A long, long time ago, I had a songwriting partner (or should I say, he once had me, some of you are hearing in your head). Jack is one of my dearest friends, and a remarkable polymath: he’s doctored film scripts of movies you’ve actually heard of; he’s published several books, including one about marathon television watching called “Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You”, which should have won a Pulitzer based on the title alone; he’s written the songs for a nifty off-Broadway play; he’s a professor in the film department at Columbia; you get the idea (or maybe you don’t, and maybe that’s the point). In any case, in 1994, Jack was working at Channel 4 in England, and he had the opportunity to attend a songwriting workshop in Bury St. Edmunds, in England, at a place called Fen Farm. The songwriting workshop was run by Ray Davies – yes, that Ray Davies – and Jack invited me along, and I’m pretty sure I’ve written about it here before. I met some amazing people there, and I considered myself fortunate to meet Mr. Davies, since “Waterloo Sunset” is one of the most perfect songs ever written.
Now, Mr. Davies was not the greatest of songwriting instructors. This is how it is with geniuses: they don’t know how to explain it. But I’ll grant him that he established a really excellent working environment, and the people I met inspired me, and I wrote a number of songs that week (I shudder as I write this, since “number of songs” and “week” haven’t really been something I’ve been able to put in the same sentence anytime since). One of them was written for Jack to sing, in his expatriacy (is that even a word?). It was called “Transatlantic” (well, it’s still called “Transatlantic”, but I never play it anymore), and it started off:
Presidential elections
An ocean away
Cultural directions
Joy and dismay
It’s a good song, and it captured the uncertainty and alienation of being overseas, I like to think.
But we’re all here now.
I don’t write songs about politics. I’ve said it many times: I think most political art is bad politics and bad art, and I’m not good enough at either to excel simultaneously at both. And sometimes, I wonder what the value is of what I do. Two weeks ago, I was fortunate enough to be invited to the first dry run of a show that my friend Esther Friedman is putting together, called “Cult Confessions”, and that’s what it is, because she was in one, and now she’s not, and the fire has entered her soul to spread the word about how insidious the cult experience is. It’s a good show; part storytelling, part songwriting, and the story is compelling and the songwriting is some of her best. And she will perform a service, one hopes, while sharing her art.
I think every “frivolous” artist – and heaven knows I’m frivolous – has that moment of desire to be taken seriously. The many Very Special Episodes of M*A*S*H testify, sadly, to how seductive, and pointless, the goal of “being taken seriously” can be. So what I keep returning to is the idea that entertainment – laughter – is itself a gift. It’s a way of conveying anger, or regret, or just preposterousness, and it’s a balm to people surrounded by seriousness in all its taxing forms. It is what I have to offer when I get on stage, and that’s what I’m going to keep doing. And perhaps I will provide some respite and joy to the people whose talent is to go out and fix things.
Happy New Year, everybody.