THE CODGER CURSE:
Three That Flew Under the Radar

by Rob Brookman

The thrill of discovery has motivated more than a few intrepid souls throughout the ages, and if you ask me, it's one thing that keeps longtime music fans interested long after they're sure they've seen it all.

Every pop junkie knows the feeling of uncovering a great new band; for the truly crazed, it hovers somewhere between your first kiss and your first beer. It's so potent, in fact, I still remember the unadulterated rush I got first playing the Replacements' Let It Be way back in 1984. Not to mention Slanted and Enchanted in '92, Call the Doctor in '95 and so on.

Those "Eureka!" moments make a reviewer's job easy. And in a way, especially with rookie artists, the reviewer makes the album's job easier. Expectations, preconceptions and prejudices - all the other detritus every serious fan carries around - are blissfully stripped away when it comes to new artists. It's the music and the music alone, momentarily free from what came before it, and what might come after it.

Of course, "Eureka!" moments are like bonus checks at the office. You don't expect them, they come sparingly, and, in the end, you work your ass off all year to get them. For every Icky Mettle, for every Let It Be, there are hundreds of records by long-established artists that demand more than just an emotional response. With a full catalog behind them, maybe even 10 or so glory years at some point along the way, these artists arrive in the new release bins loaded to breaking with baggage, not the least of which are the expectations preconceptions and prejudices of their fans - that detritus I mentioned earlier.

Baggage can sometimes work in an artist's favor. Paul McCartney, for example, consistently and confusingly receives doting write-ups for mediocre work, in part because fans and critics want so badly to have Paul the Beatle back again. Any album that so much at hints at his former gifts is prematurely hailed as a comeback, and ultimately pales in hindsight.

At then end of day, though, pop music is a young person's medium, and it celebrates the genius in full flower, less so the sturdy veteran. That's why, more often than not, all the expectations, preconceptions and prejudices usually add up to what I'll call a Codger Curse, a confluence of factors that cause good, solid (and sometimes great) records by career artists to end up ignored or, worse still disparaged.

You may have your own favorite victims of the Codger Curse, the albums that follow are mine. It's all relative, after all. And the same goes for my hack sociological assessments explaining why these albums failed to impress others the way they hooked me.

Bob Dylan - Under the Red Sky

Dylan was coming off his worst decade ever in 1990, one that started with the just-plain-crummy Saved and finished with the fair-to-middling Oh Mercy. Oh Mercy, however, pointed to good things to come, and Dylanologists saddled it with 10 years worth of stored hope and optimism. When Under the Red Sky appeared, less than a full year later and without Daniel Lanois' fashionable atmospherics, fans and the media alike smelled a backslide. "Knocked Out Loaded II," one disappointed scribe dubbed it. Clearly, Dylan had squandered his "comeback" goodwill on Oh Mercy, and Under the Red Sky slinked into the cheapie bins.

Too bad. Almost 10 years later, Under the Red Sky sounds like the best batch of Dylan songs since Blood on the Tracks. Funny, cutting, engaged, Dylan seemed energized after Oh Mercy. From the just-for-the-hell-of-it vamp of "Wiggle Wiggle" to the social critique of "TV Talkin' Song," the songs were loose and entertaining, and with the tried-and-true Don Was behind the boards and a crack band behind the mics, Dylan played like he hadn't played in well over a decade.

Almost a full decade later, armed with a weaker batch of lyrics, the same musical vigor and Lanois in the control room, Dylan returned after two albums of traditional music and a near death experience to a public hungry for whatever he'd choose to dish out. He gave them his second excellent album of the decade. For my money, though, Under the Red Sky is the gem.

The Rolling Stones - Dirty Work

The Stones were close to splitting in 1985-86. And, really, who cared? '81's Tattoo You was already well ensconced in the playlists of classic rock stations, '84's Undercover proved the band capable of a truly bad album and Jagger's solo attempt She's the Boss uncovered the jaded sybarite many knew lay just beneath the surface. So when the boys put aside their tiff and quietly teamed up with Steve Lillywhite for the aptly-named Dirty Work, even the album's day-glo cover didn't make many record buyers look twice.

In retrospect, the album's frenetic recording schedule and relatively low-key marketing strategy should have become a blueprint, not an aberration. Dirty Work just plain sounds great, not like the polished cosmopolitanism of Tattoo You and not like anything the Stones had done before. The production is clean, even slick, but the guitars are punched up, the vocals mixed down, and Keith and Ron play like they're trying to flatten poor Mick. Mick, for his part, rises to the challenge, spitting out his lyrics, growling and generally sounding like the badass he once convinced a generation he was. If deep down, we really don't believe it, what the hell? For 10 solid songs, the Stones and Dirty Work entice us to play along and pretend it's 1966. In 1986, however, few were prepared to join in the game.

The Artist - The Gold Experience

If you really want to curry favor with journalists, change your name and replace it with a symbol that's both unpronounceable and requires that a special character be forged just so it can appear in print. For good measure, complain bitterly that your multi-zillion dollar recording contract makes you feel like, and this is important, a slave. And do it all at a time when your popularity in the marketplace is plummeting precipitously.

Given his tendency toward PR self-immolation, The Artist (no, DAA isn't shelling out for a special font) can't quite be considered a complete victim of the Codger Curse. But it is true that fans and reviewers never quite took to the hard funk of the New Power Generation the way they did to the less bottom-heavy Revolution. And so by the time The Gold Experience hit the stores in 1995, The Artist was battling not just his self-made image as a kook, but generally weak albums like Come and Diamonds and Pearls.

Reviews ranged from respectful to dismissive, and few seemed to notice the album's sheer display of talent and its sound of rejuvenation. Like all great Prince (ahem, Artist) records, The Gold Experience contains a dazzling variety of music, from the breakneck funk of "P Control" to the hard-rocking "Endorphinmachine" to the pure-pop "The Most Beautiful Girl in the World." Even the ballads that sunk many late-period Prince recordings sound fleshier and more interesting here - hell, one's called "Hate U."

At its heart, The Gold Experience - like Dirty Work and Under the Red Sky - captures the sound of a seasoned professional connecting with whatever it was that once made music less about music and more about entertainment, pure and simple. But the fact that these are seasoned professionals, with both works of genius and rank disinterest behind them, makes it harder than ever for them to offer any surprises. And from surprises come those emotion-packed "Eureka!" moments.

No question, The Artist will never offer up another "When Doves Cry," and no one's waiting for Dylan's sequel to "Like a Rolling Stone." But because the Codger Curse virtually guarantees that outstanding late work from career artists like these will occasionally pass unnoticed, the thrill of discovery still awaits the patient fan. And that, as I said, is why we keep listening.