The Ramones “Mondo Bizarro”
Musically, The Ramones were perhaps the most conservative Rock band of all time. Although Johnny was the only political conservative, the band was almost regressive in their world view. Their sameness , however, was also their genius. When they got progressive in the late 80s, their music got lost. In 1992, with the addition of C.J. Ramone on bass, the group recorded and released “Mondo Bizarro,” an album attempts exactly zero new ideas. But it does favorably add to their oeuvre by finding dumb jokes they missed in their teens and by capturing some of the pathos of a band that was both always together and beloved and always alone and unlovable.
Foreigner “Mr. Moonlight”
Foreigner were a perfect Rock radio machine, formed in a petri dish that was mostly the DNA of Bad Company, Air Supply, Queen and The Who. However, by 1990, singer Lou Gramm, tired of battling his co-songwriter, Mick Jones, left the band. Two years later, ensconced in Sunset Marquis Hotel, would reconcile. And, in 1995, the band returned with “Mr. Moonlight,” an album that would be derided as the worst of the band’s career. And yet, as disappointing as that all sounds, there is still, if you listen closely, something very special about past prime Foreigner. Having the best Rock and Roll singer and songwriting team of the late 1970s was almost good enough.
Television “Television”
By 1990, Television was twelve years removed from their break-up. To me, they were much more fable than band. Public interest in Tom Verlaine had become so scant that it was fair to wonder if he really had a career at all. But then, just two years later, the unimaginable happened. Quietly and casually, all four members of Television -- Tom Verlaine, Fred Smith, Billy Ficca and, most notably, Richard Lloyd — began playing together again. And, in the Fall of 1992, fourteen years after “Adventure,” Television’s released their third, self-titled studio album.
Glenn Frey “Strange Weather”
Glenn Frey served as the C.E.O. of The Eagles. While his fingerprints are everywhere, however, the band’s best songs were written by others and sung by Don Henley. Frey was the team’s general manager — he did the dirty work — while Henley was its preternatural talent. And Frey was good at his job. It came naturally to him. He had charisma. He played good enough rhythm guitar. He could play some keys. His voice was better than adequate. But, more than anything, Glenn Frey knew how to work with Don Henley. Until he didn’t.
Jonathan Richman “I, Jonathan”
Eternally young at heart, Jonathan Richman amassed a prodigious catalogue between his legendary Modern Lovers’ albums and his solo records. And while many point to “I, Jonathan” as a high water mark, the truth is that most of his releases warrant consideration. Sometimes, he sings in Spanish. Sometimes, he sings Country Music songs. Sometimes, he sings children’s songs for the kids in all of us. But his superpower -- that thing that makes him better than anyone else -- was his ability to make us feel like we were driving with the radio on in 1972 and like we were sitting in the last days of summer in 1992.
Pete Townshend “Psychoderelict”
Pete Townshend made his reputation on the concept album and he was not giving up on it. “Psychoderelict” begins with a reporter talking about a fictional, washed up British rocker by the name of Ray High, who can’t make albums anymore. The news report is soon interrupted by a great ruckus of Rock — “English Boy” is a musical statement of purpose with guitars borrowed from “Achtung Baby.” It’s almost a classic Townshend anthem. The juxtaposition screams: “Yes I’m still here. Yes I can still rock! Yes I am still writing concept albums!” But, then there’s more news and talking.
Donovan “Sutras”
After the 1970s, Donovan was no longer a “popular” recording artist. He had no discernible fanbase, no radio airplay and no American record label. Between 1984 and 1996, Donovan released no new music. While he was not making music, though, he continued to do something he had been doing for decades. He meditated. In the world of music, two of the most visible advocates for T.M. were Leonard Cohen and George Harrison. But a slightly younger and more bearded, Gen X-er has followed in their footsteps. And Rick Rubin promised Donovan the same spare, but royal, treatment that had just worked wonders for Johnny Cash.
Ozzy Osbourne “No More Tears”
“No More Tears,” was released in the final, high days of Hair Metal and just before the germs of Alternative. It was also the first album Ozzy ever made not fucked up. So, to keep him upright, Sharon reassembled the A-Team -- Zakk Wylde on guitars, Randy Castillo on drums and bassist Bob Daisley. This band is the entire 1950s Ford Motor Plant. They make heavy things. They make them tight. They make them loud. The make Metal for people to buy.
Stevie Wonder “Conversation Peace”
You don’t say “no” to Stevie. Paul McCartney said “yes.” Prince said “yes.” Barbara Streisand. Pavarotti. Michael Jackson. Tony Bennett. Whitney Houston. They all said “yes” to Stevie. But in 1995, at some point before “Conversation Peace” was released, somebody should have said “no” to Stevie. More than once.
Iggy Pop “Brick by Brick”
Iggy Pop in the 80s is the sound of a guy working hard at a shitty job that he wasn’t very good at. Gradually, though, brick by brick, he had begun to build a new life for himself. He got married. His eyes and head got clear. By the end of the decade, he bordered on adorable. Shorter hair. Crooked smile. Polite and earnest in interviews. Candid and self-aware. 1990s “Brick by Brick” would mark the apex of Iggy’s musical rehab.
Steve Perry “For the Love of Strange Medicine”
Steve Perry was bruised after Journey. But, in 1994, at the age of forty five, and nearly a decade in hibernation, he managed to release “For The Love of Strange Medicine.” For anyone wondering if he was OK after all that time, the clues would be scant. The Voice was still there, but the Man was missing. Not only does Perry not write about the personal on “Strange Medicine,” he sounds mired in a state of arrested development.
Lionel Richie “Louder Than Words”
Featuring sixty four musicians and thirty five producers, Lionel Richie’s “Louder Than Words” took a decade to make. What finally arrived was a meticulously average Contemporary R&B album from a well above average singer. It was an elaborate costume that Richie seemed compelled to uncomfortably try on. It didn’t fit. But, alas, he sounded patiently pleasant as ever, he avoided the pressure to rap and there’s no autotune.
Alex Chilton “A Man Called Destruction”
What. The. Fuck. Happened? After decades of searching for answers, I’m ready to admit it: we got it all wrong. Having revisited Alex Chilton’s 1995 solo “apex” “A Man Called Destruction,” it’s finally, sadly clear to me that all of the glimmers and all of the clues we imagined in his solo music were simply our Big Star projections. Alex Chilton was not a tortured genius. No. He was just a talented, depressed, beat up guy who never found that great gift that he may not have even had to begin with.
Tom Petty “Wildflowers”
A model middle aged album: leaner, cleaner, wiser, wearier. I feel like I’m driving around Gainsville in this album, and I leave town changed; more connected to summer nights, broken skylines, listening to the radio, something fading, stumbling into a bar I don’t belong in, finding a girl and escaping into a field, giggling, wondering later if I’m wasting it all.
Paul Simon “Songs from The Capeman”
Was Paul Simon’s “Songs from The Capeman” a prescient vision of the coming of Lin Manuel Miranda? Was it the Doo-Wop Hamilton that no one could accept because it was written by a middle aged white guy? Or is it one of the great mid-career missteps? Spoiler alert: “The Capeman” is not really like “Hamilton” at all. It’s more like “West Side Story,” but with a long, boring reading section.
Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds “The Boatman’s Call”
“The Boatman’s Call” is the album wherein Nick Cave ascends from Art Punk poet, to spiritual Folk singer. “Murder Ballads,” considered a career apex at the time, came in 1996. Then, like a drenching storm, “The Boatman’s Call” arrived one year later and the band no longer sounded like it was playing in a back country Aussie church. No -- they sounded like they were playing in Nick Cave’s living room, on Persian rugs, watching the ocean, singing directly to you.
Mark Knopfler “Golden Heart”
By 1996, at age forty-seven, Mark Knopfler had resolved to slow everything down. He just didn’t want to be a Rock star any more. It was all kind of an accident to begin with. So, he disbanded Dire Straits. He wanted a slower, simpler life, befitting his middle age. However, Knopfler had two major problems. The first was that fans and filmmakers still wanted his songs. The second was that songs just poured out from him. So, what do you do when your blessing has become your curse?
Elton John “The One”
In 1992, Elton John was newly sober, pre-Lion King and still writing the preface to his second act. When I hear “The One” I wonder what would have happened if, that year, Sir Elton simply decided to be a songwriter and band leader. What if he wrote the great songs and led the band from his piano, but allowed his friends and admirers lend their voices and vigor? Because, here’s the thing about Reginald, Elton, Captain Fantastic and Sir Elton — they all wrote great songs. But, they just didn’t always know what to do with them.
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.
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.