Indie Rocker vs Classic Rocker
Indie Rocker- You get paid? Wow. How fitting. Because so do prostitutes. But just because some slag on the street will suck my cock for $50 doesn’t make her any better at giving blowjobs than my girlfriend.
But I will agree with you that this album would still be exemplary without the sonic texturing. The arrangements could be construed as self-consciousness, of a musician who suddenly, after spending a serious amount of time on a project, looks over the work and sees a lot of exposed emotions and so feels the need to throw a few more coats of paint to cover up the blemishes – despite those blemishes being the main reason for the listener’s interest. If this is why the arrangements exist then it would be an example of self-editing at its worst. All great albums stem from a strong foundation of songwriting and there is no greater substitute for grabbing the listener and holding them in than with the written word and human voice. I’m not the only one who’s fascinated by how one technically barren voice can resonate among so many people. Just look at Mick Jagger and the aforementioned Bob Dylan for example; they’ve made their livelihoods out of it. Their stories will conjure far more emotional responses than the American Idol kiddies with technically superior voices. (And I could sit here and paraphrase Sartre about American Idol finalists as being merely a series of techniques and not artistes, but I’ll leave the “I’m a well-read douche-bag” handle to you.) Charisma and good old fashioned swagger hold as much weight in this unscientific affair. But to presume that it was based solely on self-consciousness would be doing a disservice to the egos involved. It wouldn’t surprise me if the three hashed out the idea of some elaborate instrumental backing as a means to further convey what they obviously saw as a breakthrough album. Whether or not it was successful to you “professionals” is beside the point. It is the deceptively tricky (and far too uncommon) trait of humanity to dispense with the excess and allow the barest of emotions to stand on their own.
Classic Rocker – And what a lucky lady your girlfriend is to have you say so. I have absolutely no idea why she puts up with your sorry ass. Then again, I haven’t the foggiest notion as to why my girlfriend hasn’t shown me the door yet, either. Women are a mystery. And as such, they do tend to inspire some truly incredible art that is in turn confused, heartbroken, smitten, horny, and all-get-out hellfire raging.
It’s interesting that Beck hasn’t made an album that comes within even a country mile of the naked emotionalism found on this platter in years. Once he dropped Sea Change he immediately retreated into the safe surety of his critically approved, commercially vindicated, ironic pose. That’s the problem I have with his last few records. The man is no longer moving forward. Guerro, The Information, and Modern Guilt (the best of this trio) all feel like uninspired throwbacks. It’s like he’s already preparing for the day he’s on the same rib fest circuit as Styx and Eddie Money. Sea Change is the last time Beck mattered as an artist.
Happily, I can’t say the same for Marvin Gaye. This guy just kept pushing forward, no matter the emotional or commercial consequences. You can argue that his final album, before being tragically murdered by his own father, was something of a retreat from the scathing honesty of his albums from What’s Goin’ On forward, but the extenuating circumstances of being under the gun with a new record deal on his new label (remember he’d been recording for Motown from the start), and not having had a hit for several years, explains Gaye’s need to create a big commercial record. Which he did in stellar fashion. Midnight Love was a monster record in 1982/83.
But we’re here to talk about Here, My Dear. Typically, this record gets written off as a self-indulgent fuck you to Gaye’s ex-wife, Anna Gordy. Part of the divorce agreement was that Anna would get a large percentage of the sales of whatever Gaye’s next album would be in perpetuity. So an angry Marvin Gaye goes in to the studio and records this painfully explicit, almost documentarian in detail, literal record of the disintegration of their marriage, going so far as to name names and actually sing some of the legal documents. However, the very artistry of the album argues against dismissive critics. Gaye could have knocked this out like Lou Reed’s unlistenable double platter of feedback, Metal Machine Music, or one of those truly shitty records Neil Young made in the ‘80s to get out of his record contract with Geffen. Gaye could have half-assed the record, but instead he created what is easily the most difficult, frustrating, but ultimately rewarding listening experiences in his discography.
Indie Rocker- Way to miss the point entirely while inadvertently proving mine: That if being a “professional” involves moping around the bookstore while droning endlessly on about Townes Van Zandt to some poor customer who, like most people who’ve met your acquaintance, views talking to you as nothing more than a conversational pity-fuck, then I’ll gladly accept my status as an amateur. Hopefully that clarifies things.
And yeah, women inspire good art. But keep in mind that they have also inspired some insipid crap as well, so let’s not give ‘em keys to the city just yet. In comparison to the aforementioned Lou Reed and Neil Young (prime examples of phoning it in) Here, my dear is an example of what even the most passionately musical person would do when confronted with the same situation. It’s certainly better than the Reed and Young albums that you mentioned, but the recording leaves me feeling, I don’ know…meh. And why is this? Marvin was no one-hit wonder – and anyone who thinks he was anything less than a heavyweight is a fool -- so it’s gotta be the situation, right? That would be the easiest explanation. But I think it was something more than just that. This record was forced and as a result the quality suffered; the arrangements, the staid musicianship and the production all joined forces to create a sensational piece of mediocrity. It was as if the whole collective were going through a very messy (and public) divorce and had to cobble together a bunch of lack-luster tunes at the last moment, and not just Marvin. His wife was bangin’ Rick James, fer chrissakes! He obviously didn’t need any more ammunition (no pun intended) to deliver a great record. But I guess that’s what coke and paranoia will do to a man. It’s just disappointing to hear something so…so…meh. I felt like I was listening to some townie at Nico’s on Karaoke night.
Classic Rocker- So I have to ask what it’s like, man. I mean, just getting through a typical day must be really difficult for you. All the little mundane things that the rest of us take for granted like brushing your teeth, getting around town, hell, just trying to eat a meal...these are all really triumphs for you, aren't they Kurt? Honestly, though, give us a little insight. What’s it like going through life with your head stuck so far up your own ass? I mean, is there some sort of special license plate for that condition? Did your office have to install special ramps or equipment to aid such a valuable employee as yourself in your workaday tasks? I really don’t know how you do it. I applaud your bravery, Kurt.
Here, My Dear is a difficult album. There are no hits, no tracks that’ll make you leap on the dancefloor. It’s not that kind of record. You can say it’s overindulgent, you can say it’s way too long. You can say it’s an exhausting listening experience. But to say this was phoned in, to compare it to karaoke is to reveal yourself as a fuckin’ idiot.
If Gaye wanted to phone the album in, to make good on the divorce settlement he could have recorded some tepid collection of standards much like he tried earlier in his career when he thought he was the new Sam Cooke. Hell, he could have dusted off on old live show and turned that in. But for all his running around, his giat egotism, his drug fueled paranoia, the man was always an artist. And nowhere is that more clear than on this album. This is the one record he had every right to throw away. Every expectation of the record company was that this would be a quickie project. Instead, Gaye goes deeper into a marital relationship than has probably ever been committed to tape. This is not his best work, no. It’s not my favorite of his records. But it’s the record I have the most respect for in the Gaye catalog. It’s the album that didn’t need to matter, and yet Marvin Gaye created here his largest, most personal album.
Indie Rocker- First of all, Kris, it’s not fun to make fun of retards. And while there are a litany of moments in my life where I displayed a gross lack of intelligence (my involvement in this chimp-speak of a column being a recent example), my opinion on this album isn’t one of them. I never directly said that Marvin “phoned it in”. And while I readily admit that my employer knows better than to saddle me with anything other than the most mundane of projects, it does afford me the time to counter your predictable white-guilt/group-think nonsense masquerading as a means to justify this depression-inducing spiel known as Here, my dear.
The fact that the album had no hits is irrelevant (although you’re right, it doesn’t). Yes, it is overindulgent and, yes, some songs do go on for eternity (basically, I agree with all three sentiments). I just can’t help but think that taking a large caliber slug to the chest was the best thing that could’ve happened to Marvin, the artiste, when discussing the merits of this album. Hell, you could argue that it was an early birthday present from the old man. Without this tragic ending, Here, my dear would be relegated to the has-been heap. It’s fitting that you brought up Metal Machine Music and Neil Young’s 80’s tripe because if it weren’t for that fateful April day that’s where this album would probably be filed under. I’m not saying it’s right, I’m just saying that there’s a direct correlation between artistic integrity and dying before your time (and the more violent the better). Personally, I’d rather watch him singing the national anthem at the ’83 NBA All-Star game. While a common occurrence now, the thought of “souling” up the anthem was considered heresy at the time. But he didn’t just sing that song, he owned it. That’s the Marvin I choose to remember; the Marvin who had everyone on their feet and in the palm of his hand. Riffing about a court-ordered subpoena and “naming names” over a tired back-beat isn’t my idea of artistic integrity – I expect that shit from Bobby Brown or some other no-talent punk-ass. In this case, some things are better left unsaid.
Classic Rocker- Once again, Kurt, in your typical neanderthalic fashion you’ve completely missed the point. This was never about picking your favorite Marvin Gaye moment (although, for my money, his duet with Tammi Terrell on “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” is as close to perfect as pop ever gets) it was about looking at the choices these two artists made.
Art is about risk. Not the stupid bullshit that gets bandied about as risky, like when Damien Hirst shits on a canvas and dares you to say it isn’t art. That’s hype which is a completely different thing. Beck’s Sea Change is an album of considerable personal risk. It’s the only record in Beck’s career where the mask came off and we got a good look at the man. Not to cross metaphors but I consider Sea Change the high water mark in Beck’s career. It’s an album that moves his art to a whole new level, an introspective place of personal revelation, an exposure of private emotions.
Revelation is not enough to have a work considered art. If so, then Kathryn Harrison’s “The Kiss” would be a benchmark of literature rather than the tasteless piece of marketing it is. Beck’s songwriting, vocals, production choices, etc. Are what raise the revelation to art. But then he backed off; he put the mask back on. I don’t think the work has recovered yet.
Marvin Gaye never backed off. You can argue the merits of Here, My Dear. It’s not my favorite Marvin moment either, but it’s a capsule of the qualities that admire most in the man’s art. He never stopped working to raise the very specific and personal experiences of his life to the level of universal art. He stumbled many times in the process. But he never turned tail and hid himself behind clever wordplay and a producer-of-the-moment. Hell, his next album was In Our Lifetime? Which was a meditation on nuclear war. The man had a vision and he obsessively followed it. It’s not like he only made a couple of good records then got himself shot. He had a nearly thirty year career. Beck, on the other hand, is just some post-mod boho on the declining side of his career.
Kurt Garrison likes to bang on stuff and yell into microphones for Workshop and The Plat Maps. A somewhat devoted skiier, he is one half of the The New Yinzer’s wildly irrelevant Indie Rocker vs. Classic Rocker. Kurt also enjoys fishing and has spent the last two and a half years pissing his life away on this utterly confounding story about juvenile delinquents and their importance in our society. He also enjoys asparagus on the grill.
Kristofer Collins is the managing editor of The New Yinzer, an occasional book reviewer for The Post Gazette, and owner of Desolation Row CDs. He is the author of the poetry collections King Everything and The Book of Names. The Liturgy of Streets is forthcoming from Six Gallery Press in 2008.