The Modern Lovers
The Modern Lovers; "Roadrunner"; from Goodwill San Diego
Jonathan Richman, with his band the Modern Lovers, possibly maybe invented indie rock.
I only discovered him later in life, within the past few years. I had already spent a lot of time with the downtown New York experimental scene of the 1970s and ’80s—Talking Heads, Arthur Russell, Julius Eastman, Tony Conrad, the Minimalists, and—of course—their progeny in Sonic Youth. The pop and punk worlds mostly passed me by, though I’d gone through Brian Eno’s No New York compilation as part of my own musical education, a snapshot of that era’s chaos and invention.
The Modern Lovers’ music existed in a unique space, avoiding the pseudo-intensity of punk rock and the mindless hedonism of disco. It was its own secret third thing: somewhat-arty-somewhat-earnest, unadorned with studio tricks, and ready to have fun. The record, The Modern Lovers, produced by John Cale from the Velvet Underground, features repetitive drum patterns reminiscent of German music from the period. “Roadrunner,” with its Motorik beat, two-chord vamp, and organ melody, could theoretically last indefinitely—much like James Brown’s backing band, the JB’s, could play for hours on the same changes.
Richman, writing songs in Boston about architecture or famous painters (“Pablo Picasso,” strangely deemed “not an asshole“), leaned into his own wide-eyed sincerity. His performances carried a sweetness that made him sound like some down-to-earth crooner dropped into a garage band. Having spent time in other peoples’ versions of Boston, I am attuned to the peculiarity of writing music from that place—it was a strange and prescient collision of styles in 1970. Even though the record was delayed for years and didn’t come out until long after the band had broken up, its stripped-down approach rippled across both American and British music cultures.
Though the band is broken up, we can still experience the spirit of the music—Jonathan is touring, even today, performing some of his Modern Lovers hits. When he comes through your city, it’s almost like a religious revival.
A friend of mine, B, is a true believer. When she heard Richman was coming to town for a run of three concerts, she bought tickets to every show and evangelized to the rest of us. She told me about his quirks: how he doesn’t use a setlist, asks venues to turn off the AC so nothing distracts from the music, and occasionally slips into songs in different languages. She described performances that moved fluidly between his biggest hits and esoteric poetry, accompanied only by gut-string guitar and the featherlight touch of his longtime drummer on a cocktail kit.
That sold me. I went in with no other context, trusting her recommendation. The concert was beautiful, fun, playful—the kind of show that takes you over, makes you grin as much as it makes you think. The feeling was similar to what I got when I saw Alabaster DePlume: an artist who takes the performance of their music seriously but still radiates joy in the act of sharing it. In some ways, Richman was one of the first ever to do it like that, to inhabit that space and that elevated role on the stage.
Not unlike Cat Stevens, Jonathan wrote songs about young love, dancing, being silly—songs that refuse to dress themselves up in irony. I like to think of him as a kind of Raffi for adults, singing plainly about serious parts of the human condition, giving it to us straight while still inviting us to sing along.
Verdict: Keep
Are you in love with Boston? Are you in love with rock & roll?