“People Change” / Nick Lowe

NICK LOWE WEEK

Now here it comes: Nick Lowe’s philosophy of love. Given the title of this 2007 album, At My Age, you’d expect it to be full of sadder-but-wiser reflections on human relations; what I didn’t expect was how snappy and snarky he still can be at his age.

On the one hand, there’s the mellow, rueful “Love’s Got a Lot to Answer For”; but it's balanced by “People Change,” a much more hard-bitten appraisal of love’s vagaries. I couldn’t even tell you what genre this is; with that uptempo strum, the meaty horn section, and the back-up vocals, I guess retro pop is the best label. Nick’s voice is particularly velvety here – confiding, well-worn, sincere.

At his age, Nick’s become an incredibly economical songwriter: two succinct lines and you’ve got the whole set-up: “Storybook love, made for one another / Now she treats you just like a brother.” He hangs fire for a moment, strumming away, while the contrast sinks in, then plunges on, with two hurried lines that meander melodically: “And you don’t know what you’ve done / Or even how to make it right.” I can just see the baffled bloke, nodding in recognition. Yeah, yeah, that’s how it is, man. So tell me, what do I do?

Nick ashes his cigarette – or the instrumental equivalent thereof – and then delivers his counsel in the chorus. The lyrics are straightforward -- “People change / That’s the long and short of it / Prepare yourself for it / Or get bit / People change” – but he keeps it dancing, with staggered rhythms, dodgy shifting chords, and an edgy swooping melodic line. Nick’s sudden double-octave drop from “bit” to that last growly “people change”, that’s the song in a nutshell.

Those chipper horns add sympathy to what’s basically a tough-minded credo. “Save your tears, you’re gonna need ‘em,” he warns at one point; “cut yourself a slice of reality,” he adds later. We’ll have no whining here. But it’s not classic British stiff-upper-lip-itude; Nick’s deft phrasing gives the song a stinging undertone, a slight defensive hitch of the shoulder.

Chrissie Hynde generally annoys me (I still haven’t forgiven her for breaking Ray Davies’ heart), but her hard-edged nasal backing vocals here are just right. She’s like the woman in the picture, who’d be happy to chime in with her side of the story -- and it wouldn’t be pretty. With her still haunting him, he can’t get away with self-pity or excuses. All he’s got left is a shrug and two words of advice: “People change.”

Well, I'm already lost in the novel behind that motto. When you get to be Nick Lowe's age, you're bound to have a story or two. And me, I could sit up all night listening.

People Change sample

"Only A Fool Breaks His Own Heart" / Nick Lowe

NICK LOWE WEEK

The Convincer -- my god, what an album, simply saturated with excellence. There are so many landmark tracks here -- "I'm A Mess," "Let's Stay In and Make Love," "Has She Got A Friend," "She's Got Soul" -- that I didn't even pay proper attention to this modest gem for ages. Time to right that wrong.

"Only A Fool Breaks His Own Heart" has that classic late Lowe combination: weary wisdom fighting against a stubborn romantic streak. The story line's simple, an all-too-familiar plot, laid out in downward-rambling musical phrases -- "Why do I go on fooling myself / When I know you love somebody else" -- but the title refrain puts a shrewd psychological spin on it: "Only a fool breaks his own heart." This isn't some adolescent drowning in self-pity; on top of feeling lovelorn, he's beating himself up for feeling lovelorn -- really, at his age, he should know better. And yet, for all his wisdom, we know he's going to go right on ahead with this fool's game. It's not like he can't help it; he chooses heartbreak. Now there's a self-aware romantic for you.

"I have to admit," he adds in the bridge, full of unresolved chord changes, "Even though it hurt me so / I can't forget." Then he musters his good intentions: "If I'm a man / I'll let you go." I hear a very big If there, though -- listen to how uncertainly that line climbs up to its trembling last note (also unresolved, anything but triumphant). With a sort of sigh, he stumbles back into the third verse: "There's no sense in holding on / To an old love that's gone wrong / Only a fool breaks his own heart." He may be the Convincer, but right now he's not even convincing himself.

The whole arrangement is full of rueful, resigned weariness -- the shuffling two-step tempo, the plodding piano and drums; hear that wheezy organ in the break, and that hypnotic circular guitar riff. How many times has this hapless lover gone over these same arguments? He's sick of them himself by now. But he's still not ready to give up the girl.

Now, a lesson in fangirl psychology: There is nothing sexier than a man who's hopelessly in love with another woman. Since it's hopeless, of course, she's no competition; meanwhile he's demonstrating enormous ardor, always a great qualification. And of course, you want to mother him; you want to be the one who heals that broken heart of his. I'm dizzy already. Have another cup of coffee, Nick, and tell me all about it . . .

I can think of a dozen artists who could do a great job with this song -- the late great Johnny Cash, of course, and while we're dreaming, why not Frank Sinatra or Ray Charles or Marvin Gaye? Willie Nelson would do a killer version of this. I'd love to hear it in Guy Clark's hands. Peter Wolf, Mark Knopfler; shoot, even Rod Stewart. (Just trying to drum up songwriting royalties for you, Nick.) It should be a classic. And, of course, it probably never will be. That's injustice for you.

Only A Fool Breaks His Own Heart sample

"Freezing" / Nick Lowe

NICK LOWE WEEK

Like Harold Pinter plays, Nick Lowe songs are sometimes all about the silences. It's amazing to think that the same guy who wrote frenetic songs like "Heart of the City" and "I Knew the Bride When She Used to Rock and Roll" could have crafted such a jazzy, laid-back, copasetic thing as "Freezing."

You'll find it on Dig My Mood, a 1998 album that genre-hops even more than Jesus of Cool -- and shows Nick a master of every one of 'em. This track is something Mel Torme could have written, a wintertime classic from the first line -- "It's freezing / Freezing / Wind chill is twenty below / Whole town is under snow" -- with pianist Geraint Watkins layering on delicious frosty glissandos, and the lightest crash of icy cymbals. Nick draws out "freezing," making it fill a whole line, and lets long pauses fall between the lines, full of wonder at the winter cold, as if he's shaking a snow globe. There's plenty of room to shiver here.

"Mercury's falling, it just won't quit / What are you doing out in it?" Nick wonders, hesitates for a moment, and then gently beckons, "Come inside love / Into the warm." As seductions go, it's effortless, but dig the tender curl of that last melodic phrase, the slight groan of contentment in his voice -- that's what I'd call an irresistible invitation. "It's freezing," he reminds us again, tenderly chiding: "Inside's where you should be / Don't try to argue with me." Well, erm -- who's arguing?

We slide next into a sultry sax solo, the next best thing to a fire crackling in the fireplace, and just as I'm snuggling in and getting comfy, Nick returns, tucking a hearth rug in place: "Inside's where you should be / Don't try to disagree / Come in and set me free from this yearning." And that one word, that "yearning" is all we need to kick the whole thing onto a metaphorical plane. In this cold cold world, the only shelter worth seeking is love -- not stressful, anxiety-ridden longing, but this perfect restful haven Nick Lowe's offering, drowsy with desire.

Nick's not out in the cold himself, mind you -- he's like a cat curled on the hearth, stretching lazily. Talk about efficient love songs. It's a shame, really, that Nat King Cole wasn't around to do a cover of this; that would've been delicious indeed. But if Nick's door is open, I'm happy to duck inside, any time of year.

Freezing sample

"Lover Don't Go" / Nick Lowe

NICK LOWE WEEK

This song absolutely devastates me. This wasn't the song that first made me love Nick Lowe, but it sure does seal the deal. On this album, Impossible Bird, Nick Lowe finally figured out how to cast aside the giddy rocker persona and reinvent himself as a grown-up, and much as I love the goofy youthful Nick, this seasoned crooner gets to me even more.

First of all, it's the way he sings it -- that slightly ragged, weathered texture to his voice, the soulful shiver he brings to that long drawn-out "go" and anguished downward slide on "please" -- the love-drunk adolescent of "Without Love" is long gone, replaced by a grown-up man who knows whereof he speaks.

And the clever wordplay is set aside, too, as it should be. When you're really and truly miserable, who has time to play around with words? There is a very gentle echo in the first verse lines: "There's a hollow in the bed / Where your body used to be / Like the hollow in your heart /Where the love once was for me." But it's that powerful, intensely physical opening image that draws the attention, not the double meaning; I can just picture the crumpled bedclothes, the cruel slant of daylight through the blinds. That millisecond pause before "bed" -- there's phrasing for you.

With brilliant restraint, he then lets fewer syllables do the work. "It's still warm," he notes numbly (can't you just see him running his hand over the bed, in shock?), then ruefully adds, "But it won't be for long." He's been around long enough to know how these things go. And even though he moans, "Lover, don't go / Please, lover don't go," I'm pretty sure the door has already slammed behind her.

Oh, she may still be there -- but he's no fool; he can tell she's already checked out. "I can feel it coming on /With the pounding of my head/ An emptiness inside /Like a nameless dread." He's mourning an honest-to-god relationship between two people who really had connected once, and don't anymore. In the bridge, we get the idea that they had some miles behind them, too: "What about the plans we made / And all the funny games we played / Can you really turn your back / Please . . . . " He can't even finish the rhyme.

He staggers through a few more fragments of the earlier verses, disintegrating as we listen. "It's still warm," he repeats, fixated dazedly on the physical details -- and that warmth in the bed suddenly stands for all the love lingering in his heart.

I'm drawn into this little drama absolutely -- I'm fretting, wondering what woman could ever walk out on Nick, when he clearly is so hung up on her. And yet he accomplishes all this with astonishing economy. The tempo is halting, and the arrangement wonderfully spare -- mostly just acoustic guitar strum and the drawn-out sigh of an organ, though in the bridge he adds echoing back-up vocals and the dejected kick of drums. All pretense has been stripped away, leaving just those emotions, welling up in the emptiness of that deserted bedroom. My heart's aching, that's for sure.

Lover Don't Go sample

"Without Love" / Nick Lowe

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, NICK!!!

Yes, indeed, it's that time of year again -- Nick Lowe Week, when I celebrate the birthday of my favorite aging British rocker with a full week of blog posts. I know, I seem to pay tribute to Nick every other week on here -- but to paraphrase Lesley Gore, it's my blog, and I'll gush if I want to.

When people complain that Nick's gone too country in his old age, I wonder -- were they actually listening all those years? This song's from 1979's Labour of Lust (why this brilliant album is out of print, I just can't fathom) and it's as country as they come, a twangy upbeat number with a nifty rockabilly guitar solo in the middle.

Yet the theme is the Number One Pop Theme of All Time -- romantic love. In fact, Nick takes this to the nth degree; this isn't even a song about a girl, but a song about love itself. "Without love," Nick declares, "I am half human / Without love, I'm a machine / Without love, there's nothing doing / I am dying without love." That's just about as pure a statement of generalized lust as you'll ever hear. But the twang gives Nick plenty of room to wink (and he throws in vocal slides and hiccups to underscore the point) . Ironic understatement is more often Nick's line of attack; not here -- he goes full-tilt into Opry-style emotional extravagance.

My favorite line, though, is one I can't imagine being written in Nashville: "Without love, I am an island / All by myself in a heartbreak sea." John Donne reference and all; that's damn deft. And then there's the bridge: "Now there is nowhere I can run / And there is no hiding place / Stickin' out like a sore thumb / By the gloomy look upon my face." Bit by bit, he nudges this song into his own inimitable self-pitying loser mode, until I'm thinking, Aw, poor guy, such an incurable romantic, it would be a shame to leave him all alone... And that dogged brisk rockabilly tempo -- it's like he's on a relentless treadmill he can't get off. Oh, yes, he's dyin' without love. Maybe there's something I could do to help...

No doubt this is one of the songs Nick's thinking of when he says that he can't perform his earlier material anymore. He can't get away with playing the jumpy obsessed adolescent these days. But there really isn't such a distance between this and "Has She Got A Friend?" or "I'm A Mess," is there? It's all good, Nick.

Without Love sample

"Walking On the Moon" / The Police
"Walkin' On the Sun" / Smash Mouth

A two-for-one for you today, because I feel so guilty that I've gone AWOL this week (big book deadline hanging over my head...)

Now, I don't have anything against the Police. I used to love them, in fact, in the olden days, though I couldn't follow Sting down the many avenues of egotism and pomposity he's trod since then. The idea that Elvis Costello should be their opening act this summer, however (all right, he's not the opening act, he's the "featured guest artist"), bothers me. Much as I love Elvis, I don't think I want to spring big bucks to see him in an arena setting just because the Police are coming on afterward.

But all that is neither here nor there. "Walking On the Moon" is from the vintage Police era (1979, Regatta de Blanc), so it's still on my playlist. Great reggae beat, nice spangly space-agey guitars, and those high, strangulated, dislocated Sting vocals--it's going all Arthur C. Clarke-y on us. It's unusually surreal for the Police -- "Giant steps are what you take / Walking on the moon / I hope my legs don't break / Walking on the moon," even though it's not really about space travel at all but about the euphoria of being with his girlfriend. I've always imagined this as being sung by a guy who's just lost his virginity, and how strange the world seems all of a sudden--that hypnotic sense of wonderment is pretty durn effective.

Still, given a choice, I'd prefer this Smash Mouth track. Were they thinking of the Police song when they did this? I wouldn't be surprised. Maybe that explains the delicious funkiness (a lot more so than most of the Smash Mouth songs I've heard), along with a samba-like syncopation and some boppy organ riffs that sound straight out of the British Invasion (think Yardbirds, Zombies, Traffic...). But I'm still trying to figure out what's going on in this song; Smash Mouth songs tend to be so crammed with words, it always take a while to sort out what (if anything) they're on about.

It's definitely putting down media saturation and trendoids ("I'd like to buy the world a toke / And teach the world to sing in perfect harmony"; "If you got the goods they'll come and buy it just to stay in the clique," "So don't delay, act now / Supplies are running out") but then it starts to ruminate on history. "Twenty five years ago / They spoke out and they broke out / Of recession and oppression and together they toked / And they folked out with guitars around a bonfire" -- hey, that's my generation you kids are talking about! "Just singin' and clappin' / Man what the hell happened" -- I keep asking myself that very same thing.

Given their penchant for cover songs -- the Monkees "I'm A Believer," Steely Dan's "Do It Again," the Kinks' "Father Christmas," War's "Why Can't We Be Friends" -- I'm assuming these guys listen to a LOT of old music and dig it. But they're also speaking for restless slackers who can't get with the mass merchandised culture; they're baffled by the devolution of those 60s ideals, and scornful of how we boomers have betrayed our noble intentions. And you know, they've got a point. This band has always struck me as acute social critics, even though they wrap it all up in in-your-face skatehead hostility.

Anyhoo, it's a nifty little number, despite -- or maybe because of -- those borrowed riffs. I highly recommend. If the Police intend to make a comeback, they could do worse than have these guys as their "featured artists" (and leave Elvis to headline his own shows, please). Only catch is, the Police would really have to bring their game up to outdo the kids.

Walking On the Moon sample

Walkin' On the Sun sample

"Dance This Mess Around" /
The B-52s

Good news, America -- the B-52s will be releasing a new album on March 25th, their first in 16 years. I take that as a sign that, despite all signs to the contrary, life on Planet Earth will prevail. You know, when you think about it, they first surfaced in the late 70s and early 80s, another crummy era in American history -- maybe there's some correlation. Alls I know is, we need the B-52s' special brand of F-U-N now more than ever.

Nowadays, if a band this wacky appeared on the scene (yes, Panic! at the Disco, I'm looking at you), you'd suspect they were crafted and market-tested. But when I first saw the B-52s pony out onto the stage in Central Park in 1979, it never crossed my mind that they were anybody's shrewd invention. Those beehive wigs on Kate and Cindy, Fred with his lounge-lizard slink, and above all that strange spaceage-retrobop sound -- it worked because they themselves were having more fun than anybody else at the concert. Sure, there was a big wink to everything they did, but it was never a smirk. Anybody who wanted to jump up and do all 16 dances along with them was welcome into the tribe.

Their debut album started out with four songs that were just killers: "Planet Claire," "52 Girls," "Dance This Mess Around," and then "Rock Lobster," each one a little weirder than the one before it. It was a whole party on one convenient black vinyl disc -- indeed, every party I went to in those days started and ended with it. Even now, I have a hard time hearing one track without expecting the next one to follow.

On one level, "Dance This Mess Around" is just another catchy jukebox filler, the bratty younger sibling to "Land of a Thousand Dances." Mentioning all those outmoded dances was a no-brainer, given their 60s-style visual look. For the record, here are all the dances they list: the Shu-ga-loo, the Shy Tuna, the Camel Walk, the Hip-o-crit, the Coo-ca-choo, the Aqua-velva, the Dirty Dog, the Escalator...even if you throw in the Hippy-Hippy-Shake and the Shake-Bake from the chorus, that's not 16. But who's counting? They could have made them up for all I know, or care. But they sure looked great on stage.

There's a completely phony haze of nostalgia laid on for good measure -- "Remember when you held my hand / Remember when you were my man / Walk talk in the name of love / Before you break my heart" -- classic girl-group crap. But there's no wall of sound here, just a spare surf-guitar line and lockstep drumming and occasional snaking around on the keyboards (this song had electronica down way before anybody gave it a name) and Cindy's stylized screams -- Ronnie Spector would never have done that to her voice. And Fred Schneider's, um, singing -- yeah, that was something new, all right.

Somewhere halfway through, there's a long section -- this song does seem longer than it is, but in a good way -- where Cindy keeps repeating "Why don't you dance with me? / I'm not no limberger!" For the longest time, I couldn't believe she was singing about smelly cheese; I assumed she was singing, "I'm not a limber girl." But of course, limberger was exactly what Cindy felt like, so why not?

That big Why Not? -- that was the essence of the B-52s. I always had the idea that they knew they were a novelty act, and never wanted to be anything else. The first time I saw them they shared the bill with the Talking Heads, who were still in their art-school geek phase, and both acts were smart and post-modern and extremely danceable. Then David Byrne had to turn himself into a Serious Artiste . . . well, I'm forever grateful to the B-52s for sticking to their dance-pop guns. The idea that they're still around, still turning every concert into a big goofy party, makes me very happy indeed.

Now doesn't that make you feel a lot better? (What you say?) I'm just askin'!

Dance This Mess Around sample