I wasn't going to review this two-CD Daniel Johnston
set. It's relatively dated (it was officially
released sometime last fall), and one half of it is a
tribute compilation, and I've never been a big fan of
tribute compilations. If they're good enough to merit
a tribute, why not just listen to the originals? And
that's all I've done lately, is listen to Johnston's
originals, those sad and sloppy and somehow
overwhelmingly moving songs.
But I didn't feel much like reviewing them last fall
— I guess they just didn't feel as relevant to me
then. But now that I feel all broken and sick inside,
they're so relevant I probably shouldn't even listen.
I should probably be listening to something upbeat and
rockin', but instead I sulk in Johnston's messed-up disaster
of a life, nodding along with understanding, then
selfishly consoling myself by thinking: At least I
don't have it that bad.
Something about feeling sad makes you want to listen
to sad music, if only to remind yourself you're not
alone. But Johnston's songs are not sad in the way
most sad songs are sad. They're not sweeping and
beautfiul and touching and graceful; they're an
unorganized mess, kinda like most of us. But his ability to expose his
soul in all its ugly nakedness and heartbroken
torment is his blessing and his curse, and the results are powerful.
While there's talk of devastation and suicide, there are
also inspiring moments. You can tell Johnston, a manic depressive, has moments
of
hope; it's difficult to decipher, based on the
consequences, whether that's a good or bad thing,
because, in a way, it makes you feel more sorry for
him. In these moments of optimism and hope, it
sounds as if he's giving the listener advice, but you
know it's he who most needs it. And making music is
precisely how he gets it — music is his crutch and,
ultimately, his therapy. "Sometimes you might want to
give up/ But keep that chin up/ 'Cause you're gonna
find, you're gonna find...," Johnston's voice cracks as
he trails off on "Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Your
Grievience," never telling us what we're going to find
because he doesn't know. He only believes — at least he
has hope.
All of Johnston's songs are about himself, but sometimes you want
them to be about you. "My life is starting over
again," he spit-sings on the rollicking opener of the
same name. And while he blames himself for all his
suffering and pain and fusses over having nowhere left
to hide (but supposes it's better than suicide), he
repeats the chorus line again and again as if the
chanting is the only thing preventing his own
meltdown. And so many times listening to this song seemed like it was
the only thing that kept me from breaking down,
because it's so true — you do have to start over
again and again in life. Like it or not, life changes
and you have no choice but to adapt. And that
adaptation can be a very difficult process.
Listening to "Impossible Love" is almost unbearable.
And the song's not even that grave; it actually has a
catchy beat and loveable structure. It's the words. It
seems to always be the words with Johnston, so plain
and devastatingly honest. "I have nothing to say/ And
my mind's in decay/ And I'm all alone/ Thinking of
days gone by," he laments, just before a riff rolls in
like it's telling you everything is going to be OK
and he shrugs and sighs: "My life just goes on/ And
what have I become?" It seems to be this juxtaposition
of playful hooks and lines that read like suicide
notes that hurts the most, because the desire to live,
to really feel alive, is so strong and so present in
his music. As much as his suffering is, I suppose.
"This is life/ This is life and everything's all right/ Livin', livin', livin', livin' life," Johnston
sings over barroom piano, sounding like he's
struggling to convince himself. But sometimes when you
tell yourself something enough, you start to believe
it. Well, in manic highs, we try anyway.
But on "Sorry Entertainer" he's back to his
downer ways. Next to the nagging, paranoid repetition
of a raw guitar line, he sneers like the devil's on
his side. "Drove those demons out of my head/ With an
organ and a pencil full of lead... I'm a loner, I'm a
sorry entertainer."
The most polished track here, relatively speaking, is
the uplifting, hopeful "Love Not Dead." Featuring
clean power-pop riffs, the song is
about falling in love and how it makes you feel alive. "She said on the telephone she had wished me well/ I
was alive with the spell/ Then as I hung up early/ I
realized I've been dead for so long."
Led by a carnival-like organ and a sluggish groove,
"Like a Monkey in a Zoo" suggests a few different
reasons why he feels like a monkey in a zoo — mental
illness, musical success or the fact that he still
lives at home. "I sold my freedom for free room and
board," he sings with an ache in his voice. "I don't
have no friends/ Except all these people who want me
to do tricks for them... I know it's my fault/ But I
want out and when I cry out, no one seems to
understand."
Almost sounding like a joke, closer "Rock This Town"
is an all out dirty old classic rock 'n' roll song — and
it feels awkward, the rockin' music juxtaposed against Johnston's quivering warble: "I love that marijuana, makes
me feel so high, tell all your troubles goodbye." This
attempt at sounding like a true rock 'n' roller,
joking or not, is as sad as any other track on the
record, if only because he continues to hope for
something that's not there.
While the melancholy classical piano on "Story of an
Artist" feels as dire as a funeral procession, it finds
Johnston finally acknowledging himself as a true
artist and discovering what's real and true and good
in life; not what he has to hope for, but what just is.
"They sit in front of their TV, saying, 'Hey, isn't
this fun?'/ And they laugh at the artist, saying, 'He
doesn't know how to have fun'/ The best things in life
are truly free/ Singing birds and laughing bees/ You
got me wrong says he/ The sun don't shine in your TV/ ...Others just like to watch the world."
Out of the hiss of lo-fi recording and the lisp of poor
singing, Johnston's realness is so plain and so raw,
it makes you want to cry. He never hid his feelings by
complicating things unnecessarily. He pounded on his
piano, strummed his guitar, sang simple
lines like, "Why do you only do that only? Why are you
so odd?" and, fortunately for all of us, hit record.
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