Reviews: Neil Young's "Dreaming Man, Live '92"

First published in Pressplus1 (Online): http://www.pressplus1.com/music-reviews/dreamin-man-live-92-neil-young-sparse-and-illuminating-document-from-his-early-90s-revival.html

Ok I realize this is the third batch of reviews for Neil Young I have penned, but the guy keeps releasing these archive series discs a mile a minute... ok maybe every few months then. But this one, unlike the others, follows Neil on tour years after his younger prime. Neil had a resurgence no one saw coming in the 90s and this continued right into the middle part of the decade before creative juices wore off. Since then, Neil has offered quality with his releases but often has fallen short of the satisfaction craved by those who remember his latter day comeback let alone his 70s reign as the best, most fearless troubadour in rock. It's probably a bit overeager for anyone to expect a masterpiece out of the now-64 year old Canuck, but in the early 90s he had all his followers, critics amongst these, craving what came next. I reviewed the remasters of his first four albums a few weeks back and left off portraying Neil as a bonafide star, enjoying (but really not enjoying in the literla sense) his Harvest album at #1, the units flying off the shelves as rapidly as any album of the time not released by John Denver or the Osmonds (Note to all classicists of 20th Century Music: Supposed golden ages all have their own embarrassing public faves). After this, he took a trip through the gutter of rock life, feeling a heavy heart over the drug casualties going on around him. This gave us masterful works that were at first misunderstood: Time Fades Away (Live 1973 release), Tonight's the Night (recorded 1973, released 1975) and On the Beach (1974). A reformed Crazy Horse brought some grungy brightness back on Zuma (1975) then Neil paired with Stephen Stills for Long May You Run (1976), credited to the Stills-Young Band and much slicker than the usual fare for Neil in the mid-70s. He then veered into ragtag country-rock for the majority of American Stars n' Bars (1977), while the rest was a grab bag of material from various sessions and back to traditional folk and country on the underrated Comes a Time (1978). These albums between Harvest and the end of the 70s ranged from tremendous to decent, but mostly they were tremendous. Then Neil kept up his heavy workload as he turned toward another film project, his first being a homemade docu/fiction piece of junk called Journey Through the Past, released to a limited run in 1972. This new one, not released until 1983 as it turns out, was called Human Highway. But more importantly, it led Neil into an offshoot idea for a concert film. Recording his new tunes live resulted in the breathtaking rock signpost album Rust Never Sleeps (1979), his all-time greatest album in my estimation. A live concert film accompanied it and then a true to form live album capturing the 1978-79 tour came. The whole multimedia rush still couldn't distract from the fact he'd returned to Crazy Horse (for the electric sets and the side 2 of Rust) in a most enthralling way.

Rust summarized his entire career to that point and once again Young was lauded on a wide scale. But now reaching well past 30, the family man Neil emerged in the 80s as he tended to the needs of his second son Ben, a non-oral, spastic cerebral palsy sufferer. Personally, he was focused on improving his son's lot in life and getting involved in the well-being of all those afflicted by CP (his first son Zeke, by actress Carrie Snodgress, was born with a less severe form of it). Young scaled back his rock star life and though he would go back to touring, he was virtually inactive outside of sporadic studio work from 1979-81. This definitely harmed the creative process as a strict physiotherapy program with Ben, that ultimately proved fruitless, made it so that 1981's Re-ac-tor, one of only 2 albums with Crazy Horse in the decade, could only be worked on in the hours Neil had available in his home studio. Artistically, he has never been more unfocused than he was from 1980-88. Before Re-ac-tor came out, Neil became some sort of political commentator with Hawks & Doves, a short-running hodgepodge and another one where the sids were markedly, drastically unto themselves. But then again, Neil titled side 2 to be "Hawks" and side 1 to be "Doves," so perhaps that was the intention. The first side was made up of outtakes from 1976-78 work intended for an aborted album entitled Chrome Dreams and they were in line with the spooky acoustic side Nel procreated in his productive 70s. Side two was like the ragged country-rock of 3 years prior, only even more slapdash and this time with a lear intent and message. Neil began championing like a Republican congressman, highlighting the recession and its plight on the average, hard-working American. Despite his transplanted citizenship to the U.S. of A, Neil bled red, white and blue all over Hawks & Doves, alienating some and just confusing others. After Re-ac-tor failed to ignite any glowing reviews, Neil ended his 13-year association with Reprise to sign a big contract with Geffen Records. Right off the bat with Geffen, Neil overnight became Mr. Everything, intent on tackling any genre he felt like. First he tried to throw his hat in the ring of techno-pop by familiarizing himself with all the latest keyboard, computerized hijinks for 1982's Trans. Unlike other clearly mediocre records of that time, Trans was a "love it or hate it" record that, underneath its techno pall was a complex record about the communication barrier Neil was facing with his mute, disabled son. A few Hawaiin-inflected cuts made their way in there, but overall it was a decent foray into explaining robotic dimensions of the world and the breakdown in communicating between the handicapped and the able-bodied. Nice sentiments, but the record flopped and even though Neil toured behind the media-oriented theme and music, he quickly jettisoned that for a retro rockabilly pose.

This generated him touring around with a band he called the Shocking Pinks, which he disappeared into as some sort of act, not unlike the Beatles pretending to be Sgt. Pepper only this was in person. Neil greased his hair up in a pompadour and acted like he was at the malt shops again and it provided us all with an erratic, flawed album with some of the dumpiest digital production you're ever going to hear. That 1983 dud Everybody's Rockin' was in response to Geffen wanting more of a rock record this time out and he took it almost too literally on that one by going back to the sound of R&R in its infancy. It was to be quickly followed up by a country record, something Geffen had been clamouring for no doubt. Neil gave them a record based on the hardships under Reagan's America and called it Old Ways. It was rejected but a Nashville-recorded second gasp at it wasn't. But this official Old Ways from 1985, was let down by glitzy production and half-baked Cosmopolitan Nashville tunes. These all were like third-drawer Harvest dead ringers but Neil, as he was prone to do in the 80s, took the latest stylistic detour full throttle and began dressing like a renegade cowboy. He turned a bit right-wing and jingoistic in interviews and began extolling the virtues of Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson (both of whom he paired up with and clearly was trying to emulate via cowboy hats, scarves, bandanas, jeans and cowboy boots). During this 1984-85 side route, he toured with a country outfit he assembled called the International Harvesters. But again, if anyone thought they had him pegged, he pulled the rug out from under with 1986's Landing on Water. This was a re-visiting of contemporary 80s sounds as it tried to incorporate Neil Young classic songwriting with thundering gated drums, airy keyboards and so forth. The production is a bit dated now of course, but not too bad at all. It's simply the poor writing that made it one of his 3 worst albums. Neil took all the fancy equipment to the road, finally hooking up with the band he'd been estranged from for 6 years in Crazy Horse. Drawing on the past as a source of inspiration, Neil decided to record new tracks in concert and then put them, minus the crowd noise, on his next album. Exactly the same process that begot Rust Never Sleeps. The end result was simply called Life. This 1987 release was promising, although it was no winning, enduring and deserving sequel to Rust. On the bright side, it was probably the best of his Geffen releases. The old garage spirit returned on a few tracks and Neil had a bit more venom, some political and some not, back in his arsenal. But Life was not properly capitalized on, at least not immediately. Neil let his Geffen deal run out, capping a roller coaster ride that saw his commercial and critical stature drop and his very own label sue him for performing music unbecoming to an artist with the sound and reputation of a Neil Young. The desperate move never did anything in court of course and sowed the seeds for a discontented Neil to leave David Geffen's company in 1988 and promptly arrive back on Reprise. But he just delivered them another genre exercise with the blues offering, This Note's for You.

The album is probably best remembered for its title track's music video, a satirical tirade directed by Jonathan Demme that skewered advertisting but mostly how pop artists were now being heavily relid upon to hock the consumer products. As a result of its blatant use of advertising in order to turn the cannons right back in the face of these scorned corporations, MTV banned the video. This firestorm of controversy soon found MTV cast as the villains, Neil as the bemused victim and the video a hot commodity that MTV made a big deal about showing just once and only once. As a token or gesture, they gave it their MTV Video Award for Best Video but it didn't change the fact that Neil was no fan of the station's dumbing down of rock. Despite all this, the album's sales were mediocre, a bad sign considering the publicity outbreak. On it, Neil brought his guitar histrionics back, but the horn charts were by and large dull and needless in his quest to cut a blues tribute. Anyway, there was just as much Memphis Soul and jazz experimentation as blues on the album and although it beat 80% of anything he did for Geffen, it was yet another shrugging of the shoulders from his faithful. But then, as Neil rediscovered his intensity for the guitar, something changed. With this newly minted blues ensemble, the Bluenotes, on tour with him through 1988, Neil showed signs of life in his newer compositions and a Japan-only EP called Eldorado in 1989 hinted at a return to glory. Then came Freedom, an assault on the senses that perfectly captured what had gone wrong in the 80s. Neil had found his powers to communicate his social conscience in a way his audience could understand and grasp. Plus, both his electric and acoustic sides were firing on ally cylinders. He fell in on common ground with emerging alternative rockers and bands that would in a few years time come to take over the rock landscape with grunge. The sheer force behind guitar cataclysms like "Don't Cry," "Rockin' in the Free World" and "Eldorado" told the beautiful story. Freedom was one of the 5 best albums of the year 1989 and with a roll established, Neil did his first truly proper and exciting full album with Crazy Horse since Zuma in 1990. Called Ragged Glory, it re-established rock credibility and taught everyone how guys in their mid-40s were nowhere near over the hill (thanks to folks like Neil and Springsteen, but primarily the Stones who broke the convention that rock bands must die off before they hit the 2 decade mark together, we have bands that stick together and still put on great shows and write relevant music into their 40s). Ragged Glory had exciting jam pieces alongside simple, rustic country-rock with the knobs turned to 11 to quote Nigel Tufnel. The tour that followed had the perfect backdrop of the Gulf War, allowing for Neil to get his anti-war stuff back on the table and off his chest. As of 1992, Neil was praised in the press by the likes of Nirvana, Pearl Jam and Sonic Youth and had regained his stature as an iconic singer-songwriter. 47-year old Neil Young was riding high as the 90s dawned and progressed further. Having become more political and hard-edged topically than ever, Neil endured as a significant voice in pop music, although he had not really enjoyed a smash hit album since Rust Never Sleeps. That changed as he decided to go softer, crafting his most quaint and peaceful album overall since Comes A Time.

In 1992, perhaps it was while reeling from tinnitus that inspired Neil to write softer, folkier, country-flavoured songs once again. You see, tinnitus is an ear condition where hearing becomes super sensitive after being exposed to constantly high decibels in volume. And Neil had just completed a 1991 tour with Crazy Horse called "Smell the Horse" where he challenged bands like Sonic Youth for sheer noise, distortion, feedback and dissonance. There had been some moments of calm here and there on 1989's Freedom and songs left on the shelves during the 80s but Neil had not crafted a whole LP of acoustic-based music since the Comes a Time and only Hawks & Doves had seen his acoustic folk side highlighted at all in the 80s. Ah, those 80s. Containing a spell of records at Geffen from 1981-87, it was a decade where Neil became lost as he couldn't satisfy his core audience anymore. After Rust Never Sleeps landed him back in the spotlight as one of rock's bright lights- although he had never really left, just never made a splash on the market to rival that of Harvest- he had withdrawn because of family and adversity, namely his son Ben being born with a severe, spastic form of cerebral palsy. Neil showed no focus or cohesive ideas as he followed leaving Reprise Records in 1981 with brief dips into techno/electronica (1982's Trans), retro rockabilly (1983's vacuous, digitally produced Everybody's Rockin'), mainstream Nashville country (Old Ways), modern tech-rock (1986's Landing on Water and partially on Life, 1987's Crazy Horse collaboration) and horn-driven blues (1988's This Note's for You). It took till 1989 for Neil to feel at home in the 80s and with Freedom, he knocked everyone who had written him off for a loop. His charting pull then began to improve itself after an 8 year period of falling fortunes. With Freedom, he created his strongest batch of tunes in years, dabbling more in folk again and writing harrowing hard rock that was highlighted by the anthemic "Rockin' in the Free World" bookending the album, first with a live acoustic version then an electric studio version that perfectly encapsulated all the writhing anger and the nascent, palpable sense of danger back in Neil Young's writing. Afterward, he experienced a renaissance that didn't let up until the late 90s and right away he reinvigorated his formerly strained relationship with Crazy Horse on their joyfully hard rocking Ragged Glory in 1990. Now Neil was back in the hip category, or the "What's Hot" bracket if you care for Us Magazine. He could be seen dressing in T-shirts, jeans, lumberjack jackets and sometimes leather but looking bad ass in general and convincing while doing so amidst a sea of younger bands trying to place themselves on a similar mantle. Not often does a legendary artist get praised by newer bands while also being vital contemporaries of them. But Neil was creating garage rock brilliance at the same time bands like Nirvana and Pearl Jam were singing is praises. Now commercially, it has always been the softer side of old Neiler that connected with the public and generated good sales. Harvest Moon has actually gone double platinum as of today, only the third album of his to do so (joining Harvest and After the Gold Rush), success that Neil had only experienced prior as part of the ultra popular megagroup CSNY.

The album itself has become one of his select chart and sale successes. Thematically, it finds Neil in a less introspective mood than its "prequel" Harvest, instead finding him a melancholy, contented man entering middle age feeling better than ever and still in love too. Often, that melancholy can become weary and boring. This is maybe the first indication that Neil mellowing with age could take the edge off him. He was no longer churning out moody love songs like "Pardon My Heart" or "Look Out for My Love," perhaps because he really was happy with his personal life. A cranky Neil meant prosperous things artistically, but that has changed as he's aged. On Harvest Moon, Neil still came up with wonderfully tuneful work however the disc begins to seriously lose steam after a primo opening of five lovely cuts. Neil enlisted the original Stray Gators lineup, a group of sidemen including Kenny Buttrey, Jack Nitszche, Tim Drummond, Spooner Oldham and Ben Keith that had been his group on Harvest. With their presence, Neil returned to that easy-going country/folk formula that struck gold (or platinum that is) 20 years earlier. Therefore, we got more pronounced use of harmonica, very few electric guitars (unless pedal steel counts), brushed drums, soothing piano and nothing as riveting rhythmically as something found on Ragged Glory or Freedom. All in all, because of some modest, rather restrained performances and production, Harvest Moon does not sizzle like its inspired 1972 predecessor, although both share the distinction of being his highest-selling albums, which may explain why they're often considered two of his most overrated. This is no mere product, but it's not the latter day masterpiece it's sometimes touted as. There's something missing, some gravitas that used to separate Neil from your average airy-fairy folkie. But what about this new archives release? Well like three prior ones, it's a snapshot of Neil performing acoustically on his own without anyone else. On this newest live document, we are exposed to live recordings of tracks entirely from that Harvest Moon record and they are seen from a different aspect. Consequently, I find some of these songs hold up even better than on record and sparkle in a new way. I suppose some rarely heard tracks would have been something momentous, but it's hard to argue with some of the fine music here. The song that the album bears the namesake of opens the disc and this version is a bit melancholy, but features Neil and Neil alone on his acoustic guitar so it's a one-man specialty. He wryly introduces "Dreamin' Man" by saying there's no literal meaning to be taken from the words. "Such a Woman" was a sappy, dull cut- much inferior to "Philadelphia," a similarly piano-based ballad written for Neil's friend Jonathan Demme's 1993 film of the same name. That was the studio version, right? Well it's both. Let's call a spade a spade; It's a hallmark card type of love song for his wife and the only possible improvement is by not having the schmaltzy orchestration present. Let it never be said that Neil can't write like Billy Joel or any other adult contemporary tunesmith. That said, "Such a Woman" is one of the more undynamic compositions of his career, in spite of the heavy love sentiment behind it. On the bright side, his vocals are tender and don't waver out of tune at all.

Neil manages to give "One of These Days" as much wistful beauty as the studio version does with a full band and some female backing support. Like the rest of the album it is derived from, it's nostalgic and rooted in family values, though this time Neil pledges to write a long letter to all the good friends he's known. Gee, somehow I doubt he ever got around to all that. "Harvest Moon" is as great as you remember it for the studio cut, complimented by Neil going it alone. What you find about his criminally underrated acoustic guitar playing is that he plays such intricate picking patterns and chordal structures that he doesn't need bass, drums and other accessories to flesh out a song. Since he writes almost all of his songs from this acoustic standpoint, it's no wonder the original guitar arrangements are the most central component. In several sequences, the picking connects the dots of the main melody. Indeed, like few guitarists we've heard in the rock lexicon, Neil Young can tag along his guitar comping to the vocal lines in nearly identical fashion. Harvest Moon was perhaps the most contented batch of love songs Neil ever wrote as he details the roads of life, the travails and moments of glory but ties them all into his current enjoyment. "You and Me" has the most explicitly romantic lyrics outside of "Such a Woman" but is a much better song that only loses points for sounding too much like a re-write of "Old Man." Not a bad way to copy yourself, mind you, and he throws in just enough guitar flourishes to merit minor praise. The best lyrical journey of Neil's newfound zeal for middle age comes on "From Hank to Hendrix." Now, any acoustic performance that absolutely touches a nerve is when Neil has for us something eloquently written, where he plays guitar fantastically in his unique trademark style (which involves hammer-ons, hammer-offs and strumming techniques that accentuate melodic ideas and riffs alike) while blowing that high, forlorn harmonica (with bends in the pitch thanks to an old bluesman trick of soaking the instrument in water). Add to that singing from that borderline whiny, but incredibly vivid and expressive voice and hardly anything can beat the awe his talent expresses to devotees, myself included. This is one of the better versions of "Hank to Hendrix" ever put out and it's swell to hear the audience cheering enthusiastically in between verses, well aware they were hearing more golden moments from the man who was already a legend by that point. The pastime tribute "Unknown Legend" looks at the back story of a woman near to Neil's heart, yes it's a literal story of his wife as a young girl herself. He harkens back to a day when she was a Hippie free spirit who rode motorcycles and worked as a waitress, a position that has a plain, feminine aesthetic of intrigue, common beauty and working class charm for Neil, a middle-class Canadian who has always been touched by the humbler, simpler walks of life. He is like a lot of good old salt of the Earth people we have in our Canadian small towns. Just take a listen to 1988's long unreleased "Ordinary People" for a bigger slice of that social spectrum Neil covers (18 minutes worth to be exact!).

Young's literary touch is a great one by rock writing standards, so it shouldn't be discounted that it's simply a facet of his genes as his father Scott was a well-known, famous sports journalist and novelist. One of the more modest, country pickin' delights from Harvest Moon was "Old King," a tribute to a beloved dog Neil had for years, performed ably on an eerily tuned down banjo. This is where Neil even manages bluegrass, although in his own madcap way. This lower key was a wise choice and "Old King" is the most improved track from studio to live comparison, as far as I see it. Though a soundalike to his acoustic "Cortez the Killer" arrangements, "Natural Beauty" is spine-tingling in its own way. While Neil has strayed in his political beliefs from liberal to conservative over the years, one thing he has always respected is the environment. In that sense, he is a green thumb and a dyed-in-the-wool conservationist. Neil eschews the wild progressions technology offers, unless of course they can be used to aid our natural world. Like any Californian Baby Boomer rocker, Neil doesn't have clear religious convictions and though he has never claimed to be an atheist, he feels nature is the world's true religion because it's a lovely mystery in itself, but one best enjoyed if treated fairly like it were a living, breathing person. The version of Harvest Moon was not far off from this solo offering, though it had vocal harmonies, marimbas and unnecessary nature sound effects. Neil weaves his beliefs on how the planet has been destroying itself around homilies about how it's bad because the environment should be respected and it's so darn great, don't ya know? Well he pours forth from his heart as the subject is obviously one racing through his mind, however sometimes the lines are redundant and lame (case in point the chorus's first line: "And natural beauty should be/Preserved, like a monument/To nature"). But it's still an arresting, cautionary folk composition that features several verses and even exceeds the 10 minutes of the studio cut by making it to 11.5 minutes. While not cluttered by the sound effects, Neil misses the backing vocals of Nicolette Larson and the atmospheric touches. His voice doesn't always manage the falsetto notes so great, but it's still a hauntingly, splendid listen. One of the other topical selections from Harvest Moon is "War of Man," an ominous, broad musing on war and how in the end "No one wins/It's a war of man." Not targeting one war in particular like on previous outings, Neil assails the devastation wrought by war though he would offer a nod of tribute to the men who fought in those conflicts with "Western Hero" in 1994. Not besting the studio version, this is still a worthy live performance of "War of Man" where Neil again delivers rich, intricate guitar work. There are moments where the Harvest Moon record is indeed the superior one for reference, but Dreamin Man: Live '92 is a pretty companion piece. A hardcore Young fan will cherish it and those who find Harvest and Harvest Moon to be their cup of tea should give it a shot, unless of course they can manage to listen to an album performed entirely solo. The fact it holds up so well and resists one-dimensionality brings me to my final verdict for this album: four out of five stars.

Thoughts on the Overlooked, Underappreciated Genius of Paul Westerberg

First published in PressPlus1 Magazine (Online):

http://www.pressplus1.com/music/the-overlooked-underappreciated-genius-of-paul-westerberg.html

Ah yes, the godfather of alternative rock for the angstful young man. Paul Westerberg- now here we have a man who has taken the course less traveled in recent years by forgoing the major label status to release his albums independently. All the while he lives in the domestic suburbia of the Twin Cities area, where he grew up and his wonderful 80s group the Replacements started (I shouldn't say his since he didn't even found the group but you know what I'm getting at). This is admirable for a man who has admitted that he never found fame or fortune because he never sought it and when the Replacements always had chances to break through to the mainstream, they purposely squandered it, sometimes with a proverbial middle finger (see music videos they sardonically delivered for MTV rotation with 1985's "Bastards of the Young" being just a black-and-white solitary shot of a speaker playing, while 1987's "Alex Chilton" was the same, only with a record player. MTV's grumbling forced a more conventional- yet still abstract- video with various shots of the band sitting around on a couch and doing things completely unrelated to the song). Westerberg's biggest claim to notoriety started off innocently enough, or crudely enough if you prefer, when the Replacements were nothing but a bunch of young men singing tunes of teenage delinquency and frustration that gave the Ramones a run for their money. Westerberg joined the group when it was a motley crue that called itself Dogbreath and then the Impediments.

The Replacements name was borne out of the self-mocking attitude in the band that they were the group you got instead of one you truly wanted to see. The 'Mats is a fan nickname that has stuck, based on "The Placemats," a common mispronunciation of their real name and/or a derogatory term from some naysayer(s). So, this rapscallion bunch had their first album in the can by 1981 and established themselves alongside Husker Du as one of Minneapolis's premier rock groups. Often times the music put forth, written primarily by Westerberg, was an expression of unabated testosterone taking over- subject material about everything from partying it up with booze and cigarettes to the hangups of sexual difficulties. This was eventually streamlined into an alternative rock style with an ear for pop that was way ahead of its time. 1984's Let it Be was where the twain met and all their influences and developments coalesced to make an essential, legendary record. But the group was heading toward a bigger focus on tenderness, lower volumes and songwriting that, as the sales proved more and more disappointing with raised expectations on major label Sire Records, eventually overtook the danger in the Replacements rock youthful vigour. Westerberg matured bit by bit, even as the group's onstage drunkenness and sloppy spontaneity failed to go away.

To throw audiences for a loop, the Mats often scrapped their own tunes in the setlist for a 100% cover show, following themes at times or just playing an entire album or all songs by the same artist. The punks loathed this diversity for its foolery but Westerberg rightly pointed out the hypocrisy in punk fans being so opposed to this when it was supposed to be right up the punk alley of "D.I.Y., Anything Goes" and instead was more rigid and narrowly defined than other listening crowds. The more unexpected, the more the Replacements wanted to tackle it (Westerberg sometime around 1987 in a TV interview hypothesized that the worst thing they could do going forward was cut a rap album, to which he drly added after a dramatic pause for reflection, "So I guess we'll do that..."). A chance for national exposure was even prime ground for the Replacements pranking as their musical guest appearance in a 1986 episode of Saturday Night Live found them performing drunkenly, Westerberg cursing within earshot of the mic while all but Bob Stinson switched into each other's wardrobe for the 2nd number. While the later albums are a bit too easy going, the older ones are too one-dimensionally balls-to-the-wall too. That is why Let it Be was their perfect moment, an 80s rock album that crossed the punky angriness with thoughtful minded teenage social commentary.

By the 1985-90 back half of the Replacements' existence, Westerberg wrote bouquets of ear-catching melodies that would later be bastardized by the likes of city mates Soul Asylum as well as the Gin Blossoms, Hootie & the Blowfish, Goo Goo Dolls and everyone else who had a sunny, 90s good vibes college rock sound on the radio in that post-grunge comedown. Tim was the Replacement most accomplished pop pursuit and most likable, friendliest album, as lead guitarist Bob Stinson's lust for the breakneck, heavy rush of their punk roots became phased out, as Stinson was a year later in 1986 because of his supposed drug and alcohol abuse- though creative differences played just as big a role (Stinson eventually couldn't make the high times last, dying in 1995 from natural causes no doubt brought on by his addictions). 1987's Pleased to Meet Me as it turns out was their final gem and from there, it got less and less fun for all involved. Truthfully, it was Mr. Westerberg who was the cog that made the whole engine work, growing from an ambitious shouter who crafted 1 minute orgies of noise and puerile tales to a fabulous writer that foreshadowed Kurt Cobain vocally and mentally. You could say he was a precursor to grunge in a time when no one was quite prepared for it, Westerberg having moulded himself into a carefree but frustrated soul.

In that wasted, ravaged, nicotene-burnished voice, no one else could transmit such intense emotion across like Paul Westerberg. Who can listen to "Bastards of the Young," "Answering Machine," "Sixteen Blue," "Within Your Reach" and a bevy of other five-star inclusions without deeply admiring and aligning themselves with the all too real howl of Westerberg? If emo rock was more like Westerberg's, we wouldn't be considering it to be the trendy, irritating scourge of youth rock music today. You could say that the snarling punk Westerberg came off across as in the early 80s was perhaps a phase, perhaps just a young, alienated man getting his ya-yas out before collecting himself after a series of hangovers (and yes the Replacements made it a ritual to peformer intoxicated). Westerberg has always insisted that he had a wide palette for songwriting even when he wrote high school homilies and that intended to unleash it one day, but he was too wary of how his bandmates would react, fearing it would elicit laughs and teasing. He even brought his personal history into his art when he wrote 1987's "The Ledge," a song about a teenage kid who vows to committ suicide with everyone watching, apparently based on Westerberg's suicidal thoughts as a teenager. Even John Lennon never opened up in that respect and Westerberg, to the best of anyone's knowledge, never partook in Arthur Janov's Scream Therapy. In time for Tim in 1985, the 'Mats had bolted from their native Minneapolis label Twin Tone for the big label of Sire Records. When this occurred, some say their energy, spirit and anger didn't make the transition with them. Perhaps that's true but Westerberg began to mature along with his audience, whether they knew it or not.

The inner dynamic of the band changed when Bob Stinson was gassed after Tim, a culmination of his phasing out over the final two albums he did with the group. He preferred the manic, breakneck frenzy of their roots but when he was sacked the official verdict wasn't that it happened due to creative differences but that it happened due to his drug and alcohol abuse (strange to hear coming from a band of party animal booze cans). The other parts to the equation shouldn't be brushed aside. Chris Mars the drummer was an accomplished, well-rounded musician but never was the forceful songwriter that Westerberg was and the same goes for bassist Tommy Stinson who was much younger than the already fresh-faced rest of the band was. Stinson is now residing as the bassist in Guns N' Roses while Mars has given up music to focus on painting. Westerberg shied from the spotlight and on top of that, the Replacements last two albums fizzled on the charts despite making obvious overtures for the top 40 leading to nothing but opening for stadium acts and headlining tours of bars and small theatres. By 1991, it was finally over with. While as part of the Replacements he had enjoyed singing for the misfits and outcasts while flaunting a caricature of a wild man in interviews and stage demeanour. But the revelling in mayhem caused some sobering times for Westerberg who had to settle down and conquer his drinking in the 90s. Overcoming all this still did not make him renewed enough to move some big units.

True to his restless allergy to the mainstream, Westerberg has carved out a solo career where he makes the odd appearance on a soundtrack or two, more recently for kids films since he became a dad himself. After all, he once quipped that the Replacements would rather play for 50 people that know them than play for 1000 people who don't. It seems perfectly fitting, although anti-climactic because of the potential it once promised. While the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame strives to make headlines by inducting a member or two each year that is well known to the public, great bands with high critical reputations will be ignored and the Replacements are one of them. One day maybe they will get their due but sometimes being misunderstood before receiving full recognition is the greatest legacy of all in contemporary music. Robert Christgau put it well when reviewing Paul's 1996 album LP Eventually, saying he sounded "too mean because he's not as important as he thinks he is, too irrelevant because he's not as important as he should be." But that may well be how Westerberg prefers it. And remember that when you look at your favourite indie act today and bemoan their lack of recognition, just remember that time clears through the muck and divides the wheat from the chaff. Your modern day hero could one day become Paul Westerberg, a cult hero who despite shunning the attention is recognized for the major impact they had on contemporary music going forward.

Cream (1966-69): For All Their Influence, Perhaps the Catalyst to 70s Narrow Rock Elitism?

We talk about several 60s icons with reverence today. It's understandable I suppose. The 70s and 80s have had enough time to look like more promising eras thanks to the advent of nostalgia and critical revisionism that wipes out a lot of the bad memories. Yet they still can't meet the vaunted reputation the 60s has earned, and I speak in musical terms not societal, philosophical, life-affirming lessons and all that peripheral jazz. But do we lose sight at the bad things the 60s set up for rock going forward? I don't mean bad things that spawned out of positives, like that the Beatles set too high a standard or that psychedelia was such a cosmic breakthrough that future experimentations rang hollow (both are debatable anyway). I'm referring to the ways in which the mid-to-late 60s, perhaps the pinnacle of rock's creativity being so strong it was practically bursting at the seams, changed rock and killed some of its original virtues. Not all rock-oriented music has to be rebellious, anarchistic and self-destructive like punk turned out to be. But it can't be exclusive to the musicians, neglectful of audiences as equals and highly derivative. Rock was up its own ass, to put it bluntly. Plenty of great music was made no doubt, but that's all we hear today. We don't hear the worst of the worst anymore, and not just the lousy AM radio hits but also the serious rock music that was wretched too. Iron Butterfly is the worst of what has endured but Vanilla Fudge has luckily taken their place in the background while we barely remember Zager & Evans, Aorta, the Strawbs and other annoyances that led to prog-rock. And that's just part of the mediocrity.

Cream was a respectable bunch but to me they never cut a single album that deserves the top 200 albums list. Plenty of individual songs that were wicked, but Hendrix's little finger had more voodoo and rainbow-coloured storm clouds than the whole of Cream. Now, Cream had chops to the last drop but they end up boring me after listening deeply to their catalogue. They could play but so what? They don't grab you by the heartstrings like the true rock legends can do. Hell, even Led Zeppelin learned how to put aside the testosterone bravado and make introspective, rustic and humane music. Their early days brought them a ton of criticism for bastardizing the blues in a loud, sleazy, offensive manner. But they proved those doubters wrong in the long run. Cream never had the time to prove they weren't one-dimensional. Cream, of course not meaning to, were pioneers in the idea of the 70s supergroup fossils. They began all wild-eyed and idealistic in what to do with the blues they adored. They took their name from being three sensational instrumentalists from the "Cream of the Crop" on the UK rock and blues scene. They came together in May 1966 but were finished by February 1969. It got Clapton worldwide notoriety after he had toiled first with the Yardbirds and then John Mayall's Bluesbreakers through 1963-65. As of his formation of Cream, Eric was just closing in on his 21st birthday but had already quickly ascended to the point where he was well known enough in London to have walls and other public property graffitied with proclamations of "Clapton is God." Clapton, as many were want to do, bolted from Mayall's veritable rock guitar hero farm club to form a "power trio" with jazzman Ginger Baker on the sticks and the all-round special talent Jack Bruce, once a Bluesbreaker himself and then for a short stint a member of Manfred Mann, on bass.

Bruce also could play organ and a mean harp, a key accessory for one to cavort around in a band dead set on the blues. Ah, gotta have the white dude who can blow away on harp like he was pickin' cotton by day and slugging whiskey at night in some swampy tavern or other speakeasy. Cream compensated for the lack of a chordal buttress by simply turning up the distortion and volume on their guitar and bass amps. "I Feel Free," their debut single, could very well have been their most soulful work ever, a sultry R&B with moaning guitar leads and a Motown kind of tambourine. It had a bit of the wildebeest distortion they'd go on to make a famous necessity for rock groups, but overall was a dry, mannered recording but much less stagnant and languid than some of the stuff that bogged down Fresh Cream in my mind- another one of those old LPs from the mid-60s produced with some knockoff fake stereo where the band is separated in the left and right channels quite evidently and with hardly any middle EQ. When it comes to playing, there were unique methods employed. Baker often shunned playing simple 4/4 rock beats, playing thumping shuffles and fills in their place thanks to his extensive background in jazz. The debut album was one of the first featuring Clapton emerging as a competent vocalist even in the face of Bruce's biting yell and vibrato. Most of Fresh Cream was sparse but burning hot rock for 1966. But yet, the dry sound and fake stereo production give it a neutered sound. Indeed, Cream were best experienced live but even then they could be full of it. Cream are praised today, along with Hendrix, for radically reshaping the blues into something that became heavy metal when groups like Black Sabbath took the sound, fattened up the rhythm and added demonic, depressed touches to it. More than anyone, including the Who, Yardbirds and Stones, Cream contributed a harder, nastier sound to rock that eventually gave the 70s the testosterone driven sizzle we associate it with today. Hendrix did his part but was so one of a kind that it was hard to copy him.

Cream also represents a turning point where high fallutin' musicianship, snobbish rock elitism, drugs, debauchery and the merits of "heavy" over "fun" took presidence. Clapton realized that himself. But Cream, despite its accomplishments, also set the table for the shallow showmanship of 70s rock gods like Led Zep or Grand Funk Railroad, the latter of which was unable to stand the test of time because of a lack of adventure outside hard rock, unlike Zeppelin who proved they weren't just a noise-and-scream type of band on their third and fourth releases. Cream also popularized the idea of 16 minute live versions of songs that went on and on with endless solos for audiences to clap through as if it were classicial music.... and rock is not supposed to be the treat of the high-minded masses (who in this case were hippies and/or drugged-out philosophizers or just plain trend-following dopeheads and/or doofuses). Meanwhile, several acts better than Cream were ignored and put down, Van Morrison or the Velvet Underground for instance. By 1969, this snobbery led to artists being discriminated for a multitude of "offenses": Not being excellent on their instruments, not being politically active enough, not having big solos, not singing of their latest drug trip. Since 1983, Clapton has reportedly been sober though he had a few times falling off the wagon I don't doubt, namely when his son fell out of an open window in his apartment in New York in 1991. Well the only positive to that incident was that it gave us "Tears in Heaven," a tune that borders on sappy but really is a moment of touching pain and sadness in Clapton's career, which has been at its best when times were tough for him. In that sense, he lives up to the life and inspirations of the bluesmen he's always adored and followed in the footsteps of.

Meanwhile back in '70, Eric was not only addicted to heroin but hung up on hs infatuation with Patti Boyd, the wife of his best friend George Harrison (George was a good sport who still attended their wedding in 1978 after Boyd was wooed away by Eric). This also has inspired a separate article dealing with the pros and cons of the famous/infamous Cream. On we go (if you're still with me)! And after 1974, Clapton's output has been average to say the least. He picked up alcohol as his new vice, nearly drinking himself to death over the course of the 70s while inciting negativity for his controversial support of Enoch Powell, a British politican at the head of the National Front, a party begun in the 60s as a response to waves of immigrations threatening to "topple" the traditional structure of English life and the fabric of its society. The National Front could never shake the stigma of being neo-fascist types and Clapton vocally approving Powell showed just how angry people could become when they thought their favourite entertainer was lecturing them. By the time of Clapton's artistic decline, he'd still performed a number of tunes destined to become what they are today- staples of the classic rock radio diet. Anyway, Cream may have been good in their own way but were around far too briefly and didn't do much to turn the clock on rock's slow descent into becoming too professional, too showbiz. Punk was no doubt the impetus for a change of thought in that respect, and as you can tell I shared some of the ideas that figures like Johnny Rotten, Joe Strummer and Joey Ramone had.

"Their Defining Work" Presents David Bowie's Station to Station (1976): The Thin White Duke Emerges for a Masterpiece

As 1976 dawned, David Bowie was a pasty, emaciated puppet doll. A wandering wreck, yet also a glamorously suave embodiment of what a soul-emulating pop star should have been circa 1975 (if you think shallow, shape-shifting rockers should have been trying their hand at funky dance floor boogie that Latinos, gays and blacks were no doubt the prime target market of. And yeah you could say his British Honky/Cracker swindle worked, if you're one of the cynics). Mere skin and bones hanging on amidst layers of makeup, hair dye and fashionable tuxedo garb was what Bowie resembled. He was the Vegas show tune singer, gender irrelevant of course, but in a totally rock star way somehow. Lady Gaga's got nothing on Sir David, I'll make that abundantly clear. Wracked by a severe cocaine addiction, Bowie was in the midst of a career shift that offered a paradigm to his steadfast fans, ardent lovers of his alien/zeitgest-savvy rock star days in the guise of Ziggy Stardust. He was all of a sudden a soul man, getting down and dirty and jettisoning the glam rock flash of before. Good move commercially, since glam was all but faded away by 1975 and it turns out the continued mitosis of styles brought Bowie to another plain of greatness eventually. With the transformation, gone was the fey, almost parodying aura around Bowie, one that in my opinion made those formative years of commercial fame a bit more hollow and not as fertile artistically as other times in Bowie's career. Yes, it was the period most think of when they hear the name David Bowie. The Ziggy and the Spiders from Mars thing was rock & roll theatre, a campy exploitation of the dada-esque rock hit upon by Lou Reed & the Velvets. Bowie struck a pop music dream by singing knowingly of rock cliches, homosexual culture and gender bending while playing the part on stage too, with cross-dressing, makeup and flame red-dyed hair styled in a womanly mullet. Behind it all, Bowie was a master craftsman with enough courage and drive to make it as a star in any mode he chose to.

The ersatz of his sudden turn toward slick Philly R&B in 1974 confirmed the suspicions of those that saw the effeminate, bicurious antics of his 1972-73 days to be just a mere passing phase, artistically and stylistically. Bowie years later expressed regret at how he acknowledged his bisexuality in interviews, complaining about how it become too encompassing and overshadowed what he was really striving for. Hence, dropping most of the sexually charged homoerotica and coming on as the straight-laced ladies man. Bowie re-geared his persona toward being Mr. Soul, bringing in saxophones, sometimes strings and always huge black vocal choruses (including Luther Vandross in his early days). He ditched the glittery "fag-hag" look of his old band for what seemed like Las Vegas showbiz gravitas, masquerading as a serious journey into a previously thought alien genre for Bowie (we've all come to learn that nothing can really be alien for Bowie because he comes off as an alien himself and knows no boundaries. He could come out with a bossa nova album next- Todd Rundgren beat him to it 12 years ago- and I wouldn't be shocked in the slightest). But as it turns out, perhaps the ultimate chameleon Bowie wasn't masquerading nearly as much as he had with the Ziggy act. Critics grumbled that 1975's Young Americans was a blatant commercial overture, while some fans felt jilted by the huge change. Where was the amphetamine-fueled rock, prominently heard through his Mick Ronson days of "Sufragette City," "Panic in Detroit," "Lady Stardust" and the entire Pin Ups album for that matter? Where was the blase, totally chic cool for enjoyment? The shameless fun!? Well the answer was that it was all kaput, another shedding of self-created skin from Bowie. This newer Bowie music was overblown sure, but no less so than his novel fascinations surrounding Diamond Dogs, an album partly dedicated to exploring the world of George Orwell's novel 1984 through song. Diamond Dogs, save for "Rebel Rebel," sounded nondescript and phony high-minded, so it was written off as Bowie's worst album since his days when he was just known as David Jones.

Bowie permanently set up home in Los Angeles, but that turned out to be a mistake when it came to curbing his drug habits. L.A. was a place where he could still run his successful singing business and pursue acting on the side, a second endeavor which eventually became a respectable practice for the guy (he had trained in France in the realms theatre and mime during a sojourn away from the music biz in 1968). Much more professional sounding than even Diamond Dogs was Young Americans, which even though it delivered knockout blows like the immortal acid funk of "Fame" and the title track, lacked any real artistic backbone and even when it imitated bedroom soul quite well- such as on the sultry "Can You Hear Me?"- it felt like Bowie was playing the slimy Anglo spinster or the plastic mannequin standing in for an Al Green at the Mirage or something (or the Stardust? How fitting). But many jumped the gun by claiming Bowie was headed into that "Fat Elvis" avenue of complete artistic neutering. Many were openly blabbing on about how David could have been just a little more avant-garde and challenging with Young Americans and about how he was merely trying to lay down an LP that was just too friggin' easy and conservative. And that's generally the right way to contextualize Young Americans, despite its inoffensive, barrier-friendly music sowing the seeds for upsetting the Bowie fandom- a motley crue, loyal and dedicated and made up of salacious teenyboppers, gays n' bis alike, giddy pubescent girls and self-appointed rebels ascribing to "rock cred" and harping on it all scholarly much like a grade school teacher scribbles important notes to remember for math on a chalkboard (just watch 2000's Almost Famous for a cinematic depiction of that history lesson). Bowie was constantly stoned out of his eyeballs at this point it should be remembered. His dalliance with the white powder of magic was first detailed on "Aladdin Sane" where he equated the cocaine urge to some sort of madness, best captured by Mike Garson's sadistic piano equivalent to Ornette Coleman's free jazz. Of course, as Bowie often does in an oddly English mannerism, he hid the real anguish inside, bottled up and very private like any good Englishman trying to save face.

David has never been a staunchly confessional, openly honest Bob Dylan follower, unless he was taking on that emotion for artistic license or juxtaposing it for a song like "Song for Bob Dylan" on 1971's Hunky Dory. But like a true artist, he did it within yet another character, a comic book type creation that Aladdin Sane represented. The 1975-76 period apparently has been largely absent from the man's memory banks ever since and the coke psychosis may explain for his provocative behaviour that included calling on the need for a Fascist leader to guide England and a disturbing fondness for Nazi imagery and lore. He often appeared scatological, paranoid and unfocused when on TV, which was often despite the number of times Bowie would hole up in his mansion in a Howard Hughes state of shambles. Just try and check Youtube for his slightly inebriated Soul Train appearance and his interview on The Dick Cavett Show in this time frame. Knowingly (unknowingly?), David even guested on a Cher TV special to duet with her, a real middle of the road strategy as by then Cher was far removed from the world of hip music. In '75, Bowie was at the point where a drug dependency becomes not just a self-medicating must-have but a source for fantasy and pure delusion as he was often hallucinating falling dead bodies outside his house. These irrational- not for him at the time- fears kept him cooped up for days at a time while he snorted cocaine and it is rumoured he once stayed awake for 9 straight days, subsisting on nothing but milk and red peppers as he often did back then. Overdoses occasionally, inevitably you would think, befell the man but all of this was covered up quite tidily. This went on until he left L.A. for Berlin in 1977 to clean up. But at the height of his physical decline, he weighed a gaunt 110 pounds, looking as close to death as any rock star can get. Very little of the recording process for Station to Station is remembered by anyone, as cocaine was a drug leaned upon by most in order to get work done without the fatigue a human would normally undergo in such long hour sessions. Back from the Young Americans instrumentalists are former James Brown guitarist Carlos Alomar, bassist George Murray and drummer Dennis Davis. Also used on keyboards alongside Bowie is E Street Band pianist Roy Bittan.

Earl Slick provides the album's most revelatory role on lead guitar, emanating noises and distortion from his axe that predates post-punk and sounds like the merging point between noise rock guitar and Hendrix. Coming in January 1976, it became a big commercial success- his highest charting album in the US in fact, peakn at #3- and drew the approval of critics who had previously been divided on Bowie. Even tough critic and Bowie doubter Lester Bangs called it his first masterpiece, lapping up the unexpected spaced out funk it provided (no doubt Lester's propensity for alcohol, pharmaceuticals, speed and pills enhanced the experience). It was an achievement that gave Bowie perhaps his biggest role as inspiration for the post-punk and new wave acts to come. My goodness, think of all those "New Romantics" from 80s synth-pop and where they got their whole sly, baritone croon and gender neutral appeal from. It's not as much owed to the Ziggy Stardust guise as it is to the Thin White Duke guise. Station to Station bridged the gap between Young Americans and the Berlin trilogy, started off by the electronically sub-terrain of Low. The first cut on Station to Station is the title one, a 10-minute, guitar-ravaged frightener that right away foreshadows the icy paranoia now creeping into Bowie's music. By dehumanizing the R&B with a bit of Krautrock frigidness, Bowie touches on something truly enthralling and wholly different. "Station to Station" begins with train sound effects melding into the guitar feedback of Slick. It appears to be a song exploring the black magic of Aleister Crowley, Hermetic Qabalah and gnosticism. The whole concept of "The Thin White Duke" Bowie is confirmed in the fact he introduces himself by that moniker on the first line of the album. It made for quite a nickname, not only because it's catchy but because it really captures the image of the emaciated Bowie.

But "Station to Station" is an inauspicious beginning because the album really takes off with the heady funk afterward, starting with the tremendous, well-remembered "Golden Years." A tongue-twister lyrically, "Golden Years" features sensational singing and lyrics from Bowie while the demented funk is spliced with eerie whistling, finger snaps and echo chamber effects. Bowie also produces some deceptively omnipresent harmony vocals amidst a rhythm track that in 1976 James Brown would've killed for (after all, his single "Hot" ripped off the central riff from "Fame," which was first developed in Bowie's stage roofraiser cover of "Footstompin'" from his turning point 1974 tour). The dramatic "Word on a Wing" is Bowie finally learning the ropes of being a captivating balladeer, with synthesizer energy giving it that Eurocentric slant. Bowie later admitted the song was written to channel his feelings of despair in his coke-addled state filming The Man Who Fell to Earth. The lyrics, and Bowie's later chronicling, indicate a man desperate for salvation, feeling that perhaps wearing a silver cross can save him. Bowie claims he nearly went as far as having a Christian rebirth, hoping it could help him fend off the psychological trauma his cocaine psychosis was causing him. He even speculated in 1999 that "Word on a Wing" was "a call for help" during his darkest hours. A purely kooky and unforgettable funk scorcher is "TVC 15," a charged up, nervy version of what Bowie started on Young Americans. Featuring chunky metallic guitar from Slick as well as Bowie's keen vocals, "TVC 15" is a five-star recording all the way. What begins as a loungish sort of jazz pop becomes a screeching cacophony of funk with Slick's rachety guitars wailing out in the far background. "TVC 15" is a song that goes through so many different sections that it's hard to classify it by verse-coda-bridge-chorus or any of that standard categorization. The subject matter was supposedly inspired by Iggy Pop, an equally troubled rock singer back then that Bowie continually helped keep alive and grounded in the 70s, hallucinating the TV at Bowie's home trying to swallow his girlfriend alive. As if it was possible, things get stranger with "Stay," a cavalcade of Slick's ferocious guitar leads, Alomar's guitar funk scratch, Latin rhythms and Bowie's operatic melody line. Call "Stay" disco for moody punks, as the post-punk acts explored musical areas much like "Stay" and later on, bands like Joy Division, Pylon and Gang of Four found a way to incorporate the restless dance potential Bowie managed to cash in on (indeed he has always taken interest in combining the exhilaration of R&B with the mechanical Sturm und Drang of electronica and kraut rock).

Running over 6 minutes, like many of the tracks here, "Stay" is positively chilling, with rambling lyrics that convey the kind of emotional incoherence and disenchantment. The cocaine madness jamming is wild, untamed and would make good use for any depiction of a dystopian world that Bowie has always hinted at in his more unconventional, serious work. On top of the instrumentation tackling funk and hard rock all at once, there is Bowie providing swirling melletron backing (eat your fuckin' heart out "Space Oddity"!). "Stay" may or may not be a love song- the lyrics indicate yes, the overall atmosphere of the song would say otherwise I'd say. Bowie eases up on the crazy for the seventh and final selection, a cover of the 1957 composition "Wild is the Wind," recorded by Johnny Mathis for a film of the same name. Nina Simone's 1966 cover was likely how Bowie became aware of the tune, being a noted admirer of Simone's. However deprived of sanity Bowie seemed, no matter how zoned out or fashionably insane he was, he still uses "Wild as the Wind" to demonstrate how his vocals had come a long way since the trendy, novelty start to his career. Bowie the vocalist is in top shape on "Wild is the Wind," singing as if to the heavens in a passionate falsetto mixed in with his elegantly suave baritone croon. The song rarely hits the feverish highs of the other songs, giving a soothing, calming influence to an otherwise schizophrenic album. Bowie's vocals are arresting throughout Station to Station but only on "Wild is the Wind" do they truly take the role as the dominant instrument. Rather than coming off as cheesy or showy and mainstream like he did on his previous release, "Wild is the Wind" is one of the genuinely time halting moments in the canon of Mr. Bowie. An enchanted, lullaby kind of track but still a lonesome, longing way to end the album. Station to Station led to artistic discoveries throughout the late 70s, a second golden age for Bowie with Brian Eno serving as creative partner and producer through the albums Low, "Heroes," and Lodger. Scary Monsters (And Super Creeps) in 1980 arguably ended this phase as Bowie went off to try and conquer the dance pop market, although in a much shallower way than he had done in the mid-70s. With the exception of Let's Dance, the David Bowie of 1983-1991 was a pretty underwhelming, banal artist whose movie career was more promising frankly. Station to Station is the barometer for all his future releases and a real trip through the demonic life Bowie was leading at the time. In all his cocaine enslaved glory, you can understand the large critical reputation Bowie commands today with a few listens to this wonderful album.

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)