John Mellencamp “Mr. Happy Go Lucky”
He gave us so much. He gave us “Jack and Diane,” “Hurts So Good” and “Pink Houses.” But then, in 1994, he gave us all a little scare when his four pack a day habit caught up with him. He was forty three, had a hell of a run on the charts and married a super model. It seemed like it might be the end. But then, in 1996, stripped of bravado, Mellencamp returned to the heartland between Americana and what would eventually be the sound Matchbox 20.
William Patrick Corgan “Ogilala”
On “Ogilala,” Rick Rubin brings his rich, if familiar, bag of tricks to the middle-aged, curious and misunderstood singer and songwriter. The album is a prestige piece. It’s like when Annie Lebowitz shoots a movie star at fifty for Vanity Fair and shows their lines, their age, their greys and their natural beauty. In that very same way, this record is quite beautiful. But, also in that same way, it’s a lot of work. And its sum is probably greater than its parts.
Willie Nelson “Always On My Mind”
Something happened with Willie in the 80s. It’s hard to know if it was a creative choice or exhaustion or age or a dry spell. Or none of the above. Maybe it was Reagan. Country music had gotten wind-swept into the realm of Adult Contemporary. The wind carried most everyone in this direction — Kenny Rogers, Dolly Parton, Eddie Rabbit and Conway Twitty all got nudged to the right by this wind. And, yes, so did Willie.
Elvis Costello “Painted from Memory”
He was a nerd’s hero -- a smarty-pants who somehow became cool despite the glasses. But intelligence can become a block from emotional connection. Seething is a young man’s game. Costello was reaching down into the tradition of popular song for fuel. Burt Bacharach came from the era when it was more of a job and less of a revolution. Costello had street cred more than hits. Bacharach had hits more than street cred. They both needed each other.
Roger Daltrey “Under a Raging Moon”
Roger Daltrey didn’t write the songs. He didn’t need to play a lead instrument. He wasn’t going to make the mistake Rod Stewart made, thinking he was an artist just because he could sing. Pete was the artist and he was the front man. And it worked. Roger Daltrey stayed in his lane — at least until 1985. That year, Roger Daltrey released a solo album that I am certain is really the soundtrack to a straight to video, erotic action thriller. There’s no other logical explanation for at least half of this record.
Peter Gabriel ”Up”
Gabriel was not known for his balance. His first four untitled solo album covers feature a distortion of his face to let you know he was a little intense. But, if you listened closely, he started opening up more. First, he empathized with Stephen Biko, a real life political dissident. Then he even started empathizing with regular people, culminating in his commercial breakthrough album, “So.” But Gabriel still had a long way to go from his first solo album where he thought a song called “Moribund the Burgermeister” was a good idea.
Elvis Presley “Moody Blue”
Elvis wore the white jumpsuit on stage for seven straight years. It flexed with his changing size. If it didn’t, he got one that did. He was the first rock star and the original past prime poster boy. He was only 42 when he died in 1977, but in the cultural memory he was a bloated, pill popping monster who died on the toilet. It was really not long ago that he was just the boy from Tupelo. The one who didn’t like to perform in public but had the golden voice.
Richard Thompson “Rumor and Sigh”
If there has ever been an artist who completely sustained their prime for an entire career, it is Richard Thompson. His highs are not as high as Dylan’s. And his finest records are not perfect in the way that, say, “Astral Weeks” is. But while his peaks are not as high, his consistency is almost unprecedented. What is the “best” Richard Thompson album? Was it 1974s “I Want to See the Bright Lights Tonight”? Was it 1982s “Shoot Out The Lights”? 1999s “Mock Tudor”? Or was it, as many would say, 1991s “Rumor and Sigh”?
David Lee Roth “Your Filthy Little Mouth”
Any way I looked at it, the road led here. I couldn’t just go on listening to the tasteful, critically correct middle-aged stuff, could I? No. I knew at some point soon, that I’d have to eat the dog food. And so, last night, with genuine trepidation, I pressed play on David Lee Roth’s 1994 album, “Your Filthy Little Mouth.” Spanning metal, jazz, cabaret, reggae (don’t ask) and blues, the album is equally ambitious, aimless, slick, cheap, loud, fun, boring, safe and a complete mess.
Bryan Ferry “Bête Noire”
Can something be too refined? When you whittle and whittle endlessly, what becomes of the original thing? Bryan Ferry is nothing, if not refined. He presaged everything from Sade to The National. And he was so good, for so long, that we often take his music for granted. Today, the notion of Bryan Ferry is as much a cover photo on Italian Vogue as it is his music. And that is probably a result of all that damn whittling.
Paul Westerberg “Folker”
Westerberg solo and sober had difficulty finding his voice. When he rocked with expensive producers he sounded like watered down Replacements. When he switched to a piano and tried to be a singer songwriter, he sounded like a morose Carole King. Fans began to move on. But then, something happened. The malcontent outcast found his voice again. “Folker” is desperate middle-aged music. Also-ran music. Music about regret and compromise. Music written from your knees.
Frank Black “Honeycomb”
In 2005, nearly twenty years after he founded The Pixies, a whole bunch of shit happened to Frank Black. The Pixies simply could not work together and cancelled a tour. And, sadly, his marriage of sixteen years ended. So, Frank Black went into therapy to figure out what he needed to do. The “what” apparently was to head to Nashville, assemble a group of legendary session players, and finally record his “Black on Blonde” record.
Bob Seger “The Fire Inside”
Bob Seger has this trick where he basically lets two chords of guitar syncopate to a simple beat, repeating themselves, gradually building momentum until you want him to howl to just break the tension. And you know what Seger does, then? He fucking howls. He gives you what you want. It’s an indefensible trick. It’s like Kareem’s sky hook. Why didn’t Kareem only shoot his sky hook? The answer lies on Seger’s fourteenth studio album, “The Fire Inside.”
Tom Waits “Bone Machine”
Bob Dylan was known for his disappearances. He is unknowable. Tom Waits is sort of the opposite of Dylan, one of his many heroes. Tom Waits is the accumulation of everything. He’s Andy Kauffman. He’s Bob Dylan. He’s Jackson Pollack. He’s Jack Kerouac. He’s Marlon Brando. He’s Captain Beefheart. He’s a drunk pawnbroker. He’s a hobo. He’s a nowhere, nobody jazz singer. He’s an actor. He’s a lounge lizard. In fact, Tom Waits might be the most accomplished artist of the later 20th century.
Michael Jackson “HIStory”
“HIStory” is the tipping point, where Michael’s work becomes a very defensive offense against his attackers and where he loses that thing that got us dancing in the first place. It is so much a response to headlines, that if you remove the context, some of these songs are just skeletal thumps and ‘hee-hee’s” echoing in the dark. “HIStory” is either awash in the goopiest of ballads or screaming at oppressors. He’s really turned into your tragic uncle who cries when he’s drunk.
George Harrison “Cloud Nine”
Coaxed, coached and sculpted by Jeff Lynne, it’s easy to wonder if “Cloud Nine” was a return to form, as it was frequently celebrated in 1987, or simply a Jeff Lynne product with George Harrison as a primary ingredient. Did Harrison find a well of creativity and really miss making popular music? Did he just want to provide a kindness to his fans? Or is the album a product, logically designed, developed and marketed by Lynne, the most ardent and famous of Beatle fans?
Sting “The Soul Cages”
This is the middle-aged therapy album. Not the raw scream “Mama don’t go” therapy of 1970 John Lennon. This is erudite stuff, real necktie and monocle material. A concert of this album would be advertised as “An Evening with Sting” and you could watch it seated. Once a spike-haired rock god, Sting was standing on the precipice of Adult Contemporary, and he was unafraid.
Don Henley “The End of the Innocence”
Don Henley — pretty, singular, brilliant, boring, insidious. Photo and video evidence from 1989 bears out these assertions. He stands there — broad shouldered lapel, serious face, a pony tail and, most importantly, a single lock falling out from the pulled back hair. Today, a tousled man bun is a misdemeanor. In 1989, it was a goddam crime. It was the murder of genuine surprise and pain in guitar-driven, Classic Rock.
Phil Collins “No Jacket Required”
I was driving my car and listening to the radio. The familiar intro to Tom Cochrane’s 1992 hit “Life is A Highway” made my soul drop. Ugh. Why didn’t this song go away? I pulled the car onto the shoulder so I could think. I wondered when was the last time I heard “Sussudio?” I sat for two hours. I couldn’t remember. Years. Maybe decades? “Sussudio” was one of two number one hits from Phil Collins’ “No Jacket Required.” It was huge. What had happened to it?
Bob Dylan “Shot of Love”
There have been countless revisionist takes on every part of Dylan’s career, including his “born again” phase. So, I guess you can add this to that pile. But, while I don’t feel original, I do feel so lucky that I came to this album without the baggage of trying to unpack in during its original context backlash. Today, it’s nothing short of a gift. Sure, Jesus is there. But, Dylan also conjures Levon Helm, Mavis Staples, Johnny Cash and most of his past lives.