Ringo Starr [2008] Liverpool 8

[01] Liverpool 8
[02] Think About You
[03] For Love
[04] Now That She's Gone Away
[05] Gone Are The Days
[06] Give It A Try
[07] Tuff Love
[08] Harry's Song
[09] Pasodobles
[10] If It's Love That You Want
[11] Love Is
[12] R U Ready



amg: For a Beatle, Ringo Starr has had a relatively quiet latter-day solo career. After salvaging his tattered reputation in 1992 with Time Takes Time — his first album in nearly a decade and his first in nearly 20 years to serve his legend well — Starr settled into touring regularly with his ever-changing All-Starr Band, documenting almost every tour with a live album, then turning out a new studio album every three or four years. After Time Takes Time, all these albums were recorded in collaboration with Mark Hudson, best known as one of '70s popsters the Hudson Brothers but also an L.A. session man who slowly became Ringo's right-hand man. Starr's albums with Hudson never grabbed much attention outside the Beatles hardcore — unlike Time Takes Time, they were rarely studded with stars and once he decamped from the majors to the indie Koch in 2003, they never received much of a marketing push, either, so they played solely to the devoted, who were always satisfied by the happily Beatlesque music Starr made with Hudson. This collaboration continued into 2007 as the duo embarked on what would become the Liverpool 8 album, but they had a falling out in the final stages of recording, with former Eurythmic David A. Stewart brought in at the last minute to polish up the album and collaborate on its title song. Stewart helps give Liverpool 8 the gloss the album needs as it's not only Ringo's first major-label album in five years, it's his homecoming to Capitol Records, the label that released the Beatles albums and Starr's first, best solo albums (highlights from which dominated the 2007 hits comp Photograph, released a matter of months before Liverpool 8).

On the surface, Liverpool 8 does indeed feel a bit like a comeback: Stewart's "re-production" — so named in the liner notes as he gussied up Hudson's original production — turns the music shiny and sleek and there are several cheerful forays into baby boomer nostalgia, whether it's the outright reference to "It Don't Come Easy" on "Gone Are the Days" or Ringo's stroll through his back pages on "Liverpool 8," reminiscent of Paul McCartney's marveling at his past on "That Was Me," a rollicking number on his 2007 album Memory Almost Full. At times, Liverpool 8 recalls Memory in how it balances nostalgia and mortality — on "R U Ready" Ringo jovially stares into the great beyond — which is just enough of a hook to reel in boomers who haven't listened to Ringo in years. Nevertheless, this sentimentality, like the Stewart reproduction, is just window dressing on an album that is essentially not all that different than the three that preceded it. Liverpool 8 is a relaxed, amiable collection of friendly pop tunes: it's nothing too flashy and it has no one tune that calls attention to itself, but it's a well-constructed, casually charming pop record. In a way, the smaller-scale productions of the Koch records served latter-day Ringo better, as they were as humble and unpretentious as his music, but even if Liverpool 8 is a little bit too pumped up and slick for its own good, Starr remains eminently likable, which is enough for those who have enjoyed Ringorama or Choose Love. However, it may not be enough for those hoping for another Ringo or Goodnight Vienna, which is what the big marketing push, complete with the album's release as a USB bracelet, suggests it is. Liverpool 8 is not another Memory Almost Full, an album that offers enough reminders of the past but is about the present; it is merely another good latter-day record for Ringo, filled with songs about love and spiked with a ridiculous novelty number (this time, it's "Pasodobles," where Starr warbles about a Spanish dance). For those who already love Ringo, that's plenty good enough, but for those who often (and often unfairly) run the good man down, this is too light, easygoing, and sometimes unapologetically silly to change their minds.
(amg 6/10)

Red Hot Chili Peppers [2006] Stadium Arcadium

[101] Dani California
[102] Snow (Hey Oh)
[103] Charlie
[104] Stadium Arcadium
[105] Hump De Bump
[106] She's Only 18
[107] Slow Cheetah
[108] Torture Me
[109] Strip My Mind
[110] Especially In Michigan
[111] Warlocks
[112] C'mon Girl
[113] Wet Sand
[114] Hey
[201] Desecration Smile
[202] Tell Me Baby
[203] Hard To Concentrate
[204] 21st Century
[205] She Looks To Me
[206] Readymade
[207] If
[208] Make You Feel Better
[209] Animal Bar
[210] So Much I
[211] Storm In A Teacup
[212] We Believe
[213] Turn It Again
[214] Death Of A Martian



amg: Indulgence has long been a way of life for the Red Hot Chili Peppers, yet they resisted the siren's call of the double album until 2006's Stadium Arcadium. Sure, 1991's breakthrough Blood Sugar Sex Magik was as long as a classic double LP, but such distinctions mattered little in the era when vinyl gave way to CD, and they matter less now, as the CD gradually gives way to digital-only releases. In fact, like how Blood Sugar was the tipping point when the LPs ceded ground to CDs, Stadium Arcadium could be seen as the point when albums were seen as a collection of digital playlists. Yes, it's pressed up as a two-disc set — including an extravagant but pointless special edition housed in a clunky box that includes a make-yer-own-spinning-top — but this is an album that's designed for you to mix and match, create your own playlist, rip and burn on your own. It's designed for you to sequence its 28 songs in some kind of cohesive manner, since the band sure didn't take the time to do that here; it's the first major album by a major band that makes as much sense on random as it does in its proper sequencing. Well, that's not entirely true: the official 28-song album does begin with "Dani California," the clearest single here, the one thing that truly grabs attention upon first listen and worms its way into your subconscious, where it just won't let go, as so much of Anthony Kiedis' catchiest melodies do. After that, it's a long, winding path of alternately spacey and sunny pop, ballads, and the occasional funk workout that used to be the Chili Peppers' signature but now functions as a way to break up the monotony. And there needs to be something to break up the monotony, not because the music is bad but because it all exists at the same level and is given a flat, colorless production that has become the signature of Rick Rubin as of late.

Rubin may be able to create the right atmosphere for Flea and John Frusciante to run wild creatively — an opportunity that they seize here, which is indeed a pleasure to hear — but he does nothing to encourage them to brighten the finished recording up with some different textures, or even a greater variety of guitar tones. As such, the bare-bone production combined with the relentless march of songs gives Stadium Arcadium the undeniable feel of wading through the demos for a promising project instead of a sprawling statement of purpose; there's not enough purpose here for it to be a statement. That fault is down to the band not forming the raw material into something palatable for the listener, but there's also the problem that as a lyricist Anthony Kiedis just isn't that deep or clever enough to provide cohesive themes for an album of this length; he tackles no new themes here, nor does he provide new insight to familiar topics. To his credit, he does display a greater versatility as a vocalist, cutting back on the hambone rapping that used to be his signature and crooning throughout the bulk of this album, usually on key. That said, he still has enough goofy tics to undercut his attempts at sincerity, and he tends to be a bit of a liability to the band as a whole; with a different singer, who could help shape and deliver these songs, this album might not seem as formless and gormless. But there is a fair amount of pleasures here, all down to the interplay between Flea and Frusciante. While drummer Chad Smith does prove himself quite versatile here, gracefully following the eccentric turns and meanderings of the bassist and guitarist, the string instruments are the reason to listen to Stadium Arcadium. That's always been the case to a certain extent with the Chili Peppers, but here it's especially true, as they push and pull, rave and rumble, lie back and rock out — pretty much spit out anything they can do on their instruments over the course of 28 songs. As good as much of this is, there is a little bit of monotony here, since they're working variations on their signature themes, and they haven't found a way to make these variations either transcendent or new; they're just very good renditions on familiar themes. These tracks rarely betray their origins as studio jams — more than ever, it's possible to hear that the track came first, then the song — and while that can result in some good listening, it all does kind of drift together. That said, there are no bad tracks here — it's all of a relatively high quality — but there are no standouts either, so it takes a very dedicated fan to start sorting out the subtleties between the tracks (not the wheat from the chaff, since it's all wheat). And while those hardcore fans may certainly enjoy the make-your-own-adventure spirit of Stadium Arcadium, it's hard not to feel that it's the band's responsibility to take this very good repetitive album and mold it into something sharper and more effective. So call it the rock version of Peter Jackson's King Kong: there's something pretty great and lean buried beneath the excess, but it's so indulgent, it's a work that only a fanboy could truly love.
(amg 7/10)

Ray LaMontagne [2006] Till The Sun Turns Black

[01] Be Here Now
[02] Empty
[03] Barfly
[04] Three More Days
[05] Can I Stay
[06] You Can Bring Me Flowers
[07] Gone Away From Me
[08] Lesson Learned
[09] Truly, Madly, Deeply
[10] Till The Sun Turns Black
[11] Within You



amg: If it weren't for his singing voice, so full of smoke and ether, one would be hard-pressed to believe that Till the Sun Turns Black was made by the same man who recorded Trouble just two years prior. Ray LaMontagne takes a brave leap from the rootsy singer/songwriter material of his debut album and does a 180. Once more collaborating with producer and multi-instrumentalist Ethan Johns, the singer-songwriter turns in a highly textured, atmospheric, and subdued performance on his sophomore effort. All the grit and earth in LaMontagne's voice on Trouble, and the basic country-folk and R&B (on the title track) has been swept out like ashes in the morning here. This new set is startling. The reliance on skeletal, delicate string arrangements adds much to the interior nature of these songs. LaMontagne has used the projection in his lyrics and his voice and turned them inside out. He's slower, more subtle, more restrained everywhere here. His lines are economical, full of space and tension, as if they were being performed alone in a room in the middle of the night. Johns' use of strings and keyboards paints LaMontagne's voice and underscores his delivery with a quiet drama that reveals itself inside the listener.

Check LaMontagne's opener, "Be Here Now," with the guitar finding its way toward the singer as a quartet of violins, two cellos, and a bowed bass emerge to support his voice in the void of silence Johns creates around it. Johns' piano fills in odd spaces. They don't seem to add up, but they do when LaMontagne's vocal whispers its way forward into that small swelling shadow. On the bluesy "You Can Bring Me Flowers," a horn section is used to highlight and extol LaMontagne's tough lyrics; but there is more Tim Buckley and Tom Rush here than Otis Redding or Sam Cooke, but it's all LaMontagne. The jazzy flute and funky dobro don't sound like country, but more like country-blues from an earlier time. By contrast, the whispering acoustic guitars and strings in the title cut are frames to fit a voice inside, and LaMontagne's does; then shatters it when confessed emotion blurs then shatters the edges. These are songs no one else can sing. LaMontagne's sense of phrase and rhyme are idiosyncratic, never overbearing; he allows the listener into his world, slowly, deliberately; his observations and nearly overwhelming emotion are too big to keep to himself — as the strings swell, all he can do is moan, then nearly growl, wordlessly. Till the Sun Turns Black is a giant leap forward. LaMontagne reveals himself to be a sophisticated pop artist who can find in simple forms something utterly engaging and communicative. This record could have been made 20 years ago but in another two decades will still sound fresh.
(amg 8/10)