The Darkness were normally shelved in the very same category as all of the other garage-rock phenoms of the early 2000’s that came and went by in about 15 minutes – The Strokes, The Yeah Yeah Yeahs, and on a lower level, Interpol. But unlike some of those other groups, this platter was a heck of a lot of unabashed, unpretentious fun. Derivative? Oh sure. But that was beside the point. They were a complete throwback – a hydra-headed hybrid of Queen, Thin Lizzy, and dozens of other early 70’s stadium brawn-rock bands, with a bit of ’80’s synth-tech thrown in here and there – right down to the look; the bass player sported a handlebar mustache, the lead singer was heroin-chic skinny, and oh by the way we haven’t even got to the matter of the falsetto vocals yet…. Permission to Land, just with the elements detailed above, really could have sucked. Instead, it’s an engaging work that puts the band’s eccentric personality on full blast, take it or leave it. In their native UK, this disc was far more popular with five of the ten tracks released as singles. Stateside, there was only one big hit – the synthesizer-spiced driving rocker “I Believe in a Thing Called Love” – which compared to the faster-paced songs here is pretty much run-of-the-mill Darkness, but with more energy and I would imagine has become a signature song for them. I do vaguely remember the song had quite the outrageous video which the cover art shares a theme with as well. I won’t say The Darkness are for everyone (by no means) – certainly, their very image and style put them in a niche from the jump, but at least on their debut CD, they looked like they knew how to maximize all the style’s strengths, and hide the weaknesses.
Another shining example of how the big bad depressing grunge 90's were really nothing more than an unoriginal rehash of the long forgotten bigger badder and hairier arena rockin' early 70's. And lo and behold, Soundgarden pretty much forgets to put together songs, sacrificing them at the expense of growly tones, faux-experimental grooves, and Chris Cornell acid-trip yowls. All of the good material you will hear is right up front - the galloping "Rusty Cage" followed by the Sabbath-humping "Outshined" - and it goes gradually downhill from there.
Styx in the early 80's were a curious deal. They had clearly attained a higher status than many other arena rock bands from the 70's - roughly comparable to Journey, I'd say - but their two LP entries are perceived to have craved and fallen way short of the Pink Floyd-ian stratosphere. Whereas Paradise Theatre was more of a flashy, celebration/tribute kind of package, Kilroy Was Here goes the other way, making a strong statement against government censors moving against rock music. This, along with the ever-building tension within the group, produced the most fascinating album of their career, bar none. This is far more than the supposed faux-tech cheese of "Mr. Roboto" - which is actually one of the more heartfelt tracks in the Styx universe - but they remain true to their original sound AND branch smartly into 80's pop realms on frequent occasions. There is also a serious dose of sardonic humor which really makes its' presence felt on tracks like "Heavy Metal Poisoning" and "Cold War".
The title of this collection is a serious misnomer – for this to be the “very best” of the band is simply ridiculous, since it then ignores something like 15 albums in the same basic genre ball park – so who is to say which is the best of the best here? Is it the record company (in this case A&M) simply because Gram Parsons is so heavily attached to the first two Burrito albums? Whatever the case, this 25-track compilation contains the following – the first two albums, and three additional tracks from the same time frame. The first eleven tracks of the disc are devoted to the first album in full, which is one of the more curious releases in not just country rock, but all of pop music in general. This was a last gasp “cosmic hippie” sort of record, with Parsons, Chris Hillman (ex-Byrds), “Sneaky” Pete Kleinow, and Chris Etheridge intent on melding country, rock, soul music, and radical political beliefs into one weird, intoxicating stew. That the album commercially failed is not that surprising, in retrospect. You can gather it from the material itself. It reflects the growing cynicism and ugliness of what the country was going through at large. There is a thread of deep sadness and weariness running through all of the songs on Gilded Palace of Sin. Right from the jump “Christine’s Tune” is a jaded swipe at an ex-lover whose been supposedly gallivanting around town behind his back. The question here is two-fold – should he really be that bitter over the loss, and why does the backing music have to be so gorgeous? Sin plods along through its’ highs and lows – well, mainly lows, because this is a downer record – through its’ 31st floors, dodging draft boards, wheels, and dark end of the streets, until it reaches a soaring crescendo on “Hot Burrito #2”. Here is where Parsons is at his best AND worst, practically in tears over another ex-lover, singing “Jesus CHRIST” at the top of his lungs in that tortured, entitled, this old mixed-up Southern rich boy will never grow up tone of voice. And finally, mercifully, they end the thing with slow-shuffling, spoken-word “Hippie Boy”, as if they knew how it was all going to end up in the first place, and so much for all of that.
This, of course, sets us up for the second album and second half of the disc, the Burrito Deluxe half. In short order, Gilded Palace of Sin flopped, then the rest of 1969 happened, which included such niceties as the Manson cult murders and Altamont, which the Burrito Brothers played at. While this was going on, Parsons lost interest in the band and started hanging out with Keith Richards and the Rolling Stones. Of course, his supposed main gig became the afterthought - which makes the tracks on Deluxe an afterthought, at least compared to the ones on the debut album. There are a lot of covers and only a few Parsons/Hillman originals, along with a couple of co-writes and another original from then-new band member Bernie Leadon (“God’s Own Singer”). Some of the songs just run on blind emotion alone, while others, like “Lazy Days”, however nice they might sound, reflect the newfound lack of interest in just about everything except being a wastrel. The obvious standout here is “Older Guys”, a twangy pop-rock ditty which was covered by alt-rockers Teenage Fanclub. Because of the ‘Stones association we also get a version of “Wild Horses” which is a nice contrast to hear, since this is really the one place on Deluxe where you get to hear the sadness and pathos that was all over the debut record.
This is ultimately a case of, the more you give me to judge, the more I have to judge. The inclusion of Burrito Deluxe makes it less enjoyable, even though from a contrast standpoint there is an interest factor. Still, a recommendable pickup, if this is all of the Burrito Brothers you feel like sampling ever again.
