The Cream: April 10, 2024

John Sinclair, Clarence "Frogman" Henry, Cimarrón

John Sinclair died of congestive heart failure recently, and like all good rock ’n’ roll icons, he had more than a touch of the rogue in him. When he imagined a “Cultural Revolution” with the White Panther Party, he wrote, “We demand total freedom for everybody!” Standing up for freedom sounds noble, but what did it translate to?

“Our program of rock and roll, dope and fucking in the streets is a program of total freedom for everyone.”

His was a pleasure-first revolution, and when you see footage of Sinclair talking that talk, you could see that he was committed. He was ready to smoke, fuck, and enjoy his way to a better culture, and that was certainly part of his legacy in New Orleans. As a DJ on WWOZ, as a poet, a performer, and person on the scene, he embraced local musicians that he heard as part of that counterculture lineage.   

I met Sinclair shortly after he moved in New Orleans in 1992 when we were both on the bill for a poetry reading. A year or two earlier, I had read Guitar Army, his 1972 account his days in Michigan as a countercultural force and manager for the MC5. In it, he tells the story of rock ’n’ roll as manifested by the MC5 radicalizing the young people who saw them at the Grande Ballroom. But, when the cops started cracking down on the scene and busting fans for possession of drugs and any legal transgression that they could make stick, the revolutionary fervor cooled. Or, fans sublimated it, maybe feeling it in their bones but moving on anyway to watch bands that didn’t require them to face a police beating as the price of admission.

The story lined up with my belief that a band’s politics or cultural stance is a value-add but not essential to its appeal. The confrontational spirit makes young people feel like good little threats to the status quo, and when that coincides with a cool rock ’n’ roll scene, great. When it doesn’t, a good Friday night beats a good cause.