Nick Lowe - Jesus of Cool (1978, Reissued by Proper 2008)
I’ve felt for a while that Nick Lowe is one of the most underrated and unfairly marginalised of the great British songwriters. Even now, most people know him only through the Brinsley Schwartz hit ‘Cruel To Be Kind’ or through Elvis Costello’s version of ‘(What’s So Funny ‘Bout) Peace, Love and Understanding’. Recently, with a suave and sophisticated grey demeanour, he has reinvented himself superbly as a light country soul singer in the mould of Dan Penn. His early solo material was far from this though – and indeed, with his estuary vowels a little more pronounced – even his voice sounds somewhat unrecognisable from his recent works.
Now lavishly repackaged by Proper, ‘Jesus of Cool’ looks set to gain a thoroughly deserved reappraisal. The title now seems loaded with irony – in the intervening period since the album’s original release, Lowe has been many things, but never really hip or cool, and the cover images now look purely goofy. Yet the title came from a genuine piece of writing in Sounds from Tim Lott that described Lowe as ‘a bona fide Jesus of Cool!’ The US title, presumably aimed at avoiding offending sensitive Christians, was ‘Pure Pop For Now People’, a cloying piece of industry-speak which sounds exactly like the target of songs such as ‘Music for Money’ or ‘Shake and Pop’.
Indeed, the album’s presiding theme is the dispensability and disposability of pop music culture, a state of affairs that arguably hasn’t changed much since 1978. Lowe’s snide and cynical verbal assaults have probably diminished in impact a little over time, but there’s still a lot of fun to be had in the savage barroom boogie of ‘Shake and Pop’ or the deceptively smooth ‘Little Hitler’.
Wheareas Lowe’s recent excursions into country soul have explored a consistent and sedate sound model, much of ‘Jesus of Cool’ feels like irony-laden genre experimentation. It suggests that Lowe has as much in common with irreverent contemporary songwriters such as Stephin Merritt as with the classicists with whom he is more frequently compared. Where the enthralling ‘Tonight’ sounds like a youthful precursor to his brilliant ‘Let’s Stay In And Make Love’, a laid-back and beautifully private love song (‘tonight we’re just a boy and girl/the only ones in the world’), ‘So It Goes’ has jaunty phrasing that resembles Thin Lizzy’s ‘The Boys are Back in Town’. On the minor hit ‘I Love The Sound Of Breaking Glass’, Lowe sounds like a quirky Bowie enthusiast, the jerky rhythm of the song bolstering its insistence. On ‘No Reason’, he even veers into Ska territory.
This gameful flitting about from style to style works chiefly because Lowe is a master of simple, infectious melody, and because he is a biting, intelligent lyricist. It also works because a handful of the songs (the wiry funk of ‘Nutted By Reality’, ‘…Breaking Glass’ and ’36 Inches High’ particularly) are genuine oddities, with unconventional arrangements and a producer’s attention to detail. The album seems to present Lowe as an avid collector and digester of a range of music, which he then re-assembles to suit his own purposes.
This handsome reissue comes in superbly designed packaging, with informative sleevenotes and a whole host of excellent bonus tracks (solo recordings from the ‘widerness’ period between the demise of Brinsley Schwartz and the arrival of this album). Most apposite is the wonderful ‘I Love My Label’, another compelling dissection of music industry culture. There’s also a highly enjoyable, high speed take on ‘Cruel To Be Kind’ and a furiously energetic ‘Heart of the City’. It’s all value for money, I’d say.
Showing posts with label 1970s. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 1970s. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Monday, January 07, 2008
The Method in the Madness
The Art of Dory Previn (Zonophone Compilation, 2007)
I’ll start with a small confession: I knew next to nothing about Dory Previn before I heard the marvellous Camera Obscura song that takes her name. She’s perhaps more famous for being Andre Previn’s psychologically troubled ex-wife than she is for her bizarre and fascinating songs. This excellent compilation gathers together material from her years with United Artists records in the early 70s, a period in which she underwent psychiatric treatment and was encouraged to write about her experiences in poems and songs.
These songs cover themes and subjects that most writers of the period would have considered taboo and her lyrics still sound fearless and audacious even today. Her voice has a deceptive lightness of touch (with an understatement and crisp phrasing totally absent among the current breed of reality-show tutored singers) which belies her subject matter. At times she is raucously comic, at others she is consumed by a dark sexuality and psychological trauma.
I don’t have enough contextual knowledge to assess how shrewd a selection this compilation contains – but it certainly includes some of her most nakedly personal works. Coming from a strict Catholic background and having a complicated relationship with her father, who suffered severe bouts of depression following a gas attack during the war, there’s an intricate undertow of guilt and rebellion in many of these songs. ‘Esther’s First Communion’ opens the set on an appropriate note then, making the profane sacred and the sacred profane, with a young girl instructed by her parents to ‘marry Jesus’, then fantasising about him sexually (to her parents’ unrestrained horror), before embarking on a sexual odyssey with numerous men when this proves unfulfilling. To many people, this would probably still prove breathtakingly offensive, as would the album’s closing track (‘Jesus Was A Androgyne’), which brings us neatly full circle after a world of confusion and pain in between.
There’s ‘Twenty Mile Zone’, which would resemble a children’s folk tune were it not for its self-mocking tone in dealing with insanity. Previn’s protagonist is approached by a policeman on a motorcycle having been witnessed screaming from the window of her car for no other reason than to let off steam. Eventually, they end up delightfully screaming in unison as he escorts her to a police station in convoy. ‘Mythical Kings and Iguanas’ is every bit as fantastical as its title suggests, but it’s a mesmerising and compelling fantasy.
Things get nastier with the deliciously vengeful ‘Beware of Young Girls’, presumably addressed to Mia Farrow, to whom Previn famously lost her husband. The lyrics are splendidly poetic, complete with alliteration and internal rhyming (‘I thought her motives were sincere/Oh yes I did/But this lass, it came to pass/Had a dark and different plan….She admired my own sweet man.’). The spindly melody helps to emphasise the song’s sinister tone. Even more disconcerting is the terrifying ‘Doppelganger’, a vivid portrait of an evil character lurking throughout history and across geographical locations. The final lines are devastating, hinting again at Previn’s own mental torment – having seen her character’s obscenities scrawled on her wall, Previn then notices ‘his handwriting was identical with mine’, the snarl in her voice on the final note emphasising the horrifying nature of this revelation.
Already we seem to be in entirely unique and unusual territory, and that’s before we’ve even mentioned the ‘dark attraction’ of ‘With My Daddy In The Attic’, or the spine-tingling ‘Angels and Devils The Following Day’. The latter is an absolute masterpiece with an uncomfortable and thought-provoking lyric. To a swirling and sensuous backing, Previn contrasts two lovers, one violent and brutal, the other sensitive and kind. Yet she concludes that the gentle man hurt her more because of the psychological impact of his constant guilt and uncertainty. It’s not an easy listen by any means. Similarly masterful is ‘Left Hand Lost’, which links depression to being retrained to write right-handed rather than with the devil’s left side.
The musical accompaniments are rich and varied, from the bare piano and acoustic guitar of ‘Perfect Man’, to the more elaborate strings of ‘Doppelganger’ Whatever the instrumentation or size of the ensemble, the music always seems to be meticulously arranged. Previn manages to juxtapose hints of show tunes, early jazz (with the occasional interjection of a Benny Goodman-inspired clarinet) and traditional folk music. It’s extremely difficult, perhaps impossible, to categorise or pigeonhole her distinctive approach to songwriting. This compilation coheres chiefly through the stark and communicative qualities of her singing and the unrivalled candour of her words. One could perhaps find antecedents to Previn’s preoccupations with fantasy and sexuality in the work of Tori Amos or Kate Bush, but the former has been frustratingly wayward, whilst the latter often seems more mystical and estranged from reality. Previn really does stand alone in her unflinching confrontation of the darker aspects of human nature and the nuances of mental distress.
I’ll start with a small confession: I knew next to nothing about Dory Previn before I heard the marvellous Camera Obscura song that takes her name. She’s perhaps more famous for being Andre Previn’s psychologically troubled ex-wife than she is for her bizarre and fascinating songs. This excellent compilation gathers together material from her years with United Artists records in the early 70s, a period in which she underwent psychiatric treatment and was encouraged to write about her experiences in poems and songs.
These songs cover themes and subjects that most writers of the period would have considered taboo and her lyrics still sound fearless and audacious even today. Her voice has a deceptive lightness of touch (with an understatement and crisp phrasing totally absent among the current breed of reality-show tutored singers) which belies her subject matter. At times she is raucously comic, at others she is consumed by a dark sexuality and psychological trauma.
I don’t have enough contextual knowledge to assess how shrewd a selection this compilation contains – but it certainly includes some of her most nakedly personal works. Coming from a strict Catholic background and having a complicated relationship with her father, who suffered severe bouts of depression following a gas attack during the war, there’s an intricate undertow of guilt and rebellion in many of these songs. ‘Esther’s First Communion’ opens the set on an appropriate note then, making the profane sacred and the sacred profane, with a young girl instructed by her parents to ‘marry Jesus’, then fantasising about him sexually (to her parents’ unrestrained horror), before embarking on a sexual odyssey with numerous men when this proves unfulfilling. To many people, this would probably still prove breathtakingly offensive, as would the album’s closing track (‘Jesus Was A Androgyne’), which brings us neatly full circle after a world of confusion and pain in between.
There’s ‘Twenty Mile Zone’, which would resemble a children’s folk tune were it not for its self-mocking tone in dealing with insanity. Previn’s protagonist is approached by a policeman on a motorcycle having been witnessed screaming from the window of her car for no other reason than to let off steam. Eventually, they end up delightfully screaming in unison as he escorts her to a police station in convoy. ‘Mythical Kings and Iguanas’ is every bit as fantastical as its title suggests, but it’s a mesmerising and compelling fantasy.
Things get nastier with the deliciously vengeful ‘Beware of Young Girls’, presumably addressed to Mia Farrow, to whom Previn famously lost her husband. The lyrics are splendidly poetic, complete with alliteration and internal rhyming (‘I thought her motives were sincere/Oh yes I did/But this lass, it came to pass/Had a dark and different plan….She admired my own sweet man.’). The spindly melody helps to emphasise the song’s sinister tone. Even more disconcerting is the terrifying ‘Doppelganger’, a vivid portrait of an evil character lurking throughout history and across geographical locations. The final lines are devastating, hinting again at Previn’s own mental torment – having seen her character’s obscenities scrawled on her wall, Previn then notices ‘his handwriting was identical with mine’, the snarl in her voice on the final note emphasising the horrifying nature of this revelation.
Already we seem to be in entirely unique and unusual territory, and that’s before we’ve even mentioned the ‘dark attraction’ of ‘With My Daddy In The Attic’, or the spine-tingling ‘Angels and Devils The Following Day’. The latter is an absolute masterpiece with an uncomfortable and thought-provoking lyric. To a swirling and sensuous backing, Previn contrasts two lovers, one violent and brutal, the other sensitive and kind. Yet she concludes that the gentle man hurt her more because of the psychological impact of his constant guilt and uncertainty. It’s not an easy listen by any means. Similarly masterful is ‘Left Hand Lost’, which links depression to being retrained to write right-handed rather than with the devil’s left side.
The musical accompaniments are rich and varied, from the bare piano and acoustic guitar of ‘Perfect Man’, to the more elaborate strings of ‘Doppelganger’ Whatever the instrumentation or size of the ensemble, the music always seems to be meticulously arranged. Previn manages to juxtapose hints of show tunes, early jazz (with the occasional interjection of a Benny Goodman-inspired clarinet) and traditional folk music. It’s extremely difficult, perhaps impossible, to categorise or pigeonhole her distinctive approach to songwriting. This compilation coheres chiefly through the stark and communicative qualities of her singing and the unrivalled candour of her words. One could perhaps find antecedents to Previn’s preoccupations with fantasy and sexuality in the work of Tori Amos or Kate Bush, but the former has been frustratingly wayward, whilst the latter often seems more mystical and estranged from reality. Previn really does stand alone in her unflinching confrontation of the darker aspects of human nature and the nuances of mental distress.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Buried Treasure #4 and #5
The Dramatics - A Dramatic Experience
Chairmen of The Board - Skin I'm In
For this feature, I’ve decided to bundle together two of the more casually undersold soul vocal group albums. It may just be a matter of audiences and critics expecting soul vocal groups to stay in their place – specifically, to deliver simple, infectious two and a half minute pop songs rich in luxurious harmony. Yet The Temptations very successfully expanded their approach with Norman Whitfield behind the controls – and many now rightfully view the likes of ‘Cloud Nine’, ‘Psychedelic Shack’ and ‘Masterpiece’ as classics of the genre. My mind has been jolted back to ‘A Dramatic Experience’ thanks to Mojo’s refreshing inclusion of ‘The Devil Is Dope’ on their Stax covermount CD this month. Both that and the Chairmen of the Board record left a lasting impression on me during my childhood.
The Dramatics’ claim to a place in soul history has not been helped by their timing. Part of the expansionist phase of Stax Records, a costly experiment that ultimately destroyed the label – critical assessments of their output have tended to be tied up with the label’s unfortunate fate in the mid-seventies. Similarly, ‘Skin I’m In’ was Chairmen of the Board’s final long player, and by some distance their most musically ambitious and audacious. It too became tied up in the demise of a record label – in this case Holland-Dozier-Holland’s Invictus label. The label’s star, Freda Payne, had effectively been on strike for much of 1971-2 in a dispute over artistic control, whilst Chairmen of the Board themselves launched litigation against the label in 1972.
Both albums are clearly indebted to the crucial role of their producers. The Dramatics had already forged a strong relationship with producer and writer Tony Hester, but his somewhat autobiographical stamp is all over ‘A Dramatic Experience’, along with his preference for lavish string arrangements and sound effects. Jeffrey Bowen not only brought in the original line-up of Funkadelic to perform as Chairmen of the Board’s imperious backing group, but also made the mellotron the domineering presence on several tracks.
Both albums have a somewhat schizophrenic identity. Half the tracks on ‘A Dramatic Experience’ represent a proto-concept album addressing the evils of drug addiction and drug pushing. The remaining tracks are rather saccharine ballads in the manner of The Stylistics. ‘Skin I’m In’ also devotes nearly half its tracks to romantic ballads dominated by falsetto singing, but the remaining half is futuristic aggressive funk, incorporating a masterfully produced suite of music centred around Sly Stone’s ‘Life and Death’. Taken as a whole, this four song suite is one of the best pieces of pop music ever crafted. The under-appreciation of these records has inevitably centred on their supposed lack of focus, although such a perspective ignores the necessity for light and shade, and indeed neglects to emphasise the careful balance between confrontation and reconciliation that both these albums achieved brilliantly.
‘A Dramatic Experience’ more than lives up to its title, achieving a unique drama by veering unexpectedly from the violent and terrifying to the lush and romantic. I would argue that there is a place on the same album for the exquisite ‘Fell For You’, the angry ‘Hey You Get Off My Mountain’ and the palpably uneasy ‘Beware Of The Man (With The Candy In His Hand)’. With age and experience, I’ve come to realise that this is an album that neatly parallels the addictive properties of narcotics and physical attraction, and is therefore a good deal more complex than simply being a piece of anti-drugs propaganda. Indeed, writer and producer Tony Hester apparently became a drug addict himself! The balance on ‘Skin I’m In’ is less thematically and conceptually advanced, but there’s little doubting that the group and their outstanding musicians imbue the ballads with as much nuance as they provide energy for the party tracks. Funk writer Dave Thompson describes ‘Skin I’m In’ as ‘hard funking and almost gratuitously aggressive’ – but one wonders whether he simply skipped over its more tender moments.
I remember a Geography teacher at my school, who was a kindred spirit to me due to his love of 70s soul, funk and blues, being somewhat staggered that I had enjoyed the music of BT Express as a child, such were the unashamedly sexual implications of their music and lyrics. I protested that I had no idea what the ‘It’ of ‘Do It ‘Til You’re Satisfied’ might have been at that age – I was more than happy to accept that it could be merely innocent dancing (or indeed anything you wanted it to be – I don’t think I was missing the point!). Perhaps though, it’s these two records that best capture the contradictory impulses of the musical education my father offered me. If you’re desperate to stop your children experimenting with narcotics, I would strongly advise you to present them with a copy of ‘A Dramatic Experience’ at a formative age. The cover image alone is positively terrifying (a portrait of a particularly beastly Devil) and the music is psychologically intimidating too. Ushered in by a wave of crackling hellfire and anguished torment, ‘The Devil Is Dope’, a mind-blowing track on so many levels, is enough to convince any child that all drugs are inherently evil and should be avoided at all costs. By way of contrast, ‘Life and Death’ and ‘Everybody Party All Night’, with their defiantly minimal lyrics, are superb rallying cries for hedonism – ‘if it feels good it’s alright’ apparently. The hit single ‘Finders Keepers’ also seems to urge a rather guilt-free, unrepentant stance on sexual morality (‘I’ve found the love you lost and I’m gonna keep her!’).
Both albums benefit from a concerted attention to detail. The string and horn charts that lavishly adorn ‘A Dramatic Experience’ emphasise its theatrical qualities, a technique echoed by the extraordinary mellotron orchestration on ‘Morning Glory’ and ‘White Rose (Freedom Flower)’ from ‘Skin I’m In’. Similarly, the slinky groove of ‘Finders Keepers’ rests not only on its Stevie Wonder-inspired Clavinet pattern, but also on the occasional interjection of offbeat handclaps and the creeping menace of The Dramatics’ ‘Beware Of The Man (With The Candy In His Hand)’ is underlined by a sudden switch to a high-end bassline in the song’s chorus.
Another strong quality of both albums is the ability of the group’s dominant vocalists to thoroughly inhabit the worlds of their songs’ protagonists. Ron Banks and William “Wee Gee” Howard developed the gritty end of their vocal stylings for the ghoulish drug nightmares of ‘A Dramatic Experience’ whilst General Johnson, handling 90% of the vocals on ‘Skin I’m In’ captured palpable desperation in the face of injustice on the title track, and a driving sexualised urgency on ‘Life and Death’. By way of contrast, on ‘Only Love Can Break Your Heart’ he sounded sweet and vulnerable.
These two enduringly powerful albums are rich in visionary ideas, with expertly produced, brilliantly executed musical foundations. Both records belie the notion of the vocal group as a charisma-less entity – with all the tracks oozing personality, conviction and theatrical expression. Released within a year of each other, the records provide sterling proof of just how adventurous the soul music of the early seventies could be. If Timbaland and The Neptunes might be the Holland-Dozier-Holland and Norman Whitfield of contemporary soul – who exactly are the Tony Hesters and Jeffrey Bowens? And are there any vocal groups now who could match this standard of delivery?
Chairmen of The Board - Skin I'm In
For this feature, I’ve decided to bundle together two of the more casually undersold soul vocal group albums. It may just be a matter of audiences and critics expecting soul vocal groups to stay in their place – specifically, to deliver simple, infectious two and a half minute pop songs rich in luxurious harmony. Yet The Temptations very successfully expanded their approach with Norman Whitfield behind the controls – and many now rightfully view the likes of ‘Cloud Nine’, ‘Psychedelic Shack’ and ‘Masterpiece’ as classics of the genre. My mind has been jolted back to ‘A Dramatic Experience’ thanks to Mojo’s refreshing inclusion of ‘The Devil Is Dope’ on their Stax covermount CD this month. Both that and the Chairmen of the Board record left a lasting impression on me during my childhood.
The Dramatics’ claim to a place in soul history has not been helped by their timing. Part of the expansionist phase of Stax Records, a costly experiment that ultimately destroyed the label – critical assessments of their output have tended to be tied up with the label’s unfortunate fate in the mid-seventies. Similarly, ‘Skin I’m In’ was Chairmen of the Board’s final long player, and by some distance their most musically ambitious and audacious. It too became tied up in the demise of a record label – in this case Holland-Dozier-Holland’s Invictus label. The label’s star, Freda Payne, had effectively been on strike for much of 1971-2 in a dispute over artistic control, whilst Chairmen of the Board themselves launched litigation against the label in 1972.
Both albums are clearly indebted to the crucial role of their producers. The Dramatics had already forged a strong relationship with producer and writer Tony Hester, but his somewhat autobiographical stamp is all over ‘A Dramatic Experience’, along with his preference for lavish string arrangements and sound effects. Jeffrey Bowen not only brought in the original line-up of Funkadelic to perform as Chairmen of the Board’s imperious backing group, but also made the mellotron the domineering presence on several tracks.
Both albums have a somewhat schizophrenic identity. Half the tracks on ‘A Dramatic Experience’ represent a proto-concept album addressing the evils of drug addiction and drug pushing. The remaining tracks are rather saccharine ballads in the manner of The Stylistics. ‘Skin I’m In’ also devotes nearly half its tracks to romantic ballads dominated by falsetto singing, but the remaining half is futuristic aggressive funk, incorporating a masterfully produced suite of music centred around Sly Stone’s ‘Life and Death’. Taken as a whole, this four song suite is one of the best pieces of pop music ever crafted. The under-appreciation of these records has inevitably centred on their supposed lack of focus, although such a perspective ignores the necessity for light and shade, and indeed neglects to emphasise the careful balance between confrontation and reconciliation that both these albums achieved brilliantly.
‘A Dramatic Experience’ more than lives up to its title, achieving a unique drama by veering unexpectedly from the violent and terrifying to the lush and romantic. I would argue that there is a place on the same album for the exquisite ‘Fell For You’, the angry ‘Hey You Get Off My Mountain’ and the palpably uneasy ‘Beware Of The Man (With The Candy In His Hand)’. With age and experience, I’ve come to realise that this is an album that neatly parallels the addictive properties of narcotics and physical attraction, and is therefore a good deal more complex than simply being a piece of anti-drugs propaganda. Indeed, writer and producer Tony Hester apparently became a drug addict himself! The balance on ‘Skin I’m In’ is less thematically and conceptually advanced, but there’s little doubting that the group and their outstanding musicians imbue the ballads with as much nuance as they provide energy for the party tracks. Funk writer Dave Thompson describes ‘Skin I’m In’ as ‘hard funking and almost gratuitously aggressive’ – but one wonders whether he simply skipped over its more tender moments.
I remember a Geography teacher at my school, who was a kindred spirit to me due to his love of 70s soul, funk and blues, being somewhat staggered that I had enjoyed the music of BT Express as a child, such were the unashamedly sexual implications of their music and lyrics. I protested that I had no idea what the ‘It’ of ‘Do It ‘Til You’re Satisfied’ might have been at that age – I was more than happy to accept that it could be merely innocent dancing (or indeed anything you wanted it to be – I don’t think I was missing the point!). Perhaps though, it’s these two records that best capture the contradictory impulses of the musical education my father offered me. If you’re desperate to stop your children experimenting with narcotics, I would strongly advise you to present them with a copy of ‘A Dramatic Experience’ at a formative age. The cover image alone is positively terrifying (a portrait of a particularly beastly Devil) and the music is psychologically intimidating too. Ushered in by a wave of crackling hellfire and anguished torment, ‘The Devil Is Dope’, a mind-blowing track on so many levels, is enough to convince any child that all drugs are inherently evil and should be avoided at all costs. By way of contrast, ‘Life and Death’ and ‘Everybody Party All Night’, with their defiantly minimal lyrics, are superb rallying cries for hedonism – ‘if it feels good it’s alright’ apparently. The hit single ‘Finders Keepers’ also seems to urge a rather guilt-free, unrepentant stance on sexual morality (‘I’ve found the love you lost and I’m gonna keep her!’).
Both albums benefit from a concerted attention to detail. The string and horn charts that lavishly adorn ‘A Dramatic Experience’ emphasise its theatrical qualities, a technique echoed by the extraordinary mellotron orchestration on ‘Morning Glory’ and ‘White Rose (Freedom Flower)’ from ‘Skin I’m In’. Similarly, the slinky groove of ‘Finders Keepers’ rests not only on its Stevie Wonder-inspired Clavinet pattern, but also on the occasional interjection of offbeat handclaps and the creeping menace of The Dramatics’ ‘Beware Of The Man (With The Candy In His Hand)’ is underlined by a sudden switch to a high-end bassline in the song’s chorus.
Another strong quality of both albums is the ability of the group’s dominant vocalists to thoroughly inhabit the worlds of their songs’ protagonists. Ron Banks and William “Wee Gee” Howard developed the gritty end of their vocal stylings for the ghoulish drug nightmares of ‘A Dramatic Experience’ whilst General Johnson, handling 90% of the vocals on ‘Skin I’m In’ captured palpable desperation in the face of injustice on the title track, and a driving sexualised urgency on ‘Life and Death’. By way of contrast, on ‘Only Love Can Break Your Heart’ he sounded sweet and vulnerable.
These two enduringly powerful albums are rich in visionary ideas, with expertly produced, brilliantly executed musical foundations. Both records belie the notion of the vocal group as a charisma-less entity – with all the tracks oozing personality, conviction and theatrical expression. Released within a year of each other, the records provide sterling proof of just how adventurous the soul music of the early seventies could be. If Timbaland and The Neptunes might be the Holland-Dozier-Holland and Norman Whitfield of contemporary soul – who exactly are the Tony Hesters and Jeffrey Bowens? And are there any vocal groups now who could match this standard of delivery?
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Q: Are We Not Men? A: We Are DEVOTees
Devo Live at Jarvis Cocker’s Meltdown, June 19th 2007
The newly refurbished Royal Festival Hall doesn’t exactly look transformed, although it has to be noted that the seats are now considerably more comfortable. It’s a great venue for classical music, folk and jazz, but a rather staid atmosphere for many of the acts Jarvis Cocker has selected for Meltdown. It’s interesting to note just how many of these artists are recently reformed or coaxed out of semi-retirement. There’s Iggy and the Stooges, The Jesus and Mary Chain, Melanie, Roky Erikson and, of course, Akron, Ohio’s greatest cultural export, art-rockers Devo, performing in the UK for the first time in seventeen years.
Devo are one of a small selection of bands that have influenced my life from the very formative years. I remember a tape put together for me by a rebellious childminder, which included a couple of David Bowie’s 80s moments, plus the first half of Devo’s Brian Eno-produced debut LP ‘Q: Are We Not Men? A: We Are Devo’. I’m pretty sure I hadn’t the first idea about the band’s concept of De-Evolution then, but I found the chanting choruses, angular rhythms and infectious hooks highly exciting. So, seeing the band live for the first time ought to have been a revelatory experience – uniting that rush of childhood enthusiasm with my later admiration for their conceptual wackiness.
In many ways, the show doesn’t disappoint. The band put on an absolutely fantastic show, beginning with an absolutely hilarious intro film which begins ‘So, you’ve decided to see a Devo performance…a wise decision…’ The band then leap to the stage in their customary yellow jumpsuits and ‘energy domes’ (staggering that so many purchased them for £18 from the merchandise stall when they are essentially just adapted plastic plantpots). They may look a great deal older (and considerably fatter in the case of Mark Mothersbaugh), but they still have plenty of energy, as the thunderous opening rendition of ‘That’s Good’ amply demonstrates. There’s plenty of instrument swapping throughout, with Mark Mothersbaugh frequently running across the stage to play out one of their trademark synth riffs before running back to centre stage again. The lighting is intelligently synchronised and the crowd are rapturous throughout, gamely trying to dance to their many songs with unexpected switches of time signature.
I make the last point not to sound like a muso, but rather to highlight that Devo had a rare rhythmic invention mostly lacking in their post-punk peers. As I recall, even on their more overtly produced 80s albums, the drums sounded motorik, but dry. It may have been that the Festival Hall has acoustics unfavourable to a big rock band, but they sounded imposing and boomy here, with far too much stadium reverb applied. As a result, the drums (played ambidexterously but unsubtly), all too frequently predominated in the mix, a problem not helped by the lack of definition in the mostly overdriven guitars. It sounded a little odd to hear Devo’s jerky, mostly weird songs refashioned, whether intentionally or not, as power rock assaults. Still, the vocals sound great, and the unusually responsive London crowd more than compensate for these niggles.
It would also be churlish to complain about the setlist, which is unashamedly nostalgic (there’s no new material yet) and strikes a shrewd balance between obvious favourites like ‘Girl U Want’, ‘Whip It’ and ‘Joko Homo’ and slightly less predictable selections like ‘Secret Agent Man’, ‘Mr. DNA’ and ‘Wiggly World’. The crowd participation reached its peak with the call and response coda to ‘Jocko Homo’, by which point the band had disrobed from their jumpsuits to reveal spectacularly tasteless black hockey outfits, complete with bizarre kneepads.
It’s all tremendous fun, with Mothersbaugh particularly in great voice. The encore is brilliant, with the band not only replicating the segue between ‘Gut Feeling’ and the outrageous ‘Slap Your Mammy Down’ but Mothersbaugh also rejuvenating his Booji Boy alter ego, complete with costume, for ‘Beautiful World’. Is it any wonder that this is the same man who composed the Rugrats theme tune?
An additional pleasure involved catching the post-concert foyer performance from Bishi, who has now assembled an excellent band featuring Zongamin, Matthew Glamorre, Fidel Villeneuve from the Applicants, an excellent tabla player and my musical co-conspirator Brendan Pickett. It was a sadly brief set, but Bishi’s voice, and gold lame costume, were sublime.
The newly refurbished Royal Festival Hall doesn’t exactly look transformed, although it has to be noted that the seats are now considerably more comfortable. It’s a great venue for classical music, folk and jazz, but a rather staid atmosphere for many of the acts Jarvis Cocker has selected for Meltdown. It’s interesting to note just how many of these artists are recently reformed or coaxed out of semi-retirement. There’s Iggy and the Stooges, The Jesus and Mary Chain, Melanie, Roky Erikson and, of course, Akron, Ohio’s greatest cultural export, art-rockers Devo, performing in the UK for the first time in seventeen years.
Devo are one of a small selection of bands that have influenced my life from the very formative years. I remember a tape put together for me by a rebellious childminder, which included a couple of David Bowie’s 80s moments, plus the first half of Devo’s Brian Eno-produced debut LP ‘Q: Are We Not Men? A: We Are Devo’. I’m pretty sure I hadn’t the first idea about the band’s concept of De-Evolution then, but I found the chanting choruses, angular rhythms and infectious hooks highly exciting. So, seeing the band live for the first time ought to have been a revelatory experience – uniting that rush of childhood enthusiasm with my later admiration for their conceptual wackiness.
In many ways, the show doesn’t disappoint. The band put on an absolutely fantastic show, beginning with an absolutely hilarious intro film which begins ‘So, you’ve decided to see a Devo performance…a wise decision…’ The band then leap to the stage in their customary yellow jumpsuits and ‘energy domes’ (staggering that so many purchased them for £18 from the merchandise stall when they are essentially just adapted plastic plantpots). They may look a great deal older (and considerably fatter in the case of Mark Mothersbaugh), but they still have plenty of energy, as the thunderous opening rendition of ‘That’s Good’ amply demonstrates. There’s plenty of instrument swapping throughout, with Mark Mothersbaugh frequently running across the stage to play out one of their trademark synth riffs before running back to centre stage again. The lighting is intelligently synchronised and the crowd are rapturous throughout, gamely trying to dance to their many songs with unexpected switches of time signature.
I make the last point not to sound like a muso, but rather to highlight that Devo had a rare rhythmic invention mostly lacking in their post-punk peers. As I recall, even on their more overtly produced 80s albums, the drums sounded motorik, but dry. It may have been that the Festival Hall has acoustics unfavourable to a big rock band, but they sounded imposing and boomy here, with far too much stadium reverb applied. As a result, the drums (played ambidexterously but unsubtly), all too frequently predominated in the mix, a problem not helped by the lack of definition in the mostly overdriven guitars. It sounded a little odd to hear Devo’s jerky, mostly weird songs refashioned, whether intentionally or not, as power rock assaults. Still, the vocals sound great, and the unusually responsive London crowd more than compensate for these niggles.
It would also be churlish to complain about the setlist, which is unashamedly nostalgic (there’s no new material yet) and strikes a shrewd balance between obvious favourites like ‘Girl U Want’, ‘Whip It’ and ‘Joko Homo’ and slightly less predictable selections like ‘Secret Agent Man’, ‘Mr. DNA’ and ‘Wiggly World’. The crowd participation reached its peak with the call and response coda to ‘Jocko Homo’, by which point the band had disrobed from their jumpsuits to reveal spectacularly tasteless black hockey outfits, complete with bizarre kneepads.
It’s all tremendous fun, with Mothersbaugh particularly in great voice. The encore is brilliant, with the band not only replicating the segue between ‘Gut Feeling’ and the outrageous ‘Slap Your Mammy Down’ but Mothersbaugh also rejuvenating his Booji Boy alter ego, complete with costume, for ‘Beautiful World’. Is it any wonder that this is the same man who composed the Rugrats theme tune?
An additional pleasure involved catching the post-concert foyer performance from Bishi, who has now assembled an excellent band featuring Zongamin, Matthew Glamorre, Fidel Villeneuve from the Applicants, an excellent tabla player and my musical co-conspirator Brendan Pickett. It was a sadly brief set, but Bishi’s voice, and gold lame costume, were sublime.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
The Genius Of Warren Zevon
The three Rhino CD reissues of Warren Zevon albums released this week seem to have been in the pipeline for ages and ages. It also seems that Zevon reissues are like buses – you wait a couple of years for them, and then they all come together (in May, Artemis, the label for which Zevon recorded his last three albums are putting together a 2CD compilation of pre-1976 material for which they’ve somehow managed to secure the rights). Given that these reissues have taken so long to prepare, it’s a shame that they’re not more lavish – cheap jewel cases, and a mere four additional tracks (including relatively unnecessary alternate takes) on each CD. I suspect there must have been more material on the cutting room floor. Still, at £6.99 each, they’re certainly a snip, and more than worth the investment, especially given the entertaining and incisive inlay notes that come with all three. ‘Excitable Boy’ (actually Zevon’s third album, but commonly referred to as his second following his disownment of ‘Wanted Dead Or Alive’) will be familiar as Zevon’s biggest seller and home to his only sizeable hit in ‘Werewolves of London’. 1980’s live album ‘Stand In The Fire’ and 1982’s ‘The Envoy’ have long been considered holy grails among Zevon fans, so long have they been left criminally unavailable. Both now appear on CD for the first time.
It might be accepted wisdom, but ‘Excitable Boy’ probably remained Zevon’s creative high watermark. Although he recaptured some magic with ‘Sentimental Hygiene’, his 1987 collaboration with REM, and the late albums are excellent, this is as fine a collection of songs as he produced. Whilst some of the 80s material is understandably marred by unpleasant synthesisers and pounding drum sounds, Jackson Browne and Waddy Wachtel’s production here is sensitive, naturalistic and unobtrusive. The songs and their remarkable arrangements are allowed to breathe, the playing throughout is masterful, and the superb backing vocals from seasoned professional Jennifer Warnes and The Gentlemen Singers resound brilliantly.
The variety and sheer invention of Zevon’s vision is at its fullest expression on this album. Zevon recognised the poetic qualities of Bob Dylan, Paul Simon et al, but noted that America did not yet have the John Updike or Norman Mailer of songwriting. It is the literate quality of Zevon’s writing that stands out, a preoccupation he would continue through collaborations with his author friends Carl Hiaasen and Hunter S. Thompson. So, we get the title track, a marvellous satire on Attention Defecit Disorder before the term even existed; the majestic and bizarre ‘Roland The Headless Thompson Gunner’, a ghost story of Congo mercenaries co-written with David Lindell, himself an ex-mercenary and the utterly hilarious feckless criminal on the run story of ‘Lawyers Guns and Money’. The opener ‘Johnny Strikes Up The Band’ is one of many great songs Zevon wrote about the art of rock and roll itself, a surprisingly difficult subject for a songwriter to approach without sounding ham-fisted or self-referential.
At the heart of the album is the peculiar juxtaposition of ‘Werewolves of London’ (built around an insistent and repetitive descending chord sequence) and ‘Accidentally Like A Martyr’. The latter, with its seemingly nonsensical title, is one of the most extraordinary ballads in pop history, the technical mastery of its harmony and arrangement betraying Zevon’s classical training at the home of Igor Stravinsky. It is a song that dares to suggest that time in fact does not heal (‘the hurt gets worse and the heart gets harder’) and Bob Dylan took the line ‘Time Out Of Mind’ for the title of his deeply solipsistic and moving 1997 album. ‘Werewolves…’ effectively made Zevon a one-hit wonder, but it’s worth recognising what a funny and inventive song it is, as fine a portrait of a predatory ladiesman as has been written and full of great lines (‘I’d like to meet his tailor!’).
In fact, ‘Werewolves..’ won a BBC Radio 2 vote for greatest opening line in rock a couple of years ago (I’m sure Chinatown restaurant Lee Ho Fuk’s were equally grateful for the plug), but I wonder whether ‘Lawyers, Guns and Money’ (perhaps my favourite Zevon song) might actually surpass it. It’s a tragicomic confessional, told with ribald glee (‘I went home with a waitress, the way I always do/How was I to know that she was with the Russians too?’). Its central plea (‘send lawyers, guns and money/Dad, get me out of this’) never fails to raise a wry smile. That’s before we get to the playful ending, with its masterful breaks (dig the way Zevon grunts ‘huh!’) and superb guitar line.
Of the bonus tracks, the alternate take of ‘Werewolves…’ is interesting only to the most completist of fans, given that it buries the vocal too deeply in the mix and features some unnecessarily busy playing from the rhythm section that smothers the song. They definitely went with the right take in the end. There are two reversions of songs from ‘Wanted Dead Or Alive’ – the solo piano version of ‘Tule’s Blues’, an exceptionally moving break-up song, is powerful and effective, and Zevon’s own string arrangement for ‘Frozen Notes’ is subtle and desolate. The core of Zevon’s genius is contained succinctly within the mere 50 seconds of ‘I Need a Truck’, two verses of a reworked blues delivered accappela. The lyric is masterful, referencing Zevon’s hard-drinking and hell-raising ways (he nearly killed himself early in his career, falling off a stage when drunk) – ‘I need a truck to haul my guns to town/I need a truck to haul my bad thoughts around/I need a truck to haul my Percodan and gin/And I need a truck to haul all my trucks in’ – as deceptively simple and intelligent a verse as any songwriter has written.
The most well-known songs from ‘The Envoy’ are musically less subtle, and betray the mutual appreciation society building between Zevon and Bruce Springsteen (Springsteen is credited as co-writer for ‘Jeannie Needs A Shooter’, which featured on Zevon’s superbly titled 1980 album ‘Bad Luck Streak at Dancing School’). Interestingly, much of ‘The Envoy’ captured that big, behemoth ‘Born in the USA’ sound before Springsteen even got there. ‘Ain’t That Pretty At All’ and ‘Looking For The Next Best Thing’ are intelligent songs perhaps slightly undermined by their production values, whilst the pounding approach works much more successfully for the fascinating title track, perhaps the most startling example of Zevon’s ironic approach to world politics.
Zevon himself may well have appreciated the playful irony that the album is at its most effective when at its least bombastic. The closing ‘Never Too Late For Love’ boldly risks descending into cliché, but ends up more inspiring than sentimental (‘You say you’re tired/how I hate to hear you use that word’) and may well have provided the direct reference point for REM’s ‘Everybody Hurts’. ‘The Hula Hula Boys’ is a delightfully mournful ballad, and ‘Jesus Mentioned’, stripped back to just guitar and voice, stands with Gillian Welch’s ‘Elvis Presley Blues’ as one of the best songs about Elvis’ death, his inspirational power and his unshakeable influence. ‘Let Nothing Come Between You’ tempers the synths with a quieter, less intrusive backbeat and some pleasant jangly guitar work.
It may be slightly uneven, but on balance ‘The Envoy’ is a powerful album that maintained Zevon’s wit, wisdom and songwriting invention. The bonus tracks included here are rather less illuminating. ‘Word of Mouth’ is an instrumental and pleasant enough, the cover of ‘Wild Thing’ is ragged and rough, and the alternate take of ‘Let Nothing Come Between You’ is superfluous. The one substantial song is ‘The Risk’, which most clearly demonstrates the influence of Springsteen on Zevon’s work at this time.
The real revelation of this series is ‘Stand In The Fire’, the 1980 live album that captured Zevon over five nights at the Roxy in LA. It’s remarkable for documenting Zevon as a vivid and incendiary entertainer, making playful alterations to his lyrics and delivering most of the vocals in a gutsy and gritty style. Even Zevon’s great friend Jackson Browne apparently expressed surprise at Zevon’s conjecture that ‘if you’re not entertaining, you’re not doing anything’. Browne had always considered Zevon to be too intelligent and too original for mere entertainment. With these shows, Zevon proved that the cerebral and the visceral need not be mutually exclusive. Here, they are entirely complementary.
For his backing band for these shows, Zevon hired a solid rock group that amusingly specialised in Warren Zevon covers. The result is blisteringly intense and rarely subtle, but it’s precisely this bludgeoning quality that gives much of the material its brutal impact. ‘Werewolves of London’ and ‘Lawyers, Guns and Money’ are rendered fresh by being taken and slightly slower, heavier tempos, and there are even a handful of hilarious machine gun fret-tapping guitar solos. ‘I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead’ from the self-titled album becomes an almost Bon Jovi-esque trudge, whilst ‘Mohammed’s Radio’ is rendered with savage passion.
The album is perhaps most interesting for the two tracks that Zevon composed especially for the shows. The title track is another impassioned rock ‘n’ roll testimony, whilst ‘The Sin’ is an elaborate and compelling prose poem with a striking opening (‘The time that you were cruel for cruelty’s sake’), and a complex web of guilt and intrigue.
Throughout, Zevon is riotously inventive. ‘Werewolves of London’ perhaps undergoes the most significant lyrical adjustments, the key line being replaced by the gleeful bellowing of ‘and he’s looking for James Taylor!’. Jackson Browne also gets a mention (‘I saw Jackson Browne walking slow down the evenue…his heart was perfect!’) which raises a cheer. Zevon gets completely wild on ‘Excitable Boy’, even enjoying some kind of barbed Elvis impersonation mid-way through.
Of all three reissues, ‘Stand In The Fire’ is the one most enhanced by its bonus selections. In fact, it’s difficult to comprehend why these were ever omitted from the original tracklisting. The album came accompanied with a Thomas McGuane quotation claiming ‘the dog ate the part we didn’t like’, but in this instance it would appear that the dog was not entirely helpful. There are superbly energetic takes on ‘Johnny Strikes Up The Band’ and ‘Play It All Night Long’, the latter a gloriously deadpan take on Southern country rock (‘Sweet Home Alabama, play that dead band’s song’ rings the chorus, and even nastier is the zesty ‘there ain’t much to country living: sweat, piss, jizz and blood!’). Most significant though are the two concluding tracks played solo at the piano – a vivid, rambling ‘Frank and Jesse James’ and a beautifully forlorn ‘Hasten Down The Wind’, during which he asks for the house lights to be turned up (‘I think I’ve found the ones who are my friends!’, he cries, in reference to the song’s central lyric). These songs not only provide much needed balance, but also a sense of serious finality evaded by the Bo Diddley medley that originally concluded the album on a much more playful note.
If some people find the show’s pre-encore finish (Zevon going down in gunfire and being stretchered offstage), a little incongruous with his literate and cerebral profile, then they are neglecting the man’s sense of humour, which was both zany and profound. When told of his terminal lung cancer in 2002, Zevon claimed he had just one ambition left – to see the next James Bond film (Die Another Day), an ambition he did live to achieve. When asked what his overall plan was for his last months, he responded dryly ‘I’m gonna enjoy every sandwich’. A man that witty and courageous in the face of death richly deserves these fitting tributes and more.
It might be accepted wisdom, but ‘Excitable Boy’ probably remained Zevon’s creative high watermark. Although he recaptured some magic with ‘Sentimental Hygiene’, his 1987 collaboration with REM, and the late albums are excellent, this is as fine a collection of songs as he produced. Whilst some of the 80s material is understandably marred by unpleasant synthesisers and pounding drum sounds, Jackson Browne and Waddy Wachtel’s production here is sensitive, naturalistic and unobtrusive. The songs and their remarkable arrangements are allowed to breathe, the playing throughout is masterful, and the superb backing vocals from seasoned professional Jennifer Warnes and The Gentlemen Singers resound brilliantly.
The variety and sheer invention of Zevon’s vision is at its fullest expression on this album. Zevon recognised the poetic qualities of Bob Dylan, Paul Simon et al, but noted that America did not yet have the John Updike or Norman Mailer of songwriting. It is the literate quality of Zevon’s writing that stands out, a preoccupation he would continue through collaborations with his author friends Carl Hiaasen and Hunter S. Thompson. So, we get the title track, a marvellous satire on Attention Defecit Disorder before the term even existed; the majestic and bizarre ‘Roland The Headless Thompson Gunner’, a ghost story of Congo mercenaries co-written with David Lindell, himself an ex-mercenary and the utterly hilarious feckless criminal on the run story of ‘Lawyers Guns and Money’. The opener ‘Johnny Strikes Up The Band’ is one of many great songs Zevon wrote about the art of rock and roll itself, a surprisingly difficult subject for a songwriter to approach without sounding ham-fisted or self-referential.
At the heart of the album is the peculiar juxtaposition of ‘Werewolves of London’ (built around an insistent and repetitive descending chord sequence) and ‘Accidentally Like A Martyr’. The latter, with its seemingly nonsensical title, is one of the most extraordinary ballads in pop history, the technical mastery of its harmony and arrangement betraying Zevon’s classical training at the home of Igor Stravinsky. It is a song that dares to suggest that time in fact does not heal (‘the hurt gets worse and the heart gets harder’) and Bob Dylan took the line ‘Time Out Of Mind’ for the title of his deeply solipsistic and moving 1997 album. ‘Werewolves…’ effectively made Zevon a one-hit wonder, but it’s worth recognising what a funny and inventive song it is, as fine a portrait of a predatory ladiesman as has been written and full of great lines (‘I’d like to meet his tailor!’).
In fact, ‘Werewolves..’ won a BBC Radio 2 vote for greatest opening line in rock a couple of years ago (I’m sure Chinatown restaurant Lee Ho Fuk’s were equally grateful for the plug), but I wonder whether ‘Lawyers, Guns and Money’ (perhaps my favourite Zevon song) might actually surpass it. It’s a tragicomic confessional, told with ribald glee (‘I went home with a waitress, the way I always do/How was I to know that she was with the Russians too?’). Its central plea (‘send lawyers, guns and money/Dad, get me out of this’) never fails to raise a wry smile. That’s before we get to the playful ending, with its masterful breaks (dig the way Zevon grunts ‘huh!’) and superb guitar line.
Of the bonus tracks, the alternate take of ‘Werewolves…’ is interesting only to the most completist of fans, given that it buries the vocal too deeply in the mix and features some unnecessarily busy playing from the rhythm section that smothers the song. They definitely went with the right take in the end. There are two reversions of songs from ‘Wanted Dead Or Alive’ – the solo piano version of ‘Tule’s Blues’, an exceptionally moving break-up song, is powerful and effective, and Zevon’s own string arrangement for ‘Frozen Notes’ is subtle and desolate. The core of Zevon’s genius is contained succinctly within the mere 50 seconds of ‘I Need a Truck’, two verses of a reworked blues delivered accappela. The lyric is masterful, referencing Zevon’s hard-drinking and hell-raising ways (he nearly killed himself early in his career, falling off a stage when drunk) – ‘I need a truck to haul my guns to town/I need a truck to haul my bad thoughts around/I need a truck to haul my Percodan and gin/And I need a truck to haul all my trucks in’ – as deceptively simple and intelligent a verse as any songwriter has written.
The most well-known songs from ‘The Envoy’ are musically less subtle, and betray the mutual appreciation society building between Zevon and Bruce Springsteen (Springsteen is credited as co-writer for ‘Jeannie Needs A Shooter’, which featured on Zevon’s superbly titled 1980 album ‘Bad Luck Streak at Dancing School’). Interestingly, much of ‘The Envoy’ captured that big, behemoth ‘Born in the USA’ sound before Springsteen even got there. ‘Ain’t That Pretty At All’ and ‘Looking For The Next Best Thing’ are intelligent songs perhaps slightly undermined by their production values, whilst the pounding approach works much more successfully for the fascinating title track, perhaps the most startling example of Zevon’s ironic approach to world politics.
Zevon himself may well have appreciated the playful irony that the album is at its most effective when at its least bombastic. The closing ‘Never Too Late For Love’ boldly risks descending into cliché, but ends up more inspiring than sentimental (‘You say you’re tired/how I hate to hear you use that word’) and may well have provided the direct reference point for REM’s ‘Everybody Hurts’. ‘The Hula Hula Boys’ is a delightfully mournful ballad, and ‘Jesus Mentioned’, stripped back to just guitar and voice, stands with Gillian Welch’s ‘Elvis Presley Blues’ as one of the best songs about Elvis’ death, his inspirational power and his unshakeable influence. ‘Let Nothing Come Between You’ tempers the synths with a quieter, less intrusive backbeat and some pleasant jangly guitar work.
It may be slightly uneven, but on balance ‘The Envoy’ is a powerful album that maintained Zevon’s wit, wisdom and songwriting invention. The bonus tracks included here are rather less illuminating. ‘Word of Mouth’ is an instrumental and pleasant enough, the cover of ‘Wild Thing’ is ragged and rough, and the alternate take of ‘Let Nothing Come Between You’ is superfluous. The one substantial song is ‘The Risk’, which most clearly demonstrates the influence of Springsteen on Zevon’s work at this time.
The real revelation of this series is ‘Stand In The Fire’, the 1980 live album that captured Zevon over five nights at the Roxy in LA. It’s remarkable for documenting Zevon as a vivid and incendiary entertainer, making playful alterations to his lyrics and delivering most of the vocals in a gutsy and gritty style. Even Zevon’s great friend Jackson Browne apparently expressed surprise at Zevon’s conjecture that ‘if you’re not entertaining, you’re not doing anything’. Browne had always considered Zevon to be too intelligent and too original for mere entertainment. With these shows, Zevon proved that the cerebral and the visceral need not be mutually exclusive. Here, they are entirely complementary.
For his backing band for these shows, Zevon hired a solid rock group that amusingly specialised in Warren Zevon covers. The result is blisteringly intense and rarely subtle, but it’s precisely this bludgeoning quality that gives much of the material its brutal impact. ‘Werewolves of London’ and ‘Lawyers, Guns and Money’ are rendered fresh by being taken and slightly slower, heavier tempos, and there are even a handful of hilarious machine gun fret-tapping guitar solos. ‘I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead’ from the self-titled album becomes an almost Bon Jovi-esque trudge, whilst ‘Mohammed’s Radio’ is rendered with savage passion.
The album is perhaps most interesting for the two tracks that Zevon composed especially for the shows. The title track is another impassioned rock ‘n’ roll testimony, whilst ‘The Sin’ is an elaborate and compelling prose poem with a striking opening (‘The time that you were cruel for cruelty’s sake’), and a complex web of guilt and intrigue.
Throughout, Zevon is riotously inventive. ‘Werewolves of London’ perhaps undergoes the most significant lyrical adjustments, the key line being replaced by the gleeful bellowing of ‘and he’s looking for James Taylor!’. Jackson Browne also gets a mention (‘I saw Jackson Browne walking slow down the evenue…his heart was perfect!’) which raises a cheer. Zevon gets completely wild on ‘Excitable Boy’, even enjoying some kind of barbed Elvis impersonation mid-way through.
Of all three reissues, ‘Stand In The Fire’ is the one most enhanced by its bonus selections. In fact, it’s difficult to comprehend why these were ever omitted from the original tracklisting. The album came accompanied with a Thomas McGuane quotation claiming ‘the dog ate the part we didn’t like’, but in this instance it would appear that the dog was not entirely helpful. There are superbly energetic takes on ‘Johnny Strikes Up The Band’ and ‘Play It All Night Long’, the latter a gloriously deadpan take on Southern country rock (‘Sweet Home Alabama, play that dead band’s song’ rings the chorus, and even nastier is the zesty ‘there ain’t much to country living: sweat, piss, jizz and blood!’). Most significant though are the two concluding tracks played solo at the piano – a vivid, rambling ‘Frank and Jesse James’ and a beautifully forlorn ‘Hasten Down The Wind’, during which he asks for the house lights to be turned up (‘I think I’ve found the ones who are my friends!’, he cries, in reference to the song’s central lyric). These songs not only provide much needed balance, but also a sense of serious finality evaded by the Bo Diddley medley that originally concluded the album on a much more playful note.
If some people find the show’s pre-encore finish (Zevon going down in gunfire and being stretchered offstage), a little incongruous with his literate and cerebral profile, then they are neglecting the man’s sense of humour, which was both zany and profound. When told of his terminal lung cancer in 2002, Zevon claimed he had just one ambition left – to see the next James Bond film (Die Another Day), an ambition he did live to achieve. When asked what his overall plan was for his last months, he responded dryly ‘I’m gonna enjoy every sandwich’. A man that witty and courageous in the face of death richly deserves these fitting tributes and more.
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