* - Previously recorded. Check out the dramatic irony re: James Frey.
I finished this a couple of weeks ago when we were up in Rochester and neglected to write about it, and after reading A Million Little Pieces, of all books, I was inspired to write a little review or at least share some thoughts.
The background story is that the punk most people are familiar with (Sid Viscious, Johnny Rotten, nancy, the Clash, baby pins in ears and noses, mohawks, ridiculous piercings and chain-garb) came from the English reinvention of punk that was mass marketed by the manager of the Sex Pistols. He turned the "movement" into a fashion statement and something of an anarchic mess and definitely caused people to associate the term "punk" with something that had little to do with the actual music, more about these crazy spitting fighting nutso guys who did everything they could to be ridiculously offensive. A lot of what people associate with punk came from the 6 o'clock news and not necessarily the actual concerts - this is not to say that the punk rockers weren't a bunch of drug-abusing morons (they were), but it is to say that at one point it wasn't so much about the fashion show.
A side note - there's a Simpsons ep (yep, Nate = Simpsons, you all have successfully pigeon-holed me, or rather I have done so myself) where Bart says that selling depression to kids is like shooting fish in a barrel, a sarcastic comment directed towards the oft-mopey grunge music that was popular in the early 90's. I think that selling anti-authoritarian sentiment to kids is even easier than shooting fish in a barrel, which is why the Sex Pistols producer jumped on this idea so readily. Of course, nowadays the kinds swallow their Britney and Backstreet like Ovaltine, so what do I know.
Anyhoo, punk music has its roots in the do-it-yourself aesthetic of the Garage bands from the sixties and on in to Andy Warhol's velvet underground to the CBGB and Max's Kansas City New York scenes. It started in the late '60s, really, not the mid to late '70s, and involved bands like Iggy & the Stooges, MC5, Television, Patti Smith, etc. These people were not about the surface level fashion statements and spitting on people to seem cool etc. - they seemed to be much more about the art itself, and living life at a breakneck speed.
That's what struck me most about this book - that these weren't necessarily people with anywhere near the social oppression that created the emotion behind reggae music, these were people who hated the falsehood of the baby boomer corporate culture and rather than throwing their arms in the air were doing everything they could to express their futile frustration.
Okay, that's painting it very nicely - a lot of them did it because they loved drugs a lot, and this book is full of anecdotes of both the positive (people creating great music and poetry under the influence) and the inevitable negative (i can't tell you how many people died in this book from drug-related OD's or crimes, it's absolutely ridiculous). But I think there really was a cohesive aesthetic, this idea that you didn't have to be classically trained, you could pick up a guitar or recite some poetry or just dance like a maniac to this outrageously loud, simple (but again, like reggae, the blues, simple = powerful) music. You don't have to be professional or in any kind of in-club, you could just participate. The DIY aesthetic was really huge for them, and led to imho some very bare bones, naked human emotion performances that may not always be pretty or what you ideally want to hear but are certainly artful.
So back to the book itself - it's an oral history, completely full of anecdotes and famous incidents as seen and remembered from different points of view. As train-wreck voyeurism, it's incredible, because on some level these people are such complete idiots that they came away with some unbelievable stories. On another level its very touching, because you hear things even from the groupies and roadies point of view, and those pre-set notions you have of what a groupie must be like are nowhere near true. And on the creative side - it's just great, you see their styles, their inspirations, how fame inevitably destroys their original vision, and how the "scene" got run over by its big nasty English brother.
SO in sum, I don't think this book is necessarily for everyone; it is full to the brim of classically offensive material, and i won't even go into how disturbing some of the accounts of drug use and deaths are. But from a raw, artistic perspective - it's a very awesome book, and even borderline inspiring, though don't worry, I have not started biting audience members and hanging out with Keith Richards just yet.
So what I wanted to point out is that the past two books I have read involve people who go through hell in one form or another, and with a whole lot of drug abuse along for the ride. It makes me wonder that if truly great art necessitates this kind of kiln-like experience, like you have to walk the razor's edge and risk cutting yourself in half in order to come out with something sharp. James Frey obviously had to do a lot of terrible stuff that almost killed him and other people several times in order to come out "at the other end" with that great memoir and story. And all these punk artists, not just the nihilistic morons but anyone trying to bear their soul, they all had to have these terrible and/or at least potentially dangerous experiences that go hand in hand with the vivacity and reckless nature of their great art.
I mean, I'm definitely not forgiving drug abuse as the great muse. I'm just saying that it seems that for an authentic work of admirable brilliance, there almost always seems to be some kind of tag-along tragedy or personal struggle that has to be there to validate the work of art's meaning and authenticity. Meaning that those punk guys have to be absolute lunatics in order for their art to be appreciated as a representation of the limits of human lunacy and angst/anger/frustration with The Man; otherwise, they are posers - just check out the critical backlash at any modern punk-rocker who adopts a face British accent to emulate the Clash or claims he came from the rough streets when he really came from the Burbs. And likewise, if James Frey's book is not a "real life/ true story" experience of pain and potential disaster, then its just another fiction novel about addiction, and no one cares, or if they do care they certainly don't make it Oprah's book and none of probably ever would have seen it. I mean, Jackson Pollack was alcoholic, Snoop Dogg was a drug dealer, Andy Kaufman was nuts. Walking that razor line seems to be a job requirement.
Getting back to Frey, it makes me wonder if he was just a result of percentages - in essence, hundreds and thousands of addicts had to have that experience so that he could be the rare exception that lives through it with his unique method of rehabilitation so that he could write this novel. It just (and lots of art, honestly) seems like not a high enough pay-off for the necessary suffering that lies in its wake.
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