Richard C. Walls, Creem,
January 1978
Steely Dan, in case you don’t already know, isn’t a group in the conventional sense (although it began that way) but rather the umbrella name that the duo of Donald Fagen and Walter Becker give to whatever group of musicians happens to be playing their compositions at any given time.
There are seven cuts on this record and seven different lineups – and although a lot of this involves different combinations of a basic pool of studio musicians, they do manage to use six different drummers (Bernard Purdie appears twice). The reason for pointing this out is to be able to marvel at the coherence of the record: it’s a remarkable continuity of conception and execution – an indication not only of Fagen and Becker’s control over their music, regardless of their physical presence (Becker doesn’t even appear on two cuts, and Fagen’s synthesiser contributions are minimal although he does sing lead throughout), but also of the assertiveness of its originality. Steely Dan isn’t a group; it’s a concept.
The concept, as of Aja, is cynicism tempered by romanticism, dark without being brooding, resulting in an engrossing midnight album. The famous enigmatic Steely Dan lyrics are not much in evidence here, although it’s not all directness and clarity either. There’s a healthy appreciation of the oblique phrase to describe the elusive emotion, but insular references are kept few and unobtrusive. The only lyric that can really be regarded as obscure as far as intent is concerned is the title track, whose main appeal is musical anyway. An eight-minute track with a jazzy start/stop rhythm and subtle Latin and oriental motifs running through the melody, it’s highlighted by a too brief full-bodied tenor solo by Wayne Shorter (more reminiscent of his Art Blakey days than his wispy Miles days) and Steve Gadd’s imaginative and energetic drumming.
Another musical highlight is provided by yet another jazzman, Victor Feldman, perhaps best known for his sympathetic ballad playing on Miles’ classic Seven Steps To Heaven album. Here, on ‘I Got The News’, a reasonably straightforward love-and-lust song, he gets in some angular, Monkish licks that enhance an otherwise monotonous rhythm backup. But despite all these jazz references, this definitely ain’t no jazz album. Nor is it (God forbid) a fusion/crossover album. I’d prefer to leave the labelling to someone else.
Despite the varied groups of musicians, the record’s continuity comes from Fagen/Becker’s insistence on writing songs with long melodic lines and almost sombre harmonies (even on the up-tempo cuts). Fagen’s singing is appropriately dramatic without pushing it too hard, i.e. he’s not a very good singer but he sings it well. The lyrics have a way of covering themselves, of protecting themselves from the vulnerable emotions they arise from.
‘Black Cow’ is, on the surface, a song of rejection, but it doesn’t take too much scratching to see the feelings of compassion that inform it. ‘Deacon Blues’ is a romantic loner’s song, but when the singer reaches the point of self-pity that lurks behind the loner’s image – ‘I cried when I wrote this song’ – he immediately regains his distance from the listener with the next line – ‘Sue me if I play too long’.
If you’re willing to invest some feeling with your listening, you’ll discover a richness of emotion here, both musically and lyrically, that makes this one of the most satisfying records of the year. And even if you’d prefer to listen casually, there are enough hooks here (as opposed to The Royal Scam) to keep you coming back for more.