First thing's first---I should acknowledge it's been a while. At least ten mediocre sequels, re-makes, or Freaky Friday rip offs have been released into theatres, and I haven't had the time, resources, or chutzpah to tear them a new one. Instead, I've been doing this little thing called Moving Into College. Many of my friends have too, and I'd like to take this opportunity to quote Adele; "I wish nothing but the best for you, too." Love you guys.
If you want some kind of detailed update on MY life, you know how to contact me, yo. Owl post is probably the fastest way, but a good Skype date shall do nicely. I will say this; I'm currently sitting in the library, chillaxing after successfully registering for a class in New Realism, sipping a Mint Javalanche, and holding newly checked out copies of Sidney Bechet's Best and the Avenue Q cast album....if that doesn't tell you how I happy I am, nothing will. Nothing, except perhaps the news that Barbra Joan Streisand's thirty-third studio album hit shelves yesterday. Those of you who know me well get it; those who are just now getting to know me should be aware that I'm probably the strongest Streisomaniac in the straight white American community. In your lifetime, you get a precious few artists who really connect with you. She's one of mine. She's the one. And yet, this review will be far from a fan-boy droolfest. I've got some issues with this release, ya'll. If you love me, you'll read it. If you like me, you'll skim it. If you hate me, then by all means shut this window and go learn how to shuffle or try to hack your way into Pottermore or something. Anywho...
"Well, I guess I'm stuck with the leftovers!", Barbra Streisand exclaimed as she closed a recent Grammy tribute to her genius by performing a few numbers of her own. Leftovers, my ass--her expert renderings of "Happy Days Are Here Again", "What Are You Doing the Rest of Your Life?" and "Evergreen" were the evening's inevitable piece de resistance. (How do I know? Two words. You. Tube.)
The "leftovers" remark makes more sense when applied to Streisand's latest studio output, What Matters Most. It's a collection of songs with lyrics penned solely by the Bergmans, the legendary husband-and-wife showbiz staple who specialize in short, swooning, hyperbolically emotional pieces written to order for movies, and who have given Babs two of her most memorable hits, "The Way We Were" and "Papa, Can You Hear Me?". They're also close friends of both Barbra and her son Jason, so the decision to honor them with an album all their own makes sense. But the problem is that, while this indeed is her first full-out Bergman extravaganza, she's included several of their songs on almost every album she's released in the past thirty years--indeed, The Way We Were and A Love Like Ours are bursting with so much Bergman that they feel like mini-tributes in themselves. The point is this; having recorded all of the team's greatest hits and plundered a sizable section of their back catalog, Barbra Streisand is stuck with whatever oddities and obscurities remain. This is indeed an album of leftovers, and, to paraphrase Sondheim, out of some she makes a sumptuous feast, and out of others, mere figs.
We begin with the only canonized Bergman classic on the album--"The Windmills of Your Mind". Perhaps their darkest composition ever, this spiralling dirge into vulnerability and despair tends to lend itself to breathy, "haunted" (read; flat) renditions. Not here. Streisand the actress give it an urgently dramatic, fearless reading, even singing a cappella for the first minute of so. It's a classic vocal performance--she navigates the brusque clip of the words and the swooping high notes of the chorus with ease and energy. But with a repeat listen, you notice something; the orchestra just isn't matching Streisand's energy. Until the haunting violin solo at the end of the track, they're simply plunking out the same chords over and over. Therein lies What Matters Most's most urgent problem--the arrangement of the songs themselves pale in comparison to the passion that Streisand contributes to each and every lyric line.
William Ross is responsible for the orchestrations, something that I confess worried me, because I spend my free time worrying about this sort of thing. Ross has worked with Her Majesty before, and the results have been consistently inconsistent. The man is a talented conductor, but doesn't seem to have an innate understanding of that voice (THE voice), and too often buries it in treacly glissandos, half-assed back-up vocals, etc--check out his shoddy work on the mess that was Christmas Memories. However, every now and then, when inspiration strikes him, he'll make a decision that actually benefits Babs's sound--his surging version of "You'll Never Walk Alone" was a stunning addition to her greatest hits album. Here, both Rosses come out to play, but unfortunately the first moreso than the second.
The former Ross is present especially on some of the slower tracks--the ever-present pinging harps on "So Many Stars" de-dramify one of the album's strongest set of lyrics, and on "Solitary Moon", the impossible happens; the insistent Kenny G-style sax and chintzy shaker percussion are so obnoxious that they actually overwhelm Barbra's beautiful vocal. Then again, I ought to lay off Ross, I guess. Some of the missteps on this album aren't actually his fault-some of it's on Streisand for her poor song selection. "Something New In My Life" is a syrupy, hopelessly repetitive power ballad that spends way too much time spinning wink-wink clever rhymes on the word "new" to actually mean much of anything, and the aforementioned orchestral clutter of "Moon" isn't helped by its faux-sexy verses that try far too hard for bedroom beauty, but instead descend into minor camp. Some of these songs aren't recorded often for a reason. They're beneath Barbra, and they make me want to cry.
Then again, we all know that when Streisand does right, she does very right, and tears of joy were a part of my listening experience as well. Her take on Sinatra's "Nice 'n' Easy" is bliss--she sounds as relaxed here is she did on her last masterpiece, 2009's Love Is The Answer, and she contributes a buttery sensuality to the classic chorus as the piano follows her every move. Ross helps her out on "The Same Hello, The Same Goodbye", devising a string-heavy slow build that allows her to slowly but steadily marshal her indomitable force of will and then let loose with her trademark belt; the cumulative effect packs a wallop, due in no small part to the fact that she's won back a few of the high notes she lost on her 2006 tour. "That Face" finds her returning to big-band roots, and she's right at home, juicing up phrases like "asleep or awake, it's second to none!" with a swinging vitality that'd give Bobby Darin a hard-on.
The crowning jewel is undoubtedly "Alone in the World", one of her best ballads and a true discovery, featuring superb backup by trumpeter Chris Botti. Here's an orchestration that enhances the vocal instead of detracting from it. As Botti flits between notes with his typical grace, Streisand delivers a knockout set of lyrics that blur the line between love song and lonely plea, balancing her burnished lower register and crystalline head voice without showing a single sign of strain, going deeper and deeper into the world of the song and taking us right along with her. As the soaring bridge draws to a close, Streisand unfurls the final chorus slowly, savoring each syllable and sprinkling her tonal purity about like stardust until she reaches the phrase "sleep inside my arms", which she delivers with such quiet, unforced conviction that those four words become a glimmering universe unto themselves. As she held the final note and Botti trumpet slid up the scale to meet her up there in the heavens, tears rolled down my face, and my fingernails dug into my bed. Thank God my suitemates weren't around for this.
The album draws to a close with the title song, a short, seemingly simple lyric with deep wells of hidden meaning. Streisand mines every word for all it's worth, singing softly and sincerely against the spare accompaniment. It's the perfect closer, because it reminds us what a rare birdie she is, even if she doesn’t show off her full wingspan this time around. The belting, the phrasing, and that peerless tone are all important, but what makes Barbra great is her respect for the music. She aims for nothing less than total fusion with her songs, and when she succeeds, it feels like a hand has reached out and taken yours. You're a little less lonely, a little less frightened, a little less hurt when listening to her, and though this album is wildly uneven at times, it's far from negligible, for at its best it reminds you just how great the greatest singer of the 20th century is, and why she's the top, the Colosseum, the Louvre Museum. What Matters Most? Her generous heart.
Album as a whole: B. Just to put this in perspective, I gave her last effort, Love Is The Answer, an A+. It's place in the Streisand canon: Somewhere in the middle, with other hit-and-miss efforts such as Barbra Joan Streisand and Back to Broadway “Alone in the World”: A+.
No comments:
Post a Comment