Unsung hero: Phil Ochs
This will hopefully be a series, on artists or musicians that I personally have a great amount of love for, yet who never got the right amount of respect. Phil Ochs is a good one to start with, as he got less respect than Rodney Dangerfield. Hell, I hadn't heard of him myself until my friend donated some of his father's old LPs to me. One was called "Pleasures Of The Harbor," and while I can't say that it was "unlike anything I had ever heard before," I can say with certainty that it was "exactly the kind of music I always want to hear."
Most people who *have* heard of Ochs know he was a protest singer in the early sixties, a wanna-be Bob Dylan with a much sweeter voice and far preachier songs. His big hit was a standard anti-Nam song called "I Ain't Marching Anymore," but his early stuff actually branched out a little more than certain other folkies - with novelty tunes like "Draft Dodger Rag" (a list of all the possible excuses he can't go off to war) and lovely epics like "The Highwayman" (which yes, is that old-time poem we all read in junior high, set to melody). But this early period, in which the guy did everything in his power to stop war and make the world a better place, is not the reason why Ochs is a hero. No, his heroic nature revealed itself when he decided to throw all of that away.
By the late 60's, the whole pure folk revival had been replaced by folk-rock, with even Dylan himself adopting electric guitars and a full band. Rather than going along with the trend, or continuing what he had been doing, Ochs opted for the exact opposite approach, completely sabotaging his commercial potential while creating some damn lovely songs. Rather than being dressed up with hip backbeats and blues riffs, the songs on 1966's "Pleasures of the Harbor" were orchestrated to almost ridiculous levels. "I've Had Her" had melodramatic strings and harpsichords, "Outside Of A Small Circle Of Friends" was a jaunty vaudeville track, "The Party" was eight minutes of lounge piano, and "The Crucifixion" had one of the saddest melodies ever written punctuated with the absolute ugliest electronic effects and dissonant strings possible in the late sixties. I say "was" and "had," even though these songs still exist in the present tense, and are still awe-inspiring, although even less people enjoy them now than did in previous eras.
And as if one album of such material wasn't enough, he followed it up with a few more, which I hesitate to call "even better" although I personally listen to them more often. "Tape From California" opened with a weird set of organ clicks which to this day I sometimes mistake for Aphex Twin, while "Rehearsals For Retirement" ditched all of the strings (presumably because the previous albums had been such commercial duds) in order to make what I think of as the best Phil Ochs album. All pretty piano ballads and fun upbeat folksongs, completely out of step with commerciality but the perfect soundtrack for those of us who walk to our own drumbeat.
Inspired by his lack of success, Ochs became a commercial sadist. And perhaps a masichist. Right after "Rehearsals," he hatched a plot to completely fuck with the few fans he had remaining. He released an album entitled "Greatest Hits," which in fact was a collection of Elvis-inspired rockabilly and vegas songs. He performed a concert at Carnegie Hall, where he donned a gold lame suit and sang covers of Merle Haggard and Buddy Holly songs. He re-did some of his classic tracks as ridiculous retro rave-ups. It was an act of amazing Andy-Kaufman-esque self-parody, in which he transformed himself from a cool unknown into the least hip thing possible - all for the sake of fun. And how did the fans like it? Much has been made of the fact that the live "Gunfight At Carnegie Hall" album has audible audience booing, but by the end of the set, those who remain are happily clapping along. Few stuck with him, but if you ask me, I'd rather support an artist who is playing what he enjoys than one who is playing songs he thinks that *I* want to hear.
But Ochs couldn't be a hero his whole life. Six years and no albums after "Greatest Hits," he let me and his other fans down by hanging himself. Even in my darkest moments, I still cannot understand the attraction of death - but I think I can try to piece out what made Ochs feel so low. People may have listened to his music, but they never listened to *him*. As a protest singer, he made some great music, but nobody pulled out of Vietnam until years later, after folk had run its route. As a lush pop artist, nobody bought his albums, despite the fact that those records still sound years ahead of their time. And as a self-mocking rockabilly, no one even tried to "get" the statement he was trying to make about commerciality and its expectations, they simply though he was losing his mind. Which, given his eventual fate, was perhaps the case. But as a gesture of respect, I'm not going to remember the man as a forgotten and unfairly ignored footnote. I prefer to recall him as a great songwriter with an amazing sense of humor - as an inspiration, and a hero, regardless of whether or not anyone else sees him that way.
Most people who *have* heard of Ochs know he was a protest singer in the early sixties, a wanna-be Bob Dylan with a much sweeter voice and far preachier songs. His big hit was a standard anti-Nam song called "I Ain't Marching Anymore," but his early stuff actually branched out a little more than certain other folkies - with novelty tunes like "Draft Dodger Rag" (a list of all the possible excuses he can't go off to war) and lovely epics like "The Highwayman" (which yes, is that old-time poem we all read in junior high, set to melody). But this early period, in which the guy did everything in his power to stop war and make the world a better place, is not the reason why Ochs is a hero. No, his heroic nature revealed itself when he decided to throw all of that away.
By the late 60's, the whole pure folk revival had been replaced by folk-rock, with even Dylan himself adopting electric guitars and a full band. Rather than going along with the trend, or continuing what he had been doing, Ochs opted for the exact opposite approach, completely sabotaging his commercial potential while creating some damn lovely songs. Rather than being dressed up with hip backbeats and blues riffs, the songs on 1966's "Pleasures of the Harbor" were orchestrated to almost ridiculous levels. "I've Had Her" had melodramatic strings and harpsichords, "Outside Of A Small Circle Of Friends" was a jaunty vaudeville track, "The Party" was eight minutes of lounge piano, and "The Crucifixion" had one of the saddest melodies ever written punctuated with the absolute ugliest electronic effects and dissonant strings possible in the late sixties. I say "was" and "had," even though these songs still exist in the present tense, and are still awe-inspiring, although even less people enjoy them now than did in previous eras.
And as if one album of such material wasn't enough, he followed it up with a few more, which I hesitate to call "even better" although I personally listen to them more often. "Tape From California" opened with a weird set of organ clicks which to this day I sometimes mistake for Aphex Twin, while "Rehearsals For Retirement" ditched all of the strings (presumably because the previous albums had been such commercial duds) in order to make what I think of as the best Phil Ochs album. All pretty piano ballads and fun upbeat folksongs, completely out of step with commerciality but the perfect soundtrack for those of us who walk to our own drumbeat.
Inspired by his lack of success, Ochs became a commercial sadist. And perhaps a masichist. Right after "Rehearsals," he hatched a plot to completely fuck with the few fans he had remaining. He released an album entitled "Greatest Hits," which in fact was a collection of Elvis-inspired rockabilly and vegas songs. He performed a concert at Carnegie Hall, where he donned a gold lame suit and sang covers of Merle Haggard and Buddy Holly songs. He re-did some of his classic tracks as ridiculous retro rave-ups. It was an act of amazing Andy-Kaufman-esque self-parody, in which he transformed himself from a cool unknown into the least hip thing possible - all for the sake of fun. And how did the fans like it? Much has been made of the fact that the live "Gunfight At Carnegie Hall" album has audible audience booing, but by the end of the set, those who remain are happily clapping along. Few stuck with him, but if you ask me, I'd rather support an artist who is playing what he enjoys than one who is playing songs he thinks that *I* want to hear.
But Ochs couldn't be a hero his whole life. Six years and no albums after "Greatest Hits," he let me and his other fans down by hanging himself. Even in my darkest moments, I still cannot understand the attraction of death - but I think I can try to piece out what made Ochs feel so low. People may have listened to his music, but they never listened to *him*. As a protest singer, he made some great music, but nobody pulled out of Vietnam until years later, after folk had run its route. As a lush pop artist, nobody bought his albums, despite the fact that those records still sound years ahead of their time. And as a self-mocking rockabilly, no one even tried to "get" the statement he was trying to make about commerciality and its expectations, they simply though he was losing his mind. Which, given his eventual fate, was perhaps the case. But as a gesture of respect, I'm not going to remember the man as a forgotten and unfairly ignored footnote. I prefer to recall him as a great songwriter with an amazing sense of humor - as an inspiration, and a hero, regardless of whether or not anyone else sees him that way.
posted by BG | 2:26 PM
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