Chapter 1 - Part 1

Chapter 2- Wooden Horse

"Luka"

"There have been great American artists who have worked beyond the public's ability to understand them easily, but none who have condescended to the public -- none who have not hoped, no matter how secretly, that their work would lift America to heaven, or drive a stake through its heart. This is a democratic desire (not completely unrelated to the all-time number one democratic desire for endless wealth and fame), and at its best it is an impulse to wholeness, an attempt not to deny diversity, or to hide from it, but to discover what it is that diverse people can authentically share. It is a desire to remake America on his or her own terms." [1]

Suzanne Vega wanted to write, to perform, and to make some sort of impact. In most every aspect, her debut album represented something close to the apex for a songwriter such as Vega. The album sold very well -- far, far better than A&M had ever expected. With that first album Vega had attained what most every serious musician dreams of -- the opportunity to build a career as working musician, with the means and opportunity to write, tour, and record. For a writer of compact, thoughtful, idiosyncratic songs like Suzanne, the success of Suzanne Vega must have seemed like a bit of a fluke, a wonderful but unrepeatable event.

Solitude Standing, released in April of 1987, moved Vega to the front ranks. Vega's music did what the only best pop music can do. It remade, however fleetingly, America on her terms, to use Greil Marcus' wonderful phrase. That album, and the song "Luka," changed overnight the landscape of pop music. It raised the bar on what a top 10 hit could achieve commercially and artistically and it opened the industry for both a generation of woman and of songwriters. Solitude Standing transformed Vega, for good or bad, from an artist with a sizeable but cultish following, to a pop artist, with all the benefits and liabilities of that position.

"The inability of the vital American artist to be satisfied with a cult audience, no matter how attentive, goes right back to the instinctive perception that whatever else America might be, it is basically big; that unless you are doing something big, you are not doing anything at all...When it is alive to its greatest possibilities -- to disturb, provoke, and divide an entire society -- pop says that the game of a limited audience is not really worth playing...What matters is the depth and breadth of response an artist can evoke in an audience, and whether or not that artist is really challenging the audience and not simply playing off its fears and weaknesses." [2]

As a single, "Luka" was that rare thing -- an almost perfect pop recording. Solo versions of the song highlight the song's unusually dark lyric -- perhaps the darkest hit song in music history. But it is the studio version that is surely one of the most subversive hits in rock; a chilling song about child abuse, from the perspective of the child, with no happy ending, that had people tapping their toes. Its driving rhythmic melody and shimmering production, highlighted by Jon Gordon's simple but unforgettable guitar solo and Shawn Colvin's backing vocals, had an immediate, electrifying effect in every possible sense -- musically, artistically, and commercially.

The top selling single in America in 1987 was George Michael's "Faith." But the most important recording, by far, was "Luka." That summer, the song reached number 3 in America. It spent 3 months on Billboard's Top 40 and 5 weeks in its Top 10. Until Suzanne Vega, only a handful of solo female artists had ever written and recorded an American Top 3 hit. Before Chapman (who hit "Fast Car" reached number 6 in August 1987), before Sinead O'Conner (whose first American hit, "Nothing Compares to U," reached number 1 on December 21st, 1990), before Sarah McLachlan, before the rest that followed, Vega's breakthrough was the catalyst.

1987 was memorable because all that year, especially during its glorious mid-months, one could revel in being a Suzanne Vega fan. All through the year the four note synthesizer introduction and Suzanne's distinctive, vibrato-less voice was inescapable. One could see the evocative black and white video constantly on television. You could hear the song through car windows, in parks, and in shopping malls. It was strange. It was improbable. It was as if Leonard Cohen had, within two short years, released two career-making albums, scored a Top 5 hit, placed a video on MTV's rotation shortlist, and sold-out Royal Albert Hall and Carnegie Hall.

"Luka," and her music in general, had penetrated the conscience of the mass market, had deeply affected musicians and audiences, and yet was timeless -- it never became a quaint novelty piece. Long after the other hits of 1987 faded from memory (Tiffany's "I Think We're Alone Now;" Billy Vera and the Beater's "At This Moment;" Debbie Gibson's "Shake Your Love;" Whitesnake's "Is This Love;" Duran Duran's "Notorious;" Samantha Fox's "Touch Me" to name but a few), "Luka" retained its relevance, beauty, and appeal.

The shallowness of many of the other hit songs made "Luka's" success that much more noteworthy, its impact magnified far beyond songs of similar sales levels. This out-burst of musical good taste and judgment on the part of the public seemed both wonderful and confusing. What, for example, was one to make of the spectacle of fans at her concerts? Here were young women and men appropriating her for themselves, a few of them squeeling--literally--at her appearance and wearing clothes in the style of Suzanne. ("Did you see her shoes?" said one to the other.) What happened to the secret society that seemed to characterize the fandom of someone like Leonard Cohen? Was this a hint of things to come? Perhaps the leading edge of an icy slope of hype and fame that would accelerate success, yet also punish a mis-step with unforgiving swiftness, or just simply hasten the moment when boredom replaced novelty?

Vega's fame seemed a mixed blessing. It was fun to vicariously savour her triumph. (Someone cool had made it--a literate, interesting person. Someone who didn't look or sound like anyone else, someone who you might actually want to talk to.) But her success raised the stakes to a level where it was difficult to see how one could win. I kept thinking about Randy Newman's story, about how "Short People" distorted his career. He seemed to struggle with how to deal with this singular success. Parody the song, and he risked discounting a genuine achievement. Play it straight, and he risked taking too seriously a song that was from the start a send-up. By becoming a hit, "Short People" became as much a problem as an opportunity for Newman—he often didn't seem to know how to relate to the song's fame. His stage personae had been based heavily on the ironic distance he kept from fame. Now here he was, in some ways, famous. Record a song like "Touch Me," and while Samantha Fox might never be taken seriously, she also doesn't risk raising critical and public expectations of her next song. Not so for someone like Newman, Cohen, or Vega. Record a song like "Luka," and expectations rise.

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