Journey “Revelation”
These sort of things always end badly. Two guys, with superhuman gifts, united by fate, but separated by everything else. One was an honest to goodness guitar prodigy. He had a thick, curly mullet. He was married five times. He couldn’t sing much. But shit could he play guitar. He could play it all ways. He could play it all day. He could play it with anyone. Any time. In fact, that’s exactly what he wanted from life: to play guitar all ways, with everyone, all the time. The other guy was the voice. He could sing like Sam Cooke, but with arena-sized reach. He had a feathered mullet. Never married. He couldn’t play guitar. He wasn’t much for jamming. But shit he could sing a ballad. And an anthem, for that matter. He could sing about as well as anyone who ever sang Rock and Roll. But, if he had a choice, he’d choose to sing for smaller crowds. Maybe just in his own house to the one he loved. Or maybe alone in his bedroom, along to old Soul records. Steve Perry was the sensitive introvert who wore his heart in a locket around his neck. Neal Schon was almost the opposite -- the extrovert who sought love everywhere. For a moment they were the perfect yin and yang of the biggest Rock band in the world. But from the very beginning until their very end, they were also a tragedy just waiting to happen.
Before there was Steve Perry’s Journey, there was a different Journey. Neal Schon, Gregg Role, Ross Valory and Aynsley Dunbar were a heavy Blues band with a side interest in Jazz, Prog and pretty much anything else they could get their ears on. They were Bay Area guys who’d backed Carlos Santana and Steve Miller — players through and through. On account of their pedigree, they scored a major label record deal early on. But they were not especially interested in making hits. They wanted to try things. So, while they would eventually land somewhere near Foreigner and Boston, they were actually designed much more like Toto, but with the dials turned up. No stars and lots of freedom. It worked well enough until the check came. Their sales went nowhere. Their costs kept rising. Their label, Columbia, was on the verge of moving on. And then Steve Perry walked into their lives.
Up until that point, there was no tragedy. Journey was closer to experimental art than to Rock canon. There was also no formal tension constraining the music. They jammed and rocked and jazzed however they wanted. Their lack of a defining frontman was a feature, not a bug. But Perry was more than a feature — he was the whole program. With his arrival, the script changed. Journey’s first album with their new lead singer, “Infinity,” leaped up the charts. It went triple platinum in the U.S. “Wheel in the Sky” sounded enough like old Journey to smooth out the transition. But “Lights” was something else altogether -- a slow, tender ballad and a perfect showcase for their new, otherworldly frontman. It was the first of several massive hits that Perry and Schon would write together. But it was also the end of Journey as Neal Schon had first imagined the group. Where before there was space, now there was gravity. Where before there was freedom, there was now tension. Where before there was Prog, there was now balladry. If you listened to every song on every album, the transition was not so abrupt. But if you only listened to their early work and then to their greatest hits, it was harder to find the through line.
Despite the existential stressors that lurked beneath, the surface of Journey 2.0 appeared shiny and bright. In fact, between 1978 and 1983, they were possibly the biggest Rock band in the world. Atari made a video game featuring the band and their music. They sold tens of millions of albums, eventually lapping Foreigner, Styx and REO. By the end of the “Frontiers” world tour, Journey was the brightest star in the planetarium. In fact, they were on the verge of supernova. So, in 1984, they took a timeout. Perry scored a hit with his solo debut, “Street Talk,” and Schon teamed up with Sammy Hagar for a super-loud supergroup. There were reports of conflict -- rumors that Perry traveled alone while on tour and that Schon was hesitant to hand over the keys to Journey, Inc. The truth is undoubtedly more complicated than the narrative, but it sure seemed as though Perry and Schon were more co-workers than buddies. They were temperamentally divergent. They were stylistically dissimilar. Together, they had massive success -- yes. But, increasingly, their success pointed back to Perry, the feathery haired introvert who joined the band five years into the story.
When Journey returned to the studio at the end of 1985 to make “Raised on Radio,” Steve Perry was their lead singer and producer. Tensions with bassist Ross Valory and drummer Steve Smith resulted in both men leaving the band. Meanwhile, Perry was increasingly at odds with manager, Herbie Herbert. The tension convention yielded a platinum album and a bunch of top forty singles, but “Raised on Radio” did not sell as well as the band’s previous records. Critics were always sour on Journey, but, smelling blood in the water, they were particularly unkind this time around. Fans remained fiercely loyal, but it became harder to ignore the signs of strife. “Will they or won’t they break up?” the Journey Force wondered. We got our answer soon enough.
At the end of the “Raised on Radio” tour, Journey went on a longer, more painful hiatus. Steve Perry mostly disappeared from public life, releasing one poorly received solo album. He was hounded by questions about his former band from writers and fans. The louder the calls got, though, the more he seemed to retreat. There were rumors about his physical health. His mental health. And, of course, the divorce from Neal, who, for his part, formed two Glam Metal bands (Bad English and Hardline) and played a series of high profile guest spots. Perry joined Schon for one performance of one song to honor the passing of legendary promoter Bill Graham. But that was really it for Journey. For almost a decade, they were done.
Then, of course, came versions 3.0 and 4.0. In 1996, Perry, Schon, and Cain reunited with Valory and Smith to make “Trial by Fire.” Fans were thrilled with anticipation. They were happy enough with the first single, “When You Love a Woman.” But they were generally disappointed with everything else. The sprawling album featured mostly ballads and mid-tempo numbers, the sort that showcase the singer but tamper down excitement. Though it was labored over, the album had an air of obligation about it -- all work, no fun. In a sense, Journey had become bigger than any single member. And so, the quintet played their parts as company men. They did the press. They talked up radio and retail. But then, one day, Steve Perry, who’d discovered a degenerative condition in his hip, literally hobbled off from Journey one more time -- possibly for the last time.
The next twenty five years of Journey was full of greatest hits packages, finger pointing, rumors of reconciliation, more dismissals and, of course, versions 4.0 and 5.0. In late 1997, Steve Augeri, who shared a first name, a last name that rhymed, a vocal quality, and hair length with Steve Perry, joined Journey as their new front man. By this point, two decades into their story, they had unwittingly become a tribute band, known more for their hits than for everything before and in between. Schon wisely found a singer who looked almost enough and sounded almost enough like his predecessor. But Augeri was not Perry. Though plenty impressive, his voice was a notch weaker and flatter. He looked great onstage. You could see that he was thrilled to be there. But he couldn’t produce hits like Perry could. And, honestly, most fans just wanted to hear the hits. So, after two lackluster albums, when Augeri’s voice began to fail in 2006, the writing was on the wall. To birth Journey 5.0, Schon would have to find Perry 3.0.
Once it became fully and finally apparent that Steve Perry would not be returning to Journey, the search did not take very long. Arnel Pineda was right there, on Youtube, singing his heart out to “Faithfully.” The Filipino singer and avowed Journey superfan had absolutely perfect pitch. His range was thrilling. He had long, feathery, dark hair. He was forty, but he barely looked thirty. If you squinted your eyes and ignored the slightest nasal quality in the vocals, it sure seemed like Steve Perry. Pineda was the younger model, with almost all the benefits and none of the baggage. His backstory -- growing up impoverished and sometimes homeless, singing along to Journey songs -- made for great press. It landed the band on “Oprah.” There was even a documentary made about the real life fairytale. Among those who’d never stopped believing, buzz was building once again. Thirty plus years in, Journey was an institution more than a band. They were like the New England Patriots -- one man down, next man up. It wasn’t romantic, but it kept the legacy alive and it sure sold a lot of tickets. If Schon fell in love easily, Perry was exactly the opposite. His heart broke easily and repaired slowly.
The arrival of Pineda, however, completely shifted the narrative. Journey was no longer a tragic story. They were a feel good story of rebirth -- of miracles. Fans still adored Steve Perry, but he had recovered. He’d replaced his hip and survived a cancer scare. It was unclear if the other wounds would ever heal, but the separation was ultimately his choice. Meanwhile, Arnel Pineda was all sunshine and rainbows. He was the world’s best karaoke singer, and able showman and a clickable headline. However, as to whether Journey 5.0 could make a good album with Pineda up front, that was a different matter.
With a tailwind of good will, Journey hustled into the studio in early 2008 and released “Revelation.” Thirty years after they first soundtracked couples' skates at roller rinks across America, over a decade after Perry left the band and years after they scored the final moments of “The Sopranos,” Journey had landed, once again, in the heartland of America. “Revelation” was released in the U.S. on Schon’s own record label as three discs, exclusively through Walmart stores. The first disc was nearly an hour of brand new music. The second included studio re-recordings of eleven of Journey’s greatest hits, sung by Arnel Pineda. And the third disc was a DVD recorded during a live performance in Las Vegas. In spite of its unique marketing strategy -- or rather, because of it -- the album sold over a million copies in the U.S. alone. What once seemed like a tragedy at worst and an unresolvable problem at best, suddenly seemed more like a glitch. And, just like that, Neal Schon had found Arnel Pineda and fixed the glitch.
Kind of. Well, not entirely. While longtime fans frothed over the arrival of “Revelation” and middle, middle-aged America swooned for Pineda, and while Walmart’s three disc set sure seemed like good value, the new material was not quite so convincing. At the outset, I should probably say that I don’t come to Journey albums for the poetry. Schon and Perry were never trying to be Bob Dylan. I come for the playing and the singing. And, by those standards, “Revelation” is not a letdown. Like all Journey records, the musicianship is evident, to the point of feeling more like a showcase than a recording of Rock and Roll songs. And the singing is generally stupendous, both in how it simulates vintage Perry and how it occasionally diverges. While version 5.0 is not officially a replica of version 2.0, there is a clear attempt to ration the ballads and return to their more muscular, early 80s heyday.
I will confess that it takes about half the album to stop comparing Pineda to Perry. The similarities, honed through decades of practice and loyalty, are uncanny. Eventually, though, and after multiple listens, I was able to consider “Revelation” as a “Journey album” rather than an “Arnel Pineda Sings Journey” album. It’s a complicated exercise, made more confounding by the presence of the second disc and bonus DVD, wherein Arnel Pineda does, quite literally, cover Journey classics.
As for the original material on disc one, the band comes out swinging. “Never Walk Away” is basically one, dynamite hook that fades in and out for four minutes of arena-worthy Rock. It’s never too heavy. It doesn’t get too clever. The bottom of the band is sturdy, keeping things moving while Schon and Pineda get to cook. Yes — it’s full of cliches and cheesy in the way a training montage from an 80s film is. But I think it works great alongside a Nautilus workout and I suspect it would have been a stone cold hit on the radio in 1982. In 2008, however, in the world of Shinedown and Disturbed, it was not even released as a single — which is a shame, because it’s probably the best song on the album.
From there, however, with my fists ready to pump and my expectations reset, things go mostly sideways and occasionally backwards. The problems with “Revelation” have almost nothing to do with the playing or the singer and much more to do with songs themselves. Journey always wrestled with tension. At their best, the forces and shifts within their songs were contained by the melodies of their choruses and the lacquer of their lead singer. When Schon’s heavy, proggy Blues were gilded by Perry, it was pure gold. But, It was always a risky trick. It was like a batter with an odd stance who swung for the fences on every single pitch. When he got a fastball or a hanging curve, the ball could travel five hundred feet. But anything off-speed or unexpected could also lead to painful strikeouts. Queen was similar in this way -- either home runs or big misses. Journey’s misses were probably less embarrassing and more redeemable than Queen’s, but they could be painful nonetheless. Journey’s alchemy was magical, but delicate.
Throughout “Revelation,” but especially on “Change for the Better” and “Wildest Dream,” the ratios of Metal to Prog to power balladry are off. The time signatures are herky, which no doubt impresses Yes fans, but does not serve the population for whom Journey’s “Greatest Hits” is the loadstar. When the songs become instrumental showcases, Pineda understandably struggles to keep up. There are probably many great reasons why Neal Schon needed to have HSAS, Hardline and Bad English in his life, and I suspect it’s largely because he was interested in making music that did not work for Journey. Occasionally, on “Revelation,” I felt as though Schon and Cain had written something that would have been better served by a young Sammy Hagar fronting King Crimson. There’s something impressive about it. I suspect that practiced musicians would be wowed by the transcriptions. And, in some ways, these tracks resemble pre-Perry Journey. But, I was less interested in that version of the band. And, in middle age, even a reasonably priced, Walmart three disc set was not going to change my mind.
Eventually, Journey finds their way back to the center. “Faith in the Heartland” is really only a half step forward, but it’s progress. A cover of a song written and released in 2005, when Steve Augeri was their singer, it’s more of a middling, heavy rocker than anything else. However, given its target audience and distribution channel, the title alone demanded that it be rerecorded and rereleased. It’s an OK song but a shrewd conceit. But. graciously, it returns the album to a 4/4 beat, trading the sound of an arena for that of a mega-church.
Things get considerably better on “After All These Years,” the Adult Contemporary hit which would blow the roof off of an “American Idol” finale; and on “Where Did I Lose Your Love,” the hard charger that resembles “Separate Ways,” but ten percent slower and ten decibels lower. As a pair, they help rescue the middle of the album and remind you of the forces that work best for Journey -- forward momentum, tension, release and soaring vocals.
The back half of the album is mostly a mixed bag. “What I Needed” is an odd, contemporary R&B ballad that would have been better served by Toni Braxton a decade earlier. “What it Takes to Win” is a missed opportunity for an inspiring, workout song -- it wants to be “Eye of the Tiger” but ends up making me want to skip the gym altogether. And the closing instrumental, while interesting, feels like musical sport more than a part of the album. But, right before the first disc ends, we get one last glimmer of something special on “Turn Down the World Tonight.” While not an elite Journey track, it is a lovely ballad and a great Arnel Pineda song. It’s simple and wistful, with just the right amount of Schon’s electricity. It’s a classic Journey ballad -- big like Meatloaf and Steinman, but less weird -- updated for middle age.
After the new material fades out, the classics reemerge as accurate, mostly faithful tributes to the band’s greatest hits. Pineda doesn’t look like a Steve Perry hologram, but he does sound like the world’s greatest karaoke singer -- living his dream, fronting the group he idolized. There’s some added reverb to signify the passage of time. But, of course, the songs are wonderful and sound timeless and alive. There’s no uncanny valley problem — you know that you are listening to a tribute. Additionally, in post-post-modernity, I suspect that the simulacrum is understood as a given. The fact that the performance is manifold derivative is exactly the point. But, the truth is, I don’t completely miss Steve Perry. In fact, I am fairly certain that in 2008, Journey sounded every bit as good with Arnel Pineda as they would have with Steve Perry. And this is not a knock against Perry. It’s probably the opposite. It’s a certain gratitude for what he provided. It’s also an acknowledgment that he deeply wanted something out of life that Journey could not offer. Or, worse, that Journey stood in the way of. So, though I don’t particularly love (or like) “Revelations,” it’s hard for me to see Perry’s departure and Pineda’s arrival as a tragedy. I think they both got exactly what they wanted. In fact, I think everyone got exactly what they needed. And what they deserved. And much more.