Back around the time I was buying that Crowded House album I queued up with a gang of mates in the Brashs store on Collins St to get a friend’s copy of Robert Cray’s big hit album signed by the man himself.
I’m sure we felt very cool and sophisticated standing there with a very adult crowd, many of whom I suspect were wearing nifty jumper combos and pastel pants, and like us had haircuts of the mullet variety.
That memory has stuck with me down the years, along with the impression that said album was some sort of blues classic. It lead me to pick this CD up cheap last year.
And here my recollections let me down. This is not some seminal example of the blues genre. Rather it is a testament to the wrongness of the mid-late 1980s.
Here we have a bloke wailing away on his guitar in the same cleancut fashion that make Eric Clapton some unendearing. The tracks are all tales of sleaziness and misogyny, presented in a sort of titillating way that will most appeal to white blokes with manicured hair, chains and hairy chests, and Cosby-era middle class African-Americans pretending to get the Blues.
File under: I’m persuaded to hurl this CD across the room…strongly