|
We are fans of James McMurtry and feel this is one of his best. Topical lyrics, great backing band, biting commentary, and all-out rockin.Would highly recommend.
This is James McMurtry at his all time best. It describes in the first person, the horrors and consequenses of the crime of incest. Son of famous novelist Larry McMurtry demonstrates the genetic gifts of his dad. Fireline Road is the best track on the disc. Chaney's Toy and God Bless America are war protest songs of the new milenium. The more you listen to this album you may begin to feel that this is "album of the year" material.
We'll fight 'em in the land, we'll fight 'em in the air,well a cowboy says we got to fight 'em over there.He ain't seen nothing like it since Saigon fell.Dancin' in the ruins 'cause we might as well.Dancin' in the ruins of the realmA fool and a mad man at the helm.That's from "Ruins of the Realm," which doesn't address anyone by name the way "Cheney's Toy" or "God Bless America" does, but they're potent all the same. James McMurtry's scathing collection of character sketches blisters as an indictment of the last eight years, commenting on greed ("God Bless America"), the downtrodden and left behind ("Fireline Road) and the chimp in chief himself ("Cheney's Toy'). Too Long in the Wasteland, indeed. The music itself recalls mentor John Mellencamp's more socially pointed rock or the rabblerousing of Steve Earle. It's likely the most political album you'll hear this year outside of punk rock (New Wave, The Bright Lights of America), and digs deeply into McMurtry's Lou Reed by way of Texas singing style.As usually for McMurtry, the lyrics are hyper-literate. Take this example from the down-on-his-luck man waiting out the storm in "Hurricane Party":Now there's water up past the wheel wells of my Ford and I don't guess that it'll run.But I left a pack of Winston's on the dash, could you fetch 'em for me son.The morning's first cigarette, that's as good as it gets all day, I should know by now.But there's no one to talk to when the lines go down.But like his scathing attack on the economics of trickle down "We Can't Make it Here Anymore" on Childish Things, he saves his most withering jabs for the political songs. The less political of the songs, "Bayou Tortoise" and the title song offer topical looks at life and kick up some dust. McMurtry is in a position in folk music that has few peers, and "Just Us Kids," like so many of his other albums, offers heartland folk-rock with a fierce take on life.
I grew up in a small rural town and in many ways, he really weaves a nice story together out of nothing no-name towns, backwoods roads, and the people who live in those places. Lastly, the album doesn't have any heart. Perhaps some people like that. He has a gift of writing words that you really care about more so than the music. In my opinion, Saint Mary of the Woods is his best album to date. But with the release of Childish things, he sort of took a turn into being more political in a blunt, in you face sort of way. I have all of Jame's albums and for the most part love his work. When I buy his albums, they always grow on me to where they become like old friends.
So for me, this album was a dud. I don't feel like the lyrics are as creative as some of his older work. Sorry James. When you make an album about specific politics, then it has a limited lifespan of relevancy. His past albums are great because while there is a sort of political,satirical edge to them but the politics doesn't take over the music or do any preaching. Not so in this one.
But as for me, I don't care for it because since his latest album is specifically about the current President and Vice President, the album already sounds dated and old. Especially since this album was released at the tail end of the Bush White House. I've owned it for months now and still find myself skipping tracks. I still enjoy your work, but this one didn't do it for me.
This was my first James McMurtry albulm but it won't be my last. Great songs and lyrics. Country music the way it ought to be played.
|
