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Reviewing an album by Donald Fagen is always a little challenge, and the latest one, "Morph The Cat", is no exception. Unfortunately, you can indulge in it very rarely, given that the works published in over two decades are only three: a true killer's pace in the so-called music market. I like to think that he, daily, without worrying about the pressures of many, especially those from record producers, agents, and promoters, with an anachronistic slowness and care, mixing the right doses of laziness, selfishness, respect for fans, and love for music, is there, in that monastic room that appears on the cover, perfecting, retouching songs that are already born with that typical structure; songs that could, if we weren't in the presence of a freak of his stature, alien to any anxiety or greed, certainly see the light in much less than a decade.
But Donald is not an artist for half measures. The times are what they are: take it or leave it. A position made unassailable both by the real "faith" of which he is the object from his many admirers and by the royalties of the long-sellers of Steely Dan, which ensure him the classic "piece of bread" and also a good filling.
A little challenge, as we said, because finding unsullied adjectives and original readings of these pieces is quite difficult. As always, they have the innate gift of classicism, expressing a remarkable balance between pulsating life, unrestrainable passions, feline asociality (The Cat), and formal composure, a true distillation of sounds; one might almost be tempted to say, with apologies to the philosopher, a perfect fusion of "Dionysian" and "Apollonian". The boiling matter of the lyrics, sometimes cryptic and allusive, other times ironic if not caustic, cools down and blends with that unmistakable mix of jazz, pop, blues, which is magnificently developed and refined, of "class", without ever giving the idea of affectation, of excessive formalism.
At first listen to the eight tracks of "Morph The Cat", one is tempted to file everything away with a "good, but very similar to the other two." And the judgment wouldn't be fundamentally wrong, nor could it represent criticism, on the contrary. Some great artists, even in pop, generally modify and rewrite the same work; we are talking, in this case, of those "knights without blemish" who are devoted to the quest for the "Holy Grail" of the perfect-pop-song. Unlike others engaged in the same endless pursuit, Donald is perhaps the one who plays with the cards most on the table, doing the least to disguise it, even avoiding giving the hard-won new tracks a veneer of "originality," good for some newness-stricken fool.
Only upon a closer examination, however, after hearing it several times at different times of the day and night, do they reveal their personality not as mere imitators, all their delicate nuances, those incredible aromas that only ours can render with a mastery and elegance matched only by parsimony. From the sinuous progression of the title track, yet another hymn to wandering and lawless life, with a creamy bass as protagonist leading you with soft steps into the bowels of NYC, to the most "Fagen-esque" of all, "H Gang", an evolution, in the sense that this term assumes for our hero, of more "pop" tracks like "New Frontier"; from the touching imaginary dialogue with The Genius (What I Do / I say "Ray, why do girls treat you nice that way?" / He said it's not what I know / What I think or say...), with a harmonica doubling the track that seems to give voice to the great bluesman, to the mocking jazzy conversation with death in "Brite Nitegown", with a chorus that "pierces" your mind, repeated like a mantra ("You can't fight with the fella / In the Brite Nitegown...").
In "Great Pagoda Of Funn", one of the year's best titles, he makes no qualms about calling upon all his craft to give free rein to his "architectural" ego, a ballad, a musical construction of over 7 minutes, with a "sharp" trumpet and a memorable guitar solo, which should evoke the unconditional admiration of all those who chew music. The unsettling presences of "Mary Shut The Garden Door", perhaps for its groove and lightness, the peak of the album, confirm the artist's ability to make dreamlike visions coexist, in this case almost horror, with sunny and seemingly carefree music.
A work that, as Fagen himself stated, represents the third panel of a triptych, youth - "Nightfly", maturity - "Kamakiriad", the unavoidable confrontation with "the fella in the brite nitegown", or rather, for us Europeans, with the one who plays chess in Bergman's "The Seventh Seal" in "Morph". This has strengthened my idea that Fagen, for realistic attitude, attention to forms, dedication to detail could be compared to a Flemish painter. And if this parallel of mine has a minimum of substance, how is it possible to miss the last "panel" of such a great work, with intense and bright colors, with magnificent chiaroscuros? My advice is not to forgo looking at this triptych in its entirety: the artist deserves it.
Tracklist Lyrics and Videos
01 Morph the Cat (06:49)
High above Manhattan town
What floats and has a shape like that
Fans like us who watch the skies
We know it's Morph the Cat
Gliding like a big blue cloud
From Tomkins Square to Upper Broadway
Beyond the park to Sugar Hill
Stops a minute for a latte
He oozes down the heating duct
Swims like seaweed down the hall
He briefly digs your wiggy pad
And seeps out through the wall
It's kind of like an arctic mindbath
Cool and sweet and slightly rough
Liquid light on New York City
Like Christmas without the chintzy stuff
What exactly does he want
This Rabelaisian puff of smoke
To make you feel all warm and cozy
Like you heard a good joke
Like you heard an Arlen tune
Or you bought yourself a crazy hat
Like you had a Mango Cooler
Ooh - Morph the Cat
He's all the talk in shops and schoolyards
Sultan Place - the Automat
Players playin' in da Bronx
Respects to Morph the Cat
It's kind of like an arctic mindbath
Cool and sweet and slightly rough
Liquid light on New York City
Like Christmas without the chintzy stuff
So rich is his charisma
You can almost hear it sing
He skims the roofs
And bells begin to ring
Chinese cashiers can feel it now
Grand old gals at evening mass
Young racketeers
And teenage models
Laughing on the grass
Blessed Yankees have an ally
When this feline comes to bat
Bringing joy to old Manhattan
All watch the skies for Morph the Cat
02 H Gang (05:15)
I hear Denise is back on the outside
That' she's got a wicked plan
She's callin' in the Gong sisters again
To form the ultimate five chord band
For eight months now in that freaking cell
She's been knockin' ideas around
Now she's good and ready to make a big noise
Right here in her own hometown
Here comes the H-Gang
Slammin' into Hinktown
Oh, you better get off the stage, boys
'Cause they'll be looking for a showdown
On a moonless night they started off
On a bus called Happy Day
To bring their vision to cities and towns
Across the U.S.A.
And in every club and hall they played
The crowd knew every word
Even today folks are talkin' about
The incredible sounds they heard
Here comes the H-Gang
Turn on the floodlights
Get off the stage son
Unless you're ready for a kickfight
Whatever happened to the H-Gang
Some say they were the best
I heard they broke up, Denise got hitched
And she's living in the Midwest
There's a film that's in production
The working title, ''Song of Desire''
'Bout an orphan girl with this crazy red hair
And a voice and a dream and a soul on fire
Here comes the H-Gang
Slammin' into Hinktown
Oh, you better get off the stage, boys
'Cause they'll be looking for a showdown
Here comes the H-Gang
Turn on the floodlights
Get off the stage son
Unless you're ready for a kickfight
Here comes the H-Gang
Slammin' into Hinktown
Oh, you better get off the stage, boys
Unless you're looking for a showdown
04 Brite Nitegown (07:16)
I dreamed I had a fever
I was pushin one-oh-three
My mom’s all upset - cryin’ by my bedside
Everybody’s prayin’ for me
I hear a scratchin at the window
I somehow twist myself around
I realize I’m eyes to eyes
With the fella in the Brite Nitegown
Brite Nitegown
Brite Nitegown
You can’t fight with the fella
In the Brite Nitegown
The eagle flys on Friday
My baby wants to bash
I hit the ATM - and march down the street
With a roll of party cash
Right then a couple lit-up brothers
They gently put me on the ground
They do the steal and leave me to deal
With the fella in the Brite Nitegown
Brite Nitegown
Brite Nitegown
You can’t fight with the fella
In the Brite Nitegown
Ten milligrams of Chronax
Will whip you back through time
Past Hebrew kings - and furry things
To the birth of humankind
I shared in all of nature’s secrets
But when I finally came around
I’m sittin’ on the rug gettin’ a victory hug
From the fella in the brite Brite Nitegown
Brite Nitegown
Brite Nitegown
You can’t fight with the fella
In the Brite Nitegown
05 The Great Pagoda of Funn (07:37)
The stars are bright tonight
The air is sweet
Though summer's over now
There's a strange new music in the street
You and I
Know the world can't be like this
It's our love that makes it shine
Girl
Whatever trouble waits outside these doors
We're safe inside thsi house of light
We make up our own storyline
Around the neighborhood
They stare and grin
As if they live their lives
Just to help maintain the state we're in
But when we fight
Then those hungry wolves close in
We're one thoughtless word away
From poison skies
And severed heads
And pain and lies
So follow me
I'll hold you tight
And we'll build a life together
In the great pagoda of funn
This magic soon will fade
Without a doubt
We'll have to work my love
Just to keep the flame from going out
Cause if we fail
Then these walls will fall away
And we'll fin we're in the realm
Of psycho-moms
And dying stars
And dirty bombs
Please follow me
And hold me tight
Yes we'll build a world together
In the great pagoda of funn
06 Security Joan (06:09)
Well, I guess I needed a miracle
If I was gonna make my flight
I had to get to gate C13
And it was still way out of sight
Something in my carry-on bag
Tipped off the x-ray machine
'Cause then an angel straight from heaven
Asked me to "step behind that screen"
And when I felt the wand sweep over me
You know I never felt so clean
Well, girl you won't find my name on your list
Honey you know I ain't no terrorist
Confiscate my shoes, my cellphone
You know I love, love, love you
Security Joan
I hung out at the Starbucks
'Til just around boarding time
Then I strolled on back to the checkpoint
Just one thing on my mind
She flashed that crooked smile and said
"Well, I believe you missed your flight"
I said, "There's been a minor change of plan
And I'll be stayin' for one more night"
I could tell from the way she looked at me
Everything was gonna be all right
Well, girl you won't find my name on your list
Honey you know I ain't no terrorist
Confiscate my shoes, my cellphone
You know I love, love, love you
Security Joan
Search me now
Well, girl you won't find my name on your list
Honey you know I ain't no terrorist
Confiscate my shoes, my cellphone
You know I love, love, love you
Security Joan
Hey, now
07 The Night Belongs to Mona (04:14)
Mona's become a child of the night
When she goes out
It's only for bare necessities
She says she's had it up to here with light
While the city sleeps
That's when she comes alive
Yes, the night belongs to Mona
When she's dancing all alone
Forty floors above the city
CDs spinnin'
AC hummin'
Feelin' pretty
Sometimes she'll call at some unholy hour
She wants to talk
All of this grim and funny stuff
Then she'll go all quiet in her Chelsea tower
And that's when we wait
To see how the story ends
'Cause the night belongs to Mona
When she's dancing all alone
Forty floors above the city
CDs spinnin'
AC hummin'
Feelin' pretty
Was it the fire downtown
That turned her world around
Was it some guy or lots of different things
We all wonder where she's gone
That sunny girl we used to know
Now every night we get the Mona show
Maybe it's good that she's above it all
Things don't seem as dark
When you're already dressed in black
We try not to see the writing on the wall
What happens tomorrow
When the moonrays
Get so bright
When she rises
Towards the starlight
Miles above
The city's heat
Will she fall hard
Or float softly to the street
Tonight the night belongs to Mona
When she's dancing all alone
Forty floors above the city
CDs spinnin'
AC hummin'
Feelin' pretty
08 Mary Shut the Garden Door (06:27)
They came in under the radar
When our backs were turned around
In a fleet of Lincoln Town Cars
They rolled into our town
Confounded all six senses
Like an opiate in the brain
Mary shut the garden door
Looks a lot like rain
Mary shut the garden door
Mary shut the garden door
We pounded Rachel's radio
For reports about the bridge
There was nothing on but static
Nothing in the fridge
We lay there listening to the wind
Whistling through the pines
When we heard the engines idling
Saw the headlights through the blinds
Mary shut the garden door
Mary shut the garden door
Rough dreams
Those voices in the kitchen
I woke up
And sensed the new condition
They won
Storms raged
Things changed
Forever
So if you ever see an automaton
In a midprice luxury car
Better roll the sidewalks up
Switch on your lucky star
'Cause this zombie does impressions
But not really to amuse
This ballad is for lovers
With something left to lose
Mary shut the garden door
Mary shut the garden door
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By Lesto BANG
If this isn’t genius, then you tell me what it is!!
Listening to Morph the Cat is like replaying The Nightfly down, the same album but without the novelty, verve, and originality.
