David Knopfler
Wishbones

In the end, you have to understand: he's objectively unlucky. But not in the most direct and offensive sense of the term (which actually suits him), but in the other: unfortunate. He certainly couldn't have expected such a harsh future when in 1980 he decided to leave Mark and the others due to disagreements with his hated big brother (for the record: during the studio production of the hit Making Movies). Mark making wads of cash and perhaps becoming the best guitarist while he struggles, composing records of even remarkable quality, maybe wildly praised by critics worldwide but unfortunately left on the fringes of what really matters for an artist if you decide to make your passion your job: the record market system. The radios. That is, the dough, or the money (as you prefer). Poor David, and by poor I mean in every sense, was thus forced to produce cheap TV soundtracks to scrape some up. Meanwhile, Mark, the famous Knopfler, rich, talented, became a solo artist (or was he always?). But now I mean to also defend poor David: he left Mark because fame and money do not produce art but distort it. It is no longer about creating art but selling it. David says that at the time of Making Movies, Dire Straits had already become a commercial machine, and he decided to opt-out. I believe him. Because he could have stayed where he was. But he didn't... That producer bastard (Ed Bicknell) would constantly discard what he proposed, and that brat brother would overshadow him by playing over parts David had crafted... It was right to leave. Poor David is a man of values: he is an active member of Greenpeace and Amnesty and doesn't flaunt it (the worst thing one can do). In short, you got it: let's reassess David Knopfler.

The album is not poorly made, but it is not extraordinary. Poor David doesn't invent anything but navigates the world of rock blues with absolute dignity. Wishbones, meaning the chicken bones used by imprisoned leftist writers to write with since their pens were taken away to prevent them from expressing themselves (an autobiographical and polemical reference against record companies controlling the music market), follows its own internal logic traceable in each of the fourteen tracks that don't seem to be arranged randomly. The themes are all there and relevant, for example in the song Karla Faye, a girl forced to prostitute herself in Texas at only 10 years old and to take heroin at 12; after 12 years of prostitution, she killed two people with an accomplice and was sentenced to death even though everyone was aware of her conversion to Christianity on death row. The first woman in 100 years to be executed: a certain George W. Bush, running for the White House, couldn't afford to appear lenient towards a murderer.

Musically, the judgment is controversial: his is a calm and reflective rock blues, without excesses, though, in some places that perhaps deserve more decisiveness. Harmony dominates, a sweet melody that seems to cradle. There's a sort of antithesis between the great harmony of his music and the strength of his lyrics. One thing is certain: as much as one might try, it's almost impossible to judge poor David without comparing him to Mark. The voice, first of all: it's very similar to his brother's, and this imposes the first comparison: who sings better? I'd say Mark, but perhaps only out of habit. On first listen, poor David's melodies seem too similar to those of Mark's solo work, but with a difference: Mark performs best when, to quote Rudy Basil in the review of All The Roadrunning, he "slices the air" with his guitar ("Speedaway at Nazareth", "What It Is", "Silvertown Blues" and "Boom, Like That") with a few exceptions like "Golden Heart", "Sailing To Philadelphia" and "Back To Tupelo". Poor David, on the other hand, fills in where his brother fails to convince with songs of great charm like "King Of Ashes" (he himself defines himself as the king of ashes), "Karla Faye" (built on few piano chords) and "The Bones". But the masterpiece is "Arcadie" a splendid piano base accompanied by vibrant strings and a sweet saxophone. On the other hand, "Jericho" disappoints: a song that seems to be building up to something that never arrives, ending suddenly. Moreover, in almost the entire album, the support of the drums is missing, which sometimes seems to empty the songs, fading them... Overall, a good album that if it had been composed by someone else, with greater backing from their record company, could have achieved more. I repeat: let's save poor David. Let's reassess David Knopfler.