Peter Guralnick – People Want To Tell Their Stories
The other thing that led me to this was the blues. We all live in a mixed-race society. Not the dirty secret, but the glorious secret of this country is that it is a mixed-race society. Whether or not the laws acknowledge it, or whether or not social ways acknowledge it, or whether or not ideology acknowledges it, it’s an inescapable fact. I was 15 when I just fell into the blues. A friend and I discovered it together out of the folk music revival. In the midst of this folk music were Lightnin’ Hopkins, Muddy Waters, Big Bill Broonzy.
That introduced me to a whole world and a way of looking at things which it seemed as if I’d had all my life, without ever having heard it. I’d never heard any music like this. I’d never heard any language like this. I’m sure I misunderstood it in many, many ways. But it spoke to me in a way that nothing had spoken to me before, and it led me into other worlds.
I don’t mean just in terms of race, but that was where I was exclusively at the beginning, in the African-American world. I just tried to be open to it and to present myself without pretense. I wanted to mold myself to the situation; I wanted to be the fly on the wall; I didn’t want to be noticed. But at the same time, I didn’t want to adopt a manner that wasn’t mine or present myself in way that wasn’t honest. It’s like the clothes you wear. You have to wear clothes you’re comfortable in, because no matter how cool the clothes may be, if you’re uncomfortable in them, you can’t carry off the cool.
III. IT’S THE LUGUBRIOUS RUSSIAN TEMPERAMENT
ND: A review of one of your books said that you have a “peculiar tenderness for dashed dreams.” Where does that empathy come from?
PG: I think probably, overall, from my parents’ and grandparents’ commitment to social justice. It’s not that they were leading unconventional lives, but that was what they were committed to from the very start. But it’s temperament too. I’ve always joked about this because my grandparents came from Russia. It’s the lugubrious Russian temperament. Charlie Rich said to me, and he’s said it many times to many people, “I don’t know, I just don’t dig happy songs.” The sad songs, the songs of heartache, that’s what brought out the most in him. And I suppose that’s true for me too. It’s not that I would deny a happy story, but I’m not going out for a “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah” world.
ND: People open themselves up to you, and seem to have an implicit trust that you’re going to treat their stories — their lives — with care. What’s your secret?
PG: I hope that’s true, but I don’t think it’s always the case. What I mean by that is that many people that I talk to don’t know me and don’t necessarily have a reason to. I try to use my history, my portfolio, as an introduction. And so often, people over the years, people like Scotty Moore or Donnie Fritts or David Briggs or Johnny Shines, have introduced me to other people and have vouched for me. I’m not good at cold calls.
But the other thing about it is — and this is the ultimate secret — people want to tell their stories. With the many interviews I’ve done over the years, I can think of only two or three instances where the person looked upon it as an imposition. But virtually nobody is going to hold back on telling their story.
You can’t short-change their story. For instance, when I was doing the Elvis biography, it’s of very little value to limit your interview to the six times that this person met Elvis. Among other things, you’re not going to engage the person at all. But far more important than that, you’re not going to be able to understand the story. You have to understand who’s telling you the story in order to understand the story.
ND: You tend to refrain from editorializing, and over the years it seems that you’ve moved more and more in that direction, so that in the Elvis biographies there is really very little commentary at all. Why is staying out of the frame so important to you?
PG: All of us have opinions, and as some people say, “He has a lot of opinions, some of them are good.” But it’s a little bit like when my son Jake was in the eighth grade and his social studies teacher gave a course in the history of the Middle East in 45 minutes. He summarized his views, which went a particular way. I went in and said, “I don’t get it. These kids know nothing about the Middle East and you’re summarizing the whole thing in one class and saying something which has no particular objective basis.” And he said, “Well, Peter, that’s what I think. Don’t you want me to say what I think?” “Well, no,” I said. “It may take a certain amount of self-restraint, but it’s of very little value to do that.”
It’s easy to be righteous, to be self-righteous; it’s the easiest thing in the world. And I think from a historical point of view, the easiest thing in the world is to say what people should’ve done, But I think it’s just the ultimate and instant falsification of the way events develop. Yet at the same time, I don’t think that one disguises one’s biases or opinions. You’ve asked me a bunch of questions today which are based on your extrapolation of my views from what I’ve written. So clearly my views come through, and I don’t mean this defensively. But I guess I feel that it’s unnecessary to announce your own opinions. It erodes the solid base on which you’re constructing your narrative.
You have to tell a story that makes sense. Let’s say you’re doing an article on sacred steel, for example [a community of steel guitarists who perform as part of African American religious ceremonies]. It’s a fascinating subject, and it’s a great music. But you can totally confuse the reader with all kinds of facts. You can accumulate all the facts, but in order for you and the reader to understand the meaning of the facts, you have to put them in a narrative form that’s apprehensible. That’s where enormous judgments come in, and enormous discriminations. Because every choice you make, every quote and fact you put in your narrative, advances the reader one more step. And sometimes it can take the reader down a completely false path.
I remember when I first went out to see Muddy Waters in 1970. He was recovering from his automobile accident. He wouldn’t let me take the “L” [Chicago’s elevated rapid transit system] back because “them bad boys’ll get on you.” So he called a friend of his who is a livery driver and asked him to come by the house and pick me up. I mean, I paid the livery driver. But [Muddy] said, “I’ve got a friend of mine here from Rolling Stone.” Then he also said, “I’ve got a white friend here.” He said it twice, in two different ways. But I wasn’t going to have him say “I’ve got a white friend” [in the story] because it would suggest to a reader who didn’t know Muddy, as I knew Muddy, that here was somebody who kowtowed to people on account of race, and that simply wasn’t true. Including this — saying, “Well, he said it so I’m going to include it” — would suggest an untruth, a mistruth, and take the reader down the wrong path.