50 Years Later: On ‘For Everyman,’ Jackson Browne Presents An Easy-Going California Coming Of Age Statement

In comparison to the rhapsodic, literary nature of Jackson Browne’s eponymous debut LP, his second album, For Everyman, seemed literal-minded upon its release a half-century ago in October 1973. In hindsight, however, it’s disingenuous at best and demeaning at worst to simply pass it off as the so-called sophomore slump. It is, in contrast, the very definition of a creative coming of age, an artistic rite of passage rare in the annals of the folk-rock/singer-songwriter idiom. 

But that’s only because the poet laureate of California was speaking directly about concerns to which his previous work had only alluded in the most general terms, that is, the various means by which idealism becomes sullied over time. Browne adopts a greater detachment from his own emotions in order to speak more freely in these ten songs and, in doing so, he reveals more of himself to those who would listen. 

Grappling with the inevitabilities of adulthood that intrude upon the joyous innocence of youth–hear, first of all, “I Thought I Was A Child”–Jackson was in fact honing a distinctive voice that would further evolve so that, at its most penetrating, he captured those pivotal moments when, during interaction(s) with others (or a distinct lack thereof), the very direction of life changes in the most profound way(s), 

One of the earliest releases on David Geffen’s Asylum Records (also home to Warren Zevon and Joni Mitchell), For Everyman is, for all intents and purposes, a dialogue between the artist and his audience. Fundamental points of view, as laid out in “These Days,” become ever more clear as the sequence of tracks proceeds to the inevitable, if not wholly welcome conclusion; to that end, the title track fades in almost imperceptibly, akin to that nagging thought that won’t go away but demands action.

With the advantage of five decades of hindsight, on For Everyman, Jackson was taking the action necessary to withstand the ennui that can so try one’s patience as the years roll on. The opening cut, “Take It Easy” is only the most obvious indicator of sullied hope and optimism: far from the euphoric rendition by the Eagles (with whose Glenn Frey Browne wrote the song), the one-time member of the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band sounds dour, as if he’s trying to convince himself to adopt the casual sentiment in the title. 

In contrast, he is genuinely ebullient during “Redneck Friend,” a homage to his former LA roommate Gregg Allman. While its progression isn’t a wholly imaginative one, this selection is nevertheless a bonafide rocker and its rollicking tempo suits the subject matter. In turn, its placement near the center of the record is indicative of the more extensive production of this recording compared to its predecessor: the collaboration of the artist himself, with engineers John Haeny and Al Schmitt, serves the songs as a means of communication without turning over-obvious or excessively labored.

To that end, the enlistment of now-storied accompanists including Little Feat keyboardist Bill Payne and session drummer extraordinaire Jim Keltner (Leon Russell, Bob Dylan, and three of the Beatles solo) is significant. Still, it’s hardly so meaningful as the first appearance of multi-instrumentalist David Lindley, the man who would go on to define the increasingly detailed arrangements of Browne’s music for some years to come (til 1980 and occasionally afterward). 

Perhaps the most conventional of the many stringed instruments mastered by this now-deceased musicians’ musician, acoustic guitar ornament “Our Lady of the Well,” its clean precision a foil for the ever-so-slightly psychedelic touch of the Flying Burrito Brothers’ Sneaky Pete Kleinow’s pedal steel. In contrast to the restive air that otherwise permeates this album, a fitting atmosphere of quiet acceptance pervades this number (in direct reflection of the album’s cover image originally designed in a die-cut format). 

Such versatility is right in keeping with Jackson Browne’s talents as a composer and while he’s not so gifted as a vocalist, his invariably stoic tone prevents him from ever sounding sanctimonious or condescending. On the contrary, his voice evinces a deceptive nuance in his tender recounting of personal intimacy for  “The Times You’ve Come” and displays more than a little sly humor in keeping with the lyrics of “Ready Or Not”. A similar understatement fosters this performance of “Sing My Songs to Me” so that it rings true not only as personal introspection but also as an anthem of devotion to music as an art form. 

One of Jackson Browne’s greatest virtues is that he has never presumed to speak for anyone else but himself, a stance he solidified in For Everyman. With this breakthrough complete, it’s little wonder the very next album, 1974’s Late For The Sky, would stand as an early masterwork, perhaps unparalleled in his discography. 

No surprise either that 1976’s The Pretender is so clearly comprised of deeply consequential compositions (the title song and “The Fuse”) right alongside those far less so. The wealth of inspiration for Jackson Browne’s compositions was beginning to dissipate, to the point his commercial watershed, the unconventional live album Running On Empty, contains only two numbers Browne composed strictly on his own (multiple covers and co-writes with others fill out the eight tracks). 

Many of Jackson’s Eighties albums (and 1996’s Looking East) are bogged down with a stiff topicality that belies an ongoing activism through the man’s life. But 2002’s The Naked Ride Home signaled a return to form (hinted at almost a decade earlier with I’m Alive) and that elevated level of writing and recording has continued on to 2021’s Downhill From Everywhere. 

In essence, the charitable work and devotion to causes environmental and otherwise have become extensions of Jackson Browne’s artistic endeavors as they crystallized fifty years ago on For Everyman.