Most of the best songs he’d written were spread across his first two albums for the Asylum label, so when it came time for his next, Warran Zevon had to start fresh. As a result, Bad Luck Streak In Dancing School exhibits some water-treading, and some unfortunately dated production. Four Eagles appear throughout the album, and Jackson Browne is still around, but the drummer is Rick Marotta instead of the expected Russ Kunkel. A brief snatch of a string quartet is a harbinger of sorts, then two shots from a gun start the title track proper. Somehow we don’t believe when he swears he’ll “change”, and that’s the point. A cover of Allen Toussaint’s “A Certain Girl”—probably most notable by the Yardbirds’ version—has fairly enthusiastic vocals with help from Jackson Browne, but it’s still a cover. “Jungle Work” might appeal to fans of a certain headless Thompson gunner, but it’s mostly one riff beaten into the ground. We’re due for a heartbreaker, and “Empty-Handed Heart” delivers. Regret seeps through every line, and when Linda Ronstadt appears in the bridge to offer the departed one’s response, it’s a killer. The first of two instrumental interludes provides a bridge to the Southern rock skewering of “Play It All Night Long”; not only does it begin with the incomparable “Grandpa pissed his pants again”, it’s also the only song we know of that mentions brucellosis. (If he’d lived long enough to hear what Kid Rock did to “Werewolves Of London”, there may have been a murder charge.)
One track that could have been a lot bigger is “Jeannie Needs A Shooter”, a title he picked up from Bruce Springsteen, and finished with his help. Where the Boss’s song seems to be a modern tale of obsession, protection, and revenge, this one takes a more traditional approach, with a mild Old West setting, right down to the strings, and a surprise ending. Considering Bruce’s growing stature, it’s odd that this one seems to have been mostly forgotten. The second interlude lasts almost as long as “Bill Lee”, an ode not to William S. Burroughs’ pen name but to the Boston Red Sox pitcher known as Spaceman for his outlandish behavior, and with whom Zevon shared mutual admiration. It’s a sparse piece with only piano and harmonica plus harmony, but still seems incomplete. One of his favorite words returns in “Gorilla, You’re A Desperado”, a surreal tale of switched identity that’s not entirely clear unless you really concentrate on it. The island-like lilt of the synth seems to link it to the Kinks’ “Apeman”, which it doesn’t need. “Bed Of Coals” was written with T-Bone Burnett before he became more ubiquitous. It’s more than a little bit morose, and he decided Ben Keith was more appropriate to deliver the pedal steel guitar. David Lindley returns to his familiar lap steel seat for “Wild Age”. Here the harmonies are all southern California, though he throws in some off-key yells over the fade.
Most of the successful Zevon ingredients are in place on Bad Luck Streak In Dancing School, when he hasn’t run out of ideas. It’s not as immediately impactful, and only got cursory attention, but the moments exist.
Warren Zevon Bad Luck Streak In Dancing School (1980)—3
This is a curiously little loved and underrated album. quite literally the forgotten album in Zevon's discography. I spent years on the Zevon Messaging Board, and I think pretty much every album got discussed there in some detail at some point - hell, even Wanted Dead Or Alive - but not BLSIDS.
ReplyDeleteIn the oral history of Zevon's life and career, there's half a line on it, something along the lines of 'went into the studio to record Bad Luck Streal In Dancing School' - nothing about the recording, the songs, anything.
It fits with the strangely dismissiveness that the album encounters, no one has anything bad to say about it, but anything good, either, people simply have nothing to say about it at all (...well, except you, Wardo, and me, obviously).
Which, to me, is and stays strange.
You mention the dated production, but we don't hear the same thing: It's great to hear that So-Cal sound one more time, when almost everyone else had abandoned it. Do I need Warren to 'go New Wave'? No. Do I need him to try to sound 'modern' like buddy Jackson Browne on Hold Out? Hell, no! Gimme that sweet Laurel Canyon/asylum sound one more time before the Eighties take over...
While it doesn't have any stone-cold classics like the first two albums, there are no real duds here, either.
Yeah, sure, "Jungle Work" has a pretty single-minded riff, but also one of the great underrated lines of Zevon's oeuvre: "We parachute in, we parachute out..."
An album well worth rediscovering, even for Zevon fans
3 1/2 from me.