Black Crowes

Sometimes I have a ghetto in my mind

other times sunshine high head fine

Raise your hand if, upon hearing the name Black Crowes, you're not a victim of a conditioned reflex, instantly picturing a hip-shaking Chris Robinson, garish bell-bottom trousers and buxom African-American backing singers at his side, all set to the evergreen strains of "Remedy". Almost inevitable, you'll agree, that this is the association that comes to mind. It's only natural to remember them through the record that in the States debuted straight at the top of the charts, and turned each of its four singles into genuine Billboard specialists, a feat never matched by anyone before or since. Of course, numbers alone tell you very little. Just think how many forgettable acts seem to have taken out a subscription to the top of the charts, especially in more recent times, picking up along the way even fewer detractors than the Crowes did back then. Put much more simply, it's worth remembering that "Shake Your Money Maker" was already a solid bestseller, a lethal collection of killer hooks, and perhaps those who didn't raise their hand a moment ago still have in mind the cocky, scruffily dressed kids covering Otis Redding and shouldering their way through with hard-rock swagger. Even today, their debut still trails by at least a couple of lengths behind "The Southern Harmony And Musical Companion", which stands as the more authoritative choice for best record, having also managed to codify, trademark-style, what was the fundamental sonic idea of the Atlanta outfit.

Picking their most dazzling achievement would seem, then, like child's play, and the memorable meeting of blues fervor and Southern grit immortalized across those ten epic tracks would appear to settle the matter before it's even begun.

But there's a catch, and it's a big enough one to make all the difference. The Crowes kept pushing to climb their own personal mountain for a while longer - a couple more albums, essentially - a period in which they showed themselves keen, above all, to place no limits on their vision. From the tributes to Black musical fervor on "Southern Harmony" to the easy-listening insolence of "Three Snakes And One Charm", they spent their five most dazzling years pursuing a quiet exploration, whose courage ultimately met with rather disappointing commercial returns. It's probably no coincidence that this was also the era of the band's perfect circle, the classic lineup, the magic hexagon. Just five years, as noted, but a particularly intense five years at that. First came the chase for the right alchemy, then, at the tail end, the usual drug-fueled decay and an equally standard bout of internal despotism. In between came "Amorica", the moment of miracles.

If the title says little to you, take a moment to consider the cover. Fans can barely recall those of the first two albums, but this one, with a mound of venus barely contained by a skimpy Stars & Stripes bikini, will have crossed paths with even the most casual observer. Inside it flickers with the transgressive, larger-than-life aura of Seventies rock, and it's precisely from that era that it comes, lifted from a 1976 cover of Hustler Magazine. In today's cesspool of imagery, it's a picture that would barely raise an eyebrow, but when the album hit stores it still kicked up an almighty fuss: retail giants Walmart and Kmart leading a firing squad, the ban, the self-censorship and the inevitable soft compromise.

More mature and ambitious than anything they'd done before, the "Amorica" project was put together amid a state of blissful confusion, taking shape out of the abortion of a difficult third album, "Tall", sacrificed at the time more due to outside pressure than any real second thoughts, so the band could keep riding the winning wave of its more immediate predecessor live. Into the bin went a handful of genuinely lovely songs, recorded alongside another band in a state of grace, labelmates the Jayhawks, songs destined to delight the odd completist thanks to some belated but valuable rescues ("The Lost Crowes") or the usual bootlegs. As the first imitators were already starting to surface, Geffen's answer leading the pack with LA's Freewheelers, the Atlanta sextet went back into the studio in the spring of 1994 with Jack Joseph Puig, the trusted producer of their friends Jellyfish. They could have settled for a carbon copy of the hugely profitable formula tried out a couple of years earlier, but the thrill of a new gamble won out. The turn taken was in fact bolder and more surprising than anyone bothered to note at the time, a foray into elusive yet airy rock-psychedelic territory, with fewer muscle-flexing exercises, far fewer riffs and a more pronounced leaning toward alternative-style balladry. The album distanced itself from the usual revivalist registers without giving in to the lure of a watered-down grunge that, in the year of Kurt Cobain's death, was still very much in vogue. Rather like the contemporaneous "Monster" by R.E.M., it opted, surprisingly, for a more emotionally visceral approach, laying itself bare with unmistakable romantic emphasis.

Listening to a track like the lead single "A Conspiracy", you'd be forgiven for doubting everything just said. Its grooves are in fact ruled by the explosive band of the early records: two gorgeously incisive guitars, Gorman's prominent but hardly showy drumming and Harsch's murky keyboards steering the torrential flow of sound, a flood that sweeps everything away while the frontman wears his voice ragged like a man possessed. Indeed, in his balancing act between fierce inflections and sulky poses, the elder Robinson confirms just how comfortable he remains perpetually preening in the spotlight. You'd think, heart and temperament-wise, the Crowes hadn't budged an inch, but listen closely and it's the opening track itself that tells a different story. Warm Latin flavors usher in a sweetly scraped Gibson, ideal for orchestrating - in cahoots with the rougher edges of Chris's snarl - yet another sour, bastard blues, a filthy pastiche that, amid the chaos, opens up onto some gorgeous vistas. The setting is a tangle rich with ripples and rough edges, which only the singer's touch knows how to harmonize, disciplining them into a formidable blaze.

Quirky rhythms, loping percussion and wonderful tex-mex atmospheres are, moreover, replicated almost immediately: from its title alone, "High Head Blues" makes no secret of its musical direction, even as it sits at the peak of anomaly, at the heart of a heretical reinvention that digs right down to the genre's foundations. The air is fittingly seedy and dissolute, the elder Robinson hams it up between complaints and ironic flourishes, and the result is another captivating number, full-bodied and unruly, light years away from the more regular struts of earlier chapters. And in the closing bars, as if to lend credence to the vicious insinuations of its formal guise, after a hearty drag on who knows what kind of cigarette, it's not entirely clear whether the frontman declares in Spanish "Esta es la mejor mota" (this is the best weed) or "Esta es la mejor nota" (perfectly understandable even in Italian), but the meaning remains roughly the same either way, and so does the mood.

Cut from the same cloth are “P.25 London” and “Downtown Money Waster,” whose lighthearted streak doesn't stop them from delivering a happily pungent, aromatic aftertaste despite the loose-limbed caricature. The first is a ragged, adrenaline-fuelled blues, set alight by harmonica and by the playful verve of a Chris momentarily back to ransacking the family attic trunk like a mischievous kid. The second offers itself as a holiday detour through the Delta of old, far less far-fetched than a distracted listen might suggest. Both tracks carry a deeply earthy, genuine intoxication, while the band's swagger confirms the superb devotional yearnings of “The Southern Harmony.” The whole thing sounds eloquently grimy and delightful but, more importantly, it nimbly dodges the traps of the usual necrophiliac revivalism: what's on show is an imaginative (and cocky) Nineties band, and thankfully that comes through with no ambiguity whatsoever. The impression, across all these tracks, is that the Georgians aren't just experimenting with new solutions, but — perhaps with a little help from the inevitable soft drugs — are having a damn good time doing it.

It's in other passages, though, that we get to register a decisive break from the past. The move away from the core of their established sound takes shape in a ballad splendidly framed by melancholy, “Cursed Diamond,” dedicated, among other things, to the power of forgiveness. A Chris who is phenomenal in the talent and simplicity with which he stirs emotion makes it the lyrical peak of a hugely inspired album and, perhaps, of the entire Black Crowes adventure. At the centre, here as in the other ten tracks, is the couple. Relationship dynamics, abuses of power, abandonment, harmony, infatuation, affection. And then, of course, hate, so fashionable in 1994. Not, however, something banally directed at others, in an indiscriminate distancing from everything and everyone (as if it were the most classic of generational skeleton keys), nor an urge watered down into the usual squalid nihilism. It's a double-edged weapon aimed at oneself, and it works as the spark for a more radical reckoning, an instrument of redemption, sticking with the repertoire of symbols and the Manichaeism of Black music that the Atlanta boys always looked up to with great respect. While the words come at the listener like a flurry of boxing hooks, Ford and Harsch work wonders, building the melodic architecture of a rough gem impossible to resist without a touch of emotion. The Georgians have arrived at touching special chords with real ease, but they manage it without resorting to cheap grandstanding and without slipping into Bryan Adams-style sentimentality, to name a contemporary who — milking certain clichés — made millions off it.

That same intensity is only recovered in the closing stretch, with the genuinely goosebump-inducing pairing of “Ballad In Urgency”/“Wiser Time.” Refined without overindulging in mannered aestheticism, the Crowes deliver here ten of the most incredible minutes of their career: decadent but never affected, glowing losers passing themselves off as winners, they cast a spell with harmonic guitar work and the seductive warmth of one of the finest voices of its generation. No solo sounds less bombastic or self-indulgent than Marc Ford's here, in this enchanting two-part travel diary, with only Harsch's delicate piano keeping to the background. There's clearly a lot on the plate, but you come away satisfied and light, convinced these guys shaped a miracle just to hand it to us. Having set aside youthful bravado and more orthodox blues, what they land on here is, quite simply, one of the most moving pages of roots rock, whatever meaning one wants to give that term. It's great music, nothing more and nothing less, and the fact that it hasn't aged a day in more than twenty years proves it as eloquently as possible.

The rest of the record providentially eases the tension built up along the way. With “Nonfiction” the sextet slows down and strips back its sound, presenting itself in a more direct, confiding light. The lean approach doesn't sap its power, not least because in this transparent, unplugged guise the frontman has more room to spin tales even more jovially. Stylistically, the band edges toward a late-Sixties West Coast folk, threadbare yet radiant with pleasant American evocations: a necessary pause in the album's crazy emotional flow, a relaxing oasis. Eddie's bouncing organ, the buoyant guitars and Colt's lively bass sketch out a new, amiably informal frame in which Chris can roam freely through yet another sun-drenched track (“She Gave Good Sunflowers”). There's a precious sense of freedom in the air that again harks back to the late Sixties, and it's American to the very last of its sonic molecules; Ford's solo flight makes it clear, almost as though it were an impossible outtake from the “Easy Rider” soundtrack, even though it's really just a small love song among the rest, all flesh and nerve. The farewell, then, is achingly sweet and almost cathartic. The final prayer (“Have mercy baby, open your eyes…”), once the exorcism is complete, is an invitation to fully savour the wonder of everyday life without dwelling too long on the big questions. That's the “Amorica” of the title, with a deep meaning behind the pun: grateful love for life, told in the most American accents possible, yet without unnecessary filters or artifice.

Just before a slow but steady expressive retreat condemned the Black Crowes to a descent from the summit without the old glorious fanfare, that miraculous run came to an end just as it had begun, foreshadowing the band's fracture a couple of years later. Unfortunately, the undeniable artistic effort of the Robinson brothers and their bandmates would only pay off up to a point. None of the new singles secured memorable sales, the album missed out on the top ten by a hair, and in the end — an inevitable irony — it would be talked about more for that skimpy bikini everyone still remembers today, even without having heard a single note of this masterpiece.

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07/06/2015