By its very definition, exceptionalism is — well — exceptional. The inverse, of course, is also true. It is extraordinarily rare — unnatural even — to be uniquely gifted in more than one arena. This axiom is as valid in business as it is in people. For instance, you would not expect Starbucks — a place everyone goes for coffee — to also be the best French bistro in town in the same way that you would not expect a Nobel prize-winning physicist to also be a Pulitzer prize-winning novelist. These suggestions are so obvious as to seem banal. But, from time to time, we seem to either forget this truism or resist it. And when we do, bad things happen.

For example, Michael Jordan, the world’s greatest basketball player, proved to be a very average minor league baseball player. Sure — Bo Jackson was an All Pro running back and an All Star outfielder. But what did he get for challenging the laws of physics? One bum hip, zero Hall of Fame plaques and a third career as an amateur archer.

These are hyperbolic examples. But the same applies to less exciting, everyday lives. If you are a natural introvert, highly gifted in — say — calculus or illustration or ceramics, you probably shouldn’t pursue a career on Broadway. Similarly, if you are a gregarious extrovert, adept at sales and persuasion, you could might consider a career as an overnight security guard, but I suspect that it would be not end well. 

In music, Jimi Hendrix and Eric Clapton were not the world’s greatest singers in the same way that Celine Dion and Aretha couldn’t shred. You get my point. Nevertheless, and very occasionally, we see a polymath flying too close to the sun. Karen Carpenter was as gifted a drummer as she was a singer, but could barely function offstage and outside of the studio. Prince may have been the greatest songwriter and guitarist of his generation. There was very little The Purple One could not do as a performer, except, it seems, perform in public night after night. Social avoidance and pain management were his undoing. And, perhaps most famously, Michael Jackson was an exceptional singer and dancer whose unfathomable celebrity begot his arrested development which begot his profound need to hide away. 

Leon Russell was not like Prince or Michael. He was never the most famous person on the planet. Oftentimes, he wasn’t even the most famous person on the stage. And, spectacular as he could be, he was never the greatest at any one thing. But his talent and versatility posed similar dilemmas: focus on singular greatness or chase all of the other things? And, in either scenario — at what cost?

Russell’s exceptionalism was not always so apparent. Complications during birth left him with cerebral palsy and weakened the entire right side of his body. As a young, aspiring classical pianist, he struggled to keep up. But then came Rock and Roll. By the age of fourteen, Russell and his buddies were backing Jerry Lee Lewis in concert. At fourteen! And, by the time he was twenty, he’d already distinguished himself as one of Los Angeles’ finest session musicians. Many years before Joe Cocker helped make him famous, Russell played piano, guitar, bass and whatever else was asked of him for Jan and Dean, The Beach Boys, Ray Charles, Barbra Streisand and anyone else who recorded in LA in the 1960s. 

As a member of the storied “Wrecking Crew,” Russell was among the most in demand session musicians of all time. On piano, he could hop from Blues to Country to Swing without flinching. What’s more, and like Billy Preston, he could intuitively combine styles. But, unlike Preston, Leon Russell was also a fine guitarist. He could play rhythm and lead. He could play bass. He could play banjo. Drummer’s out sick? No problem — Leon can sit in. Trumpeter’s late? All good — Leon’s here. He was the jack of all trades and the master of many.

Despite his gifts as a writer and arranger, young Leon didn’t seem interested in being a frontman, much less a star. He just liked playing on records. However, in time, and with the ascent of the counterculture, his perspective shifted. By the late Sixties, Russell had grown his hair out long and cultivated a formidable beard and mustache. Whereas booze had once been his liquid courage, pot and LSD were now in the mix. 1950s teenage Leon looked like Tulsa’s answer to young Johnny Cash. 1968 Leon looked like nobody else on the planet. His wild hair was prematurely graying while his pale eyes were prematurely tiring. He traded in his dress shirts and pants for loud prints. And he topped it all off with a top hat straight from Alice in Wonderland. Leon Russell was never the average hippie or the consummate hippie, but he might very well have invented bohemian style.

That version of Leon Russell — bold, practiced and stoned — was ready to try something new. In 1968, he and Marc Benno released the first of two albums as “The Asylum Choir,” marking the first time that Russell had gone out on his own as “the talent.” It continued through 1969, the year in which he joined Delaney & Bonnie and when Joe Cocker scored a hit with his song, “Delta Lady.” But those events, and the years he spent putting in his time between Tulsa and L.A., were just precursors to 1970 — the year that Leon Russell exploded into the stratosphere.

1970 began with the recording and release of Russell’s self-titled solo debut, wherein he introduced audiences to his eclectic tastes, his knack for melody and his charming, laconic croak. “Leon Russell” was also his coming out as an important American songwriter. The album was a minor hit, featuring his own version of “Delta Lady” and, more importantly, “A Song for You,” which would go on to become one of the most beloved, most covered songs of the next two decades. Russell’s version did not so much as sniff the charts, but it went on to become a hit for The Carpenters and Donnie Hathaway and was lovingly rendered by Ray Charles, Aretha Franklin and countless others. In many ways, it was “Hallelujah” decades before “Hallelujah” — a profoundly simple and simply profound song from a great writer with a limited voice, begging for other singers to have a go at it.

Amazingly, Russell’s debut album was not his most significant contribution to the 1970. That came in the weeks that followed, when, through familiarity and merit and necessity, he was invited by Joe Cocker to be the bandleader for the “Mad Dogs and Englishmen” tour (and accompanying concert film). Cocker was informed about the tour, which was booked and guaranteed, on March 12th. The first show was to be held on March 20th (four days before the release of “Leon Russell”). In between, Russell was asked to form and lead a band who would perform nearly fifty shows in about as many days. 

What happened next became the stuff of legends. Russell assembled a band of forty plus friends (most — but not all — of whom were musicians) to join the band. There were three drummers and three additional percussionists. There was a horns section. There were a dozen or so back-up singers. There was the most famous English Soul singer in the world at the time. And there was, of course, the mad hatter on piano, keys, guitar, and whatever else he pleased. It was Joe Cocker’s show, but it was fully Leon Russell’s band. And that band — which started out as friends and family — ended up an exhausted, incestuous mix of music, love, sex, booze, drugs, friendship and betrayal. With many of the men romantically involved with many of the women, and with those arrangements changing on a daily basis, the peace, love and understanding that inspired the early sets withered into fear and loathing by the final shows.

Though it very nearly killed Russell, who by most accounts was drunk and stoned for the entire tour, it also established him as the greatest bandleader of his generation. Following in the tradition of Bennie Goodman, Tommy Dorsey, Duke Ellington, James Brown and Bob Dylan, Leon Russell proved to be a spectacular conductor and arranger. He could play piano and guitar with the best of them. He could write a hell of a song. But, more than anything, 1970 demonstrated that Leon Russell was born to be a leader of musicians and a maker of bands. 

That one band in particular — the Mad Dogs and Englishmen — might well have been the greatest Rock band ever assembled. At their best, and in spite of everything surrounding them, they were like The Stones and Dylan and The Band got together to form a supergroup. But better, because Joe Cocker was twice the singer Dylan or Jagger ever was and because Leon could play Country and Honky Tonk and Jazz as well as he could play Soul, R&B, Boogie Woogie and Rock and Roll. This was Leon Rusell’s greatest gift. This was his exceptionalism — his capacity to lead bands. He spent the rest of the decade chasing the high of that band and that tour. But, also, chasing everything else. 

During the 1970s, Russell released thirteen albums as a “primary artist,” if you include those he released as “Hank Wilson” (his Country alter-ego), those he made with his wife, Mary, and his collaborations with Willie Nelson and The Shelter People. That number does not include his two excellent live albums, nor does it include the dozens and dozens of appearances he made as a guest player. Further, that number does not include his central role in George Harrison’s “Concert for Bangladesh,” nor does it account for his work as a producer of records or for his reputation as a massive and tireless concert draw or for his role in inspiring Dr. Teeth of The Muppets. The 1970s was the decade in which Russell tried to be the exception to the rule of exceptionalism. And it nearly ended his career.

As prolific as the 70s were for Russell, the 80s were the opposite. He released just two studio albums, neither of which charted. He toured because he loved to, but also because he needed to. And he got very old, very fast. He was onto his third (and final) marriage. His greatest songs were in his past. There would be no sequel to the Mad Dogs tour. No second Concert for Bangladesh. He was too famous to be a session musician, but too tired to be anything else. He was born to be a bandleader, but that job only existed on late night TV. Leon Russell was the Bo Jackson of Rock and Roll. He could have been the greatest at one thing, if only he had given up the other thing(s).

By the time he’d steadied himself, it was the 1990s and, by then, Leon Russell was somewhere between the “where are they now”  and the “who’s that guy, again” files. He’d once been beloved and — by any reasonable standard — very famous. But Russell was never really a superstar. Moreover, he seemed temperamentally ill-suited for the level of fame he’d briefly achieved. Never a traditional frontman, and now depleted of his youthful vigor (and, seemingly, his muse as well) it was fair to wonder what sort of career Russell had ahead of him. He could still sell out medium sized rooms across most of America. He had plenty of song publishing royalty checks to collect. And, presumably, he could still play a little guitar and a lot of piano. But did anyone care any more?

The answer to that question was “yes.” Sort of. Russell had always been a “musician’s musician” more than a Pop star. And so, in the early 90s, he was called back to work, not by popular demand but rather by one of his many acolytes. This time, the invitation did not come from Joe Cocker or George Harrison or Eric Clapton or Willie Nelson. This time it came from a mild-mannered pianist who had a penchant for Lite Jazz and The Grateful Dead and who’d scored a few amiable, if unlikely, hits in the mid-80s. Bruce Hornsby was his name and he simply adored Leon Russell. 

On many levels, the partnership made sense. Both men were pianists and bandleaders more than they were singers or superstars. Hornsby understood the life of a session musician and still had just enough juice to score his hero a major label record deal. But mostly, Hornsby was an easy going, low stress kind of guy and Russell needed to make an easy going, low stakes kind of record.

And that they did. Recorded and released in 1992, “Anything Can Happen” is ten songs, two of which are covers and the rest of which are co-written by Hornsby and Russell. There are three credited musicians on the album — Russell and Hornsby and…Edgar Winter. That’s it. And, whether other musicians appear uncredited or not, the lack of a band is both the feature and bug of the recording. Every song has a tossed off quality about it, sounding as though the two guys had an idea, rolled with it, programmed the synthesizer to play along, and, after a couple of takes, moved onto the next one. To suggest that “Anything Can Happen” is “unpolished,” though, almost sounds like a compliment — as if the album is rough or ragged like Dylan’s “Bootleg Series” or something. It’s definitely not that. It’s unpolished in that it sounds rushed or slapdash or not well cared for. If Hornsby’s goal was simply to get Russell back into the studio and capture him on record, he succeeded. But if his goal was to help Russell reclaim his reputation or to make up for lost time, he fell far short.

Because it is so undercooked, it’s hard to pinpoint the singular flaw of the album. Surely the songs themselves lack luster, but they are simple and formed enough that a great band could have raised their low bar. Obviously Russell’s voice is not what it once was, and it was an acquired taste to begin with. That being said, in his fifties, he had learned what he could and could not do. He pairs his Tom Waits-ian beatnik growl, with the “behind the beat” pacing of Willie Nelson. And, for the most part, its very charming.

There’s definitely a lack of oxygen issue — the songs appear to be “synthesized” more than played or performed. The synth guitar and synth strings and synth beats do a major disservice to a man whose music was always very much “alive.” But mostly, it feels like there was a leadership problem. It’s unclear if Hornsby is following Russell or vice versa. The songs and words sound like Russell. But the tone and style are Hornsby’s. The two men play the same instrument(s) but have very different ears. And therein lies the problem — two men, playing the same songs, but in opposite directions.

“Anything Can Happen” is an album made by four hands, but with none at the wheel. As a result, the producer’s light touch ends up feeling heavy handed. By most accounts, Hornsby is a wonderfully talented, well liked, supremely interesting musician. He’s collaborated with Spike Lee and Bon Iver. He’s been an integral member of Dead and Co. for many years. And, once upon a time, he had a few hits. But, as much as his style soothed me, it never appealed to me. It’s stuck between actual Jazz and Easy Listening and Folk music and Bluegrass and mid-80s James Taylor. If Russell is the through line from Jerry Lee Lewis and Ray Charles to Willie Nelson, Hornsby follows that through line all the way to Yanni.

Surprisingly, several songs on the album, including a few of the better ones, seem inspired by early 90s R&B. Not that they are smooth or slow jams so much as the synthetic beats and sweet melodies recall Anita Baker or Luther Vandross. Similarly, Russell’s growl evokes The Gap Band and The Ohio Players more than it does mainstream Rock or singer-songwriter fare. But, when Russell and Hornsby get a little too funky, the results range from “Angel Ways,” which is firmly “not bad” and sounds like Bill Withers drunk at 4am, to the title track, which is weird, verging on terrible.

Despite the fact that no two songs on the album sound all that different from each other (a result of seemingly one synthesizer being employed for every track) Russell and Hornsby cover a lot of stylistic terrain. “Black Halos” has a schticky, middle-eastern vibe, complete with snake-charming synth strings. Russell’s sense of melody is intact and, so, it’s not unpleasant, but, like most every song on the album, the rhythms are mechanical and tinny. It would greatly benefit from a live band. Or, minimally, a live drummer. 

“Stranded on Easy Street,” meanwhile, is jaunty in the way that Randy Newman’s lesser soundtrack work can be. If it were dropped in somewhere during a Pixar film, I probably would not think twice. “Jezebel” is a funky take on a traditional song and probably the best vocal performance on the album. It opts for synthesized lead guitar instead of actual lead guitar, which is hard to fathom, but is otherwise passable.

About half of “Anything Can Happen” is passable. The balance demonstrates obvious competence but no direction, fit or finish. There is an unforgivable cover of Chuck Berry’s “Too Much Monkey Business,” wherein Russell half-raps and wherein Hornsby injects samples for hype-man slash beatboxing flair. It’s the sort of thing George Clinton would have made while on PCP in 1981. But, honestly, much less interesting.

Less than forty minutes after it begins, the album limps its way to the finish line. There are really no high points to recommend, but, if you listen generously, you can still here a little of Russell’s mad-hatted cowboy spirit. And while it failed to sell and did not fare well with critics, the album did create just enough momentum to get Russell moving again. 

As with most good things, the universe circled back around to Leon Russell and, in 2010, he had his last, great moment in the sun. Forty years earlier, Russell played a famous show at the Fillmore East alongside another, up and coming pianist who had just released his first solo album. That “other guy” was Elton John. Sir Elton adored Leon Russell — worshipped him. And so, four decades after they first played together, he reached out to his hero about making an album together.

“The Union” is a musical feast, co-created by Elton John, Bernie Taupin and Leon Russell. On the surface, it looks and sounds like an Elton John album masquerading as a Leon Russell victory lap. It features over forty musicians, including Neil Young, Brian Wilson, Jim Keltner, Booker T. Jones, and a slew of others who’d crossed paths with the former “Master of Space and Time.” It’s John’s voice and piano that dominate the affair. On the other hand, it’s also the best record Elton John made since the 1980s, and that had a lot to do with his collaborator. “The Union” is no “Carney” (Russell) nor is it “Madman Across the Water” (John) but it’s also miles away from “Anything Can Happen” and “The Lion King” soundtrack. 

At the center of “The Union” is the album’s producer and occasional guitarist — the man who does not appear on the cover and who only rarely makes music under his own name, but who is perhaps most responsible for the success of the record — T Bone Burnett. Burnett personifies Russell’s “road not taken.” He could play all the instruments required to make Rock and Roll. He could sing a little. He could write songs. But, like Leon Russell, he had a knack for arranging and leading bands. Seventy-five years before “The Union,” Burnett would have been a bandleader. But, unless you were Paul Shaffer or your last name was “Marsalis,” that wasn’t a job anymore. So he became a record producer. Leon Russell didn’t want to be T Bone Burnett. Or rather, he didn’t only want to be a bandleader. He wanted to be Willie Nelson and Eric Clapton and James Brown and Billy Preston. He wanted to be exceptionally exceptional. And, for about a year, he was.

by Matty Wishnow