Trying for the right note: another of my ever-increasing musings/reflections on the Vietnam Era

Chords, Choruses, & Chaos

                        Can’t you hear then singing?

                        ——Sam Cooke, Chain Gang

The music of the Vietnam Era was profound, and while the messages chanted were similar to prior and future times, there was a genuine uniqueness to it primarily due to a confluence of events: the Protest Movement and the lyrical content of Rock Music reached maturity together and merged, each fueling the other to heights that neither could have attained singly. During the Vietnam War songwriters were able to develop an artistic reaction to war that gathered momentum during the decade, paralleling the increase in numbers of Americans opposed to a war labeled immoral, unjust, and unwinnable. The last, coming from Walter Cronkite, was unthinkable; so much so that it could be argued to be the one statement most influential to, and most responsible for, the growth of Anti‑Vietnam‑War sentiment. America’s might rendered ineffective by little men in black pajamas? Preposterous! But if the ‘most believable man in America’ said that was the case, then what were we doing there?

The Vietnam War was essentially the first war with its own live soundtrack. Just stop for a moment and think about the great films chronicling WWI, WWII, The American Civil War, or any war you choose. Now imagine Apocalypse Now with a lush sound track by John Williams or the strident strings of Bernard Herrmann. Vietnam was the certainly not the beginning of music being germane as a protest tool. However, in terms of relevance and effectiveness, it outranks all others. Anti-war feelings have been expressed through song as long as people have been singing. Music is a basic, fundamental conduit of communication; a marvelous vehicle for imparting expression and fomenting unity. Through music we can communicate ideas and express both agreement and dissatisfaction. In addition to all the commonalities, the music inspired by and in reaction to the Vietnam War differed in quantity and quality. The sheer number of songs expressing opposition to the war and dissatisfaction with government policy was staggering. But it was the content that elevated this period of rhythmic recrimination; it lent a unique significance that not only eloquently expressed the sixties sentiment. The lyrics fueled the fire and shaped the charge of civilians clamoring for change to assure maximum penetration; whether cacophonous or sussurant, the songwriting of the Vietnam Era supported, steered, and often supplanted the tempo of the times.

In addition to the expected output of sing‑along ditties, baleful ballads, lilting lullabies, and tear‑stained threnodies, there was a crush of songs that penetrated the hearts and minds of a nation clouded by discontent. A phalanx of performers enjoyed unprecedented exposure via radio—doubly powerful now that FM had a wide audience—, television and film; their message so pervasive it stormed across ethnic barriers and generation gaps. The sincerity of so much of the writing was coupled with the verve to versify actual events. Songs recounted both tales of strife and contentment and kept moments alive in the public consciousness, moments that might have otherwise faded or been eclipsed. That, combined with the ‘message’ songs, let the music of the Vietnam War become a force in itself. The Steve Miller Band’s seminal album, Number 5, featured both elements with the songs, Industrial Military Complex Hex, Jackson‑Kent Blues, and Never Kill Another Man. Pete Seeger expressed his view with Waist Deep in the Big Muddy. The song, based on an actual event when a training platoon risked death crossing a swollen stream in Louisiana in 1943, became a metaphor for U.S. foreign policy in the 1960s.

Now every time I read the papers

That old feeling comes on

We’re waist deep in the Big Muddy

And the big fool says to push on.

The powerhouse called rock hit its prime at a perfect time to stride step by step with the marchers, lending power to the people in prime time. Sadly, I was not one of the 500,000 who attended Woodstock; nor am I one of the ten million who claim they were there. Half a million strong go the lines to the song about that event, and it is a safe bet that not half a hundred were in favor of the Vietnam War that weekend. I did attend a three‑day festival outside of Toronto the following year that drew nearly as many; on that same weekend another festival in the states boasted having a quarter‑million attendees. The combined total surpassed Woodstock, and I am sure the mood was the same at both. I saw youth united, all wanting peace, all willing to defy U.S. government policy and create peaceful chaos to demonstrate just how serious and determined they were. Music brought us together; music fueled the fire that extinguished the flames of war.

The baby called ‘Rock ‘n’ Roll’ entered adolescence in fine fettle. From a popularized melding of R&B, gospel, and varied blues and country styles it had taken on a life of its own, survived in spite of the best efforts of the establishment to make it go away, and began to define itself thanks to pioneering minds such as Chuck Berry, Bo Diddley, Buddy Holly, Little Richard, and a handful of others that leapt across thresholds while others tiptoed to the edge and hesitated. Cover songs did not go away, and never will, but as the era lengthened we saw rockers covering and sometimes even improving on what their predecessors had done (Pattie LaBelle and the Bluebells, I Sold My Heart to the Junkman; The Olympics Dance By the Light of the Moon; The Marcels Blue Moon; Elvis Presley I Feel So Bad; The Animals House of the Rising Sun). The new music was still infested with syrupy renderings by imposters whose time had gone, but creative, young minds set to work and an outpouring of novelty songs, silly love songs (what’s wrong with that?), and tunes that set toes a–tappin’ and bodies whirling filled the airwaves. Elvis assumed the mantle of leadership thanks to a voice with the power to enthrall; he too relied on covers to jump–start his career, continued to lend his magic touch to songs of others even during the years when songwriters would have killed to get him to record their work, and in his final years, spent touring extensively, his act consisted of covering his own early hits interspersed with singular interpretations of what had become standards. Those first years of rock ‘n’ roll had commonality in three ways: strong beat, simple words, and an infectiously happy mood. Regional TV shows cashed in on the teen dancing craze (nothing new in itself, teens have always flocked to dance halls) associated with the new style and quickly went national with American Bandstand (which, in turn, spawned a legion of local imitators such as Jerry Blavatt and paved the way for Soul Train, the undisputed hasn’t–lost–a–step longevity leader [started locally in ‘Chicago and went national in 1971 with Gladys Knight and the Pips their first guest {Midnight Train to Georgia}]). A period of economic prosperity and freedom followed years of World War and deprivation; teenagers gained status and represented a new demographic with their purchasing power. New technologies accompanied this change, notably the unbreakable 45rpm record and portable players that enabled teenagers and their music to congregate, with their music, at times and places of their choosing. That, combined with an age–old longing to separate themselves from previous generations was instrumental in rock ‘n’ roll’s continued popularity. Imaginative and daring minds—the best–known represented by Dylan, The Beach Boys, The Beatles, and The Rolling Stones—were poised and prepared to steer the child into maturity.

Partly fueled by Dylan’s transition to ‘rock’ but primarily a response to the times, those that had changed so drastically from the somnolent 50s, rock lyrics grew up between 1965 and 1970. No longer were protest songs solely the province of folk tunes and folk singers like Joan Baez—words with a bite began to be backed by music with drive. These were no longer songs the masses could chorus together—they could, of course, but they would be hard–pressed to match the energy of the instruments; the vocals of the Fogerty brothers (Fortunate Son & Bad Moon Rising); the harmony of CSN&Y (Ohio); the raw blues of Canned Heat (Let’s Work Together); the intensity of Donovan (Buffy St. Marie’s The Universal Soldier); the lush arrangements that fleshed out the feelings of the words (Jefferson Airplane Up Against the Wall); the passion–filled entreaty of Janis Joplin (Try, Down on Me and even Me and Bobby McGee spoke to the era); or even the rich melodies of Jesse Colin Young (but we all sang Get Together and didn’t sound half–bad). Even Elvis, still ‘king’ after all these years, joined the fray (In the Ghetto & If I Can Dream). The music change in lyric content was an outgrowth of innovation and experimentation, with The Beach Boys and The Beatles leading the charge, that transformed rock ‘n’ roll into rock and birthed songs and albums that were studio creations meant for listening rather than dancing and often incapable of being performed live. The Vietnam War, the Civil Rights Movement, and a general establishment backlash provided the perfect backdrop for songs that no longer chanted about self–assertion, self–pity, and love gone right or wrong. Those who had experienced the beginnings of rock ‘n’ roll were now the writers and performers and they had grown alongside the phenomenon, matured just as it did, and were now ready to lend their own voice rather than depend on pap churned out by a generation that could not wholly understand the times or assimilate the pathos and ethos of the music makers (Not that it was all pap or all bad: Leiber & Stoller, Pomus & Schuman, and young writers like Paul Anka and Bobby Darin contributed mightily to the pantheon of early rock ‘n’ roll songs that have everlasting appeal.) They spoke mightily. From the folk–rock of the Buffalo Springfield (For What It’s Worth); the pounding plea of Edwin Starr (War); every soldier’s lover’s lament echoed by Peter, Paul & Mary (Leaving on a Jet Plane); the in–your–face anthem of Country Joe & The Fish (I Feel Like I’m Fixin’ to Die Rag); the plea of larger–than–life icon John Lennon with his Plastic Ono Band (Give Peace a Chance); and the painful phrasing of futility from The Doors (The Unknown Soldier), rock was no longer just feel–good music but acerbic condemnations of War, Police Brutality, and the Selective Service; commentary on Social Reform and conformity; criticism of the Justice System; and treatises on the inhumanity of mankind and hypocrisy. Phew. Quite a bit to swallow; let alone digest. Rock masterfully and majestically echoed the sentiments of the times and the new complexity of the genre dovetailed perfectly with and mimicked the uncertainty of the era.

Rock matured into a mighty, mighty man that not even ‘soft rock’ could harness. Be it hard rock or metal, punk or alternative, glam or slam, the music has spoken to the world like nothing this powerful ever did. Globally appealing, globally–influenced, and with a message that is now global in scope, rock has become a voice that often rivals the press, pushes past the pulpit, and penetrates the mind of every little crook and nanny. The factors that combined were age–old with a new twist: youth mattered more than ever before; technology was in lockstep with the new attitude (the changes in recording technology made virtually anything possible—experimentation produced remarkable works); the new breed of future leaders and followers refused to let go when they melded into the mainstream (previous phases and crazes were just that—the 20s jump and jive; the crooning of the 30s and 40s; swing and big band had seen better days; jazz retreated to a niche position, unable to sustain its initial thrust); and all of this because Rock ‘n’ Roll was not really anything new but simply a fusion of the best of the best that liberally borrowed what it needed from every genre that preceded it and sprinkled in new elements to give it a distinctive flavor and appeal.

Once those raised on rock became the leaders, creators, and guiding force the locomotive that had us doing The Locomotion and The Twist (regular or Peppermint) became a bullet–train that traveled at light–speed from Katmandu to Kingston to Knoxville to The Klondike in a matter of days if the music/message had enough appeal, and often it did. The singer–songwriter, once a rarity, interloper, and non–conformist, was now the undisputed chairman–of–the–board and conquered the world like Alexander and the Ottomans could never have imagined. Sophistication came about naturally as singers and writers became aware of the noise, violence, and excitement of city–life and put their feelings on record. By the close of the 60s pop and rock had done a compete 180º; the performers and their contemporaries had gone to elementary school with Bill Haley and Buddy Holly; passed into Junior High with Chuck Berry and Bo Diddley; grew through High School while the new music organized itself and experimented; then went to college with Bob Dylan. Just as Blackboard Jungle heralded the beginnings of rock ‘n’ roll, Easy Rider symbolized the new generation gap along with a soundtrack to emphasize the point. The trend has continued and rock knows no bounds: David Bowie and Elton John gave us their take on NASA (Space Oddity & Rocket Man); Joni Mitchell a bleak commentary on civilization’s charge toward extinction (Big Yellow Taxi); Don Henley on the failure of society and a satire on the mass–media (Johnny Can’t Read & Nightly News); U2 on the struggles of a nation to win independence (Sunday, Bloody Sunday); Good Charlotte’s youth anthem asserting independence (I Don’t Want to Be Like You); and the anti–war songs of today by Sleater-Kinney (Combat Rock & Entertain); the Decemberists’ (Sixteen Military Wives); Metric (Monster Hospital & Succexxy); Le Tigre (New Kicks [didactic but not without charm]); Neil Young’s album (Living with War), a biting commentary on all that is wrong with Washington (Let’s Impeach the President is, sadly, what did not happen); and a list that would fill hundreds of pages without a silly love song. There is nothing wrong with that.

The music of the Vietnam Era played a huge role: a fundamental means of communication that lent expression and fomented unity, it brought disparate groups of protestors from every wavelength of the socioeconomic spectrum together and provided harmony that overpowered petty differences. Billy Bragg succinctly stated, “Music has a role to play in spreading the word of peace. It is a case of using music to articulate something that you don’t find articulated in the mainstream media.” That is demonstrably true regarding the current conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan. Manipulation and control of the media, especially by the Bush Administration, was a tour de force rivaled only by the curbing of criticism found in dictatorships. That is no idle claim; one reading of the play, What I Heard about Iraq will convince any skeptics. Such deceit did more than hoodwink a nation; it accelerated apathy and lessened the impact of criticism. A good deal of the music of today portrays the complex political masks that are waiting to be deciphered and dispelled with witticisms that are in ironic counterpoint with the absurdity of the action. Still, the masses remain silent; the impact of the songs does not approach that of the 1960s. The power wielded by music is a force that can inspire, unite, and bring about change. Changes certainly will come, changes for the better, and the music you hear, sweet, sweet music, will change with it. When that time comes, you can be sure of one thing—we’ll all sing about it.

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