I’m a lone rhinoceros.
There ain’t one hell of a lots of us
left in this world–Adrian Belew
I hadn’t listened to this album
in years, but as soon as I knew
it was coming up, this lyric about
the lone rhinoceros came
into my head, unforgettable, pithy,
clever. I just looked up “momur”
on wiki-whatever. Adrian Belew’s
daughter made up the word
for anything scary, and in the tune
by the same name, Belew’s wife
turns into one and destroys his
favorite guitar. Every tune on
this 1982 album plays back as
if I had just heard it yesterday.
I gave it a lot of spins, and a lot
of love; it, and its follow-up,
Twang Bar King, were two of the very
few albums I kept in 1989 or so
when I sold my record collection.
At this point in my life, Belew was
without a doubt the most
unique guitar player I had ever
heard–it’s no wonder he played
with iconoclast after iconoclast,
Bowie, Talking Heads, and Laurie
Anderson, for whom, on the Home
of the Brave concert movie, he
played a guitar with a rubber neck.
Maybe the first guitar player I’d
ever heard that was at once funny
and virtuosic. I mean, his guitar
playing was funny, as were his lyrics.
For as much moody and seriously
earnest new wave music I listened
to in the eighties, Adrian Belew
was a guy who taught me that
rock and roll could be joyous and fun,
absolutely giggle-worthy. Far from
a one trick pony, his tunes could
also be reflective, emotionally evocative.
Each of these albums, a veritable ride
through the vicissitudes of human being.
Long live the Twang Bar King.
Notes on the vinyl editions: Lone Rhino, Island Records, 1982. Twang Bar King, Island Records, 1983. Both, I think, must be first pressings. I don’t even know if either of these records are available on vinyl now. Not new anyway.
In case you’re just joining me: I am listening to (almost) every record in my collection in alphabetical order and writing a poem-like-thing in response.
michael jarmer 