Page 953 – UNCUT

And I’m a Dutchman. The Modern Times that was voted Uncut’s Album of 2006 is obviously a different Modern Times to the one I heard, which was full of antediluvian cocktail ditties that all went on forever. Love And Theft (2001) was patchy, but better, mainly because it couldn’t be worse. Time Out Of Mind (1997), a sedulous, clock-stopping masterpiece, is the one Dylan album of the past 15 years that really justifies the praise – but, like crying at the Johnny Cash video, unconditional Bob-worship has become the de rigueur critical opinion of the 21st century.

Dylan, a 3-CD anthology the exact point of which is not easy to establish, will doubtless be a massive seller in the present climate, but it’s a lazy and unimaginative retrospective, unlikely to excite anyone who owns, cherishes, empathises with and/or has strong emotions about Dylan’s songcraft and studio work since 1962. In the end, the three discs take a predictable route – Classics Of The ’60s, Best-Known Tracks From The ’70s, and Let’s Make A Silk Purse Out Of The ’80s & Beyond.

The first disc (1962–7) is the songbook that made Dylan the foremost folk/protest voice of the Kennedy–Johnson era and, from “Subterranean Homesick Blues” and “Maggie’s Farm” onwards, rock’s supreme Impressionist-Surrealist. There are 19 classics to enjoy, but, to borrow a phrase, no alarms and no surprises. Howmanyroadsmyblueeyedsondon’tcriticise

whatyoudon’tbeatorcheatormistreatyoumixingupthemedicinejinglejanglenodirectionhomeyougottalottanervelikeawoman. Many of these standards are so historically over-exposed that they nowadays seem prosaic formalities, like tourist attractions to be ticked off on an itinerary. I think I’d rather visit the original albums, wouldn’t you? For another thing, a more adventurous selection procedure – “Gates Of Eden”, perhaps, or “Ballad In Plain D” – might have obscured some jarring aberrations in the sequencing. You don’t follow “Like A Rolling Stone” with “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue”, my sonically clueless friend.

The contents of Dylan were, according to advance Columbia publicity, “greatly influenced by impassioned fan input on the website dylan07.com”. The second disc (1969–85), covering the journey from Nashville Skyline to Empire Burlesque, would undoubtedly have been more interesting if some of these impassioned fans had lobbied for the likes of “I Threw It All Away”, “Wedding Song”, “Idiot Wind”, “Lily, Rosemary And The Jack Of Hearts”, “Isis”, “Senor (Tales Of Yankee Power)”, “Lenny Bruce” or “Every Grain Of Sand”. As it is, their impassioned input has merely guaranteed the presence of 16 songs that would all have been chosen anyway. Ooeeridemehighfromthewestdowntotheeastmayyoustayforeveryoung soontobedivorcedbutitwon’tbeovertilltheyclearhisnamegottaservesomebody. You feel like putting your hand up halfway through “Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door” and saying, “Excuse me, didn’t we do all this?”

An arch-conservative overview of Dylan inevitably negates any attempt to anthologise his sprawling, five-decade oeuvre in three CDs. Listening to disc two is tantamount to juggling with quicksilver while photographing poltergeists: you sort of don’t get much definition. However, you’ll certainly be sent scuttling back to Planet Waves, Blood On The Tracks, Desire and Street-Legal to hear that exotic, humid, passionate, mid-30s Dylan that this disc sporadically hints at.

Because it contains some lesser-known material and spans a Dylan timeframe unfamiliar to compilations, disc three (1983–2006) is the one I play the most. The opening twosome, “Blind Willie McTell” and “Brownsville Girl”, is indeed courageous, taking up 17 minutes of laser-time and transporting the listener to two exceptionally evocative worlds. He really was writing good stuff in ’83–4, wasn’t he? It would be churlish to point out that the two songs don’t actually go together (their productions clash in horrible fashion); quite simply, they get the disc off to a flyer.

The remaining 14 selections dip into Dylan albums both unpopular (Down In The Groove, Under The Red Sky) and lauded (Oh Mercy, the latter-day ‘trilogy’), as well as the curate’s eggs that were Good As I Been To You and World Gone Wrong. In fact, one of the most blissfully pleasurable sections on the entire anthology begins with choices from the latter two albums (“You’re Gonna Quit Me” and “Blood In My Eyes”), followed by “Not Dark Yet” (those gorgeously reverberating Daniel Lanois backdrops!), “Things Have Changed” (a belting single from 2000) and “Make You Feel My Love”.

If Modern Times is to be Dylan’s final studio album, as the 2006 Rolling Stone interview seemed to suggest, then he ended his recording career with the same imagery he began it: the preoccupied artist trudging down a “long and lonesome road” (“Ain’t Talkin’”), fearing for the human race’s future, disgusted by our masters who “crush you with wealth and power”. One last diagnosis for the world he’d described to Woody Guthrie back in 1962 (“It looks like it’s dying and it’s hardly been born”)? Or just a sentimental reiteration of well-worn themes? Either way, as Dylan’s recent work has a habit of stressing, it’s gotten very, very late in the day.

DAVID CAVANAGH

This is where, of course, a lot of people would like to see him. Especially those for whom Pete’s wholly a lost cause, a tawdry drug monster whose anyway debatable musical talent’s long-since been squandered, given up to a deplorable narcotic dependency he’s apparently as much unwilling as unable to shake, the wonder of his present circumstances merely that he hasn’t already been locked up and the key thrown away.

Whatever dramas have recently engulfed him – the split with Kate Moss, another spell in the cells – there’s been nothing quite as bad as the extracurricular anarchy surrounding the release of Babyshambles’ 2005 debut, Down In Albion, when Pete for about a fortnight was being arrested up to twice a day – which was funny at first, but soon palled. Especially when the album came out and all anyone could talk about was his headlong decline into grubby junkiedom and lengthening rap sheet, a great record overlooked in the process – the music by then no more for most than an irrelevant sideshow.

I was listening a lot to DIA even as the reviews rolled in, and with the traditional indignation of the thoroughly miffed fan wondered if its many critics were listening to the same record. According to what I was reading, DIA was badly produced (by former Clash guitarist Mick Jones, who also helmed to similar criticism the first two Libertines albums) and even more poorly played, the record a wonky mix of crackly indie rock, wittering ska jams and much dreamy blathering.

What I on the other hand was listening to was a charismatic masterpiece, shaped brilliantly by Mick out of what by later agreement were traumatic sessions, a record that reminded me of some of my favourite albums, the kind born out of an inclination towards burn-out, disintegration and ruin – among them On The Beach, Tonight’s The Night and The Replacements’ All Shook Down. Where its noisy detractors heard doodling, scratchy mutterings and addled confusion, I heard the epic swell of “Up The Morning”, the blazing ache of “Merry Go Round” and blistering anthems like “Fuck Forever”, “8 Dead Boys” and “Pipedown”, all fuelled by Patrick Walden’s often amazing guitar.

As I’ve already said in an online preview of Shotter’s Nation, DIA is not the kind of album you could make twice – not that any of the principals have volunteered any particular enthusiasm for going through what they did a second time – and you would not truly have expected its follow-up to sound much like it. And how could it anyway, with Pat gone and Mick replaced by Stephen Street?

The latter has a formidable commercial reputation (The Smiths, Morrissey, Blur, Kaiser Chiefs, The Zutons), but like a lot of Shambles fans I was more than slightly worried what Babyshambles and their songs would sound like in his hands – the unpredictable spontaneous magic of DIA replaced, we all thought, by something more recognisably efficient, spruced up and conventionally presentable. In the event, as also already stated, to everyone’s relief, Street’s done a bang-up job – taking the raw materials of the widely-circulated Bumfest demos and giving them a gleaming burnish. As you will correctly expect, Street entirely avoids DIA’s flinty spectrality and staticky crackle and turns a bright light on the smart, compact and relentlessly exciting arrangements he’s here coaxed from the band. Babyshambles on Shotter’s Nation sound quite frighteningly functional.

Street gives them a big, surging sound – supernaturally bright guitars, walloping drums, upfront bass, choruses as big as houses – that reminds me weirdly of The Attractions on This Year’s Model, a comparison that suggested itself the first time I played the album and which I haven’t been able to shake since. As perhaps unlikely as it seems, Shotter’s Nation has the same brash confidence and punchy abandoned swagger, tunes that once heard are nigh on impossible to dislodge from even the creakiest memory.

The album’s lyrical template is firmly set on opener “Carry On Up The Morning”, which anticipates the record’s recurring themes of loyalty, betrayal, weary explanation, self-recrimination and brazen defiance. Pete flirts here as he does elsewhere with self-pity, but remains eventually too resolute for whimpering introspection. The glorious self-mythologising of “Unbilotitled” and “Unstookietitled” is bracingly inspirational, no hint of contrition on these smouldering, achingly pretty tracks that convert the serial chaos of his life into absolutely gripping musical drama, the latter partly inspired by a guitar riff from “Fuck Forever”, from which it quotes the “one and the same, one and the same” refrain.

I suppose the album eventually is about transcendence – through music, through drugs, sex, a pair of sharply cut trousers, anything basically that will lift you out of the stifling rut of ordinary living, the clammy mediocrity of a life conventionally lived, which seems to be Pete’s great fear. “Delivery” – fired by the classic riff from The Kinks’ “All Day And All Of The Night” – the ferocious “Crumb Begging”, and the sensationally uplifting twin peaks of the insanely catchy “French Dog Blues” (with a blazing instrumental coda reminiscent of The Who) and “Deft Left Hand” (with a ringing guitar intro reminiscent of the Stones’ “All Down The Line”) are all truly rousing anthems, the latter giving way to the mournful closer, “The Lost Art Of Murder”, featuring Pete and folk legend Bert Jansch on superb acoustic guitar.

Written off as a pathetic joke, a seedy chancer, as uncommonly reviled by his critics as he is genuinely adored by his fans, for some still a disaster waiting to happen and as compromised by his addictions as he continues to be, Pete nevertheless here sounds ready to take on all comers. Seconds out, ring that bell!

ALLAN JONES

Bob Dylan – Dylan

Uncut

2nd October 2007

The planet that Bob Dylan has chronicled in 46 years’ worth of music has dissected him like no other poet/writer. It has lionised and scorned him; attempted to second-guess and third-degree him; argued about where he ‘lost it’ (1967? 1979? 1985?) and where it was regained. His career has survived the nadirs of Self Portrait, Live Aid and “Wiggle Wiggle”, recovering with a Lazarene miracle every time. His current status – irreproachable, near-godlike – has seen him release his most acclaimed three-album sequence since 1965–6. His name is Bob, and he is funky. And I’m a Dutchman. The Modern Times that was voted Uncut’s Album of 2006 is obviously a different Modern Times to the one I heard, which was full of antediluvian cocktail ditties that all went on forever. Love And Theft (2001) was patchy, but better, mainly because it couldn’t be worse. Time Out Of Mind (1997), a sedulous, clock-stopping masterpiece, is the one Dylan album of the past 15 years that really justifies the praise – but, like crying at the Johnny Cash video, unconditional Bob-worship has become the de rigueur critical opinion of the 21st century. Dylan, a 3-CD anthology the exact point of which is not easy to establish, will doubtless be a massive seller in the present climate, but it’s a lazy and unimaginative retrospective, unlikely to excite anyone who owns, cherishes, empathises with and/or has strong emotions about Dylan’s songcraft and studio work since 1962. In the end, the three discs take a predictable route – Classics Of The ’60s, Best-Known Tracks From The ’70s, and Let’s Make A Silk Purse Out Of The ’80s & Beyond. The first disc (1962–7) is the songbook that made Dylan the foremost folk/protest voice of the Kennedy–Johnson era and, from “Subterranean Homesick Blues” and “Maggie’s Farm” onwards, rock’s supreme Impressionist-Surrealist. There are 19 classics to enjoy, but, to borrow a phrase, no alarms and no surprises. Howmanyroadsmyblueeyedsondon’tcriticise whatyoudon’tbeatorcheatormistreatyoumixingupthemedicinejinglejanglenodirectionhomeyougottalottanervelikeawoman. Many of these standards are so historically over-exposed that they nowadays seem prosaic formalities, like tourist attractions to be ticked off on an itinerary. I think I’d rather visit the original albums, wouldn’t you? For another thing, a more adventurous selection procedure – “Gates Of Eden”, perhaps, or “Ballad In Plain D” – might have obscured some jarring aberrations in the sequencing. You don’t follow “Like A Rolling Stone” with “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue”, my sonically clueless friend. The contents of Dylan were, according to advance Columbia publicity, “greatly influenced by impassioned fan input on the website dylan07.com”. The second disc (1969–85), covering the journey from Nashville Skyline to Empire Burlesque, would undoubtedly have been more interesting if some of these impassioned fans had lobbied for the likes of “I Threw It All Away”, “Wedding Song”, “Idiot Wind”, “Lily, Rosemary And The Jack Of Hearts”, “Isis”, “Senor (Tales Of Yankee Power)”, “Lenny Bruce” or “Every Grain Of Sand”. As it is, their impassioned input has merely guaranteed the presence of 16 songs that would all have been chosen anyway. Ooeeridemehighfromthewestdowntotheeastmayyoustayforeveryoung soontobedivorcedbutitwon’tbeovertilltheyclearhisnamegottaservesomebody. You feel like putting your hand up halfway through “Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door” and saying, “Excuse me, didn’t we do all this?” An arch-conservative overview of Dylan inevitably negates any attempt to anthologise his sprawling, five-decade oeuvre in three CDs. Listening to disc two is tantamount to juggling with quicksilver while photographing poltergeists: you sort of don’t get much definition. However, you’ll certainly be sent scuttling back to Planet Waves, Blood On The Tracks, Desire and Street-Legal to hear that exotic, humid, passionate, mid-30s Dylan that this disc sporadically hints at. Because it contains some lesser-known material and spans a Dylan timeframe unfamiliar to compilations, disc three (1983–2006) is the one I play the most. The opening twosome, “Blind Willie McTell” and “Brownsville Girl”, is indeed courageous, taking up 17 minutes of laser-time and transporting the listener to two exceptionally evocative worlds. He really was writing good stuff in ’83–4, wasn’t he? It would be churlish to point out that the two songs don’t actually go together (their productions clash in horrible fashion); quite simply, they get the disc off to a flyer. The remaining 14 selections dip into Dylan albums both unpopular (Down In The Groove, Under The Red Sky) and lauded (Oh Mercy, the latter-day ‘trilogy’), as well as the curate’s eggs that were Good As I Been To You and World Gone Wrong. In fact, one of the most blissfully pleasurable sections on the entire anthology begins with choices from the latter two albums (“You’re Gonna Quit Me” and “Blood In My Eyes”), followed by “Not Dark Yet” (those gorgeously reverberating Daniel Lanois backdrops!), “Things Have Changed” (a belting single from 2000) and “Make You Feel My Love”. If Modern Times is to be Dylan’s final studio album, as the 2006 Rolling Stone interview seemed to suggest, then he ended his recording career with the same imagery he began it: the preoccupied artist trudging down a “long and lonesome road” (“Ain’t Talkin’”), fearing for the human race’s future, disgusted by our masters who “crush you with wealth and power”. One last diagnosis for the world he’d described to Woody Guthrie back in 1962 (“It looks like it’s dying and it’s hardly been born”)? Or just a sentimental reiteration of well-worn themes? Either way, as Dylan’s recent work has a habit of stressing, it’s gotten very, very late in the day. DAVID CAVANAGH

Babyshambles – Shotter’s Nation

Things being what they are in his world – which to say the least is a place of primary mayhem and collateral static – it’s eminently possible that Pete Doherty will celebrate the release of (i)Shotter’s Nation(i) behind bars. This is where, of course, a lot of people would like to see him. Especially those for whom Pete’s wholly a lost cause, a tawdry drug monster whose anyway debatable musical talent’s long-since been squandered, given up to a deplorable narcotic dependency he’s apparently as much unwilling as unable to shake, the wonder of his present circumstances merely that he hasn’t already been locked up and the key thrown away. Whatever dramas have recently engulfed him – the split with Kate Moss, another spell in the cells – there’s been nothing quite as bad as the extracurricular anarchy surrounding the release of Babyshambles’ 2005 debut, Down In Albion, when Pete for about a fortnight was being arrested up to twice a day - which was funny at first, but soon palled. Especially when the album came out and all anyone could talk about was his headlong decline into grubby junkiedom and lengthening rap sheet, a great record overlooked in the process – the music by then no more for most than an irrelevant sideshow. I was listening a lot to DIA even as the reviews rolled in, and with the traditional indignation of the thoroughly miffed fan wondered if its many critics were listening to the same record. According to what I was reading, DIA was badly produced (by former Clash guitarist Mick Jones, who also helmed to similar criticism the first two Libertines albums) and even more poorly played, the record a wonky mix of crackly indie rock, wittering ska jams and much dreamy blathering. What I on the other hand was listening to was a charismatic masterpiece, shaped brilliantly by Mick out of what by later agreement were traumatic sessions, a record that reminded me of some of my favourite albums, the kind born out of an inclination towards burn-out, disintegration and ruin – among them On The Beach, Tonight’s The Night and The Replacements’ All Shook Down. Where its noisy detractors heard doodling, scratchy mutterings and addled confusion, I heard the epic swell of “Up The Morning”, the blazing ache of “Merry Go Round” and blistering anthems like “Fuck Forever”, “8 Dead Boys” and “Pipedown”, all fuelled by Patrick Walden’s often amazing guitar. As I’ve already said in an online preview of Shotter’s Nation, DIA is not the kind of album you could make twice – not that any of the principals have volunteered any particular enthusiasm for going through what they did a second time – and you would not truly have expected its follow-up to sound much like it. And how could it anyway, with Pat gone and Mick replaced by Stephen Street? The latter has a formidable commercial reputation (The Smiths, Morrissey, Blur, Kaiser Chiefs, The Zutons), but like a lot of Shambles fans I was more than slightly worried what Babyshambles and their songs would sound like in his hands – the unpredictable spontaneous magic of DIA replaced, we all thought, by something more recognisably efficient, spruced up and conventionally presentable. In the event, as also already stated, to everyone’s relief, Street’s done a bang-up job – taking the raw materials of the widely-circulated Bumfest demos and giving them a gleaming burnish. As you will correctly expect, Street entirely avoids DIA’s flinty spectrality and staticky crackle and turns a bright light on the smart, compact and relentlessly exciting arrangements he’s here coaxed from the band. Babyshambles on Shotter’s Nation sound quite frighteningly functional. Street gives them a big, surging sound – supernaturally bright guitars, walloping drums, upfront bass, choruses as big as houses - that reminds me weirdly of The Attractions on This Year’s Model, a comparison that suggested itself the first time I played the album and which I haven’t been able to shake since. As perhaps unlikely as it seems, Shotter’s Nation has the same brash confidence and punchy abandoned swagger, tunes that once heard are nigh on impossible to dislodge from even the creakiest memory. The album’s lyrical template is firmly set on opener “Carry On Up The Morning”, which anticipates the record’s recurring themes of loyalty, betrayal, weary explanation, self-recrimination and brazen defiance. Pete flirts here as he does elsewhere with self-pity, but remains eventually too resolute for whimpering introspection. The glorious self-mythologising of “Unbilotitled” and “Unstookietitled” is bracingly inspirational, no hint of contrition on these smouldering, achingly pretty tracks that convert the serial chaos of his life into absolutely gripping musical drama, the latter partly inspired by a guitar riff from “Fuck Forever”, from which it quotes the “one and the same, one and the same” refrain. I suppose the album eventually is about transcendence – through music, through drugs, sex, a pair of sharply cut trousers, anything basically that will lift you out of the stifling rut of ordinary living, the clammy mediocrity of a life conventionally lived, which seems to be Pete’s great fear. “Delivery” – fired by the classic riff from The Kinks’ “All Day And All Of The Night” – the ferocious “Crumb Begging”, and the sensationally uplifting twin peaks of the insanely catchy “French Dog Blues” (with a blazing instrumental coda reminiscent of The Who) and “Deft Left Hand” (with a ringing guitar intro reminiscent of the Stones’ “All Down The Line”) are all truly rousing anthems, the latter giving way to the mournful closer, “The Lost Art Of Murder”, featuring Pete and folk legend Bert Jansch on superb acoustic guitar. Written off as a pathetic joke, a seedy chancer, as uncommonly reviled by his critics as he is genuinely adored by his fans, for some still a disaster waiting to happen and as compromised by his addictions as he continues to be, Pete nevertheless here sounds ready to take on all comers. Seconds out, ring that bell! ALLAN JONES

Carbon/Silicon – The Last Post

Mick Jones and Tony James met in the mid-seventies as teenage fans of Mott The Hoople. After a brief spell as London S.S - hey, we were all young once - they went on to form The Clash and Generation X respectively. Thirty years, and a mighty long way down rock’n’roll later, they’ve reunited, still grooving on the same ideas and fired up by the download revolution, itself an update of punk’s DIY ethic. Understandably, they’ve a lot to get off their chests. Over twelve tracks, we get subjects ranging from global terrorism (“The Magic Suitcase”) to the war in Iraq (“Oil Well”) to the human condition (“Why Do Men Fight?”) all delivered in Jones’ unmistakeable adenoidal twang. It’s a disarming mix. The Kinks-esque riff-rock “The Whole Truth” and “What The Fuck” could be gonzo out-takes from The Clash, whilst a rip-roaring “Caesar’s Palace” updates “Lost In The Supermarket” to a world where consumerism has run wild. Age has clearly brought wisdom, but Jones’n’ James also understand no one needs a lecture; far more satisfying to be mischief-making pranksters than finger-wagging polemicists. Accordingly, “The National Anthem” is a fluid, funky plea for unity (“I believe in houses, safety, free power”) whilst “Really The Blues” alludes darkly to a wasted talent “blowing a fuse”. Not that Jones ever dodges the issue. “So it’s red tops versus cokeheads in a cultural civil war/ At least I know what I’m fighting for” he hollers in “War On Culture”, a clear two-fingers to the the scandal-sheets who plagued his time producing Babyshambles' Down In Albion. That said, The Last Post isn’t without it’s frailities. It’s too long , while songs like “Oil Well” lack the structure to match the weight of its ideas. However, for sheer cranked-up joie de vivre, it outstrips bands half their age. PAUL MOODY Q&A: MICK JONES UNCUT: Why The Last Post? JONES: “It’s about being the band being the last stand for culture, and standing up against the onslaught of mediocrity. But it could also mean the last email in your inbox” Did being a new band give you more freedom? Definitely. We tried to ignore the legacy (laughs). There’s no expectations. We’re not doing anyone down, or make a point, we’re trying to move things forward in a positive way. It’s an honest thing. It’s a very forthright record... The great thing about being in a band is being able to say what you think. We’ve been bashed down by society to behave ourselves, but the truth is everyone’s life is a bit chaotic. A realistic representation of life, for a lot of us, is something like Shameless. You try to get what happiness you can in snatched moments. And the rest is struggle.”

Mick Jones and Tony James met in the mid-seventies as teenage fans of Mott The Hoople. After a brief spell as London S.S – hey, we were all young once – they went on to form The Clash and Generation X respectively. Thirty years, and a mighty long way down rock’n’roll later, they’ve reunited, still grooving on the same ideas and fired up by the download revolution, itself an update of punk’s DIY ethic.

Understandably, they’ve a lot to get off their chests. Over twelve tracks, we get subjects ranging from global terrorism (“The Magic Suitcase”) to the war in Iraq (“Oil Well”) to the human condition (“Why Do Men Fight?”) all delivered in Jones’ unmistakeable adenoidal twang. It’s a disarming mix. The Kinks-esque riff-rock “The Whole Truth” and “What The Fuck” could be gonzo out-takes from The Clash, whilst a rip-roaring “Caesar’s Palace” updates “Lost In The Supermarket” to a world where consumerism has run wild.

Age has clearly brought wisdom, but Jones’n’ James also understand no one needs a lecture; far more satisfying to be mischief-making pranksters than finger-wagging polemicists. Accordingly, “The National Anthem” is a fluid, funky plea for unity (“I believe in houses, safety, free power”) whilst “Really The Blues” alludes darkly to a wasted talent “blowing a fuse”.

Not that Jones ever dodges the issue. “So it’s red tops versus cokeheads in a cultural civil war/ At least I know what I’m fighting for” he hollers in “War On Culture”, a clear two-fingers to the the scandal-sheets who plagued his time producing Babyshambles‘ Down In Albion. That said, The Last Post isn’t without it’s frailities. It’s too long , while songs like “Oil Well” lack the structure to match the weight of its ideas. However, for sheer cranked-up joie de vivre, it outstrips bands half their age.

PAUL MOODY

Q&A: MICK JONES

UNCUT: Why The Last Post?

JONES: “It’s about being the band being the last stand for culture, and standing up against the onslaught of mediocrity. But it could also mean the last email in your inbox”

Did being a new band give you more freedom?

Definitely. We tried to ignore the legacy (laughs). There’s no expectations. We’re not doing anyone down, or make a point, we’re trying to move things forward in a positive way. It’s an honest thing.

It’s a very forthright record…

The great thing about being in a band is being able to say what you think. We’ve been bashed down by society to behave ourselves, but the truth is everyone’s life is a bit chaotic. A realistic representation of life, for a lot of us, is something like Shameless. You try to get what happiness you can in snatched moments. And the rest is struggle.”

John Fogerty – Revival

The astonishing run of 10 top 40 hits Fogerty masterminded for Creedence Clearwater Revival between 1969 –1970 cast a daunting shadow over every move he has made since. Even on solo reawakenings (1984's Centrefield, 97's Blue Swamp Moon) unfinished business with old band and his old record company loomed large. Now, after years of court actions, Fogerty says its "surreal" to be back on the Creedence Fantasy label, cause of so much legal pain. And indeed there's something surreal - and inspirational – about the album itself. 'Revival' lives up to its title, providing 12 songs that, while rooted in an idealistic, mythic American, offer rallying cries that are as blisteringly contemporary as "Fortunate Son" or poignantly timeless as "Who'll Stop The Rain". From the opening "Don't You Wish It Was Time", Creedence's secular rock gospel provides the template. "Gunslinger" calls for old west/Old testament style retribution with tender longing, while "Creedence Song" is the most explicit of several examples of a man at peace with - and determined to extend - his legacy. Continuity is the key here, as Fogerty reprises the paranoia of "Run Through The Jungle" for the Bush-baiting guitar and harp clangour of "Long Dark Night". There's striking self-awareness in "Broken Down Cowboy" and a fiercely moralistic pot shot at rich and famous rehab rockers on the incensed and inflamed "It Ain't Right". Then, barely pausing to draw breath, Fogerty roars into the vehement anti Iraq war tirade "I Can't Take It No More": a breakneck tirade that says more in 1 minute 38 seconds than the whole of Neil Young's lumbering 'Living With War' album. "Longshot" is a valiant finale – a Fogerty mission statement delivered with raw cheek and whip-crack humour. Reassessing the past and reengaging with the present, 'Revival' lives up to its name. One of American pop culture's most potent and direct voices just threw down the rocking insurrection gauntlet, right on time. GAVIN MARTIN Q and A: JOHN FOGERTY What effect did settling your dispute with Fantasy have on your songwriting? JF:"It made a big difference to me as a person, emotionally and psychologically. Being relieved of all that anger and bitterness definitely helped free up my creative process. I feel like I am back in the sunshine now." The songs have several references to your past... "The album title was my wife's idea. For obvious reasons I wasn't too keen on it but just went with the flow. With this record I decided to stay in the middle of rock ‘n’ roll. Staying in rock n roll was quite a discipline because as you get older you develop a lot of interests." George Bush is a presence throughout the album, has he been an inspiration? "Years ago I used to say that Richard Nixon is an endless source of inspiration, maybe it's the same with Bush but I hate to give him that much credit." INTERVIEW: GAVIN MARTIN

Now, after years of court actions, Fogerty says its “surreal” to be back on the Creedence Fantasy label, cause of so much legal pain. And indeed there’s something surreal – and inspirational – about the album itself. ‘Revival’ lives up to its title, providing 12 songs that, while rooted in an idealistic, mythic American, offer rallying cries that are as blisteringly contemporary as “Fortunate Son” or poignantly timeless as “Who’ll Stop The Rain”.

From the opening “Don’t You Wish It Was Time”, Creedence’s secular rock gospel provides the template. “Gunslinger” calls for old west/Old testament style retribution with tender longing, while “Creedence Song” is the most explicit of several examples of a man at peace with – and determined to extend – his legacy.

Continuity is the key here, as Fogerty reprises the paranoia of “Run Through The Jungle” for the Bush-baiting guitar and harp clangour of “Long Dark Night”. There’s striking self-awareness in “Broken Down Cowboy” and a fiercely moralistic pot shot at rich and famous rehab rockers on the incensed and inflamed “It Ain’t Right”.

Then, barely pausing to draw breath, Fogerty roars into the vehement anti Iraq war tirade “I Can’t Take It No More”: a breakneck tirade that says more in 1 minute 38 seconds than the whole of Neil Young‘s lumbering ‘Living With War’ album. “Longshot” is a valiant finale – a Fogerty mission statement delivered with raw cheek and whip-crack humour. Reassessing the past and reengaging with the present, ‘Revival’ lives up to its name. One of American pop culture’s most potent and direct voices just threw down the rocking insurrection gauntlet, right on time.

GAVIN MARTIN

Q and A: JOHN FOGERTY

What effect did settling your dispute with Fantasy have on your songwriting?

JF:”It made a big difference to me as a person, emotionally and psychologically. Being relieved of all that anger and bitterness definitely helped free up my creative process. I feel like I am back in the sunshine now.”

The songs have several references to your past…

“The album title was my wife’s idea. For obvious reasons I wasn’t too keen on it but just went with the flow. With this record I decided to stay in the middle of rock ‘n’ roll. Staying in rock n roll was quite a discipline because as you get older you develop a lot of interests.”

George Bush is a presence throughout the album, has he been an inspiration?

“Years ago I used to say that Richard Nixon is an endless source of inspiration, maybe it’s the same with Bush but I hate to give him that much credit.”

INTERVIEW: GAVIN MARTIN

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