Have you ever noticed how
the early work by many
of your favorite musicians,
actors, comedians, writers, and
other kinds of artists blows
your mind, while their later
work is often less engaging and
somehow lacking? This is an
oversimplification that can’t
be applied to all creative types
across the board, of course.
But all of us can think of a
lot
of once-amazing artists who
are now more likely to draw
attention for something bizarre
in their personal life than for
their most recent work—which
is often more likely to incite
a yawn or a guffaw than an
inspired sigh of wonder.
To be clear, when I think
about this phenomenon with
guitarists, I’m not talking about
physical facility on the instrument—
i.e., chops. Anyone with
time and the will can develop
impressive dexterity. That said,
I’m fully aware of how daunting
it must be to maintain a continuously
amazing repertoire—
and certainly not from personal
experience. I also understand
the statistics associated with creative
“lightning” striking twice
for one individual (say, with a
huge hit song), let alone once.
But something doesn’t have to
be a hit or achieve widespread
acclaim to be electrifying.
No, what I’m talking about
is something more endemic to
creative types with a tendency
toward perfection. It’s what I’ve
decided to call
Gollum Syndrome.
For the three of you reading
this who are unfamiliar with the
infamous character from J.R.R.
Tolkien’s
The Lord of the Rings
trilogy and/or Peter Jackson’s
masterful film adaptations of it,
Gollum is a creepy-as-hell, ugly-ass
freakazoid who was at one
point a regular, happy-go-lucky
hobbit called Smeagol who loved
ale, pipe-weed, and singing in the
pub every bit as much as the next
four-foot-tall, hairy-footed fellow.
But then he discovered a
magic ring that happened to
have the power to destroy the
world and do lots of other cool
stuff, like keep him alive for
500 years. What’s not to love
about that? There was just one
problem: The ring, which also
housed the soul of pretty much
the most powerful and evil
demigod ever, transformed him
into a crazy ghoul with a huge
head and an urge to kill anyone
who stood between him and his
“precious” (the term functioning
here as a noun, not an adjective).
In my opinion, that’s pretty
much the crux of the problem
for a huge swath of players and
right-brained people in general
these days. Not the murderous
ghoul part, but the obsessing
over one or two aspects of
their art part—the tendency to
become so preoccupied with
our “precious” that our craft
is morphed into an endeavor
so inwardly focused and self-absorbed
that all the seemingly
extraneous aspects of life that
previously seeped into it and
made it as much fun as a carefree
hobbit dancing on a table at
the pub are gone and replaced
with unnatural obsessing that
stifles our previous unpredictability
and freshness.
Some might be inclined to
think this freshness and zeal
naturally slips through our
fingers like the sands of time
as we age—or, worse, that such
youthful abandon is immature,
unrefined, and undesirable—
and that the only logical way
to counter either scenario is to
woodshed endlessly in pursuit
of “better” chops and relentlessly
pursue the rarest, most
expensive gear extant in order
to get “better” tone. But I call
B.S. on that. A lot of incredible
musicians started out with
either crappy or mediocre gear
and somehow made it not
just work, but made it
theirs.
Further, we’ve all witnessed
players (or bands, actors, etc.)
who just seem to get more and
more badass with age—while
retaining their youthful zeal—
regardless of the technology or
gear involved. That’s because
these people have discovered
their inner punk.
You don’t have to like punk
rock to discover your inner
punk. I happen to love punk.
The best punk bands—including
Bad Brains, the Sex Pistols,
the Clash, Dead Kennedys,
the Circle Jerks, the Ramones,
Fugazi, and the Misfits—literally
saved rock ’n’ roll from suffocating
in the sap-filled folds of
its own bloated and predictable
excess. In essence, they raised
the middle finger, aurally and
literally, to the establishment
and insisted on doing things
their own way. And if people
didn’t like it, they could take a
walk off a cliff.
If you trace the etymology of
the word “punk,” you find that
its modern meaning grew out of
a reference to youthful inexperience.
Sounds bad at first, right?
But youthful inexperience is
fantastic when it leads you to
wondrous discoveries you never
would’ve found if you’d worried
about “experts’” preconceived
notions about how things
should be done.
That’s why I contend that all
of music’s true legends and icons
were punks, regardless of their
genre of choice. They took a
good look and listen at what was
going on and said, “No, thanks.
I’ll do it my way.” And they
reveled in that finger-flipping
abandon, too. Django, Robert
Johnson, Charlie Christian, Les
Paul, Sister Rosetta Tharpe,
Dick Dale, Page, Beck, Hendrix,
Van Halen, Rhoads, Yngwie,
Tom Morello . . . all punks at
heart. That’s what made us fall
in love with them in the first
place. They slapped us awake
and saved us from drowning in
a sea of sameness.
Only one thing can save
music (and the arts in general)
and assure us a future of continual
discovery and excitement:
A mutual, concerted effort to
find your inner punk. Once you
do—once you set her or him
free—there’s no telling where
it’ll lead you.
Save the Smeagols!
Shawn Hammond
shawn@premierguitar.com