a note on Tom Petty's Damn the Torpedoes

Tom Petty has had problems with his image from the start. A thoroughly enjoyable and likable mainstream rock and roller in my book, Petty and the Heartbreakers first emerged on the scene with the sudden glut of arty New York New Wave bands like Television, Talking Heads and The Ramones, and was mistakenly categorized as being a punk outfit. After some exposure to his first record made it obvious that the Heartbreakers had little to do with the aesthetics of American punk posey (American new wave, like it or not, is loaded with semi-tough intellectuals who compromise a new generation of native "art-rockers," a dread thought to many who think being dumb somehow places you in a state of grace and frees you from good manners, healthy diets,and other conventions of everyday life: the classical artists' conceit), one too many critics made note of the similarity between Petty's nasal, braying voice and that of old Byrds helmsman Roger McGuinn, and concluded that the Heartbreakers were a band stuck in emulating the pop-rock shtick of the 60s. Petty, thankfully, is a feisty counter-puncher with enough good sense to ignore what others, aware, want him to be. Damn The Torpedoes, his new record, clears the ground, and should at once establish that Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers are their own men who play their own kind of rock and roll in a way that's all too rare: straight ahead, with conviction and feeling, without affectation or chest-thumping baloney. At the risk of sounding as though I'm over-reaching for a comparison, I consider Petty to be the closest thing to a Graham Parker that America has. Like Parker, Petty's lyrical persona is of someone who's overwhelmed by the vicissitudes of everyday life who, through a visage of someone scratching his head in a state of anger, confusion, and frustration, achieves a kind of calculated artlessness in his expression. There is little in Petty's words one would consider the equal of some of rock's better wordsmiths: nothing on the par with the Zen-like ambiguities of Steely Dan, the colloquized surrealism of the late Lowell George, the compounded paradoxes of Elvis Costello, or the sublimely etched ironies of Randy Newman. Rather, Petty's main lyrical strength is his directness. Like Parker, Bob Seger (when he's not being morose) or Garland Jefferies, Petty demonstrates that he can cut to the cause of disagreement, emotional snafus where equal combinations of anger and self-loathing make an ugly tattoo on a young man’s thin skin.

Capsule reviews of John McLaughlin, Tom Petty and David Johansen from 1978

 (Anyone familiar with the style of the well known rock critics of the 6os and 70s will without exception realize I was imitating the style of the Village Voice's Robert Christgau, who was and remains an argument-starter I admire. That said, forgive the obvious indebtedness).

Johnny McLaughlin, Electric Guitarist - John McLaughlin (Columbia)

After three interesting albums with all acoustic and raga-oriented Shakti, guitarist McLaughlin plugs in again and re-teams himself with several stellar musicians he used to share band duties with. Accordingly, there are a variety of jazz styles on this disc, and McLaughlin proves himself comfortable in all of them. The highlight track here is "Do You Hear the Voices You Left Behind", a post-bop chase in the mold of John Coltrane's classic "Giant Steps" composition. McLaughlin skillfully negotiates a complex chord progression and solos with a surprising spiritedness. Chick Corea (piano), Stanley Clarke (bass) and Jack DeJohnette (drums) live up to their reputations, each maintaining a pulsating rhythm and offering their own inspired sorties. "New York on My Mind" is an unexpected change of pace for McLaughlin, being a Gershwin-like melody with brilliant blues shadings. The solos, from McLaughlin, violinist Jerry Goodman, and keyboardist Stu Goldberg, are cleverly restrained and subtle, complementing the moodiness. Another departure is "Every Tear from Every Eye", a dreamy composition with an ethereal tinge in which McLaughlin offers an angular, introspective solo, and which features pop-jazz saxophonist David Sanborne playing in a more cerebral context than his fans are used to. Though not the best effort he's ever made, Johnny McLaughlin none the less shows that the guitarist is more than the Speed King Honcho of the frets. This disc is a refreshing change of pace from someone who many had dismissed as having fallen in an irrevocable rut. B plus.

You're Gonna Get It -Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers

This time out, Petty, and crew sound a bit less journeyman-like in their mild manner brand of rock and roll. Petty's voice, a limited vehicle for self-expression, is more soul-oriented this time out (though not soulful), and the band, especially in the guitar work, is crunchier, dirtier, and a little more committed to mainstream rock and rollisms. In time. Petty and the Heartbreakers may become, as San Diego based writer Mikel Toombs alluded to in his concert critique, a sturdy Rolling Stones type band. They have sound and song writing talent. All they need is a little more hysteria and bad luck. B.

 

David Johanson - David Johanson.

Johanson, the former lead singer for the well-loved New York Dolls, has become another over-stylized non-entity who is salvaging what's left of his "punk" reputation into an a priori mélange of typical street posturing, none of it very interesting at this point. Johanson's voice, which sounded good with the Dolls because he was buried in the mix, is an uninteresting bellow, and having it upfront on this album, booming like cannon fire and not much else, only accentuates the problem. The band. as well, are contrived study in slick sloppiness, deliberating themselves through the material like over conscious artistes calculating the effect of some mechanical vulgarity. In general, David Johanson rolls plenty. but it hardly rocks worth a bean’s worth of flatulence.

TOM PETTY, free fallin'

Tom Petty made me think of the “emancipated minor,” an underage teen legally separated from his parents, becoming free to engage in adult activities that would otherwise require parental permission. The teen becomes a legal adult, free to sign contracts, enroll in trade school, rent an apartment, and is solely responsible for the future that awaits him. There were a few of these feral minors around when I worked the carnival circuit in the ’70s during the dread days of summer. I was a college student working midway games for a long shaggy dog story I’d narrate to the end of my days. Meanwhile, I had classes and my parents’ condo to go back to when it was my time to go. They, however, were suddenly adults responsible for their direction, solely at the mercy of their wits, the wisdom of their rash decisions, and the kindness of others who gave a good goddamn.

They liked hard guitar rock, good marijuana, and a job that paid them a living wage for a solid eight hours of work. And there was that wonderful sense that the world had a moral map, simply drawn, with little gray between the extremes of light and dark. There is the Right Thing, and then there is being a Total Dick. No compromise is the game: young hearts, not so much idealistic, as much as expecting everyone to be playing by the same rule book.There was no backing down from this—you followed your path; you moved toward your dreams; and you cut ties to the people, places, and things that fettered a young soul’s determination to create and live a life that made sense. Following suit, the emotional life was the sort that took a heartache and converted it into a worldview, a philosophy of hurt articulated in simple sentences and short, clipped rhymes.

A broken heart, being fired, a flat tire on the turnpike between Sandusky and Stockton, buying a used Van Halen CD and discovering it’s a Shaggs record instead—all these abutments and letdowns and sorry-ass slaps in the face were savored, inspected, kept fresh in memory while one fell into a hard reticence to speak of one’s pain. A code formed, the choruses were bellowed while pounding the dashboard between drags of Marlboro 100s, a car full of young men, and the occasional carnie chick circulating through the twist-and-shout knots and narrow passage of the Grapevine making their way to the last of the Still Spots before The Season was over, smoke, open beer cans, 8-track tapes, and scratched CDs: “Stop draggin’ my heart around,” “You don’t have to feel like a refugee…,” I am free fallin’, and I won’t back down, so fuck off and get  out of the way  because this life is too short to wait in line….

Tom Petty did not wait in line. He got it done. Grounded, responsive, principled from experience, always aware of who pays his bills. This man worked, he felt, he got it done, and then left us, headed into the great wide open. Perhaps we will see his likes again, but you know, the waiting is the hardest part. So get it done, pick up a guitar, play your harmonica, son. Tom Petty wrote songs about standing your ground, being true to the good things within yourself, of being helpful when help was needed, of admitting when he was wrong and taking responsibility for the results of his decisions, he was a man who refused to be a doormat and would tell you to your face, in terms plain-spoken and truthful. Petty was everything the essential spirit of rock ‘n’ roll should be and occasionally still is, a kind of realistic worldview that was neither abstract philosophy nor stale bromides reinforcing a crucifying relativism, but rather a way of seeing precisely what’s at stake, what’s involved in the dramas, transactions, and passions of our time on Earth, and intuitively knowing the best course to take. His were the songs of the trials, tribulations of a life he’s fully engaged in. 

His rock ‘n’ roll was simple, predicated on anthem-like choruses and simple, assertive, thrashing guitar riffs, and a honed backbeat. Tom Petty’s voice relayed his plain-spoken lyrics with a sound that was an emotional storm working itself out, the hurt, and anguish, the acceptance, and the courage and strength to continue to the next day—with the realization that life goes on and that he’s in it and that he has a life that is truly his own, beholden to no authority apart from his consul and the people and values he holds dear. Tom Petty was, I think, everything I had hoped Bob Seger would become: the working journeyman rocker with the common man’s experience expressed brilliantly, movingly, in the terse, unadorned cadence of the best rock ‘n’ roll. Seger, though, caught Springsteen fever and gravitated to bigger arrangements, strained melodrama, and grandiosity dressed in a work shirt. Petty never forgot he was a rocker, never forgot what made rock ‘n’ roll such a powerful medium of self-realization. He wrote about what he knew what he had done, and what he learned. It was a conversation with his fans he never stopped having.