Why I Love Jonathan Richman (by Everett True)
Dude reprinted this from Plan B Magazine #18 on his Tumblr. I read it, liked it, thought: why not reprint it on Collapse Board as well? So here it is. (It’s been reprinted at least twice before – here, alongside a bunch of other writings about Jonathan – but I do like it.)
I first heard Jonathan Richman back in ‘82. It was when I was sharing a tiny one-bedroom flat in south east London with my friend Aggi. Every evening after work, I would rush home to paste down some more Girl’s Annual illustrations among enthusiastic words about The Go-Betweens and early Creation acts like Mod acolytes Jasmine Minks and the Byrds-ian Revolving Paint Dream for my fanzine The Legend!, using spray mount borrowed from my workplace. I was a silkscreen printer. Aggi studied fine art at Camberwell College just up the road.
Not owning a television, evenings were either spent listening to bands like The Undertones, Soft Cell and Orange Juice, or pretending to write the odd song. I had a fledgling career as a shy, unobtrusive songwriter back then, you see, writing songs which, in retrospect, were quite alarming in both the directness of their sentiments and lack of melody.
The bond which linked myself and Aggi was very simple: we were both fans of her boyfriend Stephen’s band The Pastels, who, back then, were a wonderfully naïve, Postcard Records-influenced, jangling pop band. I couldn’t resist Stephen’s deep, affected, off-key voice, nor Brian’s carefully spelt out guitar solos. It seemed that The Pastels spoke directly to me and to me alone. The honour was reciprocated: The Pastels were some of the very few people who’ve ever liked my songs.
One weekend, Stephen came to visit. Among other things, he had a tape of Jonathan Richman singing live.
“Here, listen to this Jerry,” he said, handing me the cassette. “You remind me a little of him. The way he sings with only the barest of accompaniments. The directness of his love songs. His naivety. The way most people don’t understand him. He’s a big influence on The Pastels, too. I think you’ll really like this.”
So I listened.
Stephen was being way too kind, of course. Yes, there were distinct similarities between the unadorned simplicity of Jonathan’s songs and my own, the way neither of us seemed to much like the dull thunderous roar of drums and electric guitars obscuring our songs, although both of us were definitely in love with rock’n’roll. But that’s about where it ended.
Jonathan had such a voice, such a way round a low key melody and turn of emotive phrase. When he sang, it seemed like you could hear the tinkle of magic from somewhere outside the grimy windows and grey skies, the promise that not all pop stars were arrogant, self-loving bores. When he sang, it suddenly made it OK to be male and sensitive. It was fine to find beauty in the insignificant details.
I listened spellbound as this American who seemed so fragile, so special, sang tales of being scorned by girls and hipsters alike in his home of Boston, MA, accompanied by nothing more than an acoustic guitar, and occasional applause. I can remember the songs he played even now: ‘New England’, ‘Astral Plane’, ‘Government Center’ and the life-enriching ‘The Morning Of Our Lives’. All of these songs intoxicated me with their gentle grace, their joyous rush of sympathy and solace. Most especially, however, there was ‘Don’t Let Our Youth Go To Waste’, Jonathan’s plea from the other side of the generational divide, which the man sung a cappella, stark, chilling and very, very moving. I have never forgotten that experience.
In 1998, I was living in Seattle and against my better judgment I went along to see the smash hit kooky comedy There’s Something About Mary. The film was pretty good actually. My biggest pleasure came when I saw my very own gentle genius strolling along between scenes, playing guitar, acting as the singing narrator, still as charming, winsome and naïve as ever. You shouldn’t underestimate him just because he sings quietly. Jonathan Richman is one of the giants of rock’n’roll.
Oh, go on then:
It never seemed a big deal to me, to be rock’n’roll. All you had to do was drink more, boast more, brag more. If someone wanted to take me on in a drinking competition, let them. I would always win. I didn’t care whether I woke the next day or not. Most hedonism has a desperate edge. I used to despise the hippies, pretending to be so out there: the ones I lived with in my New Cross Gate squat, end of 1980. Sometimes, they’d be so stoned (man) they’d pretend to forget I was there. Cooked up flour and water over a fire made of stolen supermarket pallets, which also provided the only light and heat in the room, and they called it living. I’d masturbate into piles of old clothes and burn them on the fire later. Their musical tastes amounted to nothing. Less than nothing. Of course, I liked some of them too. Eventually, I had to move out after a terrible day when John Lennon died and all the hippies just crowed. I had a battery-powered radio player, and I huddled under my piles of old clothes and wept.
I didn’t know Jonathan Richman then. I wish I had. It would really have helped. His music has such generosity of spirit. His voice is so open, and full of optimism. He takes childlike delight in most everything. He dances, the way I always imagined myself to dance. He’s not afraid to be vulnerable. His music … his music. ‘I’m Straight’ is more punk than any you can name. Don’t be confused by the polite tone. There’s anger and bile and frustration and repetition and a fuck-you attitude – and a killer riff to match. “I called this number three times already today. But I, I got scared, I put it back in place, I put my phone back in place. I still don’t know if I should have called up. Look. Just tell me, why don’tcha, if I’m out of place. Cos here’s your chance to make me feel awkward and make me wish I’d never called up this place.” Jonathan has such a voice, such a way round a low-key melody and emotive phrase. When he sings, it seems like you can hear the tinkle of magic from somewhere outside the grimy windows and grey skies, the promise that not all pop stars are arrogant, self-loving bores. When he sings, it’s OK to be male and sensitive again. And it’s fine to find beauty in the insignificant details.