By 1975 Jackson Browne was three albums into his career, his remarkably assured 1972 self-titled debut set followed by the equally impressive ‘For Everyman‘ (1973) and ‘Late for the Sky‘ (1974). The lyrical accomplishment through this succession for resonant, thought-provoking releases established him as a master wordsmith – his thoughtful evocations of love, loss, death and the search for meaning, set to folk-rock melodies shaped mainly by piano or acoustic guitar.
Born in Heidelberg, West Germany on October 8 1948 (his father serving in the press corps of the U.S. military), but a Los Angeles resident since the age of three, Browne from an early age, or perhaps more pertinently since he first heard Bob Dylan in the early-60s, harbouring aspirations to be a songwriter. By the age of 18 he had gravitated to Greenwich Village, moving in a New York orbit of Andy Warhol, The Velvet Underground and their enigmatic lead singer Nico, who covered three of his compositions on her 1967 ‘Chelsea Girl’ solo album – one of which, the haunting ‘These Days‘ stands as the most erudite song ever written by a teenager.
As the 1960s gave way to the 70s Browne was back in L.A. his songs finding their way to the likes of The Byrds, Joe Cocker, Joan Baez and the Jackson Five. With plenty of material in circulation, he came to the attention of Los Angeles music scene kingpin David Geffen who made him an early signing to his fledgling Asylum label, that in time would include fellow aspirants JD Souther, the Eagles and later on Linda Ronstadt – Browne in this closely-linked cabal of artists co-writing well-known Eagles songs such as ‘Doolin-Dalton‘, ‘James Dean‘ and their 1972 debut hit ‘Take it Easy.‘
On securing from Geffen a recording contract in his own right, Browne rewarded such faith with an auspicious first release, the two that followed no less accomplished. While his exceptional turn of phrase was evident in pieces such as ‘Song for Adam‘ from the debut L.P. and the momentous title-tracks of both ‘For Everyman‘ and ‘Late for the Sky‘ (an album that also included the deeply poignant ‘For A Dancer‘), what occasionally marred his first three albums was muddy production and messy arrangements.
Both of these issues, however would be rectified on his fourth album ‘THE PRETENDER‘ (November 1976) – a record of painstaking resonance, but one borne out of deep personal tragedy.
He spent the closing months of 1975 serving as producer on the self-titled major label debut of Warren Zevon, Browne having recommended his friend to Geffen who signed him for Asylum. The record, which revealed Zevon as a supremely gifted writer, was subsequently released to largely ecstatic reviews in May 1976. But just weeks before ‘Warren Zevon‘ appeared, on March 25 1976, Browne suffered the tragic loss of wife, 30-year-old Phyllis, who took her own life through an overdose of barbiturates, the couple having been married three years and parents to a young son Ethan (3).
With work already started on his next release, Browne, in the most distressing of circumstances, set about completing the record. Galvanised by his grief he came up with an album that, while reflecting his obvious distress, took the form of a circuitous journey through life – these deeply moving songs conveying his hopes and concerns as a father, son, concerned citizen of the world and pilgrim on a quest for universal truths.
After he had brought fresh impetus to the New York sessions of Bruce Springsteen the previous year when the recording of ‘Born to Run‘ threatened to become bogged down, rock critic turned production ace Jon Landau was assigned control panel responsibilities. At once the the tracks sound sharper and more clearly defined, the well-crafted melodies given air to breathe in not being weighed down by more portentous passages.
This new found clarity in presentation is immediately evident on opening track ‘The Fuse‘, Browne once more expressing his anxieties at the problems of mankind, (‘Oh Lord/Are there really people starving still?’) but they are now, understandably, supplemented by personal turmoil, (‘Forget what life used to be/You are what you choose to be’).
Built upon ominous piano chords played with great subtlety by L.A. session stalwart Craig Doerge – fellow top notch sessioneers Russ Kunkel (drums), Leland Sklar (bass) and David Lindley (slide guitar) complete the troupe in this instance – Browne infuses the piece with a similar feeling of foreboding to ‘Before the Deluge‘ from ‘Late for the Sky.’ While despondent, he is clearly not defeated, his defiance apparent in the closing lines and reinforced by the cohesive efforts of the backing ensemble in which Lindley comes to the fore:
‘I want to say right now I’m going to be around/When the walls and towers are crumbling down/And I will tune my spirit to the gentle sound/Of the waters lapping on a higher ground.’
If Browne conveys a sense of the planet running out of road in dealing with fundamental problems, ‘Whatever it is you might think you have/You have nothing to lose/Through every dead and living thing/Time runs like a fuse/And the fuse is burning‘, with the next up ‘Your Bright Baby Blues‘ he is confronted by a relationship, (presumably with his late-wife, variations of the song circulating from late the previous year) that is in turmoil – neither party seemingly blessed with the strength to find an alternative course.
Browne on acoustic guitar, making his sole musical contribution to the record, leads a cast that includes E-Streeter Roy Bittan on piano and Billy Payne (organ) – whose Little Feat bandmate Lowell George provides harmony vocals and spine-tingling slide guitar solo as the writer lays bare the anguish he feels, this despair captured in lines such as ‘No matter how fast I run/I can never seem to get away from me/No matter where I am/I can’t help thinkin’ I’m just a day away/From where I want to be.’
He is, however, equally downcast when it comes to describing the emotions of his partner:
‘I can see it in your eyes/You’ve got those bright baby blues/You don’t see what you’ve got to gain/But you don’t like to lose/You watch yourself from the sidelines/Like your life is a game you don’t mind playing/To keep yourself amused/I don’t mean to be cruel baby/But you’re looking confused.’
In an effort to feel less disillusioned Browne is offered pharmaceutical stimulus, (‘This friend of mine said/”Close your eyes, and try a few of these”/I thought I was flying like a bird/So far above my sorrow/But when I looked down/I was standing on my knees‘), yet ultimately any hope of resolution lies in what affection remains – the final verse made even more emotive by the tragic circumstances that would shortly befall them:
‘Baby if you need me/Like I know I need you/There’s just one thing/Take my hand and lead me/To the hole in your garden wall/And pull me through.’
The bleak emotional landscape is momentarily brightened when the serene ‘Linda Paloma‘ breezes in, the distinct Mexican overtones of the melody emphasised by the nimble harp playing of Arthur Gerst. Behind him a vihuela, guitarrón and violin assist in shaping the tranquility as Browne weaves a bittersweet tale of love in all its mysterious forms:
‘At the moment the music began/And you heard the guitar player starting to sing/You were filled with the beauty that ran/Through what you were imagining/Dreaming of scenes from those songs of love/I was the endless sky/And you were my Mexican dove.’
But with daybreak comes restlessness on the part of his lover, whose intention is to avoid conformity in remaining a free spirit. As one remains looking up from the ground, the other takes flight – Browne describing the scene in eloquent detail:
‘But the morning brings/Strength to your restless wings/And some other lover sings/To the sun’s bright corona/I know all about these things/Linda Paloma.’
Built upon some lyrics Browne was given by his mother-in-law Nancy Farnsworth (who receives a co-write credit), striking side one closer ‘Here Come Those Tears Again’ is an anguished, admittedly one-sided, account of how best efforts at saving a marriage are falling short:
‘Here come those tears again/Just when I was getting over you/Just when I was going to make it through/Another night without missing you/Thinking I might just be strong enough after all/When I hear your footsteps echoing in the hall.’
Backed primarily by Payne (piano) and Mike Utley (organ), along with the guitars of Fred Tackett and Orleans front man (and future New York congressman) John Hall, the track while forlorn and fatalistic is a sumptuous production containing enough hooks to earn Browne a U.S. hit single.
Written and recorded before the tragic passing of his wife, there is no escaping the solemnity of the situation, Bonnie Raitt and Rosemary Butler providing supremely luscious harmony vocals as Browne makes a final summation of their struggle to rediscover unity:
‘Some other time baby/When I’m strong and feeling fine maybe/When I can look at you without crying/You might look like a friend of mine/But I don’t know if I can/Open up enough to let you in/Here come those tears/Here come those tears again.’
With the opening track of side two, Browne writes from the standpoint of a father speaking to his son, infusing the tender acoustic ballad ‘The Only Child‘ (‘Boy of mine/As your fortune comes to carry you down the line/And you watch as the changes unfold/And you sort among the stories you’ve been told‘) with hard won wisdom and wry wistfulness.
He conveys how life is a road that while susceptible to undulation the key skills required for navigation are hope, compassion and truth. Bad luck will strike and lessons be learnt, but even then keep faith in the search for happiness:
‘Let the disappointments pass/Let the laughter fill your glass/Let your illusions last until they shatter/Whatever you might hope to find/Among the thoughts that crowd your mind/There won’t be many that ever really matter.‘
Supported by the sympathetic violin playing of Lindley and exquisite harmonies of Souther and Eagles drummer Don Henley, Browne is of the belief that living, for all its tribulations, is to be embraced, love when it arrives to be held with both hands:
‘And when you’ve found another soul/Who sees into your own/Take good care of each other.’
Browne then makes a change in perspective, reflecting upon a strained connection with his own father on ‘Daddy’s Tune‘, writing with no lack of sensitivity in regard to their complicated co-existence.
Initially his vivid narrative (‘Though among the regrets that I can’t get by/There are just one or two/Unkind things I said to you/Daddy what was I supposed to do?/I don’t know why it was so hard to talk to you/I guess my anger pulled me through‘), is set to the accompaniment primarily of Doerge on piano, only for this bold track to make an upswing in tempo – the increased momentum coinciding with realisation that he had not always been right and his father not always wrong:
‘But Daddy I want to let you know somehow/The things you said are so much clearer now/And I would turn the pages back/But time will not allow/The way these days just rip along/Too fast to last, too vast, too strong.’
From restrained piano ballad we are now in the midst of a roaring Van Morrison-styled workout, the lyrics only gaining in evocative impact as the horns wail beside a cavalcade (Tackett, Lindley, Waddy Wachtel) of guitars:
‘Somewhere something went wrong/Or maybe we forgot the song‘, sings Browne in rueful fashion before coming up with an ingenious depiction of the generation gap, ‘Make room for my forty-fives/Along beside your seventy-eights’, in acknowledging respectful tolerance is preferable to lasting antipathy.
Sadly for Browne on the crushingly sad ‘Sleep’s Dark and Silent Gate‘ he views life from the edge of the abyss, the protagonist needing to take stock before the way ahead can be viewed with purpose, if seen at all.
In the first instance Browne ponders the common question of ‘Sometimes I lie awake at night and wonder/Where my life will lead me‘ but the emphasis then becomes intensely individualistic – and against the backdrop of mournful strings and melancholy piano touches from Doerge, his sadness pours forth:
‘I found my love too late/Running around day after day/Looking for the time to play/While my old friends slipped away/Never should have had to try so hard/To make a love work out, I guess/I don’t know what/Love has got to do with happiness/But the times when we were happy/Were the times we never tried.’
In bringing this emotive evaluation of what fate has brought to a close, Browne asks, then answers his own enquiry, (‘Sometimes I lie awake at night and wonder/Where the years have gone/They have all passed under/Sleep’s dark and silent gate‘). But while resolution has yet to take shape, with the closing title track he emerges from the shadows to face a new day, if not the future, with what resolve he can muster:
‘I’m going to rent myself a house/In the shade of the freeway/I’m going to pack my lunch in the morning/And go to work each day/And when the evening rolls around/I’ll go on home and lay my body down/And when the morning light comes streaming in/I’ll get up and do it again.‘
With the framework once again created by Doerge, Browne opens up his ruminations to include failure of late-60s Woodstock ideals to have truly affected society, (‘I want to know what became of the changes/We waited for love to bring/Were they only the fitful dreams/Of some greater awakening’), the questioning made more symbolic by the appearance of counter-culture talismen David Crosby and Graham Nash on backing vocals.
As the harmonies soar and the strings sweep down, Browne appears to have settled upon simple contentment as means to embrace what the time ahead has in store, (‘I’m going to be a happy idiot and struggle for the legal tender/Where the ads take aim and lay their claim/To the heart and the soul of the spender’). He is one among many seeking solace and satisfaction in the daily rituals of being alive, at the same time retaining aspirations for a rewarding life, psychologically, if not financially – some taking those components in reverse order in hearing the song as a harbinger of the 80s yuppie-boom.
But when all is said and done implies the subtext (‘I’m gonna find myself a girl/Who can show me what laughter means/And we’ll fill in the missing colors/In each other’s paint-by-number dreams‘), blind faith in happy endings can only last so long, truthful communication between one person and another being the most vital element of the human condition.
That said, on the album cover Browne is pictured on a busy street in downtown, multi-cultural Los Angeles. Yet nobody in this particular photograph, himself included, is making eye-contact with each other, everyone looking straight ahead focused merely on reaching the other side of the road – a metaphor perhaps for an individual moving from one chapter of life to another.
Despite the vulnerability expressed in several of these compositions, Browne, through the title-song, is trying to forge a way forward. Life has to go on irrespective of the unforeseen dismay that has come to pass and while hiding away may be tempting, it is no solution. Clinging to the past is a naïve notion, although he is not immune to such emotions, being well aware of the pretence – the cover photo embodied in the line ‘Out into the cool of the evening/Strolls the Pretender‘. What lays ahead is uncertain, but in simple terms there is only one way to find out, continuing as he does, ‘He knows that all his hopes and dreams/Begin and end there.’
On release ‘The Pretender‘ received a slew of ecstatic reviews. ‘Brilliant’ declared the New Musical Express, while Rolling Stone hailed it ‘A masterpiece‘ backing up their admiration a couple of years later by acclaiming Browne as ‘The most accomplished lyricist of the decade.’
In a wider context, ‘The Pretender‘ (which reached number 5 on the U.S. charts, easily his most successful release to date), was culmination of all the abundant promise contained on Browne’s first three albums. This full-flowering of a remarkable talent, manifesting through the most awful of circumstances, maintained and then went beyond the impressive consistency he had already displayed, moving as a writer through this period from introspective idealist to expressive, battle-scarred young adult.
In the years that followed he would create with ‘Running On Empty’ (1977) the most audacious live album ever made, but as the 80s unfolded impetus for his writing moved from the personal to politics and environmentalism, which produced mature and thoughtful work, Browne making no secret of his convictions and values.
If these songs reflected the harsh realities of disconcerting times, then ‘The Pretender‘ remained the last word in autobiographical expressionism where the rock album was concerned.
In that regard there was no surprise it should originate from Jackson Browne.
Ten years before at the age of just 18 he had displayed wisdom well-beyond his years with the line ‘Don’t confront me with my failures/I had not forgotten them‘, in ‘These Days‘ – to which ‘Nothing survives/But the way we live our lives‘ from ‘Daddy’s Tune‘ on ‘The Pretender‘ sounds a counterpoint, only from further down the road of life.
JACKSON BROWNE – THE PRETENDER (Released November 4 1976):
The Fuse/Your Bright Baby Blues/Linda Paloma/Here Come Those Tears Again/The Only Child/Daddy’s Tune/Sleep’s Dark and Silent Gate/The Pretender;
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