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December 2007

August Rush

August Rush Soundtrack 2 out of 5 stars Reviewed for Coffeerooms by Mike Jefferson

This past fall, audiences stayed away in droves from the movie “August Rush.” Those that went in rushed out. When a film tanks, the sound track often suffers a similar fate. Occasionally, no matter how horrid or incidental the movie is (for example, “Saturday Night Fever”) sales of the soundtrack can go super nova. I’m not holding out much hope of that happening with the soundtrack of “August Rush,” a collection of interesting but disjointed performances gaurenteed to make directors reconsider whether actors should be allowed anywhere near a recording booth.

The movie is about an orphan, August Rush (Frankie Highmore), the product of a one night stand between American cellist Lyla Novacek (Keri Russell, minus the ringlets) and Irish musician Louis Connelly (John Rhys Meyers, minus the charisma that allowed him to play a convincing Elvis). August grows up as a street performer who hangs out with “Wizard” Wallace, a sage perpetrated by Robin Williams (minus his talent). Wizard resembles and acts like a forced mating between Bono and a leprecaun, (which is pretty much the same thing anyway). Naturally, the mega-talented August wants to reunite his parents and save the world with his music. Well he ain’t gonna do it with this music.

John Rhys Meyers’ private adventures haven’t received many plaudits of late. He recently pulled an alcohol induced freak out at a Dublin airport that left airport security dialing for the equivalent of a S.W.A.T. team. His Oscar worthy postal performance made Amy Winehouse’s recent runny mascara melt down look like a Billy Graham telethon. Apparently Meyers is still traumatized by the ordeal, because his voice still shakes uncontrollably whenever he sings.

The soundtrack’s Zen-dreamy opener, “Main Title,” arranged and orchestrated by Mark Mancina, has subtle but stock flourishes of luxuriant strings and melancholic piano. But there’s also a cloying spoken intro by little August himself, who prattles on about how he connects with his muse: “Maybe the notes I hear are the notes they heard the night they met.” No, August, what you’re hearing is a collective dry heave. Remove the Mayor of Munchkin land’s intrusive narration and you’ve got a striking performance, even if it is predictable.

“Back/Break” is a back-breaking conspiracy between John Rhys Meyers and Steve Erdody, that takes hopped up classical sketches and mosh pits them together with your typical Generation-X boy band guitar-drums-bass musings. The sudden shift in musical direction when you hit the “Break” has all the subtlety of a fatal head on collision. Without even seeing a photo of Meyers, I’m willing to bet this guy is pasty and at some point in his career sported one of those “look at me I’m cool” soul patches. The “Break” part of “Bach/Break” is ridiculously emotive, loud, and pat, with guitar runs borrowed from The Edge, who’s not someone anyone should want imitate anyway.

Meyers gets credit for (or should I say takes the blame for), a sluggish version of “Moondance.” The slower pace points a middle finger at Meyers’ wobbly vocal that’ll leave you mooning your CD player. A well-played harmonica in the Stevie Wonder/Lee Oskar vein nearly makes the time you’ve wasted butt-clenching your way through Meyer’s American Idle performance worthwhile. Fortunately, Meyers only sings one verse before the harp takes over.

In “This Time” Meyers’ voice vibrates so much he sounds as if he’s standing naked on an ice flow in Antarctica. We should be so lucky…”This Time’s” few selling points include a gentle sweep of slide guitar, and some song saving work by the string section, which provides a measure of serenity. But Meyers pushes his limited larynx too far, turning a potentially beautiful song into an ingenuous cheat. He’s acting, not singing, and you can tell there’s nothing real behind what he’s saying.

Guitarist Kaki King has been a guest player with the Fooey Fighters, and has also lent her considerable talent to the soundtrack of Sean Penn’s upcoming flick “Into the World.” King has recorded three solo albums and has already been anointed a guitar wunderkind. Her style incorporates the best of flamenco, funk, folk and raga. She slaps, bangs and plucks the strings without making them buzz or rattle from abuse. King’s two contributions to the soundtrack, “Bari Improv” and “Ritual Dance” put the rush back in “August Rush.” King’s echoey slap guitar work in “Bari Improv” displays her flexible style, pitting Steve Howe-ish electric riffing against an acoustic backdrop that’s also a thematic cousin to Joni Mitchell’s strumming on “Big Yellow Taxi.” Experimenting with a thousand interesting variations on the same chords in “Ritual Dance,” King plays the guitar with the speed of a delighted holy man who’s one with his sitar.

“Raise It Up,” credited to moppet Jamia Simone Nash, is Ben Harper urban gospel lowered by the insertion of an adolescent chorus. I know there aren't many eleven year-olds out there with young Nash’s talent or resume, but please keep her hackneyed chipmunk chirping off my CDs. Haven’t we taken advantage of child acts long enough (and vice-versa.)?

“Dueling Guitars” by Hector Pereira and Doug Smith is, as you might have surmised, a
more cosmic version of “Dueling Banjos.” After a hesitant start, the disjointed picking gives way to some rapid and enjoyable strumming reminiscent of the Jefferson Airplane’s emblematic “Embryonic Journey.”

Meyers’ “Elgar/Something Inside” is more chop shop classical meets modern pop dog dew. Meyers is still singin’ from the cheap seats when it comes to mastering the ear-stabbing genre he’s had a hand in creating. “Something Inside” encroaches on the Tim/Jeff Buckley stream of consciousness folk territory without incorporating its best part – what’s inside the singer’s heart. Pay attention to the sliding strings and silky violin in the background instead of Meyers’ palsied vocal chords.

Perhaps a little too close to the theme song for the ad campaign for beef ( “It’s what’s for dinner!”), Steve Erdody’s “August Rhapsody” sports a rousing mid-western giddy up, then quickly slums to the sounds of the city (dig the brass section sounding like blaring car horns), before slowing to a tranquil conclusion. It gets all wrapped up in its own pretentiousness when a chipmunk child starts wailing, making that particular section of the song unsafe for pedophiles. Like most of the material, it tries too hard to embrace too many styles at a record setting pace. It might work as background music for a motion picture, presumably because you have something visual to distract you, but on its own it’s too scattered. “August” might as well be a rap instead of a rhapsody.

As far as I’m concerned, John Legend is far from legendary. The hip hop Barry Manilow blatantly ripped off the Classics IV’s “Spooky” for his song “Save Room” and got a paid instead of sued. Someday they may erect a statue in Legend’s honor. At the end of the ceremony I’ll coordinate the pigeon’s flight patterns so they can christen it. In the meantime, skip Legend’s “Someday.”

There’s more tired vocalizing in John Ondrasik’s “King of The Earth.” Ondrasik goes by the stage name “Five For Fighting.” Too bad he didn’t bring his four other personalities into the recording studio. Either artists no longer care how they sound anymore or some public relations genius has convinced this generation’s fodder of pop singers that sounding bored is cool. Too bad, because a creative arrangement with a sensitive string arrangement and withering background vocals is wasted on Ondrasik, who sounds like Happy Gilmore trying to whine his way through “Bridge Over Troubled Water.”

Let me preface what I have to say about “God Bless The Child” by admitting I’ve always hated the song. Didn’t matter if a legend like Billie Holiday was junkie slipping her way through it or a hack like David Clayton Thomas was resurrecting it for the hippie generation. You have to feel this song to pull it off, and I’ve yet to hear a version by anyone that actually sounded like they’d lived through any of this song’s intended misery. Paul Cole’s career-saving gig was serving as Peter Gabriel’s back up vocalist for his “Up” tour, and she did a forgivable job. So how does she repay the listening public? By recording an American Songbook version with Chris Botti, who wisely tries to Herb Alpert his way through the cocktail lounge arrangement. God bless the child that’s smart enough to press the skip button.

Leon Thomas II was a whack job quasi-jazz vocalist who appeared in full bellow on Santana’s most confusing album, “Welcome.” Well, the sins of the father are not always visited on the son. Leon Thomas III, (who plays Arthur in the film), fashions a funky, strutting, hip hop version of the tired chestnut “La Bamba” that’s so fresh it sounds like a new song. Thomas injects his urban-influenced take with quick blips of horns and rhythmic acoustic guitars borrowed from Babyface. He tends to over enunciate the lyrics, but has a playful delivery. You’re a game saver, Leon 3.

Turn off the CD after “La Bamba,” unless you want to be put into a trance by a Tonight Show Band take on “Moondance.” Actually, trance may be too mild a description. Coma is more like it. Doc Sevrenson may like this jazzy emasculation, but you’ll need a doctor to keep down yesterday’s mid-afternoon knosh because there’s no dancing around how moldy this take is.

Movie soundtracks are often a repository (or is that suppository?) for ambitious, disconnected viewpoints designed to enhance a flick’s rollercoaster ride of emotions. On that note, the diverse throw-something-against-the-wall-and-see-if-it -ticks approach of “August Rush” works. In order to separate itself from the dozens of movie sound tracks that have flooded the market like fertile bunnies, the material on the “August Rush’s” CD needed to be strong, distinctive, and at the very least tolerable. On that note -- maybe they’ll get it right next August. Actor John Rhys Meyers is given too many opportunities to prove he’s not a singer, and the more pleasing musical passages are saddled with American idle trickery designed to appeal to the Gen X audience. There are some brauva performances by Kai King and Leon Thomas III that are worth repeated listenings, but the only rush you’ll get from John Rhys Meyers parched puckering will be when you change the CD.

Posted December 13, 2007 Permalink

Memory Almost Full

Paul McCartney Memory Almost Full 2.5 out of 5 stars Reviewed for Coffeerooms by Mike Jefferson

For many years after the break up of the Beatles, John Lennon, Paul McCartney and George Harrison tried to bury the group’s legacy in an attempt to establish their own. (Ringo may have played the fool but he wasn’t one. He embraced being a member of the world’s greatest group from the beginning to the end.) Until the day he died, George Harrison pretended the Beatle elephant was never in the room. John Lennon condemned the Beatles, then mellowed in his semi-retirement, and was coming to grips with his past when his future was snuffed out. As usual, Paul McCartney tried to out do Lennon, painting only the rosiest of images in his songs about his life in the band. McCartney’s “Memory Almost Full” recalls some of those carefree Macca mop top moments, and comes to grips with whether we’ll need him and whether we’ll still feed him now that he’s 64.

McCartney is the eternal optimist, a “glass half full” type, as opposed to John Lennon’s pessimistic “glass half empty” view of life. Their diametrically opposed personalities made them a great pair creatively, but eventually turned their working relationship into a bee’s nest. Divorced from each other, Lennon was allowed to delve into his self-appointed role as a misunderstood, angry revolutionary, while the prolific, ain’t-life-grand McCartney wrote silly love songs. Personally, I always preferred Lennon’s tell it like it is poet persona to McCartney’s itinerant musician act, because Paulie spit out meaningless songs as if he was working an assembly line at a Ford factory and getting paid by the note. Lennon’s material fed the mind, while McCartney’s fed the feet, and neither approach was airtight. Lennon seemed to run out of music after “Walls and Bridges” (ever notice how “How Do You Sleep” and “Steel and Glass” sound alike?) and he let Yoko have waaaaay too much sway artistically (“Somewhere in New York” anyone?). Not to be bested by Lennon, McCartney let Linda have waaaaaay too much face time with the mike in Wings, and released too many twee songs with lyrics that would embarrass a pre-schooler. (Let’s sit down and listen to the inner meaning of Paul’s recording of “Mary Had A Little Lamb?” What, they’re isn’t one? No? Then how about the enlightening wisdom of “Ebony and Ivory?” or “Bip Bop?”). Macca has been trying to re-write Beatles history since Lennon was ventilated, releasing “Let It Be…Naked,” a vanity project supposedly remastered the way it was intended to be, without the strings on “The Long and Winding Road.” It was also noticeably without John’s needling of Paul’s songs, such as his sarcastic introduction to the title track…”That was ‘Can you Dig It’ by Georgie Wood, and now we’d like to do ‘Hark The Angels Come.” Ringo is the only one around who can still around to contradict Paul, and Ringo always went along with whoever had center stage in order to keep the peace. (Ringo is so easy going, when he found out that George had slept with his wife Maureen, he shrugged it off and toddled off to Apple Studios with Harrison.)

Cute, infinitely talented as a musician, but also shameless and self-centered, Paulie has spent most of his solo career competing against his mates in an effort to be top Beatle. “Memory Almost Full” falls short of his best work -- he may never top “McCartney,” “Ram,” or even “Wildlife” in terms of creativity, or “Band On the Run” for sales -- but this is one of Macca’s better recent efforts…within memory.

What’s Full…

“Dance Tonight” represents everything that’s either right or wrong about Macca’s talent as a songwriter. It’s a catchy, foot stomping, mandolin based sing-a-long that Mr. Rodgers would have liked to call his own. “Dance Tonight” has its roots in “Ram On,” the ukulele dominated title tune from McCartney’s 1971 “Ram” album. “Ram On”’s Rudy Vallee production simultaneously recalled speakeasies and foamy Hawaiian beachheads; “Dance Tonight” is pure English pub music. Its silly simplicity will win you over. Wolf down a warm pint and stamp yer feet.

“Nod Your Head” ends the CD on a high note. It’s everything the other rockers on the album aren’t – straight forward and enjoyable. Paul “Wix” Wickens synthesizer work is a nod to Led Zeppelin’s “Kashmir,” and Paulie pushes his vocal chords until they’re raw, which fits right in with the song’s rebel rouser theme. “Nod Your Head” comes on with a strong dose of attitude. Paulie’s always been seen as too cute to be tough (something else John could do that he envied), so every so often he tries to prove there’s a tincture of punk in him. I still don’t believe it. Hopefully, the ridiculous lyrics (“nod it up, nod it down, side to side, all around”) won’t stop you from nodding your head in agreement that this is one of Paulie’s better songs.

What’s Almost Full…

“Ever Present Past” is perky, infused with a touch of Paul Weller’s “My Ever Changing Moods.” It’s damaged a bit by a typically mawkish Macca chorus: “The things I think I did, I D.I., D.I. did. The things I think I did, when I was a kid.” Except for the insipid chorus, this synthed-up piece of pop is engaging, with Macca in fine voice for someone who’s been singing since dinosaurs roamed the earth.

“What we are is what we are. And what we wear is vintage clothes,” McCartney sings cryptically in “Vintage Clothes,” a modern-day look back at the 60s mod scene the Beatles practically created, complete with the whistled interlude from “Winchester Cathedral” and bits of the mellotron section borrowed from “Strawberry Fields.” Breezy, full of psychedelic gimmicks, it’s another song that says nothing, but does so in a pleasing manner.

For “That Was Me,” Macca adopts the guise of a 50s greaser, recalling “Mersey beatin’ with the band…” “That was me in the party, sweating cobwebs in the cellar.” Try not to fixate on the annoying dentist drill pounding on the piano and enjoy Macca’s skill on walking bass and the scratchy Gene Vincent guitar.

What’s Empty…

“Only Mama Knows” starts off with dramatic string section and a lone violin topping off an arrangement so overdone it would bankrupt a big budget movie. Then it goes into self-destruct mode, stumbling into a driving rock treatment reminiscent of “Back Into the U.S.S.R” or “Helen Wheels.” Never cared for McCartney’s faster tunes, and this one suffers from percussion that sloshes along like windshield wiper’s tossing aside road kill. The overdependence on reverb in the vocal doesn’t hide an obvious fact – the cute Beatle’s voice is a bit rough here. Yes, Paulie, sometimes you are too old to rock and roll.

“Mr. Bellamy” is another one of those quirky parlor songs that McCartney loves to dabble in (listen to “Dear Boy,” “Martha My Dear,” “Your Mother Should Know,” or “Arrow Through Me”). But this mister is undermined by a choppy, zombie-jerk Addams Family arrangement – the only thing missing on the harpsichord is Lurch. The spastic arrangement steadies itself near the song’s conclusion with a dramatic calm-after-the-storm passage that further substantiates McCartney’s ability to create beautiful music, but it’s a case of too little too late.

Macca goes James Brown in “Gratitude.” Unfortunately, “I wanna show my gratitude” is repeated with the force and bad intent of a hammer pounding Martin Luther’s feces to the door of the church door at Wittenberg. (Yes, I know it was theses, but I think you understand what I’m getting at.) To top off this wide-ranging train wreck, the layered Disney-like back up vocals are in direct opposition to the Little Richard jump and shout vocal approach McCartney used in “Oh Darling.”

“Feet in the Clouds” is another sonic mess. Paulie can’t decide if it’s pop, psyche or rock, so he tries a bit of everything and comes up with nothing. Get yer head out of the clouds, Paulie.

“House of Wax” is a house of cards that crumbles under Macca’s melodramatics. He works in an edgy guitar solo that gets negated by an odious piano, crashing cymbals and screechy vocals that’ll melt the wax in your ears. And this guy really needs a lyricist.

If McCartney plays “The End Of The End” at his funeral, his mourners will laugh and Heather Mills will beat him with her spare peg. “On the day that I die, I‘d like jokes to be told, and stories of old, to be rode on like carpets that children have played on, and laid on while listening to stories of old.” I repeat Paulie, you need a lyricist. When all else fails, you can always resort to whistling. But for cripes sakes, Paulie, get up off your divorce settlement fund and talk with Keith Reid, Peter Brown or Jim Capaldi’s widow Aninha. Maybe they’ve got some spare lyrics you can borrow.

Bonus Memories

The bonus memories are a trio of interesting but not necessarily memorable tunes. The instrument “In Private” begins with the running bongos trick used in Andy Pratt’s “Avenging Annie,” only at a slower pace. Paulie shows off his acoustic chops, bringing to mind “Classical Gas” with an Indian flair. “Why So Blue” is a mature (for McCartney) ballad with swirling strings. No oompah music here, just a Beatle finally taking off his mask. They should have left some room on the CD for this one and closed “The House of Wax.” “222” (not the 60s TV show) borrows the piano riff from “Take Five” as Macca scats like Michael Jackson on speed. This is much more experimental than anything else Macca has attempted recently. As always, it works musically, but is a lyrical Death Valley. If you’re going to repeat “Look at her walking” ad nauseum, why bother?

The Videos…A Big Mac Extra Value Meal

The deluxe edition comes with a heaping helping of Macca and friends at a concert shot in London earlier this year. The band, (Rusty Anderson and Brian Ray on guitars, Macca on bass, “Wix” Wickens on keyboards and beefy Abe Laboriel on drums) is in full throttle and on target. Paulie reclaims “Drive My Car” from the Beatles – Okay Paul, we get it…The songs you sang were the ones you wrote and John sang the songs he wrote. No, wait, you wrote them all! There’s a second version of “Dance Tonight” which is still a stamp-yer-foot crowd pleaser, plus three other tunes from the album, “Only Mama Knows,” “House of Wax,” and “Nod Your Head.” When Paulie says “Nod yer head,” the crowd eagerly complies, proving that even 40 years later a Beatle can still hypnotize a crowd into doing anything he wants. Due to an abundance of thrashing and feedback, “Nod Your Head” comes off harsh and noisy in concert, but the crowd seemed to love it, so perhaps you will too. (I’ll take the studio version.)

The DVD also contains promotional videos for “Dance Tonight” (making its third appearance) and “Ever Present Past.” The surprise here is that the “Dance Tonight” video is not the same promo you may have seen with a tie-dye colored Paulie skipping down Penny Lane with his mandolin. (Too bad it’s not included.) This version has a plot, although it’s a paper thin one. A grumbly postman goes out of his way to deliver a package to Sir Paul. Paulie ordered a cricket mallet, but gets an enchanted mandolin instead. When he begins to play it, he conjures up all manner of playful, party-minded spirits. It’s a pleasant, take-yer-mind-off-yer-troubles piece of cinema and infinitely more watchable than the video for “Ever Present Past,” which features Paulie dancing in a museum with some pasty models badly in need of a sandwich. It’s nice to see that he can lift his leg unaided by a cane – It means there may be hope for us all. And it doesn’t matter if Paulie dyes his hair – at least he’s still got hair to dye.
When “Memory Almost Full” works, it’s because Paulie’s got his voice, his impish lyrics and melodies all in line. When it’s almost full, (as it is most of the time), it’s because Macca’s voice strains and his lyrics sound as if his baby daughter Beatrice. And when his “Memory” is empty, you can blame McCartney for trying to better the Beatles. Good luck with that one, Paul.

You may not listen to this when you’re 64, but Paulie’s latest has enough musicianship in it that given time, maybe it’ll turn into a pleasant memory.

Posted December 13, 2007 Permalink

Missing Mac

When Danny Kirwan, Christine McVie and Bob Welch Reigned

Reviewed for Coffeerooms by Mike Jefferson

Yes Virginia, there really was a Fleetwood Mac before the squirrelly musings of Lindsay Buckingham and Stevie Nicks’ nanny goat vocals. If you back track through the group’s catalogue you might discover, as I did, that there were many other editions of the group that were much more creative and more worthy of praise than the money-making Buckingham-Nicks aggregate. Blues man Peter Green (composer of “Black Magic Woman” and “Oh Well”) formed the group in 1967, although he selflessly named it after drummer Mick Fleetwood and bassist John McVie. Critics of the day anointed Eric Clapton as the Dali Llama of Brit blues, and his fanatics were scribbling “Clapton is God” on the walls, but it was Slowhand himself who said Peter Green was as good, if not better than he was. B.B. King agreed wholeheartedly, and has been quoted as saying Green was the only guitarist who ever gave him “The cold sweats.” Green, who claimed he got his distinct mournful vocal style from listening to the cantors in Jewish synagogues, did indeed sound far more genuine in his sorrow than Clapton. In 1970, unhinged by too many pharmaceuticals, Green melted under the harsh spotlight of fame, leaving Elmore James acolyte/50s fan Jeremy Spencer and 16 year-old prodigy Danny Kirwan in charge of the group. After collaborating with Kirwan on the anemic “Kiln House” (2 out of 5 stars), Spencer wigged out as well, joining The Children of God cult, leaving Fleetwood Mac’s fate in the hands of Kirwan and two new recruits, keyboard player/vocalist Christine McVie and American guitarist Bob Welch. The group members took stock of England’s dissolving blues scene, and instead of folding, reinvented themselves as folk/rock band, releasing their strongest effort to date, 1971’s “Future Games.”

Future Games (4 stars out of 5)

Danny Kirwan initially took on the role of lead everything with enthusiasm, penning two of the albums strongest tracks, the quixotic “Woman Of A 1,000 Years” and the melancholy “Sometimes,” while his third offering, “Sands of Time,” smoothly shifted through a myriad of emotions. Kirwan’s “Woman Of A 1,000 Years” is as placid and peaceful as a still lake, a traditional English folk piece that’s as delicate as Kirwan’s tender psyche, and is elevated by his shy vocal and melodic tunings.

Given an opportunity to showcase her songwriting talent, Christine McVie’s romantic style proved to be simpatico with Kirwan’s and she delivered the album’s highlight, “Show Me Smile.” Although Christine McVie had been making appearances on Mac albums as far back as the Peter Green era (she was after all, married to the group’s bass player), her first official appearance is “Morning Rain,” an uncharacteristic bouncy rocker that still takes advantage of McVie’s strong sense of harmony. Kirwan’s solo is about as rough as he ever got, which means it’s quietly melodic.

Welch offers his own take on the band’s new California soft rock style with the episodic title track. “Future Games” is an adult nursery rhyme with Kirwan and Welch strumming their guitars like harps as the trio of singers engage in heavenly harmonies. Welch’s unusually reflective vocal is quiet, tentative, like that of a frightened child hiding under the bed from the boogeyman. In this case, the boogeyman is the passage of time and the uncertainty of what lies ahead: “I did a thing last night, you know those future games…I turned off all the lights, and oh, the future came. You were by my side, will you explain, real rhyme or reason for those future games.” Despite Welch’s line, “You invent the future that you want to face,” the song projects a gloomy, forlorn theme that our lives are predetermined and our struggles in the pursuit of happiness are all in vain. Kirwan, the band member closest to teetering over the edge of sanity, applies a harmonic solo that momentarily lifts the weight of the song’s paranoia. Despite being a downer, “Future Games” is a one of Welch’s more meaningful and essential compositions (check out “Emerald Eyes” on “Mystery To Me,” and “Sentimental Lady” on “Bare Trees” as well).

If the title track to “Future Games” is a trip down the river Acheron with Welch playing Charon, the ferryman of the dead, then “Show Me A Smile,” the album’s closer, is its polar opposite, an optimistic lullaby with Christine McVie playing the role of earth mother. McVie’s liquid vocal is simultaneously soothing, sensual and innocent. I remember the first time I heard this song on the radio some 30 years ago while riding uncomfortably in the back of a Jeep, with my knees practically in my nostrils. I’d just heard Spooky Tooth’s version of “I Am The Walrus” for the first time only moments before and commented that the lead singer, Mike Harrison, sounded like the devil. “Show Me A Smile” came on soon after, ushered in by waves of cymbals, gently stroked acoustic guitars and twinkly electric piano. McVie’s soothing voice wafted through the speakers as if on a cloud – pure, loving and sincere… It was the complete opposite of Harrison – the voice of a seraph…“Take everything easy, show me a smile…It doesn’t take much to please me, my little child.” McVie would go on to pen more memorable tunes than any other member of the group (check out “Over and Over,” on “Tusk” “Prove Your Love” on “Heroes Are Hard to Find” and “Did You Ever Love Me” on “Penguin” for starters), but “Show Me A Smile” remains the one song of hers you have to hear. McVie’s voice is a dreamy sigh so perfect you’ll stop whatever you’re doing, sit back -- and smile. It’s one of those rare tunes that’ll make you believe that love really can solve the world’s problems.

By the time “Future Games” was released in 1971, Danny Kirwan’s own future was heading toward an end game. He was wallowing in a long list of personal issues – chief among them having a leadership role thrust upon him at the tender age of 20.He also had to live up to the band’s sterling reputation established by Green, and had developed a serious drinking problem that was alienating him from his band mates. According to Bob Welch, who loved Kirwan’s superstar talent but abhorred his dark personality, Kirwan was “So deadly serious about his work he was completely unable to enjoy himself.” Christine McVie later recalled that working with Kirwan was nerve-wracking because he never looked anyone in the eye and always seemed to be in a state of emotional overload. Chrissy was, in effect, creeped out by Kirwan, and we’re talking about a tough bird who withstood the fists of husband John and the daredevil drunkenness of Beach Boy boyfriend Dennis Wilson. Kirwan’s hangman behavior is surprising, given the brevity of much of his work. The upbeat la-de-dah strumming of Kirwan and Welch in “Sometimes” belies its underlying sense of despair: “Sometimes I get to thinking, about the times we used to have. But now you’ve gone away and left me, so alone.” No doubt a comment on Peter Green and Jeremy Spencer’s departures, which Kirwan took to heart the way an orphan would feel about losing his parents. There was always a swath of melancholy and regret in nearly everything he wrote; and like Christine McVie, Kirwan found a thousand different ways to say I love you or I’m hurt by creating upbeat tempos to make his tunes radio worthy. “Sometimes” is the epitome of Kirwan’s style – boyish, cute, and innocent – with a breathless vocal and bell-like solos. A pure delight from a very troubled man.

Welch’s “Lay it Down” is an abrasive rocker that’s completely out of place and would have been best served on the cutting room floor. It’s mean spirited, jumpy and doesn’t end soon enough. With the exception of the unnecessary sax instrumental “What A Shame” (featuring Christine McVie’s brother, John), and the downright shameful “Lay it Down,” “Future Games” is a superb album which captures a band in transition and headed in the right direction.

Bare Trees (4 out of 5 stars)

“Bare Trees” was Kirwan’s last foray with the band before the rigors responsibility became too much to bear (no pun intended). It’s a soft rock carry over from “Future Games” and another high water mark for the band, particularly for Kirwan and Christine McVie, whose thought-evoking compositions fit the band’s now perfected MOR style. Not to be completely left hanging out on a limb (sorry), Bob Welch contributes “Sentimental Lady,” his best and most touching moment with the band. Aided by Kirwan’s matchless playing, transported Yank Welch spins a tune that brings to mind the baroque and very English sentiments found in the Beatles “In My Life”: “Now you are here today, but easily you might just go away. ‘Cause we live in a time, when paintings have no color, words don’t rhyme. That’s why I’ve traveled far, ‘cause I come so together where you are.” When Kirwan, Welch and Christine McVie’s vocals entwine during the chorus, there’s so much synergy between them it’s hard to pick out who’s singing what. Welch knew a good thing when he had it too – he re-recorded “Sentimental Lady” as the leadoff track for his break through solo album “French Kiss” in 1977, and wisely asked Christine McVie to sing a very noticeable back up.

Kirwan may have been crumbling mentally, but he appears well up to the task of carrying the album. The war-drum dominated instrumental “Danny’s Chant” is filler, but Kirwan’s schoolboy vocals and ringing guitar are spectacular everywhere else. “Child of Mine” is edgier than most of his songs, with Kirwan scatting to his own fuzzy guitar accompaniment and Fleetwood pumping away on drums and congas, matching Christine McVie’s aerobic work out on piano. The title track is emblematic of Kirwan’s style of writing, with compact, familiar, yet original riffs, firm harmonies and plenty of “la-la’s” and “do-do’s” tacked on to the seemingly simplistic lyrics: “Bare trees, grey light, oh yeah, it was a cold night. Bare trees grey light. I was alone in the cold of a winter’s day. You were alone and so snug in your bed.”

It’s telling though, that the two songs in which Kirwan’s star shines most brilliantly are essentially incomplete. “Sunny Side of Heaven,” an instrumental, puts Kirwan’s crystalline playing style on display. With a set of lyrics and Kirwan’s soothing pipes, this could have been one of his signature tunes. As is, it’s still heavenly.

“Dust” is Kirwan’s most lyrically dense and telling song – and it stands to reason that a quiet, stressed out man who communicated through his guitar would borrow the words of poet Rupert Brooke to express himself: “When the white flame within us is gone, and we that lost the world’s delight, stiffen in darkness. Left alone, to crumble in our separate light, when your swift hair is quiet in death, and through your lips corruption thrust to still the labor of my breath. When we are dust, when we are dust…” Cocooned by Kirwan’s tender guitar work and Christine McVie’s misty vocal, this was as much a cry for help as “Closing My Eyes” was for Peter Green – and like Green, Kirwan’s plea for a mental life preserver went unanswered.

Christine McVie does her usual yeoman’s job with the clonkity English folk/country of “Homeward Bound” and the graceful “Spare Me A Little of Your Love,” which features intense guitar work from Kirwan alongside McVie’s one-of-a-kind sensual whisper.

The only rotten limb on “Bare Trees” is the last entry, “Thoughts On A Grey Day,” a bizarre poetry reading by one Mrs. Scarrott, a rickety neighbor of the band’s who sounds old enough to have known Shakespeare personally.

There’s something about wearing the yoke of leadership in Fleetwood Mac that makes guitarists go ga ga. After 1972’s brilliant “Bare Trees,” the increasingly sensitive Kirwan became a rock n’ roll version of TV’s “Monk,” obsessing about tunings to the point where Mick Fleetwood found him in the men’s room bashing his skull against a concrete wall because he couldn’t get his guitar to behave. A loner and a burgeoning alcoholic, Kirwan had never ingratiated himself with the others. When he didn’t show up for a gig, then was discovered off-stage watching the band as McVie and Welch carried on, and then critiqued the performance, the Mac’s remaining patience with Kirwan evaporated. Mick Fleetwood, the only band member still speaking with Kirwan, was given the unpleasant task of firing him. Fleetwood would later comment that Kirwan looked as if he felt both relieved and betrayed.

Kirwan would make three solo albums in the late 70s, including the brilliant “Midnight in San Juan” (see my review which follows). He recorded his last album, “Hello Big Boy” virtually in absentia, never uttering a word to the session musicians, and it wasn’t long before his love of the grape punched his ticket to rock and roll oblivion.

After Kirwan was given the sack, Fleetwood Mac enlisted Bob Weston, who became the featured guitarist on the next two albums, “Penguin” and “Mystery To Me.” Weston ruined the choice gig by sleeping with Mick Fleetwood’s wife Jenny. Jenny was Patti Boyd Harrison’s sister -- and ya’ll know who George Harrison’s wife ended up trading spit with...Patti recently released her autobiography which covers her marriage to Harrison and subsequent affair with his best friend, not-so Slowhand Clapton. Jenny should complete the family circle with her tale of burning up the sheets with Weston as well as being the inspiration for Donovan’s song “Jennifer Juniper.” She also married and divorced Mick Fleetwood twice. Gotta love those Boyd sisters…

After Weston became the second member fired from the band, instead of folding, the group pared itself down to a quartet with Welch (guitar, vocals), Christine McVie (vocals, keyboards) Mick Fleetwood (drums) and John McVie (bass), producing one of it’s finest albums to date...

Heroes Are Hard To Find (4 out of 5 stars)

Bob Welch’s Swan Song

“Heroes Are Hard To Find” is unique in that it’s the last album to feature Bob Welch, who like the many of Fleetwood Mac guitarists past was worn out from touring. It’s also the first Fleetwood Mac album recorded in the United States and was, coincidently, the group’s best selling album to date, setting the stage for the best selling “Fleetwood Mac” and “Rumors” albums.

A blast of brass and a percussive crash introduces the lead tune, Christine McVie’s title track. The real surprise here is the horn section’s energy and the upfront role they play in the mix. McVie made her rep singing elegant ballads (several more of which appear on this album), but “Heroes” ventures into sonic territory occupied by brass-dominated bands such as Chicago and The Keef Hartley Band. Beneath the trumpeting, McVie’s gentle voice twists yet another cautionary tale for the lovelorn: “So when he tells you, you’ve got diamonds in your eyes. Don’t get carried away, ‘cause you know he’s telling you lies. So when you got the feeling, the man you’ve got is no good…Well just remember a hero is so hard to find.”

After McVie’s brilliant lead off tune, Welch offers up a trio of tunes that go from bad to great. Welch’s obsession with UFO’s floats to center stage with the idiosyncratic “Coming Home,” a mostly instrumental, foggy, unnecessary piece with a Rod Serling-like spoken intro. With Welch moaning like a swamped manatee, it comes off as an impromptu jam. The usually invisible John McVie dials in on “Angel,” rumbling with a bold assurance. Welch’s third and best offering to this point is “Bermuda Triangle,” a bizarre, paranormal tale about the hundreds of lost ships, planes, and people swallowed up in the tropical abyss.

With Welch’s weirdness satiated, the album finds its feet again with Christine McVie’s soaring “Come A Little Bit Closer.” It’s given a hint of country by a few swipes on pedal steel by the late Sneaky Pete Kleinow. Fortunately, his instrumental passages are few and recessed in the background, making his cur of an instrument sound effectively somber. McVie’s voice is sweeter than a sugar plantation, and when she whispers, you’ll want to cuddle up to the nearest warm body and follow her instructions: “Come a little bit closer, ‘cause I remember the time when you held me in your arms and you wanted to be mine. Everything good, everything gold, and now all that’s left is a sweet harmony.” I tell ya, the divorce rate in this country would nose dive if everybody got a daily dose of this woman’s gossamer voice.

Welch returns with “She’s Changing Me,” his own stab at country/rock that’s breezy and head swayingly harmless. The quartet of songs that follow (two each from Welch and McVie), form the album’s core.

Mick Fleetwood’s blitz of tom-toms drives Christine McVie’s “Bad Loser,” a stab at the scab of her floundering marriage to husband John, who plays the bass with wall shaking conviction: “Well you thought you had a hold on me, but its different now. Everything you’ve done before, has fell upon you now. You’re just a bad loser, but you’ll never let it go. Yes, You’ll go down, but you’ll never let it go.”

Welch’s “Silver Heels” is a lighthearted love letter to a fashionable stranger by a composer often preoccupied with searching the skies for E.T. It’s refreshing to discover Welch viewed himself as a clumsy four-eyed geek: “She took me out of the blackboard jungle, put me straight in a hurricane, she hypnotized my eyes with her silver heeled ways. If I could sing like Paul McCartney, or get funky like Etta James, I’d never change, I’d never change, I’d never change my silver heeled ways.” Welch’s usually otherworldly picking is piercing and direct, aided by John McVie’s rubber band rockabilly bass. It also helps to have Christine McVie in the background chirping away merrily.

The jewel of the album, and one of McVie’s most unforgettable songs, is “Prove Your Love,” an ARP drenched lament. McVie’s wraithlike moan is simultaneously heartbreaking and horny, a sigh that delivers the musical orgasm Pink Floyd’s electro shock shriek-a-thon “The Great Gig In the Sky” failed to deliver: “So if you can’t see me right where you are, then why don’t you send for me baby, by the nearest star? No it won’t be easy, knowing you’ve got to prove, you’ve go to prove your love to me.”

The final hero in a quartet of mythic musings is Welch’s nightclub-tinged “Born Enchanter.” For the first few lines, Welch manages to channel his inner sensual Chrissy McVie, trilling as breathlessly as the golden-haired chanteuse, who supplies much of the shadowy atmosphere with her rolling piano riffs. It took me a few lines to realize it was Welch and not McVie who was singing, which either says one of three things: 1) Welch is a very effective singer, 2) I still had Christine McVie’s “Prove You Love” burrowing its way through my loins, or 3) the CD needs to be remastered. I’ll go for a combo of 1 and 3, and keep my carnal Chrissy thoughts locked up next to my Catherine Deneuve posters.

The coda, “Safe Harbor” drifts dreamily, a mostly instrumental doppelganger to Welch’s “Coming Home.” Its Welch’s version of Peter Green’s superb instrumental “Albatross” (which Green admitted was a tribute to Santo and Johnny’s “Sleepwalk.”), an ebbing, eddying trip adrift a calm tide with colorful rainbow ahead.

This “Hero” is without a doubt super, shouldn’t be hard to find, and is well worth worshipping.

Kirwan’s Solo Shots

Danny Kirwan might not have had a solo career at all if it wasn’t for the demons that drove him headlong into the bottom of a bottle and out of Fleetwood Mac. Free to make his own music at his own pace, Kirwan initially stumbled out of the blocks. His first solo effort, “Second Chapter,” (2 ½ out of 5 stars) came out in 1975, three years after his ouster from the big Mac. The mostly country/folk compositions were lighthearted, but so much so they bordered on being the work of a daydreaming boy, rather than a man in his early twenties who’d sweated the blues alongside Peter Green. “Odds and Ends” bopped along cheerily like a vaudevillian comedy routine, and the opener, “Ram Jam City” was optimistic. But the majority of the record is a step backward, as easy to dismiss as the moronic title of one of the songs -- “Skip A Dee Doo” -- suggests. Skip-a-dee-don’t buy this one, but invest heavily in Kirwan’s second solo project.

Kirwan’s romantic poet style resurfaced and flourished with “Midnight In San Juan” (4 ½ out of 5 stars), produced in 1976. (It was released in the U.S. as “Danny Kirwan.”). The songs were clipped pop masterpieces, particularly the reggae-influenced “I Can’t let You Go,” the synth-drenched “Castaway,” in which Kirwan revisited his all-alone in the world state of mind, and two introspective, folky pieces “Misty River,” and “I Can Tell.” Only Kirwan’s ill-advised resuscitation of The Beatles “Let It Be” as a reggae tune shocks and disappoints – but even in failure, Kirwan had the sense to leave out one of the verses, shortening the embarrassment.

Released in 1979, “Hello Big Boy” (3 ½ out of 5 stars) was Kirwan’s last record. According to former Fleetwood Mac guitarist Bob Weston, who played on the album, Kirwan was in an alcoholic daze throughout the making of the record, and may not have played any guitar on it at all. At one point, Kirwan recorded his vocal facing a wall so no one could look at him. The kitchen sink approach of folk, rock and near-disco, a revolving door of nearly 80 participants, and Kirwan writing only five out of the nine tunes further underscores his declining mental health. And when he laid an egg this time it stunk like Passaic on hundred degree day. “Summer Days and Summer Nights,” a duet with D list singer Dana Gillespie is as insipid as the John Revolta/Olivia Fig Newton’s John torture earwig “You’re the One That I Want” from “Grease.”

The album’s best performances were hatched from old material or covers. “Only You” was a fast-paced rocker Kirwan performed live with Green in Fleetwood Mac, and “You” was written Broadway/movie sound track writer Randy Edelman. “You” features one of Kirwan’s more touching vocals. He sounds desperate for love and a shoulder to lean on (and probably was). The string-laden “Caroline” is another noteworthy ballad supposedly written about Kirwan’s ex-wife, who happened to be named Claire. Like Kirwan’s other albums, “Hello Big Boy” didn’t break any sales records, mainly because Kirwan refused to tour in support of his releases.

What’s missing from Kirwan’s solo efforts is a balance. He needed Christine McVie to reinforce his Sir Galahad ballads with her own romantic missives, and could have benefited from Peter Green’s bluesy grit or even Bob Welch’s navel gazing. Instead, Kirwan’s compositions come off as the beautiful, melancholy work of boy in a man’s body.

Mystery Mac

Other Notable Mac Albums From The Bob Welch era

Released in 1973 following Kirwan’s abrupt departure, “Penguin” (3 out of 5 stars) copped its title from John McVie’s nickname. To compensate for Kirwan’s absence, the group enlisted talented strummer Bob Weston. With Weston and Welch toting guitars and Christine McVie planted behind the keyboards, the Mac brain trust thought they needed someone who could banter with the crowd and bound around the stage, so they needlessly drafted former Savoy Brown shouter Dave Walker. Walker was willing to serve as a catalyst, but the band had no idea how to use him – Christine McVie and Welch would still be writing and performing the vast majority of the tunes. The idea of a front man may not have worked in practice, but on record it had its moments. “Penguin” succeeds as a vehicle for the two guitar playing Bob’s (Weston and Welch), and gives Christine McVie the opportunity to prove she was more than a ballad singer. She rocks out to the crafty wordplay of “Dissatisfied,” (“You make me feel…dissatisfied.”), and the mid-tempo opener “Remember Me,” features Weston wielding a Kiwan-esque slide. Every Fleetwood Mac album has at least one Christine McVie classic. “Penguin” registered “Did You Ever Love Me,” a calypso based, sunny romp, (with effective work on the steel drum by guest Steve Nye), which also offered a rare opportunity to her Bob Weston singing faintly in the background. McVie often couched her marital problems in peppy arrangements and “Did You ever Love Me” percolates with such an abundance of island charm that you nearly forget she’s questioning her love life, not reaffirming it: “Oh, you’re a dream, hide your head in the sand. You’re far away when I want you around, and you leave me lonely when I’m feeling down. Do you ever wonder, or worry about me? Did I ever love you, did you ever love me?”

Welch’s “Revelation” and “Night Watch” (which features an uncredited Peter Green), are dreamy lysergic efforts that meander, yet satisfy, and Weston’s airy instrumental “Caught In The Rain” swells with sonic innocence, an irony given that Weston was caught in the sack with the drummer’s wife. Walker puts some heft behind a cover of “I’m A Roadrunner,” puffing into his harp like Paul Butterfield having heart palpitations, but he sounds burnt out in his self-penned “The Derelict,” a Huckleberry Finn stinker with banjos that’s as squeaky as 40-year old paddle steamer. “Penguin” is worth waddling to the nearest shop to pick up for “Did You Ever Love Me” and McVie’s continued ability to spin interesting tales about the pitfalls of being in love.

With the Walker-as-front man experiment an abject failure, “Mystery To Me” (4 out of 5 stars) also released in 1973, put the focus back on main writers Christine McVie and Bob Welch. Welch continued his naval gazing about the existence of UFOs, while McVie occupied her plate with – what else? Love. A couple of Welch’s tunes, “The City” and “Miles Away” move, but lack distinction, although “The City” warrants a listen thanks to Mick Fleetwood’s well placed squashing of his high hat and creative hammering on the rest of his kit. Christine McVie’s back up vocals add punch to Welch’s swaggering “Somebody” and John McVie’s adept bass provides the necessary friction. The soon to be unemployed Bob Weston gets a co-writing credit with John McVie and Welch for the reggae throwaway “Forever,” and the band plows through a pedestrian version of “For Your Love” sounding rushed. (The song replaced another Welch composition “Good Things (Come To Those Who Wait)” at the last minute. How last minute was it? The lyric sheet that came with my album still had the words to “Good Things” instead of “For Your Love.”) The album also contains a rarity: Christine McVie taking a lead vocal on “Keep On Growing,” one of Welch’s songs. Welch felt Chris could sing it better and he’s right; abetted by John McVie’s walloping bass, a nimble acoustic solo by Weston and menacing strings supplied by Richard Hewson, “Keep on Going” is a strong candidate for best song on the album. Welch also delivers two of the best songs he’d ever write (either for the group of solo), “Emerald Eyes,” which features explosive drumming from Fleetwood (trust me, his drumming sound like 16” inch shells hitting the side of a mountain), and the creepy “Hypnotized,” with Fleetwood once again distinguishing himself on percussion, introducing the song with a flurry of high hat and cymbals.

As usual, it’s Christine McVie who elevates the album to a must have level. Her first two songs, “Believe Me” and “Crazy Love” are surprisingly unspectacular by her standards. “Believe Me” has an out of control slide solo by Weston to recommend it, and the countrified “Crazy Love” offers buttery harmonizing from the overdubbed McVie, but both songs are more like the sweet but less compelling Top 40 hits Chris would later pen when nanny goat Nicks and buck crazy Lindsay joined the band. Her other two other compositions, the sparse “Way I Feel,” with its elegant acoustic opening and the spacious “Why” are as unforgettable as her best songs. McVie’s “Why” captures her heartache (and as a result, yours and mine as well) with a teary, murmuring vocal, and finds yet another imaginative way to say “It’s over.” The album falters a bit when three of Welch’s less impressive sings get stitched together (“The City,” “Miles Away,” and “Somebody”), but the quality of McVie’s tunes is no mystery, elevating the album to classic status.

Like the fading wail on “You”…Danny Kirwan disappeared from music altogether after “Hello Big Boy” went goodbye on the charts. He stayed in the shadows, going from homeless to helpless, living in stasis in a hostel, a classic victim of too much too soon. Whenever rumors of a reunion of the original members crops up, the addled but heavily medicated Peter Green declines and Jeremy Spencer bows to the east, dusts off his guitar, and waits patiently. And Danny Kirwan, too far gone to remember the chords to his own songs, is never even asked.

Posted December 11, 2007 Permalink