Go buy this album instead. Or any other album.
So the past few weeks I’ve devoted the bulk of my listening to Brian Wilson Reimagines Gershwin. It feels a little dirty, but I’m halfway through Jimmy and I deserve a break. Call it the 16-album itch.
Or a palate cleanser. Though it is a little unfair to Jimmy — like rinsing with Lafite Rothschild after a course of Old Milwaukee.
(I had to Google “lafite rothschild” to make sure it was what I thought it was, but rest assured Old Milwaukee I had down.)
And I’d rather write about Brian than Jimmy. Floridays is particularly un-notable and… somehow… just doesn’t stand up to perhaps the greatest pop songwriter of all time, doing frickin’ Gershwin. And say what you will about Brian’s thinning, sexagenarian vocals, the novelty aspects of this particular album, the thematic heavy-handedness inherent in his latter-day efforts, his inability to recapture the magic of Pet Sounds, etc., but Brian wouldn’t be caught dead in the same league as Jimmy.
Or so I thought.
Because as part of my listening to BWRG I went back and dabbled a bit in Wilson’s other solo projects, among them Imagination, his forgettable 1998 (and true first modern-era solo) album. And what — what the HELL — do I find?
Track 3: “South American.” Written by Brian Wilson, Joe Thomas, and JIMMY BUFFETT.
I kid you not. JB managed to not only a) insert himself into the tentative first steps of Brian Wilson’s public recovery from decades of mental illness and psychotropic drug addiction, but b) insert himself into one of my few musical bastions I thought sacred and safe from the likes of Buffett. I swear, Jimmy is this wandering Gulf Coast Zelig, spewing trite lyrics and other novelty-song offal throughout everything I’ve ever held dear. Next I’ll find out that his Caribbean lifestyle influenced Coppola’s approach to the Cuban subplot in the Godfather Part II, and his beachfront antics shaped the character of the Bluth family in Arrested Development.
Before he gets the chance to ruin something else, I’m going to remind Jimmy where he stands, which is nowhere with Floridays. This album sucks with a single exception: “Creola,” whose lyrics are so idiotic it defies public listening, but whose indulgent, supple groove is just reminiscent enough of Barbra Streisand’s (really, Barry Gibb’s) “Guilty” to keep it on the playlist.
Seriously though, these are the first words of the song:
Creola,
In my soul-a.
I promise promise promise you: “In my soul-a.” (He follows later with “on my Victrola.”) There are no rhymes with “Coca-Cola” or “ebola,” which I can only assume would strike Jimmy’s sensitive audience as “inauthentic.”
If you haven’t listened to “Guilty” lately, here, enjoy some pleasure courtesy of the Brothers Gibb:
And then our brother Buffett:
Close enough, right? It also has a surprisingly relaxed steel-drum solo somewhere around six minutes in. (It’s a freakishly long song by Jimmy standards.)
It was either this or Babs in a bikini.
But otherwise I don’t even want to discuss the rest of Floridays. I’ve listened to this album twenty times in the past two weeks and can’t name a single song off the top of my head besides “Creola.” Floridays, frankly is notable for just two things: one, for marking Jimmy’s departure (yet again) from country — despite his previous two albums having produced actual “listenability” — and for featuring Carrie Fisher (yes, Princess Leia) as a cowriter on “I Love the Now.” Otherwise the songs come across as pale, wayward imitations of his previous two albums… almost interesting, but, really, if “almost as good as Jimmy’s other 1980s albums” is the benchmark, well, we’re a ways from Pet Sounds territory aren’t we?
(Aside: if Six Degrees of Jimmy Buffett were ever explored it would provide the media industry a horrifying wakeup call to the influence and impact he appears to wield within their ranks.)
Honestly, I’ve sat here for 30 minutes trying to wring individual commentary out of any of the songs, but I can’t. I will list them all to be comprehensive: “I Love the Now,” “First Look,” “Meet Me in Memphis,” “Nobody Speaks to the Captain No More,” “Floridays,” “If It All Falls Down,” “No Plane on Sunday,” “When the Coast is Clear,” and “You’ll Never Work in Dis Bidness Again” (yes, “dis bidness,” thanks Jimmy) — they all bite.
Or, as George would have put it: Floridays’ got plenty o’ nuttin’.
(That’s a Gershwin song. “I Got Plenty O’ Nuttin’.” It’s on the Brian Wilson album I mentioned up there. Did you get that? Are you even paying attention?!)
My song ratings from iTunes:
A “3″ means I would be okay hearing the song again.
Average iTunes Rating: 1.3
I Love the Now [1]
Creola [3]
First Look [1]
Meet Me in Memphis [1]
Nobody Speaks to the Captain No More [2] (this is a courtesy “2″)
Floridays [1]
If It All Falls Down [1]
No Plane on Sunday [1]
When the Coast is Clear [1]
You’ll Never Work in Dis Bidness Again [1]
