The Great Escape Artist - Jane's Addiction

'''1991 would prove a fateful year for L.A. art-rockers Jane’s Addiction; marred by the announcement of the band’s dissolution. It didn’t take long for the fans to see the band buckle under their inner-tensions, bearing witness to guitarist Dave Navarro and singer Perry Farrell locking heads and squaring fists during their opening show at Lollapalooza. One could be pressed to argue that this has served as an historical footnote marking these two entities; both now dragged kicking and screaming into the new millennium and still making headlines, even during periods of relative inactivity.'''

 

So here we have The Great Escape Artist, the fifth album from this notoriously unwieldy and uncompromising band; and one can sense we are about to tread upon familiar ground. Cynically, Farrell’s poignant lyric ‘We’ve become a big business/ a galaxy merger’ whilst intended as a metaphor for some blossoming romantic relationship, manifests itself more as the albums mission statement. As a decade-long admirer, however, I was ready to defend the boys in the face of adversity as I peeled back the cellophane. For those disillusioned by 2003’s comeback Strays, the reintroduction of founding bass-player Eric Avery in 2009 has redefined and focused their mystique once again. In many respects, Avery is no rock-steady low-slung picker, but serves as Jane’s sonic architect whose propulsive, throbbing basslines fuelled much of the strongest work.
At the outset The Great Escape Artist well-and-truly lives up to its on-paper potential; stirring opener ‘Underground’ is a suitably bombastic reintroduction featuring some spellbinding guitar work from Navarro, elevating the band into the stratosphere with compliments to Muse producer Rich Costey. However, following the Avery-directed ‘End to the Lies’, we see this palpable intensity dip considerably – a downward spiral which continues throughout the track listing.
Drummer Stephen Perkins is hereafter resolved to the backseat, rarely given the opportunity to flex his considerable musical muscle; such melodramatic fare as ‘Splash a Little Water on It’ and ‘Twisted Tales’ have him player the mere human metronome, while Costey’s lacquered production lend a clinical chilliness associated more with his previous clients than Farrell and co.’s emotional howl. Only the excellent ‘Broken People’ tears this canvas wide-open, a signature Farrell reverie centred on a departed female protagonist recalling ‘Jane Says’ et al.
So what to make of it all then? For this writer, we are now occupying the most infuriating space in rock’s sonic architecture; should’ve, could’ve, would’ve. As Marlon Brando put it, they ‘coulda been contenders’, but the perfunctory nature of many of the tracks weakens the fiery-tonic of their opening salvos. Farrell’s lyrical dichotomy of ‘we still know how to rock’ and coy sentimentality takes a distanced reflection on his youthful hedonism, and while ‘going through the motions’ is an unfair assessment, it just doesn’t sound from the heart.