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 relationship between Joel's greatness and Joel's coolness (or lack thereof), just as there's no relationship 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 relationship between Joel's greatness and Joel's coolness (or lack thereof), just as there's no relationship 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-crushingly "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 relationship 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 relationship 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 relationship 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 relationship 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 relationship 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 relationship 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 relationships 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 relationships 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 fashion" 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 relationship. 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 relationship. 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 relationships 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 relationship with yet. So I'm discontented about that. I'm angry with myself. I have regrets."

Our conversation continues in this vein for most of the afternoon, and after a while I find myself in the peculiar position of trying to make Billy Joel feel better. I point out that many things in his life have gone amazingly well; I remind him that he's in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. "That's a cold comfort at the end of the day," he tells me. "You can't go home with the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. You don't sleep with the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. You don't get hugged by the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and you don't have children with the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I want what everybody else wants: to love and to be loved, and to have a family. Being in love has always been the most important thing in my life."

This sentiment is so universal that it's cliche. But that's not a criticism. In fact, it's probably why Joel is able to connect with people in a way that even he doesn't completely realize: he musically amplifies mainstream depression. He never tried to invent a new way to be sad.

Joel's sardonic gloom has been at the vortex of almost all his most visceral work. "Honesty" (on 52nd Street 52nd Street) implies that the only way you can tell that someone really cares about you is if they tell you you're bad. "All for Leyna" (on Gla.s.s Houses Gla.s.s Houses) is about an emotionally capricious lover who leaves the song's protagonist shattered and alone. "And So It Goes" (a ballad released in 1990) has Joel insisting that every woman he loves will eventually abandon him. Even "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant" (on The Stranger The Stranger) is about how relationships that seem perfect are always doomed.

"Billy does take things harder than most people," says Jon Small, a Long Islander who met Joel in 1965, played drums in Joel's first two bands, and was briefly married to the woman who would become Joel's first wife. "Emotionally, he takes things harder than I ever did. But all us guys in his inner circle always knew that Billy writes his best when he's having problems. He works best in drastic situations, and those are always due to his relationships."

That, of course, is the paradox: Joel's art is defined by his life, and his best work is his most morose. He can achieve greatness only through despair. But for Joel, at fifty-three, that artistic transference seems to be failing. There was a time when sadness sp.a.w.ned genius; now it just reminds him that he's alone. "I'm kind of in a dark place," Joel says. "And I know some people are actually excited about that, because they think I'll write an alb.u.m about being sad. But that's not what my music is about. There have been times when I've done that, but I'm not going to do it again."

Joel hasn't made a pop alb.u.m in almost ten years, even though his last one (River of Dreams in 1993) moved five million units. There's always a chance he might someday decide to make another, he says, but he currently has no plans to try; he describes himself as unmotivated, uninspired, alienated from the concept of commercial songwriting, and uninterested in composing lyrics. He still plays around with what he calls "thematic fragments" of instrumental music, but he has no concrete aspirations for any of it. in 1993) moved five million units. There's always a chance he might someday decide to make another, he says, but he currently has no plans to try; he describes himself as unmotivated, uninspired, alienated from the concept of commercial songwriting, and uninterested in composing lyrics. He still plays around with what he calls "thematic fragments" of instrumental music, but he has no concrete aspirations for any of it.

"I don't have a new project," he says. "I'm not doing anything but personal life stuff." He talks like a guy who has conquered every goal he dreamed about as a teenager, only to discover that those victories have absolutely nothing to do with satisfaction.

Cold Spring Harbor, his first alb.u.m, came out in 1971. Joel hated it; a mistake during the production sped up the alb.u.m's master tape, making his vocals sound shrill and chip-munkesque. (He recalls smashing the LP against a wall the first time he played it for friends.) His second solo release, his first alb.u.m, came out in 1971. Joel hated it; a mistake during the production sped up the alb.u.m's master tape, making his vocals sound shrill and chip-munkesque. (He recalls smashing the LP against a wall the first time he played it for friends.) His second solo release, Piano Man Piano Man (in 1973), was an artistic advancement and his first defining moment as a musician-and probably the moment that marginalized him forever. (in 1973), was an artistic advancement and his first defining moment as a musician-and probably the moment that marginalized him forever.

"In the big picture of pop music, I don't know if what I've created is seen as being that important or that necessary, at least not if you ask the experts," he says. "I was tagged right after Piano Man Piano Man: I was a balladeer, I didn't write substantive music, my records were overproduced, I played too many ballads. Oh, and of course my favorite: 'He studied piano.' I had never realized that one of the prerequisites for being critically acclaimed was not knowing how to play your instrument. That stuff bothered me for a long time."

Joel's musical output from 1976 to 1982 (Turnstiles through through The Nylon Curtain The Nylon Curtain) was one of the most successful runs in rock history. But the records he made during that period are consistently maligned by virtually every school of rock scholarship. "Rolling Stone "Rolling Stone magazine would not say anything positive about me, and they were the tastemakers at the time," Joel explains. "There were people from the old guard who insisted I wasn't a real rock 'n' roller. Well, okay, fine-I'm not a real rock 'n' roller. You got me." magazine would not say anything positive about me, and they were the tastemakers at the time," Joel explains. "There were people from the old guard who insisted I wasn't a real rock 'n' roller. Well, okay, fine-I'm not a real rock 'n' roller. You got me."

The reasons for that critical disdain are hard to pin down. There are no lyrics from "The Stranger" as ridiculously melodramatic as the worst lines from "Born to Run" ("Just wrap your legs 'round these velvet rims / And strap your hands across my engines"), nor was Joel's public posture any less organic or more calculated than that of the s.e.x Pistols. But guys like Bruce Springsteen and Johnny Rotten have a default credibility that Joel will never be granted, and it's not just because he took piano lessons. The problem is that Joel never seemed cool, even among the people who like him. He's not cool in the conventional sense (like James Dean) or in the self-destructive sense (like Keith Richards), nor is he cool in the kitschy, campy, "he's so uncool he's cool" way (like Neil Diamond). He has no intrinsic coolness, and he has no extrinsic coolness. If cool were a color, it would be black-and Joel would be kind of a burnt orange. The bottom line is that it's never cool to look like you're trying ... and Joel tries really, really hard.

"He just doesn't get it," Robert Christgau tells me over the telephone. "The person I compare Billy Joel to is Irving Berlin; that's the positive side of what he does. But Billy Joel also has a grandiosity that Irving Berlin never got near. That's what's wrong with him. If he wanted to be a humble tunesmith-a 'piano man,' if you will-he would be a lot better off. But he's not content with that. He wants something grander. And that pretentious side infects not only his bad and mediocre work, but also his best work."

Christgau has covered music for The Village Voice The Village Voice since 1969 and is sometimes considered the "dean of rock critics." When I told him that Joel suspects critics will never include him among rock music's pantheon of greats, it took him about fifteen milliseconds to agree. since 1969 and is sometimes considered the "dean of rock critics." When I told him that Joel suspects critics will never include him among rock music's pantheon of greats, it took him about fifteen milliseconds to agree.

"Well, he's right," Christgau says. "He's not good enough. He and Don Henley are really notable for how resentful they are about their lack of respect. You don't catch Celine Dion complaining about a lack of critical respect, and she's a lot worse than Billy Joel. But she doesn't care. Billy Joel cares deeply about that respect, and he wants it bad."

Perhaps as a response to three decades of slights, Joel made a cla.s.sical alb.u.m in 2001 called Fantasies and Delusions: Music for Solo Piano. Fantasies and Delusions: Music for Solo Piano. Influenced by Chopin and credited as the work of "William Joel," Influenced by Chopin and credited as the work of "William Joel," Fantasies and Delusions Fantasies and Delusions sold remarkably well, topping the cla.s.sical charts for months-though arguably, Joel could smash a piano with a ball-peen hammer for seventy-five minutes and release it as a live alb.u.m, and it would still sell remarkably well. But that record-and the college lecture tour he undertook to accompany it-didn't reinvent Joel at all. It just convinced the Robert Christgaus of the world that they were right all along. sold remarkably well, topping the cla.s.sical charts for months-though arguably, Joel could smash a piano with a ball-peen hammer for seventy-five minutes and release it as a live alb.u.m, and it would still sell remarkably well. But that record-and the college lecture tour he undertook to accompany it-didn't reinvent Joel at all. It just convinced the Robert Christgaus of the world that they were right all along.

In 1970, Joel tried to commit suicide by chugging half a bottle of furniture polish. The conventional wisdom has always been that this attempt stemmed from the fact that his career was floundering. (His attempt at a psychedelic heavy-metal band-an ill-fated two-piece called Attila-had just imploded.) In truth, Joel says, it was over problems in his relationship with Elizabeth Weber, the woman who would become his first wife. "I was absolutely devastated," he recalls. "I couldn't bring anything to the relationship. That was the driving force behind my suicide attempt."

Weber is the subject of one of Joel's most famous songs, "Just the Way You Are." It's a love letter that says everything anyone ever wanted to hear: you're not flawless, but you're still what I want. He tells Weber not to try "some new fashion" or dye her hair blond or work on being witty. It's a criticism of perfection, but in the best possible way; it's like Joel is saying that he loves Weber because she's not perfect, and that he could never leave her in times of trouble.

The irony, of course, is that Joel and Weber divorced five years after "Just the Way You Are" won a Grammy for Song of the Year. Some would say this contradiction cheapens the song and makes it irrelevant. I'd argue that the opposite is true; the fact that Joel got divorced from the woman he wrote this song about makes it his single greatest achievement. It's the clearest example of why Joel's love songs resonate with so many people: he expresses absolute conviction in moments of wholly misguided affection. This is further validated when he admits-just forty minutes after telling me about his suicide attempt-that he was never really in love with Weber at all, even on the night he tried to kill himself. He thought he was in love, but he wasn't.

"I shouldn't have gotten married," he says of his union with Weber. "She said we either had to get married or our relationship was over, so I said, 'Okay.' I was twenty-four. I was too young to get married, although it ended up lasting eight years. Was I really in love? I don't think so. But when I married Christie, I really wanted to get married and I really wanted to have kids."

"Christie" is Christie Brinkley, the gangly s.e.x kitten Joel married in 1985 and lionized in the hit single "Uptown Girl." Brinkley agreed to be interviewed for this article, only to change her mind at the last possible moment. She is the mother of Joel's sixteen-year-old daughter, Alexa, and is generally perceived to be the love of his life-although he insists that his six-year relationship with Carolyn Beegan in the 1990s and his more recent courtship of Trish Bergin, a TV news anchor, were almost as deep. In fact, tabloid speculation was that Joel's breakup with Bergin was the reason he spent ten days in alcohol rehab this summer, a rumor Joel confirms, saying that Bergin was the reason he "started drinking all that wine."

But as the hours pa.s.s and we keep talking, he slowly widens the scope of his melancholy. "The more I think about it, the more I think it was all four of those relationships," he says. "I never really stop thinking about any of them."

So how much wine do you have to drink before you need to check yourself into rehab?

"A lot," says Joel. "A lot." Joel says he was on a "well-doc.u.mented bender" for three months before checking himself into Silver Hill Hospital in Connecticut in mid-June. This would date the bender's origin to right around the time of his March 15 concert with Elton John at Madison Square Garden, an evening in which Joel was widely described as disoriented, exhausted, and erratic. (Throughout the performance, he shouted out the locations of famous World War Two battle sites like "Midway!" and "Guadalca.n.a.l!") In early June, he drove off the road in East Hampton and wrecked his Mercedes; a week later, the New York Post New York Post was reporting, "BILLY JOEL IN REHAB AFTER GALPAL DUMPS HIM." was reporting, "BILLY JOEL IN REHAB AFTER GALPAL DUMPS HIM."

"I was amazed by the way all of that played out in the media," he says now. "To me, a musician going to rehab is like a normal person going to get his teeth cleaned. Don't these people ever watch Behind the Music Behind the Music? It's a cliche. If I had known that the story was going to be reported in the way that it was, I would have considered not going at all."

Part of what perplexes Joel is that he feels as if he is no longer the kind of celebrity who warrants tabloid coverage; when I argue that the news media are always going to be interested in anyone who has sold twenty-one million copies of his greatest-hits collection, he reminds me that he hasn't made pop music in almost ten years.

"I don't think what has happened to me is that different from what happens to most people," he says. "The only difference is the scale. People seem to think my problems are larger than life, but they're not larger than my life. Yes, I was married to Christie Brinkley, but it didn't work, just like a lot of marriages don't work out. I don't sit around thinking: Oh, my G.o.d! I'm this famous guy who lost his famous wife! Oh, my G.o.d! I'm this famous guy who lost his famous wife!"

It's a contradiction: Billy Joel is keenly aware that he is "Billy Joel," but he doesn't seem to fully understand how that designation is the cause of virtually everything good and bad about his life.

"On the one hand, it probably is easier for me to meet women than it is for most people, because I have a certain degree of fame," he says. "But on the other hand, I have certain problems in relationships that other people don't. I was recently on a date with a woman, and she told me: 'You're one of those guys who comes with all this stuff stuff. You're always being written about and photographed and all that star stuff.' And it dawned on me that she was probably right."

Movin' Out, Twyla Tharp's $8 million show based on Joel's songs, will have its official Broadway debut on October 24. But it has already absorbed some of the baggage that Joel has carried for years. When the unorthodox musical opened in Chicago in late July, theater critics described it as "inane" and "cliche-ridden," prompting major changes to the first act. And though those barbs were mostly directed at Tharp, it's easy to see how they could strike Joel as well, even though he played virtually no role in the production. The characters in Twyla Tharp's $8 million show based on Joel's songs, will have its official Broadway debut on October 24. But it has already absorbed some of the baggage that Joel has carried for years. When the unorthodox musical opened in Chicago in late July, theater critics described it as "inane" and "cliche-ridden," prompting major changes to the first act. And though those barbs were mostly directed at Tharp, it's easy to see how they could strike Joel as well, even though he played virtually no role in the production. The characters in Movin' Out Movin' Out include Brenda and Eddie (the couple from "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant") and Tony (from the song "Movin' Out"), all of whom have their lives thrown into chaos by the Vietnam War (ill.u.s.trated by tracks like "Goodnight Saigon"). Tharp describes it as the story of the entire baby boom generation, a demographic for which Joel has often been tagged as an apologist. "He chronicled the time in which I lived," the sixty-one-year-old Tharp says. But there are elements of Joel's work that Tharp considers timeless. "There is a large component of the loner in all of Billy's music," she says. "It's something, for better or worse, that has been part and parcel of the idea of the artist in the twentieth century and nineteenth century. In our culture, the perception of the artist is that of a loner." include Brenda and Eddie (the couple from "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant") and Tony (from the song "Movin' Out"), all of whom have their lives thrown into chaos by the Vietnam War (ill.u.s.trated by tracks like "Goodnight Saigon"). Tharp describes it as the story of the entire baby boom generation, a demographic for which Joel has often been tagged as an apologist. "He chronicled the time in which I lived," the sixty-one-year-old Tharp says. But there are elements of Joel's work that Tharp considers timeless. "There is a large component of the loner in all of Billy's music," she says. "It's something, for better or worse, that has been part and parcel of the idea of the artist in the twentieth century and nineteenth century. In our culture, the perception of the artist is that of a loner."

Oddly, one of the loneliest songs in Joel's entire lonely oeuvre didn't make it into Movin' Out Movin' Out. It's called "Where's the Orchestra?" and it seems particularly apropos, since it uses the theater as a metaphor for loneliness. The lyrics are one long allusion to watching an alienating, dissatisfying play ("I like the scenery / Even though I have absolutely no / Idea at all / What is being said / Despite the dialogue"), and it doesn't take a rock critic to see it as a metaphor for the emptiness Joel himself feels. It's also the Billy Joel song that I have always related to the most on a personal level; in fact, I sometimes tell people that they would understand me better if they listened to "Where's the Orchestra?"

I tell this to Joel, thinking it might make him feel better. But I think it makes him feel worse.

"That song still applies to me," he says in a weirdly stoic tone. "I heard it the other day, and it still moved me, because I feel like that today. I've only felt content a few times in my life, and it never lasted. I'm very discontented right now. There are situations in my life that didn't pan out. I'm like most other human beings. I try and I fail. The whole metaphor of that song is that life is a theatrical play, and it's all a tragedy, and-even though you can enjoy the comedic, ironic elements of what you're experiencing-life will always come up and whap you on the head."

To punctuate this statement, he whaps himself on the side of his skull with an open hand. It's the kind of thing that should be funny, but somehow it isn't. Probably because when Billy Joel hits himself, he isn't smiling.

1. "Close to the Borderline" was also the inadvertent cause of the funniest thing anyone has ever said to me. I was playing Gla.s.s Houses Gla.s.s Houses at college-this was like 1991-and my roommate Mike Schauer walked into our dorm room at the exact moment Joel was singing the lines, " at college-this was like 1991-and my roommate Mike Schauer walked into our dorm room at the exact moment Joel was singing the lines, "Another night I fought the good fight / But I'm getting closer to the borderline." Mike made a very strange face and said, "Is this Stryper unplugged?"

2. It just now occurred to me that-if Billy Joel were to actually read this- he must hate how every attempt at advocating his genius is prefaced with a reminder of how cool he isn't isn't.

3. Actually, it turns out I was completely wrong about this: When I eventually had the opportunity to interview Joel (months after the completion of this essay) I asked him about "Laura," and he said it was about a family member. He noted, "There's a complete giveaway line where I sing, 'How can she hold an umbilical cord so long.' Now, who the h.e.l.l could that be about?" Obviously, I can't argue about the meaning of a song with the person who wrote it. But I still think my interpretation is more interesting than his truth.

4. And by "some," I mean "six or seven, maybe."

Toby over Moby In November of 2000 I reviewed a concert by the Dixie Chicks in downtown Cleveland. A sold-out show. A big deal, sort of. And at the time, I didn't know a G.o.dd.a.m.n thing about the Dixie Chicks, beyond what information could be gleaned from their name (which-in my defense-is probably more expository than just about any other pop moniker I can think of, except for maybe the Stooges).

I can't recall if I liked this concert, but I suspect I probably enjoyed half of it. I mostly vaguely recall that Nathan from MTV's The Real World 7: Seattle The Real World 7: Seattle was somehow involved with the event's promotion, and I clearly remember getting several angry phone calls from readers who read my review the next morning and thought I was cruel for suggesting that Chicks singer Natalie Maines had an "oddly shaped body, fleshy cheekbones, and weird fashion sense." It turns out Natalie Maines was pregnant. I am nothing if not underinformed. was somehow involved with the event's promotion, and I clearly remember getting several angry phone calls from readers who read my review the next morning and thought I was cruel for suggesting that Chicks singer Natalie Maines had an "oddly shaped body, fleshy cheekbones, and weird fashion sense." It turns out Natalie Maines was pregnant. I am nothing if not underinformed.

But ANYWAY, Natalie's uterus is not the issue here. What struck me about this show was the audience, which appeared to be a cross-section of forty-one-year-old gay males outfitted from Old Navy and fifteen-year-old teenage girls with above-average teeth. I had never before seen so many teenage girls at a concert with real real musicians, which is what the Dixie Chicks are. Obviously, we're all used to seeing thousand of adolescent females at Britney Spears and 'NSYNC concerts, but those shows have nothing to do with music; those are just virgin-filled Pepsi commercials. It's a teenage girl's musicians, which is what the Dixie Chicks are.