Jim Carroll at Spirit Club (San Diego, CA)
7 July 1989
By Cassie Carter
This was my first real meeting with Jim Carroll. At the time I was working on my annotated bibliography that was later published in Bulletin of Bibliography.
In one manila folder I had a copy of my bibliography, index cards with addresses written on them, a list of questions, some letters, and two articles–one was the ad for the Spirit club–I’d cut out of the paper. In another folder I had all the papers I’d written about Jim Carroll. And in another I had lists of questions and comments my students had submitted about Jim Carroll, quiz questions, and lecture notes. I had the folders, along with two micro cassettes and my recorder, two pens, some paper, and all of Jim Carroll’s books, including my xeroxed copy of 4 Ups and 1 Down, stuffed in my big purse. It was 9:00 am.
At 6:00 pm I called the Spirit club to see if Carroll’s guest list had been posted. The bitch on the other end said, NO. At 8:00 another woman answered and said he wouldn’t even be there until around 11:30, and his guest list would come with him. So I waited. And waited and waited. Finally, at 11:15, [then-spouse] Craig and I went to get [my best friends] Kevin and Jackie, then headed for the club. This place is a real dive, mind you. I went up to the ticket window and asked if Carroll was there. The guy said yes. I asked if he’d brought a guest list. He said no. So we forked over the money and went in.
Around midnight, Carroll crept on stage. I say crept because that’s what he does. He doesn’t look at the audience; he just puts his bag on a chair, takes out his books, picks one, and walks up to the podium. Then he kinda looks through his hair at the audience, informs you of his plan of attack, and starts reading. He’s white as a ghost with long red hair, tall and thin, wearing the same clothes he was wearing last time I saw him–the same clothes, I believe, he is wearing on the cover of his last album. For at least the first twenty minutes he kinda squirms around, digs his toe into the floor, rocks backwards and forwards . . . until he has achieved sufficient chuckles from the crowd. Then he relaxes a bit–but his voice always trembles.
He read for maybe an hour, which is unusually brief for him. Tamela, his guitarist/girlfriend, who usually backs him up the second half of the show, wasn’t there. Maybe that’s why. And he didn’t come back for an encore; obviously hadn’t planned to. He just said, “Thank you,” and charged toward the back of the bar. I picked up my huge purse and followed.
When I got to the back, Carroll was in this little room signing autographs for two adoring fans. When they left, I stuck my head in, introduced myself, and said I’d talked to Rosemary. He said, “Come on in.” So I sat down and was pulling all the junk out of my purse when a guy came in. He said he was doing a write-up for some magazine (which Carroll said he hadn’t heard of) and wanted to send Carroll a copy. Carroll told him to send it to Penguin, and gave him the address. It was then I realized I had left my most important folder at home: the one with the bibliography, addresses, questions–and the Spirit club’s phone number. No problem. I knew what I wanted to ask–and Rosemary had sent him my letter, so he also knew what I wanted to ask.
So, the first thing I did was ask about Organic Trains, which was a limited-edition book of poetry published when he was 17. I said, “Do you know the publisher? I can’t find that book anywhere.” He reached for his bag and said, “I usually don’t have it with me, but I do this time.” He pulled out Organic Trains, handed it to me, and said, “Here, you can have it.” I kind of gasped and said thank you, and he said, “It’s worth about $500.” I said, “You’re kidding.” He told me who had printed it (I can’t remember the name, of course) and that he thought the guy had lost some of them. I flipped through the book and saw he had made corrections in red ink, initialed and dated 1968 (I think he also said something about printing errors). Then I pulled out my xerox copy of 4 Ups and 1 Down, his second “book” (It’s actually 8 pages of poetry; it came out when he was 19), and said, “This is pretty cute,” pointing at the picture on the front page, in which his hair is past his shoulders, and he’s walking toward the camera in bell bottom pants–the picture is surrounded by stars and things. He said, “Yeah, I think Donna Dennis did that.” I said yep. He said something like, so you already have that, and I explained it was a xerox copy–and described the hell I went through getting it from Illinois through interlibrary loan. [2025: I am 99.99% sure he had the real thing in his bag to give me. Dammit.]
Then I pulled out another folder and handed him the lists of student comments and questions. I told him Rosemary thought he might be interested in hearing what my students think of him, and explained some of the questions were stupid because my students thought I’d use them for a quiz or something. He chuckled and I said, “I think this one’s pretty good,” pointing at the first which asks “I want to know Jim Carroll’s attitude on women . . .” He said, “Well, I was just a kid!” He then read one aloud: “How does Jim get by without a job?” He laughed and read another: “How could Jim stoop to hustling men? Is he that desperate, or is he a flaming homosexual?” He really cracked up at that and said, “They hate me!” I said no they don’t, and was about to explain my theory when the club’s manager called him out. Craig and Jackie came in (Kevin was already there–he slipped in when I wasn’t looking; Carroll had looked at him and said, “Do you know each other?”) and I showed them Organic Trains, told them I forgot my notes, and about the student questions. Carroll suddenly appeared in the doorway, looking rather flustered, and said to me, “Hey, do you have a car?” I said yes, why? He said, “You think you could give me a lift to my motel?” I said sure, where ya at? (I almost cracked up.) He said, “The E-Z 8 on Pacific Highway. You know where it is?” I said we’ll find it. So he disappeared again and I about laughed myself silly. Craig said, “Shades of Iggy Pop, huh?” (When Craig was a teenager in Detroit, he and some friends drove Iggy all over town looking for drugs). When Carroll came back in I asked him where Tamela was. He said she was back at the motel–they didn’t have time for a sound check so she didn’t want to do it. I said, “By the way, did the Backdoor invite you back?” (Last time he read there, he missed his first show and didn’t arrive until nearly midnight.) He seemed quite surprised and asked, “Why? Because I was late? I sold out the last two shows, so I don’t see why they wouldn’t . . .” I said, “You made me sit through Michael McClure twice.” He said, “You don’t like his poetry? I think it’s great.” I said I thought it was awful, especially compared to his.
By this time we were out in the parking lot, and this silly lookin’ guy from one of the bands accosted Carroll and said, “Jim, great show,” and shook his hand (like they’d been friends for years–Carroll obviously doesn’t appreciate such attention.) It was kind of neat. Craig, Kevin and Jackie were walking ahead, Carroll in the middle being accosted, and I was behind him. He actually waited for me. When I caught up, he said, “Both shows sold out. They paid me more last time than the first–they had to turn people away–why wouldn’t they ask me back?” I said, “When Jello Biafra was there they thought he was a jerk and didn’t ask him back. They’re funny that way.” We got to Kevin and Jackie’s beat-up Chevette and decided they’d lead the way, then Craig, Carroll, and I climbed in the [mazda mini-]pickup. I was in the middle.
No sooner had we gotten safely inside when Carroll said something like this: “I’m not really sure about this bibliography stuff, I don’t know how interested I am, I’m not really thrilled with my work right now, and don’t really see the point of a bibliography. What is the point?” When he first started, I felt kind of numb. I said, “Well, for one thing it could get you some attention.” He said, sarcastically, “Attention is all I need,” and went on to describe, somewhat vaguely, the overwhelming attention he received after Catholic Boy and The Basketball Diaries. I said I didn’t mean that kind of attention. He said, “Oh, you mean scholarly attention.” Then he said something like, “I used to get excited about the articles–I’d keep track of everything, and saved everything. But one day I just threw it all out, when I was moving.” Then he looked out the window and said, “I think we’re going the wrong way.”
[2025: To this day I am so amazed he knew where he was in San Diego in the dark.]
I convinced him that we’d find the place, and he began naming off articles that had been written about him–he’d been on so many covers he couldn’t remember. Newsweek was one of them, BAM another (I don’t remember everything he mentioned), and he said he was kind of proud of the article in Penthouse–he liked the pictures; when I laughed he said, “Well, they’re good photographers.” I asked him about the Joyce Caruso article I’d clipped from some magazine a long time ago–probably a fashion magazine since it had slick pages. He asked what it was about; I said The Book of Nods. He said, “Elle.” I asked if he had published poems or had articles about him in Rolling Stone. He said he’d published poems there while it was still based in San Francisco, and there had been articles in Random Notes. And I asked if he had published any poems that didn’t appear in any of his books. He had, in the early 70s. Then he said, “I used to keep track of all that, but then it felt like I was hanging on to the past (?) and it was all just like so much paraphernalia.” Somewhere in all this I mentioned we had driven through Manhattan on our vacation, that it was a riot. He said it’s not really that hard to get around. I said, “Maybe to you, but what a scary place.” He said, “Yeah, it is scary.”
By this time we had gotten onto Pacific Highway, and Carroll again looked out the window: “You know, I really think we’re going the wrong way.” I said, “Don’t worry, those guys will find it. We aren’t going to lose you.” I asked him about the anthologies his work had appeared in, and he named off Anne Waldman’s two World anthologies; he is particularly proud to have been included in Poetry: The First 75 Years (put out by the prestigious Poetry). I asked about the Paul Carroll one, and he said it was never published. We drove a little way and he said, “I know we’re going the wrong way.” Sure enough, Kevin and Jackie turned around. Before we knew it we were in front of the E-Z 8 motel.
Craig got out and joined Kevin and Jackie. I sat with Carroll in the cab of the truck. He said he didn’t have much time and I said no problem–I’m pretty tired myself (It was at least 1:30 am). I said, okay, could he tell me which poems appeared where? I explained that each of his books has a list of journals where poems had been published, but didn’t say which poems or when; I asked if he got my list of questions. He said yes. My problem here was that I’d left my list at home–but I realized that I did have all of his books in my purse. So I pulled them out and grabbed a pen, preparing to take notes. Carroll took Living at the Movies (I said, “I just got that. Penguin was nice enough to send me a copy”) and he said that he liked the picture on the cover. He began writing in the table of contents which poems had appeared where, explaining his abbreviations.
While he was doing this, I pointed at a poem called, “Poem On My Son’s Birthday.” I told him when I saw that in 4 Ups and 1 Down it shocked the hell out of me, and could he please explain (Mind you, the poem was published when he was 19). He said, “I have a kid–well, he’s 21 now. I had him in high school. It’s not something I like to make public.” I pointed at the title and said, “That’s pretty public!” He said, “I was just a kid.”
He continued to write, so I asked him a few thousand more questions–about the videos and albums: he read “4 Seasons” for MTV, all the poetry records are from Girono Poetry Systems–“Giorno, like the Italian for Spring,” he said. He suggested Poetry in Motion by Ron Mann for my school, and I could find out about all of these from Rosemary. I also asked if he’d kept any diaries since 1973. He said no, and that he isn’t really interested in doing another diary–although if he wrote about the rock years it would sell. Then he started thinking out loud. He could do one about the rock years, written in the third person with a constant theme, something he’d never really done. He said, for example, that he’d never said much about long-term girlfriends because they’d take entire books in themselves. Like Deborah Duckster who pops up now and then, or a girl who died [probably Elizabeth], and one other. He talked about how he was kicking drugs; cocaine was the drug of choice in rock ‘n roll–it was everywhere–but he never really liked it.
From there he went on to say that so-and-so wanted him to do another album, but it came at a really bad time–because he’s working on his novel now, Lenny Kaye, who was also in Patti Smith’s band, has other projects going on, and Carroll wasn’t really sure if he wanted to do it anymore. I asked him where I might get the lyrics for Catholic Boy–that there were lyrics in Dry Dreams, but not Catholic Boy. He said there were lyrics in one of the foreign versions, and the record company had wanted the lyrics in Dry Dreams. He said, “I didn’t want the lyrics in Catholic Boy. Really it’s pretty clear though, isn’t it? I mean, do you need the lyrics?” I said, “Well, pretty much–but I’m picky. I want to know exactly what you’re saying.” I think I’m skipping something here, but he mentioned that his records were big in Japan, as were his books. The Basketball Diaries have been translated into seven different languages, and Forced Entries is being translated now. Did I know Pete Townsend, from the Who, is his editor? He kind of does a little editing on the side.
Then he started talking about rock in general. I believe first he said something about Henry Miller’s study of Rimbaud, how that had had some influence on his decision to go into rock (this has become standard interview fare with him–how rock in a way takes poetry out of the Ivory Tower). But he went on to say he’s sure that writing lyrics has its merits, that the beat and music add something, but he wonders if rock had tainted his poetry somehow, made it less pure. The general idea here was that he lost a lot of respectability with the intellectual crowd for having gone into rock. I said, wait a minute. I said, “There’s a whole subculture of wonderful poets out there disguised as rock musicians–they just aren’t recognized because rock isn’t ‘respectable’ yet. Look at Lou Reed–he’s as great a poet as any, or Patti Smith, or Bob Dylan?” He said, “Well, I think Paul Simon is better as a poet than Dylan–I mean Dylan hasn’t done much a while . . .” (Again, I think here he may have been testing me. I named Reed and Smith in particular because they’re close friends of his.) I said, “As for what rock did for you, if nothing else it made you a fantastic reader. On stage you have the presence of a rock star. It’s incredible.” He said, “Yeah, well you do kind of learn to perform. I mean it’s not all a performance, but you’re not always inspired every time. With some things I am, but not everything. When I first started reading I was terrible, ’cause I was so shy, but I could stand up in front of thousands of people in concert no problem. Then I realized it was because I had a band behind me.
Carroll said he’d done a reading a while back. Reading with him were Susan Sontag, I think Ginsberg and/or Burroughs, Saul Bellow, and I don’t know who else. I said, “That’s a pretty nice crowd.” He said he read poems that had been published in Poetry for the intellectual crowd. I said, “Hey, don’t do that! Don’t make concessions to intellectuals . . .” He interrupted, “Well, I like those poems!” I said, “Okay, but don’t make concessions to intellectuals; let them make concessions to you.” He said, “Well, with some people I don’t care–like Paul Morrissey or someone like that, I don’t give a shit. But everyone wants to get published in Poetry; after that you just don’t care.” I told him about a conversation I’d had with my favorite (HA) professor, Dr. Santangelo: “I was telling him about you, and he said, ‘I can forgive him everything but the rock music.’ He’s an asshole!” Carroll laughed at that. Then I told him about the minor lit stuff I’ve been working on, that I was looking at his work as a minor literature, and asked if he knew about the model. He seemed a bit defensive: “Do you mean as in [some philosopher] where [big poet] would be a major poet and Dante a minor one, or [another big poet] a major poet and Frank O’Hara a minor poet?” (Carroll is a big time fan of Frank O’Hara, by the way.) I wasn’t familiar with this particular philosophy, but it wasn’t what I meant. I said, “No, it has more to do with language. Like the guys who did this book talk about Kafka as a Czech Jew writing in German.” He lightened up–in fact, he seemed pleased. I said, “I’m looking at you as an artist straddling the line between poetry and rock . . .” (I can’t remember if there was more to this.)
Carroll said he was very aware of his reputation as a pure poet, but resented the label of “street poet”: “People have this image of me as a street poet, but I’m not that at all. My poetry is quite separate from the diaries; it’s almost pristine by comparison.” I said, “Yeah, schizophrenic writing.” He laughed and said, “Like tonight while I was reading I had James Brown saying ‘B-b-b-baby,’ but I wouldn’t do that if I published it as a poem.” I said, “You have to remember that in The Basketball Diaries you were a street punk, who also happened to write poetry. That’s where it comes from, you can’t deny it.” He said, “Yes, but my poetry has always been separate from the other things. I wrote poetry to escape my Quixotic life.” He said several times that poetry was a form of escape for him.
I asked about the forever-upcoming film version of The Basketball Diaries, which I’m always hearing about. He said, “I sell the option for that book about once a year.” He proceeded to name some of the actors who’ve wanted to play him–River Pheonix was the latest, and before that I believe Rob Lowe. He says the whole brat pack has wanted to do it at one time or another. Every time he sells the option for the movie, he says, he gets $25,000, and the people who pick it up have a certain amount of time to do it before it reverts back to him. I said that was a pretty nice way to support yourself, and asked if he’d seen any good scripts. He was kind of vague about it–it sounds like maybe one script was good. I told him I didn’t see how it could be made into a film without ruining it. He said he wants to have it done because he likes film and could use the money.
All this time he was still working on the table of contents, and he paused to say he wasn’t sure about some of the poems. I said don’t stress over it–whatever you can give me will help. Then I pulled out Forced Entries to see if there were any journals mentioned there. I didn’t see any I didn’t have, but turned to the author’s note. I said, “This author’s note cracks me up.” He said, “I didn’t write it, the lawyers wrote it. It’s there for libel protection–I just made it funny.” I said I noticed while looking at some of the earlier publications of The Basketball Diaries that he changed some of the names–I said it was kind of him. He said, “It was necessary–some of the guys are coaches now.” I said the author’s note in Forced Entries made me especially wonder about “The Poet and the Vibrator,” in which Allen Ginsberg gets tangled up with a vibrator and ends up ejaculating on the ceiling. Carroll said, “I swear it’s true! Well, he didn’t exactly say, ‘my dick feels like a sparring partner’ . . . but I swear it’s true.” Then he said maybe it was a bit exaggerated, “But it was really funny.” He said everything in the book really happened, he just changed some of the names. D.M.Z., for example, is artist Larry Rivers, and Jenny Ann is Patti Smith–he was going to call her Jenny Lee, but some of her friends call her Patti Lee. I couldn’t help asking how he managed to meet all these very handy people. (I mean, he worked for Andy Warhol and Larry Rivers, was buddies with Ginsberg and Lou Reed, Patti Smith was his girlfriend, etc.) He said, “Well, they were around, especially at the St. Marks Poetry Project. I was really shy, so I didn’t approach them until I had published something to back me up.”
While he said these last few things he was opening the door, ready to get out. He said he really had to get going and kind of backed down the sidewalk. I said thank you, shook his hand, and he left. I turned to Craig, Kevin, and Jackie, and they said, “Well? How’d it go?” Kevin said, “I wish I could corner Ridley Scott for an hour–geez.” Jackie said, “Well, what did you talk about?” I just kind of stood there mute. Craig and I got home at 3:30 am.