![]() ![]() Since she has the sense of humor of your average ayatollah, her self-righteousness can be a drag-this is her best album because the radio audience keeps her in line. Accessible though they are, her song structures follow no formula anyone else could copy, growing spontaneously (she tells us) out of a personal rhythmic relationship to beats and riffs much too powerful and uncute to be called hooks, which is what they are. Her fierce, instinctive independence makes even Joan Jett's aggressiveness seem like a pose unlike Patti Smith, she doesn't append an avant-garde escape clause to her deal with the rock and roll verities. ![]() In a pop environment where even honest artists make a virtue of fabrication, Chrissie Hynde expresses herself. But let's face it-it's hard to make exciting music out of a mature relationship even when fronting a band is the meaning of your life. The new guys are funkier than the old guys, the tunes are up to par, and despite "How Much Did You Get for Your Soul?"-it's offensive to dis black pop when your idea of on-the-one is "Fame" cops-her lyrics are pretty mature, with a sisterly offering I'd like to hear some soul man put across. She's in a mature relationship, she loves motherhood, and she earns her keep fronting a band. But since unlike her mate she keeps her nostalgia under control, she gets her comeback anyway. Unfortunately, they're still only attitudes, which is to say that like her mate she hasn't thought them through all that much, and as a result the impressive songcraft here doesn't bear hard scrutiny. It's as if two deaths in the family plus her fruitful union with Ray Davies have convinced her beyond any lingering adolescent doubt that other people are there Chrissie the fuck-off queen always had these humanistic attitudes in her, and it's good to hear her make the thin line between love and hate explicit. "I'm not the kind I used to be/I've got a kid, I'm thirty-three" is certainly a quotable quote, and whether rock-and-rolling her baby or growling at fat cats Chrissie Hynde backs it up. Which is kind of an achievement, actually. I mean, I never thought they were such hookmeisters to begin with, but at times this relies so much on texture and flow it sounds like a punk Hissing of Summer Lawns. Anyway, it's always the words I remember, not the melodies. B+Įven though "The Adultress" comes off as an empty boast, I find Chrissie Hynde more memorable when she's dishing than when she's wishing-her tough surface has more depth than her heart of gold. All of it you've heard before, and some of it you'll hear again, when they get their follow-up album shit together. For this young band, however, it's interim product-two singles that went nowhere on the charts, one B side that goes nowhere period, one B side that goes to Cuba with Bo Diddley, and a live version of a single that already went somewhere (though live it goes even further). ![]() The medium-priced four-to-six-track twelve-inch is introductory product suited to young bands who are getting their songwriting shit together (or have already shot their songwriting wad). James Honeyman Scott's terse, slangy, suggestive guitar steals don't hurt either. And she conveys these changes with her voice as well as with her terse, slangy, suggestive lyrics. She's out for herself but she gives of herself as well when she alternates between rapacity and tenderness you don't feel she's acting coy or fucked up, although she may be. Maybe not all of her songs are championship singles, but she's got more to offer emotionally and musically (and sexually) than any of the competition, unless Patti counts. Tough gals, tough gals-suddenly the world is teeming with tough gals. ![]()
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