Another month, another John Cale song. Today’s track
comes from one of my favorite albums, ever. Vintage
Violence was released in that odd transitional year, 1970. I heard it, and
lived with it almost daily for a time, in that odd transitional year, 1977. I
was 18. Childhood here has end, and all that.
The album, in my listening history, came along after I’d
heard Guts, a compilation from Cale’s
Island albums. It also came along after some time spent really soaking up Sgt. Pepper’s and “the White Album.” It
also came along after becoming a big enthusiast of Velvet Underground Live ’69. From that point of view, VV was “the latest thing,” though it was
clear enough that it wasn’t. I hadn’t
yet become a Steely Dan listener, yet, but the notion that contemporary
rock/pop music should be clean and slick held dominance. Soon enough I would
start looking, as more forward-looking people already had, for things a bit more
grungy and unfinished. Which is what I liked about Guts, the hard edge, the way it didn’t make any gestures toward
prettiness or popness for the sake of DJ ears.
VV was even more
that way, in a way. Granted, DJ ears in 1970 would have been different, but
still. This thing got no airplay, in part because the catchiness of its songs—and
Cale does know a thing or two about hooks—hails from a sensibility not
supported, let us say, by the general public. I don’t know why, exactly. I
think it’s the sense—or that’s how I saw it—of being somehow solitary, not one
of a crowd, and certainly not playing to it. I’m not saying the songs on VV are self-explorations, though I feel
pretty certain some of them are, but rather that they are uniquely crafted, set
apart.
“Won’t you help me please? / I’m growing old / Won’t you
help me sneeze? / I’ve caught a cold.” Well and good. I chose this song from VV because both things are true, for me,
at the moment. Very annoying cold on one of those wan, lifeless days that
reminds me, in its humid slough, of the era when I first got this record.
Though it was fall, it was a very rainy fall, humid and gray and unappealing.
Something of that tone hangs about the album for me. It’s not a bright album.
I mentioned all that about the airwaves just to indicate
that I always want the sound of this song to be more pristine than it is. It’s
just the conditions of recording at the time, can’t be helped. This song, in
particular, with those lovely layers of slide guitar and piano and all that
shimmering sound, with Garland Jeffreys’ backup vocals adding a lot of
ghostliness, creates an aural tapestry much like a flying carpet. Cale is
taking us somewhere and his odd, impressionistic lyrics leave us wondering.
“Just hold on tightly / This shows on my breed.” The idea is
that the singer, with his cold and growing old is, a bit like that guy in “Madman
Across the Water,” putting up with the social niceties (I assume “my breed” is
alluding to “breeding”): “They speak so very slow / It gets so hard to follow.”
Yeah, sure, he may be the worse for substances, and, if so, I feel for the guy.
Nothing worse than starting a nice zone-out and having some dithering jackal
come in and start blathering on. And listen to those sustained “ah ah ah ah ah,
ahhhhs”—they do seem to be a bit on edge.
Now it’s the next verse that leaves me with questions: “Slowly
in the mist, a captive ride [or perhaps captain rides—I prefer the former
because the sense of being held captive makes more sense with what follows] /
To carry you from home / A hansom cab again, from dawn till dusk / My proud
amphibious bride.” Or, actually, it
should probably be like this:
Slowly in the mist
A captive ride
To carry you from home,
A hansom cab again
From dawn till dusk.
My proud amphibious bride,
I’ll just leave you here like this
I’m sure you won’t be missed.
A captive ride
To carry you from home,
A hansom cab again
From dawn till dusk.
My proud amphibious bride,
I’ll just leave you here like this
I’m sure you won’t be missed.
Seems perhaps that the “amphibious bride” is captive, lent
some credence by “I’ll just leave you here like this / I’m sure you won’t be
missed.” Well, let’s hope that carrying
off that bride and leaving her “like this” (soooo ambiguous) helps this guy.
It seems most hear “It can’t be that bad / Back up in
Trinidad.” I never did. I hear “I can’t
be that mad / Like up in Trinidad / Come down and see me soon / When you get
back from the moon.” This guy is loony
tunes, we might say. It’s very hard to know what he’s saying, exactly, but I
love the “amphibious bride” line: amphibious means, of course, being able to
live on both land and in water. His bride, while doubtless not literally
amphibious (I guess), is able to partake, we might say, of more than one
environment. Her life is to double-business bound, perhaps.
So does he off her?
Perhaps. I do get a little hint of Browning’s “Porphyria's Lover” there.
When she gets back from the moon, sure. In the meantime she’s not going
anywhere. Though it’s quite possible that we’re only talking about the “help”
of an assignation in a hansom cab and then taking off “like this.” It’s the “won’t
be missed” line that calls up notions that no one will come looking or
knocking, after all.
But maybe it’s all in my own morbid mind. I’m perfectly
willing to say so. But like I’ve said before, Cale’s songs have a way of
seeming to be sinister even when, perhaps, they’re not. And the mood of the
song is a bit creepy, though it’s hard to say exactly what its dominant mood
is. Longing? Regret? A sort of sanguine notion that things are never quite what
you like nor quite what they seem?
Whatever. The song is elusive and very moody. Which is how I
tend to spend my time, sometimes. And John Cale has provided his “help” for
many years. Even when I’m not sure what
he’s singing.
Before this night is done
These words won’t seem so wrong.
These words won’t seem so wrong.
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