Richard Thompson’s 20th solo album: musical treasures from a musical treasure.
We could waste valuable review space confirming Thompson’s CV for you, and AUK has already warmed up this, his 20th solo release, in a previous article here, so for the 0.0001% of you left, here’s a brief word association to whet your appetite: Fairport Convention, Henry the Human Fly, I Want To See the Bright Lights Tonight, Rumor and Sigh, Vincent Black Lightning. Corroborating evidence: covered by Gilmour, Raitt, Krauss, Tabor and Emmylou. Oh, and awarded an OBE for services to music. The bush doesn’t deserve another beating – we’re in the presence of a musical treasure here. With one eye on such an illustrious past, however, it’s still valid to ask: is Hippies, Thugs and Heroes any good?
The album clings to a loose theme: pithy stories of rag-tag misfits, losers and lovers, pugilists and paupers, strung together (very) loosely across the various styles and genres Thompson has immersed himself in, singer-songwriter, folk storyteller, balladeer, six-string virtuoso, and basement bar rocker. It’s a heady concoction; something for everyone. As Thompson says, you don’t always know where you’re going. This journey is the better for it.
It seems fair to acknowledge that in his seventh decade of recorded output, Thompson has no one to please but himself, but Hippies… opens with a double barrel of in-your-face, come-and-get-it feistiness that suggests he’s not dialling it in. There’s an irony in naming your opening salvo Sorcerer’s Apprentice when your apprenticeship is lost in the mists of time. Is that some tongue-in-cheek humour too, in a lyric that starts with “Remember me..“? The song is a ballsy, multi-tempo rocker layered in chiming McGuinn guitar that stomps its intentions into your ears from the first chords and refuses to let go.
Antes are upped across the board in Cocaine Walking, Booze Talking, which wouldn’t sound out of place on the Faces A Nod Is As Good As A Wink… It begins with a descending melody line that gives way to a gritty verse riff over pounding tom work. This is spit and sawdust, hard-won backstreet hustle with some fine wordplay: “And you’d joke in hieroglyphics / Send postcards in Greek / One line of Shakespeare / And she’s yours for the week“, like a cocksure English Grad who just passed his Peaky Blinders initiation.
Both songs swagger from the speakers like they’ve had just the right amount of bourbon and don’t appreciate the way you looked at their partner. Their immediacy is a nod to how quickly the album came together, often with only 2-3 takes of each song and a crack band that convened at Hobosound Studio in Weehawken, New Jersey, sufficiently close to Thompson’s current home to minimise the stress of complicated travel arrangements for the songwriter. That loose, confident feel permeates the whole album.
The pace drops momentarily for Pauper’s Grave. Harmony vocals from Zara Phillips soften the sorry story of a John Doe being prepared for his final journey. Thompson’s lower-register vocal is perfect for the melancholic tale of a sad and inevitable ending: “If you’re not done with life, one day life’s done with you“. Unsung Hero is an upbeat, folkier narrative celebrating the invisible working class with a staccato riff and the hint of implied protest. Make Believe You Don’t Know Me’sgorgeous tale of unspoken love and sorrowful distance is accentuated with background horns.
And so it goes. She Burns It All has something almost choral in the verse, thanks to Phillips’ ethereal backing. Think dark corners, guttering candles and bad endings. The song’s tension threatens to snap at any point but refuses to resolve. Pipe Dreams‘ pretty acoustic wish fulfilment gives way to a blockbuster trio at the record’s end. The Big Smoke is a beautiful travellers’ lament on restlessness and finding your true north, a vision of sanctuary just out of reach; all wild winds, heartbreaking accordion and military snare. Stringer revisits Cocaine Walking’s strut, a rocking tale of a bad man’s bad man that lifts off three minutes in and just soars on a series of guitar, accordion, and fiddle breaks to its end.
Closer Siren brings the pulse back to manageable levels, a lovely acoustic ballad and a fittingly gentle way to end a disparate collection of songs that cohere into a whole, reminding you of the joy there is in listening to a body of work in totality, rather than streaming thirty seconds because you heard it on Insta. In the hands of lesser mortals, such variety may have been a recipe for disaster, but that voice, that guitar, that ear for a tune and a lifetime of songwriting craft to draw upon (and some superb production from James Frazee) ensures the listener is never disappointed. How wonderful it must be to find there are still stories to tell, and then to tell them with such passion, vigour and class.
Good then? Yep. With bells on.