Remembering JJ Cale, born on this day in 1938. —Ed.
Folks take things pretty slow down in Tulsa; they ain’t in no particular hurry to get anywhere, and see no good reason to talk real fast like your Northern city slickers either. Ain’t nothin’ can’t be put off ‘til tomorrow, and that includes this here record review, which I intend to write at a slow shuffle. The late JJ Cale, who epitomized the laid-back Tulsa sound better than anybody–without even trying, natch, because trying is hard work and not how they do things down in Oklahoma–probably would have wanted it that way.
Cale inspired the likes of Eric Clapton and Neil Young, wrote a handful of songs like “Call Me the Breeze” and “Cocaine” that have entered the popular music lexicon, and in general left a faint but indelible mark on the American sound with his mellow blend of blues, country, rockabilly, and jazz. Call his music what you will (Americana, swamp rock, country rock, Red Dirt–the list goes on), the important thing to remember is that Cale was relaxed. Relaxed as dirt, relaxed as that raccoon sauntering at his leisure from your overturned trash can (keep hollering, he doesn’t care), relaxed as the oldest bluesman to ever pick out a song on yonder shotgun shack porch. Hurry just wasn’t in his vocabulary; take a potshot at him, and he’d have probably flinched slow.
In 1972 Cale, then in his thirties, finally got around to recording his first album, Naturally. Eric Clapton had just made a hit out of Cale’s “After Midnight,” and intrigued by the idea that he might be able to make some actual pocket change by being his laid-back self Cale found some time in his anything-but-hectic schedule to record 12 songs before, I don’t know, taking a long nap. Nobody would call the results electrifying, but in their own small way they changed the course of history.
I’ll say one thing for JJ–he simply refuses to be hurried. Hell, he even sings slow on the fast ones, and there aren’t that many fast ones. He’s content to shuffle along like an old dog to his supper, which isn’t going anywhere anyway. And this is both Cale’s genius and his downfall. If you’re a fan of laid back you probably love him. If you’re not a fan, like me, you find yourself wishing he’d chug a couple of cans of Red Bull and top them off with some NoDoz. Robert Christgau wrote of Naturally, “Push a little, fellas, it’ll feel so good.” I can’t help but agree with the guy.
Cale is considered a master of understatement, and on Naturally he does understated better than anybody this side of Randy Newman. He puts just enough oomph into “Call Me the Breeze” to make it breezy, and by so doing lets it be known that he’s the coolest customer in the great state of Oklahoma. It would be nice if the song were a bit longer–it’s here and gone just like that–but brevity is a Cale hallmark; only two of the songs on Naturally exceed the three-minute mark, if only because playing any longer might get, you know, tiring. And there’s so little to the fetching “Crazy Mama” I’m astounded it works; the song just slips by while Cale sings in that characteristic quiet voice of his, tossing in some distorted guitar riffs for flavor. It almost seems wrong to call “Crazy Mama” a song at all; like a lot of the tunes on Naturally it has the feel of a tossed-off demo.
“After Midnight” is exactly one second longer, but it’s for hard-core aficionados only; you would expect at least a tad of urgency on a song about letting it all hang down; instead it sidles humbly by, as if trying its level best to make no impression at all. In short it’s a trifle; you know you’re in trouble when the terminally relaxed Eric Clapton makes your version sound like a Sominex ad. “Clyde” is shockingly perky; Cale may be “sitting on the porch without no shoes,” but with Clyde on bass, Clyde’s dog singing harmony AND playing tambourine (with his tail!) and lots of fiddling going on this one is hoedown, not a sleep aid. It’s as close as Cale comes to letting the good times roll, and may be my favorite cut on the LP.
“Call the Doctor” is a sleepy blues and I avoid it; Cale plays with his consummate finesse, but this one suffers from anemia and a doctor is exactly what it needs. On the positive side it’s over before you know it, and the same can be said for “Don’t Go to Strangers,” which boasts an almost biblical set of lyrics and some very tasteful guitar but once again passes by like a half-remembered dream.
“Woman I Love” boasts a horn section, piano, and harmonica but no flash; it has momentum going for it, but once again comes off sounding half-baked. The oft-covered “Magnolia,” on the other hand, is a lovely salute to the woman he left down in New Orleans; Cale may sing it in a sleepy whisper, but he puts real feeling into his vocals. Songs this pretty don’t write themselves, but it’s a hallmark of Cale’s genius that you walk away from them almost thinking they did. “Nowhere to Run” has some get up and go; a real drummer moves things along, and the horns and rollicking piano provide punctuation. Sure, Cale sounds like he sleeping over it, but he always sounds like he’s on the brink of nodding off.
“River Runs Deep” reminds me, believe it or not, of the Velvet Underground; Cale sounds awake for a change, the percussion burbles, and it works thanks to a laid-back drone over which Cale tosses lots of tasteful licks. I also enjoy the slight but surprising boogie number “Bringing It Back,” which seems to be about getting caught smuggling soul from Mexico. Horns and piano add some color to Cale’s humble palette, but once again the song ends just when you’re beginning to groove on it. “Crying Eyes” is another nice one; the piano’s real pretty, Cale repeats the words “What can you do?” in a world-weary whisper, and his habitual restraint on guitar is a thing of beauty and a joy forever.
Naturally is a wispy, ephemeral thing; Cale aims for slight and hits his target right in the bull’s eye. He stretches lazily rather than stretching out, and the album wavers between a low-key charm and lassitude. Call it sleepy soul for sleepy people. Lack of ambition can be a good thing; set against the myriad pretentions of the time, Cale’s humility and restraint are both welcome and charming. But a steady diet of torpor is hardly my idea of a good time, and JJ’s often drowsy and half-unrealized songs too often fall on the wrong side of soporific.
This is, of course, what so many people love about him. Cale’s songs are preternaturally soothing–ambient music for the blues and country sets. But I sometimes get the idea that Cale turned his laid-back lack of grand ambition into a concept, or a shtick even. And as is the case with most shticks, you either like it or you don’t. I enjoy him in small doses, but I’m too much the edgy city slicker to love him. “Take It Easy” worked as an Eagles song; as a overarching aesthetic credo, not so much.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
B
