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4.02 AVERAGE
4.02 AVERAGE
I suspect it wouldn't matter what Bangs was reviewing. He could have reviewed furniture and it still would have been great simply because his voice was so strong and his prose were so well-constructed. For my money, his more narrative features like his frenemy encounters with Lou Reed and covering the punk scene in England rank up there with the work of Gleason, Thompson, Wolfe, Ebert, and whoever . Even that short fiction piece, "Maggie May," is bitchin' writing and has dialogue that would be just as at home in a jaded French New Wave classic. One can't help but wonder what the sharp tongued devil might have gone on to write if he had lived longer.
Lester Bangs was the archetypal rock critic of the '70s in many ways—his look, his writing, even his (real!) name—which was ratified for a new generation via Philip Seymour Hoffman in Almost Famous. At his peak at least he could perhaps stand as the Greatest American Rock 'n' Roll Critic, which is not entirely meant to be backhanded, although his peer Robert Christgau has proven to have had the more towering career. (And personally I prefer Christgau.)
But it's that writing which sets Bangs apart. That semi lucid post beatnik Hemingway no punctuation hippie Joyce argot onomatopoeic Carroll nonsense freeform anecdotal philosophical crude verbose interminably parenthetical style, you know the one. It's a style so many boyish wannabe 'critics' try to mimic in the first instance but lo, can never capture. (Today, that's those Internet types who dare step out beyond half-baked quips—most end up more embarrassing and pointless than the latter, but one appreciates the effort at least to have made steps towards 'thinking' and such. Although most presumably rip this off unconsciously without having read Lester Bangs or much of anything.) Because alas the old (young) grouch did know a thing or two.
One becomes tempted, as the author was often guilty of himself reviewing his own favourites, to take some pull quotes and merely gesture. There! greatness, you see! Sure it's lazy, but how else to communicate such uniquely florid writing in even such a throwaway as a review of Slade's Sladest:
But it's that writing which sets Bangs apart. That semi lucid post beatnik Hemingway no punctuation hippie Joyce argot onomatopoeic Carroll nonsense freeform anecdotal philosophical crude verbose interminably parenthetical style, you know the one. It's a style so many boyish wannabe 'critics' try to mimic in the first instance but lo, can never capture. (Today, that's those Internet types who dare step out beyond half-baked quips—most end up more embarrassing and pointless than the latter, but one appreciates the effort at least to have made steps towards 'thinking' and such. Although most presumably rip this off unconsciously without having read Lester Bangs or much of anything.) Because alas the old (young) grouch did know a thing or two.
One becomes tempted, as the author was often guilty of himself reviewing his own favourites, to take some pull quotes and merely gesture. There! greatness, you see! Sure it's lazy, but how else to communicate such uniquely florid writing in even such a throwaway as a review of Slade's Sladest:
'It'll gallop you headfirst into sweet-kooze and sproing you outa yer jadofado wheelchair like a lucky stiff reprieved at last from endless iceman-cometh miasmas. Been a long burning rage in Angleterre, but's yet to really spliv U.S. cherry, so if you jump on the bandwagon with me and the rest of these reprobates mebbe it'll come to pass yet and save these fine lads from dying the Stateside death à la Marc Bolan which shouldn't happen to a Silas Marner constipatee much less a pack o' Limey louts who threw down shopwage just to dance like dinwiddies in the streets.'
Or such perfectly eloquent, surprisingly emotive Responses to the Times—marrying pathetic with pathos—as this conclusion to his article on Elvis's death:
'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' object of reverence. I thought it was Iggy Stooge, you thought it was Joni Mitchell or whoever else seemed to speak for your own private, entirely circumscribed situation's many pains and few ecstasies. We will continue to fragment in this manner, because solipsism holds all the cards at present; it is a king whose domain engulfs even Elvis's. But I can guarantee you one thing: we will never again agree on anything as we agreed on Elvis. So I won't bother saying good-bye to his corpse. I will say good-bye to you.'
In total Psychotic Reactions has most of the classics: the Lou Reed interviews, early coverage on the Stooges and the Clash, the piece on fascism in the punk movement, the Elvis stuff, and a host of fascinating miscellany (sardonic one-pagers, fiction, garbled book proposals and assorted notes) which cohere precisely by being suitably scattershot. (Regrettably you will have to consult elsewhere for the Miles Davis reviews—and you should.) It's no less than an essential collection of thrilling, insightful, far-reaching, hilarious, exhausting essays.
Budget Hunter S. Thompson had universally shit taste in music. Just a shock jock, at the end of the day. Ultimately, I couldn't justify plowing through when I had more enjoyable books waiting.
Great Rock N Roll book from the master of criticism. Also great guide to good bands.
I was really excited when I got this book because I loved one of my favorite actor's (Phillip Seymour Hoffman) portrayal of Bangs in the film Almost Famous. Bangs seemed like such a lovable eccentric writer who breathed the rock scene and waxed on about it effortlessly. I enjoyed a few of his reviews in this anthology until he started casually dropping racist slurs about groups of people and individuals in the music scene. Bangs did not discriminate in his racism, either -meaning he was an equal opportunity bigot. What is equally disturbing is that both Rolling Stone and Creem published his work gratuitously.
Whoever you are, Lester Bangs loved music more than you do; this collection is a testament to that. One for dipping in-and-out of rather than ploughing through in one go, but plough through it you will.
I have a short list of people, living or dead, that I would like to invite over for drinks and dinner, and some amazing conversation. This list partially includes Alfred Hitchcock, Thomas Jefferson, Bob Dylan, Pete Townshend, Groucho Marx, Salvador Dali and Winston Churchill. I think I need to add Lester Bangs to this list. The collection of articles in this book is not for everyone, but for someone like me who loves rock and roll and loves reading about rock and roll, it’s brilliant. Bangs writing is brutally honest, and in a nutshell, it’s what he believed true rock and roll needed to be at its core. The frustration he felt in what the public and the record companies failed to see and hear is palpable. Call it ferocious discontent, to borrow one of his phrases. Like Hunter S. Thompson, his writing can veer off into some real gonzo ranting, and at times you can really feel the amphetamine fuel at work. But just when its about to jump the tracks Bangs has an ability to reel it all in and offer some philosophical, moral or existential ground. There’s a passion and honesty in his writing that’s irresistible.
Not everything here is gold, but there is more than enough here to sink your teeth into, and several articles that I will reread in the future. My favorites were “James Taylor Marked for Death” (which is really about why Wild Thing by the Troggs is one of the greatest songs ever) and “The Clash” which is a three-part article documenting his time on tour with the band in 1977. Fantastic, indispensable stuff.
Not everything here is gold, but there is more than enough here to sink your teeth into, and several articles that I will reread in the future. My favorites were “James Taylor Marked for Death” (which is really about why Wild Thing by the Troggs is one of the greatest songs ever) and “The Clash” which is a three-part article documenting his time on tour with the band in 1977. Fantastic, indispensable stuff.
Bangs is the only rock critic that matters. As far as I'm concerned, rock criticism was born with him and died with him. No one did it better.
Really seems like he was the best pure writer music criticism has ever known. I’m just old enough to remember a time when every wannabe tried to write like him, but none had both his intolerance for bullshit and (this is related) his humanitarianism. Or his sense of structure: everything in his 10,000 word Fun House review is in its right place, even the Ayler reference. Bangs is one of the few writers to transcend, at least in print, his self-loathing and self-destructiveness. Music crit doesn’t necessarily need more stream-of-consciousness. It needs more writers who’ll stand up for life, and kick the asses of anyone who won’t.
Some quintessential Bangs here.
I have read these essays so many time just for the pure enjoyment because I'm pretty sure I still don't understand what he is writing about, but many can he write.
I have read these essays so many time just for the pure enjoyment because I'm pretty sure I still don't understand what he is writing about, but many can he write.