Be-Bop Deluxe: Axe Victim

BE-BOP DELUXE: AXE VICTIM (1974)

1) Axe Victim; 2) Love Is Swift Arrows; 3) Jet Silver And The Dolls Of Venus; 4) Third Floor Heaven; 5) Night Creatures; 6) Rocket Cathedrals; 7) Adventures In Yorkshire Landscape; 8) Jets At Down; 9) No Trains To Heaven; 10) Darkness (L'Immoraliste).

Take any random opinion on Axe Victim today, about forty years away from its original syn­thesis, and it is very likely that the opinion will be judging the album from a Ziggy Stardust per­spective: «Oh, it's such a wannabe David Bowie project!» This is not altogether unfounded, but, for some reason, most of these opinions miss another connection, in my view, perhaps even better justified — Peter Hammill. Naturally, many more people are familiar with classic Bowie than with classic Van Der Graaf Generator or Peter's solo career, but still, I believe that a description of the early Be-Bop Deluxe sound as a meticulously engineered «cross» between Bowie and Hammill would be much more accurate than simply branding Bill Nelson and his associates as a bunch of «Bowie copycats», for better or worse.

«Be-Bop Deluxe» was just a posh name for Bill Nelson, who wrote all the songs, sang all the lead vocals, and played all the guitar leads — well, okay, his backers on Axe Victim include Ian Parkin on rhythm guitar, Robert Bryan on bass, and Nicholas Chatterton-Dew on drums, but no one is supposed to memorize this info, since already by the time of the second album Nelson had dissolved the band and recruited a completely different line-up, and also because Nelson is, fair and square, the only instrumentalist on the album to deserve serious attention: an «axe victim» in­deed, stuffing all possible and impossible bits of space with his trills, drills, fills, and thrills. If it didn't work so well, it would be suffocating. Strangely, it does work.

Despite the name, «Be-Bop Deluxe» never played any be-bop, deluxe or not. Instead, Nelson had a thing for sprawling, glammy, anthemic art-rock with a futuristic twist — hence the Bowie con­nection, particularly well visible in his vocal style (he likes to combine starry-eyed idealism and snub-nosed sarcasm within a single line) and his guitar playing, which, of all possible compari­sons, indeed, seems closest to Mick Ronson's classic style — shrill, grand, frenetic playing, thick on high pitch, speedy arpeggios, crescendos, echo effects, and everything else necessary to throw the listener in overdrive, whatever it takes. But he does have plenty of real technique, so it is not just a cheap show-off manoeuvre — nor do the songs ever turn into interminable boring jams, caressing the player's ego until his fingers start hurting.

On second thought, it's not that often that the «songs» ever really turn into actual songs, either, and this is where the Hammill comparison falls in place. Keeping up with the rock theater spirit, Nelson does not hold much respect for verse/chorus structures — his creations are spirited rhyth­mic rants, prone to unexpected tonality and tempo changes whenever they feel like it, and to short or long lead guitar intrusions whenever the lead guitar feels it. The title track introduces the for­mula — the vocals enter on the first second, the first lead line enters on the fourth, and from then on the two seem to be locked in a death-fight. Will the singer outbawl the guitar player? Will the guitar player bring the singer down in a lightning barrage? Oh wait, they're the same guy. Well then, it's sort of obvious that they can't waste too much time on silly things like choruses, hooks, riffs, and any of that «pop» drivel.

Consequently, it might take a bit of time to get into the spirit of things — imagine, if you wish, a Ziggy Stardust with all of the obvious attention-grabbing twists removed, and the operatic nature of it enhanced fiftyfold. What do you get? Peter Hammill — a little more rock'n'roll-oriented, a little less gifted as a singer, but a little more skilled at guitar fireworks. The question is: are you ready to buy this, or is it all just one big, hollow, insubstantial put-on? Does this guy have a heart of gold or is he made of straw and sawdust on the inside? (I couldn't put this any other way, so excuse me the clichés).

Personally, I like this stuff. The way Nelson gets right down to business, jumping into the spot­light with his big voice and bigger guitar from the very first second, displays a stunning lack of fear at being branded «pretentious» — and as his lyrics spin strange tales of vain stage glories, sci-fi escapism, and ruined English countrysides, and his guitar throws out semi-improvised pas­sages that seem inspired by pop, rock, blues, jazz, and classical alike, depending on the artist's mood, Axe Victim has every chance of eventually placing you under an odd spell.

For those who really cannot imagine their life without a catchy hook, it may be advisable to start out with ʽJet Silver And The Dolls Of Venusʼ, which is probably the closest they got to a «glam-pop» sound here (the song was actually released as a single) — it's a glorious mess that is equal parts Cream's ʽAnyone For Tennisʼ, Kinks' ʽWaterloo Sunsetʼ, Bowie's ʽStarmanʼ, and probably several other influences / quotations / inspirations I missed, but fused into something completely different anyway — a spaceship joyride that is actually believable, mainly due to Nelson's perso­nal charisma. Cool guitar, nice voice, right pitch, proper mood.

Other highlights would be ʽJets At Downʼ, a seven-minute epic ballad with another bunch of lilting solos; the honestly amazing, mostly instrumental rocker ʽNo Trains To Heavenʼ, all of it holding together exclusively through Nelson's energy, sweat and blood on the axe; and... well, just about everything else. Take it from me — normally, I would be the first to condemn this sort of record, but sometimes all it takes is an intelligent vocal style and a little demon hiding in one's fingers to turn potential boredom into overall excitement. Axe Victim may not be particularly deep, and it may not show a lot of compositional genius, and it certainly does not break a lot of new ground, but it takes good care of the old one, and it kicks serious ass — something that «rock theater» à la early 1970s does fairly rarely. Thumbs up.

Check "Axe Victim" (CD) on Amazon
Check "Axe Victim" (MP3) on Amazon

Blood, Sweat & Tears: Mirror Image

BLOOD, SWEAT & TEARS: MIRROR IMAGE (1974)

1) Tell Me That I'm Wrong; 2) Look Up To The Sky; 3) Love Looks Good On You; 4) Hold On To Me; 5) Thinking Of You; 6) Are You Satisfied; 7) Mirror Image; 8) She's Coming Home.

Presumably, after New Blood and No Sweat, the next obvious LP title should have been Near Tears, or something like that. I can sort of see the band passing on that one, but the bare fact re­mains — Mirror Image is just a gallant euphemism for Near Tears, because (a) most of these songs do bring the knowledgeable listener «near tears», and (b) the album is, to a large extent, a «mirror image» of whatever this band used to be five years before.

Setting their glam-rock ambitions aside, Fisher, Bargeron, Wadenius & Co. have now decided that neither Elton John-style balladry nor Mick Ronson-style «flash-rock» are really where it's at (for «it», feel free to substitute either «big bucks» or «the future of music», depending on the po­sitive / negative charge of your feelings for the band). Instead, they decide to put their trust in funk-pop — those hot, catchy, sweeping dance grooves that were becoming all the latest rage and had already evolved to the state of «proto-disco». With Earth, Wind & Fire having recently begun to conquer the charts with that style, it was only natural that «Blood, Sweat & Tears» should use the same formula (most record buyers would be confusing the two anyway, wouldn't they?).

Consequently, Side A of the album is completely dedicated to trying out this new approach — steady, streamlined dance-pop interspersed with a few gentler soul numbers — while the B-side still pretends to a slice of artsiness, being almost completely turned over to a huge, four-move­ment suite (title track), with each movement written by a different band member or subset of band members. Speaking of which, almost all of the LP is self-penned, except for two of the most «shake-yer-booty» style songs, contributed by Patricia Cosby, wife of Motown veteran Henry Cosby, who produced the album for the band.

Also of note is another important lineup change: Jim Fielder, the amazingly nimble-fingered bass wonder behind all of the band's classic numbers, finally got fed up with the constant turnover — and, perhaps, he was feeling that this simplification of the band's playing style left no space for his talent. Replaced by the reliable, but nowhere near as impressive / expressive Ron McClure, Fielder left for a humble session musician career — leaving drummer guy Bobby Colomby as the only original member of the band.

If you are a deep fan of this funky dance music, regardless of the compositional and atmospheric value of the actual songs, that first side, actually, isn't that bad. The grooves are danceable and perfectly professional; Jerry Fisher continues to be reliable as the «never oversinging» singer; and they try to introduce bona fide brass hooks and vocal hooks to almost every song, the best of the brass riffs arguably captured on the album's lead single ʽTell Me That I'm Wrongʼ, and the most memorable vocal hook contained on ʽLove Looks Good On Youʼ, where lead vocals are taken by temporary guest member Jerry LaCroix (soon to join the mid-1970s lineup of Rare Earth).

But, of course, everything suffers from BS&T's predictable flaw — too smooth, too cautious, too middle-of-the-road. The hooks ain't Bee Gees level, the soul is tepid compared to Al Green, the energy does not begin to approach Funkadelic, the subtlety is just non-existent next to Curtis May­field etc. etc. Just as No Sweat fell right into the «generic glam-rock» category, Mirror Image is equal parts «generic dance music», with hardly any good reasons to single it out of the swarms of records by other, less reputable, artists riding the same train in 1974.

All hopes rest on the four-part suite — how good is that one? Well, other than a hard-funk vocal movement at the end, this is competent jazz-fusion that suffers from the very same problem: it should feel itself mighty uncomfortable in the company of John McLaughlin, Jeff Beck, the Soft Machine, Weather Report, etc. Had Jim Fielder still been in the band, he could have, perhaps, supplied parts of the suite with some super-tight monster basslines — as it is, the band is still able to keep its shit together, but lacks the virtuosity necessary to push it in a whole new dimension. For instance, at one point Wadenius lets rip with an aggressive, sky-high guitar solo, but it does not either have a distinctive voice of its own, or reach the same levels of dazzling technicality as you'd expect from a Santana or an Alan Holdsworth in this context.

Consequently, like everything else on here, ʽMirror Imageʼ is as perfectly listenable as it is perfectly boring — at this point, the band really starts looking like a respectably dressed, but a pennyless ticketless passen­ger, desperately trying to board one train after another, regardless of the actual direction, and inavoi­dably thrown off upon each attempt. The only thing about this whole process that is truly curious is how the hell they all managed to stick together and retain the original moniker for so long — considering that this particular «revolving doors» approach did not even depend on one or two permanent members (like Jethro Tull is always Jethro Tull as long as it has Ian Anderson in it, or King Crimson only has to preserve Robert Fripp to go on be­ing King Crimson). Blame it all on some sort of «Blood, Sweat & Tears spirit» that Al helped generate in 1968 — sweet, sour, or stale, it had this odd magnetic effect that simply would not wear off, whatever the circumstances. Mystical stuff.

Check "Mirror Image" (CD) on Amazon
Check "Mirror Image" (MP3) on Amazon

Bob Dylan: Nashville Skyline

BOB DYLAN: NASHVILLE SKYLINE (1969)

1) Girl From The North Country; 2) Nashville Skyline Rag; 3) To Be Alone With You; 4) I Threw It All Away; 5) Peggy Day; 6) Lay Lady Lay; 7) One More Night; 8) Tell Me That It Isn't True; 9) Country Pie; 10) Tonight I'll Be Staying Here With You.

If there ever was any intention behind John Wesley Harding to act as a potent «fan repellent» — and I am almost sure there must have been — it did not work. For a brief moment out there, the people may have been shocked and surprised — what, no rock'n'roll on a Dylan record? and what exactly do all these 19th century outlaws have to do with pushing boundaries and stuff?.. — but give them a few months, no, weeks, and they were back to swooning and praising and deciphering the writing on the wall and covering all those songs like there was no tomorrow. That Jimi Hend­rix swiftly took over ʽAll Along The Watchtowerʼ is no accident — far more amazing is the fact that he also tried to appropriate ʽDrifter's Escapeʼ, which, technically, was one of the «filler» tracks on JWH. Whatever tricky plan there was, it backfired.

Initiate phase two, then. By early 1969, Bob was back in Nashville, and the general idea must have been that he was all set to give out John Wesley Harding, Vol. 2. What he did instead was put together a much larger band, something like a crowd of about ten people, coming and going — and record an album that, for all it's worth, became probably the least expectable, least «Dylan­esque» listening experience to that point.

«Trouble» begins already with the album cover. This is only the second of Bob's album sleeves where we see him clutching a guitar — the first one, not coincidentally, was the self-titled debut from seven years ago. But this time, there is quite deliberately no subtle mystery on the photo: what we see is pretty much a regular country bumpkin, and what is he doing, really? Tipping his hat to us and smiling? Ever saw Bob Dylan smiling at us before? What is this guy saying — that he actually cares about his audience? Bummer, man. A Bob Dylan who cares about his audience is arguably even worse than Ted Nugent going Democrat. The signs are not good.

Trouble increases as we inspect the album's running length: ten songs, clocking in at less than a measly thirty minutes? What is this, Surfin' Safari? from a guy who used to have trouble restric­ting himself to less than fifty, earning curses from cassette tape owners all around the globe? And the very first song — a remake of ʽGirl From The North Countryʼ? Duetting with Johnny Cash? And then, as you actually put it on — what's up with that new voice of his? What's that supposed to mean — campaigning for grandpa's and grandma's attention?

Back in 1969, when people asked him about it, Bob used to joke that «this is my normal voice, you know», or mystically attribute it to his abandoning smoking. Both statements were gross put-ons (that some people surprisingly fell for) — of course, this new clean croon of his is anything but his normal voice, and every time that he is not paying strict attention, he tends to slip back into the old, well-familiar «sandpaper» style. He had actually explored that sort of singing back in early 1960, while still staying in Minneapolis, before understanding that his natural, «grating» intonations would suit his image of a grizzled folkster much more perfectly. Now it's back — for the purposes of perfecting that warm, friendly, sentimental country mode.

Nashville Skyline is not a great album, because it deliberately limits itself to a formula that pre­cludes greatness. There is no doubt that, with some serious effort put into it, a country album may be inspiring and meaningful, but the idea itself was the opposite — to produce something that, while not being a complete throwaway, would be purposefully devoid of too much meaning and inspiration. Bob Dylan did not want us to think of Nashville Skyline as «great», and we hardly have any choice but to respect that wish and «debase» our reactions appropriately. On the other hand, neither does it mean that we have to concentrate on the throwaway aspect and ridicule the album, as some people continue to do.

One hotly debated topic is whether Bob's unexpected friendliness, sentimentality, and personal charm that he sweats out on the album at an ever-accelerating speed, were «true» or «false» at the time — a topic where it is all too easy to forget that one never really knows, anytime, when Bob is being sincere with us and when he is putting on one of those interchangeable masks. The songs are mostly love songs, with surprisingly accessible and understandable lyrics, that usually express the desire to get next to his loved one (ʽLay Lady Layʼ, ʽTo Be Alone With Youʼ, ʽTonight I'll Be Staying Here With Youʼ), or, occasionally, worry over the possibility of a breakup (ʽTell Me That It Isn't Trueʼ), or lament over an actual breakup — with, get this, the protagonist blaming himself over what has happened (ʽI Threw It All Awayʼ). Bob Dylan accepting the blame for a breakup? Sure must have come a long, long way from the days of ʽBallad In Plain Dʼ... nah, couldn't be, really. Either they have some really good secret genetic engineering facilities out there in Nash­ville, or somebody's a really good actor.

Anyway, historical context aside, Nashville Skyline is what it is — a fun, cozy, likeable little country album, with moderately decent, unoriginal songwriting; a trifle lazy, loose, relaxed, but well thought out playing style; and, on the whole, still a unique atmosphere, because the country lifestyle was anywhere but in Dylan's blood and bones, and even those who hate this particular metamorphosis should be curious enough to see his individualistic take on it. Even the «croon» is still an official Dylan croon — it will drift towards whatever direction the current Dylan will want it to drift, rather than whatever the official Nashville textbook has to prescribe on the subject. Would a professional Nashvillian dare to switch from the cool-collected "she said she would always stay-aa-ee-eeey..." to the absurdly soaring, ridiculously-out-of-range pitch on the ensuing "but I was cruel, I treated her like a fool..."? He wouldn't, and neither, in fact, did any of the non-Nashvillians, from Cher to Yo La Tengo, who would go on to cover the song. So we shouldn't worry that much: behind all the covers, this is still very much a Dylan album.

Which, by the way, is exactly why the first song on here, although I used to like it in the past, has eventually dropped off the favorite list. The idea of a Bob Dylan / Johnny Cash collaboration sounds fantastic in theory, but it couldn't be well realized on practice — in fact, we now know that, having crossed their paths in Nashville, the two recorded a whole bunch of songs (extra­neous covers, Cash originals, and Dylan originals alike), but nothing was deemed suitable for official release. At the very last moment, they settled on ʽGirl From The North Countryʼ, and al­though both Bob's new take on it, in his «crooner» voice, and Johnny's earth-bowel-rumble deli­very both have their individual appeal, these are two entirely different visions — and they mesh together about as well if you tried to overdub, say, Bob's original take on ʽAll Along The Watch­towerʼ on top of the Hendrix tape, and see what happens.

It might have been a fun idea to do a «split» album, where, on Side A, Bob would sing Johnny's songs, and on Side B, Johnny would sing Bob's — coherence and comparison on one circle of vinyl. It is still mildly tolerable when they trade verses — but as soon as it's duet time, cognitive dissonance sets in, and I personally honestly want to strangle both, or, at least, whichever one gets selected through the coin flip. (Generally speaking, most of Bob's duets, be they with Johnny Cash, Phil Ochs, or even Joan Baez, are aurally confusing because he has this obnoxious manner of always taking the ground from under the feet of the «normal» singer at his side).

On the other hand, ʽNashville Skyline Ragʼ, which marks a first (the first completely instrumental number on a Dylan album), is extremely welcome — a fun rollicking tune that gives the major players in Bob's Nashville band a chance to shine, very well planned and executed (Bob Wilson's piano rolls are especially endearing). And all those little bits that seem «fillerish» have their right­ful purpose: ʽCountry Pieʼ has some sharp, almost Robbie Robertson-like lead guitar playing, and is really a snippet that shows quite a bit of that absurdist Basement Tapes spirit ("shake me up that old peach tree, Little Jack Horner's got nothin' on me"); the comically tinged ʽPeggy Dayʼ is so catchy that, in two years' time, it would be stolen by Ray Davies and re-written as ʽHolidayʼ for Muswell Hillbillies; and ʽOne More Nightʼ seems like a subtle, but intentional tribute to Hank Williams (at one point in 1967, there was actually talk of a possibility that Bob would re­cord a whole album of tunes set to lyrics left over from Hank — fortunately, the idea backfired, but Hank had always been a big inspiration to Bob anyway, and writing an original number in Hank's style seemed like the best way to pay the proper respects).

Then, of course, there are the best known songs — ʽI Threw It All Awayʼ, ʽLay Lady Layʼ, ʽTonight I'll Be Staying Here With Youʼ — that do not try to go all the way, but still lodge them­selves in various sensitive areas of the soul. Musically, ʽLay Lady Layʼ is the most lushly velvety of them all, courtesy of the organ / pedal steel combination, and is probably as close as Bob ever came to writing and recording a «sexy» song — of course, real lovers are always expected to be making out to the mystical sounds of ʽVisions Of Johannaʼ (preferably, in a cemetery, too), but for the average Joe, ʽLay Lady Layʼ may, in fact, wobble the same nerves as Al Green. However, on the whole I prefer ʽTonightʼ — as the album's most fully arranged song, and a counterpoint of sorts to John Wesley Harding's ʽI'll Be Your Baby Tonightʼ: that one was lazy and nonchalant, placing the burden of action on the lady ("bring that bottle over here..."), but here, believe it or not, it is the gentleman who is willing and ready to make the effort — first, by throwing his ticket out the window, next, by throwing his suitcase out there, too.

Nashville Skyline is not John Wesley Harding. It does not crawl under the skin — to an extent, it is so shamelessly «normal» that one begins looking for hidden meanings almost instinctively, as if they are absolutely, inavoidably supposed to be there. But they aren't. If this weren't a Dylan album, if it were recorded in 1969 by some no-name from Nashville, it probably wouldn't have caused much of a stir — and it would be a pity, because, even though accepting all of the super­ficial trappings of contemporary country music, this is not a «generic» country album: first and foremost, it is a certain stage in the evolution of a singer-songwriter, be it an initial, middle, or final stage. And we are certainly under no obligation of believing that seemingly friendly smile on the album sleeve (by this time, we should be aware enough of Dylan so as not to put our sin­cere trust in anything he does), but that should not preclude us from allowing ourselves to be charmed by it, all the same. Thumbs up, by all means.

Check "Nashville Skyline" (CD) on Amazon
Check "Nashville Skyline" (MP3) on Amazon

Brenda Lee: By Request

BRENDA LEE: BY REQUEST (1964)

1) More; 2) Days Of Wine And Roses; 3) Danke Schoen; 4) Tammy; 5) Why Don't You Believe Me; 6) I Love You Because; 7) As Usual; 8) Blue Velvet; 9) My Whole World Is Falling Down; 10) I Wonder; 11) I'm Confessin'; 12) The Grass Is Greener.

By May 5, 1964, when this album was officially released on Decca, the States had already been wrig­gling in the clutch of Beatlemania for several months — but, naturally, you wouldn't even begin to whiff it on By Request. By whose request? Certainly not by request of those rebellious teens who could have embraced stuff like ʽDynamiteʼ eight years ago — more likely, by request of their parents who were secretly hoping that this new trans-Atlantic craze might pass them by even faster than the older, homebrewn rockabilly madness.

In retrospect, this album is even more awful than its predecessor. The only song that barely es­capes the sacchariney quicksand of lush ballads is ʽMy Whole World Is Falling Downʼ, a jovial mix of pop and R&B that would have felt right at home on a Manfred Mann album — the jovi­ality being particular­ly neat in the light of the song's tragic lyrics. On a record like All The Way, the track would have been a nice, energetic, forgettable bit of filler — here, it is a giant among songs that... well, in retrospect, some people have developed a nostalgic kick for this sort of mush, but I wonder just how many of them can honestly stand a song like ʽTammyʼ, which arguably embodies all of the very worst aspects of «mainstream pop» in the early 1960s. "Does my darling feel what I feel when he comes here?.." Oh, please!

«Highlights» include an unnecessary attempt at appropriating ʽBlue Velvetʼ (the song is hardly any good on its own, but at least The Clovers gave it some color); Wayne Newton's ʽDanke Schoenʼ, sung with the same Yiddish accent ("danke shaayne!..") and preserving all the neo-cabaret corniness of the original; and a lushly orchestrated ʽDays Of Wine & Rosesʼ — I must say that I am a sucker for ʽMoon Riverʼ when it comes to Henry Mancini (probably due to the obligatory childhood crush on Audrey Hepburn), but not this one. Why not ʽMoon Riverʼ? Who­ever chooses ʽDays Of Wine & Rosesʼ over ʽMoon Riverʼ deserves a wicked thumbs down for that reason alone. Better still, why can't she just cover the Pink Panther Theme? At her best, she certainly used to be more of a «pink panther» than a «Tammy's in love (woo woo woo woo)».

Baroness: Yellow & Green

BARONESS: YELLOW & GREEN (2012)

1) Yellow Theme; 2) Take My Bones Away; 3) March To The Sea; 4) Little Things; 5) Twinkler; 6) Cocainium; 7) Back Where I Belong; 8) Sea Lungs; 9) Eula; 10) Green Theme; 11) Board Up The House; 12) Foolsong; 13) Col­lapse; 14) Psalms Alive; 15) Stretchmarker; 16) The Line Between; 17) If I Forget Thee, Lowcountry.

First reaction: No, no, no! Change is good, but not all change is good. This is not genuine heavy metal at all, this is not classic hard rock, this is some kind of gloomy «alt-rock» thing. Limp riffs, sludgy tones, gothic harmonies, medieval tonalities, metronomic beats, electronics... where's the crunch, goddammit? Are we actually supposed to sit back and «think» these songs over? Who do they think they are — Smashing Pumpkins? Heavens be cursed, here is yet another band that started out with a promise and turned to the usual dull crap in just a few years' time.

A few more listens into this stuff, though (not an easy challenge, as Yellow & Green is es­sen­tially a double album, with its two «differently colored» parts eventually clocking in at around seventy minutes), and I was already getting into these grooves and — man, what was I thinking? This is really interesting stuff, going way beyond their original formula and... well, could actually be their best album so far. By the fourth time, I was all but convinced.

Somehow, it seems that after a few albums of songs that had plenty of atmosphere, but tended to plod and meander, Baroness have managed to grow into very serious «melodicists». For one thing, they have grasped the meaning of the «less is more» concept — listen to ʽGreen Themeʼ, at the heart of which lies just a handful of tenderly arpeggiated chords, repeating themselves over and over before spilling out in a frenzied Mike Oldfield-style distorted folk guitar solo, then reverting back to quiet mode before spilling out again in a shrill psychedelic Floydian solo. The effect is pretty majestic — intelligent, catchy, and, at times, almost «beautiful», which is certainly a new high for Baroness, never yet caught so far in one of those «spiritual» moods.

However, their heavy riffs are also growing stronger — at the expense of «metal» elements, per­haps, as ʽTake My Bones Awayʼ, opening the first part of the album, seems more of a personal, confessional, soul-aching statement than a generalized «battle cry», the likes of which populated most of Blue Record. The main riff, processed through some wicked distortion filter, bellows with its own pain this time around — as do Baizley's vocals, which might as well come from a mortally wounded battle elephant, and then the frenetic guitar solo completes the picture.

This song and most of the others have nothing particularly experimental about them. This is just heavy (sometimes not so heavy) music with a solid degree of introspection and soul-searching. The spirit of Thin Lizzy is in here somewhere, as well as Rush, Metallica, U2, even The Cure or Radiohead, perhaps, on the not-so-heavy, but skillfully overdubbed, tracks. But nothing sounds like a tribute or a mindless exercise in plagiarism — Baroness are experienced enough to create their own moods and, more importantly, their own melodies.

The difference between the Yellow and the Green parts is not crucial. On the whole, the former remains closer to a «metal» sound and the latter moves more firmly in the direction of melancho­lic art-pop, but the distinctions are blurred enough to not let you notice that unless you pay atten­tion to the album and song titles. Both halves, actually, have their share of thoroughly non-metal­lic songs — ʽCocainiumʼ, in the first section, is as much distinguished by its psychedelic bassline / jangly rhythm dialog as ʽPsalms Aliveʼ, in the second section, is distinguished by its «bubbly bass / gentle arpeggios» combo — and they all sound surprisingly good.

Altogether, the point of both halves is the same: Baroness have slipped into a mood of «quiet lament», developing a sensitive side — those who'd like them move back into math-rock territory will probably be disappointed, and I know I would have been, too, if all this stuff really weren't so intelligently designed. Not to mention that this is the first album where I did not have any re­grets for Baizley as their lead singer: having purged all «growling» from his voice, he suddenly becomes much more efficient when replacing it with a tinge of desperation. And guess what, when he is not screaming at the top of his lungs, his voice is actually quite nice (ʽCocainiumʼ, ʽFoolsongʼ, etc.) — maybe he should try and experiment more in this department. Who knows, give him a few more years and maybe he'll turn into the next Thom Yorke.

I suppose the word «masterpiece» would be pushing it: the songs are not that memorable or breathtaking — and if Baroness really intend to invade the territory of Floyd, Cure, and Radio­head, they have a long road ahead of them before they master all the production intri­cacies, necessary to catch our souls in their web. But as a first, tentative raid in that territory, it surpasses any possible predictions and expectations, showing both a strong will to evolve and solid means to carry that will out. Just do not expect for either Yellow or Green to hit you all that hard upon first listen, particularly if you are a seasoned listener — the moodiness, the stylishness, the indi­vidual hooks of these songs require a little fermentation, so it seems to me. Thumbs up.

Check "Yellow & Green" (CD) on Amazon
Check "Yellow & Green" (MP3) on Amazon

Beck: One Foot In The Grave

BECK: ONE FOOT IN THE GRAVE (1994)

1) He's A Mighty Good Leader; 2) Sleeping Bag; 3) I Get Lonesome; 4) Burnt Orange Peel; 5) Cyanide Breath Mint; 6) See Water; 7) Ziplock Bag; 8) Hollow Log; 9) Forcefield; 10) Fourteen Rivers Fourteen Floods; 11) Asshole; 12) I've Seen The Land Beyond; 13) Outcome; 14) Girl Dreams; 15) Painted Eyelids; 16) Atmospheric Conditions; 17) It's All In Your Mind; 18) Feather In Your Cap; 19) Whiskey Can Can.

Beck's last original release on an indie label is arguably the most accessible of his «experimental snippet» collections — where one can spot talent and intelligence without too much irritation. Or, to put it differently, where Beck's pissed-off «anti-folk» hooliganry, generated by one too many downers, slightly abates in favor of pensiveness and seriousness. Not to mention that it is also the best produced record in the whole group: no more of that «bedroom aura» which, in retrospect, feels so unnecessarily pretentious.

Which is not to say that the album is a «must hear» — this is the kind of stuff that helps you put Beck in a larger context and understand where it all comes from, but certainly not the kind of stuff that could help put the guy in any «rock'n'roll hall of fame», officially or informally. Just sixteen more snippets, ranging from acoustic blues and folk to rowdy noisefests — carrying on with the post-mo­dern take on Neil Young. The material was recorded before the release of Mel­low Gold, so it does not yet bear the seal of an emerging superstar, but it is quite possible that, at this point, Beck was still testing out several roads to follow, and, had Mellow Gold not proven to be such an overwhelming success, we could have yet witnessed the guy burying his samplers and going on to pursue this strange path of trying to update ye olde Americana for the 1990s, rather than simply get inspired by some of it.

The guy with the somewhat vacant stare to the left of Beck on the album sleeve is hardly one of the nobodys: Calvin Johnson, one of the seminal figures in American underground, father of Beat Happening, Go Team, Dub Narcotic Sound System, and other projects, who acted as producer for this album, provided his own label's services to release it (K Records) and also co-wrote and co-sang the final track (ʽAtmospheric Conditionsʼ) in his trade­mark bass drone. This is probably an important «legacy link», but on the whole, the album certainly does not look like an equal parts collaboration — it's the Hansen show all along.

I am not sure how much actual composing was involved here: quite a few of the songs are no­thing but traditional old tunes, set to new lyrics — ʽFourteen Rivers Fourteen Floodsʼ, for ins­tance, is based on the old ʽSittin' On Top Of The Worldʼ / ʽYou Gotta Moveʼ set of chords, sliding and vibrating in deliciously authentic Thirties fashion; ʽI've Seen The Land Beyondʼ is a guessable variation on the Woody Guthrie style; ʽPainted Eyelidsʼ never goes beyond a standard up-and-down rockin'-horse country rhythm, and so on. In any case, the deal is not really about finding new sounds — it's all about relocating Robert Johnson, Leadbelly, and Jimmy Rodgers away from crossroads, plantations, and railway stations to the big modern city, without improving the conditions. ʽPainted Eyelidsʼ, in typical Beck fashion, continues to tell us about trash bags, sewer drains, chemicals, and debris — only this time, with clean sound, well-tuned acoustic guitars and pleasant, dreamy singing styles.

Some of the tunes eventually forget about their pre-war commitments and veer off into grim indie pop territory — sometimes, with pretty cool results, as it happens on ʽAssholeʼ, a particularly good one because it has what I call the «Lennon effect»: a seemingly trivial melody that is never­theless delivered with a subtle intensity and then resolved into some sense-shocking hook, like a discharge of slowly accumulating electricity, in this case, Beck's subliminal "she'll do anything, she'll do anything..." turning round and slapping you in the face with "...to make you feel like an asshole". These turns of events are quite common on Lennon's acoustic material, and here, Beck lets us know that he can have the same touch if he just keeps focused on it.

The screechy / noisy numbers on the album are, in comparison, rather scant — ʽBurnt Orange Peelʼ is a fuzzy comic-rocker à la Pixies, ʽZiplock Bagʼ is ugly noise-blues with harmonica blown through Lucifer's own sonic filter... and that's about it, actually, unless we also throw in a few dissonant overdubs on ʽAtmospheric Conditionsʼ. They seem mostly to have been placed here for diversity's sake, so that the album couldn't be that easily pigeonholed. But no worry: even without the electric numbers, it is not easy to place it into any one particular category.

Despite all the obvious shortcomings (or, at least, all of its obvious aspects that could be easily called «shortcomings» by those who think that the real Beck begins with Mellow Gold and con­tinues straight on with Odelay), I think the record deserves a thumbs up. At the very least, it could, and maybe even should, be taken seriously. Stereopathetic Soulmanure was still «punk» in spirit — and, consequently, quite contradictory, because Beck Hansen's guts aren't really punk. This stuff, on the contrary, does seem to stem directly from the guts. Sure, it is more about an in­dividual artist's guts than about shaking up the musical world of the mid-Nineties, but it should usually be an interesting venture — peek into the guts of an artist who dared to try and shake up the musical world all around him.

PS: Additionally, the idea that the album must have meant much more to Beck than Golden Fee­lings or Soulmanure is indirectly confirmed by its having been re-released in 2009 in the form of a «deluxe» edition, with an overwhelming sixteen extra tracks from the same sessions — I have not heard them, and I do not really believe they could significantly swerve one's judgement into either direction, but the very fact that Beck took such good care of this part of his legacy is well worth noting.

Check "One Foot In The Grave" (CD) on Amazon
Check "One Foot In The Grave" (MP3) on Amazon

The Bats: Fear Of God

THE BATS: FEAR OF GOD (1991)

1) Boogey Man; 2) The Black And The Blue; 3) Dancing As The Boat Goes Down; 4) The Old Ones; 5) Hold All The Butter; 6) Fear Of God; 7) It's A Lie; 8) Straight Image; 9) Watch The Walls; 10) You Know We Shouldn't; 11) Jetsam; 12) The Looming Past.

On a strictly song-by-song basis, Fear Of God just might be The Bats' greatest album, narrowly beating out Daddy's Highway. The life-giving formula remains intact, but the overall impression is that they gave it their best by tightening the screws with all remaining strength — as a result, the riffs are sometimes sharper, the choruses occasionally memorable on-the-spot, and the sound, without losing any of its jangle foundation, is toughened and more «rock-bound». Some of the songs are, in fact, closer to that very early «jangle-punk» style captured on ʽMade Up In Blueʼ, and this gives the record a mildly darker tinge. And dark is good, as we know.

Above all, my own personal favorite Bats song is here: ʽDancing As The Boat Goes Downʼ is as «doom-laden» as this band ever got. The alarming guitar ring, the ominous viola dance (provided by guest star Alan Starrett, replacing Alastair Galbraith in the status of «our regular guest guy to do the bowing»), and the perfectly phrased deterministic chorus — what is this, Robert Scott preaching about the imminence of the end? And being fairly convincing, too, without having to resort to dark basslines and dreary gravel-voiced intonations? This is by no means «happy» music, but it is not «obnoxiously depressing» music, either. Very good stuff.

The only other tune on the album to share the worried grimness of ʽDancingʼ is the title track — a deeply paranoid love song, rather than having anything to do with stances on religion; this one does have a dark bassline, and a fuzzier rhythm guitar as well, but is not as effective as ʽDancingʼ because the chorus is not nearly as catchy. We couldn't really rave about a generally «serious» or «mature» tone of the album as a whole just because it happens to have the words ʽfearʼ and ʽGodʼ rather than ʽDaddyʼ in its title. Yet on the other hand, even the «lighter» songs also frequently give the impression of being more «mature», if by «mature» we mean «accomplished» or «re­quiring a little bit more time to bring them up to quality level».

Thus, the single ʽBoogey Manʼ opens with their purest-sounding set of twin guitar chords so far, spun in a pretty revolving loop together with the vocal verse melody, with the chorus providing, as its «counterpoint», yet another such loop in a different tonality — everything perfectly coordi­nated, if not altogether deeply emotional. The accordeon and organ flourishes on ʽThe Old Onesʼ nicely shadow the caressing vocal harmonies. On ʽStraight Imageʼ, the rhythm guitar is put in banjo mode, creating a particularly «busy» melody for the verses that contrasts with the melodic folk-pop line of the bridge — two entirely different voices co-inhabiting the same song without imposing on each other. ʽYou Know We Shouldn'tʼ does a great job of amplifying its hook by having the chorus doubled by an equally loud lead guitar line; together with the power chords that triumphantly conclude each verse, this makes it into one of the band's most efficient embodi­ments of the stereotypical «power pop» ideology.

As before, though, the band's weak point — though others might think it their strong point — re­mains the lack of a distinct frontman personality. ʽThe Looming Pastʼ, with its title and lyrics about the nighttime plight of the protagonist who's lost the capacity of being in love, demands to be taken seriously, but neither the music nor Scott's monotonous vocal delivery really live up to the drama. The delivery is tolerable, and the music, with its zydeco-ish accordeon echoes, is pretty, and that's it: not a whiff of drama. Ian Curtis, Morrissey, or Michael Stipe would probably have had a thing or two to say about it. But on the other hand, you might say that The Bats are just playing it safe — for every single admirer of Curtis, Morrissey, and Stipe, there is also a hater, whereas «hating Robert Scott» would be a totally absurd activity.

Then again, «personality bluffing» is a part of this game, too: there must be a reason why Joy Division, The Smiths, and R.E.M. are all immensely popular, while The Bats have, for the most part, remained a New Zealand phenomenon, and it doesn't exclusively have to do with the fact that the average person in the Northern hemisphere is usually unsure whether New Zealand is a part of Australia, a country in its own right, or a name for a particularly wicked cocktail. As good as Fear Of God is, it is also smooth, even, and not very inspirational. But it also works every time you are not necessarily in the mood for inspiration — and that's just the time to catch it, en­joy it, and give it a thumbs up before that old «yearning for something grander» starts to set in.

Check "Fear Of God" (MP3) on Amazon

Barclay James Harvest: Live At High Voltage

JOHN LEES' BARCLAY JAMES HARVEST: LIVE AT HIGH VOLTAGE (2011)

1) Nova Lepidoptera; 2) Poor Wages; 3) She Said; 4) Galadriel; 5) Ball And Chain; 6) Mockingbird; 7) Taking Some Time On; 8) Medicine Man; 9) Song For Dying; 10) The Poet; 11) After The Day; 12) Hymn.

Our saga is almost at an end — technically, it has ended, because, other than a couple archival releases from the old days on the BBC, «Barclay James Harvest» was no more after River Of Dreams. In its place, through a simple budding process, two new entities were generated: «John Lees' Barclay James Harvest» and «Barclay James Harvest featuring Les Holroyd» — yes, the only thing better than a Barclay James Harvest are two competing Barclay James Harvests, each of them with its own personal assembly line.

It is beyond my level of endurance to go for a close analysis of Lees' and Holroyd's post-split careers, but just a few words may be in order. Holroyd had always been the «lesser» part of the two, writing relatively fewer hits and generally acting as a «sissy» counterpart to John's «tough­ness» (the distinction is embedded about as firmly as the Lennon/McCartney division line, which is to say not firmly at all, but there is a distinction) — on the other hand, he did take the drummer, Mel Pritchard, with him, so, from an arithmetical point of view, he might have more rights to the name of BJH than his tougher colleague. So far, «Barclay James Harvest featuring Les Holroyd» has had only one studio album out (Revolution Days, 2002: the small bits that I have heard con­firm the predictable suspicion — mostly pathetic adult contemporary with melodies as attractive as a bunch of squished caterpillars), as well as a couple live ones, and I suppose they must be pretty big in Germany, as always, and pretty small everywhere else.

The story of «John Lees' Barclay James Harvest» is marginally more interesting, because, in order to even out the quotas, Lees got back together with Woolly: their first effort, Nexus, re­leased in 1999, mostly consisted of reworkings of old classics, going all the way back to the early days, with a few new ideas thrown in. Also featuring Craig Fletcher on bass and Kevin White­head on drums, the band, from then on, mostly stuck to touring, and did that with modest success until Woolly's suicide in December 2010, caused by mental health problems. He was then re­placed by Jez Smith.

Live At High Voltage is a rather typical example of several live performances that the band has released in the 21st century. Recorded on July 23rd, 2011, at the High Voltage Festival in Lon­don (rather than Berlin!), it was then released as a 2-CD set (which, as a «bonus gift», included a third blank CD on which the buyer was invited to burn some photos and a video interview from the band's own site — is that marketing genius, or what?), with a side aim to act as an honorary  tribute to Woolly: they even performed Woolly's own ʽBall And Chainʼ, which they did not cover onstage while Woolly was alive.

The first thing, of course, that strikes you about the album is that none of the material dates past the late 1970s — and that most of the material (10 songs out of 12!) is from the band's earliest period (1970-72). Usually, this kind of behavior is branded as «turning into a nostalgic oldies act», but in this particular case, the aim is altogether different: for John Lees, who had been crea­tively stagnating over two decades, this is a rebirth — almost like a rejection of all that utter crap, going back to the spring of youth, that sort of thing. Listening to the band crank the volume up on those early tunes was fun to me, and a good reminder that there did really exist a time when Bar­clay James Harvest could lay claim to some depth, creativity, and good taste.

I mean, a Barclay James Harvest live album with no ʽPoor Man's Moody Bluesʼ on it? No ʽLove On The Lineʼ? No ʽLoving Is Easyʼ? No ʽTitlesʼ? Not a single Les Holroyd ballad? Most impor­tantly, no ʽSpud-U-Likeʼ or any traces of the band's existence in the synth-pop era? Bring it on, even if the actual performance is far from perfect: Lees' singing has grown craggy and cranky, the other guys, replacing Woolly, cannot sing expressively at all, the rhythm section does not feel particularly tight, and John seems to have lost a bit of the old «fluidity» in his soloing, as seen best of all on the slightly clumsy phrasing in ʽMedicine Manʼ (arthritis? or just nervous?).

But they do drag out the very first song on the very first BJH album — a fairly good run through ʽTaking Some Time Onʼ, even if, naturally, they cannot properly reproduce the psychedelic over­dub-fest that made the original coda so head-spinningly impressive. They do the entire ʽPoet / After The Dayʼ suite, with a ferocious solo at the end that quite compensates for the imperfection of ʽMedicine Manʼ. They do lots more of that nice early stuff. It's a pretty swell trip «down the old memory lane».

It is not that I am advocating for anyone to rush out and look for it, or any other «John Lees' Bar­clay James Harvest» record — normally, if you want to hear ʽTaking Some Time Onʼ or ʽSong For The Dyingʼ, you should just go back to the original source. The important thing is that this and other live records fulfill a «redemptory» function: it is pretty much John Lees saying to us, "yes, ladies and gentlemen, everything I did past 1979 was fairly crappy, and this here is me trying to undo some of the wrongs I'd done». Well, it seems to be that way — I may be getting it all wrong, but this is the interpretation that I like the most, and since I'm a sucker for happy end­ings, this is just the kind of happy ending I'd been hoping for. Therefore, all's well that ends well; thumbs up to this imperfect, but vivacious and well-meaning live album; and here's hoping that Barclay James Harvest, for a brief while at least, will continue to be remembered for the many beautiful things they'd done in their early years, rather than the numerous crimes against Taste, Queen and Country perpetrated in later ones.

Blood, Sweat & Tears: No Sweat

BLOOD, SWEAT & TEARS: NO SWEAT (1973)

1) Roller Coaster; 2) Save Our Ship; 3) Django (An Excerpt); 4) Rosemary; 5) Song For John; 6) Almost Sorry; 7) Back Up Against The Wall; 8) Hip Pickles; 9) My Old Lady; 10) Empty Pages; 11) Mary Miles; 12) Inner Crisis.

No Sweat? Really? Sure, the album cover is «funny» and all, but with the heated way the band throws itself on the glam rock barricades of the day, surely some sweat must have been sweated out while rehearsing and recording these tunes, not to mention performing them live before audi­ences who demanded that sweat from their performers. Preferably gleaming and glistening off their bare chests, for better effect.

With Steve Katz out of the band, the number of the original remaining members has now dwindled to two — the rhythm section of Jim Fielder and Bobby Colomby. (Additionally, Tom Malone replaces Chuck Winfield on trumpet, but he only lasted one year anyway, before leaving the band to accompany Gil Evans, and I don't blame him). The musical compass is now being provided by woodwinder Lou Marini and guitarist George Wadenius: in particular, they take it upon themselves to once again raise the quota of original songwriting — and to update the band's sound for those strange new times, when «flashy» seemed to take over «substantial».

There were three alleys now for the band to follow — with only one of them remaining the «ori­ginal» alley that BS&T themselves had a hand in constructing in the first place: instrumental jazz-rock / «fusion», here illustrated, first and foremost, by keyboardist Larry Willis' album-closing suite ʽInner Crisisʼ. The piece was, in fact, just a small fragment of the guy's creative mind — best illustrated on his solo LP from the same year, which, not coincidentally, was also called Inner Crisis and contained an alternate, even more harsh and funky version of the same compo­sition. Jazz fusion is not my favorite genre, so I cannot rave and rant about the great atmospheric wonders of the piece — but it is fairly adventurous, starting off on a solo piano note and then moving into a solid, riff-heavy groove (Jim Fielder offers lots of help on bass, too).

At the very least, ʽInner Crisisʼ sounds positively respectable next to the album's only other piece to contain some instrumental exploration: ʽAlmost Sorryʼ starts as «pub-rock de-luxe», then quickly turns into a portentous Vegasy piece, with hyper-loud trombone solos, hysterical synth parts and, ultimately, a vaudeville atmosphere — not so surprisingly, the brass / guitar / key­boards babble on the final couple of minutes sound eerily similar to the textures created by Alice Cooper on ʽWelcome To My Nightmareʼ (the song) a couple years later. Was Alice enough of a BS&T fan to get that influenced? In any case, it is one thing to combine vaudeville with parody, irony, and humorous titillation, as Alice does — ʽAlmost Sorryʼ is just boring in comparison.

But do not get me wrong: there is nothing truly trailblazing about No Sweat. On the contrary, the other two directions that it explores are not just traditional in themselves (soulful ballads and pompous rockers), but strictly follow recently established formulas. Two of the ballads, both con­tributed by Wadenius — ʽSave Our Shipʼ and ʽMy Old Ladyʼ — sound like totally bona fide Elton John songs, relatively convincing but spoiled by weak lyrics (no Bernie to save the day) and even weaker vocals (well, there is a reason, after all, why Elton John is celebrating his 60th anniver­sary at Madison Square Garden and Jerry Fisher is not — and it doesn't even have much to do with The Lion King or Princess Diana). In fact, the band is so well aware of the fact that it even hires Paul Buckmaster, Elton's trusty classic sideman, to oversee the orchestral arrange­ments — which happen to be the best thing about both of these tunes: Buckmaster had this mean, lean way with cellos, emphasizing them over violins, that automatically makes him one of the most distinctive, if not just plain best, string arrangers on that era's pop records.

Then there are the rockers — ʽBack Up Against The Wallʼ does sound like a smoothed-down version of the garage-era Alice Cooper, while Mark James' ʽRoller Coasterʼ, Randy Newman's ʽRosemaryʼ, and Traffic's ʽEmpty Pagesʼ are rootsier and/or funkier, but all four are equally loud, «triumphant», and designed to give you a good time in stretching your limbs, but not necessarily in getting an emotional high of any sorts. In other words, all of this is yer average «okay» music, perfectly adequate as a background soundtrack — no matter how seriously they try to make it loud enough for the foreground — but not really working on any other levels. Maybe that is really what the title of No Sweat is trying to tell us, except I think that the band members them­selves would be honestly pissed off at such a suggestion.

Overall, my final suggestion is that the album does no harm, but is mainly listenable for the sake of curiosity, especially if you are a big Elton John fan — like it or not, not everybody is physical­ly capable of nailing that style as expertly as they do on ʽSave Our Shipʼ — and especially if you are a serious fusion collector, in which case you do need to hear ʽInner Crisisʼ. (Then again, you might just want to head straight for the lion's den and get yourself a copy of Larry Willis' solo LP instead — certainly a better investment for the true fusion lover).

Bob Dylan: John Wesley Harding

BOB DYLAN: JOHN WESLEY HARDING (1968)

1) John Wesley Harding; 2) As I Went Out One Morning; 3) I Dreamed I Saw St. Augustine; 4) All Along The Watchtower; 5) Ballad Of Frankie Lee And Judas Priest; 6) Drifter's Escape; 7) Dear Landlord; 8) I Am A Lonesome Hobo; 9) I Pity The Poor Immigrant; 10) Wicked Messenger; 11) Down Along The Cove; 12) I'll Be Your Baby Tonight.

Most of the ink, both analog and digital, spilt over John Wesley Harding since its appearance in late 1967 / early 1968, has been spilt with benevolence and admiration, with the few dissenters deservedly going to Hell. However, to my deep surprise, I have never yet encountered a review or general discussion of this record that would really hit me where it feels sharpest. Maybe that makes me a particularly special kind of «Dylan nutcase» — wouldn't that be flattering, actually? — and if so, feel free to ignore the strong sentiments below. But they are strong, and have been that way for about two decades, and this is nothing to laugh about.

The story itself is known fairly well: Dylan recuperates, goes back to business, returns to Nash­ville, enlists the minimal aid of Blonde On Blonde vets Charlie McCoy (now on bass) and Ken­ny Buttrey on drums, plus steel guitarist Pete Drake on two tracks, cuts a fourty-minute, twelve-song LP in less than twelve hours (to the huge surprise of his backers), makes a Christmas release that stumps, then delights critics and fans alike: Dylan going back to his «roots»! and this time, with a noticeable «country» rather than «folk» flavor! and in the middle of the psychedelic craze and all! Then, next year, we have The Band, The Byrds, and even The Beatles following suit, and the «roots-rock revolution» is underway: yet another lever in the popular conscience pulled hard by the mysterious Mr. Zimmerman.

But, of course, as arrogant and self-centered as Mr. Zimmerman has always been, he was hardly likely to think of himself as the harbinger of yet another revolution when he entered that Nash­ville studio once more. What is much more likely is that, in his usual manner, he simply wanted to derail the public — there they are, all waiting for yet another rock'n'roll explosion à la High­way or the next whacky soul trip à la Blonde On Blonde, so, naturally, the right thing to give them is something that couldn't be farther removed from these expectations: who are all these people, daring to hope that The Artist will condescend to their predictable tastes? The day The Artist allows himself to be pigeonholed is the day he dies, and now that God himself has changed his mind and postponed that, all the more reason to become twice as confounding.

That must have been the planned intention, and it does not interest me all that much. What is far more bewildering is the side effect that John Wesley Harding has on some people — like my­self, who believes that the record, by far, transcends the formulaic limitations of «country-rock» and, together with Blonde On Blonde, taps into something much deeper, much less understandable and expressable. It is not just an album about going back to one's roots, nor is it a limited-issue album about some sort of nostalgia for the Old West, as some have proposed. But what is it, exactly — I am still not sure of it myself.

You put on the record, and it starts out with some unassuming, though lively, acoustic strumming and an equally unassuming "John Wesley Harding was a friend to the poor...". Now that looks pretty much like just a normal kind of folk stylization — Bob's take on the «friendly outlaw bal­lad» genre. Let alone the fact that the real John Wesley Hardin was more of a psychopathic killer than a «friend to the poor»: none of that matters, since most outlaw ballads idealize their prota­go­nists (what do we know about the real Robin Hood?), so Bob is just following tradition — be­sides, if pressed real hard against it, he could always reasonably retort that his John Wesley has an -ng rather than an -n in his family name, so "no charges against him could they prove".

But that is not the point — the point is that ʽJohn Wesley Hardingʼ, the song, is like one of those dazzling optical illusions, something that shifts from one opposite to the other before your very eyes without any noticeable conscious effort on the viewer's part. At one point in time, it is like a sincere, honest stylization. Then, with one carefully planted vocal twist or intentionally crude ly­ric, it seems to drift into parody and irony. Here it sounds like a respectable imitation; there it sounds like a sarcastic deconstruction. One bar of solo harmonica feels heroic — the next one rather gives a sense of the comical. You can sing along with a deadly serious expression, or you can do the same thing with a permanent grin on your face — it works both ways. At the end of the song, you might feel that the message has been delivered from the first to the last letter — or you might feel that there was no message in the first place.

Ridiculous as it might sound, I have even shed an occasional tear to this song — one of the most befuddling, incomprehensible tears in my life. Was it because the tune was so catchy, so well-rounded, so ideal in the simplicity and finiteness of its form? Was it because I had no idea of what I just heard, but felt strongly that I must have heard something, just couldn't put my finger on it? (and neither, perhaps, could the artist himself, even if pressed under torture to give out the truth?). Was it, in any way, related to the context of the times — this minimalistic, ascetic exer­cise in self-limitation, displayed in an age of sprawl and excess — or could it work the same way regardless of one's knowledge about said context? What are the extents and limits of this incom­prehensible mystique? Nope, I cannot answer any of that.

And that is all just about the first song, probably the least assuming / pretentious number on the entire first side of the LP. The following ones are not as tightly locked for comprehension, or, rather, you are simply allowed to make a few more steps down the corridor before you arrive at the same locked doors. This makes them into more usual candidates for discussion, debate, and hot-headed interpretations — but no final word has been pronounced on any of them either.

With ʽAs I Went Out One Morningʼ, the minimalistic approach begins to shows its potential for real — there is almost nothing to block the little zoops that Charlie McCoys plays on his bass, make the tune one of the few Dylan songs that are «owned» by the instrument. As usual, there has been plenty of debate over what exactly Tom Paine has got to do with stopping fair damsels running around in chains, but, frankly speaking, I have always regarded those lines ("as I went out one morning to breathe the air around Tom Payne's...") on the same level as "depart from me this moment, I told her with my voice", etc. — semi-improvised phrasing that helps organise and rhyme the lines, at the cost of some benevolently allowed linguistic and cultural crudeness which has always been an explicitly stated part of Dylan.

Anyway, once again, it is not really important what the man is singing — only how. Charlie's bass zoops, Bob's worried acoustic strum and the gravel in his voice, all of that has mystery and danger a-plenty, but you don't know where the danger is actually coming from. At the end of the song, you are somehow left in the middle of a Hitchcock movie — is it the «lovely girl» who is the bearer of the danger? is it Tom Paine? is it nobody in particular, and the whole thing is just a misunderstanding? or is it all about a general issue of fate? Whatever the answer be, here we have ourselves a pretty eerie slice of quiet darkness, and everyone can hang one's own name on it — it could be an allegory of the Vietnam War, for all I know. Or a prediction of 9/11. Do it yourself.

Joan Baez did not cover that one — too weird! — but she did do a good job on ʽI Dreamed I Saw St. Augustineʼ, a fairly accessible number in comparison. Bob didn't have to do much composing here — the melody and even the initial lyrics are rigorously based upon ʽI Dreamed I Saw Joe Hill Last Nightʼ, and one could not even argue that he had much improved upon the original's pedestrian, but still well-chosen phrasing. However, Bob throws in one of those seductive Biblical components — the righteous loner against overwhelming odds — and gives the song an air of quiet, barely visible, but total killer desperation. Formally, it sounds nowhere near as bleak and misanthropic as... well, as about fifty percent of everything he'd done since Street Legal, but subtlety is always king, and ʽSt. Augustineʼ works on a much deeper level: above everything else, it does not whine, nor does it make a big point out of openly condemning anyone or anything, it is just unbelievably, devastatingly S-A-D in all of its elements.

The obvious question that occurs to everyone vaguely familiar with Christian history is — who are the mysterious «them» "that put him out to death", when it is well known that not only did St. Augustine die from natural causes in his own bed, but also that one cannot even take that figura­tively (since the guy still remains one of the Holy Fathers of the Church). The simple answer is that, just as in the case of John Wesley Hardin(g) and the travesties of his career, Dylan did not care — he just needed a trisyllabic name for a Holy Father, and «Augustine» worked quite well. The complex answer is that this is a «symbolic» St. Augustine, chosen out of many to represent the «righteous loner» image (which he did have in life), and, well, we all know that, as a rule of thumb, «righteous loners» don't last long and... well, you know. It is, however, curious, that for the first time in his life Dylan has the guts to align himself with the ignorant «them» rather than the rebellious «him» — and ask a little confessional pardon for it. Or maybe it's just another of the many clever ways for the dude to show off, I am not sure. But I am sure that every goddamn time I hear "...I put my fingers against the glass, and bowed my head and cried..." I am all but ready to do the exact same thing. The song just totally got me in its grip — like no Beatles song ever did or could hope to do.

Hendrix was the first among many to see the thunderstorming hard rock potential of ʽAll Along The Watchtowerʼ — and thank God he did, or it might have been picked up by Three Dog Night or Grand Funk Railroad instead. His is a grand and visionary interpretation, but do not let its loud­ness and technical dazzle overshadow the understated simplicity and sparseness of Bob's original. Dave van Ronk, Bob's old friend and mentor, used to openly criticize the song for its nonsense lyrics — which, as it happens, are nonsense if you string all of them together and try to look for cohesion, but work very well as a disjointed collection of phrasal sketches: lots of indi­vidual great lines ("businessmen they drink my wine, plowmen dig my earth"), or at least appro­priately placed platitudes ("there are many here among us who feel that life is but a joke").

But of course van Ronk missed the main point — ʽAll Along The Watchtowerʼ is the best known and the most covered song off this album because it provides a unified emotional reaction to the largest amount of people: few will dare to deny its creepy pre-apocalyptic feel, in which it is se­cond only to ʽGimme Shelterʼ (actually, ʽGimme Shelterʼ is the Apocalypse happening before one's very eyes, so they are in complementary distribution on the subject), and its emotional power runs highest in between the verses, as those shrill harmonica sirens pierce your ears to McCoy's doom-and-gloom basslines.

Bob himself had commented on how ʽAll Along The Watchtowerʼ challenges time conveniences, having the «events» unfurl in reverse order, with the setting of the scene verse coming after the dialog — a brilliant move, actually, as it always seemed to correlate with an imaginary movie in my mind: camera focus on the «thief/joker» duo, then slowly, gradually zoom out onto the sur­roundings — "all the women came and went..." "...two riders were approaching..." This is, in fact, the normal way of life for Dylan: talking from a «petty» perspective that logically flows into a «grand» scheme of things. So, on second thought, there may be some cohesion here after all.

That one-two-three-four punch which I just described, to me, is the single awesomest streak of four-in-a-row album openers on any Dylan album, period — which is why, in comparison, the rest of John Wesley Harding, in relative comparison, has always seemed a little underwhelming to me. Underwhelming not because the other songs are «bad» or «uninspired», but because not all of them manage to uphold the same style of eerie mysticism. Worse, they do drift a little bit too close to concrete particularities — ʽI Am A Lonesome Hoboʼ and ʽI Pity The Poor Immigrantʼ are just the kind of material that earned Harding its «oh, it's the one where he sings about Old West colonization» status, even if, yes, the lyrics of ʽImmigrantʼ are probably one of his deadliest and sharpest bites of all time: a bite that, among other people, would certainly hurt the inhabitants of Bobby Zimmerman's own dear beloved town of Hibbing.

This is, however, merely to note that these songs are less mind-stimulating than others — on the other hand, ʽI Am A Lonesome Hoboʼ is great in how its whole melody and vocal delivery con­vey the «warning» idea of "hold your judgment for yourself lest you wind up on this road" be­fore the words are even spoken; and ʽI Pity The Poor Immigrantʼ is amazing in how the lyrics are so devastating, yet the singer does deliver them with visible pity in his voice — the same singer who, but less than three years ago, mostly used that same voice to reduce the objects of his critique to dust, salt, and vinegar.

On the other hand, ʽBallad Of Frankie Lee And Judas Priestʼ, occupying twice as much space as the average track on the album, sort of outpulls the blanket in the other direction — its melody carries no mystery, serving only as a backdrop for Bob's convoluted pseudo-allegory. To me, that song has always played the role of a «red herring» on the album, which I would be perfectly ready to forgive if it weren't for all the people who actually admit to liking the song, as in, really liking from the heart — about which I'm not sure: a put-on, I think, is always a put-on. If any­thing, Bob's own conclusion ("Don't go mistaking Paradise for that home across the road!") should serve as an easily decipherable warning to all.

The situation is more difficult with the last two songs on the album, where Bob's little band is joined by steel guitarist Pete Drake and the merry foursome get carried away into straightahead country territory, first in a danceable mode (ʽDown Along The Coveʼ) and then in nighttime bal­lad mode (ʽI'll Be Your Baby Tonightʼ). Both songs are lyrically straightforward — way too straightforward, one might say, faced with "Down along the cove, I spied my little bundle of joy / She said Lord have mercy honey, I'm so glad you're my boy!" right after the head-bursting conundrum of ʽWi­cked Messengerʼ — and both, in their own way, act as a «preview» of the up­coming Nashville Skyline, although, of course, nobody knew that back in early 1968. Naturally, such an odd conclusion was intentional — the question is, does it work?

Well, I think nobody will ever want to put ʽDown Along The Coveʼ on one's list of Dylan favo­rites, but as a «gesture» of sorts, it does no harm sitting there next to the great stuff on John Wesley Harding. On the other hand, ʽI'll Be Your Baby Tonightʼ, I think, is simply a perfect conclu­sion to the album — closing it off on a thoroughly serene, nonchalant, not-give-a-damn note after all the troubles and premonitions. It captures a bit of that lazy, arrogant, and utterly charming Hank Williams atmosphere with just the barest of Hank Williams trappings, and none of that distinct Southern accent, either, which may act as a turn-off for all them elitist Yankees. It's insanely catchy, it's probably got the most melodic and perfectly controlled harmonica breaks on the whole record, and it just washes your worries away with two and a half minutes of gentle soul medicine — when was the last time, or when, for that matter, would there be a next time where Bobby would get us all so relaxed with such a finale?..

It is not advisable to choose John Wesley Harding for your first acquaintance with Dylan, no matter how much I, or anybody else, choose to gush over this stuff. Its minimalist trappings can turn one off, I think, even quicker than his completely bare-bones early acoustic albums — where the instrumentation was ascetic, but the ambitions were grand. John Wesley Harding, in compa­rison, is a true musical «Hermit's Hollow»: if I learned, one day, that the songs were recorded in a cave in the middle of a wild forest, rather than a cozy Nashville studio, with all the band mem­bers wearing loincloths and drinking nothing but clear water from the nearest brook, I wouldn't be the least surprised. On its initial run, I think, the album works best as a deliberate contrast with the 1965-66 stuff, and should probably be listened to in the evening, on headphones, for the ultimate effect. But eventually, it gets its own life, and I am fairly sure that with certain psychological types of people, it can lock on so tightly that a «best Dylan album ever» option will not be out of the question. In any case, it is in my personal «top 5» for Bob, meaning one of the highest thumbs up an album might get. Too bad he never made anything even remotely close to it in style — but then again, a wonder is a wonder, and one thing that makes it a wonder is that you cannot deliberately repeat it, and if you try, you either end up with a different kind of wonder — if you are that good — or you simply fail.

Check "John Wesley Harding" (CD) on Amazon
Check "John Wesley Harding" (MP3) on Amazon