The Great Pretenders
The Great Pretenders
Authenticity is a much desired commodity, especially among artists, even more so among musicians. Since at least the 1960s, authenticity has been the difference between the pretenders and the Okie folk singers from the dust bowl, or the gun toting, homicidal blues men with jaundiced eyes, moaning about whores, singing “Big Boss-man, you ain’t so big, you just tall, that's all.”--probably dating to the time of the commie folk revivals of the 1950’s, maybe even the 1930’s, but certainly happening by the '60s. All of which compelled the white, college-educated ivy leaguers to sit down at their typewriters, one ear glued to the radio, the other to obscure records that were too cool for the average person, who was to be loathed for being so provincial. Along with it all came the outsider’s perspective, which was likely to be the product of some kid who was pretty smart and knew it, but not so smart that he/she/? could take it for granted.
Their first love was Peter, Paul and Mary and the Kingston Trio whose pop infused brand of folk music created a whole sub-culture. There were other folk acts as well singing “Sea Shanty Songs” with fake Irish accents and much enthusiasm for the sailor’s life, eager to run away on a whaling ship until they found out about sharks.
Eventually they discovered other, harder forms of expression, that were perfect for imposing their personal ideology, which had been carefully developed after reading a portion of a chapter of "The Autobiography of Malcolm X" or some other such radical tome filled with wisdom born of minority alienation. The fact that most were part of the overwhelming majority didn't matter. It was the inner man or woman that was alienated, not the outer one. Once a culture is wealthy enough to have the outer man comfortably taken care of, the inner man always becomes the point of self obsession. They even knew what a carpetbagger was from high school history class and having watched "Gone With the Wind" with their parents, but never saw themselves for the cultural carpetbaggers they were. This wasn't really a problem, however, because the downtrodden were too ignorant to know better. The downtrodden clearly needed someone to give them a voice to be heard—and who better to be the puppeteer than a bunch of barely post-pubescent kids from the great country of New York City, home to some of the best Hokum, slack-jawed, white bluesmen in the business. It was heaven on earth for a generation of self aware enablers with a bit of time on their hands--they could ask for nothing more.
Just watch the former Robert Zimmerman aka "Bob Dylan" early in his career singing a song about the assassination of civil rights leader Medgar Evers for a group of black sharecroppers, who look on in dazed astonishment. They have the same facial expression that certain marsupials have when confronted by an oncoming car in the wee small hours of the morning. But, Bob seems oblivious, as he apparently has important things on his mind and is eager to share them with the oppressed. It just goes to show you that you should never allow yourself to be filmed, photographed or recorded until you've gathered a bit of wisdom. Even the great Hank Williams appears to have started his career as a significant vulgarian, watching cowboy movies, wearing a big Stetson hat and carrying a six shooter like his idols from the Saturday afternoon matinees at the Bijou Theater. With time, both Bobby and Hank would become all-time greats, which should in no way give hope to lesser people. For, if there were no insignificant people, there would be no people of significance. I think you can see the problem.
Elvis was authentic because he was a poor truck driver with a weird name--and his daddy had done prison time for kiting checks around Memphis, which is in the Deep South, and home to numerous ignorant folk. Jerry Lee Lewis was authentic because he married his thirteen-year-old cousin, and it doesn't get more authentic than that. What more could you want than a bunch of white trash, interbreeding, truck driving hillbillies locked in a battle for their souls between God and the devil, singing “Take my Hand Precious Lord,”--only played with the devil's rhythm—Hell was but a breath away!
The college kids, however, were enthralled with the authenticity of it all. The connections between Robert Johnson’s “Hell Hound” and Elvis’s “Hound Dog” may have been tenuous, but they were still clearly visible. The connection between Jerry Lee and the Carter Family was, likewise, evident. Authenticity was everywhere! Things were good!
So, they formed bands like the “Grateful Dead,” jamming on an open E chord, sometimes for weeks, a rock & roll variation of the dance marathons of the 1930’s held during the “Great Depression” (Not to be mistaken for the many lesser Depressions). But “The Dead” were never authentic, not really. They were a bunch of hippies, and hippies can’t be authentic. They were only allowed to worship authenticity, to be the instinctive arbiters between self awareness and parody.
Folk music was "in" and electric instruments were "out" because electricity was inauthentic. It was a back-to-nature movement, like the "French Revolution, only with fewer guns and no guillotine. And, like the children of Rousseau, the movement was made up of would-be poets and artists--a cultural revolution with cool haircuts and a pure ideology.
Aficionados sat and listened while the music's reigning folk diva, Joan Baez would sing songs with a mellifluous, jack-hammer like voice and fingerpick an expensive pre-war Martin guitar. She got major authenticity points for marching with Martin Luther King, but then would sneak away to "Bergdorf Goodman" where she would remove her disguise as a Marxist for a shopping spree in her off hours. This was not a part of her official bio until decades later, about the same time Jane Fonda abandoned the Vietcong and started selling work-out videos with make-up tips.
John Lennon and Eric Clapton, in an effort to prove their authenticity, "slept" together. Apparently the will to push every boundary to the breaking point was equated with soulfulness in some alternate universe. One where Muddy and The Wolf were clearly persona non grata.
Brian Jones, a man who had a talent for abuse and a rock star façade, but not much else, turned his love for the blues into a million-dollar fashion show--minus any hint of masculinity or substance, but it had a user-friendly teen ethos, if nothing else.
Folk music eventually disappeared from view, although it remained alive in dimly lit folk clubs and at Renaissance fairs. Rock and roll, disconnected from its roots, became a freak show and the political element faded as the Vietnam War ended. Everybody involved made a lot of money and spent a lot of money, and things went back to normal (they always do). The revolution ends when the cause is won, at least the fashionable part of it.
That isn't to say that there are no real revolutionaries. You just won't find them in pop culture, at least not very often. If you could find it in the mainstream, it wouldn't be much of a revolution.
Mark Magula
Authenticity is a much desired commodity, especially among artists, even more so among musicians. Since at least the 1960s, authenticity has been the difference between the pretenders and the Okie folk singers from the dust bowl, or the gun toting, homicidal blues men with jaundiced eyes, moaning about whores, singing “Big Boss-man, you ain’t so big, you just tall, that's all.”--probably dating to the time of the commie folk revivals of the 1950’s, maybe even the 1930’s, but certainly happening by the '60s. All of which compelled the white, college-educated ivy leaguers to sit down at their typewriters, one ear glued to the radio, the other to obscure records that were too cool for the average person, who was to be loathed for being so provincial. Along with it all came the outsider’s perspective, which was likely to be the product of some kid who was pretty smart and knew it, but not so smart that he/she/? could take it for granted.
Their first love was Peter, Paul and Mary and the Kingston Trio whose pop infused brand of folk music created a whole sub-culture. There were other folk acts as well singing “Sea Shanty Songs” with fake Irish accents and much enthusiasm for the sailor’s life, eager to run away on a whaling ship until they found out about sharks.
Eventually they discovered other, harder forms of expression, that were perfect for imposing their personal ideology, which had been carefully developed after reading a portion of a chapter of "The Autobiography of Malcolm X" or some other such radical tome filled with wisdom born of minority alienation. The fact that most were part of the overwhelming majority didn't matter. It was the inner man or woman that was alienated, not the outer one. Once a culture is wealthy enough to have the outer man comfortably taken care of, the inner man always becomes the point of self obsession. They even knew what a carpetbagger was from high school history class and having watched "Gone With the Wind" with their parents, but never saw themselves for the cultural carpetbaggers they were. This wasn't really a problem, however, because the downtrodden were too ignorant to know better. The downtrodden clearly needed someone to give them a voice to be heard—and who better to be the puppeteer than a bunch of barely post-pubescent kids from the great country of New York City, home to some of the best Hokum, slack-jawed, white bluesmen in the business. It was heaven on earth for a generation of self aware enablers with a bit of time on their hands--they could ask for nothing more.
Just watch the former Robert Zimmerman aka "Bob Dylan" early in his career singing a song about the assassination of civil rights leader Medgar Evers for a group of black sharecroppers, who look on in dazed astonishment. They have the same facial expression that certain marsupials have when confronted by an oncoming car in the wee small hours of the morning. But, Bob seems oblivious, as he apparently has important things on his mind and is eager to share them with the oppressed. It just goes to show you that you should never allow yourself to be filmed, photographed or recorded until you've gathered a bit of wisdom. Even the great Hank Williams appears to have started his career as a significant vulgarian, watching cowboy movies, wearing a big Stetson hat and carrying a six shooter like his idols from the Saturday afternoon matinees at the Bijou Theater. With time, both Bobby and Hank would become all-time greats, which should in no way give hope to lesser people. For, if there were no insignificant people, there would be no people of significance. I think you can see the problem.
Elvis was authentic because he was a poor truck driver with a weird name--and his daddy had done prison time for kiting checks around Memphis, which is in the Deep South, and home to numerous ignorant folk. Jerry Lee Lewis was authentic because he married his thirteen-year-old cousin, and it doesn't get more authentic than that. What more could you want than a bunch of white trash, interbreeding, truck driving hillbillies locked in a battle for their souls between God and the devil, singing “Take my Hand Precious Lord,”--only played with the devil's rhythm—Hell was but a breath away!
The college kids, however, were enthralled with the authenticity of it all. The connections between Robert Johnson’s “Hell Hound” and Elvis’s “Hound Dog” may have been tenuous, but they were still clearly visible. The connection between Jerry Lee and the Carter Family was, likewise, evident. Authenticity was everywhere! Things were good!
So, they formed bands like the “Grateful Dead,” jamming on an open E chord, sometimes for weeks, a rock & roll variation of the dance marathons of the 1930’s held during the “Great Depression” (Not to be mistaken for the many lesser Depressions). But “The Dead” were never authentic, not really. They were a bunch of hippies, and hippies can’t be authentic. They were only allowed to worship authenticity, to be the instinctive arbiters between self awareness and parody.
Folk music was "in" and electric instruments were "out" because electricity was inauthentic. It was a back-to-nature movement, like the "French Revolution, only with fewer guns and no guillotine. And, like the children of Rousseau, the movement was made up of would-be poets and artists--a cultural revolution with cool haircuts and a pure ideology.
Aficionados sat and listened while the music's reigning folk diva, Joan Baez would sing songs with a mellifluous, jack-hammer like voice and fingerpick an expensive pre-war Martin guitar. She got major authenticity points for marching with Martin Luther King, but then would sneak away to "Bergdorf Goodman" where she would remove her disguise as a Marxist for a shopping spree in her off hours. This was not a part of her official bio until decades later, about the same time Jane Fonda abandoned the Vietcong and started selling work-out videos with make-up tips.
John Lennon and Eric Clapton, in an effort to prove their authenticity, "slept" together. Apparently the will to push every boundary to the breaking point was equated with soulfulness in some alternate universe. One where Muddy and The Wolf were clearly persona non grata.
Brian Jones, a man who had a talent for abuse and a rock star façade, but not much else, turned his love for the blues into a million-dollar fashion show--minus any hint of masculinity or substance, but it had a user-friendly teen ethos, if nothing else.
Folk music eventually disappeared from view, although it remained alive in dimly lit folk clubs and at Renaissance fairs. Rock and roll, disconnected from its roots, became a freak show and the political element faded as the Vietnam War ended. Everybody involved made a lot of money and spent a lot of money, and things went back to normal (they always do). The revolution ends when the cause is won, at least the fashionable part of it.
That isn't to say that there are no real revolutionaries. You just won't find them in pop culture, at least not very often. If you could find it in the mainstream, it wouldn't be much of a revolution.
Mark Magula