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 In
With the New
By
John Brodeur
Crooked
Fingers
Dignity
and Shame (Merge)
Eric Bachmann has spent much of his post-Archers of Loaf career
singing through a drunken fog, or at least an implied one.
On the whole, his songs have addressed despair, heartbreak,
alcoholism, and the shadowy side of human nature, making it
all too easy to hang the “new Tom Waits” tag on him, especially
early on, what with songs like the priceless “New Drink for
the Old Drunk” (from 2000’s Crooked Fingers). The Dark
Side appeared to be winning with Bring on the Snakes,
an album so bourbon-doused, it might have been better-titled
Bring on the Shakes, and a heavy Springsteen jones
reared its head on most of 2003’s Red Devil Dawn (not
to mention the reverent cover of “The River” on the Reservoir
Songs EP). But on Dignity and Shame, the fourth
full-length under the Crooked Fingers banner, Bachmann has
trained his sights on matters of the heart, and brought in
a broader, brighter sound to match.
The pairing of Bachmann’s heavy-on-the-scotch baritone with
straightforward pop melody and execution seems a little cloudy
at first. The album marks its path with the instrumental “Islero,”
which couples deliberately picked nylon-string guitar with
Cuban hand drums and a single Mariachi-like trumpet. It would
make a fine bridge between where things left off and the rest
of this album—that is, if what came next weren’t such an about
face. Filled out nicely with lap-steel guitar and breathy
harmonies, “Weary Arms” is a lilting meditation on that whole
“keep your friends close and your enemies closer” thing. “You’ve
been waiting your whole life to make your move,” Bachmann
sings, “so make your move.” It’s a bit of a mantra for the
rest of the album as, overall, Dignity and Shame is
the most accomplished Crooked Fingers release since their
debut.
Bachmann doesn’t wait long to make his own move, either, as
the next track, “Call to Love,” is easily the purest pop moment
in the Fingers’ recorded catalog, all so briefly making appropriate
the rarely used “new Marshall Crenshaw” tag. A duet with Australian
vocalist Lara Meyerratken (herself an enormous asset to this
album), the song is full of instantly recognizable melodies
that are quite possibly borrowed—sorry, stolen—from
a number of sources. (I could swear I heard a Blink 182 vocal
riff in there.) T.S. Eliot once said (more or less) that “good
writers borrow, but great writers steal,” and by displaying
this level of artistic freedom and willingness to break from
tradition, Bachmann has firmly encamped himself with the latter.
It was about time, too, as he was quite nearly spinning his
creative wheels by the end of Red Devil Dawn.
Dignity
and Shame isn’t completely removed from past efforts,
though, and should avoid alienating longtime fans. On “Wrecking
Ball,” Bachmann dispenses a classically (for him) dark lyric
about a man who finds pleasure in others’ pain over an “Ob
La Di, Ob La Da”-style piano riff; on “Valerie” he’s “wandering
drunk down [her] street,” boasting of seeing her “dancing
alone in [her] room.” Creepy and personal, he gets inside
the heads of the miscreants that populate his tunes, not sympathizing
with them so much as giving them a fair shake.
But there’s an undeniable sweetness of tone here, in both
Bachmann’s words and voice, which sounds clearer and
less downtrodden than ever. (Check the pitch-perfect falsetto
that turns up on “Twilight Creeps” for a prime example.) That
sweetness becomes especially clear when Meyerratken steps
forward, as on the album’s second duet, “Sleep All Summer.”
Sounding like a country take on the pop band Ivy, “Sleep”
finds the pair lamenting the waning days of a relationship,
culminating with the weary but hopeful line, “Why won’t you
fall back in love with me?” It’s honest, beautiful, universal;
a fixed compass point leading toward a somewhat new, yet perfectly
familiar, direction.
Little
Richard
King
of Rock and Roll (Rhino Handmade)
In 1968, Elvis Presley had his infa-mous comeback special
on television, and four years later Chuck Berry scored his
only No. 1 hit with the sophomoric “My Ding-a-Ling.” During
that same time, Little Richard signed with Warner/Reprise
and recorded three albums that were released and an unissued
fourth. More than most of his ’50s-anchored contemporaries
at that time, he created music that had no need or room for
nostalgia. The 50 songs on this three-disc set bristle with
the same timeless components that had informed Richard’s music
from the start, but deepened with the intervening year’s gospel
explorations and updated with swampy grooves and edgy instrumental
sonics.
The real revelation here are the 10 songs, all originals,
that made up the completed but never issued Southern Child
album. The title track is a lost slice of Dixie funk that
sounds as fresh as the day it was baked. Besides the other
three full albums (The Rill Thing, King of Rock and Roll,
and The Second Coming), this limited-edition set also
has a handful of other unreleased tracks, radio spots, and
three songs Little Richard recorded with Quincy Jones for
the soundtrack to the film $, including “Money Is,”
with Richard belting out a dazzling vocal over a Shaft-meets-Sly
arrangement. The sad truth is that at the same time these
albums were being ignored in the shops, way too many citizens
were squandering their earnings on the woeful entity known
as Sha Na Na, an outfit who, combined with the media thrust
of Grease and Happy Days, taught a new generation
that the music of 15 years prior was concocted by clowns and
buffoons. Meanwhile a king walked among them.
—David
Greenberger
Billy
Idol
Devil’s
Playground (Sanctuary)
Billy Idol’s first album in 11 years shows that the ’80s never
die, they just recycle and extend. There are relatives of
“Dancing With Myself,” “Flesh for Fantasy” and “Rebel Yell”
here, and Idol hasn’t lost any of his drive or snarl. Is the
material a progression from his earlier work? Maybe not, though
the last three songs suggest a more mature Idol. Not only
do the superslick, catchy “Cherie” and the sultry “Summer
Running” prove he’s a better singer now, they also affirm
his prowess at assimilation, even of folk inflections. Damn
if “Summer Running” isn’t a turbocharged love song; you can
tell from the strings.
One of hard rock’s top bad boys, Idol still knows how to ratchet
up the drama. “Evil Eye,” a Doors-styled inquiry into myth,
ritual and deviance, seems ready-made for video treatment.
You might recall how well Idol songs translated to video;
Idol is synonymous with early MTV. An Aztec treatment is just
the ticket for “Evil Eye” with Idol, all spiky and moussed,
driving his motorcycle onto the sacrificial platform. “Lady
Do or Die” has a Johnny Cash groove, for God’s sake; there
is variety here, and Devil’s Playground is an album
indeed, not just a singles showcase.
Helping Idol on this comeback effort is Steve Stevens, the
super-flashy guitarist who powered Idol’s biggest hits. Also
on board: Keith Forsey, the disco-cured producer who helped
Idol craft his glistening, hard-rock microfantasias. Devil’s
Playground isn’t a trailblazer, but it is more than an
affirmation. It’s the kind of album you can’t help turning
up, and it proves that Idol, at 50, can’t help rocking.
—Carlo
Wolff
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