I’m counting down my 100 favourite songs of all time. To keep this from becoming a Bob Dylan / Tom Waits love-in, only one track per artist is allowed.
Go to 85: That's Not My Name by The Ting Tings
Go to 87: Blue Moon by Kendal Johansson
A rock musician that also has a handy turn of phrase when singing tends to get called a “poet”. This pretense should not be tolerated for a number of reasons.
Firstly, it denigrates the honourable craft of writing lyrics by elevating those artisans who actually master their petty trade to what is obviously considered the nobler art form. It puts poetry on a lofty pedestal beyond the reach of meager lyrics, while admitting to its heavenly dwelling those with enough divine talent to be considered equals of the ancient bards whose rhymes are so precious they must be preserved by torturous study and puritan practitioners.
The rock’n’roll lyricist, who merely pedals bawdy words to the unwashed masses, should not be compared to the likes of Donne, Keats, Yates and Heaney. Just because both smiths beat words into rhyme doesn’t mean they’re looking for the same results. Lyric writers must shape their words to the music; craft according to melodies, rhythms and riffs; fuse with the swagger and sadness of the song.
The best music lyrics rarely count as great poetry:
Hear them sung in your head and they all sound great. But written down they’re not exactly:
The second reason to refuse to play the rock-poet game is that it does a disservice to the artist that earns the title. The classic example is Bob Dylan—rock’s premier poet. Except that when he started out, his repertoire of protest songs was essentially reportage with rhymes. He was more journalist than poet. And though his later work bears the influence of poets like Arthur Rimbaud, it’s hardly fair to suggest that Dylan simply brought poetry to rock’n’roll when his complete transformation of the music lyric landscape deserves to be appreciated as a singularly unique achievement.
Sometimes it’s not the disservice that is so appalling but the misuse when bafflingly applied to run-of-the-mill rhymers like Jim Morrison (“ride the snake to the lake”). In fact, the only lyricist that should ever be considered a poet is Morrissey, simply because “punctured bicycle on a hillside desolate / will nature make a man of me yet?” is as poetic as pop music gets.
And then there’s Patti Smith.
After moving to New York in her early 20s, the Chicago-born Smith spent six years writing, performing and painting before starting The Patti Smith Group in 1974. Her pre-rock band output included poetry, so you could legitimately call her a poet. But given that she also painted, wrote plays and performed spoken word movie soundtracks, the label is once more limiting for such a rounded artist.
The story goes that Smith turned to music as a more popular outlet for her poetry. But this is not just a marriage of convenience; Smith is so steeped in rock’n’roll history that she is as authentic a musician as she is a poet. Her band frequently played the legendary New York venue CBGBs, alongside the likes of Television, Blondie, The Ramones and Talking Heads.
Patti Smith's debut album Horses hits both strands, opening with a cover of Them’s 1964 classic Gloria before veering into the jazz-influenced beat poetry of Birdland. But it is the record's penultimate track that dramatically brings together her poetry and musicianship.
Land is an astonishing nine-minute epic that gloriously sweeps from highbrow art to bubblegum pop, referencing Rimbaud, William Burroughs, The Velvet Underground and Fats Domino along the way. Its destroys and celebrates poetry and rock. It is at once profound and shallow. It provokes both the brain and hips.
The song begins with Smith speaking. As she talks about a rhythm generating, you sense the menacing approach of a guitar. Another voice echoes in the background. It’s Smith again but her words diverge and you hear the first invocation of the song’s main character, Johnny—a name she will deliver with unusual insistence throughout.
The overlaid voices merge once more, significantly, as “the boy looked at Johnny” and a tense, twanging guitar tells you that all is not well. Throbbing drums and bass line enter as the horror unfolds. A head is bashed against a locker, an assault takes places and…
Whatever vague sense of narrative is now left behind as Johnny’s mind drifts off before touching down in the Land of a Thousand Dances. The music breaks into the Chris Kenner / Fats Domino rock’n’roll classic of the same name, whose equine connection—“do you know how to pony?”—sets off a sprawling reverie.
For a while we’re in a world of pure dance characterized by repeated rhythms, riffs and words. “Do you like it like that?” There’s a subtle shift to a lower key and Smith is now adding her own lyrics to the Kenner / Domino nonsense. We’re in soul territory now. She is a preacher, words rolling off her tongue, like she’s piecing ideas together as they appear, knowing that repetition is the key to understanding and acceptance.
And then her voice hushes and she's speaking again, teasing out smart puns, sexual images and sharp violence. The music eases off but retains its intensity despite the background distance, waiting waiting waiting to explode back to life.
When it does, Smith rides the wave, goes stride for stride, spitting out words that feel both stream of consciousness and precisely crafted, reintroducing themes, words and that name, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny.
One by one, pieces fall away. Pianos, guitars, words, until all that remains is the relentless rhythm of the drums. Smith’s pronouncements are halting, faltering and you realize that she’s no longer speaking. The drums shudder to a stop and it’s like you’ve suddenly woken up.
What was that? Was it poetry or rock'n'roll? What does it mean?
Picking at the narrative threads suggest Johnny is either raped or beaten up and loses himself in a mental or drug-fueled digression (horse is a slang term for heroin) as a means of coping with his experience. In her superb memoir Just Kids, Smith claims the song was inspired by an LSD trip she took with her then lover, photographer Robert Mapplethorpe. Certainly, her recollections of the pair spending evenings at home dancing to Motown records explains the Land of a Thousand Dances interlude.
Smith is often considered a proto-punk but reworking a pop classic is not about tearing up the old order. Land represents her total belief that she has the ability to make great art however she sees fit, whether that’s taking an old song and reshaping it or making off with a character from a Burroughs novel.
(In his interesting deconstruction of Land, Alex Young astutely points out the similarities between Smith and M.I.A. in the way they appropriate other works for their own means.)
Land remains a source of mystery and debate among its fans, but a resolution can be found by listening to Smith talk about recording Gloria, which:
A song doesn’t have to be meaningful, it just has to be worthwhile. It doesn't matter if it's poetry or pop, just enjoy the ride.
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If you like this, try:
Gloria
Birdland
Kimberley
Rock'n'Roll Nigger
Land of a Thousand Dances - Wilson Pickett
Go to 85: That's Not My Name by The Ting Tings
Go to 87: Blue Moon by Kendal Johansson
Go to 85: That's Not My Name by The Ting Tings
Go to 87: Blue Moon by Kendal Johansson
A rock musician that also has a handy turn of phrase when singing tends to get called a “poet”. This pretense should not be tolerated for a number of reasons.
Firstly, it denigrates the honourable craft of writing lyrics by elevating those artisans who actually master their petty trade to what is obviously considered the nobler art form. It puts poetry on a lofty pedestal beyond the reach of meager lyrics, while admitting to its heavenly dwelling those with enough divine talent to be considered equals of the ancient bards whose rhymes are so precious they must be preserved by torturous study and puritan practitioners.
The rock’n’roll lyricist, who merely pedals bawdy words to the unwashed masses, should not be compared to the likes of Donne, Keats, Yates and Heaney. Just because both smiths beat words into rhyme doesn’t mean they’re looking for the same results. Lyric writers must shape their words to the music; craft according to melodies, rhythms and riffs; fuse with the swagger and sadness of the song.
The best music lyrics rarely count as great poetry:
“Father, father we don’t need to escalate. You see, war is not the answer for only love can conquer hate.”
“Well we busted outta class. Had to get away from those fools. We learned more from a three-minute record baby than we ever learned in school.”
“I’m expressing with my full capabilities and now I’m living in correctional facilities.”
“Gold coast slave ship bound for cotton fields. Sold in a market down in New Orleans.”
“I feel your fever from miles around. I pick you up in my car and we’ll hit the town.”
“One, two, three, four, five, six”
Hear them sung in your head and they all sound great. But written down they’re not exactly:
"Had I the heaven’s embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light"
Sometimes it’s not the disservice that is so appalling but the misuse when bafflingly applied to run-of-the-mill rhymers like Jim Morrison (“ride the snake to the lake”). In fact, the only lyricist that should ever be considered a poet is Morrissey, simply because “punctured bicycle on a hillside desolate / will nature make a man of me yet?” is as poetic as pop music gets.
And then there’s Patti Smith.
After moving to New York in her early 20s, the Chicago-born Smith spent six years writing, performing and painting before starting The Patti Smith Group in 1974. Her pre-rock band output included poetry, so you could legitimately call her a poet. But given that she also painted, wrote plays and performed spoken word movie soundtracks, the label is once more limiting for such a rounded artist.
The story goes that Smith turned to music as a more popular outlet for her poetry. But this is not just a marriage of convenience; Smith is so steeped in rock’n’roll history that she is as authentic a musician as she is a poet. Her band frequently played the legendary New York venue CBGBs, alongside the likes of Television, Blondie, The Ramones and Talking Heads.
Patti Smith's debut album Horses hits both strands, opening with a cover of Them’s 1964 classic Gloria before veering into the jazz-influenced beat poetry of Birdland. But it is the record's penultimate track that dramatically brings together her poetry and musicianship.
Land is an astonishing nine-minute epic that gloriously sweeps from highbrow art to bubblegum pop, referencing Rimbaud, William Burroughs, The Velvet Underground and Fats Domino along the way. Its destroys and celebrates poetry and rock. It is at once profound and shallow. It provokes both the brain and hips.
“The boy was in the hallway drinking a glass of tea.”
The overlaid voices merge once more, significantly, as “the boy looked at Johnny” and a tense, twanging guitar tells you that all is not well. Throbbing drums and bass line enter as the horror unfolds. A head is bashed against a locker, an assault takes places and…
“Suddenly. Johnny. Gets the feeling. He’s being surrounded by. Horses horses horses horses.”
For a while we’re in a world of pure dance characterized by repeated rhythms, riffs and words. “Do you like it like that?” There’s a subtle shift to a lower key and Smith is now adding her own lyrics to the Kenner / Domino nonsense. We’re in soul territory now. She is a preacher, words rolling off her tongue, like she’s piecing ideas together as they appear, knowing that repetition is the key to understanding and acceptance.
“Got to lose control. Got to lose control. Got to lose control. And then you take control.”
When it does, Smith rides the wave, goes stride for stride, spitting out words that feel both stream of consciousness and precisely crafted, reintroducing themes, words and that name, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny.
One by one, pieces fall away. Pianos, guitars, words, until all that remains is the relentless rhythm of the drums. Smith’s pronouncements are halting, faltering and you realize that she’s no longer speaking. The drums shudder to a stop and it’s like you’ve suddenly woken up.
Picking at the narrative threads suggest Johnny is either raped or beaten up and loses himself in a mental or drug-fueled digression (horse is a slang term for heroin) as a means of coping with his experience. In her superb memoir Just Kids, Smith claims the song was inspired by an LSD trip she took with her then lover, photographer Robert Mapplethorpe. Certainly, her recollections of the pair spending evenings at home dancing to Motown records explains the Land of a Thousand Dances interlude.
Smith is often considered a proto-punk but reworking a pop classic is not about tearing up the old order. Land represents her total belief that she has the ability to make great art however she sees fit, whether that’s taking an old song and reshaping it or making off with a character from a Burroughs novel.
(In his interesting deconstruction of Land, Alex Young astutely points out the similarities between Smith and M.I.A. in the way they appropriate other works for their own means.)
Land remains a source of mystery and debate among its fans, but a resolution can be found by listening to Smith talk about recording Gloria, which:
“...gave me the opportunity to acknowledge and disclaim our musical and spiritual heritage. It personifies for me, within its adolescent conceit, what I hold sacred as an artist. The right to create, without apology, from a stance beyond gender or social definition, but not beyond the responsibility to create something of worth.”
Follow me on Twitter
If you like this, try:
Gloria
Birdland
Kimberley
Rock'n'Roll Nigger
Land of a Thousand Dances - Wilson Pickett
Go to 85: That's Not My Name by The Ting Tings
Go to 87: Blue Moon by Kendal Johansson
' Everybody say Hotel, Motel, Holdiday Innnn'
ReplyDeleteShit poem, perfect lyrics.
Was just thinking this yesterday in the car.
Great article.