Melodious Maia Sharp

Presently I'm filled with the enthusiasm that only an outstanding concert can bring. Maia Sharp, who is touring currently to promote Echo, her latest CD, gave a performance at Club Passim won't be forgotten. It was an awesome display of musical skill on so many levels.

Let's start with the songwriting. Most of Maia's songs follow a classic structure: verse to chorus to verse and then back again. She constructs choruses with words and harmonies that seize your attention. As you sing along, you're admiring her unique turn of phrase. Here are a few examples.

from "Willing to Burn"

Now we're living in a tinderbox
hosing down the roof
It's raging all around us
and we still refuse to move
There's a lesson we're desperate to learn
and we're willing to burn

from "The Reminder"

Get ready for the riot act
you so deserve to hear
you made lies of all your promises
then you disappeared
you took a heart so innocent
shattered it like glass
then you had the nerve to think
that you could leave that in your past
when you forget I'll be there every time
I'm the reminder

Maia is a terrific and supremely confident singer. You hear every word she delivers and, because she's so often telling the story about some romantic travail, you are captive. Her sound displays many colors. Mostly it's a country-rock feel, but you can detect a strong blues and jazz undercurrent. It's rhythmic and inventive. Last night she was accompanied by another guitarist and truthfully, that was all that was necessary to do justice to her work.

For the most part, Maia Sharp co-writes her songs. Prominent co-writers you might recognize are Kim Richey, David Batteau, and her father, Randy Sharp. It seems now, after 4 albums in over the last dozen or so years, that she's destined not to become a star, but to provide the music for the stars. It's become the Sharp family tradition.

Why she is not a star herself is completely beyond me. From her first release, Maia Sharp has been completely in charge and developed as a performer. If it were the early 1970s, there's little doubt that she would have shot into prominence along with Bonnie Raitt (who Maia has opened for, and who recorded three Sharp songs--"Crooked Crown", "I Don't Want Anything to Change", and "The Bed I Made"-- on her last release, 2005's Souls Alike).

I love listening for the "hooks" in Maia's songs. I don't play the guitar, but I can hear inventive chord changes, and she knows just where to put them in to distinguish one song from another. All her music has a dramatic structure that's backed up sonically. I love how she always returns to the chorus, and it's always sung with great feeling.

Her voice is very full and robust. She never seems to strain for a note. She's quite funny on stage, and spontaneous. Her intelligence shines like a beacon, as well as her authenticity. She is dynamic.

I was anxious for her in terms of how many people would show for her gig. I mean, it was the first stop of her tour, and she had flown across the country for it. Fortunately the club was about three-quarters full. Their applause was robust, and she left feeling as if she'd gotten off to a great start.

I'll leave you now with some choice cuts from YouTube.

from Echo: "Polite Society"; "John Q. Lonely"

from the Dixie Chicks: "A Home"

Interview with Maia on "All Things Considered"

That Thing You Do

Melody Gardot

Madeleine Peyroux


Madeleine Peyroux appeared recently in Boston and received a horrible review in the newspaper. Since I'm a fan and own all her CDs, my initial response was concern for her. "How could a critic be so cruel?" I thought. And yet, after reading comments to the story and being honest with myself about her music, I must admit that I admire his honesty, and I agree that she has a fundamental problem.

The reviewer noted how the audience started leaving long before the concert was over. I must admit, that when I listen to her, I often leave mentally about a quarter or half way into the song. Her sound is pleasant and inviting at first, but the spell is soon broken. What could be the problem?

Let's begin with her song selection which, until 2009's Barebones, was always sprinkled with standards, be they from The Great American Songbook ("The Summer Wind"; "I'm Gonna Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter"; "Smile") or songs famously associated with other singers ("La Vie en Rose" (Piaf); "Lonesome Road"(Sinatra); "Everybody's Talkin'" (Nilsson); "(Looking for) The Heart of a Saturday Night" (Waits); "Walkin' After Midnight" (Cline); "(Getting Some) Fun Out of Life" (Holiday); "You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go" (Dylan); "Dance Me to the End of Love", "Blue Alert", "Half the Perfect World" (Cohen).

Before rock, it was customary for singers to have songs made popular by other people in your repetoire. Much of my music listening is involved in analyzing how different singers handle the same song. I'm searching for singers who have a trademark style, and yet are not entrapped by it. The great ones always make you ask as you look over the song list, "Well, I wonder what they'll do with this song?"

The answer with Madeleine Peyroux is: "absolutely nothing." Her renditions of these songs on her CDs are respectful, so much so that you're stunned by how she as an artist didn't feel it necessary to make them her own. Just because they're great songs is not a valid enough reason to perform them. (When she does perform them, she's less respectful, improvising in a directionless way. Listen to how she butchers "Smile".)

In a review written in a Boston alternative newspaper after her last appearance in Boston, Jon Garelick wrote, "When she sang a slow ballad like Fred Neil's 'Everybody's Talkin' or Charlie Chaplin's 'Smile', her phrasing fell apart...there was a mile between syllables, and nothing connecting them. Sometimes her pitch was off, or her voice thinned out to unsupported strings of notes. Was it a failure of technique, or a failure of commitment, as if she hadn't made up her mind which note to hit or when?" Excellent question! I suspect the answer is a little of both--she wants to break from sounding just like Billie Holiday, but she lacks an alternate technique. As a consequence, she gets into trouble, and lands on notes she never should have.

How do you "make a song your own" anyway? Now there's a challenge that encounters every singer and arranger. Acquiring a style, getting your listeners to attend to your words--oh, it's a tough business, and it's a mysterious process. Nothing that can be taught directly, I suspect. You need a great song, of course, but so much depends on the delivery of it.

One young singer definitely acquiring a style is Melody Gardot, a cohort of Peyroux's in the female adult music class. I'm very excited about her talent as a singer and a songwriter. Before I discuss her skill, though, just give a listen to how she renders "Over the Rainbow". Listen for how she puts her own stamp on this well-worn classic.

There's no doubt that Gardot attacked "Over the Rainbow" by asking herself, "OK, what can I do to this song to make my listeners think 'Oh, this is different, but I like it. In fact, I love it, because I'm tired of hearing it sung the same way all the time." It's a triumph for her. You marvel at her phrasing, and of the decision to cast the song in one of Gardot's favorite styles (bossa-nova).

Gardot has an incredible ear and intelligence. "She has a knack for the melodramatic but also for a kind of minimalism," writes Nate Chinen in The New York Times in a review of My One and Only Thrill, her latest release, "she knows the power of modest gestures and meaningful inflections."

Sure, Gardot's voice does sound like she may have listened too much to Julie London or Blossom Dearie, but she gets beyond the similarity and carves out a singular style due to her phrasing and--most importantly--the fact that almost all of her material is written by herself. What's terrific about her songs are that they're obviously crafted to possibly fit into the Great American Songbook. She has truly studied her writers! On Thrill, it's clear that she's delighted with "If The Stars Were Mine", and rightfully so. (The song is featured twice on the tracks!) It's upbeat, bright, and resonates with songs of yore in its celebration of being in love.

Other standouts include the "Fever"-like drive of "Who Will Comfort Me", the beautiful longing of "Lover Undercover", and the wistful "Deep Within the Corners of My Mind".

Madeleine Peyroux would only occasionally write songs on her albums, with mixed results. Her best written song was probably
"Don't Wait Too Long" from 2006's Half the Perfect World. "It's Alright" from her previous release was pretty good too. With her new release, she's gone into songwriting full throttle. No more standards. Just unadulterated Madeleine.

Peyroux favors the confessional approach in her songwriting. The title track on Barebones and several other songs concern her alchoholic father who died several years ago, around the time she returned to the music business after an eight-year hiatus. Here's how she saluted her father in her 2004 release: "(To) Mom, for everything, Dad, for our time together.")

It's clear that she's haunted by her father's depression. The opening song ("Instead") is an attempt to meet her own depression head-on. It's a light, lilting number that gets the CD off to a good start.

But then Peyroux seems to get grounded on the shoals of her own melancholy. She has a curiously sedate way of delivering lyrics about her father like "Watch me rage down this river of tears"; if there's anger there, a listener never hears it.

The biography on her website discusses the humor in her songs, but honestly, I couldn't detect much. When she writes well it's usually in a song that runs counterpoint to the mood created by the tone of her voice. (I'm referring to "You Can't Do Me", a bouncy number distinguished by its stream of similes such as "blewed like a Mississippi sharecropper, screwed like a high-school cheerleader (!)".

Her songwriting fails to consistently hit the mark, but at least Barebones marks a first attempt to shape a style and world view. I am sure that Larry Klein, who produces both Peyroux and Gardot, must be struck by the difference in these singers. He is infamous as Joni Mitchell's ex-husband and producer of her work in the 1980s and early '90s. (I especially liked his work on Turbulent Indigo, which gave a Grammy to Joni and a divorce to him.)

Gardot's first two releases are on the famous jazz label Verve, and she's a perfect fit. Her future looks extremely bright. Peyroux records on the Rounder label, and she may need a change of scenery. (They're more roots-oriented, and less hospitable to a purely singer-songwriter approach.)

Perhaps Larry Klein will back her up with a string-based soundscape on her next release, as he did for Gardot. In terms of what she sings, well, that's a big question. I would continue her to steer her completely away from the standards and encourage who to continue to record upbeat, playful material.

Right now, I suspect she's in a bit of a crisis in terms of direction, so it will be interesting to watch how it all turns out.

A Unique Sensibility

I was saddened to hear of Kenny Rankin's death this week. He held a special position in my musical memory, largely due to two albums that my roommate and I listened to incessantly in college.

It was the mid 1970s: that quiet time just before disco stampeded the music industry. The singer-songwriters were ruling the Popular roost. I was weened on this acoustic music. Although I began my listening life as a Doors fan (along with the Monkees--hey, I thought Adam West was legit as Batman!), I soon shifted to folk music. My heroes were Peter, Paul, and Mary. I then branched out from them to John Denver, Paul Simon, James Taylor, and Don McLean.

At this time the label "singer-songwriter" didn't even exist. Perhaps that explains why Kenny Rankin's music was able to achieve a foothold. He played an acoustic guitar, but he had a decidedly jazz-based sensibility. But not exclusively so. He was actually quite versatile. Take the selections on 1974's Silver Morning. "In the Name of Love" was eventually recorded by Peggy Lee. "Haven't We Met" became a part of Mel Torme and Carmen McRae's repetoire. But there are also two Beatle covers: "Blackbird" and "Penny Lane". There's soul, with his cover of Curtis Mayfield's "People Get Ready". Then there's the strictly "singer-songwriter" fare, co-written with his wife at the time, Yvonne.

The followup to Silver Morning was 1975's Inside. Kenny is all over the map again, with very pleasing results. He and Yvonne deliver a memorable version of Stevie Wonder's "Creepin'"; he skates easily through Jimi Hendrix's "Up From the Skies"; and he puts his stamp on Randy Newman's "Marie" and John Sebastian's "She's a Lady". Kenny Rankin was in peak form.

In addition to Nilsson's Touch of Schmilsson album (see previous blog), I credit Kenny Rankin's next album, The Kenny Rankin Album, as the work that introduced me to my father's music. Rankin "gets his Sinatra on" just as Nilsson had: on this album he is working with arranger and conductor Don Costa. Only two "standards" on this album, though: "Here's That Rainy Day" and "When Sunny Gets Blue". Still, a faithful liner note reader like me had taken note. I loved his eclecticism.

Kenny would recapture this magic with Costa once more in 1980's After the Roses. The album is incredibly romantic, as all of his material is, and it features two of my favorite Rankin songs: "What Matters Most" (lyrics: Marilyn & Alan Bergman; music: David Grusin) and "Regrets".

I noticed that I have his autograph on my copy of this album. I also see that I have a six vinyl releases of Rankin's along with three CDs. I had forgotten how much I loved him. This probably happened because he fell silent through most of the 1980s while I was stuffing my ears and brains with jazz singers and pop standards.

I reconnected with Kenny when he released 1988's Hiding In Myself. (Don't miss his version of Jimmy Webb's "She Moves, Eyes Follow" on this release!) After that, he would periodically release collections of standards that failed to grab my attention. (I thought this material had been much more memorably delivered by my father's singers--oh yes, the transition was complete!)

If there's one release from the last two decades that I'd recommend, it would be 1997's Here In My Heart. A collection of mostly Brazilian, bossa-nova flavored music, it is a warm and inviting album that puts you in a sweetly contemplative mood immediately. (Kenny works with some masters on this one, using Oscar Castro-Neves on support for several numbers by Ivan Lins.)

Kenny Rankin was destined to have a tough time in the music business. He couldn't be pigeon-holed. He might have been labeled "smooth jazz" if he'd been working more in the '80s (maybe not though, since he hardly ever employed a saxophone in his arrangements). He couldn't strictly be called a jazz artist because he played the acoustic guitar and never stuck exclusively to standards. What label can you apply to artists like Rankin, Michael Franks, Jimmy Webb, and Art Garfunkel? (Please, don't tell me "Easy Listening"—that sounds so dismissive! Makes it seem like music that won't require your mind, which is so far from the reality if you're really listening!)

He gained notoriety as an interpreter of Beatle songs (you'll find them on most of his releases). Helen Reddy had a big hit with his song "Peaceful". As Johnny Carson wrote in the liner notes for his 1968 debut, Kenny Rankin had "unquestionable taste" which he displayed throughout his career. Paul McCartney asked him to represent him and play "Blackbird" at the ceremony in which Paul and John Lennon were inducted into the Songwriters Hall of Fame in 1987.

It is comforting to think that at the time of his death he was working on an album with 14-time Grammy award winning producer Phil Ramone, who has worked with everyone from Frank Sinatra to Paul Simon to Ray Charles. Kenny Rankin must have felt a deep appreciation of his work knowing that Ramone wished to work with him.

He was special, and I'll be listening to him again in the days ahead. Dip into some of my Youtube links to his work. Follow the links to Amazon and listen some more. I am certain you'll be captivated!

Melody Takes Hold

It is with great pleasure that I report that my 8 year-old son has developed a taste for the music of Paul McCartney, and that it was developed by listening to him on vinyl!

1984's Give My Regards to Broad Street was "a big snooze" according to Leonard Maltin, and, after viewing it with my family, I'd have to agree. But we regarded it more kindly due to our two boys' enthusiasm for the music.

Some of the set musical passages are well-done in the film. Most memorable is a simple session in a hangar of some sort, where Paul and Wings perform "Not Such a Bad Boy." The delivery of "Ballroom Dancing" is also strangely fascinating, as dancers cavort and two very different musical audiences intermingle.

The most striking piece of '80s memorabilia is "Silly Love Songs". The number begins with Wings arising on a hydraulic lift, surrounded by smoke. They're all decked out in caked white faces and Mohawk wigs. As the song progresses, out comes a single dancer to perform a Michael Jackson shtick. He's ridiculously tall and thin, and he moves robotically as he glides in front of the band. My boys loved it.

Remembering all the abuse that Paul has taken over the years for being too commercial and unsubstantial lyrically has given me a greater fondness for "Silly Love Songs". It really is a direct response to that criticism, and the song is durable. It's got the elements of his musical virtuosity--the composing and the arranging of harmony, horns, and strings. Its message is undeniable--we will never have enough of "silly" love songs! Rhapsodize on, romantic moptop!

Watching and listening to Give My Regards to Broad Street helps you recall the era when McCartney and Wings were a popular stadium act. It's moving to see Linda, and to think about what a terrific marriage she and Paul had. One is reminded that the film was released only a few years after John's assassination. Perhaps it was an effort to relive the zany movie energy of Help!

It failed to recapture the magic, but it still makes for a great curiosity piece. Listening to my boys sing along to the Beatle songs, I think, "Man, wouldn't Paul be pleased to hear their song? There is no deeper satisfaction."

Like Porter, Gershwin, Berlin, et al, McCartney will be carried on. It's a tribute to someone who always ambitiously pursued his art. Yes, he was/is commercial--he wants the broadest audience, because that's a measure of the power of his melody, and his ability to reach people's heart and minds.

In a way, he has always been traveling "broad" street.

Harry's Roots Music

Harry Nilsson was one of the finest songwriters and singers in American Pop in the late 1960s and early 1970s. Only Lennon and McCartney could match his skill in terms of melody, and his vocals were unsurpassed. The song "Without You" catapulted Nilsson to fame in 1971, and "Coconut", the follow-up single from Nilsson Schmilsson, prolonged his notoriety. Unfortunately, he was never able to match this success again—although not for a failure at trying.

I love Nilsson because his music springs directly from the songcraft of previous generations. Listening to him sing, your ear cannot help but be arrested. His voice soars and swoons, and the listening experience is personal and direct. I'd like to write in some other entry about his songwriting. I'm here to celebrate what some might think was a career killer for him—1973's A Little Touch of Schmilsson in the Night.

In terms of being a head-scratcher, this album is akin to Don McLean's Playin' Favorites (released the same year, oddly enough). At the peak of their fame, both artists chose to expose their audiences to the source of their inspiration.

Playin' Favorites was McLean's second release since American Pie made him famous. He is shown playing a banjo on the back cover--in the inner sleeve, the banjo is sitting on a rocker. McLean's album features work by Hank Williams and traditional folk music. Why, he even sings "Happy Trails", the Roy Rogers song, to close the work. I imagine that this release confused and alienated many listeners who, although they adored his acoustic meditations, may not have been "roots music" fans.

You can't deny it, though--it was authentic and straight from the heart.

So was A Little Touch of Schmilson in the Night undoubtedly. This was Harry's second (!) release after "Without You" brought him fame. The album's back cover announces its content: it features an array of sheet music-style art, with copious notes on the germination and history of the song. I am certain that I spent much time in my youth poring over this information!

Among the songs are the familiar ("For Me and My Gal"; "It Had to Be You"; "Always"; "You Made Me Love You"), the songs slightly deeper in the recesses of pop music memory ("I Wonder Who's Kissing Her Now"; "What'll I Do"; "Nevertheless"; "This Is All I Ask"; and "As Time Goes By"), and the obscure ("Lazy Moon" and "Lullaby in Ragtime").

The music is conducted by Gordon Jenkins—who had worked most of the great singers of the Great American Songbook, most notably Frank Sinatra on The September of My Years. Jenkins leads an orchestra composed of musicians primarily from the London Philharmonic. The sound on this album is akin to his work with Sinatra. The string section makes sweeping jumps with the crescendo liberally employed.

This is a "theme" album like The September of My Years. Nilsson intended the song cycle to reflect the arc of a romantic relationship. It all works beautifully. This is the album that got me interested in my father's music so many years ago. What a magical combination: Jenkins, who deplored the Beatles, was taken by Nilsson's music and agreed immediately to work with him and Nilsson—a songwriter's songwriter and a singer's singer.

It's one for the ages, and the 2006 Sony Legacy Recording is enhanced by terrific liner notes excerpting interviews about the session with Derek Taylor, Gordon Jenkins, and Nilsson. Plus there are 6 bonus tracks from the sessions: even though they had wrapped up early, the orchestra hung around to lay down more tracks. (Evidently enjoying the experience and sensing its historical significance.)

I am greatly moved whenever I think of Harry Nilsson. His music never fails to get me to hum and sing along and feel contented. I am saddened that his talent was not more widely recognized. And, as I watched him on Youtube, I am disheartened at his physical decline and almost complete silence during the last dozen years of his life.

But we have A Touch of Schmilsson to always remind us of when he was at the top of his game. Recorded six years before Carly Simon put out Torch (her first collection of standards) and a good decade before Linda Ronstadt hit the jackpot with her Nelson Riddle albums, this record deserves your attention. I assure you that it will be in constant rotation once you dig into it.

Breaking the Barrier

Jill Sobule is a lot of fun. She's received press lately for her success in raising money from her fans for the production of her latest CD, The California Years.

I've been a fan for years. She hits the sweet spot musically for me. Principally a humorist, Jill is capable of zinging your heartstrings by speaking directly to you about her life struggles. She's like Loudon Wainwright, except with a voice (and possibly appearance) that will put you in mind of Blossom Dearie.

I suppose that you could call Jill a folksinger for several reasons. She writes and plays on an acoustic guitar. She is a storyteller whose topical pieces, like Loudon's, have been featured on NPR. In an interview on All Things Considered, she said she'd like to travel around producing albums about every city she visits. (Check out the song "San Francisco" from her latest release.) Now if that's not invoking Woody Guthrie, I don't know what is!

But I'm more inclined to think of her as a pop singer. I Kissed a Girl, her one hit from the 1990s, certainly fits that description. She is instantly appealing. She launches into her stories and you're quickly caught in the narrative. Her guitar playing provides a driving backdrop that will remind you of some form of flamenco or perhaps bossa nova.

Through her music you make an intimate connection with her. Jill Sobule's website is terrific. I've seen her published on the Huffington Post and in the pages of Popular Songwriter magazine. She's such a witty writer. Check out her blogs and get in touch with her world--especially if you need a good laugh!

A Frank Moment on the River of Love

I've been a Don McLean fan since he burst on the scene in 1971. I've always been impressed by the power of his voice and the beauty of his songwriting. His American Pie album introduced a truly original artist. Nearly four decades later songs like "Empty Chairs," "Vincent," and "Winterwood" don't seem dated at all.

The title track resonated in a cultural moment when rock music was undergoing a transition. Hendrix and Joplin were gone. Protests over the Vietnam War had quieted in the wake of Kent State and Richard Nixon's election. America did seem to have lost its direction. McLean turned his eight-and-a-half minute lament on an event that occurred some 15 years earlier—the death of Buddy Holly was the "day the music died" for him. But his many listeners pinned it on something undefinable—yes, something had died (shall we just say hope?) and they didn't mind singing about it as, chorus after chorus, the song barreled on, one pop culture—stuffed verse after another.

At this time McLean had an opportunity to endear himself to an audience who had already responded deliriously to singer/songwriters like James Taylor, Carole King, and Joni Mitchell. But he let the moment pass in what seemed to me in retrospect to be a fit of youthful petulance.

He followed his initial success with an eponymous album with a black and white cover whose attempt at a hit—"Driedel"—was an extended complaint about the demands of stardom. Following that, McLean released Playin' Favorites—a terrific sampling of folk and bluegrass tunes that established his chops as a musicologist, but further extinguished—probably intentionally—his dance with fame.

I began to attend every Don McLean concert I could. I'll never forget my mother allowing me as a 16-year-old to go alone on a bus from Pittsburgh to Oglebay Park in West Virginia to hear my hero. I arrived early in the day and, as I sat outside the main lodge at the park, McLean came out with his wife to lie in the sun. I had a quick, nervous conversation with him. Very nice man—and his wife invited me backstage after the show! Too bad I had to hop on a bus immediately to get home. At the concert itself, some girls sitting in the row in front of me told me that I looked like Don McLean!

I took to wearing cowboy boots in high school to mimic my idol. I'll also never forget the western shirt I purchased. You see, McLean has long loved cowboys, and he dressed like one, so I would too. The shirt was robin's egg blue with navy blue shoulder pads filigreed with strands of yellow and orange. It had faux pearl buttons on the sleeve. My mother and I had a horrible row over my wearing it. In fact, she barred me from leaving the house with it on. Perhaps it was my father who spoke to her, or maybe Mom came to realize what McLean and the shirt meant to me, because one day she paused while running a vacuum, turned and hugged me and said, "Hon, I love that shirt. You can wear it." I was stunned!

So I went off to college and continued listening to him and attending concerts. I have seen him probably close to twenty times. I can tell you that Don McLean has a deep appreciation of music history. His repetoire dips into the cabaret catalog (Mabel Mercer's "Not a Moment Too Soon," Ivor Novello's "On the Amazon," Al Jolson's "If I Only Had a Match," Josh White's "Where Were You Baby?") as well as the classic country and bluegrass songbook (Hank Williams' "Lovesick Blues"; Roy Orbison's "Cryin' "; the Irish ballad "Mountains O'Mourne," an album dedicated to Marty Robbins).

I'm impressed that McLean is a big Sinatra fan, just as I was pleased to learn that Elvis Costello is apparently gaga over Bing Crosby. I've always been interested in my favorite singers' musical tastes. They have led me to some terrific discoveries, as well as making me feel closer to them, and more aware of what may be inspiring what they compose.

In the years before the Internet, the only way I could gain information about my hero was through the newspaper and, of course, attendance at his shows. So my conclusions are based on thin evidence, but the content of the album that I wish to celebrate, 1995"s River of Love, seems to back up my speculations.

Once disco became the fashion, singers like McLean must have felt like Sinatra and his cohorts felt after the Beatles landed. Devotion was paid to the beat, and the lyric and songcraft became the cup that only acoustic players and serious listeners drank.

McLean and others had to go it alone without the blandishments that a major record label might provide. Effective publicity was hard to find, and forget about touring with a band. So whenever I went to hear him, Don would be alone with his banjo and guitar. I loved it, of course—I have long been fascinated with how a single person with an instrument can capture a room's attention. (I guess that's one reason that I became a teacher!)

I could garner the following from his onstage remarks through the years: he was intensely proud that he had retained the publishing rights to his music (there was a tinge of arrogance in this declaration); he didn't wish to be aligned with folk music (although he'd done a stint on Pete Seeger's Clearwater Sloop in the late 1960s); and he was not married.

Well, I wasn't either! So we two bachelors continued our journey through the Punk era, across the shoals of MTV, and through the Scylla and Charybdis of smooth jazz and treacly pop/country. McLean's output slowed considerably. With his cover of Roy Orbison's "Cryin' " a hit in the late 1970s, he had another flirt with success, but the moment passed.

In early 1982 he produced Believers, dedicated to the recently departed Lee Hays of the Weavers. This album featured much of the same personnel that had brought success with "Cryin' ". Also recorded in Nashville, McLean returned to the well to try to forge a hit with remakes of another Orbison number ("Love Hurts") and a lovely standard from the 1950s ("Love Letters"). The album features three fine songs about the turmoil and glory of love too: "Left for Dead on the Road of Love," "Crazy Eyes," and "Isn't It Strange."

Released on the obscure label Millenium Records, the album didn't sell well. Perhaps as a result, McLean came to a creative standstill. Like Paul Simon, another favorite of mine, he specialized in repackaging his greatest hits into many "best of" collections. Had my heroes gone soft and cynical in the Reagan era?

Paul Simon, of course, was revitalized by Graceland, but Don McLean was still casting about. He released For the Memories, a terrific collection of covers of Tin Pan Alley and rock and roll standards. 1987 saw the hybrid Don McLean's Greatest Hits Then & Now, noteworthy only for "Superman's Ghost," an idiosyncratic bristling at the demands of celebrity. ("I don't want to be like ol' George Reeves/stuck in a Superman role/I've got a long way to go in my career/and someday my fame will make it clear/that I had to be a Superman.")

Was McLean suffering an identity crisis? Fortunately the following year his muse returned, and his label at the time (Capitol) actually seemed interested in promoting 1988's Love Tracks. It's a warm and wonderful collection with delicious background vocals by the Jordanaires. (They're featured on several releases because McLean, born in 1945, would regularly get his Elvis as well as his Buddy on.) Predominantly country-flavored, this highly appealing album featured a mix of songs penned by McLean and writers directly from the country stable.

Love Tracks unfortunately was not a commercial success. McLean shifted to Curb Records for 1991's Headroom. I was grateful to discover McLean writing again on this album, although the tone on several tracks (the title track and "Fashion Victim") was decidedly sour.

What a complete shift occurred with the following album! In the four years following Headroom. McLean married and had two children, and River of Love is a testimony to how his life had been transformed. To me, if you have only two McLean albums, I'd recommend American Pie (of course) and this one. Here's how it opens.

The river of love is risin' at my doorstep
It won't let me be
I keep dreamin' of you
And what the river will do
As it starts flowin' over me

The album is bursting with emotion. In his liner notes, McLean refers to it as "an album about my life today" and confesses that he places it "high on my list of writing and recording experiences." Implying that the album is a personal and professional capstone, McLean continues:

Hopefully, you will be able to hear many musical tributaries flowing into one main stream here. There are some of the musical influences absorbed on my life-long musical journey which began so many years ago in New Rochelle.

I find this album so distinctive because of his voice. Not the singing one, but the narrative. For the first time, Don McLean directly describes his life. I'd long enjoyed such frankness from Loudon Wainwright III and occasionally from Randy Newman, but never expected McLean's emotional cylinders to be all open as they are here.

He acknowledges his wayward past in "If I Hadn't Met You" and "Better Still." He's penitent in "Angry Words." He bursts with pride as he sings of his daughter Jackie Lee ("This Little Girl (Daddy-O)") and son Wyatt ("Little Cowboy"). There's a number that lets wife Patrisha know that he's completely captivated ("You've Got a Way About You, Baby"). The album ends with an incredibly moving request to his family ("My Love Was True"):

Please don't forget me
No matter what the future brings
Please don't forget me
Somewhere the tenor sings
And why you hear him
Think of how I sang to you
And remember, please remember
Always remember, my love was true

My personal narrative was criss-crossing McLean's. I finally married three years after this album's release, and subsequently have my own little cowboys. I am equally overjoyed at the change it's brought to my life.

Last summer I saw him again in concert up at a park in Lowell, MA, run by the Park Service. What an unforgettable night! My wife and I managed to place our blankets spot on center stage, not more than 50 feet away. Stretching my legs out, I absorbed all my favorites, delivered by a crack band of musicians. (For years now McLean has been playing with others, cementing his legacy.)

Afterward I asked McLean to sign a CD cover. I thanked him for all the years of pleasure he's provided me. "I could see that you were enjoying the music," he replied. (I chose to take this remark as sincere.) Immediately a bevy of Irish lassies swept up Don, requesting their picture be taken with him. As they huddled excitedly around him McLean said "Whoa!" to reign in their enthusiasm (and to quell his own rush too, I'm sure).

Still the devoted family man. He has a biography out, a revamped website, and a new release slated for the end of this year. There's much to catch up on if you've been away.

I'll write more about Don McLean later, but for now I'd say find River of Love and give it a good listen. Experience again the truly original and distinctive talent of this singer.