Brighter, more polished and more overtly comedic than the haunting noir that is Warren Zevon’s Asylum Records debut, Excitable Boy is still a far cry from the overly-romanticized California pop-rock of forty-five years ago. This is, nevertheless, the recording by which most people know of the man’s work–that is, if they know it at all–because he never had any other mainstream hits besides those that appear here (on what is actually his third solo outing as Wanted Dead or Alive came out in 1970 on Liberty/Imperial Records prior to his signing with David Geffen’s earliest label initiative).
By and large, Zevon and his work were more complex and nuanced than the gonzo mentality of this title song or “Werewolves of London.” Otherwise rendering this inveterate iconoclast a natural kindred spirit to the late Hunter S. Thompson, even here the subtlety abounds in the stentorian tones of his voice, one that lent an ambiguity to his singing that wholly belied the full force of the jaunty, piano-dominated rhythms.
Nevertheless, with almost a half-century hindsight in hearing the similarly-abandoned likes of the rousing closer, “Lawyers, Guns And Money,” it’s hard not to imagine its dramatic pertinence to the crime family that recently inhabited the White House. Perhaps even more topically prescient is the soldier-of-fortune tale of”Roland The Headless Thompson Gunner:” shades of today’s paramilitary outlaws?!?. And oblique as the connection may be, the delicacy of arrangement and composition that is”Veracruz ” at least hints at the immigration issues afflicting America today. (Keep in mind too the relevance of Warren Zevon’s Jewish-Ukrainian heritage to the current cultural dialogue).
There’s a distinctly literary quality to such material, rendered all the more transparent through the stalwart but unobtrusive musicianship of session masters like bassist Leland Sklar and drummer Russ Kunkel. The clarity of sound engineered by Greg Ladanyi with Dennis Kirk, (then remastered to resounding effect by Dan Hersch and Bill Inglot), was overseen by co-producers Jackson Browne and Waddy Wachtel, and the pristine audio also served to highlight cinematic imagery of the songs’ international scenarios. Accordingly, the roughly thirty-five minute playing time passes in the proverbial flash, stalling only slightly during the forced balladry of the (over) obviously Dylan-influenced “Accidentally Like A Martyr.”
As Zevon’s mentor and benefactor, the former of the two studio helmsmen was nevertheless often at odds with Warren during the recording sessions, perhaps in direct proportion to the succor supplied by the latter as guitar-player and co-composer. C.M. Kushins’ brilliant 2019 biography Nothing’s Bad Luck: The Lives of Warren Zevon details those machinations in great detail, as well as the real or imagined paralysis of writer’s block that often affected Zevon.
In that specific regard, then, it’s little wonder there are only nine new songs here, one of which, “Nighttime In The Switching Yard,” is little more than a rhythm workout for the musicians. Minimal lyrics set the scene for a noir narrative that never emerges, but the crossfire guitars of Danny Kortchmar and Wachtel are as lethal (if not more so) than the firearm pictured on the inside sleeve (a graphic prepped by Warren’s then-wife Crystal, then labeled with arch humor ‘Willy On The Plate’).
Still, the gusto of the players is undeniable as is their high-stepping, parade-like gait on this album’s opener, “Johnny Strikes Up The Band.” The invocation of the muse of music sounds no (more or less) effortless than the gentle pop-oriented air of “Tenderness On The Block;” co-written with Browne, this penultimate tune echoes the addictive quality of “Backs Turned Looking Down the Path” from the prior LP. The affectionate tone of Zevon’s vocal delivery only heightens its lighthearted air.
Such was the liberating effect of such material for Warren, who had once played in the band of the iconic Everly Brothers. It was a marked contrast to, but a natural corollary of, the rigor he applied to his compositions in a classical vein (ignited by his meetings with Stravinsky?): one of the random bonus tracks included on an expanded CD reissue of this 1978 album, “Frozen Notes” actually features a spare but string arrangement.
Foreshadowing the orchestral interludes that appear on the next album, Bad Luck Streak in Dancing School, its direct expression of emotion complements that of “Tule’s Blues” (homage to the mother of his son Jordan) in a solo piano take; another one of the four somewhat random extras of the 2007 release, the song (in a slightly more upbeat rendition) is also on Preludes, a double-CD archive collection of early Zevon issued the same year, juxtaposed with compositions that would populate the eponymous LP of 1976).
With the release of 1982’s The Envoy, Warren Zevon’s commercial fortunes were on the decline, but he rebounded creatively five years later (in line with the ascendance of his personal fortunes) through a relationship with Virgin Records, the home of Sentimental Hygiene. It was a return to form echoed by the issue of 1991’s Mr. Bad Example, effectively the last record of its kind for Warren (itself preceded by the ambitious concept work Transverse City of two years before).
1995’s Mutineer began a string of much more understated and reflective works continuing through the end of Zevon’s life on The Wind (completed just before his passing), but prefaced by the equally moving, folk-rock oriented Life’ll Kill Ya and My Ride’s Here.
In an almost viciously ironic twist perfectly appropriate to the deceptively hard-boiled persona that fueled his friendship with David Letterman, the artistic success of both records is grounded not just in the sly, often-caustic detachment of the author’s attitude, but a distinct lack of self-consciousness. Such a contradiction is one Warren would savor most deeply, since, in its most abandoned form, as documented on the live LP Stand In The Fire, it was the very factor that rendered credible all the variegated elements of Excitable Boy (not the least of which is the angelic expression on his face in the front cover portrait).
Rare is an album like this one as durable as it is accessible, even (especially?) four and a half decades after its initial release.
