Last night John and I watched the excellent documentary The Devil and Daniel Johnston. The film is about the music, art, and oh-so-troubled life of Johnston, who was a sensation in the Austin, Texas music scene in the mid-80s before his manic depression went into overdrive, and he found himself in and out of jail, wandering the streets with no home, and committed to various mental health institutions.D and DJ is a moving and mesmerizing account of an all-American boy from West Virginia who wants to become famous--either for his comic book style artwork or for his plenitude of songs, seemingly composed on the fly and recorded through primitive cassette tape recorders. When he finally makes his way to Austin and begins performing at various clubs, he gains an almost cult-like fan base, who hoard his tapes and collect his drawings. But when the film shows Johnston singing--both in early, as well as in more recent footage--I'm struck at how his expression is at once pained and elated. Behind a microphone, he seems both terrified and completely at home.
The film provides its viewers (or at least this viewer) with one of those haunting "there but for the grace of God" moments of self-reflection. Johnston's childhood and adolescence seem so very typical, and yet, he is clearly seriously stricken with a condition that makes him behave as though he were possessed by the demons he feels are infiltrating and controlling the world. You want to feel more horrified that he causes an elderly woman, fearing for her life as he makes his way into her apartment and charges at her, to leap from her second-story window and break both her ankles. But you also recognize that forces beyond his control--guilt and compulsive behavior from an over-zealous, fundamentalist Christian upbringing and a particularly acute inability to comprehend the world in which he so manically moves--function as strings on a confused and forlorn marionette of a man. Watching Johnston sort through explanations for his behavior, you can't help but wonder about the nature of the gulf (at least one hopes it's a gulf) that separates the viewer and Johnston.
I discovered Johnston's music last year through my friend, Charlie. (I'd actually known and loved Yo La Tengo's version of "Speeding Motorcycle" long before, but I hadn't known it was a cover of a Johnston song.) The songs will inevitably irritate a general listenership, largely for Johnston's high-pitched vocals that make Neil Young's voice seem mellifluous. But I've come to find a number of them truly moving and beautiful. Many critics have suggested that Johnston's favorable reception has more to do with either a fascination with or sense of pity for the artist's battle with depression, and I'm this accounts for at least some of the buzz about his music. But the lyrics--for all their naivete and childishness--often entail astute observations about love and loneliness, good and evil, and the difficulties we all face in merely getting through the day (we all walk our cows). I find many of his melodies beautiful and intricately construed, and his instrumentation, which often sounds like someone carelessly pounding away at his piano or sawing through the nylon strings of his guitar, complements the melodies rather well.
The film came out nearly a year ago, and clearly I'm a little late in joining the Johnston discussion, but if you haven't yet seen the film, check it out. You don't have to love the tunes to appreciate the movie. Make sure you also spend some time with the extras, where you see a touching mini-film of Johnston in a gorilla costume, on a ladder, and holding a barbie doll, while his father circles around him with a toy airplane.
Here is a link to a blog that has posted various versions of Johnston singing "Speeding Motorcycle." I don't know how long the links will be up. Head over to iTunes or eMusic and get your hands on "Walking the Cow" and "Devil Town," as well.
Here's where you'll find his official website replete with many examples of his artwork.
