By Jef With One F
By Rocks Off
By Chris Lane
By Angelica Leicht
By Corey Deiterman
By Angelica Leicht
By Corey Deiterman
But that was part of Ochs's problem. In some ways, he was the stereotypic folkie. He saw strumming and whining as not his imperative, but as ours. Until he was crushed by reality, he thought the world would change if we'd all just speak up. The gold lame suit was a joke, but more important, it wasn't. To Ochs, the silly outfit didn't just lampoon over-the-top showmen, it presented him with -- get this -- a means of communicating with the people. This from an artist quoted in the liner notes of Farewells & Fantasies as saying, "To cater to an audience's taste is not to respect them ... and if the audience doesn't understand that, they don't deserve respect." Ochs was making fun of himself, but alas, only for a larger purpose.
Ochs was full of compromise. He compromised his talent for lyrical satire in the name of being earnest. He compromised his optimism when, gasp!, it turned out that pop songs couldn't change the world. And he compromised himself, his family and, less crucially, his 50 fans by hanging himself in his sister's house on April 9, 1976, with his own belt -- a prison suicide, really, with the added advantage that Sis had to mop up. It shows you just how far Ochs was willing to take being earnest, and just how ineffective being earnest really is. Ochs had a suit to wear, not a cross to bear.
Farewells & Fantasies contains three CDs full of songs culled from Ochs's 12-year career, most of which display a feisty talent with simple words and open chords ("I Ain't Marching Anymore," "Cops of the World," "Canons of Christianity") and some of which find their stridency reduced to novelty ("The War Is Over," "Here's to the State of Mississippi," the electric version of "I Ain't Marching Anymore"). The amount of material isn't exhaustive -- a good thing, considering the brevity of Ochs's time in front of the mike -- but there's enough here to give you a good idea of what Ochs contributed to the form, and not so much that you begin to hate his guts. The set's booklet includes detailed notes about each of the songs, and long and short essays by Rolling Stone senior editor Mark Kemp and Los Angeles writer Michael Ventura, respectively. Kemp contributes biography, and Ventura offers cant (important, contextualizing cant -- reminding cynics that the '60s actually did change the world, and that Ochs was brave to bitch, given the tenor of his era -- but cant nonetheless). It's a well-considered package, informative but not erudite. And even when the liner notes give us the addresses for (and praise the virtues of) the ACLU, Amnesty International, the AFL-CIO and (ahem) Rock the Vote, we can excuse the preaching as part of Ochs's genre.
What has remained fresh in Ochs's songs isn't their topical, political content, but the way he had with music. Unlike most of the socially minded troubadours we imagine sticking candles into wicker Chianti bottles and preaching to the converted -- thinking, perhaps rightly, that the content of their lyrics gave them leave to play the same old dumb Gs, Cs and Ds and warble the same staid old melodies -- Ochs cared about songcraft. You hear it in the way that the chords move independent of the fake book in "Links on the Chain," in the way the somewhat saccharine vocal line weaves through the arpeggios on "Changes."
Only where Ochs polluted the simple voice-and-guitar chemistry of folk with flat orchestration and excessive instrumentation did he really fail. And that's not because of any shortsightedness on his part -- or because the folkniks who jeered Ochs's contemporary, Bob Dylan, when he strapped on an electric guitar at the 1965 Newport Folk Festival were right -- but simply because the sort of aural knickknacks fastened insecurely on the electric version of "I Ain't Marching Anymore" don't add anything to the song. The militant drumbeat and Farfisa tones that initiate the track give it a cheap recast, like a novelty announcement: "See, this song is about war. Get it?" They may have put meat on the beast, but only in the form of moles, freckles and skin tags.