Em 1981,
o jornalista Vic Garbarini sentou com Joe Strummer (The Clash) e Robert Fripp
(King Crimson) para um bate papo. A entrevista saiu em junho daquele ano na
revista Musician Magazine. Abaixo você confere na íntegra essa conversa entre
dois caras de estilos musicais diferentes, mas que tinham muito em comum.
RUDE
BOYS
An
Interview with Joe Strummer and Robert Fripp
by
Vic Garbarini
Musician
Magazine, June 1981
The
basic idea was fairly simple: you get the two foremost proponents of the idea
of music as a force for personal and social change, sit 'em down together for a
few beers, and see what happens. Now let's look at the potential problems: on
the surface, polite, articulate Robert Fripp and acerbic, street-wise Joe
Strummer don't appear to be the most compatible duo in rock history. I mean,
you wouldn't expect them to bunk together at summer camp, would you? As musicians
they seem to follow widely divergent paths, with the classically trained Fripp
exploring the oceanic textures and laser-like solos of Frippertronics, or the
fractured, geometric etudes of -The league of Gentlemen-, while Strummer the
street poet and musical innocent bashes out three chord symphonies, or heads
further up the river into the dark, sensual heartland of reggae and dub. But I
had a strong feeling that things were not what they seemed on the surface, and
that these two had more in common than might be apparent at first glance. What
links them goes far deeper than style, personality, musical taste, or social
background. It's a question of sharing a sense of commitment, both to their
music and society at large, and having the courage and integrity to back up
their ideals with action. It involves a willingness to risk everything-
including career, financial security, and public approval- to pursue their
visions without compromise. In short, I believed that Robert Fripp and Joe
Strummer were tapping the same wellspring and aiming for the same goal.
Originally,
I had wanted the two of them to meet by themselves. When I sprang the idea on
Fripp while waiting for a Manhattan subway (real men of the people, eh?) he
readily agreed, provided I come along as moderator. We planned to meet in
London, where Robert was going to begin rehearsal with his new band
-Discipline-, a dream aggregation consisting, besides Fripp, of ex-Crimson mate
Bill Bruford on drums, former Bowie and Talking Heads sideman Adrian Belew on
guitar, and session ace Tony Levin (Peter Gabriel, Paul Simon, John Lennon,
among others) on bass. Strummer wasn't so easy to pin down. It took us two
weeks to locate him in the small London studio, where he was rehearsing with
his band for their upcoming U.S. tour, and he was hesitant at first when I
mentioned bringing Fripp along. "Okay, fine," I said, "If you'd
rather not I can just come over and do a straight interview."
"No," answered Strummer, "I guess we can try it. After all,
Fripp's probably closer to what we're trying to do than anybody I can think
of."
Within
a week Fripp and I were standing in a funky, garage-like London studio,
watching the world's greatest garage band work through some decidedly funky
rhythms. (Actually, Fripp insisted on going downstairs first to watch Top of
the Pops and get his hair cut by the lovely Mary Lou Green. Foreigners are like
that.) Strummer seemed polite but reserved, and suggested we retire to the
friendly neighborhood pub for refreshments. Once there, we positioned ourselves
strategically in front of some massive stereo speakers that were connected via
some cleverly concealed wires to ohmygodno! a massive turntable which in turn
was connected to a massive disc jockey. THATWASABBAWITHDANCINGQUEENANDNOWTHENEWESTSINGLEFORMDIRESTRAITS!!!
Swell.Strummer ordered beers all around, one of which he shoved in my
direction. As I pushed it away he smiled and asked, "what's the matter,
too -big- for 'ya?" I decided not to explain about my gallstones and how
I'm not supposed to drink, especially on an empty stomach...oh, oh, what the
hell, why not? It'll probably loosen me up. It was a decision that I would
later regret, to say nothing of the chap whose shoes I would barf all over in
the 'loo and the transcriptionist who would type up the tape. ("here's
your money back. -Please- do it yourself... and who the hell is that drunk guy
and why didn't they turn down the music!?") In any case, I liked Strummer.
He had a no-nonsense air about him, but also a considerable sense of warmth and
humanity. And I was genuinely impressed by how he went out of his way to put me
at ease as we started the tapes rolling.
Musician:
One of the reasons I wanted to get the two of you together is...
Strummer:
You're a bully, you know.
M: What?
S: I
bet you had to bully him (pointing to Fripp) as much as you had to bully me to
get him here.
M:
How did I bully you?
S:
Well, you know, you bend my ear and give me an earache, and then you probably
forced him to come here and get it just as well. You don't think he'd -want- to
be here, do you? Only -you- could come up with such dumb ideas!
M:
(Smiles and nods vigorously.)
S:
Not that I'm saying they're dumb completely, mind you. They might have
something in them.
M:
Look, he loved the idea. When I mentioned it to him as an aside, he immediately
said he'd love to do it, Right, Robert?...Robert?
Fripp:
I wonder if we can get something to eat here. Maybe a ploughman's lunch, just
some cheese and bread...
S:
(Conspiratorially to Fripp) He bullies people, this one.
M:
Okay, let's start again. One of the main things you two have in common is the
belief that music can actually change society. How can this happen?
S:
Because music goes directly to the head and heart of a human being. More
directly and in more dimensions than the written word. And if -that- can't
change anybody, then there's not a lot else that will. Music can hit as hard as
if I hit you with a baseball bat, you know? But it's not an overnight thing;
you can't expect everything to change quickly. I figure it's an organic
process. Insidious. Look how listening to all those hippie records has affected
everybody in general: everybody feels looser about things now.
F: I
did a radio show in New York with Bob Geldorf of the Boomtown Rats recently,
and he said he didn't believe rock and roll could change anything. And I said
to him, I disagree. So he said, well, if you build up hope in Joe Bloggs in
some slum in Northern Ireland, he's just going to wind up disappointed. And I
said, look, if there's Joe Bloggs in his appalling social conditions in
Northern Ireland with no hope, and that becomes Joe Bloggs at No. 8 in his
appalling social conditions but -with- hope, you have two entirely different
situations.
S:
That's right. Good point that.
F:
Then it's possible for the geezer at No. 10 to get some hope, too. And then it
spreads up the street, and you have a community. Then you have a community.
Then you're talking about something which isn't dramatic and exciting, but
which contains the possibility of -real- change. It's easy to miss because it's
essentially personal, and it's very quiet. And like Joe says, it takes time.
M: Is
it the music itself that can do this, or does it merely serve as a rallying
point?
F:
Both, really. It serves as a rallying point, but it can work more directly too.
I think sometimes at a really good gig when there's a certain quality in the
music, a kind of liberation can take place, and you don't go home and take
quite as crap from the news as you did before, because you've actually tasted a
different quality of experience which changes how you think about things. So to
a degree you've been liberated.
M:
How did you both wind up choosing music as your means of expression? How were
you feeling about things in general, or what made you decide it had to be a
band? That there was something you needed or could accomplish through rock?
S:
Well, I started playing music around '73. I'd tried everything else, and I
couldn't find anything I wanted to do or anywhere to be. So I got into music
because it seemed like the best thing around. You could say it was the thing
that had the least laws and restrictions about it.
F: I
was trained as a guitarist. So I took lessons and I suppose I eventually could
have become a classical guitarist. But it seemed that I was spending years and
years working incredibly hard to have the opportunity to play other people's
music. In terms of even serious music, the guitar repertoire is pretty second
rate. And it's anachronistic. Hearing Hendrix hit one chord said infinitely
more to me than the entire classical guitar repertoire. And I realized rock was
very malleable - that within it you can play classical music or jazz or blues
or whatever you cared to, and it was still rock. If you went outside the form
in jazz or classical you were selling out. But if you did it in rock music you
were gifted!
M:
What about you, Joe? If you had to point to your major source of inspiration,
who or what would it be?
S: Bo
Didley.
M:
Anybody else?
S:
-Bo Didley.-
M:
Right. Incidentally, the stuff I heard you playing at rehearsal tonight sounded
a lot closer to George Clinton than to "White Riot."
S:
That's one of the most important things I've come to over the last few years -
feeling more into funky music. In the beginning I just couldn't take it at all.
I thought it was a waste of time. Putting people to sleep.
M: Do
you find something in funk and reggae that rock and roll doesn't have? On
"Sandinista!" you did "Police on My Back" and a few...
S:
But rock and roll doesn't exist now!
M:
What do you mean by that?
S:
That was heavy metal - that was something to do with other people and has
nothing to do with me. I don't even understand what it's all about.
M:
Alright, what do you call what you were doing on your first two albums?
S:
That was punk rock. Which still exists, but I'm not interested in that either.
M:
Why not? Because it's lost it's creative impetus?
S:
Yeah, the fans killed it. They wanted it to stay the same, and that ended our
interest in it. Now they got what they deserved: a lot of rubbish, basically.
M:
Were you surprised by the reception you got in Jamaica, Joe? I heard things
didn't go entirely smoothly down there.
S: If
you're a white band and you want to use Channel 1 Studio, they think you're
rich, which you are, really, compared to them hanging about there. And you've
got to 'bounce up' the local population, you know? We didn't have anything to
give them, so we had to leave. It's really tough down there now. There's not
really a lot of money about.
M:
Speaking of evolving musical forms and working in different style
S: I
got the new Ellen Foley record recently and I noticed that you and Mick wrote
most of the tunes, and that you all (the Clash) back her up on the record. I
played it for a few people and asked "now, who do you think this is?"
Most people thought it was Abba...
S:
That's a compliment!
F:
Abba are very, very good.
M: I
agree, but I'm surprised to hear you both say that. What do you like about
them?
S:
They hardly ever lay a turkey on you. They've kind of hit a rut these days, but
they were in there just blammin' 'em onto the charts for ages, which is
admirable... also the girls are nice looking!
M:
Since "London Calling" there's been a marked change in your musical
approach: more emphasis on melody, increasingly sophisticated song structures,
even a few ballads. Is this something you guys felt capable of all along? How
did it come about that at that point in time you blossomed musically?
S:
It's a bit like weight lifting, in a way. If we met every day and did some
weight training, in a year we'd be the heroes of the beach. We were just
flexing our muscles in a musical sense. Obviously, if you absorb yourself in
music and practice every day, you become more capable.
M:
And you feel that you don't have to stick to that three chord screaming punk
intensity in order to keep your creative spark alive?
S:
Yeah, that's how we see it. But will the audience accept it?
M:
Well, that's the question. What do you think? How long will it take your
audience to understand what you're doing?
F:
Two to five years, right? (general laughter) Seriously! It takes about that
long to disseminate. It's like throwing rocks in the middle of a lake and
waiting for the ripples to get to shore. And in our industry, I've noticed it
takes two to five years for an idea to be accepted.
S:
God, that's depressing. Our records will be deleted by then!
M: It
seems that during the punk era there was a tremendous release of energy, and it
doesn't matter how the music came out because everybody could feel the intensity.
S:
Correction. It -used- to not matter.
M:
Alright, now it does. So you come to a point where you want to refine and
develop your music, but you don't want to lose that energy. How do you do that?
How do you keep it alive? How do you avoid becoming like those 70s bands, just
going through the motions?
S:
Well, that's where everybody winds up, isn't it?
M:
Are you going to end up like that?
S:
Someone would give you odds on that.
F:
With the early Crimson, we were all desperate geezers.
S:
(To Fripp) Do you remember a tent in Plumpton?
F:
Yes! And do you know why we played there?
S: I
was in that tent, Robert.
F:
Really? What was it like?
S: It
was terrific... -really- terrific.
F:
Can I tell why we played there? The agency that booked it hadn't been
completely straight with us, so we said, you're no longer our agents. So
instead of putting us on front stage -where we'd wipe out anything they had-
they stuck us in the tent, so we wouldn't touch anyone. It was a deliberate
agency move to fuck up our careers.
S:
And the Who were dead boring that night.
F: I
remember there was a girl still there an hour after we packed up. She was still
there, and suddenly she says "Is it finished?" An hour after it was
over.
S:
Yeah, it was like that in that tent.
M:
Speaking of live gigs, I was just telling Mick before I that saw you the second
time you came to New York, and to tell the truth I wasn't very impressed with
the show.
S:
That's not illegal.
M:
But I kept hearing fantastic reports about you in concert, so I came to the
Palladium the third time you played there and suddenly...
S:
...A GIANT BOUNCER GRABBED YOU AND DASHED YOUR HEAD AGAINST THE WALL!! and then
it all made sense. No, go on...
M:
Actually, it was something like that. Suddenly it all came into focus - it was
like a hole opened up and you guys were a channel for a high quality energy. I
was literally stunned.
F: It
was the best rock and roll show I've seen in six years.
S:
Sometimes I think it's equally shitty every night and it's the audience that
changes in their perception of it. I remember once Devo got a hold of Sany
Pearlman when he was mixing our sound at the Santa Monica Civic. They didn't
come around and say hello to us, right? They snuck around back and got a hold
of Sandy at the mixer and said "How do you get that sound? Tell us how
it's done!" And they didn't realize it was just the way we were going like
this (hunches and strums intensely) on the guitars, you know what I mean? It
wasn't particularly what -slave- amps you had in the P.A. or the equalizers or
whatever. It was the way we were going at it.
M: Do
you ever feel that an audience is just sucking you dry of energy, and not
really participating in the experience?
S:
Yeah, I feel that sometimes. And I get angry and tell them about it when I do.
F: Do
you feel sometimes that people want you to be up there doing what they expect,
and if you go off on another course - like if you do a record which isn't what
they think you should do - you're going to get clobbered for it? Do you feel
misinterpreted at times?
S:
Yeah, sure. There was this one journalist who described us as "the best
amphetamine rush in town", right? And so I went to the press reception to
see what it was all about, because I felt like we were being discovered as some
new kind of -drug-. I found it a bit offensive.
M: If
you had to put into 25 words or less what it is you're to say when you get up
on stage, what would it be?
S:
LOOK AT ME!
M:
(Laughs) Yeah, but lots of bands do that and they don't get the same response
you do. What's the difference?
F:
Anything a performer does on a public platform is significant, even just
scratching your ass. When I go on stage as 'Robert Fripp' it's more real, more
alive. I can do stuff I can't do as 'Bob Fripp from Wimbourne, Dorset' and it
has a significance quite apart from me. When I was with the Crimson team, and
even now, as soon as ego gets involved in it or when the audience are dumping
their egos on me, and saying "you have to be our ideal of what we think
you should be", it becomes masturbation rather than consummation. It feels
dirty. But when you do a gig, and maybe it's not even a good gig, but somehow
there's a relationship between the audience and performers that's right, then
no one's ripped off. And it feels good. It feels clean. It feels like an
honorable way of working. Now, both the musicians and the audience have
responsibilities to each other. For instance, sometimes you don't want to get
up and play, but you said you would so you do it. You have a part of you that
makes that commitment and the rest of you follows. It's like this: I don't have
to do this for a living, but because I decided to do it for another three
years...
S:
This is interesting to me. What would you do for a living if not music?
F:
I'd probably still do it, but in a non-public context.
S:
You mean just for your mates?
F:
Yes. And some guitar teaching. Actually, I'd like to be able to go out and play
250 seaters with other musicians. At the moment, I can only afford to do it on
my own. I don't want to play 3,000 seaters because I feel I can't make contact
with the people I'm playing to. I told my management that today and they said
"you can't do it your way; you can't pay the bills that way."
M:
Isn't this similar to what you're doing with "Sandanista!"; keeping
the price down to the point where you're not going to make any money off it
unless it sells 200,000 units?
S:
Yeah, that's the specific deal for the U.K., which is going really badly now.
It's a big flop. The thing I like about making a stand on prices is that it's
-here and now-, and not just a promise. It's dealing with reality: how many
bucks you're going to have to part with at the counter to get it. It's one of
the few opportunities we have to manifest our ideals, to make them exist in a
real plane. To do it in Thatcher's Britain during a recession was a kind of
flamboyant gesture.
F:
Can you make money just from doing gigs?
S:
No. A -big- no! It's like throwing our money away. That's our ultimate aim, to
be able to break even on tour. No matter how carefully you do it, you always
come out in the red.
M:
Robert, you were saying yesterday that if you went out alone and did
Frippertronics on the road, you could make money. Is there any way of doing
that in a group context?
F:
Well, the traditional answer is yes, providing you play 3,000 seaters. But my
response is that if you play 3,000 seaters, your expenses will rise
accordingly. And so you say you'll play 1,000 seaters, and your expenses match
that. But even so, to break even - working with four musicians- is a work of
art. If you go out and play with one guy driving me around and two green boxes,
I can make more money in one month flat than for all the work I've done in the
last twelve years.
S: I
believe you!
F:
King Crimson only made money -after we broke up.- After six years of hard work
we had a deficit of $125,000. When we disbanded, the records went on selling,
and that's how we finally made some money. Nowadays, I spend more time working
at approaches to business than I do to music. I reckon I spend 1% of my
professional life actually playing guitar. And that's not an exaggeration -
that's literal!
M:
While we're on the subject of the marketplace I wanted to ask you both about
success and recognition. In terms of the deeper values of the music, does it
mean anything to break into a Top Forty? Is that any kind of victory?
S:
I'll tell you when it all went sour for me: when I realizes that the chart was
only compiled in the straight record shops, not in the specialist shops where
the real fans go. It's the housewife market, really. It's a cross section of
grannies and teenyboppers and mummies buying it, you know? When I saw that I
lost interest in it completely. But before that, I was quite keen to make the charts.
I mean, why should Bob Geldorf be Top of the fucking Pops?
F:
But getting back to this thing about live gigs, Joe, do you do anything to
build up energy before you go on?
S:
Yeah, I like to get into a mental panic before the show - to really wind myself
up before I go on-stage.
M:
Anything else?
S: I
drink a lot of orange juice.
M:
When the punk thing started a lot of groups were espousing a new set of ideals,
but in many cases it was just words, or they couldn't sustain it. What keeps
you guys honest?
S:
The horror of becoming the new Rolling Stones. We stood there in 1976 and
thought, "this whole place is -lousy-. The Stones started here - what are
they doing about it?" We felt like they'd caught a buzz off London and it
had made them. And they could have come back and done... I don't know what...
but I just felt they weren't there. And we didn't want to become that. We saw
that as the way -not- to turn out.
M:
There's a lot of leftist ideology in your lyrics, but you're obviously not
doctrinaire Marxists.
S:
Toeing any line is obviously a dodgy situation, because I'm just not into a
policy or I'd have joined the Communist Party years ago. I've done my time
selling "The Morning Star" at pit heads in Wales, and it's just not
happening.
M: In
the song "The Equalizer" you talk about everyone having equal
income...
S:
I'm not saying that. I read this thing in Marx that really hit me about why is
the person who owns the factory allowed to take more of the profits than the
person who does all the work? It's an equal input - you own the factory and I
do the work - so we should split the profits.
M:
And yet on both "London Calling" and "Sandanista!" you
admit that just money alone isn't the answer.
S:
Well, the Beatles said it years ago, money can't buy ya love.
M:
Have you ever read E.F. Schumacher? He says that obviously income should be
more equal, but we have to go beyond that. In America we have more wealth than
anyone else and we're still miserable, because the work we do stifles our
natural creativity and provides us with no sense of purpose or inner
satisfaction. Reading it reminded me of the feeling I get from what you're
doing: giving hope to people who are trapped in these situations and are
looking for an alternative.
S:
Yeah, it's horrible to think that people spend their whole lives in a rubber
factory, pulling the rubber along the belt because the machine doesn't work. I
couldn't have done it. The hell with it! Is that what we have to have? I just
can't believe it, and yet it seems irreversible. Maybe it's too late to say,
small is beautiful, and all that.
M:
Maybe it's too late to save the system as we know it, but maybe that's the
point - that if things fall apart, there'll be a chance to build something
better. That's the kind of hope I hear in your music.
F: If
I can address some of these question<p>S: Marx was something of an old
fart. He was an authoritarian and a centralist, and what he proposed was
essentially the same as capitalism, except with a different set of people in
charge. In any kind of realistic political change you have to start on the
inside, by changing the central value system. You can't start by changing the
structure, change has to be a personal choice.
M:
Meaning you can't have a just and equitable structure if the individuals that
comprise it are still operating from greed and egocentricity. So no matter how
well you design a house it won't stand if the individual bricks are defective.
F:
Right, so change therefore has to be a personal choice. And it's got to be
gradual, because normal political life has to do with changing externals by
force, and any kind of force is going to breed it's opposite reaction. So, if
you force a welfare society on people, but their personal values and way of
life haven't changed for the better, they're going to wind up disliking each
other even more than they did before. Another important thing is that if you
have an aim in mind, you have to work as if it's already achieved. You can't
create a democracy by imposing a dictatorship on people until they're ready for
democracy. You have to be democratic yourself. Your way of going there is where
you're going.
M: I
wanted to ask Joe about his attitude towards violence. You use the imagery of
violence, but I don't think you really believe it's the answer. Am I right or
wrong?
S: Of
course not! Violence isn't an answer to anything. Do I want some jackoff to
jump on my back right now? Of course I don't. It's so -sordid-.
M:
What about the case of "Sandanista!"? Obviously, Somoza was
overthrown by force.
S:
Sure, but that's practical violence. Somoza ain't going to go unless you shoot
a few hundred of his guards. I'm not saying that I could get into that here in
Britain, but I think in Nicaragua the situation certainly demanded it. Think of
how many campesinos were slaughtered there since 1919. It must run into the
-millions-! In that situation, I condone picking up a gun.
F:
I've found that American bands aren't politically aware.
S:
Yeah, why is that? There's only one I know, called Prarie Fire, and they're so
heavily Communist it turns you off.
F: I
think English musicians are more politically acute because our social system is
so crazy over here that you feel you have to explore it and find out why.
America's a commercial culture, and I suppose it's nearer a pure democracy than
we are, 'cause if you want to vote you just put your dollar in and it counts,
and there's a great deal of social mobility as a result. Over here, if you open
your mouth and you come from the East End of London, or Wales, or Dorset,
you're immediately stuck in a social caste. My dad would let me know that if I
did anything that prejudiced his position in the town, I would really get it. I
realized later it was because he's made the transition from the working class
to the lower middle class...
S:
...and that's the most important thing in the world to people in that
situation.
F:
Exactly. I think the main difference between my generation and yours is that in
the 60s it was "everything seems mad, therefore I question my sense."
Now it's "everything seems mad, therefore I -approve- my senses because
everything -is- crazy." So my lot are a bit more schizophrenic than your
lot, who are a bit more down to earth and politically directed.
M: Is
it really necessary to suffer in order to produce something worthwhile?
S: A
great man wrote about "the lips of a poet being strangely formed, so that
when he uttered cries of help people gathered around him saying, 'More, more,
say it again!'" (general laughter) So there must be something in the soul
that makes you want to make that sound.
F: Do
you have to suffer for that?
S:
Happy people don't create anything. I find creation hinges on being
well-fucked-up.
F: I
think we're dealing with two different things here. If you suffer it does
create friction and that gives you energy, but there are some kinds of
suffering that are not necessary. Like the geezer who gets into coke and it
gives him trouble, or he's used to having his picture in the paper so he's
paranoid at the end of the week when it isn't there.
S:
Yeah, pride and vanity get you nowhere.
F:
But then there's a kind of suffering where you put all you've got into a
record, and you believe in it, but no one like it. Then you still say I'm
sorry, my name's on it , this is my work. And that creates a good energy.
M:
Isn't there a kind of inner joy if you're suffering for the right reason?
F: If
you know it's worth doing. If people are booing but you -know- it's a fuck of a
set, you don't give a shit who boos. But when you know you're not playing well,
if you know you've copped an egg, you can't face it...
S:
Yeah ,there are times when I haven't played well that I ran back to the
dressing room and I wanted to... just...
F:
... say I apologise. I'm sorry!
M:
Okay, the right kind of suffering can produce something transcendent. What
about anger? Joe, you wrote in "Clampdown" that anger can be power...
S:
... Because you can either destroy things with anger, or it can motivate you to
learn about your situation and follow things through. A lot of people just
thought the whole punk movement was negative, but that was just a superficial
reading.
F:
When I first heard about punk back in '77 I'd been waiting for six years to
hear that kind of commitment: to hear some geezer hit a drum as if -all he
wanted to do in his life was hit a drum.- And to me it was all a great
political statement. Because the movement that I'd been a part of went off
course.
M:
What went wrong?
F: It
went off because a bunch of working class guys tried to move up to a middle
class level of income by aping middle class traditions. Supposedly technique
was important, but it became a facile technique- it wasn't real. People weren't
in charge of all those endless displays of notes. They were becoming
programmed, playing charts and licks, and it wasn't human.
M:
And yet both of you get criticized by people who don't believe you can maintain
commitment and still evolve into different musical styles.
S:
Maybe they're right, but how do they arrive at that conclusion?
M:
Well, they can feel the energy and intensity from things like "Schizoid
Man" and "White Riot," but not necessarily from subtler mediums
like dub or Frippertronics.
F:
Yes, but when you lose your virginity there's an innocence that you're never
going to recapture. But that doesn't mean you're going to give up screwing! You
learn to experience your innocence in a different kind of way.
S:
Great point. Listen to what he's saying...
F:
When you lose your virginity it doesn't matter that you don't know what you're
doing, because it has to do with innocence. So for me, art is the capacity to
re-experience your innocence. How do you lose your virginity every time you
make love? How do you do that musically every time you go on stage?
M:
Okay, you asked the question. How do you?
F:
You have to know what you want, and you have to have the wish. One night at the
Marquee in 1969 King Crimson went out on a tangent, -maybe just for five
minutes- and you never knew where the hell it was , but I was telepathic- I
knew everything that was going on, and what people were thinking. Because there
was that energy in the room, and... I became a human being in such a way
that... if that's what it means to be a human being. then -I want to become a
human being!- Once you've had it, you -have- to find a way of living like that
again. Otherwise there's no point in anything. And so you go for it! You have
go on till you a way to do it. And if you want it enough you get nearer. There
are a lot of techniques, disciplines, and inner and outer practices that can
help make you open to that quality of experience. I think that mastery of a
technique or subject for a musician means being both a virgin and an
accomplished lover at the same time.
M:
What's the role of technique in all this?
F:
Technique is part of what you do in order to get there. But when you're there,
you really don't give a shit about technique.
S:
Right, it's a combination of innocence and expertise.
F:
...and the more technique you have the more you throw away, and that gives you
more authority. If you can only play one chord, and you play it with all you've
got, that's pure. If you can play 10,000 chords, but you play one that's pure,
it has an authority which the others don't.
S: As
Kierkegaard says, "Don't fall in the cup of wisdom that you drink
from." What he's saying applies to music, too. All those flurries of notes
and runs are like falling in, when all you have to do is drink.
M:
(To Strummer) That reminds me of that great line in "The Sounds of The
Sinners": "Waiting for that jazz note...
S:
...Right, looking for the great jazz note that destroyed the walls of Jericho.
You hit it. That's what we're after.
M: In
a way, that's what I felt happened that night I saw your show at the Palladium.
There was this extraordinary energy coming through - a real feeling of oneness
and unity. Is that what music is capable of? Is this what you're aiming for?
S:
Well, gosh, (laughs) maybe it has something to do with the price of the hot
dogs that night. I don't know, maybe you're asking the wrong people.
F:
About finding that great jazz note: I think the Western tradition of teaching
music is pretty screwed up. Because you learn all the externals, the laws of
harmony, the laws of counterpoint, the laws of rhythm, but nothing about music.
On the other hand, there's a tradition among the Sufis where you play only one
note on the bass end of the flute for 1000 days. You can think about as many
notes as you want, but you can't play them. Just that one note for 1000 days.
Then there was that Sufi drummer you introduced me to...
M:
Yeah, from Istanbul. Nezih Uzel.
F:
That's the guy. He told me he had to prepare himself for three years before he
could even start to learn his instrument.
M: If
you had to put into words what it is you'd like to give people through your
music, what would it be?
S:
That they feel they could start to play, too. When I was a teenager I felt that
musicians were a world apart - a secret society I could never join. So I didn't
bother to try until I was almost too old. I hope it doesn't seem so impossible
like it did for me watching Eric Clapton at Wembley and thinking -I could never
do that.- It's not that hard, really. Now, I'm not a born musician like maybe
Robert is...
F:
Not at all! I was tone deaf and had no sense of rhythm...
S:
... I got kicked out of the choir...
F:
...they wouldn't even let me -join- the choir!
S:
Well, that's quite an achievement, Robert. I really enjoy and appreciate what
you've done.
F:
Sometimes - and this is only a theory - I think that music needs a musician to
play it. That the music is alive, but you have to be out there to know it. And
at that point it may be possible that the music is waiting to be played. So it
needs a musician.
S:
I've been thinking about this recently. I find that when I write a really good
song. it's a blur in my mind when I actually wrote it. I know the song exists,
'cause I can play it for my friends, but I just can't remember what happened
between thinking of the idea of the song and finally playing it for my friend.
Something happened that I can't remember.
M:
That's a classic description of the creative process. The ordinary faculties
are suspended in a way while something greater comes through. Is there anything
you do to be more open to those moments?
S:
Every man has his own rituals to get you into the right state of consciousness.
I like to have four typewriters in a row and then I feel everything is
prepared.
F: I
think you have to learn to listen to the music. I don't know many musicians who
even listen to what they're playing - it's never automatic, you always have to
make an effort to use your ears. A funny thing happened in Philadelphia a few
weeks ago during my Frippertronics tour. I was listening and I heard the next
note I had to play. And I played it. Then I heard the next note, and I played
that one. I'd been waiting 23 years for that to happen..
S:
That's -real- music...
F:
...and it was the first time it ever happened to me. And I started to cry while
I was playing...
S:
That's it. To know where one has to go...
F:
...and it's funny, but I had to trust it. I heard the next note, and I thought
well, I'll try it. Then I heard the next one and thought well, this is shit,
but I thought I should trust it. So I did. And it's a question of trusting the
music to play itself.
S:
It's like that feeling when you're just sitting there and playing, and you're
not conscious of it. You start doodling and your hands just take over, and your
conscious mind is no longer saying you must practice, or you must play this.
Then something else tunes in and I'm playing something special. My mind's not
involved, and I know I've been playing real music.
M:
One last question: What's the most important thing you've learned about playing
music over the last five years?
S:
That unless you're prepared to give your heart and soul to it completely,
-forget it!-
M:
That seems like a good place to stop.
F:
I'm up for some pinball. Do you play, Joe?
S:
Are you kidding? From Shoh down to Brighton, I must have played them all...
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