1) A Dose Of RockʼnʼRoll;
2) Hey Baby; 3) Pure Gold; 4) Cryinʼ; 5) You Donʼt Know Me At All; 6) Cookinʼ
(In The Kitchen Of Love); 7) Iʼll Still Love You; 8) This Be Called A Song; 9)
Las Brisas; 10) Lady Gaye; 11) Spooky Weirdness.
General verdict: The cracks are clearly showing, but still a
decent enough application of Ringoʼs classic mid-Seventies formula — a last
stab at decency before the slump.
The final entry in Ringoʼs «With A Little Help
From My Ex-Bandmates» trilogy was, not too surprisingly, the weakest. Paul was
busy touring with Wings and trying hard to dethrone Led Zeppelin from their «jet
kings» pedestal; George was busy sulking, litigating, and generally having the
shittiest time of his life; and John had just announced his retirement from
music altogether. In the middle of it all, Ringo himself was far from being in
fine shape, since most of his free time in that period was largely spent collaborating
with Keith Moon on various ways of destroying oneʼs own organism. And the
album, produced for a new deal with Atlantic Records, was to be made on the
spot in coke-rich L.A., under the supervision of Arif Mardin, who had just made
himself a big name by producing the first disco hits of the Bee Gees.
Taken together, all these factors could result
in one of the most awful experiences ever, or, by some curious chance, in one
of those fascinating trainwrecks that are extremely interesting to experience,
since they happen to convey a particularly deranged state of mind at a certain
time period. Ringoʼs Rotogravure,
however, is neither. It is, in fact, disappointing largely because it is so
mediocre — smooth, passable, occasionally catchy, with almost no highlights and
very few straightforward embarrassments. Various accounts tell us of how wild
the life of British drummers could be in mid-Seventiesʼ L.A., but you do not
really get any glimpses of it here: you do
get a few on Keith Moonʼs solo album that came out a little earlier, but Ringo
was just too shy in comparison. You can like this record or hate it, but you
can be assured that it will tell you very little about Ringoʼs true state of
mind in mid-ʼ76.
Arguably the most likable song on the album has
nothing to do with John, Paul, or George anyway: it is the opening title, ʽA
Dose Of RockʼnʼRollʼ, contributed by the little known Australian songwriter
Carl Groszman. Containing not one, but two
deceptive starts, it takes twenty five seconds to settle into its lazy,
nonchalant, friendly mid-tempo groove and just a few more to fully lay its
cards on the table: "if your mama donʼt feel good / if your daddy donʼt
feel good / take a dose of rockʼnʼroll / and wash it down with cool, clear
soul". While I am not exactly sure that the message should be taken
literally, and that the recipé could genuinely aid your parents on their
deathbeds, the simple charm of the catchy chorus is impossible to resist, and I
know for sure it helped raise my mood
just a little bit a couple of times. (Put together two and two and you will see
how it could probably raised Ringoʼs own mood at the time — not that I am
implying that you can actually see a desperate man behind the smile without
actively using your imagination, but thereʼs no harm in whipping up a little
tragism to spice up a Ringo Starr record).
As for the old bandmates, there are signs of
slacking. Paul actually worked with Ringo on the backing track for ʽPure Goldʼ
(with Linda singing back vocals), but the song simply works over the old
doo-wop progression with a slightly glitzy comical twist — unlike ʽSix
OʼClockʼ, a song with clear traces of McCartneyʼs pop genius, ʽPure Goldʼ is more
of a Fiftiesʼ homage that brings back Ringoʼs antiquated image instead of
trying to adapt him to modern times. Johnʼs ʽCookinʼ (In The Kitchen Of Love)ʼ
is better, a fun little pop romp that would be Johnʼs last contribution to the
world of music until 1980 — but, funny enough, already shows a bit of that
relaxed, pacified, at-ease-with-the-world spirit which would define the sound
of Double Fantasy; apparently, getting
back with Yoko and nursing baby Sean made a pretty quick impact on the man, or
maybe it was always like that for him in Ringoʼs presence (maybe if they had
moved in together as early as 1975, weʼd have Triple Fantasy four years earlier?).
The weirdest story concerns Georgeʼs ʽIʼll
Still Love Youʼ, a song that actually dates all the way back to the All Things Must Pass sessions and which
George originally intended for Shirley Bassey, then gave away to Cilla Black. Apparently,
with George unable to come up with new material for Ringo and with Ringo being
an old fan of the song, they decided they would give it a go. The attempt was noble,
and there is even some fabulous guitar work by session player Lon Van Eaton
that is every bit as deserving as anything George and Eric did on All Things Must Pass themselves — the
bad news is, of course, that Ringo bravely fails the test of capturing Georgeʼs
broken-hearted spirit, and his "Iʼll still love you!" at the end of
each verse is pedestrian; compare this version with the much worse produced
demo original from the 1970 sessions, and you will clearly see what
distinguishes a great singer-songwriter from run-of-the-mill showtune level
performance. Simply put, this is not
Ringo in his right emploi — and I am certainly not implying that the man could
not feel pain and spiritual torture; he simply lacked the means to make us feel that feel. He knew what it
means, he just couldnʼt explain.
Everything else on the album ranges from «okay»
to «okayish». Claptonʼs ʽThis Be Called A Songʼ captures Eric at the peak of
his reggae-country-soft-rock period and predictably sounds like an outtake from
Thereʼs One In Every Crowd — mildly catchy,
professional, totally unexciting. Ringoʼs own songs cover old-fashioned country
balladry (ʽCryinʼʼ), corny Mexican mariachi music (ʽLas Brisasʼ), and
straightforward pop that abuses the hell out of its repetitive chorus (ʽLady
Gayeʼ). I welcome this diversity, but it does not exactly turn the record into
a White Album — although, in a funny
way, it has its own brief equivalent of a ʽRevolution No. 9ʼ: the last minute
and a half are given over to ʽSpooky Weirdnessʼ, a mix of mock-creepy musical
hooliganry and cheesy-scary voiceovers that might suggest an influence of Welcome To My Nightmare, perhaps placed
on a turntable during one of Team Ringoʼs drunken binges at one of the local LA
clubs. It is a totally innocent twist, but then again, we do not often get
twists of any kind on Ringo Starr records
— plus, its goofy messiness may be pretty symbolic.
The record was seriously panned upon release,
and its commercial failure and critical backlash drove Ringo to abandon the
formula and try something new for his next two albums — but in retrospect, it
is way better than whatever followed,
and the backlash itself was more due to changing times than decreasing quality;
to be sure, Rotogravure rocks much
less than Ringo, but it is not just
because of Ringo — it is because the glam-rock aesthetics that Ringo conducted so fine was becoming
stale. It is curious, actually, that Arif Mardinʼs role in the albumʼs sound
turned out to be purely passive: there is no guarantee whatsoever that Ringo
could be made to churn out fun disco singles with the same passion that he had for
T. Rex-style singles, but the very fact that this was not even attempted is
quite telling of the general situation. Now that we are not in 1976 anymore, Rotogravure can be enjoyed a bit more
openly and freely outside of that context — but, of course, it is still far
from the standards of «fabulous simplistic pop».
This album doesn't sound like it deserves such a rigorous, thoughtful review - which is why we appreciate your work all the more.
ReplyDeleteI bought this album when it first came out because I just knew that more Beatles help would be great, just like Ringo. I hated every single note.(even the Lennon tune) I no longer have a copy of it and I don't mourn that at all. I tried it several times over the years and never rated it above putrid. Never bought another Ringo album again. Ever.
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