I’ve discovered how old men are born. We get time demanding jobs, go to professional school, are subsumed by the demands of life. Our backs ache, our paychecks go to pay off the mortgage. We stop going to three concerts a week and buying a couple of new records every Tuesday. When we do buy a new record or go to a concert, it’s to catch up with an old friend, who’s, arguably (and you’d be arguing with us, comrade!) long past their prime. They don’t make rock-n-roll records like they used to. They never did.
I’m spending this evening with two old friends. Morrissey’s solo career turns off many. The solo careers of famous lead singer-songwriters (like Lou Reed and Paul Westerberg) are a fascinating part of the overall narrative of their lives. In Morrissey’s case, musically, this means pursuing his unique brand of classical rock which would have buried Johnny Marr’s guitars in violins and singing children, and, lyrically, a more literal exploration of his personal demons.
My friend and carpool comrade, Alan Amalgamated, insists that Morrissey’s lyrics have always been explicitly queer, while I believe that they were meant to be more ambiguous. A trusted former girlfriend once explained “Hand In Glove” as being a snide satire of self-absorbed lovers engaging in wretched PDA’s. Perhaps I put too much stock in her Masters degree in Literature, but it’s easy to hear sarcasm in a line like “And everything depends upon how near you stand to me.” Amalgamated finds a sense of daring and apprehension in the act of two men walking hand-in-hand, risking a bashing.
In any event, there’s less ambiguity now that Morrissey has dropped the pronouns. He just wants to see the boy happy. Is that too much to ask? That freedom, apparently, makes him so happy that the Moz is no longer wishing for a nuclear war to destroy him and the seaside town in which he resides. Instead, he’ll gladly sacrifice Pittsburgh for the chance to see the future when all’s well.
“Ringleader of the Tormenters” zips by with nary a clunker. Most songs are up-tempo, vaguely majestic with the usual pithy zingers. Even the repeated use of the children singers feels right.
Robert Zimmerman has a new record, too. Can three records released four and five years apart properly be considered a trilogy? “Modern Times” feels vastly less important than “Time Out of Mind,” which is to its credit. With his crack touring band behind him, Dylan seems determined to just have a good time.
He’s been thinking about Alicia Keys, which shows he is even more of an old man than me. I haven’t thought about Alicia Keys for at least two years. But I certainly feel that lyric, “This woman so crazy, I swear I ain’t gonna touch another one for years.” The spare ten songs stretch out comfortably over an hour etched on modified petroleum product. I’m sure there’s some deeper meaning to it all, but an old-fashioned record from an old-timer is a good time for me.
I’m almost encouraged enough to buy the new Paul Westerberg children’s movie soundtrack. That ‘un makes me nervous.