Jonathan Richman “I, Jonathan”
What happened? Those first Modern Lovers’ songs were so noisy and high on life. But then, in an instant, he was like 70s Brian Wilson, regressed and wide-eyed. Was it performance art? Had he broken down? Was he imitating Pee Wee Herman imitating Lou Reed? I wanted to dig it. And I thought that I got it. It was still The Modern Lovers, just without any irony. Or noise. Or adulthood. But, sure—I could sing along with The Abominable Snowman in the Supermarket, The Martian Martians and The Ice Cream Man in the spirit of art. I could live without drums and electric guitars. But I was less sure whether he was in on the joke or if I was in on the joke or if there was no joke at all.
Maybe he really was the most earnest man in Rock and Roll. Perhaps Jonathan’s heart was just too big and open and it had broken and he had broken. The more I considered it all, the less sure of where I stood on the matter. Which was probably a good thing, because, soon enough, he was reborn again. And again. First as a whimsical troubadour, crooning about Harpo Marx and Walter Johnson and other historical curiosities. And, just a moment later, he was singing Country songs about riding the bus. And I liked it. I liked almost all of it. But I didn’t understand it. Or rather, I didn’t understand him. On the other hand, there was something in that nasal voice and the barely amplified Epiphone and the occasional Flamenco guitar and the handclaps and hip shakes that sounded so true that they just had to be. I was a teenager. Almost a young man. And I really wanted to understand Jonathan Richman.
A couple years later, though, when I was finally old enough to fake my way into a bar, I saw Jonathan Richman live in concert. It was just him and his guitar. He wore a striped shirt that leaned more young pirate’s mate than Picasso. Even though I knew he wouldn’t, I had hoped he might plug in and tear through “Roadrunner” and “She Cracked.” But he didn’t. He sang and clapped and shook his hips for ninety minutes to a crowd of less than a hundred people, all of whom were a decade older than me and completely enraptured. He sang about Vincent Van Gough and Fenway Park and his Fender Stratocaster. He fumbled his way through jokes and banter in between songs. He seemed like he was trying to get his heart, his hips, his voice and his guitar all in tune. And you know what? He did. It was awkward and sweet and perfect and out of tune. Jonathan Richman was not an Outsider artist. He was funny, but it was not a joke. It was not arrested development or a breakdown. No. He was a grown man whose affect was his complete disaffect. He had stopped looking outside and found himself and his music within.
Jonathan Richman claimed that he didn’t write songs, but, rather, that he “just made them up.” He wasn’t the sum son of Lou Reed, Chuck Berry and Brian Wilson. He was both a middle-aged man and that man’s inner child. And inner teenager. And inner young man. He was a Jewish kid from Boston. A twenty-something Rock and Roll flameout. A romantic. A nerd. A fan. A husband. A regular guy. A part time stonemason from California. Onstage, I could see and hear each of the Russian nesting dolls. I had no more questions. I got it. I totally and completely got it. And I wanted to be in the orbit of whatever it was.
In 1992, when I was eighteen and Jonathan Richman was forty-one, I watched him play live about a dozen times. Sometimes he had a drummer. Sometimes he played alone. In either configuration, I noticed something had shifted ever so slightly. He seemed more free, like he had an extra dose of confidence in his playing, singing, talking and dancing. Whereas, just two years before he would often stop singing to play complicated guitar parts or handclap or dance, he was now working in concert. Whereas his stage banter previously came off as cute but awkward, he was now something of a monologist. And, while he never played any of those original Modern Lovers’ songs, he unveiled an homage to The Velvet Underground wherein he covered “Sister Ray” for a minute, stripping down White Light / White Heat to its studs. If, as some have suggested, Jonathan Richman was on a journey to get closer to his present self, he arrived in 1992. Those who hadn’t heard him before, might still mistake it all for schtick. But it was clear to me that it was nothing of the sort. The music he was playing then, from the album “I, Jonathan,” was the essential Jonathan Richman.
It is true that “I, Jonathan” enjoyed slightly better sales than his previous releases. Some of this (very modest) popularity can be credited to Rounder Records, his label, which had inked a deal with a “major” to secure broader distribution and promotion. Some of it can be credited to a young Conan O’Brien, who invited Jonathan to play on his second show. And some of it can be loosely attributed to the burgeoning “Alternative Nation,” who had reclaimed sub-popular artists like Jonathan, Tom Waits, Leonard Cohen and Richard Thompson as their own. But most of his popular ascent was, of course, a product of his unlikely appearances in a string of Farrelly brothers films.
Contrary to some opinions, “I, Jonathan” may not be Jonathan Richman’s best collection of songs. There are some great tracks, for sure. But he has great songs on most of his albums. There are even a couple throwaways on “I, Jonathan.” On the other hand, the recording is better — cleaner. His band sounds like a properly micd three piece playing a little Buddy Holly and a little Surf Rock near the Pacific Ocean in the 1960s. Additionally, for the first time since the early 70s, Jonathan doesn’t sound like he is ever reaching. The romance of it is not juvenile or idealized. It all sounds very live and immediate. And then there is Jonathan’s singing and playing, both of which are more fluent than before. He is a charming, but extremely limited singer. And, as a guitarist, he is mostly playing around with the same three chords and a few tricks he picked up from Lou Reed and Dick Dale. But, by 1992, those limitations had become features, not bugs.
When Jonathan Richman looked within during the 1970s and 80s, he saw an inner child. The music completely reflected the joy, simplicity and amateurishness of that interiority. In the 1992, at forty one, when he looked within, he located a young man, in love with the real world and unaffected by pretense. “I, Jonathan” is situated there. Outside he’s a middle-aged man but inside he’s much younger. His eyes are as wide as saucers. Everything looks huge and possible. There’s no cynicism, regret from the past or anxiety for the future. It’s quite an extraordinary trick Jonathan plays where — though the album is largely situated in the past — it is simultaneously very present and in the moment. He is performing as his forty-something self in communion with his twenty-something self.
Although not all of the songs literally take place in 60s California, the album is spiritually situated then and there. Vocally, Jonathan soars beyond his charming, nasal singalongs and jokey asides, discovering truth in an earnest romanticism. And though his riffs are (charmingly) familiar, he applies Velvety, chugga chugga syncopation, Flamenco flair, and the hip shake of Disco to something still very Chuck Berry at its core. That all being said, “I, Jonathan” is less about the sound and all about that feeling.
While perhaps Richman’s solo peak, “I, Jonathan” is not, strictly speaking, a masterpiece. It has filler. “Parties in the U.S.A.” the opener, is more of a great starter than a great song. Equal parts “Summer Lovin” from “Grease” and “Hang on Sloopy,” it gets us clapping and smiling, but has no higher aim or impact. It’s quickly followed by “Tandem Jump,” which is less a song and more a two minute evocation of the delirious rush of skydiving.
Tracks three through seven, though, are not only the best stretch on the album, they may be the best stretch of Jonathan’s career. “You Can’t Talk to the Dude,” is a minor chord hip shaker that is a spiritual sequel to “She Cracked” and “Let Her Go Into the Darkness,” though more fun than either. He keeps our hips shaking on the truly wonderful, if obvious, tribute to his idols, “Velvet Underground.” Simple and heartfelt, Jonathan captures the magic of seeing the band at the “Boston Tea Party” shows in the 1960s and drops his perfect, deadpan minute of “Sister Ray.” As good as his karaoke is, though, it is his wonderfully naive poetry as capsule review that nails it:
A spooky tone on a Fender bass
Played less notes and left more space
Stayed kind of still, looked kind of shy
Kind of far away, kind of dignified
How in the world were they making that sound?
Velvet Underground
Both guitars got the fuzz tone on
The drummer's standing upright pounding along
A howl, a tone, a feedback whine
Biker boys meet the college kind
How in the world were they making that sound?
Velvet Underground
“I Was Dancing in the Lesbian Bar,” is a lovable, enduring and goofy tribute to free expression. An instant novelty and perhaps Jonathan’s most “popular” solo recording, it succeeds not because of its progressive politics but for how it connects dancing to freedom from repression. “Rooming House in Venice Beach,” meanwhile, captures that moment right before it all feels like a grind of responsibility. The percussion sounds improvised. The guitar, slightly out of tune. The singer is living near the beach, in awe of the ocean, the air and the people. Everything feels amazing. Everything feels possible.
The last great song on “I, Jonathan,” and perhaps the most beautiful song in his songbook, is “That Summer Feeling.” Just the slightest sway of a melody whispers everything you ever felt about the late Augusts from your youth. The track puts its arm around you and asks you to close your eyes, smell the fresh cut grass and feel the setting sun on your skin. I cannot think of a song that better expresses its thesis. It’s a simple one. It’s magic. It is track seven, but it is also impossible to follow up. Functionally, it’s what he leaves us with. Track eight, “A Higher Power”—with its acapella and bursting heart—is sweet but light. And while the actual coda, “Twilight in Boston,” is a lovely meditation, before it even ends you already deeply miss “That Summer Feeling.”
Jonathan Richman is nearly seventy today. Eternally young at heart, he amassed a prodigious catalogue between his legendary Modern Lovers’ albums and his solo records, which arrived like clockwork for most of the 90s and 2000s. And while many point to “I, Jonathan” as the high water mark of his solo work, the truth is that most of his releases warrant consideration. There are few outliers, great or terrible. Sometimes, he sings in Spanish. Sometimes, he sings Country Music songs. He sings for kids. He sings for the kids in all of us. His talent is rooted in the joy with which he sings, plays and dances. But his superpower -- that thing that makes him better than anyone else -- was his ability to make us feel like we were driving with the radio on in 1972 and like we were sitting in the last days of summer in 1992.