While researching my previous post, “A Requiem for Multitudes: Revisiting Chuck Berry’s America,” I ran across this interview with Chuck that didn’t fit tonally in the piece. I found it on BuzzFeed, who got it from a now-defunct blog called Music Ruined My Life, who in turn got it from an actual printed zine from 1980 called Jet Lag. It’s a fascinating document of a rock ‘n’ roll elder statesman being interviewed at a point when he couldn’t possibly have been more unfashionable.
The best part of the interview is the sidebar, where Berry reviews a handful of records from the era. The music ranges from punk rock and new wave to reggae and ska and Chuck’s opinions are mostly solid, if slightly out of step with the times. To be honest, though, I can’t get the first review out of my head. It’s Berry taking on the Sex Pistols’ classic single, “God Save The Queen.”
Sex Pistols – God Save The Queen
Single released May 27, 1977
Chuck Berry: “What’s this guy so angry about anyway? Guitar work, progression is like mine. Good backbeat. Can’t understand most of the vocals. If you’re going to be mad, at least let the people know what you’re mad about.”
The juxtaposition of figures is overwhelming. It’s as if Benny Goodman was asked to give his opinion on “Roll Over Beethoven.” You can tell Chuck doesn’t quite get it in a bigger sense, but his insights are perceptive. His response to the music is favorable, probably because he can hear himself in it. However, it’s amusing to read Berry’s take on Johnny Rotten’s unintelligible howl. The writer from Jet Lag actually asks Chuck about “writing angry.” Chuck’s response is illuminating. He says, “If you want to release your aggression, get up and dance. That’s what rock ‘n’ roll is all about. Even if you sing or listen to songs about problems they won’t go away. And besides, these songs never have the answers for a permanent solution. If you want to wallow in sorrow, go listen to some blues records.”
Photo: Ed Colver
Ironically, Chuck made the statement about releasing aggression through dance at almost the exact moment hardcore punks in Orange County were inventing slam dancing — which was more slam than dance because dancing requires some measure of talent and slamming only requires being aggro. And what about that anger? There’s an amazing juxtaposition of a black man raised in the Jim Crow midwest, who was not only imprisoned on three separate occasions, but within a year of this interview, wondering why a middle class white kid is so angry. Fact is, Lydon transcended music to became a symbol of anarchy, nihilism, and revolution, a Johnny Rottenseed for the culturally dispossessed in England, and then later — and I would argue, more profoundly — in white, self-satisfied, suburban America.
Whaddya got?
I’m not interested in the sociopolitics of 1970s England which led to the rise of British punk. But, I am interested in why that smoldering discontent exported itself back over to America and lit a series of cultural arson fires. As a child of the ’70s and ’80s, why did Johnny Rotten’s rage so easily translate to suburban southern California, let alone the thousands of suburban enclaves all over the US? “What were we so angry about anyway?” Punk rock may have emerged in the mid-’70s, but its core ennui-rage was a post-World War II phenomenon, an unexpected side effect of winning the war. In fact, the first proper punk, the first person to embody and codify punk’s unfocused, but palpable, whatever the fuck anger was Marlon Brando in The Wild One (1953). This brief scene says it all.
Mildred: Hey Johnny (Rotten), what are you rebelling against?
Johnny: Whaddya got?
I’m far from the first person to link Brando to punk rock. Hell, Joe Koch wrote “Marlon Brando: The Original Punk” in the very first issue of Punk magazine (published in January 1976). I find it odd, though, that Koch didn’t reference the “Whaddya got?” line. It perfectly crystallized punk’s ennui-rage. To be fair, though, Koch wouldn’t have recognized the Sex Pistols’ anger in any American music of the day, including that first wave of CBGBs bands. It’s easy to forget now, but bands weren’t angry even as late as ’76. You had metal and rock screamers, but they wanted you to like them. They certainly wanted chicks to like them. Johnny Rotten was arguably the second frontman — after Iggy — whose entire persona was based around confrontation. But, even Iggy seemed like he was confrontational only after realizing the audience didn’t get it. Lydon not only didn’t give a fuck, he was almost more contemptuous if you DID like him. Granted, it was all an act, but it was a new act relative to pop music, even outsider music, which punk rock certainly was in 1976-77.
The Sex Pistols were obviously tapping into deep-seated hostility and anger that was pervasive in 1970s America, particularly in its affluent suburbs. These suburbanites may not have realized they were filled with ennui-rage and in all likelihood couldn’t have articulated that anger in any meaningful way. But, maybe we should’ve realized the punk audience was right there in front of us, hiding in plain sight. If we step back a year to 1976, the year when “God Save The Queen” was probably written, two American movies featured protagonists who would’ve been totally recognizable to future punk rock fans.
Travis Bickle in Taxi Driver was a confused and angry loner who was definitely a sociopath, probably a psychopath, and a character who finishes the film in a mohawk. Meanwhile, Howard Beale in Network was a news anchor slowly losing his mind, who one night comes out of the rain, steps on set, and delivers a searing monologue that may as well have been written yesterday. You listen to the speech slowly build, slowly congealing into full-blooded anger, and it’s as if Beale isn’t just tapping into the cultural zeitgeist, he’s pulling back our collective skin to reveal the monster underneath.
If the rageohol fueling Network feels familiar in 2016 it’s because we live in a country that is angrier and more dysfunctional now than at any point in the last 40-50 years. It’s easy to point to Donald Trump and his adherents as the preeminent symbols of impotent, paranoid outrage, and in many cases this characterization would be correct. But, many leftists are their antagonistic, bullying mirror, the self-loathing middle class fueled by white guilt and neo-Marxist, anti-capitalism fantasies. We now reside in Bipolar America, as if Howard Beale was cleaved in twain, the left AND right mad as hell and they can’t wait to get on Facebook and tell you why they’re not taking it anymore.
Three things to consider:
- As a polemic Network is almost unparalleled in movie history. It’s like A Face In The Crowd and Natural Born Killers snorted an eightball of cocaine, had sloppy sex, and fathered the angriest baby ever.
- It’s frighteningly prescient. Writer Paddy Chayefsky anticipated everything from reality TV to OJ’s Bronco chase to Budd Dwyer’s suicide to TMZ to contemporary mass shootings. It’s a litany of exploitation, manic depression, and fingerpointing cynicism.
- Beyond its sociopolitical content, though, Network isn’t much of a movie. The only character who seems like he’s an actual human being is Bill Holden’s Max Schumacher. There aren’t three-dimensional characters, so much as two-dimensional caricatures waiting to shout stuff at each other. It’s just one diatribe set piece after another. That doesn’t mean it’s without value and there’s no denying its foresight and intelligence, but there’s no humanity and no depth, only vicious satire. It’s like South Park with all the jokes and heart removed.
In that sense, Network totally speaks to 2016. Of course we have issues in society and everyone’s entitled to occasionally be mad as hell. But, anger and disgust are emotions that don’t just degrade the human experience, they’re SELF-degrading. People who are constantly mad as hell are mentally and psychologically unhealthy. Howard Beale was a sick man. Don’t forget this. The problem is, when you have a culture that encourages mental illness, that enables the poison in your human machine, then sick becomes the new healthy. Toxicity becomes the new normal. The one thing the strident right and left wing have in common is a frightening level of binary, bipolar, attack dog thinking. Each side is sure they’re right and the other side isn’t just wrong, they’re shitty people. It’s a Bataan Death March of hysterical Chicken Littles.
Here’s the thing, though. Constantly reveling in anger and disgust doesn’t mean you care more. It’s means you’re a narcissist. If anything, it’s like a drug addiction, except that the addiction is socially acceptable. I challenge everyone who uses social media as a propaganda tool to make an actual, tangible difference on a personal level. Instead of bullying others into voting a certain way, instead of going out of your way to tell us how bad America is, use that time you spend whining on Facebook and Twitter to do one of the following:
- Volunteer to help senior citizens
- Volunteer for domestic violence survivors
- Volunteer at an animal shelter (check local listings)
- Volunteer at a homeless shelter
- Volunteer to be a big brother or big sister
- Volunteer at a children’s hospital (check local listings)
- Volunteer at Habitat For Humanity
Instead of seeing the world in political abstractions, make a human connection. Make a difference in someone’s life. There are a lot of lonely people in this world who can use a friend, who need a little push, a reason to keep living and keep smiling. And don’t just donate money. Donate your time. That’s a lot more challenging because it requires to put yourself out there. Be a three-dimensional human being reaching out to another human being and then tell THAT story on Facebook.
Duke: I know a life of crime has led me to this sorry fate. And yet, I blame society. Society made me what I am.
Otto: That’s bullshit. You’re a white suburban punk just like me.
This is actually a good time to circle back to the Sex Pistols. I think “God Save The Queen” is a great song and Never Mind The Bollocks, Here’s The Sex Pistols is an essential album. The band’s significance is incontestable. But, the reality is I rarely want to listen to them. I’d say this is basically true of Black Flag, The Germs, Minor Threat, Big Black, and a number of other classic punk and post-punk bands as well. Why? Because I’m not a 20-year-old boy filled with ennui-rage anymore. I’m a grown-ass man. Sure, that 20-year-old is still somewhere inside me, but I evolved past that because life required it. These records revel in juvenile anger and disgust and hit that note over and over. Tonally speaking, you get one color: black. While I can find value and a measure of enjoyment in any of this stuff for MAYBE an hour, I quickly grow bored with it. “I get it. You’re angry. So what?”
Now, this “one note” criticism doesn’t apply to other bands from the same era, bands like the Dead Kennedys, X, Descendents, Ramones, Heartbreakers, Bad Brains, Big Boys, The Jam, ’70s Clash (I don’t like ’80s Clash), and it certainly doesn’t apply to sweeping epics like Zen Arcade and Double Nickels On The Dime? Why? Because there’s depth. There’s a sense of history. There’s a range of musical dynamics and nuanced stories of interpersonal relationships. There’s a sense of humor and not just irony. Even the politics isn’t just simple-minded black and white. Beyond the specific chords and lyrics, there’s a profound freedom of expression in this music. It’s not about adherence to fashion and rules and it sets the best example possible. Music, like life, is not about living up to someone else’s arbitrary sense of right and wrong. It’s about you being the most honest and best version of you possible. THAT’S punk fucking rock.
The Minutemen L-R: D Boon, Mike Watt & George Hurley
If ever I would stop thinking about music and politics
I want to end with this. Disposable Heroes Of Hiphoprisy were a short-lived, early ’90s hip-hop group that incorporated elements of jazz with industrial sounds, and Michael Franti’s Gil Scott-Heron-esque lyrical flavor riding on top. Their lone album, Hypocrisy Is The Greatest Luxury, is pretty good, but doesn’t quite capture the frenetic live experience. However, “Music And Politics” is not frenetic in the least. It’s an introspective number that almost reads like an apology. For a songwriter entrenched in leftist politics, I’ve always been impressed by Franti’s honest self-critique here. It was timely in 1992 and it’s timely now, the final day of the ugliest, most mean-spirited election of my lifetime.
Who you vote for — and that you vote — is important. But, it doesn’t completely define you. Issues don’t completely define you. Your actions define you. People who oppose racism and sexism can be belligerent assholes. People who say they’re for law and order cheat on their taxes and their spouses. Just because Trump is a boorish pig doesn’t mean liberals can’t also be boorish pigs. Just because Clinton is a corrupt liar doesn’t mean conservatives can’t also be corrupt liars. Take off the mask. Stop lecturing. Stop being a narcissist. Show heart. Make a human connection.
The choice is yours.
Disposable Heroes Of Hiphoprisy – Music And Politics
1992
Amazon
If ever I would stop thinking about music and politics
I would tell you that sometimes it’s easier to desire
and pursue the attention and admiration of 100 strangers
than it is to accept the love and loyalty
of those closest to me
And I would tell you that sometimes
I prefer to look at myself
through someone else’s eyes
Eyes that aren’t clouded with the tears of knowing
what an asshole I can be, as yours are
If ever I would stop thinking about music and politics
I might be able to listen in silence to your concerns
rather than hearing everything as an accusation
or an indictment against me
I would tell you that sometimes
I use sex to avoid communication
it’s the best escape when we’re down on our luck
But I can express more emotions than laughter, anger, and let’s fuck
If ever I would stop thinking about music and politics
If ever I would stop thinking about music and politics
If ever I would stop thinking about music and politics
If ever I would stop thinking about music and politics
If ever I would stop thinking about music and politics
I would tell you that I pooped in my own dog dish
And sometimes I would rather face not eating
than face licking it clean
And admitting when I’m selfish
And I’d tell you that I’m suffering
from the worst type of loneliness
The loneliness of being misunderstood
or more poignantly
the loneliness of being afraid
to allow myself to be understood
If ever I would stop thinking about music and politics
I would tell you that the personal revolution
is far more difficult
and is the first step in any revolution
If ever I would stop thinking about music and politics
If ever I would stop thinking about music and politics
If ever I would stop thinking about music and politics
If ever I would stop thinking about music and politics
I would tell you that music is the expression of emotion
And that politics is merely the decoy of perception