Go to:

• Randy Newman (1968)
• 12 songs (1970)
• Randy Newman Live (1971)
• Sail Away (1972)
• Good old boys (1974)
• Little Criminals (1977)
• Born Again (1979)
• Trouble in Paradise (1983)
• Lonely at the Top - The Best of Randy Newman (1987)
• Land of Dreams (1988)

Randy Newman (1968)

7

Love Story (You and Me) / Bet No One Ever Hurt This Bad / Living without You / So Long Dad / I Think He’s Hiding / Linda / Laughing Boy / Cowboy / The Beehive State / I Think It’s Going to Rain Today / Davy the Fat Boy

Often referred to as Randy Newman Creates Something New Under the Sun, Newman’s debut album basically contains all the elements that would become distinguishing features in his entire output: short and (apparently) simple songs, a highly original (at the time) blending of Gershwin, Copeland, 60’s pop, and ragtime, and the most prominent lyrical concerns ((bad) love, the cruelty people inflict upon each other, history and politics). Indeed, Newman’s universe isn’t as rosy-colored as his oft-sweet (nearly corny) arrangements might suggest. Newman had been around since the early 60’s, when he – still a teenager – wrote songs for people such as Pat Boone and The Fleetwoods, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise that this album already sounds very accomplished. Newman doesn't only take care of the songs, but also the baroque orchestral arrangements. And those arrangements are exactly the elements that regularly spoil the fun for me: there’s nothing wrong with the arrangements themselves I guess, as they are often a tasteful combination of Copeland-inspired lush and movie score-nervousness (not surprising when you take into account Newman’s dad was a famous composer himself), nor is there anything particularly wrong with the production, taken care of by Brain Wilson’s former collaborator Van Dyke Parks and Randy’s childhood friend Lenny Waronker.

However, maybe they should be blamed, since there’s in my opinion definitely something off in the balance between orchestral and non-orchestral parts and instrumentation. Newman’s songs are often very muted and quiet affairs, even on this album, and when that silence is suddenly disrupted by overwhelming strings, horns, and kettledrums, it’s quite unsettling. “Love Story (You and Me),” for instance, a ‘life-in-200-seconds’-song’, starts with a minimal piano melody and Newman’s half-croaking voice, and is then accompanied by strings. After that we get the chorus and the entire orchestra suddenly jumps up. It’s a great song though, and combined with the repeated “You and me” it’s quite compelling. Unfortunately, that’s not the case with “Living Without You,” that’ll have you running to and from the volume control like a maniac. Like many of Newman’s songs it’s a sad miniature song, but the combination of almost whispered-vocals and quiet piano on the one hand, and heavy orchestration on the other doesn’t really work in my book. Don’t get me wrong though, I do like this song, and I also like how Newman presents melancholic inertia in “Bet No One Ever Hurt This Bad” with a frill-less and rootsy track that points forward to the next album. I also like the dragging “I Think He’s Hiding” that allows for many interpretations (“If the Big Boy comes tomorrow, will He take you with him?”), and the mocking “Laughing Boy,” which essentially seems quite slight, but does have some bouncy orchestration right from a Tom & Jerry-chase. “Cowboy,” dealing with a nature/culture-clash (?) isn’t really my favorite here, and neither is “The Beehive State,” although it leans closer to “Bet No One Ever Hurt This Bad.”

The (both literal and figurative) weight of this album lies in the last two songs. “I Think It’s Going to Rain Today,” allegedly the most covered of Newman’s songs, is the ultimate statement of world-weary loneliness. Mumbled vocals, some subdued piano playing, Newman doesn’t need anything else to quiet anyone who’s exposed to this song. There are also some string parts, but they are appropriate and don’t distract from the atmosphere and lyrics (“Human kindness is overflowing and I think it’s going to rain”). The carnival-esque album closer is, along with “Short People”, probably the most notorious example of Newman’s mean streak (well, in the songs, at least). With a multi-sectioned song, switching from heavily orchestration to lush string parts to piano-centred parts, he tells a story of cruel exploitation (“I think we can persuade him to do the Famous Fat Boy Dance for you”) few songwriters dared to touch upon. Randy Newman contains a few of the man’s classics and offers an early view of a songwriter who knew what he was doing. However, due to the overpowering orchestrations and uneven balance, this album can be a bit hard to take. Of course it’s a must for anyone willing to delve into the man’s career, but those who only want the slick arrangements or easy accessible stuff better avoid it, and check out the 70’s albums.

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12 Songs (1970)

8

Have You Seen My Baby? / Let’s Burn Down the Cornfield / Mama Told Me Not to Come / Suzanne / Lover’s Prayer / Lucinda / Underneath the Harlem Moon / Yellow Man / Old Kentucky Home / Rosemary / If You Need Oil / Uncle Bob’s Midnight Blues

Quite a departure from his debut (which was much praised by critics, but regarded as failure commercially speaking), 12 Songs finds Randy Newman looking for a different direction: gone are the semi-baroque arrangements, the sudden washes of strings and the infatuation with neo-classical music. Instead, both the songs and their execution are less ambitious and grand, but ultimately they are better, as his song-writing and piano skills finally get the opportunity to shine. Indeed, Newman’s mastery of the piano has become the main focus of the album, although he’s also surrounded by a bunch of notorious musicians (Ry Cooder, Clarence White, Gene Parsons, Jim Gordon, Milt Holland, etc, you get my drift, right?), who all knew that less is often more, and play accordingly. This balanced dosage is exactly what makes the album so appealing to me: not one note is wasted, as Newman’s songs remain short (with only two songs crossing the 3-minute border), simple and precise. Like several other albums that were released around 1969-‘70 (Nashville Skyline, The Band, American Beauty, etc), it also marks a turn towards a roots-oriented approach. It’s not that Newman had been a hippie involved in psychedelic-tinged projects, but he did get rid of ’60s-excess and used more elements from country and blues instead.

The opening track, for instance, explores the terrain between country-rock and piano-driven New Orleans-R&B (think Allen Toussaint, think Fats Domino, with whom Newman collaborated the year before). Loose and energetic, with simple but tasteful horn arrangements, it tells about the misery of having to share your woman with others. Similarly up-tempo are also “Mama Told Me Not to Come” (originally written in ’66!) and the more straightforward country of “Old Kentucky Home.” The first is one of those songs that show there’s quite a difference between the tone of Newman’s songs and their lyrical content, as it deals with a rite of passage involving alcohol, drugs, and more naughty behaviour. Musically, it’s one of Newman’s harder-rocking tracks, with a great piano-led melody and some great bottleneck playing by Cooder. “Old Kentucky Home” sounds like vintage country, and even starts off with some clichés (“Turpentine and dandelion wine”), but soon evolves into a very nasty exploration of ‘family happiness’ in the South: each character gets a beating, whether it’s sister Sue (“She didn’t grow up, she grew out”) or brother Gene (“He’s big and mean, and he don’t have much to say, he had a little woman who he whupped each day”). Combined with the feel-good chorus (“The sun shines bright on my old Kentucky home”) and the egotist closing line (“I’m all right so I don’t care”), the song is turned into a hilarious highlight with a slightly sour aftertaste (and I can’t imagine this song being played by radio stations in the area).

Newman’s unconventional approach doesn’t stop there, as several songs offer more weird stuff. The sinister sounding “Let’s Burn Down the Cornfield,” a minimal track with great slide parts, is about pyromania and eventually combines the themes of sex and death (“I’ll make love to you while it’s burning”). “Suzanne” is a perverse declaration of love by an obsessed stalker (“Suzanna, you won’t know it, but I’ll be behind you, don’t try and run away from me, little girl”), while the bluesy “Lucinda” is actually quite morbid, as a narrator tells about Lucinda who’s “buried beneath the California sand,” and his sense of black humor explains his involvement: “She was wrapped up in a blanket, I could tell she knew her way around.” Finally, the gentleman-caller in “Rosemary” (what’s going on with all these woman’s names, anyway?) seems to have good intentions, but we get no signs there’s more than a one way-directed admiration. Not all of the album’s songs are that ‘different’ though, as Newman also touches upon loneliness (“If You Need Oil”) and racial clichés (“Yellow Man”).

There aren’t any bad songs on 12 Songs, although some of them are more pleasant than impressive, like “Lover’s Prayer,” for instance, or a cover of “Underneath the Harlem Moon” (which is a song from the ‘30’s, I presume). The album doesn’t have an emotionally affecting song as “I Think It’s Going to Rain Today” either, but that wasn’t the intention anyway. 12 Songs again offers a bunch of miniature songs that shows that Newman has found his classic style. Although he hasn’t reached his peak yet (and this where most other reviewers disagree), it’s a very nice way of spending 30 minutes with some high-class songs.

Note: a lot has been said about cover versions of Newman songs, and while it’s mainly Harry Nilsson, Judy Collins and Three Dog Night that are mentioned over and over again, I’d rather recommend you to check out The Flamin’ Groovies’ incendiary cover of “Have You Seen My Baby” (from Teenage Head). It’s great!

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Randy Newman Live (1971)

7.5

Mama Told Me Not to Come / Tickle Me / I’ll Be Home / So Long Dad / Living without You / Last Night I Had a Dream / I Think It’s Going to Rain Today / Lover’s Prayer / Maybe I’m Doing It Wrong / Yellow Man / Old Kentucky Home / Cowboy / Davy the Fat Boy / Lonely at the Top

14 tracks gathered from three consecutive live shows recorded in September of 1970, Randy Newman Live isn’t exactly an essential album. Its main appeal obviously lies in the simple execution of the songs, as it’s just a laidback Randy and his piano in front of an audience. You can imagine that it sounds quite different from the orchestral debut, on which no less than 75 musicians contributed. By consequence, the five songs that are pulled from that album are the most interesting: devoid of the bombastic arrangements of the debut, they sound a lot more sober (or: digestible) here. Ok, I’m over-stressing the unsettling influence of the strings on that debut album a bit, but still, just compare the minimal solo version of “Living without You” or “Cowboy” to the studio versions. On the other hand, the highlights from the debut, “I Think It’s Going to Rain Today” and “Davy the Fat Boy,” which were so dependent on their original and terrific arrangements, also work well here, as Newman wallows in a silencing intimacy in the first, and a remarkable uneasiness in the second.

The songs that are pulled from 12 Songs haven't changed that much. The highlights are a rushed version of “Old Kentucky Home” that has Randy almost getting lost in the vocals, and “Yellow Man” that’s introduced as “This is a kind of pinhead’s view of China.” The five remaining songs weren’t released as studio tracks when this album was recorded: the best two of those, “Last Night I Had a Dream” and the mocking “Lonely at the Top” would wind up on the next studio album in very similar versions. The others are less interesting, but “Tickle Me” is delightfully silly, and the ultra-short (1:25) “Maybe I’m Doing It Wrong” is over before you realize it. All in all, Randy Newman Live doesn’t offer anything stunning or particularly insightful, but it’s always interesting to hear a great artist toy around with the bare essentials of his craft.

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Sail Away (1972)

10

Sail Away / Lonely at the Top / He Gives Us All His Love / Last Night I Had a Dream / Simon Smith and the Amazing Dancing Bear / Old Man / Political Science / Burn On / Memo to My Son / Dayton, Ohio – 1903 / You Can Leave Your Hat on / God’s Song (That’s Why I Love Mankind)

So, this is where it all comes together. Randy Newman and 12 Songs already hinted at greater things to come, but somehow failed to live up to that promise, although their best moments were really excellent. Sail Away, however, is the album on which Newman finally succeeds in combining the best of both. The result isan album of dazzling creativity, unmatched variety and smart subtlety that very few artists had accomplished at the time, or ever since. Musically it merges the majestic orchestrations of the debut with the minimal roots-direction of 12 Songs, and the balance between the “opposites” is just right. One might have expected a schizophrenic album because of the variety in the music and the lyrical themes (it’s not as homogenous as the next album, for instance), but in its own unique way, it’s a delicious 30-minute long flow of music that simply asks to be played from start ‘till finish. The themes Newman tackles are basically the same as he handled before, but whereas earlier songs could be downright cruel (“Davy the Fat Boy”), morbid (“Lucinda”) or explicitly targeting (“Old Kentucky Home”), the humor on this album is much more ironic and subtle. Newman has been compared to many other California-based singer-songwriters such as James Taylor and Jackson Browne, but whereas those guys attempt to disclose their sensitive souls, Newman opts for ironic detachment, avoiding autobiographical I-narration.

The album’s opening track, the lushly arranged “Sail Away,” with nearly epic-sounding horns and strings, is an instance of Newman’s knack for coming up with different perspectives on history. He avoids writing a complete historiography, but offers just slices of history instead. In this case, the story is told by a slave trader who assures his ‘victims’ that “it’s great to be an American.” True to the music’s grace, Newman refrains from attacking the ideology, and focuses on the promises that were made (“You’ll be as happy as a monkey in a monkey tree [sic], You’re all gonna be American”). “Dayton, Ohio – 1903” seems another history lesson at first sight, but instead Newman allows us to catch a clichéd glimpse of life in ‘the old days’ (“People’d stop or they’d day Hi to you”), and the music is fittingly minimal, featuring a simple piano melody. Better even are the songs in which he deals with religion: “He Gives Us All His Love” and “God’s Song (That’s Why I Love Mankind)” are almost each other’s exact opposites on the level of content. The first song offers an image of a loving and caring God (“If you need someone to talk to, you can always talk to him, and if you need someone to lean on, you can lean on him”), while the second depicts God as a cruel opportunist, the surplus being God’s answer as to why he doesn’t want to take care of humankind: “I take from you your children and you say how blessed are we, you all must be crazy to put your faith in me, that’s why I love mankind.” Once again, also this final chapter to Sail Away has a great merger of music and lyrics, as Newman’s piano playing is yearningly sad, turning it into one of the most impressive meditations on God/religion I ever heard.

The hilarious “Political Science,” narrated from the perspective of an American leader with a superiority complex and a thirst for belligerence (“Asia’s crowded and Europe’s too old, Africa is far too hot, and Canada’s too cold, and South America stole our name, let’s drop the big one, there’ll be no one left to blame us”), starts off in a subdued way, but soon takes on a lazy and playful swing, hilariously accentuated by the “Boom goes London and boom Paree”-lines that are probably the most memorable part of it. Unfortunately, some parts of the lyrics (“No one likes us – I don’t know why (…) they don’t respect us – so let’s surprise them), have become closer than the truth than ever before, adding an unpleasant ingredient to the song. Further highlights of the album include the ironical “Lonely at the Top,” which was allegedly written for Frank Sinatra (who declined). With its playful, cabaret-like music (just check out the ridiculing tuba and the clanking banjo in the background), the song makes clear from the start that it shouldn’t be taken too seriously and the lyrics add to this (“All the applause, all the parades, and all the money I have made”), the ultimate irony of it being of course that Newman was nothing more than a cult performer at the time. The song that’s almost entirely to be “blamed” for a different perception of the man (along with “Short People” a few years later) is the I’ll-tell-you-how-to-undress “You Can Leave Your Hat On,” which would be turned into a cheap and vulgar go-go club anthem in the ‘80’s. Here it’s a lot more entertaining, with Newman delivering the sleaziest vocals of his career, and some insistent piano playing mirroring the protagonist’s lust.

Left are the moody “Last Night That Had a Dream” that seems to touch upon existential paranoia (“Everyone scared me but you scared me the most”), while it’s backed by Ry Cooder’s fierce slide playing, and some percussion that reminds of “Let’s Burn Down the Cornfield” on 12 Songs. Finally, the jumpy “Simon Smith and the Amazing Dancing Bear” seems a bit more lightweight at first, but it’s a delicious song that indirectly hints at the kind of exploitation that was also dealt with (more explicitly) in “Davy the Fat Boy” (“Oh who would think a boy and bear, could be well accepted everywhere, it’s just amazing how fair people can be”), or maybe it’s about the degree to which performing artists are all clowns trying to please their audience in the best possible way. It doesn’t really matter, as not all questions need to be solved. One thing’s absolutely sure, though (in my opinion, at least): Sail Away contains several songs that are simply fantastic in the way they combine great music and lyrics. Not all of the songs are equally magnificent (“Burn On” and “Dayton, Ohio – 1903” can’t compete with highlights such as “Political Science” or “Lonely at the Top”), but Sail Away remains an all-time classic in my book, offering beauty, humor, thoughtful lyrics and perfectly executed music that hasn’t lost any of its beauty or relevance.

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Good Old Boys (1974)

9

Rednecks / Birmingham / Marie / Mr. President (Have Pity on the Working Man) / Guilty / Louisiana 1927 / Every Man a King / Kingfish / Naked man / A Wedding in Cherokee County / Back on My Feet Again / Rollin’

The first of his albums that contained nothing but new songs, Good Old Boys is also widely known as Newman’s “concept album on the South,” and with reason, as almost all of the songs contain references to the South or are ‘told’ by Southerners. Also musically, it may be one of the most cohesive of Newman’s albums, because the album really sounds like one 33-minute long musical (to me). From the ode to Birmingham, over the cabaret-like “Every Man a King” to the bouncy “Back on My Feet Again” (one of the songs that has a few members of The Eagles doin’ backing vocals), Good Old Boys sounds like a fascinating trip through Southern life that allows the listener to visualize his own story. The story starts off with the great trio of “Rednecks,” “Birmingham,” and “Marie,” a start each artist should aspire to (in terms of quality, that is). “Rednecks” is told from the perspective of a Southern racist, but somehow there’s also something weird about it all, as if he’s a puppet that’s reading his lines from a hidden cardboard: “We talk real funny down here, we drink too much and we laugh too loud,” the two most offensive lines in the song being “We’re keeping the niggers down” and “We’re rednecks, we don’t know our ass from a hole in the ground”.

The use of pedal steel guitar adds an extra country-twist to the song, but its use in the chorus also adds to the mocking tone of the song. “Birmingham,” on the other hand, focuses on the “healthy” incarnation pride can get, as the song is a hymn about said town. “Marie” is a beautiful ballad, with lushly arranged strings parts, but one should keep in mind it’s a declaration of love by a man who’s drunk and who’s treated his Marie bad in the past. In spite of all this it’s one of Newman’s most endearing love songs. The highlight of the album for me is probably the grand “Louisiana 1927” that once again has Newman picking out an event in history – in this case a flood that tried to wash Louisiana away in 1927 – and focusing on what it meant to the people (“They’re trying to wash us way”) while backing it up with one of his best melodies and arrangements ever – sharing a grandiosity shared with “Sail Away”-, turning it into a beautiful song that ranks among his very best. But there are more little moments of delight to be found: “Guilty,” for instance, another drunken man’s rambling, is a bit darker, as the protagonist seems to be in a constant struggle with himself (“I just can’t stand myself, and it takes a whole lot of medicine for me to pretend that I’m somebody else”). Quite similar is “A Wedding in Cherokee County,” another harsh take on Southern life, and Newman constantly hints at the freakiness of the bride (“She don’t say nothin’, she don’t do nothin’, she don’t feel nothin’, she don’t know nothin’”) and the groom’s impotence (“Why must everybody laugh at my Mighty Sword?”). Of the songs that I haven’t mentioned yet, “Naked Man” and “Back on My Feet Again” are perhaps the most memorable, and they’re also a bit different than the earlier mentioned highlights. Instead of majestic string arrangements and Broadway-material, they more rely on elements of country, hints of blues (blame it on Ry Cooder’s contribution) and – for the first time – West-coast pop, which he’d explore more explicitly on later albums.

Good Old Boys is an immensely enjoyable album that again finds Newman on a roll. For the second time, Newman has succeeded in creating an album that’s smart, provocative, varied and awfully entertaining, with songs that make you think, laugh or raise your eyebrows because of their mocking harshness. Not all the songs on the album are as substantial and memorable – his cover of Huey P. Longs “Every man a King” is just a snapshot of a time gone by, while the lazy “Rollin’” indeed rolls, but is among the least interesting tracks on the album – but with an average quality as this one has, it implies that even the “lesser” songs are definitely worth hearing. Once again, Newman proved himself to be one of the most impressive songwriters of his generation with an album that has visited my CD-player dozens of times. It also proved you didn’t have to be a coke-snortin’ and self-satisfied parody of a rocker/confessional singer-songwriter (*) to make good albums in L.A. in the mid-70’s. Luckily there was also Becker and Fagen.

(*) delete what’s not applicable.

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Little Criminals (1977)

7.5

Short People / You Can’t Fool the Fat Man / Little Criminals / Texas Girl at the Funeral of Her Father / Jolly Coppers on Parade / In Germany Before the War / Sigmund Freud’s Impersonation of Albert Einstein in America / Baltimore / I’ll Be Home / Rider in the Rain / Kathleen (Catholicism Made Easier) / Old Man on the Farm

I need an explanation. Can anyone tell me why so many people consider this an inferior album? No, wait, not all people would say this. Those who turned this into Randy’s best-selling (his only one to go gold) release, for instance, they’ll say this is the quintessential Newman album, but I’m referring to those that have heard several of his albums, the earlier and the later ones. Ok, it’s true that a break of three years and two previous albums that were great to any artist’s standard created high hopes that couldn’t be fulfilled by this album, but it can hardly be called a misfire! Take the well-known opening track for instance: “Short People” is mainly known because of its offensive lyrics (mainly “Short people got no reason to live”), but hey this is Randy Newman, right? It’s still a good song, with a bouncy rhythm, quite muscular guitar, played by session ace Waddy Wachtel, and backing vocals that are just on the right side of cheesy. The next track, “You Can’t Fool the Fat Man,” again proves that Newman was intrigued by the world of those that don’t fit in because of their size, background or limited brain capacity, but it also shows his knack for coming up with miniature snapshots of ‘everyday life.’

Now that I think of it: despite his background in L.A., and the presence of several session men that were all over L.A.-albums at the time (Frey, Henley and Walsh of The Eagles, Wachtel, J.D. Souther, etc), Newman’s worldview, often biting humor and cast of misfits, social failures and loners (“Texas Girl at the Funeral of Her Father,” “Old Man on the Farm”) have much more in common with the universes of Warren Zevon or, if crossing over to literature is allowed, writer T.C. Boyle. It’s very easy for me to imagine Newman providing scores to, for instance, novels such as The Road to Welville or Riven Rock, which are saturated with self-obsessed outcasts, seemingly insignificant historical facts and, that have a similar kind of humor that’s both compassionate and cruel. But let’s not digress, since this is still about music here, let’s get on with some of the highlights. And that is what “In Germany Before the War,” definitely is: a low-key track that’s dominated by strings and seems to be about an old man cherishing his memories, until we get to the last lines, which contains some morbid insinuations: “And she lies very still. She lies very still.” Also the slick “Jolly Coppers on Parade,” dominated by the piano and Milt Holland’s conga-work is a memorable track, and so is the country-ish “Rider in the Rain,” which is good, but not amazing (and I must admit I couldn’t stand those slick backing vocals in the beginning).

The remainder of the albums is slightly less memorable in my opinion, but some of it is actually enjoyable: both “Baltimore” and “Sigmund Freud’s Impersonation of Albert Einstein in America” contain a kind of vague social commentary: in the slick first song the city isn’t portrayed as an ideal place to live in (unlike “Birmingham” on the previous album) while the phrase about America in the latter (“You’re the best dream man has ever dreamed”) should obviously be taken with a grain of salt. Finally, there’s “I’ll Be Home,” of which there was a sparse and premature version on Live (1971), and the only song on this album I don’t really care for: “Kathleen (Catholicism Made easier),” it must be the “hey hey hey”-chanting and the fact that’s it’s just drag-g-g-g-g-ing. But like I said: I really consider Little Criminals an album well worth having which, despite the fact that it only has one Newman classic (the hit), might provide you with some well-spent time, as it did with me.

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Born Again (1979)

6

It’s Money That I Love / The Story of a Rock and Roll Band / Pretty Boy / Mr. Sheep / Ghosts / They Just Got Married / Spies / The Girls in My Life (Part 1) / Half a Man / William Brown / Pants

While Newman had been something of a public secret since his first album, which was a sugar-coated confirmation of all the work he’d already done before that (as a songwriter, collaborator and scorer for TV shows), it took him up till the release of 1977’s Little Criminals and – more specifically its hit single “Short People,” to get noticed by a wider public. And the public … it was insulted by the unforgivably cruel depiction of the height challenged among us. Not only dared he phrase lines such as “[Short People] got grubby little fingers and dirty little minds,” even more outrageous was its recurring dead-pan catchphrase “Short people got no reason to live.” Those who were familiar with Newman’s earlier albums and their brilliantly executed miniatures probably understood it was just his way of tackling a subject (discrimination, narrow-mindedness, cultural xenophobia, etc. you do the thinking). Newman wasn’t a confessional singer-songwriter who bared his emotions or wanted to spread his ideals (the first of his albums that would contain obviously autobiographical subject matter – 1988’s Land of Dreams – would change that to a certain degree). Instead, he offered snapshots of people and their opinions, exaggerated them a bit here and there, turning them into little Feasts of Fools. It was up to the listener to go along and draw his/her conclusions.

However, Newman forgot (ignored?) that the new public saw things differently, missed a layer of his sardonic craftsmanship and criticised him for it. Quite surprisingly, Newman retaliated with even harsher and explicit exploitations on Born Again. The reviews/criticisms about this album are usually oriented towards the lyrical matter, and with good reason. While the ever-refined balladeer used to found his songs on beautiful and simple, yet effective wordplay and descriptions, his new condescending/ridiculing attitude is all the more surprising. His disdain (or: the scorn he puts into his protagonist’s mouth) for people in “Pretty Boy” (“How about it you little prick?”) and “Half a Man” (starting with a truck-driver wanting to beat up a “big old queen”) is startlingly crass. Or watch him at work during the merciless “They Just Got Married,” when he depicts an all too perfect life (you know … making out, marriage, kids, a house, the whole deal) and delivers a twist with “She’s going to see the doctor, it’s just a regular check-up, plus she thinks she might be pregnant, anyway she dies, and he moves to Los Angeles.” It probably cracked him up to be able to record an album like this one, but I would be surprised if he doesn’t agree these cynical work-outs are simply no match for earlier, well-crafted albums. However, the album started off pretty excellent: the bang that kicks off “It’s Money That I Love” clearly refers to “Short People,” while also the rest of the music is very similar, with a huge chorus and a more pop-oriented beat than before (although Little Criminals was already decidedly slicker and radio-oriented). The only downside to the song is the inclusion of irritating synth sounds, which were probably the state-of-the-art back in ’79, but they sound quite silly now. Anyway, even this song is a bit too obvious for it’s own good, as he’d already made a point with the album cover.

Even more notorious is the ELO mockery/tribute of “The Story of a Rock and Roll Band.” I’m still not sure about his motives yet (especially since he’d collaborate with Lynne for the recording of Land of Dreams), but it sure sounds like an ornamented pastiche to my ears, from the faux-polka rhythm, to the glossy production details (silly strings, keyboards) and the explicit references to the band and its songs. Among the other tracks, “Ghosts” and “The Girls in My Life (Part 1)” stand out. The fist one’s an unadorned little ditty, Newman just accompanying himself on piano and describing the world-weary world-view of an aged man looking back on his life. “The Girls” enters more playful territory, offering a funny parade of former girlfriends and their virtues. The remainder of the album is a bit of a hit-or-miss affair: the ultra-short “William Brown” would perhaps have fit on Good Old Boys, the paranoid “Spies” goes to show Newman wasn’t immune for wave-ish ‘80’s pop and the synth-terror-goes-AOR of “Pants” is his weakest album closer yet. Sometimes the lyrics detract a bit from the music (that patronizing tone during the punishing “Mr. Sheep” is nearly maddeningly irritating), but it’s not necessarily a bad thing, since the music – like the lyrics, the approach, the feel of the album – was his least creative and charming yet. Allegedly, Born Again was the quickest follow-up he ever came up with, but unfortunately it shows. I wouldn’t mind having to wait five years for the 30-minute bliss of Sail Away. As it is, Born Again is a remarkable item in Newman’s catalogue, one that every casual fan should have heard, but it’s also his only album that doesn’t get better with repeated listens. Sometimes, sounding pissed off isn’t that appealing.

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Trouble in Paradise (1983)

7.5

I Love L.A. / Christmas in Cape Town / The Blues / Same Girl / Mikey’s / My Life Is Good / Miami / Real Emotional Girl / Take Me Back / There’s a Party at My House / I’m Different / Song for the Dead

Randy Newman never ceases to crack me up. He’s always been a sardonic rarity among singer-songwriters, but he’s pulled a few delicious pranks as well. On Born Again, he lambasted the Electric Light Orchestra in a not-so-subtle way while he subsequently hooked up with that band’s leader (Jeff “funky hairdo” Lynne) for the production of 1988’s Land of Dreams. Similarly, Newman mocks confessional/autobiographical songwriters during “The Blues,” while the next album would also have him deliver his first songs about himself. The fact that’s it’s a duet with Paul Simon comes as an extra bonus, of course, because the petite half from that illustrious folksy duo certainly was considered a prime example of a “whining song poet” (you should get his title-less debut album, though, it kicks all sort of ass – in a gentle way), and on top of that, he also gets the ‘stereotypical’ parts during this song: “A year ago I met a girl, I thought we’d hit a massive groove, but she dumped me, and all we’d hit were the blues.” It’s a good song, but I don’t really get why it was chosen as the first singe, not when you’ve got stuff like “I Love L.A.” and “Christmas in Cape Town” lying around.

Like Springsteen’s grossly misunderstood “Born in the U.S.A.,” Newman’s obviously mocking “I Love L.A.” became a beloved ode to the City of Angels when it was all over the media during the Olympics of 1984. Admittedly, Newman never says explicitly negative things about the city, but his intonation and the line “Look at that bum over there; he’s on his knees” are hard to ignore. On top of that, the streets he mentions (Century Boulevard, Victory Boulevard, Santa Monica Boulevard, Sixth Street) aren’t supposed to be L.A.’s finest spots, although I’m not wealthy enough to verify that. Talking about Springsteen: also during the smarmy, self-satisfied “My Life Is Good,” which clocks in at an epic 4:38, the Boss gets mentioned, as the self-obsessed protagonist has him say “Rand, I’m tired, how would you like to be the Boss for awhile?” I’m not sure how to interpret this, but the tiredness sure seems unlikely, since the Boss was at the verge of his world-scale breakthrough and performing with neck veins as thick as usual. The song also proves that Newman’s characters still have the capacity to add obnoxious comments such as “This one guy’s wife is such a pretty little brown thing, that’s I’m liable to give her a poke or two, WHADDAYA THINK OF THAT?” Musically, these songs are basically a culmination of the slick approach that started with Little Criminals and was continued with Born Again. This time around, Newman’s gang of session players is perhaps even more impressive than before: three members from Toto to provide musical chops, while there are backing vocals by Lindsey Buckingham, Christine McVie, Rickie Lee Jones, Bob Seger, Linda Ronstadt, Don Henley. In other words: the cream of the crop. Some of them, at least, and it shows: these songs are performed with semi-scientific precision (that Porcaro dude probably never missed a beat) and boasting an immaculate sound that’s simply a bit too clinical these days (and that’s a euphemism). “Christmas in Cape Town” is another take on racism (remember “Rednecks” and “Sail Away”?), this time from the perspective of a bitter racist in South Africa, feeling intimidated by “Niggers waitin’ in a big long line (…) starin’ at us real hard with their big ugly yellow eyes.”

Most of the other songs follow a pleasant pop-direction: “Miami” is basically an advertisement for wrinkled skin (beside the swimming pool), drugs and Hawaiian shirts; while the slick boogie of “There’s a Party at my House” announces a great night in a rather unremarkable way, although the lyrics leave nothing to the imagination (“That little blue vein right beneath her breast, man those nipples, pink as a rosebud, Hey Bobby, GET THE ROPE”). Besides these slices of subversive corporate music, there are also a few cuts that refer to Newman’s debut: both “Same Girl” and “Real Emotional Girl” are much less funny than the previous observations and portrayals, getting their quality from subdued arrangements, with especially the latter one sounding particularly lovely, even though there’s never any guarantee that the unconditional dedication of the emotional girl will ever be answered. Album closer “Song for the Dead” is a wry minimalist anti-war ditty (“”We’d like to express our deep admiration, for you courage under fire and your willingness to die”) that ends the album on a serious note. Trouble in Paradise contains a few lesser tracks (the overly-repetitive “Mikey’s” is partly ruined by an insistent synth-melody, the polka-pop of “Take Me Back” never rises above mediocrity and “I’m Different” is, well, not different enough to be truly convincing), but the majority gathered here are a nice confirmation of Newman’s undeniable talent and proof that nearly a decade after his last magnificent album, he still could churn out a batch of decent songs.

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Lonely at the Top: The Best of Randy Newman (1987)

9

Love Story / Living Without You / I Think It’s Going to Rain Today / Mama Told Me Not to Come / My Old Kentucky Home / Sail Away / Simon Smith and the Amazing Dancing Bear / Political Science / God’s Song (That’s Why I Love Mankind) / Rednecks / Birmingham / Marie / Louisiana 1927 / Baltimore / Jolly Coppers on Parade / Rider in the Rain / In Germany Before the War / Short People / Christmas in Capetown / My Life Is Good / I Love L.A. / Lonely at the Top

When I played this compilation this afternoon and was repeatedly caught off guard because the song order wasn’t as I expected, it realized that I probably hadn’t played it in more than two years or so. Lonely at the Top was my first Newman-purchase, and boy, I’ve done a lot of things in my life that I regret now, but paying 400 old Belgian francs for this sure isn't one of them. Of course, I was already familiar with “Short People” and various re-workings of “You Can Leave Your Hat On,” but it only took me two listens to understand the sheer wealth of material Randy Newman has written. The collection gathers songs from six of his first seven albums (from 1968’ Randy Newman to 1983’s Trouble in Paradise), not bothering to pick anything from the less-than-average Born Again (and admittedly, any song from that album would be the weakest track here) for understandable reasons. Fortunately, all the songs that did get chosen – apart from “Baltimore” and perhaps “Living Without You” – are among the highlights on the respective albums. Only include two cuts from 12 Songs is a bit ungenerous, of course, but they are evidence of his increasingly perfected songwriting.

This probably sounds as a platitude, but … the most impressive tracks are taken from Sail Away and Good Old Boys. In fact, songs 6-13 are without an exception stunning. Whether they touch upon racism in the most improbable fashion, deal with religion through satire and attack the foreign politics of the US in a clownish way, the originality, attention for detail and love for the song is always unquestionable. “Political Science,” “God’s Song,” “Rednecks” – they should teach that stuff at school, as they are timeless pieces of art that succeed in confronting without moralizing, and do so with wit, passion and sheer beauty. Hearing it again, the reach of Newman’s humor struck me again, ranging from the cruel, the satirical, to the grotesque and the ironical, while sweeping songs such as “Louisiana 1927,” “Marie,” “I Think It’s Going Today” still get me every time I hear them. Of course, I could nitpick about how they shouldn’t have chosen five tracks from Little Criminals, which became his biggest hit on the strength of the hilarious “Short People” and not because of its consistency, and on bad day I’ll probably nag about the fact that they didn’t include the strip-naked live version of “It’s Going to Rain Today,” which eclipses the studio version on the debut, but that’s already redeemed for by adding the crucial “Lonely at the Top” as a bonus. As a career retrospective, Lonely at the Top is not as successful as The Best of Randy Newman (2001), nor as thorough as the 4-CD box-set Guilty, but it’s probably the most reliably awe-inspiring of the three, as it made me want to hear all of his albums, including the ones that weren’t covered by it. Granted, most of them aren’t as inspired as the music from the classic 1972-1974 period (and his ‘80’s albums sound as if they’re, well, from the ‘80’s), but very few albums are, and at least Newman always delivered hugely personal songs that could only result from his peculiar vision. If anything, this compilation should convince you that during his peak, his position might have actually been close to “lonely at the top.”

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Land of Dreams (1988)

7.5

Dixie Flyer / New Orleans Wins the War / Four Eyes / Falling in Love / Something Special / Bad News from Home / Roll with the Punches / Masterman and Baby J / Red Bandana / Follow the Flag / It’s Money That Matters / I Want You to Hurt Like I Do

For several reasons, Land of Dreams deserved extra attention when it was released. Not only was it his first album in nearly six years (disregarding the soundtrack for the Malamud-adaptation), but it was produced by a varied bunch of producers, ranging from Mark Knopfler, composer James Newton-Howard and … Jeff Lynne of all people (“The Story of a Rock & Roll Band,” anyone?)! That doesn’t look very promising on paper and granted, Land of Dreams certainly ain’t no Sail Away or Good Old Boys, but it’s another satisfying album, to a large extent because of the opening tracks. Whereas Newman had always been one of the few non-confessional Californian song-writers, one that preferred offering enchanting snapshots of days gone by and a gallery of emotionally-bankrupt misfits and morally-bereft victims instead, “Dixie Flyer” and “New Orleans Wins the War” are obviously autobiographical songs. The first one describes how an infant Newman and his mother moved from Los Angeles to New Orleans (the “land of dreams”), while his father was fighting in the WWII. The music that accompanies this hopeful tale is an appropriately good-spirited slice of country-pop, while the Bayou-gem of “New Orleans” continues the chronological storyline with a sweet ‘n’ sour taste, as his father returns from the war to the south (but: “They started to party and partied some more, ‘cause New Orleans had won the war, we knew we’d do it, we done whipped the Yankees”).

The miniature synth-opera of “Four Eyes” is a huge hyperbole to accompany a tale of being ridiculed as a glasses-wearing toddler (“Four Eyes! Look like you’re dead!”), and it’s impossible not to see this as a childhood trauma translated into a nearly grotesque piece of abrasive theatre. However, after this seemingly out-of-place song, Newman treads on more familiar ground again, and sometimes with average results, but a few of these cuts are unjustly neglected. Personally, I’ve always been impressed by the Freddy Fender-styled tex-mex/pop of “Falling in Love,” which is not only the best sounding track here (Lynne and sidemen Tom Petty and Mike Campbell successfully avoid the heavily synthesized ‘80’s sound that mars several of the other songs), but it’s also an enchanting ode to falling in love, one that’s so breezy and bursting with optimism that I just can’t imagine anyone not being infatuated with it (oh, my naivety running amok again). Things get a bit mushier during “Something Special”, a slightly lesser, non-ironic love song (that’s my perception, at least), but the balance is restored by the gloomy ballad “Bad News from Home” that constantly seems to hover on the edge of a sinister confession. Land of Dreams wouldn’t be a Newman-album if there hadn't also been a couple of songs dealing with familiar topics such as racism and bigotry, and that’s exactly what “Roll with the Punches” does. A political satire driven by a lazy piano strut, it’s told from a self-centred, white supremacist’s point of view, one who justifies the nation’s selfishness and unwillingness to fight poverty and other problems (both in the US and abroad) with an unreservedly cynical message: “I say we ain’t gonna do nothin’ for nobody, ‘cause they won’t work a lick, you know, they just gonna have to roll with the punches.”

Of a more ambiguous nature is “Follow the Flag,” a confusing song that on paper could be anything in between an ode to national pride (“If you can believe in something bigger than yourself, you can follow the flag forever”) or a putdown of single-minded patriotism (“They say it’s a dream that dreamers dreamed, that it’s an empty thing that really has no meaning”), but in the hands of Newman – but voiced through a true flag-waver – this of course is loaded with sarcasm. Quite similarly, “It’s Money That Matters” - a crossover between Dire Straits’ “Money for Nothing” and an inferior re-working of his own “It’s Money That I Love” - can only be understood as what it’s intended: a cynical jab at “We Are the World”-sentiments (complete with communal chanting). Album closer “I Want You to Hurt Like I Do” takes it to an extreme: apparently devoid of any feelings of compassion (I mean, “I want you to hurt like I do” – it’s not exactly “I think you’re okay”), but soon revealing itself as an emotive expression of insecurity and a plead for recognition, it may be one of the most emotionally bare songs in Newman’s songbook, one that could only have been sung by this song-writer and no other. That’s also why some of these songs might sound like rehashes: I can’t think of another musician who delivers this particular mix of lush pop, and a variety of roots-genres (ragtime, folk, country), wrapped in such generous helpings of sarcastic wit and, ultimately, compassion and insight into the human psyche. Admittedly, “Masterman and Baby J” (an atrocious parody of rap?) and “Red Bandana” (a fairly annoying slice of brash aural terror) are unwanted stains (around here, at least) on Land of Dreams, but like I argued above, as long as he keeps his quirky vision intact, Newman’s songs remain relevant, perhaps now even more than ever.

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