Little Feat began as a writers' band, the writers being keyboardist Bill Payne and slide guitarist/singer Lowell George. By the group's second album, Sailin' Shoes, George's voice and guitar had progressed to the point where Little Feat was no longer just a writers' band: Material, performance and production were held in equipoise through that album and its successor, Dixie Chicken. On Feats Don't Fail Me Now that perfect tension has slackened. Now the band's strength has driven out the quirky but affecting vision that made Little Feat unique and worth cherishing. The outfit is a superb, well-oiled machine but with some of the impersonality which such a characterization
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Little Feat has had a terribly checkered history, with near breakups occurring not quite as frequently as damaging rumors said they were. George hopes he has finally achieved a measure of stability: He is not quite as dominant as he once was—he has consciously down-played his own authority—but this may not be the root of the problem. It is almost as if once he decided to cede responsibility to the others, he also decided to make his writing less reflective of his own slant than of the new, corporate Little Feat, a group that he no longer commands. Nearly the same can be surmised of Payne, whose earlier efforts were as original as George's.
The group's prismatic, L.A.-dominated view of culture first gave way to Dixie Chicken's earthier, less frenetic, but still witty approach. Feats, in a further reduction, turns out to be almost pure funk, situated squarely below the Mason-Dixon line (the first three songs make reference to the State of Georgia). But the songs on Feats—though within the group's chosen specialty—do not evoke the frenzy of their counterparts on Dixie Chicken, like "Two Trains" and "Fat Man in the Bathtub." The syncopations of "Rock and Roll Doctor" are riveting but the tune's overall format is too choppy to be uplifting. Yet along with the title song, "Down The Road," and guitarist Paul Barrere's "Skin It Back," it qualifies as fine dance music. The latter two also boast some fabulous guitar interplay—between the tricky and the breathtakingly simple. George's whining slide, which hasn't diminished a bit, is on a level with Ry Cooder's or Duane Allman's but is instantly distinguishable from either.
Little Feat's deviations here from their standard are "Spanish Moon" and "Wait Till the Shit Hits the Fan." "Spanish Moon" is a bayou trance, with growling voices, growling clavinet and spooky organ. But the horn arrangement is painfully hackneyed, and the entire number seems bogus. Perhaps Van Dyke Parks, who produced only this cut, should be blamed. The rhetorical melody and general negativism of "Wait Till the Shit Hits the Fan" recalls the Mothers of Invention, with whom George once played guitar. This churning reproach, which appears to be about a groupie—
