I’m doing something no one I know has ever done–listening to a Sammy Hagar album. I laugh at him, you probably laugh at him, hell everybody from Poughkeepsie to Pasadena laughs at him, but is he really as bad as we all know he is without having ever heard him? If what I’ve suffered through so far is any indication, he’s even worse.
You might argue that panning a Sammy Hagar LP is like shooting Phish in a barrel, but let me remind you that the guy who can’t drive 55 is a certified member of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, albeit for being a member of a band he did his earnest best to ruin. And I intend to do my level best to be fair, if only because while Sammy may indeed be (to quote Robert Christgau) “the biggest schmuck in the known biz” he also seems to be an amiable guy, and just the sort of laugh-a-minute fella you’d want to shoot the shit with while drinking his signature brand of tequila. Besides, he was the vocalist behind Montrose’s “Bad Motor Scooter,” and “Bad Motor Scooter” just happens to be a pretty good song.
But on 1977’s eponymous Sammy Hagar (his second solo LP) Sammy demonstrates the fatal character flaw that made his tenure as front man of Van Halen such a disaster–arch self-seriousness. The guy wouldn’t know a punch line if it was delivered to his kisser, and as a result Sammy Hagar is an overly earnest affair, and poor Sammy simply lacks both the smarts and talent to pull earnest off. A guy this shallow should never go deep, because his long passes are more than likely to hit the high school marching band playing in the fourth row smack in the tuba. Remember his infamous supergroup turn with the very law-firm-sounding Hagar Schon Aaronson Shrieve? Well, Sammy Hagar is just as bad, despite its inclusion of such “party anthems” as “Cruisin’ & Boozin’” and “Rock ‘N’ Roll Weekend.”
Let’s begin with the covers. Sammy has picked four odd ones, and only his take on Bruce “I did a brief stint in Blue Cheer!” Stephens’ “Fillmore Weekend” is a keeper–in fact, it’s one of only two songs on the album I would ever consider voluntarily listening to again. Hagar gives it a bouncy Van Morrison beat, abandoning his metal tendencies (good thing) for a jaunty summer vibe I wouldn’t at all mind hearing coming out of my car radio on some sunny July afternoon. Which is more than can be said for Hagar’s hard rock cover of the Paul Revere & The Raiders’ “Hungry,” which he very sinisterly transforms into a Foreigner song. If you like Foreigner, you may think that’s a good thing. Me, I have a hatred of Foreigner that borders on xenophobia, and the last thing I want as a patriotic American is to hear their generic hard rock sound taking root on American soil.
What Hagar does to Donovan’s “Catch the Wind” is unspeakable. He turns it into a sweeping space epic complete with soaring strings, pours every bathetic bit of emotion he can into his vocals, and in general transmogrifies poor Donovan’s fey folk song into a lurching and lumbering example of pomp metal at its worst. But that’s nothing compared to his mangling of Patti Smith’s “Free Money.” Hagar loads it up with signifying strings, sings it like it’s Shakespeare, and waits until the two-minute mark to start rocking. Gone are Patti’s glee and abandon; the best S.H. can do is let out an impressive shriek before sinking into a mawkish sea of sawing strings. It’s as bad a cover as any I’ve ever heard; if businessman Sammy can’t express his appreciation at falling into a hamper full of easy money, what can he express?
And his pair of party toons aren’t that much better. “Rock ‘N’ Roll Weekend” is another hard rock Foreigner soundalike and as stiff a boogie number as you can imagine. Compare it to the Dictators’ “Weekend” and then tell me which one better captures the feel of cutting loose come Friday night. Hell, Sammy doesn’t even sound like he enjoying himself that much. “Boozin’ & Cruisin’” is a bit better but still no winner. A standard hard rocker, “Boozin’ and Crusin’” is less about having a good time than putting the good times behind you; the song’s true message lies in the lines, “Be on top, you’ll see/Step myself out across that line/And be anything I want to be/But right now, everything’s alright.” This ain’t your standard let the good times roll; it’s a goddamn U.S. Army recruiting ad.
LP opener “Red” is a risible meditation on Sammy’s mystical connection with the color red (“You don’t know what it does to me, my crimson intensity/I’m haunted by the mystery, the mystery of red”) and is distinguished only by some cool zooming guitars and some Van Halen-like shouts of “Red! Red!” Otherwise it sounds like it belongs on the Flashdance soundtrack, and for all I know it is. “Love Has Found Me” is generic metal, but to be fair I’ve heard worse. I like its grinding guitars and inexorable groove, but all in all it’s faceless stuff and doesn’t exactly go off like bottle rockets in the night.
“The Pits,” different story. This song has character, and even proves Sammy is capable of producing a chuckle when he puts his mind to it. It’s not a very good song, mind you, but the horns are perky, and Sammy sings it with a modicum of self-deprecating charm. And his take on the travails of the guy who makes two dollars an hour and gets shit on by everybody (including his TV and his favorite record, which skips) strikes a nice Everyman chord; he gets hit in the head by a frisbee at the rock concert he paid too much money to get into, his waistline is expanding, and he can’t even keep his joint lit. Sammy may not have much luck capturing the good times, but on “The Pits” he does a stand-up job of capturing the shitty ones.
Had Sammy had the good sense to go the humor route he might have made something of himself. Alas, as anybody who has ever heard “Remember the Heroes” (Sammy’s well-meaning but really quite awful anthemic salute to our brave vets) can tell you he would much sooner be taken seriously as a heavyweight, and Sammy simply lacks the Joe Frazier left hook and Muhammad Ali smarts to pull it off. Why, the guy didn’t even possess the bare modicum of good sense necessary to realize that a concept as brainless as “I Can’t Drive 55” can only be approached humorously–one can only imagine what some jester like Joe Walsh might have done with it. (Free to Joe, this couplet: “I can’t drive 55/With my thumbs stuck in my eyes.”)
Listening to Sammy Hagar is the perfect corrective for anybody foolish enough to think we live in the best of all possible worlds. I’m suffering through “Swept Away” (which is off some album I have no intention of sitting through) as I write this, and I can only describe it as CS&N meets Jefferson Starship to hash out once and for all which band sucks worse. With a lighter touch, a lot more humor and some much-needed humility Sammy might go places. But we’re talking here about the guy who bequeathed us “Dick in the Dirt,” which isn’t funny. So I’m not holding my breath.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
D
