The end of the beginning...
It truly does not get much better than Martin Scorsese's The Last Waltz, which I just finished watching. Interestingly I decided out of the blue to follow up that experience with a quick viewing of The Strokes' DVD of their Roman Coppola-directed videos. The two together got me thinking and so, here I am, a music geek holding court in cyberspace. Lord help us...
Any glimpse into the past is bound to be tainted by nostalgia. But it just seems that the collision of history with the music scene from the 1960s to the late-1970s made for an insurmountable era of socially-conscious and talent-driven music. The flood of talent in The Last Waltz seems to only confirm this, though Martin Scorsese even noted that beneath this altruistic state of rock affairs laid a dark undercurrent. "It's a damn near impossible way of life," Robertson says at the very end when talking to Scorsese about living on the road, and the wear on his face along with the period deaths of Elvis and Janis Joplin among others supports this. As such, the film carries such weight in so many different areas; emotionally, socially and, of course, musically.
And at the heart of the film lies the music. It just seems impossible that a relatively casual shindig during 1978 could bring together such amazing musicians-Dylan, Muddy Waters, Van Morrison, Ron Wood, Joni Mitchell and Neil Young among many others. The crowd stayed at Winterland for six-seven hours (!!) for this concert and the energy there is palpable on film. The little things too about the music which show through still move me so deeply- the sudden grin Dylan gives an off-camera fan during "Forever Young"; the devilish smile a constantly-bopping Neil Young wears throughout the whole concert, especially when he jams with everyone at the end. And the songs! The setlist reads like a bible of American music, from "Mannish Boy" to "Further On Up the Road" to "Coyote" to, what I consider to be one of the most beautiful songs of all-time, "Helpless". At the heart of it stand The Band, these folksy, mystical musicians whose dexterity among instruments is simply absurd. How can it be that a decade of time was able to harness this caldron of musicians together? It just doesn't seem possible and yet it occurred. What we are left with now is the memories, the films, the albums and, ultimately, the shadow of what was once rock and roll.
Past tense usage is of course purposeful. New Year's often calls for thinking of our past mistakes, so let's take a look at this past decade, shall we? Unfortunately whatever good music was being produced was drowned out by that sea of pop, pop-metal and pop-hip-hop which bludgeoned our eardrums until we were so desperate we decided to steal the music we liked (who knew whether it would even exist after the Sony Records' and Virgin Megastores' were through with us? True story folks, my middle-school sister's gym teacher jokingly asked the kids to identify the four Beatles on a poster of his. He was met with blank stares and one muffled, "Um...John Lennon....uh..."). And then, after a decade-worth of rest, New York City created The Strokes. And she said, "It is good."
Again it seems, history collided with society to create music, good music. Just as I wouldn't personally call The Band or Joni Mitchell saviors of Americana-music or folk, I don't claim that The Strokes "saved" rock and roll. Nor would I want to saddle one of my favorite bands with that dubious distinction. What seems to have happened in the fall of 2001 is simple: the music-savvy public, or what was left of them, needed a salve for their wounds. What The Strokes brought to the table was the best fucking Band-Aid you could ever buy. End of story. Or the end of the beginning of the end.
Recall back to the fall of 2001 and I guarantee you won't remember the release of Is This It. Our nation was in the worst turmoil it had ever faced; it seemed no time for rock and roll miracles. I myself did not actually purchase Is This It until that January. When I did however, I was immediately arrested. It still stands as a stunner of a debut, up there with The Clash's The Clash (1977-a year before The Last Waltz). Musically, it's taut, visceral and melodic...along with at least twenty other adjectives I could bring out. I mean, look at "Trying Your Luck", an awesome song which The Strokes have unabashedly admitted to striking from their live repetoire during their surprise Bowery Ballroom gig earlier this fall. You have all the elements needed for a rock song: Fab Moretti's drumming pares it down but by doing so ups the ante, a steady beat with minimal rolls and fill; Nick Valensi and Albert Hammond Jr.'s guitars coming in and out of the stereo, one strumming catchily and a bit muted, the other a raspy constant intonation of sound with melody to boot; Nikolai Fraiture's rhythmic bass keeping time above the drums during solos and then fluttering a bit during verse; and, last but not least, Julian Casablancas' vocals, taut and seering with just the right combination of genuine angst and fuck-off-edness. However, more importantly, you have the indescribable element which makes it it. Call it energy, comradeship, chutzpah, whatever you like. This song has it. End of story.
The saviors of rock? No. A catalyst for the shifting of power in rock? An album which served as a reminder of this is how we do in the rock medium? On its own, a phenomenal debut which was punk enough to decide to marry pop with rock during the Age of Oppressive Pop-ulism (the undeniably catchy "Someday")and still hold down the fort with power ("Take It or Leave It" especially)? Yes, yes and yes. And for all these reasons and then some, I fell for them. I am still there with them on Room on Fire, though that my dears is a completely different post for a different time. The Strokes fought for what we all were beginning to forget: good rock and roll music. That they succeeded brings some hope for the establishment.
Two years after their debut, The Strokes have opened up doors for bands like nobody's business, pushing the dollar bills away from the Sum 41 and Good Charlotte counters and into the bins of Franz Ferdinand and The Fever EPs. But in the meantime they remained true as artists, as musicians who cared about what they were doing. And
At this point, I'm through, it's late and I've done a piss-poor attempt at a rock history-major's thesis ;) Have yourselves a merry little holiday season everyone, and hell, if any of these ramblings interest you, post away. Or at least click a link or two and discover something worth buying. Peace-Sarah
