“The sound of a brand-new world.” That’s the chorus of 1986’s “Radio Head” from Talking Heads. You can see why Radiohead decided to name themselves after the song. Much of their music conjures up the image of isolated individuals adjusting to a new planet, which is especially fitting since Radiohead’s rise in the ‘90s coincided with the early years of the Internet. And like their fellow inductees Roxy Music, there’s a clairvoyant aspect to Radiohead, as they made 21st century music while it was still the 20^th. Their breakthrough 1995 album The Bends starts with the dynamic alternative psychedelia of “Planet Telex,” featuring the unforgettable chorus “Everything is broken/Everyone is broken.” The sentiment is remarkably contemporary, but what equally stands out is the Burt Bacharach-level melody, indicative of their gift for making sorrow sound splendorous.

The title track of The Bends pulls off a similar trick. Grim lyrics like “We don’t have any real friends,” and “I wish it was the ‘60s/I wish I could be happy,” are countered by heavy anthemic rock’n’roll, with a chorus that could’ve been right out of Boston’s first two albums. However, amidst all the glorious despondence, Radiohead can also be stealthily amusing. On the Paul McCartneyish “Karma Police” from 1997’s classic OK Computer, Thom Yorke sings the refrain “This is what you’ll get,” followed by a resigned Yiddish vaudeville piano melody. It brings to mind McCartney and Yiddish theatre legend Fyvush Finkel sitting by a piano and shrugging at each other in a “What’d ya expect?” manner.

The ambient Kid A instrumental “Treefingers” came out in 2000 and aptly comes across as the dawn of a new century. In retrospect, its intense hypnotic calm takes on extra layers of innocence and melancholy, considering the turbulence of the proceeding two decades. Kid A’s Princely “Idioteque” creates an atmosphere of electro-funk paranoia in a Slim Whitman dystopia, with Yorke’s falsetto harmonies and foreboding lines like “Ice age coming/Let me hear both sides” and “We’re not scaremongering/This is really happening.”

The world finally caught up to Radiohead.

Matt Leinwohl

 

 

 

 

 

 

Desolation had never sounded so elegant. At least not since Frank Sinatra’s “Sad Frank” albums from the ‘50s such as Where Are You?, Only the Lonely, and No One Cares. Roxy Music evoked that dead of night solitude and gave it a neon discothèque pulse. Humphrey Bogart, the mid-20^th century cinematic embodiment of loneliness, was venerated by “Ol’ Blue Eyes” and Roxy Music singer Bryan Ferry. On their 1972 self-titled debut, Roxy even paid tribute to Bogart with “2 H.B.” (Radiohead’s Thom Yorke and Jonny Greenwood teamed up with Roxy Music saxophonist Andy Mackay as The Venus in Furs on a cover of “2 H.B.” for 1998’s glam rock fantasia Velvet Goldmine.) Ferry was an art school Sinatra, yet unlike the extraordinary crooner, he was a storyteller who could write his own stories.

Roxy Music presented indelible tales, written and sung from the perspective of someone who looked like James Bond, but had the soul of Charlie Brown. Their 1975 masterpiece Siren starts off with the proto-Talking Heads nocturnal alternative funk of “Love Is the Drug” and “End of the Line,” a melancholy country-influenced ballad dealing with the aftermath of a relationship. Listening to them back-to-back, lust disintegrates into sorrow in less than ten minutes, exemplified by the lyrics “Catch that buzz” to “The more I see, the more I stand alone.” The sonic equivalent of a Hopper painting, “End of the Line” concludes with acoustic piano, ghostly organ, guitar, violin, and brief shades of electric piano gently fading as the protagonist walks out into a storm.

It’s one of many examples of how Roxy’s music was as vital as the lyrics. On 1982’s “More than This,” guitarist Phil Manzanera’s misty-eyed opening chords and Ferry’s sunset synths set the tone so perfectly that before they get to the vocals, you’re already moved. You can hear the influence it’s had on modern acts like Future Islands and The War on Drugs, especially 2014’s “Under the Pressure.” The 1973 dance classic “Do the Strand” featured a campy yet creepy unorthodox arrangement akin to the glam rock musical theatre of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, had free jazz ambience thanks to Mackay’s discordant saxophone, and presaged the quiet-loud dynamics of the Pixies by 15 years.

Being a few steps ahead of everyone is a principal part of their legacy. “Both Ends Burning” from 1975 and 1979’s “Dance Away” sounded more like atmospheric ‘80s new wave pop noir like Ultravox, The Fixx, INXS, Simple Minds, Duran Duran, ABC, Spandau Ballet, and Japan than anything of their time. Essentially, all your favorite alternative and synth-pop acts that had videos with sax solos and exotic locations owe a great debt to Roxy Music. Without Roxy (and Bowie) the ‘80s and MTV would’ve looked and sounded much different. Through glamour, gloom, and a strong sense of the absurd, Roxy Music chicly expressed both the euphoria and anguish of being alive.

Or as Ferry sang on 1974’s “The Thrill of It All,” “Oy Vey! High life ecstasy!”

Matt Leinwohl

 

 

 

 

 

 

“The world don’t owe me nothing.” A tall, balding, goateed, voluble gentleman was speaking to his much shorter, quieter, equally balding friend. Both men looked to be heading rapidly towards 60. “I’m at the point now where I don’t care if I die. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I want to, but I’m good.” His friend solemnly nodded in response.

It was unclear what had inspired the contemplation on mortality, this blunt, outer borough equivalent of Rutger Hauer’s “Time to die” speech in Blade Runner. Especially since he’d recently sung the jaunty Three’s Company theme song for no apparent reason. Perhaps it was the last two years worth of experiencing what’s essentially been Woodstock for those who smugly view incessant pandemonium as entertainment. The devastating week that had passed (the mail bomber, the Kentucky Kroger killings, and the Pittsburg Synagogue massacre) was particularly depressing and enraging.

Another factor could’ve been the somber occasion that brought a horde of us to a street corner in Forest Hills, Queens in the first place. On an idyllic, gray autumn Sunday morning a few days before Halloween, everyone from the former President of the Writers Guild of America West to a middle-aged guy proudly wearing a denim jacket with Billy Joel’s name in embroidered stitching on the back, were there to honor the late Walter Becker of Steely Dan.

Everybody had gathered on 112^th Street and 72^nd Drive, soon to be co-named “Walter Becker Way.” As some people looked beatifically at the Balfour apartment building,  where Becker was raised, church bells tolled from Queens Boulevard to indicate the start of afternoon. Right on cue, iconic New York DJ Jim Kerr started the ceremony. Currently with Q104.3, the majority of the middle-aged crowd had grown up listening to Kerr play Steely Dan in the ‘70s and ‘80s at WPLJ. When he first spoke it was difficult to hear him. Consequently, a male voice rose from the pack, shouting in the default tone New Yorkers have, which resides somewhere between good-natured and hostile, “SPEAK LOUDER, JIMMY!”

No matter who was speaking, whether it was Steely Dan guitar tech Ulrich Salazar or Matt Kearns, co-creator of a database featuring Becker’s amusingly cryptic stage raps during “Hey Nineteen,” everybody noted how smart he was. Each time this was pointed out, the Three’s Company guy would nod his head in agreement and say to no one in particular “Very smart.”

To get an idea of how beloved Steely Dan is, it wasn’t just the locals who paid their respects. A woman came in from Italy, and a stocky fiftysomething man with a long gray shag hairstyle traveled from England, looking like he’d just arrived from the set of a ‘90s Mike Leigh film. It was his lucky day, as he won Becker’s leather jacket in a trivia competition. (When Becker and Donald Fagen wrote “They got a name for the winners in the world” for “Deacon Blues,” they presumably didn’t have this exact scenario in mind.) Representing Boston were a father and son wearing matching red jackets. They ended up winning Becker’s windbreaker, and approximately 10 hours later, the Red Sox won the World Series. If you’re a member of that family, October 28^th, 2018 is in all probability the greatest day of all-time.

Trekking in from Los Angeles was Howard A. Rodman, the aforementioned ex-President of the WGA West, who was a childhood friend of Becker’s. Providing a glimpse into what he referred to as their “tragically hip” past, Rodman reminisced about how on Friday nights they would wear pea coats and McCready & Schreiber boots, and would take the E train to the city to hang out at the Café Au Go Go. He later stated that his old friend viewed Forest Hills as “not a bedroom community, a bridge or a tunnel or an E train away from Manhattan, but as something grand and glorious in and of itself.”

The substantial impact Becker’s hometown had on him was evident from the beginning. “Do it Again,” the first song from Steely Dan’s 1972 debut Can’t Buy a Thrill, with its dusky electric piano, science fiction organ solo, spectral samba percussion and intensely hypnotic electric sitar solo, evokes evening descending on Queens Boulevard. The variety of sounds was likely a result of living in one of the most diverse parts of the world.

Having grown up in nearby Rego Park during the ‘70s and early ‘80s, I was familiar with that part of the world, but hadn’t visited in years. After the ceremony, I walked around different old neighborhoods, which were remarkably untouched by time. Aside from the occasional person taking photos with their phones, it may as well have been 1978, when sophisticated metropolitan nocturnal decadence like “Josie,” “FM (No Static at All),” and other Steely Dan songs were floating out of cars driving throughout Rego Park, Elmhurst, Kew Gardens, and Forest Hills in bright mid-afternoon. How fitting that this music which stirs up a certain time and place, was partially created by someone who just happened to be from that actual place.

Walking around that section of Queens was conducive to reflecting on Becker’s legacy, in particular Becker and Fagen’s extraordinary achievement of coming up with exquisite, accessible music which also had a rebellious, unconventional spirit. In pre-AIDS 1976, with “The Fez,” who else was making glitzy, elegant disco fantasias about practicing safe sex? It’s as if National Lampoon had written the theme to an Aaron Spelling production. And on 1977’s Aja, they decided to have the pensive, solitary mood of “Deacon Blues” precede the festive ambiance of “Peg,” feeling like a weekend in reverse, Sunday morning fading into Saturday night.

Becker’s accomplishments as a songwriter and producer often overshadow what an excellent guitarist he was. His haunting blues solo amidst Johnny Mandel’s (The Last Detail, M*A*S*H) beautifully melancholic ‘70s film noir string arrangement during the coda of “FM (No Static at All)” is one of Steely Dan’s most indelible moments. It conjures up the image of Albert King playing his Gibson Flying V guitar under a rotating neon disco ball. Pink Floyd were more than likely paying attention. A year later, they created a similar atmosphere with David Gilmour’s solo on 1979’s “Another Brick in the Wall (Part 2).”

Most guitar heroes don’t interrupt their performance and remark to the crowd “Guess my solo’s over.” That was Becker’s deadpan introduction to the “Hey Nineteen” stage rap he did the last time I saw him, which was Countdown to Ecstasy night at the Beacon Theatre, Steely Dan’s penultimate show of their 2016 “The Dan Who Knew Too Much” tour. (The co-naming of his old street coincidentally fell on the two-year anniversary of the concert.) His stage raps simultaneously mocked and celebrated cheesy showbiz pageantry, which made him the rock’n’roll equivalent of comedians like David Letterman, Bill Murray and Martin Mull. That night, in his best smarmy rake voice, Becker concluded his “Hey Nineteen” shtick by inquiring of the Danettes, Steely Dan’s back-up singers, “Ladies, tell us about the Cuervo Gold.”

The following summer, five weeks before Becker’s death, Steely Dan were part of the Classic East Festival at Citi Field in Queens, just a few miles from his old apartment. He hadn’t performed at the Classic West in California two weeks before, so his absence at a hometown gig gave an otherwise celebratory occasion an air of ominousness. They were fortunate enough to have legendary guitarist Larry Carlton fill in, an ideal choice because of his illustrious history with Becker and Fagen. Witnessing him reprise his gritty, mournful solos on “Don’t Take Me Alive” was like seeing Salvador Dali take another crack at “The Persistence of Memory.” Carlton was exceptional, although it’d been strange to see Steely Dan without Becker, especially during “Hey Nineteen.” Considering the setting, you have to believe he would’ve delivered the stage rap to end all stage raps. By the time Steely Dan finished their set, twilight had descended on Queens.

A year later, it was afternoon in Queens, and in front of me was the building where I’d used to live on 63^rd Drive. Music is inextricably linked with my memories, so while walking from “Walter Becker Way” to my childhood home, virtually every street recalled a different song. Aside from Steely Dan, there was Elvis Costello’s “Allison,” Aerosmith’s “Dream On,” Carole King’s “I Feel the Earth Move,” “In the Air Tonight” by Phil Collins, Van Halen’s “Dance the Night Away,” Stevie Wonder’s “Sir Duke,” “Let’s Go” by the Cars, John Lennon’s “#9 Dream,” Bruce Springsteen’s “Prove It All Night,” Supertramp’s “The Logical Song,” and seemingly every song that had ever been released up until 1981.

Nostalgia is a powerful narcotic. If you get too lost in its tranquil glow, the past will become so pervasive you’ll eventually start feeling nostalgic about the times you were feeling nostalgic. However, in a century that’s often been chaotic and vacuous, nostalgia can provide lucidity and a sense of reinvigoration. Looking up at my old apartment, I thought about what Rodman said about Becker, how he had viewed his hometown as “grand and glorious in and of itself.”

To paraphrase “The Royal Scam,” I saw and heard the glory.

Matt Leinwohl