That's a hell of a thing to hear from someone with more than a dozen albums to his credit. Especially when those titles include 1981's Rodney Crowell, which featured such enduring originals as "Stars on the Water," "She Ain't Going Nowhere," "Shame on the Moon" and "'Til I Gain Control Again," and 1988's Diamonds & Dirt, the first album ever to yield five No. 1 country singles. Press him on the point, and he'll backpedal, but only so far.
"Yeah, I say that half jokingly," Crowell concedes, "but I'm half serious too. I'm finally putting out the records I want to put out. Before, my records always seemed schizophrenic to me, as if part of me were trying to be a real artist and part of me were rolling out something that might get on the radio. About ten years ago I put out a couple records that really galled me, the ones for MCA in the mid-'90s."
He clearly believes that he began a new, far better career when he released The Houston Kid in 2001 and followed it up this year with Fate's Right Hand. He's not measuring the albums by commercial success, either -- after all, he scored nine Top 10 country singles between 1988 and 1992 and hasn't had a sniff of the Top 40 since then. Nor is he judging them by the quality of the songwriting, considering that he's proud of all the songs he's written.
"My reservations about my earlier records are not about the songwriting," he insists. "They're about the performances and production. Some songs I wrote in my thirties and forties are damn good songs. I'd love to have another crack at ''Til I Gain Control Again' or 'Leaving Louisiana in the Broad Daylight.' I developed quickly as a songwriter and slowly but surely as a producer, but the last thing that came into focus was the performing. These last two records present me as a more realized recording artist."
Crowell is right to make a sharp distinction between his work as a singer and as a songwriter. Even though these two activities are usually joined by a hyphen, they involve different skills. The singer has to cast aside all second-guessing and plunge into the moment, while the songwriter is required to second-guess each word, each note and each example from life as he assembles the jigsaw puzzle of the song. The singer must commit fully to the present, while the songwriter must retain a detached perspective.
In fact, the two tasks are so radically different that it's a wonder anyone ever thought to link them together. But the myth of Bob Dylan was so potent in the '60s and '70s that it was assumed that anyone who could write a good song was automatically a good singer. Crowell bought that assumption, and because he has a handsome tenor voice, it was easy to believe he was an accomplished singer. But he suspected something was missing; he sensed the hesitation and detachment that often crept into his vocals.
"I like how I sound now," he claims, "but when I listened to my records from the mid-'80s, I really didn't like how I sounded. My voice used to be thin and reedy. I was always surprised when people said, 'You're my favorite singer.' I'd say, 'You need to get out more.' Now people point out the writing and the subject matter, but to me the biggest difference is the singing. Now I don't wince at anything I do. People say they like Diamonds & Dirt, but to me that vocalist sounds pretty insecure. Now I feel more confident and relaxed; my voice has deepened."
Crowell has a point. The Houston Kid and Fate's Right Hand are his best-sounding records. But he overstates the case by dismissing all of his earlier work. Though he's recorded his share of clunkers (But What Will the Neighbors Think, Street Language and Jewel of the South), many of his earlier albums hold up quite well. Rodney Crowell from 1981 and Diamonds & Dirt rank with The Houston Kid as his very best, while 1978's Ain't Living Long Like This and 1994's Let the Picture Paint Itself are flawed gems like Fate's Right Hand.
Crowell turned 53 this summer, and there's now a splash of gray in his wavy brown hair. But when he appeared at the Grand Ole Opry in September, he looked lean and fit in a green shirt and blue jeans. He led his road band through "Riding Out the Storm," the best song from his new album, and then through "Big River," a tribute to his ex-father-in-law Johnny Cash, who had died just eight days earlier. Crowell's tenor has deepened enough to reveal a hint of Cash's baritone, and his ramrod posture and take-it-or-leave-it attitude reminded one of Cash as well.
