When Dulls the Edge

Hey All,
Something intrinsic to the nature of creativity is its limitation as a marketable resource. I don't know how some artists do it, how you avoid burnout. I love it when an actor piques in the media's eyes and is dubbed, "The hardest working actor in show business!" The clowns are on top with two, three hit films running simultaneous in the multiplex and they are fireballs. And then the inevitable crash, the fall from grace, rehab...that climb to the top and slow fade to black. Mostly, they survive.

You see it in every episode plot of E!, True Hollywood Story. And if that poor soul doesn't fit the traditional arc of rags-to-riches-to-crash-to-redemption-and-renewal, their story is seldom told due to risk of falling ratings. I loved the actor, Roddy McDowell. I grew up with him playing apes in movies and television, Flicka movies, Fright Night. But I once watched his bio through tears of boredom. There were no scandals, no disasters, and no epic tragedies. He was a brilliant child actor, who grew into a brilliant mature actor. He was constant, steadfast and true. He was a good person and a good actor, and when the producers of E! tried to plug some scandal into his story, it was forced and lame. He didn't burn out. He was no king; I loved Roddy, but he was no Rock King.

But musicians? Musicians are worse than actors, it seems. Because it is the nature of rock culture to "Burn out," rather than "Fade away," (As Mr. Young once put it so well). Axel Rose sits in his mansion on the hill as we await his solo album promised years and years ago. Is he struggling with drugs, self-destruction, or is he gearing up to reign fire upon the heavens like we hate to admit we expect?

I have often equated (and I am far from alone in this) the fiery apogee of rock stars to the equivalent of ancient King Sacrifice. What's that, you ask? Believe it or not, many an ancient culture, prior to our current rise to a state of "civilization," appointed a king for a duration of time (usually a diurnal year) through a lottery or divination, and at the end of his appointed rule, he got the axe, or the spikes, or the flame pit, or what have you, to ensure prosperity for the community in the coming year. God. Can you imagine THAT LEVEL OF COMMITMENT in leadership?

I mean dalliances with the interns would be a little more tolerable when your term is terminal.

But if rock music is ultimately a theatrical ritual, a celebration of life, then what is the rock artist's ultimate goal? Why to make lots of money, because money and fame? That is what all human beings crave. Really? Then why are so many of these people so freaking miserable, why is their fiery rise so often fueled by their own very personal agony? Is it because they fulfill a vital role in the persistent rejuvenation of our culture? Hmm. That was the whole point of King Sacrifice, to be sure.

But here is a question: do Rock Kings make the choice to survive, or drive themselves fiery acts of self destruction.

Granted, I doubt it's a conscious thing.

It's something kind of hard to peg down. Clearly not all musical artists die the sacrificial death. Some, just as I said, sort of fade away, or fade into the background. Others waste away, while we hope they'll just get it over with (Can you say Courtney Love?) so we can all move on.

I bring this notion to you after an email exchange with Friend R'Chaard. We were talking about how we lost our forward momentum and passion for certain artists after a certain point in their careers (and our lives). R'Chaard bemoans the fact that he didn't even know one of his favorite bands broke up years ago, (had a "Farewell Concert," and everything) or that another favorite band leader had committed suicide in 2001 until very recently.

And I thought about how I have watched one of my favorite bands, REM, fade, fade, fade, fade into (what I consider) a pale version of themselves. I've seen them in concert twice--a big deal for me--following a band with such devotion especially when they ascended to a pricier ticket range (and weren't of the "promising local" variety). But through the years I've purchased their records solely out of inertia, through some sense of forward momentum because from 1983 to 1987, Murmur to Document, this band spoke to me on a level unlike any other. So, like clockwork, each time they released a subsequent album I made my way to the record store and bought it. I didn't read reviews, I didn't wait for interviews or videos, I was a record producer's favorite dog--one of the Pavlovian Breed.

It wasn't until REM's 2004 release, Around the Sun, that I realized I couldn't distinguish one song from the other-on their last three albums! I guess it begs the question, who was really burnt out, them or me? Perhaps that is beside the point when you are talking about Rock Kings. I like the guys from REM, they're good people, they put their money into good causes, they ask their listeners to be proactive in politics, world economy, and the environment. Michael Stype is a really non-threatening and pleasant gay man. Your Grandma would really like him. But did they choose to be beings that abstain from a sacrificial domination of the airwaves, or did they lack a certain cosmic quality vital to being a Rock King? Is there a death wish that somehow propels one's creative passions? And if you, as an artist, burn out, does the death wish?

I'm not sure. But I listen to Document and hear stuff that makes my brain vibrate and my heart thrum, and I hear stuff from Reveal, UP, and Around the Sun and the resonance doesn't even begin to rise above a mumble. It makes me sad, and it makes me feel old, some days it makes me feel burnt out.

More later,
Coletrane