Legendary producer Phil Spector murdered someone this past Monday. Allegedly, that is. Before I heard the news, I had written a different column for this week. My initial plan was to comment on the recent unpromising trend of rock bands employing experimental production techniques. I was going to make an argument explaining why this trend is thriving and how, at this rate, Wilco's next album will be reduced to Jeff Tweedy mumbling over a reversed drumbeat and the America Online \You've Got Mail"" sample. As important a topic that trend in production is, however, I'm forced to acknowledge that people are infinitely more interested in the fact that Phil Spector (allegedly) killed someone.
I was explaining Spector's background information to a friend while riding on a bus: His artistic impact and eccentric reputation, last week's announcement from Paul McCartney before the murder that he would release a ""de-Spectorized"" version of the Beatles' Let It Be, stripped of the producer's overwhelming orchestrations (note: not a bad idea, actually; perhaps Radiohead should consider releasing a ""de-Godriched,"" version of Amnesiac) and finally, the discovery of a woman's body in Spector's creepy, creepy mansion.
At that point, an eavesdropping middle-aged lady added her two cents about the alleged Phil Spector massacre (note: great band name idea). Despite the seemingly morbid topic, she found the whole situation amusing and explained to us that given ""what a character Spector is"" the dead body didn't surprise her. Our conversation became more absurd when she incorrectly recounted a story where Spector ""pulled a gun on the Rolling Stones."" I didn't tell her that she probably intended to say the Ramones, not the Rolling Stones--her version of the story is a lot funnier anyway. She ended her monologue on a sincere note, saying that every day in the newspaper she reads nothing but tragic stories about wars and space shuttle disasters, so it was nice to finally hear some lighthearted news.
She was actually able to take comfort in the fact that Phil Spector may have murdered a woman and she's not alone--for whatever reason, Americans enjoy hearing about troubled musicians. In an era where airport security and pedophilia are no laughing matters, entire late-night monolouges will revolve around Courtney Love's (alleged) drunken mid-flight rampage this past Monday or Michael Jackson's recent admission that he often slept in the same bed as little boys. I don't think I'll ever fully understand what it is about bizarre celebrity behavior that people find so humorous, but I do understand one thing: My dry argument about modern production trends could never compete with the fact that Phil Spector (allegedly) murdered someone.
