"Am I gonna have to hide that from you?" wife Becky asked as I once more picked up my copy of The Rick Johnson Reader: "Tin Cans, Squeems & Thudpies" (Mayfly Productions) in the middle of a combined round of Scrabble 'n' March Madness teevee reruns (N.C.I.S., I think). "Just a couple more quick reviews," I replied, chortling at the opener to Reek's takedown of Styx's The Grand Illusion. ("Styx ain't half-bad, but they almost are.") All those full and half-page stabs o' primo rock crit snarkiness: they're like Ranch-flavored Fritos. Even if they do leave an odd taste in your mouth, you can't stop going back to the bag.
Rick Johnson, who died suddenly and much too soon last year, was a rock crit of the R. Meltzer/Lester Bangs "No More Heroes" school of rock ritin'. A regular contributor to Creem magazine during its glory years -- where he once nearly sparked a readers uprising with a rudely dismissive review of the Runaways -- Johnson was also a prolific screeder for a tiny music rag called both SunRise and The Prairie Sun. There, he cranked his trademark blend of Midwestern snark and surreal trash culture references into a glorious succession of elpee reviews. That most of these gems of wit and conciseness were only read by whoever happened to pick up a freebie paper in a Central Illinois record store back in the 1970s/'80s has long been crime of pop crit history that's now happily rectified by Johnson's former editor at the PSun, Bill Knight.
(Pause for a full disclosure: I used to write and cartoon for the same paper back in the day – even met Johnson at a "writer's retreat" sponsored by the paper, though I remember being too wrecked at the time to exchange more than two sentences with him. I'm also one of the 20-plus former colleagues of his who transcribed Johnson's writings from yellowy ol' copies of the PSun, though the only editorial input I had into this collection was from whatever uncaught typos I may've sloppily inserted into my word processing.)
Collecting a slew of Johnson's music reviews (sans the infamous Runaways put-down) – along with a few shorter sections on television, sports, books and videogames – "Tin Cans, Squeems & Thudpies" catches both an era when rock 'n' roll fans were so starved for good music that they actually paid attention to the likes of Jefferson Starship or Uriah Heep, and reflects the more fecund late seventies/early eighties when the world was so fulla good/slash/promising pop/rock music-makers that only a rock critic could keep track of 'em all.
Article comments
1 - GL Hauptfleisch
I kind of wished you could've padded the review with other great lines, but it does sound like a book to seek out. Although I love the idea of a new readers uprising over the absence of a
dismissive review of the Runaways that
sparked a readers uprising. But that's just me.
Anyway, great review. It's funny because it's funny.
2 - Natalie Bennett
This article has been selected for syndication to Advance.net, which is affiliated with newspapers around the United States. Nice work!
3 - Sister Ray
Rick Johnson from Creem died? Damn. RIP. Thanks for letting us know about this book.
4 - Bill Sherman
Rick passed away last April - from what an autopsy later revealed to have been a series of uncaught heart attacks over the years. Definitely a drag . . .
5 - Wreckola
Good 'un Bill. I too plastered those yellered Sunrise and P. Sun pages w/ typos (always been one of my strong points), so I enjoyed this snarkiness almost as much as the book itself. Having survived the 'Macomb experience' (I actually attended the local 'high' school and WIU, and 'managed' the local music emporium), I can attest 1st hand that Reek was as playful in person as on the page. He dubbed me Lassie, 'cause when several sheets to the wind, I guess my unruly mop and dog-eyes reminded him of that canine hero of our distant TV past. One of my most vivid memories is getting totally blotto and spending hours trying to decipher the obtuse lyrics to the BOC's Secret Treaties lp. We musta listened to the damn thing dozens of times, and of course, in our wacked out condition, who knows what the fuck we were actually hearing. Ahhh, the good 'ole daze. I'll keep flinging out the Ranger Reek bloato hype in the hopes that some unsuspecting innocent will get the faith. Yers in squeemdom,
Wreckola