What a tragedy. Oh, not everyone thinks so. But Jonathan Richman’s transformation from refreshingly pure-of-heart Velvet Underground acolyte to naïve singer of children’s songs for adults has always seemed to me a sad waste of massive talent. Far be it for me to gainsay an artist for following his muse. But when it leads to songs like “My Little Kookenhaken” and “Hey There Little Insect,” I’m out of the nursery. Infantilism is a perfectly understandable response to the complexities of the “Modern World”—we’ve all wanted to retreat to our Legos at one time or another. But to actually do it? After producing some of the most passionate and enthralling rock songs of his time? I’m a big fan of the erratic career move, but re-enrolling in kindergarten is a step too far.
There’s a great story—could be urban legend because I can’t find it anywhere—about why Richman gave up playing electrified rock and roll. Frank Blank & the Catholics’ make it the subject of “The Man Who Was Too Loud.” Which includes the lines, “Though he loved to rock and roll/All these many years/He cared about the old people’s/And little children’s ears.” His not wanting to be the cause of geriatric deafness and infant tinnitus is touching. He deserves an honorary award from the International Hearing Society. But I say fuck old people. Most of ‘em are deaf already. And it’s not as if they can’t remove their hearing aids. As for the little babies, let ‘em eat nursery rhymes. Besides, I doubt Modern Lovers’ concerts were thronged with the walker and pacifier sets.
Neonates—if neonates there were at the show captured on 1977’s ‘Live’–undoubtedly enjoyed themselves, and why not? Why I’m betting they showered (lovingly, mind you) the stage with their bibs. Me, I can hardly listen to it. Cutesy has its limits, and Jonathan blows through them like a roadrunner through a suburban Massachusetts red light. I mean, who opened for the guy, Mr. Rogers? Who was edgier? I would say Kermit the Frog, but he went on record at the time as saying, “I used to think Jonathan Richman was great. ‘Pablo Picasso’ rocks balls. But ‘I’m a Little Dinosaur’? The guy obviously licked the wrong toad.”
‘Live’ demonstrates that Richman’s retreat was twofold—lyrically towards the kindergarten, and musically towards 1950s rock and roll with the occasional foray into reggae and points further south. The songs are big on vocal harmonies, and the backing vocalists throw in lots of sound effects that up the annoyance factor considerably. But let’s move on to the songs, which I look forward to discussing with about as much enthusiasm as I would to having my tonsils removed with a rusty claw hammer.
“I’m a Little Airplane” is self-explanatory, as are all the songs on the album with the exception of closer “The Morning of Our Lives,” which just happens to be the only adult-appropriate number on the LP. “I’m a Little Airplane” is a cute little ditty on which Richman sings, “Well, I’m a little airplane nyyyow” over and over again (with the backing band chiming in on the “nyyyow”). You also get a lot of “Wangity-wang, wangity-wang” for fifties cred and a cool guitar solo with reverb that deserves better. We all deserve better. At song’s end Jonathan talks some about his shirt before the band kicks into the Bo Biddley beat of “Hey There Little Insect.” Seems Richman’s terrified of the little critters, but if they’d just calm down “we could have fun and fool around.” Kinky! Meanwhile the backing vocalists buzz away like giant flies, which irks me no end and makes me want to invest in a human-sized bug zapper.
“Egyptian Reggae” is a sub-Camper Van Beethoven instrumental that would have had me throwing dirty diapers; the doo-wop of “Ice Cream Man” wouldn’t have offended the tender sensibilities of either Frankie Valli or Dwight D. Eisenhower, and makes me want to throw Bomb Pops. I’d have bought the single in an instant when I was eight, although even then I’d have probably found the “Ding-ding” of the backing singers hokey. And it goes on and on. “I’m a Little Dinosaur” has a slinky pre-JFK beat; Jonathan the dinosaur is planning on leaving town, and everyone’s going to miss him. Jonathan himself whines, “Oh no please don’t go/Oh no please don’t go/Don’t go little dinosaur/Please don’t go away” in a snotty kid’s voice that makes me want the dinosaur to return home and step on him. It’s with sadness that I report that the most exciting thing about the song is the count-off.
“My Little Kookenhaken” opens with Richman singing “When I was a little five-year-old” and all I can think is “was”? Richman repeats that “Kookenhaken” about 800 times, the backing singers almost as many times, and I hereby pronounce “My Little Kookenhaken” the most teeth-grating fucking song I’ve ever heard. No lie. The electric guitar riff that opens the instrumental “South American Folk Songs” is promising, but the song quickly devolves into the heretofore unknown genre of Spaghetti Western Reggae. It’s all so very trite. But it’s followed by some amusing audience interaction—someone wants to know if the band “stands for luxury items,” to which a flabbergasted Richman finally manages a “no.” Most interesting moment on the album!
“New England” is more Sha Na Na for the toothless cohort—when Jonathan and the band aren’t singing “Dum-de-dum-de-dum-dum-da-dum-day” they’re singing “Doodly-doodly-do-do-doo-do-do.” Well doodly-fucking-do. Which brings us to the album’s sole redeeming moment, “The Morning of Our Lives.” It’s a bona fide moving song that has Jonathan telling a girl she has to believe in herself, that’s she okay, and it closes with the great lines, “We’re young now/Right now’s when we can enjoy it/Now’s the time for us to have faith in what we can do.” At long last, a song for the toilet-trained! Richman’s most redeeming feature is the pleading and sincere way he begs us hold on to our childhood wonder as we move into our adult years. On ‘Live’ he chooses instead to beat a hasty retreat to childhood because, presumably, adulthood is both painful and complicated. Hard on the eardrums to boot.
Jonathan Richman is a fascinating figure I don’t find particularly fascinating—a manchild, Forrest Gump with a guitar. His naïf act is no act, which many find endearing. Me, I fail to see the charm in an adult’s regression to the thumb-sucking stage. There’s a big difference between nurturing your inner child and handing over the reins of your personality to the little shit. I suspect fans would say that’s why they like ‘Live’—it speaks to their inner child. But when my inner child wants speaking to he cranks up “Roadrunner” or “She Cracked.” Gets him out of his high-chair and sets him to breaking his toys. “Hey There Little Insect”? Makes him throw up his formula.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
D
