Published on Oct 22, 2003
When approaching the catalog of the late Warren Zevon, one may
very well assume some CDs are more approachable than others. At
first glance,
Transverse City seems like it might be lighter than some of
Zevon’s other work, with its brightly colored cover and
straightforward photo of a serious-looking and wildly-coifed
Zevon.
You think so, do you? Sucker.
Transverse City is Zevon’s hard-hitting analysis of where we
were and where we were going at the end of the 1980s, and it’s as
unblinking as an autopsy and cold as January. Heavily influenced by
cyberpunk and futurist speculation,
Transverse City shares the dispassion of science-fiction
artists like William Gibson and Pat Cadigan. In the future of
Zevon’s musical vision, the world is winding down like a cheap
watch and we’ll all watch TV as we drown in our own industrial
waste. — where, to quote Cadigan, we are all just change for the
machines.
Yet, despite the heavy rhetoric, Zevon manages to dance the
razorwire tightrope over the abyss of maudlin pessimism. Nothing on
(in?)
Transverse City is too heavy to listen to, and there are
times when it’s downright perky. The production is light and
uncluttered, the drum sounds particularly sharp and crisp. (I had
the 24-bit digital remaster version to review, and I heartily
recommend it.) Zevon’s usual backing musicians, including Jorge
Calderon and Waddy Wachtel, are excellent, and Zevon’s guest list
looks like a Rock of Roll Hall Of Fame pre-admission party — Jerry
Garcia, Chick Corea, David Gilmour, Neil Young, Jack Casady, Jorma
Kaukonen, and J.D. Souther all show up at various moments.
The songs are the real element that makes
Transverse City brilliant. From the opening notes of the
title track, Zevon paints a picture of post-futuristic despair, his
images stark, cool, and unflinching. He dabbles in straight-ahead
rock (“Long Arm Of The Law”), romantic balladry (“They Moved The
Moon”), and pop (“Splendid Isolation”) with equal skill.
“Networking” is a pun-filled tongue-in-cheek look at computerized
relationships, “Gridlock” is a paean to freeway madness, and “Down
In The Mall” twists a knife in the back of consumerism.
Add to that the two gems of “Run Straight Down”, with its
haunting descant of industrial chemicals like an indictment, and
“Nobody’s In Love This Year”, the final statement of the death of
romanticism, and
Transverse City is solid, brilliant, and rueful. Days after
finishing repeated listens to
Transverse City, “Run Straight Down” is still caught in my
head like a dirge — or a cyberspace loop of endless news, all
bad.
Do yourself a favor, and visit
Transverse City. You’ll be glad you did.