The Wisdom of the Illiterati


	when the levee drips I don't want this blog to become all anti-T-bone all the time, but this piece by Terry Teachout in the Wall Street Journal (HT Michaelangelo), provides the perfect word to describe the infection that Burnett has been spreading for the last 20 years: importantitus. It's not just that Burnett suffers from the disease himself, but that he's passed it on to so many others. Elvis Costello, bathed in self-consciousness already, hardly needed the help, but T-Bone provided it anyway; Los Lobos, though I'm willing to make an exception for the first Latin Playboys album, were pretty much ruined by it; Marshall Crenshaw, who needed something bright and direct to boost his career after the commercial (though not artistic--it's my favorite Crenshaw album) misstep of Field Day, instead wallowed in the lugubrious atmospherics of Downtown and watched his fan base, and his label support, slide right down the drain. And so it goes, one career after another rendered impotent through the curse of self-importance and the belief that one achieves greatness not only by reaching for the brass ring every time out, but that slowing the carousel to a crawl and cranking up the fog machines somehow makes it easier. Latest case in point is this clip of Robert Plant and Allison Krause (backed by Burnett and Marc Ribot) applying the Burnett philosophy to Led Zeppelin's "Black Dog". Don't get me wrong; unlike some, I hold nothing that Zep produced as sacred (if someone whipped out a 25 minute kazoo version of "Kashmir", I'd be all for it), and as much as I dislike Burnett's production I admit there are some pretty good things on Raising Sand (largely because Plant, thank god, is too much of a rocker, and probably too much of a shallow asshole, to go for Burnett's guff for long). But this is a horrible mistake. Forget, for a moment, the alt-country pretentiousness of playing the riff on a banjo, and just consider how out of place the song's lyrics, which are nothing more than a bunch of old blues tropes about sex and lust strung together, sound in this context. Zep's original is a masterpiece because they brilliantly and flagrantly raunched it up past the breaking point; it's outrageous, but as an example of a young man's unrestrained lust it makes perfect sense. This Burnett influenced version makes no sense at all. It isn't even dirty, or, if it is, it's school-yard dirty: look at all the rude things we can get away with saying if we're nice and sweet about it. There's something grotesque, in fact, about the way Plant and Krause smile at each other while sweetly crooning lines like "A big-legged woman ain't got no soul". Plant isn't a young man any more, and he should be more careful: Burnett has made him sound like some old pervert who whispers rude suggestions to young women whenever he gets close to them. Somehow I don't think that's the image he's wants to convey. \| [Archives] Search entries:		top ten 1966 top ten OTHER OCCASIONAL RAMBLINGS Hail Blogoslavia! ~~100~~ 45 or so things about JSM The Saga of the Lone Biscuit OTHER BLOGS Blogroll Me

when the levee drips

I don't want this blog to become all anti-T-bone all the time, but this piece by Terry Teachout in the Wall Street Journal (HT Michaelangelo), provides the perfect word to describe the infection that Burnett has been spreading for the last 20 years: importantitus. It's not just that Burnett suffers from the disease himself, but that he's passed it on to so many others. Elvis Costello, bathed in self-consciousness already, hardly needed the help, but T-Bone provided it anyway; Los Lobos, though I'm willing to make an exception for the first Latin Playboys album, were pretty much ruined by it; Marshall Crenshaw, who needed something bright and direct to boost his career after the commercial (though not artistic--it's my favorite Crenshaw album) misstep of Field Day, instead wallowed in the lugubrious atmospherics of Downtown and watched his fan base, and his label support, slide right down the drain. And so it goes, one career after another rendered impotent through the curse of self-importance and the belief that one achieves greatness not only by reaching for the brass ring every time out, but that slowing the carousel to a crawl and cranking up the fog machines somehow makes it easier.

Latest case in point is this clip of Robert Plant and Allison Krause (backed by Burnett and Marc Ribot) applying the Burnett philosophy to Led Zeppelin's "Black Dog". Don't get me wrong; unlike some, I hold nothing that Zep produced as sacred (if someone whipped out a 25 minute kazoo version of "Kashmir", I'd be all for it), and as much as I dislike Burnett's production I admit there are some pretty good things on Raising Sand (largely because Plant, thank god, is too much of a rocker, and probably too much of a shallow asshole, to go for Burnett's guff for long). But this is a horrible mistake. Forget, for a moment, the alt-country pretentiousness of playing the riff on a banjo, and just consider how out of place the song's lyrics, which are nothing more than a bunch of old blues tropes about sex and lust strung together, sound in this context. Zep's original is a masterpiece because they brilliantly and flagrantly raunched it up past the breaking point; it's outrageous, but as an example of a young man's unrestrained lust it makes perfect sense. This Burnett influenced version makes no sense at all. It isn't even dirty, or, if it is, it's school-yard dirty: look at all the rude things we can get away with saying if we're nice and sweet about it. There's something grotesque, in fact, about the way Plant and Krause smile at each other while sweetly crooning lines like "A big-legged woman ain't got no soul". Plant isn't a young man any more, and he should be more careful: Burnett has made him sound like some old pervert who whispers rude suggestions to young women whenever he gets close to them. Somehow I don't think that's the image he's wants to convey.