The Gimlet Eye

MANY interesting things were said following the death of Jerry Garcia, the tubby, ninefingered, and now actually dead lead guitarist of the Grateful Dead. They rose to various pitches of extravagance. My favorite came from the very top. President Clinton, who seems compelled to reflect aloud on every headline, took to MTV to wag his chins solemnly over “the demons that [Jerry] dealt with.” These days nameless demons are always called in to account for drug addiction; they sound much more important than the real cause, which is an irresistible urge to get high. The President then shuffled off the psychologist’s lab smock and donned the rock critic’s tie-dyed T-shirt. “He was just a great talent,” the President said. “He was a genius.”

He was a genius. We all know that Bill Clinton is prepared to say virtually anything to anyone at any given moment, but this remark was more than a desperate pander to yet another constituency he feels slipping from his grasp. It may even have been sincere. It is a comment to treasure in any case, for it so well exemplifies the uncontrolled nature of rock ’n’ roll utterance. Whenever two or more rock fans are gathered together, hyperbole is the preferred idiom. Without much effort I can think of a dozen rockers who have been certified as geniuses by critics or fans or both: Bob Dylan, for example, and Eric Clapton, Pete Townshend, Stevie Wonder, David Byrne, all the Beatles—except Ringo, of course. Hyperbole has its limits.

About the Author

Andrew Ferguson

Andrew Ferguson, a former columnist for NR, is a contributing writer at The Atlantic and a fellow at the American Enterprise Institute.

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MANY interesting things were said following the death of Jerry Garcia, the tubby, ninefingered, and now actually dead lead guitarist of the Grateful Dead. They rose to various pitches of extravagance. My favorite came from the very top. President Clinton, who seems compelled to reflect aloud on every headline, took to MTV to wag his chins solemnly over “the demons that [Jerry] dealt with.” These days nameless demons are always called in to account for drug addiction; they sound much more important than the real cause, which is an irresistible urge to get high. The President then shuffled off the psychologist’s lab smock and donned the rock critic’s tie-dyed T-shirt. “He was just a great talent,” the President said. “He was a genius.”

He was a genius. We all know that Bill Clinton is prepared to say virtually anything to anyone at any given moment, but this remark was more than a desperate pander to yet another constituency he feels slipping from his grasp. It may even have been sincere. It is a comment to treasure in any case, for it so well exemplifies the uncontrolled nature of rock ’n’ roll utterance. Whenever two or more rock fans are gathered together, hyperbole is the preferred idiom. Without much effort I can think of a dozen rockers who have been certified as geniuses by critics or fans or both: Bob Dylan, for example, and Eric Clapton, Pete Townshend, Stevie Wonder, David Byrne, all the Beatles—except Ringo, of course. Hyperbole has its limits.