Mick Jagger “She’s The Boss”
For many years, I assumed that I had a handle on Mick Jagger — devilish, too smart and too horny for his own good, musical, fun as hell. Most of that is probably a cliche at this point, and perhaps only half true. But, more recently, and especially after reading Keith’s autobiography, I wondered if I knew Mick Jagger at all. I wondered if his persona was merely a collective projection or, moreover, if Mick was even knowable? Under the surface — the lips, the tank tops, the tight pants and hip shakes — what was there? Was he anything at all?
And so, it was with a “who is he, really” disorientation that I revisited “She’s The Boss,” Mick’s solo debut from 1985. Forty-two at the time of the album’s release, Mick was flailing a bit — lost in his version of domesticity with Jerry Hall, slightly reeling after The Stones’ tepid “Undercover” and, by many account, struggling to get along with Keith. Mick had just secured a three album solo deal with CBS — which could not have helped the Keith business — and was purportedly writing songs for his debut alongside “Undercover.” With “She’s the Boss,” he wanted to establish himself as an artist outside of The Stones. Keith countered by comparing Mick’s first album to the debut of another legendary artist: “It’s like “Mein Kampf.” Everyone owns a copy but nobody has listened to it.”
I’ve probably heard Mick Jagger sing more than any other person — and it may not even be close. It’s not simply that I love so many Rolling Stones’ songs; it’s also that their output is so voluminous that there is a lot of Mick Jagger to take in. Similarly, I have also seen the many faces and phases of Mick Jagger: The 1963 bee stung lips version. The later 60s shaggy, stoned tramp. The 70s version that looked young and in control but with some lines to show the toll of the road. The cheeky 80s sex and success icon. And the genteel Sir Mick of the 90s and 2000s that appears in polo shirts and at polo matches. All of these sites and sounds are imprinted in my consciousness. But, until recently, “She’s the Boss” was still something of a mystery to me.
I do vaguely remember when it came out. It was somewhere between the cheeky and vaguely preppy sex icon versions of Mick. It was “Dancing In The Streets” Mick. The Mick that was doing duets with Bowie, the Jackson 5 and Tina Turner, all of which seemed to be gimmicks to me — even then. So, I to whatever extent I was excited about “She’s the Boss,” my eleven year old self was savvy enough to be slightly more suspicious.
I knew well — even then — that a frontman with an affected vocal style and more winks and nodes than riffs does not normally equate to great song or album-making. In fact, it’s worth asking — has any lead singer, known for their work with a band but who is not greatly proficient on another instrument ever made a masterful solo album? I struggle to think of one. I’m not sure I can think of the case where a true front person breaks free to create superior work. Neil Young? Michael Jackson, I guess?
Mick Jagger, it turned out, was not the exception the rule. “She’s The Boss” is inferior to any Rolling Stones’ album, even the ones from that period. But how bad is it? The short answer is that the songs are generally weak, the performances are generally strong and the overall product is not embarrassing. There’s a specific sound of the mid-80s — a stew of Herby Hancock, Waddy Wachtel and Jan Hammer — which makes reliably bridges the gap between funky Album Oriented Rock and Caucasion Funk & R&B. It’s what makes “She’s The Boss” sound like The Pointer Sisters and Tina Turner albums from that same era (and vice versa). The bands on all of those albums are legit super-groups. “She’s The Boss,” for instance, features Herbie Hancock, Jan Hammer, Bill Laswell, Anton Fier, Pete Townhsend, G.E. Smith, Nile Rodgers and a half dozen other session players so famous, I actually knew their names.
The sum of those parts make for the best fucking 80s bar mitzvah band you ever heard. They are tight. They are live. The bottom of the sound is perfect. The lead guitarist hands off to another lead guitarist. There is earnest cowbell. Every song has an extended breakdown. Every song parties it’s way out. Honestly, it can sound like fun. It can sound like the P-Funk All-Stars Lite or The Time without Prince or Oingo Boingo on a very good night. And none of those are meant to be insults. But also, it’s not The Rolling Stones.
In the middle of this thirty-two person band, nine person production team, are Mick and his “songs.” Each of the nine tracks on the album have Jagger credited as songwriter or co-songwriter. And, sadly, very few of the nine songs are, in the traditional sense, songs. Some are supergroup showcases without a whiff of melody (“Half a Loaf”). Some are foot tapping refrains that go nowhere (“Turn The Girl Loose”). Most of them are party jams that sound like parties where the coke either hasn’t worked or is wearing off.
Unsurprisingly, it has its moments. I mean, it is Mick Jagger we’re talking about. The title track is a genuinely fun, equally obvious, 80s banger jam to like that I liked in spite of its exceptionlessness. And the single, “Just Another Night,” sounds like a very good Stones’ throwaway, which is a very good thing. Outside of Jagger’s name recognition, the Stones-iness of “Just Another NIght” is what drove many of the million plus album sales of this record. It works ultimately because it sounds like a four piece band playing Blues-based Rock, rather than a thirty-two piece band trying to emulate Prince.
“Hard Woman” deserves mention if only because it showcases every version of Mick Jagger, vocalist. It’s not a particularly great song, but it is a country ballad, a pop song, an adult contemporary song and a funky jam all at once. Mick gets to use his “Girl With Faraway Eyes” twang, his clipped crooning, his falsetto and even some scatting. It gives us all of Mick — the frontman — but does nothing to resolve the question at the heart of the album: who is this middle-aged rock star outside of The Stones? He’s no Neil Young. He’s no Michael Jackson. Could it be that, away from Keith and Charlie and Ronnie, he’s just a clever, rich guy who’s into women and parties — and, of course, himself? Why does that sound so stupid by also so right?