When Willie Nelson began his ascent to country music stardom in the 1970s, he managed to corral two types of fans. The first group was the rednecks, drawn to Willie's country sound and perhaps even his pedigree as the guy who wrote "Crazy" for Patsy Cline; and the second group was the hippies, who saw Willie as one of their own: a long-haired, scruffy-bearded pot-smoker with a propensity for traditional music. Thirty years later, Nelson's audience has expanded beyond those two polar demographics, and the man himself has become such an icon that he can put out lackluster albums like Milk Cow Blues or Countryman without taking a hit. So he's free to follow his muse wherever it leads, whether it's to Jamaica or to the Delta.
Or to Ryan Adams' doorstep. The former Whiskeytown frontman and indie gadfly has a little redneck in him, but a lot of hippie, and he's fashioned himself squarely in Willie's shadow: decisively rejecting genre tags, following his own schedule, and taking up the outlaw mantle. He makes for an interesting match for Willie-- not always a good match, but an interesting one. Songbird, which features Willie's typical assortment of covers and new takes on his own songs, shouldn't be as good as it is. Its flaws are obvious and mistakable, and yet, after a few listens, it becomes increasingly difficult to deny its warm vibe and easy, anything-goes sensibility.
Up close, it's a real mess. Adams' gloppy production disregards the natural rise and fall of Willie's distinctive voice and the odd cadence of his phrasing. As a producer, Adams adds too many guitars and just too much sound to these songs, such that Willie seems to get lost in the Grateful Dead cover "Stella Blue" and Gram Parsons' "$1000 Wedding". And the gospel choir on "Blue Hotel" and "Hallelujah" (more on the latter later) seems crassly over the top. Furthermore, Adams' backing band, the Cardinals, create a sound as shaggy as Adams' haircut, taking as many liberties with meter and melody as Willie does but without exhibiting his grace, control, and subtlety. Too often they barrel over his vocals and guitar solos, especially toward the end of "Hallelujah". Only harmonica player Mickey Raphael seems attuned to Willie's style, but then, they've been playing together for decades.
So on one level, Songbird should be as much a disaster as last year's woeful reggae album Countryman, which seemed like just an excuse for Willie to get down to Jamaica. Part of this album's success is to Adams' credit. Honestly, I've always thought his off-the-cuff disposition was a put-on: His lack of an act seemed like an act in itself, and the messy spontaneity seemed more like an aesthetic choice than an unassuming, unpolished approach. But on Songbird, the spontaneity really does sound spontaneous. These songs have the warts-and-all demeanor of Willie's live show, mixing professionalism with creative joy as the musicians get caught up in the moment. "We Don't Run" and "Rainy Day Blues" are loose, percolating jams that sound like they were devised for demanding audiences. And credit Adams too with avoiding easy reverence: The redux of Willie's classic "Sad Songs and Waltzes" sheds the forlornness of the original and recasts it as a sly career commentary from a 73-year-old outlaw.
But most of the credit belongs to Willie, who remains admirably game for any creative detour or experiment. I wouldn't be surprised if he teamed up with Timbaland next. Adams gives him an electric guitar and places him in a rock setting, but Willie meets him more than halfway. He alters his vocal approach dramatically, reaching a heartbroken climax on "$1000 Wedding" and a grim hopefulness on the closing "Amazing Grace". Fleetwood Mac's "Songbird" and his own composition "Back to Earth" force him to hew closer to the melody, despite roughening up his voice.
Like cohort Johnny Cash, Willie has made an impossibly long career by turning his limitations into strengths: His voice is thin but tender and surprisingly dexterous, and it hasn't aged a bit. So, the one song that seems most beyond his abilities is the most interesting on the album, if only for the challenges it presents. Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" may be the most overused song of the past few years, solemnly covered by Jeff Buckley, John Cale, Bono, and Chris Botti, and montaged to death on "Scrubs", "House", and "The O.C." Another interpretation by anyone, even Willie Nelson-- hell, especially Willie Nelson-- should be unbearable. However, with Raphael's harmonica setting the tone in the intro and the band recalling Willie's cover of "A Whiter Shade of Pale" from 1982's Always on My Mind, this "Hallelujah" is noticeably different. And it's more than just the country-rock sound: Willie sings as though he deliberately wants to reinterpret the song, to claim its message of creativity and inspiration as his own. He makes great use of his lower register as he talks out the verses, and instead of sustaining the syllables on the chorus, he lets his voice waver into silence, reinstating the song's precarious sense of resignation and uncertain defiance.
Here's where a less-is-more musical approach would seem like a no-brainer, but Adams mucks up the production, creating a wall of sound that towers over Willie. Atop that is a gospel choir that intones the song's chorus, but they sound completely out of place: This is a song for a lone singer, a solitary voice crying out for and against God. For a few minutes that's exactly what Willie gives us, and then that plaintive minimalism is exactly what Adams confounds. The song sounds unsettled, unsure of what either artist wants it to be. This collaboration is much the same: Nothing here sounds like it's been fully thought out or planned, and Songbird sounds all the better for it.
