Emitt Rhodes / Meeting Emitt

 

Emitt Rhodes 
EMITT RHODES

(originally written 1989)

Emitt Rhodes' 1970 Dunhill debut is perhaps the purest pop confection ever crafted. Where other artists might offer a single lyrical departure (Black Vinyl Shoes' "Capital Gain" comes to mind) or one number that replaces pop formalism with something, say, a bit more raucous (JOHN CALE's "Macbeth" perhaps, from the otherwise mock-pop-perfect Paris 1919), Emitt Rhodes' unrelenting pursuit of the pop melody and lyric--the simple pleasures of love, the sadness of loss-- remains unrivaled. Emerging from southern California's MERRY GO ROUND--a fully realized take on the Mersey Sound, complete with matching suits and mock English accents--Emitt Rhodes is inspired by HARRY NILSSON and PAUL McCARTNEY at their least contrived. Yet by the time Paul wrote "I Will," we all knew it was an exercise in style. Emitt Rhodes beats McCartney at his own game: for nineteen year old Rhodes, "I Will" was the real thing. 

Intricate melodies and countermelodies, bass work this side of Abbey Road, and the warm, recorded-at-home feel of the album add to the air of quiet genius which is displayed in each track. The opening track, "With My Face to the Floor," sets the stage for astounding variations on its simple and elegant Music Hall theme: straight piano-dominated rhythms overlaid with understated drums, and acoustic and electric guitar lines that, while not afraid to take the spotlight, never hog it. "She's Such a Beauty" and "You Take the Dark Out of the Night," are similarly structured, involving deceptively simple rhythms and ornate vocal arrangements. On the slower ballads, "Long Time No See," "Live Till You Die," and "You Should Be Ashamed," Rhodes never resorts to gimmickry or overarrangement, instead demonstrating a precocious restraint for such a young studio-based musician. Indeed, the arrangements, despite (or because of) their obvious complexity, need no studio magic to embellish their effect; although an element of insularity is inevitable in a one-man project such as this, Rhodes makes no attempt to patchwork the recording with clutter. Simple without being simplistic, touching without being cloying, EMITT RHODES is an unassuming masterpiece. 

In a mind-boggling move of corporate greed, A&M Records released another Emitt Rhodes LP simultaneously with EMITT RHODES. Recorded as an outgrowth of his work with the MERRY GO ROUND, The American Dream suffers only from experimentation with alternative forms. Apart from a mildly embarrassing trek into Appalachia, and a not-so-successful excursion into calypso, the album is another showcase, with fully successful rip-offs of "Penny Lane" and "Being For the Benefit of Mr. Kite," but also thoroughly evocative songs of young love ("Pardon Me"), death ("Someone Died") and life ("Come Ride, Come Ride"). Recorded in a professional studio this time, the record contains some lovely string and brass arrangements which cushion Rhodes' pleasant tenor. 

With two stunning albums under his belt, Emitt Rhodes' success seemed a sure thing. Unfortunately, unlike GUNS AND ROSES or BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN, Rhodes' was not yet a household name. In effect, the two albums cancelled each other out. A major record company may recover, but not so Emitt Rhodes. With his record company forcing Rhodes to produce two LPs per year, his two subsequent outings, Mirror and Farewell to Paradise were unfocussed and lacking in confidence, tapping less BEATLES-era Paul and more solo-era George. Cluttered arrangements and underdeveloped melodies hardly benefit from their thin treatment. 

There is little doubt that, given the proper corporate support, Emitt Rhodes could have brought his awesome talents to the world. As it stands, we at least have three superlative albums (one a bona fide masterpiece), and a reminder that one act of corporate greed can have far-reaching consequences. Miraculously, EMITT RHODES is available on CD from One Way Records, Albany, New York. A career retrospective was released in 1994, recapitulating most of the One Way release, and all but ignoring his superlative early output.

Over the years, all of Rhodes' output was eventually made available on CD in various guises, the best being the beautifully restored Japanese CDs of 2001/2.

After several disappointing failures to again promulgate his artistry in the public arena, finally, and almost miraculously, a new CD arrived in 2016, ambiguously titled "Rainbow Ends": was Emitt confronting the end of his rainbow, or, like Dorothy, had he entered a magical new land? Maybe both? No longer intent on so studiously channeling The Beatles, Emitt steps out on his own like never before, and, with support from a crew of sympathetic compadres and fans, presents us with a wistful, bittersweet collection of disarming meditations on his life lived.

Emitt Rhodes died in his sleep on July 19, 2020.

Meeting Emitt
(written 07-21-20)

In spring 1994 I was residing in Sherman Oaks, still dealing with the psychological aftermath of the awful January earthquake, while basically living-and-breathing my dissertation research. On occasion I’d take a break and drive over the hills, and maybe check out Book Soup on Sunset, just to browse (I couldn’t afford to buy a thing with the pittance I was living on). As I entered on this one occasion, an unknown song by a familiar voice was playing over the sound system, a voice I hadn’t heard any new material from in years and years. I asked the woman at the front desk, “Who’s singing?” “Jackie Leven,” she answered. I couldn’t believe it! New material from Jackie Leven! She told me the guy at the back counter had put it on, so I could talk with him about it.

He and I bonded instantly, discussing so many great unknown and forgotten artists, and he made special mention of one Emitt Rhodes. “I love Emitt!” I said. Remarkably, he said his own band once recorded with Emitt in his Hawthorne studio, though he found the experience a bit underwhelming. “He recorded us like acoustic punk!” He said Emitt was still living down in Hawthorne, and after I told him how much I’d love to meet the old geezer (he was all of forty-four!), he grabbed a phone book from under the counter and we looked him up.

And there was his address and phone number staring out at me.

Within a day or two, I gathered the courage to cold-call him. I hemmed and stammered as I told him I am a huge fan, a grad student and far from being a musician, and that, um, well, I‘d love to meet him. He was warm and unguarded, noting that it’s usually songwriters who contact him, but sure, since I lived in the Valley, I could visit him at his ex-wife’s house in Van Nuys that next week while he was looking after his little girl Thea.

We met at his ex’s rather sprawling ranch home, sitting in the back room, looking through the sliding glass doors out to the back yard where Thea was playing. He was somewhat reticent to talk of his past, instead mostly just disparaging himself, but I softly pushed. “Come on,” I said, “I read you were once driven around Cleveland in a limousine!” “I’ve been in lots of limousines,” he laughed. As I was not a huge fan of his two post-debut albums, I steered clear of asking about them, instead gently milking him about his incredible debut. He was both gracious and modest, though again, quite reluctant to delve into much detail. Mostly, we just shot the shit about life, about his bad luck with women, and about his kids whom he loved so much, and, soon enough, I left him to be, fearing I was making myself obnoxious.

Well, about a week later I came home from campus to a message on my machine. “Hi Dan, this is…Emitt Rhodes!” and he invited me down to his Hawthorne home and studio. I couldn’t friggin’ believe it: me, of lowest-of-the-low self-esteem fame, getting an unsolicited follow-up from Emitt Rhodes!

On his own turf, Emitt was far more relaxed and forthcoming. As we walked into his front room, he proudly pointed out a framed photo of his son Forrest, dressed in his military garb. He opened up more about his lifelong depression—something I had a great deal of experience with myself—and he even shot himself up with insulin, right there in front me at his picnic table in his fenced-off front yard. He kind of went into space for a while at that point, riffing about the nature of the universe, quantum mechanics, particle physics, and I felt a combination of enthrallment and sorrow, enthrallment at his being so open and unguarded, and sorrow for his having to deal with diabetes.

Then he took me ‘round back to the Holy of Holies, his home studio. I gaped in awe at the upright piano against the wall, the same piano featured so prominently on the inner gatefold of his record. Here, he opened up more about the background of his songs, about his parents, about his dealing with not earning the fame we both knew he so richly deserved. I won’t share that information here. He did say he had a huge cache of fantastic material he’d recorded over the years, and that he really hoped he could get it out at some point. I, probably wisely, didn’t push to hear anything, much as I ached to.

As is my wont, I again left feeling that I’d overstayed my welcome, and that I’d better not follow up with another call. In retrospect, given his delicate ego as well, I wonder if maybe he felt the same hesitation (or maybe, of course, he really did have enough of me), for that was that: we had no more contact. Though on occasion over the intervening decades I thought of dropping him a line, I never did.

So, so sad that he is now gone.