 Ryan Adams Love is Hell Pt.2 has more distinctive songs than Pt. 1, but it doesn't get around the central problem of not being very good. "My Blue Manhattan" was probably found in Ron Sexsmith's trash. "Please Don't Let Me Go" rewrites "I Threw it All Away," highlighting the fundamental difference between Bob Dylan and Ryan Adams … Dylan would throw away a song this unmemorable, Adams will not let it go. Actually, that was unfair, but I couldn't resist. I love Dylan's tender side, like "Tell Me it Isn't True," and Adams does that kind of thing alright … though there's still no particular reason for him to be doing it. It's like, I already have the Band's records, and Dylan's, and all the other people's whom Adams rips off … is there a need for generic versions? I mean, I can afford Wheat Thins™, I don't need to stoop to President's Choice Wheat Snack Crackers. "I See Monsters" is a nice one, also traversing the Side-B Blood on the Tracks terrain that seems to comprise a good part of Adams's musical knowledge … pretty, though it feels vaguely like a song you'd hear at a pivotal moment in an Ethan Hawke movie (that wasn't a compliment). But it is one of the few tracks on either EP that feels like it has any real heart. "English Girls Approximately" seems to have been written specifically to get Adams some English pussy … it's like David Gray pragmatically setting out to write "Tangled Up in Blue" … again, falls squarely into the "generic equivalent" category. Why aren't Dylan's lawyers all over this jackass? And it uses a secondary hook from "Rock & Roll is King" by ELO as one of its main hooks. Some tasty background vocals from Marianne Faithfull on this one, though … she almost sounds like Hope Sandoval! "Thank You Louise" is more Dylan-by-way-of-Sexsmith. Then, closing the disc, is the song I ought to hate the most, but ended up kinda loving … "Hotel Chelsea Nights," a transparent rewrite of "Purple Rain" that benefits from some great background vocals, a spare arrangement, and some tightly-controlled guitar work. It's showy, it's pretentious, it's fake, but it works. As with everything Adams does, you have to suspect a song that begs for pity at the singer's being "strung out" at the Chelsea … you can't help but think that the only reason Ryan Adams would even be in the Chelsea is to don its legendary squalor like a pair of fake-vintage Diesel pants. You can't buy it, kid. You can do all the drugs you want, fuck all the groupies you want, imagine yourself to be some kind of tortured soul, but in the end, you are what you are … a rock critic. Wait, who was I talking to there?
Review by Thomas Long-and-Strong |