Turn Around Bright Eyes: The Rituals of Love and Karaoke Page 12
The girl in the pinball room loved both these seventies songs, even though they’re so different. She clearly heard some part of her soul in them. I strained to understand what that was. Did she identify with the girl in “Tonight’s the Night,” or the seducer? Could she translate the mysterious vocalese at the end, where Rod and Britt sing sexy pillow-talk words in their secret alphabet? Were they speaking French? Or Swedish? Maybe sex-havers speak their own language, which the rest of us can’t understand?
Maybe someday you’ll translate this exotic language, I told myself, crouched over the Duotron machine with my fingers sweaty on the flippers. You will spread your wings. Someday you will be as old and wise as Rod, and not only will you speak this language, you will forget you ever heard it as alien and forbidding.
P.S. Turns out it’s just French. It’s not that big a deal.
3
Rod was always different from the other seventies rock gods. He’d been around the world and seen it all. He was on the cover of the Rolling Stone with Britt. For A Night on the Town, the 1976 album with “Tonight’s the Night,” he has a champagne glass, a straw boater perched on his head, and that same dazed expression. He doesn’t even realize this is a photo shoot. He’s just looking over the cameraman’s shoulder, to see if the Swiss models are back with the limes.
For seventies kids, Rod had something else that set him apart. He had the coolest rock star rumor ever. Every school cafeteria was abuzz with the Rod Stewart rumor. The story goes, Rod collapses onstage at Madison Square Garden. They rush him to the ER, pump his stomach, and find . . . a lot of semen. Pints. Quarts. Gallons.
Nobody seemed to believe this tale, but everybody loved to tell it. Even Rod himself. “That story spread all around the fucking world!” Stewart chortled to Rolling Stone in 1988, still admirably amused by the whole thing. “It was so laughable, it never really hurt me. What could it have been? A fleet of fucking sailors? Or footballers? I mean, what the hell? Jesus Christ!”
“Laughable” is a telling word. When you’re Rod, everything is laughable, including the fact that people all over the planet might be laughing at you. But he’s 100 percent right: Nobody bought it. It was just one of those urban legends too funny not to pass on, like the Fonz getting killed in a motorcycle crash or Mikey dying from Pop Rocks (although, to be honest, I believed those). The stomach-pump story has made many comebacks over the years; sometimes it changes to a story about a movie star who goes to the ER with an object up his butt. The stars’ names change—but this rumor was around before they were born.
Everybody loves these hospital rumors, even though nobody believes them. They never explain why a rich celebrity goes to a public hospital instead of calling a fancy doctor. Next time you’re in the hospital waiting room, take a look around. Not a lot of rock stars there, right? You’re not arm-wrestling Cher for that back issue of Parenting Reluctantly magazine, are you? Even as a kid, you know hospitals are miserable places where you don’t run into celebrities, only other dumb kids who ate paint or played in poison ivy.
We all knew the stomach-pump story was phony, but we loved it. And I believe the reason was that we knew Rod would think it was funny, too. Even a worldwide rumor about his sex life makes him chuckle, like he’s watching himself from a safer distance than we do.
4
“Hot Legs” is a song I first experienced in sixth grade, when I watched Rod sing it on a Cher TV special. I can find the clip on YouTube, but I still can’t believe it really happened: Rod cavorts like a burlesque dancer, wearing skintight red hot pants, a purple scarf, and nothing else. He slips behind the cocktail bar to drop trou and change into something a little more comfortable, like a shiny silver leisure suit, with the shirt knotted in his midriff. Then he dances off for a date with Dolly Parton. The seventies kicked ass.
Everybody says Rod wrote all his great songs in the early seventies, and that’s basically true. He’s the all-time most infamous case of selling out. He couldn’t wait to leave his folkie days behind and go Hollywood. But he was already selling millions of records when he was all mandolin solos and tartan kilts. So you can’t accuse him of doing it for the money—it’s more like he sold out for self-expression. It took real artistic courage to sing “Hot Legs.”
Am I going to argue his late albums are better than people think? No, because I’ve heard them, and they’re exactly as flimsy as you’d assume. What, you think I’m gonna claim you’re missing out by not listening to Body Wishes? Believe me, you have made a wise decision. If you don’t do anything else right all day, you can assure yourself you avoided Body Wishes.
So what would it mean if I tell you that I love Body Wishes, which came out in 1983, and that it’s slightly superior to Camouflage, vastly superior to Atlantic Crossing, about even with Tonight I’m Yours, though not quite as good as Foolish Behaviour? Would it make any difference in your life? It doesn’t make any difference in Rod’s. By 1979, when he released his greatest hits album, he had no problem putting “Hot Legs,” “Maggie May,” and “Da Ya Think I’m Sexy?” all in a row, even though your ears might say these tunes don’t belong on the same planet, much less the same record. And did he wear that pink satin kimono on the cover? Of course he did.
So picking your favorite Rod Stewart song feels arbitrary. I have a special fondness for “Hot Legs,” although the vixen in this song is a very different character from the one who spreads her wings in “Tonight’s the Night.” (Since Rod is fond of associating “wings” with “legs,” maybe he should have called this song “Hot Wings,” which he could have parlayed into a lucrative chain of fried-chicken restaurants. Missed opportunities, Rod—everywhere you look, missed opportunities.)
But I’m not sure Rod cares any more about “Hot Legs” than he does for “Tonight I’m Yours,” which is not the same song as “Tonight’s the Night.” Rod had a great eighties hit called “Passion,” which is not the same song as “Infatuation.” He doesn’t sing about any particular woman he feels passion or infatuation for; he’s infatuated with infatuation itself. He’s doomed to repeat this endless cycle, which is why the chorus goes, “Oh no! Not again!”
Rod did a beer commercial in the nineties, and in a way it’s his most personal statement. You see Rod trapped inside a beer bottle, singing one of his early folkie songs, “Every Picture Tells a Story.” Then at the key line—“oh my dear, I better get out of here!”—he breaks through the glass. He finds himself onstage, puffed and powdered, in front of a huge crowd. He’s singing the same song. Maybe he just traded one bottle for a bigger one. But this one is where he belongs.
5
So why does he keep going? There are easier paydays than working as hard as he does. Although Rod likes the money, that doesn’t seem to be the part he’s addicted to. Being addicted to stardom is very different from being addicted to the money. It’s about being addicted to the work. It’s hard for us nonperformers to even imagine how repetitive and grueling the job is. You can’t do it unless you have to. The money and perks sweeten the deal, but nobody hangs in there as a performer unless the action is the juice.
Rod Stewart had a famous statement about this in the seventies, quoted by Greil Marcus in the classic Mystery Train: “If I couldn’t perform I’d give up. It’s not a question of the money side of it. I don’t have to work for the rest of my life. I don’t want to. But not having that ninety minutes up there anymore. Phew. I don’t like to think about it. It frightens me.” As Marcus adds, “To be the kind of rock & roll star Stewart is to be like a politician who campaigns every moment of his life.” That’s true. Rod’s a bona fide hustler, because he lives for that ninety minutes. That’s what stars do. For players and hustlers, tonight’s the night.
There’s a great story Roger Ebert tells about the old-school comedian Henny Youngman—in the middle of taping a TV show, on his break, Henny passed a private room that was hosting a wedding reception. He crashed the wedding, collared the father of the bride, and said, “I’m Henny Youngm
an. I’ll do ten minutes for a hundred dollars.”
I love that story because it shows how performers are wired differently than the rest of us, no matter how much we love to step into their shoes for a few minutes. I’m sure Henny Youngman liked the idea of making an extra C-note on his lunch break, but what he really needed was to do his routine and get the laughs. Henny had to work. What performer doesn’t? What they’re hooked on is the hustle. I envy that.
I am very much not this guy. Karaoke turns you into this guy: the showman personality who is always on, who craves attention and will scrounge up a crowd anywhere. Henny was a joke machine. If the jokes were old ones, all the better—that made the machine more efficient. As he once said, “I don’t tell jokes. I refresh memories.” Rod approaches his own songs the same way. As the man sang, oh no, not again.
So maybe this is all a reason to see Rod as a case of betrayed principles. He should have quit while he still had some dignity. Maybe he’s an argument that rock stars should have mandatory early retirement. But what can I say? I love Rod because I hate dignity. I do not believe rock stars should retire gracefully. I believe in milking it, running it into the ground, flogging the dead horse.
The way Rod keeps going, it strikes a chord with any man old enough to see himself in that moronic persistence. Rod keeps plodding, the way the rest of us keep plodding. Sometimes you feel like Rod Stewart and you wonder if you’re trapped in that beer bottle. You feel like your life has turned into a show, with you as the hired entertainment, a clown doing tricks for the crowd. You can barely remember that blast of youthful inspiration that once made you think this whole thing was a great idea. You wonder if it’s tragic to feel this way, and then you remember Rod and realize it’s comic instead.
I love the way Rod keeps plodding because I’m a husband. We plod. It’s what we do. You don’t get to be Rod Stewart unless you have an element of the cold-blooded showbiz huckster, a little Henny Youngman in you. But you also don’t get to be a husband unless you have some Rod Stewart in you—grinding through the years, getting off on repetition. The mental and emotional toughness that requires, which is always kind of a challenge for me, means fighting off the doubts. There are moments when you wonder if the life you’ve built is a trap, and if that clanking sound in your head is chains. But Rod is there to tell you to chill the fuck out. The clanking sound goes away. It’s not the universe picking on you. It’s nothing to make a scene about. Make the best out of a bad joke, laugh it off.
Like any rock star, any husband worries about Losing It. Rod exemplifies the attitude that Losing It is no big deal. He saw that fate coming, and he was already planning to get over it. If you’re squeamish about Losing It, if you’re hung up on dignity, if you sentimentalize the early days, you aren’t going to hack it. In the short term, love and music are a romantic thrill; over the course of a lifetime, they’re for hard-ass hustlers.
Rod will go to his final days with that beautiful grin. He will always look and sound like a guy who feels confused by his own existence. He could have made different decisions. He could have had more time. He will find it all hilarious. But all that means is he keeps turning into Rod Stewart. Like the rest of us. And I suspect—I always have—whatever Rod knows the rest of us will learn.
FIFTEEN
11:59 p.m.:
She Loves You
1
1983: You are seventeen years old, and you have collected many theories about the universe. But there’s one thing you know for a fact. You are certain, as you will never be certain of anything else, that the greatest song in the history of the world is “She Loves You.” By the Beatles. Obviously.
If anyone asks your favorite song, you will instantly answer, “She Loves You,” and explain why in detail (which might help explain why nobody asks). Because you’re a sullen teen boy, and this song is the sullenest, teenest, boyest song imaginable. Those drums. Those guitars. The wild mood swings in the vocals. You’re the boy in this song, you think to yourself. This is you.
At some point in your early twenties, you’re startled to realize that “She Loves You” isn’t your favorite song anymore. You have switched allegiance to “I Want to Hold Your Hand.” You are now certain, as you will never be certain of anything else, that “I Want to Hold Your Hand” is your favorite song of all time, in case anyone asks. (Some people do ask—by now you have made friends who also like to talk about this stuff. One of them is the girl you hold hands with.)
You’re not sure how “I Want to Hold Your Hand” took over from “She Loves You.” The change happened gradually, without you noticing, and you’re vaguely pissed. It’s like finding out your right and left lungs traded sides—it might have no visible impact on your day-to-day life, but it still feels like a major decision you should have been consulted about. It’s a big deal.
2
1963: John Lennon and Paul McCartney are in a hotel room in Newcastle, England. In a few hours, they’ll be playing a concert with their band, the Beatles. Right now, they’re sitting on their bed (the Beatles are still sharing hotel rooms on the road). They hold acoustic guitars, writing “She Loves You.” Tomorrow they finish it up at Paul’s dad’s house, while Mr. McCartney sits in the next room watching the telly. Paul’s dad thinks the song is corny. He asks them if “yeah, yeah, yeah” shouldn’t really go “yes, yes, yes.” They tell him no, no, no.
They take it into Abbey Road the next week. Their producer, George Martin, has his doubts. He asks, “Isn’t this a bit unhip, laddies?” Paul insists, “It’s great!” So they knock it off in one afternoon session, and it becomes their biggest hit, the best-selling single in the history of England. (It holds the record until 1977, when Paul tops it with one of his solo hits.) “She Loves You” becomes their introduction to America on The Ed Sullivan Show. The “yeah, yeah, yeah” chant turns into their trademark. The Beatles become the four most beloved human beings on the planet and remain that way forever.
3
1975: The first Beatles record you own, a birthday present from your parents, is a Dutch anthology called Beatles Greatest. You spend hours listening to it, sitting on the living room floor next to the ancient record player. Although you don’t realize it yet, only one of the speakers works, so you’re only hearing half the music, but it doesn’t matter. The best song on it is “She Loves You.”
“She Loves You” is a song everybody knows, a song everybody has heard a million times. So it’s easy to overlook how bizarre it is. It’s easily the weirdest song the Beatles ever wrote.
The plot: There are two boys talking, a Beatle boy (John and Paul blending their voices) and a mean boy. The Beatle boy has a friend, who happens to be the girl in love with the mean boy. The Beatle boy was hanging out with her yesterday, listening to her talk about her broken heart. So the Beatle boy steps in as a messenger of love. He tells the mean boy to apologize and rejoice in her love. John and Paul sound so bitchy, as if they can’t believe what an idiot this other guy is. But they love singing about the girl. When they switch the subject back to her, that’s where they brighten up and turn into a “yeah, yeah, yeah” machine. That’s why the song makes you feel happy, even though everybody at the end is alone and frustrated and bitter.
You have to admit: Teenage boys do not have conversations like this very often. If you overheard this conversation on a bus, it would be the weirdest thing that happened to you all day. You would get to work and tell everyone, “Guess what I heard? Two teenage boys were talking about their love lives and one told the other to apologize to a girl. Kids today—they are so free and open with their feelings!”
But the generosity of this song is overwhelming. There’s no hint that the Beatle boy covets this girl for himself. (That would be a different song—it would be “You’re Gonna Lose That Girl.”) For that matter, there’s no hint that he wants the boy. (Then it would be Rick Springfield’s “Jessie’s Girl.”) The Beatles just root for the girl to get what she wants.
All the pain flies away
in the “yeah, yeah, yeahs” and “ooohs,” as if they’re trying to sing like flirty girls and seduce this boy into surrendering to love. The Beatle boy tries to translate girl language into boy language, repeating what the girl told him to say, yet making it irresistible to the boy who’s listening. To bring these tormented lovers together, they have to become superhumanly pretty. Liverpool love ninjas, to the rescue.
There’s a lot of misery in this song, but there’s also fun, and the Beatle boy is having most of it.
4
1991: You are in your early twenties. You are young and in love and you spend a lot of time listening to “I Want to Hold Your Hand”—partly because of the Al Green version, partly because you’re young and in love so you finally have ears to hear all the joy in the Beatles’ version. The girl-crazy howls and drum crashes, the brash confidence of it, the way the boy is on fire and will explode if the girl doesn’t touch him right this second—this seems more complex to you, more urgent than any other song you can think of.
One day you’re drinking tea with your mom and she asks why you want to marry your girlfriend. (You’re just twenty-four—too young.) You’re a rock geek, so you give a really arcane answer comparing your girlfriend to the Beatles. You quote a line that the critic Greil Marcus wrote about the Beatles, calling them “a rock and roll group that combined elements of the music that you were used to hearing only in pieces.” This sums up your relationship. Needless to say, your mom thinks you’re ducking the question.
If you ever told your girlfriend about this conversation (you never did—it just never came up) she would have gotten it. She’s also a rock geek, the kind who also can quote Greil Marcus lines from memory. She’d love being compared to the Beatles, with a quote from one of her writer heroes. Maybe you should have told her.