“What Is It About John?”

What is it about John? What is it about John? I kept asking myself as I drove from California to New York City last month, alone, but with all the JM cd’s I own (about 20). I was determined to listen to no one but John–so I could finally vote for my five favorite JM songs. Sometimes I don’t know about that Kees. Imagine, our Martynized webmaster from the Netherlands asking for our top five JM songs; I’m having trouble picking my top five JM albums. I guess weed is legal in the Netherlands!! [Kees van der Lely – created the first ever website dedicated to John Martyn in 1997 – The John Martyn Connection”].

What is it about John, above all the other musicians I’ve loved over the years, that pulls me into his unearthly orbit–of a love stomp to the heart, of love no longer for sale, of love no longer yours to give, of drunken madness, of past and future sadness, of pure, happy to be alive, to be able to drink, screw, and sing some more gladness–the gravitational hold so wonderfully wicked that it’s turned me into a John Martyn whore; I’m a street walker, cruising the used cd joints in the East Village, looking for videos and bootlegs, searching for a sweet certain surprise by JM.

And so, I drove cross-country listening to nothing except JM–no radio, the hitchhikers I stopped for had to be quiet in order to ride, I didn’t even talk to myself (well, maybe a little). I was on the road 17 hours a day–driving, smoking, drinking Pepsi, and listening to John–finally returning to New York City after 20 years in LaLa Land like some mad, modern-day Odysseus returning home to his Penelope.

I was somewhere in New Mexico, the Sirens were screaming, “What is it about John?” so to play it safe I tied myself to the steering wheel, played all the different cuts of Solid Air I could find, and answered part of the puzzle: John is one sultry mf. I mean the way he gets down in the groove on that song–with his band or solo–is Martyn supreme. And it reminded me of all the times I’ve seen John do Solid Air live; and hearing it live you feel like your gonna come; and you hear other JM whores around you letting out little gasps–Oh yeahhhhh, alrighhhhhhttttttt, and moans, uuuuhhhhhmmmmm, ooohhhhh, and they get all twisted and ugly in the face because of John’s emotional, wrecking-crew intensity.

Yes, the Oxford English Dictionary should define “Intensity” in two words: “John Martyn.” Listen to Outside In from Live at Leeds, guitar and vocalizations taken to the nth power, or some of his guitar intensive treats like Glistening Glyndebourne, and the kilt wearing Eibhli Ghail Chiuin Ni Chearbhaill, and you know this cat ain’t just jiving like some many well known, full-a-shit guitar heros. Or live, the way he holds and controls the electricity with his fingers and hands (like Jimi) and lets it blow when it’s ready to go.

Every time John comes to the U.S. I take a different friend to see the show. And every time I’ve done that, within ten seconds of the first cut, my friend turns to me with disbelief written on her or his face. You know, in the states, we only see John solo (once or twice I’ve seem him with a bass player) and he usually starts off his show by warming up the echoplex, reverb, and whatever other peddles he has under his power as he casts his JM spell. A few years ago I took my old bud, Leon, to see Johnny, and after a few seconds of the first song Leon turned to me, his mouth was hanging wide open, and he simply said, “Fuck.”

And the voice. What can I possibly say about John’s singing that you haven’t already felt. The lion’s roar of John Wayne, Big Muff, or Johnny Too Bad; the let it all hang out, Martynesque blues of Couldn’t Love You More, Never Let Me Go, Angeline, Sweet Little Mystery and so many of his songs which tempt us to wander up and down the musical scale with John, and not knowing what’s coming around the next curve we hold hands for the ride, the roller coaster ride to heaven or hell, and he commands me to get up off the couch and do the strut ‘round the house to the still disbelieving eyes of my woman.

Check out Excuse Me Mister or Glory Box from his new cd, Church With One Bell, and tell me, when John starts that growl of his going full-tilt boogie, that you don’t get the head freeze all a-tingling like mad.

What is it about John? I’d say it’s simply that JM expresses–so lovely, so thoroughly, so electrically blue–the joy, the sadness, and the madness we all feel and live with on this, the third mud ball from the Sun. Nuff said.

Oh, one more thing: By the time I reached New York I had my top five JM songs all lined up, and then Church With One Bell came out, so now I have to rethink the sitch. Kees, me thinks I need a year or two more. By the way, the new record is out-a-sight. And for my American comrades, starved and weary from looking for the new cd, it and many other JM cd’s can be found at XX.

See ya’s.

Glenn Frantz

About Glenn Frantz

Glenn was born in Brooklyn, New York USA on April 2, 1949.  His mother died when he was 13 years old and his teen years were in the ’60’s when he got into drugs, sex and rock ‘n roll, and also some college! Glenn had some dark times but beat the drugs and joined Synanon, a therupeutic community, in 1977, out in California.

He was a Mets fan, loved hockey, loved music and loved John Martyn ‘s music since becoming a fan in 1970.  He also loved reading and writing, all kinds of art and Rumi poems.  Many of Glenn’s short stories and poems have been published and he had recently written a book. Glenn had Christmas lights up in his apartment all year long….one of life’s great characters and a truly compassionate man.

Glenn died in Encinitas, California on July 1, 2003 aged  54 years. A great loss to his friends, family and the world at large.