White Man With Attitude

How does he feel about that mode of working? He sighs and crosses his arms. “There‘s a song I remember by James Taylor, called ’Bartender‘s Blues,’” he says, and begins singing in that familiar mockingmournful voice: “‘I need four walls around me to hold me tight, to keep me from drifting away . . .’ And I do. I need that discipline from without, and that‘s the strictest kind, having to write for a picture on deadline.” He shrugs. “But I’d write if I didn‘t have it.”

Newman has been nominated for an Oscar 14 times, meaning he’s consistently recognized by the industry for his efforts, but he has yet to win. I suggest the possibility of a Newman backlash, a reluctance to anoint another member of his family, even as the family must be acknowledged. Newman has another idea. “I thought at first there might be a possible bias because I came from pop music,” he says. “But I‘ve done enough scoring now where that would have no effect. There’s always a reason a score wins -- it‘s a movie they love, or one that wasn’t very popular but was a serious effort, like Il Postino. I mean, I do comedies. Of the 14 films I‘ve been nominated for, I’d say I had a real chance of winning maybe only three times.”

That doesn‘t seem to bother Newman at all. Unlike his failure to become a true pop star, not winning an Oscar seems to bolster the peculiar confidence he’s always drawn from being an outsider: He might forever yearn for acceptance, but much of his identity rides on not getting it. “The people who really know a lot about film music don‘t run the Academy,” he explains. “There are only a couple of hundred people in the world who really know a good score from a bad one. It’s too arcane. It‘s like cinematography -- I get to vote for that, and costume design. That’s ridiculous, I mean, look at me. What do I really know about costume design?” He chuckles. A long blue thread that‘s been hanging unnoticed from his sleeve the entire conversation quivers in assent.

Newman is not nearly as ambivalent about his pop canon as he is about his film one. Musically speaking, he’s proudest of his studio albums, and his only regret is that he hasn‘t made more of them (he’s released 11 over his career, versus 13 film scores in the last 20 years). Yet when asked about the larger meaning of music to him, or to anybody else, he admits an utter lack of faith. “I don‘t believe music can change anything,” he says decisively. “Except fashion. And maybe the way people speak. What Madonna’s wearing is a hell of a lot more interesting than anything she says.” He doesn‘t have much good to say about current Top 40. “All harmonic interest has gone out of pop,” he declares, “though I don’t listen to much of anyone for edification.” With typical equanimity he doesn‘t believe it’s all a wasteland, either. He likes early Alanis Morrissette and Everclear and Lauryn Hill because, he says, they have something to say. He especially admires hip-hop wild boy Eminem, whom he calls a great comic artist with a gift for character, like himself. But overall, he doesn‘t think people are listening much to lyrics -- not that they ever really did. “Music’s a strange medium for meaning,” he muses. “Radio isn‘t it. There aren’t a lot of people who‘ll listen without eating potato chips. And with my music, to like it, you have to listen to it. It’s not something you put on as background music at a party.” He grins. “You might if you were a snob of some kind.”

This has always been true of Newman‘s music, which leads to a standard question of how it has aged. The answer isn’t standard: It hasn‘t. Randy Newman is exploring the same big-picture themes not just of yesteryear, but of the ages -- the various meanings of companionship, abandonment, greed, human bondage, imperialism, patriotism. In cosmic time, barely a minute of Randy Newman has passed; we’re still waiting for him to hit a stride or get to a point. This is distinctly different from the career trajectory of most graying rockers: Man plays guitar and rails at the world, gets famous, gets drunkdrugged out, gets older andor has kids, gets reflective andor more politically conservative, releases an album that is notably softer in tone than anything previous and is deemed “accessible” or “mature.”

Randy Newman was always mature, or he was always a punk; in either case, he sings any song from Land of Dreams just as believably, or unbelievably, as he sang it 13 years ago. Despite a bout with drugs in the ‘70s, and a battle with Epstein-Barr syndrome in the ’80s, he seems no worse -- well, no different -- for the wear. His wonder and disgust with the world are the same. He has been married twice and has five children, the last two under 10. Not surprisingly, he likes the idea of being the artist as an old man; a guy who never exactly had the world on a string. Age brings him a certain measure of relief. “I thought my last album was good,” he says of Bad Love, an ostensibly intimate record that critics couldn‘t resist describing as Randy Newman finally letting his third-person guard down -- in other words, maturing. Newman actually agrees, to a point. “Bad Love was rock & roll, but it was talking about being older. It wasn’t 18, or 21 or 27. It wasn‘t 35. That may be a bad thing. I don’t know.” He looks at me and gets inspired. “Writers are allowed to be 57 and do their best work. They‘re expected to get better or stay as good. I guarantee you that Philip Roth liked his last book. He’s not going back to Portnoy‘s Complaint going, ’Ah, then I could write.‘ That’s suicide. Music is different, I know. There‘s a lot of evidence that it’s a young person‘s game. More people have gotten worse than have gotten better.”