Willy DeVille “Backstreets of Desire”
As best I can, I try not to be cynical. For instance, I lean “agnostic” rather than “atheist.” I like to remain open to the possibilities. Similarly, I acknowledge — if only on the basis of statistics — that there is probably intelligent life in the universe beyond our own galaxy. When it comes to ghosts, I keep the door of plausibility open just a crack. And when it comes to the afterlife, I listen to science but — like most people — I hope for the best. In spite of my genuine curiosity, though, and no matter how ancient or compelling the mythologies are, I am a firm “no” when it comes to shapeshifters.
That’s right. No on vampires. No on werewolves. No to the tall Greek and Roman tales about gods becoming men, women and animals. I don’t abide by Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I pass on The Hulk and don’t much care for Spiderman. I rolled my eyes at the “Colonists” in the X-files and the “Zygons” from Dr. Who. I appreciate the their metaphors of shapeshifters — their mirror-like empathy or their mercurial duplicity or their heroic superpowers — my appreciation falls far short of “belief.”
Though not obsessed in the way that religion, science fiction and comics books are, Pop music has its fair share of shapeshifters. Bob Dylan is perhaps the most famous example. Young Dylan was a hobo Folk singer in the mold of Woody Guthrie. But, in time, he became the black turtleneck wearing Rock and Roll artiste who became a Country singer who became a born again Christian who became a Traveling Wilbury who became an aging Bluesman who eventually became a spokesman for Victoria's Secret.
David Bowie was similarly restless, morphing from sci-fi Pop singer into Ziggy Stardust and then the Thin White Duke and then early 80s fashion plate and then frontman for a shitty Metal band and, eventually, an avant garde jazzman and national treasure. And, of course, Madonna had her many guises. Downtown New York club girl turned New Wave princess turned Material Girl turned S&M Barbarella turned House music goddess turned Mrs. Guy Ritchie turned Lady Madonna.
In each of those instances, however, the shifts seemed premeditated and sharp. They felt more like “re-brands” for either artistic or commercial purposes rather than organic changes or evolutions. Whereas in myths and sci-fi shapeshifting is seen as physiological or metaphysical, in Pop music, it is shrewd marketing. In the cases of the former, shapeshifting is only barely controllable. In music, though, it is premeditated — it’s orchestrated. That’s certainly the case with Dylan, Bowie, Madonna and their many acolytes. But it was almost certainly not the case with Willy DeVille — the exception to the rule and Pop music’s one, true shapeshifter.
Born William Paul Borsay Jr., in Stamford, Connecticut, Willy DeVille was part Irish, part Basque and part Pequot Indian. Spiritually, he was Puerto Rican, Black, Navajo and Cajun. Depending on the day, he could look and sound like anyone from anywhere. But, he was always, also one hundred percent American. Ironically — maybe poetically, maybe appropriately — he was largely ignored by U.S. audiences while he was embraced throughout Europe. But from the day he arrived at CBGBs in 1975 to the day he died thirty-four years later, Willy was the hardest to describe, easiest to love metamorph in the history of Pop music.
After dropping out of high school and meandering his way from New York to London and from London to San Francisco in search of a band, Billy Borsay made his way back east. By the end of 1974, Borsay was “Willy DeVille” and the band he’d assembled in the Bay was called “Mink DeVille.” Mink DeVille landed on the Lower East Side, weeks after Television and The Ramones debuted at Hilly Kristal’s legendary dive bar, when the neighborhood was still a full-fledged shithole. In a scene that became known as the birthplace of American Punk and Art Rock, Mink DeVille stood out for their traditionalism. In that they also channeled early 60s Rock and R&B, Blondie were perhaps Mink DeVille’s closest analogs. But unlike Blondie, who had titanic success on the Pop charts and whose lead singer wound up in Warhol paintings, Mink Deville’s frontman was a junkie-bluesman slash pimp-poet who ended up with a two decade heroin addiction, Hep C, pancreatic cancer and a litany of “whys” and “what ifs.”
Obviously, it didn’t start out that way. From 1976 through 1979, Mink DeVille seemed like the surest of sure things. Signed to Capitol Records, the band recorded their debut with legendary producer and arranger Jack Nietzche, who was completely taken by young Willy DeVille. That appeal was easy to understand. Willy was tall and lean, with high cheekbones, a bouffant-pompadour hybrid and a wardrobe straight out of “West Side Story.” Willy DeVille cut quite a figure in 1976. Moreover, he had the songs. Lots of them! One better than the next.
In his heart, Willy DeVille was a blues man. But in his affect, he was “The Man” from the Velvet Underground song. Vocally, he split the difference between Lou Reed and Billy Gibbons, but, formally, he was much more interested in Ben E. King and The Drifters. In 1977, when Mink Deville’s debut album was finally released — around the same time as “Marquee Moon” and “Never Mind The Bollocks” — there was no band in the world like them. They were Punk-adjacent but completely disinterested in the volume, speed and politics of Punk. And whereas Bruce Springsteen’s Jersey greaser vibe was irresistible, the first cousin of that guy — Willy’s first Lower East Side gutter poet — was somehow much more resistible. Capitol Records, radio stations, radio stations and most of America simply did not know what to make of Mink DeVille.
European audiences, however, got on board. Fully. In England, but especially in France and Germany, Mink DeVille were beloved. Following their breathtaking — nearly flawless — debut, the band released two more albums through Capitol with basically the same results: lots of excitement overseas, but no action at home. By the end of the decade, Mink DeVille were an ascendant, theater-filling act in Europe while their record label saw no reason to even release their third album (“Le Chat Bleu”) domestically.
That first incarnation of Mink DeVille was decidedly New Yawk. Italian, Puerto Rican, Black, slightly Irish, and theoretically Jewish. During those years — the CBGBs and Capitol Records years — Willie was flanked by his partner, Toots DeVille, who, in her sloppy beehive, runny makeup and nose ring, presaged Amy Winehouse. Willy and Toots were The Bowery’s prom king and queen. The second incarnation of Mink DeVille — the version that Ahmet Ertegun brought to Atlantic Records — was decidedly French.
By the end of the 1970s, Willy was sporting a pencil thin mustache in the vein of Detective Clouseau. His tank tops morphed into frilly, purple dress shirts. And whereas in America his addiction was scandalous, in France it was understood — even accepted. Eventually, you could hear a little more Edith Piaf and Jacques Brel in the band. And then, one day, what had once appeared greasy suddenly smelled perfumed. By 1980, the second shapeshift was complete. Billy Borsay was not simply Willy DeVille anymore. He was Monsieur Guillaume DeVille.
That shape lasted only briefly. After two records with Atlantic, which sustained his legendary status in Europe but did almost no business in America, Willy meandered his way down South. In Alabama, Mink DeVille recorded an album at Mussel Shoals studios alongside session musicians who’d played with Aretha Franklin, Wilson Pickett and the Rolling Stones. That album, “Coup de Grâce,”along with their next two — “Where Angels Fear to Tread” and “Sportin’ Life” — were the subjects of rave reviews and the impetus for sold out shows all across Europe. But, predictably, none managed to change his fortunes back at home.
Restless and addicted, Willy DeVille “retired” Mink DeVille in 1986 and continued on as a solo artist. He retained a core group of loyal bandmates but would invite in local guests for flavor. For a hot moment in the late 80s, that very special guest was Mark Knopfler, who helped Willy score an Oscar nod for “Storybook Love” from “The Princess Bride.” But, increasingly that flavor tasted a good deal like gumbo. For much of the 80s and 90s, Willy split his time between The French Quarter of New Orleans and a horse farm in Picayune, Mississippi, called “Casa de Suenos,” which he shared with his second wife. Unsurprisingly, with those geographic changes, came another shift in shape.
Following his Oscar moment, Willy reemerged as southern rogue-gentleman hybrid — a riverboat gambler, steeped in the music of New Orleans but also interested in Southwestern mysticism. Where Jack Nietzche and Doc Pomus were his collaborators before, Allen Toussaint and Dr. John stepped in. His Bayou phase was part Roots Rock — in the vein of Little Feat and John Hiatt — and part Zydeco Funk — in the vein of The Neville Brothers and The Wild Magnolias. Always derivative — in the very best ways — Willy DeVille remained completely original throughout the 1980s.
In spite of his celebrity collaborators and friends in high places, though, Willy DeVille continued to struggle. Addiction had him gripped and tax evasion charges eventually cost him “Casa de Suenos.” As with many shapeshifters, he relied on the generosity of hosts. And, in the preceding two decades, he’d had many. Wealthy girlfriends and wives. Famous record men. Generous session musicians. Adoring fans. Loving writers and critics. By 1992, Willy DeVille had released six albums with Mink DeVille and two on his own. He had a career in Europe, but literally none in America. He had much of the good fortune but none of the wealth to show for it. He’d survived Johnny Thunders. He’d survived (pre-reunion) Television and Blondie. He’d eventually survive The Talking Heads. He’d lost very little of his songwriting talent. What his voice had lost in strength, it had gained in character. But, alas, he was a junkie who’d lost his home.
All of which makes “Backstreets of Desire” that much more miraculous.
Willy DeVille’s third solo album was recorded in Los Angeles, for a French label and without a U.S. record deal. 1992 was the beginning of yet another shapeshift, one that would manifest by the end of the millennium. To the average eye or ear, he still appeared to be in his “Rhett Butler gone voodoo” phase. But, in retrospect, the influence of Mexican music and Southwest Native American culture was beginning to take hold of him. His bouffant-pompadour was adding a mullet that would eventually become a ponytail. His ruffled shirts were swapped again for tank tops. His bolo ties were replaced with turquoise jewelry. He would soon discover his inner Navajo. But for one year — 1992 — he was fully Angelino.
Though “Backstreets of Desire” has a title straight from Springsteen’s swamps of Jersey, it sounds very little like The Boss. Along with Dr. John, David Hidalgo of Los Lobos and Skunk Baxter of the Doobie Brothers, Willy landed closer to Alejandro Escovedo and Steve Earle than to anything from “Born to Run.” Of course, Willy DeVille — nee Borsay — was neither Mexican nor Cajun nor was he from the Heartland of America. And yet, “Backstreets” is as authentic as any Roots Rock album made during the 1990s.
Predictably, it was barely heard in the U.S. In fact, it was only released by Rhino, two years after it came out in Europe, on account of its mariachi take on “Hey Joe,” which was an unexpected number one hit in Spain and France. Those few avid American fans who hadn’t already found it on import were finally able to score it at Tower Records in 1994. By that point, however, Willy was already looking for their next score. What most of the country missed was what most of Western Europe heard: a total delight. A miracle, really. Thirteen tracks that spanned Folk, Rock, Funk, Zydeco, Mariachi, Blues, Gospel and every other shape Willy DeVille had ever shifted into.
Whereas Mink DeVille’s 1977 debut was young and sleek, “Backstreets of Desire” — like most things in middle-age — has a spare tire around its middle. “Voodoo Charm” is a funky, jazzy workout that’s mostly an excuse to get Dr. John and Skunk Baxter into the mix. It’s better than unnecessary, though not by much. “Come to Poppa” is a raunchy, bluesy number that almost grooves, but never fully cooks. And “Chemical Warfare” is more vibe than song. Willy DeVille had many evocative, legitimate takes on drugs and drug culture, but his was not one of them. In terms of misses, however, that’s it.
“Backstreets of Desire” is thirteen songs — twelve if you remove the “Salvation Army” take of “All In the Name of Love” (which I would not suggest removing, but it’s original is the superior version). Three misses means ten hits. Ten great songs. All of them — except for “Hey Joe” of course — were Willy DeVille originals. So, even at forty-two. Even on heroin or morphine or whatever he was on. Even without a U.S. record deal. Even without his farm and his horses. Even then, Willy DeVille could write wonderful songs that effortlessly blended all of the genres that comprise American Roots music. Bob Dylan achieved something similar from album to album, over the course of his career. Willy DeVille did verse by verse, song by song, as though that’s simply how the music occurred to him.
On an album full of great tracks, “All in the Name of Love” is the triumph. Willy delivers the verses with a laconic, Lou Reed ease before howling the full-throated chorus like a true believer. It’s the sort of song that is so well made and so familiar as to be easily underestimated. But it’s right up there with anything John Mellencamp, or even Tom Waits, has ever written. It’s a revelation.
The influence of Reed and Waits (and Dylan) occupies much of the album’s first third. “Empty Heart,” the opener, is basically two bass notes, some Spanish guitar, synth strings and Willy croaking “Nothing's as heavy as an empty heart.” Structurally, it’s not far from (Lou Reed’s) “Temporary Thing.” But emotionally, it’s closer to (Waits’) “Jersey Girl.” Not bad company.
As the album unfurls, its palette also naturally expands. “Even While I Sleep” is a wonderful, Tejano-inspired song, featuring David Hidalgo on the accordion, some handclaps and more than a little boogie. It would make an excellent Los Lobos song, and it’s not so far from Zydeco, but it's also unlike most everything in Willy’s songbook. And, finally, graciously, Dr. John and Skunk Baxter return for “Jump City,” a straight, New Orleans Funk song that could defensibly follow the best versions of “Iko Iko” and still sound credible. Nobody ever made the subtle turns from lonely troubadour, to broken hearted junkie to heartland rocker to souther bluesman to mariachi murderer to cajun bandleader like Willy DeVille. No one before him. And no one since.
In the years after “Backstreets of Desire,” Willy DeVille regressed, suffered, broke down, healed, survived and — after finally getting clean — got sick one last time. He left the deep South and made his way to New Mexico, where he shapeshifted again, this time emerging as a caped and ponytailed Navajo, covered in jewelry and surrounded by candles. Gaunt and with a mouth full of gold teeth, it was evident that the later 1990s had not been kind to Willy. Those suspicions were tragically confirmed in 2001 when his second wife, Lisa Leggett, committed suicide. Soon after, Willy drove his car head on into a truck, breaking several bones and necessitating a long, hard-earned rehab.
That rehabilitation led to him finally kicking heroin, walking with a cane and marrying, for a third and final time. Between 1995 and his death in 2009, Willy DeVille released five more solo albums — each of them excellent in their own way but none with the breadth or depth of “Backstreets.” He and his wife, Nina Lagerwall, eventually moved back to New York City — the place where he was originally reborn and where he was ultimately laid to rest.
In death, Willy’s fans — including Rock’s most famous shapeshifter — came out of the woodwork. During a 2015 interview with Rolling Stone, when pressed to comment on some of the less “rocking” acts (ABBA, Steely Dan and The Mommas and The Papas) in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, Dylan lobbied for Willy DeVille: “Yeah they might have rocked like a bastard, and I’m not saying that they didn’t, but put on any one of those records and then put on “In The Heat of the Moment” by Willy or “Steady Driving Man” or even “Cadillac Walk." I’m not going to belittle Steely Dan but there is a difference.”
I only saw Willy DeVille perform live once and, despite his age and even after decades of wear and tear, he was the consummate showman. He was long and lean, like the lovechild of Frank Zappa and Salvador Dali. He knew exactly how to use his voice and he was oddly lithe, in spite of his injuries. I never met the guy they called Billy Borsay and I never saw Mink DeVille, but it was plain to see that the man on stage had lived several — many — lives. He wasn’t mythical like those reptilian aliens or like Dr. David Banner or Edward from “Twilight.” He was a real life shapeshifter. The only one I know of. The one who will almost surely be forgotten in time. In spite of his legend in France. In spite of all of those great songs. And in spite of me knowing that shapeshifters are not real. Willy DeVille was real. He really happened.