Cold Roses
June 18th, 2005
If the buzz circulating around the much anticipated double album release of Ryan Adams and the Cardinals is to be believed, the prodigious grave-robber has made yet another deal with the devil, summoning the soul of Jerry Garcia for one last nine-minute hippie jam. At least, that’s what the local DJ’s had me believing. However, after listening to the entire Cold Roses dual disc well over four or five times now, I find that to be an overly general summarization of the music. Admittedly, there certainly is more honky tonk present than in the artist’s last three offerings. And I did take notice to the addition of the Cardinals, largely because the vocals are so downplayed. Ryan’s singing is so fast and loose on some tracks, it’s as if he purposely recorded each in one take. My first thought was that the singer, perhaps out of fatigue, attempted to drown himself out of the spotlight, prefering a more layered instrumentation instead.
As well, there’s a bit more free form to the general song structure. They’re not as tightly wound as they were in Rock-N-Roll nor Love is Hell Parts 1 and 2. But when all is told, a 19 song offering has no need for tightness. As if by design, there’s a running theme of flowers and birds (yes, the old pot-head standbys), which does seem to hold together a consistent lyrical imagery. Much more than that, though, the quota for heartache is met up nearly threefold.
Indeed, the soft tissue sentimentality that has become the songwriter’s bread and butter further solidifies the one thing that has been entirely consistent about him since his days alt-country rocking it up with Whiskeytown—he’s a hopeless romantic at heart. Forget everything you’ve ever heard about his similarity to any other artist. That’s fodder for critics with nothing new to add. The simple fact is that you can’t fully appreciate Ryan Adams without first being devastated in at least one long-term relationship. The Southern blues of Beautiful Sorta, the American folk of Let it Ride, and the heady loftiness of Easy Plateau may be the standout exceptions to that rule, but by and large the chest-wrenching exercises in pop melodrama have never run deeper. They realize a potential to win over any life-hardened listener.
Apropos of nothing else, it’s also rumored by the artist himself that the first track, Magnolia Mountain, is about a 70’s porn star of the same name. Well, my cursory Google search found nothing of any truth to that claim, leading me to believe that Ryan may not only know how to fake musical styles, he also knows how to fake good copy. Perhaps he left us a clue in the chorus.
lie to me
sing me a song
sing me a song until the morning comes
and if the morning don’t come, will you lie to me
will you take me to your bed
will you lay me down
till I’m heavy like the rocks in the riverbed
that my savior made
While there are some definite stylistic Dead grabbings here and there, the core of this album is still firmly planted in stories of unrequited love and the solemn ache for what could have been. Despite a minor and unexpected lack of polish, this should be a satisfying listen for legions of country folk and granola crunchers alike, who have yet to be enamored with his heart-felt yearnings.
I’ve found that the album is, in fact, much more enjoyable for all the wear—even if some listeners are now sporting burkenstocks.