David Bowie describing Bob Dylan as “a strange young man […] with a voice like sand and glue” is the most accurate thing ever. It’s an homage, a parody and a challenge all at once. Bowie does an alright job mimicking Dylan’s cadences, and his gnomic stream-of-dream writing. Of course, Bowie’s own wordiness has always had a direct debt to Dylan, which only had to be acknowledged. But it was also a definite poke at Dylan’s rock god status. By 1971, Dylan was just not as cool – or as productive – as he had been in the 60’s. The poet’s glow had faded somewhat, and his records weren’t being read as some kind of counter-cultural scriptures anymore. David Bowie saw it as “a void of leadership” and he had big plans for filling that void. If Bob Dylan had semi-reluctantly been the voice of his generation for the kids of the 60’s, David Bowie would be the rock messiah for the 70’s. It was an arrogant statement of ambition that could only be made by someone with a busload of faith in himself. Someone with a bit of a messiah complex, in other words.
Morrissey has finally released a covers album, long awaited by no one but me. In typical aggravating fashion the controversy overshadowed the music. Did he or didn’t he surreptitiously show his support for a right-wing political candidate on late night TV? I don’t know anything about the nuances of British politics and I don’t particularly care; lots of celebrities have supported shitty candidates and/or blurted out ignorant opinions and it doesn’t stop them selling records. Morrissey’s record probably would have earned better reviews without the reminder that he’s a twat in real life, but it sold well anyway. And frankly, I loved it. Morrissey may be a twat but he’s still one of our most inimitable vocal talents, and it’s great to hear him apply himself to something besides his own writing. The problem with Morrissey’s writing is that it hasn’t changed much since the 80’s and he still fundamentally sees himself as a set-upon loser with an achy-breaky heart, which was endearing in a frail youth but less so coming from a successful older man. There’s only so much you can feel sorry for yourself when you’ve been at the top of your profession for decades. One thing he does still have going for him, which I think is an underrated aspect of the Morrissey persona, is his knack for high camp. Morrissey has the camp instincts of a cabaret queen. It’s always been a part of his work, but it’s become more pronounced with age. You could say that his recent string of albums have been leaning into self-parody, and sometimes it’s unclear if that’s intentional. Here, with the writing clearly removed from the man, it’s very much intentional. I think this might be Morrissey’s gayest album yet.
You can make fun of Paul McCartney all you want, but he’s just going to shrug and whistle all the way to the bank. If you had written a tune this catchy you would say “This is it, lads, this is our golden ticket out of obscurity!” And then you would spend the rest of your life trying to leverage your one moment on inspiration into a steady paycheck. But Paul McCartney can just take one of the catchiest tunes ever written by anyone ever and throw it away as a novelty song about stinky feet. Because he can. That is all.
This Jethro Tull song is barely over a minute. That makes it a tiny speck in the universe of a band given to epics in the 15 to 25 minute range. A minute is barely enough time for Ian Anderson to draw a deep breath before a mighty flute solo. It’s a blink of an eye, a fruit fly’s lifespan. Yet, there have been artists aplenty, from the Ramones to Tierra Whack, who’ve said all that they needed to say entirely in one and two minute songs. There’s time enough to say all you need to say in one minute, and if you can’t do that, you don’t deserve to be writing epics in the first place. Ian Anderson, for all of his ambitions, knows this. He can slide a quiet slip of a song in between all of the big thoughts and say what he has to say. I’ve always loved this, as a breather, a small moment of contemplation. And if nothing else, I love the line “and you press on God’s waiter your last dime, as he hands you the bill…”
It doesn’t get much bleaker than this. When Marianne Faithfull decided to finally and forever stop being a dollybird and become a real songwriter, she ended up writing one of the great drug epics of rock, an ode to deathly chemicals on par with Lou Reed’s Heroin. It was, of course, banned and pulled from shelves, while The Rolling Stones re-recorded it and took all the credit. (Faithfull says that it was a matter of copyright issues and that they did in fact pay her royalties, and it was those royalties that kept her alive during her worst years.) Faithfull always insisted that she wrote it before the worst of her drug addiction, and she was just trying to be literary, but she came to know the truth of her own writing soon enough. Besides the lyrical foresight, the song shows a singer literally metamorphosing as we listen from ingenue to rock star. She’s already done enough to herself that her voice is cracking. She wavers like pubescent boy between her old high vibrato and the husky croon we now know her for, and she doesn’t know what to do with it yet. That in itself belies any claim that of pure literary exercise. Marianne Faithfull was burning herself out, and she knew it. Years later she sang it again, now in full command of that barrel-aged croak, but it didn’t have the same fragile poignancy. The Rolling Stones, meanwhile, mined many of the same trenches, although with considerably more cash in hand, and they turned Sister Morphine into their own confessional. It’s probably the most explicit look they’ve ever taken into the dark side of their hedonistic lifestyle, and it is, in its own way, almost as poignant. Mick Jagger, tough guy that he is, doesn’t do confessionals, but he watched the closest people in his life sacrifice themselves to addiction, and the hurt shows, sometimes. Sticky Fingers was one of the great drug records, and Sister Morphine was the sad centerpiece that highlighted the theme most starkly. It was a fitting coda for a tainted love story, and an era.
Leonard Cohen can give anyone a run for their money when in comes to portentous narrative ballads, except that his narratives don’t tell stories as such. Cohen really doesn’t get enough credit for his use of surreal imagery; so much of his writing evokes the fever-dream quality of art house French movies (that drives a lot of people away, I know, I know.) The man started his rock career already a published poet and novelist, for goodness sake, he knows his way around a deft metaphor. He knows how to sound like a bard in a Medieval alehouse, he knows how to take the same dumb topics all poets have danced around for millennia and make them sound like they’ve never been touched before, and all the while the bard has the weariness of the modern man who knows that his millennium may be the very last one.
You can be a hard-drinkin’, hard-ridin’, hard-livin’ highwayman, but that oughtn’t stop you using the Queen’s grammar. Kris Kristofferson has made a music and movie career playing the charming (and increasingly grizzled) country boy with mud on his boots, but he also made to it no secret that he was smarter and better educated than any of his Nashville peers. Which not only made his more charming – for who can resist a real man’s man who also wields formidable book smarts? – but also one of the wittiest and most interesting songwriters in his field. That too helped him break out of the genre and appeal to rock’n’roll fans, making country rock a popular new genre in the late 60’s and early 70’s. Kristofferson has got a lot of things going for him, but I’d say the main one is, damn, the man writes good lyrics.