COOL

        The great nightmare of the children of 1984 and Brave New World is that in the 1980’s Big Business and its good friends the Government and the Military will try to establish total control over the population.  A cretinous puppet will be elected President.  Many citizens will resist.  The major battle fronts will be Energy and Ecology and Economic Theory.

        For a while, I thought this would establish the nature of cool for the 80’s.  I figured the cool of the upcoming decade will have to be rational because the enemies are completely insane.  Few people will argue that the business world has renounced common sense for profit.  So cool must love being alive fiercely and must defend that love.  Cool, I theorized, will cross all age lines, it will no longer involve mostly the young, because Moms and Dads will find that their happy little homes have dioxin in the water and radiation in the air.

        Moreover, I imagined a cool that would be a complete reversal of earlier cools.  The battle against the killers will require sophisticated knowledge that can only come after many years of study.  Cool will have to be more than rational, it must be intellectual.  I reasoned it will require great knowledge of science and industry and engineering and economics and environment and communications to be cool in the face of insane facts and lying statistics.  In yet another reversal of the old forms, I imagined cool will be sober because the politicians and the businessmen are the only ones who profit from the drugs; besides they themselves are wasted on their Valiums and booze.  Cool will not be pastoral like the hippies in their communes; the poison will follow those who try to escape into the wilderness.  The goal, I concluded, will be to break down the giant corporations into smaller entities, to jail politicians and businessmen who profit from them, to nationalize certain industries, and to make the arms manufacturers into non-profit corporations.

 “I love what I do so much, I’d be reluctant to compromise.  It’s a privilege.  Not many deejays can do the things they love instead of the things that are commercially successful.”

        With that kind of integrity, Storm might have to starve to death in commercial radio.  “No one would pay me to do this,” he acknowledges cheerfully.*

*  Patricia Ward Biederman.  “Storm’s Music Soothes Lonely Night.”  Courier Express, January 14, 1977, Vol. CXLII, No. 178, page. 10.

        I obtain an album by a group called Moondog from Oklahoma.  I give them an Honorable Mention in my playlist.  They are the ones I played on my show who have an amusing song about listening to the Grateful Dead.  They send me a letter:

 How’s it going in Buffalo?  We at the Moondog house would like to thank you for your help. A s a Direct result of your playlist, we have been picked up by WBAI in New York City and WCUW in Worcester, Mass.  Both have written requesting albums and sent play sheets.

        Talking to Stiv Bators, the lead singer of The Dead Boys.  Despite all the wild stories I’ve heard about him, always spitting at the audience, continually dropping his pants, the time he beat up DEVO, he was a nice guy and a great talker.  Anyone who sees him perform knows one of his heroes must be Iggy Pop.

Stiv:       Ah, . . . . .  It was like, ah, I think in seventy, I ran away from home, I was living up in Cincinnati, I mean, ah, Detroit, yeah.  And we went to Cincinnati, we hitch-hiked down there, and, ah, . . . . . ah, Iggy, no one ever heard of him, or [Alice] Cooper, none of that, it was like Mott the Hoople’s first tour through the country, and all that.  So I was hangin’ out, and I was tellin’ people that, ah, if, I-I just was telling ‘em, trying to explain Iggy to them, nobody would believe the things he’d do on stage.  No one did that then, y’know.  I said to this kid had a picnic basket, I says, “If you, ah, give him that jar of peanut butter, he’d rub it all over himself,” “Naaaah” – y’know.  So, anyway, Iggy come out and we got lost in, ah, watching him, he dove on our shoulders and we were holding him up and this kid taps me on the shoulder, and, ah, he had the jar of peanut butter, so I grab it and I hit Iggy in the leg, he looks down, his eyes got like, like saucers, y’know, really big, an’ just dipped his fist into this jar of peanut butter and rubbed it all over his stomach, was throwin’ it at people, and then, ah, like he dove back on stage and broke it over the bass player’s head, or somethin’ like that, I forget what happened . . . . . got really lost.  But later on through the pi-, ah, through the scaffolding, he looked over at me and said, ah, when he was ge-going down, he just . . . . . like just that quick glance thing, like, ah, “Thanks, good idea,” or something like that, can’t remember, I-I . . . . .

Gary:       Have ya-have ya met him or talked to him since then?

S:       Naw, like, ah, I been into running, like, president of the Iggy Pop Fan Club, was hanging out with him, especially on this tour.  So Iggy called the apartment, I’m staying with some stripper up in New York, and I had to fly to Chicago to do promo on the album, and Iggy called the apartment when he was in New York, he wanted me to come up and see him, but I wasn’t there, so . . . . . it’s like everywhere I play, we just come back from Philly and they just went there.  We-we checked out an hour before they checked in.  It’s things like that, keep missing them.  Like, he wants to meet me and talk, but . . . . .

P(4)

Jeez, this guy plays a million forgotten instruments:  dulcimer, concert zither, Northumbrian small-pipes, bandura, prima balalaika, second balalaika, bouzouki, as well as guitar, sax, clarinet, penny whistle and he sings pretty darn great too.  His name is KEN BLOOM on Flying Fish records.  These lovely folk melodies, all flavors and sizes just like his instruments.  This is a chant called “The Eagle and the Owl.”

        A letter postmarked December 8, 1976 with the word “Private” clearly emblazoned in the corner.

Dear Mr. Storm,

        For the past few weeks I have been waking up early.  I can’t tell you how much I enjoy hearing your voice.  It makes me feel like starting my day.

        Today I discovered you were going to read the Wizard of Oz until completed.  Please Don’t Do It!  Read it to your friends or something else.  I can’t bear to hear you read but I love it when you speak.

        This is not meant to be a joke although, I admit, this letter appears to be a prank.

        I like your voice so much that I set my radio to turn on even when I don’t need to get up.

Sincerely,

A FAN

Jack Goldstein talking about his sound effects records:       The record is something that is very mechanical and-and the-th-the content within each record is something that is very spontaneous and organic.  And by channeling that into a record I can treat that thing as an object because it’s like the two worlds merging.  And I-I associate those two worlds with my body and my mind.  I would say that th-the-the that the physical properties of the record itself, like the form of the record is my body, and the sound that takes place on that record is my mind.  So I see that as a metaphor for myself in the world.  The merging of the mechanical with the organic.

        On my Truly Classic Album Hour, I feature Contact High by The Godz.  The record sounds like they dragged some kids off the street and gave them instruments and told them to make up songs in the studio.  Which is in fact almost the case.  Here are some of the liner notes:

         This is the Godz Truth:  Two sides of eight original tunes by four New Yorkers, who don’t give a good God-damn whether you dig it or not.  They are human, alive and hot in the blood, creating their own song, forging their own sound with a beat like an elephant’s heart.  They are that way because they hold honesty dear, and have no need for arrogance.

        By name The Godz are blond Jay Dillon, 24, a psaltry player by choice and a graphic designer by trade; Larry Kessler, 25, a sometime craps dealer, dishwasher and itinerant record salesman.  Record salesmen also are Jim McCarthy, 22; guitarist, harmonica and plastic flute player, and drummer Paul Thorton, 26, who never played that instrument before this date.  To all of them, musical instruments are but so many vehicles by which they express all they can not consciously define in any other way.*

        This album was released in 1966 and The Godz recorded three more albums on the ESP Record label.  ESP was one of the greatest record companies of all time.  It went out of business because it was financially dishonest, but it was one of the few labels in which the recording artists had complete control over the final product.  Albert Ayler, The Fugs, Paul Bley, Gato Barbieri, Sun Ra, Marion Brown, Pharoah Sanders, Bill Horwitz, Gunter Hampel, Pearls Before Swine, Buzzy Linhart, Lou Killen all released their earliest records on this label.

        It is now October of 1975.  There is nothing in the music business to compare to ESP.  The huge record companies completely control the market, pouring out tons of bilge and sludge and drek, miserable boring ponderously dull offensive worthless hunks of vinyl.  No one has the courage of ESP.  There is no room for sloppiness, ugliness, and simple idiocy on records anymore.  Elton John splurts one hit after another.  All the songs on the radio are overproduced and sweet with musicianship that is very competent and very unexciting.  Good musicians have ruined music.

        The Godz do a tune called “White Cat Heat” in which they all yowl like cats and bang their instruments.  At this moment The Eagles have a gooey tuneless song I’m supposed to be interested in playing.  I tell my listeners that this boring music will last only two more years, I give it two more years.  Then something monstrous and wonderful will happen.

        No record company has ever appeared more crazy than ESP releasing the outest jazz and the wierdest folk and the nastiest rock.  No other label has ever gone quite as far as ESP.

*  Marc Crawford - Transmondo.  Liner notes, © on The Godz, Contact High, ESP-Disk, ESP 1036.

        Postmarked December 11, 1976, the mysterious writer says they didn’t want me to read the Wizard of Oz for fear of having already missed some of the story.

         By this time, you are probably thinking something about me.  Perhaps you think I’m crazy for writing.  Maybe I am.

        You know what I like about your show – besides your voice – I like the fact that you vary the types of music you play.  That shows you are a sensible person.  I like the way you talk to your audience.  (Please don’t become inhibited because I write this.)  It’s as though we are right there with you.

        I think the reason why I write to you is because I have often had to do things like this to prevent my life from becoming too boring.

        I would be slightly embarrassed if you ever found out who I really am, although I assure you I don’t know you and I’m not playing a trick on you.  In fact I wouldn’t know you if I passed you on the street.

        I may be doing this because I’m lonely, though I do have good friends.

. . .

        If I were you reading this, I’d be thinking God!  What an asshole this person is.  I don’t blame you for thinking this but please understand that I have to get this insanity out of my system, and anonymously in the only way I can do it.

        I once had a psychotherapist and he kept insisting that I was normal like everyone else – but heck!  I feel crazy.  Maybe being normal feels crazy.

        If you are still reading this letter – thanks.  Ever since I came to Buffalo 2½ years ago I’ve been mentally unbalanced.  You see, I’m from a very small city – led a very sheltered life there – came here and Whamm-o!!!  I haven’t been the same since . . . . .   

 The letter is signed simply “to.”   They ask me to acknowledge the letter by playing some Joni Mitchell.  I play the songs.  I do not think the person is an asshole.  These letters sound like something I would write.  I wonder if Dear Anne and Dear Abby ever feel too close to those who seek their help.

P(G)

Lovely unique finger picker on the Kicking Mule Record label.  DUCK BAKER.  He plays a nylon string guitar, unusual for most finger pickers who like that steel string ring.  Here’s an engaging medley:  “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” followed by “America” – good for opening or closing any set of songs.

All-out war erupts in El Salvador.

Big businessmen breathe a sigh of relief.

Gary is enlisted.

Learns how to use a gun in boot camp.

Becomes an assassin.

COOL

        When Dick Gregory or Richard Pryor or Franklin Ajaye talk about black people, they call them niggers.  But white people cannot get away with using that word on the public airwaves.  President Reagan would be criticized for using that word, and not because he is a racist (which he is), but because he is white.  The word nigger is fascinating and peculiar.  It has vacillated throughout history between being a common neutral term for a group of people to a demeaning cruel and racist expression.  Consider how the word was used by Mark Twain; it was an unremarkable part of the vernacular of a particular culture at a particular time in history.  In contrast, consider how the word was used when Army troops confronted the National Guard in front of n Little Rock Central High School in 1957.

        Today, in the late 1970s, for non-blacks, nigger has become a tabu word.  Black people use it in friendly ways to talk about one another, but an outsider can’t use it in speaking about blacks without, even unintentionally, causing offense.  It is an inside word.  In a friendly situation, a non-black can call anyone who is black any other name – man baby dude motherfucker boy bro cat – but not nigger.

        Part of the phenomenon of this word is that it is common for cults and ethnic groups to adopt for affectionate use expressions which were originally directed against them by bigots.  Certainly this is how the beats, beatniks, hippies, freaks, and punks found their collective monikers. And even the names of artistic movements – cubism, pop art, minimalism – were originally coined by scornful art critics.

        But the tabus that seem to inhere indelibly to ostensibly offensive language are, in truth, malleable and inconsistent.  The tabu word nigger has been co-opted just as have all other words in the cool lingo. Non-blacks don’t use this word for blacks, but they do call themselves niggers. A great little book by Jay Farber awakened all students to the fact that they are niggers.*  Any group that is subject to arbitrary bigotry and oppression has adopted the moniker.  Women are niggers.  Gays are niggers.  Patti Smith anthemizes it her thrilling song “Rock’n’Roll Nigger”:

Baby was a black sheep
Baby was a whore
Baby got big and baby gets bigger
Baby gets something
Baby gets more
Baby baby baby was a rock’n’roll nigger

Outside of society
The way for me
Outside of society
That’s where I wanna be**

And Lou Reed bitterly satirizes such sentiments:

I wanna be black
I wanna be a Panther
And have a girl friend named Samantha
And have a stable of foxy whores
Woo woo I wanna be black

Why are people who are not black singing about wanting to be black?  The answer lies in cool.

*  Jerry Farber.  The Student as Nigger.  New York:  Pocket Books, 1972.

**  Patti Smith.  “Rock’n’Roll Nigger,” © 1978, Patti Smith, from Easter, Arista, AB 4171.

        Just after the release of the great-from-beginning-to-end album, Pure Pop for Now People, Scott Field and I interviewed Nick Lowe.

Gary:       You’re about to be a star it looks like.

Nick Lowe:       Hahaha.

G:       It looks like after years of, like, being in a cult group, and being a cult figure in a cult group, you’re about to explode.  How’s that feel?

L:       (Long pause. He mumbles.)

G:       Well, that’s what people say.  I-b-I believe everything I read.  Hahahaha.

L:       Oh, yeah?  (Long pause.)  It, um . . . . . it doesn’t feel like anything actually.

G:       Yeah?

L:       No. It doesn’t . . . . . ah . . . . .  

G:       You’ve never, you’ve never had your eyes on being a st-, like a big star or anything like that?