In a recent blog, Bonnie Kristian declared Donald Trump to be apocalyptic. As she carefully articulated, she does not mean apocalyptic in the popular parlance as a “disaster,” but in the more literal translation of the word as “revelation.” The title of the last book of the New Testament is the “Apocalypse of John,” or “John’s Revelation.” In other words, when we think of ‘apocalypse’, we think of it in terms of the contents of that particular revelation rather than the fact that something was revealed. She then suggests that Trump is a “revelation” or revealer, as he is such a strong personality that he reveals the true nature of people in their response to him. She then quite skillfully exemplifies her thesis with the examples of Lindsey Graham and Nancy Pelosi.
When I read this piece by Kristian, my thoughts become neither political nor biblical, but musical. What she described about Trump, I would describe about Bob Dylan and his revelatory part in helping me interpret Jenny Lewis’s latest record, On the Line.
Let me be clear, when the next California wildfire comes precariously close to my neighborhood, Lewis’s The Voyager is one of the 10 LPs I grab. It had all of the hooks of the shiny pop music I love, with a surgical insight into the human condition for our new millennium, with her lyrical acerbic wit peppered in as seasoning. Exhibit A is “She’s Not Me.” So I was skeptical when I began hearing that On the Line is the best work of Lewis’s career—solo or otherwise.
On the Line has great songs, incredible musicianship, and a production that puts those songs and the musical skill that executes them on a grand stage. “Heads Gonna Roll” starts off the record. It starts of fairly subdued but quickly become layered musically and fairly grand sonically. This sets the tone for the record to follow. The first single “Red Bull and Hennessy”—which Lewis declares is a metaphor for a lifestyle not a cocktail recipe—has a locomotive bottom propelled by the dual drums of Jim Keltner and Ringo Starr and Don Was’s bass. It has the feel of an attempt to create a classic rock song for a new generation.
Production credits for the LP go to Lewis as well as Beck, Ryan Adams, and Shawn Everett. There are sonic moments on this record that will test the limits of your sound system. The song that leads off the second side for the vinyl record, “Dogwood,” again begins and ends soft with sonic crescendos in between which include sub-sonic bass lines that will rattle the china. All this is well and good, but it is not same hook-laden offering that was The Voyager’s signature. That is until the closing track, “Rabbit Hole,” which sounds like it could have been on The Voyager. In the end I am left with the question of what exactly the tone or theme of this record; as well as the question “what am I missing?”
Then I found a short showcase of songs from her new LP performed just days after the release of On the Line in St. Paul’s intimate Clown Lounge. Backed by a string-quartet, guitar, and piano, Lewis reinterpreted “Heads Gonna Roll,” “Wasted Youth,” “Party Clown,” “Red Bull and Hennessy,” and “Rabbit Hole.” The instrumentation, the presentation, the entire attitude of these songs was different than the record. It was sparse and open, reflective and inviting. Where the production on the record made these songs more declarative statements than introspective reflections, in this concert’s offerings they were more public soul searching.
But this was not clear to me until I heard the fifth song of this six-song set, her rendition of Bob Dylan’s “Standing in the Doorway” from his Time Out of Mind record. In my interpretation of the original, given Dylan’s age and craggy voice, it sounded like reflections of a by-gone relationship from some distance in time. But in Lewis’s rendition, I heard a woman whose experiences were fresh and whose thoughts were still gestating. This song was an apocalyptic or revelatory moment for me, as suddenly the entire set sounded more like thoughts that were not fully baked. The recorded versions sounded, finished, declarative, and final. These versions sound like intimate trial balloons, wondering how this might sound if she was to share them with someone. Raw and vulnerable, beautiful and intimate, like Dylan, Lewis reinterpreted her own lyrics with new arrangements, exploring at first unseen layers of the songs.
On the Line is a fine, maybe excellent, record. It is not now my favorite Jenny Lewis record. Still, the revelation found within this short performance makes me anxious to hear where Lewis may go next. I wonder if Beck were to produce (and his father was to orchestrate) her next record, if she might create the next Morning Phase? Or maybe if Daniel Lanois, who produced Time Out of Mind, produced her next record if she could make a follow-up to the Lanois produced Emmy Lou Harris classic Wrecking Ball?
Its is all conjecture, of course, but the revelation of Lewis’s Dylan cover and reinterpretation of her own work revealed the polysemic quality of her songcraft. Although I would most appreciate a Nick Lowe produced homage to The Jesus of Cool, in some ways she has already done that. And moving on not recycling the past is the sign of a vital artist. So thank you, Jenny Lewis, for you willingness to explore your life, our world, and the lyrical reflections you so generously offer. May your work always have an apocalyptic quality to it. And don’t spare the pop hooks.
