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"Well, at one time, you've got it, and then you lose it, and it's
gone forever. All walks of life: George Best, for example. Had it, lost
it. Or David Bowie, or Lou Reed...". So speaks Sickboy to Renton
in Trainspotting. There is truth in this. Very few artists continue to
create work of merit over a prolonged period of time. To David Bowie, Lou
Reed and George Best you could add more recent names, like David
Beckham, REM and The Chemical Brothers.
Has Dr John joined this uninspired club ?
Born Malcolm Rebennack in 1940, in New Orleans, Dr John has lived
a colourful life. A session guitarist of some repute,
he was forced to switch to piano after having a finger shot off while
protecting a band mate. His life has been dogged by heroin addiction,
death and voodoo. He cross-pollinated funk and psychedelic rock to birth
"fonk" on his debut LP Gris Gris. Well versed in the musical history of
his native city, his music has spanned across genres, calling in at the
alters of blues, boogie woogie and old time rock 'n' roll.
This collection is taken from work in his later years, spanning the
period from 1997 to the present day. It's immediately striking that the
list of collaborators on the tracks is a marked difference from his hey
day. In the 1970s he could call on the likes of Bob Dylan, The
Rolling Stones, John Lennon and Van Morrison to add light and shade to
his recordings. He now has the pleasure of Ocean Colour Scene, Supergrass and The Beta Band for musical company. It's like swapping
Thierry Henry for Jason Roberts. They are good at what they do but simply
not in the same league.
The music possesses a certain swagger and the musicianship is top
draw. After all his years in the business it would be amazing if it
wasn't. The problem is that a musical virtuosity can often stifle the
creative sprit. It becomes too easy to sit down and knock out a tune. The
ability to self-edit disappears with the royalty cheques.
The vast majority of the tracks sound half-baked, thrown together
with an ease that strips the songs of warmth and passion. It's like they
were written while Dr John switched channels on TV, the vocals
dripping out while he waited for the pizza deliveryman. It Don't Mean A Thing
starts fluid and funky but stretches the idea out for nearly five-and-a-half minutes. Three minutes of it being funk for funk's sake. Party
Hellfire is musically turgid, crass chords and limp brass. I'm Gonna Go
Fishin' is so forgettable that I struggled to recall anything about it
beyond its title, even after the tenth listen.
It's not all bad. Marie Laveau is a smoothly told story of old time
voodoo pitched against a suitably Beale Street backing. Dr John's laidback delivery perfectly suits the swamp gospel of Hello God, the
London Community Gospel Choir adding the wings and the holy
inspiration. Lay My Burden Down, a New Orleans funeral march, pitches Dr John's
grumble against Mavis Staples' brimstone gospel voice. It's a
curious and effective mix.
Sweet Home New Orleans, Dr John's musical love letter to his hometown is
touching and effective. Where much of the record sounds like it was
written and recorded on auto pilot, here he sounds engaged and full of
passion. The organ and piano playing is tight, the vocal aching and
reverential.
Four tracks is not a great strike rate for nearly a decade's worth of
work. Mind, it's still better than that of Paul McCartney. Maybe
he can postpone his 'lost it' club membership for a few years yet.
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