For whatever reasons, Leon Redbone’s fabricated but fascinating persona evokes such a balance of cool psychology and lukewarm mythology that it deliberately cancels out many of the conventional approaches, both for the artist and his listeners. The man is a master at constructing and manipulating small mysteries, then never resolving them. Like Ramblin’ Jack Elliott and Tom Waits, the quixotic Redbone prefers to deliver his music through an elaborately created alter ago that presumably promises something better than the efforts of John Doe. Unlike either Elliott or Waits, whose larger-than-life characters often wallow in the readily identifiable barrooms of red-hot sentimentality and nostalgia, Redbone clinically eschews the empathic, primal technique: his postman carries some emotion but wouldn’t dream of ringing twice—too obvious.
What is really enigmatic about Redbone, an interpreter who draws much of his material from the half-century of American popular and traditional music which ended just before World War II, is his point of view. His aesthetics are fine, but what on earth is he thinking? No mere cold-blooded stylist, he seems somehow to have rediscovered the basic compassion and humanity inherent but long dormant in the yellowing pages of his archaic repertoire—and there is no doubt that he can convey at least some of that initial innocence to an audience. (On the Track’s "Marie" and Double Time’s "Mississippi River Blues" offer sufficient proof.) Yet, simultaneously and paradoxically, Redbone too often insists upon distancing himself, albeit in the most subtle ways—a trace of cynicism, near-invisible smugness, a certain boredom, the slightest condescension—from his material, thereby playing the snake (or at least the apple) to his own Adam and Eve. There is something morally neuter and recessive about Leon Redbone, and I don’t know why that bothers me, but it does. I may succumb to his savoir-faire, but before I bite the apple, I want to know if he has.
Given his penchant for vagueness, it is inevitable that Redbone raises more questions than he answers. Does his total lack of vulnerability indicate strength or weakness? Is he pervasively parodistic or simply playful? Can evasiveness be forged into a personal vision? Is the man truly that evasive? If so, is that necessarily bad? Does he use irony as a weapon or a shield? Would he be completely out of place in either a Sontagian essay on cabaret camp or a folk purist’s thesis on blind blues singers? Might not he be a novelty adjunct—the perfect musical equivalent of Chevy Chase—to NBC’s Saturday Night? (Two appearances on that show catapulted sales for On the Track from 25,000 to 200,000 copies.) Are we really supposed to fall for that old publicity shuck about his refusal to tell us when and where he was born? Does he give a shit about anything? Am I being too hard on him? If this were a trial, I don’t think he’d want me to head the jury.
That said, there are things to admire about Redbone. Singing and playing Jimmie Rodgers’ songs and such standards as "Ain’t Misbehavin’," "Shine on Harvest Moon," "Sheik of Araby" and even "Melancholy Baby," he neither overtly imitates nor pays self-conscious tribute to his apparent sources, yet manages more than a tip of the hat to both performing methods. Then there is that indescribable voice. Rich, deep, perfectly controlled and marvelously expressive, it glides, slides, scats and sighs in the smoky, semi-comical manner of a Hoagy Carmichael, enabling the singer to float like a butterfly, sting like a bee. That Redbone can make it jump through hoops cannot be denied, yet his con-man pyrotechnics at times seem like an aural mirror for his own throaty ego. After three or four cuts, it gets tiresome.
Happily, Redbone has found in Joel Dorn a producer both sensitive and sympathetic to his music and questionable mystique. Double Time, like On the Track before it, works best when Dorn and the artist utilize the sparest of accompaniments and place most of the emphasis on the vocals. Although Redbone is too often as smooth as liquid mercury, he can do things the hard way, bringing a song to life by taking it seriously. "Mississippi River Blues," which features some haunting soprano saxophone lines by Yusef Lateef, is treated with total respect and emerges a mood piece as strong as, say, Robert Altman’s McCabe and Mrs. Miller. "Winin’ Boy Blues," with Bob Greene at the piano, achieves the kind of muted unity and intimacy which serve it well.
Two months ago, I saw Neil Young play three shows at the Palladium in New York City. Here was the first successful post-romantic, I thought. Somehow, he’s eliminated the questions through hard work and stopped letting the answers destroy him. Don’t be denied, he seemed to be saying. You must take incredible chances because you can get back. I believed him. For me, Leon Redbone, despite his talent and charm, has closed the door on most meaningful discussion. Questions, answers, attitudes—they’re all the same to him. He just stays in his room or maybe walks around the block. He’s no fool. That’s the trouble with him. (RS 234)
PAUL NELSON
(Posted: Mar 10, 1977)