“There was a time not long ago when every enlightened suburban split-level home had its share of Rod McKuen,” The San Francisco Chronicle wrote in a 2002 profile. “His mellow poetry was on the end table (‘Listen to the Warm’), his lovestruck music and spoken-word recordings were on the hi-fi and his kindly face was on the set, on ‘The Tonight Show’ and Dinah Shore’s variety hour.”"Listen to the Warm" came out in 1967. I don't know about every enlightened suburban split-level, but the first time I ever heard about that book — and I would have been 16 at the time — it was getting sneered at as tripe. People always mocked Rod McKuen. Where does the San Francisco Chronicle get its information about "enlightened suburban" folk? Who are they talking about?!
But that's poetry. Snobsville. Let's talk about song lyrics! Here's Billboard's article "Rod McKuen's Surprising Chart History: From Frank Sinatra to Madonna":
I'm a complete sucker for "Jean":
Roses are red!
So goodbye to Rod McKuen... Goodbye, my friend, it's hard to die/When all the birds are singing in the sky/Now that the spring is in the air/Pretty girls are everywhere...
ADDED: I'm playing that song at the last link, and Meade hears the line "[we] skinned our hearts and skinned our knees," and says: "Ooh! Skinned our hearts! That really hurts when you skin your heart. I didn't even know that hearts had skin." And that reaction kind of summarizes the problem a lot of people had with Rod McKuen, which might be paraphrased: What is this bullshit? Meade continues, taking issue with the line "Goodbye to you, my trusted friend/We've known each other since we were nine or ten" — "Such a trusted friend he can't even remember what year it was." And I say: "Give him a break, he's dying" — meaning the character in the song is dying. And now the lyricist is dead. Give him a break!
IN THE COMMENTS: Joanne Jacobs writes:
Jacques Brel wrote a sardonic song about a dying man saying farewell to his adulterous wife and her lover/his best friend. Rod McKuen kitschified that into "Seasons in the Sun.""Seasons in the Sun" is the song discussed — without saying the title — at the end of the post — the one with the skinned hearts. I went looking for the Jacques Brel song, which is called called "Le Moribond," and I found this nice, sharp performance, complete with English subtitles:
पोस्ट्स
५६ टिप्पण्या:
Rod McKuen will always be for me the guy who wrote the lyrics to the sickly sweet cloying abomination "Seasons in the Sun." But I'm sure he liked dogs and children.
New age.
I say it like "sewage" because that's what it was. A bunch of modern snake oil spiritual hucksterism that would make a revival tent preacher scam artist blush.
The movie "Serial" is a great send up on all that cookery.
Hugh Grant's little love letter speech near the end of Two Weeks Notice is the best I've heard.
I look at Seasons in the Sun the way I do Battlefield Earth - so insanely bad it is a masterpiece.
[A]n enduring, solidly constructed bridge between the Beat generation and New Age sensibilities.
The Beacon-Newburgh bridge is also an enduring, solidly constructed bridge between two places no rational person would wish to be.
Let's talk about song lyrics!
Indeed. Compared to today's "rap", McKuen was Shakespeare.
I'm a complete sucker for "Jean"
It was written for "The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie", a really cool movie.
If I had a friend since we were 9 or 10, I doubt I'd be able to remember if it was 9 or 10 either.
Why do Professional Critics hate a successful artist like McKuen? Because it means their opinions are meaningless.
I just read his obituary. He overcame a lot. A drunken stepfather who beat him to the point of breaking his ribs. An aunt and uncle who sexually molested him. He ran away from home at eleven......The ability to write a sentimental lyric after a background like that can be considered a triumph of the human spirit. Well, he died rich and lived to his eighties so maybe he knew some useful truths that were hidden from the more critically acclaimed poets.
Jacques Brel wrote a sardonic song about a dying man saying farewell to his adulterous wife and her lover/his best friend. Rod McKuen kitschified that into Seasons in the Sun.
I remember the early '70s. McKuen was seen as the favorite poet of 14-year-old girls.
The music is the message.
Well you can count me among the young men who thought we were oh! so sophisticated to recite the poetry of Rod McKuen and Kahlil Gibran, among others to young women we were smitten with.
No wonder I didn't get married until years later.
Judy Collins's version of la chanson des vieux amants I liked, back in the 70s.
It may be that when these friends first met, one was nine years old and the other was ten. That would make the "nine or ten" lyric an accurate assertion, without involving any memory loss.
"We skinned our hearts..."
Actually the heart does
have a 'skin' its called the pericardium and it is a sac with slimy fluid in it. It acts as a lubricant and keeps a hole from wearing through your heart from say, rubbing against your backbone while you sleep.
Very Important.
Oh, and when I was in Junior high they played that damn song on AM every five fricken minutes. Talk about aversion therapy!
Disappointed that the video didn't feature clips of a young Maggie Smith. That song was from "The prime Of Miss Jean's Body", no?
OT, but the Beats will keeping beating so long as Lawrence Ferlinghetti breathes. He's 96.
It was written for "The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie", a really cool movie.
It was a much better novel, though Maggie Smith really did shine forth, just like her gaarls
Because it means their opinions are meaningless.
Having difficulty with that one... (Warning! Danger, Will Robinson! That does not compute.)
I always had a problem with McKuen as a poet. His writing always struck me as pop lyrics in search of a tune. Another Wordsworth he wasn't. He was even another Ogden Nash. RIP.
Seasons in the Sun remains Jacques Brel, as you can see from the live performance. I credit McKuen, via Terry Jack, for at least making it easier for Canadian radio to maintain their Canadian content quotas.
I like Sinatra's version of "Love's Been Good to Me" and some of the goofy Beatsploitation tunes, like "The Beat Generation" (which Richard Hell rewrote as "The Blank Generation," a great great record). The poems are worthless and most of the songs are mediocre at best but he had his moments.
"Seasons in the Sun" was sang by a Kervorkian-like character who performed assisted suicides on an episode of Millennium.
Kind of now ties back to the earlier post about offing the depressed in Belgium.
Actually the heart does have a 'skin' its called the pericardium
We abrased our patellae,
We pricked our pericardia.
Nope. Doesn't scan. Shitcan.
He loved cats. He had several cats. He talked about his cats. He wrote poems and songs about his cats.
The horror, the horror.
Kind of now ties back to the earlier post about offing the depressed in Belgium.
It would certainly help me make up my mind.
Doctor: You have a choice. It's either the needle, or...
Me: Yeah?
Doctor: Listen to me recite "Seasons in the Sun" again.
Me: Jab me, Doc.
If you did skin your pericardium, you'd be in a world of hurt.
"Jacques Brel wrote a sardonic song about a dying man saying farewell to his adulterous wife and her lover/his best friend. Rod McKuen kitschified that into Seasons in the Sun."
I need to find that. Thanks!
"Actually the heart does
have a 'skin' its called the pericardium and it is a sac with slimy fluid in it. It acts as a lubricant and keeps a hole from wearing through your heart from say, rubbing against your backbone while you sleep.
Very Important."
Thanks!
Here's the Wikipedia page for "Seasons in the Sun." The Jacques Brel song was "Le Moribond."
Although prior English language versions had attempted to retain the sarcastic tone of the original French song, Jacks opted to make it more sentimental. In each verse, the protagonist bids farewell to someone important in his life:
The first verse references "a trusted friend" that he had known since he was "9 or 10". The original specifically names the friend as "Emile", which the Jacks' versions does not.
The second verse references the protagonist's father (who unsuccessfully tried to warn him of his lifestyle); this verse differed from the original as it was sung in a matter which downplayed the original's bitter tone of regret.
The third verse references "Michelle, my little one" (implied to be his daughter, who will now grow up without her father). This verse completely replaced the third and fourth verses referencing infidelity in the French original.
Here's the literal translation of the final verse of the original French song from that Wikipedia page:
Good-bye, my wife, I loved you well
Good-bye, my wife, I loved you well, you know,
But I'm taking the train for the Good Lord,
I'm taking the train before yours
But you take whatever train you can;
Goodbye, my wife, I'm going to die,
It's hard to die in springtime, you know,
But I'm leaving for the flowers with my eyes closed, my wife,
Because I closed them so often,
I know you will take care of my soul.
A poor man's Leonard Cohen?
Somewhere between Allan Ginsberg and Charles Manson?
Is he the guy with the guitar that Belushi smashed on the stairs.
I spelled 'Allen' wrong and I left out a question mark.
Come, Althouse, come see my boots of Spanish leather. My guitar gently weeps. My verse is free. The Hells Angels are doing security.
We are weaving rings of ever-widening empathy.
William said...
I just read his obituary. He overcame a lot. A drunken stepfather who beat him to the point of breaking his ribs. An aunt and uncle who sexually molested him. He ran away from home at eleven......
His poetry was undoubtedly schmaltzy but I like Williams’ comments on McKuens spirit overcoming childhood horrors and at a very young age going out on his own.
In retrospective maybe the country needed schmaltz with its coming out of a secession of near crushing events as the Great Depression, World War 2, the Korean war, and then the 60’s riots, cities burning, assassinations and another war.
So RIP Rod McKuen
Here's the one my parents had on LP:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t1EvRKV5Q00
Kind of magnificent in its dopiness, get you laid every time (well, not me, I was 6 or something)
A clip from "Serial," Thanks for reminding me, SGT Ted. What a mess that whole culture has made for us. Everybody wants to save the planet, but nobody wants to do the dishes.
I read and liked Rod McKuen when I was 15-17. I was working in a factory the summer I was 17 (I lied about my age) and a guy that was a few years older than me, kind of an intellectual type, was home for the summer working there as well. We were getting along well until I told him that I liked Rod McKuen and he said, "Oh! Oh! I wish you hadn't told me that." He was kidding, kind of, but he proceeded to explain to me how terrible McKuen was.
The next time I was around that guy was about 10 years later and he had been off teaching at some college in NY and was getting a divorce etc., miserable, and back home staying with his parents in Tennessee for awhile. He was an atheist. Just a real smart guy. And really miserable.
I liked Rod McKuen and I may even still have some of those old paperbacks around. They would be about 40 years old now. I'm going to see if I can find one and see how he holds up. I wish I wouldn't have let that loser punk me out on Rod McKuen.
The alt-rock band Too Much Joy does a cover version that retains Brel's intent and Jack's schmaltz.
I like McKuen's version better. I don't know if cynicism is a lower or higher form of sentimentality, but it's a form of sentimentality and can also be quite cheap and unearned.
"every enlightened suburban split-level home"
The Chronicle writer is talking about baby boomers who bought split-level homes in the suburbs in the 1970s, when that style of new home came into vogue.
It always struck me, probably form the Terry Jacks version, that "seasons in the sun" meant the 1960s, and "time to die" meant having to settle into adult responsibilities in the 1970s.
We had joy, we had fun
We cut chickens' heads off in the sun
But the headless chickens in a line were just
Chickens out of time
I am Laslo.
Actually the heart does
have a 'skin' its called the pericardium and it is a sac with slimy fluid in it
My grandmother died (in the early 1950s) from pericarditis, a bacterial infection of the pericardial sac.
Thank God for modern antibiotics!
We are alone in the tunnel and water is dripping drip drip and the walls are moist, you have perspiration above your voluptuous upper lip and the chicken is for you, Scarlett, right in front of you will be the glint of my blade and then behold the headless chicken, it runs in wobbly bloody circles on the tunnel's asphalt and it is bleeding for you, do you know how it would feel to be headless, because I think about it a lot and I would like to share with you what I have learned.
I am Laslo.
Laslo!
You don't let chickens run around with their heads cut off! That's what Democrats do. A real chicken chopper uses a metal funnel with an exit hole that is conveniently chicken-head sized.
Directions:
Seize chicken by legs.
Place head-first in funnel.
Pick up loping shears.
Snunk!
Allow chicken to drain thoroughly before scalding.
Repeat often as necessary.
I like "Jean" but only if I am thinking of it as being about a middle aged woman. Didn't care for the visuals of that video at all.
Roughcoat said...
"He loved cats. He had several cats. He talked about his cats. He wrote poems and songs about his cats."
Yes. And I continue to like "A Cat Named Sloopy," mostly because I've been owned by many a cat over the years and can identify with the poem.
Mckuen is what passes for culture in SF.
My 1967 girlfriend bought "Listen to the Warm". We were in high school sophomore English class together, in San Carlos, a suburb of San Francisco. I could tell the teacher did not approve of Rod McKuen, but she would never discourage a student's interest in poetry. I was reading On the Road, with the goal of being able to drive like Neal Cassidy.
Nobody's parents had the book! There is no bridge, enduring or otherwise, between the Beats and New Agers. The SF Chronicle is an embarrassment.
Not enlightened, never read, discussed or even thought about poor old Rod.
I just knew I'd written about "Jean" before. It was back in September 2013:
And remember Rod McKuen? Remember when people loved him and then the cultural elite delivered the message that you're supposed to hate him?
"Frank W. Hoffmann, in Arts and Entertainment Fads, described McKuen's poetry as "tailor-made for the 1960s [...] poetry with a verse that drawled in country cadences from one shapeless line to the next, carrying the rusticated innocence of a Carl Sandburg thickened by the treacle of a man who preferred to prettify the world before he described it."
"Philosopher and social critic Robert C. Solomon described McKuen's poetry as "sweet kitsch," and, at the height of his popularity in 1969, Newsweek magazine called him "the King of Kitsch."
"Writer and literary critic Nora Ephron said, "[F]or the most part, McKuen's poems are superficial and platitudinous and frequently silly." Pulitzer Prize-winning US Poet Laureate Karl Shapiro said, "It is irrelevant to speak of McKuen as a poet.""
Wow! Listen to the hate.
"Listen to the Warm,' remember that?" I ask Meade, as I look for an Amazon link that I thought would go amusingly on the words "Listen to the hate," above. "You can't even buy that now." But I remember high school kids who clutched that book and felt lucky to have it. What other poetry books — in our lifetime — have experienced that kind of young love?...
We're reveling this morning in "Good Morning Starshine"...
My love and me as we sing our
Early morning singin' song
And "Jean"...
Jean, Jean, roses are red
All the leaves have gone green
And the clouds are so low
You can touch them, and so
Come out to the meadow, Jean
Jean, Jean, you're young and alive
Come out of your half-dreamed dream
And run, if you will, to the top of the hill
Open your arms, bonnie Jean
Till the sheep in the valley come home my way
Meade says, "What'd he say? Till the sheep come home? Why not till the cows come home?"
I say that old Rod avoids clichés, at which point the first line of the song repeats, "Jean, Jean, roses are red," and we laugh.
And all of the leaves have gone green
While the hills are ablaze with the moon's yellow haze
Come into my arms, bonnie Jean
Jean, you're young and alive!!
If you're listening to the Oliver recording, you won't question those 2 exclamation points.
Come out of your half-dreamed dream
And run, if you will to the top of the hill
Come into my arms, bonnie Jean
Rod Mckuen's words, with the music of the San Sebastian Strings on the album "The Sea" was much better in 1967 for setting a "mood" than "Bolero" ever was in 1980.
Thank you Rod Mckuen, while at times glitzy, you assisted in my sensual maturation.
Jean, Jean was as heart touching a song as I can remember out of the 60s. It may be mediocre music, but it still grabs me emotionally, and that is not an easy thing to do.
I was 9 (just 9, not 9 or 10) when I saved up my allowance money to purchase my first 45 RPM record, Seasons in the Sun. My sister and I would belt it out along with Sunshine on my Shoulders while swinging in the backyard. Yeah it was bad art but I find it sad that there is no longer any cloying, sentimental music for my daughters to enjoy.
Rod is to poetry critics as Rush is to rock and roll critics.
I love the Althouse commentariat, especially with garage and Polly Wanna Cracker on extended leaves. Am grateful to Rod McKuen for his generosity at being the subject of much humor here.
"every enlightened suburban split-level"
It's not enough to ridicule McKuen or Jacks. The SF Chronicle must take a stab at les bourgeois living their ticky tacky lives. I wonder what Jaques Brel would say about that.
ALTHOUSE: "I would have been 16 at the time — it was getting sneered at as tripe. People always mocked Rod McKuen. ".......No, people didn't 'always' sneer at McKuen. A lot of mature, intelligent people Luved his early poetry, 'Stanyan' etc, as a quiet, welcome relief from the loud, crazy bullshit cliche the sixties had already become. The sneering toward McKuen began when his huge pop musical success reached even the ears of overly self-aware 16 year olds and their parents. This middle-class popularity killed him like it usually does with just about anything. But by that time, it probably did deserve to die - it had its season in the sun, etc, etc ad nauseam.
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