Jane’s Addiction “The Great Escape Artist”
Bo Jackson. Chris Farley. Billy Bob and Angelina. Some things just weren’t built to last. They either burn too brightly, or they run out of gas, or they were romantically doomed from the start. It can appear tragic when viewed in retrospect, but it can also be beautiful when alive and ablaze. In Rock and Roll, there are countless fast flameouts — it’s a major part of the mythology. We’ve had artists that were probably not made for this world. Too feeling. Too vulnerable. Jimi, Jim, Janice, Kurt. And we’ve had bands that were too chaotic or reckless to effectively function. The Stooges, The Dolls, The Sex Pistols. Nowadays, that narrative — brilliant artist implodes or self-sabotages or worse — is probably the expected one. It is much rarer, in fact, when the unsustainable thing somehow perseveres. Early seventies Stones come to mind. But they had a professional CEO for a lead singer. Guns N’ Roses is probably a better example, except that their journey stretches the definition of “sustainable.” The most exceptional exception I can think of, however, is Jane’s Addiction — the band with twice the vision, half the talent, all of the drugs and none of the boundaries of the rest.
Although I was just an undercooked, overconfident teenager when I first encountered Jane’s Addiction, I’d already seen and heard a few things. I knew about Punk Rock. And Post-Punk. And Experimental Music. I’d (reluctantly) listened to some Captain Beefheart and I’d tried to understand Ornette Coleman. I’d had a dose of Funk and a plateful of Soul music. But nothing really prepared me for Perry Farrell, Dave Navarro, Eric Avery and Stephen Perkins. I could not understand why the white lead singer had cornrows. Or how he surfed with bell bottoms. He was too long — his arms and legs too gangly and his mouth too wide. I could not fathom what their big, velvet hats signified or why there were steel drums in their hit song. I wondered why they dressed up a man as a pregnant woman and started a dance party distraction in the supermarket aisles simply to steal a pineapple. In 1988, I knew almost nothing about the men in the band and not much more about their music. But I knew that Jane’s Addiction was unsustainable.
The more I investigated, the more my suspicions panned out. Jane’s Addiction were matter and antimatter. They were just old enough to have trace Hippie DNA but also young enough to have been turned on by Punk. They sounded determined to build a bridge between The Pixies, The Red Hot Chilli Peppers and the swamp that would soon become Grunge. On “Nothing Shocking” they were unmistakably electric, but also unmoored. They appeared capable of anything, unconcerned with form or commerce, but obsessed with mayhem. Their ideas and vibes greatly outnumber the songs. I mean, they were certainly not like any Punk Rock I knew. They were not College Rock -- like R.E.M. or The Replacements. And yet, they were almost instantly stars — probably the brightest stars in the sky between 1988 and 1991.
In time, I was able to make some sense out of Jane’s Addiction. The L.A. Punk scene of the 80s was impossibly eclectic. Los Lobos and The Blasters would share stages with X, The Germs and Black Flag. It was a city with crumbling borders. So, the idea of a Jewish boy from Long Island, who’d lost his mom at three and eventually moved to L.A. to surf and make art, felt sufficiently “L.A.” Perry Farrell wasn’t the first kid to make that trek. And, while “Nothing Shocking” sounded (and still sounds) meandering more than it did mesmerizing, I could intuit where they were headed. They were punk-ish, but their music was more a blend of Heavy Metal and Space Funk. The delayed vocals may have been a trick or a mistake, but they oddly worked for a singer who was high on treble and harmony but low on melody. Looking back. their cumulative effect predicted both the modern primitivism of Burning Man and the Grunge explosion that soon followed.
At some point after “Nothing Shocking,” just as the band was finding itself, Perry and Dave completely lost themselves. Nevertheless, “Ritual de lo Habitual,” recorded during the throes of their addiction, was a massive hit. Moreover, it became the loadtsar for “Alternative Rock.” “Ritual” was fast and dangerous, but also broken and dreamy, kind of like Los Angeles itself. Back then, Perry Farrell was almost, but not exactly, a unicorn. His closest relatives were probably his more famous, anti-twin brothers, Axl Rose (too menacing) and Kurt Cobain (too sensitive). Whereas Axl wanted monster hits and Kurt wanted indie cred, though, Perry wanted the universe. “Ritual de lo Habitual” is astounding in so many ways. It was vastly different from anything we’d heard before on the radio or MTV. But what stuck with me was that it was was unsustainable music made by an unsustainable band. Although half the band was addicted to heroin, the album sounds like meth heads sprinting up a mountain.
In 1990, when I was first seeing Doc Martens on the ground and when I could not deny the appeal of Jane’s Addiction, I was, nevertheless, concerned. Their sound was as inspired as their songs were unformed. They were almost all energy and no songcraft. Unto itself, I never had a problem with function over form. But, with Jane’s, I feared that there was something horrific about their function. I wondered what was beneath the purple, velvet hats and gold bell bottoms and dopesick sweat and sinewy muscles. If I dug far enough below the bedrock of the Alternative Nation, I sensed something caustically masculine. That there was too much testosterone. Too many drugs. That Jane’s Addiction was music designed for the that part of the brain where pleasure becomes addiction. That it was not born from the Summer of Love or from 1977, but from the December of 1969, at Altamont. The more I thought about it, the more “Ritual” sounded like “Sticky Fingers,” just stripped down, sped up, and played by children. I could not deny that Jane’s Addiction redesigned the late 80s high school experience for wallflowers, weirdos, punks and burnouts. On the other hand, I feared that they had also invited a bunch of assholes with bad intentions into the introverts party.
In spite of my ambivalence, Jane’s Addiction were heroes. Their freak flag rallied enough of Generation X to ignite a revolution that was weird and curious and egalitarian. In those ways, Alternative Rock resembled the dreams and fables of its ostensible founder, Perry Farrell. Whereas Axl and Kurt were an obvious, if false, binary, Perry was a third, infinite beacon. He talked like a Jewish Pagan Buddhist Pantheist. His music was furious love. It contained multitudes. Musically, the 90s opened with Hair Metal, swerved into Grunge which evolved into Alt Rock which softened to become Adult Alternative which was obliterated by Nu Metal. The singular through line from the beginning to the end of that decade was Jane’s Addiction.
Before us, Boomers knew what they wanted: Peace, Love and Money. And after us, Millennials knew what they wanted: everything. But my generation never figured our shit out. We were cynical about ideals and uncomfortable with desire, but we demanded better. In this way, Grunge was the music we deserved. It was brooding and mid-tempo and heavy, but not too heavy, and angry, but never Punk. It was the codification of the undecided. Just before Grunge, however, Jane’s Addiction was resolute. Their music was the opposite of indecision. It was a series of rapid, open ended, possibly contradictory decisions. According to Jane’s Addiction, there was no center. There was no mainstream. There were only beautiful Alternatives. And so, while I found his music to be unsustainable, I cannot deny that Perry Farrell, along with Robert Smith and Kurt Cobain, was one of my teenage saviors.
If he’d simply been the lead singer for Jane’s Addiction, Perry’s mark would have still lasted several generations. But, in addition to his iconic band, he also reinvented live music. Between Woodstock and Lollapalooza there were arenas and stadiums, but outdoor Rock festivals had largely died out. Jazz and Folk had their heady, multi-day gatherings, but Rock was too unruly. Lollapalooza changed all of that. Originally conceived as an excuse to celebrate Jane’s farewell tour, it quickly became the definition of Alternative culture. Its ascension, coinciding with the demise of Jane’s Addiction, redefined Perry Farrell’s significance. By the new millennium, Perry had gone from being an odd, fringe Rock Star to becoming an unexpected, though oddly qualified, carnival ringleader.
After Jane’s, Perry and Stephen Perkins formed Porno for Pyros, a band that was more polished than its predecessor but also more appreciated than it was beloved. Eventually, the singer kicked dope, put the Pyros on the shelf and set out on a solo career that seemed romantically nomadic. Along the way, there were high profile reunions and frequent collaborations with his wife, Etty Lau Farrell. In middle age, Perry Farrell was out of the spotlight, functioning as the rarest sort of performance artist -- the filthy rich kind. He was always able to drum up some attention, but interest in his non-Jane’s music, fairly or not, had diminished. It was unclear how seriously he expected us to take him or his art. It was unclear how serious he took himself. Honestly, I didn’t care either way. In fact, I sort of hoped he’d settled down. He’d fully earned a life that was more...sustainable.
In 2008, closing in on fifty and unlike Bo Jackson, Perry Farrell could still shake his hips. Unlike Chris Farley, he could still crack jokes. And unlike Angelina and Billy Bob, he was still in love. He wanted for very little. He’d already reunited (three quarters of) Jane’s Addiction several times before. Each time it appeared to end with infighting and/or creative differences. In 2003, they even went into the studio and recorded an album’s worth of new material. That record, “Strays,” had sucked up the fumes of Nu Metal, a genre that Jane’s had partially, unintentionally birthed. Nevertheless, it was a massive hit. Like all of the Hard Rock from the era, the album screeched and blared. They were still daring -- maybe even menacing -- but they were not very much fun. Gone was the psychedelia. Gone was the Punk Funk. “Strays” sounded like expensive noise behind a singer whose voice was almost shot. And yet, five years later, Perry, Dave, Stephen and Eric -- the original band -- decided to give it another go.
Version 3.0 started with all four founding members appearing together at the NME awards. Then there was some studio time with Trent Reznor that went absolutely nowhere but led to a world tour (in support of NIN). Soon after, Eric Avery left the band again, citing everything we’d seen and heard before as his reasons. Then came a retrospective box set and then a return to the studio, without a full time bassist. Duff McKagan joined to help write but never made it onto the album. Chris Chaney, who’d replaced Avery before, ambled back into the fold. And newcomer, Dave Sitek, of TV on the Radio, filled every hole he could find. Together, this band of brothers, frenemies and the new guy labored over dozens of songs, ten of which would be released as “The Great Escape Artist.”
By 2011, we’d come to expect the return of every legendary, “we’ll reunite when hell freezes over” band. 70s and 80s Nostalgia was big business and it was simply too expensive for those bands to remain broken up. The Pixies, The Replacements, My Bloody Valentine, Pavement. The list was practically endless. So, news of another album from Jane’s Addiction, who’d already reunited and dissolved multiple times before, was kind of ho hum. For many of us, it was a curiosity, at best. Additionally, reports of their unfinished recordings had lingered for several years. It was not storied like GNR’s “Chinese Democracy,” but there was a growing sense that something was amiss with “The Great Escape Artist.” At the core of this presumption was the belief that the great, unsustainable Jane’s Addiction had died in 1991. That they would return in 2011 made only commercial sense. That they could recapture any semblance of their original brilliance made practically zero sense.
Because no other singer sounds like Perry Farrell and because three quarters of the original band had returned, “The Great Escape Artist” does, of course, resemble vintage Jane’s Addiction. But it only resembles their first two albums in the way that late 80s P.I.L. resembles The Sex Pistols. 2011 Jane’s Addiction is a production -- polished up, slowed down and heavily produced. Rich Costey, the man at the boards, is an elite record maker whose tastes are as varied as Perry Farrell’s. He’s made albums with Sigur Ros, Santigold, Fiona Apple, Weezer, Jurassic 5 and countless other great acts. But the band he has returned to most frequently is Muse, whose epic, glamorous, modern, Goth Rock is beloved in the U.K. and nearly as popular in The States. It is the scent of Muse that most threatens to stink up “The Great Escape Artist.”
While it is less than forty minutes long, “The Great Escape Artist” is somehow epic in its sweep. Moody, ambient swirl blends the tracks together and drum and synthesizer programming stitch the treble to the bass. Unlike vintage Jane’s, which I would describe as “bass and vocal forward,” the middle-aged model features a heavier bottom and vocals mixed back. To its credit (or discredit), there is tonal consistency. The songs bear some of the Nu Metal markings from 2003s “Strays.” However, eight years later, with the edges polished and the pace more middling, it more closely resembles an as yet uninvented genre: Nu Grunge. Dave Navarro’s muscular guitar was always better suited for Grunge than it was Punk or Metal. And Stephen Perkins drumming is less frenetic than ever before. Newcomer, Dave Sitek glosses over the songs with an effect that sounds a little like TV on the Radio and a little like late Kings of Leon, except with an older, more sedate Perry Farrell behind the mic.
Though largely middling, “The Great Escape Artist” has its moments. “Underground,” which opens the album with a massive riff surrounded by laser beams, finds the band at the mountaintop, looking up towards heaven and getting no answer back. The chorus is the only time on the entire album wherein Perry sounds genuinely desperate. It’s the convocation of a fifty year old artist who’s scoured every corner of every religion and come up empty. It’s not “Mountain Song,” but it’s not that far off. Unfortunately, it’s followed by “End to the Lies,” which is a piercing swirl or vitriol buried just below a grungy stew of Nu Metal. Perry talks-spits his resentment more than he sings it, which neuters the band’s most distinguishing characteristic. As a result, they sound like Linkin Park or Korn more than they do like the Jane’s Addiction you loved. And while the singer is entitled to all the feelings, he is far more charming when he is searching or dreaming than when he’s unforgiving.
The entire midsection of the album is bloated, carrying the weight of scale without the benefit of actual anthems. Even "Irresistible Force (Met the Immovable Object),” which reads like a future title for the band’s biography, fails to distinguish itself. For nearly thirty minutes, Costey and Sitek do their best to add tone and texture to songs that are either half-baked or half-hearted. For most of this stretch, “The Great Escape Artist” sounds more like a big production than it does like a titanic band. The crew does their best to not disgrace the legacy while they search for their future style. But, it is hard to fathom all of the machinery at work from a band that once was breathlessly, tragically human.
In the mid-80s, vintage denim made a dramatic return to fashion around New York City. The Antique Boutique, Udelco and dozens of other shops stocked racks upon racks of used jeans, complete with authentic holes and patches. Although I knew there was something spurious about our nostalgia, there was also something earnest in the transaction. We were appropriating, and then recontextualizing, the fashions of our parents. Those jean shorts and bellbottoms that Perry Farrell once wore were actually made in the 1970s. There was still equity in that nostalgia. By 2011, however, if you wanted distressed denim with holes, you either want to Forever 21, where it was cheap but plentiful, or you spent a couple hundred bucks to buy the designer version. In both cases, the jeans were not made in the past. There was no equity in the nostalgia. We were trading in derivatives. That’s what a lot of “The Great Escape Artist” sounds like — something that has been processed and sold and resold into derivative value.
Surprisingly, three of the best songs on the record were co-written by Duff McKagan, who was long gone from the mix by the time the album was recorded. “Broken People” is mostly just two chords, actual drums, guitar and piano. There’s no bass for a verse. But, when it kicks in, followed by the lead guitar, you realize “this is it.” It’s “The Great Escape Artist’s” simple, weirdo, sensitive anthem. It’s a song that could only have been written by an outsider celebrity like Farrell, who was born thousands of miles from Los Angeles, but was fully adopted by the city. It’s their twenty-first century “Jane Says” and it's likely the best thing on the album.
“Broken People” is then followed by the closer, “Words Right Out of my Mouth.” Though not the equal of its predecessor, it is naked and noisy enough to sound like an actual band — possibly even like Jane’s Addiction. It opens with Perry talking to his shrink and then it breaks into a ruckus that is in conversation with The Pixies or early Nirvana. In the second half, the singer whoops and hollers his way into an unexpected acoustic breakdown. By the end, there’s too much going on — too much energy, too many forces at work. It devolves quickly and ends in a mess. But it’s also the closest they get to “Nothing Shocking” — a band certain of nothing and capable of anything. A band that is completely unsustainable.