A tale of urban ennui as old as time. Even Jim Morrison, the cocksure rock star shaman, is not immune to that sinking alone-in-the-universe sensation. Which, of course, yielded The Doors one of their most popular hits. Morrison wasn’t the most relatable guy on earth most of the time, what with the whole ‘Lizard King’ messiah complex, but the flashes of soul and vulnerability he showed in quieter moment were beautiful. No wonder that this is a song that fans have latched on to. It speaks to everybody who’s ever felt alone, which is, literally, everybody. Alienation is its own aesthetic now, as emotion becomes commodity and communication seems to be reverting into glyphs, but that doesn’t make it any less real.
Out of all the things to love here – of which there are many – the thing I love most right now is the image The Beatles present of themselves in the video. Although they were, at that point in their career, treated as artistic demigods and were (as they remain) the most seriously respected rock artists in the world, they apparently still wanted to be seen as an adorable band of brothers who exist in a whimsical alternate universe full of mad tea parties. Perhaps that can be pinned on the simple reality that their degree of fame made them isolated even from their rock star peers, let alone civilian life. But it seems that even The Beatles themselves liked the idea that The Beatles were more than four guys tied together by a shared occupation, more even than a family; they were a singular unit of a sort that generally exists only in works of fiction. They were like characters in a children’s story, a set of toys brought to life by the imagination of some cosmic Christopher Robin, or a team of wacky-adventure-having boy detectives. The Beatles managed to mythologize themselves to such a degree, and so swiftly and effectively, that they became, in essence, living cartoons. While at the same time occupying the very highest creative pedestal. It was a stranger-than-fiction effect that even Paul McCartney looks back on in bewilderment.
How strange it is to hear the voice of a man who was born more than a hundred years ago. Blind Joe Reynolds was born – whether in 1900, or 1904, or some other year – into a very different world. In his day, black Americans very often came into the world with no record of their birth, never attended any schools, never had their faces photographed, never had their marriages legally validated, never owned property, never had their ills treated or their children born in a proper hospital, and died without leaving a legal trace. (Excepting should they run afoul with the law.) Reynolds lost his eyes to a shotgun accident (was it an accident?), did time in prison (for what?), and spent most of his life as a traveling street singer (where, exactly?), moving around to evade arrest, leaving little trace of himself, except musically. Even though he only recorded on two occasions, and of the recordings he made only a literal handful survive, his distinctive playing style is evident, and influencial. Somehow, the obscure pressings of an obscure blues singer who lived out most of his life in poverty and segregation, became part of the basis of a style of music that came to command popular culture. Blues based rock music, and the lifestyle trappings and social mores that came with it, became a cultural phenomenon in the 1960’s and it’s barely an exaggeration to say that it changed the world (forever! The world. It was changed. Forever.) Not that Blind Joe Reynolds ever got any satisfaction from the gentrification of the blues; he died of pneumonia in 1968, as poor and obscure as ever. Reynolds may have been a genius or he may have been merely typical of the circuit he ran in, and we’ll never have any way of knowing the true extent of his talent. The circumstances he was born to, the times he lived in, every part of the society around him conspired that he and men like him should live invisible lives, should die silently, should be erased and forgotten. He may have written dozens or hundreds of songs, maybe brilliant or maybe not. Songs that have died along with all of the people who’d ever heard them. Out of the eight or so that are known, only one has been rescued, revived and heard by millions of people, though in a rendition that Reynolds could not have imagined in 1929. .
Mostly because I haven’t listened to Marianne Faithfull’ early stuff in a while. It sounds dated, I know. On the other hand, maybe it shows the 60’s pop landscape better than famous songs from more famous artists do. Faithfull occupied a spot somewhere between the folk revival, Euoropop and the American standards showbook; her music didn’t actually have much in common with the British Invasion rock scene with which she is so associated. There was a market for that niche, apparently, though. Faithfull – by her own admission – didn’t make great choices in selecting her material back then; she favored songs by people she was friendly with, or ones that tickled her intellectually, rather than ones that were best for her voice at the time. I would say that she really didn’t have the vocal prowess for dramatic material, and this song wasn’t a good fit for her; still, it has its charm. Dramatic swelling strings need to make a comeback, if nothing else.
What blonde ice queen straight out of a Nazi poster did Leonard Cohen get rejected by in the peeling Chelsea Hotel in the 1960’s, before he was rich and famous? I like to imagine it was Nico, but who knows, there were many ice queens around for an obscure Canadian poet to be rejected by in those days. (As always there are.) Whoever she was, she inspired the dejected poet to transcribe his pathetic crush into one of the most bleak and witty odes to unattainable desire ever written. It is the duty of poets to make an artful lament out of the simple and pathetic humiliation of being rejected by the cool girls. Leonard Cohen certainly told the age old story in a way it had never been told before. That’s why today he’s rich and famous and gets to sleep in nice hotels and probably hardly ever gets rejected.
This is really adorable. I think I like Donovan more now because he physically reminds me of someone. It’s the way he sets his jaw. It’s cute. But, weird and misplaced love pangs aside, I’ve always loved this song and its spirit of naive wonder. That’s such a treacly emotion, in general, if it’s not done right. Treacle pudding, anyone, ever? Nobody likes treacle pudding. It’s tough enough to find the mindspace to sit back and sigh and say “ohh, gosh!” To convey that mindspace and enhance it through music, oh gosh, that’s magical. Donovan just makes being dippy the most appealing state in the world, and I forget that I generally don’t like dippy people and feel maybe a tiny bit dippy myself. I haven’t felt dippy at all lately, to be honest, but this reminds me of what it can sometimes feel like.
Possibly yellow, but not very mellow, Donovan takes a detour into cafe jazz. And he could’ve stayed there quite nicely. Mellow Yellow, the album, is not what the title suggests. It’s a bit bleak, in fact. Ruminative, existential, and infected with jazz piano. (Because nothing says emo like jazz piano.) Not the goofy, twee Donovan we’ve generally come to know and love. Like a lot of rock stars, Donovan went through a period of post success disillusionment, questioning what the heck is the point of even being a rock star if it’s not all the fun it’s cracked up to be. So, like many of his peers, he made an album about the downside of the cool life. If it doesn’t sound like Donovan to see the downside to anything, well, he snapped back to his psychedelic fairy tales soon enough. His next album was the magnum opus A Gift From a Flower to a Garden, which is exactly as starry eyed and full of talking starfish as the name implies. I love it, because nobody bridged the gap between the innocence of the nursery rhyme and the adult world of rock and roll with the grace and sincerity of Donovan. But I know that songs about flowers and baby animals are not for everybody. For those people, Mellow Yellow is the Donovan album I would recommend, being wholly adult and steeped in the reality of the cold morning after.