Thirteen Birds vs. The Record Desk

“I hope I die before I become Pete Townshend,” wrote Kurt Cobain in his journal in the middle of one of his rants against the rock press establishment. Why? Because I had become a bore? Because I had failed to die young? Because I had become conventional? Or, simply because I had become old? In fact, in the early Nineties, when Kurt was struggling with himself over whether or not to do an interview with Rolling Stone magazine, I was not boring, neither old nor young, and I was not dead. I was, unlike Cobain, hardened. Tempered, beaten and subjugated by all that rock had delivered to me and via me over 30 years. Rock is, I think, particularly hard. And in this statement Cobain appears to be hard on me. But perhaps he is sad for me?

It is desperately sad for me to sit here, 57 years old, and contemplate how often wasteful are the deaths of those in the rock industry. We find it so hard to save our own, but must take responsibility for the fact that the message such deaths as Cobain’s sends to his fans is that it is in some way heroic to scream at the world, thrash a guitar, smash it up and then overdose.

– Pete Townshend’s reviewing Cobain’s Journals

I firmly believe that rock and roll can save your life – though if that’s the case, I’m not sure your life was worth saving.

– Me (during some snark spasm or another)

Conveniently for me, my birthday coincides with the annual soft-focus reminiscing on the passing of rock martyr Kurt Cobain. It’s a convenient hook upon which I can hang my reflections on mortality and my inability to remain squarely in the youth cult demographic which rock and roll (disingenuously) posits as its core audience. Of course rock and roll (especially the semi-popular smartipance stuff I like) has long been the weapon of choice for moody overthinkers way too old to qualify as a “kid” of any kind. As many smart folks have pointed out before me, rock and roll serves a vaguely pagan religious role for sensitive types who need meaning and ecstasy and whathaveyou. The analogies are pretty easy – the icons, the ritual of communal rock happenings, the frenzied adulation/dancing, the bedsit contemplation and adoration of pop stars, the call to authentic living, the empty going-through-motions faking it when ecstasy isn’t forthcoming.

Still, when you do see the real deal in person, the whole rock-as-religion thing makes a lot of sense. In honor of my birthday, I received a ticket to see Morrissey at the Midland Theater. I’m not going to bore you all with a show review wherein I splutter about Morrissey’s fabulousness as a performer and object of rock veneration. I just wanted to mention the frenzy that occurred when Morrissey discarded a sweaty shirt by pitching it into the crowd. Ripping. Rending. Snarling. Weeping. Mania. I was reminded of the anecdotes about newly dead saints torn to bits by relic seekers. I’ve been in hundreds of rock audiences, and rare are those audiences where actual group madness breaks out. Some performers have “it” and some don’t. Morrissey (as if anyone was still unaware) possess the ability to inspire this old time religion. Slate recently ran an interesting article about Morrissey in middle age examining the roots of his appeal. What I came away with is that the holy weirdness of Morrissey’s awkward youth.

“I’m sick of being the undiscovered genius,” scribbled the 18-year-old Steven Morrissey. “I want fame NOW not when I’m dead.” He’d have to linger in the bed-sit five more years. In the meantime, his life consisted of: the dole, writing letters to New Musical Express, reading manifestoes with titles like “Men’s Liberation” and The Female Eunuch, and taking up—and abandoning—the musical instruments traditionally associated with playing rock ‘n’ roll. At 19, he sang twice, poorly, in a band called the Nosebleeds and, refining his skills of lonely pop adulation, published two monographs—fanzine one-offs, really—one on James Dean, the other on his beloved New York Dolls. But New Year’s Eve, 1979, captures young Morrissey best: As the clock chimed midnight, alone in his bedroom, the 20-year-old Steven ushered in the 1980s by reading Pride and Prejudice.

Even more than the frenzied pagan mass of the rock show or the idol worship, the actual religious act of rock and roll practice is the time spent in the misfit wilderness of adolescence. Adolescents, historically, have not made much excellent rock music. And many of rock’s true geniuses have been the sorts of people who were weird enough that you could imagine them spending their teenhoods in pain and seclusion. Of course, the essentialness of an awkward adolescence for any true rock believer leads a lot of folks to manufacture phony bologna accounts of their troubled coming of age (See Stuff White People Like #83 and #17). Heck, I’ve got some self-mythology I can lay on you if you’ve got a few hours.

Because rock and roll – while self-involved – is not often a terribly reflective form, most of its saints are treated as savant-type shamans only barely aware of their powers. Of course this is a crock – one look a Cobain’s Journals will show that even the most authentic-seeming rock icon does a lot of intellectualizing and conceptualizing. Nevertheless, institutionalized rock and roll (the audience, press, etc.) is suspicious of thinking or trying too hard. To be seen working at it is to be, at best, inauthentic (e.g., Bowie, Beck) or, at worst, a hack or careerist.

Pete Townshend has always been an odd rock and roll star. In many ways, he helped create and promote the awkward adolescence model of rock initiation. The protagonists in Who singles like “Can’t Explain,” “I’m a Boy,” “The Kids are Alright,” “Pictures of Lily” and many, many others are screwed-up, awkward, sensitive types. Angry young men wrestling with their feelings. Townshend’s later long-form conceptual pieces Tommy and Quadrophenia are likewise about rock and roll and idolatry and alienation and junk culture. I’m sure there are plenty of second and third generation rock adherents who can’t honestly tell you where their actual teenhood ends and Townshend’s stylized myth of spiritually unmoored teen angst begins. I’m not sure if I know the difference anymore.

Because the teenhood myth is central to the religious experience of rock and roll, youth itself is often venerated in song, performance, etc. Some obvious examples are twee’s obsession with childhood or 28-year-old indie rockers referring to themselves and their peers as “kids.” There’s no good model or myth to support the adult practice of the religion of rock and roll. There’s craft – which is boring and requires chops and often leads to dull dabbling in “roots music” or jazz or Pet Sounds-style pop. Sometimes perversity or eccentricity or cult cachet can provide an escape hatch. Most often though, adulthood and rock and roll combine to form a smug, bloated arena spectacle reeking of nostalgia and reverence. Occasionally an artist (not usually an audience) will emerge from the other side of adulthood as a wild old coot still in command of his or her old spell book – Dylan is the most obvious example.

Empty Glass is (among other things) Townshend’s best effort at giving adulthood the kind of rock myth meaning that he helped create for adolescence. As with much of Townshend’s work, there’s a hefty bit of autobiography and spiritual seeking going on in Empty Glass. It’s an album about purging and transcending the pain and longing and pettiness that you accumulate once you quit being a holy dumbshit teenager. It’s a record about needing help. Empty Glass’ best-known single is a love song where God offers to fix all the crap you screwed up.

“Let My Love Open the Door” – Pearl Jam @ Soldier Field

In Townshend’s own words, the album is about hitting bottom and needing to be refilled.

And when I did my first solo album, I called it Empty Glass, ’cause of this idea that when you go to the tavern — which is to God, you know — and you ask for His love — He’s the bartender, you know — and He gives you a drink, and what you have to give Him is an empty glass. You know there’s no point giving Him your heart if it’s full already; there’s no point going to God if your heart’s full of Doris.

I suppose it is easy to imagine that we all had tortured teenhoods which we romantically endured. It’s much less heroic to admit that getting older hasn’t made things easier. Grown-ups are supposed to be on top of their personal shit. They’re not supposed to whine. They’re not supposed to be paralyzed by fear and fatigue. I think that’s why the rock and roll youth cult continues. It allows you to fantasize about a difficult trial already overcome while nostalgically ignoring today’s horrible bullshit. My mother is fond of dismissing injustice or pain in adult life with a glib “That’s just the way things are” – as if someone isn’t making it that way or as if you shouldn’t even try to change it. I think that attitude is comfortable, safe.

Seeking authenticity. Looking for answers. Breaking down. Transcending. These activities are unbecoming. They certainly don’t help you project authority and bootstrapping self-sufficiency. Angst is bad for business. Doubt seems a bit self indulgent when practiced by adults.

We live in interesting times. It can be tempting to retreat to our imaginary high school days and obsess over the now tidy concerns of bruised feelings and mussed pride and simple loneliness that seemed oppressive then. It makes the very real hurt of right now go away for a while. Still, nostalgia is a cop out. Perpetual adolescence is a cop out. I do think that rock and roll can point to some kind of personal transcendence. I think the best of it is spiritually nourishing. At the very least, it can encourage contemplation and sensitivity. Still, rock and roll does its best work in conjunction with immediacy. Yesterday’s rock and roll listening won’t do you any good today. There’s no point in coming to the bar if your glass is already full of yesterday’s fake memories.