James Rhodes – After the Curtain Falls
A Supposed Book Review of Fire On All Sides
I pitched the idea of this piece to MusicFestNews on the premise that I would be reviewing the new book by pianist James Rhodes, Fire On All Sides, and in a way that’s true. But I don’t feel I can adequately get there without first beginning, before I’ve even read the book, with how I got to be familiar with this remarkable musician. I first learned of Rhodes not through his music but rather his 2014 memoir Instrumental. I came across an advertisement for it on Facebook through a mental health page that I followed that had great things to say about it. I can’t say what it was about this short review that struck my attention, but I quickly became obsessed with the idea and managed to get a copy over Amazon UK or some other site before it was released in the U.S. That memoir has since been a source of inspiration for me in my own writings and is why I eagerly pitched the idea to review his newest work. It is just as fiercely about his love of music as it is about his life – two things that, from what I gather, I doubt he’d find much to parse. Nestled between the most entertaining of rants on composers and their music, as well as with the all too relatable (for me at least) recounting of his attempts at finding mental health, would be gems like this:
“We are all riddled with trauma. Abandonment, divorce, violence, abuse of every kind, neglect, alcoholism, anger, blame, judgment, religion, bullying – a thousand different forms of hell surround us from our first days on this planet. Sometimes intentionally, often totally unconsciously, we are, I believe, the walking wounded from a very young age. Some people seem to adjust well despite it; some don’t. And although I tried everything I could to distract from that hurt, I could not outrun it.”
As melodramatic as that may sound, if you read the memoir you’ll quickly learn just how hellish Rhodes’ early days were. Now, the reason I am starting this review tonight, before I’ve even received his newest book in the mail (the one I’m ostensibly “reviewing”), is that I had a confluence of events come to a head today, the day I decided to revisit Instrumental in preparation. Rhodes begins each chapter of his 2014 memoir in the same way he does concerts – with a character sketch of sorts for the composers and compositions being addressed. One thing you quickly discover is that these often bewigged and esteemed gentleman, whom we hold in such high regard, were neurotic as fuck. And as chance would have it, I shared in a curious quirk of happenstance with some of them.
A few months ago, I had noticed a rash develop on my arms which quickly spread over my torso and subsequent remainder of my body. Normally, I ignore medical problems that don’t debilitate me in some way. It’s kind of a talent for those not used to having health insurance. In this case, however, I got the idea in my head that it was an allergic reaction to some of the new psychiatric medications I had been put back on and decided to get it checked out. For the first month no one had a clue what was wrong with me. I had been referred to a dermatologist from one of the clinics I visited though and there they performed a biopsy on the rash. Then, roughly a month ago, I got my diagnosis: secondary-stage syphilis. It took all the strength I had not to burst out laughing at the doctor. You hear sardonic comments nowadays about how, “I hope whatever bad thing happens to me is at least funny;” well, in my case, it couldn’t be truer.
If you’ve been following my writing thus far, you’ll know that I am recovering from a recent bout with substance abuse and managing my way back into the mental health care system which I had taken a hiatus from while I was self-medicating. Well, just today, as I was rereading Instrumental, my old pals hit me up. The Department of Health (who clearly did not find my situation as hilarious as I did but graciously delivered two ridiculously large shots of penicillin into my ass) had tracked down the person whom I suspected had given me the STI. I had not heard from any of them since January when I stopped, and I figured this would happen but thought it a small price to pay to know the person who was carrying it could be treated as well (being damaged doesn’t make you irredeemable). Maybe it was part denial, maybe part wishful thinking, but I got the inevitable contact and subsequent offer to go out again.
Rhodes’ memoir offered me just the right amount of vicarious self-destruction I needed to make it over the hump (as well as with the help, of course, from some friends whom I am fortunate enough to have in my corner). His is a strange mix of success and failure, depths of hell and immeasurable heights, that any music lover, even without being familiar with his work (nor classical music for that matter) can find a place and feel both that, “If he can make it so can I,” as well as validation of our individual traumas despite often paling in comparison to his. Moreover, Rhodes has made a career of attempting to take the snootery out of so-called “classical” music and re-contextualizing it so as to make it more approachable to a wider audience. So please, do not be put off by the fact that this is the work of a concert pianist, for the distinctions in genres of music often have more to do with class and social mores than it actually has anything to do with being able to experience the art of it – which will always be universal.
Now, for the book in question. As with his previous book, each chapter is titled along with a classical composition (fortunately for all of us, Rhodes has the album list available for streaming on Spotify). In another fortuitous confluence of events, the morning the book arrived was the same morning I was able to retrieve my Sony WH-CH700N headphones (probably not the most sophisticated piece of audio equipment ever, but for my limited budget and knowledge they were my best friend) from pawn and was adamant this time around to read each chapter accompanied by the music in question. Not only that, but I committed myself to not listening to anything other than Rhodes’ suggestions while engrossed in his book. I wanted to stay completely in the headspace and aesthetic that were being put forward. (I even went so far as to put my phone on vibrate so my ringtone of MC Sole’s “Peace Police” wouldn’t unexpectedly ruin my project.)
Now, to get the critical aspect out of the way. Rhodes’ writing improved greatly with this installment from his previous work. I read his previous memoir while studying for a Master’s in Rhetoric and Composition, so I remember at the time not being thrilled with the composition of it. Rhodes has managed to maintain his sharp, caustic style while adding a level of fluidity to the writing that makes it feel much more musical and reciprocally controlled. On the other hand, I fear that if someone were to approach this new work without having previously read Instrumental, it would come off as indulgent — and, excuse me for saying this, but a bit off-putting. There is something about placing one’s feelings in the present tense that, if you have not been initiated into Rhodes’ world, may seem petulant. Instrumental had the luxury of a detached retrospection that allowed him the privilege of critical introspection on the matter. Being that this, as he advertises in the introduction, is not a memoir, but, rather, a tour journal, if you do not already know the place/origin from whence he comes, the beginning is not nearly as engaging as it could be.
Be that as it may, there is a sense of closure that comes from reading the end of Instrumental the reality of which Fire On All Sides belies. We, or at least I, have the tendency to feel that once a story is over, everything has been resolved. Maybe it is a condition of having grown up an early-millennial where the advent of video games and the deafening influx of blockbuster movies had fed us the idea of closure. We were not taught what to do after the curtain fell. But life keeps on going, regardless of the lessons we’ve endured, and it isn’t going to be wrapped up nice and clean. In his previous memoir Rhodes extolled the help he received, however grudgingly, from self-help books. In this installment of his journey, he begins each chapter with a delicately type-faced affirmation of positive encouragement footnoted but a more distortion-riddled “translation” which is the persistent reality of how bearing such high-flown platitudes results in after having stewed with it amongst one’s own bitter self-doubts. This is clearly not going to be the follow-up work of someone who has everything figured out.
In all honestly it is a heartbreaking read. Your rooting for him in his previous memoir becomes a rooting for yourself, vicariously. One gets a sense that he overcame and by proxy you can, too. The truth, though, as in all matters in life, is that the story isn’t over. In the classical Greek trope, you cannot measure the worth of life until its end. Or, as in the wisdom of Silenus, the best thing for man would be to have never been born. The tragedy is that we were, and so we must make way for the tragi-comedy that is our lot. Rhodes becomes much more earnest in his depictions of what happened to him as a child. Whereas in Instrumental he only alluded to the sexual crimes that were committed against him, here he hurtles them at you (although with a considerate trigger warning before the barrage) in a sense of urgency to emulate the severity of the situation that is child abuse.
The distinctions that were so clearly defined between the compositions in Instrumental compared to those presented in Fire On All Sides blur. Rhodes seems to melt between his depictions of himself with the music even when he is discussing his life outside the songs. What would seemingly sound like monotonous re-visitations of indiscernible concerts, where the streets of Zurich meld with those in Dusseldorf by the constant theme of distress and loneliness become variations on similar movements that lead one to forgone conclusions otherwise inaccessible. Rhodes’ meditations are themselves compositions. The neuroses of the composers he recounts become indistinguishable from his inability to seem to match up to the expectations of such a tour as he is on, where our quotidian concerns become amplified by the exotic surroundings – leading one to the consolation that even the most talented of individuals are wrought with the same insecurities and feelings of inadequacy that, no matter how exquisite or glamorous a lifestyle may appear to our expectations, both from within and without, the reality is something we all can relate to: our own sense of inadequacy.
Stop.
I’m taking a reprieve from my commitment to maintaining Rhodes’ track list by putting on Lou Reed’s album Transformer, specifically the song “Perfect Day” (and a slightly self-indulgent tryst into “Walk on the Wild Side”). Rhodes himself references this track in his divagations into what would be the ‘perfect day’ for him. The entire time Rhodes was describing what would be the ideal day, I was haunted by surimpressions of the opposite of what he describes. You can hear in the optimism of the account the weariness of someone who is all too familiar with its exact opposite.
Transformer was Reed’s first solo album after the dissolving of The Velvet Underground. The VU had had patronage and was cultivated within Warhol’s Factory, allowing them the space to fuck up but recover. There is something very tenuous in Reed’s solo debut that seems to mirror Rhodes’ own precipitousness in this period of his journey. While we followed him in Instrumental he was, for better or worse, almost always under the tutelage and care of other benefactors. Now, although still with Denis Blais managing him, you get a sense of the precariousness of Rhodes’ position compounded by his own insecurities. As the lyrics in “Perfect Day” end, however, “You’re going to reap just what you sow.” Our own negative coping mechanisms become so comfortable that they end up becoming the very thing that sustains us while simultaneously sabotaging our own self-sufficiency.
Let’s resume.
The title Fire On All Sides Rhodes gets its title from Mozart’s opera Don Giovanni. As the titular character is dragged down into the pits of the inferno, Da Ponte, who composed the lyrics, gives a wry stage direction that simply states, “Fire on all sides; earthquake.” Rhodes goes on to explain how Mozart ends the opera on a joyful tone, but, somewhat tragically for Rhodes’ allusion, it is for the sake of the rest of the cast. Yes, the earthquake has been avoided, but at the consummation of the one afflicted. One can’t help but feel a sense of fatality on the part of Rhodes in how the joy comes at having spared the ones around him. Later on, we get from Rhodes this passage:
“I am a 7-year-old trapped in a 41-year-old’s body, so it’s going to be tough, but I just can’t go on like this any more. No more asking my shrink for solutions or following a bunch of confusing rules set by other people, real or imagined. Just me finding my own way, wrong turns and all. I’m going to look like a dick at times, I’m going to say the wrong things and act like an idiot, but I do that already, and I’d rather do it authentically, as the real me. I’ve got to believe that, occasionally, I’m going to start to get things right a bit more often.”
The descent in the opera that ends with the joy of the rest of the denizens isn’t over after the curtain falls. The characters continue, even in hell, and so does Rhodes. Only this time we can only hope that he is able to come out the other side and thriving. The difference in the affirmation for the final chapter (“Everything is going to be OK in the end. If it’s not OK, then it’s not the end”) is less pronounced from the translation (“There’s a chance (a bigger one than you think) that all will be well”). We get a sense that Rhodes is again at peace. That he and, conversely, we have made it out of something. The unfortunate truth, however, seems more to be that this was just yet another coda to a symphony that has yet to be completed.
