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Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung
Vintage presents the paperback edition of the wild and brilliant writings of Lester Bangs--the most outrageous and popular rock critic of the 1970s--edited and with an introduction by the reigning dean of rock critics, Greil Marcus. Advertising in Rolling Stone and other major publications.
391 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1987
About the author
Lester Bangs
10 books210 followersLeslie Conway "Lester" Bangs (December 14, 1948 – April 30, 1982) was an American music journalist, critic, author, and musician. He wrote for Creem and Rolling Stone magazines, and was known for his leading influence in rock music criticism. The music critic Jim DeRogatis called him "America's greatest rock critic".
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 337 reviews
March 19, 2009
Man, this was good! I had only read a few articles by Laster Bangs when I picked this up at my local. That’s library, not tavern. I am so completely blown away by how Bangs spoke about music. This man was a huge music fan. His writing stinks to high heaven of his love and respect for music, of how much music moved him. Maybe that’s why he’s able to write so well about music, to say so much in the space of a sentence or by his choice of words. Most critics’ writing, music or otherwise, is just the most banal, lifeless, arrogant, ignorant refuse but Bangs turns a review of a Van Morrison LP into an examination of the human condition. I wish he’d written a novel, y’know, because it would have been such a pleasure to read.
What strikes me most about this collection is that you can see Bangs sort of growing up as his writing goes on. He put so much of himself into his work that his articles act as testaments to where he was at when he wrote them. Some of this is the straightforward honesty he can’t seem to help but use in his writing. He pulls no punches but he takes punches like a pro.
I wish I could have met Lester Bangs. He’s joined the short list of no longer with us people I’d like to have met. Seems like he’d be a real kick in the pants to know. Thinking about the conversations you could have with this guy about music makes me giddy.
Calling Bangs a music critic is like calling Stradivarius a violin maker. Bangs is to music critics what Gary Oldman is to actors or Jimi Hendrix to guitarists. You find out more about yourself from his writing than you do about the subjects he writes about. He came from a long line of no talent hacks and inspired a long line of no talent hacks but his writing is right there, bold and beautiful, a shining example of how to do it right!
What strikes me most about this collection is that you can see Bangs sort of growing up as his writing goes on. He put so much of himself into his work that his articles act as testaments to where he was at when he wrote them. Some of this is the straightforward honesty he can’t seem to help but use in his writing. He pulls no punches but he takes punches like a pro.
I wish I could have met Lester Bangs. He’s joined the short list of no longer with us people I’d like to have met. Seems like he’d be a real kick in the pants to know. Thinking about the conversations you could have with this guy about music makes me giddy.
Calling Bangs a music critic is like calling Stradivarius a violin maker. Bangs is to music critics what Gary Oldman is to actors or Jimi Hendrix to guitarists. You find out more about yourself from his writing than you do about the subjects he writes about. He came from a long line of no talent hacks and inspired a long line of no talent hacks but his writing is right there, bold and beautiful, a shining example of how to do it right!
September 8, 2017
Lester Bangs was one of Rock-n-Roll's greatest chroniclers but I found this collection of writing a bit heavy and meandering. Probably good for hard core Bangs fans, I guess I just can't sign up for that club.
November 3, 2007
Lester Bangs is the only rock critic whom musicians truly accepted as one of their own. It’s no wonder: He lived like them and he died like them, overdosing on pills at age 33. Most importantly, he wrote as they played. His wildly energetic prose reads unlike any other contemporary writer, much less a music critic: Words seemed to spill straight from his brain onto the page in the wonderful cacophony of an Ornette Coleman sax solo or a Captain Beefheart tune. He was, in some ways, a rock ’n’ roll Hunter Thompson, thrusting himself into the middle of every story. And he wasn’t above starting a concert review with a totally Gonzo introduction like, “I decided it would be a real fun idea to get fucked up on drugs and go see Tangerine Dream.” "Psychotic Reactions," compiled by “the Dean of Rock Journalism,” Greil Marcus, five years after Bangs’ death in 1982, collects arguably his best stuff, including a series of Creem articles detailing his bizarre love-hate relationship with his idol, Lou Reed. A highlight of the collection: “My Night of Ecstasy with the J. Geils Band,” from Psychotic Reactions, in which Bangs recounts with great enthusiasm the time he joined the titular group onstage and bashed away at the instrument on which he was a virtuoso — his typewriter.
August 27, 2017
Not my jam.
At all.
Not only this isn't what I expected at all, but this is barely criticism. These are long, chaotic tirades about drugs, the music industry and sometimes there is a cool story about a musician inserted in there like when Iggy Pop picked fights at his own show, but otherwise. This is very lean on interesting material. Bangs even brags about not saying whether or not Lou Reed's album Metal Machine Music is good in a 5,000 words column. It's frustrating to read. People shouldn't use the term "gonzo" to conceal terrible writing.
There are some interesting writing. Especially in his Village Voice pieces, which are more heavily edited. There's a great article on Elvis' death among others, but if you're looking for criticism, staaay awaaaay.
At all.
Not only this isn't what I expected at all, but this is barely criticism. These are long, chaotic tirades about drugs, the music industry and sometimes there is a cool story about a musician inserted in there like when Iggy Pop picked fights at his own show, but otherwise. This is very lean on interesting material. Bangs even brags about not saying whether or not Lou Reed's album Metal Machine Music is good in a 5,000 words column. It's frustrating to read. People shouldn't use the term "gonzo" to conceal terrible writing.
There are some interesting writing. Especially in his Village Voice pieces, which are more heavily edited. There's a great article on Elvis' death among others, but if you're looking for criticism, staaay awaaaay.
April 18, 2016
Lester Bangs, like Howard Hampton and Luc Sante, takes reviews of media and injects humor, crass, honesty, and a glimpse into his personality. Bangs is likeable because he's a smart asshole, but there's no shortage of self-deprecation in his writing. I also like his writing style because it often contains the same sentiments as a first album: angsty, energetic, youthful (even when he's being curmudgeonly), and somewhat vulnerable. It helps that he loves the Stooges, Velvet Underground, and music that others write off as abrasive. I don't agree with all of his stances, but there's always enjoyment to be found in the essay. With all of this praise, there are a couple significant missteps: The excerpt from his "novel" (Maggie May, 1981) is atrocious and the essay about racism in the New Wave scene comes across as ignorant and self-congratulating (even though he puts his own racism on display). However, even these pieces have some merit is providing a comprehensive representation of Bangs' work, and you have to love how he always seems on the search for something meaningful.
May 21, 2021
I first became aware of Lester Bangs when I saw the movie 'Almost Famous'. The movie was based on the exploits of a young Cameron Crowe when he was a writer for Rolling Stone magazine in the early 1970s. In college and until a few years ago, I was a Rolling Stone subscriber. Cameron Crowe was a bit before my readership started in the early 8os, but I love the music of that time period. (When Jann Wenner sold Rolling Stone its reinvention by the new owners destroyed an already declining magazine.)
In the movie, Cameron Crowe meets Lester Bangs (played by Philip Seymour Hoffman) who was a rock music critic that for a time wrote for Rolling Stone, but primarily was a writer for Creem. (Sad side-note--Hoffman died from a drug overdose at 46. Lester Bangs died of a overdose of medications supposedly while trying to treat a bad case of the flu at 33. However in his concert reviews he often talks of taking his beloved cough syrup with him to get high along with an assortment of just about any pill in existence.) I didn't know much about Creem, or Lester Bangs work, but I love the time period.
Greil Marcus who selected and edited the book is another well known writer and music critic. I know partly why Marcus selected the writings he did was to show Bangs diversity as a writer--which I think he accomplished. Some of the pieces were unpublished notes--while interesting perhaps there were too many of these.
On to my criticisms. I don't know if Bangs didn't use a period in his writing, or the publisher was neglectful. Periods were rare find in the 377 pages of manuscript. Thankfully the practice of using capital letters to begin a sentence was still followed, otherwise much would have been incomprehensible. In any case this certainly made reading more difficult and time consuming.
Content was another disappointment. Much of the music criticism revolved around Lou Reed, The Velvet Underground, Iggy and the Stooges, and punk music before it became popular in the 80s. I consider my music tastes to be fairly eclectic, but I have very little interest in this genre. Some of Bangs pieces would start out sensible enough, but digress in what seems like a drug addled, sex obsessed, gibberish rant by the end. Did I mention Lou Reed?
There were a couple of nuggets. One was a book review of Peter Guralnick's 'Lost Highway: Journeys & Arrivals of American Musicians'. A profile of twenty-one influential musicians including Elvis, Merle Haggard, Bobby Bland, Howlin' Wolf, Ernest Tubb, and Hank Williams. I added this book to my reading list, and realized I have other Guralnick books on their as well. A creative piece was a short-story style take on the backstory of Rod Stewart's song 'Maggie May'.
Overall, I'm glad I read the book, but disappointed in the content. If the early punk scene, Lou Reed, CBGBs, and the like is your thing, you'll probably enjoy this book. Oh, did I mention Lou Reed?
In the movie, Cameron Crowe meets Lester Bangs (played by Philip Seymour Hoffman) who was a rock music critic that for a time wrote for Rolling Stone, but primarily was a writer for Creem. (Sad side-note--Hoffman died from a drug overdose at 46. Lester Bangs died of a overdose of medications supposedly while trying to treat a bad case of the flu at 33. However in his concert reviews he often talks of taking his beloved cough syrup with him to get high along with an assortment of just about any pill in existence.) I didn't know much about Creem, or Lester Bangs work, but I love the time period.
Greil Marcus who selected and edited the book is another well known writer and music critic. I know partly why Marcus selected the writings he did was to show Bangs diversity as a writer--which I think he accomplished. Some of the pieces were unpublished notes--while interesting perhaps there were too many of these.
On to my criticisms. I don't know if Bangs didn't use a period in his writing, or the publisher was neglectful. Periods were rare find in the 377 pages of manuscript. Thankfully the practice of using capital letters to begin a sentence was still followed, otherwise much would have been incomprehensible. In any case this certainly made reading more difficult and time consuming.
Content was another disappointment. Much of the music criticism revolved around Lou Reed, The Velvet Underground, Iggy and the Stooges, and punk music before it became popular in the 80s. I consider my music tastes to be fairly eclectic, but I have very little interest in this genre. Some of Bangs pieces would start out sensible enough, but digress in what seems like a drug addled, sex obsessed, gibberish rant by the end. Did I mention Lou Reed?
There were a couple of nuggets. One was a book review of Peter Guralnick's 'Lost Highway: Journeys & Arrivals of American Musicians'. A profile of twenty-one influential musicians including Elvis, Merle Haggard, Bobby Bland, Howlin' Wolf, Ernest Tubb, and Hank Williams. I added this book to my reading list, and realized I have other Guralnick books on their as well. A creative piece was a short-story style take on the backstory of Rod Stewart's song 'Maggie May'.
Overall, I'm glad I read the book, but disappointed in the content. If the early punk scene, Lou Reed, CBGBs, and the like is your thing, you'll probably enjoy this book. Oh, did I mention Lou Reed?
September 23, 2016
Πέρασα σχεδόν όλη τη χρονιά με αυτή τη συλλογή άρθρων/σκέψεων του διασημότερου κ πιο επιδραστικού μουσικογραφιά όλων των εποχών, όχι γιατί με κούραζε ή γιατί περίπου τα μισά κομμάτια της συλλογής τα είχα διαβάσει αποσμαματικά τις δύο τελευταίε�� δεκαετίες, αλλά γιατί εξαρχής το είχα ξεκινήσει ως επαναλαμβανόμενο διάλειμμα απ'την λογοτεχνία που είναι η κύρια ενασχόλησή μου τις βραδινές ώρες.
Ο Bangs ήταν ένας αρκετά διαβασμένος τύπος, με αδυναμία στους μπητνικς, ίσως γιατί μοιραζόταν μαζί τους τον πεσιμισμό που επικρατούσε στη ζωή του, κ είχε εξαρχής μια σαφέστατη κριτική σκέψη γύρω απ'τη μουσική, γεγονός που τον οδήγησε από πολύ νωρίς στα σωστά μονοπάτια των μουσικών 70s, της πιθανότατα σημαντικότερης περιόδου της σύγχρονης μουσικής. Η σχέση του με τον Lou Reed, η εβδομάδα με τους Clash, το απίθανο θέμα για τον Bowie, το ξεκαρδιστικό παραλήρημα για τον Elvis αλλά κ για διάφορα συγκροτήματα που δεν υπήρχαν παρά μόνο στην φαντασία του, είναι μερικά απ΄τα highlights της πορείας του Bangs.
Σχεδόν ολόκληρη η μουσική δημοσιογραφία των 80s αντέγραφε το δικό του τρόπο προσέγγισης της μουσικής, αλλά πλέον μπορεί κανείς να αμφιβάλλει ότι ο αυτοαναφορικός κ ωμός του τρόπος θα μπορούσε να περάσει σήμερα στα έντυπα που πνέουν τα λοίσθια, παράλληλα βέβαια με τη μουσική που αγάπησε ο Bangs όσο λίγοι. Ακόμα κι αν δεν είμαι σίγουρος τι είναι προτιμότερο, η συγκεκριμένη συλλογή είναι χαρακτηριστικό δείγμα της δουλειάς του κι όχι οδηγός για επίδοξους μουσικογραφιάδες, άσε που ζήτημα να υπάρχουν πια 5-6 τέτοιοι στον κόσμο που μπορούν να δηλώνουν αυτό για επάγγελμα χωρίς να κοροϊδεύουν τους εαυτούς τους.
Πάντως, όσοι θέλουν μια πέρα για πέρα αληθινή απεικόνιση των μουσικών 70s αυτό εδώ είναι ευαγγέλιο.
Ο Bangs ήταν ένας αρκετά διαβασμένος τύπος, με αδυναμία στους μπητνικς, ίσως γιατί μοιραζόταν μαζί τους τον πεσιμισμό που επικρατούσε στη ζωή του, κ είχε εξαρχής μια σαφέστατη κριτική σκέψη γύρω απ'τη μουσική, γεγονός που τον οδήγησε από πολύ νωρίς στα σωστά μονοπάτια των μουσικών 70s, της πιθανότατα σημαντικότερης περιόδου της σύγχρονης μουσικής. Η σχέση του με τον Lou Reed, η εβδομάδα με τους Clash, το απίθανο θέμα για τον Bowie, το ξεκαρδιστικό παραλήρημα για τον Elvis αλλά κ για διάφορα συγκροτήματα που δεν υπήρχαν παρά μόνο στην φαντασία του, είναι μερικά απ΄τα highlights της πορείας του Bangs.
Σχεδόν ολόκληρη η μουσική δημοσιογραφία των 80s αντέγραφε το δικό του τρόπο προσέγγισης της μουσικής, αλλά πλέον μπορεί κανείς να αμφιβάλλει ότι ο αυτοαναφορικός κ ωμός του τρόπος θα μπορούσε να περάσει σήμερα στα έντυπα που πνέουν τα λοίσθια, παράλληλα βέβαια με τη μουσική που αγάπησε ο Bangs όσο λίγοι. Ακόμα κι αν δεν είμαι σίγουρος τι είναι προτιμότερο, η συγκεκριμένη συλλογή είναι χαρακτηριστικό δείγμα της δουλειάς του κι όχι οδηγός για επίδοξους μουσικογραφιάδες, άσε που ζήτημα να υπάρχουν πια 5-6 τέτοιοι στον κόσμο που μπορούν να δηλώνουν αυτό για επάγγελμα χωρίς να κοροϊδεύουν τους εαυτούς τους.
Πάντως, όσοι θέλουν μια πέρα για πέρα αληθινή απεικόνιση των μουσικών 70s αυτό εδώ είναι ευαγγέλιο.
August 1, 2023
Lester Bangs somewhat lives up to his reputation in this chaotic, uneven, and often frantic collection of gonzo existentialist rock music criticism. Perhaps he projects a bit too much of his own disordered and alienated life into his writing, but it may be an aesthetic choice in the service of his interest in the social function of rock and roll that he rarely talks about the music per se, and more about what it means or doesn't mean to him.
Many or most of the bands he writes about are of little interest to me - I'd include Chicago, James Taylor, the J. Geils Band, Slade, and Richard Hell. Sometimes his treatment is engaging despite my relative apathy toward his subject, such as his hilarious piece on Barry White, whom he describes as a "molasses-voiced monument to unashamed bulbosity."
Two highlights are alarming interviews with Lou Reed (Q: "Do you ever feel like a self-parody?" A: "No. If I listened to you assholes I would. You're comic strips.") and two of the guys from Kraftwerk ("We cannot deny we are from Germany, because the German mentality, which is more advanced, will always be part of our behavior. We create out of the German language, the mother language, which is very mechanical, we use the basic structures of our music.").
It must be said that Bangs sometimes wrote in poor taste - he freely uses derogatory slurs in a gross "I'm cool enough to get away with it" posture, and I thought his short piece on the death of John Lennon was pretty crappy and needlessly hostile. There's a time to be hipper-than-thou and a time to just leave people alone.
Many or most of the bands he writes about are of little interest to me - I'd include Chicago, James Taylor, the J. Geils Band, Slade, and Richard Hell. Sometimes his treatment is engaging despite my relative apathy toward his subject, such as his hilarious piece on Barry White, whom he describes as a "molasses-voiced monument to unashamed bulbosity."
Two highlights are alarming interviews with Lou Reed (Q: "Do you ever feel like a self-parody?" A: "No. If I listened to you assholes I would. You're comic strips.") and two of the guys from Kraftwerk ("We cannot deny we are from Germany, because the German mentality, which is more advanced, will always be part of our behavior. We create out of the German language, the mother language, which is very mechanical, we use the basic structures of our music.").
It must be said that Bangs sometimes wrote in poor taste - he freely uses derogatory slurs in a gross "I'm cool enough to get away with it" posture, and I thought his short piece on the death of John Lennon was pretty crappy and needlessly hostile. There's a time to be hipper-than-thou and a time to just leave people alone.
February 14, 2024
Chances are if you’re considering a book of writings by Lester Bangs you came to him the same way I did: by way of your love of music — or maybe it was from Philip Seymour Hoffman’s performance as him in “Almost Famous” — because writing about music is what he’s ostensibly known for. In fact, it’s almost exclusively what he did from his first published review in Rolling Stone in 1969 (about MC5’s “Kick Out The Jams”) until his death in 1982. I say "ostensibly" and "almost" because while editor Greil Marcus notes in his fantastic introduction, “Perhaps what this book demands from a reader is a willingness to accept that the best writer in America could write almost nothing but record reviews,” he also concluded, “[A] story is what [this book] is to me: the story, ultimately, of one man’s attempt to confront his loathing of the world, his love for it, and to make sense of what he found in the world and within himself.” Yes, Lester Bangs wrote about music, but music was not what he wrote about. He wrote about the world, about society and relationships, about politics and history, about race and ethnicity, about sex and gender … Music, and his love for it, was just the soundtrack, the backdrop, to which he set his words.
And what words. Referring to Bangs’ untimely death, Greil Marcus also noted, “That the story was cut off does not make it less of a story; it does not make it an impoverished tale. That the story was cut off means that the story is painful.” Painful it is. Painful and beautiful and hilarious and heart wrenching and inspiring and sad and moving and exhausting and insightful and honest and vulnerable and a dozen other adjectives that can’t do Lester Bangs or his writing any justice. He and his words are all those things and so much more not because (or simply because) he was a brilliant writer (because sometimes he wasn’t) but because he was honest with himself and with his readers, because he never took himself (or music or rock stars or anything else for that matter) too seriously, and because he gave as much (or more) of himself as he expected from anyone else.
“Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung” is perfectly assembled, and while Greil Marcus notes that the work was a team effort, it is clear that his warts-and-all love of and for Lester Bangs has everything to do with the book’s success. In the final piece in the collection, “Untitled Notes, 1981,” Lester concludes, “They were all entertaining pieces—in fact, there are a lot of people who think to this day that I did the best work I’ll ever do while at Creem and since moving to New York have turned into an increasingly embittered, gimme-a-break moralist, occasionally amusing but increasingly bitter old washed-up hasbeen. Fuck ‘em. I got lucky: this bullshit became my life while I was ensconced in the relatively decidedly pissant environs of Creem, so once I woke up I made it out and can say that though I have my days just like everybody else I still think I have a future.” Unfortunately for him, and for us, that future was cut short. At least we still have his words, immortal and timeless, and perhaps now more necessary than ever.
And what words. Referring to Bangs’ untimely death, Greil Marcus also noted, “That the story was cut off does not make it less of a story; it does not make it an impoverished tale. That the story was cut off means that the story is painful.” Painful it is. Painful and beautiful and hilarious and heart wrenching and inspiring and sad and moving and exhausting and insightful and honest and vulnerable and a dozen other adjectives that can’t do Lester Bangs or his writing any justice. He and his words are all those things and so much more not because (or simply because) he was a brilliant writer (because sometimes he wasn’t) but because he was honest with himself and with his readers, because he never took himself (or music or rock stars or anything else for that matter) too seriously, and because he gave as much (or more) of himself as he expected from anyone else.
“Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung” is perfectly assembled, and while Greil Marcus notes that the work was a team effort, it is clear that his warts-and-all love of and for Lester Bangs has everything to do with the book’s success. In the final piece in the collection, “Untitled Notes, 1981,” Lester concludes, “They were all entertaining pieces—in fact, there are a lot of people who think to this day that I did the best work I’ll ever do while at Creem and since moving to New York have turned into an increasingly embittered, gimme-a-break moralist, occasionally amusing but increasingly bitter old washed-up hasbeen. Fuck ‘em. I got lucky: this bullshit became my life while I was ensconced in the relatively decidedly pissant environs of Creem, so once I woke up I made it out and can say that though I have my days just like everybody else I still think I have a future.” Unfortunately for him, and for us, that future was cut short. At least we still have his words, immortal and timeless, and perhaps now more necessary than ever.
August 20, 2012
So forged my way through the Stooges/Iggy hard on that comprised the opening quarter of the book. Boy am I glad I did. Bangs leaves no question as to what acts he is passionate about and while I don't always share his opinions I found the dichotomy of his prose (equal parts acerbic wit and dazed ramblings) thoroughly enjoyable. Bangs is no mere Music Critic. He opens the floodgates through his articles and shines a light on culture by not only focusing the lens on the artists but on himself as well.
July 4, 2024
More importantly, it seems to me that there is a war on today which goes far beyond the-rest-of-society vs. punks; it's the war for the preservation of the heart against all those forces which conspire to murder it....
-Lester Bangs
Don't believe the hype. Lester Bangs wasn't a genius. He wasn't the best rock writer alive. He didn't always "speak the rhythms of rock 'n' roll". His writing is dated. His run-on sentences weren't original. His run on sentences were, irritating, manic, super hard to follow and took this reader out of the story all the time. He stole too much from The Beats. He was another swinging dick, aggressive male. He didn't even always have good taste in music.
On the other hand, Bangs was passionate. Compassionate. He rocked hard. He wrote like a zine writer, a mad, unconfined voice that refused to follow any conventions. Far be it from me to say his writing suffered for it. His writing suffered for it. He was just about always right even if his way of expressing it was, self-consciously raving and steamrolling with machismo. Finally, after frustratedly powering through Psychotic Reactions, I found the arc of Bangs writing bent toward a kindness and humanness that was deeply moving and warm, I'm way better off for having read it.
-Lester Bangs
Don't believe the hype. Lester Bangs wasn't a genius. He wasn't the best rock writer alive. He didn't always "speak the rhythms of rock 'n' roll". His writing is dated. His run-on sentences weren't original. His run on sentences were, irritating, manic, super hard to follow and took this reader out of the story all the time. He stole too much from The Beats. He was another swinging dick, aggressive male. He didn't even always have good taste in music.
On the other hand, Bangs was passionate. Compassionate. He rocked hard. He wrote like a zine writer, a mad, unconfined voice that refused to follow any conventions. Far be it from me to say his writing suffered for it. His writing suffered for it. He was just about always right even if his way of expressing it was, self-consciously raving and steamrolling with machismo. Finally, after frustratedly powering through Psychotic Reactions, I found the arc of Bangs writing bent toward a kindness and humanness that was deeply moving and warm, I'm way better off for having read it.
December 2, 2023
Lester Bangs era un recensore di dischi, un arrogante di merda, un drogato, un alcolizzato, un grande scrittore, un provocatore e un giornalista gonzo.
Ha scritto di musica quando la musica stava cambiando il mondo, poi ha chiamato Punk gli Stooges e i Velvet Underground, e quando, Qualche anno dopo, gli inglesi hanno adottato il termine per Sex Pistols e Clash, Lester già chiamava questi gruppi New Wave.
Lui inventava definizioni. E creava mode, invece di seguirle.
Le sue recensioni -soprattutto le prime- sono clamorosi pezzi di letteratura: Scritti amfetaminici, divaganti ma centrati, che uniscono il saggio e la confidenza, e ti raccontano canzoni come se Lester le potesse vedere, invece di limitarsi ad ascoltarle("si sente un sassofono che ride della sua vita disgraziata").
Brillante, colto, contradditorio anche nei confronti di se stesso, imprevedibile, Lester quando scrive racconta in modo così onesto, scorrevole e interessante che ti pare lui sia qui di fianco a te, birra in mano, a sbiascicare aneddoti.
Bangs crede nel rumore e sputa sui benpensanti.
Bangs è un Hunter Thompson con più stile e più gusto.
Con gli anni le sue recensioni si sono accorciate e sono diventate meno gonze. Basta "buona la prima", più attenzione, correzioni e revisioni. Forse sarebbe diventato un vecchio nostalgico rompicoglioni, invece è morto giovane ed è diventato leggenda.
Ha scritto di musica quando la musica stava cambiando il mondo, poi ha chiamato Punk gli Stooges e i Velvet Underground, e quando, Qualche anno dopo, gli inglesi hanno adottato il termine per Sex Pistols e Clash, Lester già chiamava questi gruppi New Wave.
Lui inventava definizioni. E creava mode, invece di seguirle.
Le sue recensioni -soprattutto le prime- sono clamorosi pezzi di letteratura: Scritti amfetaminici, divaganti ma centrati, che uniscono il saggio e la confidenza, e ti raccontano canzoni come se Lester le potesse vedere, invece di limitarsi ad ascoltarle("si sente un sassofono che ride della sua vita disgraziata").
Brillante, colto, contradditorio anche nei confronti di se stesso, imprevedibile, Lester quando scrive racconta in modo così onesto, scorrevole e interessante che ti pare lui sia qui di fianco a te, birra in mano, a sbiascicare aneddoti.
Bangs crede nel rumore e sputa sui benpensanti.
Bangs è un Hunter Thompson con più stile e più gusto.
Con gli anni le sue recensioni si sono accorciate e sono diventate meno gonze. Basta "buona la prima", più attenzione, correzioni e revisioni. Forse sarebbe diventato un vecchio nostalgico rompicoglioni, invece è morto giovane ed è diventato leggenda.
April 8, 2009
I've been reading this in bits and pieces for several months now - because to read it all at once is like eating an entire box of chocolate and chasing it with six espressos, and a lady needs some downtime every so often - so I'm just going to review it now because I don't see it changing that much.
I think the subtitle of this book says it all: literature as rock and roll and rock and roll as literature. That is exactly how I would describe Bangs' writing style: like Iggy Pop and Nabakov had a baby and the baby grew up to write half-cracked yet totally brilliant music criticism that uses a lot of really big SAT words. He's kind of poetic like that.
I particularly love his takedown of Lou Reed and Metal Machine Music. He also has a beautiful deconstruction of racism in the rock scene, which, sadly, is still completely relevant. It's probably one of the better essays on race I've ever read from a white person's perspective.
Good for anyone who loves word play and language, or who loves rock music.
I think the subtitle of this book says it all: literature as rock and roll and rock and roll as literature. That is exactly how I would describe Bangs' writing style: like Iggy Pop and Nabakov had a baby and the baby grew up to write half-cracked yet totally brilliant music criticism that uses a lot of really big SAT words. He's kind of poetic like that.
I particularly love his takedown of Lou Reed and Metal Machine Music. He also has a beautiful deconstruction of racism in the rock scene, which, sadly, is still completely relevant. It's probably one of the better essays on race I've ever read from a white person's perspective.
Good for anyone who loves word play and language, or who loves rock music.
July 24, 2013
Lester Bangs is pretty much my favourite music writer of all time. There is something incredibly vivid about the way he writes, which does the (almost) impossible feat of making words sound like the music they are describing.
Plus it is absolutely hilarious to read his more negative reviews, which are as merciless as they are hilarious.
There is scarcely a single sentence in this book I didn't find infinitely quotable, but this extract from the review of Lou Reed's Metal Machine Music is one of the best: "All landlords are mealymouthed bastards who would let the ruins of Pompeii fall on your four-poster before they'd lift a finger. They deserve whatever they get, and MMM is the all-time guaranteed lease breaker. Every tenant in America should own a copy of this album. Forearmed!"
Every music journalist should own a copy of this book.
Plus it is absolutely hilarious to read his more negative reviews, which are as merciless as they are hilarious.
There is scarcely a single sentence in this book I didn't find infinitely quotable, but this extract from the review of Lou Reed's Metal Machine Music is one of the best: "All landlords are mealymouthed bastards who would let the ruins of Pompeii fall on your four-poster before they'd lift a finger. They deserve whatever they get, and MMM is the all-time guaranteed lease breaker. Every tenant in America should own a copy of this album. Forearmed!"
Every music journalist should own a copy of this book.
April 18, 2020
I must admit when I started this book I found myself thrown off my some of Lester’s writing techniques. It was so inspired by Beat and Gonzo, Thompson and Kerouac made more sense. But the further I got in, two things happened. 1. I read some of the finest and most entertaining music journalism I’ve ever come across. His coverage of Lou Reed, Kraftwerk, The Clash, James Taylor etc etc, is some of the most passionate and enthusiastic I’ve ever come across, not to mention hilarious. 2. I found myself feeling like I knew this person. Of course I never met Lester, but his writing style was so familiar, it was like you’d known each other for years, warts and all. That second point I didn’t realise until a few days later, when I found his writings worming their way into my dreams. If anything, it’s just left me hungry for more.
February 18, 2008
One of my absolute favorite books by one of my absolte favorite writers.
I picked this up in a used bookstore during Lexington's 4th of July parade (I hate parades) and had to read it 500 times before I finally put it down.
I love this book....Bangs was sarcastic, open-hearted, brilliantly literate, and obsessed with music.
He wrote some of the greatest descriptions of what its like to be a music addict I've ever read...Van Morrison, The Clash, Lou Reed...If you like any of these bands you owe it to yourself to read him. You will be so much the richer for it. I promise!
My hero!
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
April 2, 2015
Occasional moments of sheer, transcendent brilliance, mixed with a lot of fun trash. Just like rock 'n' roll.
March 11, 2024
Eh. Faccio tanto la rockettara e poi... Non sapevo chi fosse Lester Bangs. Non avevo mai letto un libro di critica musicale. Per fortuna un regalo giusto, a sorpresa, al momento giusto, ha sopperito alla mia ignoranza.
E mi sono trovata tra le mani questa raccolta di scritti degli anni 70, che non sono solo critica musicale ma ti fanno proprio vivere quegli anni e quei contesti, quei locali leggendari come il CBGB e le band che li popolavano. E la piccola realtà sociale che ha formato chi li frequentava.
Lester Bangs parte da una band, un disco, un evento e finisce a parlare di sé, delle sue esperienze, delle sue teorie. Il suo amore per la musica contrasta con il concetto di rockstar, di idoli, di gente che mette davanti l'immagine al contenuto... E così ne ha per tutti: da David Bowie (quel "troione" Sic.) a Jimmy Page e il suo "cipiglio matricolato da super musicista borioso", ad Alice Cooper e la sua "stridula isteria da checche anfetaminiche"... E così via, d'altronde un critico musicale non può essere troppo gentile, è così che si perde credibilità 😁
Nel rock cerca onestà e autenticità e la trova ad esempio in Iggy & the Stooges, che se la credono così poco che a volte ai concerti il pubblico potrebbe vergognarsi per loro (si anche quando apprezza non è particolarmente dolce, Les) e poi nei Clash, così stranamente amichevoli con i loro fan a differenza di molte maledette rockstar.
Tanta, tanta musica, forse anche troppa per i non addetti ai lavori? Forse. Ma io lo consiglierei a chiunque ami leggere perché questa è una signora Penna. Pare che Lester sappia scrivere SOLO di musica, ma cavolo se lo fa bene! Il ragazzo aveva stile! Scrive citando testo musicali ma anche film e libri, è divertente, non si prende troppo sul serio, si prende gioco di tutto e di tutti, soprattutto di sé stesso, sa dare titoli pazzeschi ai suoi pezzi. Così ci porta in giro da un concerto a un backstage, oppure in camera sua ad ascoltare dischi e poi ad improbabili interviste con Lou Reed (accompagnato da "la Cosa") che si trasformano in uno scambio assurdo di frecciatine e battute acide ed esprimono un misto di odio-amore imperdibile.
Sex Drugs rock'n'roll. Una favola, peccato che il nostro ne sia rimasto vittima morendo di overdose a 33 anni. Troppo presto. Anche se... Vedendo come va il mondo della musica, forse si è risparmiato un sacco di bestemmie.
E mi sono trovata tra le mani questa raccolta di scritti degli anni 70, che non sono solo critica musicale ma ti fanno proprio vivere quegli anni e quei contesti, quei locali leggendari come il CBGB e le band che li popolavano. E la piccola realtà sociale che ha formato chi li frequentava.
Lester Bangs parte da una band, un disco, un evento e finisce a parlare di sé, delle sue esperienze, delle sue teorie. Il suo amore per la musica contrasta con il concetto di rockstar, di idoli, di gente che mette davanti l'immagine al contenuto... E così ne ha per tutti: da David Bowie (quel "troione" Sic.) a Jimmy Page e il suo "cipiglio matricolato da super musicista borioso", ad Alice Cooper e la sua "stridula isteria da checche anfetaminiche"... E così via, d'altronde un critico musicale non può essere troppo gentile, è così che si perde credibilità 😁
Nel rock cerca onestà e autenticità e la trova ad esempio in Iggy & the Stooges, che se la credono così poco che a volte ai concerti il pubblico potrebbe vergognarsi per loro (si anche quando apprezza non è particolarmente dolce, Les) e poi nei Clash, così stranamente amichevoli con i loro fan a differenza di molte maledette rockstar.
Tanta, tanta musica, forse anche troppa per i non addetti ai lavori? Forse. Ma io lo consiglierei a chiunque ami leggere perché questa è una signora Penna. Pare che Lester sappia scrivere SOLO di musica, ma cavolo se lo fa bene! Il ragazzo aveva stile! Scrive citando testo musicali ma anche film e libri, è divertente, non si prende troppo sul serio, si prende gioco di tutto e di tutti, soprattutto di sé stesso, sa dare titoli pazzeschi ai suoi pezzi. Così ci porta in giro da un concerto a un backstage, oppure in camera sua ad ascoltare dischi e poi ad improbabili interviste con Lou Reed (accompagnato da "la Cosa") che si trasformano in uno scambio assurdo di frecciatine e battute acide ed esprimono un misto di odio-amore imperdibile.
Sex Drugs rock'n'roll. Una favola, peccato che il nostro ne sia rimasto vittima morendo di overdose a 33 anni. Troppo presto. Anche se... Vedendo come va il mondo della musica, forse si è risparmiato un sacco di bestemmie.
May 1, 2023
Putting my foot down and calling this what it is, mindless rambles from a man who was a prevalent voice in the field because he happened to live near it. Lester Bangs is a figure of failure that does not live up to his reputation, one that bolsters him as the hotshot, unhinged nutcase that championed the great bands of the past. That he did, but making himself the story and not an interesting one at that is the death knell that pushed him away from the radioactive appeal of Rolling Stone Magazine and away to the lesser-remembered Creem.
Long-winded digressions that give sickly or uninteresting detail into his early years, so far off the mark and away from the interesting and limited pockets that it almost becomes comical. When they work, they work, but often absent and never quite up to speed with that undeniable knowledge Bangs had of the music scene around him. Diet Hunter S. Thompson, for those who thought shades and 'dear reader' hooks were worth investing time in. It is not, "dear reader", and although Bangs has interesting appeal on his opinions, he is too scattershot to ever truly engage with.
Long-winded digressions that give sickly or uninteresting detail into his early years, so far off the mark and away from the interesting and limited pockets that it almost becomes comical. When they work, they work, but often absent and never quite up to speed with that undeniable knowledge Bangs had of the music scene around him. Diet Hunter S. Thompson, for those who thought shades and 'dear reader' hooks were worth investing time in. It is not, "dear reader", and although Bangs has interesting appeal on his opinions, he is too scattershot to ever truly engage with.
January 11, 2024
Alan gave this to me as some of his favorite music writing. Was pleasantly impressed with it. Light read
April 23, 2023
Lester Bangs wrote about music the way most of us wish we could. I don’t really have much to say beyond that. You have to love music on levels others don’t. I do short little shitty reviews on discogs but by comparison I’m a child.
The only writer of music reviews I dig more is Mark Prindle.
The only writer of music reviews I dig more is Mark Prindle.
April 12, 2021
Very stream of consciousness. Some great inside stuff on The Clash, lots of love/hate with Lou Reed.
August 30, 2021
This was quite a read. Lester Bangs is one of the greatest rock music writers of all time, and his shadow still looms large over the entire genre, even now that he has been dead nearly 40 years. I don't begin to claim one bit of even the tiniest portion of familiarity with rock music that he had, and the sheer volume of his output is apparently something to behold. His reviews and essays and thought-pieces are full of insight and knowledge and erudition and amazing turns of phrase; there is also a lot of anger and love and 12-year-old boy humor and more than a few passages that I've no doubt were the product of, shall we say, chemically-enhanced synapse work.
I've been reading more writing about music of late, partly to teach myself new things about how to write about music myself. I very much doubt that Lester Bangs will end up being much of an influence for me, because at this point I've got my voice and he had his. But WOW, what a voice he had. Just amazing collection.
I've been reading more writing about music of late, partly to teach myself new things about how to write about music myself. I very much doubt that Lester Bangs will end up being much of an influence for me, because at this point I've got my voice and he had his. But WOW, what a voice he had. Just amazing collection.
August 27, 2024
Punk is an attitude. That is the old refrain. Despite what outsiders might think, punk isn’t a clothing style or any definite way of playing music. It isn’t an ideology or a set of beliefs. Punk is loud, aggressive, raucous, in your face, and, most importantly, sincere. The attitude isn’t limited to music, appearance, or the counter cultural underground music scene. It can extend into any aspect of life. Even writing. And possibly no other writer embodied the punk attitude in the written word the way Lester Bangs did during the short 33 years of his life. Live fast, die young. Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung is an anthology of his writings assembled to preserve his energetic raging-bull prose for future generations who probably need a wake up kick in the shins these days since it appears counter culture, and American culture along with it, is sleepwalking into oblivion.
Lester Bangs is most famous for his rock journalism, criticism, and record and concert reviews most notably written for Rolling Stone, Creem, and the Village Voice back in the 1970s. He may have been the man who coined the term “punk” since he presciently saw a connecting thread between the garage bands of the 1960s, the Velvet Underground, glam rock, the proto-punk scene in Detroit, and the expanding punk scene in New York City from the mid-1970s and beyond. He championed The Velvet Underground, The Stooges, and The Dictators when most people were unwilling to tolerate them. He was one of the first critics to point out that rock and roll is all about feeling and raw emotion more than technical perfection. He was also one of the first critics to call out rock stars for being what they mostly are: spoiled, petulant little children whose monster sized egos are nothing but a smokescreen to hide their human shortcomings from public view. “All rock stars are assholes,” said rock promoter Danny Fields. Lester Bangs took that simple idea and ran with it.
The opening articles start in the late 1960s, covering garage bands like The Count Five and Question Mark and The Mysterians, the meaning and significance of the first two Stooges albums, and why Ray Dennis Stekler’s trashy cult classic psychedelic zombie musical film, The Incredibly Strange Creatures that Stopped Living and Became Mixed Up Zombies, is a great work of art. But early on, it is easy to see that Bangs’ writing is about so much more than the stated subject matters. He rarely ever stays on topic, going off on long tangents about sex and drugs while violating standard rules of punctuation and sentence length. He often writes like Arthur Rimbaud after popping a handful of uppers. If psychosis and French Symbolist poetry ever found an appropriate place to liaise with rock journalism it is in the prose of Lester Bangs. Reading this stuff is like being hit in the face with a firehose while riding a bull in a rodeo, not that I would actually know what that feels like. (I did ride a mechanical bull once in a place where there was an Asian woman wearing a fringed leather bikini and shiny knee-high boots wielding a horse whip in her hand. Needless to say, I didn’t last long on the mechanical bull. And now I think I understand what the song “Rawhide” is really about.) But somehow the fast paced insanity of the writing works even if it can be a little exhausting to keep up with at times.
This collection moves on into various articles written for Rolling Stone and Creem in the early 70s. The acts covered range widely from the likes of James Taylor and Barry White to Jethro Tull, Slade, The J. Geils Band, David Bowie, and Kraftwerk. Some of these are favorable and some aren’t. Lester Bangs takes interest in whoever he writes about even when he has no interest in them. His reviews of James Taylor are obviously sarcastic, character assassination pieces while he expresses fascination for Jethro Tull even though he hates their music. The chapter on David Bowie is a little more complex as he considers himself a Bowie fan but can’t stand the man as a performer. The Slade and J. Geils articles are interesting since Slade starts a food fight in Trader Vic’s (yes, that’s the original tiki bar that eventually turned into the Trader Joe’s grocery store chain) and then harasses a dinner party for Freemasons. The J. Geils Band invite Bangs onstage to type an article during a concert for reasons you will have to read on your own. Lester Bangs really captures the atmosphere of free for all fun that was a part of rock concerts back in those days, something that sadly no longer exists in our dismal music industry now.
There are a couple important things to notice in these writings. One is that Bangs frequently refers to a certain class of rock stars as punks. This was a few years before “punk” became an officially designated genre of music. But Bangs wasn’t describing the music. He was describing the obnoxious behavior of people like the MC5 and Iggy Pop. It looks almost obvious that he was instrumental in that words being used to describe the genre. There is some debate over whether it was Bruce Springsteen or Legs McNeil who started using “punk” as a name for the musical style and scene that grew with it.
The other important thing to notice is that these articles are thoroughly unpredictable. You can never tell where they will end up. In example, a review of a John Coltrane album turns into a story about Lester Bangs using screeching, atonal blasts from a saxophone to terrorize his landlady after she complains about him making too much noise. Other than the presence of the saxophone, what does this have to do with the Coltrane album? Who Knows? Who cares? It’s great writing.
The genius of Lester Bangs really shines through in the section on Lou Reed. The two men had a curious relationship. Bangs became famous in New York City for the interviews he did with Reed for the Village Voice. As we see here, they weren’t actual interviews, but more like drunken arguments over nothing important other than one-upmanship in a gladiatorial battle of nastiness. Both Bangs and Reed would later say that these argument/interviews were the best punk journalism ever written. Both of them were in firm agreement on one other thing too: they both thought that Lou Reed’s Metal Machine Music is one of the greatest rock albums ever recorded. In one interview, Reed goes on about how it is a multi-layered symphonic work of avant-garde classical composition. Lester Bangs retorts by saying that Reed only thinks so because he was on amphetamines when he recorded it. In any case, Bangs also waxes poetic about how beautiful its four sides of vinyl containing nothing but droning guitar feedback played through high-end studio equipment are. It is a masterpiece because most people find it impossible to listen to. One thing about Lester Bangs is that he appreciated the noisier, abrasive side of rock and roll more than the finer examples of musicianship that the mainstream goes for. He liked his music a lot more if he knew it would irritate people to the point of anger. I bet he would have loved the Butthole Surfers. I bet he would have hated grunge too.
After the Lou Reed section, we get a variety of articles with an even wider range of topics than came previously. They mostly start as album or concert reviews, but there is also one long-form work of journalism about The Clash. We get insights into all kinds of things like the direction the music industry is heading in the late 1970s, the crass and offensive attitudes of rock’s biggest stars, social observations, critiques of the American lifestyle, and Lester Bangs’ inner torments in dealing with disillusionment, anxiety, depression, insecurity, inadequacy, and drug addiction. This fits harmoniously with an article about Iggy Pop and the underlying negativity of the punk scene in general. In a previous article written about Iggy Pop, he examines how The Stooges embody authenticity in rock music, more so than most other bands. Here he poses the question as to why Iggy Pop is so self-abusive when performing on stage. He drunkenly rolls around in broken glass, cuts his body with razors, and starts a fight with a bar-full of bikers, taunting them with insults and throwing beer bottles at them until he gets beaten close to death. Bangs observes that in the beginning The Stooges reckless abandonment and Iggy Pop’s indulgence in nihilistic self-destruction was ecstatic and liberating, but over time it became more obvious that this freedom from restraint is motivated by a deep sense of self-hatred on Iggy Pop’s part. Bangs also sees this self-hatred as being an underlying attitude of the New York and British punk scenes. If this were so, you might wonder why Iggy Pop never just outright committed suicide (he’s still alive and well today). But there must be something to what Bangs has said considering Pop’s antics. It may not be entirely about self-hatred, but it certainly isn’t self-love either. A singer who brings himself to the edge of death in every performance is not a role model of healthy self-respect. The guy obviously has problems, but the mind of Iggy Pop remains a mystery.
In the latter articles of this collection, you can see Lester Bangs maturing both in writing style and psychologically. He becomes more socially responsible. In what is possible his most famous work of journalism, “The White Noise Supremacists”, he admits to feeling guilty for having used racist language in the past and examines racism in the punk scene despite the presence of African-Americans, Latinos, Asians, and everything else. When interviewing people at CBGB’s about the subject, one punk dismisses the problem because racism is just as much a part of their scene as anywhere else. Bangs’ comeback is that punks are supposed to be different from everybody else. He ends the article with a plea for punks to stop being racist. He is met with a lukewarm response and his disillusionment with America continues to grow.
And then it goes onwards to the U.K. where he tours with The Clash. He finds them to be likable and unpretentious, thinking he finally found a bunch of rock stars who weren’t assholes, but as events on the tour unfold, he becomes disillusioned with them too. There is a progressively creeping sense of despair as Lester Bangs wrote into the early 1980s before he died of a drug overdose while he had the flu.
What is great about these writings is that Lester Bangs transcends his genre. That may be an odd statement considering that the genre is rock journalism, one that doesn’t lend itself easily to the concept of transcendence to begin with. But this is an author who put so much of himself into what he wrote. He wasn’t just writing to make a living or even just for attention. He was writing to make art and in that he succeeded. Of course, this book is only a sample of what is probably his best work. Not everything about it is great though. There is a fair amount of casually racist language that would have been common in his time, but dates the writing significantly. To be fair, he doesn’t express any ideas about other races that are meant to be insulting or hateful; it’s just that he uses words that are now considered racially offensive in place of terms like “African-American” or “Asian”. By the end of the book, his writing becomes a little tiring too. His long sentences and tortured syntax combines with his moodiness and indulgence in pessimism begin to drag his writing down to the point where you get fatigued from reading it. Otherwise, I’d be interested in the articles that weren’t included here. Lester Bangs was one of the first, if not THE first, to recognize the genius of Lemmy Kilmister and the greatest of punk-metal crossover bands Motorhead. I would love to see what he wrote about them.
Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung is so much more than a collection of articles or a nostalgia trip for aging counter-culturalists. It is a collection of writings marked by energy, passion, authenticity and enough volume (the amp is tuned up to 11) to speak across multiple generations. On the surface, these passages are rough while being true to the punk attitude in their inner core. The old punk clothing style could include leather, spikes, razors, chains, dog collars, combat boots, safety pins through the nose, and self-inflicted wounds while your typical punk, beneath it all, was good natured, humorous, ironic, articulate, intelligent, complex, affectionate, righteously angry, socially aware, and even a bit sensitive. Those later traits are all inherent parts of Lester Bangs’ writing while the former ornamentation is the sharp edges of his language that breaks all rules of good writing and works better than what most teachers would consider to be acceptable by educational standards. Regardless of what you think of Lester Bangs’ ever changing world view, these writing should serve as a boost of rocket fuel for the increasingly dull and shallow society we have in America today. The upcoming generations need writing like this to inspire them with the fires of rebellion. Stop acting like a bunch of old ladies. Smash your mind-rotting cell phones and make some noise. It’s time again for some cage rattling and earth shaking. Let’s make life exciting once again.
Lester Bangs is most famous for his rock journalism, criticism, and record and concert reviews most notably written for Rolling Stone, Creem, and the Village Voice back in the 1970s. He may have been the man who coined the term “punk” since he presciently saw a connecting thread between the garage bands of the 1960s, the Velvet Underground, glam rock, the proto-punk scene in Detroit, and the expanding punk scene in New York City from the mid-1970s and beyond. He championed The Velvet Underground, The Stooges, and The Dictators when most people were unwilling to tolerate them. He was one of the first critics to point out that rock and roll is all about feeling and raw emotion more than technical perfection. He was also one of the first critics to call out rock stars for being what they mostly are: spoiled, petulant little children whose monster sized egos are nothing but a smokescreen to hide their human shortcomings from public view. “All rock stars are assholes,” said rock promoter Danny Fields. Lester Bangs took that simple idea and ran with it.
The opening articles start in the late 1960s, covering garage bands like The Count Five and Question Mark and The Mysterians, the meaning and significance of the first two Stooges albums, and why Ray Dennis Stekler’s trashy cult classic psychedelic zombie musical film, The Incredibly Strange Creatures that Stopped Living and Became Mixed Up Zombies, is a great work of art. But early on, it is easy to see that Bangs’ writing is about so much more than the stated subject matters. He rarely ever stays on topic, going off on long tangents about sex and drugs while violating standard rules of punctuation and sentence length. He often writes like Arthur Rimbaud after popping a handful of uppers. If psychosis and French Symbolist poetry ever found an appropriate place to liaise with rock journalism it is in the prose of Lester Bangs. Reading this stuff is like being hit in the face with a firehose while riding a bull in a rodeo, not that I would actually know what that feels like. (I did ride a mechanical bull once in a place where there was an Asian woman wearing a fringed leather bikini and shiny knee-high boots wielding a horse whip in her hand. Needless to say, I didn’t last long on the mechanical bull. And now I think I understand what the song “Rawhide” is really about.) But somehow the fast paced insanity of the writing works even if it can be a little exhausting to keep up with at times.
This collection moves on into various articles written for Rolling Stone and Creem in the early 70s. The acts covered range widely from the likes of James Taylor and Barry White to Jethro Tull, Slade, The J. Geils Band, David Bowie, and Kraftwerk. Some of these are favorable and some aren’t. Lester Bangs takes interest in whoever he writes about even when he has no interest in them. His reviews of James Taylor are obviously sarcastic, character assassination pieces while he expresses fascination for Jethro Tull even though he hates their music. The chapter on David Bowie is a little more complex as he considers himself a Bowie fan but can’t stand the man as a performer. The Slade and J. Geils articles are interesting since Slade starts a food fight in Trader Vic’s (yes, that’s the original tiki bar that eventually turned into the Trader Joe’s grocery store chain) and then harasses a dinner party for Freemasons. The J. Geils Band invite Bangs onstage to type an article during a concert for reasons you will have to read on your own. Lester Bangs really captures the atmosphere of free for all fun that was a part of rock concerts back in those days, something that sadly no longer exists in our dismal music industry now.
There are a couple important things to notice in these writings. One is that Bangs frequently refers to a certain class of rock stars as punks. This was a few years before “punk” became an officially designated genre of music. But Bangs wasn’t describing the music. He was describing the obnoxious behavior of people like the MC5 and Iggy Pop. It looks almost obvious that he was instrumental in that words being used to describe the genre. There is some debate over whether it was Bruce Springsteen or Legs McNeil who started using “punk” as a name for the musical style and scene that grew with it.
The other important thing to notice is that these articles are thoroughly unpredictable. You can never tell where they will end up. In example, a review of a John Coltrane album turns into a story about Lester Bangs using screeching, atonal blasts from a saxophone to terrorize his landlady after she complains about him making too much noise. Other than the presence of the saxophone, what does this have to do with the Coltrane album? Who Knows? Who cares? It’s great writing.
The genius of Lester Bangs really shines through in the section on Lou Reed. The two men had a curious relationship. Bangs became famous in New York City for the interviews he did with Reed for the Village Voice. As we see here, they weren’t actual interviews, but more like drunken arguments over nothing important other than one-upmanship in a gladiatorial battle of nastiness. Both Bangs and Reed would later say that these argument/interviews were the best punk journalism ever written. Both of them were in firm agreement on one other thing too: they both thought that Lou Reed’s Metal Machine Music is one of the greatest rock albums ever recorded. In one interview, Reed goes on about how it is a multi-layered symphonic work of avant-garde classical composition. Lester Bangs retorts by saying that Reed only thinks so because he was on amphetamines when he recorded it. In any case, Bangs also waxes poetic about how beautiful its four sides of vinyl containing nothing but droning guitar feedback played through high-end studio equipment are. It is a masterpiece because most people find it impossible to listen to. One thing about Lester Bangs is that he appreciated the noisier, abrasive side of rock and roll more than the finer examples of musicianship that the mainstream goes for. He liked his music a lot more if he knew it would irritate people to the point of anger. I bet he would have loved the Butthole Surfers. I bet he would have hated grunge too.
After the Lou Reed section, we get a variety of articles with an even wider range of topics than came previously. They mostly start as album or concert reviews, but there is also one long-form work of journalism about The Clash. We get insights into all kinds of things like the direction the music industry is heading in the late 1970s, the crass and offensive attitudes of rock’s biggest stars, social observations, critiques of the American lifestyle, and Lester Bangs’ inner torments in dealing with disillusionment, anxiety, depression, insecurity, inadequacy, and drug addiction. This fits harmoniously with an article about Iggy Pop and the underlying negativity of the punk scene in general. In a previous article written about Iggy Pop, he examines how The Stooges embody authenticity in rock music, more so than most other bands. Here he poses the question as to why Iggy Pop is so self-abusive when performing on stage. He drunkenly rolls around in broken glass, cuts his body with razors, and starts a fight with a bar-full of bikers, taunting them with insults and throwing beer bottles at them until he gets beaten close to death. Bangs observes that in the beginning The Stooges reckless abandonment and Iggy Pop’s indulgence in nihilistic self-destruction was ecstatic and liberating, but over time it became more obvious that this freedom from restraint is motivated by a deep sense of self-hatred on Iggy Pop’s part. Bangs also sees this self-hatred as being an underlying attitude of the New York and British punk scenes. If this were so, you might wonder why Iggy Pop never just outright committed suicide (he’s still alive and well today). But there must be something to what Bangs has said considering Pop’s antics. It may not be entirely about self-hatred, but it certainly isn’t self-love either. A singer who brings himself to the edge of death in every performance is not a role model of healthy self-respect. The guy obviously has problems, but the mind of Iggy Pop remains a mystery.
In the latter articles of this collection, you can see Lester Bangs maturing both in writing style and psychologically. He becomes more socially responsible. In what is possible his most famous work of journalism, “The White Noise Supremacists”, he admits to feeling guilty for having used racist language in the past and examines racism in the punk scene despite the presence of African-Americans, Latinos, Asians, and everything else. When interviewing people at CBGB’s about the subject, one punk dismisses the problem because racism is just as much a part of their scene as anywhere else. Bangs’ comeback is that punks are supposed to be different from everybody else. He ends the article with a plea for punks to stop being racist. He is met with a lukewarm response and his disillusionment with America continues to grow.
And then it goes onwards to the U.K. where he tours with The Clash. He finds them to be likable and unpretentious, thinking he finally found a bunch of rock stars who weren’t assholes, but as events on the tour unfold, he becomes disillusioned with them too. There is a progressively creeping sense of despair as Lester Bangs wrote into the early 1980s before he died of a drug overdose while he had the flu.
What is great about these writings is that Lester Bangs transcends his genre. That may be an odd statement considering that the genre is rock journalism, one that doesn’t lend itself easily to the concept of transcendence to begin with. But this is an author who put so much of himself into what he wrote. He wasn’t just writing to make a living or even just for attention. He was writing to make art and in that he succeeded. Of course, this book is only a sample of what is probably his best work. Not everything about it is great though. There is a fair amount of casually racist language that would have been common in his time, but dates the writing significantly. To be fair, he doesn’t express any ideas about other races that are meant to be insulting or hateful; it’s just that he uses words that are now considered racially offensive in place of terms like “African-American” or “Asian”. By the end of the book, his writing becomes a little tiring too. His long sentences and tortured syntax combines with his moodiness and indulgence in pessimism begin to drag his writing down to the point where you get fatigued from reading it. Otherwise, I’d be interested in the articles that weren’t included here. Lester Bangs was one of the first, if not THE first, to recognize the genius of Lemmy Kilmister and the greatest of punk-metal crossover bands Motorhead. I would love to see what he wrote about them.
Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung is so much more than a collection of articles or a nostalgia trip for aging counter-culturalists. It is a collection of writings marked by energy, passion, authenticity and enough volume (the amp is tuned up to 11) to speak across multiple generations. On the surface, these passages are rough while being true to the punk attitude in their inner core. The old punk clothing style could include leather, spikes, razors, chains, dog collars, combat boots, safety pins through the nose, and self-inflicted wounds while your typical punk, beneath it all, was good natured, humorous, ironic, articulate, intelligent, complex, affectionate, righteously angry, socially aware, and even a bit sensitive. Those later traits are all inherent parts of Lester Bangs’ writing while the former ornamentation is the sharp edges of his language that breaks all rules of good writing and works better than what most teachers would consider to be acceptable by educational standards. Regardless of what you think of Lester Bangs’ ever changing world view, these writing should serve as a boost of rocket fuel for the increasingly dull and shallow society we have in America today. The upcoming generations need writing like this to inspire them with the fires of rebellion. Stop acting like a bunch of old ladies. Smash your mind-rotting cell phones and make some noise. It’s time again for some cage rattling and earth shaking. Let’s make life exciting once again.
May 3, 2017
Ever year or so I return to this collection, primarily to re-read the Joycean Strand-walk of a rock record review that is Bangs' exegesis of Van Morrison's Astral Weeks. It reminds me that criticism can be worthwhile, and that music is supposed to mean something. Bangs believed Astral Weeks to be a metaphysical Testament. At one point he writes:
The record—and Bangs' own examination of his reaction to that record—provide a startling moment of collusion with the young man's ecstatic release in the short story Araby from Dubliners:
Here then, are the passions of all my passions combined. First, Bangs on Morrison:
And finally, the last words from Molly Bloom in Ulysses:
What this is about is a whole set of verbal tics—although many are bodily as well—which are there for a reason enough to go a long way toward defining his style. They're all over Astral Weeks: four rushed repeats of the phrases "you breathe in, you breathe out" and "you turn around" in "Beside You"; in "Cyprus Abenue" twelve "way up on"s, "baby" sung out thirteen times in a row sounding like someone running ecstatically downhill toward one's love, and the heartbreaking way he stretches "one by one" in the third verse; most of all in "Madame George," where he sings the word "dry" and then "your eye" twenty times in a twirling melodic arc so beautiful it steals your own breath, and then this occurs: "And the love that loves the love that loves the love that loves the love that loves to love the love that loves to love the love that loves."
The record—and Bangs' own examination of his reaction to that record—provide a startling moment of collusion with the young man's ecstatic release in the short story Araby from Dubliners:
I pressed the palms of my hands together until they trembled, murmuring: O love! O love! many times.
Here then, are the passions of all my passions combined. First, Bangs on Morrison:
Van Morrison is interested, obsessed with how much musical or verbal information he can compress into a small space, and, almost conversely, how far he can spread one note, word, sound, or picture. To capture one moment, be it a caress or a twitch. He repeats certain phrases to extremes that from anybody else would seem ridiculous, because he's waiting for a vision to unfold, trying as unobtrusively as possible to nudge it along.
And finally, the last words from Molly Bloom in Ulysses:
I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.
May 24, 2016
No. I just say no.
I don't care that Philip Seymour Hoffman portrayed him in Almost Famous. I assumed that reading Bangs' reviews would be interesting if not amusing but I was so wrong. The tragedy is is that he did have something to say. The problem is that it's all couched in writer's diarrhea. I know that if I took the time to wade through some of his purple prose I would be able to glean out some interesting observations and connections. Doing that though would be the equivalent of diving into a lake of Chef Boyardee Spaghetti and Meatballs just to snag the rubies of wisdom he'd tossed in. (See what I did there? A whole long freaking sentence dedicated to describing something you'd not want to experience just to give you the idea of his extravagant writing.)
I got through the first chapter which distracted me with it's story of some hillbilly grampa from the future just to get me where... I don't remember. The writing annoyed me so much and took so much time to pick through that I've only remembered the annoyance of reading it!
Usually I power my way through difficult books. I find usually I can get something from them, some kind of lesson, entertainment, an example, something. I won't force myself to read words that my brain tosses out almost as soon as they have tumbled into my eyes and stumbled into my gray matter. I'm not in high school anymore I refuse to force myself to suffer that much for no good reason.
If you really want to subject yourself to this book I suggest that you bring it to bed. It will knock you out like reading someone's tax returns.
I don't care that Philip Seymour Hoffman portrayed him in Almost Famous. I assumed that reading Bangs' reviews would be interesting if not amusing but I was so wrong. The tragedy is is that he did have something to say. The problem is that it's all couched in writer's diarrhea. I know that if I took the time to wade through some of his purple prose I would be able to glean out some interesting observations and connections. Doing that though would be the equivalent of diving into a lake of Chef Boyardee Spaghetti and Meatballs just to snag the rubies of wisdom he'd tossed in. (See what I did there? A whole long freaking sentence dedicated to describing something you'd not want to experience just to give you the idea of his extravagant writing.)
I got through the first chapter which distracted me with it's story of some hillbilly grampa from the future just to get me where... I don't remember. The writing annoyed me so much and took so much time to pick through that I've only remembered the annoyance of reading it!
Usually I power my way through difficult books. I find usually I can get something from them, some kind of lesson, entertainment, an example, something. I won't force myself to read words that my brain tosses out almost as soon as they have tumbled into my eyes and stumbled into my gray matter. I'm not in high school anymore I refuse to force myself to suffer that much for no good reason.
If you really want to subject yourself to this book I suggest that you bring it to bed. It will knock you out like reading someone's tax returns.
January 24, 2008
Lester Bangs is mentioned (along with many other people with the initials "L.B.") in "It's The End Of The World As We Know It," by R.E.M. He deserves mention. This collection of essays shows that Lester Bangs was an impassioned, articulate writer.
His unenviable calling was that of the critic. Few critics have ever written with such sincerity.
Lester Bangs lived a short life. If I'm not wrong, he didn't live much past the time rock's biggest icons died: Elvis Presley (1977) and John Lennon (1980.) He was a believer in Punk. (I am not.) He was head-over-heels in love with the music of Lou Reed. (I can see why, but I don't share the feeling.)
What comes through for me is Lester Bangs's personality. He had heroes.
The fact that he had heroes makes him different from 99 per cent of critics. Most critics champion someone or other. But Lester Bangs seemed to wonder what was wrong with himself when one of his idols failed to impress him. I think he was aware of this. He took rock music personally because he didn't think there was much else worth paying attention to.
If you have no love for the musicians he loved, seek this book out anyway. He wrote rock criticism as if he were a 19th-century pamphleteer.
His unenviable calling was that of the critic. Few critics have ever written with such sincerity.
Lester Bangs lived a short life. If I'm not wrong, he didn't live much past the time rock's biggest icons died: Elvis Presley (1977) and John Lennon (1980.) He was a believer in Punk. (I am not.) He was head-over-heels in love with the music of Lou Reed. (I can see why, but I don't share the feeling.)
What comes through for me is Lester Bangs's personality. He had heroes.
The fact that he had heroes makes him different from 99 per cent of critics. Most critics champion someone or other. But Lester Bangs seemed to wonder what was wrong with himself when one of his idols failed to impress him. I think he was aware of this. He took rock music personally because he didn't think there was much else worth paying attention to.
If you have no love for the musicians he loved, seek this book out anyway. He wrote rock criticism as if he were a 19th-century pamphleteer.
September 13, 2012
I read some of this back in the day; this time I skipped around and skipped over some of the padding. Bangs tended to go off on wild contraband-influenced tangents of gonzo blahblah. At first I thought, "Geez, this is sure dated." But more reading lessened that impression. Probably the two most important essays are the long road-trip profile on The Clash and "The White Noise Supremacists," an impassioned, take-no-prisoners exposé on punk nihilism/racism. Bangs is important not because he's an immensely enjoyable, nutzo read who could put together sentences as tautly muscular as Iggy's torso and as colorful as a splash of Darby Crash's vomit (he surely could), no; he's a must-read because HE GOT IT FIRST. 'It' being punk. The dude was championing the MC5, The Stooges, and the New York Dolls not from some safe, hipster-hindsight reserve, but WHEN THEY WERE HAPPENING. That makes his pronouncements on such oddments as The Godz, Kraftwerk and James Taylor really REALLY fun and psychedelically intriguing.
May 17, 2020
I write a bunch about Lester Bangs in my forthcoming novel Loudmouth. Much like the protagonist, I got to edit Lester on occasion when we worked side-by-side at Creem magazine. He was the most prolific writer--and fastest typist--I've seen, before or since. The most amazing thing was, when he finished his all-day, all-night writing binges--sometimes fueled by speed and beer and sometimes by Valium and beer--and turned over his 80-page manuscript, an editor would expect for a lot of it to be garbage. With Lester, unlike with any other writer I've encountered, you could count on 50% gold. And Lester's gold was 24k--fresh, vital language, unexpected opinions, actual literature. And the best of it is in here.
October 1, 2019
"The greatest rock 'n' roll writer this world has ever known", proclaims the cover. Trust me, he's not. In fact, he's not even close. This book is the noise of a man in love with the sound of his own opinions, who thinks he is Jack Kerouac and is convinced that the talentless narcissist that was Lou Reed is one of the greatest artists of our time. He also thinks The Great Rock 'n' Roll Swindle by the Sex Pistols is one of the greatest albums of all time. Don't waste your time reading this. If you want an opinion on the music he writes about, you'd be much better off listening to it yourself.
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