from the majestic mind of Tom Russell.

Where Is Holden Caulfield When We Need Him?

Posted: 30 Jun 2010 09:30 AM PDT

An airport. Somewhere. Leafing through an April 29 copy of Rolling Stone,
which is bleating about “40 Reasons to be Excited About Music.” “The future
is here and it rocks.” Spare me. The present is here and it limps. Their
reason #9 was the only cool one: “You can still see Chuck Berry play once a
month.”

This is all we have left for a music mag, whilst England, with 1/6th the
population of the U.S., swings with about ten major and well writ music
publications; plus the BBC programming of shows designed to seek out the
wide history and world fronts of great music: rock, jazz, classical, blues,
folk, world. what have you.

But wait, next time I pick up a “Rolling Stone” they’re featuring the 500
best rock songs ever written. Desperate now. The lists roll out with there’s
nothing else to write about. I might agree with some of their song
choices.here’s the kicker. Over 90% of their 500 best songs ever written
were written before 1970. The summation is there ain’t been much to be
excited about in the last forty years - with all our bleating, digital
gadgetry, conferences, alliances, SXSW, “how to write songs” cartoon books,
posturing circus rap, and lack of human artistic character. The chaos has
led us, with our little IPOD head phones on, into the death throes of
popular song.

We’ve pulled the carpet out from under the original voice. We’ve lost our
ability to speak in passionate musical tongue. Mostly. Sorta. Is it waxing
nostalgic to go back and re- dig “Exile on Main Street,” or “Highway 61
Revisited?” It’s raw necessity. Nostalgia you say? Is there anything
nostalgic about digging some of those Van Gogh paintings? They look like
they were painted this morning. They drip blood. Like Highway 61 and Exile.
We are a bloodless nation now.

Where are the painters, writers, songwriters, novelists and good plumbers?
Why don’t dentists use laughing gas anymore? Huh? My job is to shut up and
write a song. I know that. I shall try, amigos.

Every morning. Meanwhile “Rolling Stone,” struggling for something to write
about, centers less on real music and more on throwing spitballs, sliders,
curves and head dusters at the current president, whom they helped elect -
and the were the first to turn against. We’ve got “freelance” journalists
sucker punching American Generals over free drinks in Paris whiskey bars in
the name of cheap shot, rummy journalism and sensationalism. And, aw, those
interminable lists they throw out.

Ah, hell. Where is Holden Caulfield when we need him? Old Holden would tell
us what’s phony and what ain’t. It’s Barnum and Bailey time. There’s a paper
moon hanging over a cardboard sea. But its happy hour, friends. I promise to
write that song in the morning. I’ll open up and vein and see what drips
down on paper then I’ll go paint something while blasting “Exile on Main
Street (the re-issue) from my ghetto blaster.