repulsemonkey's Full Review: Lubbock (On Everything) by Terry Allen
I’ll admit to becoming a bit confounded at first by the purpose of the "I’ll Show You Mine If You Show Me Yours" Write-Off. The simple premise (pair up with a fellow somewhat-iconoclastic music writer and assign them a CD to review that they might not otherwise even listen to) gave rise to a number of questions: How can I objectively review an album if I don’t possess any sort of appreciation for the music it contains? Furthermore, why should I spend twice the amount of time as I normally would (which is already a ridiculous amount of time) dissecting such an album? I suppose that, for me, self-improvement always provides a satisfactory answer. But, then, images began to spring to my mind of parents downrating Eminem for his use of profanity and influence over children, or a classical music enthusiast just not quite being able to grasp the concept of punk rock. I feared that good music might be unnecessarily slammed by folks who simply couldn’t understand its purpose. Worse, I feared that I might be one of the folks doing the slamming.
My fears became compounded by the random selection of my partner, AggieBrett. Now, even though Brett’s a menacing fellar in his own right (he’s already sicced a lawyer on me once), his country-music leanings posed more of a threat to me than he did. Brett assigned me Terry Allen’s Lubbock (On Everything) to review.
I’ll admit that I built up my fair share of unwarranted prejudice toward country music in my high school years, back when all the Billy Cyrusin’ and the boot scoot boogeyin’ went down. In San Bernardino, an outfit called "The Brandin’ Iron" opened its doors to the underage crowd once a week in hopes of luring us young, susceptible whiteboy hip-hops into the seductive arms of the country music lifestyle with its mechanical bulls and plastic cacti and such. All the cool kids were doing it. I’ll admit that I almost succumbed to the pull of the cute girls in the tight jeans dancing in the lines and such—I’d have been a fool not to even consider the temptation. Thankfully, my integrity remained in tact. I continued to divide my attention between gangsta rap and glam rock. But, ever since then, I’ve always associated country music with The Brandin’ Iron and their subtle (yet alarmingly effective) mind-control tactics.
If I had a psychiatrist (and I probably should), she would undoubtedly tell me that the "emotional wall" I placed between myself and country music "inhibited" me from truly appreciating the genre even after I had matured and bought a Steve Earle album, a Lucinda Williams album, and a Shelby Lynne album, in that order. She would undoubtedly tell me that, secretly, I wanted to like the country music, as was evident by my purchases of those country albums—I just didn’t want to admit to myself that I wanted to like country music, because I would really be admitting that I still harbored resentment for the Brandin’ Iron regular—let’s call her "Sarah," because all my feminine ideals are named Sarah—who spurned a young, gawky monkey for the ignorant, oafish water-polo player who could line-dance. My psychiatrist would undoubtedly urge me to "break down those walls" and "embrace the light that is country music" and "find yourself inside the country music" and "stop harassing poor Sarah, dammit, that was eight years ago already, enough is enough." So, at the prompting of MattA75 (who organized this whole face-your-fears write-off), AggieBrett, and my imaginary psychiatrist, I have vowed to do all that with this single, momentous review. That is, I have vowed to do "all that" except cease my daily phone call to Sarah, wherein I simply giggle and hang up, because, really, it helps prepare me for the rest of my day.
…However, even with this newfound light, I still don’t have much going for me in the way of refined appreciation for country music. That’s where Elliott Smith comes in.
I feel like I know Elliott Smith better than I know my own mother because his music speaks to me—and not in a voices-in-my-head kind of way, but in an emotionally resonant kind of way. That’s why I assigned Brett Elliot Smith’s Either/Or to review.
In our correspondence—which, incidentally, had to be monitored by a third party at the suggestion of the damn lawyer—Brett remarked, "Dunno if it's a function of age or geography or culture or weather or what, but I have figured out that there's definite difference between West Coast singer-songwriters and their Lone Star counterparts. But I guess you're discovering that on your end of the line as well-- this here Elliott Smith fellar don't exactly sound like Terry Allen, now do he?"
I thought, "Well, no, they don’t sound identical—that’s for sure—but they have more in common than most folks would notice at first glance. Both artists explore the underbellies of their respective regions with a clear sense of irony and cynicism. Both use their ample musical knowledge to aid them in telling their stories. And both happen to be exceptional storytellers." Later, after I had let that idea out of my head for a while, I thought, "Well, no, they don’t sound identical—that’s for sure—but they have more in common than most folks would notice at first glance," and then I thought about doughnuts for a little while and I made my silent phone call to Sarah and I read a little bit before having another conversation with my imaginary psychiatrist in my head and, then, sometime after all of that, I thought, "HEY!!! Elliott Smith and Terry Allen don’t sound identical—that’s for sure—but they have more in common than most folks would notice at first glance!!!"
It occurred to me that, even though I couldn’t accurately gauge the success of Terry Allen’s Lubbock (On Everything) against country music as a genre, I could effectively gauge Lubbock (On Everything) against Elliott Smith, who I know better than I know my own mother and I consider to be about as good a musician as a singer/ songwriter can get. That’s just what I’m fixin’ to do.
If Elliott Smith were a country musician, he would undoubtedly work within his genre to subtly unearth the trappings and prejudices of not only the genre itself, but the folks who attempt to define and market it—just as Allen does. Whereas Smith slyly makes his contempt for the Los Angeles music industry known on "Angeles," as he sings "Someone’s always coming around here trailing some new kill/ Says I seen your picture on a hundred dollar bill/ And what’s a game of chance to you, to him is one of real skill," Allen blatantly separates himself from his peers when he declares, "Yeah they call that god-all-mighty Nashville/ Music City USA/ Ahhh but get out of the city to where the farmer plays/ An you’re into real music country without them city ways." on "Flatland Farmer."
Both artists refuse to dilute their music with commercial hooks, or kow-tow to record industry sales pressures. They each make this clear in their declarations of self. Smith simply states, "I’m so angry/ I don’t think it’ll ever pass." ("Pitseleh") Allen begins Lubbock (On Everything) by assuring his listeners "I don’t wear no stetson/ But I’m willing to bet son/ That I’m as big a Texan as you are."
But Smith’s and Allen’s similarities shine through most vividly in their application of their vast musical knowledge, which they don’t flaunt, but use to punctuate the stories they tell, making them more effective. Subsequently, the craftsmanship seeps through in each artists’ diverse instrumentation (Smith’s use of Baritone Sax on "A Question Mark," for example, or the brilliant fiddle playing on Allen’s "The Collector (and the Art Mob)") and, on Lubbock (On Everything), Allen makes several subtle choices which illuminate his immaculate musicianship.
Instead of breaking into the fierce, rollicking chorus country music listeners would expect from "The Wolfman of Del Rio," Allen lets the piano slip away and lightly intones "You can tell by the look on his face/ He’s all caught up with the need/ To trade in some emptied out spaces/ For some speeeeeeed/ An that good ol’ American Dream." Thus, instead of going the "Born to Be Wild" route with his story of a young kid on the highway, Allen captures the tranquil majesty of "Goin’ a hundred miles an hour down the blue asphaultum line."
Later, after he paints the portrait of a lonely, raw, raunchy forty-year old gal on "Lubbock Woman," he drives the song toward the final line, "She has a good heart," which he repeats until the phrase elevates out of cliché and into mantra while the piano and back-up vocalists crescendo into ruckus behind him.
But Terry Allen reveals his agenda most effectively in a quick moment on "The Great Joe Bob (A Regional Tragedy)," wherein he straightforwardly relays the story of a high school football star who allowed himself to degenerate after his success. Allen only allows his objectivity to crack when he sings, "Then he got suspended for acting obscene/ Around the Cum-Laudy, Cum-Laudy daughter of the Dean," but in his choice to mock and repeat the word "Cum-Laud," Allen allies himself with the drinkin’, cussin’, fun-lovin’ Joe Bob and reveals his contempt for those who might look down on him.
It’s that contempt for those who would preach the definition of country music to Terry Allen that fuels Lubbock (On Everything). In that sense, the album is a nice introduction to country music for the casual listener, while managing to flip its middle finger at the genre behind its back. Elliott Smith would do himself good to take notes.
Despite the "emotional wall" between me and country music, I’ll admit that I really rather enjoy Lubbock (On Everything) even if I can’t quite completely understand it. I think my appreciation for Elliott Smith’s craft allows me to look past Allen’s genre trappings and view him as a simple storyteller and adept musician. In my head, I’ve pushed the imaginary psychiatrist aside to make room for the image of Terry Allen and Elliott Smith shaking hands out of mutual respect.
So, this isn’t merely an album review, but also the story of two men who could listen beyond the restrictions of their own musical tastes and prejudices and come together in their appreciation for distinct musicianship and hard-working musicians. That is, it would be if Brett ever decided to lift the restraining order.
Before you take off to check out the other submissions to the "I’ll show you mine if you show me yours" Write Off (oh, and I’ll be checking to see that you do), be sure to hound AggieBrett until he posts his review of Elliott Smith’s "XO". Then, get husslin’ to visit these guys:
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