The Classroom Conservative

Barney Hoskyns, Lowside of the Road: A Life of Tom Waits

Evidence of the well-documented weakness of Lowside of the Road can be found on the five pages of its second appendix: emails from Tom Waits' friends confirming that they would not assist Barney Hoskyns in writing this biography. To Hoskyns' credit, he demonstrates that an unauthorized biography need not be a hatchet job. But while some readers quibble with the conclusions Hoskyns draws in the absence of evidence, I sometimes question the direction in which he chooses to take his analysis. Just what is biography meant to do?

In his discussion of the first thirty years of Waits' life, Hoskyns is on firm ground. There are many people with whom to talk, and many of those people choose to do so here. Hoskyns speaks in great detail about Waits' folk roots in San Diego in the late 1960s and his move to L.A. What is but touched upon, however, is Waits' early family life. It is as if, out of respect for the musician's privacy, the biographer steers clear of anything beyond Frank Waits' drinking and the breakdown of his marriage to Alma Waits. Where this book is most vivid is in describing Tom Waits' early struggles in the music business, the difficulty in finding the musicians and the producer who could help him put on vinyl what he heard in his head. The image of the hobo under the streetlamp was first forged behind the piano in ridiculous gigs opening for Frank Zappa. Waits' own struggles with alcohol, his bohemian motel life in Los Angeles, and his personal life round out a sketch of his years on Asylum Records.

With his marriage to Kathleen Brennan and his switch to Island Records, Tom Waits traded the hobo for the carnival barker. With Waits, Brennan, and their three kids living an intensely private life, Hoskyns is unable to make the same connection, from 1980, between Waits the person and Waits the musician. And, yet, beginning with Swordfishtrombones (1983), Waits' music changed dramatically. As many critics have carped, the last half of Lowside of the Road reads as a series of album reviews; Hoskyns is remarkably skilled at describing the music, but thirty years passes pretty quickly with little more than a series of records to mark the time. I would have preferred that the second half of the book more contextualize Waits' achievement in the changing landscape of popular music. For example, how does someone who works with a broad canvas, song cycles on a large scale, fit in a world in which downloading has reinforced a shift back to a earlier, singles-based sensibility? To his credit, Hoskyns restrains any resentment he might feel about Waits' apparent attitude towards his research, showing spleen only perhaps in his criticism of Waits' latest albums. Similarly, he filters out any peevishness that might be felt from those Waits friends excluded from the current tightly-knit circle, those friends who would, then, speak to the author at great length about being discarded by a genius.

Still, I found this a very valuable book, for reasons that Hoskyns probably does not realize. I am a huge Waits fan, but -- ten years younger than the author -- I got interested in him with the release of Big Time (1988). Swordfishtrombones and Rain Dogs (1985) make perfect sense when you begin in the late 1980s. I enjoyed here learning more about Waits in the 1970s, running out and buying Nighthawks at the Diner (1975) in order to compare his live sensibilities with that of Glitter and Doom, my favorite record of last year. There is no huge transition for me to explain: the hobo is the carnival barker, and neither is Tom Waits at home in northern California. That is not to say that I would not like to know more about the influences behind the wonderful collaborations between Brennan and Waits, but I am happy to supplement the music with at least this much context.

The Passage Of Time: A New Year's Ode

With the weather outside truly frightful, or at least prohibitively cold, I have been using some quiet time to catch up on ripping some albums for iTunes. I was surprised to find, for example, that I had neglected to add Bruce Springsteen's Nebraska or any Kinks to the list. How, with only twelve thousand songs in my pocket, could I have missed "Celluloid Heroes"? Just kidding. But pulling out these old CDs demonstrates to me just how flimsy a grasp we have on time. It seems like an appropriate New Year's observation.

I recall so vividly, for example, the release of David Bowie's Let's Dance in 1983. It was a smashing success, of course, and Bowie has not had as successful a studio album since. But, at the time, it was hailed as a significant "comeback" in the United States. Station to Station had been an American hit in 1976, but his next four records failed to crack the top ten. Let's Dance hit #4, ending a seven-year drought, just when people apparently thought that Bowie would be forgotten. I recall that impression. A big star from the 1970s had lost all significance by the middle of the next decade. Seven years to a fourteen year-old boy just discovering popular music seemed like an eternity. Of course, Let's Dance has now been out for more than a quarter of a century, and to a middle-aged man its release feels like last summer.

I had the same response today when I was reminded that XTC's Skylarking was released in 1986 or that Sinead O'Connor's second record was supposed to make her the first superstar of the 1990s. The nostalgia industry has already begun to repackage the fleeting stars of that decade: Fiona Apple, Shawn Colvin, Deep Blue Something, Divinyls, Duncan Sheik, Joan Osbourne, Tonic.

The modernists whom I teach struggled to find a better way to represent the passage of time in their literature, of course. The meticulous hour spent in class should not be represented in the same way as the easy hour spent in leisure, but how best to achieve this literary sleight of hand? For many authors, they sought only to draw their readers' attention to this paradox. Pages and pages were devoted to the inner workings of a man or woman experiencing a moment, and years could then pass through the words of a single paragraph.

This seems apt, as I realize that the students joining us next week, after taking a few extra months to work, were born in 1992, just as I was making application to graduate school. They feel to some extent as if they have lived whole lives, struggling through years of restrictions, navigating secondary school -- and those years, like this one past, has passed for me in the blink of an eye.

Because I Like Lists: My Favourite Albums Of 2009

Twenty years ago, I used to get paid to keep track of my favorite recordings and publish them at year's end. Without the financial incentive, I cannot swear that I have not forgotten something essential here. Still, I know that I have purchased and listened, repeatedly, to all of these CDs. Back in the day, record companies used to send them to me for free.

1. Tom Waits: Glitter and Doom Live. An arresting presence in concert, the gravelly crooner still translates well to CD (or MP3).

2. Levon Helm: Electric Dirt. Follow-up to Dirt Farmer shows that The Band veteran is far from done.

3. Leonard Cohen: Live In London. If you did not see Cohen on tour, this album is as close as you will get to that stunning experience.

4. Ry Cooder: The UFO Has Landed. Sure, it is a collection: but how else to bring together 25 years of eclecticism?

5. Morrissey: Swords. Shows that his B-Sides are better than many people's singles.

6. Elvis Costello: Secret, Profane, and Sugarcane. As melodic, if less angry, than he was 30 years ago.

7. Norah Jones: The Fall. She could sing the phone book. Maybe in 2010?

8. Bowerbirds: Upper Air. Leaving behind the dark and brooding, North Carolina outfit shows the morning after their debut's night before.

9. Bob Dylan: Together Through Life. Though not as arresting as his turn-of-the-century blues records, this ramshackle collection holds together well.

10. The Weather Station: The Line. Canadian Tamara Lindeman's folksy "found sounds" were a find for NPR's "All Songs Considered."

Leonard Cohen In Calgary, Alberta

I have thought, on occasion, as the wheels lifted off the ground at some exotic location, that I would never again set eyes on whatever sight presented itself to me through the widow of the airplane. From the very top of the Jack Singer Concert Hall in Calgary, I had on Sunday night the same thought: I was watching Leonard Cohen give the single greatest concert I have ever seen.

One need not be ghoulish to imagine that Mr. Cohen, who turns 75 in September, will never again undertake as punishing a tour as that with which he is currently engaged. Running through a deep catalogue of genuine classics, he demonstrates consistently the value of singing ones own songs; when he proclaims "Ain't No Cure For Love," you really believe that he means it. You are reminded, as he recites his lyrics, that the man is a poet of the first rank -- and that by embracing the ballad form he did nothing to tarnish his early legacy. In fact, crafting a song as bittersweet as "Famous Blue Raincoat," conscious of the lyrical demands of something as mundane as the repetition of a chorus, Mr. Cohen affirms that true artisans can tailor their art to the rigors and discipline of form.

The reedy high baritone of Mr. Cohen's early career has collapsed, of course, and from under its rubble emerges a more agreeable bass that breathes new life into his catalogue. As a result, "Chelsea Hotel, No. 2," "Sisters Of Mercy," "Suzanne," and "Who By Fire" are revived. Songs from his "middle period," like "Dance Me To The End Of Love" and "Hallelujah," benefit from arrangements fleshed out by his full and accomplished backing band. (Indeed, perhaps only "Bird On A Wire" and "The Gypsy's Wife," with lush new arrangements, suffer overkill.) Both generous and gracious, tolerating constant camera flashes from the gloom of the auditorium, Mr. Cohen introduced on two separate occasions all of the individuals whose talents compliment his own, the most impressive being, perhaps, Spanish guitarist Javier Mas.

I am not sure that you could describe the show as the resurrection of a ladies' man, as I sensed from my perch none of the sexual chemistry you imagine these songs once engendered. I acknowledge that such flirtation was never intended for me, but one cannot help but think that his banter with singers Sharon Robinson and Charley and Hattie Webb lacked the danger that it might once have had. Then again, was the mood broken by the persistent yob who marched up and down the far isle on the floor, shouting? Or how about the guy who proclaimed himself a senior citizen but who felt he had to scream an adolescent answer each time Mr. Cohen spoke to the crowd?

In the end, I think, I came away from the show most in awe of how productive Mr. Cohen was in the late 1980s and early 1990s, of how well the material from I'm Your Man (1988) and The Future(1992) stands up, today. "Anthem," "Closing Time," "Everybody Knows," "First We Take Manhattan," "Take This Waltz," "Tower Of Song," and "Waiting For The Miracle" all come from a period that culminated in his being awarded the 1993 Juno as Vocalist of the Year. But no one at the Singer longed for the early 1990s, on this night; we were instead treated to evidence of the master in full voice and in top form.

Morrissey, Years Of Refusal

"Life is very long, when you're lonely," Morrissey sang at the helm of The Smiths in 1986. The title track from the band's greatest album laments, in part, waiting around and around and around some more, answering questions about fulfilling a destiny defined for you by others. I wonder if Morrissey ever feels that way, himself?

One could make the argument that The Queen Is Dead is one of the greatest rock albums ever. After The Smiths blew up following a stellar four-year burst of achievement in the late eighties, Morrissey embarked on a solo career that has, in its output, dwarfed that of his early band. But he has endured a full two decades of Smiths nostalgia where some people have been waiting for him to make a record that rivals in its impact his first work. The key to The Smiths had been timing, of course, as their music was a salve to a generation that came of age amidst of the dreariness of Thatcher's England. Smiths nostalgia takes no account of how Morrissey's pop anthems were the soundtrack of the early nineties, how Smiths retro had little resonance amidst Cool Britannia.

So, now, some early reviews of Years Of Refusal suggest that Morrissey has taken an unprecedented turn to the loud and straightforward. This, too, lacks any historical perspective. Morrissey has turned up the volume before with Your Arsenal (1992) and Maladjusted (1997). In fact, the new record follows a formula to which Moz has adhered for some time. Some of the songs are quite heavy, demonstrating the influence of guitarist Boz Boorer, with whom Morrissey has collaborated much, much longer than he ever collaborated with Johnny Marr. Some of the songs are downright campy, the kind of swooning torchsongs that get his fans to rush the stage at his gigs. (But if, like me, you have ever seen a Morrissey show, you can attest that everyone rushes the stage, anyway.) Some of the songs are perfect pop earworms, the sorts of things you sing to yourself all day. Morrissey has not made an album packed with the third variety since the flood of material that tumbled out of him immediately upon leaving The Smiths, but at least he has here avoided the affectation of the worst camp that has been the ballast of some of his B-sides.

Some of the heavier songs are still remarkably melodic: "That's How People Grow Up," "One Day Goodbye Will Be Farewell," and "I'm Ok By Myself." The pure pop of "Sorry Doesn't Help" and "I'm Throwing My Arms Around Paris" is irresistible, and Moz's lyrics swing from the fragility of the former ("In the absence of your touch / And in the absence of loved ones / I have decided I'm throwing my arms around all of Paris because only stone and steel accept my love") to the egotism of "All You Need Is Me" ("There's a soft voice singing in your head / Who could this be? / I do believe it's me / There's a naked man standing, laughing in your dreams / You know who it is / But you don't like what it means"). While he fails here to rise to the heights of Vauxhall and I(1994), the instant classic of moody pop whose opening bars still fill me with my own nostalgia, Morrissey brings forth on Years of Refusal a timely collection of songs that adds at least a half-dozen titles to one of the most impressive outputs of any pop superstar of any era.

Unlike the casual fans who are waiting and waiting for something, or waiting for the return to something, I can always find something vital where Morrissey has taken me over the course of a twenty-five-year career.

My Most Played Songs Of 2008: Some Old, Some New

Happy New Year, Everyone!

Many of you will be both impressed and frustrated with the accessories that accompany your iTunes player. I wish I could be more positive about "Genius," the facility that should recommend music to your taste and suggest ways to plug holes in your collection. Genius takes forever to load on my system, even though it is analyzing only nine thousand songs, and it is almost always wrong. Less ambitious, but more interesting, is how iTunes tracks your most played songs, and if you remember to reset it every January 1, it will tell you during the next Christmas week what most held your attention during the year.

#10 Bela Fleck and the Flecktones, "Jingle Bells"

Bela Fleck's take on Christmas music sounds like the Chieftains and an Ozarks folk band got stranded in the Australian outback. Almost any track from this most original of Christmas records stands out from the holiday din, but "Jingle Bells" showcases virtually all the features that make this new release an instant classic. Even people who hate Christmas music will find Bela Fleck irresistible.

#9 Bruce Springsteen, "Atlantic City"

I always thought this song was about the shame and guilt of a small-time hood. After hearing a great paper on the subject from my colleague Irwin Streight, I came to appreciate the protagonist's desperation and fear, and that realization brings me back again and again for a further listen.

#8 Bowerbirds, "Hooves"

This is a haunting hundred-and-sixty seconds from these North Carolina gypsies. An unusual ode to mother, this song has a Beth Tacular accordion bit that will stay with you. Luckily, the rest of the record is equally stunning.

#7 Wilco, "Hate It Here"

Jeff Tweedy and his mates have here come up with an original breakup song that will, in turn, break your heart. The Beatlesque bridge will run through your head throughout the day when you least expect it.

#6 The Shins, "Phantom Limb"

Although they left Sub Pop Records this year, The Shins remind us how vital that label has been. The first single from their third record is a real earworm, a sweet vocal punctuated with crisp percussion. I am a sucker for the tambourine, raised in the evangelical tradition and all.

#5 Ron Hynes, "1962"

The greatest song ever written by the man who also wrote "Sonny's Dream" and "The St. John's Waltz": this is shameless nostalgia for the innocent seduction of a simpler time. As with all Hynes' songs, it is the detail that stays with you. The speaker here remembers how his girlfriend wrapped his guitar in a sweater to protect it from the rain. You have to hear the hard-to-find acoustic version released in 2001.

#4 Helena Bonham Carter/Johnny Depp, "A Little Priest"

This song captures the precise moment when Mrs. Lovett and Sweeney Todd stew up the scheme for "those above to serve those down below," if you follow my meaning. The English professor howls at the line: "The trouble with poet is/ How do you know it's deceased?" Indeed.

#3 Rufus Wainwright, "Zing! Went The Strings of My Heart"

Deliciously vampy and campy homage to Judy Garland, Rufus Wainwright's lush Carnegie Hall show is a triumph. He is in full voice on this cut, and there is the added bonus of hearing him speed up the band "just a touch, just a touch, darling." It's guilty, sing-a-long goodness!

#2 Billy Bragg, "The Milkman of Human Kindness"

I could be rightly accused of being a Billy Bragg jukebox, and I have a real affection for the early, pared-down stuff. It would not have surprised me if "The Saturday Boy" or "A New England" or "Levi Stubbs' Tears" was played more frequently, but the computer does not lie. I am a sucker for the inherent pun of the premise here: the singer brings "an extra pint" of the milk of human kindness to the lovelorn. This song also boasts a simple but brilliant guitar bit.

#1 Amy Winehouse, "Back to Black"

While everyone gets all giddy over "Rehab," I prefer the subtlety of this offering from Camden Town's songstress. Marry an old school R&B groove with a sorrowful vocal, and you get this story of betrayal betrayed. You could be forgiven for feeling like an enabler if you read this song as the story of competing with addiction for the heart of a beloved, but that just fires up the deeper tragedy. "I love you much, it's not enough," she sings. "You love blow and I love puff/ And life is like a pipe/ And I'm a tiny penny rolling up the walls inside."

Bob Dylan In Lethbridge, Alberta

I saw Bob Dylan in Warsaw, Poland on July 19, 1994. He was promoting a third volume of hits at the time, and the set had a retrospective feel about it. He sang "Jokerman," "Tangled Up In Blue," and "Maggie's Farm," and he finished with "It Ain't Me, Babe" and "Blowin' In The Wind." I felt as if seeing him live, half way around the world, was a cumulative tribute to someone who had so influenced me. Over the subsequent years, when an opportunity to see Dylan again presented itself, I would shrug.

Of course, Bob Dylan has recorded three fabulous studio albums over the past decade, including the utterly brilliant Time Out Of Mind (1997), and so when it was announced that he would be visiting Lethbridge, Alberta, it occurred to me that to fail to see him again, in yet another offbeat venue, would be stupid. It has been fifteen years, after all. I am so glad I had a chance to share this great experience with all the folks who live here - as well as many visitors from Montana and British Columbia, from what I hear.

The tickets were expensive: about four times what used to count as "normal," and twice what I now usually pay. Luckily, we had wonderful seats about a row or two above stage left. Dylan was set up behind his keyboard on the right side, and we had a good view all night from just feet away. Unfortunately, we were also in line with a speaker, and so the volume was much louder here than at other points throughout the Enmax Centre. (The hearing has just returned to both my ears.) Coveted floor seats I bequeath to anyone who wants to stand and jostle for two hours. Enmax security did an excellent job of clearing our row of people who wanted to creep close enough to take a picture.

The set was heavy with material from Modern Times (2006), swaggering rockabilly that shifted Dylan just slightly from his bluesy turn. Happily, and luckily, the heavy backing band brought those songs alive for me, from "Rollin And Tumblin" to the climatic "Thunder On The Mountain." The back catalogue was represented by "Highway 61 Revisited" and, to my surprise, "Girl From The North Country." Similarly, on the verge of a generation-defining American election, Dylan returned, without comment, of course, to "The Times They Are A-Changin" and "A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall." On this tour, Dylan has been using "Like A Rolling Stone" and "All Along The Watchtower" as encores, and he employed them here in that order. While the latter pales in comparison to the former, placing his two guitarists under considerable strain, it was enjoyed by the crowd, who were finally revealed in their pulsing enthusiasm by the house lights. The highlights for me were the blues numbers, however: "Lonesome Day Blues" from Love and Theft (2001) and especially "Love Sick" from Time Out Of Mind, the best song Dylan has recorded in twenty-five years. The live version, anchored by the bass and sharp, throbbing drumming, was worth the price of admission itself.

But what about that voice, much discussed? I have long ago thought of it as the sound of waves beating against a cliff, receding over the rocks and back to the sea. There is a beauty, a poetry that transcends even the words, though if you know not what to expect, I am sure it can be jarring. On this night, there was nothing of which one could legitimately grouse. My complaints are with my fellow concert goers. How many times did the people around me get up to go and get another drink, to go and get another pizza or hot dog? We are so used to socializing in our homes, we do not remember how to sit (or stand) and enjoy even a legitimate spectacle. I was sickened as the inhabitants of a luxury box across from us flashed the lights on and off, on and off, as they filled and refilled their glasses, oblivious to what was happening on the stage.

I have heard further complaining, in particular from those in attendance at his subsequent Regina show, that Dylan chose not to do an intimate, acoustic set of oldies. One of the problems with some Dylan fans is a persistent desire that he be what they think he should be, that he reinforce their nostalgia for a time they now view to be simpler and somehow idealized. What they fail to remember is that his artistry was forged in a troubled time of transition: that he has persevered and reinvented himself as this Dylan for now should be enough for everyone.

David Byrne And Brian Eno, Everything That Happens Will Happen Today

Listening to the NPR "All Songs Considered" podcast on a recent drive to Calgary, I heard "Strange Overtones," a new song from David Byrne and Brian Eno. Bob Boilen, the program's host, told a story about meeting Byrne in the late 1970s as Eno was readying production on the Talking Heads' sophomore album. Eventually, Byrne and Eno collaborated on a side project, and it was during the re-release of My Life In The Bush Of Ghosts that the two began working together again, for the first time in about twenty-five years. "Strange Overtones" is one of the eleven songs that makes up Everything That Happens Will Happen Today.

It is worth noting that the NPR podcast, downloaded automatically from iTunes each week, has become for me an indispensable source of music information as record stores crumble. Whether or not our big box stores have adequate depth of catalog, it is impossible to search for what you do not know exists. There are few places where you can be sure to find a full range of new music options. The reliable Mr. Boilen told me that this exciting new collaboration had been released, and so - because I was going to be in the big city, anyway - I thought I would drop by Megatunes, one of the few true record stores operating in Southern Alberta. Located along the so-called "Red Mile," a busy thoroughfare with little parking, the Calgary location can be a challenge to reach. So, I got myself dropped off and made a dash for the door. The knowledgeable staff, their authority bolstered by tattoos and piercings, had been spending the afternoon inventing unlikely album titles, and so when I asked for Everything That Happens Will Happen Today, they thought I was a plant. They had not heard of it.

Had Bob Boilen let me down? No, as it turns out, the album has been released on the internet, much like Radiohead's In Rainbows last year. Unlike Radiohead, though, Mr. Byrne and Mr. Eno have set prices. There is a deluxe set, including a film, but the two most common pricing options allow you to download the album for nine dollars; for twelve dollars you can get the download now and receive a real disc at some point between now and November.

I like this idea a great deal. Those of us who need a real, plastic object with liner notes included can indulge ourselves. I encourage you to check out the associated website here. The only problem, of course, is how to browse these new, virtual record stores. These new finds of mine, like Bowerbirds and LCD Soundsystem, feel like I stumbled across them. What will I do if Mr. Boilen leaves NPR?

It occurs to me that I have said little about the music here. I am a big fan of the Talking Heads, and I have enjoyed the eclectic solo work of David Byrne. But if, like me, you find that solo work impossibly ambitious, as broad-ranging across two or three albums as your whole record collection, you will find him on firm and familiar ground here. You will be hard-pressed to find anything elsewhere this Fall as catchy as "Strange Overtones." In fact, I caught CBC Radio using it in its theme music last week. Byrne writes lyrics across this album for music Eno had lying around, essentially, and the first single takes a gentle poke at his collaborator for a "beat" that is "slightly out of fashion." Perhaps only "Poor Boy" is as up-tempo as that track, but all are equally melodic - "proper songs," as Byrne has described them - and highlights can be found in "Home," "My Big Nurse," and "Life Is Long." David Byrne plans to tour with this music, and I expect it will be a series of memorable shows.

My download was uneventful, and the sound quality is super on my iPod. Still, I look forward to receiving my CD in the mail. It is the conservative in me.

Billy Bragg, Mr. Love and Justice

Billy Bragg gave the best concert I ever attended.  It was in the early 1990s in a school gymnasium in St. John’s.  Mr. Bragg was, so the story goes, on vacation in Newfoundland, and he took some time from his whale-watching adventure to play a charity gig.  He appeared onstage with a guitar and a small amplifier, and he ran through a thoroughly-entertaining, stripped-down set of many of his already-stripped-down favorites.  This, you see, was the success of Mr. Bragg’s early career.  An angry young man with a keen sense of humor and a knack for connecting with his fans, he could draw you in with his take on relationships in “The Saturday Boy” and “Must I Paint You A Picture,” and you would follow him to darker spots in the human heart on “Levi Stubb’s Tears.”  His clever songwriting on “The Milkman of Human Kindness” and “A New England” carried the day.  An unapologetic Labour Party advocate, he was never shrill in his openly partisan politics, on songs like “Between the Wars,” “Waiting for the Great Leap Forward,” and even “Help Save The Youth of America.”

 

But when he was in St. John’s, he was basking in the relative commercial success of Don’t Try This At Home (1991) whose lush musical accompaniments were hard to replicate alone.  Perhaps this was a sign of trouble, a sign of things to come.  Marriage, fatherhood, and the eventual revelation that Tony Blair’s government advocated things that might have made Margaret Thatcher blush had to be reflected in Bragg’s music.  How could he be that clever young man anymore?  I was less pleased with efforts that tried to build on the triumphs of the early 1990s: William Bloke (1996) and England, Half English (2002) left me cold, for the most part, where musical proficiency and lyrical variety stood in for early magic.  An exception must be made for his two albums of newly-discovered Woody Guthrie songs, prepared in collaboration with Wilco in the late nineties, which freed Bragg to connect with his material.

 

So what to expect from Mr. Love and Justice, a brand new album from one of my favorite voices, a voice muted for so long that NPR recently listed him in a program naming people we’ve “grown out of”?  Well, I took a flier, and I couldn’t be happier.  I bought the deluxe version of the album: two discs, one solo and one with the band.  I listed to the solo album first, and I listened to it repeatedly.  I found tracks, like “I Keep Faith,” “M For Me,” and “Something Happened,” that stand up amongst his best relationship songs.  There are even rough gems, musically, like “I Almost Killed You” and, lyrically, like “The Johnny Carcinogenic Show.”  The complex politics of contemporary Britain emerge in “The Beach is Free” and “Sing Their Souls Back Home.”  There are a dozen songs here with which to fall in love, and in this form they would not have been out of place in a set in 1988 or 1991.

 

But this need not be an exercise in nostalgia; the fully-arranged versions on the other disc have their own warmth, I must acknowledge, and these may be of greatest appeal to new fans, people for whom “How can you lie there and think of England / When you don’t even know who’s in the team” has no resonance, people who are too young to know about “Red Wedge.”  I would even admit that “I Almost Killed You,” “Something Happened,” “O Freedom,” and the title track may be better with the band.  That’s what happens when you fall in love with the songs: they transcend the arrangements.  And two versions of each track lets old fans and new do just that.

Maxim's Poor Etiquette

Maxim magazine is enduring a rough ride these days for its premature review of the new Black Crowes album, Warpaint.  Now, I have to tell you that I do not immediately associate Maxim with CD appreciations, and it is not the publication to which I turn when I want information on music.  But the fact that it printed a lukewarm “review” of an album long before advance copies of the disc were available should be of concern to anyone who does.

 

I spent a long time writing music reviews, as I have said before in this space, and I have to admit that I am pretty skeptical about the whole thing.  I would listen to something in a rush, try to connect my observations with the biographical material I was given, and publish a brief appreciation to deadline.  Now, the last thing I want to suggest is that is impossible to write well about music.  We all know that it can be done, and some people are very skilled at it.  But we also know that our appreciation of music we like deepens over time.  After playing a record a few dozen times, I likely think differently of it than I did after a first, hasty play.  In the wake of my entertainment writing career, I did meet people who told me they enjoyed what I wrote, but what they really meant was that they shared my musical interests.  And, having determined that they might like what I liked, initially, they could be enticed to try something they had not heard but I had.

   

This is a valuable service, but it is something that is done very well on the internet today.  I have subscribed to music services that, based on a list of my favorite artists, can recommend new artists to me.  This is as imprecise as you might imagine, though I have occasionally discovered something really interesting this way.  I download various podcasts that play and discuss new records.  And, of course, iTunes will play me 30 seconds of anything I might be interested in downloading.  When you consider how long in advance print reviews of anything may have to be filed, the problems for the genre are compounded.

   

What, then, might be the value of the print review for music?  Unlike a book review, where the opinion must be more considered – after all, it takes a longer time to read a book than to play a song – and the subject of the review seldom endures repeated exposures, the record review catalogs a fleeting impression.  It does little more for me, in my reading, than establish the existence of something I might not know had been recorded.  It could, however, also suggest a general trend for me: “Bob Dylan’s latest record continues his invocation of a bluesy heritage,” or “Thom Yorke’s solo work is more melodic than Radiohead’s music.”  While I can say with hand on heart that I would not buy something based on any such recommendation, I might hesitate if “trending” information troubled me.

 

In the case of Maxim’s two-and-a-half out of five-star rating, the reviewer judged that the Crowes “sound pretty much like they always have: boozy, competent, and in slavish debt to the Stones, the Allmans, and the Faces.”  After a seven-year layoff, the band might have a hard time attracting new fans based on such an observation.  The magazine’s editor is now suggesting that the piece was to be an unrated “preview,” but for a publication that is not known for objectivity – consider “Ten horrendous television shows that deserved to die” and “These five men turned the White House black” – the claim seems quite ludicrous.  While I do not accept that their discussions of music are of much value to the artists or to the audience, they are usually humorously opinionated: they just need to be written from genuine knowledge and not from the hackneyed generalities of the unskilled reviewer.