That is to say that Ringo’s latest, Look Up, is done for the love of the game. It’s been six years since he last dropped a full-length, but the timing could hardly be better. Everything old is new again - country music is as mainstream as it’s been in two decades or so. While Starr has dabbled in all manner of genres, from rock to reggae to disco, he never sounds so respectable as he does over a twanging guitar.
Legendary composer T Bone Burnett produces and writes all but two songs. One surmises he was given a long leash (and a good chunk of cash), as a lot of these tracks wind up seriously overstuffed. The toe tapping opener “Breathless” is one of many tracks that’s muddied by layer upon layer of guitar. The constant more-is-more approach is no doubt a blast for the pickers in the studio, and it’ll probably sound cool live, but on the record, there’s an airlessness to it all.
This isn’t always the case - the classy “String Theory” stands out for its delicate instrumentation built around subtle lap steel and sturdy stand up bass. This does however serve to bring Starr’s vocals to the fore. The memification of Ringo as the “bad Beatle” has always been overstated (Lennon’s catty comments aside, you cannot listen to the likes of “Hey Bulldog” and pretend he was a bad drummer), but a great singer he wasn’t then and isn’t now. At his best, he’s a nice guileless foil to the featured country ringers. Billy Strings and Molly Tuttle appear between them on more than half of the tracks, and Tuttle in particular does fine work giving her tunes a melodic purpose while Starr does what he can.
Other times, the main man is cut adrift, with mixed success. The nadir is “Time On My Hands”, a song a more rudimentary than the teenage Quarrymen’s efforts. “I used to have a true love, everything was fine / But now she’s found a new love, she’s no longer mine,” Starr opens, with all the enthusiasm a couplet like that deserves. The baritone guitar is a nice nod to Glenn Cambell-esque pop, but Burnett on this form is no Jimmy Webb, and the fabulously wealthy, presumably contented 84 year old Ringo Starr doesn’t make the most compelling protagonist.
Therein lies the challenge of writing songs for Starr. For a
monumentally famous man, he’s rather unknowable. Who is Ringo Starr? He
enjoys fictional trains and Brexit. He used to like fan mail. He’s not
keen on taxes. Unlike your Maccas and Mitchells, you don’t get the sense
he’s inherently moved by the muse (though his aforementioned 19
previous solo albums suggest otherwise). He’s not driven by money woes
like Leonard Cohen in his late career purple patch. Would he have been
better off laying down a record of country classics? Possibly, depending
on how attached one is to said classics.
That’s not to say Look Up is without charm. It’s
fantastic to hear the Liverpudlian twang still present in his vowels,
despite sunning himself in LA and Monte Carlo for the majority of his
life. And there’s no suggestion at all that he’s phoning it in. Just
listen to the chorus of the rootsy title track. Starr’s like a
goalkeeper warming up, diving high then scuttling down low, and getting a
glove to the ball for the most part.
Most surprisingly: there are two very good songs on here.
“Never Let Me Go” is a dark, harmonica-driven blues number, reminiscent
of early Stones. If it’s hard to imagine Jagger delivering the titular
command with quite such lack of grit, it’s still a welcome change of
pace. Even better is “Rosetta”, which evokes a CCR swamp-stomp. The
sidemen were given dispensation to engage distortion pedals here; again
the sound is huge, but it’s a muscular vibe, rather than just adding
another mandolin to the mix because it’s there.
The record ends with Starr’s sole co-written piece, and
it’s not half bad. Titled “Thankful”, it’s unsurprisingly a song of
gratitude, and he’s shrewd enough to leave its subject vague. It could
be to a romantic partner, but it could just as easily be to the fans
who’ve kept him rich, revered, and (more or less) relevant for more than
three quarters of his life. It’s a sweet note on which to end a well
intentioned record, with the imperious Alison Krauss brought in for the
polish. He even gets his “peace and love” catchphrase in there. Gotta
protect the brand.
If there’s such thing as a Ringo completist, this slice of
Merseyside Americana will slip down like a cold root beer on a hot
Nashville afternoon. For everyone else – look, you’ve probably not
listened to Starr’s last 19 LP's, and this one’s unlikely to be your
Damascene conversion. But there are far worse things an octogenarian
rockstar could be up to.
