The Black Crowes: Croweology

THE BLACK CROWES: CROWEOLOGY (2010)

1) Jealous Again; 2) Share The Ride; 3) Remedy; 4) Non-Fiction; 5) Hotel Illness; 6) Soul Singing; 7) Ballad In Urgency; 8) Wiser Time; 9) Cold Boy Smile; 10) Under A Mountain; 11) She Talks To Angels; 12) Morning Song; 13) Downtown Money Waster; 14) Good Friday; 15) Thorn In My Pride; 16) Welcome To The Good Times; 17) Girl From A Pawnshop; 18) Sister Luck; 19) She; 20) Bad Luck Blue Eyes Goodbye.

With an album title like that, I should have known better — but noooo, I just had to sit down and subject myself to it, out of professional-amateurish courtesy. Twice. Those four hours of my life I am never getting back, and since it is not highly likely that any of the Robinson brothers are offering me an apology any time soon (well, it's not like I bought the record or anything), please excuse me if the following several paragraphs sound rather bitter.

First, the objective facts. Croweology is the name of an album by The Black Crowes, spread over two CDs and, with the exception of one cover (ʽSheʼ from Gram Parsons' G. P.), featuring re-recordings of their older songs, mainly in «unplugged» acoustic versions, although some electric lead parts are occasionally present. All the tracks seem to have been produced «live in the studio», with a bit of audience participation at times (at least, there are a couple of small bursts of scat­tered applause on the first disc), but formally, the album is not «live» as such. And the track list concen­trates most heavily on the 1990-96 period, with only 2-3 tracks from later times and nothing at all from the Warpaint/Before The Frost era.

This segregation and reinvention brings a certain conceptual purpose to Croweology — seeing as how the band is now «mature» and «wisened up» and has been goin' up the country for several years with the speed of a groundhog fleeing from a tractor, it is only logical that they would de­cide to bring their old material «up to date». How do you make your peace with the world of corn fields and grass meadows and go on being ʽJealous Againʼ and needing your ʽRemedyʼ at the same time? You just dump the distortion and the loud bashing drums and you start looking for a way that would preserve the spirit and the energy of the original but would also introduce more subtlety and nuance into the performance. You begin rocking out in humble style. I mean, if Keith Richards in his prime could rock out with acoustic riffs, why not The Black Crowes in their mature, respectable years?

As clearly as (I think) I understand the purpose, its realisation predictably leaves a lot to be desired. Most of these songs weren't that good in the first place, and most of the changes intro­duced to convert them to this acoustic setting are in no hurry to make them any better. In brief, if you are already a fan, there is some chance that you will enjoy these reinventions, but if you «tolerated» rather than «enjoyed» the originals, you are most likely going to hate, hate, hate the way they handled them here. And that is concerning the rockers — when they start doing ballads, and they insist on dragging them out to seven, eight, nine-minute length, you'll be climbing up the frickin' walls, begging for mercy.

Yes, if you waste enough time on this, eventually you will begin noticing the little things they do here and there (like, for instance, making ʽGood Fridayʼ sound totally like Pink Floyd's ʽBreatheʼ in the intro part), and maybe even getting impressed by then. But why should you? Why should anybody? There is so much implicit pathetic self-aggrandizing on Croweology that it actually makes me sick. For some reason, it's as if these guys have ceremonially anointed themselves «the keepers of the flame», and each and every one of these tracks is even more self-consciously per­formed in the «All Hail The Grand Old Southern Rock Tradition Whose High Priests Are We» than their original versions. Not a shred of the slightly naughty, slightly ironic irreverence here that used to characterize even Lynyrd Skynyrd at their peak, let alone any of the better roots-rock bands out there. Not the tiniest modicum of a sense of humor.

If, for some reason, this happens to be the last of the band's studio LPs — a possibility, since they have not gone back into the studio in between 2010 and 2013, and have once again gone on hiatus since that period — fans will probably be pleased to treasure it as a nostalgic recapitulation or a musical testament. But to these skeptical ears, it is just one more unpleasant reminder of why The Black Crowes, at their very best, were only a «passable» band, and at their very worst, were so dreadfully boring and annoying that I'd rather listen to MTV-era Aerosmith instead: I mean, power ballads like ʽCryin'ʼ and ʽCrazyʼ are compositionally no worse than ʽShe Talks To Angelsʼ or ʽBad Luck Blue Eyesʼ, and their humble goal of describing Steve Tyler's unsatiable sex drive for hot young chicks, including his own daughter, is quite forgivable next to the unjustifiedly bloated spiritual ambitions of the Crowes. Maybe they just had the misfortune of being born into this world ten or fifteen years later than they should have, missing the right wave. Maybe. But that doesn't mean we have to go on listening to them out of chronological mercy, or that I would have to shift my thumbs down rating for this album to anything better just because this is the sound of a veteran professional band using — think of that! — acoustic guitars all the way.

The Black Crowes: Before The Frost... Until The Freeze

THE BLACK CROWES: BEFORE THE FROST... UNTIL THE FREEZE (2009)

CD I: 1) Good Morning Captain; 2) Been A Long Time; 3) Appaloosa; 4) A Train Still Makes A Lonely Sound; 5) I Ain't Hiding; 6) Kept My Soul; 7) What Is Home; 8) Houston Don't Dream About Me; 9) Make Glad; 10) And The Band Played On; 11) Last Place That Love Lives;

CD II: 1) Aimless Peacock; 2) Shady Grove; 3) Garden Gate; 4) Greenhorn; 5) Shine Along; 6) Roll Old Jeremiah; 7) Lady Of Avenue A; 8) So Many Times; 9) Fork In The River.

This is where the band's «maturity» starts overflowing, as they grow themselves more roots than a five hundred year old oak tree, and you can almost smell the overpowering scent of freshly turned earth and steaming piles of dung on the ground. These twenty new songs weren't just put down anyway, anyhow, anywhere — all of them were recorded honest-to-goodness live before a small, but attentively respectful audience at «The Barn», Levon Helm's personal studio in Wood­stock, NY, the next best thing to The Basement, I guess.

Supposedly the band wrote so many new songs for this happy event that they were afraid to let go of all of them at once — the original album, Before The Frost, only contained the first 11, while the remaining 9 were made available separately as Until The Freeze, a free download from the band's website provided you bought the CD and had your personal access code. They could actually count as two different albums for stylistic reasons — the former is rowdier and more elec­tric, the second one is a little hillbillier and more acoustic — but they do form a conceptual unity, after all, so it probably makes more sense to discuss the whole package in one go.

Which is a bit intimidating — so many songs, for one thing, and for another, the album is a tougher nut to crack than Warpaint. Warpaint was just derivative boring. Before The Frost, on first sight, goes in the same direction — simply with more sprawl, spreading those proverbial roots across a larger chunk of territory. The principal criticism stays the same: the band may have mastered very well the standard lingo of «roots-rock», but whether they have added to that lingo, let alone started their own dialect of it, is quite debatable. However, on their respective individual levels the songs seem a little stronger, and, more importantly, less predictable.

What I mean is, we'd never dream of being pleasantly surprised by a disco song on any «classic» Crowes album — but a sudden encounter with ʽI Ain't Hidingʼ, with its sci-fi keyboards, funky guitars, and hopping bass, here turns out to be a revelation: a damn clever synthesis of blues-rock with old-fashioned disco, not to mention the daring nature of the move in general — accept disco as an integral, if peripheral, part of «Americana». Another surprising and effective attempt at synthesis comes near the end of the first album, as ʽAnd The Band Played Onʼ effortlessly veers between Britpoppy music hall ("let's all gather round the grand piano...") and slide-based country-blues, as the Robinsons celebrate a «homecoming» — well, I suppose the entire album is really just one big celebration.

Big, bombastic rock and roll makes a welcome return on ʽBeen A Long Timeʼ, with those thick, juicy riffs we hadn't heard in a long time, and with a long coda that gives all the soloists plenty of opportunities to stretch out and flex those playing muscles — the bad news is, that's just one track out of twenty, and on the whole, there is no indication whatsoever that The Crowes are still willing to rock out on a consistent basis. A couple others, like ʽGood Morning Captainʼ and ʽMake Gladʼ, are loud enough, but are either too slow or too shapeless to count as legitimate «rockers» — in fact, ʽCaptainʼ is more like a very conscious attempt to suck up to Levon Helm and write a bona fide Band imitation. I could easily picture the late Levon singing it himself, but the question is, would he want to? The melody is nowhere near the average level of Robbie Robertson's songwriting, and Chris Robinson is a very «bland» singer compared to Levon in his prime, even if it is not his fault that nature endowed him with such a dull singing tone.

Surprisingly, I must say that on the whole, I think that I got hit a little harder by the «hillbilly» part of the album — Until The Freeze has a higher percentage of memorable and emotional songs, such as ʽRoll On Jeremiahʼ (friendly-sad country-western travelog with a beautiful duet between piano and slide guitar), ʽLady Of Avenue Aʼ (a nod to James Taylor-era folk-pop with a convincing bitterness to Chris' delivery, even if some of the chords bring on unnecessary associ­ations with ʽDisney Girlsʼ), and, most importantly, ʽAimless Peacockʼ — another of these crazy syntheses, sort of a psychedelic country romp, with harmonica and fiddle on one side and sitar and Eastern vocal harmonies on the other, as the band spends almost seven minutes in a cloudy haze. No discernible melody to speak of, but a distinctly unusual sound combination that works, particularly if you are in a hazy mood yourself and want to align yourself better with the world around you. Experimentation has never hurt the Crowes, no really.

Yet at the same time, I cannot join in the happy chorus of people who not only think that this is a big improvement over Warpaint, but even that it is a downright late-period masterpiece, and opens up a whole new world before the band and their fans. For every good song and for every interesting idea here, there are at least two mediocre bores, completely devoid of original ideas. But then again, how could it be any different? Rock bands are not supposed to reach enlighten­ment and release their hitherto hidden genius after twenty years of existence. I wouldn't altoge­ther discount the possibility of a miracle, but there ain't no miracle here — just a big pile of diligently performed homework, and a few technical inventions to alleviate the charges.

I am almost tempted to give the album a thumbs up for its sheer scope, out of respect for all the good work, but only its second part really gives a bit of a taste of the «salt of the earth», and why should I be recommending a record that I do not properly enjoy, nor am I finding any serious intrigue in it? As far as contemporary roots-rock goes, I suppose you won't find many records better than Before The Frost — but then again, you probably won't find many contemporary good roots-rock records, period, what with 21st century people either not giving a damn about «roots» in the first place or not being able to find a proper way to access them, so that ain't much of an argument. And as far as the songs on here being, well, just good songs — take a good listen to Wilco's Being There instead. Now that was an album of good songs, period, cutting deep and hard. The Crowes here merely brush across the surface. 

The Black Crowes: Warpaint Live

THE BLACK CROWES: WARPAINT LIVE (2009)

1) Goodbye Daughters Of The Revolution; 2) Walk Believer Walk; 3) Oh Josephine; 4) Evergreen; 5) We Who See The Deep; 6) Locust Street; 7) Movin' On Down The Line; 8) Wounded Bird; 9) God's Got It; 10) There's Gold In Them Hills; 11) Whoa Mule; 12) Poor Elijah – Tribute To Johnson; 13) Darling Of The Underground Press; 14) Bad Luck Blue Eyes Goodbye; 15) Don't Know Why; 16) Torn And Frayed; 17) Hey Grandma.

Oh, this is just too good to be true. But it is true — so, what is the next logical move once you have just released the worst (okay, one of the worst) albums in your career, passing it off as a «mature» product? Why, simple: release a live version of it — performed in its entirety. I mean, I could at least understand it if they did this trick for Shake Your Moneymaker or Southern Har­mony: at least those albums have had enough time to pass into some sort of legend. But War­paint, really? Has it instantaneously become such a «modern classic» that the world would say a big thank you to a second version?

So apparently, the Crowes had some kind of deal with Eagle Rock Entertainment, one of the big­gest rock video labels out there, to provide a concert recording for them — and, apparently, the idea was that, since they already had several live albums out, this one was to be in some way «special». Maybe they all bought the critical hype, or maybe they just thought that this additional promotion would help sell a few extra copies of the real Warpaint — whatever. The sore reality is that there is this extra live package now, DVD and CD versions of it, and, apparently, it begs for its own, independent, unbiased, and open-minded assessment.

Ultimately, I guess, it is impossible to make a bad thing good, but it is possible to make it a little more tolerable, and from that point of view, if I ever had to, in the future, I would prefer listening to Warpaint Live than to Warpaint Dead. The brothers add on a little grit in these performances, putting a tad more distortion on the line, and occasionally extending the songs to include longer and ever more fluent solos from Luther Dickinson — for instance, he goes completely roman­tically berserk on the slide guitar at the end of ʽMovin' On Down The Lineʼ, where his wild runs proudly stand competition with Derek Trucks. The overall sound of Warpaint was good — the overall sound of it played live is, in fact, even better. But there is nothing to be done about the songs. At heart, they were boring, and they still stay boring. Nothing to do with that.

It gets better and worse, though, on the second disc. Better — because, as a large appended bonus, the Crowes end their performance with a bunch of covers by famous «roots rock» artists, such as Clapton in his «Delaney & Bonnie» period of 1970 (ʽPoor Elijahʼ and ʽDon't Know Whyʼ), the Stones in their Exile period (ʽTorn And Frayedʼ), and Moby Grape (ʽHey Grandmaʼ). They still sneak in a couple of their own songs (including a really long, really tedious version of ʽBad Luck Blue Eyes Goodbyeʼ), but overall it's like a respectful celebration of past glories — and this is also what makes it a little offensive. It's as if they were saying, "Hey, all the great guys had their roots-rock phase, see? We too have one!" — which would be justified if they had at least one song as emotionally resonant as ʽTorn And Frayedʼ, which is not the case. They do a good enough job on the covers, and Dickinson once again goes into full-out astral mode on the slide at the end of the Stones' song, playing things of such complexity that Mick Taylor would not have been able to reproduce — except that ʽTorn And Frayedʼ is really all about the original vocals, and brother Chris' one-dimensional delivery totally fails to recapture or play upon the smiling irony of the Stones' approach.

In short, if you are a fan of the modern slide, do get this record for some totally stellar examples (it is a little uncanny, though, just how much this Dickinson dude and Derek Trucks sound alike, which begs for the question — do all these young guitar virtuosos tend to blend together or am I just being unnecessarily grumpy?). If you are a fan of Chris Robinson's beard, get the video — the camera loves it. And if you are a fan of neither, but are still reading this review, you're as crazy a reader as the reviewer is a writer. 

The Black Crowes: Warpaint

THE BLACK CROWES: WARPAINT (2008)

1) Goodbye Daughters Of The Revolution; 2) Walk Believer Walk; 3) Oh Josephine; 4) Evergreen; 5) We Who See The Deep; 6) Locust Street; 7) Movin' On Down The Line; 8) Wounded Bird; 9) God's Got It; 10) There's Gold In Them Hills; 11) Whoa Mule.

The internal construction of the word warpaint seems to suggest that when you put on this kind of paint, you are expected to go to war. Consequently, when you begin to play an album called Warpaint, you might expect to hear something that could be associated with war-like emotions. You know — aggression, bravado, ferociousness, that sort of thing. And even if you are not a big fan of The Black Crowes, you just know that they are a band well capable of all those emotions. And, in fact, once every few years or so they are even capable of hanging them on a powerful hook, which is where they are at their very best. It's not much, but it's something.

Alas, we have some bad news, folks. Warpaint is not a war-like album — it ain't even a proper rock'n'roll album. Instead, it's a big ol' full-o'-soul album of «Americana» — a melting pot of blues, country, and various forms of hillbilly music, played Black Crowes-style, but without the arrogant cockiness of old. Yes, it's been seven years since their previous studio experience — and in that time, the Robinson brothers have Discovered Wisdom. Now, instead of churning out over­loud headbang fodder, they offer you golden bales of hay straight from the meadows and fields — lying in one of which, with not a care in the world and a pair of headphones around your head, would probably be the perfect setting for enjoying an album like Warpaint. That is, if there actually were anything to enjoy.

The band had suffered further lineup changes along the way, so that by the time they came around to recording this, the newest members were relatively young musicians — children of the Seventies, younger than the Robinson brothers by about a decade: Adam MacDougall on key­boards and Luther Dickinson (of the North Mississippi Allstars) on guitar. Obviously, both are professionals, and the Robinsons went out of their way to praise Dickinson's skills to high hea­vens; problem is, to my ears he just sounds like a faithful disciple of the old school, doing his country-western schtick honestly, but without an ounce of inventiveness. Considering that brother Rich is also no great genius when it comes to composing guitar melodies, it is no big surprise that a large chunk of this album... well, perhaps it does not exactly sound like Garth Brooks, but it feels every bit as tedious and worthless as your average country-pop album.

Every chord sequence tried out here is tired and old. Every vocal melody begs for the single question — why am I wasting time on this? Is there at least one new emotional touch generated here, at least one fresh feeling, rather than just fifty minutes of recycled cud? Neil Young, Little Feat, Lynyrd Skynyrd, The Allmans, Emmylou Harris, The Band, Gram Parsons — is Warpaint adding anything worthwhile to that legacy? Am I supposed to worship at the sight of Chris Ro­binson's beard just because he's aged a little bit, calmed down a bit, found his peace with the world and drowned in earthy sentimentality — or, perhaps, should that require a little more effort in the songwriting department?

I guess that, from a certain point of view, Warpaint could invite comparisons with Exile On Main St.: it seems to trigger the same half-lazy, right-to-the-ways-of-the-world atmosphere. But the difference is that the Stones were actually recording their album on the brink of self-destruc­tion, and its music is permeated with that feeling. Warpaint, in comparison, plays it completely safe and sound. The Black Crowes, as pictured on this record, are a generally happy, healthy, self-sufficient band of individuals who know just what it takes to make the «right» music. "Let's take it easy to avoid any snags", states the opening song, called ʽGoodbye Daughters Of The Re­volutionʼ, and in between that line, that title, and the fact that the rhythm and lead lines of the song are all great in tone and poor in expression, this tells you all you should really know about the album, unless you need your everyday fill of bland Americana like a high fiber diet.

If you are looking for something that «rocks», you won't find a proper choice until track 9, ʽGod's Got Itʼ, and even that one is a fairly repetitive «Christian blues-rock» number (with a touch of irony, I hope), riding on boring muffled rhythm crunch and conventional slide licks. (For that matter, I think that Paul Stacey's production style is at least partially responsible for sucking the life out of these tracks — a different mix, bringing Dickinson's slide guitar higher up, might have somewhat improved the impression). If you are looking for a real soulful, broken-voiced, salt-of-the-earth ballad, check out ʽThere's Gold In Them Hillsʼ. It does not touch my soul one bit, but who knows, it might touch yours. I think it's all a bunch of unimaginative clichés, and I don't think Chris Robinson sounds too convincing when complaining that "all I have left is this grey in my beard" (not that that ain't much — have you seen the size of that beard?), but wasting time on looking for scientific proof of that is not a good idea, so let's just assume I may be wrong.

Anyway, three listens into the album, and nothing ever stuck, which is why I suppose that the songs on Warpaint are fairly worthless unless they are your first exposition to the world of dusty, age-sanctified roots-rock. Then again, I also suppose this is predictable — if The Black Crowes as a young band were third-rate imitators of kick-ass Stones/Aerosmith/Led Zeppelin, then why should The Black Crowes as an old band be anything but third-rate imitators of their rootsy pre­decessors? It all fits. No big surprise here, and a friendly, light-hearted thumbs down all the way down Chris Robinson's beard. 

The Black Crowes: Freak'n'Roll... Into The Fog

THE BLACK CROWES: FREAK 'N' ROLL... INTO THE FOG (2006)

1) (Only) Halfway To Everything; 2) Sting Me; 3) No Speak No Slave; 4) Soul Singing; 5) Welcome To The Good­times; 6) Jealous Again; 7) Space Captain; 8) My Morning Song; 9) Sunday Night Buttermilk Waltz; 10) Cursed Diamond; 11) She Talks To Angels; 12) Wiser Time; 13) Nonfiction; 14) Seeing Things; 15) Hard To Handle; 16) Let Me Share The Ride; 17) Mellow Down Easy; 18) Remedy; 19) The Night They Drove Ol' Dixie Down.

Two live albums in a row is usually either a sign of arrogant overkill or a sign of old age, but in this particular case the situation is different: the Crowes had pretty much fallen apart in 2001, with the Robinson brothers embarking on solo careers, and it took about half a decade for them to properly get back together, also bringing back Marc Ford on second guitar and founding member Steve Gorman on drums. To commemorate this most exciting reunion, a video and audio were released at the same time, capturing a complete performance from San Francisco's Fillmore audi­torium in 2005 — more than two hours of red-hot Crowes, and this is not actually counting several «official bootlegs» in the Instant Live series, also made available throughout 2005.

One thing I do have to say is that Freak'n'Roll is a significant improvement over Live in just about every aspect I can think of. First, stage banter is kept to a reasonable minimum, cutting down on both the platitudes and the lame jokes. Second, the setlist is more representative and less predictable, dragging out some forgotten highlights and including covers of classics such as ʽSpace Captainʼ and ʽThe Night They Drove Ol' Dixie Downʼ. Third, they bring in a brass section (The Left Coast Horns) to thicken the sound on some of the songs, and offer some rejuvenations and reincarnations — ʽCursed Diamondʼ, for instance, works a little better in an unplugged version than it used to (because the only thing worse than a slow, draggy, repetitive ballad is a slow, draggy, repetitive ballad drowned in sludge and distortion).

An obvious criticism of the performance would be the length of the songs — the average length of each track is around 7 minutes, with ʽMy Morning Songʼ taking the big prize (almost 14 minu­tes!) and ʽNonfictionʼ seconding it at the ten-minute mark. However, this extension is not com­pletely «empty»: the idea is indeed to add some «freakout» spirit to the proceedings, and so ʽNon­fictionʼ is transformed from a relatively simple country ballad into a trippy voyage, with psyche­delic guitars and keyboards leading the way and avantgarde jazz brass parts joining them halfway through. Maybe this is not as inspired as your average Grateful Dead show, but it is at least an attempt to capture a more elusive, less instantaneously obvious vibe, and it shows a new side to the comeback-Crowes that was not present (or, at least, not so evident) in their early career.

Other songs are extended mostly for the purpose of throwing in some extra solos and jamming around, but there is no crime in that. I cannot call the guitar duet between Rich and Marc at the end of ʽHard To Handleʼ particularly evocative or emotional, but yes, it is better than simply having them reproduce the original parts — they are trying to show that the Black Crowes can make history happen here and now, not simply repeat history, and even if that history is not all that exciting, I still applaud the decision to explore uncharted waters. ʽLet Me Share The Rideʼ extended with six extra minutes of jamming, as the Left Coast Horns add big-band jazz support to accompany the slide guitar madness? ʽSoul Singingʼ adorned with a huge wah-wah solo, turning its middle section into Hendrix-ey space-rock? None of that may be new for music listeners in 2006, but it is great to see a band as formerly limited as the Crowes to blindly push forward in all these directions, and sometimes, if not always, striking out the right sparks.

Even the cover versions fit the mood and are done with total understanding of the source material: of course, brother Chris could never outdo Joe Cocker with the "learning to live together..." bit from ʽSpace Captainʼ, but the song was most likely selected as a symbol of the band's reunion, and feels totally at home. The decision to put ʽOl' Dixieʼ at the end is a bit more questionable, since the song's anthemic nature and straightforward lyrics seems to pigeonhole the Crowes as generic «Southern Rock», but they totally nail its emotional complexity, and even Chris's vocal delivery is technically and spiritually every bit as good as Levon Helm's.

Keeping all this in mind, I believe the record deserves a respectful thumbs up, and would pro­bably recommend it as the best official introduction to the Crowes' live sound, or, more accurate­ly, to what the Crowes are capable of as a live band. Despite the two-hour-plus running length, despite the obligatory inclusion of bad hits like ʽShe Talks To Angelsʼ, despite the occasional loss of direction, the bottomline is that the five-year break actually did the guys some good — in this particular here and now, they sound looser and freer on stage than they ever did. 

The Black Crowes: Live

THE BLACK CROWES: LIVE (2002)

1) Midnight From The Inside Out; 2) Sting Me; 3) Thick 'n' Thin; 4) Greasy Grass River; 5) Sometimes Salvation; 6) Cursed Diamond; 7) Miracle To Me; 8) Wiser Time; 9) Girl From A Pawnshop; 10) Cosmic Friend; 11) Black Moon Creeping; 12) High Head Blues; 13) Title Song; 14) She Talks To Angels; 15) Twice As Hard; 16) Lickin'; 17) Soul Singing; 18) Hard To Handle; 19) Remedy.

Upon first thought, the Black Crowes look like a band ideally suited for robust live performance. Upon second thought, it can be predicted with a high degree of reliability that their live albums will probably suck harder than their studio ones. Clumsy, cumbersome, all rock and very little roll in the presence of recording equipment and mixing consoles, there is no good reason why they should suddenly turn into a flexible, agile, perfectly oiled, high-rolling musical machine in the presence of an army of loyal fans.

Live, their first official full-fledged LP (actually, double CD) of concert performances (not counting Live At The Greek that they did two years before with Jimmy Page, playing Led Zep­pelin songs all night long), confirms the suspicion. The Black Crowes in concert sound just like The Black Crowes in the studio. The only difference is that brother Rich tends to add more dis­tortion to his six-string, because surely this is the shortest and most reliable way to bring down the roof without having to wreck your brain in search of a more complex solution. However, it just makes the band noisier, rather than more aggressive.

Then there is the setlist. The album was recorded on October 30-31, 2001, at the Orpheum in Boston, so, naturally, there is a lot of tracks from Lions, which the brothers were promoting at the time. But other than that, the setlist is almost completely dominated by songs from their first two (the most commercially and critically successful) records. The other three are, at best, repre­sented by one or two tracks — and at worst, not represented at all: By Your Side, which I per­sonally insist to be one of their best, simply does not exist. Instead, we get track after track of their slowest, sludgiest, mind-numbing-est material (ʽSometimes Salvationʼ? ʽTitle Songʼ? you gotta be kidding me!), which they play with total conviction, as if it were real hot stuff, but it only makes matters worse in the long run. I mean, maybe if I saw that they were as disinterested in this material as it is uninteresting, that would at least count for something.

But what makes matters worse is the stage banter — the boys (I'm assuming that it is brother Chris who does most of the talking?) alternate between platitudes, nonsense, and bad jokes as if this was as much a part of their job as the playing and singing. Example: "this is a song about the cosmos... I wanted to write a song about drag racing, but I don't know anything about it, so I wrote a song about the cosmos instead!" That's about as profound as it gets — and then, of course, they go and play ʽCosmic Friendʼ, which does contain verbal references to the cosmos, but has less to do with it musically than any given five seconds from Jimi's Electric Ladyland, just to name an off-the-top-of-my-head example of a genuine «cosmic» product.

Technically, the band is in fine form, with everybody doing as much as possible with this rotten material, and the recording quality is also perfectly adequate, yet I am still forced to issue a dis­appointed thumbs down, because for the life of me I cannot understand why even a big fan of the band would want to listen to these versions — there is nothing spontaneous going on here, just louder, slightly cruder recreations of the band's studio act, represented by inferior selections.

The Black Crowes: Lions

THE BLACK CROWES: LIONS (2001)

1) Midnight From The Inside Out; 2) Lickin'; 3) Come On; 4) No Use Lying; 5) Losing My Mind; 6) Ozone Mama; 7) Greasy Grass River; 8) Soul Singing; 9) Miracle To Me; 10) Young Man, Old Man; 11) Cosmic Friend; 12) Cypress Tree; 13) Lay It All On Me.

By Your Side was good enough to try out a sequel, but still not robust enough to inspire the Crowes for a sequel that would be just as good. It looks like they learned a few things — how to be more tight and snappy, how to give more care to hooklines, how to cultivate a macho image without being too disgusting — but it doesn't look like they had a particularly strong memory for any of them. If the album title is supposed to refer to the Robinsons themselves, well, this is a fairly sluggish pair of lions that we have here for observation.

Trouble begins almost immediately, as the major attractive force of ʽMidnight From The Inside Outʼ is concentrated in its guitar tone — fat, nasty, poisonously distorted — but little else. Slow, cumbersome, tied to a really irksome, meaningless blues-rock riff and not even remotely as «dangerous» as its production should lead you to believe, it is, well, everything that the previous album opener (ʽGo Fasterʼ) was not. And with a stylistically limited band like the Black Crowes, your initial impres­sion of the first song usually colors your impression of everything else.

Granted, the second song and the album's first single, unscrupulously called ʽLickin'ʼ, is an im­provement: a little faster, a little lower, a little sharper, with a guitar tone that almost borders on «industrial» this time — oh, if only brother Chris didn't sound like an ugly moron on the chorus! But he does, and he does it, exercising his capacity for free will (because he can sing normally — he just consciously wants to sound «nasty», like an authentic rock'n'roll hero). As a result, the song sounds gross, stupid, and unfunny. With some good riffage wasted.

Amazingly, as much as I thought I'd never have to say this, Lions is the first Crowes album where the ballads are better than the rockers. ʽMiracle To Meʼ, borrowing some of its acoustic chords from both ʽStairway To Heavenʼ (intro) and ʽWish You Were Hereʼ (main melody), gradually builds up to a sensitive, sentimental chorus whose "be my lover, be my friend, be a miracle to me" seems to work better on a gut level than any of their previous efforts, ʽShe Talks To Angelsʼ included. Even better is the album closer ʽLay It All On Meʼ, whose "come on down crooked man..." finally manages to approach the lazy, post-suffering, seen-it-all, friendly power of the Stones' ballads from 1971-72 — not that it'd seriously stand competition with ʽMoonlight Mileʼ, but perhaps it could stand a few rounds. Chris modulates his voice so that it really gives the impression of a comforting shoulder, and the piano/orchestral backing multiplies the impact and provides the necessary «epic» flavor.

The rockers, in comparison, all tend to lose face once again. Too slow, too generically written, and too fussy — perhaps some of the blame lies with producer Don Was, to whom they may have sucked up after he'd restored the Rolling Stones to their former glory with Voodoo Lounge and Bridges To Babylon. Apparently, though, what worked for the Stones did not work so well for their followers. On By Your Side, the guitar sound was more upfront and more raw; here, the guitars are usually too smooth, too polite, and too overshadowed by the band's unimpressive vocal harmonies and the band's equally unimpressive rhythm section. Only on ʽLickin'ʼ does brother Rich's guitar immediately assault your senses — elsewhere, it tends to limp and hobble rather than directly put the meat in your fridge, if you know what I mean.

I would not call the album «really bad», since the ballads work all right and the songwriting does show that a lot of work went into it (if it didn't, most of this review could be spent mentioning the titles of old blues-rock numbers that the brothers are ripping off, and it wasn't), but ultimately, Lions is unrewarding, and once again makes me forget why it is exactly that somebody could still be interested in hearing the Black Crowes play as late as the 21st century. Oh, and, for that matter, one thing I really hate — other than Chris' singing on the chorus of ʽLickin'ʼ — is the fly buzzing on ʽCosmic Friendʼ: not only is it really annoying (what else would you expect from a buzzing fly?), but it is also gratuitously unnecessary. Come to think of it, «gratuitously unnecessary» is as much of a pleonastic description as the Black Crowes are a pleonastic band. 

The Black Crowes: By Your Side

THE BLACK CROWES: BY YOUR SIDE (1999)

1) Go Faster; 2) Kicking My Heart Around; 3) By Your Side; 4) Horsehead; 5) Only A Fool; 6) Heavy; 7) Welcome To The Goodtimes; 8) Go Tell The Congregation; 9) Diamond Ring; 10) Then She Said My Name; 11) Virtue And Vice.

This is the first ever Black Crowes album that I can enjoy through and through. One of the critical viewpoints has somehow managed to brand it as a «return to roots», successfully recapturing the vibe of the band's first two records after the temporary slump of Three Snakes — an opinion much dissipated through the critical community, but one that could have only come by traditional rock'n'roll analogy. I mean, every band has got to have something like an early peak, a mid-term slump, a «comeback», and all sorts of dynamics that create the illusion of an adventurous and intriguing career. And no shit: prior to recording By Your Side, the band actually fired their second guitarist, Marc Ford, and for what? Heroin addiction! It's like the mid-Seventies all over again. Juicy stuff for rock tabloids and all.

As far as my own, fairly insignificant in comparison, opinion is concerned, most of those dif­ferences are fairly cosmetic anyway. A small extra brass part in here, a bit of extra production gloss in there — really, any sort of «progress» or «development» from one Crowes album to ano­ther is negligible even in comparison to classic Aerosmith, let alone someone bigger. But while the overall style is always comparable, the substance and energy level may vary enough to make some of the songs kick ass where others simply scratch balls. So who knows, maybe those lineup changes, with a new second guitarist and a new bass player (Sven Pipien), had their beneficial effect after all? Even if the new guitarist did not play a single note on the album?..

Whatever be the case, By Your Side somewhat reduces the band's usual obsession with mega-over-dubbing and sonic messiness. Instead, what we have is the Crowes' most barroom-rock-oriented collection of songs to-date — with Stones, Aerosmith, and Faces/Rod Stewart influence all over the place, but strengthened up with some really thick, sticky, crunchy guitar tones; if you throw a wah-wah effect on top (ʽHorseheadʼ), the macho aura of the song becomes strong enough to melt down windows and pulverize doors. Silly, but lovable. The overall emphasis is on crunch, crunch, crunch, with repetitive chorus lines to generate some catchiness and brother Chris wailing so loud that he even manages to overcome the usual blandness of his vocal tone: still no match for Steven Tyler, but at least now he actually sounds authentically drunk, which is already something — prior to this, the Crowes almost always sounded like they were faking it, and there is nothing worse than pretending to be drunk when you've barely touched the stuff at all.

One of the band's main mottos now is stated right in the title of the first song — ʽGo Fasterʼ — and this is what they do on several other songs as well: ʽKicking My Heart Aroundʼ propels that anthemic slide riff forward at a respectable tempo, instead of spreading it all over the timeline, while ʽGo Tell The Congregationʼ adds moderate speed to a funky foundation, and suddenly the band's usual lumpiness fades away and out pops a really tight, but fluent outfit that allows the music to fly — not just sink into the ground. But even when they remain strictly mid-tempo, the vibe is good. The title track begins like a variational tribute to the Stones' ʽTumbling Diceʼ, but then quickly moves into Faces territory instead and does the right thing: the extra crudeness and the sheer force with which they punch, pummel, and tear at the instruments compensates for the lack of anything instantaneously memorable in melodic terms.

In other words, it ain't so much the songwriting (although there are a couple more riffs around the place worth collecting) as the focus that has improved. I may be wrong, but I think that a song like ʽHeavyʼ would have been unthinkable on any of the earlier records — its leaden swing would have been coated with slide guitars and keyboards, dissipated and wasted. Here, though, as un­spectacular as the melodies might be, the songs are allowed to capitalize on their potential strength; and, for the record, it also helps that balladry is kept to a minimum — in fact, there are no ballads whatsoever in the conventional sense, just a couple of these soulful R&B numbers that all gravitate towards pop-rock anyway, like ʽOnly A Foolʼ and ʽDiamond Ringʼ.

The wah-wah ruckus on ʽHorseheadʼ might sound like they're grossly overloading it, but that is just the point — this band only begins to make sense when they go for overload, because they sure as hell can't get break through with subtlety. This is why ʽHorseheadʼ is my favorite song off the album, a massive headbanger, tongue hanging out and saliva dripping all over the place, the musical equivalent of the thickest, most calory-choked burger on Earth — and there are other songs here that go in the same direction, too, the more, the better. To put it bluntly, the Black Crowes almost manage to be as sleazy as they are usually advertised on this record, and for this reason and no other, I give it a big greasy thumbs up, and take the liberty of saying that the band never ever got any better — or sicker, or filthier, etc. — than this. Never.

The Black Crowes: Three Snakes And One Charm

THE BLACK CROWES: THREE SNAKES AND ONE CHARM (1996)

1) Under A Mountain; 2) Good Friday; 3) Nebakanezer; 4) One Mirror Too Many; 5) Blackberry; 6) Girl From A Pawnshop; 7) (Only) Halfway To Everywhere; 8) Bring On, Bring On; 9) How Much For Your Wings?; 10) Let Me Share The Ride; 11) Better When You're Not Alone; 12) Evil Eye.

Hey, hey, it is only natural that the first album on which The Black Crowes start showing the first signs of getting into a real focused groove and — horrors! — learning how to shape their chord-picking into vaguely memorable forms, should get the cold shoulder from fans and critics. A sur­prisingly large number of them seem to love the first two albums, be sympathetic or ecstatic towards Amorica, and treat Three Snakes And One Charm as «the beginning of the decline». Decline? Where? In order to «decline», you actually have to shift your position — I mean, it's not as if the Crowes went techno here, or doom metal, or drum and bass (much as I'd love to see them try out any of these things). Or you could start writing worse songs, but from that point of view, it doesn't get much worse than Amorica, really.

Honestly, the first song, ʽUnder A Mountainʼ, is such a traditional mess of power chords, slide guitars, and lumpy mid-tempo drum pummelling, that I was expecting the album to be a carbon copy of its predecessor. But lo and behold, there are some signs of life, beginning circa track three: ʽNebakanezerʼ (what is this, a specifically Southern realization of Nebuchadnezzar?) sub­jects itself to the implantation of a distinct, important riff (even though its authorship hardly be­longs to the Crowes — it's a rather common chord sequence for roots-rockers), and, at the very least, becomes nicely fleshed out as a heavy country-rock song with a poppy chorus.

Maybe this is exactly what the fans are holding against the band — that it is trying to «sell out» by writing songs that one can, you know, whistle, as opposed to simply «dig that sound». Fortu­nately for the fans, the band is only succeeding at this task part-time: about half of the album con­sists of the usual drab mush. But ʽOne Mirror Too Manyʼ, ʽLet Me Share The Rideʼ, ʽEvil Eyeʼ, and particularly my favorite — ʽBlackberryʼ, these are songs that are, like... songs. Well, maybe not all of them. Maybe some. Maybe just one or two. Still, that's, like, progress.

They are even trying to be weird on occasion: ʽHalfway To Everywhereʼ, opening with a nice wah-wah lead, tries to bridge the gap between funk and boogie and has the Robinson brothers mess around with their vocals, making funny noises that I hope is not their take on scat singing, but is just a way of monkeying around to break up the pattern of endless boredom. It's not much, but it's much more than it ever used to be.

That said, my money is still riding on that silly cock rock anthem ʽBlackberryʼ (of course, these days it would rather be perceived as an anthem to a wireless handheld device, making the line "Hey Blackberry, look at my bumblebee" somewhat incomprehensible). It is short, tight, crunchy, safely pinned to a distinct riff, makes good use of stop-and-starts, employs the organ as a «tease» device, and does not begin to overload our ears until the proper climactic part, so it's even got some development to it. Formerly, some of the songs could have one or two of these elements, but not all of them at once.

All in all, I'd say that the somewhat cooler ratings and reviews for the album were triggered by the world's getting tired of the Crowes — the slight change in sound may have been used as a pretext, when in reality they were only trying to get away from the «vibe-based» approach to the «hook-based» approach, if only occasionally so. The usual problems all remain, including the bland vocals of brother Chris and the total lack of genuine inspiration on softer numbers (ʽGirl From A Pawnshopʼ is a Van Morrison-worthy title, but the song wouldn't have been saved even if they got Van to sing on it — it's simply one more big fat nothing). But the good news is that, regardless of whether they keep on loving their mush or not (and I guess they do), they are not content to stay soaking in it forever, and every attempt at modifying and diversifying the formula on the part of these guys is okay with me in advance.

The Black Crowes: Amorica

THE BLACK CROWES: AMORICA (1994)

1) Gone; 2) A Conspiracy; 3) High Head Blues; 4) Cursed Diamond; 5) Nonfiction; 6) She Gave Good Sunflower; 7) P. 25 London; 8) Ballad In Urgency; 9) Wiser Time; 10) Downtown Money Waster; 11) Descending.

The front sleeve photo, taken from a 1976 issue of Hustler, would honestly have been a better fit for one of those late-period Aerosmith albums, or some particularly sleazy hair metal band — The Black Crowes probably have nothing against pussy or patriotism, but their music pretends to be much more about «soul» than about «flesh»: the only exception here is ʽShe Gave Good Sun­flowerʼ, brimming with lyrics like "I feel warm in your blizzard / And your flood I crave", but even those are delivered in a ballad-like context. The Robinson brothers are chivalrous Southern gentlemen, see, and they would rather sing and play their hearts out to the ladies than grope for those panties straight away.

If only they knew how to sing and play their hearts out in the context of a well-written song, though, Amorica could have been one hell of an album, because the band has accumulated con­fidence, experience, and is now expanding its stylistic horizons by learning how to be funky and add some life-loving swing to their day. All it'd take would be one gentle push in the proper direc­tion of making these grooves more interesting — but, unfortunately, their new producer, Jack Joseph Puig, whose credentials have since then also included No Doubt, Vanessa Carlton, John Mayer, and The Pussycat Dolls (that should give you some idea) was not the right guy to administer that push.

Again, let us just take a couple of songs and try and see what's so wrong about them. ʽGoneʼ, opening with some cowbells and Latin percussion in the style of Steely Dan's ʽDo It Againʼ, quickly develops a decent groove in the style of The James Gang's ʽFunk #49ʼ. But «decent» does not mean «breathtaking»: really, almost anybody can master those scratch guitar patterns, and what is really needed here is development — which is thoroughly lacking, as the band just jams around a single chord, getting some lumpy volume up for the chorus and leaving it at that. For five minutes, their funky jet attempts to get off the ground, but never manages to do much except waste fuel. The sound is thick and dense, with several low-pitched guitar parts drowning each other out, and the drummer really tries to bash his drum kit into the ground, meticulously and monotonously, but that might just be where the root of the problem lies — they are trying to be very funky and quite heavy at the same time, like a... lead zeppelin? Well, unlike the first one, which somehow managed the trick, these ones are definitely going down.

A song like ʽP. 25 Londonʼ, with its blues-rock chords neatly arranged in a pop hook, faintly hints that the Crowes could be proper hookmeisters had they really put their hearts to it, but in general, each new song steadfastly demonstrates, over and over again, that they are perfectly happy to stick to their usual guns as long as the public is content to love them for their style. The biggest hit from the album was ʽA Conspiracyʼ, a song whose verse melody is one of the lamest exercises in syncopation I've ever heard and whose chorus melody is practically non-existent — so how the heck did it ever manage to slide up the charts without a half-inch of grease? ʽWiser Timeʼ, the other single, sounds like contemporary Lynyrd Skynyrd — meandering slide-based country-rock with faux dramatics — and only ʽHigh Head Bluesʼ, the third single, features any­thing resembling a memorable riff, but, as usual, wastes it in a sea of sludge.

Once again, reading all the positive reviews and fan paeans for this album, I have to shake my head and ask myself — what exactly about this record am I not getting, when I so sincerely like most of its influences, even the Southern rock ones, everything from the Allmans to early classic Skynyrd? Why does it all seem so much like a lifeless, electrocuted corpse of genuine rock'n'roll music, which so many people are so eagerly ready to accept for a living body? Is it just because these guys emerged in the early 1990s, rather than in the 1970s, and this automatically makes me prejudiced? No, I don't really believe that. More likely, a record like Amorica will appeal to a «genrist» person — such as a blues-rock aficionado, content to admire anything as long as it com­petently satisfies the basic rules of the genre — or to somebody who caught the Crowes bug while in his teens, without prior exposure to the musical fathers of Americana. Either that, or I am really not getting something about this seemingly bland, turgid vibe.

Come to think of it, judging by a reader comment on Mark Prindle's site about how "P. 25 Lon­don is universally regarded as the suckiest song on this album" (I personally find it at least the most memorable song here, which might as well mean «best»), me and the world really wouldn't see eye to eye on these guys. I give Amorica a thumbs down just like its predecessor, and, with a sigh of temporary relief, unlock this tedious ball and chain from my leg for a while — that is, till the next album.

The Black Crowes: The Southern Harmony And Musical Companion

THE BLACK CROWES: THE SOUTHERN HARMONY AND MUSICAL COMPANION (1992)

1) Sting Me; 2) Remedy; 3) Thorn In My Pride; 4) Bad Luck Blue Eyes Goodbye; 5) Sometimes Salvation; 6) Hotel Illness; 7) Black Moon Creeping; 8) No Speak No Slave; 9) My Morning Song; 10) Time Will Tell.

It is hard to argue with an album that shot four singles into the #1 «mainstream rock» chart position, and made it all the way to the top of the charts in 1992 despite neither being a hair metal album, nor a grunge album, nor a Whitney Houston album. It must be a masterpiece, right? One of those traditional rock'n'roll records that's really got it made, breathing new life into the old form and proving that rock'n'roll always smells, but never dies?

All right then, let's start from the beginning. ʽSting Meʼ opens the show with a nasty distorted riff, soon joined by keyboards, lead guitar (from new member Marc Ford), and a supporting female choir for extra gospel power. It's crunchy, powerful rock'n'roll, right? Well, I don't know, but no matter how many times I try to get my heart a-goin' to this song, I feel like there is some key element that is totally missing. It's odd, really — there's a riff, the lead vocalist is singing his heart out, the lead guitarist is blueswailing like crazy, the guitar tones are excellent, and yet the song still drifts by without touching a single nerve. How could that be?

Let's move on to ʽRemedyʼ. This little monster was an even huger hit, and it rocks with the same energy and conviction as ʽSting Meʼ, but throws in a funkier groove, so all the cool black people can join in the fun. But no dice — all I feel is that it is every bit as musically impotent as its pre­decessor. It's got all the formal qualifications, but it doesn't come alive. What the heck?..

My best guess is that over those two years, the Robinson brothers have evolved as arrangers and maybe even as performers, but they're still fucking shitty songwriters as far as I can see. That riff which opens ʽSting Meʼ — it seems technically all right, but it doesn't communicate any parti­cular feeling. I mean, compare it with, say, Keith Richards' riff that opens ʽCan't You Hear Me Knockin'ʼ: that one immediately gave an idea of «don't you mess with me» — free as a bird, dirty, and dangerous. The riff of ʽSting Meʼ, in the meantime, does not suggest anything except «hey, we've actually managed to come up with a riff that nobody did before» (and for a good reason). Besides, once the vocals kick in, it sinks into the background, and the average listener probably ceases paying attention to the musical elements of the song at that point.

Basically, this is the kind of gut reaction I get from every song on here. The rockers all sound technically great, with expert guitar playing and tasteful production. The ballads are all formally soulful, loud, screechy, but never submitting to the disgraceful «power ballad» format (power chords, strings, pompous attitude, all that shit). It should all be good, but there isn't a single «really good» song on here. I have no problems with using it as a background accompaniment, but all the songs ultimately just stick in one big greasy ball of loud distorted guitars and a guy who wails and yells his way through the songs like he's really got something to say, but he just ain't gonna get my attention that way.

A couple of times they come close: if pressed hard to choose one favorite tune, I'd probably go with ʽBlack Moon Creepingʼ, if only because the main distorted metal riff, the accompanying talkbox lead part, and the swampy harmonica generate a unique-sounding trio. But if the goal here was to conjure some sort of voodooistic atmosphere, what with much of the lyrics referring to black magic and stuff, it is as much of a failure as everything else. Maybe it's just the singer's fault: Chris Robinson always tends to sound like a really irritating next door neighbor, his basic emotional range limited to one (1) effect — annoy the living daylights out of you (ʽSometimes Salvationʼ is the worst culprit, a tremendously draggy ballad if there ever was one).

Although this album is usually regarded by fans as one of the highest points of the Crowes' career, I cannot and will not share the respect — I give it a thumbs down and state that, in my humble opinion, this is one of the phoniest, draggiest, most boring «rock and roll» albums I have ever heard in my life from a critically acclaimed «not-too-mainstream» artist (by which I just mean that the Black Crowes, like them or not, belong in an entirely different category from the likes of Bon Jovi). And the best song on the album is the closing anthem ʽTime Will Tellʼ, because it was written by Bob Marley, who, unlike the Robinson brothers, actually knew how to stuff his soul into formally captivating pieces. The rest of these tunes I really don't care if I never get to hear again. Some guy with a similar mindset to mine called them «truck driver material», but I think that by generalizing, he really offended the truck driver elite — the really cool guys that prefer to blast ʽHigh­way To Hellʼ, which is a better song than all of this drivel put together.

The Black Crowes: Shake Your Money Maker

THE BLACK CROWES: SHAKE YOUR MONEY MAKER (1990)

1) Twice As Hard; 2) Jealous Again; 3) Sister Luck; 4) Could I've Been So Blind; 5) Seeing Things; 6) Hard To Handle; 7) Thick 'n' Thin; 8) She Talks To Angels; 9) Struttin' Blues; 10) Stare It Cold; 11*) Don't Wake Me; 12*) She Talks To Angels (acoustic); 13) Mercy, Sweet Moan.

I am pretty sure that in a matter of several decades the world will have forgotten about The Black Crowes entirely, because, let's face it: the only reason that Shake Your Money Maker turned them into an American sensation almost overnight was a world of hungry teenagers who needed their own Led Zeppelin / Aerosmith combo, and maybe a smaller world of conservative old dieti­tians operating on the principle «if it ain't rockin' like it used to, it ain't worth shit».

The best thing about the Georgia-born Robinson brothers (singer Chris and guitar player Rich) is that they had always been perfectly honest with themselves. What they wanted to play was none of that overproduced pop-metal crap — just yer old, time-honored, in-yer-face rock'n'roll, prefe­rably with a bit of a rustic flavor and, of course, soul a-plenty. Never mind that the old time-ho­nored rock'n'roll was out of fashion (then again, deep down in Georgia it probably never was), or, even worse, that zillions of 1970s bands had seemingly mined its resources down to the last speck of gold dust. The important thing is that we had a problem: «rock and roll» on the charts around 1989 consisted of Poison, Warrant, and Bon Jovi, and someone had to put an end to that.

Of course, in the grand scheme of things the band was not very successful, but both the LP and some of its singles did chart highly, and, most importantly, Shake Your Money Maker was really a blessing for those who wanted something fresh, raw, ballsy, and not «over-glammed» or too overtly hedonistic or too utterly stupid, like so many of those hair metal hits. From a certain point of view, the album was an instant remedy for those who'd written off the new-look Aero­smith after Permanent Vacation and Pump — these Robinson guys clearly took their lesson from Rocks and Draw The Line instead, with songs like ʽJealous Againʼ and ʽDon't Wake Meʼ (the latter is only included as a bonus track on a later CD edition) sounding like carbon copies of the 'Smiths in their prime.

The bad news is that The Black Crowes were a (literally) family-oriented band, and what the brothers had in terms of conviction and raw energy, they never had in any other terms — like songwriting, or performing distinctiveness. Chris Robinson is a strong, competent vocalist, and his brother is a knowledgeable rhythm player, and their early pal Jeff Cease is a reliable supplier of wailing blues-rock solos — and that's about it: collectively or individually, all of their assets are firmly «middle of the road». Nothing awful, but nothing really above winning first prize on the National Rock'n'Roll Competition every once in a while, where you are judged objectively based on how much you have practiced, not on how much talent God, or your genes, gave you and how much of it you have been able to exploit the right way.

All of these ten pieces — blues-rock, boogie-rock, and balladry alike — are passable and enjoy­able if you care at all for that specific sound. Swampy slide guitars, huge booming drums (but naturally booming, with none of those electronic enhancements), honky tonk piano blasting from under the guitar layers, and a rough, but friendly guy who's obviously got nothing to hide wailing on top of it all about the simple highs and lows of healthy country life. What's not to like, unless you take pride in being all stuck up and shit? Nothing. It's when you try to rewind these songs in the back of your mind, once the record is over, that the trouble starts — none of the melodies are memorable, which is only natural, since I have trouble identifying one single melody that was actually, you know, «written» specifically for this album. Maybe a few of the choruses that Chris sings across the guitar lines are technically «new», but the accompanying music is so thoroughly devoid of invention that this never really remedies the situation.

The not-so-subtle reference to Elmore James in the LP title may be understood both as an allego­rical way of commercial stimulation or, more likely, as an allegorical way of saying «we make blues-rock with slide guitars and we don't give a damn about being original» —  further confir­med by the fact that the band's breakout single was a cover of Otis Redding's ʽHard To Handleʼ, a song previously very much associated with the Grateful Dead but getting a new lease on life here as the Black Crowes, essentially, play it as if it were Aerosmith's ʽWalk This Wayʼ: dirtier, gruffier, scruffier — as badboyishly as they can, which is still not badboyish enough when com­pared with classic Aerosmith, though.

Other hits from the album included: ʽShe Talks To Angelsʼ, a sprawling country-rock ballad that seems to try to emulate the Stones circa Exile On Main Street — and fails, because the guitar work is just meandering, and the vocals lack Jagger's classic ability to strike fire out of thin air like he did on, say, ʽLoving Cupʼ; ʽJealous Againʼ, which is just barroom bravado, too politely inoffen­sive to be gloriously offensive; and the opening track, ʽTwice As Hardʼ, which is very loud indeed, but still seems like somebody imitating drunken fervor than actually being drunk.

All in all, I should probably hate the album and the band, but somehow the Crows manage to be smart enough to avoid any major irritants — such as direct melodic rip-offs of classics (usually imitating general style rather than particular bits of substance) or getting all pompous and cere­monial about what they do («sacrificing to the great spirit of rock'n'roll» and all that). And since, unlike quite a few people, I do not at all think that Shake Your Money Maker has to be that particular benchmark according to which the band should be judged once and for all, we could probably let them off the hook by sticking the «formative» label on top. They would never get too different — their creative, or, rather, anti-creative ego was established here from the start — but they would get a little more challenging and «hard to handle» later on.