The phenomenon of the Comeback Album used to be a cringe inducing occurrence, largely because the results would succeed far too frequently in simply getting it wrong. However, as a testament to human development the last few decades have seen a gradual increase in actually getting it right. Happily, Jimmy Cliff’s Rebirth falls onto the successful side of the comeback street, mainly because it picks a smart strategy and then sticks with it. Modestly scaled, it would be hyperbole to call it a true return to form, but it does prove that Mr. Cliff still has the goods.
Yes, the road to a wickedly hot musical eternity is paved with good intentions. No musician deliberately sets out to make a record that’s truly, non-ironically bad, after all. And nobody that loves The Shaggs’ Philosophy of the World, a record often cited by journalists scribing for list-happy magazines or websites as one of the Worst of All Time (a musical cousin to Ed Wood’s film Plan 9 From Outer Space essentially), I mean sincerely values it as a musical document and not as the aural equivalent to a velvet painting, would describe it as a “bad” record. And the Wiggins’ Sisters sure as hell weren’t trying to make music that would fall under the (admittedly ambiguous) definition of “bad”.
Again, back in the day comeback records were often just filthy with benevolent intentions. Somebody with contacts in the industry couldn’t shake the nagging insistence that it would be a great idea if a certain artist or band got back into the studio with the aim of recapturing the special magic that for numerous reasons had been lost; maybe the act was a huge commercial entity that somehow lost their way, perhaps a cult musician or group getting a belated push after being afflicted with indifference, or possibly just a name that was around for so long that total disfavor befell them on the road to inevitable rediscovery.
Whatever the circumstance, everything usually moves along rather sweetly until someone has the bright idea to bring in that dude who played bass for a week with Paul Shaffer in The World’s Most Dangerous Band. Things quickly deteriorate from there, and then it’s all over except for the hell and the hand baskets.
In retrospect, Johnny Cash’s Rick Rubin-produced American Recordings is sort of a game changer. While lots of folks still make a big deal over the choices and sources of much of the album’s material, the real trick was in simply locating what Cash had always done best, namely strap on a guitar in front of a microphone and sing, and then captured him doing it without unnecessary embellishment.
Thing is, I can distinctly recall having absolutely zero expectations for American Recordings before it came out, not hearing until it had been in the racks for a month or so. That was the power of the perception that all artists had a certain shelf life, and that once exceeded it was well nigh impossible to rescue their wares from the discard pile.
During this same period I was in the process of wearing out the grooves on a beat-up second-hand copy of the soundtrack to the Perry Henzell-directed cult-movie classic The Harder They Come, a film loaded with a mess of prime Jamaican goodness, much of it from the film’s star Jimmy Cliff. Constant play of this LP was partly due to it being such a smash, great for both parties and solitude on swelteringly hot days, but it was also because Cliff’s prime material could be difficult to find on record back in the mid-‘90s; the self-titled ’69 UK disc for Trojan or its rough US counterpart for A & M Wonderful World, Beautiful People, the somewhat underrated ’71 Muscle Shoals excursion Another Cycle, and the solid ’76 album Follow My Mind.
In Concert: The Best of Jimmy Cliff, the record that’s arguably his masterpiece, was around on CD of course, providing a nice contrast to the harder-edged cuts on The Harder They Come. But due to the lack of availability of his earlier stuff the general impression of Cliff was as an artist who’d never really fulfilled his promise, his ’94 hit cover of Johnny Nash’s “I Can See Clearly Now” landing as an unexpected late-career exclamation point.
But Cliff had real pop-reggae crossover potential that was mainly curtailed by the death of his longtime producer and musical guide Leslie Kong in 1971. Much of his early material, collected on Goodbye Yesterday, shows a determined teen artist with strong instincts and a surplus of talent, and his debut LP Hard Road to Travel, cut in ’67 for Chris Blackwell’s Island label is basically a straight pop-soul album, lacking in the lovely island aura that continues to make “The Israelites,” Desmond Dekker’s killer ’68 US/UK hit, such a breath of crisp clean air.
Those that only know Jimmy Cliff and The Harder They Come and In Concert might consider Rebirth as a strolling late-career reassessment of the artistic glories that landed him in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. And that’s really not wrong, it just misses that a recurring desire throughout Cliff’s tenure has been to transcend the restriction of the Jamaican reggae singer. On Rebirth he’s not really reexamining the main thrust of the most vital portion of his career but instead following the logic in the title of his album from 1981: give the people what they want.
Rebirth is produced by Rancid’s Tim Armstrong. It falls into line with the Dan Auerbach-helmed Dr. John LP Locked Down from earlier this year and Jack White’s work on Wanda Jackson’s The Party Ain’t Over from 2010 and Loretta Lynn’s Van Lear Rose from ’04 as another instance of an older roots musician seeking regenerative energy through a connection/relationship with a younger musical admirer.
The very title of Cliff’s album alludes to this practice, frankly a much healthier way to approach the Comeback Album than handing it over to the sort of studio “pros” that can ruin an affair with soon to be dated contemporaneousness, a cavalcade of flow disrupting guest stars (ala Cliff’s not terrible but misguided ’04 disc Black Magic) or a desire for the sort of antiseptic audio sheen that’s surely linked to the consumption of too much cocaine.
Jimmy Cliff is in fine voice on Rebirth, and he brings a batch of strong compositions to the studio. And Armstrong steers him true by simply blending the gentle strength of the singer with a crack band, often in the tight tradition of The Skatalites. Cliff’s ability as a pop savvy songwriter can’t help but shine through however, and much of Rebirth also recalls the solid crossover vibe of the best Marley and the Wailers’ material.
Another point in Rebirth’s favor is that it doesn’t bite off more than it can chew, instead displaying focused ambition. Cliff’s longstanding social commitment is in immediate evidence with “World Upside Down,”a song carried over with splendid musicianship, particularly its driving organ. “One More” blends those strands of Skatalites and Wailers extremely well, combining a Marley-esque catchy chorus with some suitably tough trombone. And “Cry No More” takes the warm prettiness of Cliff’s vocals, well-employed femme-voiced backup singers and that enduringly attractive early-reggae slinkiness to a fine plateau.
“Children’s Bread” continues Cliff’s examinations of injustice while also providing Rebirth with one of its best instrumental showcases, opening with some sweetly plucked deep guitar tones and holding in its breadbasket a superb piano spot. But “Bang” heads into different territory, exploring a rousing rocker complete with distorted Duane Eddy/Morricone guitar that’s obviously built upon the bedrock of The Harder They Come.
It leads right into a cover of The Clash’s “Guns of Brixton,” smart and well done if not necessarily an expected choice, one that aligns Cliff much more with the intersection of punk and Jamaica and less with his soundtracking of the long history of hippie barbeques and weekend sail-boating. Of course, there is obvious overlap. But the additional odds-beating victory of Rebirth’s take on Rancid’s “Ruby Soho” really insinuates how Cliff might prefer his music be remembered; more in line with Dekker and Lee Perry and The Congos, less in the company of later Marley and Peter Tosh.
But Cliff’s pop inclination is also inescapable, so he and Armstrong just roll with it. Along the way things take some endearingly quirky turns, like the personal history lesson “Reggae Music,” where he playfully adopts a child-like delivery (a motif repeated on “Blessed Love”). “Outsider” leans toward Cliff’s penchant for uncut R&B, the song feeling descended from one or more of the many versions of The Five Du-Tones’ “Shake a Tail Feather.” It reinforces that Cliff could’ve easily made it as a straight soul singer, and in fact that was the route being explored with Another Cycle at the time of Kong’s death.
As Rebirth unwinds it delivers no duds and shapes up as a steady supplier of summer groove science. Is it a masterpiece? Well, in the sense that it’s a well-conceived work by an established master, yes it is. But it also lacks the tangible undercurrent of innovation or the strides of discovery that mark a true masterwork.
So listeners unfamiliar with Wonderful World, Beautiful People (and its classic song of protest “Vietnam”), The Harder They Come or In Concert should examine those documents first. After getting the real dish then check out Rebirth. It’ll be worth the wait.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
B+
