In which Nesmith continues his transmutation into Gram Parsons for television fans, or the Jimmie Rodgers of the Sunset Strip. I'm beginning to suspect that he takes his meandering thoughts and marble columns in the sky more seriously than they deserve. But his songwriting gifts are at a peak on this amalgam of gimmicks and mannerisms, long-vowel articles and near-yodels and electronic excursions and alien rhythms. At its best, sublime schlock; at its worst, downhome kitsch.
"Loose Salute" review/Robert Christgau/Record Guide 1981
No comments:
Post a Comment