Ah, here it is -- the dreadful funky close to one of the most heralded rock outfits from the 70s, the album that made Ritchie Blackmore hang up his scalloped frets and say bollocks to his blokes. This album sounds more like a vocal showcase for singer David Coverdale than it does an album proper, allowing him to project his soulful funk tendencies with fruitless abandon and practice his impending Whitesnake garbage -- and really, what business does "Love Don't Mean A Thing" have on any respectable DP album, let alone a rock album? I'm not a funk-hater, believe me; and I've got nothing against soul. Sly & The Family Stone; Donny Hathaway; Stevie Wonder? I totally dig them. Deep Purple laying down a saturated funk groove? I don't think so. Ritchie's later manifestation as the mad minstrel is better than this.
"Holy Man" is a synthesized gospel; "Hold On" sounds like a blaxploitation flick montage sequence; "Soldier Of Fortune" carries the torch as the prerequisite end-of-album mournful ballad. No, I didn't eat the shrooms; I swear on my mother's grave, and she ain't even dead! Terrible, terrible stuff, really, terribly, truly. The only songs worth lending your tympanic membranes to are "Stormbringer," "Lady Double Dealer" and "High Ball Shooter" -- the latter two conjuring up images of casinos and roulette and -- wow, I really don't know what to write about this album other than don't buy it. Ever. At all. I bought it, but that's because I'm as mad as a hatter. If you really want it, let me know; I'll burn you a copy. But I will hold you in such low regard that I think you would prefer my frienship instead. Oh, enough. D-
2 comments:
WOW, its like a play on words. your amazing mr.Bryan. i dont know how you come up with these things..........................muh
Excellent review of a not so excellent album. Its kinda sad when a good band goes out with a bad record...leaves a funny taste in your mouth and a bad ringing in your ears :(
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