Billy Bragg's been called many things-- bard, busker, bloke, Bolshevik-- but ever since his auspicious emergence into the British punk scene, a folkie wielding an electric guitar, he's remained remarkably true to his roots. Bragg's the missing link between Woody Guthrie and Joe Strummer, and anyone who's seen him perform in recent years knows he retains the power to move and inspire. He gives you hope, and it's a testament to his songs that while the context has shifted-- wither Reagan/Thatcher, welcome Bush/Blair (and later Brown)-- his music still makes you want to storm the gates.
Obviously a lot has happened since Bragg's last album, 2002's England, Half-English-- not least the enduring Iraq war and the soul-crushingly sloppy prosecution of the so-called war on terror. But anyone expecting Bragg to rise to the occasion when he's arguably needed the most may be disappointed by Mr. Love & Justice. In 2008, as the world goes to shit, Bragg has countered the pervasive bad vibes with an album of love songs. Mostly.
Not that Bragg has given up the fight. Hardly. He's spent much of the gap between records writing books ("The Progressive Patriot"), reissuing his back catalog, and founding Jail Guitar Doors, a musical education program for British inmates. In the meantime, he's kept gigging like a kid half his age, fueled with the same fervor and idealism that still propels Pete Seeger to pick up his banjo whenever he hears the call of a cause in need of his help and support. But on Mr. Love & Justice, he comes off rather staid, if never less than solid.
Granted, songs like the soulful "I Keep Faith" (featuring fellow rabble rouser Robert Wyatt on backing vocals) and "You Make Me Brave" are as lovely as they come. The latter in particular, plus the dramatic "Something Happened" and the new Bragg classic "I Almost Killed You", seem tailor made, lyrics and all, for a hopeless romantic with better pipes than Bragg, someone like Morrissey. That's a compliment, as Bragg would likely be first to admit, and indeed much of his appeal still stems from his own modest abilities. Bragg's one of us, and sounds it, at least if you exclude his impressive songwriting abilities.
Moments of Bragg's trademark indignation are there, of course: "Sing Their Souls Back Home" is gospel by way of Barking, a tribute to the downtrodden and trod-upon-- and that includes, of course, the troops abroad. ("Bring em home now," declares Bragg, as if anyone had any doubt where he stood.) The cheeky but also a little cheesy "The Johnny Carcinogentic Show" takes aim at the marketing of toxins (both literal and metaphoric) to kids. The simple "Farm Boy" is sung from the perspective of a soldier stuck in a snafu of the military's doing, while "O Freedom" is as earnest as they come, a tale of extraordinary rendition delivered with melancholy fatalism.
It's understandable that Bragg may not want to be pigeonholed as a protest singer, but if it ever was the time to step up, it's now. Where's the outrage? Where's the anger? Mr. Love & Justice isn't exactly the musical equivalent of dropping flowers down the barrels of rifles, but there is a certain passivity to the disc, a characteristic magnified by the rootsy approach of Bragg's trusty band the Blokes, who channel the bucolic bent of the Band rather than the edge of the Clash. It's a disc born of love when what the world needs is actually a little more justice.
