Preachy pop can be awful, even boring (rock's greatest sin). Yet Steve Earle, the Schertz-raised rocker whose work has grown exponentially more political, has avoided these traps. Earle might be typecast as a musical Michael Moore, but "Rich Man's War," from his latest, The Revolution Starts...Now (Artemis), is an evocative work whose message doesn't need to beat you over the head. Likewise with "Home to Houston," which turns an American soldier's plight in Iraq into a truck driving song. Earle's so innately talented he could sing the Patriot Act. So if he occasionally strays, as he does on the tedious "Warrior," it's easy to overlook. He doesn't take himself too seriously, either. "Condi, Condi," a love song to our National Security Advisor, features him as straight man ("People say you're cold but I think you're hot"). And "F the CC" is a near-perfect bonehead rock anthem. "A democracy doesn't work that way," Earle intones. "I can say anything I want to say." The unprintable chorus that follows does not disappoint. Reviewed by John Morthland
Austin's John Dee Graham, who could have slashed power chords for the likes of the True Believers and Jon Doe forever, has instead kindled an interesting, if somewhat overlooked, solo career from the ashes of his journeyman ax-slinger days. The Great Battle (New West), his fourth solo album, finds his wistful formula largely intact—smart, confessional (at times almost therapeutic) lyrics that stop right at the precipice of sentimentality sung in a gravelly voice only a mother could love. Graham clearly cares about his song craft. Tunes like "E. 11th St." find an easygoing charm, while the title track offers some of his finest work to date. Yet he can't hide his past. Even with a celebrity producer (Charlie Sexton), BIG guitars nearly smother some arrangements. These days, it's his songs that should be doing the talking.
Reviewed by John MorthlandIn the backwash of the 1969 Beatles breakup, a lot of the UK's finest played musical chairs. Jeff Beck's first group, which included Ron Wood and Rod Stewart, splintered about the same time as mod heroes the Small Faces, which included Ronnie Lane, Ian McLagan, and Kenney Jones. They joined forces, re-named themselves the Faces, and became a bluesy (and boozy) boisterous wonder. As Five Guys Walk Into a Bar (Rhino) displays over four CDs, there wasn't much this band couldn't do. Despite his recent output, Stewart was one of rock's great front men. Wood filled the Keith Richards role nicely, and while Lane was the group's soul, McLagan was its affable orbit. The band put out four albums before crumbling under the weight of Stewart's more successful solo career. What do a bunch of besotted Brits have to do with Texas? Remarkably, two of the Faces became Austinites. Lane, wheelchair-bound and suffering from multiple sclerosis, moved to Houston for medical treatment in 1984, and on to Austin in 1985. There he played with Austin's finest, and married in 1988. He'd stay in Austin for nearly a decade, before moving to Colorado (he died in 1997). Seduced by Lane's enthusiasm for the city, McLagan followed a decade ago, rooster haircut intact. He plays with his Bump Band and still lives in Austin, where he painstakingly assembled the box set, an overdue tribute to five guys who rocked with unpretentious abandon. Reviewed by John Morthland
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