There are few things in the world more pathetic and depressing than listening to someone's 50-year-old dad talk about his days following The Dead.
Wearing loafers and holding a briefcase, he'll sit you down, latch onto your ear, and unload a novella of completely embellished yarns about "Jerry, man," "Ithaca '77" and a host of other meaningless and archaic nonsense. You wish he could let go of his younger days and move on because, frankly, it makes him a lot less cool.
The Rolling Stones' new album, "A Bigger Bang," is almost a complete reproduction of this scenario. Eight years since the group's last release of new studio material, listeners find them in the exact same place: trying to sound like they used to and failing.
To be fair, "A Bigger Bang" is not a complete letdown. There are times when the band succeeds in sounding like they used to, most notably vocally.
Mocking nearly every human biological reality, Jagger somehow still sounds a lot like Jagger. There is not an earthly being, including Mick himself, who can accurately estimate how much debauchery his 62-year-old (62-year-old!) body has sustained, but, impressively, he still wails with the same patented leathery, nasal bray from 40 years ago.
Despite recent photographs to the contrary, 61-year-old Keith Richards is not only still alive, but can also occasionally play a guitar with the bluesy, Waters-esque panache of his coke days.
On "Back of My Hand," the album's most enjoyable track, Richards fluidly weaves in and out of Jagger's howl and squealing harmonica. The listener almost forgets that the musicians are nearly eligible for senior citizen discounts. Hearing these two icons sporadically doing what they did so inconceivably well is reminiscent of the Stones' glory days of "Wild Horses," "Jumpin' Jack Flash" and "Let it Bleed."
It could be the age or the miles, but there is most definitely something missing from this record and, more importantly, this band. The Stones give off the sense that they are simply going through the motions, doing an impersonation of themselves. It's apparent that, lacking either the passion, inspiration or sheer vitality to pioneer like they once did, the Stones are shooting simply to resurrect their former brilliance. Not only is that a shameful ambition (especially for them), but they don't even succeed at it.
For every one of "Bang"'s quasi-successful tracks such as "Can't You Hear Me Knocking," there's a "She Saw Me Coming" or "Oh No Not You Again." There the once-fiery vocals sound trite, once-masterful guitar solos indulgent, and once-sturdy 4/4 time signatures boring.
In truth, hardly anyone expected this to be a laudable effort. The reason Tom Waits and Leonard Cohen can be exceptional at their ages is because they make personal, intimate music; acoustic guitars, brushed drums and poetry.
Bruce Springsteen notwithstanding, you simply cannot make good rock-and-roll music when you get mailings from the AARP and look like the undead. What made the Stones so good was their fire: Jagger's lusty swagger and full-throated voice, Richards' utterly incomparable licks, and the other guys, you know, doin' their thangs.
Without which, the Stones are just another rock band that listens to the blues.
