Jimmy Page is a weird fucking guy. I say this, not in reference to his interest in the occult or his unpardonable stint as a statutory rapist. I’m not talking about his drug use or his bellbottoms, scarves or wizard-inspired fashion. No. I mean he’s weird in more fundamental ways. Maybe “weird” isn’t even the right word. Maybe “obtuse” would be better. Like, is he a stoned monster hiding inside of a human riff machine or just a painfully shy, self-medicating genius? Has anyone ever so completely enjoyed the spoils but refuted the obligations of Pop stardom? Page’s silence on the matter of his music is almost unprecedented. He simply does not speak on the topic unless under duress. Always a star, but never the star, it’s unclear whether he was the greatest Heavy Rock session guitarist of all time or if he was a gifted songwriter in his own right. The available text is complicated and Page has done little to clarify it. Like most everyone, I admire the titanic power of Led Zeppelin. But, I’m really not a “Zeppelin Guy.” So, diving into the middle-aged, solo music of Jimmy Page is like diving into a pool where I can’t see the floor or the walls. And, candidly, I’m not sure I want to swim in it to begin with. 

And yet, there is something about the cover of Page’s 1988 solo debut, “Outrider,” that always called to me. The black and white art photo, with reflections of Page’s profile vibrating around his head and torso. The faintest of smiles. The hair, which is neater and tighter, presumably a perm. The fact that it was on Geffen Records. Everything about the package promises serious, professional, expensive Heavy Guitar Rock. Page even suffered through several interviews to promote the thing, muttering nothing about the music or himself, of course, but opening up about the equipment when pressed. I figured that if I was ever going to understand more him, “Outrider” might be where I could distill Page, separate from Zeppelin and The Yardbirds and the sorcery.  

“Outrider” is actually the only solo album Jimmy Page ever made. He was forty four, sober, and a father again for the first time in nearly twenty years when it was released. He had reportedly been working on ample and varied material since Zeppelin broke up but was sidetracked by his work with Paul Rodgers and The Firm. In fact, by 1987 he had plans to release a double album of solo material, organized into the various genres he was delving into. But, then, his house was burglarized and his solo demos were stolen, never to be recovered. So, while we will never know if he had his second half opus in him, what we do know is that “Outrider” is not it. Whether he had run out of gas or whether the burglary was a timely “dog ate my homework” excuse, “Outrider” is merely impressive, if familiar, in a few parts, and wholly underwhelming, everywhere else. It is almost precisely the work of a peerless session guitarist and a forgettable solo artist.

What is familiar and impressive about “Outrider,” is, of course, the sound of those riffs. The monstrous sound that Jimmy Page gets from his Gibson guitar has been endlessly imitated but truly never equaled. It is a sound that threatens the capacity of the equipment. It is surrounded by echo, but still sounds clean and present. When he plays Blues here, in 1988, he sounds not unlike Slash, his ascendant protege from that time. When he plays something more Folk, he sounds more deft and progressive than, say, Richard Thompson. And when he solos, he sounds angular and artful and like no one else. The combination of these sounds and textures, layered delicately on “Outrider,” certainly impressive.  Similarly, the riffs are so good as to be almost obvious — as though they have always existed. You get the feeling that, if asked, Jimmy Page could produce almost perfect riffs continuously. Listen to Page with Them. Listen to Page with The Yardbirds. Listen to Zeppelin. Riff-making is his superpower. 

Additionally, the album sounds luxurious, even over thirty years later. Mixing guitars that big with vocals that demand oxygen is no doubt a challenge. But the guitars themselves need separation so the rhythm gets some distance from the leads and solos. Somehow, all of this is accomplished with aplomb. It sounds well made and well paid for. If I knew nothing of Jimmy Page or his lead singers on “Outrider,” I would simply describe it as an album well suited for testing the high end stereo systems of guitar lovers. It seems like music practically defined for audiophiles. Or guitar aficionados. Or Blues Rock wankers.

Unfortunately, what sounds “familiar,” rarely sounds “better.” Much of this has to do with the singers (and lyricists) on the album. Page invited English screamer, John Miles, to sing and write on the first two tracks and the venerable English Blues pro, Chris Farlowe, to take those duties on three of the last four tracks. As vocalists, Miles and Farlowe as extremely capable, though limited. Miles owns the higher register and serves up a howl that originates deep inside the testicles. He owes less to Robert Plant than, say, Sammy Hagar. Farlowe, on the other hand, has a husky Blues tone that sounds like a high end Pub Rocker or the middle-aged guy you once saw who completely floored you when he sang Joe Cocker. Both singers bring their very best. But, in middle age, neither can write a great song and both resort to the most tired lyrics. Of the nine songs on the album, three are instrumentals and two of those rank as the album’s best tracks. Graciously, we also get a glimpse of the Robert Plant for a song in the middle.

Of the two Miles’ songs, “Wasting My Time,” the opener, is notable because it tweaks the riff from “Communication Breakdown” ever so slightly. The second song, “Wanna Make Love” does absolutely nothing with its hook. It never builds or recedes. It sounds and feels like the desire to copulate without any foreplay or release.

The Farlowe songs are a tick more interesting. “Hummingbird” is an unadventurous Leon Russell cover with at least two inventive guitar solos. The closer, “Blues Anthem” is a surprisingly good Pop Rock song, built on acoustic guitar, but ultimately dashed by meddling synths and plainly the wrong singer. Many lesser bands could have turned it into a winning power ballad. But this is not really a band on “Outsider.” The third of Farlowe’s trilogy is “Prison Blues,” which is just boring Bar Rock played by the least boring guitarist imaginable. Farlowe confounds: 

I got a weasel in my pocket

I'm gonna stick that weasel down my mamma

I'm gonna stick it right down that little hole

I'm never gonna get out of this prison, baby

Ahhh, the only way I get out is climb over the wall, yeah yeah!

Oooh baby, the only way I get out is if I get a ladder

And climb over the wall

Yeah

 

Well, I can't climb the ladder, baby

'Cause I'm afraid that I m-, that I might fall, yeah

Come on, yeah

Like anyone who has listened to the Blues (or who made it to third grade), I get the animal in the hole metaphor and the prison metaphor. But I confess that I do struggle to understand how they go together. Additionally, if all the singer needs is a ladder to get out of prison, it seems a bit flaccid to stay behind bars because of a modest fear of heights. What may have worked for Farlowe in his twenties -- or for a Blues man from the 1920s -- sounds about as sexy in 1988 as Corbin Bernsen in “L.A. Law.”

The clear missteps accounted for, we are left with the one Page/Plant song and the instrumentals. The former is a fast paced, jittery, hard to pin down track where we hear Plant’s ongoing evolution as a New Wave singer. Though he retains the skill of his former self, there is a heady, neurotic speed to his 80s singing that is compelling. The song has its moments, but mostly serves to make us wonder what a more damaged, experimental version of 80s Page and Plant could have been.

Of the instrumentals, “Liquid Mercury” and “Emerald Eyes” are the standouts. In fact, they are almost inarguably the best songs on the album. The former is simply a heavy groove built on the girders of a “climb up / climb down” riff and some lead-handed guitar solos. You feel the bottom of the song shake and move you while the guitar does things that only Jimmy Page can do. “Emerald Eyes, on the other hand, journeys from English Folk to Prog Rock into a jazzy jam in just over three minutes. It is pretty and meandering and epic, like a (really) mini “Stairway to Heaven.” As with the rest of the record, both of these songs sound pristine, especially so given that they are undisturbed by the loins of a vocalist.

“Outrider” — like its maker — is a curiosity. Whatever Jimmy Page learned in three prior decades making music with the best singers and players alive, is not evident on this record. Even in middle age, his guitar playing sounds positively vital. But, the guitar was obviously never his problem. The problem by 1988 was what to do with it, and with whom. Maybe there’s a better answer in those stolen tapes. Maybe there’s a better answer hiding in one of his castles. It seems certain that we will never know. What we do know, for sure, is that Page and Plant would reunite and make great music for many years to come. So, while we may not have learned a whole from “Outsider,” it is possible that Page, himself, did: that he was not a solo artist.

by Matty Wishnow