Graham Parker
The Mona Lisa's Sister

THE REVIEW

Graham Parker, alongside Elvis Costello and Joe Jackson, represents one of the most significant figures of a certain authorial rock from across the Channel. Less neurotic and beat than the bespectacled Buddy Holly emulator, less sophisticated and refined than the lanky one from Portsmouth, he could ideally be placed somewhere halfway between the two. Like his two fellow countrymen, he started in the seventies offering a sort of punk-tinged pub rock, unwilling to compromise with the music market, and developed in the following decade a greater inclination towards a more conventional singer-songwriter style without ever falling into mannerism.

He doesn't even know what commercial success is, so much so that this album, released in 1988, came three years after the previous, admittedly disappointing "Steady Nerves," after his record label (Elektra) dropped him due to the heavy losses accumulated. Signed with RCA, not without struggles and ordeals, he found himself practically managing a ridiculous budget to create what would turn out to be his most convincing album of the decade, if not his best ever. The label of eternal underdog wouldn't come off this time either, but the album holds its own and delivers to the listener a series of splendid ballads alternated with other tracks of a more nervous and immediate flair.

One shouldn't be deceived by the singer-songwriter nature that characterizes him, as many music enthusiasts associate this figure with the current depressed (and depressing) artist who torments us, armed with the obligatory classical guitar, with tedious lyrics, the main focus if not the exclusive content of their compositions. In this regard, listen to tracks like "Don’t Let It Break You Down," "Ok Hyeronymus," "Get Started Start A Fire," and "Back In Time" to dispel any doubts in this matter. Certainly, there is no lack of more introspective moments like in the dreamy "Blue Highways" with its vaguely Springsteen-like flavor or in the self-ironic "Success" that seems to come out of a fifties Cadillac. "I’m Just Your Man" instead represents the quintessential ballad supported by a light but present rhythm section and a sixties-plated electric guitar. Closing with a tribute to Sam Cooke with a poignant version of "Cupid," one of the most famous tracks left as a legacy by one of the founding fathers of soul. An album from 1988 that has little to share with the controversial eighties.

After this work, Graham Parker will continue to hide behind his dark sunglasses, well aware that the spotlight isn't for him, and will produce a few more albums worthy of mention until almost completely fading, a victim of a music business often ungrateful to the deserving but fatefully generous with dreadful characters.