Book review - Pete Townshend, Who I Am (2012)

A self-absorbed memoir from the sad man behind blue eyes

When I was a kid, I had a list of heroes a mile long, and I’d dream of meeting them. In my mind, I didn’t just want to gush my love; I just liked the idea of connecting and maybe feeling validated. As a cynical adult, I have trouble thinking of any great icon that I’d like to meet. For the most part, it’s because I recognize that my relationship with their public persona is so one-sided that it would be hard to overcome and have a normal conversation. Aside from that, though, I worry that meeting my heroes might poison my perception of them and their work. Pete Townshend’s memoir, Who I Am, offers just that kind of threat by revealing how self-absorbed he is even as it delivers insights into his creative process and stories behind his most powerful works.

His problems with drugs and alcohol have been a well-known part of his narrative, so that aspect wasn’t surprising. I expected his involvement with a child pornography investigation in 2003 to be one of the more challenging areas for him to address. But between additional information that came to light over the following nine years and Townshend’s account here, this turns out to be less of an issue. In the early chapters, he coyly alludes to being abused, but it’s awkward because he clumsily grafts vaguely defined memories onto a clear recounting of his childhood. While he’s more direct later in the book, he could have done a better job of laying that groundwork. But by the time he tackles the investigation head on in chapter 29, “Black Days, White Knights”, his explanation seems reasonable and is supported by the police confirmation that he was “not in possession of any downloaded child abuse images.”

The letdown in Who I Am isn’t from reading the horror stories about his addictions or his efforts at dredging up and dismissing revolting rumors. Instead, it’s the impression of Townshend’s casual disregard for the people around him. He writes with harsh honesty about his behavior, whether it’s kicking out his band’s original drummer, Doug Sandom, to improve the prospects of a record deal or succumbing yet again to infidelity with a groupie. Despite expressing remorse, he has trouble communicating any sense of empathy. For example, after trying to seduce director Nicolas Roeg’s wife, Theresa Russell, Townshend breezes through a conversation with Roeg. After Roeg calls him a complete bastard for going behind his back, he admits it (“He was right. And instead of simply acknowledging my deceit at the time, I had made things worse by not calling him”). Then he laughs and blames the director for making Russell so erotic in his movie Bad Timing. But when Roeg doesn’t take this well, Townshend is mostly concerned that he might have ruined his chance to get Roeg to work on his Lifehouse project.

While Townshend doesn’t do himself any favors in trying to rehabilitate his character, his memoir does succeed in sharing an inside view of The Who, the music scene they helped build and his creative process. The backstories behind his larger works like Tommy, Quadrophenia, the ill-fated Lifehouse project, and his musical interpretation of Ted Hughes’ The Iron Man reveal a lot about how he develops and evolves his ideas. In particular, Tommy’s origins are quite interesting. Sensing the shift from pop singles to full albums, Townshend was looking for a way to move beyond The Who’s core audience of young men, and a pop oriented spiritual journey seemed like a promising direction. But the story evolved as he brought in the more esoteric influences of Hermann Hesse’s Siddhartha and Indian master Meher Baba. Who I Am dedicates a whole chapter to running down the realization of the project, where some of the more mystical aspects were moderated to serve the story. It’s an interesting contrast to Lifehouse, which became his mythical lost project, his Smile. Just as Brian Wilson overreached trying to create his unbridled masterpiece, Lifehouse attempted to combine an ambitiously detailed parable with avant-garde musical techniques including “mesmeric arpeggio effects,” audience participation and special surround sound amplification. If he had gotten the rest of The Who or their management onboard, perhaps they could have reined it into more practical realms, but unlike Tommy, he was unable to communicate his vision. So, the band scavenged material from Lifehouse to make Who’s Next and Townshend himself has raided it for inspiration repeatedly, most recently on The Who’s Endless Wire.

The book does a good job capturing the excesses of the classic rock era and Townshend realistically assesses The Who’s place in the 1960s Pantheon of Rock, holding the Beatles and the Stones on a higher plane and showing respect for peers like the Kinks and Cream. Of course, like any great rock memoir, countless names are dropped. There are newly revealed stories, like how he stole his windmill guitar move from Keith Richards in 1963 or an ironic tale of mutual respect with jazz virtuoso Rahsaan Roland Kirk. He also offers his own versions of well-traveled stories, like the showdown backstage at the 1967 Newport Pop Festival with Jimi Hendrix over who’d get to perform first. Townshend somewhat disingenuously suggests that Hendrix should have gone second because he was the more significant artist, but he does own up to not being sure whether The Who could have successfully followed Hendrix.

After reading Who Am I, I can still enjoy Quadrophenia with a clear conscience and I can respect Townshend’s talent as a musician. But given the chance to meet in person, I think I’d pass. His memoir conveys some of his complexity, but “No one knows what it’s like/ To be the bad man/ To be the sad man/ Behind blue eyes”. He’s right. I don’t know, but I’ve got a clearer picture now.

(This first appeared on Spectrum Culture)

Book review - Sylvie Simmons, I'm Your Man (2012)

"The Life of Leonard Cohen" lovingly revealed

The world craves biographies of celebrities who died too young. We look for closure on open questions and missing details. The longer-lived stars, the survivors, only intrigue us if they fall into one of two categories: the enigmas and the outrageous. Leonard Cohen easily fits into the former group. Rather than tell his own story, he prefers to define himself through the ambiguity of his imperfect poems and songs. But Cohen belongs in the latter group as well, due to his nomadic romantic life and improbable ties to a host of wild characters like Bob Dylan, Andy Warhol, Janis Joplin, and Phil Spector. For an introspective poet primarily aligned with folk music, part of his mystery is how he found himself in the midst of such influential musicians and cultural players. In her new book, Sylvie Simmons makes a credible effort at opening up the details of Cohen’s life and sharing plenty of entertaining tales along the way. It’s not an autobiography, but Simmons did have extraordinary access to Cohen which flavors the stories and blends his more recent memories with the records and recollections of others.

I’m Your Man captures the conflicting picture of a man who hides behind his poetry, yet exposes himself within the lines. Like most artists, he wants the power of his work to be recognized, but he has largely shrugged off personal recognition. An artist with a distinctly masculine, sometime chauvinistic perspective, the best known covers of his songs are sung by women (with the exception of Jeff Buckley’s “Hallelujah”). He’s a libertine, a free spirit, who longs for duty and the order of monastic life. He’s a devout Jew, adept with Christian symbolism and Buddhist practice. I've often thought that this inherent complexity forms the foundation of Cohen’s popular appeal. But Simmons makes an effective case that his charm and charisma are the real roots of his power. Even beyond his personal interactions, there is something in his work that operates subconsciously on his audience, finding a path for his carefully crafted lines to slip past any resistance to poetry and lodge in their minds. Similarly, despite being a reluctant performer, his deep, raw voice imparts a vulnerable sense of truth that fills a hole in each listener’s soul.

Simmons spends a fair amount of time examining Cohen’s youth and young adulthood. With the exception of the formative experience of his father’s illness and death, it’s remarkable how ordinary a young man he was. His family’s social standing in Montreal’s Jewish community was somewhat surprising, but I never would have guessed that he had an interest in country western music, performing with his band the Buckskin Boys. His relative popularity in school was also unexpected. On the other hand, his writing has often reflected his serious religious upbringing. The other common theme that comes out of this section of the book is his development as a rootless nomad. Starting as a teen wandering the late-night streets of Montreal, he later received a grant to travel the world, writing a novel. This led him to London, then to Greek island of Hydra, which would become a second home. Although Montreal and Hydra would be his two focal points, Cohen seemed to spend most of his time in hotel rooms around the world.

After laying that groundwork, I’m Your Man balances between three separate narrative arcs. The first follows the women in Cohen’s life, who formed a long chain of lovers and serious relationships: Annie Sherman, Marianne Ihlen, Suzanne Elrod (the mother of his children), Dominique Issermann, Rebecca De Mornay and Anjani Thomas. Scattered throughout the chapters are countless flings, both named and alluded to. In addition to these conquests, this path includes the special category of muses that he never really possessed, specifically Suzanne Vaillancourt née Verdal (who inspired “Suzanne”) and Warhol’s chanteuse protégé Nico.

The second thread in Cohen’s story follows his spiritual growth. While he has remained rooted in Judaism, as his poem “Not A Jew” defiantly makes clear, he has also leveraged the universal message within the language of Christianity, he’s dabbled in Scientology, and he found true peace studying Buddhism with his teacher Kyozan Joshu Sasaki (Roshi). Cohen’s dedication to Roshi led to a long stint as his guru’s personal assistant and a five year retreat to Roshi’s Mount Baldy Zen Center. The solitude and imposed order he found there provided a respite from a demanding world and eventually had a great positive impact on his lifelong struggle with depression.

The final narrative line follows the slow build and flow of Cohen’s career, first as a poet and novelist, then later as songwriter and performer. Simmons walks us through the decades as she fills the book with satisfying details about studio sessions and touring line-ups. The section on recording Death of a Ladies Man (1977) with Phil Spector is particularly interesting. The two men seemed to connect well at first, but foreshadowing later events, Spector became increasingly bizarre and threatening. As his personality dominated the project, Cohen’s songs were buried under Spector’s "Wall of Sound" production. But that’s just an interlude in the story, which leads towards the climax of Cohen’s career and the afterglow, where he’s enjoyed a popular resurgence in the wake of losing most of his assets to his manager embezzlement. Forced back on tour, Cohen has finally channeled his spiritual peace into his performance, letting him find a comfortable place on stage that he had never really known before.

While the book does reflect Cohen’s life journey, this redemptive ending feels too reductive for such a complex man. Simmons clearly loves Cohen and his work, but her bias lets her settle for this happy, easy conclusion. This is the real weakness of I’m Your Man: Simmons doesn't challenge her subject enough. After spending the book outlining his charisma, her omissions illustrate how charmed she was. In particular, she chose not to delve too deeply into his womanizing and she completely ignored the controversy of alleged sexual misconduct associated with Roshi. While the latter point is not directly part of Cohen’s story, it is significant, especially given his one-time role as Roshi’s assistant. Despite missing these opportunities, the book is not fatally flawed. The wealth of details and personal recollections from Cohen and his friends still make for an excellent read. It doesn't unlock all of his mysteries, but it does offer a good sense of a complex man.

(This review first appeared on Spectrum Culture)

Multimedia review - Ian Curtis and Joy Division

Binging on Ian Curtis and Joy Division is not for the weak of heart or those prone to depression. I recently read Touching From a Distance: Ian Curtis and Joy Division (1995), written by Ian's wife, Deborah Curtis. Then I watched Anton Corbijn's film, Control (2007), which is loosely based on Deborah's book. Finally I watched Grant Gee's documentary, Joy Division (2007).Much like interviewing witnesses to a train wreck, a rough consensus develops, but each recollection has it's own flavor and agenda. They all agree on the basic story. A relatively quiet young guy, obsessed with the glam and punk music of the day, wants to be part of it. He marries young and has a troubled marriage. He becomes the face and voice of a talented band, contributing lyrics and a dark kind of energy. He has an affair and suffers through the impact on his marriage. He develops epilepsy, which has a profound effect on his ongoing depression. He attempts suicide and finally succeeds the day before he and the band are due to tour in America. Everyone around is shocked.

I was fairly familiar with the story back in the early '80s, after listening to Joy Division and New Order, which rose from the ashes. At the time, the common wisdom was that Ian Curtis had history of depression and was unable to cope with the idea of success. The part of about depression rings true, but my sense out of all of this is that things were not so simple.

Touching From a Distance is interesting because Deborah had a lot more private knowledge of Ian, both his past and his time with the band. Of course, given the conflicts caused by Ian's infidelity and moodiness (plus any normal marital strife), it can't all be taken at face value. Still, Deborah Curtis paints an image of an interesting man: depressive but social within his own network of friends, quiet offstage but a mesmerizing performer, angry and tortured but emotionally invested in his civil service job, and a follower of the nascent punk scent that created a large part of the post punk new wave aesthetic. She seems to come to the conclusion that Ian Curtis had a longtime fascination with death and that his suicide was almost pre-ordained. She points to an early overdose experience in his youth and his lyrical imagery as evidence.

Even though Control is loosely based on Deborah Curtis' biography, it's more of a muddle. This story is too complicated if the book is followed closely, so Anton Corbijn sacrifices much of the explanatory history in order to hit the highlights. It's a whirlwind tour of concerts, a marriage, recording, and an affair. Sam Riley has the right look and captures Ian's mood swings, but he doesn't have enough of a narrative to help the audience get him. The only thing Corbijn successfully emphasizes is the distance between Ian and Deborah. In this view, Ian is tired, desperate, and depressed. Suicide has become his only escape. While this was the weakest of these three pieces, the music is what saves it. There's some great old songs on the soundtrack and the actors do a passable job of covering Joy Division's live performances.

Grant Gee's documentary is richer than Control and offers a good contrast to Touching From a Distance. Joy Division is more band focused and is built on a combination of interviews and band footage. It does a great job of explaining the music scene at the time and giving a sense of how Joy Division influenced that post punk era. The recollections don't always mesh perfectly, but they seem coherent. Ian is portrayed more a regular guy than just a tortured artist. The band and others talk about his sense of humor and moxie. There's much less emphasis on his epilepsy, but that may be because he downplayed that despite his onstage seizures. There's more attention on his girlfriend, Annik Honore, including some brief screen time. Interestingly, Deborah Curtis is never interviewed or shown, although some quotes from her book are included. In this view, Ian's suicide is seen more as either a stupid accident or a way to keep from holding back the band.

So, what's the truth? It won't be found here or in any other book. Given Ian's depression and all of the stress he was going through, it probably wasn't so much a long time plan as an immediate escape. The real point of all of this is to listen to Joy Division. Hear the driving tension of Transmission or She's Lost Control. Listen to Love Will Tear Us Apart and wonder why no one saw the end coming. Sip some Irish coffee and savor the bittersweet sound of Isolation.