Alan Merrill
(guitar), Amy Madden (bass), and Mark Brotter (drums) perform an
inspired version
of “I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll” at The Brighton Bar, October 4, 2019.
Behold “I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll,” the genre-busting anthem that
propelled Joan Jett toward international superstardom. Since 1981, loudspeakers
everywhere have been proclaiming Jett’s boisterous recording, which predicts—through
equal measures of playfulness and mischievousness—a role-reversal hookup between
a female speaker and a teenage guy who’s dancing in front of a jukebox. Yet the
ditty dates to 1975, when it was written by Alan Merrill and Jerry Mamberg,
also known as two-thirds of the Arrows, a trio that emphasized glam hairdos and
also recorded one of the catchiest records of its era.
Your humble blogger crossed paths with Mr. Merrill last week
at The Brighton Bar, a storied landmark in Long Branch, New Jersey that was
hosting six bands, including the punk-jazz combo, Joy on Fire, for whom I vocalize and pen
lyrics, as well as the headline act, billed as the Alan Merrill Extravaganza.
In fact, Joy on Fire played its set right before Merrill and his bandmates, bassist
Amy Madden and drummer Mark Brotter, took the stage. The organizers of the
event—David Tanner and Kipp Elbaum—had been touting Merrill’s connection to the
song throughout the evening, and the audience (myself included) was eager to
hear the tune straightaway.
I’ll resist the urge to parse the Extravaganza’s entire set, which was
very enjoyable. Since this review concerns itself with a single song that ended
up producing more fame for a musician (Jett) other than its writer (Merrill), I
will say that it was a bit loopy to consider Merrill’s relationship to hits
first recorded by different musicians, such as “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” by the Rolling
Stones or the 1958 Larry Williams song, “Slow Down,” a real humdinger, which benefitted
(in its day) from the gritty honking of under-celebrated saxophonist Plas
Johnson. As expected, the Alan Merrill Extravaganza saved “I Love Rock ‘n’
Roll” for last. They wanted to play the song. It wasn’t drudgery for them. It immediately
became the jewel of their set.
Joan Jett performing
(in a New York Jets Joe Namath shirt) in Norway.
The biggest beneficiary (and enhancer) of this tune, Joan
Jett, is bad-ass. We don’t need to demonstrate this claim, it just is. She
inhabits “I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll” with plenty of—Yeow!—jumpy, punky, metallic energy,
outstripping the somewhat mellower version recorded by the Arrows. She first
encountered the televised Arrows version on the ITV Network in 1976, while she
toured England as a member of the all-female band, the Runaways. In time, she
would record “I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll” twice: first with two members of the Sex Pistols
and second with her band The Blackhearts. The latter version rose to No. 1 on
the pop charts, and arguably, would come to define Jett’s career, even though
it’s not her edgiest song.
The lyrics as envisioned by Jett and Merrill can be
summarized easily enough. A teenager catches the eye of the singer / speaker as
the teenager is “dancing there by the record machine.” This unnamed dancer is “about
17” and we assume that the singer or the intended audience is roughly the same
age (or recalls being that age). Ultimately, the song’s narrative involves two
threads: a girl meets boy scenario and the chorus, which expands the budding
tryst to include the entire genre of rock ‘n’ roll.
In the first case, the singer seems to be intent upon securing
the partnership—dancing or otherwise—of the dancing teenager. The song insists
that “it wouldn’t be long ‘til (he / she) was with me” as well as “next we’re
moving on and (he / she) was with me / Yeah me” before the two would ostensibly
be at home so they could “be alone” (together). These words are mere highway,
though, to the infectious carnival of the refrain, or the second thread. (The
music—hard rock guitar riffs, boom-boom-chick percussion—transports the
listener efficiently.) And there we behold Jett & The Blackhearts, raucous
and disdainful: “Singin’ I love rock and roll / So put another dime in the
jukebox, baby / I love rock and roll / So come on take some time and dance with
me!”
The Arrows: Alan Merrill (left), Jerry
Mamberg (center), Paul Varley (right).
There aren’t a ton of versions out there, perhaps owing to
the iconic, somewhat perfect nature of the Joan Jett rendition. There’s a Britney
Spears rendition that I haven’t heard, and will never hear, unless somebody, physically,
compels me to listen. Jett’s version of “I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll” levitates as it hurtles
toward the exit; many popular songs wallow through a couple minutes of repetition.
Alan Merrill’s animated live performance (above) just as much concerns his
estimable legacy as a musician and songwriter as it narrates a teenage hookup
fantasy. The original Arrows version is a snappy, medium rocker, which deserves
a listen. Its video deserves a view; it’s frolicsome in the best ways.
Merrill and his bandmates were friendly. Maybe the bassist,
Amy Madden, was coolest of all. I can verify that I was humming the refrain the
next afternoon before Joy on Fire kicked off the Unruly Sounds festival in
Princeton, N.J. The song can be resisted, but that’s difficult! It packs eagerness,
it rewards itself for being tightly coiled; its simplicity invites
participation. Even though “I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll” perpetuates a standard form
of teenage rebellion, its great advantage might be the durability of its refrain.
Just about anybody can sing the words without maiming them, and anybody can
love rock ‘n’ roll, although just what kind of rock ‘n’ roll is truly “love-worthy”—invites
a much different debate. We can only complain that a dime doesn’t get you
anywhere near a jukebox these days, never mind the fact that a modern “record
machine” plays digital files, not a 7-inch 45.
[Update, March 29, 2020: We were incredibly saddened to learn of Alan Merrill’s death from COVID-19. We wish his family and friends our deepest condolences during this difficult time. --B.A.G.]
When people ask me what I’m doing
with myself these days, the short answer is: making a record, States of America, with Anna Meadors, John Paul Carillo, and Chris Olsen of Joy on Fire, and making
a documentary film about the tune “Li’l Liza Jane” with Emily Cohen. (The
two activities will eventually intersect when Joy on Fire unfurl a punk-jazz
version of “Liza Jane” whilst the cameras roll.) Both music-making and movie-making require
a tremendous amount of exertion, as it turns out. One could speculate on the “ups and downs” of the creative cycle, but in reality, there are only up-sides, so long as I’m expending
the level of effort that my team-mates require of me. The term “team-mate” of
course wouldn’t have applied a few years ago, when I toiled singly as a
writer of poems and stories. That work continues, by the way, but unfortunately
I’ve grown apart from my long-term involvement with the DC Poetry gang, even as
friendships continue with many of its members. Perhaps my next great endeavor
will involve entry into another literary community, or founding a brand-new
one.
Joy on Fire just concluded an
intense period of recordings, as well as a mini-tour
that whirled us from the hot rooms of a classic music space in West Philly to a Jersey Shore
pool party (“lol”) to the fabulous Lou Costello Room in Baltimore’s Hampden
neighborhood. The mini-tour, three venues in three nights, required a fair
amount of howling, and by the end, I was a bit hoarse. Joy on Fire describe
themselves as “punk jazz,” which means that they’re not timid. To be heard
requires projection. It’s quite a different environment from the “funereal
quiet” of many literary readings. Even when I’ve given readings in bars, or at
outdoor beer festivals, or at flash mob events, I’ve been able to declaim
without howling, but now I howl, and truth be told, where has howling been all my
life? (I seem to recall a poetry book whose title involved a form of that word—either
in advocacy of said act or as testament to its arrival as an art form.) To howl
isn’t even half of it, of course. Music and words had to be joined together,
in a series of trials, with each member of the combo placing her or
his stamp on them. But the biggest adjustment, for me anyhow, has been doing
everything by memory. How many times as a writer (hundreds?) have I stood at a
lectern, holding the words to my eyes, for easy recital? Don’t do and you won’t
learn; don’t learn and you won’t grow. Become a vocalist in a punk-jazz orchestra!
The great Cajun musician, Iry
LeJeune, who died
in 1955 at age 26 after being struck by an automobile.
Over the course of two years engaging in pre-production tasks centering on Li’l Liza Jane: A Movie About A Song,
Emily and I have built a powerful, unbelievable cultural history for a tune—dare I say—more unique than any tune that has developed in North America. I should say “family of
songs” since the many titles, melodies, and lyrics easily approximate the
breadth of a poetic forms handbook. The research discoveries have been shocking,
even triumphant, particularly since they’ve been extraordinarily difficult
to achieve, in certain instances. We’ve been mentored by some of the greatest
folklorists in the country, including Grammy-winner and author of Big Road Blues, David Evans, who has guided us in the present and “in the past,”
and when I say “in the past,” I refer to both historical information as well as an article he published
years ago that helped us establish a relationship between the “Liza Jane”
family and the Cajun standard “J’étais au bal” (“I was at the dance.”) If you
play the version, say, by Cajun legend Iry LeJeune, you can hear where the
melody of “J’étais au bal” (sometimes known as “J’ai été au bal”) overlaps with
the “Liza Jane” family. This relationship is but one pinprick of starlight—out of hundreds—that helps to establish “Li’l Liza Jane” as a monumental constellation. We look forward to fully telling the epic story of America’s favorite Poor Gal.
An apartment poetry reading for
out-of-town
literary visitors Cathy Wagner and Susana Gardner.
It’s no accident that I chose a
song as subject matter for a documentary foray, since folk poetry informs part
of its lengthy history. The thought of poetry sometimes turns my mind toward writing community, and my association with the DC Poetry crowd, in particular. My relationship to that group involved hosting dozens of parties (many legendary); hosting the popular Beer Club Salon
of Ideas; and co-hosting several popular happy hours over the course of two decades (Drink & Walk and Public
Office Hours, to name two). I even started DJ’ing from my Shakers and Jump Blues
projects as the DC Poets took over the basement of the Black Squirrel on
Thursday nights for many seasons. I’m grateful for abiding friendships with many writers
and performers who hail from both generations of the DC Poetry scene (many now expatriates), including Rod
Smith, Heather Fuller, Mark Wallace, Terence Winch, Phyllis Rosenzweig, Tina
Darragh, Doug Lang, Casey Smith, Susana Gardner, Joe Ross, Cathy Eisenhower, Maureen
Thorson, and Tom Orange, among others. Things change, of course, and I wish the
DC Poetry scene good tidings even as I contemplate the next literary community
to join (or found).
I’m excited for 2020, when my
collaboration with Joy on Fire will result in the release of a limited-edition
LP on 180 gram vinyl as well as an EP of six songs. Li’l Liza Jane: A Movie About A Song will enter production, combining an
impressive roster of musicians and scholars who will create a durable monument
to a deserving folk tune. All the while these two projects
have been percolating, I’ve been adding to, shaping, and editing several
manuscripts, including a novel, a collection of stories, and at least one
collection of poems. I’d love to start reading from my creative writing again,
and I’d also love to identify publication opportunities for these manuscripts. Too,
I’m nomadic right now, splitting time between the care of my elderly parents
and the makes-takes of Trenton, N.J., so I’m on the lookout for an unoccupied shotgun shack somewhere in eastern U.S.A. I’d be interested in
knowing if there’s a literary collective out there which needs a bloke like me, or
if others felt like bonding together in order to form one. For these, or any reasons, drop me a communiqué, yo! Meanwhile, best wishes to you, and thanks for taking a gander at this here Statement of Human-being-ness. xo
Before we begin, let us first apologize for being such a quaint
orchestra. Actually, we could say “combo” as opposed to “orchestra,” and
decibel levels notwithstanding, we thank you very much for letting us howl,
honk, crank, and thump. We will not amplify our thought balloons, however, seeing
as this would emphasize griddlecakes and three-egg omelets. At this point in time, I, the vocalist, must take full ownership of the Frankfurters Incident: look not to our percussionist, our guitarist, our saxophonist (and glockenspielist!) Yes, a precocious youth detained us briefly on the whirlybird sidewalks
of West Philadelphia but we negotiated successfully with him and his
whiffle-ball bat. In the end, he permitted us to realize our full creative
vision before he whiffle-batted the crap outta some hardy weeds. Are you
hiring? Because we’re lowering. If a couple of sweethearts can’t achieve “Radar
Love” then perhaps they could settle for “Radar Like” or “Radar BFFs.” Behold
the weary idiom, it is low-sodium, and behold the soda, it is low-odium, and
behold the coda, it is low-podium. May your edifices crumble merrily after we
depart and may your finest peoples endorse our ruckuses. See you at the Joy on
Fire corner of the world, Tigresses and Tigers, and in fond, fond anticipation
of that, we offer you our selected photography, please see below.
The U.S. Women’s National Team began their title defense by
celebrating thirteen times—often garishly—against heavy underdog Thailand. Some
spectators, including this blogger, took umbrage to those unwarranted dances,
in effect, the big team lording it over the much smaller side well after the
competitive portion of the match had concluded. As the Women’s World Cup wended
onward, the U.S. would experience the sport’s encroaching parity, scoring
thirteen times over the ensuing six matches. The team’s swagger never wavered, though,
and they applied it throughout intense 2-1 triumphs against Spain, host nation
France, and England, a team which, arguably, could’ve dethroned the Americans
in the semifinals, but for an offside flag and a saved penalty. The battling
spirit of the American women even clashed with the White House as an enjoyable
Twitter feud erupted between President Trump and co-captain Megan Rapinoe, an
indefatigable star and buoyant spokeswoman. Rapinoe converted a fortuitous
second half penalty in the final against the brilliant Dutch goalkeeper, giving
the U.S. a deserved lead with thirty minutes to play. Had they triumphed
against The Netherlands one-nil, the Women’s National Team would have lifted
the trophy all the same, jumped around a champagne-soaked locker room after
receiving their medals, and returned to the U.S. with a freshly bolstered claim
to receive the same pay as the U.S. Men’s National Team (who’ve never won a World
Cup quarterfinal). Yet the match still required a reminder of why pundits call
football “the beautiful game.”
The call is best in
Spanish, but that video has been deleted!
This one features the entire play as well as Chariots of Fire.
While many may dwell in the world of the outcome—midfielder
Rose Lavelle’s stunning cracker—the play began with defender Crystal Dunn, who
tackled the ball by going to ground. Midfielder Sam Mewis created the
opportunity for a counter by controlling the ball and dribbling it toward the center
of the pitch before passing. On rushed Lavelle, who charged right into the
counter-attack, driving the ball up the heart of the Dutch defense, aided by Rapinoe,
Alex Morgan, and Tobin Heath, whose runs forced the defenders to maintain their
shape; otherwise, the defense might have collapsed on Lavelle or forced her to
pass. Lavelle did four crucial things in a flash: (1) she turned the defenders
inside out with her graceful quickness, (2) she didn’t reveal her intentions
re: passing or shooting, (3) she created space for the shot with a last-second
right-footed touch; and (4) she struck the ball as well as anyone—male or female—can
hit a football, just as the two center backs converged in an effort to block
her attempt. The midfielder celebrated in fabulous form and let’s talk about her
celebration. Unlike Rapinoe, who often strikes a pose, Lavelle jumped into the
arms of her teammates, and not just the ones on the field, but she rushed to
the sidelines where she leapt into the arms of the bench players. (We’re not
knocking Rapinoe—we admire her play and her tweets.) The goal crippled the Dutch,
who probably revered it as much as we did. As you know, the game ended two-nil,
with Lavelle having scored the thirteenth of the goals that followed the first
thirteen against Thailand.
After the competition had ended, the media declared that
boys (in addition to girls) could draw inspiration from the USWNT. We agree
with this of course, but why stop there? This blogger is an old bloke
well-removed from his meager athletic efforts, and I’ve watched the goal a
preposterous number of times. Some of my writer colleagues scoff at the
importance of sports, but they’re wrong to be that way. Win or lose, sportswomen
like Lavelle and her teammates teach us about brashness and technique; they
teach us about the wildness (or wilderness) of the moment. I wonder how many
girls, boys, and adults can name even one player on the U.S. Men’s National
Team, when they can probably name a goodly number of the starting eleven on the
women’s side, who deserve, by now, the same treatment as their underachieving
and lesser-known male counterparts (who could always join the “diving team” if “soccer”
didn’t work out.) The goal, meanwhile, will be admired for years to come. Forza Lavelle!
We hadn’t posted a lost rock ‘n’ roll classic in a while, and
in choosing one, we wrestled with plenty subgenres—party, sleazy, bright,
country-tinged, horror, celebrity-in-the-making, tenor sax honker, and so forth—but
the climate these days is more than vaguely contentious so we went with pugilistica
magnificat “Rumble on the Docks,” a rowdy surf-punk tune which originally
appeared in 1964 on the Sandé label, no, we don’t think this song is directly
related to the 1956 crime noir movie of the same title, nor do we think the
band name—Aquanauts—is directly related to one or more television series of the
same name, no, Dear Reader, this is just a hard-cranking tune which will make
you propose amorous encounters to another lovely person immediately, make you
reach for the whiskey, make you turn up the volume, make you jump for two
minutes (plus residual lifelong jumping), and make you drive fast, although not
in that order necessarily, no, the order is up to you, Dear Reader, although we
recommend amour first, always.
