Warren Zevon At A Glance

Rock n' roll and Stravinsky aren't typically labeled bed fellows. The art of top 40 lyricism and the poetic structure of Kerouac also don't seem to have any shared quality. They are, by all conventional means, not related by anything but circumstance. Though far flung, circumstance did allow for such a bastard marriage. One perpetually flawed Californian, an OCD, swamp voiced intellectual composer with a sex addiction and a fear of committment, spent his stoned California nights marrying these diverse opposites on a Steinway with warm beer and cheap cigarettes for company. He was the poster child for two things, rehab and Rhodes Sholars. His eclectic mix of personal self destruction and high IQ made him the most interesting of the artists booting demos in Laurel Canyon around the end of the 60's, a time when the Brill building kids over in New York were shooting smack and crafting structured hits for half baked pop groups. His work delved deeper into the psychosis of man, into the raw perversity and the blood drenched violence of exploitive cinema. His trademark was to elevate anti-heroes, beautiful losers and social geniuses lost in a crowd of idiocy.

His name, one you might see in your local bargain bin, was Warren Zevon. The son of a Russian gangster, Zevon grew up in a torrid world of mafia violence and wealth. Rather than follow his fathers path, he found a kind of maternal solace in music, especially that of classical composers. He studied under a protege of Stravinsky, learning at a young age to read and compose complex music. This obsession became useful later on when, as his family life crumbled around him, he became aware of pop music. He found a basic escape in the rebellion of The Stones and The Beatles. The intrigue and overt simplicity of pop allowed for him to graft on the complexities of classical arrangement. Soon enough, he was creating pop symphonics and writing lyrics more in the vein of Hemingway than John Lennon.

His pantheon is one of the great California stories, a string of perfect, intellectually stimulating records with biting social satire. The idea he seemed to push across the fault line was one of layered question. His work asked the eternal questions of why and how and who. They were snapshots of the idiot parade outside his door, a world apart from his mind, as much a prison as a breeding ground for brilliance. Locked away in his study, Zevon painted pictures of rapists at junior proms, werewolves mauling old ladies and trees that looked like crucified thieves. His imagery was often that of a philospher, the details requiring a trip or seven to an almanac or an atlas. His music, a shakeup of opposing sounds, was Beethoven married to Carl Perkins.

The depth of his lyrical output kept him at odds with any real mainstream success other than "Werewolves Of London", a novelty tribute to his shameless love of b-movie horror and mystery novels. His greater works, among them"Muhammads Radio" and "Desperados Under The Eaves" ,were recorded by better known artists, some of them doing little but helping the audience lose the meaning in translation. Lina Rondstat sucked the beauty out of "Poor, Poor Pitiful Me". Jackson Browne oiled away the heroin tribute "Carmelita".

The truth is nobody sang Warren's songs like Warren. He made the perpetually screwed up characters in his songs seem lived in and tired. He was the same weary they were. The lust he had for sex and the magneticism to alcohol made him a very difficult and odd human being, a man who's OCD carved most of the time in his day out for superstition and routine. But these vices made him a darker, better writer, one who's anger with himself created a wealth of black humor and divisive opinion.

In all the storied history of popular music, a black sheep of the ilk Warren represented hasn't been known. His cadence and ability have driven the most diligent artists to shrug and admit defeat. He was maybe the one guy who matched Randy Newman step for step as an integrater of satire with serious social commentary. His legend is one that also belongs to David Foster Wallace and Harry Neilsson, writers who's ambiton and ability never reached the audience they should have.

You should buy a Zevon record, maybe Excitable Boy, and drive out into Topanga Canyon some time, maybe down the Las Vegas strip or even Route 66...it doesn't matter. You'll find a voice that's original enough to saturate your surroundings and make you think hard and long about nothing at all. Then, go home and do something with what's left of your life.