Jeffry Hyman, alias Joey Ramone, led a turbulent life. His notoriety as a cult icon came at a price; his shyness and insecurities frequently crippled him in the face of a vicious music press. By the same token, these traits are arguably why his reputation has endured since his death in April 2001, following a seven year battle with lymphoma. Unlike Lydon or Strummer, the young rebel never saw himself as the anointed saviour of rock 'n roll; he wrote his lyrics on the back of shopping bags and, at least on the outside, carried with him the naïve persuasion of a school boy on his first date.
As an eleven year old Ramones addict, yelling the ‘wun, choo, free, faw’ gospel on the bus to school, I took Joey’s passing very hard indeed. His seemingly eternal youth was inspiring to me, and at that time I knew very little of his inner turmoil; I learnt a harsh lesson about the terseness of life, something I would only realise fully years later, picking up Floyd’s ‘Dark Side of the Moon’. In the late 70s, while us Brits were content with chucking bile at the middle classes and pretending to despise everything, the New Yorkers aligned to a more inventive, hook-driven approach. If you wanted to get raucous with The Ramones, you could; if you wanted to get arty with Television you could; if you wanted to get prophetic with Patti, you could. CBGB’s was a veritable melting pot of youthful exuberance.
This posthumous collection is a 50 minute whistle stop of demos and unreleased material written and recorded during The Ramones' 23 year lifespan. Featuring producers Jean Beauvoir, Ed Stasium, and Daniel Rey, all of whom had dealings with the band, this collection – like 2002’s ‘Don’t Worry about Me’ – serves as a remembrance of one of rock’s most misunderstood figures. That voice of his remains divisive, and it is difficult not to make Ramones comparisons, but 'Ya Know?' contains a few surprises. The occasional ballad aside, everyone knew what to expect from The Ramones. No bad thing of course, but their gawky frontman had more to him than their patented blend of bubble-gum surf-punk. One such chameleon moment is the sublime country drawl of Waiting for that Railroad - something Bruce Springsteen would manage to dress in a flannel shirt and spoil - but in the hands of the Forest Hills boy is sweet without ever turning saccharine.
There’s Got to Be More to Life is signature JR couplet repetition, but the mid-tempo stomp is its Achilles heel. The breakneck pace of old did well to hide lyrical shortfalls and is laid bare here, though the female backing – a recurring feature – keeps things pleasing. On the other hand, the swaggering 21st Century Girl is pure rock 'n roll, featuring a Kinksy riff from Joan Jett and a purring vocal that you just know JR is enjoying. His loveable nature makes him difficult to criticise, but I’m afraid to say this album has its share of turkeys. Despite it’s truly dire title Seven Days of Gloom is a solid punk-rocker, but you can’t help but feel its outro payoff should have come two minutes earlier; New York City is for the most part inaudible, sounding like it was recorded in a bathtub, in a house three streets away. A re-recording of The Ramones’ Merry Christmas (I don’t want to fight tonight) elevates things again; starker than the ‘Brain Drain’ version, with little more than vocals, guitar and obligatory sleigh bells at times, JR’s gritty warble is sure to give the heartstrings a tug.
There is nothing ground-breaking here, and none of the tunes quite match the grinding intensity of, say, Poison Heart - arguably his finest vocal moment and a bona-fide anthem for the disenfranchised – but 'Ya Know?' elucidates a singer who, beyond the Queens New York cracks, was hugely emotive and versatile. Ramones devotees will lap this up, and it will serve as an interesting curio to others. Granted, he probably would have been laughed off the X Factor, shot down in the Voice, but man, Gimme Gimme Shock Treatment any day!
Sourced from the Yorker: http://theyorker.co.uk/arts/music/albums/11572
No comments:
Post a Comment