Among the disappointingly few people who actually know who Phil Ochs was, it’s common to feel that he had become, by the end of his life, a figure of pity. Commercially marginal, frequently drunk or belligerent, he was confused enough about his station that, by 1970, he was appearing onstage dressed in Elvis garb, baffling crowds with oldies. By 1975, his voice had been damaged in a mugging, he was picking bar fights, and he was often living on the streets.
It was an ignoble denouement for the author of ’60s anthems such as “Here’s To The State Of Mississippi”, “I Ain’t Marching Anymore” and “Draft Dodger Rag”, and considered by some second only to Bob Dylan.
On the morning of April 6, 1976, he hung himself. Some have listened to the albums Ochs recorded during the final years of his life and heard a parallel unraveling of his talent. But with the reissue of four of Ochs’ final albums for A&M (the Van Dyke Parks-produced 1970 Greatest Hits has not been included), it’s clear these records chart not an artistic decline but an admirable, often brilliant attempt to make sense of the tumult in American society and inside Ochs’ head.
His early topical songs were like a bulletin of political events, but by 1967’s Pleasures Of The Harbor, his music had evolved a more personal, enduring style. The record kicks off with “Cross My Heart”, an elegant and dignified statement of purpose — “I’m going to give all I’ve got to give/I cross my heart and hope to live” — but the simple sentiment is swamped by producer Larry Marks’ avalanche of orchestration. Although the anti-liberal “Outside Of A Small Circle Of Friends” gets a boost from a jaunty ragtime arrangement, Marks’ arcane support overwhelms stellar material such as “The Crucifixion” and the title cut.
Midway through recording Tape From California, Ochs learned of the assassinations of Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy. The despair Ochs felt is palpable on the record’s searing centerpiece, “When In Rome”, a 13-minute portrait of America shadowing the fall of the Roman empire. “White Boots Marching In A Yellow Land” and the martial “The War Is Over” sound exhausted, and the title cut gives unnerving voice to the paranoia Ochs must have felt: “New York City has exploded and it’s crashed upon my head/I dove beneath the bed/Fighting, biting nails, turning pale.”
By 1969’s Rehearsals For Retirement, producer Marks could stay out of Ochs’ way, and the results, despite the disturbing tone, made for a more satisfying record. “Pretty Smart On My Part” draws a direct line between personal and political psychosis, set to a Buddy Holly beat. The sneering country-rock “I Kill Therefore I Am” and the wrenching “The Scorpion Departs But Never Returns” are among Ochs’ finest performances. The title cut is an unadorned statement of Ochs’ diminished circumstance that could come off self-pitying — “The days grow longer for smaller prizes/I feel a stranger to all surprises” — but imparts dignity in its fearless honesty.
Gunfight At Carnegie Hall (here packaged as a twofer with Rehearsals) was recorded in 1970 but wasn’t released until four years later, and even then only in Canada. Today, it’s a fascinating, often chilling document. Ochs, dressed in Elvis gear, mixed definitive versions of “Tape From California” and “Pleasure Of The Harbor” with calculatedly provocative medleys of Presley and Holly, and verbally sparred with the confused audience: “I am America,” he declares at one point, to a mixture of laughs and derision. Someone cuts the electricity, and the record ends with Ochs literally begging for power.
Put aside the circumstances of Ochs’ death. Consider for a moment the current music scene and ask yourself if there’s a single artist as politically committed, as fearlessly honest, as abundantly talented. Do you feel sorry for Phil Ochs or for a world that could desperately use someone like him? To quote that other folk singer: “Now is the time for your tears.”
