|
 The
Major Lift
By
Erik Hage
Great
artists often are great liars—or at least don’t know their
own mind. Disgusted with the business end of his vocation,
Elvis Costello had sworn off recording. But then this
thing defied that proclamation and came out of nowhere, just
when we needed it most. Momofuku was recorded on the
fly and originally intended for vinyl. The edict was clear:
Bash the thing out without overcomplication, don’t precede
it with any press, and name it after the guy who invented
the Asian cup noodle. It was recorded to tape and completed,
soup to nuts, in a week.
And like I said, we need Elvis more than ever. But we need
the old one, the man whose nasty aggression bore symbiotic
fruit with an unerring ear for melodic shiftiness and a feral,
frantic energy. We don’t need the guy who croons in front
of orchestras, serves Diana Krall breakfast in bed, duets
with Bacharach, and pimps for Lexus cars. We need the guy
who hit the same primal pleasure center of our cortex as the
Clash did, while still fingering our intellect. He has tried
to be that Elvis again in previous years, but it always seemed
self-conscious.
 There’s
nothing self-conscious about “No Hiding Place,” though. The
opening track on Momofuku agonizingly dangles in front
of you and then darkly and prettily plunges. Over a minute
in, Steve Nieve’s organ and a backing chorale prettily undercut
the trenchant lyrics and grubby guitar, and you realize this
is hallmark Costello—one foot in the old, but also renewed.
“American
Gangster Time” is even coarser, with rude, crotchety barroom
guitar. But in the chorus it just flies, the gravitational
pull of his melodic sensibilities too strong for the harsher
musical currents. And that’s what you always wait for in an
Elvis Costello song: the takeoff. “Flutter & Wow” momentarily
returns to the lounge-sophisticate persona he can never quite
shake, but it is dispelled by the moody, primitive tumult
of “Turpentine.”
He had some help facilitating his muse: veteran colleagues
Nieve and Pete Thomas, as well as guest spots from Los Lobos’
David Hidalgo and a younger generation, including Jenny Lewis
(Rilo Kiley) and Johnathan Rice. It’s been 31 years since
we first heard from Costello, and it turns out he’s still
simmering. As he puts it in “No Hiding Place” (an excoriating
paean to the Internet Age): “Walk up to me and say what you
said/See how brave you are when I’m about this far away.”
Beautiful.
 While
Costello is always a litmus test for a decent record collection,
Neil Diamond remains somewhat of a punchline, despite
having written countless great songs, from one of my favorites,
1967’s “Solitary Man,” to one of my kids’, “I’m a Believer.”
Rick Rubin pulled the same move with Diamond that he pulled
with Johnny Cash, stripping him back to the spare acoustic
quick on 2005’s 12 Songs. In typical Diamond bad luck,
that album was yanked from shelves because copy protection
software was messing up computers. But Rubin has done an even
better job with Home Before Dark, employing a couple
of Tom Petty’s Heartbreakers to offer subtle instrumentation
while Neil, leagues from “Sweet Caroline” and an arena full
of menopausal worship, strums away on his acoustic. Diamond
unearths something ragged and tragic that he wears well. From
the brooding acceptance of the seven-minute “If I Don’t See
You Again” to the stately Euro-folk of “Pretty Amazing Grace,”
Diamond feels like he’s really trying for the first time in
decades, turning off that damn heart light and plumbing darker,
more ambivalent depths.
Maybe Rubin, who also produced a portion of the new Weezer
album, should have done something similarly creative with
Rivers Cuomo, because the old bag of tricks—straight-faced
pseudo-irony, clotted-cream guitars, cheeky trash-culture
cramming—is wearing thin. The likeable “Heart Songs” spins
out a dreamy tribute to the cheesy music of his youth (Gordon
Lightfoot, Quiet Riot, Pat Benatar, etc.) while “Dreamin’”
evokes 1994 Weezer beneath a haze of sunshine bubble-crunch.
But my overall impression is this: I think Rivers manages
to perennially appeal to literal adolescents rather than the
adolescent inside the discerning music listener. So whether
your first Weezer album was blue, green, or red, pretend it’s
the band’s first as well, because they refuse to grow with
you. Stay gold, Rivers.
 Solomon
Burke came from the dark end of the street, a genuine
and once-underappreciated country-soul/R&B legend from
the ’60s who experienced a renaissance in the new millennium.
His is not a sepia trip down through the past though, and
Like a Fire bristles with contemporary energy. It’s
got something to do with having folks like Keb’ Mo’ and Ben
Harper on board. (Eric Clapton wrote for the album as well.)
It’s got even more to do with the fact that his singing is
still contentious and vital, like he’s trying to wrestle down
a dark thing that followed him up from the past.
If Burke pioneered country-soul, then Emmylou Harris
is a country singer in need of a soul infusion . . . or something.
(Yes, I am that rare breed who believes that Harris has never
made a great solo album, despite remaining an omnipresent
figurehead for baby-boomer Americana hippie chic.) On All
I Intended to Be Harris thankfully abandons the new-agey
texture-scapes she frequently dabbles in and has returned
to an earthiness that more befits her mountain-spring vocals.
She also brings aboard the similarly omnipresent Vince Gill
and Dolly Parton to legitimize the down-home feel. I mean,
it looks, feels, and sounds like the real stuff, but something
is missing. I’m pretty sure it’s that thing that even the
most skilled technicians can’t manufacture.
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