Marshall Crenshaw is one of those unfortunate artists whose albums raise expectations. Quality isn't enough; when he's merely very good, he's disappointing. That's the painful case with his new album, Mary Jean & 9 Others – a title that begs the listener to simply enjoy a fine collection of songs and not mine them for significance.
For longstanding fans, that may prove impossible. Despite his infallible instinct for hooks and his deep feeling for the pop tradition reaching back to Buddy Holly, Crenshaw has always been too uptight and cerebral to be taken for a simple popster. His shimmering debut album, Marshall Crenshaw, drew attention precisely because it captured
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the appealing tension between his constricting self-consciousness and the world of open possibilities imagined in such songs as "Rockin' Around 11 N.Y.C." or "Someday, Some Way." On
Field Day and
Downtown, the two albums that followed, Crenshaw continued to exploit that tension, but no breakthrough into more direct expression ever came.
Mary Jean, agreeable as it is, suggests that the mistake might have been expecting such a breakthrough in the first place.
The songs on Mary Jean are the sort of thoughtfully written, carefully crafted pop tunes that Crenshaw has defined as his own. High points are plentiful: the lovely, multi-tracked harmonies on "Calling Out for Love (at Crying Time)"; the everyday wonder of "This Street," reminiscent in spirit of the Hollies' "Look Through Any Window"; the touching reassurance of "They Never Will Know"; the engaging optimism of "This Is Easy."
Crenshaw's vocals, reaching ever upward against the limits of his range, effectively enact the yearning that suffuses his songs. The singer-songwriter also emerges as more of a player on this album, adding welcome muscle to his guitar sound. And producer Don Dixon lets the rough sonic edges stick out a bit as a needed corrective to the studio preciousness of some of Crenshaw's previous records.
Mary Jean & 9 Others may, in fact, work best for people who are unfamiliar with Crenshaw and therefore unaware of the promise his career has proffered. And by failing to deliver the artistic knockout punch long awaited by the faithful, this album may indirectly work to Crenshaw's advantage. Next time out he will enter a climate of lowered, perhaps more reasonable, expectations, in which it may be possible for him to be accepted simply on the basis of smart work done well. (RS 506)
ANTHONY DECURTIS
