Despite its impeccable Big Thing antecedents (Beatles, Beach Boys, Who), Power Pop never quite made it to Next Big Thing status on its own. It hung around–over ground in the music of Badfinger, Raspberries, Cheap Trick, Cars, Go-Go’s and underground (Big Star, Flamin’ Groovies and several hundred lesser bands)–without taking over. Even with the bleedover from bigger-than-the-genre bands like Blondie in the 70s and the Bangles in the 80s, and the inescapability of the Knack’s “My Sharona” in the late 70s, there simply weren’t enough hits.
And, as an unabashed fan of the genre (or maybe the word is concept), I have to say there weren’t enough hits because there simply weren’t enough great records.
Outside the bands I mentioned above and a few, mostly Brit, tweeners like Small Faces and the Move, Power Pop in its heyday promised more than it delivered. In the 70s, when there was still a chance it would be more than a sub-genre of the perpetually underachieving New Wave, only two records ever grabbed me.
One was Sniff N’ the Tears’ “Driver’s Seat,” which actually made the American top 20 and isn’t eligible for my little category here.
The other was Starz’ “Cherry Baby.”
1977 was the year the rock and roll experiment really started to waver. Besides “Cherry Baby,” Shaun Cassidy’s three great singles (“Da Doo Ron Ron,” “That’s Rock and Roll” and “Hey Deanie”) the radio was as dead to anybody who, from ignorance or otherwise, was holding disco at arm’s length as everybody claimed it had been in 1963, before the Beatles came along and saved us all.
In 1977, the Sex Pistols were apparently supposed to do it all again. They failed. Mostly because their records couldn’t compete with those made by black people.
They still can’t.
“Cherry Baby” did and does. If Starz (who preferred being billed as a metal band anyway) had been able to come up with another dozen of these, who knows….
Alas, there was only one. But it still makes me smile.
And, as I’ve learned long since, that’s not nothing.
Since Faye Dunaway and Warren Beatty are going to represent the Oscar for best film this year, in honor of the 50th anniversary of Bonnie and Clyde failing to win any major Oscars, I thought I would celebrate this, nihilism’s most fabulous celebration of itself yet (those occasional Sex Pistols’ reunions, always being minus Sid Vicious, the only one stupid or committed enough to off himself, are bound to go on paling by comparison), by linking back to my 2014 mini-reviews of both Bonnie and Clyde and The Miracle Worker.
I don’t usually get this lazy. But the open war between Donald Trump and the Security State has left me exhausted from fiercely resisting the temptation to start a political blog (don’t worry, I’ll fight it off in the end…I know when it’s the Devil calling), and finding it a little hard to concentrate on my usual insistence on celebrating all that is Great and Good in the face of Imminent Doom.
One thing which came up in my modest research to assure myself that I had my facts straight on what exactly Beatty and Dunaway would be presenting, was the reminder that Dunaway’s performance-for-the-ages in Bonnie and Clyde lost Best Actress to Katherine Hepburn in Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner.
Dissing terrible Oscar choices is not something I usually go for and nothing against that fabulous Yankee-est-Yankee-Ever Miss Kate. But if anybody wants to suggest that might be the worst, most gutless snub of all time, they won’t get any argument from me.
The girl from Two Egg was robbed (as she would be again on Chinatown)!
And the one they threw at her for doing what any good actress could have done in Network ain’t no kind of makeup.
As we say in North Florida...That’s all’s I’m sayin’!
As defined by that cover at the right (from Time Life’s invaluable Ultimate Seventies series and a rare failure from their usually inspired graphics department), 1975 was every crap-u-lous thing the punks said it was. It makes me want to take the shop-worn Survived-The-Seventies secret decoder badge out of my wallet and slip it into a wood stove with pine knots blazing.
Then again, there’s the music.
The mid-seventies were a troublesome time, a time when we had to either deal with the sixties or head down the path that brought us to this cozy little paradise we now enjoy. By 1975, what I’ve taken to calling The Rising–the attempt rock and rollers of various hues made to sustain the revolution that had begun in the fifties and perhaps even broaden it into a world where we would never be forced to admit we aren’t going to get along because we really don’t like each other very much–was cresting into what turned out to be its last wave. Within a year or two (or five), punk/alternative and rap/hip-hop would arrive full force, and, with some help from an intelligentsia programmed to believe its own self-contempt was the New Covenant, carry us back to our various tribes.
What a happy journey that’s been!
I mean, forty years later, radio is such an awesome void nobody even pretends to fathom it. The only thing blanker, less alive, is journalism.
Or maybe politics.
I wonder: Was 1975 so bad it really had to be this way?
I mean, forget politics. Culture dies (or simply withers away) first. The rest is detritus.
I wonder, was 1975 alive, or–as some would have it–dead?
Hmmmmm….How best to ponder?
I know. Let’s think of it as a concept.
And let’s think of Time Life’s edition of Ultimate Seventies: 1975 as a concept album.
The 1975 journey begins. In 1963 actually. White boy (Clint Ballard, Jr.) writes song with who knows who in mind. White producers (Leiber and Stoller) cut it on a black woman (Dee Dee Warwick, Dionne’s sister). It goes nowhere. Black producer (Calvin Carter), picks it up with an idea of cutting it on a black man (Dee “Raindrops” Clark), then decides the lyrical message will be too harsh coming from a guy, so he gives it to another black woman (Betty Everett) who gets a top five R&B hit out of it, with modest pop crossover. Six months later, the Swinging Blue Jeans take their cover to #3 in England.
All very typical.
Everett’s record had just enough cachet to make it into some of the standard live sets of the decade hence, including, circa the early seventies, Linda Ronstadt’s. Ronstadt, still chasing the real thing after a decade of not-quite-stardom, gave her first major performance of the song on a December, 1973 episode of The Midnight Special...where she was introduced as the country singer she still considered herself to be.
All still pretty typical.
Months later, after a tortuous process of layered guitars, studio tinkering and bitching about tempos amongst Ronstadt, her new producer, Peter Asher (a Brit keen on the Swinging Blue Jeans’ version), and the crack band she had assembled after granting the Eagles permission to strike out on their own, the song was recorded with a pop sheen that only enhanced what she had done on The Midnight Special, which was make the song’s deep mix of dread and liberation seem inherent and blow every previous version to smithereens.
It was released November, 1974 and reached #1 in Billboard, February, 1975.
Southern funk band goes full-blown “Disco,” forever blurring the distinction and making the newer concept a bigger deal than it had been previously. After them, it was inevitable somebody would make up stories about disco. And just as inevitable that the fakers would split the cut.
[Of note: KC was the first white lead vocalist to officially top Billboard‘s R&B chart since, weirdly, Jimmy Gilmer’s “Sugar Shack” in 1963. (Also of Note: Along with a handful of record by black artists, Joel Whitburn lists the Shangri-Las’ “Leader of the Pack” as an R&B #1 in 1964, when Billboard had temporarily suspended its R&B chart. The British Invasion of that year, perhaps helped by other things, soon necessitated the restoration of the pre-rock-n-roll order, which disco was threatening by 1975, thus requiring us to be “saved” yet again by our betters. First time around, we got Beatlemania. This time around, we settled for the Sex Pistols. To which I’ll only add that, between Herbert Wayne Casey and John Lydon, I know who the visionary radical was. Listen again.)]
From Wikipedia: “The title, if correct English had been used, would be “Must Have Gotten Lost”. When a contraction is used, “Must Have” becomes “Must’ve”, which sounds like “Must of”, which is not correct English and makes no sense.”
And I was just going to complain that they don’t make blue-eyed-soul-garage-rock records like this anymore. Silly me, forever underestimating the present’s ability to stick a pencil in my eye.
Talk about a leg up to ’75. “I hear you’re workin’ for the C-I-A/They wouldn’t have you in the Maf-i-a.” That’s everything rap ever wanted to be in a couplet and that’s not even getting into how they could sing and play.
Wait, the song about Philadelphia Freedom was sung by the bald, bi, English dude who could cut in on Soul Train? And programmed right after the song (cut with George Martin no less) by America, the band that so cheekily named itself after the country the bald guy was celebrating….assuming he wasn’t really putting all that pop genius into just giving a shout out to Billie Jean King’s World Team Tennis team?
Of course it was.
But not to worry. That was “America” then. Nothing like that would happen now. Not even close.
A bit of life stirs. Not my favorite Skynyrd, actually, but it’s the real life Huck Finn singing about the real life road so it always pulls me in in the long run. And that’s even before the guitars start playing…and playing…and burning.
Okay, now I feel a little like Rip Van Winkle. I’ve slept a bit and I’m up and ready to engage the past, the present, the future. And god knows I’ve got time, listening to Joe, who always could make two minutes sound like ten.
Or maybe a funk masterwork by a bunch of Scotsmen?
The more I think about it, the more I’m aware that there was no way this sort of thing was going to be allowed to stand. All that peace, harmony and funk breaking out everywhere? The Overlords must have really been asleep at the switch. No wonder they hit back with such a vengeance.
A natural answer record to “Lady Marmalade,” in which the chump goes home, falls for a Jamaican hooker being pimped by “the racket boss” and, given a chance to tell his side of the tale, turns out to be even more of a chump than the lady thought….because nobody (the girl, the chump, the “black boy” in her island world) can save her and he’s the one who can’t stop asking himself why.
Just in case that’s not enough confusion, the Jamaican girl’s background ghost-voice was provided by Kiki Dee.
A straight rip and scary in its efficiency. White boys who helped define corn-fed midwestern stadium rock take on the Soul Brothers Six and their straight-from-the-soul-shadows mind-bender and do it note-for-note, lick-for-lick. And get an earned hit. That’s not the way it was supposed to happen. Ever. Not even in ’75.
Which brings us all the way around to the song that was sitting at #1 when the year ended.
By 1975, one of the mixed blessings of the decade’s first half–the blaxploitation flick–had started to come a box-office cropper, and so the curtain was about to be drawn on one of the period’s unmixed blessings, the blaxploitation soundtrack.
Even the best of those movies never lived up to the best of their music, and, though I’ve never seen the Sidney Poitier/Bill Cosby vehicle that provided the excuse for the Staples’ to formally close down the southern soul era (and Stax records), I have no reason to suspect it was among the best of anything.
Even if it was great, though, I’ll feel safe betting it wasn’t this great, because, whatever else it was, it wasn’t a reach for the heavens, let alone a reach which was about to have its fingers stomped by Brits in boots, pretending to preach freedom.
Speak to me ’75!
And, if you’re gonna go down, go down swingin’. Hey, If sitting through “Jackie Blue” and “Dance With Me” is the price of the ticket, I’ll pay it every time.
(Note: I got a request to review this, which is not exactly a chore, but as it didn’t fit any existing category, I decided to create a new one. No idea how often I’ll update it, but it could grow into something. Not everything is a western or a noir, after all, no matter how hard some folks insist on having it otherwise.)
I’ve now seen His Girl Friday six times.
That’s three more times than I’ve listened to Never Mind the Bollocks and seventeen times fewer than I’ve seen Rio Bravo (yes, I keep count–on the movies no matter what, and on the albums if it doesn’t go over three). I only mention this to place it on a scale: I like screwball comedies better than punk rock and not as much as westerns.
I’ll let you figure out what that says about me.
One thing I’ve figured out for myself, though, is that the twenty-something me did not predict the fifty-something me.
At twenty-something, I didn’t have much awareness of directors, let alone auteurs. If such awareness had existed, Howard Hawks almost certainly would have been my favorite.
At twenty-something, dreams tend to occupy the lion’s share of a romantic sensibility and, at twenty-something, it’s hard to accept–even if you can imagine it–that those dreams will one day be memories.
Mostly memories of what might have been.
Unless, of course, the dreams come true (fat chance), or you don’t quite grow up (I had my doubts but, curse or blessing, it happened to me).
Which is all a way of saying that the part of me that once wholeheartedly embraced Hawks’s happily-ever-after world view generally and His Girl Friday specifically, now has a tendency to hold him at arm’s length, His Girl Friday–which, with the possible exception of To Have and Have Not, I once embraced most wholeheartedly of all—not excepted.
Oh, it’ s still great fun. As pure fun goes, I can’t imagine greater. I’m sure I’ll watch it several more times before my dreaming ends–in any case, way more times than I’ll listen to the Sex Pistols. I’ll always keep it in a special box, well-lit and carefully tended, in part because it’s such a perfect distillation of a cultural confidence and cohesion the loss of which I so regularly mourn here.
I mean, who doesn’t want to be (or be with) Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell trading memories and wisecracks and secret nods and winks at the expense of the rubes and charlatans who are forever running amok in this world? Who doesn’t want to believe that our perfectly idealized selves aren’t capable of rising to any challenge, whether it’s coming up with the next zinger in the fastest-talking movie ever made or running rings around corrupt politicos or saving an innocent man from the gallows even if–maybe especially if–he’s a consummate rube himself?
And who doesn’t want to believe that the elements of a world that made such a movie possible still exist somewhere, waiting to be drawn forth at any moment even if, in our heart of hearts, we know there is nobody left who could imagine anything remotely similar, let alone write, produce, direct or act in it? I mean, it’s a testimony to just how great His Girl Friday is that it makes it possible to wonder if the war and famine that were loose in the world when it was made might actually be worth enduring again if we could just get the dream life it depicts so beautifully back to stay.
Would that there were still room for fairy tales.
Of course, none of this makes me immune. Hawks’s Rio Bravo–take it from somebody who’s done serious research for western fiction–isnot a whit more susceptible to anything approaching “realism.” And, yes, I have seen it twenty-three times.
That’s probably because it’s at least grounded by a streak of melancholy.
You don’t find much of that in Hawks’s work prior to the late fifties. (You could measure the psychic distance between Hawks and his perpetually melancholy friend, John Ford, by their WWII “combat” movies. Hawks’s Air Force, made a few months after Pearl Harbor, ends in triumph. Ford’s They Were Expendable, made just after Japan’s surrender, ends in defeat. All that was before Hawks worked Red River in such a way as to prove he could wring a happy ending out of literally anything.)
And you don’t find a trace of melancholy, or any other form of doubt, in His Girl Friday.
So you have to lay the world aside, sure, but once you do, the movie still takes flight and never touches down. It may not have much to do with this world, but it sets you down in one any dreamer would want to live in, one where you’re always Cary or Roz and never Ralph Bellamy or, God forbid, Mother!
No small feat for a movie about a bunch of hyper-cynical newshounds covering a hanging!
I wouldn’t say the film takes any big chances. Not for nothing was Hawks the most reliably commercial director in Hollywood for two decades. He always kept the rules straight. No masks allowed.
In a Hawks’ movie, you always know who the winners and losers were going to be from the first breath.
But Hawks had the rare gift of making formulas work for him by never forgetting the inherent limits of those formulas–by making them work for him. Give him a cliche and he didn’t push outward, try to explode it. He doubled down.
By God, if he was stuck with a sad sack loser convict then he was going to get John Qualen and nobody else to play him because that would make him the greatest sad sack loser who ever lost.
If there was gonna be a corrupt mayor in this thing, then he was going to get Clarence Kolb and nobody else, so he’d be sure you were watching the most corruptible mayor who was ever corrupted.
And so on and so forth, and you don’t even have to know who those people are to know what they are the second they show up.
Hawks being Hawks, you also don’t have to worry about whether they’ll change up and surprise you.
Oh, the circumstances might change. The mayor might weasel all the way to the right before he’s forced to do the about face you knew he had in him and weasel all the way to the left. But you know where they fit right off the bat.
Which means you can, among other things, relax, turn off your mind and float downstream without the assistance of hallucinogens.
If it’s not exactly brimming with moral force, at least there are no distractions or pretense. No Hollywood mantra was ever more surefire than “give ’em a good time,” and His Girl Friday was just about the best time that could ever be had.
Still is, despite everything.
Because of course I still want to be Cary Grant–especially this Cary Grant, i.e., Walter Burns, who has not a single redeeming virtue except the greatest redeeming virtue of all, which is his Cary Grant-ness. And of course, I want to be with Rosalind Russell’s Hildy Johnson, especially this Rosalind Russell, who would be such an impeccably perfect match for my Cary Grant-ness!
And I’ve read enough reliable reportage from enough Hildy Johnson wannabes to know the reverse works just as well.
If I don’t tend to include His Girl Friday in my personal Top Ten anymore, or think of Howard Hawks as my favorite director anymore, it isn’t really the fault of the director’s particularly sunny vision or his most perfectly realized dream-scape.
[NOTE: This post contains spoilers for Prime Suspect, Season 7)
A few years back, I saw Christopher Hitchens and Salman Rushdie having some sort of sit-down chat on C-Span and, among various other topics, they fell to discussing British vs. American politics. One thing that struck them in particular was the phony lip-service American politicians are forced to pay to religious belief.
In England, they both agreed, such cow-towing never even crosses any politician’s mind.
I don’t recall either man mentioning why he nonetheless so much preferred living in America, but I do remember thinking they needn’t worry.
Being no fan of phony lip-service (to religion or anything else), I’ll still bet that when America is sufficiently like their England, there won’t be an America.
And there won’t be an England.
If a British television series like Prime Suspect was all anyone knew of England (and bear in mind that, for many of us, it is precisely that), then it would be logical to conclude that England, as either a meaningful historical identity or a sustainable political-economy, has already vanished.
The show ran in seven different, not-always-consecutive, seasons between 1991 and 2006. It was groundbreaking in all kinds of ways with its hyper-emphasis on forensics, emphasis on teamwork as opposed to the brilliance of a single detective, realistically gruesome corpses, the persistent elongation of the good old-fashioned mono-syllabic word “shit” into anywhere from and two to five syllables (though in one instance, I heard a s-s-s-s-s-s-hit, which I take to be seven), and, of course, an admirable but genuinely prickly female detective at the center.
Except for a handful of episodes, I didn’t see the show when it aired. By the time I became aware of it in the mid-nineties, the I’ll-wait-for-it-on-video mode was already prevailing at my house. When I first gathered up the whole series and watched it several years ago I thought it was a genuinely great series (“great” being an honorific I rarely find applicable to any TV series as a whole, though I frequently find individual aspects I like), but I didn’t think much about its possible socio-political import beyond the obvious (but, alas, necessary) feminist point that “women could do the job as good as men.”
Based on the DVD commentary and what I’ve been able to find on-line, I’m not sure the makers thought much beyond that either. And, of course, I have no idea what England was/is really like, circa 1991, 2006, or today. But I do know what the collapse of culture and politics in America feels like and, what with so many of their intellectuals preferring it here (a reverse of the old days when, if we produced a Henry James, he was likely to head straight over there and stay for a lifetime), I assume England really might be in worse shape than we are.
Certainly Helen Mirren’s DCI Jane Tennison begins the series in the familiar position (amidst all the then unfamiliar “realities” I mentioned above) of defending civilization from the monsters. And certainly there are monsters throughout the fifteen-year-run.
But, perhaps because, for entirely whimsical reasons, I watched seasons six through one in reverse order this time around, saving seven for the last, I was struck by England’s absence.
The upper classes with whom we Americans, at least, associate royalty and posh affluence (anything from Buckingham Palace to Downton Abbey), is barely glimpsed. But the middle class (presumably filled with all those Austen and Dickens and LeCarre readers) is even less in evidence. If not for occasional forays into Tennison’s private life it would be completely missing.
Essentially, then, and more so as the series progresses, Jane Tennison is defending an England no longer worth defending. The world of the series looks, sounds and most significantly, feels, like a police state which is kept from complete savagery only by the still barely perceptible presence of a liberal, common law, tradition.
It’s an England overrun by slums at the low end, and deep-set corruption at the high end. Nothing feels permanent, or even multi-generational. And by nothing, I mean nothing–not just buildings or roads or hairstyles or belief systems are decaying or putting up false fronts, but order itself.
What we have is a fifteen-year run through a nation that will produce no more glory. No more Shakespeares or MIltons. No Austens or Brontes. No Gladstones or Churchills. No Beatles or Stones.
Hell, no Clash or Sex Pistols.
Even they had to have something more than a black hole to rail against.
But, perhaps more to the point, this is an England that will produce no more Jane Tennisons.
In case anyone had kept such faith as the show permits (that is, in case anyone might assume my reading is, as the Brits say, daft), the final season gives us a younger version of Tennison herself. We don’t need to guess at this. She says as much herself and more than once.
It’s so much a younger version of herself (presented by the fresh-faced presence of Laura Greenwood), that, for once, and on the verge of her own retirement, she’s blinded to the sort of reality that she’s made a career of shoving in other people’s faces.
They’re bound together by intelligence, slash-n-bob haircuts, black coats worn as protection against the ever falling rain, a love of art, a deep-seated rebellious streak.
Somebody’s record collection.
Whether that last is Tennison’s, her dying father’s or some mixture of both is unclear, but it yields, for a start, Mirren’s lonely Jane dancing to Dusty Springfield’s “Stay Awhile” and, for a finish, a matched, bracketing sequence of Greenwood’s lonely Penny dancing to something else but clearly lost in the same past.
Of course, it’s really just Tennison’s past, a remnant of the middle class/middlebrow world her middle class/middlebrow father provided for her to rebel against, and perhaps flee from, by becoming the top-flight detective she wanted for herself instead of the artist her father, who we know from an earlier season was a liberator of Nazi death camps, wanted for her.
Penny’s a product of the new middle class. Her dad’s a statutory rapist who slept with one of her friends. By the time she’s dancing to the old records in Tennison’s dad’s house, she’s already a murderess and working up to a second try. She’s completely lost and, in the environment the series has built, not just in the final season (when Tennison is ravaged by alcoholism and so separated from any semblance of a normal life that she can’t even be in the same room with her surviving relatives without making an ass of herself, the last vestiges of middle class civility having been erased by her own choices), but in the entire corrosive atmosphere built up over a decade and a half, that primitivism is getting back its own and fresh-faced murder feels at least as natural as anything else.
This is an England where the air is permanently poisoned. And, long before the “reveal,” you can see and feel the inevitability of it all.