NAROPA
7 Beat-down
Later that same summer, 1980. Boulder. Twilight. Another Tuesday Night Poetry Reading. All of Naropa Institute has turned out again. The volcanic ash cloud has dissipated. Carpe diem still rules the day.
I've managed to "Zen out" for nearly a full hour, a whopping thirty three and a third percent increase over the last reading. That still leaves two full hours between The Present Moment and The After-Party. Hmm. Rising to the occasion, my psyche analyzes the available data and comes up with an agreeable resolution: writing a dissertation in my mind. No pen, paper, or typewriter (word processors hadn't caught on in 1980), no problem. The topic? Disseminating why Beat poetry has less entertainment value than the popular music I'm paid to review. Being more familiar with both genres than most people, I feel uniquely positioned to reach a conclusion like that. That said, I've been to exactly one and a third poetry readings—which only reinforces my contention that I'm a lot more familiar with them than most people.
If the following "dissertation" comes across as a bit dismissive of Beat poetry in AD 1980, well, my frame of reference is a little different than most peoples'—most people don't spend untold hours poring over lyrics as both critic and songwriter like I do ...
... The problem with being editor of Rocky Mountain Musical Express for three years and seeing every headlining act that came through Colorado, vis a vis how it affected my critical view of 1980s Beat poetry, is that many of those acts featured some of the best lyricists who ever lived. Think Bernie Taupin, who wrote lyrics for Elton John. If you took those classic lyrics, combined them with equally great melodies and arrangements, added fabulous musicians who were often very good looking to boot, threw in lasers, pyrotechnical displays, monster stacks of amps and PA speakers, massive lighting rigs, and humongous projection screens, then you performed those well-crafted tunes in front of packed, screaming houses, well, what can I say, it was just a lot more enthralling than watching a trio of venerable, not always good looking wordsmiths commemorating their you-know-whats or accompanying themselves on droning harmoniums in underventilated grade school gymnasiums ...
... Looking the initial premise over in my mind's eye, I admonish myself for dispensing such a brutal "Beat-down," for failing to give hard-working poets pouring their hearts out much of a chance. The whole idea of poetry was harnessing the power of words alone. The poets who stepped up to the Kerouac School's podium weren't even trying to compete with pop icons. The whole idea was saying more with less augmentation. Alas, the odd compassionate thought gives way to an overwhelming desire to continue mining the same vein. My id green-lights a few more paragraphs ...
... Back in the atomic 50s, when big-finned Caddies rocketed down the highways, matching pink Maytag washer/dryers made short work of the family laundry, and kitschy ads depicted housewives in cocktail dresses accented with fanciful accoutrements like sparkly tiaras, strings of pearls, and six-inch heels baking pot roasts, the Beats' authentic voices scraped all that airbrushing right off the so-called "American dream." There was dry rot underneath all that idealized mythology, plenty of it, and it was spreading from sea to shining sea. The situation called for a reality check.
Enter the Beats. They said stuff that wasn't being said that needed to be said. No, having aerodynamic tail fins on your car didn't void the PTSD you picked up after you were ordered to toss grenades into Japanese hiding caves on Iwo Jima. No, a divorce rate under 1% didn't actually indicate couples were living happily ever after. No, concern over the ascension of the military industrial complex to a preeminent position in the overall scheme of things was not misplaced. Beats ranted about all of it in verse. They were miles ahead of the Tin Pan Alley tunesmiths of the day who dedicated themselves to churning out "puppy love" tunes. It was also helpful having Beats around through the 60s and the Vietnam era in the early 70s, showing their bearded faces at sit-ins, mass protests, and Human Be-Ins.
But by the mid 70s, songwriters had long since graduated from puppy love. Starting with Bob Dylan—an even better poet than Ginsburg, a guy who could cover an awful lot of ground with one acoustic guitar, who definitely had a way with a melody—they'd plugged into the Beat zeitgeist and then some. The depth and breadth of songwriting had expanded in scope, leading to serious works like Dylan's "Mr. Tambourine Man," The Beatles' "A Day In The Life," and The Stones' "Satisfaction," to rattle off the first three that pop into my head.
Practiced songwriters could come up with tunes that 1) encapsulated the human condition; 2) touched people's souls; 3) made people want to dance; 4) made people want to sing along; 5) inspired people to drive around listening to them over and over; 6) induced people to fuck; and 7) compelled people to rush out to buy them. Even the best poets at the top of their game were limited to nailing maybe two and a half out of the seven. So, in 1980, if I had to choose between watching Alan Ginsburg recite "Sphincter" or the Elton John band performing "Beyond The Yellow Brick Road," well ...
... I set the dissertation aside and reoccupy my body. Okay, so I'd just spent a lot more time zoning out than Zening out at Naropa's marquee event. And I can't conceal my preference for rock concerts over poetry readings. That doesn't mean I didn't appreciate having a B&B—Beat and Buddhist—organization operating a few short blocks away from my Bohemian hotel. I did. Beats and Buddhists had begun enriching my daily life even more than precious backstage passes. OK, a little boredom came with the deal. So what? Right now, that was no longer a concern. The reading was in the past.