1) Mind Games; 2)
Tight A$; 3) Aisumasen (I'm Sorry); 4) One Day
(At A Time); 5) Bring On The Lucie (Freeda Peeple); 6) Nutopian
International Anthem; 7) Intuition; 8) Out The Blue; 9) Only
People; 10) I Know (I Know); 11) You Are Here; 12) Meat City.
General verdict: A middle-of-the-road album, but I'd still
rather be in the middle of the road with John Lennon than at the end of the
road with... with... WITHOUT John Lennon.
Time has not been very kind to Mind Games, an album recorded by John
right at the start of his next personal crisis — just after Nixon's victory at
the polls had taken all the wind out of his political sails, but a little
before his inner demons started getting the better of him (to be strongly
unleashed in about a year's time). Thus, in between the arrogant
fight-for-your-right exuberance of Some
Time In New York City and the deep dark depression of Walls And Bridges lies this album, usually thought of as the one
that spawned a classic title track and ten pieces of mediocre surrounding
filler.
But I do not like to think of it that way. More
than any other solo Beatle, I regard John's solo career now as one continuous,
unbreakable whole — a decade-long musical diary of psychological change,
mental growth, and emotional transformation — and from that point of view, Mind Games is just another step, a
somewhat relaxed and slightly less tense «breather», whose virtues are subtly
touching and whose flaws are amusingly instructive. Unlike quite a few complainers,
I sense no general weakening of the spirit here, let alone «selling out», and
John's melodic gift remains, on the whole, untainted, even if a few stylistic
and substantial missteps might certainly influence one's judgment.
One of the missteps in question may have been
John's new playing team: remnants of the Plastic Ono Band had scattered to the
winds, and in the place of heavyweights like Nicky Hopkins and George Harrison,
John was hiring relatively little-known session musicians, such as light-jazz
player Ken Ascher on piano and David Spinozza on guitar (the latter, amusingly,
had previously already worked with McCartney on Ram, but made sure to conceal it from John throughout the
sessions). This move was far from tragic, since, under John's guidance, all the
session musicians still deliver the goods, and there are plenty of classy
keyboard, guitar, and bass licks throughout the record (see below); but it does
hurt the album's identity, and pretty much lays all the blame for its flaws on
John exclusively. From now on, he would almost always be working with «third
tier» players, either being jealous of the stronger ones or, more probably,
just because he didn't really give a damn about extra personality touches.
Another potential misstep is actually an
illusion: the album is sometimes said to have been written in one week, but
that was largely because John used up a lot of material he had hung out to dry
over the previous three years. ʽMind Gamesʼ itself started out as two different
tunes around 1969-70, and took some time to blossom into the epic gem that we
know. I love this song deeply because, unlike ʽInstant Karmaʼ or any of those
other rabble-rousing anthems that John typically selected for his singles,
ʽMind Gamesʼ is not a sing-along, clap-along, everybody-get-along social
ritual, but more of a personal epiphany: its big, pompous arrangement calls for
you to celebrate the glory of existence without sacrificing your privacy and individuality.
The simple three-chord riff that keeps spiraling upwards throughout the song
is, in my opinion, one of the most beautiful and transcendental sequences John
ever came up with — a straightahead stairway to heaven, making the "love
is the answer" bridge every bit as credible as "all you need is
love", and, because of the song's less pandering-to-crowd nature, even a
little bit smarter. We can beat up the lyrics for being clumsy, pretentious, or
naïve, but if I am climbing that stairway to heaven, what do I care about the
questionable content of the billboards along the way?
Now, about that filler issue. It is true that
John seems to be somewhat confused here, nowhere near as sharp about his
message and general direction as he had been from 1970 to 1972. But that does
not prevent him from still having scattered flashes of quite variegated
emotional brilliance. Other than the title track, my two personal favorites
here are ʽAisumasenʼ and ʽIntuitionʼ — two numbers that set two completely
different moods and challenges, yet each succeeds brilliantly at its assigned
task, and I would rate them just as high as any highlight on POB or Imagine.
On ʽAisumasenʼ, perhaps an intentionally ironic
corruption of the required ʽsumimasenʼ (because it just has to be so tough for a foreigner to correctly pronounce a long
Japanese word), John asks for forgiveness — double the irony in light of the
fact that the song originally started life as ʽCall My Nameʼ, an
anytime-at-all-all-you-gotta-do-is-call active pledge of assistance — triple the irony in light of the fact
that the song was released right at the start of John's «lost weekend»
separation from Yoko, rather than, as could be normally expected, at its end.
Regardless of the context, it is quite a devastating confessional (not
coincidentally, its chord sequence is very similar to the one used on ʽI Want
Youʼ) — slow-burning, but tense, with a breathtaking plunge into even deeper
waters on the bridge ("all that I know is just what you tell me..."),
and culminating in a screaming, all-but-suicidal guitar solo from Spinozza
that, at the end, just leaves you hanging there, unresolved and unanswered. To
this day, it remains one of the greatest pure expressions of guilty
self-torture ever recorded.
Conversely, ʽIntuitionʼ, opening the album's
second side, is brighter, sprightlier, and a superb way to get you out of bed
on a brand new morning — cheerful, but intelligent; optimistic, but thoughtful;
somewhat martial, but friendly and homely. Everything about it is wonderfully
cute, from Jim Keltner's «slightly drunk» drum pattern to Gordon Edwards'
«back-of-my-mind» bass lick that opens the song to Ascher's delightfully
disciplined music-hall keyboard solo. It's also got quite an impressive set of
lyrics for a song that has to remain tied to continous usage of words that end
in -tion by design, although it would
have been just as impressive as a pure instrumental: it is not often that we
catch John in such a perky mood (actually, in the long run the song would fit
in perfectly on Double Fantasy, as
the perkiest album of his entire career).
The same perkiness, however, can be misplaced;
arguably the biggest weakness of Mind
Games is that it still contains, more due to artistic inertia rather than
artistic inspiration, several attempts at rabble-rousing that do not work
because it does not feel like the artist really continues to believe in this
type of action. The chief culprit is ʽOnly Peopleʼ, a song that has always
struck me as the definition of «phoney» — and not even because it has a bad /
unmemorable melody, but because its arrangement is completely misguided.
Instead of bringing in the big band touch, with thunder-drums, bombastic brass,
gospel choirs and all things Phil Spectorian, John goes here for a more restrained
type of «party atmosphere», providing most of the vocals himself, including all
the whoopees, hey-heys, and come-on-everybody's — which backfires severely,
because in the end it seems as if he is here all alone, trying to raise to
action a crowd of nobodys. In the overall context of his political
disillusionment after all the wasted efforts of 1972, ʽOnly Peopleʼ feels
especially hollow, like something that he still felt obliged to put on this
record without actually wanting to do it one bit. (As far as I know, he would
later end up pretty much disowning the song in his own words, so he might have
felt the same way relistening to it).
Slightly more effective is ʽBring On The Lucie
(Freeda Peeple)ʼ, with its bigger arrangement and an actual musical hook (the
funny little slide riff, apparently played by Sneaky Pete Kleinow himself). Its
main problem is that it wobbles in between seriously hateful protest and a merry
carnivalesque atmosphere, meaning that it could never have the same
psychological effect as ʽGimme Some Truthʼ or ʽWoman Is The Nigger Of The
Worldʼ; but melody-wise, it is a fine effort, and, besides, some people might
actually prefer their political
Lennon more poppy and carnivalesque, keeping the venom restricted to the
lyrics.
But if, on the whole, John Lennon, The
Political Animal, is on the wane in 1973, John Lennon the bare-bones pop-rocker
is doing fine. ʽOut The Blueʼ is a simple and nice love ballad, pushed up over
the mediocrity threshold by its powerful bridge section (there's a really great bit out there when the solo
piano and bass soar sky-high right before the "like a UFO you came to
me" line). ʽI Know (I Know)ʼ and ʽYou Are Hereʼ are two consecutive
ballads that might take some time to grow in your mind, but the former can eventually
win you over with its sheer sincerity, and the latter is really all about
Sneaky Pete and how his pedal steel can be such a perfect companion to John's
vocal tenderness. Speaking of vocal tenderness, though, that other ballad, ʽOne Day (At A Time)ʼ, kind
of overdoes the tender thing — it is hard for me to throttle the cringe
reaction hearing John go "you are my woman, I am your man" in that
falsetto. (This is one Beatle song that I actually prefer hearing in the Elton
John version).
If you want to remind yourself of John the
rocker, ʽTight A$ʼ might do the trick just fine — a simple, unpretentious,
solid piece of Carl Perkins-ish boogie with fun guitar solos and spooky lyrical
innuendos. But if you want to remind yourself of John the weird rocker, treat yourself to ʽMeat Cityʼ, a real hot mess of a
track: glam-rock with an avantgarde twist, danceable, dissonant, and
befuddling. I used to hate it, now I feel more amused by it — a bit of a
slap-in-yer-face after all the softness and normalness of the rest of the
record. "Chicken-suckin', mother-truckin', Meat City shookdown USA" —
not sure if Chuck Berry would have appreciated this attitude, but I guess that after
all he thought he'd done for those people, John felt himself rightfully
entitled for a bit of an anti-American poke here. Still, he never had the time
to make good on his "I'm going to China to see for myself" promise,
though; apparently, it was much easier to go L.A. and drown himself in alcohol
for a year instead.
Bottomline is — Mind Games is
not a great album (by Lennon standards, that is), but it is nothing to be
ashamed of. It is probably the only LP in his catalog that has no overriding
general purpose, and could be said to have been made just because John's
profession demanded it at the time. But no purpose is still better than, say,
the purpose of Some Time In New York
City; and this is frickin' John
Lennon — the man that is theoretically capable to inspire you by writing a song
about getting out of bed and brushing his teeth, if he so desires.
Great review. This one took a LONG time for me to understand (I think it helps to be around the same age as John when he recorded it). It's not a statement record, or a big record. As you say, it's "purpose" seems confused... Maybe the first record John had ever released with such small stakes. I think it was confusing for the audience, too, because we want John to be the "rocker," and the rockers on this record are all uninspired at best. But the ballads! I'd put em up against his best. Beautifully written and sung. Especially "You are Here," which is what Jimmy Buffett sounds like in heaven.
ReplyDeleteThis is an awesome review for a good album. It, the album, definitely feels like a 'breather'. Salutations; and a very belated happy birthday.
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