Steve Winwood

Nine Lives

Columbia Records

By Rob O’Connor

Good music is like obscenity. You know it when you hear it. Despite time's ability to flatten all experience into historical consensus -- take a gander at any list of "Classic Albums" and see how we homogenize the past -- in the end, it's all a matter of personal preference. Getting older doesn't mean getting wiser or that you're getting more stubborn in your ways and therefore unable to process new information. You may be more suspect of innovation. Your ears may be better tuned to certain rhythms and sounds. But your taste is your taste. Was I "too old" when I didn't embrace the bright, commercial synthesized grooves of Steve Winwood's "Higher Love"? (For the record, I love the Cure for their dark synths and Prefab Sprout used an arsenal of keyboards and production gimmicks to make sublime pop music.) Or was I just reacting with my ears and my gut? I always knew "Back in the High Life" was a smart, poignant tune about the capricious nature of fame and acclaim, but it took Warren Zevon's acoustic take from his Life'll Kill Ya album to nail the point home. His version sounded like wisdom being handed down through the ages; Winwood's sounded like a beer commercial.

Winwood has always been a reckonable talent. His prodigious musical abilities are legendary while his instincts have been hit and miss. "(Sometime I Feel So) Uninspired" is a bold admission of truth and a screaming red flag for what has been an erratic career. His work with Blind Faith and Traffic served him well because he found great chemistry and context for his work. Despite pedigree and associations, Winwood's greatest strength has been the simple energy of his voice. He is blessed with a natural timbre that draws the listener in. Provide that voice with the right material, the right arrangements and the deal is sealed. Like any charismatic figure, Winwood can convince you that a lie is the truth or that it doesn't matter anyway.

According to Winwood, Nine Lives is not named for his resiliency, but because it's his ninth solo album and contains nine songs. Simple enough. However, the album is about his resilience. That's what makes for its pleasurable moments. Now, so many years past his commercial prime and turning 60 this year, having self-released his previous album, 2003's About Time, rejoining the major label circus of Columbia Records is for little more than greater promotion and distribution, and maybe bankrolling his 401k. But, really, it's Winwood in his home studio with musicians he respects, playing, and more importantly waiting for the music to rise to the surface. No unforced errors, no desperate attempts to find a bandwagon worth jumping on. Not that commercial concerns don't sometimes raise the bar. First rule of any creative endeavor is no rules steadfastly apply. However, in Winwood's case, we've been down the commercial avenue before and it hasn't been his forte.

So then, what is Nine Lives? It follows Winwood's passions. He likes rhythms and his musicians -- Guyana born Richard Bailey on drums, Brazilian native Jose Pires de Almeida Neto on guitar -- reflect his attempt to synthesize a variety of feels and approaches. Songs unfurl in five-six-seven minute increments, with lots of percussion, swaths of Winwood's Hammond B-3 organ and a flute that reminds you Winwood was in Traffic and that in the age where every singer-songwriter has done the acoustic guitar and cello formula to death, it may be time for the flute to take its rightful place.

Eric Clapton adds a guitar solo to "Dirty City" that's sure to draw notice. But it isn't what drives the album. If anything, Clapton's spot is the closest thing to what could be construed as a contrived event, since it's the moment you've come to expect from two old compatriots and a way for each to get a little publicity boost. Essentially, the two of them slip into a comfortable groove. Not a thing wrong with it, except - and this is more than a little ironic to say- it's a little loud and abrasive in context with the rest of the album. (I don't think I've ever before complained about something being too loud and it's hardly "loud" by formal definition, just a harsher tone that offsets the mood of the rest of the disc.) But, seriously, most of Nine Lives surfs on a wave of good wishes, positive vibrations, the sound of a man taking a look around his life and realizing that he does have it pretty good even if he has none of life's answers. "Dirty City" belongs to another place and time.

Good times and self-realization may not sound like the basis for stirring art, but then romantic break-ups have been overrated for their creative sparks for centuries. Winwood doesn't need a drug problem to make him more interesting. And over the course of 57 minutes -- which is still too long in just about any context, albums were meant to never exceed 47, with 37 being optimum. (I believe Wilhelm Reich has a theory backing this up) -- the flow does wear thin. Taken in smaller doses, though, Winwood's sweetness breaks through. Much like latter day Van Morrison, if you can stop expecting miracles and immerse yourself in the subtle aspects of the craft, there are moments to savor and revisit. "We're All Looking" presents the usual existential dilemmas of finding meaning in the randomness of the universe with that Winwood-tinged blue-eyed soul that sounds much better in this naturally produced setting. "Other Shore" expresses hope in the face of feeling things slipping away. It's neither New Age or an old retread. It's about survival. Which seems to reflect a lot of reality these days.