Review Summary: The power of honesty.
On March 31st, 1994, Counting Crows performed on an episode of
Late Show with David Letterman - an episode which garnered the program’s highest ratings since its premiere seven months earlier. While it would be convenient (for the sake of this review at least), to say that the spike in viewership was due to a large number of music fans eager to see the Crows perform on national TV, this was not the case. In an incident infamous enough to elicit its own Wikipedia page, pop singer Madonna appeared on the show, choosing to spout off a variety of expletives and sexual innuendos, rather than partake in a conventional interview. Numerous households tuned in to see Madonna seemingly commit career suicide.
That’s not to say Counting Crows didn’t have drawing power, however. In fact, “Mr. Jones” was already a radio hit, and the band’s performance of “Round Here” on
Saturday Night Live in January of that year had been instrumental in shooting the band’s debut album,
August and Everything After, into the Billboard 200, where it would eventually peak at No. 2 - and remain there for 93 weeks. That being said, it’s undeniable that Madonna’s peculiar (and heavily censored) interview was the main attraction that night. Regardless, Counting Crows closed the show with an explosive performance of “Round Here,” - the culmination of years of practice and months of hell.
The band started in 1991, when lead singer Adam Duritz and guitarist Dave Bryson would play open mic nights at coffeehouses. From the start, Duritz’s lyrics were at the forefront, accompanied only by the subtle sounds of an acoustic guitar. The two would often play an early incarnation of “Round Here,” the song that would go on to open their first record. Over time, more musicians from the San Francisco scene joined the project, and the group begin to amass a local following. Duritz’s ability to evoke emotion from himself as well as those listening, while being supported by an eclectic group of musicians focused on bringing these songs to life, managed to set the Crows apart from the other bands in the area. Before the year was over, Counting Crows had recorded 15 demo tracks, demonstrating their ability to write songs above all else. This led to a bidding war between numerous record labels. The group eventually signed to Geffen Records, trading away money for complete creative control. With freedom few newly signed bands are able to receive, the band set out to record their first album.
Rather than occupying a conventional recording studio, which Duritz feared would lead to “sterile songs,” the band instead opted to move into a house in Los Angeles, where they brought their own equipment and built their own studio. While they were free from the pressures of an intrusive label, the band still had to face the pressure they were putting on themselves to make a good album. In preparation for the recording, and to encourage the band members to truly listen to each other, Duritz made the decision to strip the band of all the frills. This meant getting rid of guitar effects, fretless basses, synthesizers, and half a drum kit. Then, inspired by The Band, the group sat in a circle and played for hours, listening and reacting to each other. Counting Crows nowadays are rather well-known for their ability to extend their songs in live performance, sometimes adding bridges or lengthy outro sections. Duritz also has a tendency at these times to sing exactly what is on his mind, whether it’s the verse to another song he has written, or lyrics to songs by some of his favourite artists. When this happens, it’s the band’s job to follow him and not let the song die, and playing in this circle was where they learned to do that. This expertise is perhaps most evident on the album’s closer, “A Murder of One,” where the band drops down in the bridge while Duritz repeats the same line over and over: “I walk along these hillsides in the Summer ‘neath the sunshine/I am feathered by the moonlight falling down on me.” The tension slowly builds with the plucking of a guitar and the swell of an organ, and as Duritz shouts “change,” the band bursts into a soaring outro.
At times like these, the band makes it sound easy, but it’s on record that achieving this harmony was anything but. The keyboard player, Charlie Gillingham, has said that the drum take for the album’s lead single “Mr. Jones” was particularly difficult to achieve. The song’s poppy, fast-paced drum part has a subtle precision to it that, if played without the proper cadence, would come across as a little too overbearing. In the liner notes for the album, Denny Fongheiser is credited for the song’s eventual drum take, rather than the band’s drummer Steve Bowman, and (not to discredit Bowman) it comes across as just right.
Slightly bigger problems came in the form of “Omaha” and “Perfect Blue Buildings,” the album’s second and fourth songs respectively. Duritz had decided that “Omaha,” which was demoed as a straightforward guitar anthem, would work better as a wandering folk song. Understandably, the group had trouble nailing the wistful atmosphere of the song, which involves instruments weaving in and out of each other. Despite the difficulties the band had performing the song, “Omaha” comes across as unique and fulfilling, with the music reflecting the imagery in the lyrics perfectly.
“Perfect Blue Buildings,” the darkest song on the album, was also difficult to record. On this song, the emphasis is on the lyrics, with Duritz almost whispering in your ear. That being said, the band is imperative here, having to create a brooding atmosphere while still managing to throw in a hint of serenity in the chorus, where Duritz sings, “I wanna get me a little oblivion, baby/Try to keep myself away from me.” The organ does a great job of maintaining a delicate landscape for the other instruments to play off of, and the track ends up being just as effective as it was meant to be.
The rest of the songs on
August are just as satisfying - some in different ways than others. “Anna Begins,” the most lyrically abundant song on the album, appears as if it were a single stream of consciousness. It’s as if someone put a tape recorder in Duritz’s room and recorded him as he desperately confessed his innermost feelings to himself. The track begins with Duritz repeating “I am not worried/I am not overly concerned.” By the time the end of the song comes, and he concedes “I’m not ready for this sort of thing,” listeners know exactly how he came to that conclusion. The track that follows, “Time and Time Again,” is also notable, albeit on a different level. While the lyrics are just as well-written as they are on the rest of the album, in this case containing various pieces of particularly haunting imagery, the stand-out moment is when the song opens up for a perfectly timed guitar solo. This is the first and only guitar solo on the album, and it feels like such a release. Up until this point in the album, the music has been following Duritz as he tells these stories - when he goes up, the band members join him. In this case, the guitar takes precedent over the vocals, but it doesn’t feel out of place. The second Bryson hits that first note, it feels like he has just as much reason to do so as Duritz had when he sang “I can’t please myself” a second earlier.
That’s the beauty of
August and Everything After: every moment feels justified, and every song feels as if it’s happening for the first time. Despite the fact that the band had trouble with songs like “Omaha” and “Perfect Blue Buildings,” it’s impossible to tell when listening to the record. None of these songs sound calculated, and they all sound genuine. Whether it’s the moment the accordion seeps into “Raining in Baltimore,” or the final cry of “Rain King,” it all feels honest. So when millions of households tuned in to
Letterman to watch Madonna be a little too honest with her interviewer, they might not have expected another honest act to follow. The performance began just as the album did, with the swell of an organ and a chiming guitar riff. When Duritz chose to yell the song’s simple, yet universal line, “Round here, she’s always on my mind,” the band wailed on their instruments and echoed his statement. And by the time the song hit its final chord, perhaps a few of those households were embracing the sincerity of Counting Crows and asking: Madonna, who?
