No one believed in him. After the debacle that was the Stone Roses' performance at the Reading Festival in '96, Ian Brown's career was finished. The Stone Roses, the group that at the start of this decade was labeled as The Next Big Thing, had become a joke, with singer Brown and bassist Mani joined by a host of mediocre session men (hired after the departures of drummer Reni and guitarist John Squire). Brown spent his Reading experience singing poorly and badmouthing Squire, and when it was all over, Brown had come out the loser. Less than 60 days later he ended what had become of the Stone Roses.
So when his debut solo album was released in February of '98, most, if not all, were shocked by its contents. Recorded on an eight track, Unfinished Monkey Business was a rough gem, both benefiting and suffering from its "production," often within the same song (the unedited seven-minute electro-jangle of "Lions" being an excellent example). Whereas the recorded efforts of the Stone Roses (especially on their earlier releases) featured the deft hand of producer John Leckie (Radiohead, Verve, Dr. John), Unfinished Monkey Business was Brown, warts and all. In addition to the demo touches, Brown played almost every note on the record, spending his post-Reading period learning how to play guitar, bass, and drums. There was a charm to the album that separated itself from its peers, and despite its roughness and spite (almost every track can be labeled as a direct attack on former bandmate and friend Squire), it was largely viewed as a success.
But Ian Brown has never done anything without a hitch, and the bad luck that cursed the second half of the Roses' career would soon haunt his newfound independence. While doing an interview with Melody Maker in the spring of '98, Brown made comments that hinted at homophobia (at odds with his behavior with the Roses), and then refused to clarify the statements. In the fall of last year, just as he was about to begin his first proper solo tour of England, Brown was thrown in jail for air rage (an incident that Brown swears never happened). Suddenly, Brown had recaptured the image of the ugly goon that had shadowed the disaster of Reading '96.
Five minutes, in the everyday world, is nothing; in pop music, it can mean everything. Asked by James Lavelle and DJ Shadow of UNKLE to sing on top of the song "Unreal" from their Psyence Fiction album, Brown came up with one of the best performances of his career, transforming a mediocre instrumental into a mystical love shanty (renamed as "Be There") that found its way into the Top Five of the British singles chart. Brown then made a surprise appearance at the final show of UNKLE's January tour, performing for the London crowd in a white bubblegoose in a moment that cemented his place in rock history and in its future.
Golden Greats was recorded in the period following his performance with UNKLE, and the spacey electro-dub of that partnership flavors much of the album. Sharing writing credit with several collaborators, Golden Greats is less of a solo album than Unfinished Monkey Business, while at the same time establishing a more consistent vision of what we should come to expect from Ian Brown.
That Golden Greats sounds like "Be There" is not a surprise. That it also sounds like Thriller-era Michael Jackson is (although Brown recently covered "Billie Jean" in concert). Like Unfinished Monkey Business, the songs here have a haunting charm, the darkness of the melodies somehow simultaneously providing a sweet light. Keyboards and drum loops are the musical instruments of choice, and even in songs like "Free My Way" (whose rhythm is propelled by a stirring cello), what ultimately makes the song is its driving electro-pop groove ("Victorian workhouse vibe," is how Brown describes it).
Though even the most diehard fan would admit Brown has a weak voice, it is wonderfully unique, able to combine disparate elements: coarse sweetness, na??ve experience. On Golden Greats, he crafts each song to fit his voice, creating music like Frank Sinatra: songs that excel not because of the singer's natural ability but because of his hunger and determination. That being said, Brown knows when to step aside and let the music talk: on the monstrous riff "Getting High" (the only track on this album aimed at John Squire), Brown slinks alongside the groove, offering up the snide "I could astound you if I wanted/Wouldn't even have to try."
Like his previous work, Brown fills Golden Greats with tiny nuggets and surprises: the burning Stevie Wonder-workout of first single "Love Like A Fountain" ends with a beautiful 40-second acoustic guitar "sketch." "Golden Gaze" begins and ends with a mesmerizing chiming sound that is ripe for a remix; the 3:39 mark of "Free My Way" finds his echoed voice shocking the song's chorus. Brown is also a master of inflection and suspense, as is the case in "So Many Soldiers," where he draws out the first verse by drawling "I'm so selective with the company I keep."
Although it is not a masterpiece - the second half of the album relies on too many grooves that don't groove - Golden Greats possesses some astounding tracks. "Set My Baby Free," based on a letter Brown's girlfriend wrote him while he was in prison, finds the singer rapping the wonderful chorus of "Hey you ugly people/ Set my baby free." Despite its bleak imagery ("Some are breathing underwater on a river in the reeds"), "So Many Soldiers" is an optimistic look at the young gangsters that shadow Brown's hometown of Manchester, and features the beautiful opening couplet of "Woke up so fresh this morning/ Love to wake up to your heat."
However, Golden Great's greatest moment is "Babasonicos," whose music was written by an Argentinean group who had sent the song to Brown. A smoldering, sexy groove of a song, the music is a third Stax, a third Portishead, and a third Latin machismo. They all combine to form an intriguing cocktail in which Brown fires off one last missive at the judge who sent him to prison: "You weren't there that night/ You didn't get it right... The lady got no soul." It is an unforgettable moment.
In "Love Like A Fountain," which seems to be an open "Thank You" letter to his fans, Brown offers up the chorus of "I could climb every fountain/ For your love is like a fountain/ Let it shower down over me/ Soak me to the bone/ Pour all over me/ Am I coming home?"
Though it'd be easy to be cynical over the song's Daisy-Age imagery, you can't. Ian Brown is one of the few artists who have enough character and charisma that they can say something and not have it questioned. If Jon Bon Jovi said he was a street fighting man, no one would believe him; if Mick Jagger did, we would know he was telling the truth. The same can be said for Ian Brown. In the current climate of teen pop divas and boy bands, it is refreshing - and surprising - to hear a voice as unique and real as Ian Brown's. Welcome back, King Monkey, you are home.
