 Lamar, Kendrick, 569, 572–73, 574;
(Jefferson Airplane), 228 Keita, Salif, 495 Black Lives Matter and, 575–77
Jelly Roll Morton, 16 Keith, Toby, 538 Lance, Herb, 77
“The Jerk” (Larks), 165 Kelleher, Ed, 292–96 Landau, Jon, 383–84, 390
Jet, 549 Kellum, Alphonso, 180 Landis, John, 399
Jethro Tull, 349 Kelly, Jimmy, 4 Lane, Ronnie, 364
Jett, Joan, 487 Kempton, Sally, 241–44 Lange, Mutt, 533
Jewish people, 4–5 Kennedy, John F., 24, 264 Lanier, Alan, 344
“Jig Saw Puzzle” (Rolling Stones), 223 Kennedy, Robert, 221 Laquidara, Charles, 291
Jim Crow, 19, 42 Kennibrew, Dee Dee, 132 the Larks, 165
Jim Jam Music, 178 Kenton, Stan, 86 Laswell, Bill, 455
Jobs, Steve, 560 Kern, Jerome, 1 Lauderdale, Jack, 80
John, Elton, 306, 524 Kerouac, Jack, 139, 226, 393, 489 Lauper, Cyndi, 378
“Johnny B. Goode” (Berry, Chuck), 538 Kesey, Ken, 227, 257 “Lava” (B-52s), 355
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598 Index
Law, Bob, 470 “Louder Than a Bomb” (Public Marshall, Joe, 49–50
Leadbelly, 86, 139, 142 Enemy), 437 Martha and the Vandellas, 167
Lear, Martha Weinman, 22–24 loudness, 293–94 Martin, Bardi, 551
Lear, Norman, 23 Love, 211, 550, 552 Martin, George, 193
Leber and Krebs, 285 Love, Brian, 134–37 Martin, Kevin, 551
Led Zeppelin, 253, 255, 288–92; on folk Love, Carl, 134 Martin, Sarah, 36, 42
music, 302; lyrics of, 304 Love, Courtney, 522–23 Martin, Trayvon, 573
Led Zeppelin (Led Zeppelin), reviews Love, Darlene, 131–32 the Marvelettes, 126, 342
of, 289–92 Love, Dennis, 134 Marx, Karl, 212, 368
Led Zeppelin III (Led Zeppelin), 301–2 Love, Mike, 134, 136 “Mary, Mary” (Monkees), 434
Lee, Peggy, 263 “Love Bites” (Judas Priest), 402–3 masculinity, heavy metal and, 289
Lefkovitz, Lillie, 24 “Love is Like a Building On Fire” Master of Puppets (Metallica), 407
Leiber and Stoller, 128, 130 (Talking Heads), 338 Master of Reality (Black Sabbath),
Lemonade (Beyoncé), 570–74 “Lovely Rita” (Beatles), 211 295–96
Lennon, John, 160, 194, 209, 224–25, “Love’s Theme” (Love Unlimited Master P, 469, 524
251, 311, 368, 487 Orchestra), 327 “Material Girl” (Madonna), 378, 381
Leonard, Harlan, 52–53 A Love Supreme (Coltrane), 573 Matlock, Glen, 347–48
Lesh, Phil, 229 “Love to Love You Baby” (Summer), Matthews, Otis, 53
Leslie, Edgar, 4, 5 324 May, Derrick, 508
“Lesson in Survival” (Mitchell), 266 Love Unlimited Orchestra, 327, 328 Mayall, John, 290
Lester, Richard, 198 Lowery, Roame, 398 “Maybellene” (Berry, Chuck), 96–98
“Let’s Go Crazy” (Prince), 399 LSD, 227 Mayfield, Curtis, 269–70, 272, 397, 459
“Let’s Turkey Trot” (Little Eva), 130 Lubbock, Jeremy, 377 Mays, Curley, 176
Lévi-Strauss, Claude, 544 Lubinsky, Herman, 56, 89 Maze, 398
Lewis, Huey, 361 “Lucky Star” (Madonna), 380 MC5, 258, 289
Lewis, Jerry Lee, 57, 82–83, 110, 219, “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” McBride, Mary Margaret, 10
222, 342 (Beatles), 212 McCall, Zayion, 568
Lewis, Meade Lux, 86 “Lumpy Gravy” (Zappa, Frank), 244 McCarthy, Joseph, 140, 203–4
Lewis, Richard, 426 Lunceford, Jimmie, 30, 71 McCartney, Paul, 193, 209, 212, 362,
Lewis, Ted, 18 Lunch, Lydia, 353, 426 566; as songwriter, 194–95
Lewis, Terry, 399 Luongo, John, 328, 333 McCoy, Van, 323–24
LFO, 511 lyrics, 92–94 McCrae, George, 323
Life (magazine), 119–22 McGhee, Brownie, 58
Life After Death . . . ‘Til Death Do Us Mabley, Moms, 437 McGhee, Harold, 86
Part (Notorious B.I.G.), 465 “Macho Man” (Village People), 331 McGhee, Stick, 56, 58, 74–75, 86
LIFEbeat, 506 Mack, Ida May, 36 McGovern, George, 254
Lighty, Chris, 459 Mack, Lonnie, 256 McGuinn, Roger, 149
“Like a Rolling Stone” (Dylan), 149, Mademoiselle (magazine), 140–41 McGuire Sisters, 91
152 Mad Mike & The Maniacs, 485 McGuirre, Barry, 149
Lilith Fair, 503, 522 Madness, 362 MC Hammer, 467
L’il Kim, 467 Madonna, 579–80; disco and, 380; McKagan, Duff, 475
Limeliters, 144 kitsch and, 382; music video and, McKernan, Phil, 229
Limewire, 563 378, 380–81; religion and, 382 McLachlan, Sarah, 503–7, 522
Limp Bizkit, 550 “Maggie’s Farm” (Dylan), 152 McLaren, Malcolm, 351, 364
Lincoln, Abraham, 576 Maggot Brain (Parliament-Funkadelic), McLuhan, Marshall, 354
Linkin Park, 550 286 MC Lyte, 441
Lion, Alfred, 88 Magnacorders, 176 McPhatter, Clyde, 78, 163, 186
Lipsitz, George, 493–501 Maguire, Martie, 533–35, 537–38 McQuivey, James, 566
Liquid Liquid, 455 Mahara’s, 36 MC Solaar, 495
Litman, Rudi, 24 Maharishi, 224 McVie, Christine, 333
Little Eva, 129, 130, 263 Maher, Bill, 536 MDMA, 509
“A Little Help From My Friends” Mahler, Gustav, 194 “Me and Bobby McGee” (Joplin), 232
(Beatles), 211 Mailer, Norman, 88, 539 Meighan, Elroy, 431
“Little Red Corvette” (Prince), 366 Maines, Natalie, 533, 535, 539 Meizel, Katherine, 544–46
Little Richard, 82, 95, 186, 217, “Mairsy Doats,” 23 melisma, 546
257, 303, 355, 437; childhood of, “Make It Funky” (Brown, James), 181 Melle-Mel, 436–37
100–101; piano playing of, 103–4; Makem, Tommy, 160 the Melvins, 476
on race, 104 Malfunkshun, 476 memes, 566–67
Live At the Apollo (Brown, James), Manilow, Barry, 397 “Memphis” (Berry, Chuck), 538
176–78 “Man in Black” (Cash, Johnny), 537 Men at Work, 361, 362
L. L. Cool J, 438 Mann, Barry, 127, 133 Mendelsohn, John, 289–92
“The Locomotion” (Little Eva), 129 Mann, Robert, 402–3 “Mental Health” (Quiet Riot), 416
Lofgren, Nils, 392 Mann, William, 194–96 mento, 318
Lollapalooza, 486, 487 Manne, Shelly, 86 Menudo, 541
Lomax, Alan, 46 Mannequin Challenge, 566–68 Mercado, Scott, 551
Lomax, John, 142 “Many Rivers to Cross” (Cliff), 320 Mercer, Mabel, 86
Lombardo, Guy, 10, 242, 548 Mapplethorpe, Robert, 343 Mercury Records, 179
“A Lonely Man” (Chi-Lites), 273 Marcus, Greil, 271–76, 323, 538; on Merry Pranksters, 227
“Lonely Teardrops” (Gordy), 167 punk, 539 Merseybeat, 213
Longshaw, Fred, 28 Marcuse, Herbert, 204 Metallica, 406–10; success of, 556
“Long Time Gone” (Haggard), 534 “Marie From Sunny Italy” (Berlin), 6 Mezzrow, Mezz, 39, 88
“Looks That Kill” (Mötley Crüe), 412 Markham, Pigmeat, 176, 437 MFSB, 331
Lopez, Vincent, 18–19 Marley, Bob, 318–19, 327, 500; death Michel, Prakazrel. See Pras
Lorde, 564–65, 566 of, 492; originality of, 320; on “The Midnight Special” (Lead Belly),
Lorentzon, Martin, 564 politics, 322 142
Lorenz, George, 88 Marley, Rohan, 472 Milburn, Amos, 59, 74
Lost Cause, 425 Marsalis, Branford, 455 Miller, Glenn, 16, 18, 229
“Lost Ones” (TLC), 525 Marsh, Dave, 255, 384–87, 390 Miller, Jim, 359–60
bra43588_idx_591-604.indd 598 05/30/19 07:12 PM

Index 599
Miller, Mitch, 145 Music of My Mind (Wonder), 277, 279 Nowhere to Run (Hirshey), 127
Milton, Roy, 59 music video, 361, 364, 365; Brooks, “No Woman, No Cry” (Marley, Bob),
minstrel shows, 32–34, 38, 371 Garth, on, 532; of Jackson, Michael, 319
the Minutemen, 421 369–70; Madonna and, 378, 380–81 ‘N Sync, 541, 561
The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill (Hill, musique concrete, 207, 227 Nugent, Ted, 285
Lauryn), 469, 522 Muzak, 162 N.W.A. (Niggas with Attitude),
“Misery” (Beatles), 195 My Bloody Valentine, 474, 489–90 442–43, 452, 457, 459
Mission of Burma, 486 “My Boy Lollipop” (Small, Millie), 317
“Mississippi Goddam” (Simone), 576 “My Cherie Amour” (Wonder), 277 Oakenfold, Paul, 579
“Misty Mountain Hop” (Led “My Claim to Fame” (Wells), 327 Oasis, 550
Zeppelin), 303 “My Happiness” (Presley, Elvis), 107 Oberstein, Eli, 26
Mitchell, Joni, 265–69, 506 My Life (Blige), 524 “Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da” (Beatles), 225–26
Mix, Tom, 208 Ochs, Phil, 156
Moby, 509 NAACP, 115–16 O’Connor, Sinead, 504
Moby Grape, 228 Naked Eyes, 362 “October Song” (Incredible String
Modern Protest, 425 Nance, Ray, 53 Band), 160
Mods, 214–15 Napoleon, 248 Odum, Howard W., 36
Mojo Navigator (magazine), 207 Napster, 563; copyright and, 555; Offord, Eddie, 316
molly, 578 Ulrich and, 556–66 Off the Wall (Jackson, Michael), 369,
the Monkees, 210, 434, 541 Nas, 470, 524 375
Monroe, Bill, 157 Nash, Johnny, 272, 319–20 “Oh, Girl” (Chi-Lites), 273
Monroe, Marilyn, 208 Nashville, 68–69 Ohio Players, 281, 324
Monroe, Vaughn, 64 Nathan, Syd, 57, 89, 176, 178 the O’Jays, 272, 273
Monterey Pop Festival, 231, 233, 236 Nation of Islam, 286 Okeh, 26, 27
Montgomery, Wes, 259 Natty Dread (Marley, Bob), 319, 321 “Okey Dokey Stomp” (Brown,
Monticello, 247 “Natural Woman (You Make Me Feel Clarence), 243
Moody, James, 86 Like a)” (Franklin, Aretha), 187 “Okie From Muskogee” (Haggard),
Moon, Keith, 344 Naughty By Nature, 455 537
the Moonglows, 91 Nazism, 113 Olatunji, 176
“Moonlight Serenade” (Miller, Glenn), Nebraska (Springsteen), 386–87 O’Neal, Alexander, 399
18 Neely, 176–78, 181 O’Neal, Ron, 274
Moonwalker (Jackson, Michael), 370 Les Négresses Vertes, 495 One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
Moore, Fleecie, 51, 108 Nelson, Paul, 151–52 (Kesey), 227
Moore, Scotty, 108 Neon Boys, 338 One Nation Under A Groove
Moore, Thurston, 425, 427–28, 487 Neuman, Molly, 486 (Funkadelic), 283, 286
Moral Decay, 425 “Never Can Say Good-bye” (Gaynor), “One Nation Under a Groove”
Morali, Jacques, 331 327 (Funkadelic), 281
Morgan, Al, 16, 48 “Never Grow Old” (Franklin, Aretha), “One O’Clock Jump” (Basie), 173
Morgan, George, 64 190 one step, 11
Morissette, Alanis, 503 Nevius, Sally, 415 Ono, Yoko, 225, 355
Moroder, Giorgio, 324, 329 New, Michael, 145 “Oo Wee Baby” (Redding), 184
Morpheus, 563 New Edition, 396 “Open Your Heart” (Madonna), 381
Morris, Joe, 56, 80–81 New Lost City Ramblers, 160 “O.P.P.” (Naughty By Nature), 455
Morrison, Jim, 348 new music, 361–63 Orbison, Roy, 57
Morrison, Van, 341 New Order, 487 O’Reilly, Bill, 535
Morse, Tim, 314–17 Newport Folk Festival, 141, 149–52; O’Reilly, Therese, 24
Morton, Jelly Roll, 59, 87, 160 Dylan at, 150–52 Orlovsky, Peter, 155
Moss, John, 120 Newsted, Jason, 407 Orwell, George, 279
Most, Mickie, 301 Newsweek (newspaper), 63–65 Osbourne, Ozzy, 292–96, 407, 416, 454;
“The Most I Can Offer” (Little Newton, Frankie, 16 on touring, 293
Richard), 102 new wave, 422; development of, the Osmonds, 541
“Mother and Child Reunion” (Simon, 352–53 Otis, Johnny, 52–53, 88
Paul), 320 “New York Mine Disaster” (Bee OutKast, 470
Mother Love Bone, 476 Gees), 210 “Out of Sight” (Brown, James), 172,
The Mothership Connection (Parliament- Next Plateau, 440–41 180
Funkadelic), 282, 286 Nexus 21, 511 Oval, 511
Mothers of Invention, 240–44 Nichols, Red, 16 Owen, Alun, 198
Mötley Crüe, 412, 416 Nicholson, Mike, 4, 5 Owens, Buck, 537
Motor Booty Affair (Parliament- Nigatu, Heben, 575
Funkadelic), 283, 286 Nine Inch Nails, 486–87 P2P, 556
Motown, 166–71, 183, 269, 285; 1989 (Swift), 561 Page, Jimmy, 214, 290, 297–304, 565; on
Swedien on, 375–76; Wonder on, 279 “96 Tears” (Question Mark and the Beck, Jeff, 299–300; on Yardbirds,
“Movie Magg” (Perkins), 110 Mysterians), 256, 338 299–300
MP3s, 554, 555 Nirvana, 475, 477–78, 489–90 Page, Patti, 62, 76, 108, 263
“Mr. Tambourine Man” (Dylan), 149 Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, 294 Paglia, Camille, 379–83
Mtume, 396 Nix, Hammie, 29 Palmer, Earl, 101
MTV, 361–63; costs of, 365 Njami, Simon, 498 Palmer, Robert, 360
Muddy Waters, 44–46, 96, 184, 219 No Fences (Brooks, Garth), 528 Panselle, Rosa, 12
Mudhoney, 475, 477 Nolen, Jimmy, 179, 180 “Papa Don’t Preach” (Madonna), 381
multiculturalism, 164 No Limit, 469 “Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag”
Mumford & Sons, 564 Noriega, Manuel, 439 (Brown, James), 172, 179–80
Murray, Anne, 264 “Norwegian Wood” (Beatles), 210 “Papa Was a Rolling Stone”
Murray, Sunny, 258 “No Scrubs” (TLC), 525 (Temptations), 273
Muscle Shoals, 166 No Tolerance (Clay), 445 Parables and Paradoxes (Kafka), 159
Music (King, Carole), 264 Notorious B.I.G., 462, 469; Chuck D. “Parachute Woman” (Rolling Stones),
music industry: decline of, 560; on, 465; death of, 464 223
growth of, 360; technology and, “Nous Pas Bouger” (Keita), 495 Paranoid (Black Sabbath), 291–92, 294
361–63 no wave, 353; development of, 424–25 “Paranoid” (Black Sabbath), 296
bra43588_idx_591-604.indd 599 05/30/19 07:12 PM

600 Index
Pareles, Jon, 442–47 PMRC. See Parent Music Resource Pyromania (Def Leppard), 366
Parent Music Resource Center Center
(PMRC), 412, 445 poetry, Smith, Patti, on, 343 Q-Bass, 511
Parent Teacher Association (PTA), Police, 362 Quatro, Suzi, 338
412 the Police, 359–60, 366 Queen, 349
Parker, Charlie, 88, 168 politics: African American Queen Latifah, 438, 450, 454
Parker, Graham, 365–66 engagement with, 569–77; Baez Queensryche, 476
Parker, Maceo, 179 on, 146; Beatles and, 202–3; Brown, Question Mark and the Mysterians,
Parker, Sean, 560; Ek and, 564–65 James, on, 180; hip-hop and, 457, 256, 338
Parker, Tom, 109 470; Marley, Bob, on, 322; popular Quicksilver Messenger Service, 228
Parks, Gordon, Jr., 274–75 music and, 569–77; reggae and, 321; Quiet Riot, 361, 416
Parks, Ken, 563 of Rolling Stones, 223–24; in urban Quiet Storm, 398
Parks, Van Dyke, 136 folk, 140, 148 Quinn, Anthony, 275
Parliament-Funkadelic, 180, 281, 365 Poll Cats, 86
Parton, Dolly, 528 Polydor, 181, 182 Rabbit Foot Minstrels, 36, 49
“Party for Your Right to Fight” (Public Poneman, Jonathan, 476, 478 race: Chuck D. on, 452–53; Clinton
Enemy), 446 Pons, Lily, 29 on, 286–87; hip-hop and, 439–40;
Pate, Johnny, 397 pop disco, 324 Jackson, Michael, and, 371–72; jazz
PATRIOT II Act, 536 popular music: Beatles and, 212; and, 15–20; Joplin on, 234–35; Little
Patton, Charley, 45 bigotry in, 443–47; country music Richard on, 104; payola and, 122;
Paul, Les, 342 and, 527; politics and, 569–77; as Prince and, 395–96; rock ‘n’ roll
Pavement, 490 sheet music, 9–10; Top 40, 199 and, 116, 127
Pavitt, Bruce, 476, 477 “Popular Wobbly,” 141 race music, 25–29
Paxton, Tom, 160 populism, Springsteen and, 391, 393 radio broadcasting, 9–10, 58; Brown,
Payne, Freda, 327 porn rock, 412 James, on, 180; Spotify compared
payola, 92–94; as compliment, 120–21; Porter, Cole, 416 with, 562
Freed and, 122; hearings, 118; race “Positive Vibrations” (Marley, Bob), Radiohead, 555
and, 122 321–22 Raeletts, 83
Peace Corps, 204 postmodernism, 353 Rae Sremmurd, 566–68
Pearl (Joplin), 232 Poussaint, Alvin, 443–44 Rage, 460
Pearl, Minnie, 68 power chords, 289 Rage Against the Machine, 470
Pearl Jam, 477 Powers, Ann, 522–26 ragtime, 1, 32, 38
Pearlman, Lou, 542 Pras, 472 rai, 494–501
Pearson, Terry, 428 “Pray You Catch Me” (Beyoncé), 572 the Raindrops, 130
Peellaert, Guy, 310 “Precious Lord” (Franklin, Aretha), Rainey, Ma, 36, 49
Peer, Ralph S., 26, 27 190 RAINN, 506
the Penguins, 91 Presley, Elvis, 57, 59, 82, 87, 96, 105–12, “The Rain Song” (Led Zeppelin), 304
Penick, Trevor, 543 203, 248, 333, 348 Ramone, Tommy, 339
Pennick, Jimmy, 104 Presley, Lisa Marie, 373 the Ramones, 335, 339–40
Penniman, Buddy, 100 Prestige, 88 Ranaldo, Lee, 425, 428
Penniman Singers, 100 Preston, Billy, 181 Raney, Wayne, 57, 58
Penny, Hank, 58 Price, Kelly, 525 Ranters & Crowd Pleasers (Marcus), 538
“Penny Lane” (Beatles), 208 Price, Ray, 528 “Rapper’s Delight” (Sugarhill Gang),
People United to Save Humanity Pride, Charley, 160 325, 437
(PUSH), 286 Prince, 362, 366, 394, 411, 416; rapping, 432
Pepper, Art, 86 Jackson, Michael, and, 399–400; Rappleye, Charles, 463–65
Pere Ubu, 552 as performer, 399–400; race and, Rapture (Baker, Anita), 398–99
Perkins, Carl, 57, 82, 109–10, 194, 348 395–96; rock ‘n’ roll and, 399; Rare Earth, 294
Peter, Paul, and Mary, 148, 150 sexuality of, 395 Rasmussen, Flemming, 408–9
Petrillo, James C., 55 Princess, 440 the Raspberries, 550
Pet Shop Boys, 487 “Prisoner of Love” (Brown, James), Rastafari movement, 318, 497–98
Pet Sounds (Beach Boys), 135, 208 179 Rastaman Vibration (Marley, Bob), 319
Phillips, Dewey, 108–9 Procul Harum, 313 Rat Pack, 23
Phillips, Esther, 88 “Prodigal Son” (Rolling Stones), 223 rave, 579–84
Phillips, Sam, 57, 107–12, 486 the Prodigy, 519, 579 The Ravens, 56
Phillips, Tom, 208–9 Professor Griff, 443, 453 raves, 509
Phoenix, 564 progressive rock, 312–13 Rawls, Lou, 188, 190
Piantadosi, Al, 4 Prysock, Arthur, 190 Raygun (magazine), 486–87
Pickett, Wilson, 72, 163–65, 180, 191; “Psalm” (Coltrane), 573 Razaf, Andy, 51
Wexler on, 165–66 Psy, 568 R&B disco, 324
“Piece of My Heart” (Joplin), 231 psychedelic rock, 226–30 RCA, 110, 129, 141
Pierson, Kate, 355 “Psycho Killer” (Talking Heads), 338 RCA Records, 560
“Piggies” (Beatles), 225–26 PTA. See Parent Teacher Association RE7, 425
Pig Pen, 229 Public Enemy, 435, 437, 442, 446, 457, Ready To Die (Notorious B.I.G.), 464–65
the Pilgrim Travelers, 190 576–77 Reagan, Ronald, 24, 386, 421, 423
Pixar, 560 Public Nuisance, 424–25 “Real Love” (Blige), 524
the Pixies, 485 Puff Daddy, 462–64, 467, 468, 469; The Real Roxanne, 440–41
“Planet Claire” (B-52s), 355 birthday of, 471 recording, challenges of, 12
“Planet Rock” (Bambaataa), 434 punk: Bangs on, 335; Christgau on, Recording Industry Association of
Plant, Robert, 290, 301 335; development, 334–35; dress America (RIAA), 360
Plastician, 582 and, 351; Marcus on, 539; rock ‘n’ record labeling, 414–20
Plastic Ono Band, 251, 315 roll and, 367; in United Kingdom, Red Caps, 71
the Platters, 113 346 Red Cross, 423
“Please, Please, Please” (Brown), “Purple Haze” (Hendrix), 238 Redding, Otis, 163, 180, 183–86, 187,
172, 175 Purple Rain (Prince), 395 234, 269; on rhythm and blues, 186
Please Please Me (Beatles), 194 “Pursuance” (Coltrane), 573 Reed, Jerry, 527
pluralism, rock ‘n’ roll and, 365 PUSH. See People United to Save Reed, Jimmy, 184, 217, 219, 340
P. M. Dawn, 489–90 Humanity Reed, Lou, 306, 485
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Index 601
Reed, Waymond, 180 Rockefeller (Senator), 417–18 Salsoul, 328–29
Reeves, Jim, 527 “Rock Hard, Ride Free” (Judas Priest), Salter, Mike, 3–4, 6
Reeves, Martha, 167 404 Salt-n-Pepa, 437, 440
reggae, 318, 494–501; establishment of, “The Rock Island Line” (Lead Belly), samplers and sampling, 434–35;
321–22; politics and, 321; religion 142 Beyoncé’s use of, 570–71; in hip-
and, 321 “Rock Lobster” (B-52s), 355 hop, 467
Reid, Terry, 301 rock ‘n’ roll, 95–96; aging and, 348–49; Samwell-Smith, Paul, 300
Reig, Teddy, 56 Bangs on, 256; bias against, 115–16; Sanday, Peggy R., 445
Reiner, Rob, 402 Charles, R., on, 82–83; death and, Sanders, Ellen, 207
Reinhardt, Django, 299 348; disco and, 326; Dylan and, Santana, 245
“Relapse” (Badu), 573 148–49, 157–58; future of, 359–60; Santley, Charles, 120
Relf, Keith, 300 importance of, 272; myths in, 364; Sarandon, Susan, 537
religion: Brooks, Garth, on, 531; pluralism and, 365; Prince and, Sarris, Andrew, 198–201
Brown, James, on, 174; electronica 399; psychology and, 112–13; punk Sartre, Jean-Paul, 226
and, 514–15; Madonna and, 382; and, 367; race and, 116, 127; youth Sasha & Digweed, 519
reggae and, 321 and, 368 Sasic, Suzanne, 428
R.E.M., 477–78, 487 Rockpool, 361 “Satisfaction” (Rolling Stones), 184
REO Speedwagon, 360, 363 rock steady, 318 Saturday Night Fever (film), 324–25,
the Replacements, 426 “Rock the Boat” (Hues Corporations), 332, 358
“Resolution” (Coltrane), 573 323 “Saturday Night Fish Fry” (Jordan,
“Respect” (Real Roxanne), 441 Rockwell, John, 313n2 Louis), 175
“Respect” (Redding), 187 Rocky Horror Picture Show (film), 305 “Saturday Night is the Loneliest Night
retronuevo, 397–400 “Rock Your Baby” (McCrae), 323 of the Week” (Sinatra), 173
“Revelation” (Love), 211 “Rocky Raccoon” (Beatles), 225–26 Saunderson, Kevin, 508
“Revolution” (Beatles), 221, 223–24 Rodgers, Jimmie, 26–28 Savage, Jon, 508
Revolver (Beatles), 206, 210 Roeg, Nicolas, 309–10 “Save the Overtime for Me” (Gladys
Rexroth, Kenneth, 141 Roeser, Eddie, 489 Knight and the Pips), 396
Reynolds, Jeannie, 431 Rogers, Kenny, 528, 533 Sawyer, Diane, 534; Dixie Chicks and,
Reynolds, Simon, 510–20, 578–84 Rolling Stone (magazine), 253 535–36
Reznor, Trent, 486–87, 488 the Rolling Stones, 184, 214, 215, 272, “Say It Loud - I’m Black and I’m
Rhymes and Reasons (King, Carole), 264 326; Beatles and, 220–26; politics Proud” (Brown, James), 576–77
rhythm and blues, 47, 56, 95–96; of, 223–24; rhythm and blues and, “Say My Name” (Destiny’s Child), 570
Brown, J., on, 163; Charles, R., on, 216–20 scenius, 516
163; in 1980s, 394–400; Redding on, Rollins, Henry, 487, 488 Schifrin, Lalo, 372
186; Rolling Stones and, 216–20; “Roll Over Beethoven” (Berry, Chuck), Schneider, Fred, 355
soul and, 163 97 Schonberg, Harold, 22
RIAA. See Recording Industry “Roll the Bones” (Rush), 451 Schoolly D, 449
Association of America Romero, Chan, 217 Schulps, Dave, 297–304
Ribot, Marc, 565 Romero, Dennis, 581 Schultz, Pat, 445
Richard, Cliff, 348 the Ronettes, 131 The Score (Fugees), 467
Richards, Gary, 580, 582, 584 Ronstadt, Linda, 320, 333, 361, 363 the Scorpions, 402–5
Richards, Keith, 215–19, 338 Rooney, Jim, 151 Scorsese, Martin, 399
Richards, Stan, 120 “Roots, Rock, Reggae” (Marley, Bob), Scott-Heron, Gil, 398
Richardson, Tony, 199 321–22 Screaming Trees, 476
Richbourg, John, 88 Ropin’ the Wind (Brooks, Garth), 528, Seabrook, John, 559–66
Richie, Lionel, 370, 394, 396–97 529 Seattle, 474
Richmond, Howie, 87 Rose, Axl, 443, 447 Sedeck, Melcky, 525–26
Ridenhour, Charles. See Chuck D. Ross, Diana, 274, 327; Gordy on, 169 Seeger, Charles, 139
Ride the Lightning (Metallica), 407 Rossetti, Gabriel, 308 Seeger, D. C., 142
Riesman, David, 204 Rotella, Pasquale, 580–81 Seeger, Pete, 139, 142, 148, 152
riffs, 512 Rothstein, Edward, 558–59 Segovia, 299
Rihanna, 572 Rotten, Johnny, 347–48, 350, 549 segregation, 30
Riley, Jeannie C., 527 “Roundabout” (Yes), 314–15 Seidelman, Susan, 381
Riley, Terry, 373 Route 666: On the Road to Nirvana Seitz, Chuck, 176
Rimbaud, Arthur, 341 (Arnold, Gina), 485 Selassie, Haile, 318
Riot (Sly and the Family Stone), 271–72 Roxon, Lillian, 295–96 Select Records, 440–41
Riot Girl, 479–83, 539 Roxy Music, 349, 385 the Sensations, 130, 176
“Rip It Up” (Little Richard), 437 Roy, Rob, 115–16 Sergeant Pepper (Beatles), 207–8, 257;
Ritchie, Jean, 151 “Royals” (Lorde), 565, 566 reviews of, 208–9
Ritz, David, 79–84, 86–89, 165–66 Royal Shakespeare Company, 132 Sewell, Michael, 470
Rivera, Geraldo, 576 Rozelle, Pete, 404 sexism, in hip-hop, 439–42
Rizzo, Frank, 271 Rubber Soul (Beatles), 135, 206, 210 the Sex Pistols, 350, 485, 551
Roach, Max, 439 Rugolo, Pete, 86 “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club
Roane, Eddie, 48 “Run, Joe,” 184 Band” (Beatles), 208, 223
Robbins, Tim, 537 Run-DMC, 434, 435 Shakur, Tupac. See 2Pac
Robinson, Jessie Mae, 51 Run Westy Run, 426 Shante, Roxanne, 440, 466
Robinson, Nat, 438 Rush, 451 “Shapes of Things” (Beck), 290
Robinson, Smokey, 167, 398–99; Gordy Rush, Tom, 160 Shapiro, Nat, 39–43
on, 169 Rushing, Jimmy, 53, 87 Shaw, Arnold, 49–51, 57–59, 71–73
Robinson, Zandria F., 571–74 Rusko, 583 Shaw, Artie, 20
Robison, Emily, 535, 537 Russell, Pee-Wee, 16 Shaw, Greg, 341
Robles, Jason, 464 RZA, 470 “Sh-Boom” (Chords), 87
Rocco, Maurice, 50 Shear, Barry, 275
“Rock and Roll Music” (Berry, Chuck), Saccharine Trust, 423 Shears, Billy, 208
97 Saddler, Joseph. See Grandmaster Sheen, Bobby, 133
“Rock Around the Clock” (Haley), Flash sheet music: popular music as, 9–10;
319, 348 Sadler, Eric, 435 Tin Pan Alley, 8
rock criticism, 207 Safranski, Eddie, 86 Sheila E., 399
bra43588_idx_591-604.indd 601 05/30/19 07:12 PM

602 Index
Shelley, Steve, 428 Smith, Joe, 16 Standing On the Verge of Gettin’ It On
Shelton, Bob, 28, 147, 207 Smith, Mamie, 42 (Parliament-Funkadelic), 286
Shelton, Joe, 28 Smith, Patti, 201, 340–45; on Hendrix, the Staple Singers, 272
Shepp, Archie, 242, 256 343, 345; on poetry, 343 Stapp, Jack, 69
“She’s Leaving Home” (Beatles), Smith, Sammi, 528 Starks, John, 180
210, 211 Smith, Trixie, 36, 42 Starr, Edwin, 390
“She Works Hard for the Money” Smith, Will, 470 Starr, Maurice, 541
(Summer), 396 Smith, Willie Mae Ford, 31 Starr, Ringo, 193, 197, 200, 209
Shider, Gary, 285, 286 the Smiths, 487 Starsailor, 549, 552
Shilts, Randy, 444 Smithsonian Institution, 145 Star Search (television), 543
Shire, Warsan, 570, 573 Smog, 583 “Star Spangled Banner,” 237
the Shirelles, 126, 129, 263 Snider, Dee, 413 Station to Station (Bowie), 308
the Shirts, 337 Snoop Dogg, 457–58; lyrics of, 460; Stax, 164, 166, 183
Sholes, Steve, 110 style of, 459–60 Stern, Joseph, 6
“Shoot to Thrill” (AC/DC), 416 Snyder, Ted, 4 Stevens, Leigh, 407
Shore, Dinah, 64 Social Dismay, 424–25 Stewart, Jim, 165
Short, Bobby, 86 Social Distortion, 423 Stewart, Rex, 86
“Shout at the Devil” (Mötley Crüe), Soft Machine, 552 Stewart, Rod, 306
416 Sohl, Richard, 344 Stills, Stephen, 181
“Siberian Khatru” (Yes), 315–17 Solomon, Manny, 89 Stipe, Michael, 488
Siddhartha (Hesse), 316 “So Long It’s Been Good to Know “Stir It Up” (Marley, Bob), 320
Silas Green’s, 36 You” (Guthrie, Woody), 139 Stockhausen, Karlheinz, 244
Silber, Irwin, 150 “Somebody to Love” (Jefferson Stone, Angie, 523, 525–26
Silento, 568 Airplane), 228 Stone, Jesse, 59, 87–88, 100
Sill, Lester, 132 Sommers, Bill, 229 Stone, Sly, 269–76, 399
Silverman, Max, 58 Sondre Lerche, 549 the Stooges, 254–59, 429
“Simmer Down” (Wailers), 318–19 “The Song Remains The Same” (Led Stovall, Natasha, 465–66
Simmons, Russell, 454, 469 Zeppelin), 304 Strait, George, 530
Simon, Bill, 55–57 Songs in the Key of Life (Wonder), 277 Strasberg, Lee, 307
Simon, Carly, 261 Song to a Seagull (Mitchell), 266 Strauss, Neil, 467
Simon, John, 235 Sonic Youth, 425–29, 426, 477–78 “Strawberry Fields” (Beatles), 208
Simon, Marc, 327 “Son of Scorpio” (Coffy), 431 “Stray Cat Blues” (Rolling Stones), 223
Simon, Paul, 261, 319–20, 492 Sontag, Susan, 326 Stray Cats, 361
Simone, Nina, 576 So So Def, 469 “Street Fighting Man” (Rolling
Simon & Garfunkel, 251, 263, 317 soul: authenticity and, 523; Stones), 221, 223–24, 326
simulacrum, 541 development of, 163–64; Joplin on, Streisand, Barbra, 263, 382
Sin 34, 424–25 234–35; mainstream popularity of, Strigeus, Ludvig, 562
Sinatra, Frank, 21–24, 114, 121–22, 166–67; rhythm and blues and, 163; “String of Pearls” (Sinatra), 173
173, 203 Wonder on, 280. See also Southern Strobert, Andrei L., 437
singer-songwriter, 502–3 Soul the Strokes, 552, 579
“Singin’ in Vietnam Talkin’ Blues” Soul Asylum, 426 Stronglin, Theodore, 196–98
(Cash, Johnny), 537 the Soul Stirrers, 71, 163–64 Stubblefield, Clyde, 180
singles, Hendrix on, 238–39 Soul Train, 463 Sub Pop, 474, 477
Sing Out (magazine), 149, 154 Soundgarden, 476, 477 “Subterranean Homesick Blues”
Sister Act 2 (film), 472 sound systems, 318 (Dylan), 149
“Sister Ray” (Velvet Underground), Southern, Eileen, 436 Suburban Base, 518
257–58 Southern Christian Leadership Sugarhill Gang, 325, 437
“(Sittin’ on) The Dock of the Bay” Conference, 189 Suicidal Tendencies, 424–25
(Redding), 183 Southern Soul, 183–86, 269–70 “Suicide Solution” (Osbourne), 416
“16 Candles,” 121 Soxx, Bob B., 131, 133 Sullivan, Arthur, 120
ska, 318, 492 “Spare Chaynge” (Jefferson Airplane), Sullivan, Joe, 16
Skin Yard, 476 257 Sullivan, Maxine, 29
Skream, 582 Spears, Britney, 542 Summer, Donna, 324, 396
Skrillex, 578, 581, 584 Specialty Records, 99–100 “Sunny Afternoon” (Kinks), 214
“Skylark” (Franklin, Aretha), 189 Spector, Phil, 132, 133, 384, 553 Sun Ra, 282, 286
Slade, 305, 363 Spellman, A. B., 259 Sun Records, 106, 486
slavery, 371 Spheeris, Penelope, 421 “Sunshine Of Your Love” (Cream), 238
Sleater-Kinney, 539 the Spice Girls, 533 “Superbad” (Brown, James), 172
Slick, Grace, 228 Spin (magazine), 484, 553 Super Bowl, 572
the Slickers, 320 Spinal Tap, 289 Superchunk, 488
“Slipping into Darkness” (War), 272 Spirituals, 569 Superfly (film), 274
Sloan, P. F., 149 Spivey, Victoria, 42 “Superfly” (Mayfield), 272
Sly and the Family Stone, 181, 249, Spotify, 560; future of, 566; radio Super Heroines, 424
250, 271–76 broadcasting compared with, 562; “Superstar” (Hill, Lauryn), 468
Small, 492 royalties from, 564–66 SuperStars HQ, 365
Small, Millie, 318 Springfield, Dusty, 128 “Superstition” (Wonder), 273
Smashing Pumpkins, 487, 490 Springsteen, Bruce, 319, 383–93; the Supremes, 167, 171
“Smells Like Teen Spirit” (Nirvana), authenticity of, 390; Dylan and, Surf’s Up (Beach Boys), 136
475 386; image of, 388–89; populism Surgery, 490
Smile (Beach Boys), 136 and, 391, 393; sexuality of, 391–92; Surrealistic Pillow (Jefferson Airplane),
“Smiling Faces Sometimes (Tell Lies)” as songwriter, 392; success of, 228
(Undisputed Truth), 272 387–88 Survivor (television), 541
Smith, Bessie, 27–28, 35, 40, 44, 49, Squire, Chris, 315 “Survivor” (Destiny’s Child), 570
86, 232 SremmLife 2 (Rae Sremmurd), 567 Swans, 426–27
Smith, Bob, 88 Stafford, Jo, 263 Swedien, Bruce, 374–77; on Motown,
Smith, Clara, 36, 42 Staind, 550 375–76
Smith, Harry, 552–53 “Stairway to Heaven” (Led Zeppelin), Swedish House Mafia, 584
Smith, Huey, 101 291, 361; lyrics of, 304 Sweet, 305
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Index 603
“Sweet Little Sixteen” (Berry), 97, 217 Tin Pan Alley, 1, 54, 62, 125, 199; Ulrich, Lars, 406, 408, 410; Napster
“Sweet Soul Music” (Redding), 185 material form of, 7–9; sheet music, and, 556–66
Swift, Taylor, 560–61, 566 8; songwriting of, 5–7 Ultra, 579
“Swimming Pool (Drank)” (Lamar), Tiny Tim, 294 Ultramagnetic M.C.’s, 439
574 Tipton, Glenn, 403 Uncle Anesthesia (Screaming Trees), 476
Swinging London, 363–64 “Tired of Waiting” (Kinks), 214 underground music, 336
Symbol Six, 424–25 TLC, 523, 525 Underground Resistance, 516
“Sympathy for the Devil” (Rolling “Today I Met the Boy I’m Gonna the Undisputed Truth, 272
Stones), 223 Marry” (Love, Darlene), 133 “Unpretty” (TLC), 525
Synchronicity (Police), 366 “Today I Sing the Blues” (Franklin, “Unwound” (Strait), 531
Aretha), 189 “Up the Country,” 326
Tahra, 494 Tommy (Who), 313 “Up The Ladder To The Roof”
“Take My Hand” (Franklin, Aretha), “Tomorrow Never Knows” (Beatles), (Supremes), 171
190 227 urban folk, 138–45; politics in, 140, 148
Talking Book (Wonder), 277, 278 Tone-Loc, 435, 452, 454 Urge Overkill, 489
Talking Heads, 337, 353, 365 Toombs, Rudolph, 75, 76 uTorrent, 560
“Talkin’ Loud and Sayin’ Nothing” Toomey, Jenny, 486
(Brown, James), 181 Toots and the Maytals, 319 Valentine, Penny, 266–68
Tapestry (King, Carole), 262–65 To Pimp a Butterfly (Lamar), 569, Vallee, Rudy, 18–19
the Tar Babies, 426 574–77 Vanderpool, Sylvia, 87
Tate, Greg, 370–74, 569, 574 Tories, 224 Vanguard, 88, 145–46
Taylor, Cecil, 257, 259 Toto, 289 Van Halen, 401
Taylor, Elizabeth, 307 Touch and Go, 488 Van Halen, Eddie, 362, 401
Taylor, Harold, 141 Touré, 458–61 Vanilla, Cherry, 307
Taylor, James, 255, 264 Tower of Power, 281 Vanilla Ice, 467
Taylor, Paul, 128 Townshend, Pete, 214, 249, 364 Variety (magazine), 91–95
Taylor, Sam, 89 Traffic, 291 vaudeville, 32–33, 38
Taylorm, James, 263 trainwrecks, 513 Vaughan, Sarah, 86
Teagarden, Jack, 20 the Trammps, 331 Vedder, Eddie, 488
“Tear the Roof Off the Sucker” Traum, Happy, 155–62 Vee, Bobby, 128, 348
(Parliament-Funkadelic), 281 Treavor, Kip, 294 Velvet Underground, 254, 257–58, 292,
techno, 508, 511; drugs and, 509 T-Rex, 305 335, 339–40, 354
technology, 511 T. Rex, 363 Verlaine, Tom, 338
teen pop, 118 A Tribe Called Quest, 449, 489 Verve Records, 240
Tekarz, Roger, 329 Trinidad, 318 VH1, 551
Television, 551 Trouser Press (magazine), 297–98 Vicious, Sid, 549
Television (band), 337, 338 Trout Mask Replica (Captain Beefheart), Victor Company, 11, 27
television, Beatles and, 202–3 258 Victrolas, 72
“Tell It Like It Is” (Redding), 184 Truffle Pig, 561 the Village People, 331
Temperton, Rod, 376 Trump, Donald, 471 Village Voice (magazine), 207, 247, 484
Temple Shirley, 208 Trumpeteers, 71 de Ville, Mink, 337
the Temptations, 167, 272; Gordy Truth (Jeff Beck Group), 290 Vincebus Eruptum (Blue Cheer), 407
on, 169 Truth or Dare (Madonna), 382 Vincent, Gene, 348
Terrell, Jean, 171 “Try a Little Tenderness” (Franklin, Violent Femmes, 487
Terry, Sonny, 86 Aretha), 189 “Virgin Forest” (Fugs), 211
texture, 512 Try Me, 178 the Voidoids, 550–51
T-Green, 460 “Try Me” (Brown, James), 178 von Tilzer, Harry, 1, 4
“That’s All Right” (Presley, Elvis), TSOL, 423 “Voodoo Chile” (Hendrix), 238
108–9 Tsunami, 486 Voodoo Church, 424
“That’s the Way” (Led Zeppelin), 302 Tubb, Ernest, 60 voting, 545
Theard, Sam, 51 Tucker, Bessie, 36
Their Satanic Majesties Request (Rolling Tucker, Bruce, 173–82 Wadleigh, Michael, 250
Stones), 223 Tucker, Sophie, 26 Wagoner, Porter, 160
Them, 341 Tuff Darts, 337 the Wailers, 318–19
“Then He Kissed Me” (Greenwich), tunesters, 61–63 Wakely, Jimmy, 64
128, 133 “Turn, Turn, Turn” (Seeger, Pete), 148 Wakeman, Rick, 349, 552
“There’s a Moon in the Sky (Called the Turner, Ike, 104, 181 “Wake Me Up” (Avicii), 564
Moon)” (B-52s), 354 Turner, Joe, 86, 87, 92, 186 “Wake Up Little Susie” (Everly
“Think” (Brown, James), 176 Turner, Steve, 476 Brothers), 97
“Think” (Franklin, Aretha), 187 Turner, Tina, 181 Waldron, Mal, 86
Third World, 321 “Tutti Frutti” (Little Richard), 101, “Walk Along Together,” 141
This Is It (Jackson, Michael), 373–77 103, 355 Walker, Frank, 40–42
“This Land Is Your Land” (Guthrie, tutting, 584 Walker, Junior, 167
Woody), 139, 142 “TV Party” (Black Flag), 421 Walker, Scott, 552
Thomas, Arnold, 48 Twain, Mark, 393 Walker, T-Bone, 53, 96
Thomas, Carla, 184 Twain, Shania, 533–40 “Walk This Way” (Run-DMC), 434
Thornton, Willie Mae, 52, 175 tweens, 541 Wallace, Christopher. See Notorious
Three Degrees, 329 “The Twist” (Checker), 126 B.I.G.
Thriller (Jackson, Michael), 358, 362, 2 Live Crew, 449–50 Wallace, Johnny, 77
372, 375, 388 2Pac, 462–66; death of, 463 Wallace, Sippie, 36
“Thriller” (Jackson, Michael), 365 2step garage, 513–14 Waller, Fats, 48
“Thunder Rolls” (Brooks, Garth), 530 two-step, 13 “The Wallflower” (James, Etta), 163
Tiesto, 580 Tyler, Alvin, 101 Walsh, James, 552
Timbaland, 467 Tyler, Steven, 546 “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’”
Timberlake, Justin, 543, 562 Tynan, Kenneth, 247 (Jackson, Michael), 372, 376
Time (magazine), 113, 143–47 TZAnthem Challenge, 568 War, 272, 281
the Time, 399, 417 U2, 367 “War” (Starr, Edwin), 390
timestretching, 511 Ulmer, Blood, 360, 364 Ward, Billy, 78, 295
bra43588_idx_591-604.indd 603 05/30/19 07:12 PM

604 Index
Ward, Brian, 523 White, Georgia, 28 With the Beatles (Beatles), 194
Ward, Clara, 78, 188, 190 White, Jack, 570 The Wiz (film), 369, 375
Ward, Ed, 255 White, Josh, 140 Wolcott, James, 335–39
Warhol, Andy, 222, 257, 336 White, Ted, 191, 192 Woldermariam, Philip, 461
Warling, Fred, 18 The White Album (Beatles), 225 Wonder, Stevie, 167, 272–73, 277–81,
“War Pigs” (Black Sabbath), 293, 296 White Citizens Council, 115 331, 333; Gordy on, 170; on
Warp Records, 518 Whiteman, Paul, 10–13, 18 Motown, 279; on singles, 279; on
Warwick, Dionne, 133 “White Rabbit” (Jefferson Airplane), soul, 280; on success, 280
Washboard Sam, 58 228 “Wonderin’” (Little Richard), 102
Washington, Booker T., 394 “Whiter Shade of Pale” (Procol Wood, Andrew, 476
Washington, Dinah, 39, 42, 73, 102, Harum), 313 Wood, Ron, 333
190, 398 the White Stripes, 552, 579–80 Woodstock, 245–51; drugs at, 250
Wasted Youth, 425 Whitfield, Norman, Gordy on, 170–71 Woolf, Virginia, 226
“Watch Me (Whip/Nae Nae)” Whiting, George, 4 Woollcott, Alexander, 2–3
(Silento), 568 Whitman, Brian, 562 “The World Is a Ghetto” (War), 272
Watch Your Step (Berlin), 5 the Who, 214, 249, 256, 313, 344 world music, 492
Watergate scandal, 254 “Whole Lotta Love” (Led Zeppelin), Worrell, Bernie, 281
Waterman, Pete, 127 291 Wreszin, Michael, 536
Waters, Ethel, 86 “Why Don’t We Do It in the Road” Wright, Billy, 101
Watson, Doc, 156–57 (Beatles), 225–26 WSM, 68
Watt, Mike, 552 “The Wicked Messenger” (Dylan), 161 Wu-Tang Clan, 462, 470
“We Are the World” (Jackson, Wide Open Spaces (Dixie Chicks), 533
Michael), 370 The Wild, the Innocent and the E Street the Yardbirds, 214, 256; Page on,
the Weavers, 139–40 Shuffle (Springsteen), 384 299–300
Webb, Chick, 19, 49–51 “Wild Thing” (Tone Loc), 435, 452, 454 Yarrow, Peter, 151
Webber, Joel, 362 Wilkerson, Donald, 82 Yauch, Adam, 470
the Weeknd, 570 William, McKinnley, 398 Yes, 241, 313–17, 552; harmony in,
Weil, Cynthia, 133 Williams, Andy, 254 315; lyrics of, 317; as songwriters,
Weinstock, Bobby, 88 Williams, Bert, 26–27, 40 316–17
Weir, Bob, 229 Williams, Bryan, 469 “Yesterday” (Beatles), 206
Weisbard, Eric, 483–90 Williams, Clarence, 40 Yetnikoff, Walter, 362
Weiss, Hymie, 89 Williams, Esther, 267 “YMCA” (Village People), 331
Weiss, Sam, 89 Williams, Hank, 64, 67, 69, 186, 260 York Brothers, 57
Welch, Chris, 278 Williams, Joe, 72 Yorke, Thom, 561
“Well Respected Man” (Kinks), 214 Williams, L. D., 180 Yoruba Nation, 437
Wells, James, 327 Williams, Mary Lou, 86 Young, Andre. See Dr. Dre
Wells, Mary, 167 Williams, Richard, 384 Young, Faron, 527
Wenner, Jann, 165, 228 Williams, Ronald, 469 Young Americans (Bowie), 310
“We Shall Overcome,” 576 Williams, Rudy, 49 “Young Girl Blues” (Donovan), 210
West, Kanye, 572–73 Williams, Serena, 570 “You Oughta Know” (Morissette), 503
Westerberg, Paul, 485 Williams, Spencer, 86 “You Really Got Me” (Kinks), 214
Weston, Kim, 184 Williams, Vaughan, 197 “You Send Me” (Cooke), 164
Wexler, Jerry, 76, 80, 83, 85–89, 92, Williamson, Sonny Boy, 301 “You Shook Me” (Led Zeppelin),
164–65, 191; on Pickett, 165–66 “Willie and the Hand Jive” (Otis), 88 290, 301
Weymouth, Tina, 338, 339 Willis, Chuck, 76, 77 YouTube, 561, 568
“What’d I Say” (Charles, Ray), 163 Willis, Ellen, 221, 222–26 “You Turn Me On (I’m a Radio)”
“What’s My Name?” (Snoop Dogg), “Will Power” (Cookies), 129 (Mitchell), 266
459 Wills, Bob, 61 “You’ve Got the Power” (Brown,
What’s the 411 (Blige), 524 Willshire, Teacho, 59 James), 176
“When I’m Sixty Four” (Beatles), 211 Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow Yule, Andrew, 74–77
“When the Levee Breaks” (Led (Shirelles), 263
Zeppelin), 303 Wilson, Frank, 171 Zahouania, Cheba, 496
“Where Have All the Flowers Gone” Wilson, Jackie, 163, 167 Zappa, Frank, 240–44, 413, 420;
(Seeger, Pete), 148 Wilson, Teddy, 19, 190 childhood, 243
Where I’m Coming From (Wonder), 277 “The Wind Cries Mary” (Hendrix), 239 Zappa, Moon Unit, 486–87
Whirlwind Heat, 549, 552 Windeler, Robert, 262–65 Ziggy Stardust, 309
Whitaker, Jess, 79 Winslow, Max, 4 Ziggy Stardust (Bowie), 309
White, Alan, 315 Winter, Johnny, 339 Zimmerman, Bobby, 552–53
White, Barry, 323 Winwood, Steve, 291 Zoom, Billy, 421
White, Bukka, 148 “Within You and Without You” Zorn, John, 425
White, Charles, 100–104 (Beatles), 211 Zuckerberg, Mark, 560
bra43588_idx_591-604.indd 604 05/30/19 07:12 PM

Brackett Ed (2020) - The Pop, Rock, and Soul Reader Histories and Debates

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THE POP, ROCK, AND SOUL READER

Featuring more than 100 readings from a wide range of

NEW TO THIS EDITION

Visit www.oup.com/us/brackett for

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press

© 2020, 2014, 2009, 2005 by Oxford University Press

For titles covered by Section 112 of the US Higher Education

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored

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Names: Brackett, David.

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PART 1 Before 1950

4. Solo Pop Singers and New Forms of Fandom. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21

5. Hillbilly and Race Music. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25

6. Blues People and the Classic Blues. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30

7. The Empress of the Blues . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39

8. At the Crossroads with Son House . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43

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9. Jumpin’ the Blues with Louis Jordan. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47

10. On the Bandstand with Johnny Otis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52

11. The Producers Answer Back: The Emergence of the “Indie”

12. Country Music as Folk Music, Country Music as Novelty. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60

PART 2 The 1950s

14. Rhythm and Blues in the Early 1950s: B. B. King . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70

15. “The House that Ruth Brown Built”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73

17. Jerry Wexler: A Life in R&B. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85

18. The Growing Threat of Rhythm and Blues. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90

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21. Elvis Presley, Sam Phillips, and Rockabilly. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105

22. Rock ‘n’ Roll Meets the Popular Press . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112

PART 3 The 1960s

26. From Surf to Smile . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 134

27. Urban Folk Revival . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138

28. Bringing It All Back Home: Dylan at Newport . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147

29. “For a Man to Be at Ease, He Must Not Tell All He Knows,

30. From R&B to Soul. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163

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31. No Town Like Motown . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 166

32. The Godfather of Soul and the Beginnings of Funk . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 172

33. “The Blues Changes from Day to Day”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 183

34. Aretha Franklin Earns Respect. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 187

36. A Hard Day’s Night and Beatlemania. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 198

37. Two Takes on Sergeant Pepper . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 206

38. The British Art School Blues. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 213

39. The Stones versus the Beatles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 220

40. If You’re Goin’ to San Francisco . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 226

41. The Kozmic Blues of Janis Joplin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 231

42. Jimi Hendrix and the Electronic Guitar. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 236

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44. Festivals—The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 245

PART 4 THE 1970S

46. The Sound of Autobiography: Singer-Songwriters, Carole King. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 260

47. Joni Mitchell: The Power of Insight. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 265

48. Sly Stone: “The Myth of Staggerlee”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 269

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