Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers - Mojo

Hot off the class-reunion jam of Mudcrutch, Petty attempts to bring a similar sense of noodling over to the Heartbreakers. The most glaring question is “Why?” considering the bands under-appreciated keep-it-simple-stupid approach on record and cole slaw grind while on stage.

With that sense of “Let’s ring up the fellas and play guitar awhile” approach out of the picture with Mojo, Petty’s twelfth album with the Heartbreakers sounds like lazy meanderings and the most uninspired collection of songs in his otherwise impressive catalog.

It’s clear that the time with Mudcrutch, road work with the Black Crowes, and the stark reality that Petty and the Heartbreakers are at a point where they should be a handsomely rewarded, perennial touring unit at this point, the band seems to be carefully considering life as a jam band. The shitty thing is-even with these reportedly first and second take songs-the Heartbreakers sound stiff and anemic throughout Mojo.

There are no wrong notes, no derring-do, nothing to suggest the performances wrinkled anyone’s shirts or brought a sweat to the brow of those involved.
Take the song that comes close to raising a pulse, “I Should Have Known It.” New drummer the dude-who-isn’t-Stan-Lynch, kicks out a big, wide open beat while Petty and Mike Campbell work out a snaky pattern on guitar. It’s wonderful on paper and well performed, so why does the band sound like they’re counting the measures to the abrupt stops before the chorus.

“US 41” tries hard to stir up some Delta snarl, but even with Campbell’s wonderfully toned slide guitar and Petty’s distorted vocals for an antiquated effect, the song is delivered so monochromatically that the color blue is nowhere near it.

But nothing will prepare you for the absolutely worst Tom Petty song of all time, a track so embarrassingly bad that you’ll prey for Jeff Lynne to burst in to start an intervention. The song is “Don’t Pull Me Over,” performed in the same ballpark of Eric Clapton’s “I Shot The Sherriff,” only an exclusively white ballpark. Yes, it’s a reggae-infused song about being driving high and seeing a cop in the rear-view window and yes, it’s worse than you could possibly imagine.

Around this point, you’ll inevitably come to realize that you’ll breezed through a good chunk of time to get to “Don’t Pull Me Over” and the album still has a few more time requirements. Whether or not you choose to spend them with the rest of Mojo is a matter for consideration, but it’s something you normally experience on other Heartbreakers albums.

Because Mojo fails on another level, and it’s the ability to get it done in a nice, efficient manner. It carries on and on, to a point where it goes beyond authenticity and hovers right around the avenue of self-indulgence. It possesses none of the virile passion its title would suggest and is a flaccid attempt at trying to sound loose while sounding too uptight to even get it up.

This review originally appeared in Glorious Noise.

Mudcrutch - Mudcrutch

Let’s be honest: Tom Petty has released some innocuous records for nearly a quarter-century now and we’ve allowed him to do it. After battling his record company in Hard Promises, the most vitriolic we’ve seen him is to urge us to “Take back Joe Piscopo” (“Jammin’ Me”) and “Roll another joint” (“You Don’t Know How It Feels”).
His attempt at trying to regain that image of a corporate monster fighter, The Last DJ, fell short. It’s one thing to sing about evil corporations and how they’ve destroyed music, but to deliver that album on a major label (Warner Brothers) one on hand and then agree to perform the hits on the biggest corporate sponsored event on the planet (the Super Bowl) afterwards, it kind of deflates that everyman image you’re trying to present.
At the same time, Petty is a guy who’s hard to hold a grudge against. Even at his most complacent, he’s enjoyable. I won’t promise to buy anything that he’s done with Jeff Lynne, but I won’t hold Petty accountable for wanting to work with the over-produced bastard either.
I was rather tickled at the notion that Petty decided, after a thirty-year plus layoff, to get his old band, Mudcrutch, back together. And by “old band”, I mean, essentially, the Heartbreakers with Petty playing bass, Tom Leadon on lead guitar and Randall Marsh on drums. Keyboardist Benmont Tench, who wasn’t in Mudcrutch’s early configuration, joins in along with guitarist Mike Campbell.
One would then think that, with the majority of the same old players in the line-up, we could expect the same old Tom Petty album. Seriously, there isn’t much difference between a Tom Petty solo record and a Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers album, is there? Nonetheless, the Mudcrutch idea intrigued me and the result is probably the most enjoyable Petty album in recent memory.
Perhaps I’m supposed to downplay Petty’s role as Mudcrutch tries hard to project itself as a band project. Indeed, the first vocals you’ll hear aren’t Petty’s, they’re Leadon’s. Leadon also gets a hand at contributing his own song (“Queen Of The Go-Go Girls”) while Benmont Tench delivers the vocals and songwriting credit to one of his own too (“This Is A Good Street”).
But the rest of the record is clearly Petty’s project, but one where he allows the occasional meandering to become the overall vibe. The vibe being a clear descendent of The Byrds Mach III (in fact, they cover “Lover Of The Bayou” from Untitled) and other early 70’s SoCal country rock alumni. It’s a good thing hearing Petty represent a different coastal scene; the move from Florida to California is a good fit and, had they continued down this path during their initial musical forays, it would be surprising if they didn’t make a name for themselves in that region.
To that point, the idea that it’s taken Mudcrutch three-and-a-half decades to finally release their debut album is actually part of the appeal here. Amazingly, it sounds frozen in time, a lost artifact from the early seventies of a forgotten band pushed out of the spotlight thanks to the tepid offerings of the Eagles first few albums.
Not only is Mudcrutch better than those albums, it’s different. Melody and vocal harmonies are replaced with Leadon and Campbell’s guitar interactions. The two gunslingers patiently wait for each another to heat things up while Petty stands on the sidelines to watch their unpretentious playing.
Nowhere is this clearer than with the album’s centerpiece, “Crystal River,” a nine-plus minute opus that’s as mellow as a beach fire joint. Four and a half minutes into the song, the band begins to scale back, seemingly looking for someone to end the song. Leadon and Campbell keep going, lightly playing off each other until the rest of the band follows while letting the two casually jam on. Had they filled out the rest of Mudcrutch with songs like this, we would surely have a wonderfully capable jam-band ready to make a living among the American patchouli set.
The rest of the interplay on the more economically timed songs is imperceptibly delivered with only a few songs truly rollicking forward. The reason for this has more to do with mood rather than age. It seems that Petty’s mid-life crisis has more to do with returning back to take care of some unfinished business rather than trying to relive his youth. And for those of us who weren’t around for it during Mudcrutch’s initial forays, it’s good to be able to hear Petty flip through his yearbook. This return back to the bars is certainly a better fit for him than the Super Bowl halftime show.

This review originally appeared in Glorious Noise.

It's Just The Normal Noises In Here...

When I think of halftime shows, I think of Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers.
Seriously: what the fuck?
In all fairness, Prince doesn’t necessarily conjure up violent contact sports either. At least he has that one-name superstar poise about him that says “I can rock a fucking stadium if need be.”
Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers conjure up 5,000 seat arenas with little or no light show and pot smoke replacing the fog machines.
So forgive me if I felt a little under whelmed at this year’s halftime show selection. It’s not that I don’t like ‘em; they’re an American institution and I would consider myself a fan of their music. In addition, it’s not as if this was the worst selection either. Cracked did a rundown of the worst halftime shows ever and this year wouldn’t even rate on the list.
It’s merely a safe bet that’s sure to please that lucrative television market (read: adults with spending power) so that they’ll stay tuned and consider an ice cold SoBe the next time they head to the store. And it’s especially safe after such an awesome show last year.
The stage set up was pretty cool, even though I don’t remember T.P. using that particular logo after the debut, and I associate them with Rickenbackers instead of Flying V’s, but whatever, it looked good.
The song selection was as predictable as you could imagine with even a solo Petty track (“Free Fallin”) making the set, which would only bother a nitpicker like me, I suppose.
But then there’s the whole “Is that really The Heartbreakers” conspiracy theory that I was tossing around. Mike Campbell looked like Adam Duritz, Stan Lynch looked like a middle age black dude, Howie Epstein looked like Ron Blair, and Benmont Tench looked like Benmont Tench.
There was some other dude on stage sporting a guitar, but he may have been a roadie.
Speaking of, Petty still looks like roadie for the Allman Brothers, only better dressed.
Again, there was nothing wrong with the performance and those on the field looked like they were entertained. I’m sure there were many people watching that also felt satisfied with another rendition of the shit they hear on classic rock stations every fucking day of the week.
For me, it was as exciting as one of those TV timeouts.

As far as the ads were concerned:

I will never buy an Under Armor product because their ad on the Super Bowl was retarded. Congratulations, focus group.

Special consideration goes to GoDaddy.com. I have no idea what you’re selling (Titties? Pussy?) but I’m pretty sure that I don’t need that because I’ve got that at home. Good work, retards.

Note to Anheuser-Busch: what the fuck happened to the Bud Bowl? It was so gloriously stupid that I now miss it. Surely it would have been cheaper to make than the stupid Clydesdale “Rocky” ad.

And the new Will Farrell movies looks about as good as Blades Of Glory which means that I’ll wait to rent it or until it comes on HBO in a few years. Nothing personal, I still think you’re funny and even Bill Murray coasted for a few years. Hell, Dan Ackroyd made a fucking career out of it.