The blinders that young Paul kept in place served him well, but along with that Pigbag single, he was bound to eventually see the peripheral world like the rest of us do. I have nothing to confirm this, but Weller strikes me as the kind of no-nonsense beer-drinking guy who started smoking pot and tripping relatively late into his 20s. The problem with artificial mind expansion (assuming there’s any benefit to it at any age) at a relatively late age is that by the time you want to “speak like a child” you’re already too far into adult patterns of thought and expression. You’re the latest aging Cary Grant, being “born again” through LSD therapy.
In Weller’s case, he’s been born again and again: as a blue-eyed ’80s soul man, as a trip-hopping raver, as a woodchopping heir to Joe Cocker and Steve Winwood, as the Godfather of Oasis, and as only his most loyal fans know what else. It’s hard work. On 22 Dreams, whether he’s finding his Inner Richard Thompson or still waiting for that midnight hour, on the chaotic, suffocating title track, Weller is working his ass off to make his music sound the way it was meant to sound.
Since The Jam’s swan song and continuing in earnest through Style Council an aesthetic goal of Weller’s has been matching what he felt were the glories of Curtom-era Curtis Mayfield. I may be in the hipster minority, but I have always felt that Mayfield’s “Move On Up”, a song that I’ve learned strikes deep passions among Brits and other pasty-faced rock fans, is the first sign that Curtis was working harder than he needed to. It’s not a bad song, but it lacks the efficiency and quiet power of earlier works with The Impressions. By the time of his Curtom album, Mayfield went from being the quiet guy who came and left the office without much notice, doing a masterful job day in and day out, to the guy who’s better known for having the car that’s first in and last out of the parking lot. The deeper Weller gets into his Inner Curtom, the more strident and less evocative his material becomes.
As a fellow Modfather fan, a very perceptive post, Mr. Mod. I got my copy a few weeks ago & it strikes me as your typical Weller album w/ a bit o’ diversion. The one thing I don’t understand is the big whoop about this being a “double album”. It’s 68 minutes long on a single CD. Most albums today are usually 55-70 minutes long. Also, isn’t the concept of an “album” becoming obsolete in this digital download age?
P.S.: I dig the J. Beckett/J. White thing on the top.
No, no, no, no NO. Seriously, busting on “Empty Ring” while singling out the corn-studded “Where’er Ye Go” for approval is just WRONG.
Come on, Mod — are you telling me you can take Weller seriously when he (suppressing serious guffaw here) croons into the mic, head upturned, one hand just touching one ear, eyes closed in gentle contemplation, “…where’er ye go…”?
WHERE’ER YE GO?! Who the fuck says “where’er ye go”?! Chaucer? 19th-century Irish potato farmers? Even Gordon Lightfoot had more taste than that.
If you can explain to me how using that insincere, bathetic olde englishe-ism *doesn’t* ruin that song (if not make it outright hilarious), I’ll reconsider. I mean, come ON.
I need to hear from you on this. I’m really concerned.
HVB
Futhermore…
Two observations about Weller the 50-something dude:
1. That’s got to be the worst-looking hair in all of today’s rock and roll. And that’s saying something!
2. I swear, he looks and sounds like a gum-chewing Nigel Tufnel in that interview segment.
I love me some Paul Weller, but I gotta call ’em like I see ’em.
You’re batting 1 for 2 so far, HVB! I know that the song I singled out is hard to take seriously for the title alone, but as a piece of music it floats into my ears and makes an impression. He put way too much effort into that title, but the song itself flows better than most of this stuff.
I used to buy all of Weller’s solo records. I liked some more than others. Somehow my interest in him just finally dribbled away. I was surprised to discover I had his last one (As Is Now 2005). I’ve got to say these tracks here did nothing to tempt me. The guy’s a pro, but I just don’t think he has anything to say to me anymore.
The hair is pretty embarrassing, and the Tufnelocity of the interview is undeniable.
Q: What is there left for you to do?
A: Just carry on livin’ really.
“Tufnelocity”…RTH Glossary term anyone?