Benjamen Walker's Theory of Everything - Failure (interlude)

Episode Date: March 13, 2019

Failure Flashback! Failure has always been a key concept for your host so this week we pull two stories out of the Benjamen Walker podcast archive. First a musical number about the loser behind Blue Suede Shoes and second a morality tale about the artist Paul Gauguin’s spectacular Paris blowout.

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Episodes every other week at neverpo.st and wherever you find pods. This installment is called Failure Intellect. Well, it's one for the money, two for the show, three to get ready. Now go, cat, go, but don't you step on my blue suede shoes. Carl Perkins' song Blue Suede Shoes was released on January 1, 1956, Sun Records No. 236. Sam Phillips, the owner of Sun Records, had put it out as fast as he could because now that Elvis had been poached by RCA, it was unclear just how the Little Memphis label was going to stay afloat. Carl always maintained that he knew the song would be a hit. He knew his song about a man trying to hold on to that one little thing of beauty in his otherwise bleak and dreary life

would strike a chord with the listening public. And he was right. The song shot up the charts. By the end of January, there were already orders in excess of over 25,000 copies. Not even Elvis had caused this much commotion. In fact, Steve Scholes, Elvis' producer at RCA, called Sam Phillips and asked him if he'd been sold the wrong man. Elvis did have a song that looked like it might make RCA some money, Heartbreak Hotel, but it didn't have the excitement that Blue Suede Shoes had, which is why the nervous RCA execs made Elvis record a version of Blue Suede Shoes for release as a four-song EP. On February 11th, Carl Perkins' Blue Suede Shoes debuted at number two on the Memphis Country Charts. The following week, it went to number one. On the road, the girls started screaming

whenever Carl would walk on stage, and afterwards, everyone would try to touch him, grab a hold of his clothing. On February 3rd, he performed a sold-out show on the night of the worst snowstorm in 50 years. Then, on March 3rd, the song broke the Billboard national charts, along with Elvis' Heartbreak Hotel, interestingly enough. But it was only Carl who, a week later, became the first country star to have a song on the national country, pop, and R&B charts. That's when the Perry Cuomo Show booked Carl Perkins for the night of March 24th. By this time, Blue Suede Shoes was making Sam Phillips a lot of money. In fact, when the welfare board realized that the singer of the hit song, Blue Suede Shoes, was living in one of their housing units,

they promptly kicked him and his wife Valda out. Sam, knowing that Carl was always worried about money, decided that he would surprise Carl on the set of the Perry Cuomo show and inform him on live television how the song was officially now a gold record. Sam also rented a Chrysler limo for the band so that they could travel up to New York City in style. But as dawn broke on the morning of the 24th, the limo plowed into the back of a milk truck, spun out of control, and rolled four times on the Delaware Highway. That night, Carl Perkins watched Elvis Presley perform on the Dorsey Brothers television program from his hospital bed in Dover, Delaware. The legend goes that on this night, Elvis performed Blue Suede Shoes, but the truth is that Elvis, out of respect for his injured colleague, only played Heartbreak Hotel. It wasn't until April 3rd on the Milton Berle program that Elvis took possession of blue suede shoes once and for all.

Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen, and now I'd like to do my newest R.C. Victor release for you. This song is called Blue Suede Shoes. But it's one for the money, two for the show. Three to get it ready, now go cat go But don't you step on my blue swan That's Elvis Presley performing live on the deck of the USS Hancock where the April 3, 1956 Milton Berle show taped. Now listen again. Listen to the way that Elvis starts the song.

But it's one for the money, two for the show. Three to get ready, now go, cat, go, but don't you step on my blue... Now, that is Carl Perkins' signature start. Here, listen to the way that he recorded the song. Well, it's one for the money, two for the show, three to get ready, now go cat, go, but don't you step on my blue suede shoe.

And this is the way Elvis recorded the song. Well, it's one for the money, two for the show, three to get ready, now go cat, go, but don't you step on my blue suede shoe. It's a totally different take. But yet, on April 3, 1956, he plays it the Carl Perkins way,

the way most people were used to hearing it on the radio. But it's one for the money, two for the show Three to get it ready, now go cat go But don't you step on my blue suede shoe I think he was sending a message. He was letting people know that there was nothing anybody could do about his becoming the king of rock and roll. Not even Carl Perkins. Carl watched this performance, too.

Ensconced in a full upper-body cast, he and his wife Valda watched Elvis play Carl's song on the television set that Carl had purchased just before he'd set out for New York. Carl had wanted Valda to see her husband's big national television show debut with her own eyes and from the comfort of their own home. There are many Elvis scholars who believe that this very TV appearance on the Milton Burrell show marks the official beginning of Elvis mania. The Hollywood executives who caught the show clearly saw something, because two days later they signed Elvis to his first six-picture deal. A couple of things became clear that night for Carl and Valda as well. First of all, there was no point talking about there being a contest between him and Elvis

ever again, that was for sure. And secondly, maybe it wasn't such a good idea to have purchased that TV. Valda contemplated bringing up the subject, asking if the set could perhaps be returned for a full cash refund, but Carl looked so pitiful there in his full upper body cast basking in the glow of Elvis. So instead, she just gave him a hug. Well, the closest thing to a hug a woman can give a man who's ensconced in a full upper body cast. That story about blue suede shoes, I made that over 10 years ago. It was in an episode that was actually called Failure. Failure has always been a big theme for me. I've always felt kinship with the losers, the also-rans, and the vanquished.

I've also always been obsessed with how we work out who ends up on the bottom and who ends up on top. This is really what's at the heart of the series we're doing right now. Well, that and YouTube. This question is also what drew me to the artist Paul Gauguin. In one of the very first radio series that I made, I tried to make sense of how Gauguin went from dying broken alone on the island of Tahiti covered in syphilitic sores to being one of the world's most celebrated artists. I'm going to share with you an excerpt from this series, which was called Noah Noah. It's a story about Paul Gauguin returns to Paris. He's been gone for almost two years. He's been living

like a savage on the island of Tahiti, restoring his creative juices, bathing in the delightful waters, screwing little 13-year-old island girls. But now he's back. He's been working very hard these past two years. He's brought back with him over 50 paintings. That's more than enough art to set Paris on fire. More than enough art to prove his genius and silence his detractors. Why, it's enough art to ensure that he gets one of the best seats in the pantheon of art history. But, just in case, just in case the dolts and the dumbbells of Paris don't get his amazing new art, he has a 38-page manuscript that will explain it all to them in black and white.

The working title of this manuscript is Noah Noah. That means fragrant, fragrant in Tahitian. The title refers to both the sweet smells of paradise and the ripe, pungent smells of tropical sex. But well, we'll come back to that. First, Gauguin needs a gig. He has connections. Degas likes his stuff, and through him, Gauguin gets some face time with the well-known art dealer Durand-Ruel.

The meeting's a success, and Gauguin gets himself a one-man show in Durand-Ruel's gallery. Gauguin throws himself into the preparations, and for the first time in his artistic career, he actually has enough money to make sure that everything is just right. You see, just after Gauguin returned, his rich uncle Isidore finally kicked the bucket, and he left Gauguin 13,000 francs. Of course, his wife tries to move in on the dough. She figures it's rightfully hers since she's the one raising the five kids. But Gauguin sets her straight.

He throws her a few francs and tells her to screw. This is his big moment, and he needs that big wad. He needs to be well-heeled for his debut. First, he gets himself some duds. He has a long blue frock coat tailored up, and he adorns it with large gaudy mother-of-pearl buttons. He also buys a large astrakhan hat, to which he adds a bright band of blue ribbon. And to make sure his frock matches his walking stick, he affixes a large pearl to the top of the handle. And this is no ordinary walking stick. No, Gauguin's rod is ornately carved with pornographic images

and primitive idols. He looks good. He looks like an artist For arm candy, he picks up this hot little number Who goes by the name of Ana the Javanese No one knows for sure if she's Indian or Malayan But she's definitely a teenager And she's definitely the right woman for an up-and-coming artist She dresses weird And she likes to dance in the street with her little pet monkey. She's perfect.

Gauguin, Anna, and the monkey all move into a studio. It's his first real apartment since becoming an artist. Over the door, he hangs a sign that says, Te Farru. That's Tahitian for, Love is Honored Here. He fills the house with all sorts of primitive objects, carvings, weapons, seashells, anything that looks native or exotic. He paints the walls olive green with yellow trim and he hangs his favorite paintings on the wall, including a few sunflower scenes by the late Vincent van Gogh. A one-man show, a retrospective of the art of Paul Gauguin. Vincent would have been so proud. Such a shame he never recovered from his mental breakdown.

Vincent would have made sure that everyone understood that the Tahitian paintings were a continuation of a project that began when the two lived together in Arles. What did Vincent call that little yellow house? Oh yeah, the Studio of the South. But then again, Vincent would probably try and take credit for all that. It's good that he's dead. This is no time for a shared spotlight. This is Gauguin's moment in the sun. So just to make sure, Gauguin takes down the sunflowers and he puts them in the closet. And then it's November 4th, the big day. Forty-six paintings and two sculptures.

Gauguin arrives at the gallery early. He makes sure all the paintings are hanging properly. He adjusts his frock and his hat. And then the doors open and the crowd comes rushing in. And everyone laughs. Oh God, it's so horrible. I break down every time I even think about it. I mean, it's supposed to be his artistic debut.

It's supposed to be his big day. And the people, they act like it's the World's Fair or something. Like his art is some carnival attraction. He has this one painting. It's called Delightful Land. It's great, really. It's this depiction of the fall from grace, but done with Tahitian symbols.

It's a very inventive picture. Eve is this large, naked Tahitian woman, and instead of a snake, there's this large black lizard that whispers into her ear, and in her hand she holds this exotic flower instead of an apple. It's a beautiful painting. But this crowd of halfwits and numbskulls, they just laugh at it. Someone shouts out, look at the monkey woman! Can you imagine? They dub his Tahitian Eve the monkey woman.

And then the rest of the crowd picks it up. Monkey woman, monkey woman. It's just so... Do you realize how humiliating and degrading this must have been? Do you realize how painful this moment must have been? And then Anna, thinking that the crowd is calling out to her, she climbs up onto one of the pedestals and starts dancing with her fucking monkey.

It is a total disaster. Catastrophe. Even his artist friends joined in. His mentor Pissarro tells the crowd that Gauguin should be commended for his shameless theft from the little-known people of Tahiti. And Pissarro's son draws this horribly mean caricature. He makes Gauguin's hat look stupid. He makes his frock with the pearl buttons look stupid.

And his ornately carved pornographic walking stick, he makes that look stupid too. The caricature appears in the newspaper the following morning. It accompanies a review that says, and I quote, to amuse your children, send them to the Gauguin exhibition. They will have fun looking at the colored images representing quadrimonious females lying on the cloth of a billiard table. Gauguin tries to pass it off. He pretends only to hear the praise of his sycophants. They all tell him he's their Rembrandt. They tell him he's their greatest modern painter.

He smiles, he stands tall in his Astrakhan hat, and he tells everyone that he doesn't give a damn what other people think. But it's just an act. He's devastated and humiliated. He wants to put a pistol into his mouth and blow out the back of his head. After this, everything goes to shit. He stops painting and gets depressed. And in January, while visiting Brittany with Anna, he breaks his ankle in a fight with some sailors.

Apparently, Anna mouths off to some of the locals. Gauguin ends up in the hospital for a month. And when he finally makes it back to Paris, he discovers that she's looted his studio and run off. She left him only his paintings. His paintings weren't even worth stealing. He makes one last attempt. He holds a blowout auction at the Hotel Drouot. But the auction flops, and Gauguin comes out 500 francs poorer. This brings the humiliation full circle.

He leaves Paris drunk and in tears. He doesn't even bother to say goodbye. It's June 29, 1895. Paul Gauguin is once again going to Tahiti. Only this time, it's for good. He is never coming back. One day I'm going to build myself a time machine, and I'm going to set the controls for November 4th, 1893.

Paris, France. Opening night for Gauguin's one-man show at the Duran-Ruel Gallery. I'll wear some nice clothes, maybe even an astrakhan hat, and I'll march into that gallery, and I'll go up to Pissarro, and I'll punch him right in the mouth. I'll run every single one of those Philistines into the street, and then I will throw my arms around Gauguin, and I will tell him that all the humiliation

and all the futility of his life is nothing compared to the respect and admiration that he's going to command in the 20th century. I'll tell him how he's in all the art history books, and how his paintings are worth millions of dollars and are crown jewels of museum collections. I'll tell them how there's some people, myself included, who consider him to be the first artist who articulates our modern definition of freedom. Fuck the job. Screw the wife and kids. Let's make art. You have been listening to Benjamin Walker's Theory of Everything. This installment is called Failure Interlude.

This episode is comprised of two pieces from the Benjamin Walker podcast archive. The first was from an episode called Failure, and the second was from an episode called Noah Noah Part 2. Both stories were written and produced by me. The Theory of Everything is produced by me, Benjamin Walker, and Andrew Calloway. Find us on the web at theoryofeverythingpodcast.com and subscribe wherever you get your podcasts. The Theory of Everything is a proud founding member of Radiotopia, home to some of the world's best podcasts. Find them all at radiotopia.fm. Radiotopia from PRX.