Daniel Johnston - The Van Gogh of rock'n'roll

It's been more than twenty years since he shut himself in a garage with a toy organ and a $59 tape recorder, taping cassettes that he then gave to anyone, not for money or for a review, but just so someone would listen to them. Today, even though it's almost impossible to find his records, Daniel Johnston is a classic. Proof of this is the tribute paid by his most celebrated peers, who dedicated a tribute album to him in 2005, Discovered Cover, paying homage to his songs without ever quite matching them. Among his admirers: Kurt Cobain, Sonic Youth, Rem, Beck, Tom Waits, Pearl Jam, David Bowie, Matt Groening, Steven Spielberg…

2005 was also the year of the multi-award-winning documentary about his life, directed by Jeff Feuerzeig, "The Devil and Daniel Johnston": a cinematic honor that rarely falls to artists barely in their forties, let alone still living. Last but not least, numerous galleries in America and Europe have taken notice of his drawings and organized exhibitions.

And yet, little has changed in Daniel Johnston's life: he still lives with his parents, in Texas. He shows up to concerts alone, with a battered old guitar, takes whole minutes to choose his setlist, sometimes stumbles or cries while singing. Baby, this is no ordinary rock'n'roll show. He spends most of his time at home, watching horror movies and 1950s sci-fi, and occasionally goes to religious services. And he keeps cycling in and out of psychiatric institutions, haunted by a manic-depressive psychosis that has undermined his health, preventing him from having an acceptable personal life or a real artistic career.

So it falls to his eighty-year-old father and his brother to act as his managers. And his songs are still populated by the same demons as twenty years ago: the products of a mind as intuitive and hypersensitive as a child's, yet as hypochondriac as an adult's.

Daniel Johnston sings, writes and draws in order to survive: the pain, the humor, the rough-hewn performances and the total rejection of the music industry that make him a hero are also the constant manifestation of his inability to fit in and accept the rules of the game, a hostage to his own private hell. An American critic once compared him to Van Gogh. Indeed, the affinities are many: the mental bipolarity, the religious anxiety, the solitude, a vitality mixed with a powerful self-destructive impulse, but also a lucid artistic awareness. Daniel Johnston is still an outsider today — that is his charm, and that is his curse.

Home recordings

Daniel Dale Johnston was born in 1961 in Sacramento, California, into a Methodist Christian family. Religious upbringing never felt confining to him — quite the opposite. He read the Bible, devoured Captain America comics, and began strumming soundtracks for imaginary horror films. As a teenager he became passionate about music: Bob Dylan, Neil Young, Sex Pistols, but above all the Beatles. "At 19 I wanted to be the Beatles," he recalls, "I was upset when I realized I couldn't sing." And yet he started singing anyway, and writing songs.

At twenty, armed with a piano and a tape recorder, he recorded Songs Of Pain (1981), an extraordinary debut in which all his talents find an outlet: his spontaneous performing style, his melodic instinct, his verbal dexterity. The album grew out of his great emotional trauma: Laurie, the woman who — by chance or by fate — shares her name with Petrarch's muse, his one and only love, marries a businessman. Daniel has a nervous breakdown. Despite the gravity of his condition, the music has an exceptional freshness: the piano hints at lively ragtime rhythms or marks out dreamy chords. His voice, nasal and nervy, rattles off endless verses and surprising rhymes, delivering, with the most guileless nonchalance, catchy melodies that most songwriters wouldn't know how to write.

While the style betrays Beatles-esque influences, it connects more deeply to the blues tradition of Robert Johnson or the folk tradition of Hank Williams. Here and there, fragments of dialogue, coughing fits and noise-collage bits burst in. Some songs ("Wicked World", "Lazy", "Urge") would be perfect pop gems with flawless melodies, if only a producer had arranged them. "A Little Story" has the tone of a spiritual, but the point of view is that of a five-year-old child. "Never Relaxed" is a sadistic, neurotic tale, perfect as the soundtrack to a surreal home movie. "An Idiot's End" is a ballad of epic proportions, in which the inability to communicate spills over into the most merciless self-pity ("I guess my concern / would make a dead dog's heart bleed").

Already striking is Daniel's ability to recount the most dramatic events without ever tipping into self-pity, but rather with a sincerity that finds no reason to feel ashamed, touching universal chords. One line in particular seems prophetic ("Grievances"): "Well I tried but in the end I failed / if I can't be a lover then I'll be a plague".

From the same period come other amateur recordings for voice and piano.

More Songs Of Pain (1983) continues along the lines of the previous record: particularly striking is the tender Valentine's Day ballad "You Put My Love Out The Door", taut as a cry of pain in the winter cold. The sense of alienation runs rampant, starting with the titles: "Phantom Of My Own Opera", "More Dead Than Alive". More melancholy records followed: Dont Be Scared (1982), which features the bleak, Lennon-esque "Cold Hard World", and The What Of Whom (1983), with a "Blue Clouds" that ranks among the peaks of his lyricism.

Early success

Having dropped out of art class, in 1983 Daniel ran away from home and joined a traveling carnival as a popcorn vendor. "The whole time felt like a movie," he recalled, "For the first time I learned what it felt like to be free." The carnival landed in Austin, Texas, where Daniel picked up odd jobs, but above all became a local legend, to the point of being featured on MTV's touring show Cutting Edge. The brief appearance on America's most famous music channel turned him into an underground celebrity, sparking the interest of Sonic Youth and convincing a few labels to release his recordings. Despite this stroke of luck, the two albums from that period were recorded during yet another breakdown, which is why the music is dominated by a fragmentary, surreal and neurotic quality.

Yip/Jump Music (1983) is an album of contradictions: in most cases the accompaniment is handled by a tuneless chord organ, played with such vigor that the clatter of the keys takes on a percussive function. This lends the confessional lyrics a dazed, off-kilter tone, like tragedy turned into farce. "Speeding Motorcycle", a querulous, lopsided nursery rhyme that even got radio play, became his first hit. "Casper The Friendly Ghost" tells the story of the kindly ghost, mimicking the rock cadences of "Helter Skelter". "Sorry Entertainer" is a grotesque self-portrait for voice and ukulele. "King Kong", three notes sung over and over, is an a cappella dirge for the gentle monster, victim of love and show business.

The religious element is ever-present, reinforced by direct biblical quotations: in "Love Defined", Daniel sings, more vulnerable than ever, a hymn quoting St. Paul (“L’amore sopporta ogni cosa/ Crede in ogni cosa/ Spera ogni cosa/ Fa’ durare ogni cosa/ L’amore non finisce mai”). "God" is a Franciscan ode in 4/4, as flowing as a punk song. "Don't Let The Sun Go Down On Your Grievances", another scriptural reworking, has the cadence of a Protestant hymn, but the freshness of a perfect pop melody: “Non lasciare che il sole tramonti sui tuoi problemi/ Rispetta l’amore del cuore sopra le voglie della carne/ Fai a te stesso un favore, diventa il tuo salvatore/ E non lasciare che il sole tramonti sui tuoi problemi”.

Hi, How Are You (1983) betrays the state of disarray in which it was recorded. Demented nursery rhymes alternate with desperate confessions, pop gems ("Walking The Cow" above all) with flashes of genius, like the idea of using a jazz record as backing track: that's the extraordinary "Keep Punching Joe", in which Daniel stages a TV show, playing both host and guest with remarkable comic verve. Noise wins out over harmony.

The other albums of the '80s follow the same vein, enriched by the contribution of a few friends who provide minimal arrangements. From "Continued Story" it's worth remembering the blazing, almost grunge-like fragment "Funeral Home", which Daniel has the audience sing along to at live shows, to everyone's general embarrassment: “Dimora funebre/ sto andando alla mia/ dimora funebre/ Mi compro una bella bara nera e luccicante/ Vado alla mia dimora funebre/ e non tornerò mai più indietro”.

With fame came his first collaborations: It's Spooky (1988), recorded with Jad Fair, is a true masterpiece of spectral creativity: the two have a riot playing every instrument themselves, including toy drums and keyboards, giving rise to small miracles of cacophony, surreal sketches ("Tongues Wag In This Town", for voice and toy xylophone), tender folk narratives ("I Did Acid With Caroline") and utterly desolate, Lennon-esque melodies ("Nothing Left"). "Kicking The Dog" uses a dog's voice taken from a children's sound book, twenty years before Cocorosie. "I Met Rocky Erickson" rides a repetitive yet schizophrenic accompaniment, with drums and guitar following two different tempos. "The Chords Of Fame" launches an attack on the record industry, a sign that Daniel Johnston is less naive than the myth of the "mad genius" might suggest: behind his recordings, in fact, lies a sharply defined artistic awareness.

The Nineties

Opening the new decade, a programmatic title: 1990. It's the album of his international breakthrough, having been released by a label that actually bothered to distribute it. But it's also the album of his maturity: Daniel's songwriting was never so concise and effective. With the noisy episodes stripped away, all that's left is his voice, over minimal three-chord accompaniments, singing the darkest, most fatalistic ballads of his career. Even the theme is pared down to the bone: man's battle against evil. Satan, much like in Mississippi blues, appears in every song. The album opens with "Devil Town", an a cappella song more defenseless than ever. "Held The Hand" is little more than a fragment, but the melody is perfect. The most moving moment is the slow, tragic march of "Lord Give Me Hope", six minutes of prayer to God for voice and piano. The hope of love is not yet dead, as proven by the ballad for voice and guitar "True Love Will Find You In The End", one of fans' favorite songs and one of Beck's preferred covers. Sonic Youth lend a guitar to "Spirit World Rising", another six-minute prayer. The yearning for redemption pervades the whole record and inspires every note, every pause, every chord. It might be the first step toward rebirth.

Two years later Daniel has a label, a band, the public support of Kurt Cobain, and unveils his most carefree album yet: Artistic Vice. The sheer joy of playing wins out over everything. Plugging into the amp, Daniel discovers a genuine electric vocation. The music, recorded live, revives '60s sounds, energetic rock'n'roll numbers like "My Life Is Starting Over Again" ("still better than suicide," he's careful to point out in the chorus), ballads with psychedelic reverb ("I Feel So High"), blues flourishes, and a few noise divertissements that wink at none other than The Velvet Underground ("A Ghostly Story" and the closing "Fate Will Get Done", whose obsessive pulse is driven to the point of disintegration). Even the revisiting of "Laura" takes on the shape of a serene ballad. The flowing rock of "Happy Soul", however, raises the suspicion that it's a tragic joke: "I'm so happy" is repeated endlessly, until the voice breaks and turns into a lament.

The simplicity and deeply personal tone with which Daniel approaches rock are those of a child drawing a picture for his mom.

Artistic Vice is a success: it earns him a contract with a New York theater, for which he composes a ballet reworking some songs from Yip/Jump Music, and the chance of a lifetime. A contract with Atlantic Records.

Ruining the deal with Atlantic is yet another breakdown, one of the most tragic of his life. In a moment of despair, Daniel ends up breaking his arm.

He manages to finish recording the album, ironically titled Fun (1994), but can't promote it. The result, despite its inevitable unevenness, is among his very best, with a decisive turn toward voice-and-guitar folk and at least three unforgettable songs: "Life In Vain", a finely crafted acoustic ballad, complete with violin and cello, sung with his heart in his throat. The lyrics are memorable: “Non so più distinguere gli alti e i bassi/ E non c’è più amore qui intorno/ Ognuno indossa la sua maschera/ In attesa che Babbo Natale torni in città/ Ci arrendiamo così facilmente/ Stiamo vivendo invano/ E per cosa poi?/ Dobbiamo solo continuare a tentare/ Provare a tener duro/ Ma per cosa poi?”.

Halfway through the album, Daniel picks up the acoustic guitar with his broken arm and sings his perfect melody: "Silly Love", left in pure lo-fi form, is the Johnston-esque equivalent of "Imagine". After several ramshackle sketches ("Jelly Beans"), noise-psychedelic excursions ("Psycho Nightmare"), and folk numbers, among which "Happy Time" stands out, for voice and cello, with an incredible Ginsberg parody ("Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!"), comes "Rock'n'roll/EGA". It's the grand finale, the perfect synthesis of all his mood swings: folk verse, rock chorus. The very long coda, a rock'n'roll ride taken to the nth degree, with the vocals doubled and pushed into the highest registers, is the most epic moment of his career.

Fun is definitely the first album to track down for anyone wanting to get to know Daniel Johnston.

A New Beginning

Daniel goes back to live with his parents and undergoes specialist treatment. He re-emerges after seven years, in good shape. Rejected Unknown (2001) has the songwriting quality of Fun and the liveliness of Artistic Vice. The surreal, subversive episodes of his youth have given way to songs that seem to write themselves, so natural is their reworking of the same ideas. "Impossibile Love" isn't a song, it's the blueprint for every possible song, arranged in a folk-rock key, with a groaning overdrive.

Every track springs from a peculiar insight, like "Devinare", which pokes fun at "Every Breath You Take", or "Billions/Rock", which has fun staging a wild live show in front of an oceanic, and obviously imaginary, crowd. Or "Funeral Girl", kept hanging for three minutes before suddenly taking off into a vaudeville-style finale. "Dream Scream" instills the fear that the singer might dare to burst into tears before the end. "Party" is a shuffle with a perfect chorus and a gorgeous solo.

A record where no song is essential, yet every one of them hits the mark.

2003 brought Fear Yourself. The album, released on Gammon, has the merit - and the obvious drawback - of making Daniel's music marketable. Mark Linkous's production, piling on drums, guitars and keyboards at will, turns Daniel's heart-wrenching melodies into brisk pop-rock songs that are happily digestible yet bizarre enough to remain endlessly enjoyable. It ranges from the full-throttle power-pop of "Mountain Top", to the wonky naive energy of "Fish", to the quintessential indie song ("Love Not Dead", which even got airplay on MTV), to the manifesto "Living It For The Moment", where the vocal races ahead of the drums, going wildly out of tune.

The other side of the record is made up of ballads for voice and piano, embellished with violins, bass drum, horns, and theremin wails: but it's not hard to sense, beneath the arrangements, the same person who recorded Songs Of Pain. "The Power Of Love" manages to be one of the most majestic, best-constructed love songs of his career. But the emotional high point is "Syrup Of Tears", especially in its long coda, where Daniel is left alone with his piano, repeating to Laura: “Ti amo più di me stesso/ ti amo più di me stesso/ ti amo più di me stesso/ e mi piacerebbe rivederti”.

In 2006, after a long wait and following the international success of his previous records, came Lost And Found. It's 14 tracks salvaged from various sessions in the garages of the Johnston home, or of producer Brian Bettie. The sound is saturated, raw, hoarse. No song adds anything new to Daniel's by-now-famous pop skill, his halting, heart-wrenching delivery, or his trademark limping gait. "Rock This Town", a rock'n'roll slowed down and graceful as a brontosaurus, hits home with its groaning overdrive and his voice singing with stubborn rasp. "Try To Love", a ballad for voice, piano and out-of-tune cello, sounds like the love-cry of a tender monster, frightening in its wailing.

The record's two melodic gems are the bitter "Lonely Song" and "Everlasting love", a brisk, gripping shuffle. "Country Song" and "It's Impossibile" come close to country parody, with humour. "The Beatles", a self-cover of Yip/Jump Music, is definitely the best track, but despite its lovely arrangement, with horns echoing Cruella De Vil's theme, it leaves you nostalgic. One begins to suspect that success might be the worst thing that could have happened to Daniel, even though his talent deserves every bit of it.

The ever-growing crowd of international admirers is waiting for Feuerzeig's biographical documentary to hit theatres. Meanwhile, perhaps to satisfy his lo-fi urges, Daniel has for some years also led a garage-rock band, Danny And The Nightmares, whose motto is "Sympathy for the record industry". Their performances, recorded live, are mostly noise nightmares or disintegrating rock'n'roll. Daniel allows himself anything: screaming into the mic until the audio clips, playing bass, imitating "Immigrant Song", intoning his prayers to Jesus.

The sound is close to the Velvet Underground of "White Light, White Heat", but the underlying mood is that of a child who seems to be asking "how did all this happen?"

Six years after Fear Yourself comes Is And Always Was (2009), in which Daniel finally lives out his dream of being backed by a full band. True to his style and his nature, Daniel Johnston summons around himself his pantheon of more or less mythological figures, from George Harrison to Syd Barrett, to accompany him in writing and performing a decidedly straightforward record, pop in its immediacy. Standouts in this sense are the piano-driven gallop of "Without You", a cocky declaration of (in)dependence, and the carefree "Fake Records Of Rock'n Roll", fired up by a performance from Daniel that's at once lucid and theatrical. Throw in, for good measure, the country jaunt of "Queenie The Doggie", and you have the ideal soundtrack for Daniel's "independent" idyll, poking fun at small-town conventions and routine.

Jason Falkner's production (Beck, Air and Paul McCartney) puts a lot of itself into coloring an album that's occasionally a bit thin compositionally, to the point where our man seems at times to struggle to keep hold of the thread in tracks that are almost over-arranged. Take, for example, the elaborate embroidery underpinning the already intrinsically complex "Freedom". Far more effective is the clean 1970s pop of "High Horse", a bit of philological recovery that sounds, at the same time, fresh and carefree, as if those thirty years had never passed.

"Is And Always Was", after a sparkling, bright start, gradually grows more elusive and darker, as if reaching an unforeseeable dead end in the labyrinth of Johnston's mind. We wander through the Borgesian, psychedelic obsessions of "Lost In My Infinite Memory" and the subtly post-punk ravings of the title track, delivered with the tone of a hallucinated sermon. The spell seems to suddenly break, as in a Walt Disney fairy tale. It ends, though, on steadier footing, with the glam ballad "Light Of Day", which sounds like a hard-won re-emergence from one of his relapses: after all, nothing is a given when you're Daniel Johnston, nothing is predictable.

It's Munster, the Madrid label, that lets us peer once again through the keyhole at the Sacramento songwriter's earliest cries. The Story Of An Artist is a title that seems to playfully echo the grandiosity of some has-been crooner's greatest hits collection.

Indeed, Daniel Johnston really does come across as a "crooner", albeit in a show staged in the cramped quarters of his own home, interspersed with dialogue, phone calls, arguments.

The initiative behind this reissue, which brings back Daniel's first six records (those distributed on "homemade" cassette at the start of his career), looks like one of those Hollywood-style rediscovery operations for peculiar yet, in their own way, winning characters: it's hard to deny that part of Johnston's appeal stems from his "Americanness" - from the fact that, despite everything, talent and self-belief are enough to help someone rise above.

Whether it's his harrowing dreams of love ("I Had A Dream"), or the even more touching statement of intent that is "Story Of An Artist" (a masterpiece!), Daniel's piano touch — at once childlike and fully self-aware — gracefully sketches the painful discovery of an inescapable solitude. A human condition that becomes tangible in Johnston's music, through the never-obvious equation — in terms of results — of translating one's own pain into song. Sometimes even with irony, as in "When You're Pretty".

In 2019, tragic news froze every fan in their tracks: Daniel Johnston had died at 58. The great American singer-songwriter did not survive a heart attack that struck him on September 10, as reported by The Austin Chronicle. Johnston had suffered several health problems in recent times, the latest hospitalization coming earlier in the year, while the second edition of the "Hi, How Are You Day" tribute concert was underway, featuring artists such as Flaming Lips, Bob Mould, Built To Spill, Jeff Tweedy and many others. He leaves behind an immense void and a unique legacy, testimony to an almost unprecedented blend of creativity and innocence.

Contributions by Lorenzo Righetto ("Is And Always Was", "The Story Of An Artist")

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