bleary's review
4.0
A fascinating document from the early days of pop, Cohn sat down to write this at the tender age of 22 and almost single-handedly invented the art of music journalism.
The first half of the book is absolute dynamite and captures the explosive nature of what happened in the immediate pre-Elvis era up to the dawn of the Beatles. Barely a decade, but a gigantic cultural revolution took place across the world, a revolution that was personal, sexual, interracial and led by teenagers. Cohn tracks this phase with energy and verve, looking beyond the music and capturing what it must have felt like to live in that moment.
After the Beatles, the book loses its pace and starts to become something of a catalog: Cohn names a genre or era, lists the major acts associated with it, gives his judgement on their merits. And of course there is a reason for this, which is that Cohn isn't sure if any of this will be remembered. He himself predicts an era of passionless, machine-tooled pop, performed by anonymous orchestras of session musicians to emotionless adults (a Coldplay concert, basically). For all he knew in 1968, pop would be forgotten and this book would be it is obituary.
Lots of his other predictions and judgements are equally wack: that the Stones would die young (ha!), that The Crazy World of Arthur Brown would be a major force (no), that Motown was rubbish (what?!), that Dylan would be unmasked as a phony (tell that to the Nobel people, mate), that The Doors were also phonies (with you on that one) and, er, that Jimmy Savile was someone of whom Britain' should be proud (let's move on).
But that's the point of the book. We're quite reverential and respectful now about an era of music that was messy, chaotic, unpredictable, unserious, manufactured for kids and run by absolute chancers. At its best, this book captures the sheer madness of it all.
The first half of the book is absolute dynamite and captures the explosive nature of what happened in the immediate pre-Elvis era up to the dawn of the Beatles. Barely a decade, but a gigantic cultural revolution took place across the world, a revolution that was personal, sexual, interracial and led by teenagers. Cohn tracks this phase with energy and verve, looking beyond the music and capturing what it must have felt like to live in that moment.
After the Beatles, the book loses its pace and starts to become something of a catalog: Cohn names a genre or era, lists the major acts associated with it, gives his judgement on their merits. And of course there is a reason for this, which is that Cohn isn't sure if any of this will be remembered. He himself predicts an era of passionless, machine-tooled pop, performed by anonymous orchestras of session musicians to emotionless adults (a Coldplay concert, basically). For all he knew in 1968, pop would be forgotten and this book would be it is obituary.
Lots of his other predictions and judgements are equally wack: that the Stones would die young (ha!), that The Crazy World of Arthur Brown would be a major force (no), that Motown was rubbish (what?!), that Dylan would be unmasked as a phony (tell that to the Nobel people, mate), that The Doors were also phonies (with you on that one) and, er, that Jimmy Savile was someone of whom Britain' should be proud (let's move on).
But that's the point of the book. We're quite reverential and respectful now about an era of music that was messy, chaotic, unpredictable, unserious, manufactured for kids and run by absolute chancers. At its best, this book captures the sheer madness of it all.
captainfez's review against another edition
4.0
I came to this book as many did, I suspect, because it featured on that list of David Bowie's 100 favourite books which circulated a couple of years ago. (The list also is explored in a podcast, if you're interested.)
It makes sense that Bowie would be a fan of this work, given that it's an enthusiastic, bitchy exploration of early rock. After all, the work is titled for Little Richard's protean good-time yawp from 'Tutti Fruitti', the song that made Bowie "see God".
After a couple of years of looking, I found a copy replete with terrifying cover. It was written in 1968 and revised in 1972. Kit Lambert, erstwhile manager of The Who introduces the work and sets things rolling: the text covers a brief period in music, but one of supreme importance for everything rock-related that came afterwards. All that's covered is the period from Bill Haley's initial popularity until 1966 - that's it.
But that's all it has to do, because Awopbopaloobob Alopbamboom exists solely to highlight how transformational this scant 16-odd year space was. From the outset, Cohn makes the case that rock and roll, an amalgam of "coloured beat and white sentiment" – a combination that the UK in particular would run with (into the ground, some might say) - was a break from the safe, acceptable cocoon of doo-wop, of the crooners, and of the Second World War. Indeed, in exploring this theme, Cohn has an encyclopaedic knowledge, the sort that a stupidly young music freak has in spades. And it's tuned towards this new mixture:
Cohn pulls no punches in his retelling of the genesis and glory days of rock 'n' roll, and the insurgence of pop music. He describes 'Rock Around The Clock', considered the ur-single of the genre (though Ike Turner would have a problem with that) as "a dog" before noting that its lack of competition was what made it a success. He describes Elvis as the equivalent of losing one's virginity, of screaming at a concert as being as good as confession or psychoanalysis. But he's also aware of the inherent silliness of the genre, critiquing Little Richard - who he loves - as a creator of "non-songs", before noting that those same playroom tunes were liquid gold when it came to crowd reaction.
The history of rock and pop is seen Transatlantically. Cohn provides the main beats from the US, but observed from the perspective of a kid waiting for it to hit the UK, for the tour to finally tread local stages. We hear of Haley touring in his decline, of Domino and Checker, of the importance of Cliff Richard, Buddy Holly, of Dick Clark for fuck's sake. There's hints of Phil Spector's vileness at this early point, and a criticism of the rot at the heart of the '60s hippie movement that would (albeit outside the scope of this book) lead to Altamont and the death of the era.
There's a lot more in here – Dylan, the Stones, the Beatles are covered in depth, as is their role in making the genre "grow up", particularly in Dylan's case – so there's something in here no matter what music of the era you're interested in. It's told with a brashness and a certainty – and a bitchiness – that's impossible to deny.
In the end, this is a book that was written by a bloke in his 20s about music he loved. He still believed, when revising the work, that he'd seen the best there was and there would be. And it all comes back to that primal energy, that eruption that powered Little Richard and inspired Bowie. Awopbopaloobop Alopbamboom. It doesn't matter what it means. What it makes you feel is more important.
It makes sense that Bowie would be a fan of this work, given that it's an enthusiastic, bitchy exploration of early rock. After all, the work is titled for Little Richard's protean good-time yawp from 'Tutti Fruitti', the song that made Bowie "see God".
After a couple of years of looking, I found a copy replete with terrifying cover. It was written in 1968 and revised in 1972. Kit Lambert, erstwhile manager of The Who introduces the work and sets things rolling: the text covers a brief period in music, but one of supreme importance for everything rock-related that came afterwards. All that's covered is the period from Bill Haley's initial popularity until 1966 - that's it.
But that's all it has to do, because Awopbopaloobob Alopbamboom exists solely to highlight how transformational this scant 16-odd year space was. From the outset, Cohn makes the case that rock and roll, an amalgam of "coloured beat and white sentiment" – a combination that the UK in particular would run with (into the ground, some might say) - was a break from the safe, acceptable cocoon of doo-wop, of the crooners, and of the Second World War. Indeed, in exploring this theme, Cohn has an encyclopaedic knowledge, the sort that a stupidly young music freak has in spades. And it's tuned towards this new mixture:
...the musical ingredients that made pop happen – the white ballad tradition, the exhibitionism introduced by Johnnie Ray, the elaborate sentimentality of country and western, the amplified gut-beat of R&B...
Cohn pulls no punches in his retelling of the genesis and glory days of rock 'n' roll, and the insurgence of pop music. He describes 'Rock Around The Clock', considered the ur-single of the genre (though Ike Turner would have a problem with that) as "a dog" before noting that its lack of competition was what made it a success. He describes Elvis as the equivalent of losing one's virginity, of screaming at a concert as being as good as confession or psychoanalysis. But he's also aware of the inherent silliness of the genre, critiquing Little Richard - who he loves - as a creator of "non-songs", before noting that those same playroom tunes were liquid gold when it came to crowd reaction.
The history of rock and pop is seen Transatlantically. Cohn provides the main beats from the US, but observed from the perspective of a kid waiting for it to hit the UK, for the tour to finally tread local stages. We hear of Haley touring in his decline, of Domino and Checker, of the importance of Cliff Richard, Buddy Holly, of Dick Clark for fuck's sake. There's hints of Phil Spector's vileness at this early point, and a criticism of the rot at the heart of the '60s hippie movement that would (albeit outside the scope of this book) lead to Altamont and the death of the era.
There's a lot more in here – Dylan, the Stones, the Beatles are covered in depth, as is their role in making the genre "grow up", particularly in Dylan's case – so there's something in here no matter what music of the era you're interested in. It's told with a brashness and a certainty – and a bitchiness – that's impossible to deny.
In the end, this is a book that was written by a bloke in his 20s about music he loved. He still believed, when revising the work, that he'd seen the best there was and there would be. And it all comes back to that primal energy, that eruption that powered Little Richard and inspired Bowie. Awopbopaloobop Alopbamboom. It doesn't matter what it means. What it makes you feel is more important.
venkyloquist's review against another edition
4.0
Nick Cohn undoubtedly has to be the first ungulate of Rock' n' Roll music. He writes with a raw rage that is pleading to be unleashed; he writes with a rebellion that is reminiscent of the counter culture and debauchery of the late 1950s, the 60s and the early 70s. He writes with a remarkable sense of abandon that blurs ultra thin the line between licentiousness and constructive criticism. Most of all he writes because he can. Mesmerised and sucked into a whirlpool era of drainpipe trousers, shoulder length unkempt hair, indiscriminate acid tripping and neck breakers of motorcycle accidents, Nick Cohn in this seminal work traces what he terms the 'demise' of Super Pop and the emergence of a blend of music that is at once uproarious, pretentious, un-glamorous and yet irresistible.
From the rise of Bill Haley to the demise of Janis Joplin, Nick Cohn catches us by the scruff of our necks and drags us through the non-linear passage of Rock and Roll. Compulsively irreverent and mostly irascible, Cohn expresses his views bordering on the intractable upon a myriad number of rock bands and individual singers who tried to woo, wreck and wallop a world of unsuspecting, uncaring and unavoidable teeming mass of teens, hysterical on LSD, hyped up with sex and hollering for noise. Nick Cohn writes with a sense of humour which is at once deadpan and morbid. Whether it be describing the painful contortions of P.J.Proby or 'duck-ass hair' and 'tricksy grin' of the genial Eddie Cochran, Nick Cohn does not miss a single beat that is of consequence or a single twang that has relevance written all over it.
Nick Cohn with this book (by the way for all you new generation homo-sapiens, the title is taken from a crooning containing the same seemingly indecipherable words, courtesy Little Richard. The song is named "Tutti Fruity") laid the structure and built the foundation for the art of rock criticism. The title of "father of rock and roll criticism" should rightfully be bestowed upon this music obsessed writer. This even though, his personal views on some of the proven artists borders on illogical ridiculousness. To praise the likes of Beach Boys and The Mod influx following Beatlemania is one thing; but to cast off the likes of Jim Morrison's Doors and Led Zeppelin as bands of no consequence is a totally insane act altogether. But to the credit of Nick Cohn , in the foreword to the book he himself confesses the fact that the book might be a 'morass of factual errors'. The time at which he escaped to an island to write this book was the culprit. It was the late sixties, where fact was more ephemeral than fiction and strange lies made perfect sense than inconvenient truths. Acid tripping was sacrosanct while Woodstock was seminal; Psychedelia was both the taboo as well as the truth; Short hair was sacrilegious to be banished in favour of an ill maintained shoulder length tumble.
Despite the times, Nick Cohn has not stumbled much in his brilliant assessment of the past, present and future of rock. From the sixties till to day, not a great deal has changed other than rapid strides in technology and commercialism. Even today true fans of Rock thirst for that one element of aural Holy Grail - unblemished; unadulterated and unshackled NOISE!
"Awopbopaloobop Alopbamboom" - A true celebration of Rock and Roll!
From the rise of Bill Haley to the demise of Janis Joplin, Nick Cohn catches us by the scruff of our necks and drags us through the non-linear passage of Rock and Roll. Compulsively irreverent and mostly irascible, Cohn expresses his views bordering on the intractable upon a myriad number of rock bands and individual singers who tried to woo, wreck and wallop a world of unsuspecting, uncaring and unavoidable teeming mass of teens, hysterical on LSD, hyped up with sex and hollering for noise. Nick Cohn writes with a sense of humour which is at once deadpan and morbid. Whether it be describing the painful contortions of P.J.Proby or 'duck-ass hair' and 'tricksy grin' of the genial Eddie Cochran, Nick Cohn does not miss a single beat that is of consequence or a single twang that has relevance written all over it.
Nick Cohn with this book (by the way for all you new generation homo-sapiens, the title is taken from a crooning containing the same seemingly indecipherable words, courtesy Little Richard. The song is named "Tutti Fruity") laid the structure and built the foundation for the art of rock criticism. The title of "father of rock and roll criticism" should rightfully be bestowed upon this music obsessed writer. This even though, his personal views on some of the proven artists borders on illogical ridiculousness. To praise the likes of Beach Boys and The Mod influx following Beatlemania is one thing; but to cast off the likes of Jim Morrison's Doors and Led Zeppelin as bands of no consequence is a totally insane act altogether. But to the credit of Nick Cohn , in the foreword to the book he himself confesses the fact that the book might be a 'morass of factual errors'. The time at which he escaped to an island to write this book was the culprit. It was the late sixties, where fact was more ephemeral than fiction and strange lies made perfect sense than inconvenient truths. Acid tripping was sacrosanct while Woodstock was seminal; Psychedelia was both the taboo as well as the truth; Short hair was sacrilegious to be banished in favour of an ill maintained shoulder length tumble.
Despite the times, Nick Cohn has not stumbled much in his brilliant assessment of the past, present and future of rock. From the sixties till to day, not a great deal has changed other than rapid strides in technology and commercialism. Even today true fans of Rock thirst for that one element of aural Holy Grail - unblemished; unadulterated and unshackled NOISE!
"Awopbopaloobop Alopbamboom" - A true celebration of Rock and Roll!
octavia_cade's review
3.0
This was written near 50 years ago now, a series of short chapters - almost columns - by a young critic on the development of pop music. It's pop criticism for pop music, essentially, and not objective at all but that's the charm. Cohn's focus is always brought back to how pop music has affected him, how it makes him feel, and his judgment of the various successes and failures of groups and songs is intensely personal, and often has nothing to do with how well they've been received by other people in general. The book can in some places feel like a fleshed-out list rather than a sustained argument for anything, but the real appeal of this is in Cohn's voice, which is just so accomplished. It's a mix of passion and cynicism and really biting, skewering wit, and it's very entertaining to read.
radballen's review against another edition
4.0
Fun book. Nik Cohn has an interesting take on rock music. I love his enthusiastic, fast-paced writing style. A truly enjoyable early treatise on rock n roll.
ristopakarinen's review
4.0
It's interesting to read this book in September 2018. In a way, the picture Nik Cohn paints is incomplete but at the same time, it feels more honest because the Stones are washed up and Elvis is still eating burgers in Graceland. Great writing, although in his introduction Cohn says that he could barely open because he couldn't face his blatant factual errors. He didn't have Google to help him.
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