Adam Ant: Manners & Physique

ADAM ANT: MANNERS & PHYSIQUE (1990)

1) Room At The Top; 2) Rough Stuff; 3) If You Keep On; 4) Manners & Physique; 5) Can't Set Rules About Love; 6) U.S.S.A.; 7) Bright Lights Black Leather; 8) Piccadilly; 9) Young Dumb And Full Of It; 10) Anger, Inc.

With the release and ultimate commercial failure of Vive Le Rock, Ant disappeared for about four years from the music stage in order to pursue an acting career — dreaming, perhaps, of bea­ting his idol, the Thin White Duke, at least in that particular area. Unfortunately, he could not even place a Man Who Fell To Earth under his belt, let alone a Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence; compared to Bowie's generally pathetic filmography, Ant's list of achievements is arch-pathetic. (Cold Steel? Spellcaster? Midnight Heat? The titles alone speak for themselves). Eventually and inevitably, Mr. Goddard had little choice but to bring back Marco Pirroni and return to the world of note-splicing and leg-wiggling.

Fate was, however, cruel enough to assure that Ant's «comeback» album would be the absolute musical nadir of his entire career. Besides Pirroni, the third leading contributor happened to be bassist André Cymone, notable for several years of working in Prince's band, upon which he swi­tched to mostly producing records for third-rate dance-pop artists, hopelessly — and, possibly, badly — teaching them rudiments of the Prince approach. Unsurprisingly, he tried to do the same to Adam: the biggest catch of 'em all — and the most deplorable results.

Apart from the sardonic, modestly intelligent lyrics (which can hardly be heard anyway behind all the multi-tracking and echo), there is not much Adam Ant on this album, and, sadly, virtually no Pirroni: the crackling, oddly twisted riffs that used to distinguish Ant's pop songs from his com­petition, have been wiped out in favor of primitive dance melodies, and moreover, guitars are frequently used as merely a wall of jarring background noise behind one-finger-on-a-keyboard synthesizer patterns. 'Bright Lights, Black Leather', a lyrically sane depiction of the youth subcul­ture of West Berlin (another hi from Bowie), in the musical department sounds like Modern Tal­king — few things can be more distasteful to my ears than that Godawfully abysmal chucking keyboard sound. No album with a song like that on it deserves a positive review, be it surrounded by a dozen equivalents of 'Satisfaction' and/or 'Hey Jude' (not that such a thing is possible; there must be a mathematical proof for this somewhere).

Actually, some of the songs still manage to be catchy — this is, after all, a carefully crafted and marketed dance-pop album, and 'Room At The Top', with its infectious beat and whoah-whoahs, managed an expected and, from a commercial point, fully deserved dent in the UK and US charts. But it really fits in better with all those other so-called artists produced by Cymone — Pebbles, Jermaine Stewart, etc. — than the good old «Antmusic». On 'Rough Stuff', with its in-yer-face R'n'B-isms of "lagga-lagga-boom-sh-boom", Ant feels completely out of his league — it's a mi­racle they even managed to complete that take, let alone turn it into another minor (non-)hit. Not just out of his league — «pitifully replaceable» should be the right term for it.

In short, I recommend to reject the record on ideological grounds: this kind of music can only be enjoyed when accompanied by videos of scantily clad hot girls doing aerobics (preferably with a lot of bend-overs), and even then, probably only from a nostalgic angle. (Actually, the official video for 'Rough Stuff' more or less satisfies that requirement, so not all is lost). Sadly, there are some good lyrics here that make vicious fun of contemporary social life, all of them wasted on trash muzak that is sucking up to contemporary social life.

Some sources state that Manners & Phy­sique shows a heavy influence of the «Minneapolis Sound» pioneered by Prince — don't believe a word: at its best, the «Minneapolis Sound» de­pe­n­ded on first-rate musicianship, whereas on he­re there is no musicianship to speak of in the first place. Did Prince, even considering the per­manently increasing amount of filler in his po­ckets, ever release a song as awful as 'Bright Lights, Black Leather'? I don't think so. Thumbs down.

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Alan Parsons: The Time Machine

ALAN PARSONS: THE TIME MACHINE (1999)

1) The Time Machine (part 1); 2) Temporalia; 3) Out Of The Blue; 4) Call Up; 5) Ignorance Is Bliss; 6) Rubber Universe; 7) The Call Of The Wild; 8) No Future In The Past; 9) Press Rewind; 10) The Very Last Time; 11) Far Ago And Long Away; 12) The Time Machine (part 2).

This just might be the single least having-to-do-with-the-artist album by (nominally) a solo artist ever released. Parsons' only songwriting credit here must have been an intentional joke, or a trick to get him at least some royalties: 'Temporalia' is fifty seven-seconds of quiet background choral harmonies over which particle physics expert Frank Close is talking about how space itself func­tions as a time machine. For some reason, Prof. Close is given no credits, though.

Other than that, The Time Machine is simply more of the Ian Bairnson Project, with Ian occa­si­onally relegating songwriting duties on percussionist Steve Elliott. It is not hopeless, and has its own moody charms, but it shares all the flaws of On Air and adds one more: Bairnson, Elliott, and Parsons (who still engineers and produces as good as he can) start toying with the world of techno, which is completely alien to the classic spirit of APP. The title track is a cheesy disaster. 'Blue Blue Sky' might have been a disappointing, badly uncommon start to a Parsons album, but 'The Time Machine' is just stupid. They should have slowed it down, set it to a normal beat, and put more thought into the layers of instrumentation. What were they trying to do — come up with a super hot club hit for the young ones?

The conceptual framework here is as sturdy as the one that framed On Air — and just as simple, or, perhaps, simplistic: Woolfson's concepts always deviated much further from the main theme, but that was an essential part of their charm, and occasional depth. With The Time Machine, we learn various truisms about the past, present, and future. The past, you might be surprised to learn, is riddled with mistakes ('No Future In The Past'), but it used to be much cooler than today any­way ('Ignorance Is Bliss'), so it would be nice to have all the greats come round and help us see the light ('Call Up'; I like how they namedrop Jesus and Darwin in the same song — aren't matter and anti­matter supposed to cancel out each other?) so we could all live for a better and brighter future ('Call Of The Wild'), etc. etc.

Still, once you weed out the silly techno elements (and they never really go beyond the title track — it took Parsons five more years to embarrass himself without any hope of deliverance), the songs mostly range from tolerable to pretty. For one thing, the band does good to bring in girl power. Clannad's Máire Brennan is always a joy to experience when she is not prostituted over cheap faux-Celtic synth-pop, and 'The Call Of The Wild' is but an art-pop rearrangement of a tra­ditional Irish ballad that puts her skills to great use. Beverley Craven is said to be «Kate Bush lite» for those unprepared to assimilate the real thing; I have not heard any of her records, but Bairnson's 'The Very Last Time' is a nice enough piano ballad that fits the definition to a tee — this is something that Kate could have easily written at the tender age of, say, twelve years.

For another thing, Elliott's 'Press Rewind', sung by unknown vocalist Graham Dye of unknown band Scarlet Party, is a damn good Brit-pop song — if you like, uh, Oasis, you'll probably like this as well, even without the fat distorted guitars. So is Bairnson's 'Out Of The Blue', riding one of those immediately recognizable Project guitar lines and sung by the lead vocalist of Spandau Ballet, which begs the question — how come Parsons didn't start using the vocal magic of New Romantics back in the days when those guys were still New?

But in general, of course, The Time Machine is nothing to write home about, not even from a time machine, provided you were gullible enough to bring it along for the soundtrack. It tries to be truer to the spirit of the Project, with more echo, somber chords, and mystical pretense than we last heard On Air, yet the triteness of the concept, the mediocrity of the songwriting, and the fai­lure to come up with respectable instrumentals makes it another missed opportunity. Perhaps they should have just called it a day and all joined Clannad instead.

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The Allman Brothers Band: Enlightened Rogues

ALLMAN BROTHERS BAND: ENLIGHTENED ROGUES (1979)

1) Crazy Love; 2) Can't Take It With You; 3) Pegasus; 4) Need Your Love So Bad; 5) Blind Love; 6) Try It One More Time; 7) Just Ain't Easy; 8) Sail Away.

Leavell and Lamarr kept their promise, never returning to Gregg's side. The cynics will certainly want to point out that the two were just too pleased with their own free lives as bandleaders of Sea Level to consider a reunion that would once again relegate them to the status of sideplayers. On the other hand, Dickey Betts' latest solo album from 1978 stalled at #151 on the charts, quite a drop from #30 for its 1977 predecessor — there was your strong incentive to bury the hatchet and rearm oneself with the magic moniker of The Allman Brothers.

Recruiting David Goldflies on bass, Gregg and Dickey managed to make peace with the dynamic drumming duo, and also decided to return to the dual guitar lineup instead of continuing to rely on the piano. However, the addition of Dan Toler on second axe by no means makes the situation comparable to the golden days of Dickey/Duane. Most likely, Toler is responsible for some of the solo passages on Enlightened Rogues, but his style is so similar to Betts' that only a serious ex­pert could tell the difference, particularly since the emphasis is never placed on interplay between the two guitarists (but neither was it the same way in the Dickey/Duane period, when the two gui­tarists used to prefer competition over collaboration, over nobody's objections).

Much more important, perhaps, is the return of legendary Tom Dowd as producer: having recor­ded most of their stuff from Idlewild South to Eat A Peach, the man did not participate in the band's fortunes since Duane's death, but now he has been re-recruited to provide a much desired shot in the arm. It could fail, but it worked: Rogues is the Allmans' finest collective effort since Brothers & Sisters, and they really haven't been as good after it, at least, not until the unexpec­ted rejuvenation with Derek Trucks.

Not that there's anything different. The formula stays the same: unimaginative bluesy Southern rockers, mixed with even less imaginative Southern country ballads and one traditionally long All­man Brothers Instrumental™. But the rockers really do rock, providing all the sharpness, agg­ression, and spirit that you expect from rockers; the ballads are suitably ambitious, designed to soar rather than drag; and the instrumental may not be genius, but is certainly blameless. Consi­dering how sharply they went down from this record to the very next one, released but a year la­ter, it is hardly a coincidence that the only difference in lineup between there and here was the pre­sence of Dowd at the mixing controls.

'Pegasus', the instrumental, is sort of like a gentleman's compromise between 'Jessica' and 'High Falls'. In terms of atmosphere, it emulates the latter's romantic, dreamy, slightly otherworldly qua­lities, but moves along at a faster pace and never drags: its seven and a half minutes are timed perfectly, unlike the overkill fourteen minutes of 'Falls'. The main theme is a folksy little beauty, very much reflecting Betts' vision, even if it may be a bit difficult to make it convey images of flying horses (the Allmans, after all, had their feet planted way too firmly on the ground, especial­ly after Duane's demise); and there are a few curious twists, like the «looped», vortex-like guitar phrasing in the coda, that hint at the band's ongoing search for new combinations of sounds (very modest, but nobody probably expected even that).

Meanwhile, 'Crazy Love' and 'Can't Take It With You' rock like crazy — the former may smell a bit of barroom atmosphere, but the latter is a gritty, bristling number that wouldn't have been out of place on a Fillmore East concert; Betts lashes out with the same sort of fluent, emotive solos that make such a gas out of 'Ramblin' Man', but switches the controls from «happy» to «pissed off», and my only complaint is that the song fades out over his accumulating steam — that final solo part should have been streamlined into jam mode. Another song with terrific guitar work is Gregg's ballad 'Just Ain't Easy', which could have been just another pleasant, lazy Gregg ballad, but for which Betts has found enough time to elevate it to near-epic status.

Occasional complaints have been voiced over the addition of female backup voices on 'Crazy Love' (Bonnie Bramlett) and 'Sail Away' (Mimi Hart), but they are used very moderately — un­less one shares the misogynistic view that female voices on Southern rock albums automatically turn them into, uh, «Southern Rock Albums», there is nothing to worry about. Enlightened Ro­gues is no more or less specifically «Southern» than Brothers & Sisters — it respects a particu­lar paradigm of music-making without glorifying it. These rogues, after all, are enlightened: they know that Southern-accented singing and Southern-style playing alone won't be enough to restore Southern reputation. It also helps to make a good record, and on Enlightened Rogues, there's na­ry a bad song to be found, even if nothing rises to particularly spectacular heights. Thumbs up.

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Aretha Franklin: So Damn Happy

ARETHA FRANKLIN: SO DAMN HAPPY (2003)

1) The Only Thing Missin'; 2) Wonderful; 3) Holdin' On; 4) No Matter What; 5) Everybody Is Somebody's Fool; 6) So Damn Happy; 7) You Are My Joy; 8) Falling Out Of Love; 9) Ain't No Way; 10) Good News.

Damn happy, indeed. With seven years separating Aretha's absolute career nadir from a return to simple-boring-forgettable, and only five years more — from an album with occasional hints of genuine pleasure-giving, at this rate, one might hope for a «total fuckin' comeback» some time around, let's say, 2050. Too bad few of us will live long enough to enjoy it.

Some of the critics, who had been waiting since at least the punk revolution for an opportunity to praise Ms. Franklin for something other than just the voice, were so touched by the retro elements on this record that they dubbed it «a return to roots» and were almost set to start comparing it with her 1970's recordings for Atlantic, except what still remained of their conscience didn't real­ly let them do it. Because, despite the superficial similarity, So Damn Happy is still essentially a fully modern R&B record, the only difference being that it does not seriously toy with hip-hop and/or electronic elements, thus avoiding the unintentional ugliness of What You Sweat.

The low points are two tracks co-written and co-performed by Mary J. Blige — they sound just like any typical number by Mary J. Blige, with Aretha's parts reduced to whiny cackling fading in and out of the steel-iron carcass of Blige's repetitive vocalization arrangements. It isn't tough street music, and Aretha is not forced into picturing something that is so totally not herself, but it is still Mary J. Blige music with novelty-value has-been guest participation; who needs this?

Another sad matter is that this conscious attempt to make the music a little retro tempts one into going back and relistening to the old records — this is where you notice how seriously her voice has really changed over the years, so much so that even really bland past efforts like Let Me In Your Life, whose cheaply exquisite furs-and-champagne style So Damn Happy brings to mind, sound like Callas in comparison. It is interesting that, as time went by, Aretha's cords seem to have been losing their lower rather than upper range — most of the time, she sings here in some exuberant semi-falsetto, which may eventually get on one's nerves, and that earthy, breathy tone of hers that used to convey so much depth and «grit», is nowhere to be found. Age is nothing to joke about, of course, and all of us could see that coming — but, unfortunately, this means that the good fairy is no longer sporting her magic wand, one that could help her out in the direst of situations, even on La Diva.

Aretha's two self-penned compositions are in the listenable-but-forgettable category (the title track tries to convey ten thousand pounds of joy, but lacks any distinct melody or interesting build-ups; its only hook is a loud, annoying "Hey boy!" that's good enough to cut down a pick­pocket, but hardly for anything else), and so are, for the most part, contributions by outside song­writers of which there is about a billion and a half. In the oldies department, Burt Bacharach gets plundered for 'Falling Out Of Love', lots of sugar, sweet harp playing, and a thoroughly unimaginative reading — but at least it's four and a half minutes of genuine feeling, and as much as I hate to admit that a Burt Bacharach song can be a highlight on an Aretha Franklin record, this is exactly that kind of situation.

Overall, So Damn Happy is nothing to get real damn happy about, but it is easily the lady's first album in a long, long time that tries to remember what Aretha Franklin was all about in the first place. IF they only hadn't brought in so many outside songwriters... IF they'd kept Mary J. Blige ten miles away... IF the rhythm section had more swing to it... IF the Queen took better care of her pipes... IF all of these conditions could avoid being classified under the Irrealis label... As it is, So Damn Happy is still the closest that Aretha could ever approached a proverbial come­back, but that is still no reason to own the album unless you really love her like your long-lost, aberrant mother... and perhaps all of us should?

[PS: As a sidenote, one could seriously question the rationale behind releasing an album cal­led So Damn Happy in the midst of the Iraq War — but let us be gentle and not hold this against the completely apolitical Queen of Soul. She did sing at Obama's inauguration as penitence, after all, even if her hat that day produced much more of an impact than her voice.]

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B. B. King: Live At The Apollo

B. B. KING: LIVE AT THE APOLLO (1991)

1) When Love Comes To Town; 2) Sweet Sixteen; 3) The Thrill Is Gone; 4) Ain't Nobody's Bizness; 5) Paying The Cost To Be The Boss; 6) All Over Again; 7) Nightlife; 8) Since I Met You Baby; 9) Guess Who; 10) Peace To The World.

Not content with filling in the shoes of Johnny Cash, less than a year later B. B. went out again and, this time, tried on those of James Brown. (Live At Leeds, Live At Budokan, and Live In Red Square are all titles that we expect to see in the next two or three centuries, regardless of whether Mr. King already got there or is still biding his time). It is not entirely clear if the folks at the Apollo wanted the man that much more than the inmates at San Quentin, but it is entirely cle­ar that King, at least, seems to feel more at home over here than over there (then again, come to think of it, who wouldn't? Leadbelly, perhaps?). This is reflected not just in the generally cooler swagger of the actual performances, but also in the decrease of the amount of stage banter — with no need to soothe or sway the appreciative crowd, B. B. just buries himself in the singing and playing, reducing audience participation to a bare minimum.

There is a huge backing band here, the Philip Morris Super Band led by piano great Gene Harris, ensuring the ideal blues-de-luxe accompaniment, although some have complained that the band's talents have pretty much been wasted: King does not provide a lot of breathing space, nor does he budge away from his typical material into jazzier territory. On the other hand, this is a B. B. King live album, and he had let other people overshadow his playing and singing so many times in his life that, sometimes, a great professional band may suffer becoming a great professional backing band — and it does that with plenty of verve and understanding. (Gene Harris does have a few juicy piano solos, if you are wondering).

The setlist is almost completely predictable; the only drop of fresh blood is U2's contribution to the ca­talog, the perfectly B.-B.-Kingish blues-pop-rocker 'When Love Comes To Town' (which here al­most ends up sounding like one of his 1950s hits, rather than the modern, Bonified version on U2's Rattle & Hum). On the other hand, he resuscitates some long-time oldies, e. g. 'All Over Again', sort of King's personal equivalent of the tragic theater of 'St. James Infirmary', lyrically diluted for the public at large, and Ivory Joe Hunter's 'Since I Met You Baby', a song that also fits his easy-going, nice-mannered persona to a tee.

The good news is that the man is in top form, the band is well-oiled, and most of the songs are classic; of the latter day live albums from King, Apollo is one of the most obvious choices. The bad news is that it may all be a little too slick — the setlist is too choked with crowdpleasers, and King is playing it all too safe, never soloing for too long and not taking any chances. 'The Thrill Is Gone', for instance, fades out before it even crosses the four-minute mark, despite the fact that, normally, it is one of King's usual improvisation launchpads. He only gets to truly stretch out on 'All Over Again', much less so on 'Sweet Sixteen'.

Yes, he can certainly be excused for wanting to go out there and make a «proper» live album for all the nice ladies and gentlemen who have been so good to him over the years — but that is no excuse for not releasing that real live album that the fans would really want from him. It is amazing to realize how many times people have wit­nessed the man ripping Live At The Regal to shreds while onstage — yet, for some bizarre reason, he still has not authorized the release of an official live album to prove that to non-concert-goers.

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