Tonight, for the first time in the Trump Era, confusion reigns. The U.S. Military (or the Israelis, or the Saudis, or Iraqi Intelligence–by the quality and quantity of the rumors, the only thing you can bet is that we’ll never know for sure), targeted and took out a key Iranian political and military leader near the Baghdad airport.
Those who have read Trump aright and a-wrong, are scratching their heads together, trying to figure out where this fits….and coming to no conclusions. Charlie Pierce, the most anti-Trump voice I follow on Twitter, is gibbering about the War Powers Act. Econ Chick, the most pro-Trump voice I follow took hours to come up with a theory that neither comforts nor explains much.
I, on the other hand, have spent my life listening to rock and roll so I know exactly what happened, which is one of four things:
—Hubris. Donald Trump actually planned and ordered the hit, throwing four years of careful campaigning and governing out the window and putting his relationship with is anti-war base at risk for the first time, not to mention his own strategy of carefully mixing a light military touch with blustering “crazy-man” rhetoric and carefully defined economic pressure because….well, that’s the definition of hubris. An excess of pride. Could happen to any man who has been beating the odds for four years running.
—A ball of confusion. Somebody, somewhere saw a high value target pop up, went off half-cocked on the fly, made a fairly low level decision to take the target out on impulse, and now everybody, including Trump, is trying to figure out how to clean up the mess because somebody didn’t care whether his re-election changes just went from cruise control to iffy.
—The system did what the system does: Longstanding hush-hush orders that may well have predated the Trump, or even Obama, administrations, pushed events in the direction they were always intended to go, and everyone, including Trump, was caught with their pants down, in which case Trump and his team will be dancing on hot coals until they find a solution or war breaks out (after which, who knows what–wars have been started by less)
—Sabotage: What was it Chuck Schumer said: The intelligence Community can get you six ways from Sunday. If that’s the case, they just handed Trump a crap sandwich.
Well, you know how I roll. Once you have an Intelligence Community, they will eventually call all the real shots. But we’re never going to “know,” any more than we “know” whether the CIA assassinated John Kennedy or submarined Jimmy Carter’s re-election chances. You can bet that anyone who comes up with proof will be labelled a conspiracy kook by the media which any self-respecting Swamp State must assure provides you with all the News they think you deserve to hear, nothing more, nothing less.
I confess I’m a little surprised by it all and have no idea whether it will have real consequences or be a tempest in teapot.
I spent a good part of the last week (on again, off again…and, inevitably, inexorably, on again) using my limited internet skills to look up someone I barely knew nearly forty years ago.
I’m not at liberty to reveal more. Suffice it to say it brought home Rock and Roll’s preeminent lesson (nearly as pitiless as History’s preeminent lesson, which is “Don’t Lose”) with more force than anything I’ve ever experienced, not excluding the deaths of my parents.
It’s been said many times, many ways and I think I’m gonna need to spend time with every one of them to pull the knife from my heart some day short of the Judgement, which I now know will require an extra pound of penance.
And what might this lesson be?
Ah, well….From the Scriptures….
Yes, everything I really needed to know I learned from Rock and Roll (well, and the New Testament, which is hardly unrelated).
The United States has elected a white supremacist, a classic anti-Semite, and a man for whom women are commodities to be bought and sold. It may have also elected a Russian agent.
Fair enough. (I’ll just note that the United States has elected many a white supremacist, many a classic anti-Semite and several men for whom “women are commodities to be bought and sold” at least according to the non-literal, dog whistle standard upon which Marcus is clearly relying. It has also, according to both the late Senator Joseph McCarthy and a woman I heard proclaiming loudly on the subject of Obama in my local grocery store the day after the election in 2008, elected a Russian agent or two…but I digress.)
But if Trump can be a Russian agent, why not Greil Marcus? Isn’t he doing exactly what we would expect a Russian agent to do if, say, Hillary were the real Russian agent? And what about the CIA–or the CIA assets in the “mainstream media”–who are the source of all this speculation about Trump’s ties to Russia? Aren’t they, too, doing what Russian agents would do, if they were the real agents?
And what about me? In pointing out these possibilities, aren’t I doing exactly what you would expect a Russian agent to do?
And what about you? If you agree with me, aren’t you doing what the Russians want? If you disagree, aren’t you doing the same?
If everything is half-true, then isn’t everything also half-false? And who’s to say which is which?
I’m only thankful that somebody once explained all this to me, far better then the half-true The Manchurian Candidate ever could.
…But with 75 and counting dead in France, a Not-Just-For-Trust-Fund-Babies-Anymore “Day of Rage” scheduled across America tomorrow, Donald Trump announcing his intention to declare war on something or other if he’s elected (just heard it on O’Reilly, it must be true!), and the Democratic Nominee unable to get a basic security clearance if she were anything less, this seems like as good a time as any to dedicate a song to the future. If I’m going to do that, it might as well be the one song that, when I first heard it, made me realize how much I didn’t miss the Hundred Years War…Happy Bastille Day.
“Do you think it’s really the truth that you see? I’ve got my doubts, it’s happened to me.”
(The Byrds, “Artificial Energy,” 1967)
The morning after the Challenger explosion, the 106 students in Psychology 101 (“Personality Development”) at Emory University filled out questionnaires on how they had first heard of the disaster. That established a baseline for their memories within twenty-four hours of the event itself in January of 1986. Then, in October of 1988, the forty-four of 106 students still at Emory were requestioned (only 25 percent remembered the original questionnaire!) and their two answers compared. Finally, in March of 1989, follow-up interviews were given to the forty students willing to participate in the final phase of the experiment. Here is one example of two questionnaire answers from the same subject:
Report of Memory after 24 hours (Jan. 1986)
I was in my religion class and some people walked in and started talking about [it]. I didn’t know any details except that it had exploded and the schoolteacher’s students had all been watching which I thought was so sad. Then after class I went to my room and watched the TV program talking about it and I got all the details from that.
Report of Memory after 2 1/2 years (Oct. 1988)
When I first heard about the explosion I was sitting in my freshman dorm room with roommate and we were watching TV. It came on a news flash and we were both totally shocked. I was really upset and I went upstairs to talk to a friend of mine and then I called my parents.
That case, as the researchers explain, was not unusual: “None of the enduring memories was entirely correct, and…many were at least as wide of the mark… [T]hose questionnaires revealed a high incidence of substantial errors” (Nesser and Harsch). One other student, for example, who later recalled hearing the news from a girl who ran screaming down her dorm corridor, had actually heard it in the cafeteria and been too sick to finish her lunch. Another student later thought she had been at home with her parents when it happened, although she had actually been on campus.
When those second versions were compared with first ones for accuracy and graded on a 0-7 scale for major (location, activity, informant) and minor (time, others) attributes of the event, “the mean was 2.95, out of a possible 7. Eleven subjects (25%) were wrong about everything and scored 0. Twenty-two of them (50%) scored 2 or less; this means that if they were right on one major attribute, they were wrong on both of the others. Only three subjects (7%) achieved the maximum possible score of 7; even in these cases there were minor discrepancies (e.g., about the time of the event) between the recall and the original report. What makes these low scores interesting is the high degree of confidence that accompanied my of them.”
Confidence in the inaccuracy is surely much more disquieting than the inaccuracy itself; and the visual vividness with which the inaccuracy was recalled was even more disquieting. The mean for accuracy was 2.95 out of 7, as I noted; the mean for confidence was 4.17 out of 5, and the mean for “visual vividness” was 5.35 out of 7! In the instance given above, for example, the subject rated the confidence of her 1988 memory at a 5 (“absolutely certain”) for location, activity, informant, others and at a 4 for time (2:00 or 3:00 P.M., rather than 11:39 A.M. EST). Its actual rating was 0.
In the follow-up interviews after the twin questionnaires had been compared, the researchers made another significant discovery. The subjects’ memories for their second-version accounts remained “remarkably consistent” between October of 1988 and March of 1989, and when the researchers tried to help the subjects recover their first-version accounts, they found that “none of [their] procedures had any effect at all” (Nesser and Harsch). Even when subjects were shown their own original reports, they never “even pretended that they now recalled what was stated on the original record. On the contrary, they kept saying, ‘I mean, like I told you, I have no recollection of it all’ or ‘I still think of it as the other way around.’ As far as we can tell, the original memories are just gone.”
(John Dominic Crossan, The Birth of Christianity. 1998)
“And you know what they said? Well, some of it was true!”
(The Clash, “London Calling,” 1979)
“Scientists spend their lives discovering what the poets already know.”
(Me, a few years back, dispensing folk wisdom to my brother, one of the very few scientists I knew would get a laugh out of it.)
R.I.P. to the Challenger explorers on the thirtieth anniversary of their deaths. I still wonder if it would have happened if my buddies’ dads hadn’t all been transferred to Grapevine and my old U.S. 1 neighborhood hadn’t been turned into a ghost town.
[NOTE: It’s been a while since I started a new category….Some of my friends are gonna be surprised that this wasn’t the name of my very first category….You know who you are! Any way, this category will be loosely defined as relating today’s headlines to the people-oriented history of rock and roll I try to emphasize in general….So it might get hairy at times.]
When Ronnie Bennett (at the left above) auditioned for Phil Spector (seated) with her vocal group (already called the Ronettes and here pictured with George Harrison and English publicist Tony King) Spector leaped off his piano bench and said. “Stop….That’s it. That is it.”
He was referring to what John Lennon would later call “the Voice.” and he very specifically meant the voice he had been waiting–and hoping–to find.
It was that voice–not, as has so often been assumed and reported, Spector’s famous “Wall of Sound” production technique–that so captivated the Beach Boys’ Brian Wilson when he first heard “Be My Baby” that it instantly became the standard by which he would measure the rest of his life (not to mention all that glorious music).
As Ronnie Spector, then, she became a legend and one of the most important vocalists of the rock and roll era.
Then she went away.
There were reasons.
She divorced Phil Spector in 1972.
He had forced her to quit performing years before. He had also kept her effectively locked up as a prisoner in his L.A. mansion. When she finally made her terrified break, it was running…on bare feet lest her shoes make noise on the driveway pavement.
In light of the daily reports this past couple of weeks concerning various forms of abuse directed at women and children (when she met Spector she was seventeen and so essentially both) by celebrity athletes, it’s worth remembering the price she paid. For anyone who had been paying attention, Spector’s eventual murder of Lana Clarkson was no more surprising than the recent video of Baltimore Ravens’ running back Ray Rice cold-cocking his wife-to-be in a casino elevator. For some, the obvious is never really obvious unless they see it with their own eyes….or the body on the floor is actually dead (as opposed to merely knocked stone cold, as Rice’s wife-to-be clearly had been in the previously released video which did not show the actual punch). For the rest of us, the obvious is, well, obvious.
Twas ever thus.
The following is from Ronnie Spector’s autobiography, Be My Baby, which (as told to Vince Waldron) was published in 1990. It’s one of the finest–and most unflinching–of all rock and roll memoirs, not least because she told the world that, no, Phil Spector, didn’t coach her singing (he was a superb talent scout before he was anything else) and that, yes, he was very, very dangerous.
After our successes at Madison Square Garden and the Baths, I continued doing concerts with the girls through the rest of 1974. But nothing ever matched the excitement of those shows. We spent most of our time marching in and out of oldies revues, and that got pretty depressing after a while. I was barely thirty years old and everywhere I went people were calling me an oldie but goodie.
It drove me crazy–and it sure didn’t help my drinking problem any. I used to stand backstage at these rock and roll revivals and cringe when the emcee announced us as oldies singers. I’d be standing off in the dark somewhere in the wings and raise my Dixie Cup of vodka and Coke in a silent toast. “Here’s to little Ronnie Spector,” I’d whisper to myself. “An oldie. But a goodie!” I’d say it as a joke, but I can tell you there was nothing funny about it.
Whether it was for good or bad, my oldies career finally came to an end during the holiday season of 1974. That was the year Dick Clark signed the Ronettes to take part in a rock and roll revival show he was staging at the Flamingo Hotel. And I’ll never forget my nightmare in Las Vegas.
It was great to be working with Dick Clark again–his shows were always professionally run, and this was no exception. I rehearsed my numbers with Chip and Denise on stage in the late afternoon and we were dynamite. Dick and everyone on his staff were predicting that Vegas would be the start of a whole new career for the Ronettes.
And when I finally saw our name up in lights outside the casino, I began to think so, too. They do everything about ten times bigger than life in Vegas. So naturally, the marquee outside the hotel was about a hundred feet tall, with the names of all the groups in the show spelled out in letters twelve feet high. I’d never seen “The Ronettes” spelled out that big, and I loved it.
Dick gave us a dinner break between the afternoon rehearsal and our first evening show, so I took the elevator back up to my room to rest up. I was so high from the excitement that I didn’t think anything could bring me down. Then the phone rang.
“It’s me,” the voice said. He didn’t bother identifying himself. He didn’t need to.
“Phil?” I hadn’t spoke to him in so long that I actually thought he might be calling me to wish me well on the show.
“Veronica,” he said. “What in God’s name makes you think you’re ready to play Vegas?”
I should have known Phil would be up to his same old tricks. “Okay,” I said. “Is that all you called for?”
“No,” he said. “I just wanted to give you fair warning that tonight could be the last time you appear on stage in Las Vegas. Or anywhere else.”
He was talking so calmly, for a minute I actually thought that he was saying something sensible, and that I was the one confused. “What ARE you talking about?”
“I always said I’d kill you if you left me,” he explained. “And tonight I’m making good on that promise. In two hours you will be assassinated on stage at the Flamingo Hotel.”
“I’m calling the cops Phil,” I told him. “If you even try to set foot in the Flamingo, I’ll have you arrested.” I tried to stand up to him, but he just laughed in my ear. It was a sound that went right down my spine.
“You don’t think I’d be stupid enough to pull the trigger?” he said. “That’s what I pay hit men for. And I’ve hired six of them on this job. Three black and three white. You might spot one, but you’ll never be able to get them all. They’ll be at your show tonight, and I’ve offered a million-dollar bonus to the one who shoots the bullet that does the job.”
I dropped the phone like it was a dried fish and ran out of the room. I figured the whole think was just one of Phil’s dumb jokes, but it still scared the hell out of me. One thing I knew about Phil is that you couldn’t second-guess him. What if today was the day the guy finally did crack up?
I decided to find Dick Clark and get his advice. But by the time I got down to the showroom, he was already gone. I walked through the casino with my hands shaking so bad I knew I had to get something to calm me down before I rattled myself to pieces. So I walked into the bar for one quick drink. But in those days they were never quick. And it was never just one.
I grabbed my nose and sucked down a vodka and tonic, then I set my hands down on the bar. They were still shivering. “One more,” I told the bartender. I felt so much better after the second drink that I was sure a third would do the trick. Five vodka and tonics later, my problem was solved. I no longer had to figure out whether to go through with the show or not. Dick Clark would make that decision for me.
He tried to look the other way when I stumbled into the backstage area that night. But Dick couldn’t ignore the fact that I was too drunk to make it through even one verse of “Walking in the Rain,” at the final dress rehearsal. “Ronnie,” he said, steering me over to a quiet corner backstage. “You’re in no shape to go on tonight. I’m sending you up to your room.”
Dick Clark and I go way back–I did my first national TV appearance on his show. So when I saw that glint of disappointment in his eyes, that hurt almost as much as being fired.
“I’m sorry, Dick,” I slurred. “I just didn’t want the hit men to get me.” I was trying to give him an explanation, but it was useless. He had no idea what I was talking about, and he had better things to do than listen.
….that little incident pretty much killed the Ronettes as an oldies act.