Ringo Starr: Bad Boy

RINGO STARR: BAD BOY (1978)

1) Who Needs A Heart; 2) Bad Boy; 3) Lipstick Traces; 4) Heart On My Sleeve; 5) Where Did Our Love Go; 6) Hard Times; 7) Tonight; 8) Monkey See – Monkey Do; 9) Old Time Relovinʼ; 10) A Man Like Me.

General verdict: How does a real man answer to punk and New Wave? With a glass in his hand, Dr. John in the studio, and doo-wop covers from the dawn of time.

Okay, before we rip this one a new asshole, let us get this out of the way: Ringo Starr has never, not once in his life, released a genuinely offensive album. Boring, yes; ridiculous, for sure; but never ever has he truly attempted to become something completely different from what he really is — perhaps because he is simply incapable of such a masquerade — and never ever has he betrayed his own tastes and likes for something for which he did not have the slightest passion or of which he did not have the slightest understanding. In real life, his behavior was frequently far from saintlike; in his music, the sweet innocence and naïve unpretentiousness that ooze from every note he sings pretty much makes him impenetrable to the sharpest, most vicious stings of criticism. Beating up on Ringoʼs music is like beating up on peace and love itself.

With all this out of the way, letʼs get to business and beat up on Ringoʼs music. Bad Boy is very frequently mentioned as the absolute nadir of the manʼs solo career — sometimes it is a toss-up between Bad Boy and Ringo The 4th, but the two constitute a stylistic pair anyways — and I tend to agree with this assessment. This time, there is not even a single half-hearted attempt to honor contemporary trends: probably the closest thing to a disco track is the limp, sentimental pop rocker ʽTonightʼ, whose bassline seems to want to switch into pure disco mode all the time, but always stops short of this (perhaps because the bass player is Elton Johnʼs former partner Dee Murray — who was fired by Elton right before Elton himself switched to, umm, letʼs say, more danceable formats of music). Nevertheless, this does not help matters much...

...because refusing to submit to the disco craze does not necessarily mean one has something worthwhile to offer instead. What Ringo offers us here is the same unstable mix of the old with the new, begging the question of «why?» when it comes to the old and the reaction of «oh, gross» when it comes to the new. Some of the old (and some of the new) has a laid-back, New Orleanian vibe to it, no doubt due to the presence of Dr. John on keyboards; Allen Toussaintʼs ʽLipstick Tracesʼ, which was released as a single, is the most prominent example, and it is quite passable. But the title track, which is not a re-recording of the Larry Williams song as once famously covered by The Beatles — but rather a cover of an old doo-wop standard by The Jive Bombers — once again gives us a somewhat confused performer on a track where powerful vocals could be the only redeeming factor, so, of course, it just had to be sung by Ringo. That "Iʼm just a bad boy-oy-oy-oy-oy" bit sounded cheesy even in the hands of professional doo-woppers. Another odd choice is ʽWhere Did Our Love Goʼ — Ringo Starr as Diana Ross? For comedy? For tragedy (given the still fresh memories of the divorce from Maureen)?.. Whatever.

Of the new material, the slow funky burn of ʽMonkey See – Monkey Doʼ works better than most of the rest, largely because of the strength of the backing band, but still, the song should perhaps be best enjoyed in its original context, that is, on Michael Franksʼ The Art Of Tea, a first-rate jazz / soft-rock album that most people (including myself) will probably only learn of because of this Ringo cover. Ringo himself is credited for only two songs, co-written with Poncia: ʽWho Needs A Heartʼ, another unremarkable sentimental pop rocker, and ʽOld Time Relovinʼ, another unremarkable sentimental pop shuffle — both songs almost senile in their atmosphere, so you can imagine the warm welcome they must have enjoyed in the generally rejuvenating musical climate of 1978. The only thing worse than that could have been the album closer — the waltz ʽA Man Like Meʼ, by "multi-instrumentalist and photographer" Ruan OʼLochlainn, arranged as some sort of anthemic gospel number but with a very cringy, maudlin attitude.

Overall, the best that can be said about Bad Boy is that it is one of those «disaster albums» where the artist does not seem to give a damn. There are few, if any, signs of depression or desperation; few, if any, signs of a loss of control; and not a single sign of the artist actually understanding what goes on around him and having remorseful fits over this. Taken out of its historical context, Bad Boy is just a mediocre pop album like so many others, no more, no less. It is only because we know that 1978, mildly speaking, was much better than this, and also because we know that at his best, Ringo is actually capable of producing first-rate, energizing entertainment value, that the album remains at the absolute bottom of the pile. But remain there it does, and while it does happen every now and then that I pull out a few long-forgotten Ringo tunes to brighten my mood, no such tunes happen to dwell on Bad Boy. 

Ringo Starr: Ringo The 4th

RINGO STARR: RINGO THE 4TH (1977)

1) Drowning In The Sea Of Love; 2) Tango All Night; 3) Wings; 4) Gave It All Up; 5) Out On The Streets; 6) Can She Do It Like She Dances; 7) Sneaking Sally Through The Alley; 8) Itʼs No Secret; 9) Gypsies In Flight; 10) Simple Love Song.

General verdict: If your name is Ringo Starr, please refrain from trying to embrace all the mainstream musical genres of the mid-1970ʼs at once; and certainly try to refrain from embracing them drunk.

It is fairly ironic that the only original album released in the Year of Punk by an ex-Beatle was Ringo The 4th — even more ironic that of all Beatle-related output in the 1970s, this was arguably the single most cringeworthy endeavour (though Ringoʼs own follow-up, Bad Boy, comes close). Almost everything about this record hints at a total lack of taste and complete ineptness, starting with the more-cheesy-than-sleazy sleeve photo (I presume nobody involved in that photoshoot was even remotely sober) and ending with its relative diversity, as the covered styles range from funk and disco to country-western and yacht rock — and feature a thoroughly unprepared and clueless Beatle drummer trying to get on top of them, but having obvious trouble already at the stage of unbuttoning his pants, if you pardon my being blunt.

Unlike Rotogravure, this does sound like it was produced by Arif Mardin: at least half of the songs feature very contemporary dance grooves, even if the proverbial disco bass lines can be found on maybe just one or two. The credits list is endless: you can find a young Luther Vandross and a slightly less young Bette Midler among the back vocalists, Johnʼs and Paulʼs collaborator David Spinozza on guitar, and even the great Tony Levin on bass (though he is co-credited along with three other bass players, so I have no idea where precisely they are hiding him). Needless to say, all the arrangements are immaculately produced and all the basic tracks laid down with professionalism and devotion. Unfortunately, it is all wasted.

It is not even that the songs are all that bad. Vini Poncia, who had been working with Ringo since 1973, is now promoted to chief co-writer, and Ringo has certainly had worse co-writers covering his back. The choice of covers is formally reasonable as well: ʽDrowning In The Sea Of Loveʼ was a solid soul standard by Joe Simon, and Allen Toussaintʼs ʽSneakinʼ Sally Through The Alleyʼ was an early Robert Palmer highlight. It is simply that none of these styles fit Ringoʼs voice or personality. ʽDrowning In The Sea Of Loveʼ is a turbulent tempest of a song, one that requires range and power, two things that were always out of Ringoʼs reach even back when he was not an alcoholic. Ten seconds into the songʼs intro, you know the man is going to flub it as soon as he comes in, and though he fights bravely, this ainʼt Sparta, son.

Basically, most of these tunes fall into two categories: deeply serious numbers for which Ringo lacks the authenticity and power of vocal conviction, or deeply corny numbers of a vaudeville variety that should, theoretically, be played for drunk sailors by guys in top hats and underwear. The fact that the two types are mixed in roughly equal proportions and play off each other like there was nothing to it only adds to the emotional confusion, and I cannot even say which of the two is a bigger turn-off. Probably the serious stuff, though, like ʽGave It All Upʼ — a sort of Willie Nelson-like dark country ballad through which Ringo largely just sleepwalks. You can sense potential here, and even the lyrics arenʼt a total loss (and lines like "as I look back and wonder / have I wasted my time?" definitely ring with a lot of relevance for Ringo in 1977), but one can only guess if the song could have made a bigger time with a better vocalist.

The single was ʽWingsʼ, a song that sounds so much like Foreigner that Ringo would eventually have to completely remake it in a poppier vein thirty-five years later. Here, too, the day could probably be saved with a different vocalist and some funky twists to the arrangement: as for Ringo, he might have felt like shit in 1977, but that did not help him convey it on the record. It is worth listening to Ringo The 4th attentively at least once to understand that not everything about it is just corny dance fluff — but you do have to know the historical context to guide you. Some people make great records about their personal crises and breakdowns... and some people are Ringo Starr, God bless his beautiful soul and limited artistic abilities.

In short, this is where I am driving at: this is a bad album not because it is so lightweight, but rather because it combines an utterly lightweight style with elements of dark, brooding substance. There is a certain perverted charm watching the man walk the line from the bluntly alcoholic pub-rock of ʽCan She Do It Like She Dancesʼ and the equally bluntly alcoholic club-pop of ʽOut On The Streetsʼ to the pain and suffering of ʽWingsʼ and ʽDrowning In The Sea Of Loveʼ, but I would never force anybody to experience it. Trust me, you donʼt really want to be friends with Ringo when he is down in the dumps; you really have to wait for peace and love. 

Ringo Starr: Ringo's Rotogravure

RINGO STARR: RINGOʼS ROTOGRAVURE (1976)

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».

Ringo Starr: Goodnight Vienna

RINGO STARR: GOODNIGHT VIENNA (1974)

1) (It's All Down To) Goodnight Vienna; 2) Occapella; 3) Oo-Wee; 4) Husbands And Wives; 5) Snookeroo; 6) All By Myself; 7) Call Me; 8) No No Song; 9) Only You; 10) Easy For Me; 11) Goodnight Vienna (reprise); 12*) Back Off Boogaloo; 13*) Blindman; 14*) Six O'Clock (extended version).

General verdict: A bit too much on the silly pop side, but still fairly consistent and fun as far as silly pop goes. Too bad the «Ringo as Klaatu» idea never got reflected in the music — hey, it could work.

The success of Ringo was a turning point in the man's career — from that point onwards, Ringo adopted the «Magnet Approach» as his primary guideline in creating new music. Namely, Ringo himself would be the magnet, and all sorts of famous musical people, preferably including one or two of his older bandmates, would be the objects of attraction. Even if the approach would not always work, it was pretty clear to Ringo that this would be the only way for his albums to sell, or, if not sell, then at least have some sort of reason for existence. Or maybe it was never all that clear to Ringo, but that is what he did anyway, drunk or sober.

Since Goodnight Vienna was recorded in more or less the same circumstances as Ringo — still in Los Angeles, still accompanying John Lennon on his «lost weekend», still featuring the same player line-up — one would expect it to be comparable in quality to its predecessor, and it is. Yet at the same time, there is a slight overhang of the balance towards the whimsical vaudeville side, and I would make a guess and blame this on the absence of one particularly important and crucial friend: Marc Bolan. The heaviest and most seriously-sounding song on the CD edition of Vienna is ʽBack Off Boogalooʼ, a single-only rocker that had actually been recorded in 1972 and was still heavily influenced by Marc — not just because of the lyrics ("boogaloo" was one of Bolan's favorite words), but because of the overall bombastic, snapping, snarling approach; Harrison's slide guitar playing, coupled with some of the loudest and fiercest drumming in Ringo's entire career, is a classic example of the no-holds-barred principle.

Compared to that heavy (but still fun) stuff, Goodnight Vienna is a bit of a letdown if you come looking for maniacal energy and party wildness. It is still a party album, but it looks like the party is winding down — if Ringo captured the guests in full heat, then Vienna is that late hour thing when it is not quite time to go yet, but the heavy stuff is already starting to wear off. So there is less heavy rock and more flat-out pop, less flashy guitar and more honky-tonk piano: Bolan is on his way out, but Elton is still in, with ʽSnookerooʼ sounding like something out of the ʽLove Lies Bleedingʼ textbook, only in a clown version this time.

The one song that most people probably remember from the album is the ʽNo No Songʼ, though it was really a cover — Hoyt Axton's original was a little more blatantly Caribbean-stylized, both in the singing and the musical arrangement, whereas Ringo's band goes for a more straightforward pop angle. There is a bit of self-irony in listening to Ringo consequently renounce all of Earth's nasty pleasures in the middle of a recording studio in 1974 Los Angeles ("ten pound bag of cocaine" — how could one refuse a ten pound bag of cocaine under those circumstances?), and the irony is further increased with a vocal and instrumental melody that would make the song perfect for Sesame Street... well, it's never too late to teach kids about the harmful side effects of heavy drugs, I guess. The whole thing may be dumb as heck and even sacrilegious if you want to think in those kinds of terms, but damn is it ever catchy, and Ringo is the perfect guy to sing it. (Though it is also a good incentive to check out more of Hoyt Axton's stuff — nobody ever remembers the guy, but he did record quite prolifically in the 1960s and beyond, and wrote some good songs that we usually know from other performers, such as Steppenwolf's ʽPusherʼ).

Other than that, most of the material is enjoyable and forgettable. The Lennon-written title track is a novelty toss-off — ʽI'm The Greatestʼ was at least swimming in irony, whereas ʽGoodnight Viennaʼ is just drunken nonsense sung against a banging piano riff that John might have thrown out while recording his version of ʽYa Yaʼ or something. Paul and George are no longer present; instead, we have the bright New Orleanian sound of Allen Toussaint (ʽOccapellaʼ), the Nashville sludge of Roger Miller (ʽHusbands And Wivesʼ, a fairly poor choice because Ringo very much sucks at slow, sentimental country waltzes), and the melancholic balladry of Harry Nilsson (ʽEasy For Meʼ — which you can hear on Nilsson's own album anyway, so there is really no reason to hunt down a Ringo version). All nice enough, but without quite the same atmosphere of total craziness that permeated Ringo.

Still, compared to the late Seventies' slump that would follow, Goodnight Vienna is quite a salvageable record. If we agree that we like to have Mr. Starkey clowning around as long as he understands that he is clowning and lets us in on the joke, then this album perfectly fits the concept. It rarely, if ever, tries to be serious; rarely, if ever, demands for any exceptional singing feats to be performed; totally respects the quality-pop laws of catchiness and professionalism; and still has that slightly dimmed (and, by now, a bit forced) party feel. You do get the impression that, perhaps, a nasty hangover would be just around the corner, and it was; but as of late 1974, the party was still on, and it is never too late to join in, not even in 2018.

Ringo Starr: Ringo

RINGO STARR: RINGO (1973)

1) I'm The Greatest; 2) Have You Seen My Baby; 3) Photograph; 4) Sunshine Life For Me; 5) You're Sixteen; 6) Oh My My; 7) Step Lightly; 8) Six O'Clock; 9) Devil Woman; 10) You And Me (Babe); 11*) It Don't Come Easy; 12*) Early 1970; 13*) Down And Out.

General verdict: Might just be one of the greatest drunken records of all time. If you're sixteen and you're beautiful, this album is just for you. (Or, at least, it WAS back in 1973).

While Ringo's first two solo albums are essentially indefensible, his properly self-titled debut in the world of genuine pop-rock presents a great pretext for the proverbial Ringo Apology. In the world of pop music, we do not always have to judge artists by their technical skills or songwriting genius: sometimes — much more often than we want to admit to ourselves, actually — charisma and personality is all it is really about. And there was never a time when Richard Starkey lacked charisma and personality, even if in those early years it may have been more apparent in the movies than in the music. And as the Seventies moseyed along and the individual Beatles' power of innovation and breaking new ground passed on to a new generation of musicians, and their solo albums began to be more about personality than about revolution, suddenly Ringo found himself in a position when his chances at making a good record became comparable with said chances for all of his former bandmates.

Sure, he would never become a fully competent, self-assured songwriter; but this did not prevent him from writing two songs on his own (ʽIt Don't Come Easyʼ and ʽBack Off Boogalooʼ) and sending them into the US and the UK Top Ten — not because he was Ringo Starr, but because they were really good songs, the first one fun and inspirational, the second one weird, frivolous, and catchy. More importantly, why should you bother writing songs when you can have your friends write them for you — particularly the kind of friends who understand very well what sort of songs would suit you best of all? And finally, whoever said that a good record need necessarily deal with soul-searching à la Lennon, pastoral idyllies à la McCartney, or religious epiphanies à la Harrison? ʽWine, Women, And Loud Happy Songsʼ, the title of one of the entries from the disappointing Beaucoups Of Blues, would be Ringo's motto from now on, and Ringo has as many terrific loud and happy songs about wine and women as Living In The Material World has about Lord Sri Krishna, or as Red Rose Speedway has about... uh, red roses?

It should probably be pointed out that Ringo came out in the right place at the right time. 1973 was the height of the glam era, and Ringo was living the life of quite the wild party animal, hitting it off with the likes of Keith Moon and Marc Bolan like there was no tomorrow. The glitzy, egocentric, hedonistic nature of the glam movement must have appealed to his unpretentious, simple-man-with-simple-pleasures artistic persona, and yet, at the same time, his natural charm, friendliness, and humility would definitely prevent him from coming across as an annoying, obnoxious jerk. If you are familiar with the music of the time, you do not need to go further than the opening dry-throat guitar chords of ʽHave You Seen My Babyʼ to make the identification (I honestly did not remember this, but I knew it was Marc Bolan with the first couple of notes) — but Ringo's adoption of glam trademarks stops abruptly at the line between «loud and cheerful» and «overpowered». Because the latter is just not what he is.

Besides, Bolan may have played on ʽHave You Seen My Babyʼ, but the song was written by Randy Newman — and, if anything, it presents the protagonist as a sore loser with his woman rather than Mr. Magneto-Man ("when you're through with my baby, milkman, send her home to me"). Even more blatantly, ʽI'm The Greatestʼ, donated by Lennon, clearly pokes all sorts of fun at the superstar craze — and John in person had gone on record saying that, well, if he'd written a song called ʽI'm The Greatestʼ for himself, people would have raised eyebrows; but for Ringo, it was perfectly alright. Nothing could hurt Ringo at the time.

Anyway, the sheer amount of talent on the album is legendary — all four Beatles (though never in the same room at the same time), Bolan, Newman, Nicky Hopkins, all of The Band, Steve Cropper of Booker T. & The MG's, Harry Nilsson, Billy Preston, Jim Keltner on drums: appa­rently, nobody could say no to Ringo, a phenomenon that he would make continuous good use of through the next four or five decades. Typically, such a superstar swamp does not guarantee true quality; but in the heated-up, inebriated, rambunctious atmosphere of Los Angeles in 1973, it almost certainly guaranteed a wild, irresistible ego trip. With most of the songs contributed by Beatles members, the deal was sealed, and up to this day, Ringo is almost unanimously regarded as the pinnacle of Starr's solo career, with which I can only concur.

The big hit was ʽPhotographʼ, co-written with George (and later, in a moment of accidental brilliance, revived by Ringo as a memory to his good friend at the Concert For George) with a bit of a Roy Orbison vibe, but also featuring George's trademark love for «winding-stairway» chords (here in the bridge section) and somehow cutifying the cheesy melodrama by means of that same old lovable Ringo personality. (I mean, when you just look at these lyrics, you probably expect a highly sentimental and tearful delivery — Ringo is not physically capable of that, which is why his nostalgic / depressed tunes have a miraculous edge not to be found in many of the far more versatile singers). The second big hit was Johnny Burnette's ʽYou're Sixteenʼ, which only went to No. 8 in 1960 — perhaps the world was not yet ready for such underage lust; in 1973, though, it was OK, plus, it did not really sound all that dirty when it was Ringo behind the mike. (For extra cheese, be sure to take in the 1978 video with the already far-over-16 Carrie Fisher as Ringo's love interest).

In all honesty, though, the album kicks more ass on Ringo's own numbers, sometimes co-written with guitarist Vini Poncia: the major highlight is ʽDevil Womanʼ, a fast, percussion-heavy glam rocker with distorted guitar, big brass, and even a slight whiff of creepy menace and sexual aggression — a whiff that quickly turns to humor as soon as you remember who the lead singer is, but the backing band is so talented and so enthusiastic (and hopefully, quite inebriated) that the balance between humor, kick-ass rock'n'roll, and sexual braggadoccio is just about perfect. And for ʽOh My Myʼ, the third single off the album, Ringo managed to stir up a solid R&B feel, with the participation of both Martha Reeves and Merry Clayton of ʽGimme Shelterʼ fame; the romp is four minutes of pure LA fun, not forgetting a good dose of coke, I am sure.

Is it all just trashy, disposable fun? I don't know. It's just a party-type album, sure, but unless you want to penalize it for sexism or something, it's a party-type album that still has not lost its boozy appeal. Because the art of making a party album that is humorous and endearing rather than just loud and obnoxious is an art in itself, and it is especially pleasant when that art comes to some­body as naturally as it comes to Ringo here. In fact, right here and there, off the top of my mind, I cannot think of any party albums that would top this one for sheer fun. It's always either too serious, or too loud, or too generic, or too moronic. Here, the combination of talent, humor, energy, and hooliganry is just about perfect.

Ringo Starr: Beaucoups Of Blues

RINGO STARR: BEAUCOUPS OF BLUES (1970)

1) Beaucoups Of Blues; 2) Love Don't Last Long; 3) Fastest Growing Heartache In The West; 4) Without Her; 5) Woman Of The Night; 6) I'd Be Talking All The Time; 7) $15 Draw; 8) Wine, Women And Loud Happy Songs; 9) I Wouldn't Have You Any Other Way; 10) Loser's Lounge; 11) Waiting; 12) Silent Homecoming; 13*) Coochy Coochy; 14*) Nashville Jam.

General verdict: If you know nothing about country music, being a Ringo fan is probably not going to improve your relations with the genre.

As The Beatles broke up, the entire attention of a world thrown into darkness and despair was thrown at the one man who could still give a little light to the suffering Beatlemaniacs. John Lennon? Bewitched and corrupted by Yoko Ono. Paul McCartney? Officially broke up The Beatles, not to mention being dead. George Harrison? Sold out to the Indian market. Clearly, it was up to the steady, unnerving, hard-as-a-rock drummer — the one who put the beat in The Beatles and without whose subtle, but firm guidance The Beatles would be nothing more than a slightly less intelligent-looking version of Herman's Hermits.

At least, such is my version of why Ringo had to put out not one, but two mildly embarrassing solo albums in 1970, while John and George were still getting their bearings and Paul couldn't even put a proper new band together. Essentially, it looks like a two-step algorithm of bringing down public expectations — «I'm Ringo Starr, and I have fewer ambitions in this life than Paul McCartney's left toe, so don't go around demanding anything from me!» If Ringo's Sentimental Journey into the world of tuxedos and bonnets did not quite get the job done, then Beaucoups Of Blues, his trip down to Nashville, completed it with distinction: the resulting album did not chart at all in the UK, and performed far more poorly in the US than Sentimental Journey (perhaps some of the American fans regarded this as a direct insult to their native country).

To be fair, it didn't have to be a failure. In Beatles' days, as we all remember well, Ringo always had a knack for country-western material — from ʽAct Naturallyʼ to ʽWhat Goes Onʼ to ʽDon't Pass Me Byʼ, John and Paul always gave him the green light on that: country-western was a goofy genre anyway, so why not deliver it in the hands of the band's lovable goof? Eventually, Ringo even learned to be creative within that paradigm, coming up with ʽDon't Pass Me Byʼ on his own and making it work in a catchy-silly-funny-ironic manner. An entire album of ʽDon't Pass Me Byʼs would hardly have been epochal or anything, but it could have been good enough for a well-placed chuckle or two.

Unfortunately, it did not work. Having come up with the idea to release a country album after working with Nashville pro Pete Drake on George's All Things Must Pass, Ringo originally planned to make one in England — but Drake convinced him to go to Nashville, where, predic­tably, a whole gang of country veterans was readily available not only to play for him, but even to write a bunch of new songs for him (primarily guitar players Chuck Howard and Sorrells Pickard). Ringo must have been seriously flattered by this decision — so flattered that he completely failed to notice how bland and boring all that material turned out to be.

There is not a single one out of the twelve tunes on this album that would be even remotely inte­resting — well, apart from a few cases of Pete Drake's pretty pedal steel playing, for which you really need not bother procuring a Ringo Starr album. It is mostly slow, melodically generic, and almost completely humorless country fare — I mean, the entire album was recorded in one week, and, most likely, the musicians were just composing on the spot, because what Nashville cat would want to spend more time on an odd little drummer from Liverpool? However lively and goofy Ringo used to make his country stuff in the old days, there isn't a shred of that here: instead, he goes for a sentimental, pseudo-sincere approach where the only redeeming quality could be a great and unique singing voice... and, well, while Ringo's singing voice is definitely unique, he has a long way to go to be compared to Hank Williams. Or, heck, even to Jeannie Kendall, with whom he duets on ʽI Wouldn't Have You Any Other Wayʼ and gets sung under the table even if he has the front mike and she is standing outside the studio.

Only one good thing came out of the sessions. The title track, a generic waltz with Ringo strug­gling all the way to land the "beaucoups of blues" chorus, is garbage; however, its B-side was the only number contributed by Ringo himself — a simple, lively, nonsensical jam, appropriately titled ʽCoochy Coochyʼ and perfectly capturing the good old Carl Perkins vibe, ten times more suitable for Ringo than all the slow sentimental waltzing on the LP itself. The Nashvillers get behind him, contributing fun little parts on harmonica, fiddle, and pedal steel, and five minutes are spent with people smiling at each other, playing off each other, getting it on and giving you a good time without any inhibitions whatsoever.

Apparently, a lot of directionless jamming was going on at the studio — the CD reissue of the album, in addition to ʽCoochy Coochyʼ, throws on almost seven minutes of a ʽNashville Jamʼ, slower and more relaxed than the Perkins homage, but still far more exciting than all the proper «songs» on the album — even throwing on a bit of funkiness to wipe out some of that strong cowboy flavor. In all honesty, my opinion is that Beaucoups Of Blues, as a collection of country ballads, should be deleted from the catalog, and replaced by a bunch of jams from those sessions. Because the only purpose of having a Ringo album is if it's fun. If it ain't fun... well, hell, I am no country fan, but at least Patsy Cline has a stellar singing voice.

Ringo Starr: Sentimental Journey

RINGO STARR: SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY (1970)

1) Sentimental Journey; 2) Night And Day; 3) Whispering Grass (Don't Tell The Trees); 4) Bye Bye Blackbird; 5) I'm A Fool To Care; 6) Stardust; 7) Blue Turning Grey Over You; 8) Love Is A Many Splendoured Thing; 9) Dream; 10) You Always Hurt The One You Love; 11) Have I Told You Lately That I Love You; 12) Let The Rest Of The World Go By.

General verdict: So, not a fan of the avantgarde liaison between John and Yoko? Go back to Ringo singing Hoagy Carmichael, you pop slut!

In the place of the age-old and fairly boring «Paul is dead» conspiracy theory, I offer you a new one: The Beatles were broken up not by the egotism of John Lennon, not by the stubbornness of Paul McCartney, not by the resent­ment of George Harrison, not by the ruthless business deals of Allen Klein, not even by the witchcraft of Yoko Ono. Instead, The Beatles were broken up by Elsie Starkey, who had been patiently waiting for ten years only to plant a carefully planned and perfectly targeted strike at a time when it hit the deadliest — so that her allegedly misled and mis­guided offspring could finally come to his senses and start recording decent music for a change. What else could explain the irrefutable fact that Sentimental Journey, Ringo's grand entry into the world of bearded pop oldies, became the first «properly musical» album by any solo Beatle, even beating McCartney's self-titled debut by about three weeks?.. Nothing, and in a world of simplified logic, this proves the theory beyond the slightest shred of reasonable doubt.

Now, in general, Ringo's solo career should not be slighted too much. Ringo's always had charisma, solid drumming potential, and decent taste in pop music. As a songwriter, he came to the table fairly late and never engaged in the deed too often, but when he did write, he was a bit above average (I mean, you'd have to be mentally challenged to work with John and Paul for so long and not having at least a tiny bit of all that talent rub off on you). And even the very idea of Ringo doing some Cole Porter and Hoagy Carmichael on the side is not abominable per se: his limited singing skills could be effectively attuned for comic effect, which could have been a re­freshing change from hearing so many crooners overkilling the material.

The problem with Sentimental Journey is that no effort was undertaken to try and make it «special» in any way. The one and only gimmick of the album was the idea to give each of the twelve songs to a different arranger — ranging from close allies (Paul himself on one track, and George Martin on another) to more distant friends such as Maurice Gibb to classical-pop digni­taries such as Elmer Bernstein to truly unpredictable choices like Quincy Jones (who, apparently, remembers this incident largely in the context of Ringo not being able to properly hold a simple percus­sion groove — grumpy old man). Unfortunately, it is as if the invisible and terrifying presence of loving Mum haunted the studio day and night, night and day, because in the end, despite heavier orchestration on some tracks and lighter on others, you'd have to be a wizard of perception to tell which track was arranged by Maurice Gibb and which one by Quincy Jones. (Cue: ʽBye Bye Blackbirdʼ begins with a strummed banjo and ʽLove Is A Many Splendoured Thingʼ opens with a bass flourish — your associations?).

Furthermore, Ringo's biggest strength — his friendly goofiness — is totally wasted here, since it is painfully clear that, while he most certainly loves his Mum and probably respects this material, he has very little by way of «true intimate connection» with it. (I mean, if he had, what would be the chances of his joining a skiffle band back in 1957?). He is neither able to sing these songs professionally (which is predictable), nor to put a properly goofy spin on them — the best he can do is try to stay in tune (most of the time) and maintain a moderately cheerful attitude. I'm sure Mum and Stepdad must have been delighted, but the rest of the world could only take this as one further sign of Ringo's general incompetence and lack of direction as an artist.

"The great thing was that it got my solo career moving", Ringo later said of the album himself, which, I guess, is as close to an implicit agreement that the album was shit as possible. Techni­cally, he might be right, because Sentimental Journey sold well — after all, it was a Beatle album, and a Beatle album with no genitalia on the front cover and with an actual, obvious song list on the back cover, which was enough to propel it to #7 on the UK charts, a higher position than any subsequent Ringo solo album with the exception of the self-titled Ringo from 1973. Of course, this does not explain why it could not have been possible to get his solo career moving with something just a tiny bit more exciting than a bunch of boring covers of standards. Neither is it a matter of time healing all wounds: the arrangements and vocal performances remain just as corny in retrospect as they were in innovation-heavy 1970. You'd really have to be in (peace and) love with Ringo to be able to get your kicks here.