Surviving The Revolution ( "I'm Not There" But You Are Definitely HERE)

"There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at the typewriter and open a vein."

-- Walter "Red" Smith

Just like any other musician or any music lover, I've spent hours in discussion with "audiophiles" dissecting the sonic merits of every album that's made any reputable (see: acceptably hip) "Top 100 Albums of All Time" list. Over the last several years almost all modern references have fallen out of these discussions, with any recently released album being replaced by another "vintage gem", perhaps even one that no one bought and listened to in it's own day and that's only found on the shelves of the most discriminating indie shops today (shops that have been all but replaced by iPods).

I'm not attempting to defend either the vinyl or iTunes cultures or to illustrate how any grander cultural or economic force has changed what we listen to. The reason I'm not is because I don't believe it has, at least not to any important extent. In fact, we are now living in an age in which even if you are dead broke you can, at any given moment, download any band's complete discography with the click of a mouse (if you own a computer, of course). If you have even the slightest interest in hearing something you've never before heard you can go to a myriad of websites for free, read what Pitchfork or PopMatters has to say, and download the next newest thing all free of risk (hey! it's free, right?). So why, then, in this brilliant age of constant communication, during the height of the satiation of the generation of entitlement's reign, are we talking less and less seriously about anything being released today and more and more about things we've been discussing since 1990? Because we are confused? We no longer know what we like?

No. Now that it can all be had instantly we have too much and we know that not as many people have the same albums as we do (ya know? it's a product-to-people ratio kinda thingy.). In the studio when we search our lobes for references for the music we want to create, our tiny little primate brains stutter. We don't have the nerve to say things like, "Something kinda like the intro to that LAST Dylan record". Instead, we start talking about "Blonde on Blonde" (or "Tonight's The Night" or "Hunky Dory") or any number of records made before 1980.

Man, we talk about Dylan ALOT. And rightfully so, but never about anything after "Blood On The Tracks", lest we receive a slap on the wrist for breaking this grand and unspoken rule. Rarely are lyrics even mentioned. My personal least favorites that have weasled their way in most recently are Joni Mitchell's "Blue" and Van Morrison's "Astral Weeks". Now don't get me wrong, both have their value and are "masterpieces", whatever the hell that means (though I'm not a fan of Joni Mitchell at all, really), but they weren't being mentioned ten years ago AT ALL. And yes, I have one dear friend who sees "Blue" as the very gateway into his own music making (and he makes it quite well). Of course they were talked about in music circles but, in my experience, they were never mentioned as reference points in studios and have seemingly, by something akin to divine intervention, been referenced over and over (and over and over) more recently.

And yet those two albums and a myriad of others discussed ad infinitum have had little effect on the records I've seen made (and little to none on those I've heard at all). In the 80's people wanted to sound like someone on SST and in the 90's it was SubPop and if they were "talented" (if they had something, anything) they ended up sounding a bit like those bands but ultimately sounded like themselves. When Sam Philips recorded Elvis I seriously doubt he said, "Mr. Presley, what I'm hearing here is a kinda (insert something here) crossed with a bit of, you know, (insert something else here). Berry Gordy went looking for teenagers to sign (who certainly weren't studying Mom and Dad's records at home in preparation).

In his book "How The Beatles Destroyed Rock and Roll" Elijah Wald blames it on the over-synthesizing of disparate musical forms and on there not being enough of the intangible(the "it feels good!" stuff) in all things after the Brit invaders washed ashore for good. I think Mr. Wald is right in his assertions, for the most part. But I think the scourge of modern music (or indie rock, anyway, cause hip hop hasn't lost it yet) is the endless meta-analyses that float around in discussions and the disuse of the body. As rock star neurologist Oliver Sacks has said, "Certainly it's not just a mathematical experience, it's an emotional one". Rock and roll (the name itself) is a bawdy old reference to gettin' it on (literally).

My thesis, my manifesto (here, today, right now anyway), is that we are analyzing and referencing and counter-referencing the heart and soul straight out of rock and roll. We are taking up so much oxygen running our mouths that we are choking out the intangible and the magical. We are, by talking too much about what moves us musically, not moving ourselves at all. We are too afraid to tap our feet, too afraid to shake our collective ass, too thoroughly post-modern to let anyone know we love something (I mean REALLY love it). Musicians are becoming scientists. And strangely scientists (like Dr. Sacks) are becoming musicians. Like sportswriter Red Smith (the Michael Lewis of his day) says above, to create art you have to do much more than synthesize or imitate. Ya gotta bleed. You have to inject yourself into it (awesome pun intended).

So go home, illegally download GNR's "November Rain", and wait for Slash's solo to kick in. And then, without any hint of irony, play the shit out of your air guitar and give your girlfriend/boyfriend/husband/wife/friend/pet that knowing nod (you know what I'm talking about). Because yes, people: deep down we all know it just feels right. And any song or album that doesn't ain't worth shit.

--John Murry