#364: Johnny Cash's American Recordings

I remember reading an interview with Johnny Cash a few years back, in which he related that his first impression of Rick Rubin was that "he looked like a hobo." He was no doubt referring to Rubin's unkempt appearance, but he obviously saw something more than that, recognizing in Rubin a kindred soul of sorts; a man who has little time for wearing his talent on his sleeve, who at once welcomes and defies others' expectations, and who rises to the occasion when the world has all but written him off. All of this makes perfect sense, considering that these things have been true of both Cash and Rubin, and American Recordings could scarcely have been made by any other combination of artist and producer. This is by no means Cash's best work, nor Rubin's; rather, its value lies in its urgency, its mission to preserve a specific moment in time, made all the more significant by the fact that, along with the several follow ups that the two of them would create, this record would ultimately serve as Cash's swan song.

Apart from "Tennessee Stud" and "The Man Who Couldn't Cry," both recorded live at the Viper Room, American Recordings was laid down in Cash's living room with little more than an acoustic guitar and a microphone, capturing the man in black at his unguarded best. "Delia's Gone" kicks the record off with a murder ballad that Cash originally recorded in 1962. From here, he makes his way through a mix of mostly covers and a few originals. Cash gives a fittingly spare treatment to Nick Lowe's "The Beast in Me," while original "Drive On" sets the psychological and physical scars of war to a sing-song rhythm, the narrative recalling, if somewhat generously, that of John Prine's protagonist in "Sam Stone." "Thirteen," written for Cash by Glenn Danzig, predicts the interpretations of contemporary material explored on subsequent releases with Rubin. An austere, confessional quality characterizes his take on Leonard Cohen's "Bird On a Wire," while the Tom Waits cover "Down There By the Train" paints a landscape of self-examination and absolution. The theme is continued on two originals, the spiritual "Redemption" and "Like a Soldier," while Loudon Wainwright's "The Man Who Couldn't Cry" playfully closes the record with a rejection of these notions and a more than healthy dose of pure schadenfreude...

#363, Madonna's Ray of Light: I first ran across this record back in 2004, when I bought a Subaru from a lesbian couple down in Albany, and discovered a copy in the glove box. I was moderately impressed upon that first listen, and on a second listen, I remain moderately impressed. Not really my thing, but more power to any Bay City girl who can make good in the Capital of the World...

#362, The Doors' L.A. Woman: Jim Morrison was on his last legs at the dawn of the '70s, and it shows on L.A. Woman. "Love Her Madly," "L.A. Woman" and "Riders On the Storm" are enduring classics, of course, but much of the rest of the record finds Morrison's delivery wavering, and the band leaning heavily on Blues and R&B standards with the assistance of session musicians. More than a mere slip from form, this record reveals a band unraveling, fatally, under the pressure of success.