I know what you're thinking. Eddie and the Cruisers isn't about writers at all. It's about a band, a group of musicians. True. But we covered Bob Dylan earlier, so we clearly have a precedent for musical creatives here. (Of course, I do realize that Dylan was also a poet, and a Nobel-winning writer.) Stick with me here, anyway. I promise this music movie has a lot to say to us writers of prose too.
Let's get the cast together first.
- Eddie Wilson, guitar, lead vox
- Frank Ridgeway, keys
- Sal Amato, bass
- Wendell Newton, sax
- Joann Carlino, backing vox
- Kenny Hopkins, drums
Now, a brief recap of the plot for anyone unfortunate enough not to have seen this awesome flick. Eddie Wilson is a garage band idol with lots of raw energy and talent and charisma, but he wants to be more -- he wants to be a legend. He wants to leave a mark. Only, when he couldn't, he took his own life. Maybe. Now it's years later and a music mag wants to do a story on the band's unfinished and unreleased final album. Only that ends up turning into a search for the missing tapes through the Cruisers' history and remaining band members who are still alive.
Eddie brought the show and sizzle, but the magic? Well, the magic came from the lyrics. Even the record company realizes that. While discussing the idea of doing an article on the band years after Eddie disappeared, one of the publishing guys says early in the film: "Guy on piano was Frank Ridgeway. He wrote all their lyrics. Called him the Wordman."
I've always liked that. The Wordman. After all, as a writer, as a storyteller, it's what we do. We are all "The Wordman." (Ignoring the masculine reference this time for the sake of the movie script.) It's a moniker Frank earns right off the bat when the band asks him what he thinks about a song as they rehearse in the bar.
Sal: Hey, kid, come here.
Frank: Who, me?
Sal: Yeah, you. Come here. Now, you heard what we're talking about. What do you think?
Frank: Well, I think he's right. I think it needs a caesura.
Eddie: See? My way, with a caesarean.
Sal: A what?
Eddie: Tell him. What's your name?
Frank: Frank.
Eddie: Tell him, Frankie.
Frank: A caesura? That's a timely pause, A kind of a strategic silence.
Eddie: That's exactly right.
Frank: If you want, I'll give you an example.
Sal: Ahem. Ok.
Frank: One evening I took beauty in my arms, and I thought her bitter, and I insulted her.'Sounds like shit, right? Ok, wait a minute. Now I'll do it with the caesura. 'One evening I took beauty in my arms... and I thought her bitter... and I insulted her.
Eddie: Now, that's got class.
He's right. There's a power in understanding the beauty and technique of poetry and the writing craft. Too many writers reject it as old-hat, or the "literary" way of doing things, and prefer to just fly by the seat of their pants, but there's a reason why years and years of stories still matter and exist and while years and years of stories have disappeared. Now, that can happen because of oppression and cultural norms, but it can also can happen because the stories stand the test of time. Never discount the power of a Wordman.
Back to the plot. All is going well until the sizzle meets the magic. After bringing Frank into the band on piano, suddenly Eddie lights up with the idea that he could do more, be more through his music. Suddenly, Eddie wants to create something, not just sing and play something fun.
While gazing back into the past for the article, the magazine folks bring up the title of the unreleased album (which was declined by the label), A Season in Hell.
"Did you ever hear of a poet named Arthur Rimbaud?
"French lit. 105. It was required.
"Ok, kiddies, you want to sit back in your seats and listen?
"Sure.
"A season in hell.
"A spiritual and confessional autobiography. Arthur Rimbaud was a genius. His writings were a quest. A search for perfection. An attempt to find total freedom. At the age of 19, Arthur Rimbaud committed suicide, not of the flesh, but of the mind and soul."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means he never wrote another word and disappeared off the face of the earth. He was not seen nor heard from again for nearly 20 years, until he reappeared in a hospital in Marseilles on his deathbed."
It's become quite the cliche, the troubled artist. It's a life Eddie emulates to a point. It's at this point that the conflict between making something and making something that matters really comes to a head.
It's a constant conflict that can often be reduced to a battle between art and commodity, that spectrum that exists between mass-produced but entertaining stories for beach reading and "struggled over for years stories" that capture the human condition as if Dante himself had lunch with Shakespeare over edits.
Like most creators fighting those poles within themselves, it drives Eddie into a frenzy.
Eddie Wilson: [angrily charges into the soundbooth after "Season in Hell" is abruptly cut] What the hell are you doing?
Doc Robbins: [to Lew, about Eddie's album] There's nothing can't be fixed, am I right?
Lew Eisen: This won't fix, this is a disaster.
[to Eddie]
Lew Eisen: You want to be a poet? Try Greenwich Village.
Doc Robbins: Lew listen, another couple of weeks. We've been working for months.
Lew Eisen: Doc, take six weeks. I still wouldn't know what to do with it.
Eddie Wilson: [angrily to Lew, with Sal and Kenny holding him back] You want to know what you can do with it? I'll tell you what you can do with it, you son of a bitch!
Lew Eisen: Hey! I put up ten grand, and I expect something for my money. This is what I've been waiting a year for? A bunch of jerk-offs making weird sounds? You not gonna see a red penny!
Money speaks and tries to put art in its place. Some members of the band agree.
Sal: They want on the dark side! What are we giving 'em, some damn opera? I don't know even know what you're after.
Eddie: I want something great, I want something that nobody's ever done before.
Sal: Why? We ain't great. We're just some guys from Jersey.
But here, right here, this line, this is why I love Eddie and the Cruisers. This is why I love Eddie Wilson like some kind of god damn poet laureate for the garage band circuit. No, that's not good enough for him.
Eddie: If we can't be great, then there's no sense in ever playing music again, Sal?
Indeed. If, as a writer, I can't be great, then what's the point of ever writing another story again?
Now, here's the rub. Great is going to mean something different for each creator. We each get to define that for ourselves. But... However we define it, it has to be the off-in-the-distance goal we're reaching for, the green light across the bay, the... well, you know all the common metaphors already.
My great is writing something that will be remembered after I'm gone. Best case, something that resonates to the point of being taught in Literature classes. Worst case, my great-great-grandkids know their old ancestor was a writer, and hopefully one hell of one at that.
But it's that dream, both sides of it, that makes me keep reaching.
"If we can't be great, then there's no sense in ever playing music again, Sal?"
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