You know what Van Morrison, David Gilmour, Ray Davies and Donald Fagen have in common, besides their royal rank in rock geezerdom? They have new albums out. Actually, they have new CDs out, not albums. But the fans of these four probably still call CDs albums. I know I do, and I'm only 37. These cats are all over 45, so they may still call them albums, too. But does anybody really care about this new music outside of the cults that follow Steely Dan, The Kinks, Pink Floyd and Morrison? Probably not. Should anybody outside of the target audiences care? There's nothing new, groundbreaking or enterprising about any of the music on these four discs. Still, that shouldn't discount the music outright. Let's let the individual artists do that for themselves. And you can be sure a couple of them do just that.
Van Morrison is not known for his songwriting per se. The Irish crooner is known for his soulful tenor. His latest, Pay The Devil has 15 songs; only three are originals. The covers hark back to Morrison's teen days, when Van the Man was apparently listening to country and western music. Hence the gimmick for Pay The Devil. Van sings country. And even though it may sound like the thing was recorded in Nashville, it wasn't. It was made in Ireland with the band he has been using for years. And I guess that could be some sort of compliment to Morrison. It isn't. The music and the arrangements are flat. Not even Morrison's version of Hank Williams' "Your Cheatin' Heart" lifts us to some kind of aural heaven. Morrison can still sing, but these songs don't work. It's a bit like listening to Jimmy Buffet sing Howlin' Wolf blues dirges.
David Gilmour's On An Island is his third solo album and sounds exactly like 1994's The Division Bell, Pink Floyd's last studio record, and one which was written almost entirely by Gilmour and his wife, Polly Samson. Those two penned this one as well. Gilmour's voice is nice and mellow but nothing else. His haunting guitar only wails and sings once here, on the title cut. Otherwise, it's pure post-Roger Waters Pink Floyd, including some Hammond organ work form Floyd keyboardist Richard Wright. If only Gilmour could have talked Floyd drummer Nick Mason into doing some percussion, he could have just called this thing Pink Floyd's newest and sold a million or two more. The Floyd fanatics are going to love it, but for the rest of us, this one is easy to skip.
Ray Davies is one of the two here known for their songwriting skills, and he doesn't disappoint in that department. Believe it or not, Other People's Friends is Davies' first solo album in the 40 or so years he has been playing rock 'n' roll. The songs are mature and chiming rockers that ring with slice-of-life lyrics. Inspired in part by Davies' recent sojourn to pre-Katrina New Orleans, Other People's Lives is the perfect tracking-back point for twentysomethings who have read that Davies and the Kinks are the godfathers of modern Britpop via bands such as Blur.
Donald Fagen's Morph The Cat is his third solo record and his first since 1993's Kamakiriad. Without Steely Dan writing partner Walter Becker, Fagen's songs are slightly sweeter in tone. But how sweet can the songs be? This album, Fagen admits in publicity notes, is about death. But just like Dan music that dates back to 1977's Aja, the music on Morph The Cat bounces with rhythmic soul and percussive sophistication. In fact, Fagen has never sounded so soulful. One of the reasons why: He lets his voice coast and gel with the background singers instead of leading the whole time. And he does that with many of the songs' jazz- catchy choruses. Fans of Steely Dan's snarky lyrics will not be disappointed. In a song about a young Fagen seeking advice about the craft with the soul of a dead Ray Charles, Fagen sings in "What I Do," "Well, you bring some church but you leave no doubt/As to what kind of love you love to shout about/It's what I do—it's what I do." Morph The Cat is all about extended grooves and cool vocal textures. But listen to the lyrics, too. Fagen is like the cool uncle you never had.
In short, Fagen and Davies still have precious gifts to offer, gifts that always seem appropriate; Gilmour and Morrison continue to regift, and we have had enough.