Ian Hunter “Short Back ‘n’ Sides”
What is it, exactly, about Ian Hunter? He was never, exactly, a Rock Star, though he achieved the height of success. He was never, exactly, a Classic Rocker, Glam Rocker or Pub Rocker, though all forms could lay claim to his music. He never had a creative peak, exactly, and never, exactly, had a nadir. For almost fifty years, he has always worn sunglasses in public because, according to him, he is sort of, but not exactly, albino. Ian Hunter is not a hero, exactly, but he can sound as heroic in his songs as anyone ever has. And he’s no anti-hero, exactly, even though his songs have a quality of regret and sober self-awareness that is quite unique for someone so capable of writing anthems. He is not, exactly, as poetic as Bob Dylan or as artful, exactly, as David Bowie. But he sure can sound a lot like both of them. Hunter exists near the center of the venn diagram of “Heroes” and “Like a Rolling Stone,” almost brilliant enough to understand his heroes, but exactly talented enough to channel them in song.
Ian Hunter has never, exactly, been any one thing. And he has always, almost, been everything. I don’t know whether this quality is due to a certain creative restlessness or weariness or maturity. Ian Hunter is older than John Lennon and Bob Dylan. He was a relatively old journeyman by the time he came to Mott the Hoople in 1969. He had been in bands since the late 50s and proudly claims to have had over forty, very workmanlike jobs prior to making a living in something like, but not exactly, Rock stardom. And yet, from 1971 to 1977, Ian Hunter was almost the most interesting singer in Rock and Roll.
A large part of Hunter’s appeal is likely this “almost-was” status that is endearing, if not relatable, to so many. But, more than his “signified” is his voice, which is a great “signifier.” It’s pitchy. It’s sharp. It’s always on the verge of being out of tune. And yet it was capable of carrying Bowie’s chorus for “All the Young Dudes” better than Bowie was. What can sound like a limited, very English instrument proved to be one of the most enduring and oddly versatile instruments in Rock in the 70s. On “Your Own Backyard” (from 1971s “Brain Capers”) and “I Wish I Was Your Mother” (from 1973s “Mott”), Hunter nurses folksy ballads, sounding weary and conversational until he musters the very pretty and very personal gusto in the chorus. He sounds very much like Dylan, without all the fussy poetry. On “Hymn for the Dudes” (from “Mott) and “Second Love” (from “Brain Capers”), he sounds like Bowie’s superior fronting a band bigger and better than Pink Floyd at their best.
He did all of this from behind those almost famous sunglasses. I don’t know if there has ever been a singer capable of so much who seemed to so underestimate himself. This, no doubt, is part of the cult of Ian Hunter. Every few years, he would seem ready to pack it all in, complaining of terrible stomach pains, assorted ailments and road weariness. And then he’d release a new album with a few songs so undeniably great that you wondered where this extra reserve of almost greatness came from. Even after Mott broke up, from 1975 to 1979, Ian Hunter would release an excellent album most every year and force himself back onto the road, in spite of his ambivalence, seemingly out of appreciation for his fans and loyalty to Mick Ronson, his friend and partner. During these five years, Hunter made “Once Bitten Twice Shy,” “England Rocks,” “All American Boy,” “Just Another Night” and about a dozen other gems that never charted but confirmed his place as the working man’s answer between Dylan and Bowie. His last album of the 70s, “You’re Never Alone With a Schizophrenic,” was perhaps his post-Mott apex and proved to be the equal to his former band’s albums from the first part of the decade. Maybe he never would be anything more than he had been, but it seemed that Ian Hunter had settled into a comfortable, perpetual “almost-stardom.” He was admired by critics and beloved by those fans beguiled by his unpretentious intersection of Bowie and Dylan.
As the 1980s arrived, though, Hunter was restless again. He seemed eager, if not desperate, for something more than “more of the same.” Briefly, it appeared that he was beginning to lose faith, if not some steam. He had turned forty. His kids were grown. He was living in New York with his wife and, by his accounts, enjoying the weird bustle and artiness of the city. Maybe this was it. Maybe it was time for him to step away. While he was appreciated by progressive Punks, and discerning Power Popsters, his music was decidedly not New Wave. And 1981 was the dawn of New Wave. It seemed plausible, at least, that the “always almost” singer had been passed over by time. It would not be sad. Ian Hunter had an astounding run and it would not be uncommon for a great talent to have suffered on account of fashion.
It turned out that Mick Jones of The Clash, Hunter’s number one fan, would consider nothing of the sort. As co-leader of the Most Important Band in the World, the band that knew that everything was possible, he was not one to believe that “almost” was good enough. No. In between “Sandanista!” and “Combat Rock,” Mick Jones willed Ian Hunter back into the studio and asked Mick Ronson, Topper Headon (The Clash), Todd Rundgren and many others to join. Ian Hunter may not have needed reclaiming, but Mick Jones was going to do it anyhow. He got Hunter to cut his long curly hair and to listen to some reggae. He convinced Hunter of this artistic validity of those cheap synthesizer effects that almost plagues “Combat Rock” and fully took over Jones’ next project, Big Audio Dynamite. Hunter brought the songs and the voice. Jones brought the admiration, the vision and the will. The result was “Short Back ‘n’ Sides.”
I feel compelled to say that Mick Jones wrote and co-wrote so many tremendous songs with The Clash. He may not have been the heart and soul of the band (Strummer), but he was likely it’s artistic force. Ever the striver and experimenter, Mick Jones heard things and tried things that no other Punk band did. I find it easy to dismiss his late Clash shittiness and his B.A.D. messiness on account of his greatness. That being said, on “Short Back ‘n’ Sides,” Mick Jones ruined what I suspect would have been, almost exactly, a perfectly good Ian Hunter record.
The album starts out promising enough, with the chiming synth hook of “Central Park ‘n’ West,” that would sound familiar to Clash fans, if a notch less anthemic. Hunter sings about his evident love for the great American city that was briefly home. It’s an infectious, low rent version of New Wave that sounds almost like a Pub Rock band striving for something more modern. And, in the chorus, Hunter stretches his voice in that Dylanesque manner, making his modest observations of city life seem grand. While this is happening, Mick Jones is dropping in brief synthesizer effects and samples that may have sounded cool or transgressive in 1981, but now sound precisely like the sort of sounds a two dollar, electronic keychain / fart toy would make. As the album opens, these effects are merely annoying, but the opening track is strong enough to survive it and you can almost exactly imagine what Ian Hunter fronting The Clash might sound like.
To Jones’ credit, more than any other Ian Hunter album, “Short Back ‘n’ Sides” tries things. “Lisa Likes to Rock ‘n’ Roll” is a sweet, Buddy Holly hip shaker with some Carribean flair. As unlikely as it sounds, it almost works. “I Need Your Love” and “Keep On Burning” are honest to goodness Soul songs. The former is drenched in horns and Hunter turns on his lower Bowie register before shifting into Dylan for the chorus. It’s short and sweet and Jones keeps the tricks away. The latter, which closes the album, is almost blue-eyes Philly Soul. Hunter takes the church organ and Gospel singers out from some of his Mott ballads and drops them into a testament to enduring love. We get every flavor of the singer here, and some we didn’t even know existed. Hunter howls and goes in and out of falsetto before Mick Jones takes over and opts to sully an otherwise wonderful moment in church with a minute of piano chaos and vocal muttering. Not a great song. Probably not even a good song. But, certainly an “almost was” song.
In between, Hunter sings “Old Records Never Die,” a wistful ballad to the existential quality of song. Songs are always, at once, everywhere and nowhere. We can hear them whenever we want in our head, even when the song is not actually playing. Songs have no body. We will die but the songs never do. Guy Stevens, who managed Mott the Hoople and produced “London Calling” for The Clash, overdosed in the summer of 1981. Though “Short Back ‘n’ Sides” came out shortly thereafter, it’s hard to not hear the song as a fitting tribute to the curious and charismatic man that both Hunter and Jones loved.
Elsewhere, Jones cajoles Hunter into trying on Ska and Reggae to little success. “Gun Control,” while eminently prophetic, and “Theatre of the Absurd,” both find Hunter affecting a Jamaican accent for unfinished ideas that sound like side twenty four of “Sandanista!” And on “Noises” and “Rain” in the middle of the album, Hunter gets experimental with styles that David Byrne and Prince, who he seems to be reaching for, couldn’t succeed in. I’m certain that Mick Jones’ heart was in the right place, but less certain of his mind. Much of “Short Back ‘n’ Sides” sounds like Jones asking his hero to play dress up and Hunter, always workmanlike, doing what’s been asked of him. There is something admirable, perhaps, about the actor so trusting his director even as, in this case, the director is dropping in random noises and effects in the middle of the actor’s best lines and scenes. But there is also something weird and cruel about it.
In the early 80s, still high on “London Calling,” critics generally praised the songs and the adventurous spirit of “Short Back ‘n’ Sides.” Time has proven those critics wrong. Time would also reveal that, creatively, Mick Jones was very close to the misadventure phase of his adventure. Though pioneering in so many ways, Jones was never able to harness the synthesizer or its samples the way he did the guitar with The Clash. For Hunter, the album was supposed to be an innovation. The singer, who brought enough great songs to the studio, was not wrong in his assumption. For Jones, though, it was clearly an experiment. The producer was virtuous in his intention but wrong in his hypothesis. “Short Back ‘n’ Slides” was an interesting innovation, but was, more so, a failed experiment.
Jones and Hunter never worked together again. Hunter made just one more album in the 1980s, and hit the charts with a cheeky rocker he made with Ronson. Throughout the 90s and 2000s, he mostly stayed quiet, occasionally replaying his hits and eventually, reluctantly, reuniting with Mott the Hoople. I doubt he was done creatively. I think that he was just done reaching Past Prime. After “Short Back ‘n’ Sides,” Ian Hunter knew exactly who he was. He was always almost.