Sunday, February 22, 2004
Charlie Bertsch, English prof., punkster, emp-presenter, and more sometimes yields to temptation and ponders how programmed we all are from birth.
He also writes occasionally about music on his personal blog, De File, like this juicy cherry on Da Beatles (permalinks don't work, Cholly; forgive me, I'm quoting the whole post)
February 12th, 2004
We Can Work It Out
The words of that Beatles' song are going through my head. It's such a strange pop song for a twenty-something to write and sing: middle-aged marriage counseling instead of delirious abandon.
I suppose you could argue that Paul McCartney was middle-aged before he was middle-aged. Not only that, you could make a compelling case for him identifying with middle-aged, working-class masculinity of previous generations more fully that with that of his own generation. So many of his songs are nostalgic for an England that's "pre" something: pre-60s, pre-WWII, pre-WWI -- you name it.
The most interesting part about "We Can Work It Out" from this perspective is the way that Paul's stanzas are complemented by John's bridge, a test-run for "A Day in the Life" or the lyrical counterpoint in the chorus of "It's Getting Better All the Time." It may have been a "Paul song," but John's presence is very strong.
This gets me thinking about John's experiments with a melancholy confessional mode from 1964 onward. "Here I stand, head in hand," and all that.
Throw in George's Eastern self-help lyrics and you have rock as therapy to a degree that was, as far as I can tell, unprecedented.
I'd really enjoy a book about the intersection of rock and therapy in 60s bands. There's enough in the Byrds and the less-famous American psychedelic bands to bridge the Atlantic. Throw in the R.D. Laing-influenced therapeutic philosophy of The Who's Tommy and Mick Jagger's sneering denunciation of "Mother's Little Helper" and you have enough material for a rich study.
As you might imagine, both from what I've said here and what I've written elsewhere, I'm a lyrics man. Like my daughter, I've never been one of those people who tunes the words out. If the words aren't compelling, I have a hard time committing fully to a band. The intriguing aspect of the hypothetical book I just laid out is that it would permit insights into classic rock that would be hidden in music-centered approaches.
It's funny. I started out today trying to write an allegory and ended up with a book project. I suppose there's an allegory to be discerned in that trajectory too, but not one that I'm motivated to extract at the moment.
¶ 2/22/2004 12:37:00 PM
He also writes occasionally about music on his personal blog, De File, like this juicy cherry on Da Beatles (permalinks don't work, Cholly; forgive me, I'm quoting the whole post)
February 12th, 2004
We Can Work It Out
The words of that Beatles' song are going through my head. It's such a strange pop song for a twenty-something to write and sing: middle-aged marriage counseling instead of delirious abandon.
I suppose you could argue that Paul McCartney was middle-aged before he was middle-aged. Not only that, you could make a compelling case for him identifying with middle-aged, working-class masculinity of previous generations more fully that with that of his own generation. So many of his songs are nostalgic for an England that's "pre" something: pre-60s, pre-WWII, pre-WWI -- you name it.
The most interesting part about "We Can Work It Out" from this perspective is the way that Paul's stanzas are complemented by John's bridge, a test-run for "A Day in the Life" or the lyrical counterpoint in the chorus of "It's Getting Better All the Time." It may have been a "Paul song," but John's presence is very strong.
This gets me thinking about John's experiments with a melancholy confessional mode from 1964 onward. "Here I stand, head in hand," and all that.
Throw in George's Eastern self-help lyrics and you have rock as therapy to a degree that was, as far as I can tell, unprecedented.
I'd really enjoy a book about the intersection of rock and therapy in 60s bands. There's enough in the Byrds and the less-famous American psychedelic bands to bridge the Atlantic. Throw in the R.D. Laing-influenced therapeutic philosophy of The Who's Tommy and Mick Jagger's sneering denunciation of "Mother's Little Helper" and you have enough material for a rich study.
As you might imagine, both from what I've said here and what I've written elsewhere, I'm a lyrics man. Like my daughter, I've never been one of those people who tunes the words out. If the words aren't compelling, I have a hard time committing fully to a band. The intriguing aspect of the hypothetical book I just laid out is that it would permit insights into classic rock that would be hidden in music-centered approaches.
It's funny. I started out today trying to write an allegory and ended up with a book project. I suppose there's an allegory to be discerned in that trajectory too, but not one that I'm motivated to extract at the moment.
¶ 2/22/2004 12:37:00 PM
