Published on Apr 2, 1998
For blinded-by-dollars, behind-the-times, guiltily sentimental
and generally just plain dopey behavior, it’s hard to match the
folks who vote on the Grammy Awards. I mean, are we all clear on
the fact that the Grammy they gave Bob Dylan this year, 35 years
into his amazing career, was his FIRST? I’ve heard of lost
weekends, but that’s gotta be a new record. And remember a couple
of years ago when they gave
Time magazine cover boys U2 the award for “Best Alternative
Album”? Even Bono acted stunned. He knows his place in the music
scene, and that ain’t it.
No, these Grammy voters seem to have developed a sense of
absurdity that would give even Monty Python pause. For further
evidence, I give you this year’s winner for Best Pop Album, James
Taylor’s very enjoyable
Hourglass. An absurd choice not just because Taylor thought
so little of his chances that he didn’t even bother attending, or
because it hit the charts twenty-five years after unrecognized
platinum albums like
Sweet Baby James and
Gorilla, but because it isn’t even his best album of the
’90s.
That title belongs to1991’s
New Moon Shine.
A return to form of sorts after three solid but unspectacular
outings during the ’80s, this album brings together unusually
strong representatives from each of Taylor’s principal musical
approaches: melancholy introspection, grooving funk, meaning-laden
story-songs and soulful harmonizing.
To the casual listener who knows Taylor only from “Fire And
Rain” and “You’ve Got A Friend,” elements of the above description
may sound a little foreign. But Taylor has always dug soul and
R&B music, and here he cuts loose with his affection for these
genres a little more than he did in his early days. Part of the
impetus seems to have come from a mini-reunion with old bandmate
and fellow blue-eyed soul lover Danny Kortchmar, now a successful
producer (Don Henley, Billy Joel). The man once known as “Kootch”
co-wrote the swinging, horn-driven “Got to Stop Thinkin’ ‘Bout
That,” and plays on and co-produces both it and the smartly
arranged and keenly observed “The Frozen Man.”
Taylor touches on social/political concerns as well, movingly on
“Shed a Little Light,” a soaring, gospel-tinged anthem to Martin
Luther King, Jr., and hilariously on the Reagan/Bush deconstruction
rap “Slap Leather.” One of the keys to Taylor’s talent as a
songwriter is the way his essential shyness sometimes evaporates in
his lyrics, catching you by surprise with raw emotions that can
range from compassion to scorn to fulfillment to deep, deep
blues.
He exploits the latter maybe a little too eagerly on the one low
point on the album, “Down In The Hole.” A pop dirge of sorts, the
song — inexplicably placed second on the album — takes the
metaphor of depression driving you underground to ridiculous, even
tedious lengths. My advice is just to hit skip and keep moving past
this anomaly — there’s great stuff ahead.
From the point of view of a long-time fan who has been known to
carry on in the JT newsgroup from time to time, maybe the most
overlooked song on the album is “Like Everyone She Knows.” Leading
off with some of the prettiest acoustic playing Taylor has ever put
on record (and that’s saying something…), the song slowly unfolds
around a thirtysomething woman battling through a
deer-in-the-headlights emotional paralysis at a crossroads in her
life. Its message about the healing powers of solitude and patience
(“Tend your own fire / Lay low and be strong”) is sealed by an
achingly beautiful Branford Marsalis sax solo.
There’s a lot more here… an evocatively-told tale of young
love (“Copperline”)… an energetic piece of blue-eyed funk about
waking up at middle age with suddenly clear eyes (“One More Go
Round”)… and a romp through Sam Cooke’s classic “Everybody Loves
To Cha Cha Cha”… Taylor’s rich, rangy voice, seemingly stronger
and stronger with age, matches tones beautifully with whatever
genre he’s drawing from.
But some things never change. Even on this, perhaps Taylor’s
happiest album, there’s a hint of tragedy.
It comes nears the end in the clearly autobiographical “Oh
Brother,” in which the narrator tries to wish, coax, admonish and
otherwise will a sibling through a seemingly impossible battle with
addiction. In one of the most moving moments on
Hourglass (in “Enough to Be On Your Way”), Taylor eulogizes
his older brother Alex, who died in 1996 after a lifelong battle
with alcohol and drugs. That outcome is foretold here. “You forgot
to remember to never die young” he sings to his brother, echoing
the title song of his 1987 album, at the time seemingly directed at
the death by overdose of his friend John Belushi. At Belushi’s
funeral, Taylor sang “That Lonesome Road,” a 1981 song whose key
image he repeats a decade later in “Oh Brother” — “And that moon
will be / Shining in the trees.” What has developed out of these
three songs and the real-life events surrounding them is a
remarkably moving song cycle about self-destruction and loss.
In that sense,
New Moon Shine has it all: joy and sadness, folk and funk,
dense grooves and soaring vocals. The one thing it doesn’t have is
a Grammy. To which I can only respond, so the hell what.