Introduction

CANTERBURY COMES TO LONDON (1997; 1999)
1) Memory Lain Hugh; 2) Headloss; 3) Nine Feet Underground; 4) The Dog, The Dog, He's At It Again; 5) Cold As Ice; 6) Somewhere In Your Heart; 7) I Know Why You're Laughing; 8) Liar; 9) For Richard; 10) Golf Girl.
For a band that was never really known for virtuoso musicianship, unusual stage behavior, or at least a dedicated arena-size fan following, Caravan have had a fairly insane number of archival releases out in the past thirty years — not on the Grateful Dead level, of course, but still at least a dozen live documents of various tours over the decades, collecting and reviewing all of which would require an arch-obsessed mind. For this reason, I will pick out only a few representative points, even if they might not necessarily be the absolute best ones; but then again, it seems that Caravan had always had a decent live sound, and ultimately it all comes down to differences in set lists or sound quality.
This one, technically, should not even be counted as an archival document: released in 1999, it documents the band on their promotional tour for The Battle Of Hastings, containing all or most of the show played at The Astoria, London, on September 17, 1997. In this setting, they are already augmented by Doug Boyle (who would remain with them for the Breakfast Item album), and Dave Sinclair is still in. The setlist, as the track listing quickly tells you, includes a large chunk of Battle Of Hastings material in the middle, bookmarked by classics from In The Land Of Grey And Pink and Plump In The Night, plus the perennial ʽFor Richardʼ — a fairly good flow control here, since interspersing the recent pop-style material with long-winded epics of the band's heroic past would probably work much to the new material's detriment.
All the performances are carried off quite respectfully: the new guitarist does have a bit of that Eighties leftover flair (after all, he did spend a lot of time playing for Robert Plant in the decade of hair metal), but only about as much as is needed to give the songs a bit of an extra energy punch, not a bad thing for a band that somehow has to compensate for the age (and general chronological irrelevancy) factor. Also, bass player Jim Leverton is no Richard Sinclair when it comes to singing, so I do believe that ʽGolf Girlʼ is sung by Pye instead, while the final vocal section of ʽNine Feet Undergroundʼ sorely loses in the beauty department (in fact, Leverton has to struggle to stay in tune on that one).
As for the new material, they took most of the highlights from Battle Of Hastings without carrying over the slower, drearier stuff (ʽCold As Iceʼ is the only exception — I'd much prefer ʽIt's A Sad, Sad Affairʼ); the insane guitar solo on ʽI Know Why You're Laughingʼ is almost as effective as the studio version (not quite, because the studio version was immaculately construc­ted, and this one has moments of unfocused improvisation that sometimes kill the tension), but ʽLiarʼ is extended by means of an additional solo and played rawer and with more aggression than in the studio, so it's really fun to hear these songs taken to the stage.
Nevertheless, apart from a two-minute tricky introduction to ʽGolf Girlʼ that has the audience clapping along and trying to guess if they are really going where the fans think they should be going, the album offers no surprises — this is just Pye Hastings' Caravan giving old prog rock fans a deserved good time for their money. We do have evidence, though, that as late as the late Nineties they could still sound like goddamn Caravan on that stage. Whether the same judgement would apply to their shows in the 2010s, I honestly have no idea, though.
LIVE AT THE FAIRFIELD HALLS (1974; 2002)
1) Memory Lain, Hugh / Headloss; 2) Virgin On The Ridiculous; 3) Be Alright / Chance Of A Lifetime; 4) The Love In Your Eye; 5) L'Auberge Du Sanglier / A-Hunting We Shall Go / Pengola; 6) The Dog, The Dog, He's At It Again; 7) For Richard; 8) Hoedown.
Of all the live archival releases by Caravan covering single-date (or double-date) performances, I select only Live At The Fairfield Halls as an example, since it has a certain priority over every­thing else: it was originally released, in a slightly abbreviated version, as The Best Of Caravan Live in 1980, for the European market. The actual show took place on September 1, 1974, in London, appro­ximately one year after the show with the New Symphonia and also introducing new member Mike Wedgwood on bass — just a few weeks before the once-again-revamped band entered the studio to record Cunning Stunts. Consequently, the setlist here is pretty much the same as on the expanded version of Caravan & The New Symphonia: lots of tracks from their most recent offering (Plump In The Night), ʽLove In Your Eyeʼ and ʽFor Richardʼ as stabilized mega-epic-classics, and a few non-studio LP rarities — ʽVirgin On The Ridiculousʼ is done here without orchestral support as it was on the New Symphonia album, and ʽBe Alright / Chance Of A Life­timeʼ is an outtake from the Plump In The Night sessions that did not make it onto the original album (but a studio version of which is now also available on the expanded CD edition).
Since, predictably, there is not a lot of difference between the live performances and the studio originals, that's pretty much all you need to know — well, I might add that the show, also predic­tably, was a good one, and that Richardson's viola parts more than make up for the lack of a com­plete orchestra on ʽVirginʼ. The audience participation bit on ʽHoedownʼ is rather cheesy, but an unavoidable evil, especially for a band as audience-friendly and cheerful as Caravan; luckily, at least the in-between song banter is kept short and to the point. Otherwise, I am not really sure why anybody would want to bother with the record, given the availability of New Symphonia which at least adds a fresh twist to these songs. Perhaps in 1980, with Caravan arguably hitting rock bottom and all, a release like this made sense — just to remind the record-buying public of how great these guys used to be. Today, it is only for dedicated fans who wish to spend some time picking up all the little nuances that separate loyal live reproductions from the originals. Like, for instance, ʽFor Richardʼ is three minutes longer than the studio version here — I am still not sure if this is because they extend some of the jam sessions or because they take it such a leadenly slow tempo at the beginning, but I am too lazy to go check it out.
THE SHOW OF OUR LIVES: LIVE AT THE BBC (1968-1975; 2007)
1) Place Of My Own; 2) Ride; 3) If I Could Do It All Over Again I'd Do It All Over You; 4) Hello Hello; 5) As I Feel I Die; 6) Love To Love You; 7) Love Song Without Flute; 8) In The Land Of Grey And Pink; 9) Nine Feet Underground; 10) Feelin', Reelin', Squealin'; 11) A-Hunting We Shall Go; 12) Waffle (Be Alright / Chance Of A Lifetime); 13) Memory Lain Hugh; 14) Headloss; 15) The Love In Your Eye; 16) Mirror For The Day; 17) Virgin On The Ridiculous; 18) For Richard; 19) The Dabsong Conshirtoe; 20) Stuck In A Hole; 21) The Show Of Our Lives.
It makes perfect sense to round out the Caravan retrospective with this huge 2-CD package that spans their entire «prog years» career. Prior to this, there have been several rather chaotic releases of BBC material recorded by the band at various occasions; the only one I'd previously heard was BBC Radio 1 In Concert, recorded March 21, 1975 at the Paris Theatre, and it has been almost completely integrated here (strangely, though, without a complete overlap — the original release had ʽHoedownʼ, which is not included here, while the new package adds ʽMirror For The Dayʼ and ʽVirgin On The Ridiculousʼ that were omitted from the 1991 album, so go figure).
Anyway, this here is a solid and well-balanced mix of performances from various John Peel and BBC In Concert sessions that, among other things, allows you to get a peek at live interpretations of some of the early material that never survived the transition into the «golden age» — songs from the self-titled debut (including ʽLove Song With Fluteʼ, which is transformed here into ʽLove Song Without Fluteʼ because they could not get brother Jimmy to appear with them, so Dave has to fill his shoes with an organ equivalent of the flute part) and «filler tracks» from the second album, like ʽAs I Feel I Dieʼ. Once we get to the Grey And Pink period, performances start to become more familiar and predictable, but there is still at least one super-curious rarity: ʽFeelin', Reelin', Squealin'ʼ, a 10-minute epic that starts out in inconspicuously default soft-rock mode, but then quickly becomes an improvised psychedelic extravaganza — a free-form freakout that alternately reminds one of The Grateful Dead, Pink Floyd, and The Soft Machine. I would not call it particularly mind-blowing or anything, but it's a bold side of Caravan that had blipped for a few seconds around 1970, then was wiped out completely with the emergence of the Grey And Pink style, and it is interesting to learn that they could occasionally allow themselves to go crazy like this as late as May 1971, by which time ʽGolf Girlʼ had already become their trade­mark song (ironically, there is no ʽGolf Girlʼ on this package).
The second disc, covering 1973-75, is clearly less exciting for those who have already heard all the regular live albums — I mean, there's only so many live versions of ʽThe Love In Your Eyeʼ and ʽFor Richardʼ that I'd care to have in my collection — but it does include a rare occasion of the complete live performance of ʽThe Dabsong Conshirtoeʼ and other songs from Cunning Stunts that might help rekindle your interest in that transitional album. They could have gone further: if you are genuinely curious about continuing this experience, the earlier package Ether Way: BBC Sessions 1975-77, overlapping with this one in regard to the Cunning Stunts tracks, also adds some live renditions of material from Blind Dog At St. Dunstan's (could be entertai­ning) and Better By Far (probably couldn't) — but on the whole, I understand the decision of the compilers to stop at 1975 and have ʽThe Show Of Our Livesʼ round out the album in gloriously anthemic mode.
CAT STEVENS



MATTHEW & SON (1967)
1) Matthew & Son; 2) I Love My Dog; 3) Here Comes My Baby; 4) Bring Another Bottle Baby; 5) Portobello Road; 6) I've Found A Love; 7) I See A Road; 8) Baby Get Your Head Screwed On; 9) Granny; 10) When I Speak To The Flowers; 11) The Tramp; 12) Come On And Dance; 13) Hummingbird; 14) Lady; 15*) School Is Out; 16*) I'm Gonna Get Me A Gun.
Ah, to be 18 in the year of 1967. People like to be condescending to Cat Stevens' debut — inclu­ding Cat Stevens himself, who had very quickly turned against the production style imposed upon him by producer Mike Hurst on those early records, and has always dismissed them as too light­weight, immature, and sugary-sweet. But there is a youthful charm here that is not to be found on his classic recordings, and as far as my ears are concerned, the sound of Matthew & Son is «da­ted» in a very positive way — the baroque-pop flourishes and the sunshine orchestration fully agree with the sweetness of Stevens' young voice and his charismatic persona.
It is clear, right from the start, that here is a man strictly following his own path. The influences are obvious — pop-rock of The Beatles, folksy singer-songwriter stuff of Simon & Garfunkel, flowery meditativeness of Donovan, etc. — but the experiences behind the songs are the ex­clu­sive property of Mr. Georgiou, as are the melodic structures (and if Mr. Georgiou is copying somebody else on the melodic structures, he is being way sophisticated on this: thus, he later admitted that ʽI Love My Dogʼ borrows the main melodic theme from Yusef Lateef's ʽThe Plum Blossomʼ, leading one to wonder just how many other relatively little-known jazz records the man may have plundered for inspiration). Even as an 18-year old amateur, he refuses to openly subscribe to any particular school of musical thought — in terms of atmosphere, I would pro­bably place this album closest to contemporary Donovan, yet its lyrical themes very rarely con­centrate on fantasy / psychedelia, having more in common with the «everyday obser­vations of the little man» approach of Ray Davies. Sort of an «Alice In Routineland» thing here.
The little catch about Stevens is that his voice actually sounds timeless rather than young. In a few years, he would develop a bit of a rasp, deepening the effect from his singing; here, his voice is fresh and clean, but it already has a certain sage-like quality to it — largely free from deliberate emotional winding-up and displaying calm and serenity regardless of the circumstances. Happy Cat Stevens, sad Cat Stevens, love-ridden Cat Stevens, angry Cat Stevens all sound very much alike (in this, his closest musical ally may be Al Stewart, who, perhaps not so coincidentally, would also release his debut album the same year and have it arranged very much in the same style; although with Al, the «sage» image works even better because he was far more lyrically sophisticated than Stevens from the very beginning). The good news is that this results not in monotonousness, but in a certain «lesson of serenity» that this guy teaches us from the very start of his career — and that I, personally, would value over a thousand religious sermons. (Warning: this page is going to be highly politically incorrect towards the spiritual path of evolution chosen by Mr. Georgiou, though I will try to always concentrate on the Cat Stevens aspect of his perso­nality, regardless of any extra cultural baggage).
The very first song — the title track — is about the fuss and the madness of ordinary life, see­mingly complaining about the workers at Matthew & Son and how "they've been working all day, all day, all day!", but... complaining? More like curiously contemplating: Stevens sings that line as if in a state of quiet Taoist marvel at the (pointless) achievements of all those poor souls, and the song's arrangement, with the harpsichords and the brass section and all the strings, adds a good dose of nonchalant British good humor as well (for the record, the song features Nicky Hopkins on keyboards and John Paul Jones on bass — the same efficient combo that would later lend a hand to the Stones' ʽShe's A Rainbowʼ, which, not surprisingly, is stylistically similar to this tune). There might be sadness, or even condemnation, somewhere here in between the lines, but this is more like a befuddled alien observer reaction, and therein lies the charm of this record: even as an inexperienced 18-year old, Cat Stevens has already managed to construct himself an artistic personality, hovering over the real world around him with more credibility (and less empty flash) than Ziggy Stardust.
He is not completely out of this world, though: more like a loner who is simply way too awesome for this world. On ʽHere Comes My Babyʼ, a song that ended up taken to the charts by The Tre­meloes rather than himself, he is singing about lost love to one of the most upbeat and cheerful melodies on the album — "never could be mine, no matter how I try" shows that he is sorry about what happened, but he is certainly not going to kill himself over such a bit of bad luck as this. In fact, he loves his dog as much as he loves you — "you may fade, my dog will always come through", he sings on the song that he took to the charts himself, though not very high; still, for such a quiet and unassuming song to hit No. 28 in late 1966 was quite an achievement. He never gets out of character when he is trying to woo a lady, either: ʽBaby Get Your Head Screwed Onʼ, a catchy pop march with the hardest-hitting rhythm track on the album, keeps its cool at all times, with one of the least sexual "baby you'll be out of your mind" refrains you'll ever hear. Apparent­ly, Cat Stevens does not need to resort to Mick Jagger's arsenal when romancing his next partner (although that does not stop him from throwing around a few insinuations).
Unlike contemporary or modern day critics, I think that — particularly given Cat's age and lack of experience — there are no bad songs on the album: each composition shows some originality and inspiration, even if some are more naïve than others (ʽThe Trampʼ is a little misguided, a crude way to raise some pity for its title character because at this point, Stevens cannot properly master the tearful / tear-inducing approach; still a pleasant acoustic ditty, though). Some criticism has been levelled at the album's amateurishly psychedelic elements, but there is no psychedelia as such here — do not be confused by such titles as ʽWhen I Speak To The Flowersʼ, because it is really a dynamic R&B song that is more influenced by Otis Redding than any psychedelia, and the only thing he wants to get from the flowers is an answer on whether he should "just leave you behind", anyway. He is not a flower child — a troubadour, perhaps, as evidenced on the final serenade of the album (ʽLadyʼ, with the most courteous and tender delivery of 'em all), but most of all, just an innocent bystander with his own, ever so slightly detached, take on life.
There really was no other time than 1967 to produce such a record, an age when kids could lay their own claims to wisdom and experience and get away with it in spite of all the arrogance (then again, I'm always ready to defend even such albums as From Genesis To Revelation), so I am definitely insisting for a much more solid thumbs up here than the more typical reaction of «this is cute stuff, but he'd do so much better in the future». You do have to push your inner child but­ton to properly enjoy Matthew & Son, but if you have one, it is easy, and if you don't have one, you're much better off listening to Matthew's Passion anyway (instead of all this pop rubbish).
And, for the record, do not forget that the proper edition of the album is the one that tacks the ʽI'm Gonna Get Me A Gunʼ single at the end as a bonus track — it is one of his catchiest and funniest tracks of the era, and in case you think this might be Ted Nugent territory or something, its kiddie pop melody makes absolutely certain that the singer is talking about a plastic toy at best. It's all pretend and make-believe, see. If Donovan was the Lewis Carroll of pop music, then Cat Stevens may have been its Alan Alexander Milne — for one year, at least.
NEW MASTERS (1967)
1) Kitty; 2) I'm So Sleepy; 3) Northern Wind; 4) The Laughing Apple; 5) Smash Your Heart; 6) Moonstone; 7) The First Cut Is The Deepest; 8) I'm Gonna Be King; 9) Ceylon City; 10) Blackness Of The Night; 11) Come On Baby Shift That Log; 12) I Love Them All; 13*) Image Of Hell; 14*) Lovely City When Do You Laugh; 15*) The View From The Top; 16*) Here Comes My Wife; 17*) It's A Super Dupa Life; 18*) Where Are You; 19*) A Bad Night.
Overall consensus seems to favor the idea that while Matthew & Son might be redeemable as a record, New Masters is not, and I can see where it comes from: the record is simply not as punchy, and tends to drift into boring sentimentalism much more often than its predecessor. Per­haps it was rushed, and Stevens simply did not have enough time to flesh out the songs; perhaps there is too much input from Mike Hurst, who keeps drowning Stevens' personality in brass, wood­winds, strings, and an overall baroque atmosphere every bit as tailor-made as the outfit that the man is wearing on the front cover (but he's still fairly gorgeous, right? I actually favor this freshly shaven Byronesque look more than the bearded straggler of the years to come...). The songs are not hopeless and not devoid of Cat's personality, but they take far more time to assimi­late, and the endless cuddliness is a strong impediment.
That he might have been scraping that barrel is evident, for instance, in the decision to record and release ʽThe First Cut Is The Deepestʼ, a song that he had written as early as 1965, and one that went on to become a major sappy hit for several performers, including P. P. Arnold, Keith Hamp­shire, and Rod Stewart. It is one of those lush ballads that is completely dependent on the specific performance, and Stevens' own performance is mediocre — he is no Brother Gibb, and the com­bination of a pompous, give-it-all-you-got instrumental melody with Stevens' technically weak (as in, not-too-powerful) voice could only work if he'd sought out some unique twist, but he does not: he just sings it because he wrote it. It isn't awful, but it's telling: there's just no reason to hear this kind of material done by its own author.
It did not necessarily have to be that way: ʽKittyʼ, the first number, opens the album in the same playful-ironic mode that made most of Matthew & Son so enjoyable. It is hard to decipher what the song is really about — it all depends on what the line "when my little kitty gets out" really means — but in any case, it is a delightful slice of happy Brit-pop where the little man allows himself some laughs at the expense of those who are "wiping their silver spoons", and the accom­panying tricksterish woodwinds really come in handy. Had all the album been like this, it would be a gas to sit through. But with the second song, ʽI'm So Sleepyʼ, it intrudes upon the turf of elfish minstrels like Donovan, and I am not fully convinced; and with the third song, ʽNorthern Windʼ, it enters the territory of Peter, Paul & Mary, and this is... odd.
Without forcing myself to get too deep in sordid details, I will simply voice the general complaint: all these songs sound way too forcibly «rose-colored», with Stevens trying to create for himself a far more suave and seductive image than he was born for — in fact, a far more suave image than the one on Matthew & Son. His melodic talents and charismatic personality help ensure that he almost never embarrasses himself in a direct manner, but even so, a couple of the songs are still cringeworthy, like the amorous log cabin owner anthem ʽCome On Babyʼ, with arguably the dumbest chorus that Cat ever wrote — "Come on baby shift that log / Come on baby wash that dog" is a fantastic choice of words for what is, essentially, a romantic serenade. And ʽI'm Gonna Be Kingʼ sounds like potential filler ready-made for a Monkees record.
Apparently, the British public shared the same opinion, too, refusing to buy large quantities of New Masters (and even that album cover did not help!), and ultimately leading to the rift be­tween Decca, Hurst, and Stevens. The CD edition is helpful in that it also adds several songs that were released by Cat as singles from 1967 to 1969 — some of which are far better than anything on the album, including the hilarious ʽHere Comes My Wifeʼ (presaging John Entwistle's similar­ly thematicized ʽMy Wifeʼ by a good three years) and the pensive acoustic ballad ʽWhere Are Youʼ that already presages the man's «classic» style (though it is still spoiled by excessive orche­stration). Then, in 1969, the man contracted tuberculosis, spent some time on the threshold be­tween life and death, and lost all contact with his previous life as a result — and I must say that, while I am a little sad about the loss of connection to Matthew & Son, I sure as hell am happy that he never made another set of New Masters.
MONA BONE JAKON (1970)
1) Lady D'Arbanville; 2) Maybe You're Right; 3) Pop Star; 4) I Think I See The Light; 5) Trouble; 6) Mona Bone Jakon; 7) I Wish, I Wish; 8) Katmandu; 9) Time; 10) Fill My Eyes; 11) Lilywhite.
The humble beginnings of Stevens' «proper» career are captured on an album that, according to the man's own confessions, is titled after a nickname he'd invented for his own penis. Fortunately, nobody will ever be able to guess this without a hint (not even lines like "yes, I've got a Mona Bone Jakon / But it won't be lonely for long" will be much help), which explains why the album in question can safely allow itself to be an exercise in gallant sentimental folk pop instead of having to attract promiscuous ladies with lustful tales of resplendent virility. But it does showcase the man's rather uniquely warped sense of humor, and, in a way, agrees nicely with his ability to raise important and even pretentious topics while staying all low-key and humble. I mean, now that you know he named his first true record after his penis, you won't be tempted to take it all too seriously, now would you?
In the place of Mike Hurst's lushly orchestrated production we now see Paul Samwell-Smith's bare bones approach, intended to get the best and juiciest of sounds out of a minimalistic combo: one or two acoustic guitars, bass, drums, and occasional keyboard support every now and then (on an interesting trivia note, young and not-yet-famous Peter Gabriel plays a flute part some­where in the back of the studio on ʽKathmanduʼ). I will not say that this is necessarily better than Hurst's style: the common view is that it eliminates much of the expendable distance that sepa­rates the artist from the listener, and that it is only with Mona Bone Jakon that Stevens finally became able to establish that lucky rapport — and it is probably right, just as it is right that these songs are more lyrically mature and personal.
However, at this point I cannot say that Stevens has significantly improved as a melody writer when compared to 1967 — I struggle hard to find a tune that would be more melodically sophis­ticated than ʽMatthew & Sonʼ or ʽLadyʼ. Cat's compositional style is a clever mix of folk balladry and Tin Pan Alley, with a bit of the blues and a bit of sunny pop in between, but he hardly does anything here that had not already been done by Joni Mitchell or Nick Drake or Randy Newman, and the indi­vidual songs, frankly speaking, are not too memorable — perhaps precisely because Cat was intentionally crafting an «anti-pop» album here, one that would formally respect the prerequisites of the genre (short songs with verse-chorus structures) but would really be just a collection of impressionistic vignettes, reflecting specific moods. Once this becomes the default way of view­ing it — as a vibe-oriented, not hook-oriented thing — the situation becomes easier.
The lead single, ʽLady D'Arbanvilleʼ, actually remains the only «classic» song here, frequently appearing in Stevens' live performances. A somewhat rare occasion of a mourning tune written in relation to a living person (the title refers to Patti D'Arbanville, Stevens' ex-lover who seems to have betrayed his feminine ideal by not treating him too seriously), it is unusual in its combina­tion of a seemingly medieval ballad motif with an almost Latin dance rhythm pattern — I cannot take on the task of decoding this symbolism, but it was intriguing enough to push the song high up the charts, despite its lyrical suggestion of necrophilia ("I'll wake you tomorrow / And you will be my fill" — now sing this in an Alice Cooper voice, and you might be getting somewhere). It is probably the catchiest song of the lot, simply because of its bounce and its la-la-la-la-las and its ugly backing harmonies that sound like grinning harpies, but its own subtle irony is what ultima­tely prevents it from becoming a tragic masterpiece: there is no real grief in the singer's voice, everything is quite openly theatrical (not in the sense that the song lacks emotion, but certainly in the sense that it should not be taken literally as a death lament).
Elsewhere, there is some more astute-but-still-mediocre material like ʽPop Starʼ, a song with a clever premise of taking the traditional "mama mama I'm going away / mama mama I'm coming back home" theme and replacing "away" with "going to be a pop star" (so, in a way, you could think of it as autobiographical, provided that we regard 1967 as the «pop star year» for Stevens), but lyrically crude and melodically underdeveloped. But Stevens is at his best not when he is trying to be hip and ironic, but when he is putting his heart on his sleeve — ʽTroubleʼ is a beauti­fully wrung-out prayer whose existence almost justifies the man's illness, and I actually like the Dylanesque ʽMaybe You're Rightʼ, with its simple rolling piano melody, more than I like ʽLady D'Arbanvilleʼ, even if it is far less unusual in the melodic aspect. It's just that Cat Stevens having a realistic one-sided dialog with his ex-girlfriend sounds more appealing than Cat Stevens eulo­gizing his living girlfriend in a snide half-Robin Hood, half-Caetano Veloso manner.
On the whole, though, Mona Bone Jakon is very light — even early James Taylor, let alone Elton John, gives the impression of being «weightier». The arrangements are so breezy, the man's voice is so fluffy (although it'd already roughened up a bit after the sickness period), the words are so idealistic, the atmosphere is so courteous that it is simply not right to say that the man had experienced some kind of complete rebirth since 1967. In reality, this is just one more step in a process of gradual evolution that would reach culmination very soon but never ever transform the man into something he'd never been a part of even in his teenage years. Heck, he's so gallant and polite, he can't even bring himself to call his dick by its rightful name, and if that's not reason enough to push the final decision in the direction of a friendly thumbs up, I don't know what is.