Gardner Remembers: the lost tapes

by KUBOA

BG: No psychedelic lyrics, no “newspaper taxis” as Lennon said. No “In Real Time Nothing Happens.” It’s just me. Take it or leave it. It’s just me and my life.

  CM: And you made more money…

  BG: That’s right. I made more money. Shoot me.

  CM: There’s a rumor that there’s a bootleg album out there, a Black Lung bootleg, purportedly entitled Timetable Poison.

  BG: Or Turntable Paisan, depending on who you’re talking to. Sometimes called The Great Black Wonder, after you-know-what.

  CM: You know about it.

  BG: You’re being coy. It’s more than a rumor.

  CM: Yes, ok. I’ve seen a copy.

  BG: Me, too. As you know, I’ve gone out of my way to squelch such things—any artist would. Except maybe Zappa who seems to embrace the concept of bootleg albums. Pete has gone after a few people, but these succubi who produce such things are like mercury. You think you have them pinned down and they squirt away.

  CM: What’s on it, and how did these recordings get circulated?

  BG: Well, the how is easy. Tapes get stolen, recorders are snuck into concerts. From what I’ve seen this puppy is about half live and half rejected studio takes. The key word here is rejected—and rejected for a reason. They are of inferior quality.

  CM: Tell us what you know about them.

  BG: (sighs) Ok. Let’s see. From the taping session there’s a version of “I’m Not Your Stepping Stone,” which we used to use to warm up. It’s raw—actually not bad for all its rawness. Sometimes overcooking leads to worse performances. There’s a live version of “A Marriage of Rue,” which is just horrendous. I’m not sure which concert it comes from but I’m guessing an early one. It doesn’t sound like we’re even playing the same song. And Skippy sounds like he’s off in Oz—he was often a lost mook.

  CM: What else?

  BG: Have you heard this thing or not?

  CM: No, I haven’t heard it. It was being circulated in Memphis right before I came out here. There’s a renewed interest in the band, as you know.

  BG: Yeah. There’s a run-through version of “Wendy Ward.” An a cappella version of “Yummy Yummy Yummy.” (laughs) I don’t know where the hell that came from. Or what possible interest there would be in including it. We must have been high. There’s a live version of “A Bunch of Lonesome Heroes.” The Leonard Cohen song. We used to play it live in a revved up version that I re-arranged. That’s pretty cool. Reason enough probably to buy the whole record. Uh, “Strictly Blowjob.” That’s a song I wrote, Jesus, I think I was about 15. About a girl in high school who shall, naturally, remain nameless. Girl could, well, you know. Lousy song, but it brings back memories, and how they got a hold of it, I can’t imagine.

  A really, rough, live “The Sun Also Rises.”

  CM: I don’t—

  BG: Fever Tree. I’ll educate you, yet. We used to try to work up a version of “The Sun Also Rises” because I could make my voice sound like his raspy delivery—likewise Sky Saxon of The Seeds. Which is why “Can’t Seem to Make Her Mine” shows up on the bootleg, also. A better version of it, than “Sun”—actually part studio, part live, if you can dig that. At least, whoever put the fucker together had some chops, knew a thing or two—it’s a fairly seamless melding of two different versions of the song, incorporating a blistering solo I did on it live with a somewhat coherent rendering we put down at Ardent. “Can’t Seem to Make Her Mine” should have been huge for The Seeds, yet it only charted, barely. I think. So, most people think they only did “Pushin’ Too Hard.” Their first album is actually really kick-ass, better than the Stones, if you ask me, better than 12 X 5, better than Out of Our Heads. Inexplicable, really, who makes it and who doesn’t. Best not even ponder it. I mean, if Black Lung had charted nationally, higher, well, who knows, you know? History re-written. Shit, who cares? I mean, I wouldn’t be here then. I wouldn’t be the working man you see before you. (laughs)

  CM: Isn’t “Secret Agent Man” on the bootleg?

  BG: No. Well, sort of. It’s an aborted, what?, 30 seconds maybe. I started it in concert once, just you know, did that opening riff, and Skippy jumped in. Hell, Crafty wasn’t even on stage. It’s stupid to include that, but, yeah, they did.

  CM: And one or two others. I should have better notes here.

  BG: That’s ok. I remember. I wish I didn’t but I do. Really, it’s in Pete’s hands, like I said. I’m not sure I’m even supposed to be talking about it. Have they ever convicted a bootlegger? I don’t think so. Fruitless, really, to pursue it. But, you know, Dylan sort of talked me into it. He hates the bootlegs, for good reason. If he’d wanted The Basement stuff out there, you know. But, I did get involved. At least it gives Pete something to do. There’s nothing more dangerous than a lawyer with time on his hands.

  Lessee, the other two cuts, are “Laurie Had Thighs Like Opinici” and “Melody Came as a Lichtenstein Painting.” Two originals that I’ve never used. “Laurie” is a blues—a beat I stole from Fred McDowell—that almost makes it. The lyrics didn’t gel, I don’t think. Written from pain, written in dread—so, well, it ain’t exactly art. “Melody” is something altogether different. An early composition that is still pretty pretty. I’ve tried over the years to work it into something passable, something acoustic for a new album, but, well, I’m still trying. Its appearance on this Great Black Wonder especially rankles, because it’s a song I want to get right.

  CM: It really angers you, that this stuff is out there.

  BG: Sure. Does that make me a control freak?

  CM: No, no.

  BG: It’s just that, you know, we’re toiling here in a medium which few accept as art, few accept as anything but stuff for teenagers to fuck by. Right? So, to try and instill in it some of the eternal verities, well, it seems pretentious. But it also seems meet and right that one should try. Lennon said something about nothing being new in rock after “Great Balls of Fire.” In a sense, he’s right. I mean, I’d never question his authority. But, we still try, right? He still tries, God bless him. Is “Like a Rolling Stone” better than “Great Balls of Fire?” Is “Working Class Hero?” If so, why? The lyrics. That’s what you really have to talk about, the lyrics. I don’t think anyone would claim any rock song is today’s “The Second Coming,” –except, maybe some critics who want to call Dylan our Dante. But, the words are what’s become important. I mean, the beat, the beat gets the thing listened to, and the words keep it being sung. In a sense it’s a con game—suck them in with the beat and make them listen. Right? What was I saying?

  CM: The bootleg—

  BG: Right. Anyway, that’s a long-winded way of saying, you try to get your stuff right, you try to make it matter. So to have any dreck released before you have the say-so, well, yeah, it rankles. It ain’t right.

  CM: Ok. So, you would say, there are no poets in rock and roll?

  BG: Poets? No, no, man. Morrison, c’mon. Someone needs to pull him aside and say, “Jim, you’re just a rock star.” I mean, he’s great, right? But to act like Verlaine is sacrilegious.

  CM: Morrison’s dead of course.

  BG: That’s what they want you to believe.

  CM: Ah—

  BG: But, he ain’t Verlaine, he ain’t Baudelaire. But he’s got some great rock pipes. And his lyrics are—well, interesting. They’re singable. That’s the end of it.

  CM: Dylan?

  BG: The question always comes back to Bob, doesn’t it? Dylan is Dylan, immutable, untouchable. But, I think, if you asked him if he was T. S. Eliot, he would only laugh. What was that funny thing he said? “I’m only a song and dance man.” (laughs) That’s right. That’s what he should say.

  CM: Someone called “A Day in the Life” a miniature “Waste Land.”

  BG: That’s caca, isn’t it? I mean, c’mon. Have you read “The Wast
e Land?” Jesus. You know, I love “Day in the Life.” Shit. It doesn’t get much better than that, pop music-wise. “I read the news today oh boy” is just about the finest first line I’ve ever heard. I’d kill to have written that one line. But, does it compare to “April is the cruelest month?” Or “Turning and turning in the widening gyre?” Or even, “Something there is that does not love a wall?” No, of course not. And John would tell you the same thing. I’m not putting down The Beatles, hell, McCartney and Lennon are the greatest songwriting team of all time. No question. But, poets, naw, they ain’t that. Not in the strict meaning of the word.

  CM: It sounds like you’ve read a lot of poetry.

  BG: Sure.

  CM: That’s great, that’s, uh, inordinate for a pop star, wouldn’t you say?

  BG: Shit, I don’t know. Dylan, man, he reads all the fucking time. He gave me The White Goddess. No, there are a lot of well-read pop stars. Ask them. Don’t ask me about anyone else.

  CM: Why do they call you the Pasternak of Pop?

  BG: (long laughter)

  Day Two