(Yusuf) Cat Stevens “The Laughing Apple”
I’ve been anxiously circling the Cat since the very beginning of this endeavor. It had nothing to do with his religion or any related controversy. And it had nothing to do with his long hiatus or hesitant return, first through religious music and then, eventually, to the secular music of his past. No. My own avoidance likely has much more to do with my long held suspicion that Cat Stevens, in all his profound sincerity, was actually the opposite of sincere. That his music, while perfectly nice, and his voice, full of struggle and grain, were fronts for nonsensical fables and signifiers devoid of signifieds. As a young teenager, I heard depth and complexity in those classic 70s albums. When he sang about children, fathers, sons and peace, I assumed the writer and singer had profound insight. In my twenties, wisened by Punk and Indie Rock, I shifted positions, rejecting the platitudes and sentimentalism of peak Cat. Now, however, as a middle-aged father, the verdict is more confounding than ever.
Decades removed from their origin, his music can still grab you with something in between nostalgia and singularity. The trick he plays -- impassioned Cat vocal piled high upon more Cat vocals and sensitive Cat acoustic guitar piled upon guitar -- is not a subtle one. But it is effective. Twenty years from the last time I sat and really listened to him, I am reminded of why I was so taken the first time. However, the more I consider the young, unmarried, childless Cat Stevens, a teenager at the time of his 1967 debut album, and in his mid-twenties at the height of his fame, the more I wonder about those simple fables that fill his most popular songs. Does he know what his words mean? Was he precocious or naive? And, does it even matter?
Many great songwriters have channeled a wide-eyed naïveté to great effect. Brian Wilson and Jonathan Richman come to mind. And many have succeeded in writing songs about love, peace and nature as idealized symbols. Cat Stevens’ songs, though, often treat the listener themselves as children. The metaphors are simple and childlike, but without payoff. His fables are preachy but rarely coherent. And, worst yet, he can sound like a reductive know it all, infantilizing even his adult characters. He talks down to his friend in “Wild World,” cautioning her that the real world is complex, that she won’t be able to get by on a smile, and yet, he will quite literally always remember her as a child. Thanks for nothing, Cat. When I was a teenager, the song sounded pleasant. The singer offered a sage-like confidence that was easy to admire, if not envy. Listening back, he sounds more like a didactic asshole. When you pull at the thread of his songs, the messages fully unravel. You begin to realize that Cat likely doesn’t know (or care) where the children play and that he has no ticket to the peace train. It is certainly fine to write about childhood, as Cat Stevens did. It is a whole other thing to treat your listeners like children, which he also did.
And yet, even fully unraveled, there is that voice and those songs and how they all sound. Years before Rick Rubin appropriated the trick, Cat Stevens and former Yardbird, Paul Samwell-Smith, were making recordings wherein you could hear the fingers on the strings and the lips near the mic. The bass was muscular but never showy. Each instrument was isolated and loved. And the singer’s voice, a reported three and a half octaves, could shift from delicate to full throated in a verse, while the producer simply added another vocal or guitar with all the space and care as the first one. In most every way, Cat Stevens’ music from the 70s has proven more enduring that of James Taylor, Jackson Browne and the popular, lighter, singer songwriters of his era. And while he never received this critical praise of, say, Leonard Cohen or Nick Drake, Cat had nine Gold or Platinum albums in the U.S. during the 1970s. There was not a comparable artist before or since. And, almost forty years ago, Cat Stevens pressed pause before we could figure him out or, worse yet, fully turn on him.
There has never been another Pop star who went away for twenty eight years and then returned. Obviously, Cat Stevens didn’t really go away. To the contrary, he befuddled and infuriated many people during that time, with his views and comments on religion, yes, but also with what his fans perceived as his disdain. Plainly, he left them. During his absence from popular music, though, Yusuf Islam was looking for that bridge back. He was trying to reconcile his deep religious faith with a love for and belief in the power of music to carry a message and affect change. His return to secular music, which began in 2006 when he was nearing sixty, was hesitant. His first three albums of the twenty-first century were released under the name “Yusuf.” He would often include covers of other artists' music as well as updates of his own songs from the past. Though one could project religious themes onto them, they were each, by any reasonable account, similar in spirit to his music from the 70s. The songs were not, to the ear, “religious.” All three of these records charted well in America and in Europe. Rick Rubin, appropriately, produced the third of this trio, “Tell ‘Em I’m Gone.” With each record, you could sense more comfort in the form. You could see the singer exchanging his traditional attire for jeans. You could sense he was getting closer to the bridge that would bring him back home. He was getting closer.
In 2016, Yusuf Islam found the bridge. He reunited with his 70s collaborators, producer, Paul Samwell-Smith, and guitarist, Alun Davies, who collectively helped Cat Stevens become Cat Stevens. Additionally, he announced that, for his new album, “The Laughing Apple” he would be rerecording and reconsidering several tracks from his 1967 sophomore album, “New Masters.” Those originals, which were adorned with slightly groovy, slightly Baroque touches from the era, sounded dated and cheap to Yusuf Islam. He wanted a second go and had reportedly a bag of new songs that he felt were spiritually connected to those unpolished gems from the 60s. Finally, and most notably, he announced that he would release the album and tour under the name “Yusuf / Cat Stevens.” As hedged as it looks on the page, it was received as a full throated return for his long suffering fans.
“The Laughing Apple,” perhaps unsurprisingly, sounds a great deal like early 70s Cat Stevens. Six of the eleven songs on the album were written before 1972, with four coming directly from the 1967s “New Masters.” Compared to those originals, which are saddled with flute, military drums and a decidedly mono echo, the new versions sound timeless. Of the older songs, “Blackness of Night,” from 1967 and “You Can Do (Whatever),” from 1971, fare best. The former is pristine Cat Stevens -- acoustic guitar next to loving bass and faint drums, with some keys in the beginning and end for effect. In the middle, the singer sounds ageless as he shares vague allegories about finding love and meaning in darkness. Like most Cat Stevens’ songs, you wonder how deep the water really is in his stories. On the other hand, in hearing about the wanderer in the darkness, ostracized by society, it is impossible to not think about the singer. And no matter how “on the nose” the metaphor is, the song sounds almost exactly like what one might hope for from Cat Stevens. He nurses every word. You can hear the chord changes on the guitar. He achieves a sort of nasal fury in his singing that signals, no matter how impassioned or angry he might get, it’s all going to be OK. “You Can Do (Whatever)” was originally written for “Harold and Maude” but was delivered too late to make the cut. This is the jangly version of Cat Stevens, more “If You Want to Sing Out” rather than “Father and Son.” Here, the singer reminds us of our agency and all of the things we can do to make the world better and ourselves happier. The second half adds more bass and more vocals to create a song that makes you want to sing along and smile like a child as its lyrics talk down to us as though we are actually children.
In those two tracks, you get all of the genetic material for “The Laughing Apple.” All of the songs are parables of sorts. Some are more delicately played, with occasional strings and horns added to provide the slightest drama to the otherwise simple and pleasant melodies. Others are more upbeat singalongs about Peace and Love (“Mighty Peace” and “See What Love Did to Me”). Both strains like to anthropomorphize nature (“Northern Wind,’ “Olive Hill” and “Mary and the Little Lamb”). Both versions reach for some deeper meaning. And, as was Cat Stevens’ original sin, neither version seems to have found that bridge to something deeper. And while it seems cynical to suggest that something so simple cannot also be very deep, it seems equally cynical to infantilize your listener. Cat Stevens has been accused of this before but it took me a couple of decades to understand the charges. Further, and perhaps unfairly, I expect more wisdom from the seventy year old singer than I do from the twenty-something model.
“The Laughing Apple” does warrant compliments. The singer is in very fine form, for seventy, or any age. The record is mixed quite well, even one upping Rick Rubin’s treatment. And, to the credit of all, the artist and his producer avoided the lure of modernity. Everything, including the very occasional Moog and the more frequent strings, is offered up tastefully in support of the singer and the guitar. In the way that Cat’s 1967 “New Masters” sounds dated but Love’s “Forever Changes” from that same year does not, “The Laughing Apple” more resembles “Forever Changes” than Cat’s own, original album. Both have some of that 60s hippie weirdness mixed with Baroque flourishes and sudden changes on top of what are, basically, Folk Rock records. To be clear, Cat’s 2017 album is not “Forever Changes,” but it does share some of its spirit. Additionally -- and I do consider this a compliment -- “The Laughing Apple” sounds like it was tailor made for a Wes Anderson soundtrack. Anderson featured Cat Stevens on the “Rushmore” soundtrack to good effect. And both artists have a defined, meticulous affect for which they are known. Both artists make art that is rich with symbolism and aesthetics on the surface but also easy to consume. Both are obsessed with childhood. Both aim for that bridge to something deeper. For Anderson, I’ve always assumed that the bridge leads to 1970s Paris. That’s just my guess. For Yusuf Islam, fifty years after his debut, I still have no idea if the bridge leads anywhere.