Bob Dylan's Christmas in the Heart: A Good ol' Put-On for the Holidays? Or a Serious Yuletide Effort? I Decide!

First posted (in truncated review form) in PressPlus1 magazine:

http://www.pressplus1.com/music-reviews/christmas-in-the-heart-full-of-heart-even-if-a-bit-weird.html

No introduction is needed in order to put Mr. Robert Zimmerman on a mighty pedestal. This isn't what this little article is about though. Yes, it ties in to his willful desire during his career to throw a curve ball to the public. But I'll try to put it in perspective. Some are enjoying his October 13 release, Christmas in the Heart, for the holiday bliss it wraps itself in, not unlike a warm blanket on a chilly, snowy winter's night. I did say some. Others, expecting better and keeping in mind his legacy, have been savaging it for that very reason. As if Christmas records were supposed to be cool, hip and awe-inspiring? A lot of people are just Dylan doubters who wait for opportunities like these in order to pounce and tear strips off what they see as his inflated stature. It's neither a Christmas classic nor a pile of reindeer crap. Bob often dropped mediocrity on us throughout the period of 1977-90. But unfortunately, more often than not it wasn't because he felt like it, as was the case with 1970's Self Portrait. Self Portrait was a double LP that was so immersed in corniness and a drier, lazier "Nashville Sound" sort of country, that it struck even the most steadfast, loyal Dylanophile to recoil in confusion. Thusly, it became the worst reviewed album of his career. Apparently, Nashville Skyline wasn't a big enough shock for Dylan to ward off fans. His real intent was to do something completely different, something a lot more simple and offhand than he had ever done. Those who thought Dylan didn't have a schmaltzy bone in his body were in for a rude awakening, even if they could handle and absorb the pure country crooning of Nashville Skyline. The throngs of revolutionaries and hippie liberals now littering the rock audience hoped they could summon Dylan to begin organizing the troops through his words again. But Dylan wasn't about "Blowin' in the Wind" or "Masters of War" in 1969 and he bravely, some would say provokingly, made an album- not just any, but a four-sided one like his quintessential Blonde on Blonde- so remarkably square and the antithesis of groundbreaking and breathtaking, that many wrote him off and disparaged him.

Somehow, at only 29 years of age, Bob Dylan was considered a has-been who didn't even know what is own fans wanted to hear anymore. But unlike other rock chameleons who blatantly change their mannerisms, fashions and even hair colours, Dylan morphed into different little niches with little regard for what others thought of him. He's been just as much a chameleon as David Bowie or Madonna only he has jumped around to avoid expectations musically rather than in image as well (though you could argue his 80s look of leather and jewelry- Dylan pimped to the nines!- was a pose of its own). There are very few mavericks who can claim the career of a Bob Dylan while also claiming to be so ignorant to trends and opinions. You just couldn't start a career today with that mindset and hope to be anything more than a cult hero. The fact artists no longer touch a nerve in people's minds so much as their wallets is a statement on where the world is headed in terms of its appreciation for music as compared to its insatiable appetite for entertainment (not one and the same thing). A legend like Dylan could never have had the same impact 10-15 years after he began. Even after his "protest" days he was pushing the envelope in a way that was ballsier than it was smart. Of course, the reaction to the dud known as Self Portrait was so severe that Dylan heard about the circus from his lable Columbia and, although he has insisted it was in his plans anyway, quickly responded four months later with a much superior album, New Morning. New Morning is quite solid but not great, although it was hailed as such by the rock press, still puzzled and somewhat befuddled over the dismal Self Portrait.

At the time of release, Self Portrait is still the most negatively criticized Dylan studio album, but time and context have made Self Portrait seem a lot less brutal than it actually is. One can enjoy it almost as much as the smiling cowpoke of its predecessor, if it was edited down to a single LP and shortened to say 8 or 9 tracks. Dylan recovered from the backlash but his lack of another masterpiece- before Blood on the Tracks that is- stagnated his career, especially when he went through a big period of writers block from 1971-73. He would have been well served by doing the same and withholding or delaying albums in the 80s and sparing us the lackluster thud that a majority of them landed with. For example, think of how good Slow Train Comingcould have been if he'd waited two years to release it and made it a double disc? (we'd have "Every Grain of Sand," "Heart of Mine," "Lord Protect My Child," "Angelina," "Caribbean Wind," "Groom Still Waiting at the Altar," "What Can I Do for You?" and "In the Summertime" added- in short, his second best release of the entire decade). Or think of how good an album like Infidels could have been if he'd waited another 2-3 years to release it and then put some backloaded previously unreleased material on it too? ("Foot of Pride," "Blind Willie McTell," "When the Night Comes Falling from the Sky" and "Brownsville Girl" all together!?). After his mid-70s renaissance of sorts came the whirlwind of his marriage crumbling as well as the filming of a movie (Renaldo and Clara) amidst the Rolling Thunder Revue- his 1975-76 touring outfit that kept growing with well known sidemen and stars Dylan had befriended over the years until it was a frigging jubilee or the largest jug band known to man if you will. This set up a period of blinding inconsistency, overshadowed at first by a controversial "Born Again" Christian period where he appeared to become loathsome of the world's evils and cast a doubting eye on everything not in the service of the Lord.

Atheists and agnostics alike were offended and put off by this "Old Testament" hellfire and brimstone Bob Dylan. On the positive side, it cleansed the palette of his disappointing Street Legal from 1978, which was followed by the Vegasy tour he underwent with a giant band- documented by the worthless live double Live at Budokan in 1979. Despite the re-birth, Dylan saw a spike in sales but he immediately squandered momentum with the lousy Saved and the not-quite-as-lousy Shot of Love in 1980 and '81 respectively. Infidels improved the situation somewhat in 1983, with Dylan retreating from the dogmatic stance quite a bit. Not perfect, ut many hoped it was a start of a turnaround musically and lyrically even though Dylan's Christian era concerts were undeniably spiritual, uncompromising (he eschewed his secular material for a spell) and even touching for a non-devout person to see and hear. Dylan gorged himself on scripture and built up the acumen of a traveling preacher, courageously facing gatherings with his faith on his sleeve like a badge of honour, all the while coping with a cascade of scorn and doubt being levied from every angle imaginable. When he abandoned all that God talk, he somehow became a little less fearless and symmetrical a performer and often his tours would become- even to this day they're not totally immune- inconsistent treks around North America with a seeming loss of poignancy and an almost impotence of fulfilling even audiences bare minimum expectations. Songwriting took a dip through a barren desert of stodgy dullness too as throughout this 1977-90 period, he seemed unable to write outside of a boring structure of bluesy phrasing. It was monotonous filler, where each song lacked a discernible melody and seemed like rehearsal for something bigger and better that never came. Yes indeed people, the bracing thrill of those mid-60s electric sidemen was extremely longed for by fans. Where Dylan had once embarked into electric blues with killer chaps who made their natural state of musicianship sound like what would take normal players a fistful of reds and cough syrup to reach. In that peak period, one could ascertain that Dylan was so brash, so strong-headed that he could pluck almost any hot shit musician he pleased.

By 1985, he could often get the pros but never the hungry and thirsty lions capable of pushing him. He used a punkish outfit called the Delinquents in 1984 for his appearance on Late Night with David Letterman and honestly should've gone out on the road with them, instead of what he did do- rely on a hired band with session puppets like Mick Taylor (talented guitarist but nothing that was going to break new territory for Bobby). The sound was too familiar, too ordinary and entrenched in 70s rock values instead of something deliciously modern and the kind of medicine Dylan should've swallowed. Dylan's rocky relationship with performing in the 80s was overcome by going out on the road in 1986 with Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers, a band made up of musicians not from his generation. Their oldest member, lead guitarist Mike Campbell, was still 9 years Dylan's junior. With the Delinquents, Dylan put on an underprepared, careening and mistake prone apperance, but not in an embarrassing or dreadful way at all- really, the major mistake is Dylan's, when he tries to solo on harmonica on "Jokerman" but picks up the wrong blues harp and has to rummage for the right one. However, the energy, seethe and no bullshit approach was sorely lacking from the Zimm's persona back then. Such decisions that were guaranteed to keep him in a safety zone ultimately came to foreshadow the rudderless career to come. His two albums after the uneven but decent Empire Burlesque and the wonderful Infidels dropped him right back into mediocrity he had toyed with during his re-birth phase. Knocked Out Loaded and Down in the Groove aren't totally worthless but are really Dylan at his lowest, patched together from 1983-86 sessions and lacking the focus they would have had with just one series of sessions dedicated to them. Daniel Lanois pumped hope back into Dylan's fans with the startling Oh Mercy in 1989 but Dylan went right back and let star producer Don Was helm the reprehensible Under the Red Sky. After that, his career seemed dried up for good, only generating two acoustic folk cover records that recalled how he had once been so impacting on music and also reflecting how ugly his singing voice had become. Then a reunion with Lanois jolted his career to life for the Grammy-awardedTime Out of Mind in 1997 and Dylan triumphed with his new crackerjack bands on self-produced efforts 2001's Love & Theft- the true masterpiece of the post-comeback albums- 2006's Modern Times and this year's Together Through Life.

That brings us to here and now. Call it his 34th studio album if you like, but Christmas in the Heart is another one of those sudden, unforetold detours by the master. If you're not familiar with him, you might think it a wretched disc from a washed up old coot. You'd be wrong on both counts, though less so on the first. If you know anything about him, you should know it's Dylan taking the piss and giving a wink while straight-faced delivering holiday jingles like some understudy of Burl Ives or Bing Crosby if either got kicked by a mule in the larynx. Despite delivering these songs relatively loyal to the originals, he still sings in that road-worn, gravelly bellow that's become partly inspiring and partly giggle-inducing since it first became truly ingrained on Love & Theft. Being a deep fan of the man and a studied scholar on his career, the first time I heard one of these tracks I literally laughed out loud (or LOL'd, as internet linguists put it). But then I realized I should simply take it at face value, understand it was Dylan exhibiting the spirit of Jolly 'ol St. Nick himself. Those who trash this album are somewhat in the wrong because at this point in his career Dylan doesn't have to crank out genius tunes every time, at least in my estimation. Look, Christmas in the Heart is one thing, but it's not inexcusable like Under the Red Sky, the live Dylan & the Dead (one of the only pieces of audial proof that the Grateful Dead did not always cook in concert), Down in the Groove, Knocked Out Loaded, Saved, Live at Budokan or even the tongue-in-cheek Self Portrait. Dylan's responsibility is no longer to deliver gold time and time again and if this was a bad Christmas album, that'd be one thing. But I'll take this one over Mariah Carey shrieking out "Silver Bells" or Beyonce turning "Winter Wonderland" into a shameless, selfish grandstanding of vocal melisma, hypothetically speaking. The concept of Dylan doing Christmas songs seems unsuited to his style, but if he wants to, that's fine and dandy like sour candy (which sounds like one of those old time corny homilies Dylan gives on recent albums).

Christmas in the Heart, despite its embarrassing moments, still convinces me he's settling into old age amazingly well. Who could've pictured this 25 years ago when he looked to be desperately hanging on, wearing earrings, leather and makeup in concert? Or when he was blathering in concert without coherence whatsoever, while seemingly disinterested in his older numbers... wait, he still does that. Look, Dylan's not 21 anymore folks. He's a grandpappy and as long as he's still with us for the next handful of years, I'd wager to bet he'll be a great grandpappy too. So he's thinking of the little ones when he records an LP like this and also his motives are pure in that he's donating the royalties to the UN's World Food Program, Feeding America and Crisis UK, all organizations dedicated to fighting child hunger worldwide. Dylan the humanitarian and philanthropist? Well, as Pete Seeger wrote, there's "a time to every purpose under heaven." Under the Red Sky hinted toward Dylan's affection for the little ones, containing a few of Dylan's most simplistic songs yet, drawing from tall tales, fables and nursery rhymes and thanked "pubbly wubbly" in the liner notes, leading to strong suggestions that Dylan had geared the album to his then-secret five year old daughter Desiree. OnChristmas in the Heart, Dylan recreates the Christmas euphoria of his childhood, recalling the music aimed at his folks- the mass majority of the US in those heady post-war days. He recreates the type of fireside vocal pop for Middle America's idyllic, white, buttoned-down families. Of course, Dylan's family was Jewish but out in cold, small town Hibbing, Minnesota definitely felt a part of the stereotypical sunny, promising, bustling world of suburban America. Okey-dokey, this was the same Middle America he couldn't wait to escape from, but he used it to his advantage when he arrived in New York, crafting tall tales about his life to that point that may have been inspired by Kerouac but took a little bit of Mid Western charm with them too. Therefore, we have Dylan sprinkling in hearty stockings full of sleigh bells, glockenspiels, rosy apple-cheeked Andrews Sisters choruses and even polka flourishes (thanks to Los Lobos' David Hidalgo). Sometimes this is plain weird and jarring recorded material from Bob.

Rarely does Dylan try to turn a Christmas carol or popular song into one of his own on this LP, so even though there's the trough of Americana instrumentation like mandolin, pedal steel guitar and upright bass, it's not as if we're getting some ragtime, rockabilly, jump blues or bluegrass like recent Dylan works. It's not all orchestration and choirs either, but you get the idea. Some may point out that it's odd to get a Christmas album from someone whose birth name was Robert Zimmerman, but this guy has jumped back and forth between public displays of ascribing to either Christianity or Judaism so he can record about anything and claim authenticity. What of the actual songs? Well, the laughter begins to tumble only slightly less so than later on during the first track "Here Comes Santa Claus." It's not bad by Christmasy standards, opting for the jolly glockenspiel and breezy vocal chorus that makes Bob sound like he just landed in the middle of a Lawrence Welk program. Some bluesy guitar and slide work comes on "Do You What I Hear?" one of the more gracious and respectable recordings here. Despite those components, there's enough piano, snare drum march and faithfulness to the original melody to make anyone forget any illusions about Dylan turning it into a Southern barnstorming sizzler. The arrival of sweet little female choruses on "Winter Wonderland" is a jolt only to those who never heard the corny choirs from Self Portrait. It's a bit unsuited to the usual Dylan fare, but he drips some country/jazz ambience to make it another charming listen. "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" opts for the churchy stridence of most renditions but Dylan sounds strained and stunted in his singing, though it's cool to hear him hit notes he's stayed away from for the last 20 years and for one brief note he even sounds like the "cow stuck on a fence" groan of old. "Hark" does not outright stink up the joint thankfully. A chance to have a slow, sensuous version of "I'll Be Home for Christmas" isn't totally capitalized upon, opting to go the Elvis route with some white-bred vocal harmonies that owe something to the Ink Spots.

"Little Drummer Boy" gets a fine, straight reading from Bob and it's a relief to hear it in the hands of the master, not being gussied up with a quotient of lameness. "Christmas Blues" is routine, even if it's the first time Bob is laying down music not unlike his recent albums. After a while, that gravelly croak of a voice tends to irritate too. "O Come All Ye Faithful" is just insane, with Dylan reciting parts in Latin and singing like he has a head cold. Almost novelty-like, moreso than other cuts. Still, I think I detected a faint harmonica somewhere back there, a piece of equipment he has been neglecting further and further over the last 15 years. "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" doesn't mesh well with Bob's voice, coming off more like the cover you'd hear from an experienced truck stop roadhouse band on December 24 while everyone's scrambling back home for the big day. In short, a bit cheap and standard instead of moving and thoughtful. You might argue that it's impossible to come across as such because these songs have all been done to death, but if they're great tunes, you should be able to shape them into quality moments and give them proper thought. Bob doesn't always have that going for him on Christmas in the Heart. The one time he really deviates from expectation is with the zydeco, nutty take on "Must Be Santa." Dylan rapidly garbling out the lyrics, answered back by his vocal chorus like the Jordanaire wannabes they are, is about the most frenetically he's done anything since the blues rock 2/4 of his mid-60s plugged in period. It's almost as fast a tempo as a damn bebop piece, but the attempt at going outside the box is plain creepy and wildly entertaining in a wrong way. "Silver Bells" has the regalia of a true carol with bells and chimes plus violins layered onto that, one of the handful of occasions on this album where Dylan gets what it takes to make a Christmas staple worth taking in. "The First Noel" is a scary ringer forSelf Portrait's kookier country pop but isn't a total loss nonetheless. "Christmas Island" works, because it's supposed to be a funky Hawaiian finger-snapper. It transports you right back to days when Bing Crosby held captive the ear of every American on their radio set. Dylan's doing this album more as a history lesson or documentation of what Christmas pop meant to people in his childhood and what it sounded like.

Hey, for fidelity exactness, Tom Waits could be a godsend to the Christmas album market. He loves producing recordings that sound beat up, crackly and like they're second generation masters with pre-big studio technology. 've always thought he could do both the most unique and the most gut-bustingly hilarious Christmas album ever (a karaoke piano bar Waits doing "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas would kill, I must say). Anyway, back to Dylan' methods for spreading yuletide cheer. "The Christmas Song" rolls along like lounge jazz but isn't nearly as slickly shallow. It's a bit of a gratifying cut actually. "O Little Town of Bethlehem" is Dylan ratcheting up the pomp. It doesn't quite hit the mark but isn't at the bottom of the heap either. Really, I don't find this offensively bland product, even as a hardline Dylan fan and someone who's heard these Christmas tunes ad nauseum all my life- especially for the few weeks I worked in a retail store around the Christmas season and heard 10 different versions of "Silent Night," most so appalling as to make your ears want to bleed and your face recoil or shrivel up in abject horror. I'm no blind optimist or defender of poor musical effort, but those who completely pan or disown this album just after listening to a few samples need to settle down. If one can't even find a remote shred of Christmas spirit from this album, they're juyst cynical, stuck-up blowhards anyway. You don't have to like it, but understand why Bob did this album and why it's not meant to be taken too seriously. Bob can yuck it up even when honing his interpretive craft on a batch of extremely well-known songs and for that I tip my cap to him. Christmas in the Heart will very likely not go down in lore as a bonafide classic for the holidays but it's got a few things I'd put on my Christmas mix tape and it will outclass 99% of what else is puked out by phony, record label invested stars in the coming weeks. To reinforce the idea that even Bob himself knows he's immersing his persona into feel good nostalgia, the cover artwork is a painting of man and woman riding horse bound carriage through the snow in a scene that you might otherwise think was lifted out of some kind of Norman Rockwell artwork. In other words, something classy from the lore of Americana. And when you get right down to it, Dylan's career has been all about Americana and adapting it to the rest of the world's ways.

Rating: B (*** out of five)

Strange Sagas in Rock: Fleetwood Mac, 1967-74 (aka pre-Buckingham/Nicks)

Everyone is no doubt aware of the 70s platinum level fame of Fleetwood Mac who, while derided by rock purists as commercial, sterile and California West Coast rock phonies, gained a huge following from baby boomers that continues to this day. They were one of just a few supergroups in rock during the late 70s that appealed to maturing boomers and even the teenagers, at least the ones more receptive to top 40 radio. Guitar virtuoso Lindsay Buckingham became the leader and producer when the dust cleared from their late 70 success, a whirlwind trip that was hampered by personal struggles. First, there was the divorce agony of bassist John McVie and his wife, keyboardist Christine, while drummer Mick Fleetwood was freshly divorced from his wife and Buckingham and vocalist Stevie Nicks were splitting as well. Years later, Fleetwood and Nicks admitted to having an affair around the time of 1977's Rumours, Fleetwood Mac's coronation as one of rock's mega-sellers. After 1979, Fleetwood Mac took a back seat to the solo ventures of several members with Nicks becoming a star in her own right, though dealing with cocaine addiction until the late 80s, a problem Fleetwood faced himself for a several years himself. Subsequent efforts were pristine quality pop for their times but when Buckingham abandoned ship in 1988 after the slam dunk hit Tango in the Night, the band as a creative entity was for all intents and purposes dead (their next two albums both sold meagre amounts as first McVie left in 1993 and Nicks left a year later before their 1995 album Time. Sensing the cash grab, the "classic" lineup- really the only one that ever stayed intact for more than 2 years- reunited two years later for a concert film and album entitled The Dance). But as dysfunctional as the Rumours period was, it paled next to what had come before it- in terms of what I'll call the wow factor (as in even Hollywood couldn't make this stuff up).

That Fleetwood Mac endured despite the fact that all of the members should've hated each other is no shock to those who track the group's history from its 1967 inception as a seminal white blues band. Mick Fleetwood endured anything and everything to make sure the band survived, through its post-Peter Green years trying to catch on with California rock styles before bringing along Buckingham Nicks, the name of the duo for their (self-titled) only professionally recorded album- hearing the 1972 LP, Mick Fleetwood contacted Buckingham to become the new guitarist after Bob Welch quit on the eve of a tour in late 1974. Buckingham's considerable talents were in demand but he insisted his wife Stevie Nicks be brought along too. Fleetwood gave in to this hardline move but it turned out for the best since Nicks's husky, impassioned vocals- a style some have jokingly compared to the bleat of a goat- and songwriting gave the Mac several classics. She became the band's most popular member despite being a last minute afterthought to filling in the guitarist's position. But this also ushered in a stability that Fleetwood Mac had almost never known. You see, as of mid-1967, blues guitar wizard Peter Green (real name Greenbaum) had quit his post as lead guitarist in John Mayall's Bluesbreakers, the very deserving replacement of Eric Clapton when he departed to form Cream in May of 1966. Green, 21 at the time, had rounded up a young roster with Mick Fleetwood, 21, and second guitarist Jeremy Spencer, just 19. He left the Bluesbreakers with an invitation offered forth to John McVie, the bassist in the Bluesbreakers, to come with him. McVie declined, fearing that leaving his cushy position for another band could backfire if that band wasn't fortuitous or at least built to last beyond a year or two. Still, as a symbolic gesture, Green named his new band Fleetwood Mac, cleverly doing it based on his (desired) rhythm section. Imagine if the Stones called themselves Wymann Watts or the Beatles were called McCartney Starr... hey, those aren't bad names actually. 

With McVie, 22, refusing, Bob Brunning was named the bassist. Brunning quit after four months of gigging to pursue his post-secondary education once McVie agreed to leave Mayall. Turning to the only man he knew well enough to be his bandmate, Green finally persuaded McVie to hook up with the Mac, who were months away from cutting their first album. Interestingly, though they were a hot band to see live, their records were often brought down by the tedium of white English boys playing the blues over and over and contributing few of their own penned efforts. Fleetwood Mac and Mr. Wonderful (both 1968) aren't nearly up to even the standard of Cream but showed they had excellent chops and knew the insides and outs of Elmore James, Muddy Waters, Howlin' Wolf, Lightnin' Hopkins and Sonny Boy Williamson among others. You can still hear the tempting potential. Green and Spencer were decent frontmen but no band can spin their wheels in that strictly blues discipline forever. After adding 18-year old guitar whiz Danny Kirwan early in 1969, the guitar aspect took off even further and the Mac expanded further into classical, R&B, Latin and psychedelic rock influences for 1969's breakthrough (artistically and commercially) Then Play on. A non-LP single before that LP's release, "Albatross," was a gorgeous instrumental that became a surprise #1 UK hit and showed how Green, Kirwan and Spencer (who actually doesn't play on the cut) could translate their skills into stellar writing too. But this is where it all started to get crazy. The dream began to splinter and become jagged as the usual rock career travails took their toll one by one, seemingly in a span of just a few years. Essentially, their stupendous guitar trio went nuts, each in his own way. 

After bathing in recognition from Then Play on, Peter Green began to get overcome by the money being raked in. All the attention and cash flow was spooking Green, who was actually in the onset of schizophrenia. Their early 1970 single "The Green Manalishi (With the Two Pronged Crown)" was a metaphor for his rejection and distaste with the music business money-go-round. It foretold the near future as Green quit the band to free himself from this perceived slavery, loose from what he saw were the shackles of growing fame. Green can legitimately be chalked up as another LSD casualty, going off the deep end via copious usage of the drug a la Syd Barrett. Deprived of their founder, Fleetwood Mac regrouped as a quartet with Spencer and Kirwan tackling their stronger roles admirably. Their album from this lineup, 1970's Kiln House, is perhaps their best pre-1975 LP. Spencer mostly contributed interesting stylistic poses (or parodies if you prefer) with the rockabilly of "This is the Rock" and "Buddy's Song" (credited to Buddy Holly's mother as a token of respect I guess) and the country moaner of woe and murder, "Blood on the Floor" where Spencer definitely imitates Elvis with extreme hyperbole. Kirwan's "Jewel Eyed Judy," the instrumental "Earl Gray" and "Tell Me All the Things You Do" were indications of the promise he carried. Fleetwood Mac seemed perfectly able to carry on, maybe even thrive under the new circumstances. But then at the start of their American tour dates in early 1971, Spencer pulled an unorthodox move. Having spent months where his own mental state seemed precarious, possibly brought on by bad acid trips as well, Spencer's deep interest in religion took full flight. Magnanimous on stage, at times suggestive and controversially clownish, Spencer was indeed a different soul off stage and had a strained working relationship with Green. While staying in San Francisco, Spencer, who had constantly been avidly reading religious text and a wearer of crosses and various emblems, was attracted by the lecturing of a member of the cult the Children of God when he met them in a bookstore. 

Hours passed and Fleetwood Mac's entourage went looking for the missing guitarist, being forced to cancel their show that night. When finally located a day later, Spencer had been brainwashed, sporting a buzz cut and already seemingly committed to the teachings of the Children of God, declaring he was done with Fleetwood Mac in favour of dedicating his life to his newfound religious cause. Years later, he expressed regret with the fact he didn't tell the others before he made the change. The others, discouraged by another unexpected loss, would soldier on by bringing in Peter Green to help them finish the tour, fueling speculation Green would return fully, though that was quickly shot down. Fleetwood Mac recovered by adding their first American member in Bob Welch. Meanwhile, helping take up the songwriting load was Christine Perfect, formerly of the British R&B group Chicken Shack. Perfect was soon to become Christine McVie and with her keyboards, impressive writing and deep voice (for a female singer), she would become a pivotal if underrated member of the band for the next couple decades. When she was still just McVie's girlfriend, she had contributed briefly to Kiln House and also was the artist of the cover. The shy, insecure Kirwan had been a third string contributor when he was brought along in 1969 but now was thrust into a spotlight he was just as uncomfortable with as Green or Spencer had been. Still, he was improving by leaps and bounds as a writer, contributing some nice material to the mellow Future Games in 1971, a half-cocked attempt at completely breaking off from their blues roots, Welch's spacey soft rock at the forefront on the title track in particular. Kirwan then raised his game for the overlooked delight Bare Trees a year after, bringing guitar heroics and melodicism to his contributions (top ones being "Child o' Mine," is poem-set-to-music "Dust" and the lovely, graceful instrumental "Sunny Side of Heaven" while the title track was a rip-roaring guitar extravaganza and "Danny's Chant" an indigenous-fashioned, tribal rocker). 

Next to Kirwan's contributions, Welch's countryish pop-rock ("The Ghost," "Sentimental Lady") seemed tame, though the future pop craft was echoed most closely in McVie's "Homeward Bound" and gospely "Spare Me a Little of Your Love." But Kirwan was never truly glad in his role, often retreating from the rest of the band and becoming moody with them. Kirwan rarely did anything but perform and drink heavily to calm his easily frayed nerves. When touring to support the album, Kirwan reached his breaking point, refusing to go out for a concert. After the show, he had enough gall to criticize the band he watched from the wings during the shaky performance. That would spell the end. Kirwan would later struggle with poor mental health, homelessness, alcoholism and depression until landing on his feet sometime in the 90s. To this day he has spurned offers to join a reunion of the early lineup. Green is well off enough to participate while Spencer still performs as well, though his links to the controversial Children of God (now called The Family International, there has been proof that the cult has promoted sexual activities between children and adults) make his participation a touchy issue. Kirwan was replaced by Bob Weston. As for the remainder of Fleetwood Mac, they tried heading in a hard rock vein by enlisting Weston and Dave Walker, vocalist formerly of Savoy Brown. This sextet lineup only survived one album, 1973's Penguin, before a money dispute led to the ousting of Walker. The superior Mystery to Me came out at year's end. The lineup was altered to a quarter when Weston departed early in 1974. With Welch and McVie pitching in heavily, they cut their highest charting album in the US to date with Heroes Are Hard to Find, their first LP after settling in Los Angeles.

Still, Heroes was their first widely panned album in years and Bob Welch left to form his own band, Paris, and embark on a mildly successful career of his own. That necessitated the hiring of Buckingham and Nicks and Fleetwood Mac finally striking a winning formula. There were more mountains to climb and when Fleetwood Mac hit the pinnacle of commercial fortune in the latter part of the decade, it was a long journey that proved well worth it for the McVies and Mick Fleetwood. But man, no one ever had a weirder path getting there. Amazingly, there have been 17 official members in the history of Fleetwood Mac but from 1975-88 the lineup stayed the exact same. But come on, that's what platinum sales will do: Keep everyone together no matter what. There are few bands you can find who's history is dotted by such casualties of the breakneck-paced late 60s world of rock, a system that with its lethal chemistry of drugs, sex, egos and business could cause certain individuals to crack. In the case of the Mac, it occurred with three of its biggest members from the vaunted 1969 that several believe was the best. Even the one who found redemption and peace, Jeremy Spencer, did so by turning himself over to the radical Children of God cult. It's understandable that Fleetwood Mac could never find the boon they were in search of in the wake of Peter Green's exit, considering the inner turmoil. The rhythm section Green named his band after, became the guys in charge and have remained the only two members who've never abandoned ranks (Fleetwood is the only original member thanks to the short-lived Bob Brunning days). But before Lindsay Buckingham, the talented writers and guitarists they brought in were extreme cases of rock star insecurities gone loco. Buckingham was not miles better than Kirwan nor did he make Spencer and Green seem amateur, but he was level-headed enough and a natural leader that is ultimately the one responsible for keeping the band on the right track for so long, though ultimate credit goes to Fleetwood for hiring him. 1969-74 Fleetwood Mac was the genesis of the million-selling act that hatched out of the heavy turnover. But as the saying goes: Sometimes you have to break a few eggs before you get an omelet. 

I Thought I'd Hate it... But I Can't Turn Away!: Songs I Should Hate But Find Secret Guilty Pleasures Instead- Part One

Do you ever hear a song you think is crap, or simply wretched? But you can't stop thinking about it. Then you realize in some perverse, or maybe some honest, way that deep down the song strikes a resonance somehow. I have discovered plenty of what people might call discordant, ugly music. But to me, those cases are different. When I first heard a snarling, punkish but ultimately daring band like the Fall, I wasn't immediately bowled over. But eventually, I realized that in their own tuneless, avant-garde manner, the Fall were just alright. The upbeat stuff usually sank in quicker but even a mid-tempo contemplator could work well, with the right hook or riff ("Wings" is gobbledygook except for a constant guitar riff murmuring somewhere amidst the distanced instrumentation). Hey sure, their upbeat stuff is more entertaining to me, but what I'm getting at is those pop songs. You know, those sickly commercial, goofy or inane ones that settle and seep into your brain fabric. Now, never ever will I buy into 90% of the crap the radio offers us. No dance club can ever make me appreciate the hidden virtues of the Black Eyed Peas, post-Elephunk. But there are these songs I'd normally not like, or that I shouldn't like and yet I do. I suppose one can find the merits of even the most stinking pile o' trash (after all, even a smidgeon of critics say nice stuff about the latest releases by Hilary Duff or the Jonas Bros.). I'll go through a list of five major songs- mere album tracks, B-sides and rarities don't work since if I'm tackling a certain artist, I want to use their best material as part of my logic- that I have a guilty pleasure for.

------In no particular order-----

1. "Fanny (Be Tender with My Love)"- The Bee Gees (1975): Ok there's a lot of "Guilty pleasure" worthy material from these guys and not just in their late 70s polyester panted prime. The Bee Gees were like a fungus that festooned itself upon your ears and either submitted you to their will, made you ill or made you want to hit the clubs and buy all the brothers' records. There are slick, wimpy ballads of theirs I think are fantastic themselves- "How Deep is Your Love?" "Words," "How Can You Mend a Broken Heart?"- and other songs of theirs that just blow, like "Too Much Heaven," "Tragedy" or "Holiday." But "Fanny" is their crowning operetta when it comes to their many over-the-top pleas for peace and tolerance in a love affair. Barry Gibb had just discovered his helium high falsetto and the Bee Gees had been revived from a dormant career when Arif Mardin steered them into dance floor R&B not unlike Philly Soul. You can call it pre-disco if you like. This came through on the 1975 LP Main Course, which also included "Jive Talkin'," a real funky, lowdown happening that isn't a guilty pleasure because it's a superb creation in my opinion. "Fanny" isn't quite so hot but worms its way into my body rhythms and the tune gets lodged in my head where it plays incessantly until I find alternate music to shoo it off. "Fanny" is utterly loaded with horns and strings, plus the sort of lush electric pianos that turned the instrument's rep from a primarily jazz swamp box into an easy listening, cuckolded mush during the 70s. Gibb sings in a pillowy falsetto while his brothers sing in their high register underneath him. To ram home the point of their hyperbolic performance, there are two key changes leading to the climax as they plead "Fanny be tender with my love/You know how easy it is to hurt me." It's so operatic that it functions in much the same way as a Roy Orbison classic, only a lot more immersed in adult contemporary grooves. I should really dislike "Fanny," but the sincerity behind the cheese is why I am won over by it. The Bee Gees made a living off of this and often did the highwire act between vapidity and rich, romantic genius and sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't. I think "Fanny" takes the former route.

2. "Wuthering Heights"- Kate Bush (1978): Kate Bush was slowly brought along to prepare her first album although even by the time it was released she was just 19 and some songs dated back to when she was just 13. Bush was a precocious yet pugnacious writer that wrote from the piano in a way that made previous singer-songwriters look pale and an Elton John or Billy Joel look even meeker and derivative than they already were. Pink Floyd's David Gilmour was first to discover her music back when she was a teenage prodigy. He let some industry friends hear the tapes, leading to talent scouts signing her up to Floyd's home stable, EMI Records. Bush was set to record for one of the world's biggest music companies even before she had graduated high school. But this was 1975 and EMI figured it was better to chalk her up now than to wait and get caught in a bidding war. So Bush was brought along slowly but surely in order to ensure she was ready for the big time and EMI could get value from her. It was much like how a sports team often drafts a player and develops that talent instead of thrusting it into the spotlight too soon. By the time of The Kick Inside in 1978, she was ready for stardom although not the huge kind that grew on her. Bush's elaborate stage presentation reflected her interests in theatre, foreign art and international music sounds and often the music did the same. Many were caught off-guard by this brainy, daring quirk of a lady because her voice was a weapon and instrument as well, cascading into high registers that were reminiscent of Betty Boop, as well as showing off a low range for the standards of a female singer. 

Some found this voice extraordinary and fascinating and some found it screechy and overly precious. Well, all that being said, I thought I was going to hate "Wuthering Heights," her lead single and first #1 in the UK in 1978, when right off the bat I heard her schoolgirlish, melodramatic English gal vocals. But it just grows on you, I found. Yeah some might never get used to it and some may never want to give it a second or third chance but Bush's is one of the more original voices in the entire rock era. And now I have a deep respect and liking for Bush's catalogue, though not much of it post-1989- which is, albeit, just two studio albums anyway. And I can stand that voice that most people would call caterwauling. "Wuthering Heights" was where I started because it was her breakthrough smash and a career-defining effort. It's a theatrically majestic, sweeping triumph, based on the Emily Bronte novel of the same name (this becoming of interest to Bush when she found out that Bronte shared the same birthday, July 30). It is produced humbly and modestly, which is good since many a producer could have overblown it with overdubs, echo and presence. Bush has plenty of other songs that can possibly grate on the nerves and her record isn't a clean one in my books, but it's a hell of an output to be responsible for. So I'll give Kate Bush kudos for a record I can call a guilty pleasure, though not quite as guilty as that Bee Gees tune I might add.

3. "Year of the Cat"-Al Stewart (1976): There was a small, but highly noticed trend in the 70s of English singer-songwriters that grew out of the English folk revival of the late 60s. But of course, we're not talking the earthy, spine-tingling Nick Drake, Bert Jansch, John Renbourn, Fairport Convention and Steeleye Span here. Hell, not even those forays into the Celtic and English folk world from Led Zeppelin or Rod Stewart pre-"Tonight's the Night." I mean the more commercially acceptable stuff, like Gerry Rafferty, early Chris Rea and Al Stewart, the man behind the subject matter of this #3 entry. Countryside folksters who brought in the saxes, electric guitars and electric pianos to get the top 40 fans in a frenzy. Stewart was another one of those Scotsmen who sounded exactly like Donovan and first hit with the title track from his 1975 LP Time Passages. The formula was repeated for "Year of the Cat" a year later, keyboards, grand acoustic guitars and a schmaltzy sax solo. It really is middle of the road (MOR) radio fare but I still find myself going back to "Year of the Cat." The opening lyrics referencing Peter Lorre alongside Bogart in a movie- likely Al is talking of Casablanca- are ones that the humourous, culturally observant Dylan would have killed for. The chord changes are very jazzy yet the darting strings and sax resonate more like jazz and there's both an electric and acoustic guitar solo. Underneath all the Alan Parsons-engineered festiveness is a story about a tourist who stays the night with a hippie girl he falls for and then as a consequence misses his bus the next morning. "Year of the Cat" topped the British charts but also crossed Stewart over into the US by peaking at #8. The song's main thing I would normally be revolted by and the tactic that would normally make be abscond from the song is that sax solo. Think of all those bad 80s pop hits or those adult contemporary disco ballads that got started in the late 70s. This sax makes the howling heard on Dark Side of the Moon sound like authentic King Curtis. "Year of the Cat" is definitely MOR ear candy but it doesn't sour me on the song, one of my guilty pleasures- an honourable mention for that housewife-adored UK folk-rock of the 70s goes to Chris Rea's "Fool (If You Think it's Over)." In 1978, Dylan cut an album not unlike Al Stewart did with Year of the Cat in fact. Yep, it was called Street Legal and it sucked... But at least the Dutch music press loved it (do some research if that makes you curious).

4. "Maxwell's Silver Hammer"-The Beatles (1969): The Beatles, for all their brilliance, weren't machines. Lennon-McCartney can perhaps be faulted for being a two-headed roadblock for George Harrison's increasingly improving writing work (Lennon later admitted he and Paul had unfairly held George back and ignored his songs even when some of their own weren't too special). But the astonishing amount of quality work they did under the hectic paced, pressure-packed schedule of a 1960s pop giant doesn't mean some of their released output wasn't crap or at the very least cheesy. Such is this entry, "Maxwell's Silver Hammer." Why this one and not other potential candidates you were perhaps scanning over in your head (all you Beatle geniuses)? Well, "When I'm Sixty-Four" doesn't actually suck, "Honey Pie" truly does suck as does most of the soundtrack to Yellow Submarine ("Hey Bulldog" being the only thing decent), "Bungalow Bill" is admirably goofy, "Good Night" is saccharine trash and "You Know My Name (Look Up the Number)" is a pretty catchy comedy number so lay off it. Meanwhile, the Spectorized "Long and Winding Road" is a weak reminder of the then-extremely huge Carpenters and "The Inner Light" is boring Indian wanking around. Then why do I like "Maxwell's Silver Hammer," with its inane Tin Pan Alley melody, goofy Moog synth and sound effects? Well, it's actually rather funny in its perversely happy nature in which we hear the sadistic tale of a young serial killer who did his evil with a shiny silver hammer. It's all Paul's baby of course, but give him credit for not getting too caught up in his affinity for chutzpah and music hall cornball. It's catchy enough and might not be very rock & roll but it's a precursor to the sort of theatre that glam rock brought or the operatic overtones of Queen. 

A real operatic effect, not unlike the theatre's way with gallow's humour and the mob mentality, comes with John and George's backing vocals re in the falsetto doo-wop mould but often play a sort of on-stage role (chiming in as the girls in the courtroom demanding "Maxwell must be freed!"). The Beatles are having a larf and even if you find the whole kiddy singalong style of the song to be like the poor brother to "Yellow Submarine," you've got to admit it's a pretty hilarious concept to have Maxwell constantly ridding the world of his enemies with his big silver hammer. Could make for a good black comedy film! (ok but seriously, don't give anyone any ideas since anything Beatle-related has been exploited for financial gain by just about every corporate hand imaginable, all with the okaying of Olivia Arias, Ringo, Paul and Yoko Ono. This can result in good things but also fluff like that awful Across the Universe film). I find myself enjoying this track after all these years even though I concede that it's one of the slight tracks from the otherwise grand, bountiful Abbey Road, the Beatles swan song. But to make that album all blown up and up its own ass, the Beatles would've foregone their trademark sense of humour and "Maxwell's" would have been scrapped as would have "Mustard King" and "Polythene Pam." Yeah there's only a handful of Beatles tracks that most would consider mediocre, but for me only a few of them are not worth listening to more than once (From their 13 studio albums, EPs and singles, my list of, excuse the pun, "Not a Second Time" tracks being "Hold Me Tight," "Mr. Moonlight," "It's All Too Much," "Honey Pie,"  and "Good Night"). "Maxwell's Silver Hammer" ranks at the top of my guilty pleasures when it comes to the Fab Four because hey, when you release somewhere in the range of 200 songs in just 7 years, there's bound to be some junk and some filler that masquerades as comedy.

5. "Everybody Dance"-Chic (1979): The Bee Gees dabbled in disco and came to be defined by it, but hardly anyone excelled at making disco sound unlike what it mainly was- that is to say making it fresh, exciting and funky. Chic did all that. Now, they just have a few overplayed hits in our current society- you've all heard commercials where "Le Freak," "Good Times" and "Dance, Dance, Dance (Yowsah, Yowsah Yowsah)"- but I find a lot of their stuff to be, well, gay. Meaning its music only gay cult music fans could really grow to love and cherish like it was Stravinsky or Mozart. But that doesn't mean others can't enjoy it at the very least. And while there are a ton of cheesy Chic songs, earlier ones moreso than later, there is one I can't help but revisiting. That would be the relentless "Everybody Dance." Chic was formed by bassist and dance visionary Bernard Edwards and alongside guitarist Nile Rodgers, he melded funk, Philly soul and neo doo-wop into a disco style distinct in itself. Tony Thompson was the influential original drummer in the group. With female singers Norma Jean Wright (who left after their second album but wound up in the Edwards/Rodgers produced offshoot, Sister Sledge) and Luci Martin providing the sexy silk in order to tempt the Studio 54 crowd into going for broke and boogieing, Chic was certainly not rock & roll and ruffled the feathers even of the R&B establishment, which was seeing the old values of soul rapidly eroded away by glittering disco balls, drum machines, synthesizers and endless 12 inch singles. "Everybody Dance" was a top 20 US single and cracked the UK top 10, so it wasn't quite the monster hit "Dance, Dance, Dance" was from the same self-titled Chic album. But I like it better anyway. I shouldn't find it a good tune, what with its generic lyrics about "clap your hands" and so forth but it's too funky to ignore. Chic were the good side of disco, in my eyes. Now, A Taste of Honey? Sylvester? Cerrone? All the one hit wonders involved? Got no time for that.

"Already Classics" Presents: The Jayhawks' Tomorrow the Green Grass

Its modest success in 1995 may have it pegged as a lost classic by many, but Tomorrow the Green Grass was well received and recognized enough to be loved by thousands over the years anyway. THe album deserves its place in a pantheon of great albums (though not my top 200, so it probably fits into my top 500 if I ever wrote that out!). If anyone ever wants to hear what Gram Parsons reincarnated sounds like, take a listen to the Jayhawks of the Olson-Louris era. Formed in 1986, the Jayhawks consisted of several members over the years- mainly drummers, of which they've gone through five- but the only permanent ones until its 2005 hiatus were guitarist, writer and lead vocalist Gary Louris and bassist Marc Perlman. Louris was already 31 by the time the group formed, a veteran of rockabilly groups since emigrating from his native Ohio. The Jayhawks' prime found a dual leadership role invested in Mark Olson, the more country-minded of the two. The group's indie label debut LP in 1989, Blue Earth, hinted that these were more than the average alt-country rockers and showed that such groups could come from a non-country twangin' locality like Minneapolis. It won them a deal with Def American a couple years down the road when George Drakoulias, an A&R man for the label, took a liking to them. Their 1992 sophomore release, Hollywood Town Hall, to me was a near-classic, hailed by some as a classic outright. Combining the harder edge of Neil Young or the Exile-era Rolling Stones with a bit of the country diehard outlaws like Parsons, Joe Ely, Guy Clark or Waylon Jennings, the Jayhawks were a fascinating act to follow. They had a short-lived prime that still provided several memories.

Hollywood Town Hall was one momentous occasion, but it was improved by a Drakoulias-produced followup that turned out to be the last one with Mark Olson- who left shortly after to care for his ailing wife, singer-songwriter Victoria Williams, when she was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. That followup, Tomorrow the Green Grass, saw the Jayhawks with Don Heffington on drums, to be replaced by Tim O'Regan for the following tour. As well, they racked on a keyboardist and backing vocalist in Karen Grotberg. The Olson-Louris partnership was at its peak and unfortunately never got a chance to prove there was more in the storage chambers to come. The locked-in harmonies are ever-present on this album, while the guitars often are made to be fuzzy and overloaded with distortion not unlike Neil Young & Crazy Horse. Their acoustic, close-harmonied sweetness is given spare treatment on some tracks but several others build a dense collage of sound around it. The lead cut and single "Blue" features strings that are delicate and never intrusive, scored by Paul Buckmaster (whom Elton John fans are very familiar with for his string charts on early 70s albums by Elton). Meanwhile, Olson and Louris duet gloriously and "Blue" has four separate melodic ideas, verse-coda-chorus-bridge (the latter of which has counterpointing vocal melodies). "Blue" is perhaps bettered by the second cut, a tale of love on the run and its pleasures in abandoning all good sense, "I'd Run Away." Also featuring strings, it is a bit quicker paced but with a rousing, orchestrally geared intro before going into the uplifting verse and chorus. Louris is the one primarily found on lead vocals but Olson and Grotberg step in from time to time. Wisely, the fiddle-chugging intro section is repeated to end the song. This sunny harmony-laden song isn't shy about bending to the rock side a bit more with searing guitar lead to coarsen it up a bit. "Miss Williams' Guitar" is a happy-go-lucky little rocker that Olson penned about becoming smitten with his then wife.

"Two Hearts" is the intimate side of the Jayhawks, taking away the backbeat for a little homestyle beauty. It's a lovely state of affairs, being the one track that strips away the popping drums and power chords. But there are other ballads, such as the weepy, violin-adorned "Over My Shoulder," right up the Gram Parsons alley for sure.

"Real Light" hauls out the heavily distorted guitar atmosphere and is a mesmerizing tune with a whipping arrangement indeed. Olson and Louris are in step with each other while the drums, piano and organ supply a lot toward the urgency of the song. Organ is provided by Benmont Tench and "Real Light" is not unlike the rock punch of his group, Tom Petty's Heartbreakers. The Jayhawks surprisingly find alt-country joy in the much derided Grand Funk Railroad (to put it short, a cliche-ridden, trashy, not too remarkable power trio if the early 70s that was wildly popular and maybe only had one true classic single with the Todd Rundgren produced "We're an American Band") by covering their "Bad Time." The Jayhawks make "Bad Time" an invigorating listen and a surprise highlight for the album. The more eased, laid back country-rock is better represented by the second half, starting with "See Him on the Street" and continued by the twangy "Ann Jane" and "Red's Song," which features Victoria Williams on backing vocal. "Pray for Me" is another stirring moment and one of the top three tracks from the album, the extremely catchy and spirited "Nothing Left to Borrow," which gives "I'd Run Away" a run(away) for its money in terms of how busy and bustling it is. Like that song, it contains an intro section of sorts with guitar providing more melody than the usual for Tomorrow the Green Grass. Louris sings several lines on his own but the song is greatly boosted whenever Olson chimes in for his high harmony. "Ten Little Kids" closes the album, again with Williams harmonizing, although on one of the less than stellar offerings from Tomorrow the Green Grass, a somewhat overlooked album that should be regarded as a little bit of retro brilliance from the 90s. And that's my two cents on it, so go see what all my fuss is about.

"Already Classics" Presents: Tom Waits' Orphans

Orphans: Brawlers, Bawlers & Bastards

Artist: Tom Waits

Release year: 2006

Recordings 1984-2004

Tom Waits became a renowned cult figure in the 1980s and for the last 25+ years has continued his streak of indomitable bizarreness and wild diversity, within adapting strange personas in his own self-authored macabre, mythical, oddball sort of theatre. Never one to be influenced by trends in rock, Waits, along with Van Morrison, is probably the only celebrated, major artist of the post-Woodstock era who, for the majority of his influences, draws from eras before his time and before rock became the dominant form of musical expression in the mid-50s. Waits' music has evel less to do with rock than Morrison though, because Van's favourite music is the material that rock formuated out of old honky-tonk C&W, jazz, post-war R&B and pre-50s pop standards (only his Celtic folk leanings were independent strains from rock n' roll). Frankly, Waits has not displayed the acumen of a rock star nearly as often as his contemporaries and there are only brief glimpses from him into traditional pentatonic blues based rock- though moreso since 1983 than before. It's like hearing Randy Newman if he chose to abandon his composer roots and become a shameless vagabond. There have been some mixed results but, generally, Waits since 1983 and since his marriage to collaborator Kathleen Brennan even before that, has been a real treat to follow. His 70s work found him immersed in the "Beat" poetry, late-night cool jazz sand Bukowski scenes, singing of wasted existence while singing the wasted blues. Depending on how you see it, Waits finally moved on from his at times overwrought Gershwin, Hoagy Carmichael, Charles Mingus and Louis Armstrong aspirations to soak in Howlin' Wolf, Muddy Waters, Lightnin' Hopkins, etc. as well as, more surprisingly to critics, Kurt Weil/Bertolt Brecht and Captain Beefheart. 

The uglier and more revolting the art, the more intriguing to Tom. The old influences can still be found but it's all become immersed into the one-man musicology encyclopedia that is Tom Waits. Waits' songs have grown to take on character and the man himself is a character, or a character actor if you will. The real guy keeps himself shrouded by his recorded and onstage personas. He's a "love 'em or hate 'em" kind of artist and one can come away from a Waits concert either feeling like they saw a genius stylistic master or a medicine-show huckster, faux-evangelist preacher. When he arrived in 1973 he was considered a singer-songwriter, even by his own label Asylum- a record company catered to such mavericks. That is, until he felt comfy enough to break off into some sort of nostalgic, bohemian revivalist act that lived for the worlds of Frank Sinatra, Jack Kerouac and Cole Porter all at once. Waits wrote like a broken, aimless man on skid row, but he never tried to become the stereotypical junkie who burns out before ever getting the chance to fade away, preferring to make these types of folks his study pieces and the ones to rub shoulders with. When he got tired of that journey through the dives and clubs of L.A., his music actually improved and became more clear-sighted in spite of its eccentricity. To anyone who didn't really get the joke, he had fashioned himself into the worst, most grunty singer imaginable by the mid-70s- mind you, that's a blind ignorance of the fact he actually tried to carry a tune in a humble troubadour's voice on his first two records. Still, while this period could often be very interesting it often came off as quite pretentious, stylized and, most important of all, one-note. Before 1983, he had made a slew of good albums, some average ones and an outright clunker. Nothing great though. Waits learned from the experience to become the bold artist we know and love today. 

In 2006, two years after another, at the very least, chin-stroking studio album with Real Gone, Waits collected lost tracks from the vaunted second phase of his career, dating back as far as 1984. This was a hodgepodge on paper but when sequenced together, the music is a remarkable trip through the lexicon of Tom. The listener is allowed to hear everything from contributions to "Various artist" tributes, friends' albums, soundtracks, documentaries, stage performances and studio outtakes. Plus a generous heaping of covers sometimes transformed by Waits into his very own creations. It's an expansive triple-disc masterwork that is also chock full of new compositions for those who crave productivity, so it reflects the breadth of his quarter century of screwball, madcap glory. And yes, it actually holds up and that's because Waits compartmentalizes the 56 tracks, so as not to muddle up the continuity. Disc 1, "Brawlers," is the side of Waits that pumps out the boozy, crunchy blues rockers where his smoke-burnished- though he has been off and on cigarettes for over 25 years- voice is at its most coarse, like how a smokestack made of sandpaper might sound. Someone once described it as- and I am editorializing here- "a ravaged, alcohol and nicotine soaked howl that got thrown out the car window, run over and then backed over again." If that wasn't what someone once said, I just said it. Disc 2, "Bawlers," shows his talent for torch songs and ballads, his most clear harkening back to the Tin Pan Alley days where pop and jazz standards were churned out damn near every week. Finally, Disc 3, "Bastards," is Waits the experimenter, who crafts songs straight out of his garage, basement and/or boiler room. This is the latest incarnation of his songwriting we have received, with him giving cerebral, spoken word performances that outdo many of the jazzbo "raps" of yesteryear. 

Waits used Swordfishtrombones and Rain Dogs to build percussive pieces off of "instruments" like water drums, circular fiddle, bicycle spokes, anvils, garbage cans, bullhorns and so on and so forth (think Fat Albert and the Gang's Junkyard combo, only way less cheery). Thanks to picking up on the tastes of his eldest son Casey, Tom has added hip-hop beat boxing, vinyl hiss and turntable scratching to his arsenal over the last decade. Representative of his quest for vintage audio quality, Tom's produced his albums of late as if he was saddled with 1940s technology. So know that, before you squawk about how grainy some of his recordings are. Tom is a purveyor of the twisted, demented and hellish aspects of music so what better way to present that than with scratchy sound quality? "Bastards" also gives us the more recent incarnation of Waits as a loony, hat-tipping yukster; a deranged storyteller that uses spoken-word to creep the bejesus out of you, yet also pulls out hearty amounts of humour both homey and ribald. Waits has always had his sense of humour but it takes on much less of a hipster mode as he ages, which isn't such a bad thing. Brennan and Waits are responsible for the majority of tracks on Orphans but indeed Waits' hook-ups with other musicians do result in occasional gold as well. "Lie to Me" is an immediate standout for the album, all jittery and hopped-up like a guy singing and playing after several pots of coffee. It's a nervy, hand-clapped and aggressively drummed piece using stop time and Waits is totally jumped up on it, way more so than usual in fact. To me, "Lie to Me" sounds like what blues could be if merged with the surreal environment of a carnival. 

The first disc comes with plenty of nuance on the theme of "Brawlers." He replicates the chugging blues of the Rolling Stones with "Lowdown," coincidentally a song title of theirs as well, as he channels the growl of his blues heroes vocally. "2:19" combines the polyrhythms and Gumbo of New Orleans with Waits' usual blues vamping and it probably takes on this difference because it was produced by Waits for John P. Hammond's 2001 album Wicked Grin. The same goes for the intense, biblical declamatory blues "Lord I've Been Changed," though on Hammond's album it was titled "I Know I've Been Changed." "Fish in the Jailhouse" is not quite as spiritual but it definitely matches and perhaps surpasses the blues chomp of the previous few tracks, with anvils chiming in. "Bottom of the World," which first appeared in the 2003 documentary Long Gone, is his take on the weary country blues but he adds enough of his over-the-top vocalizing to it to distinguish it from anything rootsy and bluegrass. He even finds the common ground between hip-hop beatboxing and field hollers with "Lucinda," one of his more original, groundbreaking pieces of recent years. He brings in the blues harp of Charlie Musslewhite to tackle "Ain't Going Down to the Well," a Leadbelly staple co-written by Huddie with archivists John Lomax and his son Alan. "Puttin' on the Dog," one of dozens of Waits songs with the animal dog or fish in the title, takes on the same sound and it was lifted from a little-known 1999 comedy called Liberty Heights. Waits uses his higher range more than expected as he goes for political commentary on the shuffling "Road to Peace," a strangely literate observance of the Middle East conflicts. It tends to wander and meander at 7:17, but it's a neat departure for Waits, who usually steers clear of any politics or controversy. "All the Time" is a drum-heavy piece that features the distinct vocal distortion effect Waits has been using for years to make him sound like Howlin' Wolf... if the Wolf lost his voice to cancer and sang with a voicebox. 

"The Return of Jackie and Judy" follows a similar setup, though with harder electric guitar. On this song, Waits reminds me of latter day Dylan, raspy voice and all. To show Tom is full of surprises, this is a Ramones cover, culled from a 2003 tribute album to them called We're a Happy Family. And believe it or not, it's not his only Ramones cover on Orphans. Quite interesting coming from a guy who discarded punk rock in its 70s prime as uncouth no-talents making useless noise. "Walk Away" is a nice little spiritual-styled composition and Waits uses his deepest bellow possible and yet it had sat for 10 years unavailable outside of the soundtrack to the Tim Robbins directed anti-capital punishment film Dead Man Walking. Waits possesses the proper amount of chutzpah to manage a wonderful cover of "Sea of Love," a throwback compared to what comes before it on disc 1 because it dates back to the soundtrack for 1989's Al Pacino film of the same name. He grunts it out as only Tom Waits can, but gives his gutbucket blues arrangement of it some soul and flair. The acoustic-based, sneakiness of "Buzz Fledderjohn" is a welcome change of gears but superior is the hollering "Rains on Me," a soulfully chanted near-classic that previously had been first available on Chuck E. Weiss's 1999 album Extremely Cool. Weiss co-wrote the tune and had been a hip songwriter on the L.A. rock scene in the 70s when he became good pals with Waits. Of note, Weiss was the "Chuck E." of Rickie Lee Jones's 1979 signature hit "Chuck E's in Love" but he should also be respected for his writing work and "Rains on Me" is a real winning combination. 

It's the sixteenth and last "Brawler" from Orphans and one of the most satisfying too. "Bawlers" is perhaps the best disc on the album, portraying the Waits who writes forlorn, melancholy ballads that you could picture hearing in many different time periods. Some of his ballads feel just as home in a coffeehouse today or in the 70s, as they would in a German beer hall at the turn of the century. Other, more folk-oriented ballads of his put modern day singer-songwriters to shame. The disc kicks off with a minute-long version of the children's song "Bend Down the Branches," first included on the 2002 all-star compilation For the Kids. It's got the hallmarks of Waits' semi-maudlin, semi-sardonic pieces, with flugelhorn and string accompaniment behind Waits weezing along in his distinct 70s croon. The doctored home recording "You Can't Hold Back Spring" is a beautiful little melody that benefits from the lo-fi touch. "Long Way Home" is a world-beaten, rustic acoustic highlight, a tremendously wise and weary song that initially saw release on the soundtrack to the 2001 film Big Bad Love and received a cover from Norah Jones on her 2004 sophomore effort. The old world, Mediterranean-styled waltz "Widow's Grove" finds Waits in his sentimental gravelly voice rasping under a studio effect that make him sound like he's projecting through an oxygen mask (or it's just a bullhorn, a favourite musical tool of his). It shows how Waits, since his very American-rooted 70s "beatnik wino" days, has turned himself into an internationally flavoured artist who wasn't just defined by his Americana so much as world musicology. The Halloween-ish, crawly Germanesque tune "Little Drop of Poison" hits an atmospheric note and one can see its "boo" appeal to children in context with its inclusion on the soundtrack to Shrek 2 (an alternate version also appeared on the soundtrack to The End of Violence). 

Why doesn't Waits try a children album or compose the full soundtrack to a kid's film? I'm not sure, but I think it would be a fiendish, ghoulish affair and Waits' demeanour can be softened up for younger audiences. I suppose some kids could find him the reincarnation of the Bogeyman but Tom would likely find that amusing as hell. Or at least just a scary uncle figure, which Tom would also enjoy since he bases some of his own vocal and physical traits off his own uncle, Vernon. The next track, the simple-mindedly titled "Shiny Things," is sort of a "bright and early in the morning" bluegrass picker with banjo clashing with clarinet as Waits again mixes different musical styles to great results. All that's missing is the rooster. In his bass rumble vocal, Waits sings a slightly maudlin piano ballad called "World Keeps Turning," written for the appropriately downcast 2001 film Pollock. "Tell it to Me" is one of the more ordinary cuts, as it finds Tom warbling over fingerpicked guitars, backed by upright bass not unlike his early 70s settings although less jazzy. "Never Let Go" is a superb way to follow, a sweeping epic not unlike his "In the Neighbourhood" that recalls street marching bands with its thumping drum snare, crash cymbals and glockenspiel. I like to call it Springsteen meets Little Italy/French Quarter. It's an impassioned, oddly moving performance. Only Waits can make the most alien and foreign musical concepts sound so authentic and real, all without actually sounding like he's claiming to know the music intricately. Instead, he just strikes me as someone who knows he loves the music's intricacies. Another track derived from John Hammond's Wicked Grin is the sparse, folky "Fannin Street." It's an honest, minor delight, owning a lot in common with his Closing Time-era tracks, only he's breathily crooning the song instead of giving it the old, conservative college try vocally, a la 1973. 

The jazziest thing on Orphans is a 1991 selection written by Teddy Edwards, the tenor saxophonist throughout Tom's 70s and 80s tours and some of his albums too. Called "Little Man," it's a mellow number that may go by with the pace of a turtle but that's alright because it does a special job recalling the angelic, "aw-shucks" jazz Waits had tackled on his soundtrack to 1982's One from the Heart, a film he was personally asked to score by Francis Ford Coppola. It seems that since Waits' interest in jazz waned in the late 70s, he can be more on the mark when revisiting it than he was trying to conjure up such authenticity in the first place (witness this track and how remarkably pleasing One from the Heart is, despite not being one from the heart of Waits who was waving so long to that world by the time the soundtrack came out). "Little Man" first appeared on Edwards' 1991 album on the jazz label Verve, Mississippi Lad. Moving on, "It's Over" is a half-baked kind of cocktail piano and acoustic guitar piece with warbling trumpet in the background and "If I Have to Go" is an even more run-of-the-mill piano ballad that was included in the stage show of Waits' 1986 play Frank's Wild Years but left off the soundtrack LP, and for good reason since it's a legit throwaway. However, Waits redeems himself with a decidedly growled, howled rendition of another Leadbelly song, this time the 20th Century landmark "Goodnight Irene." Another selection from 1996's Dead Man Walking soundtrack arrives in the form of "The Fall of Troy," a weird sort of torch song that sounds half-pop standard, half-lounge lizard balladeer. But then again, if you throw in the slightly off-key guitars and trumpets Waits adores using so much, it begins to take on a distinct tone of its own separate from those you may think it emulates. 

The rough, lo-fi recording "Take Care of All My Children" has its homemade, workmanlike charm and it spent the longest time on the shelf of any of Orphans' tracks, being cut in 1984 for a documentary film called Streetwise. Despite its grainy quality, it's not a bad song but the equally rough demo-like "Down There by the Train" outclasses it, a sort of precursor to 1999's down-home romper "Come on Down to the House." Tom also somehow transforms the Ramones' 1980 bouncy Brit Invasion nod "Danny Says" into a meandering ballad that I think actually hits a bigger impact to the listener in this radical version than it did in the Ramones' hands. Also from 2002's Big Bad Love soundtrack is the grizzled, desolated "Jayne's Blue Wish," an okay tune but a novel production as one can practically hear the creaking of the chair/stool Waits sits on while performing. Though Waits sings it as if awaiting a lung transplant, his version of "Young at Heart" is both rewarding and comical and the addition of an old-fashioned country pedal steel guitar is a smart one. The recording is not much to write home about, with an underwater, hissy, distorted quality to it. But that only contributes to the homemade, cut-and-paste vibe to this triple album. It's also the twentieth and last of the "Bawlers," a disc that may not get you moving and shaking, but one that has its weight in richness at least equal to that of the "Brawlers" disc. To this point, the listener has been thoroughly dragged through the emotions of Waits' music, all except for the lighter, kookier side. Well that is supplied by the third disc, the "Bastards" themed one. 

The German oompah stage piece, Brecht-Weil's "What Keeps Mankind Alive" is sung tongue-in-cheek, as intended, by Waits with a coarse, shouting proclamation vocal line. This is taken from their Threepenny Opera but Waits' recording comes from a 1985 Weill tribute album called Lost in the Stars: The Music of Kurt Weill. It's a tremendous inclusion and one wonders if Tom could do a whole album of Weil or Weillian music, and make it fantastic. "Children's Story" (aka "Pisspot") features Waits' sandpaper, weathered voice telling a demented tale through the telephone amidst a solitary harmonium (pump organ?) doodling. It is based on German playwright Georg Buchner's Woyzeck, a story that was adapted into a musical by Waits and Robert Wilson in the early 1990s, of which the songs showed up on Tom's 2002 album Blood Money. A 1988 Disney tribute album entitled Stay Awake: Interpretations of Music from Various Vintage Disney Films yielded Tom Waits's amazingly cacophonous, bluesy wail cover of "Heigh Ho" from the 1937 animated classic Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. It's a bit of a jarring listen, but a brave take on a rather gleaming film composition by comparison. The off-the-wall insect story, again bellowed in a deep cackle by Waits through what appears to be a phone, "Army Ants," is a unsettling listen with plucked string instruments to represent the crawling of ants. "Book of Moses" is one of the album's unforeseen high points, a low-tuned (full step down on guitars) blues shouter that could be a history lesson from Waits to junior stylists like Beck or the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion. Why it's not on "Brawlers" I'm not sure, but the noisy, sound effect-laden "Bone Chain" sure is a "Bastard" track, full of Waits' vocal percussion through various effects that replicate a beat boxing hip-hopster. 

"Two Sisters" is a bit silly, with Waits singing a sort of field holler death song with a mere fiddle playing melody alongside. It's a traditional arrangement but Waits takes away just a bit from it by singing in a Southern accent. He veers close to self-parody with efforts like this. "First Kiss" is the third whacko tale with the dissonant musical accompaniment to go with it. "Dog Door" finds Waits in his odd falsetto howl with whispered growls double-tracked alongside it. It's a hypnotic blues arrangement that's nothing to scoff at as it finds him collaborating with the group Sparklehouse from their 2001 album It's a Wonderful Life. "Redrum" is a neat instrumental that features some crazy pump organ/guitar keyboard contraption with a wail of distortion carrying the "melody." Again backed up by a harmonium, "Nirvana" is another campfire story from Waits that is sure to entertain, as he recites poetry from Charles Bukowski. He also pays tribute to another of his poet heroes with Kerouac's "Home I'll Never Be" given a musical structure, though it sounds like another low quality mobile tape recorder piano performance of it. It still works, as everything Waits tries to do unfashionably does. "Poor Little Lamb" is likely the dumbest thing you'll find on "Bastards," a Brecht-Weill styled toss-off with Tom through a phone caterwauling away. "Altar Boy" is almost the exact sort of track he'd cut in the late 70s, him hollering away (though this time trying to sound just a tad sober) amidst jazzy pianos and horns. It was originally written for 2000's Alice but got scrapped. "The Pontiac" is Waits telling a child the story of a Pontiac handed down upon generations and it's rescued from a long forgotten spoken-word compilation from 1989 called Smack My Crack. It was apparently inspired by how his father-in-law loved to fix old cars. 

"Spidey's Wild Ride" is a misbegotten attempt at a rap that's pretty immature and stupid, but Tom almost makes it worthwhile with his brazenness. The jungle stomp "King Kong" is pretty tone-deaf stuff but is noteworthy for all its Kong-like roars and guitar funk playing along Tom's grating vocals. The "final" track is Tom reciting Kerouac's "On the Road," re-modelled as a blues from the basement song. Two hidden tracks cap off Orphans brilliantly. A live monologue by Waits is the side-splitting "Dog Treat" where Tom acts puzzled- in his own comedic way- in questioning the purpose of a certain dog treat he discovered that was made from the 36-inch penis of a bull, much to the audience's delight. He theorizes on what the bull would think if he knew that's what would happen to his enormous member after death. Afterward is the har-har story "Missing My Son," in which Tom recounts a time when he was in line for groceries and a woman ahead of him said she reminded him of her son. Of course, the son resembles Tom in no way ("In fact, he's Chinese") but Tom placates the woman and grants her wish to hear him say "Bye, mom" to remind her of when her now deceased son was alive. This results in the woman charging her large purchase to Tom. Upset as expected when he finds out the truth, Tom talks of running out to the parking lot, catching her before she gets in her car and pulling on her leg. "Just the way I'm pulling on yours," Tom quips before cackling uproariously. So ends the biggest, bestest representation of Tom Waits' greatness in pure volume and though it may be incredibly sprawling, it's also incredibly deep and rich. He's got only one album I classify higher. A true Waits anthology, a career-spanning, in-depth collection, is badly in order, but Oprhans will do. It's a fitting name for these tracks that lay dormant without a home, some for the longest time, until 2006 brought them all together, 56 in all, for Waits' greatest self-styled anthology yet, and perhaps the only one we'll ever see, unless we do get a proper boxed set one day.