Two Veteran folkies
In the early sixties, when I was a kid hanging out in Fort Lauderdale, I ran into a friend of mine in front of the legendary beachfront bar, the Elbow room. My buddy was excited. “Listen,” he said, “You got to come around to the Catacombs with me. There’s somebody you got to see there.”
The Catacombs was a tiny coffeehouse, down the alley from the elbow room. It drew a completely different crowd. The boozehounds went to the Elbow Room while the intellectuals, the creative people, frequented the Catacombs. We went in ands there on the stage about ten feet away from us, working to a capacity crowd of maybe fifty people, was a young Native American woman playing a mouth bow. That was Buffy Sainte-Marie. I watched her play three sets that night and became a major fan. Over the next forty-five years, my devotion has never wavered.
Now, my devotion has been paid off by Saint-Marie’s first album in thirteen years and it is one amazing piece of work. The world has changed a lot in forty-five years but Sainte-Marie has remained insistently her own person, going her own way. She has never become a nostalgia act, but neither has she abandoned her earlier styles and concerns. She has, however, deepened. Her work is stronger, truer and more powerful than it has ever been.
The new album, Running for the Drum, opened with three songs that simply can’t be classified, songs that use all the weapons in her vast arsenal. With their roots deep in Native American rhythms and dances, they take on corporate greed and contemporary politics, familiar protest themes of Sainte-Marie’s. The song include elements of folk, rock, pop and electronic, in addition to powwow chants. These songs are stunning. After this mini-set, she uses a fine version of her classic song, “Little Wheel Turn and Spin” as a transition into a varied set of love songs, contemporary blues and rock. “When I Had You” is a torch song while “I Bet My Heart on You” features Sainte-Marie and Taj Mahal on twin pianos. “Blue Sunday” could have been recorded in Sam Phillips Sun Studios with Jerry Lee Lewis on piano and Carl Perkins on guitar.
One thing Buffy Sainte-Marie has never been is predictable. She has always confounded people’s expectations, has always gone In directions that no casual listener could have anticipated. Running for the Drum continues that tradition of originality and creativity. It is brilliant and is like nothing else she has done. To my mind, anybody interested in where Americana music has been and is going needs to hear it.
Also brilliant is the DVD biographical film that is included in this set. Entitled Buffy Sainte-Marie: a Multimedia Life, this Canadian made film traces her life, covering her upbringing, her early days as a Greenwich Village folkie up to her current activities. It’s a film that will spend more than one viewing in your DVD player.
I also want to call your attention to a fine reissue: Carolyn Hester’s The Tradition Years. Tom Rush said a few years back that in the early years, no record company actually produced folk music. Most albums back then were “one voice, one guitar, one mic.”
By choice, Tradition Records was a one-voice, one guitar, one mic label. Formed by the Clancy Brothers, Tradition was devoted to the folk song, rather than to the music business. The Clancies spurned the more commercial trio and group acts. They had no interest in recording the legions of Kingston Trio imitators who blanketed the air, polluting the radio waves with what Folk music heavies called fakelore and fake music. Tradition concentrated on the people they felt were doing true folklore in song.
Carolyn Hester was one of those people. She lived in legend as the person who gave Bob Dylan his first shot in a recording studio and was responsible for Dylan being signed to Columbia Records. Like many legends, her reputation is better known today than her music, which is a shame. She was then and is now a brilliant artist. In her early sixties heyday, her work was widely admired and respected, her popularity wide enough for the Saturday Evening Post, a leading mass market magazine of the time, to label her “the face of folk music.” Significantly, she achieved that popularity doing mostly public domain songs from the great body of American and Latin traditional music.
Obviously, she was a good fit for Tradition Records, who recorded her with only her guitar for accompaniment, with no harmony vocals or overdubs. The result is a spare and haunting recording which makes the bold claim that, no matter how beautiful the singer’s voice, that voice is to be used to serve the song, which is more important.
And Hester does have a beautiful voice. This album reveals an achingly pure soprano that graces the songs she sings, a voice that never strains, never reaches but seems to soar effortlessly instead. The voice is intoxicating and when she takes on simple American folk songs like “Go Way From My Window” and “If I had a Ribbon Bow,” you feel the pain of the speakers in the song. Her voice is flexible enough to take on “Malaguena Salerosa” and, since she was raised on the Texas-Mexican border and was always well acquainted with Latin music, she sounds right at home with it. The only contemporary song on the album is George and Ira Gershwin’s “Summertime,” which the hide-bound label justified as folk music because it came from Porgy and Bess, a folk opera.
The Tradition Years is a reissue of Carolyn Hester, a 1961 album. It includes a couple of songs deleted from the original record. Thoroughly digitalized, the sound is as beautiful as the music.
It is great to see the early stuff coming back and it is great to see that artists who began in the early sixties are still vital. Hester has recent CDs that are fabulous. Listen to these women. Hear the good stuff that you’re never going to hear on FM radio.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Narrative Poetry
Narrative Poetry
Poems can essentially be divided into two types: Lyric and narrative. The most obvious difference between the two is that narrative poems tell a story and lyric poems don’t. A good poet is comfortable with each, so this week we’ll talk about narrative poetry.
Narrative poems were in decline a years back but they are making a comeback now, due principally, I believe, to the work of the southern poets who never abandoned the form; the south is a story-telling region, so it only makes sense that the poetry of the region should also tell stories.
Elements of Narrative Poetry
Michael J. Bugeja offers six elements that he says are found in all narrative poetry:
Topic: All narratives contain a beginning, middle and an end. A story starts, builds and resolves. There’s a definite movement through time, a definite protagonist moving toward a destiny. If someone in your poem is struggling to accomplish something, you’ve probably got a narrative.
Theme: All stories have meaning, we know that. A narrative poem, then, while it is telling a story, implies the meaning of that story. Events do not simply happen; they are carefully chosen and constructed to convey a definite idea.
Voice: Who is telling the story? The character, the poet, an onlooker? Will you use the first or third person? If you’re using third person, will the narrator be someone involved in the action or a dispassionate story-teller? However, you choose to do it, all narrative poems will have a narrator.
Viewpoint: This is an extension of voice. As we know, everyone is the hero of his own story, so who you choose as the narrator will greatly influence how the narrative proceeds, what it ultimately means. A poker game described from the point of view of the loser is an entirely different game than if the winner is telling us about it. If you’re using a storyteller, he will tell the tale through some character’s perspective, so a definite viewpoint is always present.
Moment: the story takes place in time, as does the poem. But does the poem take place during the same time as the story? Ted Berrigan was a genius at creating the current moment in his poems; he made you feel as if he were writing them down at the exact moment they were happening. Other poets prefer to look back on events long after they have happened. Frank O’Hara’s “The Day Billy Holiday Died” does not try to recreate the day as if it were today; instead he is looking back into the past. Obviously, time creates distance. How closely do you want to be to the events? That will determine what period of time you choose.
Ending: you’ve got to close out the poem, send a signal that it is over. Basically, there are two ways you can do that. You can use an open ending or a closed one.
Open: the open ending implies the resolution. It says things do not end. Perhaps they close but their effects linger on, their emotional impact hangs in the air long after the event itself has ended. Think of a love affair; it ends but the effects are still present long afterward.
Closed: A closed ending signals a final outcome. Questions are answered, things are resolved. Whatever the topic was, it is over now.
Which ending should you use? That one that it most organic for your materials, of course.
Remember, every poem has an organic form it wants to be in. Your job is to discover it and use it. How? Mostly, by getting out of the way, lightening up your control and enforced direction and letting the poem happen.
Next time, we'll talk about lyric poems.
Poems can essentially be divided into two types: Lyric and narrative. The most obvious difference between the two is that narrative poems tell a story and lyric poems don’t. A good poet is comfortable with each, so this week we’ll talk about narrative poetry.
Narrative poems were in decline a years back but they are making a comeback now, due principally, I believe, to the work of the southern poets who never abandoned the form; the south is a story-telling region, so it only makes sense that the poetry of the region should also tell stories.
Elements of Narrative Poetry
Michael J. Bugeja offers six elements that he says are found in all narrative poetry:
Topic: All narratives contain a beginning, middle and an end. A story starts, builds and resolves. There’s a definite movement through time, a definite protagonist moving toward a destiny. If someone in your poem is struggling to accomplish something, you’ve probably got a narrative.
Theme: All stories have meaning, we know that. A narrative poem, then, while it is telling a story, implies the meaning of that story. Events do not simply happen; they are carefully chosen and constructed to convey a definite idea.
Voice: Who is telling the story? The character, the poet, an onlooker? Will you use the first or third person? If you’re using third person, will the narrator be someone involved in the action or a dispassionate story-teller? However, you choose to do it, all narrative poems will have a narrator.
Viewpoint: This is an extension of voice. As we know, everyone is the hero of his own story, so who you choose as the narrator will greatly influence how the narrative proceeds, what it ultimately means. A poker game described from the point of view of the loser is an entirely different game than if the winner is telling us about it. If you’re using a storyteller, he will tell the tale through some character’s perspective, so a definite viewpoint is always present.
Moment: the story takes place in time, as does the poem. But does the poem take place during the same time as the story? Ted Berrigan was a genius at creating the current moment in his poems; he made you feel as if he were writing them down at the exact moment they were happening. Other poets prefer to look back on events long after they have happened. Frank O’Hara’s “The Day Billy Holiday Died” does not try to recreate the day as if it were today; instead he is looking back into the past. Obviously, time creates distance. How closely do you want to be to the events? That will determine what period of time you choose.
Ending: you’ve got to close out the poem, send a signal that it is over. Basically, there are two ways you can do that. You can use an open ending or a closed one.
Open: the open ending implies the resolution. It says things do not end. Perhaps they close but their effects linger on, their emotional impact hangs in the air long after the event itself has ended. Think of a love affair; it ends but the effects are still present long afterward.
Closed: A closed ending signals a final outcome. Questions are answered, things are resolved. Whatever the topic was, it is over now.
Which ending should you use? That one that it most organic for your materials, of course.
Remember, every poem has an organic form it wants to be in. Your job is to discover it and use it. How? Mostly, by getting out of the way, lightening up your control and enforced direction and letting the poem happen.
Next time, we'll talk about lyric poems.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Abstract and Concrete Language
Abstract or Concrete?
Beginning poets often think that because they are dealing with big ideas, they need top use big sweeping language, abstract language. That's usually a mistake. Abstact language doesn't get big ideas across; it obscures them.
What are Abstrations?
Abstractions are words that represent things that only exist in our heads. The general semanticists initially made the case for concrete language by pointing out that the word is the map, while the real thing is the territory. With abstractions, the territory only exists in our heads. We can't see it, feel it, touch it or smell it. And since all of our heads are different, each of us will see a different thing in your abstraction.
Abstract Language Lacks Precision.
Abstractions, then, don't communicate. If you write "Love is the most wonderful thing in the world," you might have just told me that love is ice cream; that is, if I think ice cream is the most wonderful thing. Another person might see a cold beer. It's too much all over the place to be effective.
Concrete Language is Precise.
Concreteness, on the other hand, is the language of images, sharp details that appeal to the senses. With concrete language, the poet suggests thing that can be tuched, seen, smelled, tasted and overheard.
Instead of writing, "Love is the most wonderful thing...." you might want to get at it, as David Young did, with words like these:
I guess your beauty doesn't
bother you, you wear it easy
and walk across the driveway
so casual and right it makes
my heart weigh twenty pounds.
Young's way gives me a picture I don't get in the first one; he makes the feeling real for me.
Be as Precise as Possible.
It is almost always better to be precise, to write in images that suggest ideas rather than in broad statements. What you imply is much stronger than what you say.
Give me a chance to play, also. By writing the big vague abstract statement, you don't let me into the poem. Using concete image-based language makes me a pareticipant in the poem.
And that's good.
Exercise
Take a commonplace idea, such as trees are majestic, Apples are good for you, or fast cars are fun.
Write a poem about it, using only concrete language. Do not state your idea but let your images suggest it instead.
Second Exercise
Go through some of your earlier work. See where your anguage is too abstract. Revise the poems to make them more precise. See which versions you like better.
Beginning poets often think that because they are dealing with big ideas, they need top use big sweeping language, abstract language. That's usually a mistake. Abstact language doesn't get big ideas across; it obscures them.
What are Abstrations?
Abstractions are words that represent things that only exist in our heads. The general semanticists initially made the case for concrete language by pointing out that the word is the map, while the real thing is the territory. With abstractions, the territory only exists in our heads. We can't see it, feel it, touch it or smell it. And since all of our heads are different, each of us will see a different thing in your abstraction.
Abstract Language Lacks Precision.
Abstractions, then, don't communicate. If you write "Love is the most wonderful thing in the world," you might have just told me that love is ice cream; that is, if I think ice cream is the most wonderful thing. Another person might see a cold beer. It's too much all over the place to be effective.
Concrete Language is Precise.
Concreteness, on the other hand, is the language of images, sharp details that appeal to the senses. With concrete language, the poet suggests thing that can be tuched, seen, smelled, tasted and overheard.
Instead of writing, "Love is the most wonderful thing...." you might want to get at it, as David Young did, with words like these:
I guess your beauty doesn't
bother you, you wear it easy
and walk across the driveway
so casual and right it makes
my heart weigh twenty pounds.
Young's way gives me a picture I don't get in the first one; he makes the feeling real for me.
Be as Precise as Possible.
It is almost always better to be precise, to write in images that suggest ideas rather than in broad statements. What you imply is much stronger than what you say.
Give me a chance to play, also. By writing the big vague abstract statement, you don't let me into the poem. Using concete image-based language makes me a pareticipant in the poem.
And that's good.
Exercise
Take a commonplace idea, such as trees are majestic, Apples are good for you, or fast cars are fun.
Write a poem about it, using only concrete language. Do not state your idea but let your images suggest it instead.
Second Exercise
Go through some of your earlier work. See where your anguage is too abstract. Revise the poems to make them more precise. See which versions you like better.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
What Exactly is a Poem Anyway?
One of the things a poet needs to think about is the question of just what makes a poem a poem. Your conception of what poetry is will determine what type of poetry you will write, what form or forms it will take, what it looks like on the page, what themes or ideas you'll take on and a lot of other things.
Robert Frost, who knew a few things about poetry, insisted that it had to rhyme. Writing poetry without rhyming, he said, is like playing tennis without a net. Most contemporary poets would now disagree with Frost; indeed, his idea was a minority position even when he made it. The popular write-from-the-soul books usually state that anything goes as long as it comes direct from the gut. Others suggest that poetry has to include all of the great technical innovations of the past: regular rhythm, iambic pentameter, metric line structure and the rest.
Let's try something. Read the following and determine whether or not it is a poem:
Nightmare #13
Get your cut throat off my knife.
That's by Diane DiPrima who calle it a poem and published it as one. Does it strike you as a genuine poem?
I'd have to argue that it qualifies. Sure, it's a single line but it has all of the things we generally associate with poems: there's a speaker, a dramatic situation, a few major symbols and a central idea. It also has rhythm and structure. It is concise, precise and suggests more than it states.
Good poetry does all of those things.
Can a single word be a poem:
Where Would I Be Without My Woman?
Morocco
That's by George Mattingly and again I'd have to argue that he's pulled off something major here; a single word that becomes a poem. If you don't think he has, try substituting the word "Boise" for Morocco. Or Birmingham. Yes, one word can be a poem -- if it's the right word. Morocco has a set of suggestions and ramifications to it, it has a culture, an allure, that makes it work.
Of course, both of these poems depend on their title for meaning, but that's true of many poems and it's one of the things a beginning poet needs to learn: the title is crucial. Choosing the right one can make your poem as strongly as the wrong one can break it.
What exactly is a poem, then? It's a piece of writing that contains most of the following:
Implication - it suggests rather than states
symbolism - it contains words that suggest more than their literal meanings.
Rhythm or rhythms -- it pulses, moves like a dance. Often it plays tricks with its rhythm; just as you think you've got it figured out, it gives you a variation.
Honesty - it comes from deep within its creator
Structure - it doesn't just fall out of a pocket. It is planned.
imagery - it contains precise language that appeals to our senses.
Sound values - the poem uses sound as a tool
Metaphor and simile - the poem often uses comparisons as a meaning device.
Multiple meanings - it connects with the reader on unconscious levels that generate more than one way of looking at things.
Effects - the effect of a poem is its emotional impact. It is what it makes us feel.
Tone - a poem reflects its author's way of looking at the material. It can be humorous, tragic, ironic, and so on.
Form - a poem has a definite form. One of the differences between poetry and other types of writing, though, is that each poem creates its own form.
If a piece of writing has all or most of these things, it's pretty safe to say it's a poem. As Paul Morris once said, "A poem is a lie trying to become true." It's a lie because it is made up and it is trying to become true on an intellectual or emotional level; it hits us in an honesty place in an honest way and that is its truth.
Exercise:
Bearing in mind that good poems are not written but are instead rewritten, try the following:
Take one of your old poems and read it over carefully. Check to see if it contains all of the elements listed above. If it does not, ask yourself if it would be more effective if you added them.
As an exercise, revise the poem so that it contains all of the elements in the list. Then keep the ones that help and remove the ones that hurt the overall poem. Remember, when you make changes, you can always change it back.
Oscar Wilde once described a day's work by saying he spent all morning putting in a comma and all afternoon taking it out. That's the revision process right there.
Robert Frost, who knew a few things about poetry, insisted that it had to rhyme. Writing poetry without rhyming, he said, is like playing tennis without a net. Most contemporary poets would now disagree with Frost; indeed, his idea was a minority position even when he made it. The popular write-from-the-soul books usually state that anything goes as long as it comes direct from the gut. Others suggest that poetry has to include all of the great technical innovations of the past: regular rhythm, iambic pentameter, metric line structure and the rest.
Let's try something. Read the following and determine whether or not it is a poem:
Nightmare #13
Get your cut throat off my knife.
That's by Diane DiPrima who calle it a poem and published it as one. Does it strike you as a genuine poem?
I'd have to argue that it qualifies. Sure, it's a single line but it has all of the things we generally associate with poems: there's a speaker, a dramatic situation, a few major symbols and a central idea. It also has rhythm and structure. It is concise, precise and suggests more than it states.
Good poetry does all of those things.
Can a single word be a poem:
Where Would I Be Without My Woman?
Morocco
That's by George Mattingly and again I'd have to argue that he's pulled off something major here; a single word that becomes a poem. If you don't think he has, try substituting the word "Boise" for Morocco. Or Birmingham. Yes, one word can be a poem -- if it's the right word. Morocco has a set of suggestions and ramifications to it, it has a culture, an allure, that makes it work.
Of course, both of these poems depend on their title for meaning, but that's true of many poems and it's one of the things a beginning poet needs to learn: the title is crucial. Choosing the right one can make your poem as strongly as the wrong one can break it.
What exactly is a poem, then? It's a piece of writing that contains most of the following:
Implication - it suggests rather than states
symbolism - it contains words that suggest more than their literal meanings.
Rhythm or rhythms -- it pulses, moves like a dance. Often it plays tricks with its rhythm; just as you think you've got it figured out, it gives you a variation.
Honesty - it comes from deep within its creator
Structure - it doesn't just fall out of a pocket. It is planned.
imagery - it contains precise language that appeals to our senses.
Sound values - the poem uses sound as a tool
Metaphor and simile - the poem often uses comparisons as a meaning device.
Multiple meanings - it connects with the reader on unconscious levels that generate more than one way of looking at things.
Effects - the effect of a poem is its emotional impact. It is what it makes us feel.
Tone - a poem reflects its author's way of looking at the material. It can be humorous, tragic, ironic, and so on.
Form - a poem has a definite form. One of the differences between poetry and other types of writing, though, is that each poem creates its own form.
If a piece of writing has all or most of these things, it's pretty safe to say it's a poem. As Paul Morris once said, "A poem is a lie trying to become true." It's a lie because it is made up and it is trying to become true on an intellectual or emotional level; it hits us in an honesty place in an honest way and that is its truth.
Exercise:
Bearing in mind that good poems are not written but are instead rewritten, try the following:
Take one of your old poems and read it over carefully. Check to see if it contains all of the elements listed above. If it does not, ask yourself if it would be more effective if you added them.
As an exercise, revise the poem so that it contains all of the elements in the list. Then keep the ones that help and remove the ones that hurt the overall poem. Remember, when you make changes, you can always change it back.
Oscar Wilde once described a day's work by saying he spent all morning putting in a comma and all afternoon taking it out. That's the revision process right there.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Writing Poetry: Lesson One
I’m going to be offering weekly poetry lessons, complete with exercises and reading recommendations. These will be primarily craft lessons, although some will be designed to get you to think about content, purpose and the rest.
Here’s the first:
WHY WRITE POETRY ANYWAY?
Samuel Johnson once wrote that nobody but a jackass ever wrote a line for any reason but money, but then Samuel Johnson wasn’t a poet. Still, a lot of beginning poets have a vague idea that somewhere down the line money will flow in. In a moment, we’ll see how and why they are wrong. First, though, before we get into lessons proper, let’s take a look at the possible motives for writing poetry.
1: Self-expression. If you are motivated by the need to express yourself, then shut down this blog and write any way you want to, any thing you want to. Self-expression has no rules, no structure, no formats, no literary aspects at all. Whatever goes on the page is just fine. So, if you want to write the following:
I’ve never been happier in my life except when I was happier and
Being happy in life is all that counts except for maybe money and
Good times and collecting bottle caps and sailing water filled balloons down
From the tops of buildings and stuff like that.
Well, then, great, you go right ahead. Don’t be bothered by the fact that you’ve used the word “and” five times in four lines and that you haven’t communicated anything to anyone, so that all you are doing is babbling, which cannot possibly be of interest to anyone but yourself.
You don’t need to be bothered by any of that because your goal was to express yourself and you achieved that. You just didn’t express anything to anyone else or create a piece of art.
2: Commercial. Many young poets have the idea that after they serve an apprenticeship, money will follow. If you are writing poetry, let me disabuse you of that notion right now. Poetry doesn’t pay anything. In fact, it costs money to be a poet. You have to pay postage to send stuff out and most of the magazines you will publish in do not pay anything. When you get a book out, the chances are your publisher will lose money on it and will pay you in copies of the book, which you will have to promote and sell. Or you will have to publish it yourself, which costs money. Naturally, promoting a book costs money. It is especially expensive to promote something that no one wants, as is the case with poetry. Richard Wilbur used to complain that party guests would not even steal one of his books from his home. So, if you’re writing poetry in order to make a few bucks, stop right now and instead move to L.A. and write for TV. One TV script will pay more than you’ll make in a career as a poet.
3: Literary. Okay, here’s the real reason to write poetry. You do it because you are an artist and this is your medium for creation. Your intent is to communicate something of importance, either an idea, an insight or a feeling to an audience, no matter how small. You are writing as both an act of creation and of communication. You have something to offer and you want other people to have an opportunity to pick up on it.
Will the masses pick it up and adore you, shower you with ego strokes? Thankfully, no. Chances are you will never hear from your audience. Every once in a while, though, you’ll get a hit; someone will get in touch and say, “Nice work” and you’ll know you’ve communicated. Once, I got a call from a college student in Illinois who had read something of mine in a magazine, tracked me down at the college where I worked and called me in my office just to say, “Thanks.” He said he needed to read my work and it came to his attention at just the right time. Those things don’t happen much, but when they do it’s a big payoff. If you’re not writing from a literary motive, it will never happen. Self-expression and commerciality do not communicate the way literary does.
Reading list:
For commercial poetry, find a Rod McKuen book. In the sixties and seventies he was the best selling poet around and the stuff he wrote was loved by a bazillion people, probably the same ones who love Dan Brown novels. You might also read Judith Viorst.
For self-expression, read Richard Brautigan, a hippie poet from the sixties and seventies who scrawled whatever occurred to him down and never revised or shaped any of it.
You might note that none of those people are easy to find today. That’s because poems written for their motives have no lasting value.
For literary poetry, you can find a thousand examples on your own.
Here’s an exercise:
1: Write down whatever occurs to you. Let it be as spontaneous as possible, with no thought or direction. Don’t worry about whether it makes sense or not, has an internal logic or any other literary value. Just make sure you get it on paper. Be satisfied with whatever happens.
2: Now, tell yourself that you want to make money off of what you just wrote. What will you have to do to make it commercial? Maybe you’ll have to shape it into a song; don’t forget that the guy who wrote “Achy-Breaky Heart” made 12 million dollars off of it. Perhaps you’ll have to change it into a short story or a TV script.
For the sake of this exercise, you don’t have to really carry out the changes, just explore them.
3: Turn it into a literary poem.
More next week.
Here’s the first:
WHY WRITE POETRY ANYWAY?
Samuel Johnson once wrote that nobody but a jackass ever wrote a line for any reason but money, but then Samuel Johnson wasn’t a poet. Still, a lot of beginning poets have a vague idea that somewhere down the line money will flow in. In a moment, we’ll see how and why they are wrong. First, though, before we get into lessons proper, let’s take a look at the possible motives for writing poetry.
1: Self-expression. If you are motivated by the need to express yourself, then shut down this blog and write any way you want to, any thing you want to. Self-expression has no rules, no structure, no formats, no literary aspects at all. Whatever goes on the page is just fine. So, if you want to write the following:
I’ve never been happier in my life except when I was happier and
Being happy in life is all that counts except for maybe money and
Good times and collecting bottle caps and sailing water filled balloons down
From the tops of buildings and stuff like that.
Well, then, great, you go right ahead. Don’t be bothered by the fact that you’ve used the word “and” five times in four lines and that you haven’t communicated anything to anyone, so that all you are doing is babbling, which cannot possibly be of interest to anyone but yourself.
You don’t need to be bothered by any of that because your goal was to express yourself and you achieved that. You just didn’t express anything to anyone else or create a piece of art.
2: Commercial. Many young poets have the idea that after they serve an apprenticeship, money will follow. If you are writing poetry, let me disabuse you of that notion right now. Poetry doesn’t pay anything. In fact, it costs money to be a poet. You have to pay postage to send stuff out and most of the magazines you will publish in do not pay anything. When you get a book out, the chances are your publisher will lose money on it and will pay you in copies of the book, which you will have to promote and sell. Or you will have to publish it yourself, which costs money. Naturally, promoting a book costs money. It is especially expensive to promote something that no one wants, as is the case with poetry. Richard Wilbur used to complain that party guests would not even steal one of his books from his home. So, if you’re writing poetry in order to make a few bucks, stop right now and instead move to L.A. and write for TV. One TV script will pay more than you’ll make in a career as a poet.
3: Literary. Okay, here’s the real reason to write poetry. You do it because you are an artist and this is your medium for creation. Your intent is to communicate something of importance, either an idea, an insight or a feeling to an audience, no matter how small. You are writing as both an act of creation and of communication. You have something to offer and you want other people to have an opportunity to pick up on it.
Will the masses pick it up and adore you, shower you with ego strokes? Thankfully, no. Chances are you will never hear from your audience. Every once in a while, though, you’ll get a hit; someone will get in touch and say, “Nice work” and you’ll know you’ve communicated. Once, I got a call from a college student in Illinois who had read something of mine in a magazine, tracked me down at the college where I worked and called me in my office just to say, “Thanks.” He said he needed to read my work and it came to his attention at just the right time. Those things don’t happen much, but when they do it’s a big payoff. If you’re not writing from a literary motive, it will never happen. Self-expression and commerciality do not communicate the way literary does.
Reading list:
For commercial poetry, find a Rod McKuen book. In the sixties and seventies he was the best selling poet around and the stuff he wrote was loved by a bazillion people, probably the same ones who love Dan Brown novels. You might also read Judith Viorst.
For self-expression, read Richard Brautigan, a hippie poet from the sixties and seventies who scrawled whatever occurred to him down and never revised or shaped any of it.
You might note that none of those people are easy to find today. That’s because poems written for their motives have no lasting value.
For literary poetry, you can find a thousand examples on your own.
Here’s an exercise:
1: Write down whatever occurs to you. Let it be as spontaneous as possible, with no thought or direction. Don’t worry about whether it makes sense or not, has an internal logic or any other literary value. Just make sure you get it on paper. Be satisfied with whatever happens.
2: Now, tell yourself that you want to make money off of what you just wrote. What will you have to do to make it commercial? Maybe you’ll have to shape it into a song; don’t forget that the guy who wrote “Achy-Breaky Heart” made 12 million dollars off of it. Perhaps you’ll have to change it into a short story or a TV script.
For the sake of this exercise, you don’t have to really carry out the changes, just explore them.
3: Turn it into a literary poem.
More next week.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Five More Things a Poet Needs
6: Patience
Nothing in the arts – any of the arts – comes quickly. Sure, we read about the song that was finished in fifteen minutes or the story that came flowing out in a half an hour but those are very rare exceptions and if you examine them closely, you’ll see that most of the time they’d have been much, much better if more time and care had been taken with them.
The good ones that came quickly? Usually, the artist has been carrying them around in her head for months, working them out, worrying them into the shape that emerges.
Most of the time, though, a good piece of work comes slowly, agonizingy slowly. You have to wait it out. Often, you feel it will never come and, if you don’t have the necessary patience, you’ll become frustrated and will ruin the piece by either rushing it or abandoning it.
7: The Ability to Reject Models
Too much of the time, poetry does not reflect real life. It doesn’t go into the heart, mind and soul and demonstrate the complexities there. Instead, it is based on other poems. It’s only natural; reading work we admire makes us want to write. If I’m stuck, I take Ted Berrigan’s books off of the shelves, read through them randomly and before long I’m ready to write.
What I do not do is try to write a Ted Berrigan poem. Berrigan is inspiration, not a pattern. What makes Ted Berrigan worth reading is that he is the only man who can write the way he does. If I try to imitate him, the result is forced, inauthentic and lacking in soul.
My task as an artist is to reject him as a model and find my own way, which is another reason poets need patience; it takes a long time to find out who you are as an artist.
Television, movies and genre books are based on other episodes of TV, movies and genre books and we’ve all seen the results: diminishing audiences, boredom and rejection.
Why should poetry go down that road?
8: A Good Library.
When I ask younger poets who they read, an astonishing number confess that they don’t read poetry at all. This might sound contradictory, considering that I just called for poets to reject models, but you can’t write good poetry if you don’t read it. In fact, I’ll take it a step further: you can’t write anything well if you don’t read poetry. You have to develop a sensitivity to the language. You have to learn how words work and why the first word that pops into your head is not the best one. You have to learn when and why to break lines and stanzas.
Like any skill, there’s a lot of basic craft to be learned and, with poetry, you have to reach a point where you sense these things.
Only by reading widely and indiscriminately can you build up that intuitive sense that will lead you to the next thing a poet needs:
9: Originality.
When I was younger, I used to pick up a W. S. Merwin book and after going through a few poems, I’d be of two minds. I’d admire the hell out of what he was doing and go into despair because I knew I could never do that.
It took a long time for me to realize what I’m going to tell you now: I’m not and never will be W. S. Merwin and that’s okay. The world doesn’t need another Merwin; we already have one. What the world needs is for me to be the best me I can be. I’m vain enough to believe that I’ve got something reasonably important to say, a unique view of what we laughingly call reality and that a few people at least can benefit from an exposure to my thoughts and feelings.
If I’m busy trying to become the next Merwin, then no one is going to hear me.
What’s true for me is true for all poets. We need to hear your own unique voice, to be exposed to your own uniqueness. And that’s one more reason why you have to reject models and delve ever more deeply into your own mind, heart and soul.
When I tell young poets these things, someone invariably says, “I’m eighteen. What have I got to say?” I answer by giving them Flannery O’Connor’s quote: If a writer survives childhood, he has a lifetime of material.
10: A Strong but Controlled Ego
From the previous discussion, it should be obvious that a poet needs a healthy sense of her own self-worth. You need a strong but controlled ego; you cannot go around believing that you are better than other people, because you are not and believing that you are will lead you into lying to yourself and invalidate both your work and your life.
You must, however, believe you have something worthwhile to share and the ability to share it. You need to be able to see yourself as strong enough to pull off the challenge you have set for yourself: writing good, strong original poems that offer a voice, an idea and an emotional effect that can’t be had anywhere else.
That calls for a certain amount of ego, a healthy self-respect. You have to keep the ego in a box, though; it must apply to your work and your work only. Begin thinking of yourself as bigger and better than other people and you lose the connection; how can you create good work for people you hold in contempt?
6: Patience
Nothing in the arts – any of the arts – comes quickly. Sure, we read about the song that was finished in fifteen minutes or the story that came flowing out in a half an hour but those are very rare exceptions and if you examine them closely, you’ll see that most of the time they’d have been much, much better if more time and care had been taken with them.
The good ones that came quickly? Usually, the artist has been carrying them around in her head for months, working them out, worrying them into the shape that emerges.
Most of the time, though, a good piece of work comes slowly, agonizingy slowly. You have to wait it out. Often, you feel it will never come and, if you don’t have the necessary patience, you’ll become frustrated and will ruin the piece by either rushing it or abandoning it.
7: The Ability to Reject Models
Too much of the time, poetry does not reflect real life. It doesn’t go into the heart, mind and soul and demonstrate the complexities there. Instead, it is based on other poems. It’s only natural; reading work we admire makes us want to write. If I’m stuck, I take Ted Berrigan’s books off of the shelves, read through them randomly and before long I’m ready to write.
What I do not do is try to write a Ted Berrigan poem. Berrigan is inspiration, not a pattern. What makes Ted Berrigan worth reading is that he is the only man who can write the way he does. If I try to imitate him, the result is forced, inauthentic and lacking in soul.
My task as an artist is to reject him as a model and find my own way, which is another reason poets need patience; it takes a long time to find out who you are as an artist.
Television, movies and genre books are based on other episodes of TV, movies and genre books and we’ve all seen the results: diminishing audiences, boredom and rejection.
Why should poetry go down that road?
8: A Good Library.
When I ask younger poets who they read, an astonishing number confess that they don’t read poetry at all. This might sound contradictory, considering that I just called for poets to reject models, but you can’t write good poetry if you don’t read it. In fact, I’ll take it a step further: you can’t write anything well if you don’t read poetry. You have to develop a sensitivity to the language. You have to learn how words work and why the first word that pops into your head is not the best one. You have to learn when and why to break lines and stanzas.
Like any skill, there’s a lot of basic craft to be learned and, with poetry, you have to reach a point where you sense these things.
Only by reading widely and indiscriminately can you build up that intuitive sense that will lead you to the next thing a poet needs:
9: Originality.
When I was younger, I used to pick up a W. S. Merwin book and after going through a few poems, I’d be of two minds. I’d admire the hell out of what he was doing and go into despair because I knew I could never do that.
It took a long time for me to realize what I’m going to tell you now: I’m not and never will be W. S. Merwin and that’s okay. The world doesn’t need another Merwin; we already have one. What the world needs is for me to be the best me I can be. I’m vain enough to believe that I’ve got something reasonably important to say, a unique view of what we laughingly call reality and that a few people at least can benefit from an exposure to my thoughts and feelings.
If I’m busy trying to become the next Merwin, then no one is going to hear me.
What’s true for me is true for all poets. We need to hear your own unique voice, to be exposed to your own uniqueness. And that’s one more reason why you have to reject models and delve ever more deeply into your own mind, heart and soul.
When I tell young poets these things, someone invariably says, “I’m eighteen. What have I got to say?” I answer by giving them Flannery O’Connor’s quote: If a writer survives childhood, he has a lifetime of material.
10: A Strong but Controlled Ego
From the previous discussion, it should be obvious that a poet needs a healthy sense of her own self-worth. You need a strong but controlled ego; you cannot go around believing that you are better than other people, because you are not and believing that you are will lead you into lying to yourself and invalidate both your work and your life.
You must, however, believe you have something worthwhile to share and the ability to share it. You need to be able to see yourself as strong enough to pull off the challenge you have set for yourself: writing good, strong original poems that offer a voice, an idea and an emotional effect that can’t be had anywhere else.
That calls for a certain amount of ego, a healthy self-respect. You have to keep the ego in a box, though; it must apply to your work and your work only. Begin thinking of yourself as bigger and better than other people and you lose the connection; how can you create good work for people you hold in contempt?
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Five Things All Poets Need
Occasionally, I'm going to post some poetry lessons, rough notes that will try to deal with the art and help artists develop the attitudes and skills poets need in order to grow. Here's the first one, which covers in no particular order, five things that all poets need.
1: A pencil with a good eraser.
You're going to make a lot of mistakes and are going to get far more things wrong than you do right. So you don't want to commit yourself to the words you write until you're certain they're the best you're capable of. Write in pencil. The marks on the page don't have the permanence of ink; they almost invite you to erase them.
Take advantage of that invitation.
Some poets like to save all of their drafts, so that they can compare them and make decisions by choosing among all of the possibilities. They pore over various versions of their work as though they were panning for gold in the Colorado River. If you're comfortable working that way, go ahead but my own experience has been once I intuitively decide something isn't right, then for better or worse, it can never be right; I can't go back to it.
Besides, by the time I get something together enough to call it a first draft, it's been pretty well worked over. I consider what I have on the page to be notes and worksheets until it comes together and begins to appeal to me.
However you work, be aware that if you intend to write good poems, you're going to have to write many, many drafts and go through a ton of changes on the page.
2: Paper that can be carried around.
A reporter's notebook always makes a good choice. These pads are about six inches long and three inches wide. They fit well into a pocket and are manageable enough to be held in one hand while you write in them with the other. They were made for journalists, who do a lot of interviewing on the fly, in less than ideal conditions; if you've ever had to write something on a subway or a bus, then you know how important a notebook in a manageable size can be.
Why am I emphasizing this? The poet Andre Codrescu once said that a poet leaves his house in the morning and over coffee some thing, thought or image occurs to him so he writes it down. As he goes through the day, other things occur to him. He records all of them and when he gets home in the evening, he goes over it and has himself a poem. (by the way, people represented by the personal pronoun she do all the same things.)
I'd correct Codrescu in one respect: when he goes through the material after he gets home, he has maybe a draft — rarely a finished poem. That's not to say that magic doesn't happen but it is very rare.
Students often want to use tape recorders instead of a notebook. I keep one in my car and occasionally recite into it as I drive but usually the words I record just die there on the tape. The writer, comedian and TV personality Steve Allen used to dictate into a hand held recorder as he drove, but he could get away with working that way; he had a secretary who transcribed the tapes for him.
3: Curiosity.
If you don't have a strong curiosity about everything you see, hear, think or imagine, then your ability to write poems is going to suffer. If you can watch kids play a game without wondering what the rules are, or if you can hear an unfamiliar word without wondering what it means, then it's questionable whether you're going to write anything that will intrigue a reader. You have to be concerned with the unknown and driven to know something about everything — even if what you know is wrong.
When you people watch, do you invent biographies of the people you're watching? When you meet someone at a party or some other sort of gathering, are you genuinely interested in learning who that person is or are you more interested in yourself and the impression you're making?
Unless you're truly curious about other people and are able to focus on them, you're probably not going to be able to write convincing stuff.
4: The ability to get lost in your own head.
I know, this topic seems to contradict number three above, but think about it; it is perfectly possible to be fully devoted to your own imagination and still be genuinely interested in other people. It is also imperative. As the great country rock singer David Allen Coe wrote, "You like to live in the city. I like to live in my head."
Here is a secret about poetry: the source of great poetry is not out there in the world. Instead, it is in the poet's interpretation of what is out there in the world. The city might be the source of raw material and inspiration but to become poetry that material has to be filtered through the artist's sensibility and perceptual apparatus. Poetry, then, is a blend of the external and the internal. Wordsworth's definition of poetry applies here: "Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings, recollected in tranquility."
Most poets, especially lyric poets, like to quote the first clause of that definition. They forget that the second clause is at least equally important. Powerful feelings are fine but to put those feelings through your own sensibility makes them a unique reflection of who you are.
And that is what counts.
5: A willingness to look stupid.
When I go back and read stuff I've published, even if it's just a month or so later, I wonder what the hell I was suffering from to let it go out in that shape. My own work sometimes embarrasses me. Consdier also that if you publish i9n a magazine you haven't seen before, you can be a touch taken aback when you realize what a piece of crap you've associated yourself with. Well, you've got to really enjoy looking like an idiot because it's going to happen to you. For example, you can be in a social setting and tell someone you're a poet. the comeback question is alost always, "Oh, have I read anything you've written?"
Chances are the person hasn't read a poem since she was in the ninth grade, but you'll still name places you've published and each time, she'll hsake her head and say, "No, never heard of it." This conversation can go on till you pretend to see someone you absolutely have to say hello to over in a corner and slink away. The weird thing is you won't think that maybe that person will want to glance at a few magazines before she gathers with artists; you'll think it's your problem. So get used to looking and feeling stupid.
Here's what to do about it: If your old stuff embarrasses you, actually that's a good thing. It means you're getting better and are not as easily pleased as you used to be. If you publish in a terrible magazine, well, you have just raised the quality level of tha magazine. Congratulations. And if other people have never heard of you or your work, well, they probably haven't heard of Billy Collins, either. Besides, recognition isn't the motive. If you want to be recognized, get on a reality show.
Occasionally, I'm going to post some poetry lessons, rough notes that will try to deal with the art and help artists develop the attitudes and skills poets need in order to grow. Here's the first one, which covers in no particular order, five things that all poets need.
1: A pencil with a good eraser.
You're going to make a lot of mistakes and are going to get far more things wrong than you do right. So you don't want to commit yourself to the words you write until you're certain they're the best you're capable of. Write in pencil. The marks on the page don't have the permanence of ink; they almost invite you to erase them.
Take advantage of that invitation.
Some poets like to save all of their drafts, so that they can compare them and make decisions by choosing among all of the possibilities. They pore over various versions of their work as though they were panning for gold in the Colorado River. If you're comfortable working that way, go ahead but my own experience has been once I intuitively decide something isn't right, then for better or worse, it can never be right; I can't go back to it.
Besides, by the time I get something together enough to call it a first draft, it's been pretty well worked over. I consider what I have on the page to be notes and worksheets until it comes together and begins to appeal to me.
However you work, be aware that if you intend to write good poems, you're going to have to write many, many drafts and go through a ton of changes on the page.
2: Paper that can be carried around.
A reporter's notebook always makes a good choice. These pads are about six inches long and three inches wide. They fit well into a pocket and are manageable enough to be held in one hand while you write in them with the other. They were made for journalists, who do a lot of interviewing on the fly, in less than ideal conditions; if you've ever had to write something on a subway or a bus, then you know how important a notebook in a manageable size can be.
Why am I emphasizing this? The poet Andre Codrescu once said that a poet leaves his house in the morning and over coffee some thing, thought or image occurs to him so he writes it down. As he goes through the day, other things occur to him. He records all of them and when he gets home in the evening, he goes over it and has himself a poem. (by the way, people represented by the personal pronoun she do all the same things.)
I'd correct Codrescu in one respect: when he goes through the material after he gets home, he has maybe a draft — rarely a finished poem. That's not to say that magic doesn't happen but it is very rare.
Students often want to use tape recorders instead of a notebook. I keep one in my car and occasionally recite into it as I drive but usually the words I record just die there on the tape. The writer, comedian and TV personality Steve Allen used to dictate into a hand held recorder as he drove, but he could get away with working that way; he had a secretary who transcribed the tapes for him.
3: Curiosity.
If you don't have a strong curiosity about everything you see, hear, think or imagine, then your ability to write poems is going to suffer. If you can watch kids play a game without wondering what the rules are, or if you can hear an unfamiliar word without wondering what it means, then it's questionable whether you're going to write anything that will intrigue a reader. You have to be concerned with the unknown and driven to know something about everything — even if what you know is wrong.
When you people watch, do you invent biographies of the people you're watching? When you meet someone at a party or some other sort of gathering, are you genuinely interested in learning who that person is or are you more interested in yourself and the impression you're making?
Unless you're truly curious about other people and are able to focus on them, you're probably not going to be able to write convincing stuff.
4: The ability to get lost in your own head.
I know, this topic seems to contradict number three above, but think about it; it is perfectly possible to be fully devoted to your own imagination and still be genuinely interested in other people. It is also imperative. As the great country rock singer David Allen Coe wrote, "You like to live in the city. I like to live in my head."
Here is a secret about poetry: the source of great poetry is not out there in the world. Instead, it is in the poet's interpretation of what is out there in the world. The city might be the source of raw material and inspiration but to become poetry that material has to be filtered through the artist's sensibility and perceptual apparatus. Poetry, then, is a blend of the external and the internal. Wordsworth's definition of poetry applies here: "Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings, recollected in tranquility."
Most poets, especially lyric poets, like to quote the first clause of that definition. They forget that the second clause is at least equally important. Powerful feelings are fine but to put those feelings through your own sensibility makes them a unique reflection of who you are.
And that is what counts.
5: A willingness to look stupid.
When I go back and read stuff I've published, even if it's just a month or so later, I wonder what the hell I was suffering from to let it go out in that shape. My own work sometimes embarrasses me. Consdier also that if you publish i9n a magazine you haven't seen before, you can be a touch taken aback when you realize what a piece of crap you've associated yourself with. Well, you've got to really enjoy looking like an idiot because it's going to happen to you. For example, you can be in a social setting and tell someone you're a poet. the comeback question is alost always, "Oh, have I read anything you've written?"
Chances are the person hasn't read a poem since she was in the ninth grade, but you'll still name places you've published and each time, she'll hsake her head and say, "No, never heard of it." This conversation can go on till you pretend to see someone you absolutely have to say hello to over in a corner and slink away. The weird thing is you won't think that maybe that person will want to glance at a few magazines before she gathers with artists; you'll think it's your problem. So get used to looking and feeling stupid.
Here's what to do about it: If your old stuff embarrasses you, actually that's a good thing. It means you're getting better and are not as easily pleased as you used to be. If you publish in a terrible magazine, well, you have just raised the quality level of tha magazine. Congratulations. And if other people have never heard of you or your work, well, they probably haven't heard of Billy Collins, either. Besides, recognition isn't the motive. If you want to be recognized, get on a reality show.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Buddy Holly
I've been listening to a lot of Buddy Holly over the past few days and if the experience has taught me any one thing, it's that there is no time. Sure, the records were made fifty years ago, on primitive technology, but they're still as current as any roots release. The passage of the decades has done nothing to age them.
Holly blended folk, country, rhythm & blues and rock into a new sound that was as unique as it was his very own. Lots of people have tried over the years but nobody else has been able to do what he did.
When I told her what I'd been listening to, a friend refered to the music as oldies but I challenged her on that one. An oldie is a forgotten song that pops up out of nowhere, causing you to remember -- usually with a touch of embarassment -- what you were doing when you last heard it. Then you wish it would go away again. Hall & Oates records are oldies. Paul Revere and the Raiders are oldies. As wonderful as it was on first hearing, Love's music is oldies also. Buddy Holly, though, is eternal. His songs have never been away, have never been out of the world's consciousness.
He sells so well in England that Paul McCartney bought his publishing company just to get his hands on those copyrights. All over Europe and America, his music is continually reissued -- a new package was just released this month -- and he has never been out of print.
Both bar bands and big stars still play his songs and, my guess is, they always will.
Check him out if he's new to you. You'll be glad you did.
If you're going to give him a listen, though, you ought to be aware that there are really two Buddy Hollys: the one who recorded for Decca and the one who recorded for Brunswick.
The Decca records, his earliest, were made in Nashville, overseen by house producer Owen Bradley who, frankly, did not get this eightteen year old kid from Texas who had the unmitigated gall to try to tell him how his records should sound. Refusing to let the kid use his own band, Bradley brought in session musicians and put Holly's songs through the early fifties Nashville country sound machine and Holly was almost suffocated by the restrictions on his creativity. After Decca dropped him, he began recording with his band, the Crickets, in Clovis, New Mexico, in an Norman Petty's independent studio. He had total control over these records and instantly came into his own as a creative artist. He was nineteen at the time. Petty sold the masters to Brunswick Records, where Holly and the Crickets piled up a string of hits that continued even after Holly's death at the age of twenty-two in a plane crash. If you want to see the difference control, creativity and taste makes, Holly's first hit, "That'll be the Day" was cut twice, once for Decca and later, the nhit version, for Brunswick. Both versions are in print. Seek them out and listen to the difference. You'll be amazed.
I've been listening to Buddy Holly all my life and will probably continue to do so. I recommend you do, too.
Holly blended folk, country, rhythm & blues and rock into a new sound that was as unique as it was his very own. Lots of people have tried over the years but nobody else has been able to do what he did.
When I told her what I'd been listening to, a friend refered to the music as oldies but I challenged her on that one. An oldie is a forgotten song that pops up out of nowhere, causing you to remember -- usually with a touch of embarassment -- what you were doing when you last heard it. Then you wish it would go away again. Hall & Oates records are oldies. Paul Revere and the Raiders are oldies. As wonderful as it was on first hearing, Love's music is oldies also. Buddy Holly, though, is eternal. His songs have never been away, have never been out of the world's consciousness.
He sells so well in England that Paul McCartney bought his publishing company just to get his hands on those copyrights. All over Europe and America, his music is continually reissued -- a new package was just released this month -- and he has never been out of print.
Both bar bands and big stars still play his songs and, my guess is, they always will.
Check him out if he's new to you. You'll be glad you did.
If you're going to give him a listen, though, you ought to be aware that there are really two Buddy Hollys: the one who recorded for Decca and the one who recorded for Brunswick.
The Decca records, his earliest, were made in Nashville, overseen by house producer Owen Bradley who, frankly, did not get this eightteen year old kid from Texas who had the unmitigated gall to try to tell him how his records should sound. Refusing to let the kid use his own band, Bradley brought in session musicians and put Holly's songs through the early fifties Nashville country sound machine and Holly was almost suffocated by the restrictions on his creativity. After Decca dropped him, he began recording with his band, the Crickets, in Clovis, New Mexico, in an Norman Petty's independent studio. He had total control over these records and instantly came into his own as a creative artist. He was nineteen at the time. Petty sold the masters to Brunswick Records, where Holly and the Crickets piled up a string of hits that continued even after Holly's death at the age of twenty-two in a plane crash. If you want to see the difference control, creativity and taste makes, Holly's first hit, "That'll be the Day" was cut twice, once for Decca and later, the nhit version, for Brunswick. Both versions are in print. Seek them out and listen to the difference. You'll be amazed.
I've been listening to Buddy Holly all my life and will probably continue to do so. I recommend you do, too.
Monday, August 10, 2009
I'm available for classes, workshops and online instruction in the writing of poetry, fiction and nonfiction. I also have openings for a few additional editing clients. If you feel you're close to your writing goal, but need a little extra to get where you need to be, maybe a good teacher or editor is what you need. May I modestly recommend myself? Email me for more information.
Monday, July 6, 2009
The best of the unknown
One of the things I want to do with this blog is bring to light stuff you might not have had a chance to experience. Much of the best stuff in music and books comes from the small independent presses that don't have big promotion budgets and therefore isn't widely circulated. As a book, record and occasional film critic (see www.rambles.net) I see a lot of this material. Here, I'll occasionally call attention to stuff you ought to be paying attention to.
Fine music:
Americana: Fayssoux, Early. You might not know who Fayssoux is but you've heard her sing on a thousand records. She was Emmie Lou Harris harmony singer on those wonderful early Warner's albums, for example. Here she steps out in front on her own and crafts a fabulous album. Try it out. Red Beat Records, PO Box 68417, Nashville, TN 37206. Order from their website, CD baby, Amazon or many of the other major sites.
Blues: Swamp Cabbage, Squeal. I called this the best of 2008 and I'm not about to change my mind. Swamp Cabbage is a power blues trio from Jacksonville, Florida, that plays southern soul blues with a fabulous fingerpicked electric guitar, bass and drums. These guys cook. Walter Parks growls the vocals, sounding like a New Orleans street preacher after a really hard night and his playing just can't be matched. You want to know how good this guy is? His day job is playing lead guitar for Ritchie Havens. www.zohomusic.com or all the other online sources.
Books:
Southern fiction: Raymond L. Atkins, The Front Porch Prophet. In the south, nobody loves anything more than good story-telling. Three people get in the same room, one of them is going to start telling a story. It'll be a tall tale and the longer it goes on, the more it'll demand of you as a listener. Remember Eudora Welty's flying cows and Flannery O'Connor travelling salesmen who steal women's wooden legs and you'll realize that verisimilitude does not rule the region. Raymond Atkins comes from this tradition. He tells the story of people who tell stories. sure, there's a plot but it never gets in the way of the stories. This novel just won the award for being the best Georgia novel of the year, but you're still going to have to search it out. Well worth the search, though. www.Medallionpress.com or all the other online sources.
Poetry: anything from Gaspereau Press. Gaspereau is a leading publisher and printer from Canada and the house specializes in producing some of the most beautiful books you've ever seen. They are printed on fine paper, which is smyth sewn in signatures so that the books are durable and open flat without breaking. They are paperbacks but have dust jackets which are handset in letterpress type. The design of the individual volumes is gorgeous; each is a unique piece of art in itself and even more important, they have fine contents. Gaspereau publishes good poets. www.gaspereau.com
More next time.
Fine music:
Americana: Fayssoux, Early. You might not know who Fayssoux is but you've heard her sing on a thousand records. She was Emmie Lou Harris harmony singer on those wonderful early Warner's albums, for example. Here she steps out in front on her own and crafts a fabulous album. Try it out. Red Beat Records, PO Box 68417, Nashville, TN 37206. Order from their website, CD baby, Amazon or many of the other major sites.
Blues: Swamp Cabbage, Squeal. I called this the best of 2008 and I'm not about to change my mind. Swamp Cabbage is a power blues trio from Jacksonville, Florida, that plays southern soul blues with a fabulous fingerpicked electric guitar, bass and drums. These guys cook. Walter Parks growls the vocals, sounding like a New Orleans street preacher after a really hard night and his playing just can't be matched. You want to know how good this guy is? His day job is playing lead guitar for Ritchie Havens. www.zohomusic.com or all the other online sources.
Books:
Southern fiction: Raymond L. Atkins, The Front Porch Prophet. In the south, nobody loves anything more than good story-telling. Three people get in the same room, one of them is going to start telling a story. It'll be a tall tale and the longer it goes on, the more it'll demand of you as a listener. Remember Eudora Welty's flying cows and Flannery O'Connor travelling salesmen who steal women's wooden legs and you'll realize that verisimilitude does not rule the region. Raymond Atkins comes from this tradition. He tells the story of people who tell stories. sure, there's a plot but it never gets in the way of the stories. This novel just won the award for being the best Georgia novel of the year, but you're still going to have to search it out. Well worth the search, though. www.Medallionpress.com or all the other online sources.
Poetry: anything from Gaspereau Press. Gaspereau is a leading publisher and printer from Canada and the house specializes in producing some of the most beautiful books you've ever seen. They are printed on fine paper, which is smyth sewn in signatures so that the books are durable and open flat without breaking. They are paperbacks but have dust jackets which are handset in letterpress type. The design of the individual volumes is gorgeous; each is a unique piece of art in itself and even more important, they have fine contents. Gaspereau publishes good poets. www.gaspereau.com
More next time.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Kingston Trio The Final Concert and The Lost 1967 Album Collector's Choice
(2007)
In the midfifties, three guys who had worked their way through college playing and singing folk songs decided to try to make it in the pro ranks. They woodshedded a few months and when they figured they were ready, began auditioning at San Francisco night clubs. The three singers landed a long-running gig at the Hungry I where they signed a management contract written on a napkin with one of the waiters and then spent the next year or so becoming the Kingston Trio.
The waiter, Frank Gerber, helped drill the amateurism out of Dave Guard, Bob Shane and Nick Reynolds and then landed them a deal with Capitol Records. They put out an album, The Kingston Trio, and not much happened until a Michigan disc jockey played "Tom Dooley' on the air. That's all it took; the song hit number one on the charts and won a Grammie, the Kingston Trio became major stars and the folk revival of the sixties was born.
It is safe to say that the Kingston Trio, much as the Beatles did when they came along six years later, single-handedly changed the direction of popular music. To understand why and how they were able to do this, you have to take a look at what pop music was at the time. In the early fifties, pop was dominated by old style crooners, former big band singers like Frankie Laine, Frank Sinatra and Rosemary Clooney. Then, driven by independent pioneers like Sam Phillips of Sun Records, rock exploded. Phillips himself contributed Elvis Presley, Johnny Cash, Carl Perkins and Jerry Lee Lewis. Enough to revolutionize the music right there. For a while, rock dominated the airwaves and Frank Sinatra was reduced to paying his own recording and distribution costs. Everything changed overnight.
The change was driven by the independent labels. When the majors saw how much money there was to be made, they moved in. RCA bought Elvis's contract from Sun, while Columbia stole Johnny Cash. These labels immediately set out to emasculate the singers they had bought, fearing that the energy, verve and sheer sexiness of their music was a corporate embarrassment. As Clyde McPhatter, a top rhythm and blues singer for Atlantic Records, said of his new label, Mercury, "They pay a lot of money for my music and then they won't let me make the music they paid for."
With Elvis recording soft ballads — and being drafted — with Jerry Lee Lewis banned from the airwaves for marrying his thirteen year old cousin, and Johnny Cash neutered, we entered a dead age of rock. It was an age that considered Frankie Avalon, Fabian and Annette Funicello rock and rollers. The times were ripe for an infusion of something different and the Kingston Trio provided it. Folk music had undergone a brief flirtation with popular success during the rise of Pete Seeger's group, the Weavers, in the late forties, but the blacklisting of that group because of their left wing political affiliations had killed the music. Now the Kingston Trio resurrected it.
By resurrecting the music, they also brought back to life and old argument: whose folk music shall we listen to? If it is popular and successful, is it still folk music? Since they had a huge following and sold a ton of records, the trio was looked at as the epitome of commercialism in folk music and were somehow not pure enough for the purists. It's sort of like John Dewey and progressive education; just as Dewey was blamed for the excesses of his followers, the Trio was blamed for the wretchedness of all the singers who imitated them. As Irwin Silber complained as early as 1964:
the sudden proliferation of folk trios, quartets, septets, and junior-sized orchestras introduced new sounds into folk music at a breakneck pace. Those who had valued the traditional qualities of folk music were almost overwhelmed by the rapidity with which the gimmick-makers took over the name, the form and the organization of folk music.
Ironically, just as they were saving folk music, the trio was accused of destroying it. Even as a new folk movement and culture arose, it became hip not to appreciate the pioneers who had made it possible. The public still appreciated what they did but folk music was changing; instead of the trios and quartets, the solo singer-songwriters, like Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, Tom Paxton, Bob Gibson and Carolyn Hester took the forefront.
The Kingston Trio, as far as the folk mafia was concerned, could not do anything right. If they continued to do the music that had made them famous, they were called commercial hacks who pandered to their audience. If they tried to change, they were declared to have no direction, no core sound of their own. They discovered that their audience's devotion had become a double-edged sword. "The music was changing," said John Stewart, who replaced Dave Guard in 1961, "and we wanted to change with it. The audience, though, did not want us to change."
Finally, in 1967, the urge to do something else had become too strong and the trio decided to hang it up. To say farewell, they did a final week of concerts at the place where it all had started: The Hungry I. Now, after forty years, the recording of that show has been issued and it is well worth the wait. The Final Concert is not just a record of a live show. It's a party. The trio packed the crowd with everyone who was important to them, their friends and business associates -- even the DJ who had first played "Tom Dooley" was there.
The trio is fabulous in these performances, tight and together, musically brilliant, but loose and relaxed in their presentation. They joke around, poke fun at themselves and audience members, tell jokes fresh and lame, and have a really good time saying goodbye to one aspect of their careers. The set list tells the story of the contradictions that led to their decision to hang it up: mixed in with their old hits, like Woodie Guthrie's "Hard, Ain't It Hard," and Pete Seeger's "Where Have All the flowers Gone," you'll find recently composed songs from the new folk movement that they spawned, such as Bob Dylan's "One Too Many Mornings," Eric Andersen's "Thirsty Boots" and Donovan's "Colours."
Clearly the audience did not want to let them go and, after hearing this disc, you'll wish they had stayed around for more live performances and more records. You will understand, though, why they made the decision they did: while they were saying goodbye in San Francisco, the Monterey Pop Festival was going on. Variety said that "Most of the crowd, like the members of the Trio itself, were in their mid-30s. The kids were all at the Monterey Pop Festival." The trio skipped their encore so that they could get there.
When they retired, they left behind the tracks they'd completed for a new album. It has also been released as The Lost 1967 Album and since none of the tracks are finished, it would probably be more accurate to call it the Lost Demos. It shows that they definitely had committed to a new direction and gives a few hints of what they wanted to accomplish with this set of songs. There are no traditional songs here and only two by John Stewart, the chief writer for the band. The rest are penned by the top singer-songwriters extant in 1967: Paul Simon, Fred Neil, Donovan, Tim Hardin, John Sebastian and Bob Lind. Most of the singing is solo; Bob Shane takes on the Tim Hardin compositions, "Don't Make Promises," and "Reason to Believe," while Nick Reynolds sings a couple of Donovan tunes, "To Try for the Sun," and "Catch the Wind." John Stewart solos on Fred Neil's "The Dolphins," Paul Simon's "Homeward Bound," and Steve Gillette's "Darcy Farrow." A few songs offer the full trio singing together but, as I said, most do not.
And that's what drives you crazy listening to this record. While it's a lot of fun, when you hear it, you wonder what it would have sounded like if they had finished it. Would the reference vocals have stayed? Would songs sung solo have become full three-voiced offerings? Would the steadily thumping drums have been softened and altered? Would there be a full band to make the drums less prominent? You can listen to the tracks in progress that this record contains with pleasure but mostly, listening makes you wonder what would have come had they not discarded their work.
Some version of the Kingston Trio has been around all through these years. Retirement did not stick. These records, though, are the Trio that people remember and, oddly enough, for a band that has been disbanded for forty years, the past couple of years have brought the them a new presence. Current folkies like Cliff Eberhardt, Tom Paxton and Red Molly perform their songs and publicly proclaim the importance the Trio had for them. It also appears that PBS cannot raise money without using them and in 2006 alone, three DVDs were issued. In 2007, three new CDs came out. After all this time, they remain legendary.
These CDs testify to the legend that the Kingston Trio has become. Like the Trio itself, these albums are not only important historically, they offer fine entertainment.
— Michael Scott Cain
(2007)
In the midfifties, three guys who had worked their way through college playing and singing folk songs decided to try to make it in the pro ranks. They woodshedded a few months and when they figured they were ready, began auditioning at San Francisco night clubs. The three singers landed a long-running gig at the Hungry I where they signed a management contract written on a napkin with one of the waiters and then spent the next year or so becoming the Kingston Trio.
The waiter, Frank Gerber, helped drill the amateurism out of Dave Guard, Bob Shane and Nick Reynolds and then landed them a deal with Capitol Records. They put out an album, The Kingston Trio, and not much happened until a Michigan disc jockey played "Tom Dooley' on the air. That's all it took; the song hit number one on the charts and won a Grammie, the Kingston Trio became major stars and the folk revival of the sixties was born.
It is safe to say that the Kingston Trio, much as the Beatles did when they came along six years later, single-handedly changed the direction of popular music. To understand why and how they were able to do this, you have to take a look at what pop music was at the time. In the early fifties, pop was dominated by old style crooners, former big band singers like Frankie Laine, Frank Sinatra and Rosemary Clooney. Then, driven by independent pioneers like Sam Phillips of Sun Records, rock exploded. Phillips himself contributed Elvis Presley, Johnny Cash, Carl Perkins and Jerry Lee Lewis. Enough to revolutionize the music right there. For a while, rock dominated the airwaves and Frank Sinatra was reduced to paying his own recording and distribution costs. Everything changed overnight.
The change was driven by the independent labels. When the majors saw how much money there was to be made, they moved in. RCA bought Elvis's contract from Sun, while Columbia stole Johnny Cash. These labels immediately set out to emasculate the singers they had bought, fearing that the energy, verve and sheer sexiness of their music was a corporate embarrassment. As Clyde McPhatter, a top rhythm and blues singer for Atlantic Records, said of his new label, Mercury, "They pay a lot of money for my music and then they won't let me make the music they paid for."
With Elvis recording soft ballads — and being drafted — with Jerry Lee Lewis banned from the airwaves for marrying his thirteen year old cousin, and Johnny Cash neutered, we entered a dead age of rock. It was an age that considered Frankie Avalon, Fabian and Annette Funicello rock and rollers. The times were ripe for an infusion of something different and the Kingston Trio provided it. Folk music had undergone a brief flirtation with popular success during the rise of Pete Seeger's group, the Weavers, in the late forties, but the blacklisting of that group because of their left wing political affiliations had killed the music. Now the Kingston Trio resurrected it.
By resurrecting the music, they also brought back to life and old argument: whose folk music shall we listen to? If it is popular and successful, is it still folk music? Since they had a huge following and sold a ton of records, the trio was looked at as the epitome of commercialism in folk music and were somehow not pure enough for the purists. It's sort of like John Dewey and progressive education; just as Dewey was blamed for the excesses of his followers, the Trio was blamed for the wretchedness of all the singers who imitated them. As Irwin Silber complained as early as 1964:
the sudden proliferation of folk trios, quartets, septets, and junior-sized orchestras introduced new sounds into folk music at a breakneck pace. Those who had valued the traditional qualities of folk music were almost overwhelmed by the rapidity with which the gimmick-makers took over the name, the form and the organization of folk music.
Ironically, just as they were saving folk music, the trio was accused of destroying it. Even as a new folk movement and culture arose, it became hip not to appreciate the pioneers who had made it possible. The public still appreciated what they did but folk music was changing; instead of the trios and quartets, the solo singer-songwriters, like Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, Tom Paxton, Bob Gibson and Carolyn Hester took the forefront.
The Kingston Trio, as far as the folk mafia was concerned, could not do anything right. If they continued to do the music that had made them famous, they were called commercial hacks who pandered to their audience. If they tried to change, they were declared to have no direction, no core sound of their own. They discovered that their audience's devotion had become a double-edged sword. "The music was changing," said John Stewart, who replaced Dave Guard in 1961, "and we wanted to change with it. The audience, though, did not want us to change."
Finally, in 1967, the urge to do something else had become too strong and the trio decided to hang it up. To say farewell, they did a final week of concerts at the place where it all had started: The Hungry I. Now, after forty years, the recording of that show has been issued and it is well worth the wait. The Final Concert is not just a record of a live show. It's a party. The trio packed the crowd with everyone who was important to them, their friends and business associates -- even the DJ who had first played "Tom Dooley" was there.
The trio is fabulous in these performances, tight and together, musically brilliant, but loose and relaxed in their presentation. They joke around, poke fun at themselves and audience members, tell jokes fresh and lame, and have a really good time saying goodbye to one aspect of their careers. The set list tells the story of the contradictions that led to their decision to hang it up: mixed in with their old hits, like Woodie Guthrie's "Hard, Ain't It Hard," and Pete Seeger's "Where Have All the flowers Gone," you'll find recently composed songs from the new folk movement that they spawned, such as Bob Dylan's "One Too Many Mornings," Eric Andersen's "Thirsty Boots" and Donovan's "Colours."
Clearly the audience did not want to let them go and, after hearing this disc, you'll wish they had stayed around for more live performances and more records. You will understand, though, why they made the decision they did: while they were saying goodbye in San Francisco, the Monterey Pop Festival was going on. Variety said that "Most of the crowd, like the members of the Trio itself, were in their mid-30s. The kids were all at the Monterey Pop Festival." The trio skipped their encore so that they could get there.
When they retired, they left behind the tracks they'd completed for a new album. It has also been released as The Lost 1967 Album and since none of the tracks are finished, it would probably be more accurate to call it the Lost Demos. It shows that they definitely had committed to a new direction and gives a few hints of what they wanted to accomplish with this set of songs. There are no traditional songs here and only two by John Stewart, the chief writer for the band. The rest are penned by the top singer-songwriters extant in 1967: Paul Simon, Fred Neil, Donovan, Tim Hardin, John Sebastian and Bob Lind. Most of the singing is solo; Bob Shane takes on the Tim Hardin compositions, "Don't Make Promises," and "Reason to Believe," while Nick Reynolds sings a couple of Donovan tunes, "To Try for the Sun," and "Catch the Wind." John Stewart solos on Fred Neil's "The Dolphins," Paul Simon's "Homeward Bound," and Steve Gillette's "Darcy Farrow." A few songs offer the full trio singing together but, as I said, most do not.
And that's what drives you crazy listening to this record. While it's a lot of fun, when you hear it, you wonder what it would have sounded like if they had finished it. Would the reference vocals have stayed? Would songs sung solo have become full three-voiced offerings? Would the steadily thumping drums have been softened and altered? Would there be a full band to make the drums less prominent? You can listen to the tracks in progress that this record contains with pleasure but mostly, listening makes you wonder what would have come had they not discarded their work.
Some version of the Kingston Trio has been around all through these years. Retirement did not stick. These records, though, are the Trio that people remember and, oddly enough, for a band that has been disbanded for forty years, the past couple of years have brought the them a new presence. Current folkies like Cliff Eberhardt, Tom Paxton and Red Molly perform their songs and publicly proclaim the importance the Trio had for them. It also appears that PBS cannot raise money without using them and in 2006 alone, three DVDs were issued. In 2007, three new CDs came out. After all this time, they remain legendary.
These CDs testify to the legend that the Kingston Trio has become. Like the Trio itself, these albums are not only important historically, they offer fine entertainment.
— Michael Scott Cain
Welcome
I've been writing about music, literature and the rest of the arts all my adult life. My stuff has always been subject to editorial control -- although I've had great luck with editors and have few horror stories to share. Still, the lack of control is bothersome. Here in this blog, I'm in control. Totally.
If the results are freakishly bad, it's my fault. If they're good, it's because I'm dealing with good material. It should be fun. Come along for the ride and I hope you have as much fun as I will.
If the results are freakishly bad, it's my fault. If they're good, it's because I'm dealing with good material. It should be fun. Come along for the ride and I hope you have as much fun as I will.