Cat Stevens
Teaser And The Firecat

"Creating images that are larger than life itself is what makes the world of pop music so unacceptable."

So said Cat Stevens in 1978 on the occasion of the release of the last album in his name, a name that wouldn't remain such for much longer. A few months later, the great English (or rather Greek-English) folksinger, who had become a pop star almost against his will, would find answers to the "larger than life itself" questions in God, specifically Allah, through such a radical commitment that it also led to a name change to Yusuf Islam.

It's natural for an artist, highly sensitive, to be annoyed by everything related to the "jerk glory" (a Guccinian quote) of show business, from the delusions of fans who idolize you one year and snub you the next, to the irrational whims of charts and the market. But the unacceptable side of the pop music world must have appeared to Cat Stevens in all its harshness, mainly after the frustrating efforts from '74 to '78 to churn out a series of colorless albums, released due to contractual obligations to the record company. There is, however, no trace of this unease in albums like "Teaser And The Firecat" (1971), the product of this artist's most fertile period and the ideal follow-up to the absolute masterpiece "Tea For The Tillerman". It's not about images larger than life: here, it's life itself expressing, and it's a profound joy to live that shines in luminous and melodic acoustic ballads, alternating with more energetic and lively tracks. A bit less in the words, from which a growing thirst for spirituality occasionally emerges, one that would only be quenched by the future conversion to Islam. A winning team shouldn't be changed, so the sound faithfully replicates that of "Tea For The Tillerman", centered on the perfect harmony between the two acoustic guitars of Cat Stevens and Alun Davies, capable of increasingly precious and delicate interweavings.

A lush melodic creativity and some surprising "ethnic" additions make this beautiful album something more than a simple clone of the previous one. It begins with a tender pastel-colored picture, the very short "The Wind", enchanting in the simplicity of its guitar chords and as touching as only a moment of sincere self-reflection can be: "I listen to the wind, the wind of my soul, where will I end up, well, I think only God knows". We are already prepared for an atmosphere of deep spirituality, but then the colors become bright and almost violent, typically Mediterranean: "Rubylove" starts and takes us to a terrace overlooking the sea, naturally the Aegean. We observe its reflections from under a pergola of vines, lulled by the metallic yet gentle chatter of a pair of bouzouki, a kind of plump mandolins typical of Cat Stevens' second homeland. The rhythm accelerates and stops suddenly; I can’t say if it’s that of a sirtaki, but in any case, it's sensual and captivating, a true burst of life and at the same time an anticipation, perhaps involuntary but accomplished, of what twenty years later will be called "ethnic music".

With "If I Laugh", we return to the mild melancholy of a calm reflection sung softly and played by barely brushing the guitar strings. A brief magic, broken by the strength of "Changes IV", a rock track without electric guitar but certainly not without the verve to accentuate lyrics reflecting the optimism of an era still full of intact or nearly intact utopias. "How Can I Tell You" can be defined as the classic hidden gem, perhaps the most inspired moment of the entire album, which for mysterious reasons won't have a future as a "classic". A highly impactful melody essentially supports a piece with murky and nocturnal colors and an almost nonexistent rhythm, marked only by the rarefied and deep rumble of the bass. The usual guitar embellishments and Cat Stevens' voice, almost breaking with emotion, do the rest, along with sweet words directed towards a loved one more imaginary than real. Another strong jolt imposed by the robust percussion of "Tuesday's Dead" and again another immersion into total bliss with "Morning Has Broken", a true classic whose sublime motif, derived from a religious hymn, is impeccably interpreted thanks to the classical piano introduction by Rick Wakeman (borrowed from Yes), and the spiritual crescendo of the subsequent verses, in which an already persuasive voice is joined by angelic choral counterpoints, leading to the final piano closure, a perfectly symmetrical seal for this poetry in music celebrating nature's awakening at dawn in the best possible way.

The alternation at this point requires a shake-up, and so "Bitterblue" arrives, another valid example of "acoustic rock", followed by the fairytale nursery rhyme of "Moonshadow", which seems borrowed from the most inspired Donovan, but behind a cheerful sparkle of guitars and childish wordplay hides a bitter reflection on the transience of life. Cat Stevens closes this almost perfect album beautifully with an unusual song with political implications, "Peace Train". But his stance, as sacred as it is obvious, against war, has nothing to do with Dylan's anger. In the words, more than a bitter thirst for social revenge, one senses a sentimental lyricism ("Lately I've been crying, pondering how the world is; why must we hate each other? Why can't we live in peace? Why, beyond the edge of darkness, runs a peace train").

Every sensible person can agree with these words, set in an original ballad where the usual guitar threads intertwine with choruses and counter-choruses inspired by gospel, not coincidentally a highly spiritual music genre.