Ted Leo, one of rock's last great intellectual populists, likes to throw you. Now on his fifth album, Living With the Living, the thirtysomething rocker still prefers the same music he's probably loved since his teens: the smarty-pants punk and new wave of turn-of-the-1970s UK labels like Stiff; the amped-up rhythm'n'soul of 60s mod and ska; the rangy heavy rock of Thin Lizzy; the hard-strumming folksiness of 80s indie; and the idealism impressed on him by American hardcore. The Pharmacists' oeuvre is all of a two-toned piece, but each record stands on its own, just different enough from its predecessor. So while I haven't lived with Living for very long, it's steadily grown on me, making me want to rave louder about it than it may deserve.
Call me a booster rather than a critic, but I love Ted Leo and the Pharmacists and seriously want this band be, like, fucking huge. But at the same time, and call me old-fashioned, it's honorable the way Leo has opted to grow his audience and his songwriting talent organically-- and watch both increase exponentially, on his own terms. I like that he's got ethics and ideals that go beyond lifestyle choices. I like that he sees writing the most compassionate song possible about eating disorders as a political act, because it is. And with its airtight rhythm section and the crackling energy of its bug-eyed frontman in his Conflict T-shirt, no rock band currently touring puts on a better live show than the Pharmacists.
On stage is where the looser songs of Living With the Living will ultimately live or die. More expansive-- for better or worse-- and prettier than anything Leo's done yet, the record is most closely related to 2001's The Tyranny of Distance, which was the sound of R.E.M.-style jangle stretched tight until it turned to punk. Like most punk lifers, Leo's music expresses a big-hearted emotional openness, but sonically, punk has also made him a solid editor, suspicious of bullshit ornamentation.
"The Sons of Cain" is one of the better examples of his skill here: Its driving cowpunk finds flashes of Chuck Berry in Leo's licks, handclaps, and a sharp piano run tucked neatly in the mix, plus some ecstatic, throat-shredding whooping at the climax. As usual, Leo knows how to start strong, too, opening Living with three sure shots in a row-- especially "Army Bound", with its wicked solo. Leo's always had a bit of guitar hero in him, usually confining it to the one- or two-note rave-ups that smart punk bands hold to the fade-out. But where he once shaved his songs to their communicative essentials, here he's getting loose, mostly because when bands get suppler, more responsive, and more technically accomplished they're apparently entitled to stretch out. Like, you know, the Clash.
It's an old rock band move that fails as much as it succeeds. For example, after four minutes of actual song, the outro to "The Lost Brigade" is three-and-a-half minutes of one note-- and not a particularly engaging note, either. You can skip the reggae trifle "The Unwanted Things", a momentum-killer on an album with an already wobbly sense of pacing. You can also pass over the awful political jeremiad "Bomb. Repeat. Bomb.", which my Leo-loving drinking buddy disparagingly described as Blink 182 trying to be Crass (though I wouldn't be that rude to either Crass or Blink 182). Strangely, for such a sharp political eye and such an obvious humanist as Leo, the lyrics seem to be attacking the young bomber pilots, not the political quagmire that put those bombers in the air. And though Leo's fingerpicking is lovely and the melody's memorable, the tin whistle break in "A Bottle of Buckie" verges on Celtic kitsch.
When playing to his strengths, though, Leo's songwriting is as strong as ever. Joe Strummer would appreciate the riffs on "Who Do You Love?", which climaxes in a stirring outro straight out of "Safe European Home" and indulges Leo's own mannerisms to great effect. (See also the short, sharp "The World Stops Turning".) "The Toro and the Toreador" should have been the album's closer; it's the climatic, rousing yelp of Tyranny's "You Could Die (Or This Might End)" with years of experience behind it, stretched out into a six-minute slow burn that milks the peaks of big melodramatic ballads for all they're worth. And "La Costa Brava" may be the best thing the Pharmacists have recorded yet, Leo's version of an epic, radio-ready, quiet/loud/quiet modern rock song.
So despite a pretty high hit/miss ratio, as a big-step-forward record, Living ain't exactly Armed Forces. Maybe that's because, instead of being in thrall to fastidious (for which you can read "British") writers of single-length punk songs, Living often sounds like Leo's most American record to date, its unabashed big-ness more like Jersey boy Leo is still living under the towering shadow of the dude who made Born to Run. And like Bruce, to whom he's frequently been compared and whom he's covered live, even when Leo's attempts at big statements and big songs flop on Living, that same big-hearted openness makes you want to, rightly or wrongly, forgive his excesses. Even at his most impassioned and over the top, you never catch glimpses of Leo molting at some point into Bono. But I continue to slot Leo in the "hero" column, and despite Living's indulgences and occasionally soggy bottom half, I also continue to wish him well in his quest to win the world over, one kid at a time.
