He wrote *the* song: Deceased Artiste Jim Carroll

Jim Carroll was one of those NYC artist types that I have absolutely admired and respected, and have walked past in several circumstances, and yet I never told the guy how much his work has meant to me. Perhaps it was because he was physically imposing: a tall mutha, he sported bright red/orange hair (seemingly inspired by Bowie in the early Seventies) and, like any New Yorker worth his/her salt, walked as if he knew where the hell he was going to (no aimless rambling for New Yorkers, even if they’re headed to the local deli). Perhaps it was because I had nothing witty, interesting, or wise to say to him about my admiration for his work. Or perhaps it was because the Catholic Boy LP was so important to me at the time it came out, I played the thing so many fucking times, that it was almost redundant to stop the guy in the street and just say “hey man, I really loved that album so much….” When these folks die, you think about these things, as if your having imparted these positive feelings might’ve affected the artist in some way (the idea that we, the fans, can in some way touch the artist, is a mighty, mighty egocentric conceit). In any case, I loved Carroll’s music and, yes, his poetry (the latter being the bulk of his work over the years) and his memoirs.

As some folks “write the book” on a specific topic, Carroll “wrote the song” on death (on the up-tempo side; downbeat being “My Death” by Brel). His “People Who Died” never was a Top 40 hit, but it’s never forgotten by anyone who hears it: a laundry list of his friends who died young, in colorful and supremely fatal ways. To honor Carroll’s passing, I want to point to my favorite songs of his, but perhaps I’d best start out with the words, spotlighting some clips of him reading poetry.

Before the poetry, however, a little access. Jim on an Ohio public access show in 1991, being interviewed about his basketball playing as a younger man:



And the most amazing Carroll interview ever, him on the Today Show in 1999 discussing the fact that various “school shooters” had been inspired by the movie version of The Basketball Diaries. I loved the book, and have never taken the time to see the movie, thanks to the unfortunate casting by director Scott Kalvert of the leads (I guess he, like Scorsese, saw something in Leonardo that I just do not see, namely breadth of ability as a performer). I was very glad to watch this interview last night and find out Carroll himself was no fan of the movie. It’s an incredibly eloquent and intelligent interview:



Carroll can also be seen/heard reading his poetry here and here. A wonderful full-length reading that took place at the St. Mark’s Poetry Project in 1998 can be seen here:



A clip from a “video diary” project that never came to be:



And now, the musical side. The two most interesting revelations in Jim’s obits were the fact that Keith Richards arranged for his record deal with Atlantic (Patti Smith already having encouraged him to make the leap from poet to rocker), and that when his record deal died he wrote lyrics for Blue Oyster Cult and Boz Scaggs (???). Here he is performing the lead song from Catholic Boy, “Wicked Gravity” live:



The one major network TV appearance by Carroll that I remember fondly was on the uneven but sometimes very amusing Fridays (2/6/81). He performed a lesser tune and this awesome piece that has the great opening salvo “It’s too late/to fall in love with Sharon Tate/but it’s too soon/to ask for the words I want carved on my tomb”:



I like the second and third albums Carroll recorded, and his “comeback” to rock, Pools of Mercury, but none of them had quite the force of the first LP. One song that did gather attention was his cover of “Sweet Jane,” which was represented by an actual music video (a student of Rimbaud, Frank O’Hara, and Wm. Burroughs does a music vid!), which had the benediction of having a guest appearance by one of Jim’s other obvious influences, Lou Reed:

Sweet Jane


I loved and played to death several songs on the Catholic Boy, including “Three Sisters,” but the title tune had the most resonance for someone trapped in the rigors and dogma of a Catholic education. And it don’t age, either (’cause I’m sure those fuckers ain’t changed one bit):



The most poignant public moment involving Carroll in the years following his “retirement” from rockin’ was the publication of his moving poem “8 Fragments for Kurt Cobain,” which I first saw in The New York Times magazine section, and which he later performed live on MTV’s “Unplugged” (when poetry was the rage for a minute, thanks to “slams”). It’s a beautiful, heartfelt piece by a fellow sufferer, and can be found here.

And since “People Who Died” HAS to be heavily celebrated in any forum where Deceased Artistes are the order of the day on a regular basis, I present two versions of the song. First, a very up-tempo live rendition (from Fridays, I believe) for those who already know the lyrics:



And for those who haven’t heard it yet, I guess the lyrics are clearer on this “official” music-video version released in conjunction with the Basketball Diaries movie, with interspersed images of the Baby-Faced One:

Deceased Artistes for September 2009: "...on the waters of oblivion..."

I’ll state straight at the outset that my only interest in Patrick Swayze ever is that he starred in the godawful but wonderfully amusing Roadhouse, where Ben Gazarra says he fucked guys like him in prison (which I misremembered as “I fucked guys tougher than you in prison,” which I think that has that extra “touch” of refinement….). In any case, numerous show biz folks have died in the last week besides the one who danced in a dirty way.

Firstly, Larry Gelbart, the comedy writer who was part of one of the best writing teams ever on any TV comedy show, the group that penned the sketches on Your Show of Shows and its follow-up, Caesar’s Hour. I regularly watched M*A*S*H as a kid and greatly enjoyed the initial years, for which Gelbart was the chief writer; I can’t revisit the show now because it jumped the shark so severely — most likely at the moment that Gelbart and supporting cast members started to take a hike — that it became unwatchable.

His later career is made up of things that are funny, but in a pleasant, non-hysterical way (I know, I know, I’ve just infuriated some fans of Tootsie, a film that is fun but, christ, can it indeed be rewatched like a prime piece of Mel or Woody?). He scripted, among others, Blame It On Rio, Movie Movie, and the beyond-unnecessary remake of Bedazzled. A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum has gone down in history as one of the great Broadway farces; sadly, the movie has moments but doesn’t hang together, despite the awesomeness of its cast. Well, anyway, what was the finest inclusion in Gelbart’s obit? That his father, a noted Hollywood barber, got him his first big-time job by bragging about his son to Danny Thomas, one of his customers. Thomas asked to see some of the kid’s jokes, and thereafter Larry worked for not only the future “Daddy” (who has one of the most fun H’wood urban legends linked to his name), but also Bob Hope, Jack Paar, Eddie Cantor, Jack Carson (not Johnny), and Joan Davis, and then the great Sid.

The next big show-biz death that occurred this very week, post-Swayze-guy was Henry Gibson. Gibson was a mild-mannered comedian who delivered poems (pronounced “po-em”) on Laugh-In when it was at its peak. He performs one of these little numbers on a Dick Van Dyke Show episode — and interestingly enough, he kept it around long enough so that it became a lyric for his turn as the Roy Acuff-inspired character in Altman’s perfect Nashville. Although he later had some nice plum supporting parts in dramas and comedies — I think he was rather marvelously cast as Teller’s dad (as in “Penn and…”) in the cable Bull Durham knock-off Long Gone with the awesome Virginia Madsen — Gibson was indeed given his best film roles by Altman. Before Nashville, he escaped his wimpy comic persona in The Long Goodbye as the doctor rehabbing ultra-macho novelist Sterling Hayden (and smacking him around at one point).

Here’s Gibson doing his shtick on Laugh-In:



Also checkin’ out this week was Paul Burke, TV actor and stalwart lead emeritus. The most interesting story in his obit is the one about how in 1990 he was acquitted of “racketeering” charges, along with Harry Connick Sr. He later claimed this harmed his ability to get roles in Hollywood, but his salad days were definitely in the Sixties, when he appeared in pics like Valley of the Dolls. A typical bit of Burke’s TV work is this scene from 12 O’Clock High, a series from 1964-67:



Burke’s best-known starring role was, of course, in the unforgettable Naked City TV series from 1960-1963 as police detective Adam Flint. He played the very embodiment of an honest lawman, as the city around him swirled in mists of noir behavior. Here he is with a “troubled” young man, played by Richard Jordan.



I plan on devoting a whole blog post to Jim Carroll, so I will honor Mary Travers’ passing by pointing the way to some lesser-known songs done by her and Messrs. Yarrow and Stookey. The most interesting tidbit in her obituary wasn’t the fact that PP&M were a “fabricated” folk trio — that fact doesn't much matter when one considers their beautiful harmonizing, wonderful catalogue of hits, and years of performing at benefits and significant political events. The nice bit of trivia was that she was perhaps the only folkie in Greenwich Village at that time to make it big who actually had lived in that part of NYC for her whole life. Her voice was indeed gorgeous, and so, music maestro, please! First the haunting “Early Morning Rain” by Gordon Lightfoot:



Okay, ONE hit, “Leavin’ on a Jet Plane,” which is pretty much her tune:



One of my faves as a kid, a hit that nobody plays anymore because it’s wonderfully, gloriously dated. “I Dig Rock ’n’ Roll Music,” as performed on The Jonathan Winters Show:



A forgotten Dylan cover by PP&M, “Too Much of Nothing,” as performed on The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour. Another tune I can’t get out of my head, and the lyrics are classic Dylan, in that I have absolutely no idea what they mean (“Say hello to Valerie/Say hello to Marianne/Send them all my salary/On the waters of oblivion…”).



And there is no better way to close out than the rousing “Day is Done,” from The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour: