“Would you mind telling me what those four years of college were for?”
So asks the father of Benjamin Braddock, the protagonist of "The Graduate." A half-century after Mike Nichols made this film, it remains popular at "senior week" events and other end-of-college rituals. And that's because we still haven't answered its central question: what are we doing here, and why?
When Nichols died in November, obituaries inevitably depicted "The Graduate" as an emblem of youth alienation in postwar America. In the 1967 film’s most iconic line, a family friend gives young Braddock a single word of advice: “plastics.” The term became an ironic rallying cry for a rising generation of rebellious Americans, who rejected their elders’ bland conformity and empty consumerism.
But Braddock simply repeats the phrase — “plastics” — in a glassy-eyed stupor. As Nichols told an interviewer after the film’s release, Braddock is “a kid drowning among objects and things, committing moral suicide by allowing himself to be used finally like an object or thing.” Young Benjamin knows what he doesn’t like, but he has no idea how — or even whether — to change it.
That’s why Nichols decided to give the role to an unknown actor named Dustin Hoffman instead of to an established star like Robert Redford, who also campaigned for the part. When Hoffman read the book on which the film was based, he told Nichols that Braddock should be played by Redford or by another classically handsome white Anglo-Saxon Protestant.
But Nichols had something very different in mind. He saw Braddock as an anti-hero, a loser who sleepwalks through life instead of awakening to its challenges. So the director chose a Jewish actor — with dark, ungainly features — instead of the “walking surfboards” (as Nichols mockingly called them) who usually won the big Hollywood roles.
Braddock has an ambivalent and depressingly passionless affair with one of his parents’ friends, Mrs. Robinson, whose name would be immortalized in the song that Paul Simon wrote for the film. (The other Simon and Garfunkel songs on the soundtrack, including “Sounds of Silence,” predated the movie.) Then Braddock falls in love with Mrs. Robinson’s daughter, Elaine, an undergraduate at the University of California at Berkeley.
Conventional to his core, Braddock resolves to win Elaine in the most predictable, socially acceptable fashion: by marrying her. He drives his sportscar up to the Bay Area, where Nichols treats us to the famous shot of Hoffman speeding across the Bay Bridge (but in the wrong direction, as film buffs often note). The budget-conscious Nichols shot most of his college scenes at the University of Southern California, which was much closer to his studio, although we do get a few glimpses of the neighborhood abutting Cal-Berkeley.
What we do not get is a sense of the Free Speech Movement, demonstrations against the Vietnam War, or any of the other political passions that enveloped Berkeley in the late 1960s. The only hint is an exchange with a hostile boardinghouse manager, who inquires whether Braddock is an “agitator"; a few scenes later, a young tenant (played by Richard Dreyfuss, in one of his first roles) asks the manager if he should call the police to arrest Braddock.
On what charge? Braddock isn’t a threat to anyone at the university, where he follows Elaine through the humdrum rhythms of college life — to a class, to the library — while a clock chimes from the tower overhead. There’s nothing here to engage either of them, except the fact that Elaine is herself engaged to be married — and not to Braddock. So he has to win the girl from his rival, who looks very much like Mike Nichols’ walking-surfboard stereotype.
The film’s courtship rituals feel altogether dated in today’s era of student hook-ups and delayed marriage. But the aimless ennui of college should be familiar to anyone who works or studies at one. We have millions of students who are simply drifting through college, just like Benjamin Braddock does in his parents’ pool. As my colleague Richard Arum and his co-author Josipa Roksa have shown, the average undergraduate studies 12 hours per week, and more than a third report studying less than 5 hours a week.
On the other end of the spectrum are the so-called Organization Kids, who have been programmed to climb the social ladder at all costs. They do hit the books, early and often, but there’s something soulless and depressing about their grim quest for grades, connections, and jobs. They’re “excellent sheep,” to quote the title of William Deresiewicz’ recent book, going along in order to get ahead.
In the years since Mike Nichols made "The Graduate," we have transformed our universities into truly mass institutions. Soon, we are told, we'll have "college for all." But college for what? Asked that by his befuddled father, Benjamin Braddock replies simply, “You got me.” We've got to come up with a better answer than that.
Most readers’ first response to David Shumway’s Rock Star: The Making of Musical Icons from Elvis to Springsteen (Johns Hopkins University Press) will be to scan its table of contents and index with perplexity at the performers left out, or barely mentioned. Speaking on behalf of (among others) Lou Reed, Joe Strummer, and Sly and the Family Stone fans everywhere, let me say: There will be unhappiness.
For that matter, just listing the featured artists may do the trick. Besides the names given in the subtitle, we find James Brown, Bob Dylan, the Rolling Stones, the Grateful Dead, and Joni Mitchell – something like the lineup for an hour of programming at a classic rock station. Shumway, a professor of English at Carnegie Mellon University, makes no claim to be writing the history of rock, much less formulating a canon. The choice of artists is expressly a matter of his own tastes, although he avoids the sort of critical impressionism (see: Lester Bangs) that often prevails in rock writing. The author is a fan, meaning he has a history with the music. But his attention extends wider and deeper than that, and it moves in directions that should be of interest to any reader who can get past “Why isn’t _____ here?”
More than a set of commentaries on individuals and groups, Rock Star is a critical study of a cultural category -- and a reflection on its conditions of existence. Conditions which are now, arguably, far along the way to disappearing.
The name of the first rock song or performer is a matter for debate, but not the identity of the first rock star. Elvis had not only the hits but the pervasive, multimedia presence that Shumway regards as definitive. Concurring with scholars who have traced the metamorphoses of fame across the ages (from the glory of heroic warriors to the nuisance of inexplicable celebrities), Shumway regards the movie industry as the birthplace of “the star” as a 20th-century phenomenon: a performer whose talent, personality, and erotic appeal might be cultivated and projected in a very profitable way for everyone involved.
The audience enjoyed what the star did on screen, of course, but was also fascinated by the “real” person behind those characters. The scare quotes are necessary given that the background and private life presented to the public were often somewhat fictionalized and stage-managed. Fans were not always oblivious to the workings of the fame machine. But that only heightened the desire for an authentic knowledge of the star.
Elvis could never have set out to be a rock star, of course – and by the time Hollywood came around to cast him in dozens of films, he was already an icon thanks to recordings and television appearances. But his fame was of a newer and more symbolically charged kind than that of earlier teen idols.
Elvis was performing African-American musical styles and dance steps on network television just a few years after Brown v. Board of Education – but that wasn’t all. “The terms in which Elvis’s performance was discussed,” Shulway writes, “are ones usually applied to striptease: for example, ‘bumping and grinding.’ ” He dressed like a juvenile delinquent (the object of great public concern at the time) while being attentive to his appearance, in particular his hair, to a degree that newspaper writers considered feminine.
The indignation Elvis generated rolled up a number of moral panics into one, and the fans loved him for it. That he was committing all these outrages while being a soft-spoken, polite young man – one willing to wear a coat and tails to sing “Hound Dog” to a basset hound on "The Milton Berle Show" (and later to put on Army fatigues, when Uncle Sam insisted) only made the star power more intense: those not outraged by him could imagine him as a friend.
Elvis was the prototype, but he wasn’t a template. Shumway’s other examples of the rock star share a penchant for capturing and expressing social issues and cultural conflicts in both their songs and how they present themselves, onstage and off. But they do this in very different ways – in the cases of James Brown and Bob Dylan, changing across the length of their careers, gaining and losing sections of their audience with each new phase. The shifts and self-reinventions were very public and sometimes overtly political (with James Brown's support for Richard Nixon being one example) but also reflected in stylistic and musical shifts. In their day, such changes were sometimes not just reactions to the news but part of it, and part of the conversations people had about the world.
Besides the size of the audience, what distinguishes the rock star from other performers is the length of the career, or so goes Shumway’s interpretation of the phenomenon. But rewarding as the book can be – it put songs or albums I’ve heard a thousand times into an interesting new context – some of the omissions are odd. In particular (and keeping within the timespan Shumway covers) the absence of Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, and Jim Morrison seems problematic. I say that not as a fan disappointed not to find them, but simply on the grounds that each one played an enormous role in constituting what people mean by the term “rock star.” (That includes other rock stars. Patti Smith elevated Morrison to mythological status in her own work, while the fact that all three died at 27 was on Kurt Cobain’s mind when he killed himself at the same age.)
I wrote to Shumway to ask about that. (Also to express relief that he left out Alice Cooper, my own rock-history obsession. Publishers offering six-figure advances for a work of cultural criticism should make their bids by email.)
“My choices are to some extent arbitrary,” he wrote back. “One bias that shaped them is my preference for less theatrical performers as opposed to people such as David Bowie (who I have written about, but chose not to include here) or Alice Cooper.” But leaving out the three who died at 27 “was more than a product of bias. Since I wanted to explore rock stars’ personas, I believed that it was more interesting to write about people who didn’t seem to be playing characters on stage or record. I agree with you about the great influence of Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, and Jimi Hendrix, but I don’t think their personas have the complexity of the ones I did write about. And, they didn’t figure politically to the degree that my seven did. The main point, however, is that there is lots of work to be done here, and I hope that other critics will examine the personas the many other rock stars I did not include.”
The other thing that struck me while reading Rock Star was the sense that it portrayed a world now lost, or at least fading into memory. Rock is so splintered now, and the "technology of celebrity" so pervasive, that the kind of public presence Shumway describes might not be possible now.
“The cause is less the prevalence of celebrity,” he replied, “than the decline of the mass media. Stars are never made by just one medium, but by the interaction of several. Earlier stars depended on newspapers and magazines to keep them alive in their fans hearts and minds between performances. Radio and TV intensified these effects. And of course, movie studios and record companies had a great deal of control over what the public got to see and hear. The result was that very many people saw and heard the same performances and read the same gossip or interviews. With the fragmentation of the media into increasingly smaller niches, that is no longer the case. The role of the internet in music distribution has had an especially devastating effect on rock stardom by reducing record companies’ income and the listeners’ need for albums. The companies aren’t investing as much in making stars and listeners are buying songs they like regardless of who sings them.”
That's not a bad thing, as such, but it makes for a more compartmentalized culture, while the beautiful thing with rock 'n' roll is when it blows the doors off their hinges.
Lou Reed, who died on Sunday, was by any measure one of the most influential rock performers of his time, particularly for his work with the Velvet Underground during the mid- and late 1960s. VU never received much radio play in its day, but re-formed briefly in the early 1990s, playing its greatest non-hits to appreciative audiences throughout Europe.
By then they were part of political as well as musical history. The Velvet Revolution in what was then Czechoslovakia took its name from the band, which had developed a dedicated following among dissidents during the years of Soviet domination. You will not find anything even vaguely resembling a political comment in any of VU’s songs, but it is still easy to understand why the authorities were unhappy about the bootleg tapes of the band that circulated. Some of the melodies were gentle and even lovely, but just as many songs had shrieking blasts of feedback and ominous drones, and you could tell from the recordings that the band itself was very, very loud.
Furthermore, Lou Reed’s lyrics were quite unwholesome, like a Baudelaire sonnet. Some of them were inspired by figures in Andy Warhol’s entourage, with its abundance of drag queens, socialites gone to seed, and people who had turned their lives into one continuous piece of performance art, usually of chemical inspiration. For a while the Velvets were the house band at Warhol’s studio, which was called the Factory. Imagine some Czech bureaucrat -- one eye ever turned, nervously, to Moscow – fuming over that last bit: How dare anyone associate such socially undesirable elements and their hedonistic decadence with anything as glorious and inspiring as a factory!
It must be a fairly common ritual among fans following the news of a musician’s passing: upon hearing that Reed had died, I piled up a selection of CDs next to the stereo and have been listening to them, on and off, ever since. A friend asked me to recommend something by Reed he could listen to while working. Without hesitation I suggested the Velvet Underground live album “1969,” in which once-abrasive songs are rendered in a much smoother but no less energetic manner.
He probably downloaded it, as you do now. The process of finding and assimilating music has changed so radically in recent years that it is unwise to assume that very many readers will now share my experience -- 30 years ago -- of hearing about the Velvets long before hearing their music was even an option.
This was not just a delay but a detour – a matter of reading whatever was available about the group and trying to hear, in the mind’s ear, what they might sound like, based on descriptions of the music. The detour was also literary; the scraps of available information suggested that Reed was interested in certain authors. The VU song “Venus in Furs” takes both subject and title from a work by Sacher-Masoch, for example, while one called “Heroin” almost inevitably inspired references to William S. Burroughs. Reed’s one top-40 hit, “A Walk on the Wild Side,” was named after a Nelson Algren novel. (You’d hear it on the radio every so often without thinking of it as anything more than a jazzy pop tune with a catchy hook -- until the day when you actually paid attention to the lyrics and couldn’t believe the song got on the air.)
Encountering Reed became a drawn-out process of aesthetic education. He served as the guide to a whole counter-canon of the dark sublime. I say that in the past tense but imagine, and hope, that it is still the case -- that “Sister Ray” or “The Blue Mask” will challenge and change the listener’s sense of what counts as music or as a source of pleasure or meaning.
Fifty years ago, Lou Reed himself was a senior at Syracuse University, where he studied with the poet Delmore Schwartz. Reed was 21 – roughly the same age Schwartz had been when he wrote the short story “In Dreams Begin Responsibilities.” In it, the narrator revisits the scene of his parents’ courtship in 1909 as if seeing it in a film of the era.
Simply told and strangely beautiful, it is both haunting and haunted. By its close, any hint of sentimentality dissolves in a moment of painful self-awareness. Its appearance in 1937 in the revived Partisan Review was the stuff of legends. The poetry and criticism Schwartz published after that were more than promising, and he won the Bollingen Prize in 1959 (five years after Auden had received it) for a volume of his selected poems.
Beginning in 1962, Schwartz held an appointment in the English department at Syracuse, despite having become, at some point over the previous decade or so, manifestly insane. The distinction between bohemianism and madness is sometimes a matter of context. With Schwartz the case for nuance was long since past. He had fallen into the habit of threatening friends and ex-wives with litigation for their parts in a conspiracy against him, led by the Rockefellers. While living in Greenwich Village he had smashed all the windows in his rented room and been taken to Bellevue in restraints. He died alone in New York City in 1966.
The following year, Reed dedicated a song on the first Velvet Underground album to Schwartz, and in another song from the early 1980s he imagined being able to communicate with the poet via Ouija board. Last year Reed published a tribute to him that has also appeared as the preface to In Dreams Begin Responsibilities, an edition of Schwartz’s selected short fiction.
Reed’s biographers will have plenty to say about his relationship to Schwartz. It was almost certainly a difficult one, since each had a difficult personality. But it would be a mistake, I think, to treat the connection as purely personal.
In his essay from 2012 -- which is a sort of farewell to the poet, and perhaps to us as well -- Reed addresses Schwartz:
“We gathered around you as you read Finnegans Wake. So hilarious but impenetrable without you. You said there were few things better in life than to devote oneself to Joyce. You'd annotated every word in the novels you kept from the library. Every word…. Reading Yeats and the bell had rung but the poem was not over you hadn't finished reading — liquid rivulets sprang from your nose but still you would not stop reading. I was transfixed. I cried.”
What Schwartz transmitted in those moments was not personal experience, nor even knowledge, but access to aesthetic power that the listener might not have had otherwise. And although he was not a teacher, Lou Reed carried on the process of instruction. It gives more than words can say. Like the song says: "Between thought and expression / lies a lifetime."
The most intriguing author’s note I’ve seen in a while appears on the back cover of Japanoise: Music at the Edge of Circulation (Duke University Press) by David Novak, an assistant professor of music at the University of California at Santa Barbara. Following those obligatory institutional coordinates, we read: “The fieldwork for this book involved attending all-night parties that were so loud, he sometimes lost his balance and had to have his hearing checked after a year.”
More remarkable, perhaps, is that he still has any hearing left. Novak became interested in the Japanese phenomenon of "Noizu" in the early 1990s, after a period of teaching English, and polishing his Japanese, in Kyoto. The term is a neologism in Japanglish (cf. Franglais) referring to the underground movement or milieu devoted to producing -- and enduring – squalls of atonal electronic sound blasted at incredibly high volume. Noizu stands in relation to hardcore punk or extreme heavy metal band something like the roar of a jet engine does to chamber music. Connoisseurs call the sound “harsh,” at least when they are praising a performance or recording. The "noisician" works with a set of electronic boxes that distort, echo, or clip the frequencies of a sound; they are sometimes connected to one another according to a plan, and sometimes by chance. “Outputs go back into inputs,” Novak writes, “effects are looped together, and circuits are turned in on themselves. Sounds are transformed, saturated with distortion, and overloaded to the point that any original source becomes unrecognizable.” By the end of the performance, “the circuit is overturned, the gear is wrecked, and the network is destroyed.”
The point is to create, in Novak’s words, “the biggest, loudest, and most intense invocation of sonic immediacy imaginable” -- sometimes blasting the audience into “a state of hypnosis, dreaming sleep, or trance.” Enraptured or not, performers and listeners alike must get tinnitus.
Both the author’s teaching position and the book’s subtitle contain the word “music.” But the question of whether Noizu is a category of music is a question of taste and, even more, of definition – including self-definition, since there are people in the Noizu scene who insist that it is an experience utterly distinct from music. The ambiguity of its status is heightened by the existence of an enormous body of recorded Noizu, including the limited-edition boxed set in honor of Merzbow, perhaps the best known and certainly the most prolific of Noizu artists. It contains 50 CDs. He has issued several times that many over the past three decades, so presumably it is a greatest-hits collection.
Seeing Japanoise in Duke’s catalog reminded me of being in a Greenwich Village record shop with a seemingly exhaustive selection of arcane musical sub- and micro-genres from around the world. It had a bin marked “Japanese and other noise music” This was in the late 1990s, which Novak indicates was the peak period of media exposure for Noizu within Japan itself, after a couple of decades of existence deep underground. For a long time Japanese noisicans performed in tiny venues and distributed their recordings on cassette tapes which circulated by mail through an international network of avant-gardists.
By the time it established a niche at that specialty shop, Noizu was available on CD. Despite having never heard of the Japanese scene, I felt like I’d already heard plenty of “noise music” over the years. There was Lou Reed’s Metal Machine Music, a notorious double album of guitar feedback released in 1975, which was either an homage to experimental composers like Stockhausen or Reed’s way of fulfilling a recording project in the most hostile way possible. In the 1980s, bands such as Throbbing Gristle and Einsturzende Neubaten tested just how much ear-splitting mayhem could be incorporated into something still vaguely recognizable as a song. For that matter, Noizu sounds like something the Dadaists might have come up with the Cabaret Voltaire almost a century ago, if they’d had the amplifiers and gadgets.
Novak knows all of that -- and plenty of other examples of aestheticized sonic chaos, besides -- but insists on the specific history and context of Noizu. He draws the distinctions a little too fine at times, but does so in the interest of creating a “thick description” of Noizu: an ethnographic treatment of it as the product of Japanese conditions, even (or especially) in regard to its international circulation.
No matter where you go in the world, the audience for extremely loud electronic noise is likely to remain pretty small. But the existence of “livehouses” – tiny performance spaces, scattered so randomly that nobody is likely to find one without very specific directions – meant that a gathering of twenty people might seem like a crowd. Combine that with an incredibly intense mode of listening fostered by clubs where jazz fans assembled after World War II to listen to new albums in reverent silence. Then add countless small, highly specialized record stores whose owners develop an exhaustive familiarity with the history of a given sub-niche.
The product, in the case of Noizu, was a scene far more lively and attentive than anything available to, say, the American creators and consumers of what the rock critic Lester Bangs celebrated as “hideous noise.” Novak describes a process through which the rumors of a vital Japanese subculture came to excite artists and musicians abroad (who had no idea of just how small that subculture was), while Noizu’s growing renown in the wider world consolidated its status as something both artistically credible and distinctly Japanese.
Feedback is generated when a sound system begins to amplify and intensify its own output, which makes it an apt term for both the noise of Noizu and the cultural process through which it transformed itself from a marginal variety of performance art into a recognized and distinctive aspect of Japanese culture.
Novak indicates that devotees can recognize the particular way a given noisician sets up the devices in his rig, and I have no reason to doubt it. Part of a cultural feedback circuit is the formation of very distinctive modes of subjectivity – in this case, one capable of experiencing sound so loud that it seems to knock the breath out of you as a manifestation of the sublime. In its penultimate chapter, Japanoise draws out the parallels between Noizu as a kind of extreme physical encounter with technological power and apocalyptic themes in postwar Japanese culture. Novak identifies the arc of a noise performance as one of “overload and collapse”: an aesthetic duplication of “how a mechanical society feeds human energy back into the machine and measure[s] just how deeply creative subjectivity has become embedded in this cycle.”
Japanoise draws on interviews with performers of and listeners to Noizu, both in Japan and abroad – and, of course, the author’s own extensive exposure to its harsh pleasures. The one thing conspicuously missing from the books is an analysis of the part played by music journalism in creating the cultural feedback. There really ought to have been a chapter on the fanzines, where the terms for understanding and discussing Noizu took shape. But Novak does emphasize the revival of the cassette tape as noisicians’ preferred means of distributing their work. It is unmistakably a reaction to the immateriality and hyper-availability of digital culture.
The phrase “overload and collapse” also suggests the experience of the “lost decade” (or decades, depending on who you ask) of unemployment and stagnation following the collapse of the Japanese stock market in 1989. That raises a question about what manner of unholy racket we can expect to well up elsewhere in the world, as artists come to terms with, as Novak puts it, "deeply creative subjectivity has become embedded" in the feedback systems all of us live in.