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ELVIS COSTELLO WITH BURT BACHARACH
Painted From Memory
Mercury Records
WHEN ELVIS COSTELLO was perfecting his angry young man
routine on the streets of London 20-odd years ago, did he harbor
dreams of making music with the man who made Dionne Warwick famous?
Well, the '90s have seen stranger pairings--Bono with Frank Sinatra,
Johnny Cash with Glenn Danzig--and the result in any event is
a surprising excursion into trademark Bacharach territory, with
its pah-pum pah-pum flugelhorns and bass flutes, mixed with lyrics
of lost love and broken Middle American/Midlands dreams. Bacharach
has always placed great demands on his singers, and he gives Elvis
a workout that has the grizzled pop star straining for notes,
so that he occasionally sounds like Bert Lahr, the vibrato-heavy
Cowardly Lion of The Wizard of Oz. Even so, the disc pays
off with world-weary, after-hours tunes like "This House
Is Empty Now" and "God Give Me Strength" that showcase
both collaborators' considerable skills, and that bear repeated
playing.
--Gregory McNamee
CHRIS HILLMAN
Like A Hurricane
Sugar Hill
THE MOST MEMORABLE theme in group Pamela De Barres' book
I'm With The Band is Hillman's refusal to bed the hot blonde
who placed him above loads of more accessible, notable rockers.
Decades later, that same disciplined, Christian-soldier mentality
permeates intense cuts like "Forgiveness," where Hillman
writes/sings, "forgiveness is a word I want to live by."
Hillman is a bluegrasser above all else, and his Sugar Hill releases
do his specialty justice. The Dylanesque "I'm Still Alive"
features David Crosby--unquestionably the perfect background vocalist
for that particular song, dontcha think? Hot as the Byrds and
Desert Rose Band were, Hillman's solo albums shine through with
a personality that both of his previous bands somewhat dampered.
Come to think of it, none of the other Byrds have done nearly
as well with their solo careers, and this disc serves as further
proof.
--Dave McElfresh
CREEDENCE CLEARWATER REVISITED
Recollection
Fuel 2000 Records
LIKE ANY GOOD restaurant reviewer, I gave this one a lunchtime
spin and then a subsequent one around the dinner hour. Here's
how it stacked up. The midday session, held at the record store,
provoked a mixture of foot-tapping and grimacing. The former response
was due in no small part to the rock-solid rhythm section (more
on that in a sec) and, quite naturally, the familiarity of the
tunes. Like a toasted reuben sandwich dripping with sauce, there
just ain't nothing tastier than some good ol' swamp-fried boogie,
CCR style: "Born On The Bayou," "Green River,"
"Run Through The Jungle," "Suzie Q"--all the
hits are present and accounted for on this live double album,
and they rock the bar (more on that also). But when the band tries
to pull off a 15-minute version of "Heard It Through The
Grapevine" and the long guitar solo starts to turn into a
tapping/hammering Eddie Van Halen wankfest (courtesy of, get this,
ex-Cars Elliot Easton), well, you begin to understand why John
Fogerty got so indignant over the way his estranged former bandmates,
drummer Doug Clifford and bassist Stu Cook, were exploiting his
franchise. (And as one listener pointed out, there's an additional,
painful, irony in a cover band doing a cover of its own cover.)
Later, that evening, over a bottle of red wine and sprawled under
the moonlight, I wasn't nearly so analytical and Recollection
went down quite nicely. CCR has hired a scab, John Tristao, to
cross Fogerty's picket line and assume mic duties. In truth, he's
got a gritty, tuneful set of pipes, even convincingly channeling
the other John for certain tunes ("Lodi" especially).
Only on occasion does he lapse into Elvis-in-Vegas shticky vocal
tics.
Just the same--the album may be live, but it's not even Memorex.
At the end of the day, CCR is just another bar band doing Creedence
songs (admittedly, fairly well). The group's aesthetic falls somewhere
in between that of the honest, wage-earning efforts of an aging
'60s rocker reviving his old band's glory days via the theme park
circuit, and of the pathetic, masturbatory spectacle that is one
of those ubiquitous "A Tribute To..." groups.
--Fred Mills
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