Steve Winwood “Roll With It”
There was gas at the pump again. The hostages were home. Rocky had just beaten Drago. Quaaludes were passe. Disco was dead and Punk went underground. Meanwhile, the stock market was booming. We literally had “Money for Nothing.” So, if you just squinted and looked straight ahead and ignored all the other stuff -- racism, sexism, crack, AIDS, poverty and famine -- things looked pretty darn good. It was 1985 and -- on TV at least -- the world was white, clad in colorful polo shirts and ready to party.
And yet, even for those white people in polo shirts who were ready to party, there was a longing. Maybe especially for those people. Without war. Without the counterculture. With jobs and suburban homes and families, what was there really to be upset about? And, even if we were upset, without JFK or MLK, who would we turn to?
According to the radio and MTV and Rolling Stone magazine, there was only one answer: Rock stars. All of them men. All of them white. Many of them British, but some American. We asked these guys to help diagnose our collective ennui and to prescribe solutions. For whatever reason, we were no longer content with rich, talented and famous men simply being rich, talented and famous. No -- they had to be wise and just. And between 1985 and 1989, they responded loudly. Just as the Boomers were turning forty, but right before Generation X had discovered their angst, we received a string of indisputably prestigious albums from indisputably righteous men: Collins. Gabriel. Sting. Simon. Bono. Mellencamp. To some extent, Neil. Of course, Springsteen. Surprisingly, Lou Reed. Hell, even Don Henley -- who never seemed to have any real opinions about anything — suddenly had big ideas. For half a decade, the CD racks in nicer suburbs looked like this:
1985
Phil Collins “No Jacket Required”
Sting “Dream of the Blue Turtles”
1986
Peter Gabriel “So”
Genesis “Invisible Touch”
Paul Simon “Graceland”
1987
U2 “The Joshua Tree”
John Mellencamp “The Lonesome Jubilee”
Bruce Springsteen “Tunnel of Love”
Sting “Nothing Like the Sun”
1988
U2 “Rattle and Hum”
Neil Young “This Note’s for You”
1989
Lou Reed “New York”
Don Henley “The End of the Innocence”
Eric Clapton “Journeyman”
Phil Collins “But Seriously”
Neil Young “Freedom”
During those years, a new genre of Rock music was born. It was locally and globally aware. It was wildly eclectic and deeply empathetic. It was “Amnesty Rock” — a term we never actually used but intuitively understood. Musically, these albums were united less by style than by purpose.
That being said, there was a strong through line between the African rhythms that Paul Simon borrowed for “Graceland” and the freakish, irrepressible ones that Phil Collins introduced on “No Jack Required.” From there, it was not a long jump to the Caribbean beats on Sting’s “Dream of the Blue Turtles'' or to the artsy, robot funk on Peter Gabriel’s “So.”
Similarly, the the step from Springsteen’s earnestness to Mellencamp’s heartland hamminess was a relatively short one. Neil and Lou, meanwhile, kept their critiques local and sharp. And Henley -- the drummer with the perm and the voice, who nobody thought of as particularly political -- suddenly showed up with an Amnesty International button and admitted what the Yuppies knew but didn’t want to say: the old fight was over. The old ideals were dead. We were not so innocent anymore.
Amnesty Rock was not Folk music. It was not College Rock. These were massive albums. Multi-platinum albums. Grammy decorated albums. This was what post-Thriller radio sounded like. And their makers took it further -- past the FM dial and past MTV — into action. In 1985, Bob Geldof assembled the first Live Aid concerts, which featured many of the Amnesty Rockers alongside the most iconic names in Rock and Roll. Later that year, Steven Van Zandt invited in much of that same group, plus luminaries from Rap and R&B, to protest apartheid in South Africa. In 1986, the Conspiracy of Hope concerts, organized in conjunction with Amnesty International, nearly matched the starpower of Live Aid. If you lived in America or Canada or England and if you owned a CD player and were born before 1980, this was your zeitgeist.
There was one man conspicuously absent from that list. A man who also sold millions of albums, was a radio staple, a Classic Rock icon, a Grammy award winner and, in some ways, the envy of every other Amnesty Rocker. He was matinee idol handsome — revered from a very early age for his voice and his technical acumen. He’d mastered R&B and Psychedelic Rock. He could play Jazz and Soul music. He was among the finest keyboard players of his generation. But he was also plenty capable on guitar, bass, drums and, pretty much, anything you threw at him.
However, by the time the Amnesty rockers were filling stadiums, this guy had moved into an ancient, three hundred acre manor in The Cotswolds. Previously, he’d disappeared, eschewing his early fame for farming. As beloved as he once was, we almost forgot about him. But then he came back. And when he did, he had somehow morphed into a fully-formed, New Wave pop star. In fact, he looked not unlike Andrew McCarthy in “Less Than Zero” -- preppy, coiffed and tailor made for the 80s. He even managed to make a mullet look cool.
His name, in case you haven’t already guessed it, is Steve Winwood.
Since he was a teenager, Steve Winwood was the stuff of legends. He was the kid brother of the bassist from the (already famous) Spencer Davis Group who could outplay every member of that band. And, to boot, he sounded almost exactly like Ray Charles. A fourteen year old, white, English kid who genuinely sounded like Ray Charles! It was a miracle. He wrote and sang hits for that band, before venturing out to form Traffic, where he had even greater success as a psychedelic rocker. Amazingly, in between Traffic albums, he found time to form Blind Faith, a supergroup featuring his friend, Eric Clapton. By the time he was twenty-one, Steve Winwood had done everything there was to do in Rock and Roll.
Traffic disbanded in the mid-70s, in part, due to Winwood’s road-weariness. He spent the next several years doing session work and staying close to home. When he did finally reemerge in 1977, it was with a middling, six song half-step. It’s hard to imagine calling a debut album from Steve Winwood “forgettable,” but it’s absolutely not “memorable.” At the height of Disco and Punk, he sounded out of step and uninspired. Moreover, he didn’t seem to care all that much.
Three years later, however, while still ensconced in his ancient farm slash recording studio, he began to piece things together. “Arc of a Diver,” released in 1980, was the album wherein Winwood found his footing. He played every instrument, updating his brand of Soul music with an ear towards Roxy Music’s grooves and Genesis’s jazz. It was an unexpected concoction, ways away from Rock and Roll and nowhere near psychedelia. But -- oh -- that voice. Over the next few years, he established himself as a formidable solo artist, scoring major hits with "While You See a Chance" in 1980 and the pert, new wavey, “Valerie” in 1982. Though it remained unclear how much he cared for stardom, to the casual listener, Steve Winwood was fully back.
By the early 80s, Winwood was a mainstay of FM radio and MTV. But while his peers were getting more serious and more eclectic, Winwood was moving in the opposite direction. He standardized his sound -- mid-tempo, synth-Soul. And, more importantly, he chose a career path. He decided that he didn’t need to be an artist. He’d done that. He didn’t even need to be a musician. He could always do that on the side. Steve Winwood accepted that he was, first and foremost, an entertainer. Every couple of years he’d point his uncanny voice towards a batch of entertaining songs. He’d do a world tour. And then he’d retreat to The Cotswolds. His career aspirations were precisely the opposite of Bono’s. A world away from Sting’s and Phil Collins. Even Clapton politely feigned interest in human rights. But not Winwood. He wanted to be happy. And semi-private. Life could be very hard. The world was full of terrible things. But, also, we could just roll with it. Right?
Apparently, yes we could. And, in 1986, Winwood proved it. “Back in the High Life” was the zenith of Winwood 3.0 -- an eight song album that had five singles, one of which reached the top of the U.S. charts. Though not quite as popular in his homeland, the album was completely beloved in America, where it reflected the sheen of high Reaganism. It was the unintentional soundtrack for a bull market, Miller Lite and BMW sedans.
But also, it was much more than his previous solo albums. “Back in the High Life” featured a sprawling band, highlighted by appearances from Joe Walsh, Chaka Khan and James Taylor. It was recorded in New York’s finest studios and was coronated at the Grammys, where it won three awards, including “Record of the Year.” Socially, Steve Winwood was adjacent to the Amnesty set. But, musically, he resisted politics. He kept things light and down the middle. And though he was, by all accounts, somewhat indifferent to fame, Winwood and his luxuriant mullet nailed the part of Soul singer turned Pop star.
Precisely two years after “Back in the High Life” was released, Winwood returned with “Roll With It.” His fifth solo album downshifted gears and downsized the cast. Winwood played most of the instruments, with the support of a handful of trusted players, including Andrew Jackson and Wayne Love, of the Memphis Horns. On the surface, the tonal differences between “Roll With It” and “Back in the High Life” were subtle. The sound of the keyboards were similar. And, of course, Winwood’s full, high tenor remained the centerpiece. But whereas his 1986 smash seemed to indulge in its luxury, its follow-up was more perfunctory. The former suggested that “life is good.” The latter seemed to say, “Life is OK sometimes and not OK sometimes. But let’s just be happy with what we’ve got.”
You’d be forgiven, however, if you did not immediately detect those differences. “Roll With It” opens with its surprisingly funky, though unsurprisingly popular, title track. It’s got a heavy bottom, horns in the lead and a hook that was straight ripped from an old Junior Walker song. On the heels of “Back in the High Life’s” massive success, “Roll With It” was immediately embraced by Pop radio, Rock radio, Adult Contemporary radio and, even, R&B radio. The black and white video for the song, featuring Winwood sweating it out in a Southern juke joint, was directed by a young, up and coming auteur named David Fincher. Yep -- “Seven,” “Fight Club,” and “Social Network,” David Fincher. That one. And so, with the help of MTV, VH-1 and most every radio station in America, “Roll With It” became the soundtrack for summer in America in 1988.
If “Higher Love” and “Finer Things” were anthems of high Reaganism, “Roll With It” was the score for the light turbulence of the ensuing Bush administration. It had many hallmarks of the good times, but with the acknowledgment of some oncoming malaise. 1986 Winwood sounded optimistic. Two years later, he pleaded for resilience. Or contentment. If you only heard “Roll With It” (the song), you might not have even noticed the shift. It did, after all, end up as Winwood’s second (and final) number one hit and was nominated for a Grammy. Plus, it sounded great inside those BMWs. On the other hand, if you just took out Winwood’s vocals and considered the song as music, it was not far from something we’d expect from The Blues Brothers, or, better still, Bruce Willis’ “The Return of Bruno.” It was a simulation of throwback Soul music more than it was genuinely “soulful.” Of course, this wasn’t Jake or Elwood or Bruno singing. It was a generationally great singer. But, if you dug deeper into the rest of Winwood’s fifth solo album -- under that Fincher sheen and those Memphis horns -- there was ennui.
Aside from its hit title track, “Roll With It” was most famous for “Don’t You Know What the Night Can Do?” a moody, slowish jam that was licensed for Michelob television ads (in return for sponsorship of Winwood’s tour). Those ads debuted the day “Roll With It” was released, fueling speculation that the song was actually conceived as an ad jingle or cross-promotion rather than as a piece of art or Rock music. At a time when critics were consumed by the separation of art and commerce, and with the notion of “selling out,” Winwood’s move seemed craven. When contrasted with the righteousness of Bono and Bruce, the capitalist nature of the deal appeared even more cynical.
Twenty years later, “selling out” is simply not a thing. Bands on Sub Pop and Merge and Matador are generally happy to have their ads licensed for commercials. Similarly, we’ve come to learn (surprise!) that those Amnesty artists were not always pure at heart. And, to state the obvious, Steve Winwood had always been a musician for hire. He was nearly as much a session player as he was a Rock star. By the early 80s, he’d firmly established that his job was to entertain, rather than to make art. But, that decision was lost on a culture searching for a bigger purpose -- a larger meaning. We were fine with “Finer Things.” But “Don’t You Know What the Night Can Do?” crossed a line.
Aside from its title track, but including its Michelob jingle, “Roll With It” is actually a boring affair. It’s one hit song and seven other, generally meandering tracks of mid-tempo, synth-and-horns-fueled Soul music that are in the neighborhood of Phil Collins’ “...But Seriously” (which Winwood plays on), except without the social-mindedness. More glaringly, and unlike Collins’ best records, “Roll With It” barely rolls. The rhythms are hard to pin down, and occasionally hard to detect.
“The Morning Side,” for instance, sounds like a man, alone in his beach house, feeling sad while the wind blows through his mullet. It’s more gloomy than smokey. And it takes a full two minutes for any rhythm to appear. “Put On Your Dancing Shoes” is unexciting, low-tempo Synth-Funk, drenched with Gospel singers who seem unconvinced that the solution to hardship is -- as the title suggests -- dancing. I literally cannot imagine dancing to something this listless.
Because it is very well played and because the singer is so gifted, most of “Roll With It” is, at least, likable. “One More Morning” builds into a moving, contemporary Gospel song, full of Hammond organ and ethereal vibes. It’s not a great song. It may not even be very good. But, whereas most of “Roll With It” sounds tepid and unconvinced, here Winwood sounds like he’s going for something.
It would be a couple of years before he really tried again. The next time, and possibly the last time, would be on “In the Light of Day,” the ten minute closer from 1990s “Refugees of the Heart.” There, he and co-writer Will Jennings tried their best hand at Amnesty Rock. Needless to say, it did not work. Winwood said: “It was our idea of what Nelson Mandela's dream was, while he was in prison. It was really just a fantasy of ours, but that’s what we based the song on.” Out of synch (again) and off the charts (again) Winwood waited seven years before he returned to his solo career.
In retrospect, the “Winwood Renaissance” did not last very long. While he was precocious as a teen, and bang on style in the sixties, he was something of a transitional artist as he aged — marginalized by Disco and Punk and then, years later, by Grunge and Alternative. And even when he was a superstar -- a household name between 1986 and 1989 -- Steve Winwood never really fit in. He didn’t want to be important. He was disinterested in politics. He didn’t have answers and seemed uncomfortable with the questions. He looked the part. He had the pedigree. But he wasn’t that guy.
It’s possible that we’d conflated Steve Winwood with his friend, Eric Clapton, who at least had the good sense to show up for the “Conspiracy of Hope” concerts. But Winwood couldn’t fake that, much less the bravado of Bono or the righteousness of Don Henley. He was always the outlier. Virtuosic. Precocious. Handsome. He was undeniably happy playing music but perhaps happier when he was roaming the English countryside. As for the rest of it, he could barely roll with it. In fact, it took every radio station in America and one of the greatest film directors of his generation to convince us otherwise.