I'd slowly come to dismiss Lester Bangs. I went back to the Greil Marcus compiled anthology "Psychotic Reactions and Carburettor Dung", practically my bible when I first was reading it, and was pretty disappointed by what I thought was it's tone of suspended adolescence. Lester's nihilism came across like that of a stroppy teenager, and the depiction of his musical taste (here Marcus's responsibility in part) was at heart rootsy, situated between the poles of Free Jazz and Garage Punk, neither of which really carry you beyond 1991.
Just the other day I picked up "Mainlines, Blood Feasts and Bad Taste" and I was quite delighted to come across a much broader vision of what kind of character and critic he was. I've only skimmed the volume but already some chapters stick out. Lester takes on Bob Dylan for his uncritical romantisiation of Gangster culture; which reads like a (there's no getting around it) a vindictive blog post, an "assasination" of a fellow artist, the kind of piece of writing you'd NEVER EVER IN A MILLION YEARS find in today's music press. Lester's hilarious Black Sabbath piece which starts out epic and portentous and slowly dissolves when faced with the reality of Ozzy and the crew on the road (Bangs disappointed to discover he's the least clean-cut member of their audience, ha ha).
Best of all (of the stuff I've discovered) is a long description of his press visit to Jamaica, "Innocents in Babylon." This is really quite extraordinary. Lester driving around the island with John Martyn (then doing sessions for "One World") where they meet Countryman shambling up a dirt track. Lester hanging out in the Black Ark studios (Lee Perry goes straight up to him and says "You wine man!"). Lester hearing Ras Michael and the Sons of Negus perform (not) a Grounation in a corrugated iron hut. Lester meets U Roy. Lester foaming at the mouth over the wonders of dub to Chris Blackwell. It's all so utterly improbable and larger than life, Lester's own already oversized self-mythology rubbing up against this purely essential historic moment and it's own godlike figures.
And he acquits himself so magically, feeling half the time like a total imposter, but also (the large-hearted soothsayer he is) completely aware of the webs spun by the Jamaican magi (on Lee Perry: this man is no Rasta, he's a hipster) You won't find a more honest level-headed description of that scene anywhere. It's a salutary reminder too that a writer is first and foremost a human being, and that his writing is only as strong as the validity sentiments he's conveying.
Posted by Woebot at October 1, 2004 08:35 PM