John Doe’s voice was the sound of a storm cloud over a city on fire. The city was Los Angeles. And the storm was actually a sun shower named Exene Cervenka. John and Exene were partners in love and in Punk. As a couple, they were more charismatic (which is saying something) and fun (which is not saying much) than Lindsey and Stevie. As punk royalty, they were more accessible and lovable than Thurston and Kim. But on his own — as a frontman — Hollywood could not have cast a hipper L.A. cowpunk. Handsome and wise, younger John Doe looked something like Bill Paxton with Jeff Bridges hair and a neon guitar. He was fucking perfect.

By the early 1990s, X had become the band that critics and bands loved but whose records could not sell and whose songs could not get played on the radio. They survived as a touring concern but, even at the height of Alternative Rock, Doe had rightfully concluded that there was little point in making new X records if people didn’t want to hear them. Eventually, while he continued to tour with his bandmates now and again, he opted to make different, less expensive records, out of reach from the pressures and scale of major record labels.

Nearly seventy now and thirty years into a decorated solo career, John Doe has spent his second act answering the question: who is John Doe when there is no burning city and raging storm? Is he one half of Punk Rock’s Richard and Linda Thompson? Is he a character actor in arthouse films? Is he a godfather of Psychobilly and a key strain of Alternative Country Music? Or is he just a troubadour, making a living writing and playing his bittersweet Country-ish Rockabilly songs for discerning middle agers?

The answer is, of course, all of the above. Since his self-titled debut in 1990, John Doe has been whittling away at both his songs and his identity. For most of the 90s and early 00s, he bounced from tiny indie label to indie label like a legendary, vintage car to parade out once a year before the owner realizes that the purchase requires long term investment and maintenance. Most of these records were darn good. A couple were better than that. But none crossed over from “Indie” or “Alt Country,” in spite of the critical support and public praise from the many famous John Doe fans. Some of the records were more Folksy. Some were more Nashville. Some sounded like later X records. On each album, female singers would step in for some of Exene’s parts. It all had the feeling of restlessness. Until, eventually, on the other side of fifty, John Doe settled in. By 2005, he landed at Yep Roc Records, a label he could stick with and a label that was in for the haul. And it was there that he found his mission: To write love songs where the people in the songs are actually loved.

“Keeper” from 2011, is John Doe’s ninth solo album (not counting his work with The Knitters and his album alongside Jill Sobule). He struck a deal with Producer Dave Way, who had mixed and engineered many big records for artists in his area code, like Fiona Apple and Sheryl Crow. Way offered to record Doe in a proper studio for a flat fee, regardless of how long it took. For many years, John Doe had lived hand to mouth. He would tour and then write and record in short spurts when a label or patron would get him a small advance. “Keeper” would be different. For the first time in at least twenty years, he had the time to write the songs and stories he wanted to since and the space to fill them with all the empathy and heart he could muster. He would be fifty eight when it was released. He’d remarried. He had three daughters. He didn’t live in L.A. anymore. Nothing about him was on fire. There was no storm. To the contrary, on “Keeper” Doe was happily in love. 

Given the opportunity, the results, curiously, were mixed. It seems that through Dave Way, his friend Joe Henry and his many admirers, John Doe was able to cash in some favors for “Keeper.” Don Was plays on the record. Patty Griffin and Jill Sobule step into Exene’s parts. The twelve songs organize themselves roughly into two varieties -- the stripped down sort and the bulked up sort. Though all of the songs are spare at heart and could have been rendered with just the singer, a guitar and a duet partner, nearly half of “Keeper” receives horn sections, fiddle and slide guitar. Unto itself, these are not bad things. In fact they can be great things. Some part of John Doe always thought of The Band as a Punk band. You can hear that in both X and some of his early solo records. But there is also part of John Doe that heard something wild and — yes — Punk in late 60s and early 70s Rolling Stones. Not a directness or amateurishness, but a force and cocksureness. When John Doe is not slowing things down on “Keeper,” it seems that he is reaching for “Sticky Fingers” — the organ, the horns, the swirl of it all. Amazingly, the band is able enough to emulate some of that dark, magical spirit — but just barely. Doe is not Mick Jagger and his band is not Keith, Charlie, Bill, Billy Preston and (importantly) Mick Taylor. In spite of its very good songs and great intentions, “Keeper” falls just short of its hopes and dreams. 

In 2011, John Doe was many things. But he was no longer renegade and carefree. In fact, he was the opposite. He was rooted and full of care. So when a song like “Never Enough,” a simple (but thoughtful) rave-up about out of control desire — more stuff, more power, more money — gets filled in with honky tonk piano and Memphis horns, it sounds like a Stones’ outtake recorded underwater. Similarly, “Jump Into My Arms” begins as a clever Rockabilly romance that inverts traditional gender stereotypes, but soon enough the guitars and piano overrun the number. Repeatedly there is a mismatch between the singer, the songs and the performances.

To be clear, there is not a single moment on “Keeper” that would qualify as a total misfire. The heart of my criticism is based on an admiration for the singer and songwriter. I love John Doe when he sings big, unexpected choruses. I love the way his flat, wild but disaffected voice bruised over time. I love the way he harmonizes, seemingly incapable of finding the melody until, almost accidentally, he and his duet partners land on the same note. I guess I figured that, with more time, budget and collaborators, he’d be able to do that twelve times in twelve tracks. I can place some of the blame on the production, but the truth is that several (many) of these songs are just not as good as the singer.

When he is good, though, John Doe is great. His love songs to his daughters (I presume), “Don’t Forget How Much I Love You” and “Little Tiger” are touching and sentimental in the smartest possible ways. They are paternal without ever sounding Paternalistic. “Giant Step Backward,” on the other hand, is grown up fare, a patently lovely track that aches for the time when there was love and empathy, which has since been replaced by work and resentment. He knows that the only way forward is to step back. She’s left him but he knows that he cannot and should not chase her forward. Plainly, deeply, he sings:

You’ve taken off

& I’m taken aback

I’ll take a giant step backwards

To bring you back

“Walking Out the Door” is the story of a long distance romance wherein the singer notices that She loves him most when he’s leaving. And, unsurprisingly, he wishes she could always love him that way. Like the best John Doe songs, it’s an uncomplicated Country-ish song about a very complicated sort of love. “Keeper” also features two covers — a delicate, jazzy take on Earl Jackson’s “Moonbeam,” and a grown up and downshifted redo of X’s “Painting the Town Blue” (from 1983s “More Fun in the Modern World”). Where the original X song was damaged and retro, with John and Exene trading front and back, the update is nostalgic, mindful that “youth is wasted on the young.”

“Keeper” is an uneven record from a reliable artist who is both better and more important than his already considerable reputation. Nearing sixty, Doe was still very much in his prime when this album was made. What he lacked in speed, he made up for in wisdom. And while he wasn’t fiery or dangerous anymore, his heart was still full of embers. The very best thing I can say about “Keeper” — and I mean this as high praise — is that it did achieve its most important goal — it contained love songs about being loved.

by Matty Wishnow