'With Thanks To Harry Chapin For A Better Place To Be' - A Feature By David Evans
Saturday, 16 July 2011
Written by David Evans
Now that all the fuss and palaver has died down, it would be interesting to know how many readers have yet to hear about Rebecca Black … and in case you happen to be one of the few, she’s the teenage chirper whose bile-inducing ditty was an internet hit for all the wrong reasons.
Now, given that I can neither write nor play a note and the onset of puberty played havoc with my vocals, it’s not for me to agree with the millions (no exaggeration) who have labelled her song, Friday, as the worst record of all time; but like many others who have no truck with this entitlement culture, I question the motives – and the sanity – of parents who are willing to see their child become an international laughing stock for the sake of a pigs-might-fly stab at stardom.
They might argue that if fame were to follow then a spate of ridicule is a small price to pay. But in an age where people are considered famous if they outlast the sell-by date on a pack of unsmoked haddock fillets, I’d be disinclined to agree.
By way of an update: after 80 million hits, someone has come to their senses and removed the You Tube video which featured the all-smiling thirteen-year-old and a bunch of her equally narcissistic chums cruising in an open-top car.
But don’t be disappointed if you missed it; I’m being kind when I say that it was more of an amateurish tribute to Auto-Tune … and if the kids seemed unsure if they were appearing in a pop video or an advert for some whizzo brand of toothpaste, it’s probably because their parents urged them to hedge their bets.
And yet, whenever I bid good riddance to this kind of cyber-tosh, deep down I know I’m going to miss the viewer’s comments … and if you’re wondering how someone who has never undergone a lobotomy can mourn the loss of what amounts to a depressing snapshot of our times, then look at it from a writer’s perspective …
I’ll agree that with so many of the same-old barbs posted by green-eyed teenagers of a similar ilk, this is no place for those with a low boredom threshold; but take it from me: time spent sifting through the rubbish can often unearth a seed of inspiration.
Take, for example, the last time I checked on the Friday video: my clicking-finger had barely limbered up before I chanced on a posting from some Californian woman. Oblivious to the big picture, she kicks off by asking how many thirteen-year-olds own a car, let alone a soft-top … and just in case anyone might be thinking this was a wind-up or a prelude to something deliciously witty, she then proceeds to lay into the teenagers for setting a bad example by not wearing seat belts.
Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t dream of taking the mickey out of someone who is duly concerned about road safety but, by trying to hijack the thread with her blinkered comments, the do-gooder might just as well have pinned a bull’s-eye to her chest.
And yet, no sooner had I sharpened up a pencil than I remembered a time when I was I was equally guilty of acting like an ostrich in defence of something close to my heart …
It was the autumn of 2005, and with the Sunday paper spread all over the breakfast table, I started reading an interview with Jason Robinson … and before any of you start wondering if you might not be quite the music buff you thought you were, I’d best point out that the man was a highly regarded rugby player who had recently retired from international competition.
As part of his introduction, the journalist listed some of the medals on display in the beautifully furnished lounge, and when he wrote about how he wasn’t expecting to find the sportsman relaxing to the sound of pop music, I couldn’t decide if he was surprised by the thought of rugby’s million-miles-an-hour speedster actually taking it easy or the fact that pop music was his preference … but then he wrote about him listening to Cat’s In The Cradle by – and I quote – “some guy called Harry Chapin” and believe you me, I almost choked on my apricot Danish …
Some guy? Some guy …? Was that any way to introduce a modern-day legend?
Now when it comes to typing, I’m quicker than my dog, but that’s only because I can read all the letters and he only knows N.O.S.H. because it’s printed on the side of his bowl; but even so, my two fingers were speed-burnt once I’d tip-tapped my way through an eight paragraph email berating the writer for disrespecting a man who had dedicated himself to improving the lot of those less fortunate.
Okay, knowing the journalist was a sports reporter, I was perhaps guilty of going over the top (even now I wonder what he must have thought when he read through my rant), and there’s no denying that Jason Robinson is a good egg (as a self-confessed alcoholic he became a devout Christian when he gave up the booze) and the record books serve as testament to his skill, but even he would probably agree that his own achievements pale by comparison to, er … “some guy called Harry Chapin”.
With the exception of many teenage heavy-rock fans and rappers … and a certain sports reporter, I fancy most people have heard one or more of his songs. But how many are aware of his humanitarian achievements?
No doubt eyes were opened soon after Geldorf’s appearance on American TV during which he slagged off the music industry for doing nothing to help Africa’s starving millions.
Harry Belafonte was the first to respond: in a prime-time broadcast, he said Geldorf was wrong (just as if!) and that his dear friend Harry Chapin and Father Bill Ayres had co-founded The World Hunger Year in 1974 – a decade before the Boomtown Rat launched his Live Aid campaign. On top of which, Harry’s dogged persistence was key in the 1977 formation of The Presidential Commission On World Hunger (working on the assumption that every congressman would some time or another need to use the bathroom, he took his guitar and bar stool and lobbied from the Capitol’s toilets.)
And yet, despite his commitment to global issues, he never forgot the people of his Long Island home; He helped set up Long Island Cares (a hunger relief foundation) and was a major fundraiser for The Long Island Performing Arts Foundation; The Long Island Philharmonic Orchestra and The Eglevsky Ballet … and here’s a snippet that might well have Geldorf and Bono reaching for the smelling salts: at the height of Harry’s career most of his concerts were benefit performances, and whenever he was paid for a gig, half his fee went directly to charitable causes … assuming U2’s manager has already covered Bono’s eyes, I needn’t worry about him hyperventilating when I say that every cent earned from the sale of Harry’s concert merchandise was used to support World Hunger Year.
On July 16th, 1981, Harry died in a motoring accident, and although I can’t see any of them giving a toss, those Third World rulers all zooping about in their luxury jets and gold-plated limos would never believe that, because the tape deck in his old van was broken, Harry was driving his daughter’s Volkswagen Rabbit when it was rammed from behind by a tractor-trailer truck.
In 1987 he was awarded a posthumous Congressional Gold Medal. In a break with tradition, it was presented during a tribute concert held at Carnegie Hall. Centre stage, his favourite guitar leaned against a bar stool, and soon after receiving the award from Senator John Leahy, Harry’s son, Josh placed the medal on the empty seat.
Amongst the guest performers were Pat Benatar, Bruce Springsteen, Paul Simon, Graham Nash, Pete Seeger, Kenny Rogers and Richie Havens.
Around the time these superstars were paying their respects to “some guy called Harry Chapin”, I was mouthing off to a musician friend about how I reckoned I’d be good at writing songs. Three days later he gave me a vinyl copy of An Anthology Of Harry Chapin, and with one of those barely-discernable smirky smirks, suggested I check out A Better Place To Be.
Although I listened to the track four or five times on the trot, when I think back, my illusions were probably shattered after the first spin. Talk about song writing genius … as my buddy said at the time: ‘Listen and weep.’
At ten-and-a-half minutes long, it’s not going to be everybody’s cup of tea, and no doubt it’s a tad too mushy for the metal-heads, but if you’re into life-affirming music and can stifle a tear, do yourself a favour and check out the You Tube link below … eh, and who knows? If Rebecca Black or her parents happen to see it, with any luck, they might just cotton on to the notion that there’s an awful lot more to this song writing business than meets the eye.
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Okay, knowing the journalist was a sports reporter, I was perhaps guilty of going over the top (even now I wonder what he must have thought when he read through my rant), and there’s no denying that Jason Robinson is a good egg (as a self-confessed alcoholic he became a devout Christian when he gave up the booze) and the record books serve as testament to his skill, but even he would probably agree that his own achievements pale by comparison to, er … “some guy called Harry Chapin”.
