By Lester Bangs
Classic offers the paperback variation of the wild and remarkable writings of Lester Bangs--the so much outrageous and renowned rock critic of the 1970s--edited and with an advent through the reigning dean of rack critics, Greil Marcus. ads in Rolling Stone and different significant courses.
Read or Download Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung: The Work of a Legendary Critic: Rock'N'Roll as Literature and Literature as Rock 'N'Roll PDF
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Extra resources for Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung: The Work of a Legendary Critic: Rock'N'Roll as Literature and Literature as Rock 'N'Roll
So right here comes the payload. Now, to respond to the final query first, as the ultimate end of all Stooge-mockers is easily real and crucial to the Stooges: you’re goddam correct Iggy Stooge is a rattling idiot. He does much better activity of constructing a idiot of himself on degree and vinyl than virtually the other performer I’ve ever noticeable. that's one in every of his genius’s imperative aspects. What we'd like are extra rock “stars” keen to make fools of themselves, totally bounce off the deep finish and make the viewers embarrassed for them if worthy, as long as they've got no longer one shred of dignity or mythic corona left. simply because then the total rattling pompous edifice of this supremely ridiculous rock ’n’ roll undefined, organize to snatch dollars through conning early life and inspiring fantasies of a puissant “youth culture,” may cave in, and with it should cave in the careers of the hyped talentless nonentities who breed off of it. are you able to think Led Zeppelin with out Robert Plant conning the viewers: “I’m gonna offer you each inch of my love”—he rather offers them not anything, now not even a good-natured grinful “Howdy-do”—or Jimmy Page’s arch scowl of supermusician ennui? a chum and that i have been getting stoned and looking at the television eye’s broadcast of the Cincinnati Pop pageant the opposite evening whilst an excellent (i. e. , dead) suggestion struck us. many of the express was once dull, targeting teams like Grand Funk (endless plodding model of “Inside searching” with lead singer writhing and barking and making up new lyrics like “Oh little honey i want your love so bad … c’mon, provide it to me … oh, little mama” and so on. ) and Mountain (Felix Pappalardi spinning off unending uninteresting solos in a flat distillation of the main overworked components of Cream’s and Creedence’s sounds, whereas fats buckskinned Leslie West thumped guitar and reacted to Pappalardi’s piddle with vast, joyously agonized mugging, grimacing and grinning and nodding as though each observe out of Papa’s bass was once simply blowing his brain like no track he’d ever heard before). good, I watched all this monkey enterprise with one eye scanning the bookshelf for a possible quantity to cross the time until Iggy hit the tube, and whilst he did it used to be fine—not nearly as good as looking at Carlos Santana squint and Cunt Joe spell out “FUCK” in Woodstock, brain you, yet an exceptional video unfold anyhoo—but the a part of the exhibit that intrigued us the main got here in Alice Cooper’s set (who, even if gratingly shrill their amphetamine-queen hysteria, definitely can’t be accused of taking themselves seriously—come the revolution, they don’t get offed with Pappalardi and West and George Harrison and all them different cats), while Alice crouched, threw his billowy cape over his stringy mop like a monk’s cover, exposing his hormone-plasticized torso, and crept duckwalking like a few Chuck Berry from a henbane nightmare to the apron of the degree, the place he produced a pocket watch, set it hypnotically in movement, and commenced chanting in a relaxed conversational tone: “Bodies … need … rest”—repeating it at similar pace until ultimately a few (genuinely clever) wiseacre a number of our bodies into the group piped up, “So what?