Book Review: Man on the Run - Paul McCartney in the 1970s by Tom Doyle

By the time the Beatles had officially broken up in April 1970, Paul McCartney was one of the world’s most celebrated musicians, having achieved just about every benchmark in the music business as well as the notoriety that comes with being a cultural icon. With John Lennon he’d forged the most beloved (and lucrative) songwriting partnership in pop music history. With the band as a whole he’d crafted a catalog that was by and large regarded as creatively unrivaled. Such distinctions were ones which McCartney understood all too well when, while confronting the unenviable prospect of following up the Fab Four, he embarked upon the next phase of his musical life.

He was 27-years old.

As author and music journalist Tom Doyle chronicles in Man on the Run: Paul McCartney in the 1970s, McCartney’s next phase ended up being the most turbulent decade of his career. 

Well researched and partly informed by Doyle’s own interviews with his subject, the book adds sharper context to the familiar portrait presented by other such biographies of a preternaturally gifted, boyishly charismatic family man to reveal the McCartney of this era as being often oblivious to (or at least careless of) the ways in which the real world works outside the Beatles bubble. Matters that likely never crossed his mind as a member of the Beatles now as the leader of his next band, Wings, not only became necessary concerns—auditioning and hiring (and firing) musicians, compensating those musicians, replenishing the band’s requisite marijuana supply—but were also his responsibility. If he wasn’t quite longing to reunite with his old mates from Liverpool, McCartney nevertheless seems to have missed the sense of refuge they collectively conferred, from the implicit quality of musicianship in John, George, and Ringo, to producer’s George Martin’s almost paternal guidance, musical wisdom, and studio expertise. 

As far as the music McCartney composed in the ‘70s is concerned, pertinent circumstances of its creation are offered throughout the book. There isn’t too much in the way of session details (examining how songs evolved, critiquing specific takes, etc.), with the emphasis instead focusing on how McCartney maneuvered through the various twists and turns of his life while making that music. Given a subject as well-documented as McCartney, it’s an effective narrative approach. The depicted scene surrounding the recording of 1973’s Band on the Run, in particular, which found McCartney naïvely travelling not only with Wings (and former Moody Blues) mate Denny Laine and engineer Geoff Emerick but also with his own wife and children to Lagos, Nigeria—a scene of rampant crime, poverty, and political corruption—is especially gripping. 

Man on the Run tells of McCartney the human being as much as McCartney the superstar musician, and readers will likewise appreciate its insights and enjoy the story it has to tell.

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The Beatles U.S. Catalog Readied For iTunes Release

Photo © Apple Corps Ltd.

With the 50th anniversary of the Beatles’ maiden American voyage fast approaching, the Fab Four’s music is sure to enjoy an all new retail resurgence—including an exclusive digital release of their thirteen U.S. albums on iTunes. The entire catalog, from 1964’s Meet the Beatles through 1970’s Hey Jude, is currently available for pre-order from the online Apple music outlet. 

Both physical and digital versions of the catalog will be released on January 21.

Photo © Apple Corps Ltd.

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An Interview with Bill Frisell

Once guitarist and composer Bill Frisell began working on an album in tribute to John Lennon, memories and emotions he'd long associated with the late legend’s music, both with The Beatles and as a solo artist, caught up to him. “Thinking about almost fifty years ago hearing some of those things for the first time,” he says, “it ended up being kind of a heavy thing to do.”

In collaborating with a few friends — guitarist Greg Leisz, violinist Jenny Scheinman, drummer Kenny Wollesen, and bassist Tony Scherr — the experience was made all the more poignant. “It really did bring us together in this way I’d never felt before,” Frisell reflects. “It was almost like this healing, warm cloud came over us that the music put there.” 

Throughout such classics as “In My Life,” “Beautiful Boy,” and “Across The Universe,” All We Are Saying..., which will be released on September 27 by Savoy Jazz/429 Records, honors Lennon’s artistry with considerate, inspired performances.

“I didn’t prepare for it,” says Frisell of the effort overall, “but then it was like I’d been preparing for it my whole life.” 

In making the album did you learn anything about John Lennon’s songs that you perhaps weren’t as aware of before?

It reminded me of how deceptively simple they are sometimes. Some of them maybe just have two chords or three chords. If you analyze it in a conservatory kind of way, it’s like, “Well there’s this, and there’s that.” It doesn’t seem that complicated, but then what happens with it is so extraordinary. You listen for five seconds and then the song just latches onto you. You can’t shake it off. And it’s not because of some big corporate, commercial machinery that’s rammed it down our throats. It’s genuinely because of the music, I think. There really is something transcendent about it; it transcends all. So much of it is so personal to him, but it’s also so universal at the same time. We all know what he’s talking about.

An improvisational spirit runs through much of your work in general. On this one in particular, how did you channel that into songs which are already so ingrained in the culture?

I didn’t want to re-harmonize them or deconstruct them. For me they’re just these perfect gems of music. The only thing we had to do was play it. The luxury I had there was that the band I was with, we have such a long history together and a way of playing together. Fifteen years ago I started playing with most of them in one way or another. So there’s just a way of communicating with each other when we play that we don’t really have to figure things out or talk about them. We just start going. It’s improvising, but it’s also sort of—

Instinctive?

Yeah. I mean, nothing on this album was really worked out or figured out beforehand. We just started playing whatever song it was. And there’s kind of a way we have a way of playing... One person will start a melody and another person will finish it. There were no arrangements. We had charts, but the charts were just representations of whatever the original version of the song was. Then we just went for it. For me that’s the most inspiring way of playing anyways. Whatever the music is, I want it to feel like everyone at every moment there’s not one person that’s less important than another.

How do you maintain your enthusiasm for making music, whether you’re interpreting someone else’s music or writing your own? What keeps you curious and what keeps you motivated? 

I guess I take it for granted, but that’s the least of my… It’s more fighting to have the time to stay in the world of music all the time. There’s never any lack of… You never have to worry about what’s coming next. If you’re in the music there’s something always there right in front of you, like, “Wow, look at that,” or, “I want to try this.” That’s what it’s been my whole life. I never have to think of what to do next because it’s like this overwhelming amount of possibilities always right in front of me. So I try to get to as much as I can.

So the well never runs dry?

No. I mean… Music is crazy. You wake up every day and there’s as much in front of you that you haven’t done as there ever has been. You never think it’s the end of it. To me it feels good being in it. I never get tired of it, that’s for sure.

Does the guitar challenge you still?

Oh yeah, totally. Every day, I swear, it doesn’t feel that much different than the very first time I ever picked it up. I mean, I’ve been playing it for 50 years or something. And then today I’ll grab it and it’s like, “Oh my God, how am I gonna play this thing?” It still feels like that. You’re just at the beginning all the time. That’s something I’ve had to get comfortable with. It can be discouraging. It can bum you out, like, “Man, I’m never gonna get it.” But then part of the thing with music is you have to be comfortable with the idea that you’re never gonna get it right. You just have to get as close as you can. Everything I play is just an approximation of what I wish I could really play.

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Anthony DeCurtis On Robert Palmer Book, Music Criticism, Artist Interviews

When music journalist Robert Palmer died on November 20, 1997 at the age of 52, he’d long since cemented his reputation as one of the most astute experts in his field. A fixture at Rolling Stone for over two decades, the first person designated as chief pop-music critic for The New York Times, and an author of six books, Palmer examined and chronicled music with feral acuity while, at the same time, appreciating the best of it with unadulterated joy.

“In a style that blended elegance and hipster enthusiasm, he would travel deeper and deeper into his subject, bringing his readers along with him in the interest of turning them on to something he loved,” Anthony DeCurtis writes of Palmer in the preface to the recently published anthology, Blues & Chaos: The Music Writing of Robert Palmer, which he edited.

DeCurtis, a longtime contributing editor at Rolling Stone and himself the author of two retrospective anthologies—Rocking My Life Away: Writing About Music And Other Matters and In Other Words: Artists Talk About Life And Work—has been a preeminent voice in music criticism and cultural commentary for nearly thirty years. In addition to his written submissions to the magazine, in the '90s DeCurtis served as the editor of Rolling Stone's record-review section, which led him to work directly with Palmer, the experience undoubtedly informing some of his recollections on him now. Presently, DeCurtis teaches in the writing program at the University of Pennsylvania.

In this extensive interview with Donald Gibson, Anthony DeCurtis discusses Blues & Chaos and the late Robert Palmer before generously yielding insight to his own career and craft. Along the way he reflects on music's immeasurable capacity to spark creative minds, the pros and cons of artist interviews, and how one such interview with a certain childhood idol resonates with him today.

How did editing someone else’s work compare to editing your own two anthologies?

You’re kind of willing to make mistakes on your own behalf. The two collections of my own that I did, I had fairly specific ideas for what I wanted them to be like. And once I got some momentum going on pulling it all together, I didn’t really question that too much. With the Palmer book, I found myself thinking a lot about how he would want to be represented…and about whether or not my own vision of what this book should be would match his. Finally, I just decided, this is what it means to be an editor. I was his editor. So it’s going to reflect his voice and who he was as I understood him.

I was interviewing Patti Smith, who knew Palmer and really liked him. I gave her a copy of the book—we had just gotten copies—and I brought one down to the interview and I handed it to her. We were being filmed for PBS and, because it was a film thing, there were endless periods of just sitting around, not really having to work. So we had a chance to discuss it, too. I was telling her some of the anxieties I’d went through about representing him. Patti Smith just held the book up. She just held the book up in her hand in front of me and said, “Look what you did for him. Look what you did for him. He has this now.”

She’s good with symbolism, isn’t she?

Yeah, exactly. [Laughs] And her holding it, it just gave me a certain distance of it. I thought, 'You know, it’s actually turned out pretty well.' Just for a moment like this and for her to say that, it was gratifying.

In working with Palmer at Rolling Stone as his editor in the ‘90s, was there anything about his style at that point that had some effect or informed the way you appreciated rock criticism?

It wasn’t so much that; I just enjoyed reading him. He was certainly a writer that I’d assign things to because I wanted to read that piece. One of the things that probably should be said is how gracious he was. Maybe he was like this with everyone; I don’t know what other people’s experience was. But with me he was very cooperative. If I had a question, he would answer it. Or if I had a suggestion, he would listen to it. There are people who are so difficult.

Like you mention in the book, people with bigger egos than talent.

Exactly. And that really became my measure, in a way. As I sat there with people, I’d be thinking, ‘With Bob Palmer I would’ve been done in five minutes and I’m sitting here arguing with you for half an hour. You couldn’t stand in his shadow.’ So I definitely took a lesson from that, that your confidence actually enabled you to accept ideas and to accept suggestions. The degree of your talent didn’t mean that you then bullied everybody. It meant that you could still be open. And Bob was.

When you say he was open to ideas, was he also open to criticism on a technical scale, if you didn’t like the particular flow of an article or a direction he took?

We were in tune a lot of the time, so it rarely came up. But Bob would occasionally veer off. He had a lot of interests that I would regard as esoteric. So if it’s in the middle of a review of a Megadeth record or something—he would go off on a fairly long stint on some aspect of paganism or something he felt their music represented—I would essentially just get rid of that. I suppose there are places where that stuff plays. It doesn’t play in Rolling Stone. And I think he got that. He’d try things and if they worked, they worked. If they didn’t, they didn’t. In the book, for example, the second Morocco story, which is really wild, called “Into The Mystic”—where he’s essentially having visions and things like this—I think he was pretty struck [that Rolling Stone published it]. He wrote about people saying to him, “You submitted that to Rolling Stone?” That one flew. He got that one by. He would, as all writers do, you attempt certain things. And you think, let’s see how much of this I get. Bob was pretty pragmatic, I suppose, is the bottom line here. He understood what the magazine was and I think he accepted that. He occasionally pushed against the margins of what that could be and sometimes he got away with it and sometimes he didn’t. But he was always cool about it. Let me say this, I never had an argument with him.

So he never held a grudge for, say, you taking away a semi-colon?

Oh, God no. [Laughs] I think he appreciated it. He liked the way his stuff came out. He got it. As wild as Bob was in certain ways, he worked at a daily newspaper for nearly ten years. Anybody in a position like that—writing for Rolling Stone, writing for The New York Times—you’re in a position where you can really have an impact. On the other hand, there are certain things you trade off for that. I think he got that. He liked having an impact. He liked feeling like his stuff was getting read and getting to a big audience of people, not all of whom would know about the things he was writing about. And I think he was willing to do what he needed to do to make that happen.

Do you think rock criticism serves more as encouragement for artists to make better music or as encouragement for listeners to refine their tastes?

It’s more like an interpretation of the entire phenomenon. Like, why does anybody need to understand why they like Britney’s latest single? But I do believe that a good writer can make you hear things in a way that you haven’t heard them before. They can deepen your comprehension of them. And that’s as true for Britney’s latest single as it is the latest Radiohead album. I think that that’s always true. I wouldn’t presume to think that I could lecture artists on what they want to do. I think they’re almost a lot better off when they just kind of do it and don’t worry about it too much… Interviewing someone like David Bowie, for example—who is as interesting as a critic as he is an artist; and he’s very interesting as an artist—he is somebody who is really able to hear music and think about it very critically, or analytically, I suppose. He’s not somebody who’s going to say to you, “Oh, you know, it’s just mystical; it really just comes to me.” He’ll talk about some R&B record from the 1950s that he lifted something from. And so those conversations—if you’re a writer—are the most exciting ones, where they’re doing it, but they’re also speaking your language.

And when Bowie listens analytically, it doesn’t take away his appreciation of the music on a visceral level.

Exactly. He still listens and enjoys stuff. He hears things the way critics hear them. He told me a story one time—I was interviewing him for VH-1 for a series on the ‘70s—he talked about being with Brian Eno, when Eno first heard these Giorgio Moroder productions of Donna Summer. He was imitating Eno’s wild enthusiasm about how fantastic these things sounded. And these are two really smart guys, but they both went on to use all that stuff.

They went nuts over “Love To Love You Baby.”

Yes! [Laughs] I find the ability of music to move across those kinds of thresholds really fantastic. They made that single for purely commercial reasons. It’s designed to get people in a disco up and dancing. Period. But really, really smart, creative people can both thrill to that aspect of it and also get fantastic ideas from it. It’s the great thing about music. I was telling my students the other day [of] the way that something like Kraftwerk, which seemed about the whitest stuff ever done, could totally excite these kids in the South Bronx and really help create hip-hop. It’s the great fun and the great power of a creative act that, once you unleash it in the world, it can go anywhere and it can do anything. Whether that’s in The New York Times or that’s on the biggest label in the world or whether you put it up on YouTube or you’re blogging about it, that’s always true. It can find its audience—and not even whom you think its audience would be. It can find an audience that you never would’ve imagined for it.

And inspire other art.

Absolutely—inspire creativity of all kinds, and fun and excitement and new things. It’s just dizzying thinking about all that.

You’ve written about flying to Dublin to interview U2 or traveling to London to talk with Paul McCartney for an hour. What does being in the room with an artist provide you that a phone call wouldn’t?

I prefer to do interviews in person. I think there’s something you can do in that situation where you’re just looking directly at somebody; they’re just sitting there. They’re right in front of you. There are ways of reading them that can affect your line of questioning. It’s also harder for someone to look you in the eye and avoid what it is that you’re trying to ask them about. A resistant subject, say, is just easier to deal with in person. The phone just gives them too much advantage. It really takes kind of a will of steel to sit there in front of somebody and stonewall them. Not that these interviews are especially contentious; most of them aren’t. Still, there is a kind of resistance and people fall into their wraps, and that’s just harder to do when you’re there in front of somebody. Any case where you’ve traveled to do the piece and that kind of stuff, it’s also harder to really limit the time too much.

He can’t all of a sudden get a call, quote unquote.

Exactly. That said, I feel like people underestimate the possibilities of what the phone can be. For the 40th anniversary issue of Rolling Stone, I interviewed Paul McCartney; I did that interview over the phone. The magazine very reluctantly agreed to do that just because it was so late in the cycle. And McCartney, he wanted to do it; he didn’t want to do it. He was going to do it; he didn’t want to do it… Finally he agreed and there was no way to do it in person so we did it over the phone. I think that interview came out fine. There are things that you can do on the phone and for certain type of people it works. The degree of abstraction can work to your advantage. Like, for example, one of my favorite parts of [that] McCartney interview was [because] it was the 40th anniversary of the Summer of Love… I said, “You were in the Beatles. It’s the Summer of Love. Sgt. Pepper’s just came out. What was that like?” In person he might have been a little glib, but over the phone he just kind of disappeared into that moment. He was quiet for a while. And he just said, “It was fantastic.” And he said it in a way that really conveyed it. And he just started going into it. I don’t know that I could’ve gotten that in person. The immediacy of the situation would’ve blocked his ability to do a little bit of time traveling.

I [also] did an interview with Eddie Vedder one time. We did the second half of it over the phone; he was much better over the phone. In person, he’s a little shy…very friendly and very gracious, even a little deferential. [He] was polite but not particularly informative. Over the phone, he was much better able to access his own feelings. He felt less like he was being interviewed and somehow the phone gave him the ability to disappear into himself a little bit and then to speak from that place. And that’s ultimately what you want, whether you’re in the room with the person or you’re interviewing them on the phone. You want them to be able to access something in themselves so that they’re not speaking from their head; they’re speaking from somewhere inside themselves. And you can make that work, depending on the person in either situation.

We’ve come upon the eighth anniversary of George Harrison’s passing. Did your first interview with him, in particular, have any profound effect on your perception of his music?

The hardest people to interview are the ones who made an impression on you as a kid. It’s difficult. I mean, as much as I admire Bono or Peter Buck [of R.E.M.], I was a grownup by the time I met those people and heard their music; I was kind of formed. I am who I am because of the Beatles. So, meeting [Harrison] was hard. It had a kind of surreality to it. It does to this day… I realized I was going to be in situations where you could just be overwhelmed by the emotions connected with your own experience. Sitting there with him, it was very hard to stay focused and do the work and get the interview done.

What I like about that interview is toward the end where he’s talking about his relationship to John Lennon, about a sense that if you can’t experience the spirit of a great friend who you loved deeply after he’s gone, what hope could you ever have of experiencing Jesus or Buddha or whoever it is that you’re interested in? That’s a kind of simple idea, but it’s really powerful. And it’s one that has stayed with me, that things don’t have to be lost. That moment where he just says—quoting Dylan as he did so often—“‘If your memory serves you well, we’re going to meet again.’ I believe that.” The degree of conviction and the degree to which those things were true to him became much more powerful for me, obviously, after he died. But their importance made an impression on me at the time and has for all these years since.


Blues & Chaos: The Music Writing of Robert Palmer edited by Anthony DeCurtis is published by Scribner, A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

In Other Words: Artists Talk About Life And Work by Anthony DeCurtis is published by Hal Leonard Corporation.

Rocking My Life Away: Writing About Music And Other Matters by Anthony DeCurtis is published by Duke University Press.

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Rock Critic Robert Hilburn Talks of Memoir and Music That Matters

In his new memoir, Cornflakes With John Lennon: And Other Tales From A Rock ‘N’ Roll Life, esteemed music journalist Robert Hilburn draws on some of the seminal events and encounters from throughout his career, delivering a narrative rich with insight and off-the-record observations.

As the pop-music critic and editor for the Los Angeles Times from 1970-2005, Hilburn approached his subjects—whether emerging bands with new albums or established artists during in-depth interviews—with patience and persistence, assessing their faults while encouraging them to live up to the promise of their talent.

Since leaving the L.A. Times, Hilburn has concentrated on writing books, Cornflakes With John Lennon being the first installment of that endeavor. He is also a member of the nominating committee for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

In the following conversation, Hilburn discusses the craft of music criticism, expounding on the merits of a great album, the measure of creative conviction, and what distinguishes the best artists from everybody else on the radio.

As a music critic, how do you discern what’s good apart from your own preferences and tastes?

When I was young, I loved movies and music. But I thought, Look, I can’t be a film critic because I don’t know enough about the history of film. I don’t know German film and all that kind of stuff. But I said, “I know rock ‘n’ roll.” I was there when Elvis and Jerry Lee and Chuck Berry all came up. I was buying records. I could tell which artists [were] going to be important and last and which ones weren’t. I just had a confidence that I knew what rock ‘n’ roll was. It’s like if you taste a piece of something, you can tell it’s sugar; you can identify it. You know the essence of it; you feel the essence of it. So I felt I could apply that to rock ‘n’ roll, in a sense. What I was looking for was an artist who excited me as much as Elvis did or Chuck Berry did or Jerry Lee Lewis did. Who could rise to that level? Who could make an original statement as opposed to just making music that was here today and gone tomorrow?

When I would get a record, [I would think], How does it sound? Is it appealing? Is it interesting? Does it sound like something you’d like to listen to? That has to be the first criteria. It’s got to be appealing. The second thing I would think of is the vocal. How convincing is the vocal? Does it sound like this really matters to this person? Is it catchy or is it interesting? Or is it just kind of wimpy? And the third thing is what is the record saying? What are they trying to do on the record? What’s the point of view of the record? How original is it? How creative is it? Does it bend the rules? Does is it tell you more about yourself or about society? So I was looking for something that sounded good, that seemed convincing to me, and really did kind of step away from the herd of pop music. Of the, say, 5,000 people who’ve made hits, if you take 20 of those people away, rock ‘n’ roll would’ve collapsed as an art form. Because everybody else feeds off the energy of the really great artists. Think if you took away the Beatles and Bob Dylan, for starters. Look at the hole that would’ve left.

If you took Dylan away, the Beatles wouldn’t have been the same.

And Dylan wouldn’t have been the same without the Beatles. Dylan could’ve stayed in folk music, but he saw his generation was adapting rock ‘n’ roll as its chosen voice. So he moved over to that, because of the Beatles probably. And then Lennon heard Dylan. My Lord, that made him a much better songwriter. But if you take two of those guys away, and take, say, Pete Townshend away, take Lou Reed away, take Springsteen away, take Bob Marley away, take Joni Mitchell away, that’s where the real art came from. They’re the ones who are the trailblazers and that was what I was always looking for—that kind of person.

I know you’re a fan of Tom Waits. Why do you think other artists have been inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and he hasn’t even been nominated?

I don’t know. There were certain people they just overlooked. I remember one year, I went to the nominating committee meeting, and they were going to pass over David Bowie and not put him on the ballot, not put Joni Mitchell on the ballot, not put Bob Marley on the ballot. And those seem like musts. The people who are on my list [are] Gram Parsons, Tom Waits, and Randy Newman. Those are three artists I think are just superior artists and belong in there. I have no idea why there’s a reluctance on Tom Waits. They put in artists that don’t sell a huge amount of records; you don’t have to sell a lot of records to get nominated. I don’t know why Tom isn’t because he’s an extraordinary artist… It’s a strange thing with Tom. One thing about him is he’s got this obsession to be remembered, to be different, to stand out. He told me a story that one time when he was a kid he went to a used-record store and went through the 99-cent bin. All of these records that were made by these people, they were all forgettable. [He said], “I never want to be another name in that forgettable list.” I think sometimes he even went out of his way to be different. I think he’s a beautiful songwriter just when he does conventional songs like “Ol' ‘55” and that stuff for One From The Heart, those kinds of songs. But I think he thinks maybe that they’re too easy and he wants to be a little more complex. Sometimes I thought he got a little too far out. But I loved The Heart of Saturday Night, from that period, and I loved Mule Variations. I just think he’s an “A” artist. I can’t explain why he’s not in.

I think there’s a part of him that’s reluctant to reveal himself in his songs.

One time, I did this interview with him, maybe ten years ago, where I went up to near where he lives in Northern California. We met at this restaurant—like a roadside tavern—and he brought in three or four books with him. He brought in a phone book; he brought in a book on how to cook potatoes; and something else. And he started reading though that. It’s just his way of being an interesting character so you can’t get through to him. I said, “Look, Tom, you can just keep doing that or you can really try to honestly answer questions. Because think of people who love your music and who are influenced by your music; they really care about you and want to know a little bit about you. Wouldn’t you like to know about people you care about? Hoagy Carmichael or some[one]?” And he got really resentful, like I was really trying to push down his wall and he didn’t like that. He kind of eased up a little bit and started talking more personally, but it’s still very difficult for him to do that. I don’t know if he just doesn’t want anybody to know about it or he likes the idea of the disguise. 

In the book, you really underscored how creatively insecure a lot of the major artists are—Bono, Dylan, Cobain, Springsteen. Even in their strongest artistic statements, they’ve had insecurities.

Bruce [Springsteen] puts it really well: If you want to keep being a songwriter, you’ve got to keep digging layers off yourself, so you get deeper and deeper into yourself. That's why John Lennon, with that album, Plastic Ono Band, he couldn’t get any deeper than that. And when you do that—when you lay yourself naked—you’re vulnerable. And [so] if somebody says, “Oh that’s a terrible album,” or, “That’s a stupid thing you’re thinking,” that’s just not talking about your work; it’s talking about your own essence in a way. A lot of times, it’s a void in somebody that pushes them to be an artist. It gives them sensitivity. It makes them want to articulate their fears and desires. It’s a way of compensating for things they lack.

How do you answer the age-old criticism that you get—usually when you give a negative review—that because you don’t know how to write or perform music, you’re not capable of assessing what a musician does?

The fact that you’re not a musician? I found often, when I would take musicians with me to a show, they would get too caught up in the technical aspect of it. How is the guitar player? Is it in tune? Is it a difficult song he’s playing? And I didn’t care if it was in tune or if it was difficult or anything. All I cared [about] was the sound, what came across to me. What was the emotion? What was the feeling you got out of this record? I didn’t care about the construction of it. I didn’t care if the Rolling Stones were great musicians or bad musicians; I just knew “Satisfaction” and “Honky Tonk Women” were great records.

On a visceral level.

Yeah. My thing is totally emotional and, to a degree, intellectual in the sense that I’m thinking about what they’re saying. But mainly it’s emotional. Do you feel this? Does this feel real to you? Is this something you haven’t heard before? Is this band going to new territory? Is the Velvet Underground doing something that the J. Geils Band doesn’t do? Well, yes they are. Is U2 doing something that the Teardrop Explodes isn’t doing? Yes they are. You have to get a sense of rock history, what things are really speaking to your heart and to a truth and adding to the vocabulary of rock ‘n’ roll as opposed to just streaming along and making nice, pleasant, enjoyable records, but not really affecting things. You could take away the whole career of Billy Joel and it wouldn’t affect rock ‘n’ roll at all. You could take [away] hundreds of artists like that—REO Speedwagon, Kansas, Deep Purple—it wouldn’t affect the history of rock ‘n’ roll in terms of this art form.

In the book you say you learned from experience that you should concentrate on looking for great, new artists regardless of their commercial potential. For aspiring music critics, though, if you’re consistently writing on good, promising artists no one’s heard of, isn’t that career suicide on some level?

My deal with myself all the time at the L.A. Times [was] I said, “Look, I want to personally make sure I find—in each generation as well as I can—the most important artists and write about them.” Some of those artists are going to be successful commercially and readers are going to care about them; some others aren’t and readers are not going to care about them. As long as I’m doing that, I want to also go out and review anybody that becomes popular… I didn’t want to say to the public, “I don’t care who you think about.” So I would make sure I always reviewed the popular act[s] of the day too, but I would just give them a negative review. But I would at least acknowledge that so at least a person could say they saw it in the paper and I just didn’t ignore it… I didn’t want it to be an esoteric kind of thing. Even though I was doing a negative review, there’d still be a big picture and it’d be a big story and so forth; it was acknowledging it at least.

How do you interview emerging artists who have talent and promise, but aren’t very good at expressing that in conversation? How do you draw them out?

That’s interesting. Most of the time, if there’s something about an artist’s music that interests you, when you start talking to that artist they can articulate something about it. If you just keep asking questions over and over again. Partially it’s the interviewer’s responsibility to make that artist feel comfortable and draw it out of them… Like, Bruce didn’t want to talk about his music in the beginning, so I would keep trying to make him feel comfortable and explain to him why it was good to talk about the music. Often if you ask the right questions and make them feel comfortable, they’ll respond.

How do you see the role of the critic insofar as encouraging promising artists to pursue their craft?

That’s the whole thing. You encourage them in your review. You say this is a promising artist. Like U2, when you first saw U2, I don’t know that they were great musicians. I’m not sure they were great songwriters; they weren’t great songwriters. But there was something about them; there was an attitude. The instrumental construction of the music had this power. Bono had this power. You just felt this group cared about it. That’s one of the things: Is this group just wanting to be successful or does the group care about making good music? You get the sense of U2 that they cared about it and you wanted to follow them. It took me a few years to realize this, but whenever you go see a new band or listen to a debut album, you’re not just listening to that album and seeing that night’s show. You’re trying to think, Well what about a tour from now and an album from now? Where can they take what they’re doing? Have they got any place to go? To make an example, the Strokes came in and were very successful very quickly with that Velvet Underground sound. And the White Stripes came along at the exact same moment. When I listened to the Strokes, there was nothing. I could see through the whole thing; it was like I could see how the puppet strings worked.

At the time?

At the time, yeah. I could see what they did. I could see how they got these influences together and made this catchy sound, but there was nothing behind it. And I didn’t see where they were ever going to be able to go. But I walked into the Troubadour and I saw Jack White on stage. And I said, “Now this guy is going to go someplace.” This is an interesting artist. You could hit him with a two-by-four and he’s not going to be compromised by the record business. He wants to make great records, not just have a hit record. In that moment, see, I was excited by the White Stripes because I could see them going somewhere. I was not excited by the Strokes because I couldn’t see them going anywhere.

After all these years, is it harder for music to fascinate you?

Yeah, it is. I think it’s very difficult for a person starting out. Think of all the stuff that’s been written. Look at the ‘60s when the Beatles and the Who and the Stones started off, they almost had virgin territory; they could do anything. As each group comes along, that’s been done before. So you have to take a variation of it; you have to find a new way of saying things. But the biggest thing for me as a critic was—when I first started reviewing—if I’d go into a club and I heard one good song from an artist or a band, I would think, Well that’s interesting, and write about that. As time went on, I realized that there [were] lots of people who have one good song. So it would take more from a band to get me interested than just the one or two good songs. I had to have five or six or an album or a sense that they were going somewhere. The number of times a year I was excited about something was fewer, but when those things came along and measured up to that level, I’d get just as excited as I was before.


Cornflakes With John Lennon: And Other Tales From A Rock ‘N’ Roll Life, published by Rodale Books, is currently available at booksellers retail and online. Visit Robert Hilburn's official website for more information.

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Classic Albums: John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band

John Lennon sure knew how make a statement. The Beatles had—mere months prior—officially and acrimoniously disbanded as the public held his wife, Yoko Ono, most responsible for their fate. His vociferous political views and social activism garnered as much derision as they did praise. And as his public image suffered, so too did his psyche. In late 1970, during a time of intense self-discovery, Lennon exorcised his pent-up anguish, rage, and frustration on his first proper solo LP, John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band.

The album’s predominant theme and, moreover, its message, lay in one cryptic line: “The dream is over.”

Existential and unnervingly introspective, John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band reflected a harrowing catharsis for Lennon both as a musician as well as a man. The context and creation of this landmark recording is deftly examined and discussed on the latest installment of Eagle Rock Entertainment’s video series, Classic Albums.

Discerning commentary from Yoko Ono as well as by the album’s principal musicians, drummer Ringo Starr and bassist Klaus Voormann, complements archival footage of Lennon discussing the work. Especially perceptive and pertinent insight also comes from therapist Dr. Arthur Janov and Rolling Stone editor-in-chief Jann Wenner, both men who then served—in different yet significant roles—as agents for Lennon’s expression.

As told in the film, Lennon was confronting some deep-seated emotional demons and struggling through an identity crisis after (though not entirely due to) the breakup of the Beatles. He explored primal therapy, a psychoanalysis treatment proffered by Dr. Janov, in which one revisits early traumas in order to better appreciate and cope with one’s present existence. Janov recollects, with modesty and compassion, how Lennon subscribed to his method and how it influenced his music. Gripping songs like “Mother” and “God”—the latter opening with the bold conviction, “God is a concept by which we measure our pain”—not only reflected Lennon’s involvement in primal therapy, but also the depth of his despair and of his struggles to understand it.

Also, Jann Wenner offers an indicative viewpoint, shrewdly depicting Lennon’s state of mind (as he interpreted it) during this period. His infamous 1970 interview with Lennon not only shocked readers for its frankness, but also for how it dispelled the idealism that the Beatles espoused. Based on that encounter as well as on their social (and often adversarial) relationship, Wenner reflects on how Lennon was beginning to realize his purpose and potential as a solo artist. In assessing the album in question, Wenner says, “The power, the strength, when an artist of that quality, and that imagination, that creativity, reaches such truths about himself, [it’s] overwhelming.”

For all of the turmoil that inspired its creation, John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band does not—then and now—invite casual listening. In fact, it provokes an emotional response, if not a visceral jolt. In retrospect, perhaps the notion of an introspective album (and certainly one by John Lennon) doesn’t seem unusual, but in 1970, this one set a precedent. Classic Albums does a fine job in explaining why such was the case.

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DVD Review: Composing The Beatles Songbook: Lennon and McCartney 1957-1965

Given that no other popular music group has garnered as much critical and creative analysis as The Beatles, any new book or film release claiming to add substantive perspective to what’s already been documented should be regarded with relative skepticism. Or, at the minimum, a keen sense of discerning the validity in the presented material. In one of the latest critiques, a DVD entitled Composing The Beatles Songbook: Lennon and McCartney 1957 – 1965, the twentieth century’s most successful songwriting partnership is discussed and examined.

Much like the Under Review series of music documentaries, this film features commentary by journalists (including Anthony DeCurtis, Nigel Williamson, and Robert Christgau) and friends or associates of the subjects (including Barry Miles and Klaus Voorman). As well, archival clips of The Beatles complement the observations, but this is an unauthorized film so the footage is negligible. And though the title suggests that the content addresses matters as far back as 1957, the film only provides cursory (and otherwise well-known) information about the band’s formation, concentrating mostly on the period spanning With The Beatles and Rubber Soul.

In essence, the film summarizes the two principle songwriters’ working dynamic and how the partnership theoretically progressed from Lennon/McCartney to Lennon versus McCartney. The boldest contention made is that, in the band’s early years, the collaborators’ prime objective was to write “Beatles-sounding” music, not necessarily “John” or “Paul” songs. The panelists accordingly agree that on tracks like “Please Please Me” and “She Loves You,” Lennon and McCartney’s voices sound virtually synonymous. That logic only sustains so far, though, if one considers Lennon’s vocal on “This Boy” or McCartney’s singing on “I Saw Her Standing There,” both tracks from the band’s earliest era.

If you know your Beatles history (as only those with serious knowledge of the band will have the fortitude to watch this film), you’ll likely feel compelled to argue with some of the commentators. It’s not because they’re factually wrong or radically off base in their assessments; it’s simply because their opinions can often be refuted or discounted. For instance, hearing Robert Christgau explain why he prefers the Lennon-penned “Hard Days Night” to the McCartney-penned “Can’t Buy Me Love” doesn’t make me like the latter any less.

Overall, Composing The Beatles Songbook: Lennon and McCartney 1957 – 1965 gives Beatles fans a critical synopsis of information and stories that they probably already know some version of by heart. The film doesn’t offer much in the way of original or enlightening information, but those with sufficient knowledge of the band’s history will find it at least somewhat interesting.

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Book Review: The Rolling Stone Interviews

Rolling Stone may not represent the voice of the counterculture like it once did, but the publication has invariably wielded privileged access to rock and roll’s elite as well as to other important celebrities and social figures. Coinciding with the fortieth anniversary of the magazine, this new compendium correspondingly presents forty of its most notable and indicative discussions in The Rolling Stone Interviews.

Many of these interviews catch subjects at pivotal points in their careers and lives, often knowingly, sometimes quite the opposite. Two of the most prominent examples come courtesy of John Lennon and Kurt Cobain, respectively. A thorough conversation with Jann Wenner in 1970 shows Lennon unleashing a contemptuous and myth-shattering depiction of life as a Beatle and the band’s recent dissolution. The text contained here comprises but a portion of the expanded transcript ultimately released as the book, Lennon Remembers, yet it succinctly conveys Lennon’s embittered state of mind at that time. In contrast, an interview conducted in early 1994 by David Fricke illustrates Cobain offering ominous and unsettling remarks when one considers his suicide a mere three months later. He speaks of his disillusionment with Nirvana’s artistic direction and mass commercial appeal as well as his frustration in coping with his tentative physical health. Both instances portray creative icons at a crossroads, albeit to divergent extents.

While not as emotionally gripping, other interviews still yield moments of telling insight and perspective. In a 1973 conversation with Ben Fong-Torres, Ray Charles explains how his varied taste in music, from classical artists like Sibelius and Chopin to country artists like Roy Acuff and Hank Snow, influenced his inimitable approach to music. In a 1992 chat with James Henke, Bruce Springsteen opens up about why he felt compelled to move from New Jersey to Los Angeles and what that symbolized for him, not only as the local hero of the Garden State, but also as a newly married man with young children. In a 2002 discussion with David Fricke, Keith Richards lets it bleed (figuratively speaking), candidly answering a myriad of questions about his infamous drug use, his much-debated mortality, and his enduring friendship with Mick Jagger. In distinguishing the Glimmer Twins’ paradoxical natures, Richards says, “[Mick] can’t go to sleep without writing out what he’s going to do when he wakes up. I just hope to wake up.”

Without a doubt, the leeway allowed to the subjects makes these interviews, and cumulatively, this book, a particularly engaging read. Even when the questions aren’t all that probing or inventive, they often yield intriguing responses. Case in point, in a 1968 interview with Jann Wenner, Pete Townshend fields a flippant question about him writing songs in his basement by launching into a description of an as-yet-completed “rock opera” about a deaf, dumb, and blind boy. With the proficiency of a politician, Townshend manhandles the moment to explain his scrupulous labor in creating Tommy, from its major and minor themes to a meticulous character analysis. One can almost picture Wenner with his mouth agape, wondering how his intended softball topic swerved radically off track.

The Rolling Stone Interviews offer comparably enlightening snapshots of various other luminaries as well at specific and, frequently, career or life-defining points in time. The responses by each subject seem genuine for the most part, but, moreover, they impart opinions and personalities straight from the source. And the sources in this book are significant.

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Lucky On The Side: The Very Best of Mick Jagger

For a few years in the mid-eighties, it almost seemed like Mick Jagger’s primary objective in releasing solo albums was to tick Keith Richards off.

Once the Glimmer Twins reconciled and the Stones got rolling again with Steel Wheels in 1989, though, Jagger’s subsequent solo ventures assumed their own distinctiveness and purpose. What’s more, they ceased to threaten a permanent derailment of the World’s Greatest Rock & Roll Band.

Newly released by Rhino Records, seventeen tracks, three of which had remained in the vaults until now, comprise The Very Best of Mick Jagger.

Skeptics will instinctively dismiss or diminish much of the music on this retrospective by drawing lopsided comparisons to the Rolling Stones’ superlative catalog. Yet, if listeners will consider this compilation for what it represents (rather than what it doesn’t), they’ll encounter, for the most part, some fine songs.

Out of Jagger’s four proper solo albums, 1992’s Wandering Spirit stands as the definitive high point, appropriately yielding the most tracks on this collection. Cuts like the radio singles, “Don’t Tear Me Up” and “Sweet Thing,” radiate with insatiable swagger and irreverence. As well, the understated country lament, “Evening Gown,” illustrates Jagger’s versatility in delivering a stirring vocal performance.

Some of the tracks stemming from Jagger’s other solo efforts offer sufficient, albeit sporadic, moments worth praising. A rousing duet with Bono, “Joy,” soars with a gospel optimism and energy that the U2 frontman imparts as if it’s second nature. “God Gave Me Everything,” co-written with Lenny Kravitz, forges through a guitar bombardment while Jagger growls each lyric like a man possessed. And dated though it sounds with its drum machines, “Just Another Night” brandishes a boyish spunk that remains hard to resist.

Alas, certain songs have not held up as well over time (if they ever did to begin with). For instance, “Lucky In Love” drowns in a flood of ‘80s music clichés, with far too many synthesized instruments and not nearly enough authenticity. And, worst of all, “Let’s Work,” sounds like a caffeinated Jagger instructing an (all-female) aerobics class.

Sounding anomalous yet utterly striking among this collection’s more lustrous material are two tracks dating back to 1968 and 1973, respectively. Jagger’s very first solo recording, “Memo From Turner,” originally tapped for the film, Performance, finds the rocker in his inimitable salacious form. Likewise, on the previously unreleased nugget, “Too Many Cooks (Spoil The Soup)”, which John Lennon produced, Jagger sounds downright raw and malicious.

Ironically (and perhaps much to Keith Richards’ chagrin), Jagger’s most successful solo efforts, to be precise, have consisted of collaborations. “Old Habits Die Hard,” the theme from the 2004 remake of the film, Alfie, saw Jagger writing with Dave Stewart of the Eurythmics. Their composition ultimately won a Golden Globe award. Contrasting with such critical acclaim, “Dancing In The Streets,” the 1985 duet with David Bowie, ranks as the most successful song of Jagger's solo career.

The Very Best of Mick Jagger certainly isn’t the best music Mick Jagger has ever made. However, some of the better music Mick Jagger has made without the Rolling Stones, much of it included here, still makes for a great listen. So, have a bit of sympathy for the old devil and give this album a chance.

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Album Review: Ringo Starr - Photograph: The Very Best of Ringo Starr

Since The Beatles disbanded, Ringo Starr has sustained a respectable solo career, one that’s allowed the iconic drummer to call the shots and make music by his own accord. Much of the finest music he’s made comes together on the newly released retrospective, Photograph: The Very Best of Ringo Starr.

This solid compilation features twenty tracks, many of them bona fide hits, most of them instantly familiar. What this disc underscores, besides the songs themselves, is the quality of musicians that Starr worked with in making them, from his three former bandmates to the likes of Elton John, Billy Preston, and Eric Clapton.

Of all the artists that contributed to this music, none resonate as often or as profound as George Harrison. “Photograph” and “It Don’t Come Easy” rank as two of Starr’s most recognizable recordings, not least because of Harrison’s involvement in their creation, having co-written and produced the former while producing the latter. He also contributed the loose and bouncy track, “Wrack My Brain,” and produced the weird and wonderful smash, “Back Off Boogaloo”. Starr wrote the poignant song, “Never Without You,” which features Eric Clapton on guitar, in tribute to his departed friend.

During his “Lost Weekend,” John Lennon offered Starr two songs, “Goodnight Vienna” and the tongue-in-cheek humor of “I’m The Greatest,” which illustrates that Lennon was, perhaps, not quite as “lost” during this time as he’d claimed.

While Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr have collaborated on various projects ranging from McCartney’s Tug of War and Flaming Pie to Starr’s Vertical Man, his only appearance on this compilation comes on “You’re Sixteen (You’re Beautiful and You’re Mine)”.

Other highlights of this disc include the rollicking groove of “Oh, My My,” featuring Billy Preston on piano, and “Snookeroo,” an Elton John/Bernie Taupin composition on which the Rocket Man participated in recording.

Given his stature, it’s not surprising that Ringo Starr recruited such renowned artists with whom to make music. What’s impressive, though, is how well these songs have held up, and, moreover, how much fun it is to listen to them now.

In the liner notes, Starr offers commentary on what he remembers most about each track. While nothing jumps out as exclusive news or insight, what does come through is his lasting enjoyment of the music he’s created and covered, often with a little help from his friends.

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