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Making music is one of the greatest pleasures I've ever experienced — and I'm one who sought pleasure," Jackson Browne says with a quiet laugh on an early-autumn afternoon in a New York hotel room. But, he adds, "the heart of my activism is the belief that these pleasures are for everybody. If we continue what we're doing as a country . . . " He pauses. "We're all in the same boat. That's always been the subject of my songs. We only have a little time. It's a mess, so you do everything you can."
That urgency also runs through Browne's new studio album, Time the Conqueror, one of the best and most important records he has made because it combines his folk-rock romanticism and his political idealism in songs that are both pointed and reflective. In the late-Sixties high of "Off of Wonderland," named after a street in Los Angeles' Laurel Canyon, Browne looks back on his own merry adolescence. But he follows that with the dark, brisk march "Drums of War" that, Browne says, "is a call to arms. We've just been accepting someone else's description of who the enemy is." In the nine-minute Hurricane Katrina postmortem "Where Were You," Browne pursues the trail of failure with the detailed fury of Bob Dylan's "Masters of War." "Everyone wants to get to the bottom of things," Browne insists. "They want to decide and know. It's natural."
Born in the former West Germany and raised in Los Angeles, Browne — who turns 60 on October 9th — was a precociously successful songwriter, covered by Nico, Tom Rush and the Byrds, even before he released his 1972 debut album, Jackson Browne. By the late Seventies, Browne had defined the indulgence and interior examination of California-rock life on bestselling albums such as 1976's The Pretender and 1977's Running on Empty. But then he turned acutely topical, addressing America's imperial capitalism and swing to the right under Ronald Reagan on 1983's Lawyers in Love and 1986's Lives in the Balance. Now, Browne says, "One of the great affirmations is to play a really old song next to a new one, to hear how they resonate with one another."
He is doing that on his current tour, with a full band, connecting the pleasure and patriotism, history and new headlines in his work. "'Lives in the Balance' was about U.S. policy in Central America," Browne says, "but it's about much more. If I play it now, it's obviously about Iraq." But Browne looks forward to the day when he no longer needs to sing it. "Hopefully, it will become an artifact of the distant past."
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How do you define a successful topical song — one
that works as melody and message, not just protest?
Strategy is important. You want to reach people, and you want to
reach people that don't necessarily agree with you. People stand up
and cheer in the middle of "Lives in the Balance" when I sing it
now. At the time, they weren't sure they wanted to go there. Also,
I used to make the mistake of introducing the song, talking about
it. Suddenly, you're a civics teacher, and that isn't cool.
You have to be stealthy. Sting's song "They Dance Alone" [on 1987's Nothing Like the Sun] is one of my favorite examples of how to speak to people. He magnified an appropriated image [demonstrations by women in memory of the men tortured and murdered by Chile's military junta in the Seventies] and passed it on to the world. So did Marvin Gaye in "What's Going On." No one was expecting an anti-war song from him. But it was a moment in time when people were willing to hear it from anybody, if it was heartfelt. And who better than the person who has talked to you about love and desire?
When you wrote "Where Were You," did you sit down and
think, "I have to say something about how the White House failed
the people of New Orleans"?
It began as an idea I had literally in the middle of a cloudburst
in California. It was raining so hard, I thought, "These people in
the street, where are they gonna go? They're gonna wash away." I
had this guitar lick, and when I played it with the band, I
thought, "I know what this can be about." I spent a lot of time
researching what happened, the timeline. I wrote a lot of stuff
that I threw out: "This does not bear singing over and over
again."
Passion is always the thing that motivates you. You're trying to get to the truth, what matters. There is a natural sense of politeness: "I don't want to bum you out." We all have that in certain measure. But isn't politeness one of the things punk musicians railed against? "Fuck you! I'm talking about something that matters here."
When Kris Kristofferson became political, it was astounding. He made an album of great songs and understanding about what was going on [1990's Third World Warrior], singing these songs to the most conservative audience America has. I thought it was one of the hippest records anybody ever made: [affects Kristofferson's deep, slow growl] "They're killing babies in the name of freedom/We've been down this sorry road before....I've just got to wonder what my daddy would've done/If he'd seen the way they turned his dream around" ["Don't Let the Bastards (Get You Down)"]. That's a strategy — no apologies. Tell them what you know, in this undeniably authentic, American voice.
How American — and authentic — is your
voice?
One of the great things about America is there are so many freaks
and oddballs, instances of uniqueness. I would hope I'm unique
[laughs]. I'm certainly American. I grew up in a Mexican
neighborhood, in a house people referred to as "the church" because
it looked like a mission. It had stained glass and a chapel with a
pipe organ in it. Underneath that was a dungeon. We had a full
array of metaphysical metaphors, right there in the house.
My grandfather — my father's father — built that house in a countryside between Los Angeles and Pasadena that was inhabited by a lot of odd people. He was from the Bay Area and played jug-band music. He made a grandfather clock by hand, carved out of wood. And the house was filled with Indian artifacts, because he collected them. I have an ever-present example in my life of someone who was bohemian, making the world what he wanted it to be.
"Time the Conqueror" is your first album of new songs in
six years. Does it take you longer to write now? Is it harder? Your
1967 demo tape for Elektra had more than 30 original songs —
and you weren't even 20 yet.
I used to spend less time writing songs. But I started to take a
long time to finish songs around "For Everyman" [on 1973's For
Everyman]. "The Pretender" took a long time. It's not that I
worked on it every day; I was reluctant to finish it before I had
gotten all there was out of it.
Songwriting is a search. Most of my songs set up a bunch of questions, and it takes a while to answer them. I think that happens in the listeners too. The question gets raised, it gets addressed, and along the way, the listeners have to address it for themselves.
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What is the central question in "For
Everyman"?
Where are we going? "Everybody I talk to is ready to leave/With the
light of morning." Specifically, it's about people engaging in some
alternate lifestyle, in search of a utopian existence. I had these
examples around me. David Crosby had these friends, and they had
three boats — it was like the Niña, the Pinta and the
Santa Maria of the hippie navy. They had this idea, to sail off and
find utopia. But the question was, can you do that? Where is
it?
There's an example on the new album, "Far From the Arms of Hunger." I had this line, and I couldn't figure it out: Far from where? Far from who? It was a way of describing the way I would like the world to be. Who is out of the reach of hunger or war? Nobody, either from the effects of it or the responsibility. If there is such a place, that's where we belong.
In a way, you were Bob Dylan in reverse. He became
famous as a protest singer, then turned to more personal, enigmatic
expression. You became a star by writing about emotional issues,
then turned to current events and the fate of the
nation.
Bob Dylan's political period was a complete influence on me. But
one of his greatest songs in that period is "To Ramona" [on 1964's
Another Side of Bob Dylan]. He's singing to a black woman:
"Your cracked country lips/I still wish to kiss." In the context of
that maelstrom of political activity, he has this moving, personal
thing to say to this woman. Even "Song to Woody" [on 1962's Bob
Dylan] — it was a Woody Guthrie melody, from a song about a
massacre of unionists ["1913 Massacre"]. He's singing a very
personal song to Woody Guthrie, but he does not negate or leave the
political behind. That is more like what I've been doing the whole
time. For every song I had about love and utopia, I had "For
Everyman," which talked about whether or not you could actually do
that. It was a political discussion. I assumed everyone was already
paying attention to that.
Did you start writing specifically topical songs, such
as "Lawyers in Love" and "Lives in the Balance," because you
thought the political discussion in music had
stopped?
No. "Lawyers in Love" is a prime example of me thinking everybody's
on the same page [laughs]. I was writing a satirical song
about Republicans and the upwardly mobile, who thought this evil
empire, communism, was just going to disappear. I thought everyone
would appreciate the satire. In fact, people in my own band were
going, "Uh, what's this song about?" I'd tell them. "Really?"
I don't want to be preached to, either. But these songs I started to write reflected what I found out in my reading, from speakers I heard. Before I wrote "Lives in the Balance," I had gone to Nicaragua. It was me figuring out how to put that in a song. You realize there are more important things than your career, than having the next hit.
You campaigned for John Edwards last year. Did the news
of his extra-marital affair make you question how much faith you
can put in a candidate?
Yeah, it does. But I was not drawn to Edwards because he was pure
as the driven snow. I thought he was scrappy. I thought his career
as a trial lawyer would prepare him for the job of standing up to
corporations and defending the middle class. He energized the
discussion about poverty. He was the only one of the three
[Democratic] candidates that came out against nuclear energy.
Is Obama scrappy enough for you?
He's very tenacious. By the way, I supported Obama before I
supported Edwards. And I played at an event for him about a month
ago, in San Francisco. But Obama doesn't need rock concerts. He's
way above that. There are lots of people doing benefits for him:
house parties, bands in local clubs. He is hugely successful in
communicating to people, so that they do everything they can to put
their shoulders to the wheel, to contribute in some way, without it
seeming like, "Does he have the all-important rock vote? Are the
superstars behind him?" He's got the thinking, creative populace
behind him.
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The McCain campaign used your song "Running on Empty" in
an anti-Obama ad until you sued them. What does the song actually
mean for you?
"Running on Empty" is about going forward even though your reasons
for going there have changed. The short-hand meaning of running
without anything in your tank, despite being completely depleted
— everybody understands that. But it's actually a joyous
song, about having faith in where you're going.
You have been dedicated to fighting nuclear energy since
the No Nukes concerts in New York in 1979. How big is your carbon
imprint?
I don't know how to measure it. I have a house that is totally off
the grid: It runs on wind and solar power. The biggest thing that
uses electricity is my studio, and we're trying to figure out how
to fix that. Jack Johnson has a studio that is totally solar, but
it's digital. Tubes like electricity.
From the beginning of my involvement with nuclear issues, I felt I should find out as much as possible about the alternatives we were proposing. This country should be leading the world in these technologies. Even if you want to argue for the need of a strong military that runs on oil — I don't agree, but if that's what you believe — you ought to see the point in conserving. Our true wealth is in our ingenuity to innovate, to respond to challenges. And that was our legacy — until recently.
On the new album, in "Giving That Heaven Away," you
sing, "I'm gonna go down singing." Is that defiance, frustration or
acceptance?
It's defiance. And it's acceptance, too. It's not frustration.
We're all going down. We're only here for a little while, and
you've got to use your time for what matters. One great thing about
making music: You get to leave a record of where you've been and
how you felt at the time. I used to want to keep a journal. I had
this outrageous experience in the desert, all by myself,
psychedelics. I tried to write the journal entry. I couldn't. This
is my version of keeping a record. And you see the people who hear
it. Last night [in Philadelphia], I was singing "Giving That Heaven
Away." I looked out, and there's this really big guy, by himself.
And he's singing. I was so happy. The song works, for whoever hears
it. It's not just about me, or someone imagining they're me.
Everybody's been to that place, in the soul. That's what I want to
achieve. That's what you can do with a guitar.
[From Issue 1063 — October 16, 2008]
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