One Thousand Steps

Back on the fifth of July, when the body of a 69 year old man was found decomposing on his bed in New York, few people were aware of the guy’s name in the obits that ran in entertainment web sites and newspapers. In fact, since his virtual retirement from the world of rock criticism years ago, Paul Nelson is really only known among his writing peers. He was a contemporary of guys like Kurt Loder, Dave Marsh, Greil Marcus, Lester Bangs, and Bob Christgau back when they were all cutting their teeth in the seventies. Everyone who knew Nelson spoke of his immense talent and uniquely entertaining angle on rock criticism. He was a writer for folk magazines in the sixties, and was instrumental in defending Bob Dylan’s stepping into the electric ring back when that was seen by almost everyone else as a nod to the dark lord. In the process he eventually found himself a rock writer, and in turn began writing for Jann Wenner over at Rolling Stone. Eventually he soured on the idea of rock and popular music in general and faded into the scenery where he spent the rest of his life working on his movie script that he never finished, and earning a meager living working nights at a video store where he was surrounded by one of his great loves.

What grabbed me about Nelson was the fact that he simply stepped aside, rather quietly, and faded back into obscurity. Forever.

He was a father who basically lost touch with his son, who basically lost touch, retreating into the world inside his head. At death, he was bone thin, and by the accounts of those few who were in touch with him in his last years, he barely ate at all. When he did eat, he was famous for his crap diet that consisted in large part of Coke, and Nat Sherman cigarillos.

I have always been fascinated by those who have the resolve to withdraw in such a complete and unflinching way. It’s funny that I have had this on my mind, because one of the biggest purveyors of this concept (at least in part) that I know of personally (save for myself) would be Scott Grimm, and Scott just happened to surface in the comments section of Ramon’s last rant about poor Ian the KTRU local show dj.

I have always walked the line between a strong desire to withdraw completely and an apparently stronger sense of egotistical self-absorption necessary to stick it out enough to surround myself with the attention of others. As Ramon will attest, I will go to great lengths to avoid actual contact with other people. As it is, I can handle the actual interaction. In fact, I am not too bad at it when I actually give in and do it, but getting there is the whole deal for me. I’ll blather away in here for eternity, but just try and get me to meet you out in public. Different story.

So I am naturally drawn to figures like Nelson who do things the way they think is right, the world be damned.

But what I don’t quite grasp is how guys like him are so resolved as to carry through with the full deal. I always keep people around me. I got married. It isn’t easy being married to me, believe me. And I am in constant debate with myself as to whether or not I am someone who needs marriage. I think I just love the company of women. And now I have a son. That is something I refuse to walk away from. My dad was always away on business, and when he finally started to stay home more often, my parents separated. He was a real ass for quite some time back then, and to be honest, I had little to say to him that wasn’t inflammatory. I don’t want to be that guy.

But I always fantasize about walking away from everything and everyone. What would it be like to simply exit into another life?

Paul Nelson didn’t walk into another life, he walked away from life all together. He withdrew to his Ross MacDonald books and his Bergman films and his illegally sublet apartment. And he spent the rest of his life in his head. I don’t think I have the stones to undertake such a venture. But I often think about it and wonder what it would be like.

I write the occasional rock review for the Houston Press, and I write them for a site called Foxy Digitalis as well. I can tell you that writing reviews for records that do nothing for you, which are to be read by people you feel almost nothing in common with is not easy to do. when I write about music, I try to get the reader to feel something. If I hated the record I want the reader to be acutely aware of it, and ditto if I love it. I’ve been labeled hateful by a certain editor in particular, and my point of view has cost me, but I would hate to be another drone who writes dull trash used to sell product and not to get a brain to start working. And I am not a hateful writer. I just don’t need to be rosy about a shit record, and I won’t. I’ve read the hateful side of rock journalism and it’s tedious. The snide, over-important sense of self worth that permeates so much of the ultra-hip outer rim of rock writing is almost exclusively nauseating in its attempt to jerk itself off. I don’t consider myself an authority on anything other than my constantly changing point of view. I hate when some assbag thinks he has the right point of view on some band or album. Nobody has any talent anymore. Nobody writes in a way that compels the reader to get impassioned on their own.

I spend an inordinate amount of time in here lamenting the state of my inner world, and in a sense I’m sorry. But music is such a part of the way I think that it encompasses my views on family, mind, love, beauty, anger, and fear. And all of these feelings are things I know intimately well. Some too well. So when a guy like Ramon, who can piss me off as well as anyone, goes off on some poor unsuspecting local DJ for being ignorant (however overreaching), I’m all for it. Go get ‘em. Getting pissed is nice if you really care that much. I get pissed off at myself all the time for all sorts of painfully stupid shit I am so good at doing.

Paul Nelson walked away from a world in which he didn’t feel he belonged. That’s an extreme statement to make about your disgust with who you are. But maybe walking away is better than flirting with it, and making life that much harder for everyone involved, in the process. Who knows. If I ever walk away, I’ll let you know what it’s like.

On second thought…