It's clear that we're not talking about Eye Of The Tiger nor about Stallone in the ring, or even about Michael Bolton with windswept hair, about the Dakota of Runaway and Carl Palmer in white juggling drumsticks in the Heat Of The Moment video, we're not talking about Neil Schon unleashing a muscle-bound solo in a 90,000-person arena, nor about the 1987-edition Whitesnake after a day at the hairdresser, and not even about the unforgettable Jimi Jamison playing guitar from a Malibu Beach rock while David Hasselhoff and Pamela Anderson dive into the water with life preservers (even though I never missed an episode, because in the '90s I wasn't exactly watching art films).
Well, no, we are not talking about any of that, and we won't be talking about it.
Instead, we are talking about Fagen and Becker, the fluid and clean guitars of Larry Carlton and Jay Graydon, of Jeff Porcaro and Steve (Porcaro) immersed among keyboards and electric pianos behind typical big glasses, of David Hungate and Steve Lukather, of Marc Jordan for those who know or remember him, of the Doobie Brothers McDonald-era, of names like Lee Ritenour and a myriad of others that might mean little except to a handful of Japanese collectors and, I see no reason to omit it, of the Alan Sorrenti of the best American productions (for some, the worst in any case).
Because when you talk about AOR it's always good to specify what you are talking about. And starting from certain premises, the infamous acronym will translate into something appealing even to the most skeptical listener.
The first of these skeptics, I have to admit, is me.
When I hear about Arena Rock I instinctively think of John Travolta with the headband on the cover of Staying Alive and I don't know why.
Actually, I know the reason quite well, I say so just for the sake of saying. Just a bit of rhetoric.
Especially since, as I'm writing, I googled Staying Alive 1983 and a photo of John Travolta drenched in oil in a costume and boots emerging from a haze of smoke and laser beams appeared. Far From Over is already playing in my head.
Which forces me, after a simultaneous retch, to take a breath and focus on the image that interests me most: that of an elegant and upright Ed Motta against a (blurred) background of palm trees, and a plausible aroma of sea breeze in the air.
I instinctively think of the inner-cover of Silk Degrees by Boz Scaggs, and instinct doesn't betray me this time either. Because it's there, that those palms must take me and you.
West Coast, or rather California to be precise, Venice Beach, the possible reddening of a daylight-saving time sunset (on the beach). We're in 1978, perhaps. But if we were in 1977, the imagery would be the same.
The instruments that must not be missing are a sax and a Fender Rhodes, everything else can alternate as long as it alternates with class. The session begins, and it's an aperitif of soul, jazz, and funk. The blend between the ingredients is a Latin soul. The quotes are the olive in the Martini.
And so it's no coincidence if the beat of S.O.S. Amor moves on the classic shuffle of Bernard Purdie in Home At Last - which the late Porcaro on drums paid homage to at least in Mama and Rosanna – all a matter of class, more than raw technique. And if a general mood from Deacon Blues, or from Black Cow if you prefer (does it make a difference?), is breathed in.
Now ex(for a long time)-prodigy boy of Brazilian soul, Ed shows us he knows how to tackle the quintessential adult (non-)genre, or rather that typical appeal of Los Angeles session men between the '70s and '80s. For “us” who loved that style and searched for it everywhere by scanning the credits of some second-hand LP with our eyes, it would be hard to come across a more flavorful album.
I've been listening to it for fifteen minutes, and after fifteen minutes I erased John Travolta in Staying Alive.
In costume and boots.
Tracklist
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