Here we are, living in paradise," sang Elvis Costello a few albums ago, and while Randy Newman probably would agree with that statement, he'd be more interested in its underlying frustration: if this is paradise, why aren't we happy? On his ninth album, Newman has chosen to explore the ambivalences of paradise, not only sundrenched climes, but ostensibly ideal situations as well: parties, self-confidence, true love. Observing these paradoxical states of affairs, Newman's eye is as keen and pungent as ever; what makes Trouble in Paradise special is that he's infused his acute perception with an almost startling compassion.
ethnic slurs, but
Trouble in Paradise eschews the smarmy, gimcrack gimmickry that cheapened
Born Again and
Little Criminals. While his mordant wit is delightfully abundant here, this album is anchored on two genuinely soul-stirring ballads, "Same Girl" and "Real Emotional Girl." It is their power and some fiery arrangements that make
Trouble in Paradise rank right up there with
Sail Away as the apotheosis of Newman's art.
No purported utopia is closer to Newman's heart, or his funny bone, than his native Los Angeles. "Look at that mountain/Look at those trees," exclaims the freeway-cruising character in the raveup "I Love L.A." "Look at that bum over there He's down on his knees." In thankfulness or – more likely – agony? Newman conceals that ambiguity beneath the flash of Waddy Wachtel's guitar and the sun-bleached huzzahs ("We love it!") of backup singers Lindsey Buckingham and Christine McVie.
Newman's skewer is even sharper on "My Life Is Good." in which a nouveau riche El Lay songwriter engages in a feisty bout of one-upmanship and name-dropping with his kid's schoolteacher, culminating in a gut-busting Hollywood encounter with Bruce Springsteen: "He said, Rand, I'm tired How would you like to be the Boss for a while?'" So Newman yelps, "Blow, Big Man," and Ernie Watts lets out an unearthly sax squawk. It's enough to spin you off your Barcalounger.
Newman's rummations on two other paradises. Florida and South Africa, are not nearly so sangume. "Miami" fairly bristles off its grooves, with its tractions instrumentation atop a defiantly unperky calypso beat. "Gee, I love Miami," he deadpans. "It's so nice and hot And every building's so pretty and white And I always get into so much trouble there." Even sympathetic Newman listeners may have trouble with the racial obscenities in "Christmas in Capetown," wherein a South African roughly excoriates the horrified British woman who's visiting him. Newman makes impressive use of a dissonant backup chorus and again imbues a hateful character with a bizarre dignity. "Just take a look around," the Afrikaner protests. "What are we gonna do, blow up the whole damn country?" Well. Newman seems to say, somebody's gonna.
Now
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