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C'Mon, C'Mon Sheryl Crow Interscope Records, 2002
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Reviewed
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Remember that sweetly forlorn, wide-smiling crooner who wailed the walls off of the Tuesday Night Music Club, that unusual pop album of range, depth, honesty, soul and, best of all, maturity? Sheryl Crow's feats of nine years ago now seem like the distant haze of last night's dreams. The raw and instantly gripping "Strong Enough," the almost Floydian "Run, Baby, Run," or the more musically ambitious "Can't Cry Anymore" and the smoky, jazz-laden "We Do What We Can." Just to learn that the album replaced a previous record of slick production was enough to believe in pop music, even if only for the 50 minutes served up by Crow's lauded debut. Even back in 1993, such gorgeous and atmospheric expressions of yearning as "I Shall Believe" sounded too good to be true, as many skeptics suggested that Crow's wardrobe and clever cohorts such as Jeff Trott and producer Bill Bottrell had more of a hand in Tuesday Night Music Club's success than the singer's own talents. Today, such performances as "Leaving Las Vegas" are downright idiosyncrasies; flakes of an era in which even rock stars still played for the sake of the song. No wonder critics trace much of Crow's material, including that from her latest, C'mon, C'mon, back to the 1970's folk/rock onslaught. When Crow unleashed 1996's monstrous, self-titled follow-up, it seemed that she had salvaged her name from the clutches of nay-sayers for good. The album's diverse exploration of Crow's roots blew the hinges off of just about anything else released that year, from the brooding folk of "Redemption Day" to the clanging classic "Maybe Angels" to such nods to The Rolling Stones as "If It Makes You Happy." Maybe the blood red lipstick and velvet music videos were a bit too lush for those who fell in love with Tuesday Night's refreshing modesty, but the power of the songs made it easy to overlook such extravagance. Despite its fusillade of delicious hooks and grooves, 1998's Globe Sessions struck many as a tired rehashing of old heartbreaks and guitar licks. Crow had written variations of "The Difficult Kind" about ten times before Globe Sessions, and songs like "There Goes The Neighborhood," "My Favorite Mistake" and "Anything But Down" relied too heavily on past triumphs. In short, Sheryl Crow sounded tired of herself, and what was 1996's reinvention had quickly become stale two years later. But if Globe Sessions was stale, C'mon, C'mon is as edible as a stone. The album is just as burdened by the presence of old cohorts as it is by the unfortunate crew of Crow's new friends, from Don Henley to Gwyneth Paltrow. Yeah, that Gwyneth, who contributes a "guest vocal" to "It's Only Love," just one of the album's many cluttered productions. Whereas Globe Sessions benefited from the inclusion of a couple of raw, underproduced tracks such as the exquisite "Riverwide" or the Bob Dylan-penned "Mississippi," (now featured on his recent album, Love and Theft) only C'mon, C'mon's "Weather Channel" suggests any awareness of the magic that built Tuesday Night Music Club. Whether she is suffering from a sudden struggle with self-consciousness or just can't find a reason to care anymore, it is certain that someone needs to escort Crow back to the drawing board, and fast. Otherwise, the vast cemetery of one-dimensional talents whose careers consequently dwindled into obscurity -- Gordon Lightfoot, Judy Collins, and John Mellencamp to name a few -- will have a tombstone with her name on it upon the release of her next album. This time around, Crow repeatedly ruins songs that begin honestly but quickly descend into noisy, overproduced nonsense. Just as the lonely tapping of Crow's piano at the onset of "It's So Easy" offers a suggestion of poignancy, Crow and Don Henley almost fearfully retreat from the possibility of a genuinely compelling tune. A disharmonious maelstrom of electric guitars, Wurlitzers, organs, drums and Henley's jarring squeal make a complete mess of the song. Other songs, such as "Steve McQueen," "You're An original" and the title track are as bombastic as a Moody Blues outtake. The real tragedy here is that while the music suffers from an apparently desperate attempt at pop-appeal, Crow's songwriting has rarely been this poignant. This tension between authenticity and shamelessness characterizes the entire album. The trademark wit showcased on Sheryl Crow shines here on songs such as "Soak Up The Sun": "it's not having what you want/it's wanting what you've got," she opines on the album's most overt single. While unimaginative lines such as "C'mon, c'mon,
c'mon/Break my heart again" are boring and hollow resorts to
exhausted devices, the album's wealth of laments and
resignations offers some of Crow's most stirring
songwriting. "I got friends/They're waiting for me to comb
out my hair/Come outside and join the human race/But I don't
feel so human," she sings along with Emmylou Harris on "The
Weather Channel," the album's most honest and thoughtful
composition. Crow's writing demonstrates that there is
enough experience and pain beneath the surface of her sunny
pop songs for a lifetime's worth of pathos. Instead, she
condescends to fans by resting on her laurels. C'mon,
C'mon is the work of a talented artist whose interest in
maintaining any sense of musical direction is fading fast. |
May 2002 |
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