Not so tight

Can you hear me? "As well as I can hear anything. For a man of my age." Thus begins a 30-minute discourse on the inexorable bleakness of life from a man whom many regard as the Great Lost AOR (Alien Oriented Rock) Songwriter. Starting with the encroachment of old age and ending on a high if somewhat negative note, a thoroughly cynical Warren Zevon carves his character throughout the conversation in Zorro-like strokes, often replying to questions he asks himself. Born 53 years ago in Chicago, he has been lauded by the likes of Bob Dylan, Randy Newman, Bruce Springsteen, Neil Young and REM for his brilliant if utterly acerbic take on the urban myth of the so-called American Dream. One for whom the glass-half-empty philosophy takes on an entirely new meaning, the former alcoholic is, if anything, a survivor.

"I suppose that's true," says the man who started out as a classical music prodigy and who traded Bach in for Bob Dylan.

"Anybody who has been drunk around the clock for 30 years and who makes it for another 15 deserves to be called a survivor. Mind you, it doesn't have quite the same resonance as, perhaps, the word genius. It's possibly an exaggeration to say I was drunk for 30 years. More like 27, actually. Why would I want to be drunk for so long? I could give you a number of flippant answers. I was thirsty, for one. . ."

Zevon emerged from rehab about 15 years ago. When asked what changes took place in his life, he replies that his driving got better. More seriously, he says that his family life improved. Performing, also, has become a lot more interesting, in that he is now present for his concerts.

The songs Zevon has written range from the self-mocking (Poor Poor Pitiful Me) to the bitterly satiric (Carmelita), from the politically aware (Roland The Headless Thompson Gunner) to the emotionally devastating (Accidentally Like A Martyr). His ability to attract the attention of his peers is in direct proportion to his commercial success.

But the fact that he's generally regarded as a songwriter's songwriter must mean something to him? "What does that mean, anyway - a songwriter's songwriter? That only songwriters like me? They get records for free, for God's sake!"

Zevon's diligent adherence to entertaining himself might well stem from the fact that he was an only child, but as an artist he questions any other creative impulse. "I think artists should be selfish insofar as art is dangerous enough without having mercantile motives. The least manipulative you can be and the most natural, the better off you are."

He emerged when pop music's avoidance of certain subjects was at a premium. Like other songwriters of his vintage (Lou Reed, Neil Young, Bob Dylan, John Cale, Randy Newman, et al) Zevon is now too old to appeal to most teenagers and twentysomethings. He exists in that purgatorial songwriter zone where melody and malady co-exist, and where his material appeals to people who are, for whatever reason, walking towards middle age.

"I think pop/rock culture is a little bit more commerce-driven than it used to be," is Zevon's considered opinion on the differences between then and now. "My generation had illusions, and each of us reached the point . . . whether or not we had to sell out. Now you see 20-year-old members of supposedly alternative bands that are politically charged - a band like Korn - modelling jeans on the side of a bus. In my generation there was a transition to that! There were drug habits to be fed. There were kids that needed orthodontic treatment. There were reasons why you agonised, and then you sold out - then you did the jeans commercial. It seems now the younger generation begins with the jeans commercial . . . maybe they'll renounce their riches and give it all to the poor in a few years, instead of my generation who ultimately schemed to buy a house on one of the smaller Hawaiian islands."

Zevon refutes the notion that rock music is a game for teenagers, claiming that mature artists have as much, if not more, to say as the young. There's more angst involved in reaching the end of your life than in having growing pains, he deadpans. "There was a time when we all said we weren't going to wear those tight pants when we reached 40 years of age. But there's a little bit of Sunset Boulevard in all of us, and we're all going to wear the pants a little bit too tight a little bit too long."

The main impression Zevon gives as the interview finishes is that, sober or drunk, heartfelt or smart-arse, here is a man who has not compromised throughout his life. "I compromise every day," he counters. "My job begins and ends when I'm writing a song. That's my real job. Everything that happens after that is just some kind of activity. In the course of that activity it seems to me that I compromise constantly. Warren, we want you to go and do this concert. . . Warren, we want you to go to Seattle and play for this radio station. . . I don't want to do it, but they tell me I have to do it. I don't like compromising, but it could reach the point where they might take away my guitar strings. Sometimes it's worth making compromises in order not to compromise the real job."

Final question: is his extraordinarily bleak outlook on life exaggerated? "Absolutely not. I think I'm pretty optimistic, to be honest with you. Like [the painter] Francis Bacon, however, I'm optimistic about nothing."

Warren Zevon plays Dublin's Olympia on Monday, May 22nd. His most recent album, Life'll Kill Ya is released on Artemis/Epic.