Witching Hour, that nocturnal feeding frenzy first detailed by Warren Zevon on his haunting Asylum debut (
Warren Zevon, 1976) and the equally powerful
Excitable Boy. Both Zevon and the Eagles have employed the desperado and the ghoul as antiromantic symbols of the star caught in the devil's bargain. And both eventually came to realize that they had to give up the guise of observers and confess their roles as participants.
The Eagles live and thrive in a town where rock & roll is the foremost fame machine. Commercially, they've risen as high as a band possibly can, and yet, as individuals, they still have trouble getting in touch with a girlfriend, with any true comfort or satisfaction, with their own dreams. Their backyard is a thicket of fast cars, witchy women, outrageous parties and wasted time, so their perspective on the maw is doubtlessly an informed one.
Since their first LP in 1972, the Eagles have been adept at portraying the dark side of stardom, the sordid milieu of its beneficiaries and the various modus operandi used to secure notoriety. From Eagles' "Chug All Night," "Most of Us Are Sad" and "Take the Devil," through all of Desperado, to "James Dean" and "Good Day in Hell" on On the Border and the title tracks of One of These Nights and Hotel California, the themes of evil exhilaration, dissolution and despair that attend tinseled glory were relentlessly hammered home. These recurring themes finally reached their apex in the song whose title has since become synonymous with high living and self-destruction: "Life in the Fast Lane."
On first listening, The Long Run seems a modest, flawed project that's virtually devoid of the gloss, catchy hooks and flashy invention that typified earlier Eagles records. The title tune sets an unambitious tone: the group lopes along in a familiar country-rock framework, singing about youthful hopes and the virtues of tenacity. But it slowly becomes apparent that the "long run" is a metaphor for a host of secret concerns and passions that are either career- or relationship-oriented. What starts out as a mildly encouraging number about hanging in there ends up a grim homily on the solitary pleasures of flirting with the
It's kind of weird to think about how many '70s country rock bands morphed into soft rockers. The Flying Burrito Bros. became Firefall, America covered "Muskrat Love," and even the Eagles penned the lilting "I Can't Tell You Why," as heard here. Still, songs like the title track and "Heartache Tonight" retain roadhouse boogie.
