Bill Withers: Watching You, Watching Me

BILL WITHERS: WATCHING YOU, WATCHING ME (1985)

1) Oh Yeah!; 2) Something That Turns You On; 3) Don't Make Me Wait; 4) Heart In Your Life; 5) Watching You, Watching Me; 6) We Could Be Sweet Lovers; 7) You Just Can't Smile It Away; 8) Steppin' Right Along; 9) Whatever Happens; 10) You Try To Find A Love.

No matter what the circumstances are, generic, unadventurous R&B from the Seventies will always be preferable to generic, unadventurous R&B from the Eighties — for the simple reason that in the Eighties, musicianship as such was pretty much exiled from the world of generic R&B, replaced by plastic electronics and robotic dance grooves. Consequently, the only good R&B to come from the Eighties is non-generic R&B, and the more it violates these standards, the more chances it has to be good.

I sure wish Bill Withers' last studio LP could have satisfied this hope, but alas, that was not to be. Produced and engineered by a bunch of hacks, this pathetic result of Bill's long-awaited return to Columbia studios is a stylistic disaster, and should rank, along with Naked & Warm, as one of the biggest disappointments in a formerly great artist — the distance between Still Bill and Wat­ching You, Watching Me is comparable to... well, then again, pretty much any great R&B artist ruling the public tastes in the Sixties or Seventies sucked in the Eighties. The difference is that Bill, at his best, was so much more than an R&B artist — and here, well, he ends up sounding like a roughly trained disciple of Luther Vandross.

Electronic drums, synthesizers, and ecstatic guitar wank-a-thons that plague Watching You are, however, only one half of the problem — the other half is that most of the songs are completely uninteresting. Bill's voice, always pleasant in and out of itself, is still in great shape, but it is applied to rotten melodies whose only purpose is to sound «uplifting». It's not as if the melodic structures of the songs got too simplified or ran out of inspiration — it is simply that the album is drenched in banality, and Bill's one-time ability to play this multi-faceted, almost perversely fas­cinating character, sweet and frightening at the same time, has completely evaporated. This end­less stream of superficially diverse, but substantially quite interchangeable love ballads and softly lukewarm dance rockers is instantaneously forgettable.

The only possible exception, which might not even reveal itself upon first listen, is ʽSteppin' Right Awayʼ, a slightly grittier groove that begins as an ode to the secret magic of love and then ends up incorporating The Lord's Prayer in the funkiest arrangement ever seen since the days of Jesus, when the Master, no doubt, used to get it on with his disciples on a daily basis. Nowhere near a classic, the song stands out simply because everything else is so forgettable — I am sort of interested in thinking what would somebody like Prince have made out of it, given the chance, because Bill, unfortunately, can put a groove under his control, but cannot develop it to any sort of climactic peak, if you know what I mean.

No other track here deserves even a brief mention. Everything is as glossy and sterile as the al­bum sleeve suggests — with its dashing white colors more suggestive of a stuffy hospital than of Paradise — and the result is a rather ignoble thumbs down and a pretty sad end for a career that began with so much promise. I do not know why Bill chose to retire from the music business (or, at least, from studio recording) almost completely after this album, but I would not be surprised if, deep inside himself, he actually understood that he had nothing left to say to the world, and that his life hours would rather be spent somewhere else than wasted on further impotent attempts at songwriting and recording. One might also suggest that here was just another victim of stupid musical fashions and cruel music business. Whatever be the case, you'd be much better off saving yourself the trouble and forgetting this album ever existed.

Bill Withers: 'Bout Love

BILL WITHERS: 'BOUT LOVE (1979)

1) All Because Of You; 2) Dedicated To You My Love; 3) Don't It Make It Better; 4) You Got The Stuff; 5) Look To Each Other For Love; 6) Love; 7) Love Is; 8) Memories Are That Way.

This relatively uninspiring sequel to Menagerie was produced by Paul Smith, a legendary jazz pianist mostly known for accompanying Ella Fitzgerald; he also co-wrote several of the songs and played on all the recordings. If there ever was a waste of talent, though, that must be it, be­cause 'Bout Love has nothing to do with classic jazz and everything with generic, «tepid» R&B: no disco as such, just another bunch of friendly, danceable, and almost completely interchan­geable grooves that leave no lasting impression whatsoever.

Unfortunately, this time around there is no ʽLovely Dayʼ to redeem the album with at least a single unbeatable hook, and not even a ʽShe Wants To (Get On Down)ʼ to add frenzied energy: indeed, I would rather welcome a fast, tight, determined disco-rocker than have to listen to these happy, toothless, family-friendly grooves one after another. ʽYou Got The Stuffʼ, with a funky rhythm pattern, probably comes the closest to satisfying the desire for a bit of grit, but it more or less makes its point over the first thirty seconds, and then just goes on grooving without any de­velopment — if it were a live funk jam, that'd be one thing, but in this context the musicians just stick to the groove and refuse to let go of the pre-arranged patterns. And where the heck is Paul Smith and his piano chops? He is, indeed, co-credited, but it is not highly likely that this is the kind of arrangement he would have offered to Ella.

Are the songs catchy? Perhaps. As on his previous two or three albums, the choruses are so re­petitive that all these "high as the birds that fly above the clouds..." (ʽAll Because Of Youʼ) and "love is caring, love is needing..." (ʽLove Isʼ) will end up sticking to your brains after a few lis­tens. But it is a boring kind of catchiness: try as the man might, he just isn't able to come up with any outstanding take on the virtues of love. As supercool as he was when exposing the underbelly of the human soul, Bill Withers as a Preacher of Goodness continues to be just another smiling face in the crowd. It is a pleasant, likeable, friendly face alright — you know that guy on the front sleeve will be a gas to hang out with, since that smile don't lie — but it doesn't come equipped with any wonderful musical ideas.

As usual, there is at least one song per album to offer a brief reminder of the old Bill Withers: this time, it is the album closer, ʽMemories Are That Wayʼ, a slow, moody ballad with inarguably the best vocal performance from the man — infused with melancholia and sadness, peppered with drawn-out, painfully soaring notes, and actually featuring some discernible piano playing from Paul Smith for a change. It is completely incompatible with the rest of the album — an «after­party» song, to be savored for last once the basic club audiences have all gone home and the entertainment is over — and, interestingly enough, it is the only song here credited solely to Bill, as if he surreptitiously wanted to lay at least a part of the blame on the shoulders of his co-writers, but decided to save up the best song completely for himself.

All in all, ʽMemories Are That Wayʼ is definitely worth salvaging, and perhaps one or two of the tighter grooves here, such as ʽYou Got The Stuffʼ, might be worth including on compilations for historical purposes, but on the whole, 'Bout Love drops one notch below Menagerie in quality. No thumbs down, what with everything being so innocent and harmless, but only really recom­mendable for fans of standardized 1970s dance music, and maybe also for that elusive subcate­gory of «shiny happy people» who might want to mind-meld with Bill on that one.

Bill Withers: Menagerie

BILL WITHERS: MENAGERIE (1977)

1) Lovely Day; 2) I Want To Spend The Night; 3) Lovely Night For Dancing; 4) Then You Smile At Me; 5) She Wants To (Get On Down); 6) It Ain't Because Of Me Baby; 7) Tender Things; 8) Wintertime; 9) Let Me Be The One You Need; 10) Rosie.

Strangely, even though this album is even more upbeat, sunny, and dance-oriented than Naked & Warm, it seems to produce an overall stronger impression. Maybe it is because of consistency and coherence — this time around, Bill is not even beginning to pretend that he still has any of that old «dark streak» left in him, not to mention that there is no ʽCity Of The Angelsʼ anywhere in sight, or any other attempts to carve an «art» sound out of the basics of the California dance scene. This time around, it's all about romance, chivalry, happiness, and smooth body music in the disco paradigm — soothing entertainment to relieve you of your troubles, not to remind you of your troubles. Meet Bill Withers, next in line for the title of The Ladies' Man.

The best news for miles around is that the album begins with ʽLovely Dayʼ — incidentally, one of the best «happy-sunny» R&B grooves of the decade, pulled up by the hair into the stratosphere by Bill's ability to hold one note (the right note, of course!) for what seems like an eternity, while his backup singers have enough time to pull in and out several times. It is really a simple trick, and it eclipses the rest of the song (which is actually quite commendable for its well-thought out funky bassline at least), but without the trick, we would not find ourselves coming back to it for any special reason. Whatever be, the song manages to ooze happiness without exaggerating it — the arrangement is fairly minimalistic, and Bill sings everything, including the extended notes, in an easy, relaxed, self-controlled manner, implying that you don't really need to jump out of your pants in order to convey that happy feel. But you do need technique and discipline.

The rest of the album never quite lives up to the subtle punch of the opener, but the opener sets up the mood, locks it shut, and somehow ensures that the record stays listenable and non-irritating right to the very end. Oddly, it is the funkiest / disco-est numbers that stay around for the longest time, probably because of all the repetition in the grooves — I wouldn't ever want to speak of ʽShe Wants To (Get On Down)ʼ as a dance-pop masterpiece, but the call-and-response vocal hook is infectious against my will, as is the "get up and dance with me" exhortation on ʽLovely Night For Dancingʼ (yes, there is a lot of invitations to dance throughout the album — and who'd be surprised, with Saturday Night Fever coming 'round the bend at any time?).

On the other hand, there is no need to pretend, either, that, apart from ʽLovely Dayʼ, Menagerie has any reason to be singled out of a swarm of similar R&B products on the mid-1970s market. The dance numbers are still undermined by Bill's «softness» and «gentlemanliness» (next to the «ruffian sound» of Chic, for instance), and the ballads... well, even the previously unissued demo version of ʽRosieʼ, now appended to the CD version of the album, with just Bill and his piano, fails to move me beyond the expectably-predictable «niceness», so when it comes to full arrange­ments, things get worse — Bill used minimal arrangements on most of his masterpieces, and most of the string and harmony parts on songs like ʽLet Me Be The One You Needʼ suffer from corny melodic moves, too much syrup, and too much formula.

In the end, while this is not a «thumbs down» record per se (the presence of ʽLovely Dayʼ and the absence of a ʽCity Of The Angelsʼ equivalent guarantees some neutrality), neither is it a mira­culous «return to form» as one could conclude from reading the occasional happy-faced review. Then again, not being particularly familiar with the story of Bill's personal life (I only know that 1976 was the year of his second and happiest marriage), I am quite willing to suggest that the man was simply playing the honesty card — a well-balanced, content, peaceful personal life, with all the demons exorcised and crucified, might be translatable to a musical re­cord like Menagerie with the utmost sincerity. Good for him — Marvin Gaye might have had a far more exciting musical career from beginning to end, but nobody in one's right mind should wish anybody else the life of a Marvin Gaye rather than that of a Bill Withers, right?

Bill Withers: Naked & Warm

BILL WITHERS: NAKED & WARM (1976)

1) Close To Me; 2) Naked & Warm; 3) Where You Are; 4) Dreams; 5) If I Didn't Mean You Well; 6) I'll Be With You; 7) City Of The Angels; 8) My Imagination.

It is always at least a little sad to see a favourite artist turn from the utmost sincerity to arrogant dishonesty. Nevertheless, we must brace ourselves and face the facts. There is definitely a serious probability as to Bill Withers being «warm» on that album sleeve, given its immediate context — sunny skies, a summer attire, and suitable ultraviolet-ray-blocking headwear. But unless my eyes trick me into some sort of optical illusion, I would state it as a given fact that the description «naked» does not apply at all. One never knows, of course, whether this could be an act of last-moment censorship imposed upon the artist by the record label, but even so, the album cover is tacky enough without the title — with the title, it's tacky and self-contradictory. And it is with this troubled feeling of deception already creeping in that we proceed on to the music.

And — sure enough — the music more or less matches the album cover in terms of tackiness and self-contradictions. Most of the songs still show the same disappointing direction, towards soft, thoroughly inoffensive balladry and soft funk grooves that take the bill out of the withers without providing anything in return. Keyboards have completely taken over as the musical foundation, with that typical mid-1970s sound that dissolves the musical bone under the pretty skin. And it no longer matters whether any of this is or is not properly «disco» — I've heard dozens of «legit» disco tunes that had far more grit and snappiness to them than something as instantly forgettable as ʽWhere You Areʼ, even if the latter has a fairly tricky time signature.

The only tunes that register even a tiny bit are the title track — only because it turns into a repe­titive, but enigmatic, jam in the end, where Bill keeps asking us whether we want to go to Heaven in such a worried tone that one might start believing that really ain't such a good idea; and ʽDreamsʼ, where the electric piano, bass guitar, and synthesizer engage in a pleasant enough tria­log while our host for the evening is trying to convince us that "dreams are as good as the real thing sometimes". At least the tonality of the song gives us a whiff of the old paranoid Bill Withers, not this new romantic face, indistinguishable in a crowd of similar faces.

Worst of the lot, unfortunately, and the one song that I would really consider a «failure», as op­posed to the «nothingness» of the rest, is the sprawling 10-minute epic ʽCity Of The Angelsʼ, Bill's sudden attempt at going «artsy» on us. Starting off with a 4-minute proto-disco groove, he then shatters it in a sea of analog and digital keyboard sprinkle, and the next six minutes are all spent wading through this quasi-ambient sonic mush. It is almost as if he were really writing a song about an «angel city» (the tune as such is about Los Angeles, as we could all guess), and thought that the perfect soundtrack to a gathering of angels would be this atmospheric «piano soup» — but, to tell the truth, if this kind of atmosphere is typical of angels, then I'd just as rather not go to Heaven, thank you very much. Nothing against ambient muzak per se, but these arran­gements sound like one lengthy boring prelude to an equally boring generic fusion jam.

On the whole, this might just be the single lowest point in Bill's career, and I have no idea what he was thinking to himself at the time, unless he was on drugs or something (then again, Califor­nia occasionally has this really unhealthy anti-artistic effect on Easterners) — one of those cases where a thumbs down is quite well correlated with the fact that the album was not released on CD until 2010. For very major fans only.

Bill Withers: Making Music

BILL WITHERS: MAKING MUSIC (1975)

1) I Wish You Well; 2) The Best You Can; 3) Make Love To Your Mind; 4) I Love You Dawn; 5) She's Lonely; 6) Sometimes A Song; 7) Paint Your Pretty Picture; 8) Family Table; 9) Don't You Want To Stay; 10) Hello Like Before.

So Sussex Records eventually folded, and Bill found himself in the arms of Columbia. Without some serious digging, it is hard to understand whether this very fact led to a change in sound or if, as usual, it was all just part of the global trend to adapt or survive. The fact is, Making Music is an album that is even more smooth, slick, glossed-out than +'Justments, and, consequently, is easier to categorize as a «typical mid-Seventies R&B album», which is not really what Bill Wi­thers was about in the first place. Some of the songs are still in the orchestrated folk-pop ballpark, but they are getting uncomfortably sentimental and sappy — alcoholics, jealous lovers, and pro­digal fathers are more or less out of the picture, replaced by romantics, moody lovers, and grate­ful descendants. We have an all-too-happy Bill Withers here, and that doesn't spell good.

The songs are still mostly enjoyable — the problem is that they draw much of their strength from being too repetitive. The slow, lazy funk groove of ʽMake Love To Your Mindʼ, combining wah-wah guitar, «cool» bubbly synthesizers, and proto-disco strings, is really all about making us enjoy and wallow in the awesomeness of the basic message: "before I make love to your body / I wanna make love to your mind", a refrain repeated so frequently that you are almost tempted to look for some extra depth in it. But there's no particular depth, just a quirky turn of phrase that Bill thought useful and attractive. It is, but not for six minutes.

There is nothing wrong as such with the lush pastoral ballad ʽPaint Your Pretty Pictureʼ, either, but exactly how many times do we need to hear that the protagonist is going to "paint your pretty picture with a song"? By the fourth minute, the repetition begins to border on parody, and there's still two more to go. Same applies to ʽShe's Lonelyʼ, a song that could be described as «anti-feminist»: "what she's doin' does some good", Bill admits, "but she lonely, but she lonely, she lonely, but she lonely". Would it have hurt to work on that chorus a little more? Because the song is really good — just way too repetitive.

The biggest departure from the old sound is on ʽFamily Tableʼ, a song with a nostalgic message taken from the same box as ʽGrandma's Handsʼ (but much flatter, lyrics-wise) but a melody that pushes Withers very close to disco, if not melodically, then at least in terms of all-out-danceable atmosphere. Again, it's not a bad tune at all — catchy, fun, probably still quite sincere — but to say that it downplays Bill's talents would be an understatement, since, other than the catchy vocal hook in the chorus, it leaves no space for any talent whatsoever.

Closest thing to a «classic» here would probably be ʽSometimes A Songʼ, which delivers the leanest, meanest groove on the album — I don't know whether the bass player is James Jamerson or Louis Johnson, since they are both credited in the notes, but whoever it is, thanks for that killer rockin' bass line that adds gruff seriousness to Bill's message. If Bill does not convince you that a good song is a real bitch, that bass line will. Of course, it is also a song that could have been written by anybody — from Curtis Mayfield to Isaac Hayes to even Billy Preston — but by 1975, it was clear that Bill had nothing against «streamlining» his musicmaking, and this here is sort of a cut-off point beyond which only serious lovers of solid, but «faceless» R&B are welcome, not those who welcome unique manners of artistic self-expression. At the very least, an album like Making Music should never serve as your introduction to Bill Withers, since there is very little Bill Withers here to introduce.

Bill Withers: +'Justments

BILL WITHERS: +'JUSTMENTS (1974)

1) You; 2) The Same Love That Made Me Laugh; 3) Stories; 4) Green Grass; 5) Ruby Lee; 6) Heartbreak Road; 7) Can We Pretend; 8) Liza; 9) Make A Smile For Me; 10) Railroad Man.

By the time Bill got around to recording his third studio LP, it seems like his sudden burst of popularity went to his head a little bit — the album shows much more «self-importance» than its predecessors, starting from the incomprehensibly scribbled sermon on the front cover ("life, like most precious gifts, gives us the responsibility of upkeep..."), and ending with the songs them­selves: ʽYouʼ, the five minute long soft-funk opener, is one continuous preachy rant that does not even begin to bother with the issue of a chorus.

Of course, Bill Withers is an insightful individual and an above-ordinary lyricist, so that his prea­ching as such never gets irritating, and sometimes you even get caught up in it — ʽYouʼ, in fact, should be counted among the angriest, most sharp-tongued AAPs (Anonymous Antagonist Put­downs) in the history of popular music this side of ʽPositively 4th Streetʼ. ("You're like a man loving Jesus / That says he can't stand the Jew" is just one of the many spikes). But even so, prea­ching is sort of a universal business, and Bill's idea to try and re-route his music in the direction of «lessons in morality» goes against his individual gift — musical, lyrical, and theatrical imper­sonation of the psychologically imbalanced person.

The main problem with the two lengthy «epics» that bookmark the album (ʽYouʼ and ʽRailroad Manʼ, the latter featuring José Feliciano on congas and, as it often happens in songs about trains and railroads, nostalgizing about Bill's childhood) is that their length is not backed up by musical dynamics — it is more or less exactly the same funky groove from beginning to end, restrained and repetitive. And at least ʽYouʼ bothers to come up with enough fire-and-brimstone lyrics to pull it through, but with ʽRailroad Manʼ, Bill just repeats the same lyrics twice, as if they really really mattered or as if they did not matter at all, and we were just supposed to get in the groove and carry on for six minutes. But it ain't that cool a groove, even if Feliciano can indeed bang some mean congas.

Fortunately, there are still some very good songs in between. ʽThe Same Love That Made Me Laughʼ is a catchy dance number that successfully combines proto-disco toe-tappiness with Bill's melancholic attitudes (unfortunately, its release as the album's lead single pretty much confined Bill back to the R&B chart section). ʽStoriesʼ is a beautiful piano ballad with the album's finest vocal delivery (the «airplane lift-off» modulation on Bill's voice does make it soar, and blends in brilliantly with the otherwise corny harps and strings). ʽRuby Leeʼ may not be a masterpiece in all of its ingredients, but its «insinuating» bassline is easily the single greatest bassline that Melvin Dunlap came up with (and Bill made the just decision to reward him with a songwriting co-credit for it). And ʽHeartbreak Roadʼ is... well, sort of fun to tap your foot and clap your hands to. Nice, if a little silly-sounding, keyboard accompaniment.

So, on the whole, it wouldn't be at all bad if Bill himself didn't sound disinterested and rather «ordinary» much of the time — especially on Side B, much of which is given over to sentimental ballads and generic preachiness that cannot be fully redeemed even with a lead acoustic guitar part from Feliciano (ʽCan We Pretendʼ). And a song like ʽLizaʼ, a hyper-tender ode from "a worldly old uncle" to "a very innocent young niece", will probably have to wait until you are just in the right mood for it — its potential «gorgeousness» stems mainly from the vocal and key­board tone rather from any jaw-dropping melodic moves, and not all of us are always on the ready for that kind of tone to make us swoon and fall over. Whatever be the case, it'd be best to wait until you have a very innocent young niece.

Criticisms aside, +'Justments does earn its thumbs up, but remember: if, like myself, you loved the first two albums for their unique attitude, you will most probably find that the attitude has changed, and that this post-Carnegie Hall edition of Bill Withers, modified by success, public attention, and simply the passing of time, is not nearly as unique as it used to be. However, the «base mix» of R&B groove with singer-songwriter atmosphere is still very much in place, so, in a way, you could say all that's really lacking is that tasty cherry on top.

Bill Withers: Live At Carnegie Hall

BILL WITHERS: LIVE AT CARNEGIE HALL (1973)

1) Use Me; 2) Friend Of Mine; 3) Ain't No Sunshine; 4) Grandma's Hands; 5) World Keeps Going Around; 6) Let Me In Your Life; 7) Better Off Dead; 8) For My Friend; 9) I Can't Write Left-Handed; 10) Lean On Me; 11) Lonely Town, Lonely Street; 12) Hope She'll Be Happier; 13) Let Us Love; 14) Harlem / Cold Baloney.

Well, apparently it does not take that much practice to get to Carnegie Hall — the bare minimum is to have yourself a No. 1 single with clap-along potential. Not that Bill Withers did not deserve a show at Carnegie Hall on October 6, 1972, or a live double album memorizing the event, but it is a little ironic how quickly he got there, especially keeping in mind that his two first albums easily convey the impression of an introvert loner, hardly fit for the large stage at all.

I must say that the concert performance, despite actually having happened, does not dispel that impression. Like a typical R&B show, it incorporates some lengthy groove-based workouts: ʽUse Meʼ, opening the proceedings, is stretched out from its original length to around eight minutes (could have been shorter, but Bill does a second re-run of the jam section at the crowd's request), and ʽHarlemʼ, closing the show, runs for about thirteen minutes, mutating into another funky jam, sarcastically titled ʽCold Baloneyʼ.

In a way, it is cold baloney: Bill's backing band is no James Brown Orchestra or Parliament, and Bill himself is not much of a crowd stimulant — he can cer­tainly lead the audience in an R&B ritual, entrancing them with a couple looped lines from ʽShake 'Em On Downʼ, but his talents in that sphere are nothing out of the ordinary; it's more like he is engaging in a genre-obliging con­vention here. In fact, even the main groove of ʽUse Meʼ, converted from clavinet to guitar, seems a bit limp and toothless when compared to the studio original. The audience, still under the fresh spell of the song, did not seem to mind, but in retrospect, I am not sure whether anybody would want to trade in the studio version for the live run.

The show's greatness certainly lies elsewhere — in between the obligatory dance-oriented book­marks, the material is gradually unwrapping like a multi-angled portrait of Bill Withers, «the thinking man's R&B artist» and an all-around interesting person. First, there's some incredibly cool stage banter, probably some of the best you'll ever get on a live R&B album, ranging from innocent, but funny jokes concerning members of the band ("on bass, we got cool Melvin Dun­lap... Melvin's so quiet, he said eight words last year, and six of those were 'airport'...") to fabu­lously worded accounts of his past, such as the one that introduces ʽGrandma's Handsʼ and, to­gether with the song itself, should now probably count as the coolest eulogy that anybody ever gave to his grannie in show business. Bill's feelings towards the ladies (ʽLet Me In Your Lifeʼ) and the Vietnam War (ʽI Can't Write Left-Handedʼ) are also made known in a manner that is sensitive, intelligent, and reasonably funny at the same time (well, «funny» in case of the ladies, that is, not the Vietnam War).

But, of course, the banter is still only secondary next to the songs themselves: we have faithful renditions of lots of classics, not particularly different from the studio versions but sung with the same combination of abandon, introspection, and technique (the extended "she's gone" bit at the end of ʽHope She'll Be Happier With Himʼ draws excited audience applause, as does the "I know I know..." trick on ʽAin't No Sunshineʼ), and then, most importantly, there is a bunch of new songs here that never made it onto any official studio LP. Of these, ʽWorld Keeps Going Aroundʼ is a dark confessional, sort of a personal exorcism set to a bubbling mid-tempo funk groove; ʽFor My Friendʼ is equally shivery, foreboding blues-rock with a particularly gloomy bassline and a wah-wah lead croaking in the darkness (a bit of an unsettling background for a tune that allegedly deals with the issue of making up among friends — unless the friend in question is Satan himself, of course); and the already mentioned ʽI Can't Write Left-Handedʼ is a repetitive, but haunting groove, supported by the band's collective graveyard harmonies. Subtle and moving tribute to the dead, with one leg in the old Afro-American tradition and the other one well in the present.

There is no evident reason for us to call this one of the greatest live albums of the decade: Bill's band is competent, but restrained (which is probably due more to the bandleader's conscious will than to lack of experience, since most of the members were professionals, recruited from the wreck of the Watts 103rd Street Rhythm Band), the songs are mostly not «reinvented» live, and Bill's commitment to the performance is pretty much at the same high (but not «hyper-high») level in the studio and in the live hall. But the general atmosphere of the event, which cannot really be described in words, makes the experience as a whole very rewarding; there is a certain naturalness and completeness to Bill Withers here, in this long setting, that could be missed on the much shorter studio records.

My only gripe is that the long jam sections should have probably been sacrificed to make way for better songs (so much great stuff on Still Bill that is not featured here!) — I under­stand the decision to frame the «Bill Withers soliloquoy» with a few numbers that make the listener feel as one with the performer, it's just that this guy here is one performer who has a far better chance to get under your skin when he is singing dark odes to loneliness to the solitary sound of an acoustic guitar than when he gets you to clap his hands and stomp your feet along with the band. Oh well, standard laws of the world of entertainment, and, after all, Bill was never a self-conscious «rebel» against the laws, which only emphasizes his humbleness. Thumbs up.

Bill Withers: Still Bill

BILL WITHERS: STILL BILL (1972)

1) Lonely Town, Lonely Street; 2) Let Me In Your Life; 3) Who Is He (And What Is He To You)?; 4) Use Me; 5) Lean On Me; 6) Kissin' My Love; 7) I Don't Know; 8) Another Day To Run; 9) I Don't Want You On My Mind; 10) Take It All In And Check It All Out.

More than anything, Bill's second album clearly demonstrated that the man's success was not a fluke one — and I certainly do not intend to prove that by adducing the example of ʽLean On Meʼ, which went on to become Bill's greatest commercial hit and probably the song that is most com­monly associated with the man due to ferocious radio rotation, innumerable cover versions, and other what-not. The funniest thing about it is that ʽLean On Meʼ, honestly good soul number as it is, is completely atypical of the album and of Bill's classic artistic personality as a whole. It is a well thought out, understandably manipulative musical remedy, uplifting and not uninteresting from a compositional point of view (especially in how it sews together its personal-sentimental and clap-your-hands-together-anthemic sections) — but there are no other songs like this on the album, and if there were, well, frankly speaking, they would completely eliminate the very reason for Bill Withers' existence. I mean, if you want uplifting gospel-rock, you have just about every­one from the Spinners to Earth, Wind & Fire to Aretha. Come on now.

What is really fascinating about the record is that, even with the near-complete removal of star power (this time, the album was recorded and produced by a bunch of relative unknowns), it still sounds fabulous and is full to the brim of perfectly written and convincingly played out little mu­sical «character studies». Still Bill is a perfect title, since Withers usually impersonates the same type of character here — an unbearably sensitive, touchy, jealous, paranoid, sarcastic guy who would love to enjoy life but feels like it's too much of a bitch to let him enjoy it. His philosophy is perfectly summarized in the first lines of ʽAnother Day To Runʼ: "If you don't look into your mind / And find out what you're running from / Tomorrow might just be another day to run". And he follows that philosophy to a tee — most of the album involves prying into his own mind and trying to find out what it is that he's running from.

Paranoia as the ruling force of the record is immediately established in the very first notes — when the acoustic rhythm, the electric lead, and the funky bass guitar all play the same «shaky» syncopated melody to stress the idea of uncertainty and insecurity. The Bee Gees, too, would later have a song about «Big City Stress» opening an album that praised the glamorous rhythms of the big city, but the difference is that people could enjoy the glam of Bee Gees' disco without smelling its dangerous underside, whereas Withers, writing songs that you can dance to, puts that underside up front — lyrically, musically, vocally ʽLonely Town, Lonely Streetʼ is a blinking warning, a groove that pulsates with nervous tension of the ʽGimme Shelterʼ variety.

Then there are some nifty tunes about jealousy and separation. ʽWho Is He (And What Is He To You)?ʼ is a small masterpiece of unresolved suspense, matching its threatening bass and lead lines to fit Bill's reserved, but on-the-brink vocal delivery, and the lyrics may just be the very best discrete psychological description of a jealous lover, peppered with classy lines like "you're too much for one man, but not enough for two". ʽUse Meʼ (which was the second single and was far more representative of the album's sound than ʽLean On Meʼ) is driven by a Stevie Wonder-wor­thy clavinet riff that «grumbles» its way through just like Bill himself grumbles about how "all you do is use me" — before admitting, grudgingly, that he doesn't mind.

Eventually, though, the lovers do separate, and then we have ʽI Don't Want You On My Mindʼ, trotting along at a mind-numbing tempo and punctuated by «ugly» wah-wah wails, illustrating brain pulsations: he doesn't want you on his mind all the time, but, of course, this is exactly what he has on his mind all the time. The song proper ends at around the three minute mark, but is then followed with a coda that could illustrate the painful process of trying to clear out the protago­nist's mind — unfortunately, it fades out too quickly to let us know how successful he was.

There is a bunch of more conventional songs here as well (the rather syrupy ballad ʽLet Me In Your Lifeʼ; the somewhat-too-happy funk-pop number ʽKissin' My Loveʼ), but they are not with­out their own hooks, either, and, ultimately, as much as I hate these «whole world is silly» rants, in this case I do feel like ʽLean On Meʼ is the weakest song on the album, and if it happens to be the only thing you know about Bill Withers, be sure not to jump to conclusions — that would be a bit like judging the Beatles on the strength of ʽYesterdayʼ (certainly not a «weak» song, but just imagine a "oh, so that's what those Beatles sound like" kind of reaction!). Instead, just get the whole album and brace yourself for Mr. Withers' fascinating world of wit, pain, and psycholo­gism on the dangerous edge of insanity. One more thumbs up like this and you'd really start to wonder how many girlfriends this individual has buried in his backyard.

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Bill Withers: Just As I Am

BILL WITHERS: JUST AS I AM (1971)

1) Harlem; 2) Ain't No Sunshine; 3) Grandma's Hands; 4) Sweet Wanomi; 5) Everybody's Talkin'; 6) Do It Good; 7) Hope She'll Be Happier; 8) Let It Be; 9) I'm Her Daddy; 10) In My Heart; 11) Moanin' And Groanin'; 12) Better Off Dead.

There has certainly been many a strange album recorded in 1970-71, as idealistic psychedelia be­gan losing ground to musical psychotherapy, but the official debut of Bill Withers definitely de­serves a special place of its own. He was certainly not the first performer to combine aspects of the post-Dylan «singer-songwriter» approach with the foundations of soul and R&B, but he may have been the first black artist to try it out on such a consistent basis — generating a sound and a feel that you cannot get from any other artist, black or white, circa 1971. The title of the album it­self seems almost ironic in that light: Just As I Am? It actually takes quite a while to figure out just as what exactly the man is, and even then, it's hard to be sure.

Unlike typical R&B performers, Bill Withers materialized out of nowhere — rather than being spotted in some local church or club and put through a period of grooming, he just sent in some demo tapes to L.A.-based Sussex Records; the label owner Clarence Avant liked what he heard, signed Withers to a contract, and assigned no less than Booker T. Jones himself to produce the man's first album. (Yes, boys and girls, it used to be that easy, provided you had real talent to burn and a proper place to turn it up). More than that — on his debut album, Withers is accom­panied by Jim Keltner on drums, Chris Ethridge (of the Flying Burrito Brothers) on bass, and Stephen Stills on electric guitar. Any other debutant could have pissed his pants from utter hap­piness right there in the studio — but one single listen to Just As I Am will suffice to understand that Bill Withers is as far from a potential pants-pisser as can be.

Most encyclopaedias and online review sites tag Just As I Am as a «soul» or «R&B» album, just because it had some members of Booker T. & The MGs playing on it, and was sung by a black performer, and we all know black people used to sing «soul» or «R&B» before they all turned to rap and other crap. In reality, this is ridiculous: Just As I Am is a dark, seriously disturbing and disturbed singer-songwriter album that mixes some elements of traditional soul and R&B (and blues, and jazz) with the «whitebread» folk-rock scene of the time — in fact, it is more James Taylor than Al Green, I'd say, but way, way bleaker than both. In fact, if we were to believe that the album title tells the truth, we probably wouldn't want to mess around with the guy. The album ends with the sound of a gunshot, for Christ's sake!

Most of the time, however, the album simply resonates with tension, never coming to the brink of a genuine explosion. ʽHarlemʼ initiates us into the world of Bill Withers with a swinging, dan­ceable rhythm, and lines like "Saturday night in Harlem / Ev'rything's alright / You can really swang and shake your pretty thang / The parties are out of sight" would suggest that we are invi­ted to have fun — but the dark bass groove and almost threatening strings, gradually rising up and gaining in shrillness, insist that the party is rigged, and then there's the counterpoint: "It's too hot to sleep / And I'm too broke to eat / I don't care if I die or not". Immediately, it is made clear that we are not to be entertained — that the performer's vision of Harlem and everything that goes with it is certainly not encumbered by rose-colored glasses.

From there on, song after song deals with the little horrors of life — loneliness (ʽAin't No Sun­shineʼ), nostalgia for dead relatives (ʽGrandma's Handsʼ), losing your loved one to another (ʽHope She'll Be Happierʼ), and losing a battle with alcohol (ʽBetter Off Deadʼ — the idea of shooting oneself in a bout of alcoholism would later be explored by Alice Cooper on ʽPass The Gun Aroundʼ to a more dramatic, but less subtle and suggestive effect). Every now and then the atmosphere is a bit alleviated with the joys of a healthy sex life (ʽSweet Wanomiʼ, ʽMoanin' And Groanin'ʼ), but when romance is rather seen as temporary salvation from a life full of misery and self-inflicted stupidity, maybe «healthy» is not quite the right word to use.

Creepiest of the lot is ʽI'm Her Daddyʼ, a gloomy, threatening blues-rock number whose lyrics may look innocent on paper — a father demanding to see his six-year old daughter of whose exis­tence he was only recently informed — but sound nearly psychopathic on record, even though Bill himself resorts to screaming only occasionally, preferring to impersonate the neurotic father as quietly as possible, to convey an even more disturbing image. Not grief, not remorse, and ob­viously not happiness — this is a «give-me-back-my-daughter-you-bitch-or-face-the-consequen­ces» type of rant, stunningly realistic and just a tad shivery.

On the other hand, as long as the protagonist is not high and does not present an immediate threat to society, he is prone to acute fits of murderous loneliness — ʽAin't No Sunshineʼ, which be­came Bill's first major hit and went on to be covered by lots of people, tells it like it means it, in a brief series of four-line verses, each line pinching sharp and painful. One of the verses did not work out at first and was temporarily filled by Bill with a series of "I know, I know, I know..." that he was later convinced to keep — this must be a technical record of sorts (how many "I know"s can one fit within one breath?), but it also works very well emotionally within the song. For that matter, Bill is a fantastic singer — check out the way he drawls out "she's gone" on ʽHope She'll Be Happierʼ without a single wrong fluctuation in the airwave.

Strangely, the only relative «misfires» on this weird, haunting album are two cover versions, neither of which is particularly bad, yet they just do not seem to fit. Well, ʽEverybody's Talkin'ʼ could fit thematically, but in the process of reinventing it, Bill somehow flushes out the sad-and-tired mood of the original; and the gospel-style, clap-your-hands-together rewrite of ʽLet It Beʼ can only be qualified as sheer filler. There ain't no talk about finding inner peace, like the song suggests, on this album — ʽLet It Beʼ and ʽAin't No Sunshineʼ are mutually exclusive, not to mention ʽBetter Off Deadʼ which is sort of an anti-ʽLet It Beʼ if there ever was one. It's almost as if they told him, "hey, we won't release the record unless there's a McCartney number on it", and he went, "oh yeah? I'll show you McCartney!" — and recorded this quasi-parodic deconstruction that replaces solemnity with stupid forced cheerfulness.

Everything else rules, and is as far removed from «formulaic» soul records of the period as pos­sible; if anything, Just As I Am belongs on the same shelf as John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band and Joni Mitchell's Blue and all those other singer-songwriters' confessionals, even if the lyrics are relatively straightforward in comparison — but when it comes to psychological layers, there is comparable depth in here, sadly, not often mentioned in reviews of the album, which prefer dwelling on formal aspects (such as the subtle textures of Stephen Stills' electric guitar, which are important to the album's sound — in fact, I could easily see some of these songs covered by Stills on an auspicious day — but are hardly at the very heart of it). Major thumbs up.

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