WTF Podcast Episode 691 – Todd Rundgren

He calls Andy Partridge a prick.

You must listen to this podcast, you will find out more about record production than any seminar will teach you. Rundgren is surprisingly erudite and articulate and unlike everybody else in this insider business, especially those in the studio, he’s willing to tell the truth.

About Garth Hudson being a narcoleptic, about Richard Manuel’s misadventures, about helping to write the lyrics for the Tubes’ “Remote Control.” It almost makes you want to run out and hire him, if today’s music weren’t so vapidly constructed of hooks via beats with lyrics so banal no one can be offended.

He came from Upper Darby, PA. His writing changed after meeting with Laura Nyro, he wanted to speak from his soul, as opposed to writing teen jingles on the guitar, he sat behind the piano and the rest of Nazz were unhappy.

He underwrote “Bat Out Of Hell,” and when it was finally sold to Steve Popovich’s Cleveland International, he ended up with a greater royalty than that of Jim Steinman and Meatloaf combined. Credit a savvy manager, Albert Grossman. The best know how to extract their pound of flesh.

And it was Poppy who made the album successful. Releasing single after single until one hit. You’ve got to have someone who believes, that’s better than employing a name.

And after receiving a $700,000 check for BOOH, Rundgren felt liberated, that he could do whatever he wanted, and he did. He knew how to write pop songs, it was a formula he chose not to repeat, he blew a ton of dough on a video studio and went in search of the cutting edge, following his muse all the way.

Which works best with no interruption, “Bang The Drum All Day” came to him in his sleep, as did “Lost Horizon” and other numbers.

As for that cowbell on “We’re An American Band”…yes, it was probably his idea.

But back to XTC… It was Andy Partridge’s band, and Andy ended up putting too much on the records, no one could say no to him. Psychoacoustically, the records were tough on the listener, they didn’t breathe. So Todd cut an album that captured the essence, around a theme, and Partridge didn’t like it and insisted that “Dear God” be removed. It was, but being a throwaway track it was used as a b-side on the first single, which radio then flipped, and it became a hit, and it had to be put back into the album.

And we’re not arguing money here, there are few “Skylarking” royalties coming in. But Todd did a solid for the band, resuscitated their career, and all he got from Andy Partridge was tsuris. So, he’s setting the record straight.

Like on sales via service.

How can a guy this aged, this experienced, this inured to the old system, know more about the new than those wet behind the ears? He says sales are dead. He makes fun of the vinyl fanatics, relishing their objects, saying it was always about the music, the rest was penumbra, and with streaming the essence flies. And sure, he wants streaming royalties worked out, but mostly on the label end, the acts are being paid bupkes under an old construct, one wherein the label takes the lion’s share of the money, almost all the money. Furthermore, Rundgren believes live music is the biggest part of the value chain.

Todd is God. That’s what his fans believe. And he’s had so many images, so many voices, that even believers have lost track.

You think he’s lost the plot and then he drops all this wisdom and you’re stunned. Despite being over an hour, this podcast is too short.

But even if you hate him or have no idea who he is, you should check this out. This is a snapshot from the trenches, from someone who was there and is pulling no punches. It’s both informative and entertaining.

A+

P.S. Marc Maron is absolutely terrible. He’s so uninformed on Todd and his career that he needs to be corrected on a regular basis, you’re stunned Todd doesn’t lose his temper. I thought the internet was supposed to allow those with expertise to delve into that which they know about. But Maron’s too busy rushing for fame…it’s about the show, not the interviewee, about building Maron’s brand as opposed to being informative. Rundgren is so sharp he needs little leading, he can tell his own story, but it’s an insult to have someone so great interviewed by someone so clueless.

P.P.S. Maron asked me to be on his podcast, but once I wrote that he blows interviews with musicians, because he knows so little and wasn’t there, he got angry. I can understand that, no one likes to be called out. But I ain’t gonna kiss butt and play nice just so I can have a publicity opportunity. That’s what’s so revelatory about Todd here, that he pulls no punches, unlike the wimps in the industry today.

Rainbow Ends – Spotify
Rainbow Ends – YouTube

This is the music Brian Wilson is trying to make but cannot.

In an infinite universe that which is not overhyped, that which is not on the pop chart, makes at most a drop in the ocean and then disappears.

But the truth is Emitt Rhodes’s new album is the most satisfying artistic project I’ve encountered all year.

It’s got the basics covered, the sounds, the changes, but it’s the words that put it over the top. Do you remember when you listened to music for insight? Back before platitudes reigned and “musicians” did their best to tell you how much better their lives were than yours?

Music used to be made by outsiders, who wouldn’t even want to hang at the club, they’d feel too uncomfortable. Their goal in playing was to connect, to lay down their truth and hope that someone heard it.

And we did. That’s why we clamored around the truth-sayers. From Bob Dylan to Laura Nyro to Emitt Rhodes.

But we were young back then, and optimistic, we hadn’t been hurt by life, which happens to us all. You can get plastic surgery, throw down some money and put a smile on your face, but that doesn’t cover the rejection, the sickness, all the detours and ditches that encompass life that you rarely hear about anymore in our winner take all society. Be vulnerable, say you have more questions than answers, and you’re thrown on the scrapheap and ignored, you’re done, there are zillions of bright-eyed kids lined up to take your place who still believe life is lived without reflection, who don’t know life is about eddies more than highways, that we all get waylaid, can’t be on all the time, forever.

I wanna be somewhere far away
Somewhere where I won’t be afraid

Paralysis. Scratch a baby boomer and you’ll find it. The single won’t go on match.com, never mind go on a date. They’re afraid they’re too imperfect, sans smooth skin, tight body and fat wallet. Better to stay home and watch TV.

I wanna be sheltered, safe and warm

It’s the men who are weak, they’re tired of putting up a good front, schmoozing and trying to get ahead. They want to be taken care of. Wanna win a man’s heart? Cover the potholes, guide him and soothe him when you’re alone together.

I wanna be somewhere far from home

That’s what we’ve lost in the global village, the ability to get away, we’re constantly checking our phones, to see if someone is looking for us, if we’re missing out, we’re sacrificing life to the screen. If only we could get away and live, away from the usual distractions.

I wanna be somewhere in the sun
Gettin’ tan, havin’ fun

Fun, it’s the one thing that money can’t buy, that we all want but rarely pursue, we’re too busy getting ahead.

I wanna be with the ones I love
Hold them close, give them hugs

So basic, so pedestrian, but so right. An artist can speak what we all feel and give it the ring of truth we rally around.

I wanna be loved no matter what
Not just a man ’til better starts

I’m not sure about that last word, I’m not sure I’ve got it right. Which is how it was back before the internet, before every album came with words. We’d get closer to the speakers, we’d put on headphones and try to decipher what the gods were saying, sometimes laboring under misimpressions for years.

But we’re all looking for acceptance, to be loved for who we are. But the truth is we have to adjust ourselves to be lovable, too many people refuse to do this, they maintain their rough edges and refuse to allow others in. But once you get over the hump, you want a pass, for the faux pas, for your basic identity, you want to be able to be who you are. It’s the main problem in each and every relationship… If you’re being yourself all the time, beware, your partner is not, you’re heading for a breakdown.

I wanna be someone’s only one
Not just a man ’til better comes

And there you have it. We all want to be number one. I’ve struggled with this. Oh, believe me, I want to be primary, but there comes a point in each and every relationship where I wonder if I am. And then I wonder if I’m defective, needy, too insecure. Or whether I’m divining the truth and deserve more. I don’t have the answer.

But I do know commitment is the essence of relationships, without it there’s nothing. A ring can help, but it’s far from definitive. People seem to be looking over their shoulder for something better, and if what they’re looking at is over your shoulder…

Always chasin’ rainbow ends
Head up in the clouds
Thought my dreams would never end
But my eyes they’re open now

How are you gonna feel about that tattoo twenty years from now?

What are you gonna do when you don’t get into the college of your choice?

What are you gonna do when you don’t make partner?

What are you gonna do when you get cancer?

What are you gonna do when your spouse leaves you?

It’s gonna happens, no one wins forever, no one tops the pop chart and plays stadiums until they die. Athletes retire. Musicians can no longer hit the notes. You can no longer finish a marathon, if you can run at all.

But culture doesn’t focus on these maladies. Worse, once you reach a certain age you’re discarded, you don’t even matter. At school they’re paying attention, limiting you. Then they tell you you can’t have an abortion. Then you hit menopause and are dry and your guy can’t get hard and you feel like you’re rolling downhill, fast.

What are you supposed to do?

You can go on a diet, exercise, pretend you’re twenty five, even cashier your significant other for someone much younger…but they don’t get the references, they don’t really get you.

Or you can put on Emitt Rhodes’s “Rainbow Ends” and uncover someone who’s been there and been thinking about it, and delivering it all via a mellifluous sound that gives you hope.

That’s what I get from the truth, honesty, changes and harmonies. The belief that life is worth living. Because there are people pulling themselves up and testifying about what life is really like, so I don’t feel so alone, so I can go on.

Do you feel left out? Do you feel like you’re working hard but getting nowhere, treading water in the game of life? Do you think the government is telling you how to live whilst providing little in return?

Then you might be supporting Donald Trump or Bernie Sanders.

The owners of this country just don’t understand how this happened, how the country at large rejected their leadership, got off the boat and is determined to upset it, if not capsize it.

Credit the internet.

Before the nation was wired and communicating we had no idea what we did not know. We accepted news as truth and put broadcasters upon pedestals.

But not only did the internet allow new information to pour forth, propagated by citizens who were interested in nothing so much as the truth, it allowed a subset of people, usually male, usually quite young, to become extremely rich. And these techies were lauded throughout the land. And those of us working for a living…had to realize, there was no way we could make that kind of money.

Even though we wanted to.

Even though we’d be satisfied with a bite of the carrot, chewing just a bit more than we had before.

But this was not to be. Because the rich had to get tax cuts and the banks had to be saved, even though so many are living from paycheck to paycheck. It’s hard to have sympathy for those in the bubble.

And the rich and powerful truly are. They’ve got no roots. The nation is run by the scions of the already wealthy, from Gates to the Kochs. You just don’t have a chance, the American dream is dead.

Furthermore, it’s every man for himself. Those you used to be able to count on you can’t.

Certainly not the musicians. Musicians kiss the ass of corporations to garner a smidgen of the wealth of the bankers and techies, despite young nincompoops believing in their words, the rest of us have checked out of a pop dominated world. There’s no there there.

But you can’t nominate Trump, he’ll ruin the country!

Give me a break, D.C. is a logjam that no one can break, even if he got elected Trump couldn’t do much.

Other than nominate a Supreme Court justice!

How long until the Republican congresspeople blink, realizing their candidate has no chance and Hillary will nominate someone even more liberal than Merrick Garland.

Yes, Hillary is gonna win.

And I’m worried all the protest, all the reaction to what was, will be forgotten.

But the truth is America has changed. Theories have turned into reality. Blacks had no upward mobility, they couldn’t pull themselves up by their bootstraps. Now the same thing has happened to whites. Meanwhile, they’re both told to just work harder.

So there are bogeymen, immigrants being the number one culprit.

But we all need someone to blame. The musicians blamed streaming, even though the RIAA just said recorded music revenue went up! With streaming being the man generator! Take that all you naysayers!

Yes, everybody’s living in an echo chamber, listening to only the news that agrees with them, facts are out the window and truth is irrelevant.

But some truths are undeniable.

We live in a two-tier society. And those on top don’t care about those on the bottom. They don’t even understand the plight of those on the bottom. Republican wankers believe the rank and file want to give up their entitlements so the rich can rampage.

No, we need something like a guaranteed income, so we can all survive.

Trump understands this anger.

As does Bernie Sanders, who speaks more truth than the rest of the candidates combined.

We are in the midst of a revolution. This is what climate change looks like when it takes hold. You know, the fat cats are denying climate science so they can pollute. But the ice caps will melt so much that there will be chaos.

Right now there’s chaos in America.

And it’s got nothing to do with terrorism, and nothing to do with immigration, and everything to do with the lack of upward mobility.

If I’ve got no chance I’m gonna poke you in the eye, make you squirm.

That’s the essence of the Trump campaign.

The disaffected rule. Those in power have refused to adjust just like the record companies at the turn of the century, who believed consumers should overpay for a CD with one good track so the industry could shine on.

I’m sick of hedge funders getting better tax rates on their income than the rank and file.

I’m sick of government getting in my business, making abortion nearly illegal. What’s the message here, don’t screw? But without babies our nation does not survive.

The public is way ahead of the government.

The story of the near future will be either an adjustment by those in power or ultimately a toppling of their reign.

We’re mad as hell. And we enjoy upsetting the apple cart.

This primary season is not about nominating candidates, but giving the establishment the middle finger.

Occupy Wall Street was just the beginning.

It’s gonna get worse.

And the only question is…

WHICH SIDE ARE YOU ON?

I was there the first time around, for “The River” tour at the Sports Arena, back in ’81, I went with my friend Robin who liked me and had huge boobs but who I just couldn’t touch.

I’d just stopped living with my live-in girlfriend.

And I coped by going to UCLA Extension, where I found other people as dedicated to rock and roll as I was. I was free, but at loose ends. Robin and I drove downtown after midnight to the Original Pantry and we got up at the crack of dawn to line up for Springsteen tickets at Tower Records in Westwood.

We thought we got good ones. We bought multiple nights. We couldn’t sell the others, we went twice…the first experience was better.

Here’s where I whip out my pedigree. I saw Springsteen at the Bottom Line back in ’74, when he debuted “Jungleland,” a full year before he graced the covers of both “Newsweek” and “Time.” I’d purchased the debut and never quite warmed up to it, loved “Spirit In The Night,” but when the second LP came out I was hooked, the entire second side was required listening, but who could resist “Kitty” and “Sandy” on side one, never mind “Wild Billy’s Circus Story.”

And on my first date with my ex-wife I played “Candy’s Room” at full blast.

But by that time Bruce Springsteen was everybody’s, he’d sold out a week at the Coliseum. He was considered pop.

But really he never was.

Unlike back in ’81, I had a phenomenal seat. And standing by the stage was a guy with a thick neck and greased back hair sporting an upper body built big in the gym and tattoos upon his back and arms. He was a Jersey guy.

Bruce Springsteen is a Jersey guy. From back before Jon Bon Jovi rehabilitated the state. From back before Atlantic City was resuscitated and then collapsed again. When the state smelled and your goal was to get out of there.

Live long enough in Los Angeles and you forget all this.

But I remembered it Thursday night.

Bruce Springsteen has a bump in his nose, his face is cute, but mere feet away you see he’s a misfit, who channeled his desire and talent to success which soothes him but never satiates him. Because he’s an outsider.

Who lived in bars and practice halls with a dream in his sights that few could understand.

That’s where the music lived, in bars. You did covers and a few originals. The patrons got drunk and tried not to fight. And you honed your chops and got high and got laid and other than having no bucks you were living the life.

Not that you thought it was forever, it couldn’t be forever, you had to break through.

And Bruce Springsteen did. He became a star relatively early in his tenure. Got married, went to the shrink, got divorced, had a family and is now out on the road reliving the glory days.

I’m too old to do all this. I didn’t have children. I can’t go for a victory lap when I’ve had no success.

And all of this went through my mind watching the Boss at the Sports Arena. My life slid by. People my age are thinking of retirement.

But once upon a time we were the youth, we were the cutting edge, there were no social networks, cell phones were a “Star Trek” fantasy, we had to leave the house to connect, to feel alive, and where I felt the most comfortable was at the show.

It was completely different. No one stood, except for maybe the encores. There were seats. You didn’t go to be seen, you went to communicate with the music, bond with the gods.

And it was like that Thursday night.

And it won’t ever be that way again.

It can’t be. Mystery is history. You can see it all online. And scarcity is a thing of the past. You laid down your money for “The River” and it’s all you listened to for a week, maybe longer, because it’s all you could afford, and you wanted to digest its truth.

And the highlights Thursday night were the slow songs. Most notably “Independence Day,” but also “I Wanna Marry You,” never mind the title track, “The River.” You sat there transfixed…how did I get from here to there, I avoided so many potholes, but a few I fell in, a few I never recovered from.

But the band kept playing on. That’s what musicians do, play. Stardom is a byproduct, at best.

This was a tunnel to the past, exuding a certain amount of love, but there was no pretext that Bruce Springsteen still mattered, was still hip, was still ruling the charts. By playing “The River” complete and a bunch of hits not only did Bruce give the audience what it wanted to hear, he could be loose, he had nothing to prove.

Other than he was the best damn rock star on the face of the planet.

That was the scary part. After the two hours of “The River” the Boss did an hour of hits and…he started out at 11 and stayed there. I can’t say a negative thing about it, it was positively thrilling, it’s how he built his career, but I couldn’t help thinking what a screwed-up guy he was, that he needed to do this, he had us at hello, when he took the stage, never mind went into “The Ties That Bind.”

But at this point, deep into the show, the audience was no longer individuals but a great big mass, you see Bruce was in a trance, he was home, in his element, it was what he lived for, he was gonna give us that high and get one in return.

No one does this anymore.

Because no one’s done that many dates. And what we consider a star is far different from who Springsteen was and is. Springsteen is Sally Field, he can’t believe everybody really likes him.

But they do.

So you’re listening to “The River” remembering what once was. Before Bruce danced in the dark, when he was just another guy on the FM with a hit who was soldiering on, when our albums were our most treasured possessions, when we knew every word because we’d heard them so much.

And it was astounding how everybody sang along, especially on “Hungry Heart,” a second-rate tune on an A level album. But “Hungry Heart” was the hit, so the assembled multitude could sing the entire first verse without Bruce’s help. Hits still rule, they’re the anchor upon which you build your career.

But it’s when Bruce played “Badlands” that the building started to levitate. This show was really for fans, and in my mind it’s a toss-up whether the second album or “Darkness” is the best.

And although the band also played “The Promised Land,” the first highlight of the encore section of the program was “Backstreets,” that’s when heads started to explode, because there’s nothing like hearing live songs you know by heart, ones that make you forget all the detritus in your life and just feel good, and seeing Bruce and his compatriots channel the gods made you feel good.

And they did “Rosalita.” Even “Dancing In The Dark.”

But one of the thrills of the show is having songs you liked but didn’t love get elevated to iconic status, you understand them in ways you previously did not, and that happened with “Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out.” As exuberant as the number is, Bruce was denied. We’ve all been denied, we’ve all been on the losing end.

But we just put on another record and soldier on.

The hero of the band, its driver, the underpinning, the one who holds it all down, is Max Weinberg. He may not have a good rep, we’ve all heard the stories of what went down at “Conan,” who was there by the way, along with a slew of other luminaries, but to watch this sixtysomething pound the drums and keep the beat for three plus hours was a revelation, he was the one element the band could not do without.

Other than Bruce himself. Who kept us marveling that he was still doing this act at 66. Jumping up and down, clowning and cajoling. Single-handedly proving that rock and roll is still alive, even if it might sometime die.

And the rest of the players showed their age, not in their playing, not in their performance, but their mugs, their hair, their countenance. They’re lifers, this is all they can do. In the seventies they were kings, amongst the richest in America, now they’re paupers compared to the bankers and the techies but…they don’t care, they’re just strumming and smiling all the while.

As were those in attendance.

This was nothing other than what it was billed as. Like I stated above, there was no pretense that this was young, relevant and hip. This was just what it always was and forever more shall be.

The first generation of classic rockers is dying off.

The second is starting to show wear and tear.

And at some point in time there will be no mas. The records will live on, you’ll be able to hear them, but you will no longer be able to go to the show and experience the magic of what once was. Hell, the E Street Band has holes in it, illness and death have taken their toll.

We’re a nation of individuals. Searching for connection. Looking to feel we belong.

And on Thursday night I felt I was part of a vast continuum, of misfits who’d lived for the music each and every day. Who knew all the players, the producers and the engineers, who needed to get closer, who considered the venue their church and those on its pulpit their priests.

Bruce Springsteen is just a vessel. He’s channeling commitment and desire and anger and frustration and laying them all out for us to explore and experience.

Strip away the endorsements. Strip away the streaming payment debates. Strip away the fame. Strip away the hype.

And what you’re left with is a performance.

And Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band blew us away Thursday night.

They’ll tear the Sports Arena down. Not everyone will see the band again.

But we’ll all remember.

When fifteen thousand threw their hands in the air and said…

I LOVE ROCK AND ROLL!