Can we please take up a collection to put this guy in a home where he can get the help he so obviously desperately needs?
I'll be the first to admit it: I love the dude's old stuff. He rocked, pure and simple. You'd be extremely hard-pressed to find a better rock album than Every Picture Tells a Story. Sure, like many other 70s rockers, he utterly descended into the depths of hell in the 80s, but he seemed to redeem himself in the 90s (especially with When We Were the New Boys and an awesome Unplugged performance).
But then he "reinvented" himself, recording not one, but three albums worth of songs "from the American songbook." These are great songs, don't get me wrong. I love to hear Sinatra or Billie Holiday singing them, but Rod's voice isn't suited for them.
When I heard several months ago that his next album would be a rock album, I was ecstatic. Maybe someone gave the guy a punch in the gut and pointed out how ridiculous he was being. This could be a return to greatness, or maybe even a less sucktacular album to end his career on.
Then I heard it was an album of all covers, of "great rock n roll classics." Still sounded like a good idea. He's not exactly a great songwriter; though he's written some great songs, most of his best stuff has been covers. Visions of songs by Zeppelin, Hendrix, maybe Elvis or Cash, ran through my head.
And then I saw the track listing. The songs aren't bad songs, but hardly a lineup of the great classics of the genre. I figured I'd pick it up when it hit stores anyway, just to enjoy the return to form.
Luckily for my wallet, I listened to some samples online earlier. I have no idea what the misguided decision that he's a crooner has done to Rod's rock sensibilities, but after hearing this carp, I have no doubt that Rod needs to be locked away. Perhaps with heavy medication, the fugly young psycho who screamed the hell out of "I Ain't Superstitious" may be brought back to life. But none of us need to see (or hear) a real life version of South Park's parody from a few years ago, butchering some old Irving Berlin number and then carpping his pants onstage.