Thinking about favorite albums and performers this morning led me down some twisty corridors of memory. I wound up in a seldom-visited cul de sac on Boston’s Beacon Hill. Another folksinger living in the next building was in talks with a major label. Rumors of an album were floated.
Whenever something important like this happened in our little society, there was a combination of happiness and jealousy. Happiness that one of us was moving up, and jealousy that it was not us. For me it was jealousy. Of course, I was not ready for such a movement. It would have taken a combined equinox, lunar eclipse, and alignment of the planets to bring about. I even knew I was not ready. But never the less, I was jealous.
It seemed like we’d be having coffee every day and asking for status reports. Have you been signed yet? Where will you record? What songs will be in the album? Do they see a single in this?
Every day the answer would be the same, “We’re still talking.”
Eventually, we stopped asking. Then, one day, we heard that they were talking about changes in the songs. They wanted to put strings behind the vocals and hire studio musicians for backup tracks. Music, even for folk musicians, was changing. We all loudly cursed Bob Dylan, ritually shot him the finger, and encouraged our fellow in arms to hang tough.
Eventually, nothing came of it: no single and no album.
Like many coffeehouse singers, that one drifted away – and went to grad school. One friend started a restaurant, another went to nursing school, and lots just drifted away. Many of us felt by 1969 that a great opportunity in American Life had slipped away.
It would be hard to pick one album that speaks to me about the whole era, but the closest is Don McLean’s American Pie album. The song hits all the notes:
I met a girl who sang the blues
And I asked her for some happy news
But she just smiled and turned away
I went down to the sacred store
Where I’d heard the music years before
But the man there said the music wouldn’t play
And in the streets, the children screamed
The lovers cried and the poets dreamed
But not a word was spoken
The church bells all were broken
And the three men I admire most
The Father, Son and the Holy Ghost
They caught the last train for the coast
The day the music died
And they were singing bye, bye, Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry
And them good ole boys were drinking whiskey ‘n rye
Singin’ this’ll be the day that I die
This’ll be the day that I die
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So many good songs on that album. “Empty Chairs” hit me hard because of my dad. It pretty much said everything. My favorite of his songs is “Castles in the Air.” American Pie is amazing, but over-played as is “Vincent” — I still cringe when the oldies station starts one of those, “There are MORE SONGS DAMMIT!” I yell, but they don’t hear.
At this point in my life I think fame in the arts is largely a matter of luck and persistence, but luck comes first.
No doubt about the luck part. I’ve known unknown super stars who never got the connection ( and no I do not include myself in that category).