“The Catcher In The Rye” is a resonant novel with staying power, if nothing else.
Of course, there is plenty else. The book has spoken to and for disenchanted youth for decades now, each generation since its initial publication finding voice in the lucid expression of disengagement.
J.D. Salinger went reclusive decades ago. Given his impact, we kept waiting for more. We wait no longer.
His name would come up in conversation now and again. Whether speaking with somebody of my generation, Baby Boomers, or a later one, there would always be a memory.
The more literate would quote. From “Catcher” or “Franny and Zooey.” Or, one of the “Nine Stories.”
More often, those perhaps less conversant in his canon but well aware of Salinger’s importance and impact would simply utter “A Perfect Day For Bananafish.” Whether they had read it, or understood it, or simply knew of it.
Which short story has, besides its wallop, the perfect title, easily remembered.
I read “A Perfect Day For Bananafish” in college. So, when it has been mentioned through the years, I would always nod. Knowingly, of course. Then maybe retort with “Raise High The Roof Beam, Carpenters,” as if to find some station among the literati.
I reread it this morning. Truth is I had no recollection of what it was about. Though I knew it wasn’t bananafish.
Same thing with “Franny and Zooey.” Which, owing to my lack of perception when in college, never made sense to me. I reread it twenty or so years ago perhaps. Experience allowed me into its world. Though, frankly, all I recall is that it takes place in a train station during a holiday from college. Or, something like that.
And, if that’s wrong, it says more about my memory than J.D. Salinger.
As for “A Perfect Day For Bananafish,” wow. I understand how that might have shaken up the literary world when it appeared in The New Yorker over a half century ago. It is stunning. That Salinger guy sure could write.
I love this sentence, the first in the story’s second paragraph: “She was a girl for who a ringing phone dropped exactly nothing.”
Salinger, as with all great writers, could fashion sentences and phrases to be savored like an exquisite chocolate truffle. Slowly. By itself. Or in context, as if dessert for a fine meal.
Now that he’s gone, the search for the origins of the demons about which Salinger wrote shall accelerate. There shall be more parsing, more conjecture, more . . .
As for me, I intend to read the writing. At a juncture in my life when I might now understand what Salinger is intent to impart. And when I can appreciate the quality of his craft.
We’ve all got that default music we need when stress hits.
The tuneage that will calm the savage beast, keep the demons at bay, soothe the soul, provide ballast, reduce the nerve shimmer to serenity level.
I’ve got a couple.
“In Memory of Elizabeth Reed” works more often than not.
But when I have a week like this one past with more stuff than the law should allow, I go to the source.
Marvin, Marvin, Marvin.
Not only is Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On” better than a thorazine drip and a double Martini (dry), it is — One guy’s opinion — the best album extant. Sure, “best” is a fighting word, and you have the right to disagree. But, combine the soul, the message, the funk, the lush strings and Gaye’s amazing voice, and you got top o’ the heap.
Here’s the title tune as it sounds on the album that the usually perceptive Berry Gordy didn’t want to release.
Un-buh-leev-uh-bull.
Detroit Lions Mel Farr and Lem Barney among the backup singers. The strings. The soul. Effective descriptors fail me.
Here’s Gaye doing the title tune and another live.
Gaye’s life story is tragic. Brilliantly talented. He was a drug addict. He never recovered really from the death of Tammi Terrell. He went into seclusion. Came out. Returned.
Gaye, a world class talent ended up, addicted, living at home with his parents. His father, an alcoholic, ended up killing Gaye during an argument. Can there be a sadder end than that?
But his legacy — as we are wont to say — lives on in his recordings. None more magnificent than “What’s Going On.”
If you don’t have it, get it. Even if Berry Gordy gets a cut.
As usual I was more than a bit displeased with several of this year’s Golden Globe winners.
But I shan’t commence a rant. I’ve come to praise Jeff Bridges.
“Crazy Heart” doesn’t open here in Louisville for another ten days. But I can’t wait. Bridges is one of my favorite actors, and it really has very little to do with “The Big Lebowski.” I’m really happy the guy is finally getting his due. Let’s hope the Oscar folks give him their statuette too.
Far and away my favorite Bridges film, “Rancho Deluxe,” is also one of my top 5 of all time. Frankly I was stunned when I checked my list and realized I’d praised 27 other flicks before I finally got around to this one. Whatever have I been thinking?
Let me count the ways I looooooooooooove this 1975 film.
1) Bridges and Sam Waterston as a couple of scoundrel cattle rustlers in modern day Montana.
2) Iconic Slim Pickens as Henry Beige, the detective hired to find out who the culprits are.
3) Charlene Dallas as Pickens’ comely niece.
4) Clifton James as the rancher whose cattle are being stolen. Elizabeth Ashley as his horny wife. And Harry Dean Stanton and Richard Bright as Curt and Burt, the dim-witted cow hands.
5) A too cool for school screenplay by hipster novelist Tom McGuane, who was married to Ashley at the time.
6) The Oh So 70s feel of the flick. Including a bar scene with Bridges and Stanton playing Pong, while Jimmy Buffet’s on the bandstand with a group that includes Warren Oates.
“Rancho Deluxe” may in fact rival “Diva” as the hippest flick of all time.
One more scene to whet your appetite before I close shop here.
There was a time — and such a time it was — when any band worth its salt would at some point during a concert, lead into a song with something like, “Let’s do some Chuck Berry.”
Then they’d rip into “Maybelline” or, more than likely, “Johnny Be Good,” and even the few folks in the crowd still sitting would get up and dance. And sing along, because everybody knew every word.
There was a time when Bob Seger, still on his way up, would come through Louisville every few months and open a show for another act a little higher up the food chain. Or he’d play one of the clubs downtown.
It may be urban legend, but local rock & roll lore says that “Main Street” is named after, well, Main Street in Louisville where Seger often gigged. I am guilty myself of perpetrating such info. And, frankly, shall continue to do so when the subject arises. It’s too late to stop now.
When Seger was ready to pay his respects to Chuck Berry, he did his own tune. “Get Out of Denver” rips and runs with the same chords and chops (and similarly clever lyrics) as the Founding Father.
Listen for yourself:
In fact, so good is Seger’s Chuck Berry song that other icons have covered it.
Like The Boss, whose rendition you can hear here. (I’d embed it, but youtube won’t let me.)
Bruce does Bob doing Chuck. It’s a good thing.
Then there’s this other guy you might have heard somewhere along the way, who covered the tune.
Bob does Bob doing Chuck. It’s a good thing.
You want lyrics. I got lyrics.
I still remember it was autumn and the moon was shinin’
My ’60 Cadillac was roarin’ through Nebraska, whinin’
Doin’ a hundred-twenty man the fields was spinnin’ over
Headed out for the mountain snow, and we was trailin’ further
All the pipes were blazin and the screamin wheels turnin, turnin
Had my girl beside me brother, brother she was burnin, burnin
On board the Baptist preacher, southern funky school teacher
She had a line on somethin heavy but we couldn’t reach her
We told her that we needed something that would get us going
She pulled out all she had and layed it on the counter showin
All I had to do was lay my money down and pick it up
Cops came bustin’ in and man, we lit out in a pickup truck
Go, get out of Denver, baby. Go, go, get out of Denver, baby.
Go, get out of Denver, baby. Go, go.
‘Cause you look just like a commie and you might just be a member, baby.
Get out of Denver.
Well, red lights were flashin’ and the sirens they were screamin’.
We had to pinch each other just to see if we was dreamin’.
Made it to London Pass in under less than half an hour.
Motor started drizzlin’ and it turned into a thunder shower
The rain kept drivin’ but the caddy kept on burnin’ rubber.
We kept on drivin’ ’til we ran into some fog cover.
We couldn’t see a thing, somehow we just kept on goin’.
We kept on drivin’ all night long and dead into the mornin’.
Forty-five and fifty when we looked to see where we were at,
We’re starrin’ at a Colorado state policeman trooper captain.
He said…
Go, get out of Denver, baby. Go, go, get out of Denver, baby.
Go, get out of Denver, baby. Go, go.
‘Cause you look just like a commie and you might just be a member, baby.
Get out of Denver.
It’s a great tune. Satisfies all the major food groups: Sex, Drugs and Rawk & Row.
My buddy Bill says it’s the best guy film ever made. Who am I to disagree?
What especially resonates every single time I experience it is Shrevie’s (Daniel Stern) rant about the importance of his record collection. I’ve been known myself to keep my music cataloged in alphabetical order. And to relish the arcane factoids that embellish the experience for all of us prisoners.
To refresh your memory, here’s what Shrevie laid down to his wife Beth (Ellen Barkin) when she put one of his LPs back on the shelf out of order: “Every one of my records means something! The label, the producer, the year it was made. Who was copying whose style… who’s expanding on that, don’t you understand? When I listen to my records they take me back to certain points in my life, OK? Just don’t touch my records, ever! You! The first time I met you? Modell’s sister’s high school graduation party, right? 1955. And Ain’t That A Shame was playing when I walked into the door!”
I’m especially taken with songs that acknowledge the history of rock & roll and exalt it. I loves me that allegiance.
Perhaps my favorite is “Written On A Subway Wall” by Dion. No last name necessary. “Those Oldies But Goodies (Remind Me of You)” by Little Caesar & The Romans is a solid second.
The New Yorker is smooth and reverent. Midway through, he works in some “Little Star,” a classic by The Elegants. That Paul Simon sings that part makes it even better.
It’s simply a great rock & roll tune by a legit Hall of Famer.
“The Catcher In The Rye” is a resonant novel with staying power, if nothing else.
We’ve all got that default music we need when stress hits.
As usual I was more than a bit displeased with several of this year’s Golden Globe winners.
There was a time — and such a time it was — when any band worth its salt would at some point during a concert, lead into a song with something like, “Let’s do some Chuck Berry.”
The Film Babe and I watched “Diner” last night.