Photo Credit: Rocky Schenk

By Paul Freeman

Genius often goes unrecognized in its own time. Well, the time has come to fully appreciate the musical genius that is Van Dyke Parks.

In addition to masterworks of his own, Parks has contributed to our musical lexicon by producing and arranging countless classic albums. He was Brian Wilson’s lyricist for the legendary “Smile.”

A musical prodigy, the Mississippi native played clarinet from age four. He took a detour into acting, appearing with Grace Kelly and Alec Guinness in “The Swan.” He played neighbor boy Tommy Manicotti in “The Honeymooners.”

In 1963, at age 20, Parks came to California to play clubs as a duo with brother Carson. Through producer Terry Melcher, Parks landed studio work, first with guitar, then keyboards. He played on hits by Paul Revere and the Raiders, The Byrds and Sonny & Cher.

Parks earned a reputation as an imaginative arranger. Through Melcher, Parks connected with Brian Wilson. “Smile” was conceived in 1966 as a Beach Boys album. Wondrously ambitious, it combined Wilson’s magical melodies and Park’s fascinating journey through Americana. The work was so inventive that resistance formed, notably from Mike Love.

Other than the hit single “Heroes and Villains,” the songs largely remained on the shelf until Wilson and Parks completed the project as a Wilson solo album in 2004. Originally scorned as a fiasco, the album was later viewed as mythic and, finally, as a masterpiece.

Parks’ own great albums, such as the exquisitely eccentric “Song Cycle,” the Uncle Remus-themed “Jump” and the Trinidadian-flavored “Discover America,” ignored thoughts of commercial appeal.

He also contributed greatly to the music world through his uncommon acumen as a record producer.

Parks has worked with such artists as Randy Newman, Ry Cooder, Harry Nilsson, Bonnie Raitt, The Grateful Dead, Bruce Springsteen and U2. Now he’s in demand with a new generation, including Joanna Newsom, Danger Mouse, Silverchair and Clare Muldaur.

Parks remains a vital creative force. In 2008, he collaborated with Inara George (Lowell George’s daughter) on the lushly lovely album, “An Invitation.”

This summer, 2010, Parks played the Meltdown Festival at London’s Queen Elizabeth Hall, as well as fests in Belgium, Denmark, Spain and Holland.

In generously chatting with Pop Culture Classics, Parks effortlessly tosses off insights, non sequiturs and self-deprecating witticisms. His conversation brims with delightful surprises, as does his music. Endlessly innovative and truly independent, he’s extraordinarily honest and outspoken.

VDP Today; Photo Courtesy Van Dyke Parks

POP CULTURE CLASSICS:
You’ve been treating audiences to some live performances. Do they span your whole career?

VAN DYKE

PARKS:

The whole career? That’s a very optimistic assessment. [Laughs] ‘Career’ - I like that word. I’m afraid so. Guilty as charged.

That’s what you should call your article, by the way - ‘Guilty As Charged.’ Just come up with an unsue-able offense.

PCC:
Is there such a thing these days?

PARKS:
Well, actually, there is. I heard one reporter from the New York Times say that Allen Ginsberg said, ‘The guy couldn’t even give a good blow job.’ I thought, ‘You know, I should announce that from the stage, before my next concert, in New York City.’ And tell them how offended I am by the vulgarity of that remark. Why mince? Just bang - ‘This guy’s gonna die.’

PCC:
You played a few dates this year with Clare & The Reasons.

PARKS:
Clare Muldaur, whose father I have loved and admired, since ‘63, Geoff Muldaur, who was the Big Man On Campus, still is. Bob Dylan wanted to be Geoff Muldaur. He didn’t want to be Woody Guthrie. He wanted to be Geoff Muldaur. Clare is his daughter and she has a group that I have admired.

The reason I’m coming out on the road - I know it sounds like a flimsy excuse- but she invited me to join the group on a kind of a tourlet. So there I am, with no excuse not to do it. I’m really not too busy to do it. I’m actually doing a Dutch picture, but there’s no deadline on a Dutch picture. They just want it to be good.

I was quite touched and honored, in a way, that she asked me and that I’m able to associate with another generation of musicians and not be just feeling sidelined, old and in the way. So I’m ready. I’m fit, coach. I’m ready to play ball.

PCC:
You collaborated with Clare and the Reasons on their acclaimed orchestral pop debut, “The Movie.”

PARKS:
Well, I played piano for them. To me, collaboration is a very highfalutin’ word And it may even have legal consequences, I’m not sure. It certainly did in the age of Nazis. So you’ve got to be careful. Politics makes strange bedfellows. I don’t think anybody from that group had plans to take me to bed, either. [Laughs]

But sometimes working for someone is almost a collaboration. I always think that my work for Brian Wilson - that’s, I think, the fair thing to say. When people say I collaborated with him, I’m not so sure. Collaboration expresses a completely level playing field. And completely equal co-responsibility.

But I did play piano for Clare. And that was kind of like to endorse that group. I love her and her husband, Olivier [Manchon]. He, who has played on several soundtracks that I’ve done., is a tremendous musician. Doubtlessly infinitely more talented than I am. And so, the hell with him. [Laughs] Don’t give him any print!

PCC:
So what does qualify as one of your significant collaborations?

PARKS:
I think it depends on the weight, too. I think that my work for Joanna Newsom was collaboration. I think the arrangements stand hand-in-hand with the ideas and songs that she expressed. I say the same thing with Inara George. on the record I dd with her, called ‘An Invitation.’ And they were equally generous in their crediting me in those events.

There are others that I think involved collaborative skill. I’d like to include Silverchair, the Australian group who let me orchestrate for their numbers, both in Sydney and in Prague. I’ve used symphonic proportions with what starts out as almost a grunge group. And they treated the orchestra like more than wallpaper. It was like a real contributive force in the final results. So it changes from case to case.

PCC:
And Inara George was also a daughter of a close friend?

PARKS:
As close as it gets. Lowell and I were best friends. There’s no question about it. Of course I’ve had a lot of best friends. I don’t know why so many of them have died. It’s fair to say they died laughin’. But they died too early. That’s the problem. And they had so much to give.

But it looks more and more to me that I’m a survivor of my time. And for that reason, at risk, as it were, of being considered old and in the way. And I like to be put to use. And this is a time when I hopefully can contribute to the contentment in a room that was set up just for Clare’s tour.

PCC:
You’re in demand with a lot of young musicians.

PARKS:
Well, it’s true. I think that I’ve found a great life force. I’m 67 years old. I’m nearing the swan song. But I’m not ready to sing one yet. Actually, maybe I should sing a swan song. I may do ‘The Silver Swan,’ which is my favorite song. It was written in 1600. It’s for the pleasure of King Henry VIII. And I love that song.

The first record that my name appeared on was ‘The Swan,’ the soundtrack of the Grace Kelly and Alec Guinness movie. So what goes around comes around. [Chuckles]

PCC:
You were a musical prodigy?

PARKS:
I started at the age of four. I started with clarinet. That was my first instrument. I wanted to be a clarinetist for a living. I came out to California thinking I might get a job as a clarinetist. But there were too many people who played clarinet and oboe and saxophone and flute. I had to double on saxophone. But I didn’t have the chops in those broad abilities, like so many people. So I went from being a very big fish in a small pond and learned quickly that the dear Lord had other plans for me, in 1963, quite by accident, getting my first job as an arranger. And the plot has thinned, ever since.

PCC:
What led you to become a child actor?

The boys choir days, 1953; Photo Courtesy Van Dyke Parks

PARKS:
I acted to support my interest in music. When I was a child, I acted so I could afford to go away to a boarding school to study music. Music has always been my love.

I’ve done some things as an adult like ‘Twin Peaks’ and ‘Two Jakes’ with Jack Nicholson. I did those parts so that I could have the hospitalization benefits. I know it sounds vulgar, but that’s what I did.

PCC:
But how did you break into acting?

PARKS:
I don’t think I really did break into it. They say in the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king. I was a very obedient child and I had enough talent to wing it, if an adult forgot his lines. Basically, I think that that’s how I’ve seen myself through life - finding opportunities that no one else would or could want and filling them gladly.

Taking a road less traveled has been a real advantage for me. And acting was just one of the diversions that came along in the pursuit of music. Music is my life. It’s what obsesses me. I don’t have any hobbies. I don’t play golf. And, if I don’t have a job on a particular day or a particular week and something’s offered to me, I’ll take it.

I’m not sure if this is of interest to anybody else, but me. But here I am, late in life. I got a call from some Germans. They wanted me to come over and be on their board of directors. They have eight directors. I’m the American. It’s the largest cultural institution in Germany. It’s incredible. It’s called Haus der Kulturen der Welt - The House of the World’s Cultures. And they move symphony orchestras and dance troupes and sculptors and poets and dramatists around. They bring culture to Germany. They have a tremendous interest in things outside the box.

Germany never wants to be in a position of being a fascist regime, ever again... unlike America, who has not been branded as fascist, but I have a fear could really become a much more remarkably fascist state, if the right wing continues to steer us in that direction.

But with a commitment to the arts, I took this job to serve on the board of directors. I went to Berlin and, while I was there, since I wasn’t getting any money - I got a round-trip business class ticket, but no money - my wife said, ‘Why are you doing that?’ I said, ‘Well, something might pop.’ And indeed something did. I got a concert in Berlin offered to me and a concert in Frankfurt. And the day after the concert in Berlin, which was wonderful, the Germans were very kind, both before and after the fact. Not one naughty word about me. And it was all so deeply appreciated, I can’t tell you, because I’m a man of very modest means. But the regard that any peers have for me, is ultimately satisfying. That’s my reward. So I was happy to go.

The morning after the concert, a man appeared and said he directed Europe’s largest music festival. I said, ‘That’s very good. Congratulations.’ He said, ‘We would like you to headline this year.’ I said, ‘Where is your music festival?’ He said, ‘Denmark.’ I said, ‘Nobody’s going to care about me in Denmark. Nobody cares about me in Pasadena. Why should they care about me in Denmark?’

He said, ‘ We tell people what to listen to.’ I said, ‘Really? How many people?’ ‘He said, ‘Well, we seat 250,000 people. We have ever since 1972, a post-Woodstock event. Are you interested?’ I said, ‘Well, I would look like red on a watermelon. I would need some support. How about an orchestra?’ He said, ‘Up to 80 players.’ I said, ‘That’s a little large. I’ll have to look at my calendar. What dates are we talking about?’ He said, ‘July 1st, 2nd, 3rd or 4th.’ I said, ‘I’ll take the fourth and if you’ll give me an hour of darkness, I’ll play some Sousa for you.’ He said, ‘Well, that might be a little difficult, we have only about an hour of darkness of July 4th. But we’ll do what we can.’

So here it is, I’m going out on the road at age 67. It’s something I’ve never done. I’ve led a pretty private life in Los Angeles, as an arranger, an orchestrator, television and film composer. There’s not too much celebrity messing things up. And I’m grateful for that, because celebrity can be a very dangerous thing.

And yet, I love to travel. So my wife and I are now looking at a new chapter in my life, where I’ll be going out. My motto is, ‘I’ve suffered like hell for my music. Now it’s your turn.’

PCC:
With an aversion to fame, wasn’t it dangerous to immerse yourself in the performing arts?

PARKS:
Things were different in those days. The fame game was not so pronounced as it is now, nor was the greed creed. Things were different. A person who was famous could sit down at a luncheon table, in a public place, without being molested. People didn’t grovel over people who had fame.

I had no difficulty with that. I was considered, and considered myself, a fortunate person to have any employment and be able to have the opportunities I did. But I had no problems with fame as it’s now bandied about. There were no screaming teenagers. Teenagers knew better than to scream in public in those days.

PCC:
Filming ‘The Swan,’ did Grace Kelly make an impression on you?

PARKS:
Well, she sure did. She was a really nice person. We rode together, two or three times a week for eight weeks, while she learned side saddle and I learned how to post. She loved riding with me. We communicated. She sent me Christmas cards and so forth for many years after, as did Alec Guinness. Very nice people. Nice to kids. I was very fortunate to have that.

PCC:
And I’m so impressed that you had a recurring role on ‘The Honeymooners,’ playing the Kramdens’ neighbor boy, Tommy Manicotti.

PARKS:
As a matter of fact, I was in New York City, and I went back to Plaza Hotel. Back in 1953, I had gone to the penthouse, on a separate elevator from the 40th floor. I went up to the penthouse. The doors opened. And there was Jackie Gleason, behind a desk, holding a cigar and he said, ‘You’ll do.’

And I was very happy, because I had been quite apprehensive. And I was on several of ‘The Honeymooners.’

PCC:
That must have been a wild experience.

PARKS:
It was, because it was live TV. There was no such thing as a laugh track. And it was perform or perish. It was a very hazardous thing. And, if an adult forgot his lines, the child would respond, would adapt. You had to have an extemporaneous flair and be able to float with the punches. Now there’s evidence of those things on YouTube and I have the transfers of kinescopes.

PCC:
After acting in MGM pictures, you were later signed to MGM records in 1964.

PARKS:
I met them through Danny Hutton, who later on became known as the leader of Three Dog Night.

PCC:
Though you were signed to record pop records for MGM, your roots were classical.

PARKS:
And, of course, I had a dance band, so I could watch the girls dance... without having to get my feet stepped on.

PCC:
But the passion was for classical?

PARKS:
Absolutely. It was always an immersion in serious music. But my dad had seen his way through medical school with a dance band. And we had Fats Waller in our house, George Shearing, Gershwin, of course. Ellington. All of that. Any kind of music that was good - we had in our house. As well as two Steinway grands to support eight hands sometimes playing musical literature. Four boys, I was the youngest of them. We all played instruments. We had a wonderful time caroling, because we all played.

I had a brother who was working in coffee houses out here, up and down the coast. His partner had to leave to pursue a serious agenda - none of this show business stuff. So my brother needed a partner and I was given permission to come out to California in 1963. I was 20 years old.

Drawn out here by the populists, the beats, the beat era, the beat poets and so forth. I’d heard ‘Rock Around The Clock.’ We had the Bill Haley record in our house. We knew who Elvis was. But I preferred serious music.

Although I remember very distinctly in 1948, Spike Jones, ‘Cocktails for Two’ and ‘William Tell Overture,’ changing my mind about what popular music could be, on the radio. It was an indelible moment for me - Spike Jones.

Then, 1953, Les Paul and Mary Ford. What Les Paul did with a multi-layered guitar was absolute genius. And that changed the way I viewed recorded music.

Then after my college studies at Carnegie Tech, I was absolutely appalled by what they called ‘row’ music, that is music that’s tone row music, music that was abstract with no melody and no real rhythm to drive it. It was the type of music where you leave a room, carrying nothing with you.

I suspected that what was called ‘popular music,’ which had melody in abundance and a physical sensibility, good rhythm, I had a feeling that those things would be of interest to me. I came out in ‘63 to work with my brother, starting at the Rouge et Noir in Seal Beach, and other clubs.

I remember one in Santa Barbara - David Crosby was in the audience. He turned to his friend David Lindley. He said, ‘If these guys can get away with it, so can we.’ And he put that in his autobiography, about when he saw Carson - my brother - and me.

We played up and down the coast. Basically, we played world beat music. We played a lot of Mexican boleros and South American music and dressed-up parlor blues. But basically, it was a new game for me. It was un-serious music that I wanted to be serious about. So in 1963, my life was completely changed.

Everyone who was interested in what pop music could do, was changed in that year, because that was the year Bob Dylan came out with ‘Freewheelin’’ and The Rolling Stones came out with ‘their first record. That changed everything.

That and the fact that 1963 was the year called ‘The Endless Summer,’ when surfboards became synthetic and were no longer the heavy wood and more people could carry them, as I did, when I was in Seal Beach.

So we had surf music, Bob Dylan and the beginning of the corporatization of the blues, we had all those things driving these musical patterns in changing what music would could and should do for people, as civil rights and an anti-war movement raised their heads.

Van Dyke Parks with Grace Kelly 1955, Photo Courtesy Van Dyke Parks

PCC:
You played sessions for Terry Melcher, a producer who’s sometimes under-appreciated.

PARKS:
I loved Terry. I just loved him. The man was just scarred by the Manson event [through mutual friend Dennis Wilson, Melcher had, at one time, become interested in Manson’s music]. He was so much more than that. He was a man of great vision and dignity and purpose. And he included me, in his kindness, me and Ry Cooder, we got a lot of work out of that, stuff like Paul Revere and the Raiders and another group, really cool, called The Gentle Soul.

PCC:
The Raiders made some hot records.

PARKS:
The RaIders were hot, but the point was, they didn’t play. We did. And that was my introduction into the business of being a studio musician. And that changed my life, too. It gave me a chance to be out of the limelight, but in the action.

PCC:
With your classical roots, was it difficult to adjust to rock?

PARKS:
My take was that I’d better adapt or I’d die. And I adapted. In Phil Ochs apartment, at Bleeker and McDougall in ‘64, with Bob Dylan involved and Phil Ochs, I did not believe that folk music should be electronic. And neither did Phil. And we had a very opinionated shout out there.

I came from a very circumspect family that thought that maybe soft was just as good as loud and turning out a lot of juice was more expensive than not having any electricity on at all. You always turned a light off when you left a room. That doesn’t dawn on a lot of people, the ecological effect of rock and roll. It’s an egregious assault on the senses and its carbon footprint is as heavy as lead and part of the problem, it seems to me.

My favorite music is unplugged. My favorite music is World Beat. And I’ve always been kind of an outsider looking in at the rock establishment. I’ve never been to a Grammy Awards. To me, they’re self-congratulatory and a vulgar display of ego and an unnecessary competition that destroys music... with a false sense of charity at its foundation. So I’m kind of an odd man out, in a way.

But I still connect, in all degrees, as much as I can, to make the world a better place and sometimes that’s just as a beta male in an anonymous role, hoping that the music can be beautiful and that I will be part of that inventive process. To me, that’s what I love about arranging. You get to do a lot of interesting projects, but you’re not left holding the bag.

PCC:
Is it true you were offered the opportunity to join The Byrds? How would that have worked with your aversion to electrified music?

PARKS:
That was later in ‘64 and things really accelerated at that time, and my understanding, as well, with it. I saw that electronic music was an inevitability, as a dominant power.

PCC:
Yet you turned down the offer.

PARKS:
That just wasn’t it. It embarrassed me to stand in front of an audience and have people screaming at me. I just thought I had something better to do with my time.

PCC:
How did the Brian Wilson connection develop?

PARKS:
It happened, basically, because of my relationship with Terry Melcher, because Terry and Brian were close. But it was also the fact that I hung around town a lot in the coffee house scene, both the Ash Grove and the Troubadour, mostly the Troubadour. And in that year, ‘63 to ‘64, a lot of people started picking up guitars... who couldn’t sing and couldn’t play. And who didn’t have an idea, except, if Bob Dylan could do it, then so could they.

Well, I didn’t really fall in line there. As people started jockeying for position as guitarist-singer-songwriters, I decided that I would abandon the guitar. And to tell you the truth, my guitar-playing was centered on the nylon string, a la Latin music. And that was my ticket to ride, that nylon string.

But I abandoned all my interest in guitar so I could play the position that nobody else wanted to play, which was the piano. And I became a short-list keyboard contender in studio recording.

PCC:
What was your reaction to Brian’s composing, as you entered the ‘Smile’ project?

PARKS:
I thought his songwriting was really nifty. When I started to work for him, I figured we would be doing songs of a more conventional nature, like he had done on ‘Pet Sounds.’ But I was very impressed with his work on ‘Pet Sounds.’ And it seemed to me that, if he were given an opportunity, and encouragement, he would even get more involved with greater instrumental variety, beyond the bass, guitar and drums. And, of course, there was a saxophone, that Mike Love contributed, until he kind of gave it up... for good reason.

But The Beach Boys were essentially guitar, bass and drums, in performance. And when Brian asked me to do the job as the lyricist, I decided it would be a wonderful thing to do. I’d never done something like that. It looked like a great opportunity to be in music and to give me a chance to be a friendly persuader in bringing more instrumental variety to his music. And the general outcome I felt would be good. Of course, I expected it would be released a lot sooner than it was. Seemed to have been a little lag time there.

This project, which was kind of like this anecdotal, schizophrenic music, he defined it with the music itself. The music came first. No, the phone call came first. The music came next. And then the words followed. So it’s easy for me to conclude that the words had very little impact on the way the project developed. The project was centrally and fundamentally, Brian Wilson’s music... with some words attached to it.

They say in Writing 101, write what you know. Well, I knew a lot about the United States and I was very curious about how we’d gotten here. And I thought that just looking back at our history would be a very good groundwork and it would be something that would connect with him and resonate with him and that he could take even as his own idea and nurture. That’s what I wanted. That’s what I felt would give us a core spirit.

I don’t give a goddamn about the backlash. F--k the public. The public be damned. I feel like J.P. Morgan on that point. I don’t think you can do anything constructive in life, certainly not in the arts, if you’re bootlicking and seeking adulation for your work. You have to proceed with only one tenet and that is to do the right thing. And I did the right thing. I wrote what I knew. And I was true to my own performance standards. For that, I was punished for a long time.

But like anybody who’s getting beaten up in a car lot, I hoped that Mr. Sinatra would show up and say, ‘That’s enough, boys. Let him up.’ And fortunately, Mr. Sinatra did show up, finally, and say, ‘Let him up.’ And I was given an absolution and vindication. But it took a long time for Brian Wilson to finish ‘Smile.’ It just took a long time, because it was a painful process for him.

PCC:
For you, that delay must have been horribly frustrating.

PARKS:
It did make me feel like going back and rereading the book of Job. And I did. And I’ve often wondered how people who work in the creative field have survived such public condemnation.

PCC:
At least the song “Heroes and Villains” [written by Brian Wilson and Parks[ became a hit. And the album itself is now considered a classic.

PARKS:
I feel a great vindication about that work. The fact is, it paid a lot of bills for the record company executives. It gave a lot of people a lot of stock dividends and kept the fat boys fat, because of the sales.

But I still feel that my best work is ahead of me. And I proceed every day with that in mind and try to open my heart and put my shoulder to the wheel every day, in a musical way, to bring that about.

PCC:
When that project was relegated to the shelf, was that when Lenny Waronker lured you to Warner Bros. Records?

PARKS:
Lenny Waronker wanted to know what Brian Wilson told me. He wanted to learn how to record a record. And I knew how to do that. And I had learned how to do that from Brian Wilson, who was the best in the field at that time, at that apex of the analog era of music. This was as good as music could possibly sound in recording.

PCC:
As a producer, did you ponder whether to capture the artist’s essence or to put your own imprint on the project?

PARKS:
I don’t draw a distinction between the two. I think serving someone else, as well, is doing the best in self-service. I really believe that. I believe so mightily in the golden rule. I think you get what you give.

And I would say I have equal satisfaction in Randy Newman’s first record or Ry Cooder’s first record, knowing that they would never have been signed to Warners without my intervention. And I worked hard to make those records life-defining for them, because I knew, if I did, that the reward for me would be totally beyond measure.

Of course, at that time, Warners was thinking of crooners, like Dean Martin. And even Peter Paul and Mary had a certain finesse that outreached the vocal abilities of either or both those artists I mentioned... or Arlo Guthrie, who I also produced.

But the thing is, I think I’ve made some headway by taking on things without regard to how the public would feel. It just can’t be of concern to me. i have to only hope that I’m doing something with someone that will benefit others in some great way, some real, measurable way. And that’s all that’s been of interest to me.

PCC:
And how would you hope to affect listeners?

PARKS:
I’d say principally as a consolation, for people in pain. I want my music to entertain, plus provide a listening experience. I work hard at making the music sound beautiful to the ear. I want each voice, that is, each instrumental line, to suspend and resolve neatly, as if all the integral parts were subplots in a novella and had great resolution and a conclusion. And I take that effort.

That isn’t to say to say that I think all my work should just entertain. I think it should also agitate and maybe provide more questions than answers. But, as I look back, every single one of my records is in release now. They are durable goods, because I worked like son of a bitch on everything I’ve done. I’ve never left a project where I’ve thought I’d just coasted. I’ve taken great pain to make my projects ultimately pleasing. But only to the divine, to my regard for my maker. I don’t do it to please the Grammys.

PCC:
Two of your classic albums, ‘Song Cycle’ and ‘Discover America,’ are often perceived as concept records. But I understand that isn’t literally the case.

PARKS:
I’ve never had a concept. Some people have said I’ve done concept records. The fact is, I’ve never had a concept for a record. That’s a totally stupid thing to say, because I don’t believe that the creative process allows people to know what they’re doing.

They must be willing to admit that they don’t know what they’re doing. They must be willing to wobble between faith and doubt. They must be willing to be uncertain. They must be willing to follow a madness and let it take them somewhere that they never expected to go.

And I believe that it’s safe to say that my work wobbles. [Chuckles]. I know it does. And I would like, basically, to think that it shakes up the status quo. I still hold that hope.

PCC:
How do you view the creative process?

PARKS:
It’s frightening to me. It’s like engaging the Hydra. You strike one thing out of the way, then the enemy increases exponentially with every blow you make, finally meeting the casual observer and that’s usually a journalist.

Randy Newman once said - and I thought it was a wonderful thing for him to observe and to instruct - ‘Never let the critic get larger than the artist.’ I know what he was talking about. It’s very easy to obsess, on rational grounds, for not doing anything.

But if you’re going to be creative - and I just say this to encourage anyone with creative bent - you have to reserve the right to be wrong. Otherwise, you will never achieve anything of merit.

With ‘Song Cycle,’ I made all my mistakes in one record. But when I hear people bark about it, I’d like to ask them what they were doing when they were 24.

It was filled with errors. I’ve got to admit to this, when I took my first record to the president of Warner Brothers, sat down and played it - it’s a short record - Joe Smith was the president. He listened. And when it was over, he said, ‘’Song Cycle?’ I said, ‘Yes, sir.’ He said, ‘So where are the songs?’ But of course, I didn’t know what a song was. And I still don’t know what a song can do. I still want to feel that I am empowering the song form and changing it and making it do things that it never did before. I still like that sense of discovery to just ooze out of every pore in the final body of work.

I think that the appeal of ‘Song Cycle’ is not that it does something well, certainly, but that it encourages others to attempt that.

What I’m really glad about, take Joanna Newsom, for instance, man, it just blows me away,when I walked away from Joanna Newsom, on the night she invited me up to her hotel room, she had rented a harp, at the Hollywood Roosevelt hotel. I went up there, knowing that she was a beautiful young girl. I took my wife and sat there and listened to her sing. I was absolutely floored. I thought she did a great job. Her work is so imaginative.

As I left the room, I turned to her - I thought maybe she’d heard that I’d done something for U2 or Bruce Springsteen - I said, ‘What have I done that gave you any confidence that I would be appropriate to arrange your record.’ And she said, ‘It was ‘Song Cycle.’

It just seems to me that now there is a group, a generation of singer-songwriters, one generation farther removed from the McCarthy hearings, from the sleepwalk of the Eisenhower era, from dogmatic, ‘Don’t f--k with the formula’ mindset, young creative minds that want to f--k with the formula, who want to do something innovative. And I feel like I’m finding company in a generation of musicmakers that is slightly younger than my own kids, telling me that I might work for them in advancing their madness. And I’m all for it.

That’s enough for me, to make me happy.

PCC:
When you create, do you tend to be more intuitive than analytical?

PARKS:
Mandibular trauma is the state that I work best in, when I’m hit in the noggin with information that I never expected. I don’t plan songs, but they come to me.

PCC:
What’s on the horizon for you?

PARKS:
I’m working on a Dutch film. It’s black-and-white. Film noir. But noir comes with blanc, black comes with white. And I love it and I hope it gets me out of the kid pics, forced jollity of these Hollywood sitcoms that they call motion pictures. I find it quite disgusting and insufficient to the art of filmmaking. So maybe I’ll find something by making an effort toward a more Euro-centered life in movie scoring.

But also, to tell you the truth, this is rehearsals for retirement now, to put it in Phil Ochs’ words. I’m going out on the road to find the intimacy and companionship that a roomful of people can experience during the hazards of live performance. It’s something that I’ve wanted to do. I’ve never done it. I’ve never promoted anything that I’ve ever recorded. I’ve been too busy working for others.

I didn’t go to Woodstock. But I made sure that they got 10,000 feet of raw stock film, so they could make a movie, because I was in the office that could sign the paper for Fred Weintraub. So, although I was counter-counter-revolutionary, my heart has always been in the idea of evolution and I might find some great purpose in hitting the road, with a nod to Jack Kerouac.

I have another record almost completely in the can. But I’m not going to perform it before I release it, because I’d like to get some money. We depend on an income from the music I make. And I keep that in mind. So that’ll come out, I think, in September.

PCC:
What directions might that new record take?

PARKS:
I know it looks like I’m a little slow out the chute, as they say in Texas, but now I’ll be able to reveal what 9/11 is all about, on my own terms, and how I feel about an American cultural hegemony and what I fear, as we see the increase of tectonics between the Islamic and Christian plates.

PCC:
Sounds like this is a fertile, exciting period for you.

PARKS:
I’m in a process of self-reinvention and this business of playing a club or two, actually going down the coast with Clare Muldaur will give me a chance to rub some rust off my hinges and see if I have any social powers left.

I have a head of white hair. I tell my kids there may be snow on the roof, but a fire rages within. They laugh.

I was recently at a restaurant with a friend and we couldn’t get served. He says, gesturing towards me, ‘Hey, lady, you don’t know who he used to be.’ I’m just about ready to find out if anyone will show up to discover that... or who I want to be.”