Great and Not so Great Covers
There's something
interesting in Nouvelle Vague's version of the Clash's "Guns of Brixton",
and it isn't the novelty effect. There's an insouciant poignancy in
the song, that isn't there in the Clash's version, a shimmering, simmering
insinuating sneer. The Clash was an arrogant thug. Nouvelle
Vague is a precocious child, asking the beaten and bruised: "how yah gonna come"?
Come on now. Are you as tough as you think you are?
It's superb.
The same goes for Cat
Powers remake of the Stones' "Satisfaction". She has absorbed the
song, chewed it over, fanged it a couple of times, and emerged with an
utterly twisted, vicious, revision. It's brilliant.
I say that because the idea
of doing over a great song isn't necessarily a bad one. But it is when
Paul Anka does "Smells Like Teen Spirit" and Rod Stewart does "It Had to be
You" and now Carly Simon releases an album of torch ballads-- I want to get
out the torch.
There's probably a
lesser-known antecedent but I seem to recall that this awful trend started
around 1979, when Linda Ronstadt's career took a dive and she tried to
reposition herself as a chanteuse with an album of pop "standards" by
various allegedly great songwriters. Ronstadt, previously known for
her country ballads and power-pop tunes, ("Different Drum", "Long, Long
Time") was praised for her brave excursion into the mainstream, even though
her performances of these songs were not particularly distinguished.
To go with her new-found sense of sophistication, she lost weight and posed for some
cheese-cake photos for Annie Liebowitz for Rolling Stone Magazine.
The critics are
expected to fall over themselves
to be the first to proclaim that they have such good taste that they could
enjoy something that did not feature an screaming electric guitar or a hook.
And actually, I do believe
that some of these, at least, are "great" songs, in the same way that some
girls are "great" girls. They look so beautiful and refined and
tasteful and sweet, you just want to buy them a diamond. Just don't
expect oral sex in return.
What you do not want to see
in a great song is Rod Stewart's lips behind it.
As for those reviewers--
what are they going to do? It occurred to me that they
are extremely unlikely to do otherwise than lavish praise on these wholesome
tributes to the old fart school of music composition. Firstly, they would be
absolutely stricken if anyone were to accuse them of having tunnel vision--
don't you know that "Summertime" is one of the greatest songs ever written?
Secondly, I don't think most of these critics, with the exception of the
Times' Stephen Holden, have a clue about what they are reviewing. The
uniform adulation of mediocre vocalists like Norah Jones and Diana Krall
tells you that a certain amount of posturing is going on. These women
look great and they have astute management and they can mostly hold pitch.
That's about it.
If you're really convinced
that Diana Krall is a great singer, please
name me a song or two performed by Emmy Lou Harris, Aretha Franklin, Nina
Simone, Gladys Knight, or
Lucinda Williams that would reflect kindly on Ms. Krall's talents.
Unlike the Nouvelle Vague's
version of "Guns of Brixton", or Die Toten Hosen's version of "Hang on
Sloopy", or Cat Powers' searing "Satisfaction", none of these artists
actually bring a whole lot of originality or creativity to their remakes.
If anything, as Holden observes, most of these updates are dumbed down, the
orchestrations more like movie sound tracks than settings, the phrasing
pedestrian and utterly predictable. Worse than that--
the posturing. All the irreverence and inventiveness and wit and fun
of rock'n'roll is gone. I am now an artist, as in, the artist
will appear at 10:00, in an evening gown or tuxedo, and he or she will be
serious. She is going to sell the song. He is going to hold
notes longer than he does when singing "Maggie Mae". The audience will
grovel at 10:06:15, then return to their martinis.
What they have forgotten is that there is a reason that
the Beatles were like a breath of fresh air in 1963, and why Bob Dylan
mattered.
