Chicago “Chicago XXXII: Stone of Sisyphus”
In 1970, everyone got the memo. The sixties were over. The Beatles were done. MLK gone. RFK gone. The LSD was too strong. The hangover was too deep. Woodstock was a failed experiment. Altamont was the proof. The clothes were silly. And the war kept going. It was understood, almost implicitly, that the seventies were going to be a total bummer. And if, for some reason you still didn’t understand that, well, that’s what the memo was for. Everyone got the memo. Some resisted it. Some chose to ignore it. Some were too stoned to read it. But everyone got a copy. Everyone, it seemed, except for Chicago.
It’s not that Peter Cetera, Robert Lamm, Terry Kath and the rest of the band were Hippies. They were midwestern guys, far from the free love of the west and the heady politics of the east. Their hair was shaggy but not crazy. And while their pants flared at the bottom, it’s not as though they were drenched in paisley and fluorescents. Chicago wasn’t about peace, love and understanding. But, also, they were not bummed out. They were not “Fire and Rain” or “Time in a Bottle” or “Miles from Nowhere.” They were post-Sergeant Pepper. Post-Pet Sounds. They weren’t born to be a garage band. They weren’t born for the sixties. They were seven guys, including three lead singers and a horn section that stood center stage. They were born for the studio.
Chicago’s first three records were double albums. From 1969 through 1978, they released twelve albums, all of which were certified platinum sellers. In that same period, they scored twenty top forty hits. For those ten years, Chicago may not have been the biggest band in the world -- that would have been Zeppelin or The Eagles or The Bee Gees. They were not the most important -- that would have been P-Funk or Stevie Wonder or Zeppelin or, honestly, AC/DC. But they might have been the most liked band. If you lived in America -- and especially if you lived in the middle part of America -- you liked Chicago.
In middle school in the 1980s, I had a music teacher who only barely “taught music.” There was no choir practice. No scales. We’d share a single recorder and play “Hot Cross Buns” and then dip the instrument in mouthwash and pass it to our classmate on the right. Mr. DeBenedett was in his late forties and had a goatee that toed the line between anachronistic and hip. He could play a bunch of instruments with surprising competency. But he only barely expected us to learn to read, write, sing or play music. Instead, we had one week where we just watched “Magical Mystery Tour” and “Yellow Submarine.” Like everyone, he loved The Beatles. But once May rolled around, Mr. DeBenedette showed his true colors. As the school year came to a close, we spent the better part of that month listening to Chicago. He air-bassed to the intro of “25 or 6 to 4.” He showed us the opening piano part of “Colour My World.” He convincingly sang along with Terry Kath and only barely strained on the Cetera leads. Some major part of Mr. DeBenedette was willfully stuck in 1973 on a “Saturday in the Park,” “Feeling Stronger Every Day.” That’s the effect that Chicago could have on a person.
For most of the 1970s, Chicago filled in the gaps between Funk, Soul, Fusion and singer-songwriter fare. What’s more, they didn’t come with a whole lot of baggage. They were a low downside, high upside sort of band. In the beginning, there was no real scandal — nothing too tawdry. That was, until 1978, when Terry Kath, the group’s supremely talented guitarist slash songwriter slash singer, accidentally shot himself in the head. Kath was both the soul and the electricity of the band. Without him, from 1979 to 1981, in the wake of Disco and the dawn of New Wave, Chicago had zero platinum albums and zero top forty hits.
During their first peak, Chicago was impossibly eclectic. Horns were a constant, but otherwise their music varied greatly. After all, they had three lead singers with wide ranging styles. This unique feature separated them from the pack. For fans, it was the very essence of Chicago — the thing that elevated the harmonies and kept the songwriting vital. Critics, however, were less convinced. They accused Chicago of being the jack of many trades and the master of none. They weren’t a Soul band. They weren’t a Fusion band. Or a Funk band. They could Rock out but they were a long way from Arena Rock or Hard Rock. In their music, you could hear Sly Stone and Burt Bacharach. There was a dash of The Beach Boys and shared DNA with The Doobie Brothers and Blood, Sweat and Tears. They had so many powers but no one superpower — until 1982, when David Foster entered the picture.
David Foster was barely thirty years old when he signed on to produce Chicago. He’d cut his teeth making crossover R&B hits for Diana Ross, Donna Summer and Earth Wind and Fire. He certainly could have gone that way with Chicago -- more bass, more horns, steadier beats. But he went the other way. To that point, the band’s biggest hit was “If You Leave Me Now,” a supple ballad from 1976 that Peter Cetera wrote and sang. In the early 80s, without Terry Kath and with an uncertain future, Foster steered Chicago back in the direction of that lovely bummer of a hit. Foster was insistent that the magic of Chicago was not in their horns or their versatility. Nope. The future super-producer sensed that there was platinum in the blonde feathered hair and clear, high tenor of the band’s bassist. David Foster was happy to be in business with Chicago. But he really wanted to be in the Peter Cetera business.
From the get go, Foster’s instincts were proven right. Between 1982 and 1985, he helped produce some of Chicago’s biggest hits. He co-wrote the positively massive “Hard to Say I’m Sorry” with Cetera in 1982. And then, he nearly outdid himself with two top five hits -- “Hard Habit to Break” and “You’re the Inspiration” -- on 1984s “Chicago: XVII.” On the two Chicago albums he worked on with Cetera, Foster dialed down the horns and invited in members of Toto for some extra polish. Foster’s decisions, like his ballads, were bold. And while they distressed some longtime fans, they thrilled millions of (mostly female) new ones.
The video for “You’re My Inspiration” is definitive 80s and definitive Chicago. The camera locks in on Cetera, who’s lacquered blonde hair and steely blue eyes are betrayed by his leather jacket and Bauhaus (yes!) t-shirt. The director asks us to believe that the handsome singer was mature, middle-American, sensitive, and -- somehow also -- a goth. When the video leaves Cetera’s gaze, it travels through several Hallmark ads, each in a different stage of romantic arc -- infatuation, conflict, passion, love and familiarity. Cliches are piled on top of cliches, only to be intercut with glimpses of the band, lounging around a Pottery Barn living room. Three men play synthesizers. There are, of course, some horns. Then, finally, we cut back to the handsome bassist, lip synching and plucking at his instrument. The video makes zero sense. And, amazingly, it completely works. Along with REO Speedwagon, “You’re My Inspiration” smoothed the transition from Rock to Adult Contemporary radio. It was so beloved, in fact, that it helped birth VH-1, the station that catered to older, more sensitive ears and eyes. It was so popular that it begged a troubling thought: what if Peter Cetera really was the star? What if he needed David Foster but not Chicago?
Inspired partially by the arrangement that Phil Collins had made with Genesis, wherein the band would reconstitute in between their star singer’s solo records, Peter Cetera went out on his own. But whereas Genesis was either somewhat understanding or completely dependent on Collins, Chicago did not accept the deal Cetera offered. He could be a solo artist or a member of Chicago. But not both. Cetera chose the former. For several years, he would go on to have major success on his own. But he would never return to the band he had joined in 1967. Chicago promptly filled his position, cranked out more ballads, and, somehow, remained inordinately popular for the rest of the decade.
Late 80s Chicago survived (flourished) on a combination of Foster leftovers and Cetera imitations. Jason Scheff, Cetera’s junior by nearly two decades, ably replaced the bassist and approximated his famous tenor. In fact, if you only listened to the radio, you might have naturally assumed that “Will You Still Love Me” (1986) and “Look Away” (1988) were just good ole, 80s Chicago — Peter Cetera Chicago. But they were not. Astoundingly, the hits kept coming and the albums kept selling. But, not for long.
Released in 1991, “Twenty 1” was, by Chicago’s standards, a failure. It was their first album in a decade not to be certified Gold. It featured no hits. Co-founder Robert Lamm, who could previously be counted on for several songs and frequent hits, was no longer a dependable writer. Newcomer Jason Scheff was eager, but still green. That left keyboardist, Bill Champlin, who’d been with the band since 1981, in the first songwriter chair. For both “Chicago XIX” (1988) and “Twenty 1” (1991) Diane Warren, a frequent collaborator of Foster’s, was also brought on to fill the hit-making void. However, like Champlin and other, lesser writers for hire, she failed to reignite Foster’s romantic spark. As the 80s became the 90s, Chicago was adrift. Peter Cetera was long gone. Drummer and co-founder, Danny Seraphine, was let go from the band. The group that was once defined by their versatility had become paralyzed by it. They did not know what sort of band they wanted to be. And as the zeitgeist pulled hard towards Hip Hop and Alternative Rock, it was unclear what sort of band they should be or could be.
Somewhere in that fine line between desperation and liberation, Chicago began to record “Stone of Sisyphus,” the record that was meant to be album XXII but ended up as XXXII. They enlisted Austrian producer and arranger, Peter Wolf, known mostly for his work with Frank Zappa, to help make the record. Wolf was functionally the opposite of David Foster. Whereas the band had spent the previous decade obsessing over the delivery of hits, Wolf dared them to wonder, “What sort of music does Chicago want to make?” The resulting album, recorded in great secrecy, far from the long arm of their major label, became the subject of mystery, rumor and consternation. Though it was recorded in 1993, “Stone of Sisyphus,” would not be officially released until 2008.
Some albums remain hidden because they were not meant for consumption. “The Basement Tapes” comes to mind. Others sit on the shelf because of incessant tinkering. “Chinese Democracy” might fit that bill. Sometimes, as in the cases of The Beach Boys’ “Smile” or Jeff Buckley’s “Grace,” the issue is entirely more human. But “Stone of Sisyphus” is a different sort of animal. It was not released for the saddest, most obvious of reasons: Reprise Records did not like it. In fact, they hated it. For the label, it wasn’t a case of tacking on a single to more challenging material. It wasn’t about a facelift or some polish. To the company’s ears, it was an album that needed to be torn up and wholly reconsidered. And so, the album was not released in 1993. It also marked the end of Chicago’s long relationship with the Warner Brothers.
In its absence, “Stone of Sisyphus” developed a small, but obsessive, cult. There were bootlegs and downloads with inconsistent track listings and of uncertain origins. Some rumors suggested that it was a Prog album. Others claimed it was a Hip Hop / Funk hybrid. Loyalists tried to quash the more inflammatory gossip, plainly stating that it was a contemporary Chicago album, true to their original musical vision. When I’d first heard about “Stone of Sisyphus,” and when I confirmed that the album was, in fact, not an apocryphal prank, I tended to sympathize with the fans. I’d worked in the music industry. I was familiar with its whimsy and petulance. I presumed that the brass at Warner were the villains and that the band were the sympathetic heroes. I wondered, “How bad could it be?”
The answer to that question depends on how much you like the flavor of Yacht Rock, white Funk and early 90s Hip Hop mixed with “Sussudio” and Burt Bacharach. If that all sounds unappetizing, then you might land near my conclusion. The record label may have been villainous, but that doesn’t mean they were wrong. With “Stone of Sisyphus,” the midwestern goose that laid tens of millions of golden eggs had delivered a jewel-encrusted turd.
To say that “Stone of Sisyphus” is terrible is probably both unfair and not especially useful. Yes -- there is a song wherein Lamm and Scheff rap. No -- there is nothing approximating a hit song. Yes -- it’s a band, after their peak, holed up and indulging their passions. No -- it’s not concerned with the market (or possibly the listener). But, it would be cheap to wade too deeply into snark. It’s title begs for easy sarcasm. It’s both haughty and silly, better suited for Spinal Tap than Yes or Dream Theater. And, as a metaphor, it’s too blunt (venerable band returns to the studio with the thankless, never-ending task of balancing commercial needs with artistic desires) and too obscure (something Chicago was rarely accused of). But, as far as embarrassments go, this one is more bizarre than awful.
Musically speaking, there’s nothing technically ghastly about “Stone of Sisyphus.” The playing is athletic and precise. The horns return to the fore, where they compete with unusual time signatures and extra percussion. Scheff and Champlain dominate the lead vocals, and both singers are still plenty capable. Meanwhile, Wolf is what I would describe as an “active producer.” You notice unexpected decisions about where instruments are channeled. There are unusual changes in register and time signatures that sound Zappa-esque. Songs head in one direction only to then become something else. “Stone of Sisyphus” is experimental, but not in the way that Radiohead or Can or, even Frank Zappa, are experimental. It’s experimental in the way that a work in progress is experimental. It sounds unrealized — not fully formed.
The album opens with its title track — a hyperactive Funk number that recalls Phil Collins “No Jacket Required.” It’s frenzied — too upbeat and too full of key changes. It’s dance music that humans cannot actually dance to. On the other hand, I think it would succeed as the theme song for Paulie’s robot in “Rocky IV.” It has some plucky fight about it.
In spite of the obvious musicianship, almost every track on “Sisyphus” flirts with unintentional humor. There’s a past prime awkwardness to all of the searching and the reaching. “Mah-Jong,” for instance, is jazzy Funk, with one rhythm too many and a (racially complicated) story about a mysterious Chinese woman:
She know Mah-Jong
Mah-Jong she don't play
She know Mah-Jong
Waste your life away
(Don't you throw it away)
She know Mah-Jong
Mah-Jong she don't play
But she loves the player
Once upon a time, Chicago’s diversity was their greatest asset. They were capable of almost anything. By the 1980s, however, they’d refined production in the service of one, best-selling product: The Cetera Ballad. As a result, in 1993, when they tried to return to their roots — to that time when every style and every singer was possible — they could not find their way back. They got lost.
“Here With Me (A Candle in the Dark)” ventures into Toto territory. Three lead singers. Horn solos. Guitar solos. Flute solo. Untenable time signatures. A soaring chorus that almost makes up for the freneticism of everything else. It’s not terrible. It’s just way. too. much. In contrast, “Bigger than Elvis” is a lovely conceit -- a true story about a son (Jason Scheff) watching the father he barely knows (Jerry Scheff) on TV, playing bass in Elvis Presley’s band. At its core, it's a gentle, Baroque ballad with a great backstory and a big heart. Jerry Scheff even pops in for a guest bass solo in the second half. It’s all very dear. But it lacks the impact and the cogency of their more famous ballads. It makes you yearn for Cetera and David Foster. Or, at least, “Look Away.”
“Let’s Take a Lifetime” similarly suffers by comparison. In this case, though, it’s not prime Chicago that it resembles, but rather 90s Slow Jams. With windchimes, fingersnaps and Spanish guitar, it wants Babyface or Boys II Men to give it a spin. It’s a decent, contemporary R&B number. But Scheff can’t sell the vocals and I suspect that literally nobody wanted to hear middle-aged white men singing about “taking things slowly” in 1993. At least not on the radio. And probably not on their compact discs either.
“Sleeping in the Middle of the Bed” is the aforementioned “Rap song” where we get to hear Lamm and Champlin chant (more than flow) over a blend of late Genesis and peak Paula Abdul. Honestly, it’s better than my description and in spite of my discomfort with the emcees’ affects — which feel like bad imitation. “Plaid” is bluesy Yacht Rock — less interesting than Steely Dan and less bluesy than, say, late Stephen Stills. But it’s played well and sounds expensive. Meanwhile, “Cry for the Lost,” is a straight miss -- an ethereal stab at Gabriel-esque “Amnesty Rock.” It has a little bit of everything: Caribbean beats, horns everywhere, a funky bass and preachy lyrics about the plight of the world. It’s not the last song on the album, but it’s probably the point at which I stopped expecting something enjoyable to arrive.
After “Stone of Sisyphus” was shelved, Chicago released a Big Band record, some Christmas music and a pile of compilations and boxed sets before returning in 2006 with “XXX.” Just two years later, starved loyalists were thrilled by the announcement that “Stone of Sisyphus” would finally be released. However, at the nadir of recorded music sales, the album made a tiny splash, scratching the bottom of the charts for a week before disappearing again. It would be convenient, but not untrue, to suggest that the plight of long suffering Chicago fans was Sisyphean.
Bill Champlin left the Chicago in 2009. Jason Scheff departed in 2016. Robert Lamm is almost eighty, though he’s worked hard to look fifty. It seems likely that we’ve heard the last new music from the band that, way back when, didn’t get the memo. The band that genuinely believed that we were all getting stronger every day. We loved them for that. But, at the end of the 80s, they most definitely got the memo. In fact, they wrote the memo. But it sat on the shelf until they were really, finally ready to read it.