The Counting Crows are cursed. Cursed worse than the Montagues and the Capulets, cursed worse than any pathetic Bill Buckner-hating Boston Red Sox fan.
Damned forever they shall be, eternally riddled by the unrelenting beauty of their first album, "August and Everything After." So near-perfect was "August," so laden with the elegant angst of lead singer Adam Duritz and his trusty partners-in-pain, Maria, Mr. Jones and Anna, that no Crows release ever will be able to replicate that wondrous mid-September day in 1993 when "August" hit the stores and white people with dreads became that much more acceptable.
But hell, they still are making CDs, the latest of which, "This Desert Life," contains more of Counting Crows' lovely hurt-ballad soundscapes but is crippled by an irritating amount of Duritz's self-absorbed grief.
While "August" and "Recovering the Satellites," the band's 1996 album, did include Duritz's personal turmoils, the lead singer often focused on a separate character with whom he then involved himself, making the emotional bungie jump more tangible, more visceral. On "Desert," though, Duritz is downstage-center, pouting all by his lonesome. The word "I" appears at least 161 times, as Duritz recounts tales of emptiness and unfulfilled aspirations. Granted, 90 percent of American poetry is about loss, but Duritz gives the impression that he's the only one who suffers. Adam, everybody hurts sometimes.
But beyond the ex-girlfriend-inspired lyrics lies some impressive musical artistry. "Hanginaround," the album's first single and Counting Crows' poppiest song to date, incorporates amusing harmonies during the chorus and some live, recorded-in-stereo clapping, giving Mom and Dad an opportunity to join the fun. Fortunately, this departure to the world of uplifting music is short-lived -- the band is far more satisfying when sullen. "Amy Hit the Atmosphere," a piano-led track backed by subtle guitars and charming vocal harmonies, is a welcome return to Duritz working lost female characters into his universe. Crawling towards that strenuous pitch that exudes discomfort, that note only Duritz can sing accurately, the song coalesces in all its ravishing, Amy-less beauty.
The lead singer's melismas on "Four Days" coil pleasantly over the up-tempo drumming of Ben Mize, and while the guitars slip too far into the realm of folky country-western, as they do too often on "This Desert Life," the chorus emerges gently, reserved and emotive at once.
"All My Friends and Lovers" is the best group effort on the disc ("Colorblind," a Duritz solo tune, wins for best song thanks to an enchanting running piano line and some welcome abstraction in the lyrics). Pounding on the ivories with varied dynamics, Duritz performs his best vocal melodies of the album, while strings replenish the background amid the cackle of quietly amplified guitars.
"Speedway" is the other display of Counting Crows at their peak. A slow, melodious bass line, courtesy of Matt Malley, carries the tune while a calming organ laces the track's perimeter. The gods of solemnity summon Duritz yet again, as he desperately tries to free himself from the nervousness, the shaking, before the album ends.
Releasing three albums in one decade, though not uncommon, certainly puts a band at risk of sounding repetitive. Perhaps it's unfair to demand that a group's sound modulate to keep listeners on their toes, to provide the unexpected. Perhaps if the sound were seductive enough, it would never become repetitive in the first place. Counting Crows are not yet out of style, but "This Desert Life" is not exactly prèt-a-porter. "Mr. Jones" was released in August of 1993, and everything after has yet to compare.
Grade: B
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