Storyteller
Tracy Chapman's back
by Gary Susman
The '80s never ended. The so-called Greed Decade -- with its Wall Street fever,
political disillusionment (thanks to a slippery yet much-loved president), and
bubblegum music -- never died. The only difference between then and now is
that, in the Gordon Gekko days, we felt a twinge of uneasiness about the
growing distance between the haves and have-nots. Today, however, with Internet
IPOs, e-trading, and Regis Philbin minting new millionaires every day, we have
lost even that minimal capacity for shame.
There was a moment, though, when sincere feeling might have been possible,
thanks in no small part to Tracy Chapman. At the height of Milkenmania 12 years
ago, she first appeared -- wiry, hungry, armed with an acoustic guitar and a
plaintive voice, and talkin' 'bout a revolution. Somehow she managed to cut
through the din of greed-is-good messages permeating the culture with her debut
album of Harvard Square coffeehouse folk anthems about domestic violence and
homelessness. She scored a huge hit with "Fast Car," her hopeless, hopeful
slice of life among the lowly.
Was she a force for artistry and social consciousness or just another easily
co-opted voice of dissent who unwittingly helped turn guilt into a commodity
and a status symbol? Probably both. Two of pop's mini-industries -- riot grrrl
and Lilith -- owe Chapman a debt of influence, but whatever good intentions
they may once have embodied have been reduced, toned, and sculpted into the
sleek, blonde showcases that are Courtney Love and Jewel, those two
advertisements for themselves. Whatever ground might have been gained has been
lost, and we find ourselves back in a place where the culture's primary concern
is individual self-promotion, which we rationalize without compunction by
calling it "self-esteem."
And at this time of shamelessness, here comes Tracy Chapman again, carrying
enough shame on her back to redeem us all. Having sat out most of the '90s (she
hasn't released a record in five years, and her only hit of the decade was the
pleasant throwaway "Give Me One Reason"), she returns with Telling
Stories (Elektra). Produced by David Kershenbaum, who did the honors on her
first two 10 years ago, the album finds Chapman returning to the original
acoustic solo/small-group sound that first brought her attention. And over her
spartan arrangements, she's singing again with perfect earnestness about
personal and political travails -- there's no difference, remember? -- as if
earnestness had never gone out of fashion.
That could be a handicap, given that we now like any hint of medicinal reality
sweetened with at least a spoonful of irony. She's usually blunt and
straightforward, as on "Paper and Ink," where she sings, "Money's only paper
only ink/We'll destroy ourselves if we can't agree/The world we know will fall
piece by piece." (Yes, she's right to decry avarice, but nuclear war? Why,
that's so passé, darling.) The closest Chapman comes to having a sense
of humor is on the title track, where she pushes her lament for the fictions
that make up our everyday discourse into an imaginative riff: the stories we
spin become "science fiction," in which "I am the scary monster/I eat the city
and as I leave the scene/In my spaceship I am laughing." Okay, she's no Weird
Al, but it's nice to see a little humanizing absurdism. No coincidence that
this is the only tune on the album that can be said to rock, in the way that
"Talkin' 'bout a Revolution" and "Give Me One Reason" did.
Otherwise, Chapman is so preoccupied with guilt and recriminations that the
burden seems almost unbearable. "I'll try to keep the walls from falling down,"
goes one chorus. In "Unsung Psalm," the refrain is "If I lived right," as if to
apologize for not doing so. Here, living right means to "have no desire," as if
desire weren't what makes us human. Elsewhere, on "Devotion" and "First Try,"
the singer faults herself for infidelity and inability to give love. So she's
as unforgiving of herself as she is of the rest of the world.
Still, it seems churlish to ask Chapman to lighten up; her
lone-prophet-in-the-wilderness stance is a bracing tonic. And her tunes remain
pretty enough to sell this bitter pill to fans with long memories and younger
listeners yearning for a strong female voice with more to offer than Bouncin'
Britney Spears and Screamin' Jessica Simpson. Of course, her exercises in
remorse could, once again, become just another liberal accessory, making
Telling Stories an ideal coaster for your NPR Morning Edition
coffee mug.