Part 1 (1/2)

Chuck Klosterman on Pop.

by Chuck Klosterman.

Every Dog Must Have

His Every Day, Every Drunk

Must Have His Drink

Several months before nineteen unsmiling people from the Middle East woke up early on a Tuesday in order to commit suicide by flying planes into tall New York office buildings, I sent out a ma.s.s e-mail to several acquaintances that focused on the concept of patriotism. At the time, ”patriotism” seemed like a quaint, baffling concept; it was almost like asking people to express their feelings on the art of blacksmithing. But sometimes I like to ask people what they think about blacksmithing, too.

So ANYWAY, here was the content of my e-mail: I gave everyone two potential options for a hypothetical blind date and asked them to pick who they'd prefer. The only things they knew about the first candidate was that he or she was attractive and successful. The only things they knew about the second candidate was that he or she was attractive, successful, and ”extremely patriotic.” No other details were provided or could be ascertained.

Just about everyone immediately responded by selecting the first individual. They viewed patriotism as a downside. I wasn't too surprised; in fact, I was mostly just amused by how everyone seemed to think extremely patriotic people weren't just undateable, but totally f.u.c.king insane. One of them wrote that the quality of ”patriotism” was on par with ”regularly listening to Cat Stevens” and ”loves Robin Williams movies.” Comparisons were made to Ted Nugent and Patrick Henry. And one especially snide fellow sent back a ma.s.s message to the entire e-mail group, essentially claiming that any woman who loved America didn't deserve deserve to date him, not because he hated his country but because patriotic people weren't smart. to date him, not because he hated his country but because patriotic people weren't smart.

That last response outraged one of my friends, a thirty-one-year-old lawyer who had been the only individual in the entire group who claimed to prefer the extremely patriotic candidate to the alternative. He sent me one of the most sincerely aggravated epistles I've ever received, and I still recall a segment of his electronic diatribe that was painfully accurate: ”You know how historians call people who came of age during World War II 'the greatest generation'? No one will ever say that about us,” he wrote. ”We'll be 'the cool generation.' That's all we're good at, and that's all you and your friends seem to aspire to.”

What's kind of ironic about this statement is that I think my lawyer friend was trying to make me reevaluate the state of my life, but it mostly just made me think about Billy Joel. n.o.body would ever claim that Billy Joel is cool cool in the conventional sense, particularly if they're the kind of person who actively worries about what coolness is supposed to mean. Billy Joel is also not cool in the kitschy, campy, ”he's so uncool he's cool” sense, which also happens to be the most tired designation in popular culture. He has no intrinsic coolness, and he has no extrinsic coolness. If cool was a color, it would be black-and Billy Joel would be sort of burnt orange. in the conventional sense, particularly if they're the kind of person who actively worries about what coolness is supposed to mean. Billy Joel is also not cool in the kitschy, campy, ”he's so uncool he's cool” sense, which also happens to be the most tired designation in popular culture. He has no intrinsic coolness, and he has no extrinsic coolness. If cool was a color, it would be black-and Billy Joel would be sort of burnt orange.

Yet Billy Joel is great great. And he's not great because because he's uncool, nor is he great because he ”doesn't worry about being cool” (because I think he kind of does). No, he's great in the same way that your dead grandfather is great. Because unlike 99 percent of pop artists, there is absolutely no relations.h.i.+p between Joel's greatness and Joel's coolness (or lack thereof), just as there's no relations.h.i.+p between the ”greatness” of serving in World War II and the ”coolness” of serving in World War II. What he does as an artist wouldn't be better if he was significantly cooler, and it's not worse because he isn't. And that's sort of amazing when one considers that he's supposedly a rock star. he's uncool, nor is he great because he ”doesn't worry about being cool” (because I think he kind of does). No, he's great in the same way that your dead grandfather is great. Because unlike 99 percent of pop artists, there is absolutely no relations.h.i.+p between Joel's greatness and Joel's coolness (or lack thereof), just as there's no relations.h.i.+p between the ”greatness” of serving in World War II and the ”coolness” of serving in World War II. What he does as an artist wouldn't be better if he was significantly cooler, and it's not worse because he isn't. And that's sort of amazing when one considers that he's supposedly a rock star.

For just about everybody else in the idiom of rock, being cool is pretty much the whole job description. It's difficult to think of rock artists who are great without being cool, since that's precisely why we need them to exist. There have been countless bands in rock history-T. Rex, Jane's Addiction, the White Stripes, et al.-who I will always cla.s.sify as ”great,” even though they're really just spine-crus.h.i.+ngly ”cool.” What they are are is more important than what they is more important than what they do do. And this is not a criticism of coolness; by and large, the musical component of rock isn't nearly as important as the iconography and the posturing and the idea idea of what we're supposed to be experiencing. If given the choice between hearing a great band and seeing a cool band, I'll take the latter every single time; this is why the Eagles suck. But it's the constraints of that very relations.h.i.+p that give Billy Joel his subterranean fabulousity, and it's why he's una.s.sumingly superior to all his mainstream seventies peers who got far more credit (James Taylor, Carole King, Bruce Springsteen, etc.). Joel is the only rock star I've ever loved who I of what we're supposed to be experiencing. If given the choice between hearing a great band and seeing a cool band, I'll take the latter every single time; this is why the Eagles suck. But it's the constraints of that very relations.h.i.+p that give Billy Joel his subterranean fabulousity, and it's why he's una.s.sumingly superior to all his mainstream seventies peers who got far more credit (James Taylor, Carole King, Bruce Springsteen, etc.). Joel is the only rock star I've ever loved who I never never wanted to be (not even when he was sleeping with Christie Brinkley). Every one of Joel's important songs-including the happy ones-are ultimately about loneliness. And it's not ”clever lonely” (like Morrissey) or ”interesting lonely” (like Radiohead); it's ”lonely lonely,” like the way it feels when you're being hugged by someone and it somehow makes you sadder. wanted to be (not even when he was sleeping with Christie Brinkley). Every one of Joel's important songs-including the happy ones-are ultimately about loneliness. And it's not ”clever lonely” (like Morrissey) or ”interesting lonely” (like Radiohead); it's ”lonely lonely,” like the way it feels when you're being hugged by someone and it somehow makes you sadder.

Now, I know what you're thinking: What about that G.o.dawful current events song that seemed like a rip-off of R.E.M. (1989's ”We Didn't Start the Fire”)? What's lonely about that, you ask? Well, my response is simple-I don't count that song. I don't count anything that comes after his An Innocent Man An Innocent Man alb.u.m, and I barely count that one. And aesthetically, this is totally acceptable. Unless they die before the age of thirty-three, n.o.body's entire career matters, and we all unconsciously understand this. If you're trapped in a Beatles-Stones debate, it's not like anybody tries to prove a point by comparing alb.u.m, and I barely count that one. And aesthetically, this is totally acceptable. Unless they die before the age of thirty-three, n.o.body's entire career matters, and we all unconsciously understand this. If you're trapped in a Beatles-Stones debate, it's not like anybody tries to prove a point by comparing Help! Help! to to Steel Wheels Steel Wheels. Black Sabbath is the most underrated band in rock history, and that designation isn't weakened by 1994's Cross Purposes Cross Purposes. Even guys who make relatively important alb.u.ms in the twilight of their artistic life-most notably Bob Dylan and Neil Young-are granted unlimited lines of critical credit simply for not not making alb.u.ms that are completely terrible. The unspoken (though much-denied) conceit of everybody who loves rock 'n' roll is that n.o.body old and rickety can be relevant making alb.u.ms that are completely terrible. The unspoken (though much-denied) conceit of everybody who loves rock 'n' roll is that n.o.body old and rickety can be relevant at all, at all, so anything remotely close to social consequence is akin to genius; that's why so anything remotely close to social consequence is akin to genius; that's why Love and Theft Love and Theft was cla.s.sified as ”cla.s.sic” in 2001, even though it would have been nothing more than ”solid” in 1976. So no one is denying that Billy Joel has put out c.r.a.p for as many years as he put out quality. But it doesn't matter, because he never had the responsibility of staying cool. His c.r.a.ppiest alb.u.ms ( was cla.s.sified as ”cla.s.sic” in 2001, even though it would have been nothing more than ”solid” in 1976. So no one is denying that Billy Joel has put out c.r.a.p for as many years as he put out quality. But it doesn't matter, because he never had the responsibility of staying cool. His c.r.a.ppiest alb.u.ms (The Bridge, River of Dreams, etc.) can just be separated out and ignored entirely. Unlike Lou Reed or David Bowie, ”Billy Joel” is not a larger pop construct or an expansive pop idea. Billy Joel is just a guy. And that's why-unlike someone like Jeff Buckley-his records wouldn't seem any better if he was dead. etc.) can just be separated out and ignored entirely. Unlike Lou Reed or David Bowie, ”Billy Joel” is not a larger pop construct or an expansive pop idea. Billy Joel is just a guy. And that's why-unlike someone like Jeff Buckley-his records wouldn't seem any better if he was dead.

What I'm saying is that there are no conditions for appreciating Billy Joel. I'm not sure loving an alb.u.m like Gla.s.s Houses Gla.s.s Houses says anything about me (or about anyone). And in theory, this should make it a bad record, or-at best-a meaningless artifact. It should make liking says anything about me (or about anyone). And in theory, this should make it a bad record, or-at best-a meaningless artifact. It should make liking Gla.s.s Houses Gla.s.s Houses akin to liking mashed potatoes or rainy afternoons. You can't characterize your self-image through its ten songs. I was eight when that record came out in 1980, and I vividly recall both my sister Teresa (who was nineteen) my brother Paul (who was eighteen) playing akin to liking mashed potatoes or rainy afternoons. You can't characterize your self-image through its ten songs. I was eight when that record came out in 1980, and I vividly recall both my sister Teresa (who was nineteen) my brother Paul (who was eighteen) playing Gla.s.s Houses Gla.s.s Houses constantly, which was normally unthinkable; Teresa liked the Police and Elton John, and Paul liked Molly Hatchet and Foreigner. The only alb.u.ms they could play when they were in the same room were Cheap Trick's constantly, which was normally unthinkable; Teresa liked the Police and Elton John, and Paul liked Molly Hatchet and Foreigner. The only alb.u.ms they could play when they were in the same room were Cheap Trick's At Budokan At Budokan and and Gla.s.s Houses Gla.s.s Houses. Retrospectively, the unilateral Cheap Trick fixation made perfect sense: Cheap Trick was good at being cool for everybody for everybody. They rocked just hard enough to be cool to metal kids, they looked just cool enough to be New Wave, and Robin Zander had the kind of hair that semimature teenage girls wanted to play with. Even today, the Cheap Trick logo stands as the coolest-looking font in the history of rock. But none of those qualities can be applied to Gla.s.s Houses, Gla.s.s Houses, now or then; in theory, there is no way that record should have mattered to anyone, and certainly not to everyone. now or then; in theory, there is no way that record should have mattered to anyone, and certainly not to everyone.

However, even I liked that record, and I was eight. And I didn't like records when I was eight; I mostly liked dinosaurs and math. This was all new. But what's even weirder is that I could relate I could relate to this alb.u.m. And I can still relate to it-differently, I suppose, but maybe less differently than I realize. What I heard on to this alb.u.m. And I can still relate to it-differently, I suppose, but maybe less differently than I realize. What I heard on Gla.s.s Houses Gla.s.s Houses (and what I still hear) is somebody who's bored and trapped and unimpressed by his own success, all of which are sentiments that have never stopped making sense to me. (and what I still hear) is somebody who's bored and trapped and unimpressed by his own success, all of which are sentiments that have never stopped making sense to me.

It's always difficult to understand what people think they're hearing when they listen to the radio. This was especially true in the 1970s, when there seemed to be no difference between what was supposedly ”good music” and what was supposedly ”bad music.” WMMS, the premiere radio station in Cleveland during the Carter administration, was famous for playing Springsteen's ”Born to Run” every Friday afternoon at exactly 5:00 P.M. For years, that was the station's calling card. And this was done without irony; this song was supposed to serve as the anthem and the spirit for working-cla.s.s Northeast Ohioans. Eventually, that's what ”Born to Run” became. But what n.o.body seemed to notice is that this song has some of the most ridiculous lyrics ever recorded. Half the time, Springsteen writes like someone typing a PG-13 letter for Penthouse Forum Penthouse Forum: The lines ”Just wrap your legs round these velvet rims / And strap your hands across my engines” is as funny as anything Tenacious D ever recorded, except Bruce is trying to be deep.

Now, it's not like this song is necessarily terrible, and it's certainly better than everything on Born in the U.S.A Born in the U.S.A. (except ”Glory Days” and maybe ”I'm Goin' Down”). But it's difficult to understand why ”Born to Run” is considered a higher poetic achievement than Meat Loaf's ”Paradise by the Dashboard Light” or Van Halen's ”Runnin' with the Devil,” two equally popular songs from the same period that expressed roughly similar themes while earning no cred whatsoever. So the real question becomes: Why did this happen? Part of it is probably based in fact; I suppose Springsteen is ”more real” (or whatever) and took a legitimately emotive risk with his earnest eighth-grade poetry; referring to your guts as ”my engines” may be idiotic, but I have little doubt that Bruce really thinks of his rib cage in those terms. However, Springsteen's sincerity only mattered if you had a predetermined opinion about what he was trying to accomplish. David Lee Roth might have been sincere, but he was just a cool kid trying to get laid; Meat Loaf might have been sincere, but he was just a fat goofball who was cool in spite of himself. But Bruce was trying to save you But Bruce was trying to save you. He appealed to the kind of desperate intellectual who halfway believed that-when not recording or touring-Springsteen actually went back to New Jersey to work at a car wash. Before he even utters his lyrics, people accept his words as insights into their version of existence. Had Bruce written ”Paradise by the Dashboard Light,” people would play it at weddings.

Once again, I want to stress that I have no qualms with how this process works. I'm not interested in trying to convince anyone that they should (or shouldn't) adore whichever denim-clad icon they choose. However, this abstract relations.h.i.+p between the perception of the artist and the appreciation of his product unfairly ghettoized Billy Joel while he was making the best music of his career (and some of the best music of the late seventies and early eighties). Because Billy is not ”cool,” like Elvis Costello- and because he's not ”anticool,” like Randy Newman-Joel was perceived as edgeless light rock. All anybody noticed was the dulcet plinking of his piano. Since his songs were so radio-friendly, it was a.s.sumed that he was the FM version of AM. This is what happens when you don't construct an archetypical persona: If you're popular and melodic and faceless, you seem meaningless. The same thing happened to Steely Dan, a group who served as the house band for every 1978 West Coast singles bar despite being more lyrically subversive than the s.e.x Pistols and the Clash combined. If a musician can't convince people that he's cool, n.o.body cool is going to care. And in the realm of rock 'n' roll, the cool kids f.u.c.king rule rule.

In fact, I sometimes suspect that if I had first heard Gla.s.s Houses Gla.s.s Houses five years later than I did-when I was, say, thirteen-I might have hated it before I even put the needle down. The whole metaphor behind the cover shot (”Look! I'm self-reflexively throwing rocks at my ident.i.ty!”) might have seemed forced, and the skinny tie he's wearing on the back cover would have seemed like something from the Knack's closet, and everybody hated the Knack in 1985 (including, I think, the actual members of the Knack). But because I was too young to understand that rock music was supposed to be cool, I played five years later than I did-when I was, say, thirteen-I might have hated it before I even put the needle down. The whole metaphor behind the cover shot (”Look! I'm self-reflexively throwing rocks at my ident.i.ty!”) might have seemed forced, and the skinny tie he's wearing on the back cover would have seemed like something from the Knack's closet, and everybody hated the Knack in 1985 (including, I think, the actual members of the Knack). But because I was too young to understand that rock music was supposed to be cool, I played Gla.s.s Houses Gla.s.s Houses in my bas.e.m.e.nt ad nauseam and-in that weird, second-grade way-I studied its contents. My favorite song was ”All for Leyna” at the conclusion of side one, where Billy claimed to be, ” in my bas.e.m.e.nt ad nauseam and-in that weird, second-grade way-I studied its contents. My favorite song was ”All for Leyna” at the conclusion of side one, where Billy claimed to be, ”Kidding myself / Wasting my time.” However, I mostly listened to side two, which included ”I Don't Want to Be Alone Anymore” (where Billy enters a relations.h.i.+p only because his female acquaintance is bored with dating), ”Sleeping with the Television On” (where Billy expresses regret for being a ”thinking man,” which is already how I viewed myself at the age of eight), and the pseudo-metal ”Close to the Borderline”1 (where Billy suddenly becomes Frank Serpico). Certainly, it's not as if Billy Joel was the first artist who ever sang about being inexplicably depressed. But he might be the first artist who ever sang about getting yelled at (where Billy suddenly becomes Frank Serpico). Certainly, it's not as if Billy Joel was the first artist who ever sang about being inexplicably depressed. But he might be the first artist who ever sang about getting yelled at by his dad by his dad for being depressed, which is less a commentary on his father and more an ill.u.s.tration of how Joel couldn't deny that he had no valid reason to be unhappy (yet still was). When I eventually learned that Joel tried to kill himself in 1969 by drinking half a bottle of furniture polish (how Goth!), I wasn't the least bit surprised. Joel's best work always sounds like unsuccessful suicide attempts. for being depressed, which is less a commentary on his father and more an ill.u.s.tration of how Joel couldn't deny that he had no valid reason to be unhappy (yet still was). When I eventually learned that Joel tried to kill himself in 1969 by drinking half a bottle of furniture polish (how Goth!), I wasn't the least bit surprised. Joel's best work always sounds like unsuccessful suicide attempts.

Gla.s.s Houses sold seven million records, mostly on the strength of its singles ”You May Be Right” and ”It's Still Rock and Roll to Me.” These songs are okay, I guess, although they never struck me as being particularly reflective of anything too important. They felt (and still feel) a tad melodramatic. They seem like they're sold seven million records, mostly on the strength of its singles ”You May Be Right” and ”It's Still Rock and Roll to Me.” These songs are okay, I guess, although they never struck me as being particularly reflective of anything too important. They felt (and still feel) a tad melodramatic. They seem like they're supposed supposed to be ”hit singles,” which means they sound like they're supposed to be experienced in public. Because Joel has no clear connotation as a public figure, these songs don't gain any significance by being popular. That paradox is even more evident on Joel's 1982 follow-up alb.u.m to be ”hit singles,” which means they sound like they're supposed to be experienced in public. Because Joel has no clear connotation as a public figure, these songs don't gain any significance by being popular. That paradox is even more evident on Joel's 1982 follow-up alb.u.m The Nylon Curtain, The Nylon Curtain, an opus with three decent songs that lots of people know by heart-”Allentown,” ”Pressure,” and ”Goodnight Saigon”-and six amazingly self-exploratory songs that almost no one except diehard fans are even vaguely familiar with. an opus with three decent songs that lots of people know by heart-”Allentown,” ”Pressure,” and ”Goodnight Saigon”-and six amazingly self-exploratory songs that almost no one except diehard fans are even vaguely familiar with.

Granted, I realize that I'm making a trite, superfan-ish argument: I constantly meet people who love some terrible band (usually the Moody Blues) and proceed to tell me that the reason I fail to understand their greatness is because I only know what I've heard on the radio. Most of the time, these people are completely wrong; while the finest Led Zeppelin songs (for example) are all obscure, the most important Zep songs are ”Whole Lotta Love,” ”Immigrant Song,” and ”Stairway to Heaven.” These are the tracks that define what Zeppelin was about, beyond their tangible iconography as a loud four-piece rock band. Houses of the Holy Houses of the Holy is a great (small is a great (small g g) alb.u.m, but those aforementioned three songs are why Led Zeppelin is Great (big G G). This is true for most artists. So that being the case, it seems strange to advocate Billy Joel's Greatness (big G G) by pointing to unheralded songs off The Nylon Curtain, The Nylon Curtain, an alb.u.m that only sold one million copies and was widely seen as a commercial disappointment. Logically, I should be talking about 1973's ”Piano Man,” his bread-and-b.u.t.ter tour de force and the one Joel song that's forever part of the cultural lexicon. But that deconstructive angle wouldn't work in this particular case; to argue for Joel's import on the strength of ”Piano Man” would make him no more consequential than Don McLean or Dexy's Midnight Runners. ”Piano Man” now belongs to everybody, and most of that everybody couldn't care less about its source. Saying you like ”Piano Man” doesn't mean you like Billy Joel; it means you're willing to go to a piano bar if there's nothing else to do. an alb.u.m that only sold one million copies and was widely seen as a commercial disappointment. Logically, I should be talking about 1973's ”Piano Man,” his bread-and-b.u.t.ter tour de force and the one Joel song that's forever part of the cultural lexicon. But that deconstructive angle wouldn't work in this particular case; to argue for Joel's import on the strength of ”Piano Man” would make him no more consequential than Don McLean or Dexy's Midnight Runners. ”Piano Man” now belongs to everybody, and most of that everybody couldn't care less about its source. Saying you like ”Piano Man” doesn't mean you like Billy Joel; it means you're willing to go to a piano bar if there's nothing else to do.

Meanwhile, saying you like ”Immigrant Song” (or even just saying that you don't hate hate ”Stairway to Heaven”) means you like Led Zeppelin-and to say you ”like Led Zeppelin” means you like their highly stylized version of c.o.c.k-rock cool. It means you accept a certain kind of art. Pretty much everybody agrees that Zeppelin is-at the very least-cool to mainstream audiences, so their timelessness and significance is best defined by their bestknown work. That's how it works with cool artists (Miles Davis, Iggy Pop, whoever). But-as I've stated all along-Billy Joel is not cool. ”Stairway to Heaven”) means you like Led Zeppelin-and to say you ”like Led Zeppelin” means you like their highly stylized version of c.o.c.k-rock cool. It means you accept a certain kind of art. Pretty much everybody agrees that Zeppelin is-at the very least-cool to mainstream audiences, so their timelessness and significance is best defined by their bestknown work. That's how it works with cool artists (Miles Davis, Iggy Pop, whoever). But-as I've stated all along-Billy Joel is not cool.2 Even though ”Piano Man” is autobiographical, it's not important that he's the guy who wrote the words and sang the song; I'm sure it would be just as popular if Bernie Taupin had come up with those lyrics and Elton John had released it as the second single off Even though ”Piano Man” is autobiographical, it's not important that he's the guy who wrote the words and sang the song; I'm sure it would be just as popular if Bernie Taupin had come up with those lyrics and Elton John had released it as the second single off Madman Across the Water Madman Across the Water. Because there's nothing about Joel's personage that's integral to his success, he's one of the only hyper-mainstream pop artists who's brilliant for reasons (and for songs) that almost no one is aware of.

Which brings me back to The Nylon Curtain The Nylon Curtain. The reason I generally dismiss the popular songs on this record is because they seem like big ideas that aren't about any specific person, and Joel is better when he does the opposite. ”Allentown” has a likable structure, but it's just this big song about why baby boomers supposedly have it rough. ”Pressure” is the big keyboardy Bright Lights, Big City Bright Lights, Big City c.o.ke song; ”Goodnight Saigon” is the big retrospective Vietnam song that's critical of the war but supportive of the people who fought there, a distinction n.o.body seemed to put forward until they starting reading Time-Life books in the early 1980s. All of this is fine and painless, and my a.s.sumption is that these three songs are the tunes conventional Joel proponents adore. But it's two other songs-”Laura” and ”Where's the Orchestra”-that warrant a complete reinvention of how hipsters should look at Joel as a spokesman for the disaffection of success. c.o.ke song; ”Goodnight Saigon” is the big retrospective Vietnam song that's critical of the war but supportive of the people who fought there, a distinction n.o.body seemed to put forward until they starting reading Time-Life books in the early 1980s. All of this is fine and painless, and my a.s.sumption is that these three songs are the tunes conventional Joel proponents adore. But it's two other songs-”Laura” and ”Where's the Orchestra”-that warrant a complete reinvention of how hipsters should look at Joel as a spokesman for the disaffection of success.

Joel wanted The Nylon Curtain The Nylon Curtain to be like a mid-period Beatles record, which would be like me wanting this book to be as good as to be like a mid-period Beatles record, which would be like me wanting this book to be as good as Catch-22 Catch-22. But ”Laura” and ”Where's the Orchestra” really are are as good as most of what's on as good as most of what's on The White Alb.u.m The White Alb.u.m. This is because the first song says things so directly that its words shouldn't make sense to anybody else (and yet they do), while the latter is so metaphorically vague that anybody should be able to understand what he's implying (yet I've listened to this song for twenty years and still feel like I'm missing something).

”Laura” is about a relentlessly desperate woman (possibly his ex-wife, possibly someone else, possibly somebody fictional)3 who is slowly killing the narrator by refusing to end a relations.h.i.+p that's clearly over. Making matters worse is the narrator's inability to say ”no” to Laura, a woman who continues to s.e.xually control him. who is slowly killing the narrator by refusing to end a relations.h.i.+p that's clearly over. Making matters worse is the narrator's inability to say ”no” to Laura, a woman who continues to s.e.xually control him.

Now, the reason I keep using the term narrator narrator (as opposed to (as opposed to Billy Billy) is because this amazingly personal song never makes me think of the person who's singing it. Whenever I hear ”Laura,” I immediately put myself in Joel's position, and he sort of disappears into the ether. It's almost as if Joel's role in the musical experience is just to create a framework that I can place myself into; some of Raymond Carver's best stories do the same thing. The Laura character has specific-but not exclusionary-traits (her behavior seems unique, but still somewhat universal), and the mood of Joel's piano playing has a quality that jams hopelessness into beauty. This is a song about someone whose life is technically and superficially perfect, but secretly in shambles. It's about having a dark secret, but-once again-not a cool cool secret. This is not a s.e.xy problem (like heroin addiction), or even an interesting one (like the entanglements expressed in Rufus Wainright's ”Instant Pleasure” or Sloan's ”Underwhelmed”). It's mostly just exhausting, and that's how it feels. secret. This is not a s.e.xy problem (like heroin addiction), or even an interesting one (like the entanglements expressed in Rufus Wainright's ”Instant Pleasure” or Sloan's ”Underwhelmed”). It's mostly just exhausting, and that's how it feels.

”Where's the Orchestra” reveals the same sentiments, only sadder. The lyrics are one long allusion to watching a theatrical production that isn't satisfying, and virtually anyone can figure out that Joel is actually discussing the inexplicable emptiness of his own life. The words are not subtle. But it paints a worldview that I have never been able to see through, and there has never been a point in my life-be it junior high, college, or ten minutes ago-when this song didn't seem like the single most accurate depiction of my feelings toward the entire world. In fact, sometimes I tell people that they will understand me better if they listen to ”Where's the Orchestra?” And you know what? They never do. They never do, and it's because they all inevitably think the song is actually about them them.

That's what all of The Nylon Curtain The Nylon Curtain is really about, I think: the New Depression, which started around the same time this alb.u.m came out. People have always been depressed, but-during the early eighties-there just seemed to be this overwhelming public consensus that being depressed was the most normal thing anyone could be. In fact, being depressed sort of meant you were smart. And in a larger sense, Joel's music was doc.u.menting that idea from the very beginning. A song like ”Honesty” (on 1978's is really about, I think: the New Depression, which started around the same time this alb.u.m came out. People have always been depressed, but-during the early eighties-there just seemed to be this overwhelming public consensus that being depressed was the most normal thing anyone could be. In fact, being depressed sort of meant you were smart. And in a larger sense, Joel's music was doc.u.menting that idea from the very beginning. A song like ”Honesty” (on 1978's 52nd Street 52nd Street) implies that the only way you can tell whether someone really cares about you is if they tell you you're bad. ”So It Goes” (a ballad released in 1990 but actually written in 1983) has Joel conceding that every woman who loves him will eventually decide to leave; ”Scenes from an Italian Restaurant,” off The Stranger, The Stranger, is about how the most perfect relations.h.i.+ps are inevitably the most doomed. Joel's music always has an undercurrent railing against the desire for perfection. Another song off is about how the most perfect relations.h.i.+ps are inevitably the most doomed. Joel's music always has an undercurrent railing against the desire for perfection. Another song off The Stranger The Stranger-”Just the Way You Are”-proves that sentiment twice (once cleverly, and once profoundly).

To this day, women are touched by the words of ”Just the Way You Are,” a musical love letter that says everything everybody wants to hear: You're not flawless, but you're still what I want. It was written about Joel's wife and manager Elizabeth Weber, and it outlines how he doesn't want his woman to ”try some new fas.h.i.+on” or dye her hair blond or work on being witty. He specifically asks that she ”don't go changing” in the hopes of pleasing him. The short-term a.n.a.lysis is that this is a criticism of perfection, but in the best possible way; it's like Billy is saying he loves Weber because because she's not perfect, and that he could never leave her in times of trouble. she's not perfect, and that he could never leave her in times of trouble.

The sad irony, of course, is that Joel divorced Elizabeth three years after ”Just the Way You Are” won a Grammy for Song of the Year. Obviously, some would say that cheapens the song and makes it irrelevant. I think the opposite is true. I think the fact that Joel divorced the woman he wrote this song about makes it his single greatest achievement.

When I hear ”Just the Way You Are,” it never makes me think about Joel's broken marriage. It makes me think about all the perfectly scribed love letters and drunken e-mails I have written over the past twelve years, and about all the various women who received them. I think about how I told them they changed the way I thought about the universe, and that they made every other woman on earth unattractive, and that I would love them unconditionally even if we were never together. I hate that those letters still exist. But I don't hate them because what I said was false; I hate them because what I said was completely true. My convictions could not have been stronger when I wrote those words, and-for whatever reason-they still faded into nothingness. Three times I have been certain that I could never love anyone else, and I was wrong every time. Those old love letters remind me of my emotional failure and my accidental lies, just as ”Just the Way You Are” undoubtedly reminds Joel of his.

Perhaps this is why I can't see Billy Joel as cool. Perhaps it's because all he makes me see is me.

BUT I STILL THINK ”ALL FOR LEYNA” IS AWESOME

When I was writing s.e.x, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs s.e.x, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs in the spring of 2002, I would occasionally forward the rough essays to my editor at in the spring of 2002, I would occasionally forward the rough essays to my editor at The New York Times Magazine, The New York Times Magazine, mostly because I had this fear that they all f.u.c.king sucked (and that he would tell me if they did). One of those essays was about Billy Joel. My editor found it slightly bizarre that I liked Billy Joel, since he was living under the impression that I sat in a bomb shelter listening to Warrant and snorting cocaine off a Ouija board. He asked if I wanted to write a profile on Joel for the mostly because I had this fear that they all f.u.c.king sucked (and that he would tell me if they did). One of those essays was about Billy Joel. My editor found it slightly bizarre that I liked Billy Joel, since he was living under the impression that I sat in a bomb shelter listening to Warrant and snorting cocaine off a Ouija board. He asked if I wanted to write a profile on Joel for the Times Times magazine, and I said, ”Of course.” This has retrospectively confused some magazine, and I said, ”Of course.” This has retrospectively confused some4 people, as they a.s.sume the story I did for the people, as they a.s.sume the story I did for the Times Times also appears in also appears in S,D&CP. S,D&CP. This is not true; I think there are only two or three sentences that appear in both versions. But here's why I mention this: This is not true; I think there are only two or three sentences that appear in both versions. But here's why I mention this: The reason I was asked to do a story on Billy Joel was because I liked Billy Joel. The reason I was asked to do a story on Billy Joel was because I liked Billy Joel. And this proved ironic, because now Billy Joel hates me. And this proved ironic, because now Billy Joel hates me.

When I delivered the story to the Times Times magazine, my biggest fear was that it was boring (and maybe even a tad fawning). Joel just seemed sad and alone, and we talked about how he missed being in a relations.h.i.+p. It seems like we talked about girls and love all afternoon, and the conversation was excellent-there was very little small talk. It was almost all ”big talk.” Still, nothing we discussed seemed remotely controversial; Billy just seemed like a rich dude who eventually came to realize that money and success can't kill loneliness. That isn't groundbreaking material. magazine, my biggest fear was that it was boring (and maybe even a tad fawning). Joel just seemed sad and alone, and we talked about how he missed being in a relations.h.i.+p. It seems like we talked about girls and love all afternoon, and the conversation was excellent-there was very little small talk. It was almost all ”big talk.” Still, nothing we discussed seemed remotely controversial; Billy just seemed like a rich dude who eventually came to realize that money and success can't kill loneliness. That isn't groundbreaking material.

Yet-somehow-this story got more media attention than anything I've ever written. It seems like half the people who read it thought it was some kind of a hatchet job, and the other half thought it was a three-thousand-word personal ad for Billy Joel (for months afterward, women across the country would e-mail me pictures of themselves, requesting that I put them in touch with Billy, as if I were his butler or something). In the wake of this piece, there were suddenly all these tabloid reports that Joel fell off the wagon and started drinking again; he also crashed his Mercedes in the Hamptons, which suddenly seemed suspicious. Billy even went to the New York Post New York Post and claimed that I had (somehow) f.u.c.ked him over with this story, although he didn't dispute any of the quotes. and claimed that I had (somehow) f.u.c.ked him over with this story, although he didn't dispute any of the quotes.

Part of me feels bad about all this, but I honestly have no idea what I could have done differently. I mean, profile writing is a rather rudimentary process: you ask people questions, and then you write about the most interesting things they say. There's really no other way to do it.

THE STRANGER (SEPTEMBER 2002) Billy Joel has led the kind of life only a fool would hope for. No realist would ever dream of attaining the level of success he has achieved. He has sold more than 100 million records, which is more than any solo artist except Garth Brooks and Elvis Presley. He has dated supermodels, and he married one of them. Drunk people will sing ”Piano Man” for as long as there are karaoke bars, so he shall live forever. This fall he will embark on a stadium tour with Elton John, and they will sell out Madison Square Garden on the strength of songs that are two decades old; next month, Twyla Tharp will take a play to Broadway t.i.tled Movin' Out, Movin' Out, which will interpret twenty-four of Joel's songs through the idiom of modern dance. which will interpret twenty-four of Joel's songs through the idiom of modern dance.

And yet as Joel and I drive around the Hamptons in his surprisingly nondescript car, none of these facts hold his attention for long. We talk about his sixteen platinum records, and his memories of making An Innocent Man, An Innocent Man, and his love of Italian motorcycles, and the obsessiveness of his dental habits. But whatever subject we touch on, the conversation inevitably spirals back to the same thing. and his love of Italian motorcycles, and the obsessiveness of his dental habits. But whatever subject we touch on, the conversation inevitably spirals back to the same thing.

Women.

Since he sold his East Hampton mansion to Jerry Seinfeld, Joel has been living in a modest rented house nearby. But he tells me that he is trying to rent an apartment in Manhattan for the sole purpose of meeting women. ”I'm not going to meet anyone out here,” he says. ”The happiest times in my life were when my relations.h.i.+ps were going well-when I was in love with someone, and someone was loving me. But in my whole life, I haven't met the person I can sustain a relations.h.i.+p with yet. So I'm discontented about that. I'm angry with myself. I have regrets.”