Loudon Wainwright's third—his first for Columbia—almost completely lives up to my wildest expectations: which is saying a lot, since his two Atlantic albums presented a comic poet, if not a musician, of the very first rank. Though Wainwright is possessed of a marvelous sense of humor, both whimsical and earthy, the chief quality that came across on the early albums was his vulnerability, his willingness to deflate his own self-myth by exposing the reality of an exacerbated day-to-day emotional life with a bluntness so extraordinarily childlike it challenged the assumptions and illusions to which most of us cling in order to make our way. More amazing is that Wainwright is fully aware
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of this quality in himself and his work. "Be Careful, There's a Baby in the House" on
Album II could just as well have been about Loudon as about an infant. If the identification weren't complete, the song would be insufferably cute. But it
is complete, and the song is true.
This is the dangerous line Wainwright has chosen to take in most of his best songs. Such risk would be catastrophic for a lesser talent. Naked self-exposure that isn't self-destructive is uncommon among artists in any medium. To pull it off requires a suspension of ego but also a high degree of instinctive trust in one's self, not to mention one's audience. In the first two albums the risk was made greater by their poor production values; the sound was claustrophobic; Loudon strummed acoustically, with little or no backup. Often his voice strained uncomfortably above its normal register, and in singing songs like "Hospital Lady" he occasionally resorted to a style as cloying as Melanie's. Yet the records were wonderful. The crudeness of production, the extremely static nature of the music itself: these at least accentuated the poetry by making it inescapable.
Except perhaps for Lou Reed, Wainwright is alone among songwriters in being able to write on almost any subject and make it pertinent and funny, but more than that to communicate a perception of the world that rings a bell in your head and makes you realize that, like it or not, this is how it really is; this is the messy texture of life itself; this is how I feel, how we all feel, and isn't it great that here's someone who can give us back to our selves and our commonality.
In Album III, almost all the faults evident on the earlier albums have been corrected. The sound is excellent; so are Thomas Jefferson Kaye's arrangements. The backups by Loudon's band, White Cloud, are a model of unobtrusiveness—lean but tasty. And the songs themselves are musically stronger and lyrically as good or better than those on albums I and II. "Dead Skunk," the opener, is delightful good-time country rock with lots of plunking banjo. The perfect comic intro, quelches any expectation of pontification or deliberate display of "superior sensitivity." A dead skunk
Loudon Wainwright's first album was released just a year ago. Almost uniform praise followed in all reviews, but not a whole lot happened to his career fortunately, probably. While his advocates urged that Wainwright be recognized as the new major songwriter and prepared a goldrush. Wainwright laid back and kept personal, club, IV and radio appearances to a bare minimum and interviews almost nil. In retrospect, witnessing the increasing cultural cannibalism and the grimness of speedy superstar trip. Wainwright's professional restraint was a good thing. He didn't think he was ready.
On the first record. I wished there had been some additional lightness and more display of Wainwright's abilities with lyrical melodies (he has a good, clear voice), but those were my only arguments. Its tone was a little heavy and didn't totally reflect the performing Wainwright; of course few records capture the personality we hear and see in performance, but the gentle, ironic sense of humor slipped by to a marked degree. Wainwright's material is personal and naked, comparable to the function of poetry. There's a lot of pain there but Wainwright is fun sometimes, too, and more of that is on this record, with the explications of loneliness. And again, the accompaniment is just his guitar, with two exceptions, and no overdubs.
Wainwright's first record could have been a double album, for he was singing many of the songs recorded here before even the first one was recorded. His sets often opened with the first cut on this album. "Me and My Friend the Cat." It never occurred to me to ask what this song meant. I assumed it was about communication with a cat, maybe in a stoned state, but others aren't so sure. "With a cat ...?" Sure, why not. If only you'd been there.
"Motel Blues," a more recent composition, is an excellent song, asking a young girl to spend the night, to stave off loneliness, and a good example of why Wainwright is head and shoulders above other songwriters. Loneliness is grim but other songwriters skim what Wainwright bites. "Come up to my hotel room, sleep with me ... save my life ... I don't want to make any late night New York calls I don't want to stare at those ugly grass mat walls." And his special eye: "There's a Bible in the drawer, don't be afraid ..."
"Nice Jewish Girls" is another old song, a light piece describing the writer's very WASP background and his weakness for Jewish girls. "Be Careful. There's a Baby in the House" is a beautiful song and another that only Wainwright would could do. Like everything else, his approach to babies is unique: "Be careful, there's a baby in the house And a baby will not be fooled ... And a baby is better than smart It can waddle through all the stuff yo do/Never mind your big head start."
In "Motel Blues" he writes: "What can a lonely rock and roller do?" Wainwright is usually termed a folk singer because he sings alone with acoustic guitar, but he is m
This very undistinguished-looking album, with its absence of liner notes and its beatnik-flavored photos, is astonishing for a couple of reasons. To begin with, Loudon Wainwright III writes very forcefully incisive songs and, better yet, brings them across totally with his pleading, highpitched vocals and competent guitar work. This may not seem like a hell of a lot—but for those who recall the halcyon days of guys like Anderson, Dylan, Spoelstra, Ochs and Van Ronk, these eleven songs that Mr. Wainwright offers are a vivid change of pace in these rather few and far between times.
From the rambling, Delaware-flavored "School Days" through the moody "Hospital Lady" to the wryly confessional "I Don't Care," Wainwright moves in a highly personal, often allegorical fashion through what seems to be the late afternoons of his memory and out again. At times his reliance on rhyme becomes a trifle over-much ("Uptown" and "Movies Are A Mother To Me"), but mostly he conquers stunningly with the choppy-rhythmed, cleverly moving "Glad To See You've Got Religion" and the terse, to-the-point portrait of "Black Uncle Remus" that gets more incisive every time you hear it: "When you've got the whiskey habit/You don't talk about Brer Rabbit/You really recall the catfish catches/When you're living your life in the briar patches."
Other high points on this album are Wainwright's pastiches and evocations of The City that stud his "Ode To A Pittsburgh": ("You were smokestacked/You were laid in cobble-stone/You were trolley-car-tracked/And for you the red skies shone") and the confusing yet compelling "Four Is A Magic Number" that is a study in the wonder of hesitation, in lyrics as well as in Wainwright's guitar playing and vocal approach. Not to forget his gripping, wail-laden performance of "Central Square Song"—the story of Mary McGuire and Big Frank Clark who "got drunk again last night." This cut alone is worth the album price—it's a short story in song, a novel in a few lyrics, a lifetime full of cause and effect, love and loneliness—the true anthem of what life in America is like these days—watch out, Studs Lonigan. Finally, Wainwright's closing, melody-crippling tale of life at "Bruno's Place," with its oiled rhythms and total cast of characters, is addictive and, besides that, lets you know that Wainwright is a vegetarian.
Usually artists of Wainwright's obvious genius write and play out their lives and songs on old friends' back-porches, in local smoke-stung coffeehouses or on anonymous sidewalks and park benches. Somehow Wainwright found his way onto a record. I just hope it's not a one-shot affair—he's got some things to say. (RS 69)
GARY VON TERSCH
