In Defense of John Denver and His Music

I left Austin a long time ago (4,487 days ago, to be precise) and have never missed it. While I was there, however, I often listened to KUT, 90.5 on your FM dial. I donated to its bi-annual fundraisers and came to know several of its on-air people—Louis Harrison, Larry Monroe, Jay Trachtenberg, Paul Ray, John Hanson, Dan Del Santo, Ted Jackson and John Aielli. This pertains to the latter. Aielli joined the station in 1966 when he was a student at the University of Texas and never left. I do believe he is still there, still hosting his popular show “Eklektikos.” As you can imagine, in 54 years he has played a lot of music and brought all sorts of people into the studio.

One day he had some woman from a European country on his program. Her name is long forgotten, but she was an accomplished composer, singer or musician. As usual, Aielli interspersed her singing or playing with his smooth interview style. This lady listed some of her influences, one of whom was John Denver. Aielli then did a little virtue-signaling. He said, “John Denver?” incredulously and laughed. Quite surprised that she had a high opinion of Denver’s work, Aielli made clear that he did not. His response was inappropriate for two reasons: (1) He scoffed at the opinion of a knowledgeable person, and (2) he issued a put-down of Denver. He was far from alone, of course. After Denver died in 1997 at age 53 (his experimental plane crashed into the Pacific Ocean), one of the many obituaries referenced “[his] never-raucous blend of country, folk and white-bread pop.” More virtue-signaling.

I like Denver and his music, however it may be characterized by snobs such as Aielli. Born Henry John Deutschendorf in Roswell, New Mexico, he was an Air Force brat who also lived in Arizona, Alabama and Texas. A self-taught guitar player, he dropped out of Texas Tech, moved to Los Angeles and started his musical career. He played in folk clubs, changed his name and wrote songs. One, “Leaving on a Jet Plane” (an anthem for American boys flying off to Vietnam), did nothing until Peter, Paul and Mary recorded it to considerable acclaim. Other great—John Aielli might disagree—ones followed, including “Take Me Home, Country Roads,” “Sunshine on My Shoulders,” the wedding favorite “Annie’s Song,” “Rocky Mountain High,” “Calypso” and “Poems, Prayers and Promises.” His albums went gold and sometimes platinum.

He settled in a big wood-and-glass house in Aspen, Colorado and involved himself in numerous environmental issues. Denver was no saint; he admitted to being stoned on LSD and marijuana when he wrote “Rocky Mountain High,” he had alcohol troubles, and he roughed up and divorced two wives (and then complained bitterly about having to pay alimony). Record sales declined, but he kept writing, playing and touring.

Nevertheless, Denver had amassed an impressive body of work. He was popular, but oh his critics. They said he was middle of the road, wholesome, a lightweight. They called his music innocuous and saccharine, and claimed he had a nasal voice. Some even bemoaned his straight, blond hair, as if curly, dark hair would have been preferable. He wore wire-frame glasses—not cool, I guess. He was enthusiastic and occasionally used the catchphrase “far out.” I bet they didn’t like that either.

Who was Denver supposed to impress? I contend he sang from the heart and articulated joy and optimism in a way that resonated with his many fans. I do not regard his music as a guilty pleasure, nor do I agree that he had a thin voice. It was a clear tenor, and I defy anybody to listen to “Perhaps Love,” his beautiful duet with Placido Domingo, and say he does not hold his own.

More than a guitar-picking troubador, he founded the World Hunger Project, which was not just for show. Denver donated money and expressed concern about such causes as homelessness, the AIDS crisis in Africa and oil drilling in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. Some of the 11 concerts he did in the Soviet Union benefited victims of the Chernobyl nuclear disaster, he protested censorship, and he was involved in all sorts of conservation projects. After passing NASA’s rigorous physical exam, Denver was a finalist to be the first “citizen” on the Space Shuttle in January 1986. It was his good fortune that the agency picked Christa McAuliffe and not him. In response to that horrific accident, he wrote a song entitled “Flying for Me” and dedicated it to all of America’s astronauts. He counted among his friends Jimmy Carter, Frank Sinatra, Jacques Cousteau and Buckminster Fuller. I won’t even try to list the many forms of posthumous recognition he has gotten.

Whether Aielli’s snide on-air chuckle happened before or after Denver died, I am not sure. Either way, I call it preposterous and unjustified. Denver was an eloquent and high-spirited man who achieved a lot in his life, and I am far from the only one who feels enriched as a result. His candle burned brightly.