Rushdie Fails at Latest Attempt
Salman Rushdie has fallen short this time. His usually melodic poetry seems to now be overpowered by this underdeveloped and overproduced work. The respect he has gained from previous attempts is sure to be rethought by the smarter of his critiques. The bluesy, dark work he is otherwise known for was not found in this work. It was a broken, chunky piano based effort with building ballads usually recorded with the click of a metronome. The first track opens with a simply bad piano line and it only falls worse once one hears the horrid lyrics “One day I’ll be another champion, baby / One that you can’t be in, girl.” Rushdie then takes very little time to move to a slew of profanity. It is rather odd.
The second and third tracks are both conniving rip-offs of Bruce Springsteen ballads. He has only changed the lyrics. Rushdie has disappointed a whole generation of believers in his cultured, controversial art with these blatant rip offs. The fourth track is a cover of “My Girl,” in which he mentions his second wife’s name. The fifth and sixths track are each about thirty-five seconds of radio static, explained to be an “Artistic Jazz Piece” on the online record sites. The single falls in a radio friendly distorted lull soon after this, but after three minutes it becomes that hit 1986 Dwight Yokam song.
The only shining star in this mockery of music is the rocking cover of “Eat the Rich,” the 1990 Aerosmith song. One can finally hear the Rushdie we all know and love. It reminds us of his better days, “The Satanic Verses, Disc 2” or the smash club hit “Tigersan.” He screams and sings his way through this before it ends at around 2:50. Then, as awkwardly as it began, there is then an eight-minute guitar drone to end the album.
Bottom line: Do not waste your money on this work. Even the biggest Salman Rushdie fan will be utter gob smacked to hear this abomination of an otherwise wonderful name. Perhaps when his bassist, Smacky Dave, is out of hospital they will rekindle our love of high-culture. If he can stay clean enough to join Mr. Rushdie in writing the next work together they may record something that makes us remember the good days. Those days when times were good, beer was cheap and the drugs were hard. Until then we are simply boozing in these convention center parking lots worrying that five years down the road we will be in the same spot, following our hero out of pity and shame. We will follow you, sir, simply so you do not feel sad yourself.
And Salman, brother, we don’t want that as much as you do.