{Originally appeared in the Post Bottom Line}
There are certain albums of music that are almost universally loved. They tend to be considered “perfect”, with every track working together, each song as good as the last, and an overall feelin of catharsis packaged within the lyrics that fills the soul at the end of the record. I’m sure we all have heard records like this, be it Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band by The Beatles or The Blueprint by Jay-Z, there’s something undeniably fluid and brilliant about these records.
In my lifetime, I’ve been fortunate enough to come across some of this type of album, these somewhat life-changing records that open your eyes to something you never saw before. I can remember vividly the first time I played Van Morrison’s Astral Weeks, on my walkman, walking home from school, on a CD my 11th grade history teacher lent me. Similarly I smile as I recall the crackling hiss of the LP of Modern Sounds in Country and Western Music by Ray Charles, or the lilting voice of Jeff Buckley on Grace, or the powerful climax of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars. Yet, most fondly, I remember the first time I ever heard Randy Newman’s Sail Away.
Before I could even understand the satire in the lyrics, I was drawn in by the melodies, the instrumentations, and the sincerity in the man’s unconventional voice. From the simplicity of “Simon Smith and the Amazing Dancing Bear” to the gospel-like beauty of “He Gives Us All His Love”, the album is compositionally flawless. Add onto that some of the sharpest political lyrics this side of Bob Dylan, and you have an incredible album.
It was due to this record that I became a quiet admirer of Randy Newman’s. Quiet being used to signify the lack of vocal appreciation I’ve given the man over the years. While in my heart I’d always considered Newman one of the 4 great American songwriters, alongside Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen and Paul Simon, I never felt I could say so. To dig Dylan was hip and cool, the kind of weird voiced singer-songwriter whose lyrics you’d analyze under the awning around the pool at the high school, smoking cigarettes as you thumbed through your books of Kerouac. Springsteen you could blare with your buddies off a stereo in the garage as you tried desperately to fix up Matt’s ‘78 Chevy Opala, convinced that fixing it up will get you laid, a concept you and your buddies seem to enjoy, constantly bringing it up as you high-five to the tune of “Badlands” (nobody realizing only the guy driving the car will reap the benefits). Paul Simon was the music of the Village, wandering MacDougal and Bedford with your iPod playing “The Boxer”, humming it as all who passed you by, whether 14 or 40, seemed to know what you were humming.
But Randy Newman, well, he’s not heard at high schools or garages or Washington Square. No, he’s just that guy from Toy Story. So I would listen in private to albums like Good Old Boys (with it’s brilliantly controversial “Rednecks”) and Little Criminals (off of which came the famous “Short People”) while people my age continued to ignore his work since he wasn’t “cool”. Well, ignore isn’t necessarily true. My friends all loved “Beehive State” by Mates of State, “Mama Told Me Not To Come” by Stereophonics, and Joe Cocker’s classic “You Can Leave Your Hat On”, they just never knew Randy Newman wrote those songs. Very few people do.
Now, I pontificate on the subject of Mr. Newman’s underrated nature, as well as my exceedingly great admiration for him, as a way to preface the following statement, in an effort to hep the reader understand the emotional charge with which one should read it:
I met Randy Newman.
Allow me to repeat, I met Randy Newman. In an attempt to be the upstanding journalist this school knows me to be (read: to write about more obscure popular culture our average reader has no knowledge of or interest in), when I heard that Randy Newman was coming to Tilles Center, I immediately ran and grabbed two tickets. My excitement could not be contained. I couldn’t believe I’d even gotten the tickets. The man has a myriad of Grammys, three Emmy’s and two Oscars. Three of his albums were selected to be on Rolling Stone’s list of the 500 greatest albums of all time (for perspective, that’s the same number of albums Jimi Hendrix, Nirvana and Eminem have on the list). Countless songs of his have been hits, both for himself and others, so I was certain the show would sell out instantly. In an effort to get even better coverage of what was sure to be considered the event of the year here at Tilles, I contacted someone about interviewing Mr. Newman before the show. While these plans fell through (Mr. Newman’s touring schedule was too busy to answer my e-mail questions), I was offered the opportunity to meet him after the show. Goodbye journalistic integrity, hello shivering fan-boy clutching an LP of Good Old Boys.
When the friend who was supposed to join me for the concert became busy that evening, I knew I would have no trouble finding a second ticket taker. After all, the man has a myriad of Grammys, three Emmy’s and two Oscars. Three of his albums were selected to be on Rolling Stone’s list of the 500 greatest albums of all time. Countless songs of his have been hits, both for himself and others. Finding an interested party wouldn’t be difficult at all.
A half hour before the doors opened and still I was unaccompanied. At the last minute, an individual stepped in to take the second ticket, excited to go in order to hear “You Got A Friend in Me” from Toy Story, as that was the only song he knew. I was worried would not fair well at this concert, certain to be packed with fans as die-hard as myself. A solo performance from a man with a myriad of Grammys, three Emmy’s and two Oscars? Three of who’s albums were selected to be on Rolling Stone’s list of the 500 greatest albums of all time? Countless songs of his have been hits, both for himself and others? How could there not be a huge following for the man?
So there I sat, in a half filled concert hall, watching people walk to the bathroom mid-song, as an American master poured his heart and soul into every word of “I Miss You” and “Dixie Flyer”, telling humorous and beautiful stories, and even taking audience requests the few times they were made. Yet, the magic I felt that night seeing one of my favorite songwriters perform was dampened by the dark cloud lingering in the room, one Newman himself acknowledged many times. “I see some audience members came dressed as empty chairs” he remarked in between “”Sail Away” and “Political Science”. Closing out the show, he said “Thank you all for coming…” and in his trademark humor “…next time bring some fucking friends!”
While Newman laughed about the small crowd, I could quite put a word to my feelings. As I walked backstage, I was greeted rather abruptly by a road manager telling me I can’t go any further back, that the exits are the other way. I assured him I was heading backstage on purpose. “Oh, you’re Michael.” he said, as if not only was my arrival expected, but slightly anticipated. After being personally escorted to Mr. Newman’s dressing room by his road manager, I was brought into the room with the introduction of “the journalist”. Suddenly, the eyes in the room were upon me. I surveyed the area, petrified. I’m no journalist, I thought. Robert Christgau is a journalist. David Frick is a journalist. Hell, Hunter S. Thompson was a journalist. I’m just a guy who writes for a school newspaper in a section no one reads, whose biggest point of pride up until this point was running a three-week-long risqué comic strip without getting a single complaint letter. Now here I was, in the dressing room of a man with a myriad of Grammys, three Emmy’s and two Oscars, three of who’s albums were selected to be on Rolling Stone’s list of the 500 greatest albums of all time, and countless songs of his which have been hits, both for himself and others, identified as “the journalist”. I never felt more like that nervous kid in Almost Famous, except without my Penny Lane.
Yet, I became relieved to see the “dressing room” was the same small, white mirrored room I had recently shot my student film in, that the people backstage were no entourage, but rather what I can only assume were four wealthy people, for whom this was just something that seemed like it would be fun, an event of little or no consequence, conversing with Mr. Newman as if he were simply another average guy. Mr. Newman himself, I gathered from the joy in his eyes seeing my LP of Good Old Boys, was ecstatic to see that someone, anyone, remembered he was not.
We talked for fifteen minutes or so, discussing not just his body of work, but mine. He asked twice about my band, wished my luck on my film (even writing it on my LP) and being extremely grateful for my unreserved praise. Yet, as I stood in the room, meeting one of my idols, my elation gave way to the same feeling I had before heading backstage. I felt a strange compulsion to shout words that had yet to form in the haze of my mind, feeling as though if I spoke these words, the world would open up anew, and everything would be set right. It was not until after I parted ways with Mr. Newman, wandering down the steps of Tilles*, feeling the cold air strike my face, humming “Burn On” from Sail Away, that those words finally formed. I suddenly knew the feeling I got when I saw the empty seats, or when I struggled to find anyone interested in the extra ticket, or who even knew who Randy Newman was, in fact. So I stopped for a moment, held up my signed LP to the light, and as I ran my fingers along the words “I’m glad you like the music so much.” I looked back at the building, mumbling the words that were beyond me when I was backstage, hoping they’d still have some power. “You deserve so much more than the world is giving you these days.”
*let me not be misunderstood, Tilles Center is a wonderful venue, far better than some Manhattan venues I’ve attended shows at, and the university’s treatment of Mr. Newman was the best they could provide. I suppose a cannot expect them to house Mr. Newman in a penthouse for the few minutes before and after he plays.
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