By: Connor Brown
One of the fundamental prerequisites for the study of any artistic form is some sort of canon. Normally the concept of canon in art is associated with literature, but that isn’t where it ends. In fact, everything needs a canon – a body of objectively determined standards against which new works can be judged. Popular music, though we don’t discuss it very much, has its own canon. Whether it’s Illmatic, What’s Going On, or Exile on Main Street, whenever we talk about albums as “classic,” we are evoking this concept of canon. “Greatest of all time” lists lay this out better than anything.
However, because these “classics” are generally elevated through a process of consistent popular or critical acclaim, it is rare for us to step back and recognize that there must be things missing. Precisely because the canonization process in popular music is so organic, we are dissuaded from stepping back and realizing that it can’t be perfect. And for as hard as the critical community works, we aren’t perfect either. We’re an opinionated bunch with our necks constantly stuck out, susceptible at times to groupthink and self-righteousness. Because of this, questions arise for me: Are there lost classics out there? What great artists may have slipped through the cracks? What are we missing out on?
The prompting for these kinds of questions to occur to me is generally when I am confronted with a musician who time has passed by. Perhaps if they had gotten lucky or made a different career choice, they could have occupied an honored space in popular consciousness. The “could have” is haunting. Of course, this isn’t just an article about general phenomena in popular music. It’s an article about a specific musician — Rick Lamas — who was recently brought to my attention and reawakened all these old questions for me.
Rick Lamas is a strange case, having just barely missed a record deal with his old band, the Rockefellers, back in the 70s. Since then, he’s struck out on his own and made quite a lot of music. Don’t think he’s some bedroom-recluse, Daniel Johnson type, either; these songs (five albums worth of them) are quite well-produced; not lo-fi, as you might expect. And, more impressively, they cover a huge breadth of stylistic ground, showcasing the ability of a man who has kept his ear attuned to popular music for a little over three decades. From the Zappa-esque psych of “Cybernetic Robot Man” to the Ween-reminiscent pop of “Hang Up Them Buds” to the operatic “The Pilot Song” (which echoes Queen), through the gritty blues boogie of “Jambush,” Lamas literally pulls out almost all the stops. He has a pretty well-developed vocal range too, which lets him navigate from song to song deftly. All in all, it makes for an intriguing listening experience. And, to bring this all full circle, a question-raising one. Maybe, if one thing was different, Rick Lamas could have been Nick Lowe. Maybe he would still be where he is now, a prolific artist living on the fringe. But, most importantly, maybe we – as listeners and critics – should pay a little more attention to the forgotten margins, so we don’t simply ignore voices from the real underground when they call with something important to say.
