Deliri, desideri e distorsioni

Deliri, desideri e distorsioni
by Lester Bangs
Lester Bangs não é, vejam só, o Philip Seymour Hoffman de bigode dando conselhos sentimentais para um
adolescente precoce, tal qual um Yoda para todos os fãs de rock que não comem ninguém. O que mais chama a
atenção ao ler qualquer coisa de LB é como ele era completamente incapaz de se distanciar do tópico sobre o
qual ele estava escrevendo, um pouquinho que fosse. Todo e qualquer álbum e música que passavam por ele se
tornavam algo estritamente PESSOAL, e eram tratados de acordo, distância crítica sendo coisa para covardes e
zumbis. Em cada texto fica explícito o quanto ele considerava arte, e música especialmente, um assunto
profundamente moral, um caminho para a salvação da alma - e que por isso mesmo, bullshiting da parte do
artista seria essencialmente uma falha de caráter, que devia ser apontada, ridicularizada e lamentada, nessa
ordem. Há um bocado de raiva no que ele escreve, pontuada por momentos de entusiasmo nível fan-boy.
Por que é tão difícil encontrar alguém que se importe tanto, com qualquer coisa, de verdade e sem ego, como LB
se importava com rock? E quão difícil é encontrar isso com senso de humor e do ridículo? Mais rara ainda a
combinação disso com um talento com palavras que era absurdo, e digo, literalmente absurdo: escrever com
tantas digressões, e palavras inventadas e obscuras, e referências a todo tipo de produto da cultura pop e erudita,
misturadas com anedotas pessoais, citações de amigos e namoradas? Fools rush in where angels fear to tread, e o
resultado disso deveria parecer masturbação mental produzida por um dork pretensioso com TDAH. Mas não é, é
brilhante, demoniacamente engraçado e inspirador.
Fato, ocasionalmente as digressões testam a paciência de quem lê (muito álcool? Muitos Quaaludes?) e ele fica
muito menos interessante quando perde a precisão, que nos momentos bons fica evidente e é uma das melhores
qualidades de LB como escritor. Tem aí também um elemento pesado de rabugice, um constante reclamar que
tudo está indo pros diabos, que mesmo quase sempre parecendo legítimo, causa de vez em quando uma vontade
de dizer mano, calma.
Tudo isso para dizer, textos de LB significam leitura divertida, exasperante, fascinante e ocasionalmente confusa. E
inimitável. Avisem os wannabes.|Psychotic Reactions & Carburetor Dung made me high. I read that book and got
Tudo isso para dizer, textos de LB significam leitura divertida, exasperante, fascinante e ocasionalmente confusa. E
inimitável. Avisem os wannabes.|Psychotic Reactions & Carburetor Dung made me high. I read that book and got
high on Bangs’ writing. I admit it. High as a kite. Hooooooooo boy.
Having read Mainlines… (blah, blah, blah, etc.), I’m left feeling like that effect was somewhat in the editing (and
just maybe where my little head was at at the time). And the editing in this one is like getting a bag of weak weed
with your last fifty dollars. Or forty for you non-Cali residents. Then mixing it with the dregs of that bag o' killer
grass you got last time and hoping for the best.
This isn’t to say Mainlines… (blah, blah, blah, etc.) isn’t awesome. I mean, pretentious and far too long a title but its
contents are often awesome. There are way too few writers who I find to be “laugh out loud funny.” I mean, I
laugh out loud when I read Bangs’ writing. It’s killer. It’s daring and wild and fun and explosive. It's generally
intelligent and enlightening and exhilarating. This in an era when “laugh out loud funny” has been reduced to
whatever amuses the lowest common denominator and “laugh out loud” has been reduced to “L.O.L.” What’s the
point of communicating, anyway? Bangs has the ability to slay me without resistance. He reminds me why
communication is important, even in abstract.
I laugh out loud because Bangs is often blindingly insightful, occasionally borders on genius and never fails to
challenge. For better or worse. I mean, some of it comes off like intentional antagonism, which stinks of victim
culture, if you ask me. Being naughty for the sake of attention. But so much of it just stands right up and squarely
challenges anything tired, boring and staid in the world of rock and beyond. Anything accepted. Any stooge
knows the accepted is the first to be challenged.
I love that he did the piece on Black Sabbath, because I love Black Sabbath and before Ozzy became The Prince Of
Darkness and all that, Sabbath was, in my humble opinion (trademark symbol), the most amazing band in the
universe from their first album to their sixth.
I love that Bangs talks about Mile's wife, Betty, who's "If I'm In Luck, I Might Get Picked Up" is just... stellar.
Musically, anyway. Lyrically, it don't say too much for womanhood in general. The jam, on the other hand, is so
bad ass, it's ridiculous.
I love that Bangs was as confounded by hardcore as the rest of the pack. It’s a charming sign of weakness, though
I do think his politics in the matter were in the right place. Hardcore got boring faster than a pep rally, didn’t it?
The Jimmy carter/Jane Fonda nastiness was horrifying. I skimmed that one. Looks like Lester wanted to lick some
laziness that day. What the f*ck? Same with the Cherie Currie fantasy. I know he was trying to say something. I
suppose it's my fault I didn't get it.
His piece on hanging out with Hell’s Angels during a gang bang is horrifying, too. It’s disappointing and sad he
was there at all. After thinking about it, though, I wonder if that wasn’t his point, that he was an observer, sure, but
also a willing participant, active or not. Like it's a sort of a confessional. I don’t know.
And what about his use of “nigger?” He called himself the “white nigger” all the time. He wrote
complimentarily/condescendingly of “niggers” pretty regularly. But was it meant to be condescending? I suppose
it was out of some kind of solidarity but there is a sense of racism (sexism, etc.) to certain of his writings, this in a
time when the civil rights movement had come and gone and anyone in the “underground” should have been hip
to THAT nuance. Is this like punks wearing swastikas? An attempt to shock? A meager play at showing contempt
for the fears of the old guard? Is it like Steve Alibini’s too-smart-to-be-polite social commentary wrapped in two
minute sonic kill fests? Marilyn Manson’s existence? How did folks of the “African American persuasion” who were
into rock and punk and rock punk and punk rock and the “underground” and “the scene” feel when they picked
up an issue of Creem and were met with this sh*t? Again, I don’t know.
Regardless, if Bangs’ writing at its worst is maybe a pseudo attempt to develop a voice, Bangs’ writing at its best is
an epiphany. At worst, it’s five or ten minutes of my life I’ll never get back. At best, it’s an inspiration. That’s just
really not bad at all. And his ratio’s a full sh*t ton better than 99.9% of his “peers” in the rock “journalism” cadre. If
you ever want a clear cut example of leeches sucking on the ass of anything to provide a living, an income, you
an epiphany. At worst, it’s five or ten minutes of my life I’ll never get back. At best, it’s an inspiration. That’s just
really not bad at all. And his ratio’s a full sh*t ton better than 99.9% of his “peers” in the rock “journalism” cadre. If
you ever want a clear cut example of leeches sucking on the ass of anything to provide a living, an income, you
need look no further than rock “journalists.” Nasty, lazy, filthy, ignorant, scamming scum, that lot.
A favorite moment is bangs’ Nostradamus like prediction of The Stones’ decades long career and the tepid nature
it would take on. “The Rolling Stones lasting twenty, thirty years – what a stupid idea that would be.”
Congratulations, Lester! You didn’t live to see how truly BAD the Stones would be and you were right! And over
FORTY years later, at that! Hot dog!
Lester is all of us but with a sometimes twist, that twist being a passion some of us never feel for anything.
Whatever he says, it's the saying that's the inspiration. Long live Lester Bangs.|i think this is the lesser of the two
lester bangs anthologies. i really only remember that he hated an album by Canned Heat. no one was upset by
this. not even members of canned heat.|A more sober, less gonzo collection.|As with a lot of essay collections from
authors that I'm unfamiliar with (in this case, Lester Bangs) about topics that I'm fairly familiar with (music, more
specifically, mostly the New York punk scene) I do what I think a lot of people do, and hop around, read the essays
with titles or subject matter that appeals to me. That was certainly the case here, with writings about musicians as
varied as Lou Reed, Stevie Nicks, Nico, Brian Eno, Mott the Hoople, Captain Beefheart, and the MC5. That said,
because I didn't read the whole thing (I did about 25% if my math is correct) I don't really feel I can give it a totally
accurate review, hence the middling three stars. What I did read was interesting. Bangs writes with an attitude that
evokes the times these pieces were written, the late sixties to the early eighties, he has an irreverent, devil-maycare, loose-lipped, acerbic, archaic wit and attitude that feels right at home with the subject matter. However, I
found some pieces here, particularly the one travelogue I read about the city of Austin, a little too self-centered.
Somehow or another, Bangs always finds a way to loop his writing, about a city or an artist back to him, a band he
played with, or an ex-girlfriend. On the other hand, when he isn't telling the same stories over again, the man does
have some very interesting and very varied opinions on the definition of art, artists, and the act of creating. An
interesting personality to be sure, I'm just not convinced I'd ever be able to make it through a book-length
collection of his stuff.