Steve Earle “I Feel Alright”
In 1996, having shaken off five years of rust, sixty days in jail and a couple decades of addiction, Steve Earle released “I Feel Alright.” Whereas 1995s “Train a Comin’” found him looking backwards, “I Feel Alright” was a completely present album. It was vintage Earle, after the pink cloud had dissipated—honest, aching, and feeling “alright.” Which is to say he was not feeling great. But also he was not feeling awful. It was a hedge—somewhere between cautious and optimistic. “I Feel Alright” is the ultimate one day at a time response to the question, “How you doing?” As a description of Earle’s state of mind, it sounds appropriate. As a title for his sixth studio album, it feels like a radical understatement.
Richard Lloyd “The Radiant Monkey”
Following their unexpected reunion in 1992, Richard Lloyd and Tom Verlaine maintained a polite working relationship born from financial necessity and creative compatibility. The fallout from the first Television breakup had cost Lloyd a good deal of his commercial prime. The sequel, meanwhile, was a long, sputtering, part time concern. Lloyd made a small splash in 1991 for his appearance on Matthew Sweet’s “Girlfriend.” In 2001 he quietly released his first album in more than a decade. But, by 2007, he’d had enough. He’d had enough of waiting to make another Television record. He’d had enough of Tom being Tom. And so Lloyd finally resolved that—no matter how much he admired Tom Verlaine as an artist or even as a friend—he did not want him as a boss any more. Thirty-four years after he first joined the band and thirty-two years after he first quit the band and twenty-nine years after Verlaine broke up the band, Richard Lloyd quit Television and released “The Radiant Monkey,” his fifth solo album.
Ed Kowalczyk “The Flood and The Mercy”
Today, Live is Ed Kowalczyk plus paid studio and touring musicians. Ed’s childhood friends—Patrick and the two Chads—were relieved of their duties after years of lawsuits, countersuits and shady dealings with a shady con man. Meanwhile, Kowalczyk, now a fifty-something, rat-tail-less, father of four, charms fans on Totally Nineties tours and delights deejays on retro adult radio formats. But in between “Alive,” Ed’s confusingly named solo debut, and his return to Live, he put out another solo album—a commercial failure and a critical “nope.” Middle-aged me had zero interest in this record. But seventeen year old me—the me who was still a work in progress, who was so open to new things and who’d convinced himself that Live were cool and deep and important—felt otherwise.
Boeckner “Boeckner!”
At just eight songs and barely thirty minutes, “Boeckner!” is closer to EP than LP. And if judged as an EP — the format which Wolf Parade chose to thrice introduce themselves way back when — I’d call it a success. A couple misses, a couple stash aways and four songs that justify the titular exclamation point. But considered as an LP, “Boeckner!” does feel a bit small. Or rather a little short. Which sends me back to Joe Strummer — Boeckner’s spiritual forebear and the most important guy in the most important band in the world who never had the will or the want or the whatever to be that guy outside of The Clash. As magnetically cool and as evidently smart and talented as he might be, Boeckner — like Strummer, like most of us — needs a partner. Twenty years with Spender Krug. A glorious season with Britt Daniel. Five plus years with Alexei Perry. And, for nearly decade with Devojka, Boeckner’s bandmate in Operators and co-writer on half of “Boeckner!”
Billy Joel “Turn the Lights Back On”
Billy had been stashing away ideas for years — parts of melodies, little hooks, half bridges, hummed choruses — but could not, would not complete a song. And so, rather than push him to the brink, Freddy Wexler politely requested to check out some of those song scraps. And eventually, through a combination of talent, elbow grease, Wayne Hector and Arthur Bacon, “Turn the Lights Back On” was born. The story is vague enough to be true. But it is also vague enough to make me ask, “Did Billy write the song at all?” The more I considered it, the more plausible it seemed that a very smart AI might have produced “Turn the Lights Back On.” Maybe Billy Joel’s new single was an AI deep fake. Maybe its perfection was actually an uncanny valley.
Bry Webb “Run With Me”
Some bands are corporations, like The Rolling Stones. Some are communes, like Big Thief. Some are gangs, like The Clash. The Constantines, however, were more like a union — the genuine article. They were brothers in arms, in jeans and flannel. But when their mission inevitably bumped up against the realities of family and finance, the union dissolved. The miracle was not that The Cons broke up. The miracle was that they were so true and so committed for as long as they were. Just four albums. Not even a decade. But they never stopped waving the flag. Never stopped working. Which is why Bry Webb needed a break. Why, first, he left for Montreal. And then to Guelph, outside Toronto, where he started anew — as a husband, a college radio programmer and the maker of quiet, plaintive songs about the glow and glare of new fatherhood.
Kevin Drew “Aging”
Since “You Forgot It in People” — the record that a generation made out to and broke up to — every Broken Social Scene album has been an event. The reveal of who’s in and who’s out and the inevitable comparisons to their masterpiece. But while they have all been events, they have been more so celebrations. For all of the gothic romance of “Lover’s Spit,” Kevin Drew sure seems like a jubilant fellow. “Hug of Thunder” is his brand. He’s the glue and the vibes. But he’s also a guy who exists outside of his collective. In between those BSS records, Drew has been releasing lower stakes solo albums. Initially, with many members of Broken Social Scene. Then with a few. And then, finally, all alone.
Barry Manilow “Here at the Mayflower”
Barry Manilow has sold more than eighty-five million albums — that’s more than Tom Petty, Nirvana or KISS. Once upon a time, he was the yellowing wallpaper of American music. For the better part of a decade, his songs were all over the radio, in grocery stores, waiting rooms and elevators. But, by 1984, years after “Mandy,” he’d hit a wall. Yes — the man who wrote the songs (but who I later learned did not write “I Write the Songs”) stopped writing the songs. After “2:00 AM Paradise Cafe,” it would be another twenty years before Manilow produced another album of originals. When he did, though, it was a doozy. “Here at the Mayflower,” from, 2004, was the apotheosis of Barry Manilow — an album of Swing, Mambo, Pop, Disco and Cabaret tunes about the apartment building in Williamsburg, Brooklyn where he grew up. It was the record that Terri Gross and Oprah Winfrey desperately wanted. It was the concept album he was born to write.
Joe Cocker “Heart and Soul”
“Heart and Soul” was Cocker’s response to Johnny Cash and Rick Rubin — simple arrangements of classics, alongside unexpected takes on Modern Rock. Cocker, who had not flirted with contemporary material in decades, decided to cover (like Cash) U2’s “One” and R.E.M.’s “Everybody Hurts.” But unlike The Man in Black, who mostly talk-sang his way through the “American Series,” leveraging the bottom of his one octave range, Cocker pushed the upper limits of his instrument. He was like the aged athlete attempting to match the records of his youth. Like Carl Lewis trying to run a sub ten second 100 meter sprint today, at the age of sixty-two. Joe Cocker could obviously not sing in 2004 like he sang in 1969. But that was the humanity and the tragedy of this project. On occasion, it was touching and beautiful. Elsewhere, though, it was like watching a former Olympian tearing their achilles and then still gutting out the race, howling and limping their way to the finish.
Teddy Pendergrass “Truly Blessed”
That was the conundrum Teddy faced in in the late Eighties — if and how to sing about sex from a wheelchair. After his accident, he was still a young man, closer to thirty than to forty. His sparkling smile was intact. His face was unscathed — in fact, he looked as handsome as ever. And while it is much harder to sing while seated, it is by no means impossible. As for everything else — the gliding onstage, the bend of the hips, the undressing, the working up a sweat, the showering and the burning hot oils — those were a lot more complicated. But Teddy did the work and made the transition. No, he was not the same person who drove a Maserati to perform at an arena full of women. He was something much less iconic but also much more sympathetic. He was an underdog — a redemption story.
John Mayer “The Search for Everything”
Between “amazing” and “insufferable” — that’s the line Mayer walks. He is preternaturally gifted — as a player, he rivals his heroes, Robert Cray and Eric Clapton. As a composer, his mastery extends far beyond his ostensible peers — Maroon 5, Jack Johnson and Jason Mraz. He has always been tall, dark and handsome. He’s always been a great interview — frequently too great. But it’s the speed and intensity of his amazingness, that unnerves. Going from Jennifer Love Hewitt to Jessica Simpson to Minka Kelly to Jennifer Anniston to Taylor Swift to Katy Perry in close succession. Hanging with Dave Chapelle one night and jamming with Bob Weir the next night. Or, the same night. Swapping Nikes for Uggs. Wearing shades that are more expensive than his already expensive shoes, and watches that are tenfold the cost of either. It’s all amazing. And it’s all insufferable. And, believe me, John Mayer knows it.
Jack White “Entering Heaven Alive”
Willy Wonka succeeded because he was more fun than he was weird — which is saying a lot because he’s really fucking weird. But the older Jack White got, the less we could detect the humor in his Wonka-ness. Where there was once “Sugar Never Tasted So Good” and “We’re Gonna Be Friends” there was now dystopian Nashville, Steampunk Blues and Art with a capital “A.” To be clear, I have absolutely nothing against any one of those things. But stripped of its wide-eyed delight, White’s music began to veer from strangely astounding into the realm of astoundingly strange.
Tom Jones “Darlin’”
Like Cher, Tom Jones had a teeny tiny waist. And, like Cher, Jones loved to show some skin once upon a time. Both were unafraid of tight pants. Both hosted popular TV programs — “This is Tom Jones” (1969 through 1971) being a precursor to Sonny and Cher’s variety shows. Both had famous marriages (Jones’ for its mystery and longevity, Cher for its popularity) and perhaps more famous relationships outside of their marriages (Cher with Greg Allman, David Geffen and Gene Simmons and Jones with Mary Wells and, apparently, two hundred and fifty fans per year). Both are known for their iconic, husky voices, though neither is proficient on any instrument. But, more than anything else, the thing that bound Jones and Cher was the thing that happened when they put it all together — the voice, the body, the moves, the attitude, the screen presence, the sex appeal. It was their unfathomable “toomuchness.”
Van Morrison “What’s It Gonna Take?”
“Somebody said it was about the data.” It’s just one, of many, unimaginable lines from “What’s It Gonna Take?” There are other stranger lyrics on this album. Angrier couplets. Sadder admissions. But it’s the way he sings that last word — “Day-Tah.” Sharp consonants. Accent on both syllables. It’s not simply that I could not connect the guy who had spent decades searching for the mystic to this much older guy searching for statistical confidence. It was also the precision of his enunciation. The greatest singing mumbler, growler, la la la-ler I have ever heard was legendary for how he almost never enunciated — how he was more interested in sound and feel than in the words themselves. But with that single line, it became obvious to me that something was off. Very off. That a switch had flipped. And while I feared the worst for the rest of the album, I clung the thinnest strand of good faith. I hoped and prayed that there were other, plausible explanations for the Day-Tah.
Thurston Moore “Demolished Thoughts”
More than any American Indie band from the Eighties, it is Sonic Youth who cast the brightest light and deepest shadow. Kim, Thurston, Lee and Steve broke rules and made albums of consequence. They were anti-establishment, even when they became the establishment. And they were groundbreakers in spite of their traditionalism — four pieces, two guitarists, one bassist, one drummer. But, as much as for their music, Sonic Youth was important because of Thurston and Kim — how they looked, how they acted and, most of all, what they signified about marriage and partnership. For every person who’d actually listened to “Daydream Nation” or “Sister,” there were dozens more who knew about Kim and Thurston. And every one of them knew intuitively — and with great certainty — that they were a marital ideal. Until they weren’t.
Gene Simmons “Asshole”
Since “Psycho Circus” — twenty-five years ago and counting — KISS has released exactly two studio albums. During that time, Gene Simmons has been a licensor of merchandise, a part time record label owner, a television and film producer, an occasional actor and, of course, a reality TV star. On the one hand, he’s become a guy who cable news calls in for a provocative quote and a funny face — a post-middle-aged braggart in shades who used to wear makeup in “that band.” On the other hand, he is still the same exact guy who’d gotten famous in 1975 — a joker, a demon, a ladies man, a womanizer, a capitalist. But, as it always does, the zeitgeist moved on. It’s no longer 1975, or 1984 for that matter. And so what seemed more charming back then appears less so decades later. We had different names for guys like him back then. But, by 2004, it was all a lot clearer. Gene Simmons was an asshole. And apparently Gene Simmons did not disagree.
Todd Rundgren “No World Order”
By 1992, Todd Rundgren — the guy who kind of, sort of invented Power Pop, who sang like Carole King, who could play any instrument, and who made Meat Loaf sound like a bat out of hell — was a middle-aged, former Rock star, former producer, father of two living in Marin County, California. If he’d proven anything during the previous decade, it was that he was deeply interested in the intersection of music and technology and largely disinterested in his own commercial prospects. Which meant that, if you were Warner Brothers Records, based in Burbank, California, and trying to sell a lot of albums, you probably wanted to steer clear from him. But, if you were Philips Electronics, based in Amsterdam, and you wanted to promote your new CD-i (compact disc interactive) players and discs, Todd Rundgren was definitely your guy.
Boz Scaggs “Other Roads”
Though today he is known as a Steely Dan adjacent, dollar bin staple, Boz Scaggs is truly a man of many gifts. He possesses a soulful tenor, dipped in Van Morrison and glazed in Al Green. He has a knack for arrangements, for knowing when to let a song skate around and when to bring it back home. But his forte really seems to be some combination of a casual, Northern California vibe alongside the steely precision of his playing. Boz made music that might not thrill, but would almost always delight. It was music that thrived just in front of the background. There was really no one like Boz Scaggs. He was more successful than he was famous, though he was, for some time, also famous. He was also the kind of star who made the kind of music that could have only succeeded between 1976 and 1980. As a result, his celebrity was short lived. Once the calendar turned to 1981, Boz disappeared for seven long years. The guy that returned was less a Rock Star and more a Bay Area impresario. Well dressed. Wine curious. Affluent. Self-assured. Still totally casual and completely precise.
Michael McDonald “Blink of an Eye”
There’s an aphorism that goes something like, “Brad Pitt is a character actor in a leading man’s body.” In music, there’s no direct equivalent for the Pitt aphorism. There are, of course, shy or mercurial singers — Bob Dylan and David Bowie fit that bill. But, solo artists, almost by definition, cannot be reluctant frontmen because they have no “back” to blend into. They are not part of a group — they are the show. The same applies to lead singers in bands, albeit for different reasons. There is really no such thing as a grudging frontman. A lead singer has to want it. Privately, they can be shy and awkward like Farrokh Bulsara, but when they hit the stage they have to be Freddie Mercury. That’s how it works. But, like all statutes, there are very rare exceptions. In the case of Rock and Roll frontmen, there is one indisputable outlier — a guy who sounds like Bob Seger and Darryl Hall at the same time. Who, once upon a time, looked like the love child of bearded, post-Beatles McCartney and a soul puppy. A guy whose voice is as rich as a yacht but who always preferred to be in the background, heard more than seen.
Buster Pointdexter “Buster’s Spanish Rocketship”
The prevailing discourse has always been that Buster Pointdexter was “the act.” That the tuxedo, giant pompadour, martini glasses, Jump Blues, and Eighties Club Med by way of Fifties Havana vibes was David Johansen having a go at everyone. That ten years after the demise of The Dolls — the world’s greatest band that never had a chance — and years after working his way around the world with the David Johansen Band and ending up exactly where he started (nowhere), he needed to make us laugh so we wouldn’t cry. Buster Pointdexter was supposed to be a serious good time, but also in no way serious. It was a gag. A costume. Closer to Tenacious D than to The Dolls. But what started out as a lark — a mildly embarrassing side hustle even — became a career. What’s more, Buster was not a phase. He was not an alter ego or an id. Looking back now, Buster Pointdexter was the thing.