Donald Fagen “Morph the Cat”
I had successfully avoided my Steely Dan reckoning for decades. But, every five years, there would be another drip. A friend would ask my position — pro or con? Another might ask if I’d heard Donald Fagen’s latest solo record. Drip. Drip. It was torture. And so, in 2020, I resolved to kind of, sort of, take on The Dan. I dipped a toe into the cool water of Fagen’s solo album “Morph the Cat.” Everything I feared and hoped for was right there.
William Patrick Corgan “Ogilala”
On “Ogilala,” Rick Rubin brings his rich, if familiar, bag of tricks to the middle-aged, curious and misunderstood singer and songwriter. The album is a prestige piece. It’s like when Annie Lebowitz shoots a movie star at fifty for Vanity Fair and shows their lines, their age, their greys and their natural beauty. In that very same way, this record is quite beautiful. But, also in that same way, it’s a lot of work. And its sum is probably greater than its parts.
Peter Gabriel ”Up”
Gabriel was not known for his balance. His first four untitled solo album covers feature a distortion of his face to let you know he was a little intense. But, if you listened closely, he started opening up more. First, he empathized with Stephen Biko, a real life political dissident. Then he even started empathizing with regular people, culminating in his commercial breakthrough album, “So.” But Gabriel still had a long way to go from his first solo album where he thought a song called “Moribund the Burgermeister” was a good idea.
Paul Westerberg “Folker”
Westerberg solo and sober had difficulty finding his voice. When he rocked with expensive producers he sounded like watered down Replacements. When he switched to a piano and tried to be a singer songwriter, he sounded like a morose Carole King. Fans began to move on. But then, something happened. The malcontent outcast found his voice again. “Folker” is desperate middle-aged music. Also-ran music. Music about regret and compromise. Music written from your knees.
Frank Black “Honeycomb”
In 2005, nearly twenty years after he founded The Pixies, a whole bunch of shit happened to Frank Black. The Pixies simply could not work together and cancelled a tour. And, sadly, his marriage of sixteen years ended. So, Frank Black went into therapy to figure out what he needed to do. The “what” apparently was to head to Nashville, assemble a group of legendary session players, and finally record his “Black on Blonde” record.