Any discussion of white boys playing the blues generally has to involve a purist going on about how “derivative” or “inauthentic” it is with frequent references to long-dead always obscure bluesmen with claims that they were the originals.
But, once you face the reality that everything and everyone is somehow a product of influences and predecessors, the argument fizzles. Just bring up the fact that Wallace Willis, a Native American, wrote Swing Low, Sweet Chariot back in the mid 19th century and then walk away from the blank stares. In reality it was the adaptation of that tune by the Jubilee Singers that made it a timeless classic. I’ve made my point so let me put the lid back on this can of worms before it turns into a Ken Burns project.
The lesson my friends is to appreciate the music for what it is rather than trying to DNA test it for lineage. It’s the serendipitous melding of experiences and influences that keeps music fresh. While I like Mozart and all, I’d be pretty disappointed if we hadn’t moved on to other things in the last 300 or so years.
By this time you’re all thinking, ok I’m with you but… who is Dr. Hoffmann and where does Bo fit into this?
Dr. Albert Hoffmann, aside from being a loving husband and father, was the inventor and first consumer of LSD back in 1943. It was the same year a teenaged Bo Diddley was playing Chicago street corners for tips. These two seemingly unrelated events would turn out to combine in one of the greatest accidental unions since chocolate met peanut butter.
Some 20 years later, pasty-faced suburban teens in England would stumble onto Dr. Hoffmann’s miracle drug, the advent of which was heralded by the 1966 single, £SD, by The Pretty Things. While you may not have heard of them, you may know guitarist Dick Taylor’s previous gig – the Rolling Stones. Taking their name – and influence – from Bo Diddley and his 1956 hit, Pretty Thing, the band wore the blues on their shirt sleeves (and a blotter on their tongues). The late ‘60s was exploding with soulful crooners backed by 12 bars of guitar, a Hammond B3 and a heavy drug habit.
Joining Dick Taylor in the Bad Timing Hall of Fame is Terry Reid who turned down an offer to be the vocalist in Jimmy Page’s post-Yardbirds project. Having already committed to go on tour as the opening act for the Stones in ‘69, Reid recommended a guy by the name of Robert Plant and the rest is history. Reid did go on to put out some amazing work but only he knows whether it’s sufficient solace for missing out on being a part of rock’s supergods. Check out his cover of Donovan’s Superlungs My Supergirl.
On this side of the pond, bands like Captain Beefheart were reinventing the delta sound on tracks like Sure ‘Nuff ‘N Yes I Do and Diddley’s own Diddy Wah Diddy. Austin’s 13th Floor Elevators were pioneering the garage psych sound before going true psychedelic with Roky Erickson’s hospitalization. Van Vliet seemed to escape with his sanity and went on to call acid, “overrated aspirin and very similar to old people’s Disneyland.”
With the 1970’s came the golden age of progressive rock where musical genres melted together like your collection of old LPs in the attic. The movement ultimately imploded under the pretentious weight of such bloated arena monsters as Rush and ELP and the onslaught of concept albums and rock operas. Inevitably this is the part of the conversation where someone brings up The Wall or Tommy. Which is also the point at which I respond with Kilroy Was Here and Bob Dylan’s Saved. There is always that moment when a movement becomes too big, overextends itself (think Madonna’s acting career), and ultimately gets smacked down in a merciful act of musical Darwinism.
Later bands would eschew (love that word) the falsettos and string sections like Claw Hammer – named after the Beefheart tune – stripping things down to the basics with blues harmonica and a hardcore edge. Beck’s landmark album, Odelay, opens Hotwax with slide guitar and a blues shuffle while reaching back to sample Them’s version of It’s All Over Now Baby Blue for Jack-ass. Jon Spencer Blues Explosion went so far as to collaborate with R.L. Burnside on A Ass Pocket of Whisky and The Black Keys put out an entire album’s worth of Junior Kimbrough covers with Chulahoma. The white boy blues were back.
Even something like the folky guitar intro and Robert Pollard’s faux-Brit lilt in Boston Spaceships’ Go For the Exit conjure up hallucinations of 1968. The only disappointment of having so deeply incorporated past influences into the current vibe is the tendency to sometimes overlook the origins of the sound.
I happened to turn on the television the other day to hear the unmistakable riff from Depeche Mode’s Personal Jesus being kidnapped by some vapid fluff bunny who turned out to be Hillary Duff. If I have one pet peeve with respect to influences, it’s the neither fish nor fowl approach where the song isn’t exact enough to be a cover but not deviant enough to be considered original work. Duff completes the trifecta of creating a shit song by adding a gratuitous rap for crossover appeal and then releasing umpteen remixes of a song which is already essentially a remix.
Let me redirect before I get all depressed about the current state of music. It’s not entirely true that every song has been written. Someone at some time has done something similar, but the measure of true artistry is in synthesizing past talents in a unique way. It’s not much different than cooking. How many recipes include flour, sugar and butter as the main ingredients? But would you flog a chef for relying on such a foundation? I prefer my dessert delicious rather than completely original at the expense of taste. Likewise with my music.
As an aside, I’m not Ken Burns and the above wasn’t at all intended to be comprehensive in the least. One of these days I’ll get around to the 14 hour PBS mini-series but for now this is what you get. Enjoy.
MP3 :::
The Pretty Things – LSD
Terry Reid – Superlungs My Super Girl
13th Floor Elevators – Levitation
Captain Beefheart – Sure ‘Nuff ‘N Yes I Do
Beck – Hotwax
Boston Spaceships – Go For the Exit
