Bob Dylan: "Love & Theft" (2001)

The year 2001 found Bob Dylan in an ebullient mood. He had just won an Oscar, and was fresh from the success of his most recent album, 1997’s Time Out of Mind, which had earned him a Grammy Award for Album of the Year. This run of good fortune had carried over into Bob’s live performances, where he performed with renewed confidence with his stellar backing band, which was built around the duelling guitars of Larry Campbell and Charlie Sexton. Last but not least, he had reached the venerable age of 60 years old. All of this was cause for a celebration, and that is exactly what “Love & Theft” appears to be.

Whereas Time Out of Mind had been produced by Daniel Lanois, “Love & Theft” saw Bob take the helm and opt for a more straightforward, stripped-down style. This was appropriate, since almost all of Bob’s new songs were variations on older songs from the ‘30s and ‘40s. The styles on display range, amongst others, from frenetic rockabilly (‘Summer Days’, ‘Tweedle Dum & Tweedle Dee’), crooner-style jazz ballads (‘Moonlight’, ‘Po’ Boy’), and crunchy electric blues (‘Lonesome Day Blues’, ‘Cry A While’), all of which are tackled with aplomb. 

The only song with a traditionally ‘Bob Dylan’ flavour is ‘Mississippi’, which was initially recorded for Time Out of Mind but ultimately left off the album. In its original form the song had a bittersweet, wistful quality to it, but here it becomes triumphant and celebratory, sounding like the work of someone who has emerged into the light after a long period of hardship. “My heart is not weary, it’s light and it’s free”, sings Bob, “I have nothing but affection for them who’ve sailed with me.”

Possibly the best thing about “Love & Theft” is how it sounds like it was a lot of fun to make. A prime example is the track ‘Honest With Me’; as a song there isn’t much to it, but Bob and the band attack it with such force that it works. Their enthusiasm is contagious, and invites the listener into the album’s warm, party-like atmosphere.

Bob Dylan would make more albums in a similar vein to “Love & Theft”, but personally I think they only occaisionally capture the magic contained in this record. “Love & Theft” was a case of the right people being in the right place at the right time, and remains a sparkling souvenir of a memorable period in Bob Dylan’s storied career. 

The Rolling Stones: Blue & Lonesome (2016)

For a number of years, Keith Richards has expressed his desire for The Rolling Stones to record an album “hot off the road” like they used to in the 60s and 70s. For a while it looked like it just wasn't meant to be, but in 2016 Keith finally got his wish, and after touring every year since 2012, the Rolling Stones entered the studio to record their first album in eleven years.

Blue & Lonesome consists entirely of Chicago blues songs originally performed by the likes of Jimmy Reed, Little Walter, and Howlin’ Wolf. The Stones know this music as well as anybody; they began their careers as a blues band and, although their music has encompassed an impressively large array of styles over the years, the blues has remained the foundation on which all their music is built. By going back to playing songs that they love - the music that initially inspired them - the Stones have rediscovered the passion and spontaneity that has, in my opinion, been missing from their recorded output  for some time.

The tracks are consistently high quality, performed with all the expertise you would expect from a band that has been honing its craft for over five decades. Charlie Watts is in his element as he lays down a subtle, swinging beat, and Keith Richards and Ron Wood effortlessly trade rhythm and lead guitar duties throughout (Ronnie’s playing on the track ‘Blue & Lonesome’ is especially stunning). The standout performer is none other than Mick Jagger, who sings with more passion and commitment than he has in many years. Rather than impersonating his younger self, here he sounds relaxed and comfortable; the vocal highlight for me is ‘Hoodoo Blues’, where Mick's voice drops to its previously-unheard lowest setting, to great effect. Strong support is provided by Darryl Jones (a highly skilled bass player, although Bill Wyman’s unusual basslines are still sorely missed), Chuck Leavell (channelling the spirit of the late Ian Stewart on piano), Matt Clifford (keyboards) and Eric Clapton, who pops up on two tracks.

At one time it was tempting to think that the Rolling Stones – the real, endearingly ramshackle Rolling Stones – were gone forever, replaced by the huge touring behemoth they became in the late 80s. But they weren’t gone – they were just trapped beneath the weight of their own success, and now they’ve found a way out. Bob Dylan once wrote something about “moving forward by turning back the clock” and that is just what the Rolling Stones have done with Blue & Lonesome. Contrary to the title, this album is a sheer joy.

Tom Waits: Mule Variations (1999)

My first exposure to the insanely gravelly voice of Tom Waits (over the end credits of the Al Pacino film Sea of Love, where Tom sings the title song) led me to assume that he looked something like Bleeding Gums Murphy from The Simpsons. I was mistaken, but I wanted to hear that voice again and eventually got into Waits’s music; from his beginnings as a humble piano man to his gradual transformation into a fearless musical experimenter who combined his old style with a love of loud clangs and booms. There are many sides to Tom Waits – balladeer, jazzman, blues singer, crazy person – and the album I think illustrates this best is 1999’s Mule Variations.

Tom’s albums tend to bring to mind a particular place (his early albums evoked seedy bars and dark alleyways), and Mule Variations is no different; it sounds like it was recorded on an abandoned farm in a field somewhere. A lot of the tracks have a blues flavour to them, and you can imagine Tom strumming casually on the porch while someone accompanies him on an upside-down bucket. Most of these songs, like “Get Behind the Mule”, “Cold Water”, and “Filipino Box Spring Hog”, sound like they could have been made up on the spot and are all the better for it. We also get one of Tom’s traditional spoken word pieces, the darkly humorous “What’s He Building in There?”, which is told from the perspective of a nosy neighbour peering through the blinds at the suspicious man living next door (although the narrator ultimately comes across as far more sinister than the person he is spying on).

These are strong tracks, but what really makes the album for me are the ballads, which usually feature Tom accompanying himself on piano. Despite his frequent forays into experimentation, Waits is a balladeer at heart; had he been born a few decades earlier, Tom probably would have worked out of an office on Tin Pan Alley writing songs for Frank Sinatra and others (the best evidence of this is probably Tom’s 1982 album One from the Heart). The ballads on Mule Variations are arguably some of the finest Waits his written: “Hold On”, “House Where Nobody Lives”, “Pony”, “Picture in a Frame”, “Georgia Lee”, “Take it With Me”, and the triumphant “Come on up to the House” (my favourite) are all just lovely, managing to be beautiful and moving without becoming overly sentimental. I can’t help but wonder what they would have sounded like with a full Nelson Riddle-style orchestra behind them, but that would probably have jarred with the raw sound of the album.

This is my favourite Tom Waits album, and I highly recommend it. Tom Waits is a real Marmite musician – his eccentric style means people are either instantly repelled or left hungry for more – but if you like your music gritty with more than a few rough edges, this album is for you.

Leonard Cohen: Songs of Leonard Cohen (1967)

Often when buying something like an album or a book, it’s not unusual to think to yourself, I hope I enjoy this, because if I don’t I will have wasted my money. However, as I looked into the eyes of Leonard Cohen on the front cover of his first album, Songs of Leonard Cohen, I knew without any doubt that if I bought it I would enjoy it. I have no idea why this was – I was not familiar with Leonard Cohen’s music at all, the only song of his I knew being the frequently-covered ‘Hallelujah’. I did know that he had recently passed away, and that I had been sad to hear of his death, again despite not knowing a thing about the man or his music. And yet here I was, buying his album, certain that I would enjoy it. Happily, I did.

Since then I have learned that Leonard Cohen was already established as a poet and author before embarking on his musical career; his poetic skill carried over into his lyrics, which are filled with rich imagery and deft turns of phrase. His voice is intense and deep and rarely rises above a whisper, forcing you to ignore whatever else you are doing to devote all of your attention to the songs (this probably isn’t the best album to listen to while driving). The instrumentation on the album is also fantastic, and credit must go to producer John Simon for garnishing Cohen’s vocals and superb acoustic guitar playing with minimalist snatches of unusual instruments that perfectly compliment both the singer and the songs.

Despite all of that, it’s the songs that really make the album. The standard is consistently high, but my favourites would have to be ‘So Long, Marianne’, with its happy female backing vocals during the chorus; the austere ‘Master’s Song’; and the lilting, lullaby-like ‘Sisters of Mercy’, which has a lovely melody of the kind you might find yourself humming absent-mindedly days later.

I don’t know what compelled me to pick up this album, but I am really glad I did; it’s hypnotically beautiful. I am glad to have made Leonard Cohen’s acquaintance and look forward to getting to know him more. 

The Last Waltz (1978)

Concert films are tricky to pull off, maybe even more so than a standard movie. Rather than having weeks or months of shooting to work with, the film crew has to capture an event that lasts just a few hours. On top of that, the director has to give the audience the sense of actually being at the event in question, rather than at home or in the cinema. A tough job indeed, but one that was gladly accepted by Martin Scorsese when he set out to film the final concert of The Band.

The Band was comprised of Rick Danko (bass, fiddle, vocals), Levon Helm (drums, mandolin, guitar, vocals), Garth Hudson (organ, piano, accordion, saxophone), Richard Manuel (piano, drums, vocals) and Robbie Robertson (guitar and primary songwriter), and by 1976 they had been together for roughly 16 years. Starting out as members of Ronnie Hawkins’ backing group, The Hawks, the group eventually struck out on their own before falling into the employ of one Bob Dylan, whom they backed on his infamous tour of 1966. When Dylan was injured in a motorcycle accident and retired to Woodstock, New York, the Hawks followed him.

Recording informally with Bob in the basement of their house, Big Pink, the Hawks hit upon what would become their signature sound: the intertwining voices of their three vocalists – Danko emotive and tearful, Helm fierce and loud, and Manuel ethereal and soulful – garnished with Hudson’s inventive organ flourishes and Robertson’s wiry lead guitar. They also began writing their own songs, which were rich with the many musical styles that America had given birth to over the years. In 1968 they released their first album, Music from Big Pink, under the new name of The Band. It was an appropriate name, symbolic of the equality amongst the members and the lack of a traditional frontman. In the ensuing years they would release five more albums and tour extensively, before finally deciding to call it a day with a concert dubbed ‘The Last Waltz’.

It would have been very hard to cram the entire history of The Band into The Last Waltz, and Scorsese wisely does not attempt to do so. Instead, we meet The Band exactly as they were in 1976: exhausted, burned-out and in serious need of a long break. The concert footage is interspersed with interview segments, where we hear the group reminisce and tell stories about life on the road. Manuel comes across as witty but vulnerable; Danko tired but chirpy and upbeat; Garth an eccentric professor and fountain of musical knowledge. A lot of the interview time goes to Robertson who, although frequently engaging and charming, often coomes across as aloof and haughty. My favourite interview moments come courtesy of Levon; when Scorsese engages him in a discussion about rock & roll, his eyes light up like a child at Christmas. He reminds me of Keith Richards in that respect.

As for the concert itself? Great! The Band clearly wanted to go out with a bang, and everyone pours their hearts and souls into the songs. One aspect of the film I do have mixed feelings about, however, is the amount of guest stars featured, including (but not limited to) Neil Young, Eric Clapton, Joni Mitchell, Neil Diamond, Paul Butterfield, Ronnie Hawkins, Bob Dylan, and Muddy Waters, all of whom perform their own songs. I would have preferred Scorsese to omit some of these performances to make way for more Band songs (like 'Acadian Driftwood'), but it must be said that everyone performs well, and it is interesting to see The Band (who, of course, began as a backing group) supporting artists from such a vast array of musical styles. The guest that stood out the most to me were The Staple Singers, who join The Band for a gospel-style rendition of 'The Weight'.

Scorsese keeps track of the action incredibly well, and has a knack for catching those fleeting interactions between the musicians that are often missed in concert films. The lighting and choice of colour tones is fantastic; you can tell that a lot of thought and preparation went into the film and how it should look.

At one point Robertson refers to The Last Waltz as a celebration, and it is, but the film is also bittersweet; the members of The Band would endure numerous tragedies and hardships in the years after the concert, including the deaths of Richard Manuel in 1986 and Rick Danko in 1999. Levon Helm was diagnosed with throat cancer in 1998, cruelly robbing him of his singing voice. It remains a testament to Levon’s character that he was able to regain his voice and sing again on two wonderful albums, Dirt Farmer and Electric Dirt, before the disease finally claimed him in 2012. Garth Hudson remains in demand as a session musician, while Robbie Robertson works as a music executive for DreamWorks.

The Last Waltz remains a tribute to The Band. It doesn’t tell you everything about who they were and what they were about (you would have to listen to their albums for that), but it shows you what they were; a band, bound by brotherhood, friendship and wonderful music.

The Magnificent Seven (2016)

It’s easy to be cynical about remakes, but occasionally they do succeed in putting a new slant on an old story. Films like A Fistful of Dollars (1964), Scarface (1983), and Cape Fear (1991) are great examples of remakes that used the original films as a springboard for new ideas. This iteration of The Magnificent Seven is, interestingly, a remake of a remake, the 1960 version being an adaptation of the Japanese film Seven Samurai (1954). But I'm rambling: the point is, it’s perhaps best to think of remakes as being similar to the tradition of folk songs and stories, retellings for different times. But does this retelling of The Magnificent Seven have anything new to say?

The film opens with a small town being ransacked and taken over by the nefarious industrialist Bartholomew Bogue (Peter Sarsgaard). Tired of living in fear, the townspeople recruit nomadic warrant officer Chisolm (Denzel Washington) to help them reclaim their town. Aware that he stands no chance alone, Chisolm sets about putting together a miniature army of gunslingers, and then sets about readying the townsfolk for a showdown with Bogue’s men.

The story is simple and straightforward, but sadly the characterisation of the titular seven is somewhat lacking, and there are several members of the team who we don’t really get to know. However, the quality of the actors involved means that some of them are able to make an impression despite their underwritten roles. Denzel anchors the film as the mysterious Chisolm, one of those characters who is engaging precisely because we don’t know much about him. Vincent D’Onofrio, a great character actor, gets his teeth into the role of mountain-man Jack Horne, and Chris Pratt remains a charming and likeable screen presence as Joshua Faraday, although his character is very similar to his Guardians of the Galaxy role. Ethan Hawke has an interesting yet under-developed character arc as Goodnight Robicheaux, while Peter Sarsgaard’s Bogue is menacing but strangely absent for most of the film.

Despite the script issues, The Magnificent Seven benefits from spectacular American scenery which, although we don’t see quite enough of it, still provides a great backdrop for the action. Speaking of action, the action sequences are handled extremely well by director Antoine Fuqua (particularly the climactic shootout, which does a good job of keeping track of what all seven characters are doing), although the film could perhaps have done with one more action set-piece at some stage. The photography is done well without drawing too much attention to itself; I particularly like the contrast between the bright outdoor scenes and the shadowy interiors of log cabins and saloons, which are reminiscent of Clint Eastwood’s westerns.

So does this version of The Magnificent Seven bring anything new to the table? Not really, no. However, it’s very difficult to ruin a good story, and even if the telling of the tale is a little garbled this time around, it remains a good story, and one that I am glad to hear told one more time.