Randy Newman “Land of Dreams”
Pretty much everything about Randy Newman is tousled. His hair. His shirt. His posture. His sunglasses look too big. For that matter, his whole head looks too big — likely a byproduct of his too big brain. To me, he’s always seemed like an LA guy who wasn’t sure whether to be happy or sad about it. But, I can never tell if his expressions are expressing something or if that’s just how he looks — rumpled and unconcerned — or if it’s Randy Newman “doing Randy Newman.” In case you couldn’t tell, I’ve thought quite a bit about this for quite a bit of time. Probably since I first laid eyes on the cover of “Sail Away” — mop-headed, sun-glassed, looking down and concentrating. Definitely since I saw the cover of “Little Criminals” — also mop-headed, also sun-glassed, staring off, unamused.
If it’s all somehow a pose — an affect — it’s a great one. It reads as the opposite of affected. It reads as unintentionally cool. In fact, if you started with 1970s Randy Newman and subtracted out Woody Allen, you’d be left with one of the Beastie Boys. Probably Ad-Rock. But, by the end of the 80s, Newman was stuck somewhere between niche critical darling, reluctant accidental pop-star and full time film composer. By 1988, the year he released “Land of Dreams,” it had been five years since his last album, which contained the surprise hit, “I Love LA.” His marriage of eighteen years was breaking up. He was struggling with both Epstein Barre Syndrome and a fledgling musical about Goethe’s Faust. In 1988, that mop-headed, sun-glassed rumpledness started to look like exhaustion. Possibly depression. After “Land of Dreams.” It would be eleven years before his next non-soundtrack album.
During the first decade of his career, Newman’s albums were either stylistically or conceptually cogent. “Good Old Boys” was both, but also the exception. Most were closer to 1979s “Born Again” — musically sundry but thematically tight. And by the time of 1983s “Trouble In Paradise,” with his soundtrack work piling up, it began to feel like Newman was simply taking on assignments — covering random stories that made their way his desk. Some were his own. Some were others’. Some were political. Some were literary. Some were romantic. Some were cartoonish. All had characters. But none — not a single one — sounded “autobiographical.” The artist who once sounded focused, if bottomless, had begun to sound frenetic and unmoored.
“Land of Dreams” shares some of that distracted quality. Like all of his previous albums, it is still a record about “People in America.” But, unlike his previous albums, one of the People in “Land of Dreams” seems to be Randy Newman himself. The album’s first three tracks — “Dixie Flyer,” “New Orleans Wins the War,” and “Four Eyes” — are referred to as the “autobiographical trio” among Newman-ologists. The characters featured include the singer and his parents, which present curious new challenges for his satire, but also for his craft. The set up — a young, cross-eyed, Jewish kid leaving California for New Orleans in the mid-century — makes for an interesting set of ingredients. The songs themselves, however, are less compelling. “Dixie Flyer” rolls the way every good Randy Newman Pop song does. But the next two sound like unfinished soundtrack ideas for scenes which the singer knows all too well but which he is only so willing to talk about. The guy who always looks comfortable, sounds uneasy when the lens is pointed the other way.
As a devotee, it’s impossible to dismiss these personal essays so quickly. But, it becomes easier once I consider that they may not have actually been quite so personal. When once asked how he reckoned with inserting himself into his songs as a primary character, Newman quipped: “I found a way to write about myself that I don’t object to,” he says. “I lied.” Eventually relieved of autobiography, Newman gets back into the comfort of caricature, complex sentiment and great irony. By my count, he nails it three times on “Land of Dreams.” There’s the aforementioned “Dixie Flyer,” which is plaintive and poignant and perfect. Meanwhile, “It’s Money That Matters” and "I Want You to Hurt Like I Do" are essential additions to his great songbook. The former is a crafty Pop number with a cynical, singalong chorus, aided by the familiar tone (especially in 1988) of Mark Knopfler’s guitar. Newman regales, jokes and sharply punctuates:
“Of all of the people that I used to know
Most never adjusted to the great big world
I see 'em lurking in bookstores
Workin' for the public radio
Carryin' their babies around in sacks on their backs
Movin' careful and slow
It's money that matters
Hear what I say
It's money that matters
In the U.S.A.”
And then there’s “I Want You To Hurt Like I Do” — Newman’s inverse “We Are The World.” The ways in which Newman unites us in this song is not by a common goal but by the desperation of our loneliness and our selfishness — by our need to have others, especially those we love most, feel our pain. His capacity to say the things we secretly think but would never say, much less joke about, is extraordinary. The key to satire is truth. But, the key to truth is honestly. And, despite who or what he’s singing about — no matter how much it makes us chuckle or think — Newman is unerringly honest.
In between the winning opener and closer, though, there’s a real mixed bag of character workouts and smart commentary that generally underwhelms. “Red Bandana” is a literate portrait of a Mexican mother and son. It’s a solid sketch — a mood — more than a composition. Soon after, he inhabits a late 80s, L.A.-based rapper for a song to not disastrous but not great effect. He also toys with patriotism, indicts racism and hypocrisy and does a bunch of Randy Newman things. Except more tousled — more half-assed — than usual.
Ultimately, “Land of Dreams” is rich in truths but short on the grace and details we’d all come to expect from a “Randy Newman Album.” No doubt, he had much on his mind in 1988. In addition to his marriage and health and Faust, he' lost his mother that year. In its unfinishedness, you can hear the rumpledness of that big brain. Like many great L.A. songwriters, Newman would known to wear the top two buttons his dress shirts undone — a style that, once upon a tome, appeared unconcerned but weather appropriate. “Land of Dreams” unbuttons the third one — which seems revealing, but is actually untidy.