OUTLAW BLUES AND ENDLESS GRACE....
If you're feeling unloved and forgotten, frightened and voiceless, alienated and misunderstood, in these brutally dark times of Trump, surveillance, controlled media, Gestapo cops and endless war, get these CD's. They will comfort you immensely. "Brilliant Disaster" is sort of an EP but also perhaps, the best LP I've heard since Ian Hunter's ‘90s masterpiece, "Rant".
The way you know every slick American music rag has been hijacked by the corporate state to promote war and Wall Street, bigotry and consumerism, is they keep putting war criminals, former wrestlers, and vacant lap dancers on the cover instead of the Cohenesque, Paul K… Maybe he ain't that famous, but his songs have had immeasurable emotional impact on most everyone they have been properly introduced to.
His current cutting-edge band is comprised of bigtime hotshot alumni from a bunch of famous bands you know more about than I do, because I'm frankly nowhere near the middle class and can no longer afford to purchase new music or $15 music magazines. Their names are Glenn Kotche, Scott Ligon, Steven Poulton, Rick Rizzo, Deanna Varagona, and Tim Welch, and they are aptly named.
I'm glad Paul K has convened some worthy enablers because I have never really stopped listening to his peerless songs, they are one of the only constants in my refugee existence. Lou Reed and Richard Hell were both undeniably influential and important artists, but they were just not as prolific or hard working as Paul K., I mean they never minded kinda trading on their reputations and passing half hearted, half written works off on their loyal fan base, they could both get a bit lazy, maybe even contemptuous towards their own audience, whereas Paul K. has a Detroit work ethic, and never stops toiling over these consistently artistic and emotive albums.
The dude always writes poetic, scenic lyrics as good as Jim Carroll's or Bruce Springsteen's or any critic's darling you care to name, and he has dozens of record albums every bit as great as those four classic Replacements records we all hold so dear. First and foremost, the man is a profoundly colorful and confessional writer-like William S. Burroughs or Hunter S. Thompson. Ghosts of the Every Brothers and Gram Parsons and all our reckless, fallen friends swirl around his haunted halo.
Some call him an outlaw, some say he's cursed. Paul K. has been described as a heavy drinker and an imposing and intimidating figure, I suspect mostly because he is very tall, and is almost always the smartest and funniest person in the room. The dreadfully dreary nineties Alternative music scene saw a massive influx of Nirvana imitating capitalist cattle into the old college radio punk rock circuit, and what one noticed was a complete lack of bravery, truth telling, originality or sincerity. Whole music scenes were completely devoid of human feelings or real emotions. Just these unimaginative Frat boys doing Rich Little impressions of Black Francis or the Beastie Boys or Barrie White. All these thoroughly insensitive, and lackluster mediocre rich kids with paid for reputations and by numbers songlessness. It was bewildering to see so many porky hacks and failed athletes getting the red carpet heave ho for their say nothing copycatting by the media-class gatekeepers, while Paul K.'s superb, sonic soul-food was studiously ignored--in spite of his mountainous discography of achingly poignant, fierce and fearless, courageously vulnerable, gospel-tinged tunes.
He remains America's Finest Unknown Songwriter, and I dunno who he pissed off, but legions of sucks shit rappers, mumbling distortion Narcissists, dorkass white boy funksters, and boot camped models on unreality show high note competitions are always being relentlessly heralded as God-like visionaries-the new Prince, the new Lou Reed, while Paul K. holes up in his quiet retreat steadily generating galaxies of stirring, heartbreakingly hurt and humble, heroic songs. If some corporate executive's trust fund baby like Julian Casablanca gets shitfaced every night, they say he is a cosmopolitan sophisticate. If a prole does the same thing, they say he is a demon.
I never understood why the obstructionist rock establishment objected to Paul K.'s impressive ouvre of keenly observational stories as naked and aflame as Sinead O'Connor and as soulful and funky as Curisi Mayfield, but it's probably because his warts and all testimonials are a threat to their carefully photo-shopped and whitewashed cover stories. He's got an instantly recognizable guitar sound, all his own, and an undeniable knack for lyrical cinematography.
Originals like, "Wine Dark Sea", and "If You Should Stumble" will get you thinkin' about how to ever accept all that came and left...he is confronting mortality and irreparable relationships, meditating on what went wrong, and reveling in the beauty of what is still here now. "Hello Dear Friend" is the phone call you've learned better than to make. If you need more encouragement about whether or not you should obtain these three full length discs, "Brilliant Disaster, or the other two, "I Know My Way In The Dark" and "Gone", my package might be a promo, but they came to me as a double LP, just go to YouTube and listen to Paul K & The Weathermen's "Radiant & White" or "You Did Not Have To Leave Me In Tears".
Not that many people can deliver raw power soul like he does, nowadays. "Too Demanding" is the story of an aggrieved dishwasher with a bum hand's life. I should know. Even his cover versions of songs like "Lovin' Cup" or "Can't put Your Arms Around A Memory" or "Jesus Children Of America" or "Waitin' Around To Die" raise the hairs on the back of your neck, send a shiver of intimate recognition down your spine. He's dashing and chivalrous with impeccable manners, righteously belligerent opinions about social justice, and captivating tales of harrowing, nigh unspeakable losses and hard to believe he survived adventures.
I brushed with the guy here and there over the years, and he was a diamond gent, he seemed to me like an almost saintly presence. Patient, non-judgmental, self deprecating, loyal and trustworthy, ridiculously funny, and eternally compassionate. Real good company. Like a merciful, chain smoking apostle. Even when sipping from the biggest bottle of booze first thing in the ratrace rush hour early light. What we are taught to believe Jesus or Buddha were like, but with dirty jokes. You would think by now, he'd be the most resentful dude in the world, twisted in knots with insane bitterness, after being fucked over for years by the shady music biz mobsters and parasitical imitators-and enduring so much grief and sorrow, after the blacklisting and intentional exclusion from the high school lunch room's snack-packing showbiz celebrity circles, but, no. He is thoughtful, and caring, he listens, and offers discreet counsel, seems to harbor almost zero vitriol towards the paychecks and trust funders , followers and flakes, who don't want their plagiarized pretenses, jiveass karaoke, and up cycled "Family Guy" and "South Park" routines being eclipsed by a real genuinely charismatic, battle scarred survivor, who is a faithful and long suffering, bona fide artist of true integrity. They'll say any chick with a hip-hop producer is a genius, nowadays. Every last Trump Jr. in a silk suit, acquiescent artschool poseur, or dullard gentrification brunching hedge fund manager's piano lessons progeny is pushed non-stop by overpaid media-pros as important, but they have nothing to convey. And yet, there they are, browbeating us incessantly from every newsstand cover, makeup counter standee, and online media platform, 24/7.
Meanwhile, Paul K. is somewhere, strumming his guitar right now, with a long ash on his cigarette, creating whole encyclopedias of deeply felt, panoramic songs bringing to life the big sky dust in your hair, the sounds of echoing footsteps in midnight alleyway rain puddles, the beeping monitors of intensive care wards, the sights and sounds of shooting galleries and funerals, the bus stations and scary street corners and moonshine drunk porch swing jamborees in the foothills of Rabbithash, Kin-tucky. He is a genuine article. The American Nick Cave. Hipper than 1,000 Thurston Moores, or Becks, or Jack Whites, or Flaming Lips. As woeful and earthy and from the soul as Willie Nelson, John Prine, or Johnny Cash. If you ask me, Paul Westerberg and Jeff Tweety should carry his guitar case.
I figure the relentlessly blaring drumbeats for war and TV glorification of needlessly violent, racist cops, the manufactured scandals meant to distract and divide, and sing-song commercials on the short attention span gizmos and surveillance grid gadgets have numbed out our ability to receive and appropriately venerate soft, still messages of love and grace. That's what his songs are really about-taking two seconds to decide-are you part of the problem, or are you part of the solution-a simple choice between love and hate. As Joe Strummer once barked, "If Adolph Hitler was alive today, they'd send a Limo for him, anyway".
Paul K. is way more talented and sincere than any status seeking, ruthlessly ambitious, money grubbing, selfie taking celebrities in our echo chamber propaganda MSM. He should be revered like Brother Wayne Kramer Rowland S. Howard and and John Lennon and Keith Richards. Bob Dylan should send him a case of his new vanity brand whiskey. Let those with ears hear. "I Can See In the Dark" b/w "Gone" is the best double record none of you will listen to, this year.
It's a fucked up world and behind the clown show, bad men are pulling strings and depopulating, redrawing maps, eviscerating the Constitution, wrecking humanity and eroding our values with fear and hate. The shadow empire Dick Cheneys have taken over, it's the end times. Theories abound as to why Paul K is not a big star, at least as big as Alex Chilton or the Clash, and I suppose it's pretty obvious after decades of obscurity that he has thus far refused to sell his soul to the devil. Lucinda Williams and Steve Earle should light his smokes and bring him fresh ice. He's telling my stories, and maybe a few of yours, too. While I type this, he is lovingly laboring over more majestic and haunting records for an ever shrinking audience of people who still care about books and records and cherish intelligent songs invested with truth and soul and real feeling. Don't bother seeking out these CDs if you have no love for Townes Van Zandt, Television, the Rolling Stones, or Velvet Underground. He's a rocknroll saint.
Additional Essential Listening: STOLEN GEMS, the two CD Paul K Anthology.
- Brilliant Disaster
- I Know My Way In The Dark
