Fine and funky—that's Leon Russell's first album out on his own, away from his producer/arranger/back-up role with Delaney and Bonnie, Joe Cocker, even the Stones ("Live with Me"). But that word "away" is misleading, since all those folks—and then some—are present, if not accounted for, on his album too; gentlemen with such Christian surnames as Harrison and Starr, Wyman and Watts, Clapton and Voorman. An august assembly, you might say.
Yet no sense of heavy-handed helping out, or high-minded seriousness, or superstar-gazing accrues. That's the Russell funkiness at work—every cut, for all the polish evidenced, still retains a feeling of late-night, good-time get-together.
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Like Clapton and Harrison joining up with the Bramletts just to enjoy themselves, you sense that Russell's friends are there because working with him is fun. The earthiness is there too, what Gram Parsons—who ought to know—means when he designates somebody as "funky": "people who don't know nothin' 'cept the bottom of a beer can when they see it through the hole." In Russell's case, that becomes his gospel get-it-on enthusiasm, his mushmouthed and straining vocals, his omnipresent down-home piano, and his Southern subject matter.
So every cut has something going for it. A few of the 12 collapse en route, but most make it. Oddly enough, the very first cut is one of those that falters, a resonating love ballad called "A Song for You" with too much in the way of agony-vibrato and Gershwin piano from Russell. But that number and an amusing novelty, Russell singing "Masters of War" while playing the national anthem, are his only solo outings.
On to the good, good stuff, like two ragged and happy gospel shouts, Russell originals with, for some reason, "borrowed" titles: "I Put a Spell on You" and "Give Peace a Chance." Both feature laughter and false starts, the soulful Bramletts and, on the former at least, the Stones' own rhythm section; and there's a homegrown, mess-around air to each that knocks me out, especially the distinctly unpeaceful tambourine - piano crescendo in "Peace." Eric Clapton adds his own indelible mark to another semi-gospel number, "Prince of Peace": "Never treat a brother like a passing stranger ... It might be the Prince of Peace returning." Russell's piano lies low, as does the bass (by Voorman?), and Clapton picks impressively in his "new," relaxed, flowing manner.
It's the Beatles' turn on the album's nicest ballad, a slow rocker called "Hummingbird." George Harrison alone starts the tune moving in a Mississippi-Delta, "Can't Be Satisfied" vein, then Russell's piano stutters in, clashing just enough to keep things lively—and can that really be Ringo doing the fingers-and-palm drumming? Too much. And it gets even better as Russell sings movingly and convincingly, "She gets me where I live,/I give her all I have to give,/talking 'bout that hummingbird," while someone's heavily comping o
Leon Russell has proven himself to be an extraordinary talent. His personal style is by now instantly recognizable: a combination of gospel, R&B and pop. His music is always well thought out and lavishly produced. Russell has a characteristic way of using horns, background voices, and rhythm section so that it sounds like every base is being touched, every space is being filled. These qualities have not only led to some great music, they have resulted in some very bland and predictable work as well. Unfortunately, it is the latter qualities that dominate Leon Russell and the Shelter People.
Actually, Russell's first solo album, Leon Russell, didn't attract a fraction of the attention it deserved. Perhaps it put some people off by including a record number of false starts, studio jokes, spoken lead-ins and all the rest of the trappings that are by now mandatory for any self-respecting artist. For another thing, the album was the super-session album to end all super-sessions at a time when people had finally gotten suspicious of the whole concept.
All of which was too bad. Because, underneath some of the surface annoyances, the music on Leon Russell was incredibly good. The songs themselves, including "Delta Lady," "A Song For You," "Shoot Out on the Plantation," "Dixie Lullabye," and the exquisite "Hummingbird," were of an exceptionally high order, and the arrangements and performances had drive, energy, spice, variety, and above all, feeling–most of which are missing from the new album.
The form–the production style is still there, but the album is sort of soft at the center. Russell's own determination and conviction seem to fail him and the results are an album that sounds unpleasantly contrived and put-together. The fun, as well as the depth, of the first album are gone leaving me with a feeling of perfunctoriness about the work.
"It's a Hard Rain's Gonna Fall" is most typical in this respect. Russell manages to funk the song up a bit and sings it against some very interesting piano. But ultimately the feeling is forced and wrong. Halfway through, it sounds like he is hurrying to get it over with. "It Takes a Lot to Laugh, It Takes a Train to Cry" works much better but is not entirely satisfactory either.
"Stranger in a Strange Land" is marred by some ineptly topical lyrics, while the music on "Alcatraz" more than makes up for a similar weakness in that tune. "Sweet Emily" is the album's semi-country tune, with a melody and chord progression taken straight away from "A Song for You" and "Hummingbird," and it is a bore. "The Ballad of Mad Dogs and Englishman" is uncomfortably awful and Leon's tribute to Little Richard, called "Crystal Closet Queen" is neither very good rock and roll nor very funny.
It all comes down to one fine song, "Home Sweet Oklahoma." It is the only one that conjures up in my mind the brilliance of some of the great tunes on Leon Russell,<
