In spite of the slander that slurred scorned hearts of the rodeo -- even while Caitlin Cary's gentle subtleness balanced her intolerably bratty leading man -- and in spite of the blindly devoted coffee bar groupies who scream when the fault lines of palpable taste quiver menacingly, the demise of Ryan Adams has been an increasingly obvious fall from grace.
"Demolition," an album of essentially discarded tunes that temporarily shot a rush of anxiety through execs, whose "Gold II" dreams were uncouthly interrupted by the ghastly prospect that their Gap boy might not deliver a patently marketable sequel, may not technically stand as the proper third installment in Adams' solo trilogy.
But inherent in each spastic flail to conquer a new milieu or strained metaphor lies yet another thread to be sewn into his thick noose.
Tired of merely flirting with Westerberg delusions, Adams finally rounds up his Tennessee Replacements posse (the Pinkhearts) to unleash some slipshod rawk. He attempts to prove he ain't no emasculated bleeding heart.
He's adopted an edgy new persona: Jon Bon Adams, to accompany the Neil Young warble and Mick Jagger strut of "Gold," when insecurity first led him to shed his natural voice.
And man, does Jon Bon Adams love to rawk, not in stomping, giddy rockabilly "To Be Young" fashion, or even the barroom, rocks-off Keith Richards "Rosalie Come and Go" funk.
No, he loves it hackneyed '80s arena rock style. He gives his all to make each Alanis Morissette fan get up off her feet, throw those hands in the air and let out a "starting to huuuuuuuuurt."
The very existence of "Nuclear," "Starting to Hurt" and "Gimme a Sign," gives Ratt hope that occupancy awaits them should anything happen to the Pinkhearts.
These albums are where plodding bass and some tender, heart-tingling guitar slowly build momentum, lighting the hearts of middle-aged trailer home attendants ablaze, before igniting a banal chorus that recycles the same empty catch phrase as a hot-air-blowing Jon Bon Adams tries to inflate it with meaning.
But the acoustic, personal Adams of "Heartbreaker," having been neglected or at least drowned out by "Gold's" toothache-inducing overproduction, wants to come out and humbly play, so Jon Bon makes his way backstage to save his spandex and sweatbands for another day.
The rudimentary production remains the same: Adams does his Dylan and Drake, or at least his John Prine, with some fragile acoustics mingling with a dobro and piano intermittently while he waxes poetic on rejection.
But something is rotten in the city of Nashville.
The harder Adams tries to recreate "Heartbreaker's" depression and melancholy beauty, the more obvious it becomes how much he has lost the genuine lonesome sound that once painted broken pictures of haunted men -- men haunted by their attraction to women and the paradoxical antipathy and affection of rural Southern life.
Filling this void in vain of motivation are painfully overt lunges towards arbitrarily establishing Ryan Adams: Solo Artiste, and songs flooded with "poetic" images and allusions reeking of contrived desperation.
While the hand of leniency remained extended to the heartbreaker who stumbled awkwardly to find words to portray the distress that leaked from every word, that hand retreated after Adams' golden promises of collecting tears in butterfly jars fell lame.
"Demolition" razes that clemency.
Adams strings together every winded clich
of tortured, wounded whipping boy passivity ("Game of Hearts"), weeps a pathetic kiss-off ("real like a plastic bouquet") to a certain shoplifting actress ("Cry on Demand") and makes his coup to wrestle sappy soft rock domination away from Bono ("Desire").
Adams wants so badly to chisel himself as the sweeping Solo Artiste that he, like Rhett Miller, has forgotten, or lost, the unburdened ease with which songs once were crafted.
Through this fog of disappointment, though, when Adams' inflated conception of himself burns out, a faint light shines through, that, no matter how dim, still manages to instill hope.
Birthed during a two day session with accomplished sidekick Ethan Johns ("Heartbreaker," "Gold"), "Chin Up, Cheer Up" crackles with a bluegrass crispness to reveal a jocund Adams lost since "Bar Lights."
"Hallelujah," despite a tolerable amount of mawkishness, achieves the organic cathartic exultation that Johns polished out with "Gold's" slickness.
Similarly benefiting from the authenticity of the demo format, "Dear Chicago," originally intended for "Gold," floats above its depression with an air of nonchalance, leaving "Tomorrow" to nestle in the brooding isolation of Gillian Welch and David Rawlings.
While bitter cynics may deny that Adams' demise can't occur without an initital ascent to high stature, and insipid admirers may vehemently rebuff it on grounds of sightless devotion, the truth lies in the murky middle.
Adams now finds himself in artistic quicksand: the harder he tries, the quicker he sinks.
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