Tim McGraw
Live Like You Were Dying (Curb)
Keith Urban
Be Here (Capitol Nashville)
Alan Jackson
What I Do (Arista Nashville)
A friendly warning: Don't turn on a mainstream country radio station unless you're prepared to be assaulted by uplift, pummeled with positivity. One hit after another will grab you by the collar, demanding that you value your precious, dwindling days on earth, embrace your loved ones while you can and, generally, seize the day.
In "Feels Like Today," the group Rascal Flatts will warn you that life is "not gonna wait 'til you make up your mind." In "That's Cool," you'll hear the up-and-coming duo Blue County give four thumbs-up to "livin' in a moment you may never see again," while Darryl Worley will counsel that no matter how lousy your situation might be, you should treasure your "Awful, Beautiful Life."
These days, there's enough feel-good pop psychology and carpe diem in the country Top 40 to make noted Brooks & Dunn fan Dr. Phil blush. Yet no matter how cynical you are about Music Row's hit machine, that doesn't mean some of these records don't ring true. A few of the more skillful purveyors of inspiration have made motivational numbers the cornerstones of satisfying new albums.
The uplift anthem of the year, of course, is Tim McGraw's "Live Like You Were Dying," which recently spent a couple of months at the top of the country charts. The lead single from McGraw's instant-blockbuster album of the same name, "Live" spins the tale of a dying man who finally embraces the physical and emotional risks of life in a way he never did when time seemed endless. It's futile to resist the record's tear-jerking power—even if I hope never to hear another country song that takes place in a hospital room, a setting that seems, incredibly enough, to have supplanted the honky-tonk of late.
If "Live" is as subtle as a sledgehammer, the album surrounding it is more complex. McGraw doesn't write his material, but over the last decade he's grown cannier about finding songs that balance accessibility and depth—and as his superstardom has grown, so has his artistic leverage to make each album a reflection of his personality. At 16 tracks, Live was bound to drag a little, but standouts like "Everybody Hates Me," "My Old Friend" and "Blank Sheet of Paper" (with his wife Faith Hill singing backup) testify to McGraw's deepening artistry. On "Can't Tell Me Nothin'," he even rebukes radio's value-your-lousy-life mantra. "I wanted to be her man," he sings dejectedly. "Two babies and a trailer later, here I am."
No worries. Keith Urban is there to pump him up with his exuberant "Days Go By," a single that's been sharing maximum airspace with "Live Like You Were Dying" for the last couple of months. If McGraw sells his moral with a TV-movie storyline, Urban delivers the lesson straight up: "You better start livin' right now, 'cause days go by," he sings. Luckily, the track propelling "Days Go By" is an endorphin rush of Springsteen-derived glory that conveys the song's urgency much better than the lyric—especially in the thrilling final 30 seconds, when Dann Huff's mandolin races drummer Chris McHugh to the finish.
"Days" sets the tone for Urban's third album, which bears the appropriately in-the-moment title Be Here. This attitude carries through the self-explanatory "Better Life" and "God's Been Good to Me," both of which, like "Days," feature the sound that's quickly becoming Urban's trademark: a mix of programmed beats and live drumming thumping beneath a melody spirited by Urban's fleet-fingered guitar and banjo playing.
Yet like McGraw's album, Be Here is more complicated than its first single might suggest. The bottom falls out of the exuberance on the likes of "Tonight I Wanna Cry" and "Nobody Drinks Alone," giving the album an almost bipolar feel; in Urban's world, things are either wonderful or miserable, with little in-between. By album's end, we wind up back where we began, with the inspirational "These Are the Days," a pointed bookend to "Days Go By" that cautions, "These are the times that won't come again."
Ever country's coolest customer, Alan Jackson has a more laid-back method of dispensing his middle-age wisdom (for what it's worth, Jackson is 45 to Urban's 36 and McGraw's 37). When Jackson delivers a life lesson on his new album, What I Do, he does it with subtlety. "If Love Was a River" urges listeners to embrace romance, but the loping, mandolin-led melody feels more like a friendly nudge than a push. "If love was a party with everyone you know, would you dance if I asked you?" he flirts. The dance imagery returns in the glowing "There Ya Go," which floats friendly post-breakup advice above a gentle groove.
That's not to say there isn't darkness on What I Do; on the contrary, there's more heartache here than on most mainstream country albums, from the ominous "You Don't Have to Paint Me a Picture" to the booze-soaked "Strong Enough." Towering above them all is "Monday Morning Church," a brooding masterpiece about a man dealing with a crisis of faith after his wife's death. "I can't seem to talk to God without yelling anymore," he confesses.
A lonely, miserable widower angry at God? Sounds like the guy needs to tune in country radio.
Comments (0)