On the whole, classic rock radio is a pretty macho affair, full of "Hot Legs", "Big Balls", and "Radar Love". In a certain respect, Mott the Hoople's biggest hit (and only contribution to American classic rock playlists) fits right in: "All the Young Dudes" is upfront with its sexual desire and horny, twenty-something lust. There is one catch: It's also a celebration of the glam's gender-bending aesthetic.
At the time of its release, Mott the Hoople were wallowing in obscurity despite releasing four albums of high-powered boogie. They were ready to pack it in, but David Bowie encouraged them to soldier on, offering Mott the chance to record "Suffragette City". The band, though, wanted "Drive-In Saturday", which Bowie wasn't willing to part with. "All the Young Dudes" was the compromise. In the short term, Bowie came out looking the genius, as the band briefly achieved the stardom they felt was rightfully theirs, kicking out their two best albums in the process. But it couldn't last, and by 1974, guitarist Mick Ralphs was off playing in Bad Company and Mott faded back to the margins.
Mott the Hoople are still a widely respected and influential band, and it's pretty easy to hear why-- they've got the swagger, confidence, and riffs of glam and the basic approach of punk. That's not to mention vocalist Ian Hunter, whose voice was so limited and colorless that he probably made more than a few kids with guitars think "if this guy can sing in a band, surely I can." The band, however, found countless ways to work around Hunter, from melodic harmonizing on the choruses that he could yelp and talk-sing over to clever lead guitar parts that Ralphs used to inject hooks into the verses.
So Hunter becomes the everyman, just trying to get by, and the tension between the band's chops and his lack of skill and range is oddly poignant. All the Young Dudes closes with the dejected piano ballad "Sea Diver", a crushingly sad song that uses a diving bell as a metaphor for being trapped in a failed relationship. Hunter's inability to get through half an octave without cracking or morphing into a dock worker's shout sucks out all the maudlin potential of the piano part and string arrangement, turning them instead into a kind of security blanket. It's a strikingly emotional capstone to an album that mostly trades in funky rock and roll and leather-pantalooned swagger.
Young Dudes highlight "Sucker" is a slow, cowbell-guided rocker adorned with sax interjections from Bowie; it features a killer call-and-response between a harpsichord and a wordless backing vocal phrase on its chorus. The reissue appends a thunderous live version that suggests the band's true power wasn't really captured on any of its records. However, there's also a live version of "Sweet Jane" that's as forgettable as the studio version that leads off the original album. Conventional revisionist rock crit wisdom says this is a five-star record, but in truth it's not even close, and that song is a big part of the reason.
Elsewhere, a primordial version of "Ready for Love" pales in comparison to the version Bad Company took into the charts two years later, but the band gets in some strong hard boogie tunes on "Momma's Little Jewel" (the early demo version added here, called "Black Scorpio", is even nastier) and "One of the Boys", the rocking follow-up single to "All the Young Dudes". Bowie-philes will love the version of "All the Young Dudes" featuring his vocal, even though it's weaker than the version everyone knows.
Mott follows the band's biggest moment with a concept album about rock'n'roll success. You could argue that they'd hardly experienced enough fame to complain about it, but the songs are so humane and devoid of self-pity that it's impossible to hold it against them. "All the Way From Memphis" opens the album with a charging piano rhythm, and the harmony vocals on the chorus are one of the band's catchiest moments. It's a classic song in waiting, a nearly perfect throwback to the first rock era.
If the whole album stuck to that kind of meat-and-potatoes brilliance, the band could have been sitting on a masterpiece, but the songs on which they depart from the basics aren't nearly as compelling. "Violence" offers stark evidence that weird wasn't their territory, as Hunter sounds more drunk than unhinged on the off-kilter chorus, and interludes of people shouting and arguing add little more than expendable shots of surreal humor. Ralphs gets in an interesting solo on "Drivin' Sister", as he interrupts the band's headlong boogie and gets busy with the volume pedal, mimicking a steel guitar. "The Ballad of Mott the Hoople" nods to the band's Dylan influence with its rambling lament that "rock'n'roll's a loser's game" and humming Hammond organ, but closer "I Wish I Was Your Mother" takes it even further, appropriating the dusky ambiance of Dylan's work with the Band and adding mandolin and harmonica to the equation.
The band goes exploring on the second half of "I'm a Cadillac/El Camino Dolo Roso", cooking up a spooky groove over which Ralphs' searching slide guitar solo directly points the way to his work on Bad Company's first album. Rumor has it that Ralphs left Mott the Hoople because a song he had written was out of Hunter's vocal range, an obstacle he never had with Paul Rodgers singing his stuff. Hunter and the rest of the gang kept on going, logically titling their next album The Hoople, but it wasn't quite the same, and Hunter eventually struck out on his own as well, leaving this sometimes overlooked band with roughly the level of fame their music merited-- a couple of hits and a sizable cult following.
