It’s tempting to say that Rod the Mod jumped the shark on 1978’s Blondes Have More Fun, but it’s hardly accurate; rock ’n’ roll’s most lovable bad boy had been on a downward slide ever since 1974’s Smiler. And anybody who thinks “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy” was Rod’s first ignominious bellyflop into the pop music swamp obviously missed “Hot Legs” from 1977’s Foot Loose and Fancy Free.
In short Stewart’s decline was not precipitous but gradual. That said, by the time Blondes Have More Fun came out, Stewart had coarsened from irrepressible rogue to leering roué, and from a teller of incredible coming of age songs to the type of aging lothario who enjoys his “dirty weekends.” Gone was the Stewart who gave us “Maggie May,” “Every Picture Tells a Story,” and “You Wear It Well,” replaced by the old-enough-to-know-better celebrity sleaze who gave us “Attractive Female Wanted.”
Gone forever was the guy who captured the confusion and triumph of growing to manhood; the Stewart of 1978 sounds winded, jaded, and willing to settle for pure pop pablum. No more songs of innocence and experience for the face of the Faces; these are songs of priapism and shlock, his trademark tartan scarf replaced by Italian suits and everything they represent. At his best he sang for Everyman; here he comes across as just another Eurotrash playboy.
At his best, Rod Stewart was an underdog and cheerful fatalist; he was the kind of guy who got arrested in Paris “for inciting a peaceful riot” and fell for the wiles of an older woman but who wrote it all off with a nod and a wink and a homespun philosophy that was as simple as it was sound (“Make the best out of the bad just laugh it off/You didn’t have to come here anyway”).
And he put together the best recording outfits you ever will hear; whether he was using the Faces as a backup band or the more folk-leaning musicians on Every Picture Tells a Story and his other, earlier albums, the results were the perfect complement to his amazing voice and uncanny ability to craft songs about salt of the earth types looking for love, a way out, or in the case of that rogue’s anthem “Lost Paraguayos,” just some less rainy weather in a Nazi-friendly South American backwater.
Blondes’ weaknesses are two-fold; one, it is totally bereft of the kinds of story songs that made Stewart such a one-of-a-kind. Two, the musicians involved don’t hold a candle to the Faces or Pete Sears, Martin Quintentton, or Micky Waller. Ron Wood and the other Faces fueled his rock songs; the latter bunch gave his music a folksy feel but never failed to provide a solid rock bottom. The relatively anonymous crew on Blondes play generic rock ’n’ roll and provide generic backdrops for the soft ones; they’re undistinguished at best, and the songs they’ve produced are undistinguished as well.
“Do Ya Think I’m Sexy” is the usual target, and so it should be. Not only is it a craven disco move, but Rod forever turns himself into a parody sex symbol for the trifling Eurodisco set. It ranks with “Hot Legs” as the worst song he’d ever commit to record, and casts a pall over every brilliant thing he’d done before it.
The quasi-rootsy, quasi-ska “Attractive Female Wanted” cements his fall from grace. The old Rod would have written a funny and self-deprecating song on the same subject; here his attempt to sound like a regular guy rings terribly false, one because he comes up short in the comedy department and two because the song itself is subpar. His “Woo!” sounds half-hearted (as does his singing), the sax sounds like it’s suffering from chronic fatigue syndrome, and I get the idea Rod was listening to Some Girls a whole lot when he recorded it.
The title track is a rockabilly trifle; ZZ Top meets the Stray Cats. But the band just doesn’t have the chops to pull it off. And the lyrics aren’t much to write home about either. The fact that I’ll take it over just about anything else on the LP isn’t a compliment; it speaks to the paucity of competition pure and simple. No wit, no intelligence; hell, the best thing about it is Rod’s barking at the end.
“Last Summer” is a flute-infested trip to the Bahamas or someplace similar and a total disaster; one of England’s premier soul singers is reduced to gentle crooning, and Yacht Rock is not far behind. “Dirty Weekend” isn’t a terrible rock song; Rod cackles, the guitars and drums are in your face, etc. etc. But the lyrics are Rod the aging rake at his worst; he’s running off with his best friend’s girl, his reputation proceeds him, and there’s nothing lovable about the guy; he sounds like a rich old goat stockpiling cialis.
“Ain’t Love a Bitch” boasts a pretty little melody and is a meaningless little pop song, but it’s impossible to forget that there was a time when Rod poured heart and soul into meaningful pop songs. This baby is every bit as disposable as toilet paper and makes me wonder what happened to the guy who gave us the likes of “Mandolin Wind.” Is this the kind of pap that led Rod’s best friend’s girl to run off with him on a dirty weekend? If so, I can only shake my head at the sad state of immorality; does it really have no standards?
And if “Ain’t Love a Bitch” is forgettable “The Best Day of My Life” is pure treacle, musically, vocally, and lyrically, and as telling a demonstration of Rod the Mod’s fall from grace as “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy.” “Is That the Thanks I Get?” has backbone but no soul; it’s a workmanlike exercise in Dylanesque recrimination that comes up short in all departments, and there’s no way in Hell it would ever have found its way onto one of Stewart’s earlier solo LPs.
Stewart discofies Holland-Dozier-Holland’s “Standing in the Shadow of Love” and doesn’t do it any favors in the process, but at least he puts a bit of bite into his vocals. And while hamfisted, his band at least has the decency to bludgeon the song over the head, making it the closest thing to a rocker (how ironic) on Blondes Have More Fun. As for “Scarred and Scared,” it starts as a Dylan-style harmonica hoot, devolves into an acoustic-guitar-fueled foray into good old country comfort, and might have worked except for the fact that Stewart’s aims for sentimentality and hits cloying instead.
At his best, Rod Stewart was plenty of things: outcast, prodigal son, joker, everyman philosopher, party animal who got thrown out of the party for not sporting the right school tie. Most of all he was a great storyteller: sly, compassionate, and never afraid to be the butt of his own joke.
The Rod Stewart of Blondes Have More Fun is a spent force; he has no more great stories or great rock ’n’ roll songs in him. With the exception of “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy,” he’s not even good for a snide laugh. The old Rod made me as happy as any rock ’n’ roller ever will; on Blondes Have More Fun he just makes me sad.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
D+
