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I feel I have a Sound aborning, which is my own, and that Sound if erratic is still my greatest pride, because I would rather write like a dancer shaking my ass to boogaloo inside my head, and perhaps reach only readers who like to use books to shake their asses, than to be or write for the man cloistered in a closet somewhere reading Aeschylus while this stupefying world careens crazily past his waxy windows toward its last raving sooty feedback pirouette. And I can't answer it. Welcome back. His mother Norma Belle was a Jehovah's Witness while his Conway Lesley Bangs was a drunk and a truck driver who died in a fire when Bangs was only nine years old. "It's not about a fucking horse," I said.
He was in his fifties too, and he said, “You know what? The two things that distinguish those deaths from Elvis’s (he and they having drug habits vaguely in common) were that all of them died on the outside looking in and none of them took their audience for granted. So it's not exactly that records might unhinge the mind, but rather that if anything is going to drive you up the wall it might as well be a record.” It's a way of doing things, of approaching things. What the hell difference does it make?”
“Irving Berlin said, "Popular music is popular because a lot of people like it." Lenny Bruce demonstrated how far you could push a society as repressed as ours and how much you could get away with, but Elvis kicked “How Much Is That Doggie in the Window” If love truly is going out of fashion forever, which I do not believe, then along with our nurtured indifference to each other will be an even more contemptuous indifference to each others’ objects of reverence.
“Rock 'n' roll is an attitude, it's not a musical form of a strict sort. He is also regarded as one of the most influential music critics to have ever existed. “Don’t ask me why I obsessively look to rock ’n’ roll bands for some kind of model for a better society. ‘They’re too bright,’ he says. Goodreads helps you follow your favorite authors. We’re all stuck on this often miserable earth where life is essentially tragic, but there are glints of beauty and bedrock joy that come shining through from time to precious time to remind anybody who cares to see that there is something higher and larger than ourselves.
And the whole purpose of the absurd, mechanically persistent involvement with recorded music is the pursuit of that priceless moment. But I will say this: Elvis Presley was the man who brought overt blatant vulgar sexual frenzy to the popular arts in America (and thereby to the nation itself, since putting “popular arts” and “America” in the same sentence seems almost redundant). We’d love your help. “I suspect almost every day that I’m living for nothing, I get depressed and I feel self-destructive and a lot of the time I don’t like myself.
Because the disease is called life and there is no cure for that but death and death’s just part of the set-up designed to keep you terrified and thus in bondage from the cradle to the crypt so ha ha the joke’s on you except there’s no punchline and the comedian forgot you ever existed as even a comma.” We’d love your help.
It is a precious and terrible gift, born of a terrible truth, because what they see is both infinitely beautiful and terminally horrifying: the unlimited human ability to create or destroy, according to whim. “The first mistake of art is to assume that it's serious.” Put ’em out or I don’t sing a note.’ So they do.
“The trend toward narcissistic flair has been responsible in large part for smiting rock with the superstar virus, which revolves around the substituting of attitudes and flamboyant trappings, into which the audience can project their fantasies, for the simple desire to make music, get loose, knock the folks out or get ‘em up dancin.’ It’s not enough just to do those things anymore; what you must do instead if you want success on any large scale is figure a way of getting yourself associated in the audience’s mind with their pieties and their sense of “community,” i.e., ram it home that you’re one of THEM; or, alternately, deck and bake yourself into an image configuration so blatant or outrageous that you become a culture myth.” So me and my wife are sitting in total blackness listening to this guy sing songs we knew and loved, and I ain’t just talking about his old goddamn songs, but he totally Bangs understands; he’s hard on Elvis up until this point, and then he tells his own story of seeing Elvis in person, writing with an honesty that lesser critics wouldn’t dare: “He was the only male performer I have ever seen to whom I responded sexually; it wasn’t real arousal, rather an erection of the heart, when I looked at him I went mad with desire and envy and worship and self-projection. He looked 50 years old, greying, big belly, life still in his eyes, and he said: “Shit, that’s too bad. ”
I feel I have a Sound aborning, which is my own, and that Sound if erratic is still my greatest pride, because I would rather write like a dancer shaking my ass to boogaloo inside my head, and perhaps reach only readers who like to use books to shake their asses, than to be or write for the man cloistered in a closet somewhere reading Aeschylus while this stupefying world careens crazily past his waxy windows toward its last raving sooty feedback pirouette. And I can't answer it. Welcome back. His mother Norma Belle was a Jehovah's Witness while his Conway Lesley Bangs was a drunk and a truck driver who died in a fire when Bangs was only nine years old. "It's not about a fucking horse," I said.
He was in his fifties too, and he said, “You know what? The two things that distinguish those deaths from Elvis’s (he and they having drug habits vaguely in common) were that all of them died on the outside looking in and none of them took their audience for granted. So it's not exactly that records might unhinge the mind, but rather that if anything is going to drive you up the wall it might as well be a record.” It's a way of doing things, of approaching things. What the hell difference does it make?”
“Irving Berlin said, "Popular music is popular because a lot of people like it." Lenny Bruce demonstrated how far you could push a society as repressed as ours and how much you could get away with, but Elvis kicked “How Much Is That Doggie in the Window” If love truly is going out of fashion forever, which I do not believe, then along with our nurtured indifference to each other will be an even more contemptuous indifference to each others’ objects of reverence.
“Rock 'n' roll is an attitude, it's not a musical form of a strict sort. He is also regarded as one of the most influential music critics to have ever existed. “Don’t ask me why I obsessively look to rock ’n’ roll bands for some kind of model for a better society. ‘They’re too bright,’ he says. Goodreads helps you follow your favorite authors. We’re all stuck on this often miserable earth where life is essentially tragic, but there are glints of beauty and bedrock joy that come shining through from time to precious time to remind anybody who cares to see that there is something higher and larger than ourselves.
And the whole purpose of the absurd, mechanically persistent involvement with recorded music is the pursuit of that priceless moment. But I will say this: Elvis Presley was the man who brought overt blatant vulgar sexual frenzy to the popular arts in America (and thereby to the nation itself, since putting “popular arts” and “America” in the same sentence seems almost redundant). We’d love your help. “I suspect almost every day that I’m living for nothing, I get depressed and I feel self-destructive and a lot of the time I don’t like myself.
Because the disease is called life and there is no cure for that but death and death’s just part of the set-up designed to keep you terrified and thus in bondage from the cradle to the crypt so ha ha the joke’s on you except there’s no punchline and the comedian forgot you ever existed as even a comma.” We’d love your help.
It is a precious and terrible gift, born of a terrible truth, because what they see is both infinitely beautiful and terminally horrifying: the unlimited human ability to create or destroy, according to whim. “The first mistake of art is to assume that it's serious.” Put ’em out or I don’t sing a note.’ So they do.
“The trend toward narcissistic flair has been responsible in large part for smiting rock with the superstar virus, which revolves around the substituting of attitudes and flamboyant trappings, into which the audience can project their fantasies, for the simple desire to make music, get loose, knock the folks out or get ‘em up dancin.’ It’s not enough just to do those things anymore; what you must do instead if you want success on any large scale is figure a way of getting yourself associated in the audience’s mind with their pieties and their sense of “community,” i.e., ram it home that you’re one of THEM; or, alternately, deck and bake yourself into an image configuration so blatant or outrageous that you become a culture myth.” So me and my wife are sitting in total blackness listening to this guy sing songs we knew and loved, and I ain’t just talking about his old goddamn songs, but he totally Bangs understands; he’s hard on Elvis up until this point, and then he tells his own story of seeing Elvis in person, writing with an honesty that lesser critics wouldn’t dare: “He was the only male performer I have ever seen to whom I responded sexually; it wasn’t real arousal, rather an erection of the heart, when I looked at him I went mad with desire and envy and worship and self-projection. He looked 50 years old, greying, big belly, life still in his eyes, and he said: “Shit, that’s too bad. ”