Songs in the Key of Z: The Curious Universe of Outsider Music

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Chusid, Irwin.

Songs in the key of Z : the curious world of outsider music / Irwin Chusid.

    p. cm.

Includes bibliographical references, discography, and index.

ISBN 1-55652-372-6

1. Musicians—Biography. 2. Popular music—History and criticism. I. Title.

ML394.C56 2000

781.64’09—dc21

99-057640

Interior design: Lindgren/Fuller Design

Cover design: Greg Carter

© 2000 by Irwin Chusid

All rights reserved

First edition

Published by A Cappella Books,

an imprint of Chicago Review Press, Incorporated

814 North Franklin Street

Chicago, Illinois 60610

ISBN 1-55652-372-6

Printed in the United States

5  4  3  2  1

Dedicated to Mencken, Mary, and Mr. Mack

CONTENTS

Introduction

Prologue: Transistor under My Pillow: A Memoir

1 The Shaggs

Groove Is in the Heart

2 Tiny Tim

I Get a Kick Out of Uke

3 Jack Mudurian

Chatterbox Jukebox

4 Joe Meek

Blast from the Past

5 Song Poems

Bus Fare to the Grammys

6 The Cherry Sisters

The Fruits of Clean Living

7 Jandek

The Great Disconnect

8 Daniel Johnston

Casper 1, Satan 0

9 Harry Partch

Hallelujah! He’s a Bum

10 Wesley Willis

Hell Ride

11 Syd Barrett

Guitars and Dust

12 Eilert Pilarm

The King of Sweden

13 Lucia Pamela

Interstellar Overdrive

14 Captain Beefheart

Inscrutable Dreamer

15 Shooby Taylor, the Human Horn

Scat Man Do

16 Florence Foster Jenkins

Widow’s Peak

17 The Legendary Stardust Cowboy

Wide Open Space Cadet

18 Robert Graettinger

Sleep in the Grave

19 B. J. Snowden

Mission to Venus

20 Wild Man Fischer

Ritual of the Savage

21 Snapshots in Sound

Elsewhere in the Curious Universe

Afterword

An Incomprehensive Discography

An Incomprehensive Bibliography

Permissions

Acknowledgments

Index

About the Author

INTRODUCTION

Folklore is the arts of the people before they find out there is any such thing as art.

—ZORA NEALE HURSTON

genius? Forget it. Talent? Beside the point.

Welcome to the curious universe of outsider music, a mutant strain of twisted sonic art that’s so wrong—it’s right.

Duke Ellington once said, If it sounds good, it is good.

Well, sometimes if it sounds bad, it’s even better.

Most people recognize good music when they hear it. Music that succeeds in the broader market—call it popular—adheres to commonly accepted standards of melody, harmony, and tonal logic. Rhythm is fairly consistent, and lyrics tend to address—profoundly or vapidly—our shared culture and experiences.

Occasionally popular music cleverly challenges or plays footloose with convention. But for the most part, basic formulas remain intact. There is right, and there is wrong, and producers, record execs, and radio programmers are paid obscene sums to determine what the market will accommodate. In an age of multitrack overdubbing and digital splicing, any performance miscue can be repaired. And though producers can work with serendipitous mistakes, even make them sound intentional, most studio professionals prefer to re-take a bum note or blown chord until done correctly.

Now, imagine a musical universe where such standards do not exist, where keys beyond G are explored with élan. This book is a pan-galactic map of crackpot and visionary music, where all trails lead essentially one place: over the edge. Picture a musical subclass glimpsed through the lens of Diane Arbus.

This book is about artists who are instinctively gifted with what might be termed imperfect pitch.

Outsider music sometimes develops naturally. In other cases, it could be the product of damaged DNA, psychotic seizures, or alien abduction. Perhaps medical malpractice, incarceration, or simple drug-fry triggers its evolution. Maybe shrapnel in the head. Possession by the devil—or submission to Jesus. Chalk it up to communal upbringing or bad beer. There’s no universal formula.

That’s one characteristic that makes outsider music so refreshing: its unpredictability.

Adventuresome musicians have been known to deliberately—even maliciously—jettison traditional approaches to expand the boundaries of music. Way beyond the parameters of pop stood renegade composer-theorist John Cage (1912–1992), considered by many the most avant of all gardes. Cage studied under twelve-tone formulator Arnold Schoenberg, who insisted, In order to write music, you must have a feeling for harmony. Cage lamented, I had no feeling for harmony. [Schoenberg] then said that I would always encounter an obstacle, that it would be as though I came to a wall through which I could not pass. I said, ‘In that case I will devote my life to beating my head against that wall.’ Cage proceeded to create a unique body of work that remains among the most influential of the twentieth century—and not everyone calls it music. But no one doubted that he was in command of his mental faculties. Cage made a conscious choice to rebel, and regardless of the theoretical randomness of his aleatory (chance) music, he maintained control over his work.

But there are countless unintentional renegades, performers who lack Cage’s overt self-consciousness about their art. As far as they’re concerned, what they’re doing is normal. And despite paltry incomes and dismal record sales, they’re happy to be in the same line of work as Celine Dion and Andrew Lloyd Webber.

These artists populate the curious universe of outsider music. Lucrative careers in show biz are largely beyond their grasp, yet these quirky characters are compelled to create music, and public indifference is no deterrent. They orbit beyond the databanks of SoundScan and focus group surveys. They get little or no commercial radio exposure, their followings are limited, and they have roughly the same likelihood of attaining mainstream success that a possum has of skittering safely across a six-lane freeway.

The average person hearing outsider-type musicians for the first time might conclude that their performances are inept, or that these artists lack talent. Their vocals sound melodically adrift; their rhythms stumble. They seem harmonically without anchor. Their instrumental proficiency may come across as laughably incompetent.

A common first reaction to the Shaggs’ landmark album Philosophy of the World is, What were they thinking? After witnessing a performance by the Legendary Stardust Cowboy, a club owner sneered, "That is the worst shit I’ve ever heard in my life. And a radio station director once remarked that Harry Partch would be a really good composer if only he’d compose regular music."

Such reactions presuppose that these artists are attempting to meet conventional standards of musicianship, but are failing miserably.

To appreciate outsider music, however, an accommodation is required on the part of the listener. The rewards are ample: just when you think you’ve heard it all, outsider music reveals vistas you never imagined existed. Outsider music is created to entertain, and does entertain at levels that exceed the indifference it might engender if it displayed greater technical ability and self-awareness. The wronger it is, particularly with lesser degrees of self-conscious intent, the closer it approaches pure originality.

Millions of songs are written every decade, most of which flawlessly comply with the rudiments. The bulk of such work is bloodless, soulless, and academic. Obeying rules is hardly a benchmark of creativity, much less of that elusive quality we recognize as genius. As some wag observed, The angels love enthusiasm far more than perfection.

Long before the world knew him as the father of the Simpsons, Matt Groening was collecting weird sonics and writing about them as a critic. I’m less interested in virtuosity than I am in the passion with which an album is performed, he explained. That’s why I love eccentrics like the Shaggs, Daniel Johnston, and Luie Luie.

It’s undeniable that, on first listening, there’s often a measure of comedic value to some of these artists. But inevitably there’s a je ne sais quoi that transcends laughter. Each of these artists, regardless of accessibility, has a singular identity and a recognizable style.

New York saxophonist Ellery Eskelin, whose father Rodd Keith toiled in the conveyor-belt your-lyrics-put-to-music industry (song poems), declared, I find that outsider music offers many of the same rewards in terms of satisfying the human spirit as does music traditionally regarded as being the best we humans have to offer. It’s often inventive, certainly unique, and once you get past the humor factor, there’s something there in terms of structure or melodic twist, issues that are purely musical, that I find very engaging.

The shadowy realm of outsider art has a long tradition, going back at least as far as studies of the psychotic creations of mental patients during the 19th century. It was championed in the 1920s by the French, who later called it art brut, raw art. Other labels include intuitive, folk, visionary, and self-taught art; fabuloserie; amateur vérité; and art naif.

Over the century, figures have emerged in painting (Bill Traylor; Jim Shaw’s Thrift Store Paintings anthology; Howard Finster, who also recorded songs); film (Ed Wood, Jr.); literature (Henry Darger; Adolf Wolfli, who also composed); landscaping (Leonard Knight’s Salvation Mountain); sculpture (S. P. Dinsmoor’s Garden of Eden); and architecture (Edward Leedskalnin; Simon Rodia; Edward James). By definition, there are untold numbers of these visionaries whose names we may never know.

‘Outsider art’ was originally a technical term that referred almost exclusively to asylum and prison art—the creative works of the mentally ill and criminals, said Brooklyn multimedia performer Brian Dewan. Then ‘outsider’ was expanded to include what people had previously termed ‘naïve art,’ made by those who lacked any formal training. I’d prefer if we just called these people ‘artists,’ and then we can call those active in the popular and avant-garde fields ‘insider artists.’

There are a number of books devoted to the broader field (e.g., Maurice Tuchman and Carol Eliel’s Parallel Visions), as well as periodicals (Raw Vision), galleries, and preservation societies in many cities.

The phrase outsider music did not achieve currency until the 1990s, when interest began to grow thanks to books like Incredibly Strange Music, and a preponderance of CD releases by such previously unheard artists as B. J. Snowden, Wesley Willis, Lucia Pamela, and Eilert Pilarm.

My personal musical passions go back a long way in the outsider realm, explained collector/archivist and small-label entrepreneur Paul Major. But it’s interesting to have that name applied, because people weren’t applying that word to music. I’ve been into folks like Peter Grudzien since the early 1980s, but only recently does the concept of equating vanity and private pressings with outsider art come up in conversation. That’s a totally fresh perspective, and it gives this music a framework.

Ron Moore, in his self-published discography Underground Sounds, describes outsider types as having a realness quotient. He defines realness as a catchall description for artists that exhibit an alarming dearth of talent matched with a total lack of self-awareness or embarrassment. Moore also uses the term to refer to artists with extremely idiosyncratic styles or outlooks. [Their] LPs are often unintentionally comic but emotionally quite moving.

Both for the sake of semantics and to clarify this book’s definition of outsider music, a distinction must be drawn between what is commonly referred to as folk art and folk music. The former is the catchbin of outsider practitioners, as defined above, working in various creative media. Folk music, however, refers to an industry marketing category that encompasses everyone from Odetta and early Joni Mitchell to Pete Seeger, the Kingston Trio, and Dylan. This music is characterized by elemental, acoustic instrumentation, a country-derived sensibility, and a reverence for tradition. Despite relatively bustling sales by the above artists, folk music is a niche market with low to moderate record sales. For the purposes of this book, folk music is not considered a subgenre of folk art, and I don’t categorize musicians commonly identified as folk singers as outsiders (though some certainly qualify).

Although the terms outsider and avant-garde are by no means interchangeable, they occasionally—in retrospect—overlap. Critical assignment to one category or the other lies in the ear of the beholder and in the eyes of history. There are countless examples of acclaimed pioneers who started on the outside and eventually came in when the listening public caught up with their radical ideas.

Charles Ives received a Pulitzer Prize after the debut performance of his Third Symphony in 1947—43 years after he’d completed the work, and a quarter-century after he’d stopped composing. Ives rarely consorted with other musicians, and composed largely in isolation. For most of his life his friends knew him primarily as a hardworking insurance executive, while his seemingly unplayable scores sat in a desk drawer, unknown and unperformed. (Are my ears on wrong? he once wrote in a moment of doubt.)

At the outset of Thelonious Monk’s career, many considered this jazz colossus an atrocious pianist. To this day, a handful of moldy-fig traditionalists dismiss Monk as either a tin-eared primitive or a charlatan who conned critics and bandmates into proclaiming his genius by slamming the keyboard and striking notes at random. Monk no longer needs defending, but in the 1940s he was widely perceived of as, well, as an outsider.

Ornette Coleman violated jazz decorum by dispensing with chord structure and steady rhythm in favor of spontaneity based on an emotional response to a composition instead of the tune’s basic framework. Today, Coleman’s early recordings sound comparatively tame, but in the late 1950s and early 1960s his provocative notions were rejected by many, and he was viewed as a lunatic by some.

This is not to insist that the men and women profiled in this book will register comparable long-range artistic impact. But many have already influenced their musical descendants beyond measure. Syd Barrett, Captain Beefheart, the Shaggs, Harry Partch, Robert Graettinger, and even Daniel Johnston have significantly contributed—directly and indirectly—to contemporary popular music. (Various artistic family trees are addressed in specific chapters.)

Without outsiders, there might be no Tom Waits, no dub reggae (invented by an outsider, Lee Scratch Perry), no K Records or SubPop. The punk/new-wave/no-wave upheaval that undermined prog-rock and airbrush-pop in the mid- to late-1970s hyped itself with the defiant notion that anyone—regardless of technical proficiency or lack thereof—could make music as long as it represented genuine, naturalistic self-expression. We’re all outsiders.

From where do novel sound trends emerge? From the likely suspects, of course—the realms of the self-consciously experimental, the avant-garde, and popularizers of world music. They also trickle in from the outside.

Music critics often bemoan the death of innovation, hypothesizing that since the free-thinking experimentation of the 1960s and the radical negation of the late 1970s, too much contemporary music has simply recycled and reconfigured the creative alchemy of its forebears.

Outsider musicians introduce sounds so strange, so new, it could take centuries for the rest of us to catch up.

This book is not about unpopular, uncommercial, or underground artists. I have, for the most part, excluded well-known pop iconoclasts who are outsiders by attitude, but who are highly self-aware. Frank Zappa knew what he was doing; ditto the Velvet Underground and John(-ny Rotten) Lydon. I’ve disqualified just about anyone who could keep an orchestra or band together. Ditto épater le bourgeoisie upstarts like Gregg Turkington, John Trubee, Boyd Rice, Lisa (Suckdog) Carver, and Jello Biafra, who’ve earned reputations by urinating contemptuously on the welcome mat of conventional aesthetics. I can appreciate their audacity, but I see these miscreants as more influenced and inspired by outsider art than fitting the category.

Attitude alone cannot define outsiderness; in fact, categorical inclusion is rarely the product of rebelliousness. A lot of outsider music is very friendly. It lacks attitude, making few claims to self-importance. It’s light-years from the music you hear in jukeboxes and at weddings, but doesn’t call attention to its distant standing. There’s no posing. One finds more emphatic—and easily dismissed—claims of originality (sounds like nothing you’ve heard!) in the press kits of Marshall-stack headbangers and flavor-of-the-week indie rockers. One of outsider music’s ironies is that when you’re trying to make conventional music and instead creating something sui generis, it doesn’t occur to you to brag about it.

The outsiders in this book, for the most part, lack self-awareness. They don’t boldly break the rules, because they don’t know there are rules. They sometimes lack any sense of the limitations of their technical skills; this, more than anything, can lead to inventive sonic breakthroughs.

Many outsiders are immune to the notion of defeat. They inhabit their own otherworldly cosmos, their simple goal being to share their music with anyone inclined to listen, even if that audience consists of their own family and neighbors, or a small devoted following.

Or, in the case of Jandek, virtually no one.

Outsider music is difficult to catalog. It’s fragmented and lacking in common structural threads. It emerges from sprawling metropolitan hubs and from rural backwaters where three or four votes can swing an election. But there are qualities that define the music’s progenitors and their outlook.

What these often self-taught artists lack in conventional tunefulness they compensate for with earnestness and heartfelt passion. Harbor no doubts about their sincerity—they mean it.

Terry Adams, longtime keyboardist with the New Rhythm and Blues Quartet (also known as NRBQ), is a connoisseur of dodgy styles. Adams admits, When music gets too perfect, I don’t want to hear it. When everybody’s in tune and the rhythm is perfect and there’s no mistakes, I find myself not really interested. Hence, his fascination with the Shaggs, a late 1960s sister trio from Fremont, New Hampshire, whose music sounds so uncoordinated it seems they’re riffing off their common genetic code.

Outsider music offers an escape from designer trendiness rampant in the entertainment industry. Give me a genuine if misguided Gump to a megaplatinum cretin like Kenny G any day. For me, noncommercial simplicity trumps flashy consumer fetishism.

Some outsider types have achieved brief commercial success, such as acid casualties Syd Barrett (early Pink Floyd) and Arthur Lee (Love). Others have enjoyed respectable careers: the elusive desert rat Captain Beefheart, the mightily medicated Daniel Johnston, and Prince of Dorkness Jonathan Richman. A deranged songwriter named Charles Manson originally hoped to find fame clutching to loose threads on Beach Boy Dennis Wilson’s surf blanket. Had Manson achieved even moderate success as a singer-songwriter, he might not have resorted to the unsavoriness that eventually brought him headlines and a life sentence.

Ironically, the biggest-selling outsider in music history could be the Beach Boys’ mastermind Brian Wilson. Many of his 1970s and 1980s unreleased demos, long circulating among tape swappers, certify Brian’s outsider status. Hell—dig some of the loopy post–Pet Sounds stuff that’s been released! Wilson has much in common with everyone in this book: obsessions, delusions, and emotional volatility. He’s tormented, drug-addled, and spent years under the care of Dr. Eugene Landy. Real damaged goods.

But Brian Wilson is not explored in this volume. He’s way gone and a like-nobody musical genius, but considering the level on which he’s been embraced by the public, it’s difficult to make a case for him as an outsider. I’ve avoided other outré icons who have achieved wide public exposure, such as Frank Zappa, Sun Ra, Marilyn Manson, and the Butthole Surfers, to name a few. Many (if not most) major figures in the arts began their rise to stardom as nominal outsiders. Show business, more than most people realize, is the ultimate Revenge of the Nerds. Growing up, these misfits wouldn’t or couldn’t conform. They were loners who spent solitary hours honing their craft and battling the odds against success. Through perseverance and fortuitous confluence, they eventually hit the big time.

And every one of them has had a book or twelve written about them.

Songs in the Key of Z details those who lurk in the shadows. It’s an overview of the gallery’s less well-known and more bizarre exhibits, those who exist not simply away from the mainstream, but disconnected from it.

Many of these artists are very likable, if not commercially viable. The Shaggs, B. J. Snowden, and Lucia Pamela have a teddy-bearish innocence that goes over well with youngsters. Daniel Johnston’s early recordings seem more suitable for babysitting obstreperous brats than anything released by that gutless blancmange, Raffi. Just a suggestion—they’re your kids.

Some outsiders have money (Florence Foster Jenkins, Lucia Pamela); others struggle to cover the rent (B. J. Snowden, the Shaggs). Johnston and Wesley Willis are multitalented artists who earn sporadic income from their sketches and skewed pop. Eccentric rockers such as the Legendary Stardust Cowboy and Wild Man Fischer have achieved iconic novelty status, but their royalty income is a pittance. Equally iconic is the late Tiny Tim, who performed a monumental public service rescuing forgotten songs from antiquity, but whose financial status varied from pauper to high roller and back to pauper.

The book contains its share of pathos, chronicling some tragic figures who pulled into the parking lot of fame, only to inadvertently back over the treadle of misfortune, puncturing all their hopes and dreams. These include Syd Barrett, Tiny Tim, the Legendary Stardust Cowboy, Skip Spence, and Wild Man Fischer. Others, such as Lucia Pamela and Jandek, never got near the big time, and didn’t seem to care.

Musicians categorized as outsiders, like folk artists in other media, typically lack formal training. However, this is not always the case. B. J. Snowden earned a degree from the Berklee College of Music; Lucia Pamela claimed to have attended the Beethoven Conservatory of Music and Voice in Berlin; and Florence Foster Jenkins was reportedly a graduate of the Philadelphia Musical [sic] Academy. Fortunately, as anyone who has marveled at these ladies will attest, higher education did not impede their raw talent.

Outsider musicians display a remarkable degree of resourcefulness. Their instruments can be acoustic, from Tiny Tim’s ukulele to Harry Partch’s instrumentarium built out of salvaged debris; or they could play sophisticated electronic gadgetry, like the synthesizers commandeered by B. J. Snowden and Wesley Willis. The Cherry Sisters ran their own farm. Lucia Pamela tried to raise funds to build an amusement park with a ride that would take visitors to another planet. Ray R. Myers got a driver’s license.

Some artists are clearly mired in the past (Eilert Pilarm, the Cherry Sisters), while others dynamically embraced progress (Lucia Pamela, Robert Graettinger, Captain Beefheart, Joe Meek). Tiny Tim, a sucker for nostalgia, nevertheless recorded interpretations of Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin later in his career.

A few lucky outsider musicians, such as Daniel Johnston, Tiny Tim, Skip Spence, Syd Barrett, and Captain Beefheart, were signed by major record labels; whereas Shooby Taylor, Jandek, Peter Grudzien, and Eilert Pilarm can be heard only on homemade cassettes or on obscure discs, pressed in limited amounts, with spotty distribution. Many artists encapsulated in the book’s final chapter have released records on vanity labels—the music business equivalent of publishing your novel through Kinko’s. Many of these obscurities fetch astronomical prices among collectors. (When hunting for undiscovered gems, a good clue is a label catalog number that ends in -001. Cheap, awkward cover design is another tipoff, although you could mistakenly end up with an early album by alt-rock pensioners Sonic Youth or the Fall.) A few figures in this book can’t be heard at all. No recordings by the Cherry Sisters or Ray R. Myers exist, and print media provide our only impressions of their legacies.

Three of the artists profiled have played on Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In: Tiny Tim, Wild Man Fischer, and the Legendary Stardust Cowboy. Others would consider public access bookings a measure of success.

Some outsiders take medication to maintain their emotional stability (Daniel Johnston, Wesley Willis, Eilert Pilarm), while others sacrificed their psyches through overindulgence in mood-altering substances (Syd Barrett, Joe Meek, Skip Spence, Robert Graettinger). The Cherry Sisters boasted that their lips never tasted wine, though it’s doubtful their performance would have improved either way.

Despite a preponderance of psychological disturbances reflected among this book’s population, the vast majority of these artists have caused no physical harm to their fellow citizens. A few have exhibited violent episodes, and several committed assault. Yet the subjects in the book’s main chapters account for just one murder and one suicide—and those by the same person, with both acts committed in the span of a few minutes.

Songs in the Key of Z does not include all outsiders. A comprehensive survey is impossible due to the elusive nature of the genre. You can research a book about acts who’ve hit the Billboard Top 200; their achievements have been quantified. But tracking outsider musicians involves equal measures of anthropology (visiting trailer parks), archaeology (digging under rocks), and spelunking (shining flashlights into damp caves). The category spans the planet. In the cases of interstellar voyagers like Lucia Pamela and Sri Darwin Gross, the diligent researcher may rack up frequent-flyer miles to far-off galaxies and parallel dimensions.

Before this book, there was no comprehensive study of the genre. Hence, the qualifications for inclusion are open to debate. I chose those who fit my admittedly broad definition, and who had stories worth telling. If your favorites escaped mention, I’d be glad to know about them. When reckoning this author’s sins of omission, please consider the insightful words of Smithereens drummer, vinylologist, and music archivist Dennis Diken, who observed: Everybody’s compilation sucks but your own.

In attempting to codify and catalogue outsider music, I’m straddling a fence between two potential readerships. One is the existing outsider music audience, who know the genre and don’t need to be convinced of its value. They might browse this book and feel I’m belaboring the obvious.

I am—because of that second group of potential readers: those who aren’t aware of outsider music. I hope these curiosity seekers will buy and read this book, thereby gaining an appreciation of these artists and their work. With no elitist disdain intended, I recognize that the vast majority of my neighbors are unfamiliar with outsider music and would file it under Difficult Listening. Such obvious nutjobs as Les Wilson, Wild Man Fischer, and Arcesia would leave them shaking their heads, wondering why anyone would waste their time on such lunacy. Why anyone would waste a lot of time on it.

Why anyone would write a book about it!

One reason is provided by Tony Philputt, who directed a film biography of the Legendary Stardust Cowboy (a.k.a. the Ledge). I think the Ledge is important, observed Philputt. If the history of music is only told from the viewpoint of people who were successful, it’s like documenting an election by only interviewing the winners.

But the best reason for such a primer is the intrinsic value of this music to entertain and inspire.

This book will introduce many of these artists to a wider audience than they might otherwise attract through TV, radio, concerts, the Internet, even records. Perhaps B. J. Snowden and Jandek will sell a few more CDs, or one of their songs will end up in the soundtrack of a Julia Roberts film.

In selecting artists to profile, I’ve largely steered clear of musicians and composers in the idioms of jazz, classical, microtonal, and electronic, with three exceptions.

One is Harry Partch, with whom I’ve had a long-standing fascination. Partch is the subject of a book-length portrait (Harry Partch: A Biography, by Bob Gilmore), and has had several collections of his writings and memorabilia published. Nevertheless, he’s a teensy blip on the cultural radar, and I relish any opportunity to expand Partch’s audience by telling his story.

Another is Robert Graettinger, who composed and arranged for Stan Kenton’s orchestra in the late 1940s and early 1950s. Graettinger became a fixation after I first heard—and was perplexed by—his monumental City of Glass suite, a challenging and controversial work. The more I learned about the composer, the more I felt Graettinger qualified for inclusion. He was a dark character, a loner, and his musical vision was very unsettling. In my estimation, he crossed the line between iconoclast and outsider.

Third, the delightfully daffy diva Florence Foster Jenkins, an operatic outsider about whom there seems to be too little available literature, merited a brief but amusing chapter.

Additionally, though Captain Beefheart and pop producer Joe Meek, like Graettinger, are not categorically outsiders as measured by the standards of naïve and folk art, they were outsiders vis-à-vis the music industry and, to some degree, society. Each was perceived by his contemporaries as operating on a solipsistic plane, and these insular misfits felt artistically distanced from their purported colleagues.

In other words, this book is not just about outsider music—it’s also about musical outsiders.

Outsiderdom isn’t just a curious universe—it’s big as well.

Unlike some advocates of outsider art, I do not kick around the word genius. As with the term classic (e.g., -rock) its overuse has devalued its currency. G. C. Lichtenberg observed, Sometimes men come by the name of genius in the same way that certain insects come by the name of centipede—not because they have 100 feet, but because most people can’t count above 14.

Outsiderdom encompasses eccentrics, neurotics, and psychotics. It includes mutants, idiot savants, and postal workers, along with folks who can carve the Gospels on the head of a thumbtack. Some outsiders appear perfectly normal—until they open their mouths. The closest thing to a common syndrome could be RDD (Reality Deficit Disorder).

Jello Biafra describes outsiders as differently sane. Some of this book’s subjects, like Wild Man Fischer and Daniel Johnston, have been institutionalized; others, such as the Legendary Stardust Cowboy and Lucia Pamela, are just mild kinda crazy.

But psychoanalysis doesn’t concern me. I have, for the most part, avoided digging into family dysfunctions that may have given rise to this music. I’m not a psychologist, and