Pixies: Trompe Le Monde

PIXIES: TROMPE LE MONDE (1991)

1) Trompe Le Monde; 2) Planet Of Sound; 3) Alec Eiffel; 4) The Sad Punk; 5) Head On; 6) U-Mass; 7) Palace Of The Brine; 8) Letter To Memphis; 9) Bird Dream Of The Olympus Mons; 10) Space (I Believe In); 11) Subbacultcha; 12) Distance Equals Rate Times Time; 13) Lovely Day; 14) Motorway To Roswell; 15) The Navajo Know.

General verdict: The Pixies get themselves a solid rocking sound for their swan song, but oddly sacrifice the hooks in favor of somewhat old-fashioned power-pop energy.

I wish I could continue the analogy that was dropped in the previous review and treat Trompe Le Monde as Pixiesʼ Abbey Road, but, in all honesty, this record is just a tad short of such a status. Perhaps a better analogy would be Pixiesʼ Let It Be, since Trompe Le Monde, too, seems to be driven by one manʼs desire to move a little closer to «the roots» and produce something a little more spontaneous, more wild, more rocking than usual. This is unquestionably the bandʼs loudest, most abrazive album, one on which they end up sounding influenced by Cheap Trick far more often than they do by Talking Heads; and while this is definitely not a problem in the large scheme of things — after all, the Pixies are a fuckinʼ rock band, are they not? — it does result in a certain lack of subtlety, and in the band occasionally slipping into the world of fairly generic rock clichés (at least, musical; «message-wise», Trompe Le Monde is still as idiosyncratically Pixies-ish as it gets).

Arguably the main reason why Trompe Le Monde, good as it is, is still the weakest Pixies album is that it is not too much of a Pixies album — it is more of a Frank Black solo album with guest musicians Kim Deal and Joey Santiago. Kim has no compositions of her own here (not sure if she was blocked by Francis or if she simply was saving them all for future Breeders records), no lead vocals, relatively few backing vocals, and even her bass lines are often relegated to purely supportive roles. And Joey, while still an essential contributor to the psychedelic textures of the music, has nowhere near as many memorable lead parts as he used to. For the most part, this is a Frank Black show all the way — his chugging rhythms, his weird vocal hooks, his twisted sense of humor, and his pissed-off attitude, of which we seem to be receiving a mighty huge dose here. You never really saw the Pixies in such a jerky mood throughout, believe me.

To try to understand what they were really going for on this album, it might make sense to begin with a comparison of their unexpected cover of The Jesus And Mary Chainʼs ʽHead Onʼ with the original. The most surprising thing is that although the cover postdates the original by two years, it actually sounds retro-fied: the JAMC version, with its heavy echo on the vocals and the drums, is immediately datable to the Eighties, while the Pixies here make it sound exactly like a Cheap Trick song circa 1977-78, with those thick, glammy guitar tones, exuberant barman-give-me-one-more-drink lead vocals, and a we-want-it-louder-than-everyone-else attitude. Could it be that a band whose purpose once seemed to be to push classic pop-rock in a futuristic direction is now showing signs of repentance, looking back at the old school glam-rock and punk-rock of the mid-Seventies as a key reference point? And could this «nostalgic reinvention» of a contemporary alt-rock hit be their flagman statement about it?

The thought hits harder when you combine it with all that anger captured on the record — anger clearly directed at none other than a large chunk of the Pixiesʼ own core audiences. Two songs stand out particularly in that respect, both of them well-known highlights of the album. One is, of course, ʽSubbacultchaʼ, an unusually straightforward (for Black) indictment of «club culture» as an excuse to find oneself a hot piece of ass — and set, might I add, to a very clearly retro melody, very reminiscent of the Modern Loversʼ ʽPablo Picassoʼ, except that first-rate production allows each rhythm and lead note to cut even sharper than Jonathan Richmanʼs band. The other one is ʽU-Massʼ, an even more vicious assault on the phoney varieties of progressive student subculture which Iʼm sure all their student audience must have loved with the exact same abandon that the Ramonesʼ core audience displayed while gleefully bopping along to ʽCretin Hopʼ and ʽTeenage Lobotomyʼ. The songʼs melody has been often compared to ʽSmells Like Teen Spiritʼ (itʼs funny that Nevermind and Trompe Le Monde were released with one dayʼs difference), but Pixies donʼt do achingly desperate grunge — they do deeply sarcastic grunge, and they play it here in such a way that the guitar chords are just as reminiscent of AC/DC and ZZ Top as they are of their own contemporary alt-rock scene.

None of this is to say that the Pixies have somehow turned into some sort of conservative musical reactionaries overnight. The music on the whole, be it the production, or the inventive weaving techniques between Black and Santiago, cannot be dismissed as a return to stale clichés; and the elements of vitriolic criticism against the bandʼs own breeding grounds still count as occasional blips among the usual sea of random impressionist imagery that covers territory all the way from the Eiffel Tower (ʽAlec Eiffelʼ) to Native American legends (ʽThe Navajo Knowsʼ). Whatever be the case, it is not very likely that a band with such a history as the Pixies could turn around and start churning out «generic rockʼnʼroll». The biggest problem is that by concentrating too much on rocking out and venting off, the Pixies slightly lost their grip on their legendary ability to create instantly captivating pop hooks. Even after a whole bunch of listens to the album, my mind still tends to remember much of it as a rather messy and monotonous sonic glop, instead of building a separate cozy cottage for each individual song.

Personally, I very much miss the stylistic diversity of Bossanova — there are, for instance, absolutely no moments of tender, subtle beauty of the ʽAnaʼ or ʽHavalinaʼ type here; not a single song, in fact, that could be labeled as a «ballad». The closest they get to being a little romantic here is on ʽMotorway To Roswellʼ, a winding epic about an alien beingʼs tragic death in an accident that does not really deserve its five-minute length — but even that one is ultimately so loud and crunchy that even its nicely placed piano flourish in the coda does not do much by way of reminding us of how tender Frank Black and the boys can be when a certain muse grabs them by the spleen. Not here. Not this time.

If you have not yet heard the album and these several paragraphs happen to be discouraging you from checking it out, though, do not be discouraged — just take a quick listen to the title track, since I think that those minute and forty seconds are perfectly representative of the album as a whole. Some thick, speedy, mammoth riffage; some flashy psychedelic guitar leads; some quirky changes in tempo; some cosmic lyrics delivered with the appropriate cosmic vocals. Itʼs a cool sound, and one that hasnʼt dated one bit in thirty years — you still have indie kids doing this kind of music to this very day. But it hasnʼt really got much to latch on to, does it? No "my boneʼs got a little machine" or "debaser, debaser!" or even a "Caribo-o-o-u!" to it. Sadly, the same type of impression applies to a good half of the album.

That said, let me quickly list a few songs which are right up there with the very best that Pixies ever put out. ʽAlec Eiffelʼ is a modest masterpiece of speedy pop-rock, sounding like a future blueprint for every fast Arcade Fire song ever made. ʽLovely Dayʼ takes the bass line of ʽYou Canʼt Hurry Loveʼ, gives it a little twist and briefly turns the Pixies into a «dark side of Motown» band. But where they really pull all the stops is on ʽSpace (I Believe In)ʼ, a one-of-a-kind mix of grunge, Goth, and psychedelic elements with the most brutally honest lyrics in the universe: "We needed something to move and fill up the space / We needed something — this always is just the case". As you can see, itʼs not about cosmic space, itʼs all about filler space, and somehow in this weird and wild universe the song that was most likely written on the spot to fill space ended up being the best number on the entire album. How can you ever forget "JEFREY WITH ONE 'F', JEFREY! JEFREY WITH ONE 'F', JEFREY!"? (Allegedly, the tablas guy who they got to play with them on the song was actually called Jef Feldman, with one 'f').

Okay, that wasnʼt too many songs, but the truth is, while I actually enjoy most of the album, somehow numbers such as ʽLetter To Memphisʼ just do not stimulate me to come up with any brilliant ideas, if you know what I mean. Quite a few people are ready to swear by Trompe Le Monde as the crowning moment of glory for the band, which stumps me — is this because of all the loudness and distortion? Because the actual songwriting is rather lazy, to be honest. One commenter on Mark Prindleʼs old review site actually confessed to loving the album because it was «MEAN and UGLY» where the previous ones were «CUTE and CLEVER» — I think this is a fairly appropriate description as far as minimalistic descriptions go, but maybe the problem is that a lot of other bands can be MEAN and UGLY like the Pixies, but very, very few can be CUTE and CLEVER like the Pixies. Just about anybody could come up with songs like ʽPlanet Of Soundʼ or ʽThe Sad Punkʼ (check out the career of Art Brut, for instance), but who the heck could come up with another ʽWave Of Mutilationʼ? Nobody has, so far.

As the final brick in the bandʼs classic house, though, Trompe Le Monde makes perfect sense: it has a sound all its own, and its raging energy guaranteed that the band would go out on a pretty powerful, if not particularly inventive, note. It was never specially planned as a swan song, and it does not sound like a swan song, but itʼs better to go out with a bang than a whimper in any case. Itʼs like ʽMotorway To Roswellʼ is an allegory for their entire journey — Trompe Le Monde is really the sound of the Pixiesʼ little flying saucer entering the atmosphere at full speed and burning up before it ever has the chance to land. I only wish I could enjoy the individual songs as much as I respect the overall idea of the album, but perhaps it is an unfortunate effect of not having had the chance to enjoy it back in 1991 — my ear being subsequently spoilt with way too much bombastic indie rock that was probably influenced by it. Then again, as I said, way too much of this album actually sounds like stuff that came before it, so itʼs all really part of that one big food chain, and maybe it is just that this particular link does not feel particularly outstanding in the larger context of swallowing and digesting. 

Elvis Presley: How Great Thou Art

ELVIS PRESLEY: HOW GREAT THOU ART (1967)

1) How Great Thou Art; 2) In The Garden; 3) Somebody Bigger Than You And I; 4) Farther Along; 5) Stand By Me; 6) Without Him; 7) So High; 8) Where Could I Go But To The Lord; 9) By And By; 10) If The Lord Wasnʼt Walking By My Side; 11) Run On; 12) Where No One Stands Alone; 13) Crying In The Chapel.

General verdict: Feels almost like the real thing — definitely as close to «true gospel» as the man would ever get. Who needs psychedelia when you have the King on your side?

Once again, context is everything. Surrounded by the Kingʼs golden great rockʼnʼroll classics, this album would have probably seemed underwhelming in comparison, particularly to a not particularly religious conscience (like mine). But surrounded on both chronological sides with Elvisʼ soundtrack fluff, How Great Thou Art is not simply a breath of fresh air — it literally towers over all of that crap as a genuine artistic masterpiece.

One thing is for sure: it is definitely the most creative, curious, and deeply felt of his three gospel albums. The main problem with His Hand In Mine was that it was really a «gospel» album only on the surface: at heart, it was really an album of sentimental crooning balladry — nice and well-meaning, but way too slight to evoke a properly spiritual response. With this experience — and let us not forget that it was actually Elvisʼ first proper new album in five years — it feels as if the man had actually realized that himself, and tried to rise up to the challenge of creating a true gospel experience this time. With a brand new producer (Felton Jarvis), a set of tunes that Elvis mostly picked out himself rather than had imposed on him, an actual gospel quartet joining him for backup (The Imperials), and even a set of arrangements for traditional tunes credited to Elvis Presley in person, he clearly wanted to make something different, and he largely succeeded.

Even the track order matters here: instead of being interspersed with each other as they were on His Hand In Mine, here the slow and solemn hymns are all put together on the first side, while the fast and ruckus-raising spirituals are confined to Side B. This creates a risk of bringing on monotonous boredom, but it also eliminates the risk of «mood killing», and at least on the first side — the most interesting one, if you ask me — the approach pays off well. Two things are immediately noticeable — a huge emphasis on keyboards, usually piano and more rarely organ, with far more sophisticated and tempestuous arrangements than before; and a new sort of depth and seriousness to Elvisʼ singing, as he goes lower than he has done in years, generally refraining from sensual crooning and going for something more «earthy», if you know what I mean.

Of those six opening songs, the unhurried waltzing of ʽFarther Alongʼ is my favorite — maybe because of the lyrics, whose significance goes far beyond simplistic Christian conventions, or maybe because somehow Elvis manages to turn it almost personal; it is interesting that if you compare the song to other versions, from the Byrds all the way to Brad Paisley, Elvisʼ one actually omits the decisive third verse (basically the one that states how Jesus is going to solve all your problems) and only includes the first two (listing the actual problems). Whatever be the actual truth, the gut impression is that of a tired, exhausted, but still deeply optimistic person quietly praying for alleviation — almost like a veiled cry for help, which comes across as doubly significant if you are aware of the context in which these sessions were held.

But there are other highlights, too. The title track has an interesting construction, starting out without a rhythm section, just wave upon wave of impressionistic piano playing and occasional thunder-imitating drumrolls, then smoothly transitioning into another anthemic waltz with huge booming choruses, subtly attenuated by an uncredited string section. And ʽSomebody Bigger Than You And Iʼ may be seen as an early precursor to Elvisʼ bigger-than-life, ʽSuspicious Mindsʼ et al. style, but still with much more restraint than most of his Vegas-style material, probably because most of the «pomp» is generated by the loudness of the Imperialsʼ backing vocals and the mighty organ, rather than glitzy strings and horns.

The second side of the album, opening with the fast-paced ʽSo Highʼ and rarely losing the tempo, is not as sonically interesting, but you could still argue that there is more genuine rockʼnʼroll energy and inspiration in songs like ʽSo Highʼ and ʽRun Onʼ than in all of the manʼs soundtracks from the previous couple of years combined. ʽBy And Byʼ actually features fuzzy electric guitar riffage (!), while ʽRun Onʼ (more commonly known as ʽGodʼs Gonna Cut You Downʼ, but they probably wanted to avoid unnecessarily violent connotations on the album sleeve) cannot exactly hope to compete with the ground-shaking intensity of a Blind Willie Johnson, but still winds the man up tighter and tenser than anything since the days of ʽReady Teddyʼ. ITʼS ALIVE!

Naturally, one should not get too excited: Elvis still hasnʼt become a true gospel prophet, and there are one too many slow waltzing tempos on here to insist that the gospel theme might be used here as just a vehicle for experimentation and rejuvenation. And coming out with even a good gospel album in 1967, the year of Sgt. Pepper, was hardly the right move to re-establish a good working relation with the progressive critical minds. Yet it is quite clear that here, for the second time in a row after the (very relative) freshness of Spinout, was something that the King did not need to be ashamed of — so, for all purposes, we might as well consider that the manʼs actual «comeback» starts here, rather than with the «comeback special» and In Memphis, even if we would still have to deal with more soundtrack embarrassments in between. 

Pixies: Bossanova

PIXIES: BOSSANOVA (1990)

1) Cecilia Ann; 2) Rock Music; 3) Velouria; 4) Allison; 5) Is She Weird; 6) Ana; 7) All Over The World; 8) Dig For Fire; 9) Down To The Well; 10) The Happening; 11) Blown Away; 12) Hang Wire; 13) Stormy Weather; 14) Havalina.

General verdict: The Pixies get more soulful, serious, and nostalgic, sacrificing some of their punchy adolescence as their generation ship crosses into the next galaxy.

Pixiesʼ third album sometimes gets a bad rap because it clearly fails to reinvent the world of music the same way that Doolittle did — and it is hardly a coincidence that, for the first time in their relatively short life, the band had hardly any well-gestated material left in stock, and often had to improvise right in the studio. Indeed, next to the total unpredictability and diversity of the previous two albums, Bossanova might come across as a somewhat monotonous, sludgy, rock-oriented experience. But I personally feel that if Doolittle was their Sgt. Pepper, then Bossanova, in some ways, stands up to being regarded as their White Album — a record on which the greatest band of its generation has absolutely nothing left to prove and simply resorts to having as much creative fun as possible. Sometimes it works, occasionally it doesnʼt, but the inspiration never stops, and the juice just keeps on flowinʼ.

It is not the happiest-sounding Pixies album, though, that is for sure. Much of the bandʼs humour has only been preserved in the form of ironic viciousness, and there are overtones of melancholia, nostalgia, and acute yearning for some better place to be (from ʽVelouriaʼ to ʽHavalinaʼ). Throw in the total lack of kick-ass fast tempo rockers, the prevalence of sludgy proto-grunge mid-tempo guitar melodies, and the fact that Kim Deal has largely been pushed into the background (admittedly, she did save all her songwriting ideas for the Breeders at the time), and it is easy to understand why some people might need quite a bit of time to get into this record. But do trust me, it is very worth getting into in the end.

Amusingly, there seems to be not one, but two introductions to the album — a ʽForewordʼ and a ʽPrefaceʼ, if you will. The first one is ʽCecilia Annʼ, a cover of an old instrumental by The Surf­tones which gave the entire record its reputation as the Pixiesʼ «surf-rock album», despite the fact that there had always been a huge surf influence on Pixiesʼ music and Bossanova hardly seems to capitalize on it any more than any other Pixies album. What they do to the tune, by fattening up its guitar tones and putting the rhythm section into an almost heavy-metallic overdrive, is prove what Quentin Tarantino said about surf music — that to him, surf music had always been more about Clint Eastwood in an Ennio Morricone-orchestrated movie than about actual surfing. Itʼs catchy, itʼs fun, itʼs danceable, but it also has DRAMA, and the Pixies cram as much epos and pathos into these galloping two minutes as possible. Once the two minutes are up, you have been mentally prepared to, maybe, take this upcoming stuff a little bit more seriously than ever before... and the lack of vocals, which always raise the bar on quirkiness and playfulness in the Pixiesʼ case, is also quite important.

The vocals do appear on the second introductory track, seductively titled ʽRock Musicʼ — but you will never understand a word they say, because the entire track is like a drunk antithesis to the tight cohesiveness of ʽCecilia Annʼ: with its endless distorted droning riff, continuously wailing monotonous lead guitar, and hardcore screaming all over the studio, it veers on the edge of self-parody, or, if not, at least on the edge of total irony in the face of «rock music» as an artistic concept. As a song, itʼs not much — more like a relentless wall of noise whose «anger» is a bona fide theatrical performance destined to undermine and expose the credibility of «anger» in music itself (a technique that would later be adopted by Ween in their arsenal). But at the same time it is also a sign that the Pixies are not afraid to «mature» by adhering to deeper layers of production and even fatter guitar tones, and by making their music less prone to being denounced as juvenile novelty garbage (if you ever had that temptation, that is).

That sign kind of comes in handy as you proceed on down the line. The first real Pixies song (and the first real classic) on here is ʽVelouriaʼ, announced by grungy power chords worthy of the Seattle scene rather than the Boston one — yet just a few seconds later it becomes clear that this is still a typical romantic Pixies anthem, with a lead guitar line that is more Beethoven than Kurt Cobain and vocals that have more blue-eyed soul in them than hardcore growling. Melodically, it seems to be distantly related to ʽWave Of Mutilationʼ, but the vocals and that wailing lead line give it a more intimate, serenade-like feel, something youʼd probably expect delivered from one star-crossʼd lover to another, especially if the romance took place on a planet where they actually name girls ʽVelouriaʼ. The lyrics donʼt mean much — just grab on to bits and pieces like "hold my head, weʼll trampoline" and "we will wade in the shine of the ever" and thatʼs all you need to request the song for your wedding ceremony, really. The weird thing is, it actually sounds like a genuine, serious, heartwarming love song — even if, on a formal level, the band does not step outside their post-modern conventions at all. I can smirk at this song and I can feel cathartic at the same time — few bands can manage that feat.

Each and every song that follows ʽVelouriaʼ has something to offer, some cute or crazy idea that might seem genius or stupid but actually makes you notice it and evaluate it. These cute or crazy ideas somehow seem largely equivalent to me, so I do not really have any favorites — in terms of pure moronic catchiness, though, the golden bough goes to ʽIs She Weirdʼ, a song whose "is she weird, is she white, is she promised to the night?" has graced my shower one too many times, and whose words, mood, and playful mystique make it a great candidate for some Witcher-themed video, or at least a self-made voodoo ritual. Then again, they are pixies, and itʼs high time they did a creepy counting-out rhyme for the midnight hour. Again, no true innovations here — Santiagoʼs twangy guitar lines weave around Kimʼs pounding hammer bass more or less the same way they did from the very start — but no previous Pixies song truly sounded this ghostly.

The rest of the songs I will go over quickly, especially since thereʼs so many of them. ʽAllisonʼ is a minute-long nursery rhyme whose point is to rhyme ʽAllisonʼ with "hit the sun", and I approve. ʽAnaʼ is a softer, surfier sequel to ʽVelouriaʼ, with gorgeous lead guitar lines that are almost too well-defined and memorable for the songʼs dream-pop textures (if somebody tells you that all dream-pop just has to be atmospheric and squishy and slipping through your brain, shut them up with this song). ʽAll Over The Worldʼ sounds like something Iʼd like to take with me on a generation starship ("with a pet at my side, God in the sky...") — and clocking in at 5:30, it feels almost like the Pixiesʼ own little progressive rock epic; at the very least, the looping "all my thoughts / all I am / are my thoughts" bit is their personal mantra and the closest, so far, they got to turning their music into a (post-modern) religious ceremony.

Of their second single, ʽDig For Fireʼ, I can only say that it is a curious way to merge a very Talking Heads-sounding verse (funky guitar weaving, ʽOnce In A Lifetimeʼ-style sloganeering vocals and all that) with a Madchester-influenced chorus — Talking Heads meet Stone Roses — and although Frank Black himself later dismissed the song as a «bad Talking Heads imitation», I think the combination of the cryptic verse with the heavenly chorus still works. ʽDown To The Wellʼ is probably the albumʼs laziest song, but even here I like the mock-silliness of the melodic resolution, in which "...she went down to the WELL!" is delivered with such a gleefully demonic attitude that you quickly understand WELL is really just a euphemism for HELL. After this, ʽThe Happeningʼ delivers yet another nice melodic contrast — a strange swampy sound for the verse and a high-pitched, totally stoned psychodrone for the bridge, with the lyrics eventually turning to something that feels like rejected outtakes from an early draft of ʽBob Dylanʼs 115th Dreamʼ ("I was driving doing nothing on the shores of Great Salt Lake...").

Skipping over two more tracks, we have a symmetric ending for the album with not one, but two outros. The «proper» ending is ʽStormy Weatherʼ, a track that could pretty much serve as the blueprint for all classic Brian Jonestown Massacre material — a slow, lazy, repetitive retro-Sixties psycho-party vibe with a hip (post-)modern sensibility; silly and way too rowdy-sailorish for Pixies, but if these guys just wonʼt be pigeonholed, so be it. And then, for the ʽGood Nightʼ encore you get ʽHavalinaʼ — smooth, tender, full of classy romantic guitar lines, escapist as heck and a great reminder of how sentimental this band really is at heart.

At the end of the day, there is no dazzling, teasing flame at the heart of Bossanova; it does not even try to recreate the infectiousness of Doolittle, and it does show the band falling back just a little bit too strong on past musical formulae — again, much like the Beatles did with the White Album, or like the Heads did on Speaking In Tongues and their later albums. But the bandʼs overall vision, their sense of humour and their ability to make even clichéd musical ideas sound interesting once again are fully intact. And this additional touch of maturity might actually allow some people to develop a tighter emotional band with the album than any before it — ʽVelouriaʼ and ʽAnaʼ, in particular, have an aura of sincere gorgeousness that would still be unthinkable on the much more playful and sarcastic plains of Surfer Rosa and Doolittle. The best news is, in keeping up with Great Band Reputation, no two Pixies albums (at least, from their classic era) sound alike — well, best for those of us who value experimentation and diversity over sticking to the exact same formula, at least. 

Elvis Presley: Spinout

ELVIS PRESLEY: SPINOUT (1966)

1) Stop, Look And Listen; 2) Adam And Evil; 3) All That I Am; 4) Never Say Yes; 5) Am I Ready; 6) Beach Shack; 7) Spinout; 8) Smorgasbord; 9) Iʼll Be Back; 10) Tomorrow Is A Long Time; 11) Down In The Alley; 12) Iʼll Remember You.

General verdict: A slightly outstanding soundtrack in that it at least briefly acknowledges the arrival of a new musical era with new musical values.

Oh wow, there are actual signs of life here! Do not get your hopes up too much — we are talking just a few relatively bright spots in a stable sea of hogwash, nothing close to a true «comeback»; but the objective facts are such that the soundtrack to Spinout is Elvisʼ first ever album to acknowledge, one way or the other, that the world of music did actually move on since the days of Frankie Avalon. Maybe we should thank George Stoll, who had earlier produced the Viva Las Vegas soundtrack as well, or maybe we should be grateful to the particularly odious Giant / Baum / Kaye songwriting team for only contributing one stupid corny tune this time around (the tropical sex anthem ʽBeach Shackʼ) — whatever the matter, Spinout is almost inarguably the strongest of all of Elvisʼ mid-to-late-Sixties soundtracks. This is not saying all that much, but it is definitely saying something.

The good news are announced with the very first track: ʽStop, Look And Listenʼ (written by the generally reliable Joy Byers) is a lighthearted, but sharp-sounding pop rocker, certainly more appropriate for a go-go girls performance on Shindig! than for the Monterey Festival, but played with genuine rockʼnʼroll verve and featuring what should qualify as an «experimental» guitar solo for Elvis — played by Tommy Tedesco, I believe, through a Leslie speaker or something. No, itʼs not amazing by any means, but hearing this kind of sound after half a dozen completely retrograde soundtracks is such a drink of cool, clear water that I am almost ready to forgive this album any of its upcoming sins in advance.

Fortunately, ʽStop, Look And Listenʼ is not just a fluke: throughout the album, one continuously encounters traces of decent contemporary production and convincing atmosphere. The Pomus-Shuman composition ʽNever Say Yesʼ is just a slice of standard Bo Diddley beat, but when it is delivered with crackling, fuzzy rhythm guitar at a head-spinning fast tempo, then even the Kingʼs ever-softening voice starts regaining certain powerful overtones, almost forgotten after hours and hours of consuming Queenie Wahineʼs papayas. The title track brings back the tastefully treated electric guitar of ʽStop, Look And Listenʼ, and although it is essentially a Tom Jones-style cabaret number, at least its somber swagginess finally sounds in step with the times. Finally, ʽIʼll Be Backʼ is a generic mid-tempo blues-rocker, graced with lively backing vocals, screechy guitars, and even a few shadows of Elvisʼold rockabilly voice, with those almost forgotten alternations of exuberant high and somber low that heʼd largely left behind in the Fifties.

While everything else on the soundtrack proper is largely forgettable (but usually not horrible), the main attention has always been tied to tracks tacked on at the end which had no relation to the movie at all — such as a quality cover of The Cloversʼ old hit ʽDown In The Alleyʼ, and, most importantly, a five-minute long (!) acoustic cover of Bob Dylanʼs old song ʽTomorrow Is A Long Timeʼ, which Dylan allegedly referred to as the one cover of a song of his that he "treasured the most" — of course, everything Bob ever said in his life always has to be taken tongue-in-cheek, but it is worth noting that he said this in 1969, the year of Nashville Skyline, and that his own soft and crooning vocal tone on that album, amusingly, was quite similar in mood and overtones to Elvisʼ voice on this soft and crooning cover. Besides, five minutes long! Five! The longest Elvis song up to that point was ʽOld Shepʼ, and even that one was just four. If that ainʼt sufficient homage to one of the greatest post-Elvis forces in music, I donʼt know what is.

I will not spoil the positive impression by discussing the flaws of particularly inferior songs on the album — just reiterate that they are not enough to spoil the overall fun, but also state that you can really only taste that fun in full if, like me, you have previously sat through Harum Scarum, Frankie And Johnny and Paradise Hawaiian Style in a row. Look, even that sleeve photo is an upgrade — for the first time in at least three or four years, there is a slightly vivacious glint in the manʼs eyes, as if there was something out there on the horizon that finally piqued his interest. Alas, time would show that this was all an accident, but it wouldnʼt be the only one — and, after all, you can only stay under the water so long before you have to come up for at least one or two quick gulps of fresh air. Spinout is one such gulp.