Please put on your seatbelts and helmets: I’m reduced to blathering in the very superlatives that have been beaten senseless and slapped upon lesser albums, and I’m gonna throw them around. (Then, no doubt, I’ll come crawling back to revise this, feeling rather embarrassed at my presumptuous claims and flamboyant outbursts.)
* * *
Joe Henry’s Blood from Stars is a strong candidate for my Favorite Album of the… hmmm, yes, I’ll say it… Decade. Right up there with Bob Dylan’s Love and Theft. It’s as raw and raucous and rowdy and raggedly beautiful as Tom Waits’ Rain Dogs, and as stirring in its reverence for the gospel as anything I’ve heard since Dylan’s Oh Mercy. Listening to it all the way through, I’m exhausted.
And speaking of Dylan: As a lyricist, Henry joins Tom Waits as one of the only American songwriters I know who really deserves comparison to the Master. His metaphors speak to powerfully to me that I’ve come to anticipate his work with the same kind of trembling eagerness that I feel when I earn about new albums from Sam Phillips or Over the Rhine. I don’t like to use the word “masterpiece” anymore, as I don’t think any work of art deserves such a label until we’ve had at least ten years to think it over… but Henry’s last two albums — Tiny Voices and Civilians — strike me as strong candidates for the term.
Bono talks about working hard with the band and waiting for those moments when God walks through the room; well, after listening to The Bright Mississippi and Blood from Stars, I think I’ve found one of God’s favorite rooms.
I’ll be saying more about this one eventually, no doubt. I’ve fallen head over heels in love, and I’m running out to buy several dozen roses.