McLean Knew What Happened

You may already know this story. I cannot tell you of another that tells the story of "rags to rags" quite like this one.

I went to out my studio to paint this week.  As usual, I had notions of a great work of art when I set up in front of my canvas.  What I envisioned was going to be my best painting to date; my masterpiece.  After laying in the background, my subject began to take shape.  However, once I’d made it five or ten brush strokes into the painting, I realized I would not be creating a masterpiece in my little studio at all.  Not by me anyway, not today.  

Sometimes what begins in my head as a perfect scene, a scene where I can see the colors, the shades, the tints, the values, all of it, becomes something less than what I imagined once I get going on it.  I know I will never be at the top of my peer group creating works of art, but I sure enjoy trying.  I am happy to be able to create anything that someone else finds satisfying in some way.

While I paint, I play the radio in the background.  I am set to a station that plays classics from the 60’s through the 80’s and I really like it.  While I was out there, I  heard one of the greatest songs ever written or recorded; American Pie.  We’ve all grown so accustomed to singing along and I was right there with it.  Even if a person had NEVER heard that song before, it is one that would have a first time listener chiming in with that incredible chorus within the first few verses.  

The song really is a work of art.  It tells the story from Don McLean’s point of view as a young teenager.  It tells us of a time when McLean had a paper route and what happened on a cold February day in Iowa in 1959.  It was a very unique time for popular music right then.  Rock and Roll was in it’s infancy in the late 50’s and he (McLean) was a bonafide fan.  It is almost heartbreaking when you hear him tell of the day when he had to deliver the newspapers with the worst news ever as the headline.  Buddy Holly, and two other rock icons, had been tragically killed in a plane crash.  It was a very sad day for the world and especially sad for a super-fan like Don McLean.

.....But February made me shiver

With every paper I'd deliver

Bad news on the doorstep

I couldn’t take

One more step

I can’t remember if I cried

When I

read about his widowed bride

But something touched me deep inside

The day

The music......died....

His song has symbolic meanings behind nearly every lyric. All of these symbols relate to “The Music”, Buddy Holly, and all he stood for in the hearts and minds of the younger generation of the day.  McLean was rattled to the core when he read the fateful news.  His knees had to have been buckling as the heavy burden he carried in his paper boy bag weighed him down along his route.  Buddy Holly's biggest fan was tasked with delivering the news that the era was over.  The day the music died was a perfect definition for literary tragedy, but Irony was being defined on the day AFTER "The Music" died.  McLean became the one selected by the universe to deliver the news and then to one day tell the story of this very icon of hope from his younger life.

As McLean's song progresses, he takes a broader approach to things and delivers to us the many changes Rock and Roll went through after that horrible winters day in Iowa.  McLean’s lyrics discuss The Beatles, The Stones, the British Invasion and more. At some point in the song, he changes from giving us the story from his own perspective to that of a more global view. The day “The Music” died was going to be a dark day for music lovers the world over, forever.  No other song tells a story quite like that one.  

There are videos out there to watch which break down the symbolism and will tell you clearly what McLean was referencing at any point in the song.  Mainly, the late 50’s was a time of social Rock and Roll gatherings, small concerts and dances.  This new sound was OWNED by the ever popular Buddy Holly and his Crickets.  Buddy Holly was ALL ABOUT the dance scene in America and he wrote his songs to FIT that scene.    

When I was a kid in Nebraska, my brother and I once spent an overnight at a relatives place.  This would have been 1971 or ’72.  We stayed up nearly all night one of those nights and played cards.  Our relative had a brand new 8 track player and one tape.  That one tape was Don McLean’s American Pie.  It literally played all night.  8 tracks were great because there was no fumbling with the record or the cassette when one side was done.  8 tracks played continuously, like a loop.  I can still remember the living room floor we were all gathered on while playing cards and I can still hear how beautiful McLean’s voice sounded coming from that state of the art analog 8 track player.  

That night is one of my earliest memories of making a connection to Rock music. The history of it had occurred across just ten or twelve short years, but so MUCH happened during that time.  Many of the classic songs and the classic groups we still listen to today were a product of that era.  I’m sure everyone has an American Pie memory which takes them back to a specific place and a specific time.  

McLean was a very talented singer-songwriter.  He fit a niche, but was really in a category unto himself.  His music was more like the genre that gave us Paul Simon, Dan Fogelberg and Harry Chapin than that of Lennon or McCartney, but it really resembled no one else at the time.  Whatever you call his style, there is no debating the enthusiasm we all had, and still have, for American Pie.  What a song.  

Just a short time after our card game, I got my hands on a cassette player and bought the American Pie tape so I could hear it whenever I wanted.  As I was painting the other day, and American Pie was playing, I remembered another song on that album that I always really liked, but didn’t really understand so much back when I was a kid.  I knew the song had meaning, and who it was about, but all I had to go on was McLean’s voice and those incredible lyrics.  It would be years later before I would learn the truth about the OTHER great McLean song on the American Pie album.  A song where he tells another heartfelt story about another great name from the past.

When I went inside after painting that night, I googled the song and watched it on YouTube.  I listened as McLean sang it so clearly and with the same mastery he used with American Pie.  The song I’m talking about is one called Vincent.  As I said, I had known for a number of years that the song tells us about a man named Vincent van Gogh, but as a kid, I understood very little about what McLean was singing about.  I didn't know the back story.  Vincent is a beautiful song and the story it tells is as tragic and emotional as the likes of a Bohemian Rhapsody.  Of course, the artistry and the composition of these two songs are light years apart, but the TRAGEDY is similar.  Knowing the torment Van Gogh went through, Vincent, has become my favorite Don McLean song, by far.  For me, American Pie has had to take a back seat to this musical masterpiece.

The song Vincent is the lyrical story of Vincent van Gogh, the much renowned artist of the 19th century.  He was born in The Netherlands in 1853, but moved to Belgium in order to find his place in the world.  In his search for significance, he tried becoming a preacher, like his father, a clerk in a bookstore and even an art supplies salesman before he decided to follow his heart and become a full time artist.  He knew he had something special to share with the world, but his inability to focus held him back.  Along with this lack of focus, Van Gogh had a nasty temper and  was also highly emotional.  As I try to paint up and outside of my skill level, I realize I am no Vincent van Gogh the artist, but I can sure relate to the type of person he was.  I too lack focus at times.  I too have had my bouts with temper. I too can be highly emotional.  Anyone else?  Hands?  Anyone?  I see you out there...

Van Gogh left Belgium for France.  There was an art “scene” happening in Paris at the time (1880’s) and he decided to go there and mingle with the other creative types of the day.  His brother, Theo, ran an art gallery in Paris and it gave Vincent comfort knowing he had family nearby.  

While in Paris, Van Gogh met up with many other artists, namely Paul Gauguin, an impressionist painter with a good following.  Together, the two of them left for the south of France, to Arles, where they would set up an art instruction school to earn some money.  Once there, Van Gogh and Gauguin argued and fought constantly. Van Gogh became extremely frustrated during this period.  No one seemed to understand his style, a style that was uniquely his own. Furthering his frustration was his darker palette, which had become his trademark, and was difficult to abandon while he attempted to change to the brighter colors and shorter brush strokes of the impressionists of the day.  This was a problem and it was adding to his growing bout with depression.  

Many of these impressionists were making a good living with this new technique and Van Gogh was really struggling to catch up.  He was not having any luck with his teaching and his paintings just simply weren’t selling.  Though his skill level was very high, he was essentially penniless in a career to which he had dedicated his life.  Van Gogh's depression began to set in.  Had it not been for his bother, Theo, who lent him some money now and then, Vincent would have ended up in the poor house and more than likely would have walked away from the art world altogether.

At one point, when his rage was at a peak, he got into an argument with his associate, Gauguin, and swiped an open razor at his friend.  The razor missed Gauguin then came up and took off part of Vincents ear.  There are a few different versions to this story, but that one seems to be the most prevalent.  After the incident, Gauguin left and abandoned the relationship.  Van Gogh stayed, but continued to be tormented by his inner demons.  He did his utmost to learn the new impressionist style for a few more years.  Though the paintings he created were stunning, they did not fit the bill of what the buying public was after, still.  His depression grew worse.  He found himself in a world where his unique style should have caught the eye of anyone who saw it, but the time for his style of art simply had not yet come. With no money and a stack of paintings he couldn’t sell, Vincent van Gogh was checked in to an insane asylum in 1888 to deal with his mental issues.

It was at some point during his two years in that institution when he looked out a window and saw the city before him with the night sky as a backdrop.  Vincent saw the scene with new eyes and set out to paint his most renowned work “Starry Night” right there in the asylum.  Many critics today believe Van Gogh knew he had something special when he inspected the finished piece, but could have had no idea what a lasting effect it would have long after his death.  

Van Gogh picked up a great deal of momentum once he left the asylum, stabilized mentally and returned to the art world, but he was never able to meet his newfound sanity head on.  Even with his new techniques, he was still unable to truly reach the place he'd strived so hard to attain on his dark and agonizing journey.  He was essentially broke when his anguish caught him alone and without an outlet at the end.  He attempted suicide with a gunshot to his stomach in 1890.  He died two days later at the age of 43.

Through his letters and other evidence, it has been confirmed that Van Gogh only ever sold ONE of his paintings.  The sale was made to another artist of the day.  That bit of information makes his story even more tragic.  Van Gogh gave it ALL to his craft and in a lifetime of work, he was only able to find one other person who saw what he saw.  When we look at his paintings we have to ask, "how can this be true?"

It is like the story of a man who dug a hole one day and discovered an odd looking metal.  The vein was shallow and the metal was plentiful.  The man set out to mine the metal and bring as much of it out of the hole as he could.  There was but one problem, this metal had not yet been discovered by anyone else and no matter where the man went to sell his beautiful ore, he found no one willing to pay him for it.  He continued on throughout his life, mining, digging and panning.  He made a place to keep all that he brought out of the hole, but he never happened upon anyone who saw what he saw in this highly unusual yellow metal.  The man learned how to melt the metal down and how to design molds which allowed him to produce exquisite jewelry and finely crafted figurines. 

Throughout his life, the man would set up tables in the marketplace and try his best to sell his beautiful metal and wonderfully crafted items to the people.  Other miners would be set up too.  These other miners would have their silver, their emeralds, their rubies, diamonds and platinum all set up just like he did.  Buyers would come and gather around the other booths, fighting one another for the chance to buy the treasures on display.  Our man who had the yellow metallic rock saw no action at all at his tables.  The people would gaze upon the array of his best work as they walked among the purveyors, never stopping to see, never speaking to our man and never offering him money for his trinkets. 

One day, while set up to sell, another vendor came by our mans’ booth.  He liked a particular necklace the man had made and negotiated a price for it.  Our man was so delighted and eager to make a sale, he allowed the buyer’s very low offer to be the selling price and made the exchange.  This would be the one and only time our man would sell anything to another person.  In his frustration and in his failure to find fortune and fame with his yellow metal, our man commits suicide and dies penniless and completely unknown.

Just a few short years after his death, it is announced that a new precious metal has been discovered.  They are calling it gold, and people are clamoring to pay good money for it the world over.  Our man, who had dug the simple hole all those years earlier and had received no attention while he was alive, was now the talk of the entire world.  They had found his storehouse and determined that HIS gold and the beautiful items he'd made with it, were unlike any other work, anywhere in the world.  Also, his stockpile was examined and found to be the finest and most pure of any gold known to exist.  It held the most brilliant color and was of the purest chemical make-up of all the other gold being discovered.  HIS gold became the standard by which all OTHER gold would be graded from that point forward.  

While all of this is happening, our man, the one who gave it all for an unusually shiny yellow metal, lay buried somewhere in an unmarked grave in a paupers cemetery.  No fortune, no fanfare and no recognition while he was alive to enjoy it.  His discovery had been made just a few years too early for that.  The story of our man who dug a hole one day IS the Vincent van Gogh story.

Vincent van Gogh was greatly misunderstood as a man, and as an artist.  When we hear his story, I think each of us sees that we have some Van Gogh in us, too.  Each of us has also, at times in our lives, felt misunderstood by others to the point that we have questioned OUR own sanity.  When people take in his Starry Night painting, there are few who do not see the genius behind the work.  It is so simple, yet so complex.  It is bold, has great depth and is richly vivid.  A person can almost see the colors vibrate on the canvas as they gaze upon it.  It is GENIUS level work, but the man who created it suffered like a street person with a relentless case of schizophrenia.  Van Gogh’s story ran the gamut from mental clarity to full blown mental illness due to what is now believed to have been manic depression.  When you know his story, you just cannot help but wish that the psychiatry of today could have been available to him at the time. His story is similar to that of our modern day Robin Williams...without the fame, and just the torment.

The story of Vincent van Gogh is told so well by Don McLean in his song, Vincent. When you're finished with this story, do yourself a big favor and go to YouTube and listen to Vincent, by Don Mclean.  The audio and video are perfect for a recording done so long ago.  

If you've never really looked closely at the works of Van Gogh, I think you will be pleasantly surprised once you do.  Also, if you've never tried your hand at painting and you are like me and have no real training, you just cannot imagine how difficult it is to put together a painting the way Vincent van Gogh did; mental illness or no mental illness.  Can you imagine the difference between being diagnosed now versus then as a person with a debilitating mental disorder?  What he endured in that asylum was probably horrific at the very least. It is a wonder he ever painted anything let alone one of the greatest works of all time.

I’d like for all who read this to see how this son of a small town minister gave it all to his art. How he gifted us with one of the ten most recognizable paintings since the beginning of the world, yet he died in obscurity as a nobody.  I hope Starry Night has the same effect on you that is has had on me every time I've looked and taken it all in.

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

Although it may nearly be two stories, I like this very much. All you said seemed to have come from my own thoughts and feelings--they are that familiar. Like you, I, too, am a lover of Don McLean, Buddy Holly, and Vincent van Gogh. All of them touch in a certain way that makes me think there's part of them inside me. My oldest sister would sometimes tear up when James Dean or Buddy Holly were mentioned. I tried to play her Phil Och's "James Dean of Indiana" once, and she made me turn it off. So, yeah, you're not alone in being emotionally involved in all of that. You and I experience things much the same. During a lonely and very dark period of my life, I listened to McLean's music and cried in my beer. One that tore me apart was "Empty Chairs". Some of Neil Young's early work, too.
I was thinkin' maybe I'd get a maid
Find a place nearby where she could stay
Just someone to keep my house clean
Fix my meals and go away
Afraid to fail at love again, Neil (and I) would be happy just to be near someone. I understood exactly what he meant.
Oh, music! What would life be without it?
Todd, this is a fabulous piece of writing, though I think it would be better if you stuck with the main theme of McLean's music and how it affected you. Write another one with all the historical details, for it, too, would be great.