“Some things have not changed in these twenty years. The obsessiveness is still there, the compulsion to research every fleeting detail down to its most tenuous root. I believe in the power of origins, a belief that, as Ecclesiastes put it, "that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun"; that what we claim as originality and discovery are nothing but the airs and delusions of our innocence, igno-rance, and arrogance; that whatever is said was said bet-ter-more powerfully, beautifully, and purely-long ago. Homer's rosy-fingered dawn is the greatest rosy-fingered dawn; Sappho's rosy-fingered moon, the same. There is no new wisdom, only new fools who find their way to the old; no new poetry, only new poets drawing breath as old as time.”
“In that same preface, written a dozen years ago, l said that much had changed in country music since the first publication of the book. Much again has changed.
The masses, recoiling from the mainstream's inundation by rap, have turned to contemporary country as the whitebread alternative, raising it to its greatest popular-ity. In their international success Garth Brooks and Michael Jackson have become the Janus paradigm of a sense of authenticity and soulfulness that only a false and soulless age could embrace as its own. Choose your phony accent, your affectation, the Stetson of country or the hoodie of rap.
I still like the old stuff. At once so real and so fraudulent, so repressed and so uncontrollable, it's like the species itself. And ultimately there's something about the depths of the human soul expressed in the context of a rhinestone-embroidered puce suit-something not only of innocence and demonology but of proper perspective as well-that can't quite be found elsewhere in the garbage heap that we call culture.
But I digress. Hank Williams inhales, Hesiod ex-hales. Jimmie Rodgers yodels, and I follow its spiral of synaesthesia into the air, endlessly. Enough.
I write these words at a time when my latest novel in progress has been deemed beyond the pale of pub-lishing: too disturbing, too "foul and distasteful." So as far as job security goes-ask any Sub-Sub, any customs inspector who realizes only too late that he went down with that big white whale-not much has changed. Except that now I don't give a fuck. They're all the first, they're all the last.”
“The wonder of Elvis will never die; no carrion bird can kill it. There was more mystery, more power, in Elvis, singer of "Danny Boy," than in Bob Dylan, utterer of hermetic ironies. It is the sheer, superhuman tastelessness of Elvis that shakes the mind. In 1965, as Western civilization lay on its tummy peeking over the brink at the rapids of psilocybin and "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction," Elvis, for all the world to see, was hopping about singing "Do the Clam." And the same week "Do the Clam" was re-leased, Dean Martin came out with "Send Me the Pillow You Dream On," a Hank Locklin country hit from 1958. A few years later people began speaking of the revolutionary pop-country fusion wrought by the Byrds and Bob Dylan. Could Bob Dylan do the Clam? I bet Dino could.
One thing is certain. In an age bereft of magic, Elvis was one of the last great mysteries, the secret of which lay unrevealed even to himself. That he failed, fatally, to understand that mystery, gives anyone else little hope of doing so. After all, the truest mysteries are those without explanations.”
“What made rockabilly such a drastically new music was its spirit, a thing that bordered on mania. Elvis's “Good Rockin' Tonight" was not merely a party song, but an invitation to a holocaust. Junior Parker's "Mystery Train" was an eerie shuffle; Elvis's "Mystery Train" was a demonic incantation. Country music in recent years had not known such vehement emotion, nor had black music. Rockabilly was the face of Dionysos, full of febrile sexuality and senselessness; it flushed the skin of new housewives and made pink teenage boys reinvent themselves as flaming creatures.”
I love finding a new writer that I love, and from NEW JERSEY