Introduction

TEA FOR THE TILLERMAN (1970)
1) Where Do The Children Play; 2) Hard Headed Woman; 3) Wild World; 4) Sad Lisa; 5) Miles From Nowhere; 6) But I Might Die Tonight; 7) Longer Boats; 8) Into White; 9) On The Road To Find Out; 10) Father And Son; 11) Tea For The Tillerman.
Since Tea For The Tillerman is commonly regarded as the highest peak of Stevens' career, this is as good a place as any to confess that I have a hard time recognizing Cat as one of the «all-time greats». As a composer, he is but barely experimental and adventurous, with most of his melodies on about the same level of compositional originality and complexity as, say, James Taylor or any other soft-rocker of the decade. As a lyricist, he is competent, but not exceptional — most of his texts make very explicit sense and largely manage to avoid the usual clichés, yet remain way below Dylan or Joni Mitchell. And while his charismatic personality is undeniable, at times the sentimentality can be overbearing: being too nice can sometimes ruin the experience.
Nevertheless, there is one art that Cat Stevens had mastered to near-perfection — telling simple stories of human relationships and painting simple portraits of human emotions in simple, but stunningly tasteful ways. Walking a fine path between the challenging intricacies of the afore­mentioned Joni Mitchell and the cringeworthy platitudes of the also aforementioned James Taylor, he writes songs like ʽSad Lisaʼ — simple and direct, but with a small, barely noticeable twist that gives the tune a special angle: for this tune, it is the use of the Leslie cabinet to give his piano a «watery» effect, and its combination with a baroque violin part. It's just a song about a depressed girl and vain attempts to console her, but there is something subtly doom-laden about that piano tone, implying that not only does ʽsad Lisaʼ not stand a single chance of ever finding happiness, but also that ʽsad Lisaʼ probably stands for something bigger than just one weeping lady.
Not that the song itself, or the album in general, falls in the category of «depressing». Stevens is troubled here, but he is also actively searching — most of the songs are energetic call-for-action tunes, and even on ʽSad Lisaʼ he is trying to do something rather than just stand in the corner and watch, although he does admit that chances of success are slim. Obviously, ʽSad Lisaʼ is not his ideal of a ʽHard Headed Womanʼ, a song that slowly, but decisively builds up towards a small explosion of acoustic guitars, strings, and drums that frame the songwriter's pledge to find a "hard-headed woman / One who'll take me for myself" — notice the cool lyrical twist, because before that day, a ʽHard Headed Womanʼ was most commonly associated with the Elvis song of the same title, and there was no talk about "taking me for myself" in that one. In any case, the tune reads very convincingly as a personal diary statement, and this is the point of the album: to serve as the songwriter's personal diary, rather than as a collection of detached pop songs that have no personal relevance for the songwriter.
And thus, we learn that Cat Stevens: (a) is very much worried about the fate of the planet that puts technological progress before the well-being of its individuals (ʽWhere Do The Children Playʼ); (b) has plenty of women problems, as his previous woman is leaving (ʽWild Worldʼ) and his next woman still remains an unreachable ideal (ʽHard Headed Womanʼ); (c) is looking for spiritual enlightenment and will probably stop at nothing to reach it one way (ʽMiles From No­whereʼ) or another (ʽOn The Road To Find Outʼ); (d) has serious Dad issues, but is willing to try and look at the issue from both sides (ʽFather And Sonʼ); (e) is cool with the Taoist knack of locating beauty and transcendence in the simplest things, from barely rice to red-legged chickens (ʽInto Whiteʼ). How many people have told you so many details about themselves in 1970? Not that there's anything particularly brave or scandalous about these disclosures, but the important thing is that Stevens' style makes them all believable. Above all, Tea For The Tillerman flaunts its sincerity and anti-commerciality — despite many of the songs being catchy enough to the point of becoming hits.
Ultimately, only ʽWild Worldʼ became a hit, and, honestly, it is probably the corniest song of the lot — at least, as a single, outside the general context of the album, it can be easily perceived as just another generic breakup ballad, and indeed there is something rather troubadourishly bland about the man's delivery of "now that I've lost everything to you / you say you wanna start some­thing new...", something more suitable for a seductive pop star than a sincere singer-songwriter, which is exactly the reason why the song so quickly caught on. The much more interesting ʽFather And Sonʼ, sung by Cat as a dialog of two voices, failed to chart in comparison — because it has no obvious hooklines to speak of — but it endured, I think, as a far more popular choice for Cat's devoted fans than ʽWild Worldʼ.
I find myself more intrigued by those of the man's songs that are not so easy to decode: ʽLonger Boatsʼ, for instance, which is about his fear of UFOs — something you won't be able to under­stand by simply listening to the repetitive, cheery chorus that makes the whole thing sound like a work song: "Longer boats are coming to win us, coming to win us..." as if this were not only inevitable, but not even very regrettable. It is certainly a more curious endeavour than ʽOn The Road To Find Outʼ, equally cheery but a bit too close in spirit to proverbial gospel.
And still, like I said, there is not a single song here that prompts for the word "great", simply because this is not an album that aspires to any sort of greatness in the first place. It is a humble, friendly, sincere record that has just enough depth to not come across as primitive, yet stops pre­cisely at the point upon which somebody could label it as pretentious. It could benefit from a bit of humor — not Stevens' forte, really — but it does not have any particularly «heavy» moments that would scream and beg for comic relief, either. It has the word Tea in the title and it features the Tillerman tilling tea on the cover — enough of a hint for you that you should probably have yourself a cup of tea while listening, taking a break from routine work and relaxing together with the artist, lightly pondering the fates of mankind, the future of your own spirit, and the grim fate of Sad Lisa. It gets a thumbs up, yet it is not one of the great, turbulent, monumental master­pieces of 1970: it is the album to which you turn for calm and comfort once you've made it through all the turbulence and your nerves are in desperate need of a cooldown. Of course, you could always choose James Taylor instead — but cooling down nerves is one thing, and going down dying from boredom is another.
TEASER AND THE FIRECAT (1971)
1) The Wind; 2) Rubylove; 3) If I Laugh; 4) Changes IV; 5) How Can I Tell You; 6) Tuesday's Dead; 7) Morning Has Broken; 8) Bitterblue; 9) Moonshadow; 10) Peace Train.
Together with Tillerman, this album generally forms the backbone of the Cat Stevens legend: both were his most commercially successful and critically applauded projects, both yielded many of his best-known songs and both continue to be top-rank recommendations for neophytes. Less heavily publicized is the fact that the two records, actually, are strikingly different in certain ways, and, in my opinion, the differences do not necessarily come out in favor of Teaser; in fact, de­spite its generous brevity, accessibility, and inevitably alluring friendliness, I find it surprisingly hard to warm up to its material on the same heat level with Tillerman.
The whole package was superficially marketed as a «children's album» — starting from the carto­onish album cover and ending with an actual children's book that Cat wrote about the adventures of the album's two characters and published soon after the release of the record. In essential terms this is not really true: although the main lyrical and emotional themes of Teaser are quite easily accessible for kids and adults alike, they are serious and realistic — songs about, well, uhm, peace, love, and understanding, for the lack of a worse cliché. The «kiddie setting» here is more to underline the innocence and idealism of the singer-songwriter than to specifically appeal to a young audience: like most folk-based troubadours of the early Seventies, Stevens quite expressly catered to all ages and all social backgrounds. And yet, in the process, I think he crossed a certain line that usually separates «serious» from «cutesy» — nor does it help that «cutesy» can occasio­nally be irritating when it is too strongly mixed with «preachy».
Musically, the record is markedly more minimalistic than its predecessor: many of the songs feature nothing but one or two acoustic guitars that may or may not receive the gentle, non-intru­sive support of pianos and a rhythm section. It is with this minimalism, one that places nothing between the tender heart of the artist and his enthralled listeners, that Stevens makes his point: melody-wise, as usual, there is very little here that goes beyond the ABCs of folk-based singer-songwriters, although it is still nice to see him cleverly weave together Anglo-Saxon folk music and Latin motives on stuff like ʽRubyloveʼ. But friendly minimalism can sometimes backfire: unless you support it with a touch of McCartney-style musical genius, its insistent «let me be your friend in need!» message may provoke a shoulder-shrugging reaction.
Case in point — the man's biggest hit and the song with which he is most commonly associated by those people who have never even seen Harold And Maude: ʽPeacetrainʼ. It has an interesting melodic trick up its sleeve, with the rising chord progression over the verses giving the illusion of an ever-rising stairwell or, perhaps, of an endless row of people mounting the proverbial train. But it is stylistically cut out as a rousing, gospel-tinged R&B number, and yet it has nothing like the true potential of one. It is Cat's personal ʽImagineʼ, but where the minimalism of ʽImagineʼ felt perfectly natural, it being more of a personal fantasy / prayer than a public sermon (even if the lyrics could technically allow you to construe it as one), ʽPeacetrainʼ desperately needs to be louder and prouder (à la ʽPower To The Peopleʼ rather than ʽImagineʼ, actually) for its potential to be fully realised. It is not at all bad — it just feels demo-ish, if you know what I mean.
As, well, does most of this record. It is just so quiet, so inoffensive, so sentimental, that even songs that could be formally stated to have pop hooks (ʽChanges IVʼ, ʽTuesday's Deadʼ) take a long, long time to win my attention; and yet, it is also not the kind of J. J. Cale-like, arrogantly defying minimalism that tacitly shouts in your face «I'm gonna do the bare minimum and you are fuckin' goin' to like it!», nor is it the grim Taoistic minimalism of a Nick Drake that haunts you with its world-gone-wrong spirit. Nor is it even a grotesque elfish-prince minimalism of a Donovan, whose antics might scare away some people, but eventually win over others with their outstanding goofiness. Instead, it is a warm-evening-on-the-front-porch kind of minimalism, starting with the gently self-probing introduction of ʽThe Windʼ (which does, appropriately, have a reference to the "setting sun") and ending with the (misguidedly) humble admonition of ʽPeace­trainʼ. In between these, the only song that ended up genuinely moving me on a certain level of spiritual depth was ʽIf I Laughʼ — its melody has a subtle twist of George Harrison-like tragism that elevates it to the level of high art. But everything else is just... nice.
Were I John Lennon (heck, I have already made references to two out of four, so why not make it three? now if only «Peace and Love» Ringo happened to make a cover of ʽPeacetrainʼ, we could close the circle and go home), anyway, were I John Lennon, I would not have missed a chance to scoff at the record and dismiss it as, say, «pleasantries for peasantries». What makes it different from so many other «pleasantries» of (technically) the same kind is that it has style, charisma, and heart — no matter how lightweight the songs may sound while they are on or how quickly forgotten they may be when they are gone, it is clear that they are all a part of the man's humble, respectful search for the Big Truth — a search that, if you don't mind me blasphemizing in the face of The Almighty, ultimate­ly ended up somewhat caricaturesquely, but commanded respect and acceptance on the level of Teaser And The Firecat. Nevertheless, despite the catchy cho­ruses of ʽChanges VIʼ and ʽTuesday's Deadʼ and even despite the heart-tugging pang of misery on ʽIf I Laughʼ, I do not foresee myself returning to this album as frequently as I might be revisi­ting Tea For The Tillerman — or, heck, even Matthew & Son, for that matter.
CATCH BULL AT FOUR (1972)
1) Sitting; 2) Boy With A Moon & Star On His Head; 3) Angelsea; 4) Silent Sunlight; 5) Can't Keep It In; 6) 18th Avenue (Kansas City Nightmare); 7) Freezing Steel; 8) O Caritas; 9) Sweet Scarlet; 10) Ruins.
Okay, this one is definitely not for the little children. Almost as if to intentionally distance him­self from the lightweight attitude of the last record, here Stevens offers us a cycle of really «heavy» songs that ultimately combine in a sort of multi-part proclamation of spiritual intent. From the first to the last track, a few interludes notwithstanding, Catch Bull At Four is focused on conveying the following two truths: (a) the world around us is evil, corrupt, and degraded; (b) the artist Cat Stevens takes this state of the world as a personal challenge and is going to do every­thing in his power to at least avoid being contaminated by its evil and degradation, and at most, even lend a helping hand in partially remedying its problems.
This is a noble and admirable intent indeed, perhaps going even further than similar projects like Marvin Gaye's What's Going On; but it could easily suffer from the same problem — too much spirituality and not enough striking musical ideas. In terms of arrangements, Catch Bull At Four goes well beyond its predecessor: there is more orchestration, more emphasis on loudness and bombast, and Cat has also developed a serious interest in keyboards, playing everything from standard and electric pianos to organs and even minimoogs. But in terms of melodic basis, he seems to be seriously stuck in two modes — piano balladry and the Renaissance folk tradition; both of which are respectable, but only when you really try to experiment with these forms rather than simply letting them carry you with the current, while you yourself are way too busy questio­ning your reasons for existence in this sad, sordid world.
The record never really gets better than its opening song, ʽSittingʼ, and even that one is no masterpiece. Its most prominent element is not its ringing piano riff, which is a fairly trivial exer­cise in folk-pop, but rather Cat's ultra-serious and surprisingly gruff vocal tone: his voice may have gone through a natural lowering by that time, but it seems to me that he is very self-con­sciously moving away from the «fairness» of his vocal intonations, replacing them with a stern Biblical scruffiness to make the whole thing sound more like a sermon, or, rather, a personal religious confession: "I feel the power growing in my hair" is, after all, a line fit for a modern day Samson, and you can't really voice a Samson with the voice of young Joseph. But even so, the song — as a musical entity — seems very lazy, especially since the chorus, being just a small up-the-scale variation on the verse, never capitalizes upon the promise of the latter.
This «laziness», however, is even more pronounced on the interminable ballad ʽThe Boy With A Moon & Star On His Headʼ — six minutes of the exact same folksy acoustic riff, during which time you are treated to an odd (and, I'd say, quite morally ambiguous) story of cheating on one's fiancée for the sake of getting a bastard offspring from a gardener's daughter. Curiously, even though the "moon and star" reference would seem to be very directly pointing towards Stevens' conversion to Islam, that was definitely not in the works yet as of 1972; and yet, in a way, the story may be interpreted as a prophetic allegory of his future conversion. For all its artistic intrigue, though, it is just a generic six-minute folk ballad with no development whatsoever — there is one point midway through when the acoustic lull is suddenly interrupted by a crash of percussion and flutes, but it is just for a couple bars to simulate the "merriment" during the protagonist's wedding. Granted, I can pardon these things to Bob Dylan if he has the unique sonic atmosphere to go along with them (ʽSad-Eyed Ladyʼ, etc.), or to Fairport Convention if they raise and sustain the nervous tension (ʽMatty Grovesʼ, etc.), but this is just too... sleepy.
As the first single from the album, Cat chose ʽCan't Keep It Inʼ, one of the album's livelier tunes with a bombastic arrangement, overwhelming vocal harmonies, and danceable rhythm, not to mention the grandiose message that pops out almost immediately: "Oh I can't keep it in, I've gotta let it out, I've got to show the world, world's got to see, see all the love that's in me". It is unclear, though, why he would choose the same gruff tone to deliver the message — the song, once again, sounds more like a professional church sermon than a heartfelt personal plea, and the more I listen to it, the more I understand that the church, rather than a club or an arena, is a perfect set­ting in which to perform it, and that is not a good sign.
The three most interesting songs on the album would probably have to be ʽAngelseaʼ, a love­struck folk dance whose acoustic verses are oddly woven together with dark Moog oscillations (the «folktronica» style here is strangely prescient of Jethro Tull's work from the early Eighties); ʽ18th Avenueʼ — another apocalyptic narrative with loud piano and string interludes, probably influenced by Elton John but also strangely prescient of... Meatloaf?; and ʽO' Caritasʼ, another «world gone wrong» type song with multi-tracked vocals that were specially translated for Cat into Latin, so that the final result would have a Carmina Burana-like flair (though the acoustic melody is more Spanish / Greek folk than medieval stylization). However, these musical ideas are not enough, per se, to completely redeem the album; and it ends on an even more anti-climactic note than it began — ʽRuinsʼ is 100% pumped-up preachy feeling, with clichéd lyrics to boot ("don't stop that sun to shine, it's not yours or mine" is simply no way to end a good record).
Surprisingly, the record sold fairly well, and it even became Stevens' only No. 1 in the US — probably following in the footsteps of Teaser; critics, however, have rarely liked it for its rela­tive dearth of musical ideas and its unveiled populism, and this time I must concur — Catch Bull At Four is a classic example of a songwriter overrating his own importance, even if doing this in good faith and out of a sincere desire to help get things right. Still worth a listen or two, but I would be surprised if more than one or two songs off it got stuck around in your head for too long; and I would be downright embarrassed if you told me that, in its time, it helped you to become a better person and begin campaigning for waste sorting or world peace or something.
FOREIGNER (1973)
1) Foreigner Suite; 2) The Hurt; 3) How Many Times; 4) Later; 5) 100 I Dream.
The funny thing about this album is that Cat Stevens really had no intention of making it look like a prog rock effort — by all accounts, he was getting deeper into soul and R&B and had decided that his next record would be closer to his black influences than his white ones. In order to make a clean start (something that was further aided by the usual necessity of a British musical resident to go into tax exile), he moved to Brazil, then to Jamaica, got himself a completely new team of musicians, and produced the record himself. All of this, he believed, would pull him out of the pop star rut and open him to unlimited possibilities.
A big problem, however, stems from the simple fact that Cat Stevens ain't black, nor does he have any of those musical qualities that make the best of black music so irresistible. Foreigner, named that way with a certain degree of self-irony, tries to tame funky rhythms and generate a soulful atmosphere, but every time it does, it very quickly beomes obvious just how uncomfortable and struggling Stevens is with the material. Every time a potentially decent groove appears here, it is being treated with the same polite, fragile reverence as you can see on, say, a mid-period Chicago album: the music is simply too quiet and sterile, with Cat's passion-burning vocals always the most, if not the only, active ingredient of any given song. He might be trying all right, but I'd rather prefer he didn't — it is one thing to ascribe the disappointing effect of a record to acciden­tal laziness, and quite another thing to inavoidable impotence.
The progressive rock connotations are, of course, due to the ʽForeigner Suiteʼ that occupies the entire first side of the album — honestly, though, it seems to be that long simply because Stevens got carried away at some point, and not because he was looking up to the achievements of Emerson, Lake & Palmer, Yes, or Jethro Tull. It certainly does not start out like your typical prog rock suite: no introduction whatsoever, as Cat jumps into vocal action immediately, with a soul­ful "There are no words I can use!..." declaration that already has his heart on his sleeve, without much fuss or preparation. Of course, he then goes on to use plenty of words — but also plenty of music, since ʽForeigner Suiteʼ is his most complex musical endeavor to date. The song goes through numerous sections, none of which, unfortunately, happen to be particularly memorable: Cat plays a lot of keyboard parts, sometimes in ballad format, sometimes in funky dance mode, but the ballad parts are mushy and the funky dance parts are flimsy, and, most importantly, the entire suite is emotionally monotonous — whether he is kicking up the rhythm or laying on the piano tenderness, ʽForeigner Suiteʼ is just an 18-minute long serenade, and it runs a serious risk of getting on your nerves by the time we get around to the artist's major logical conclusion: "Heaven must've programmed you!" (had the suite penetrated radio waves just four years later, Steve Jobs might have scooped up the rights to use this in an Apple II commercial).
Honestly, at certain times during the suite I start getting an uneasy feeling of being exposed to Springsteen-lite — the impression is that Stevens is trying to unleash the fervor and the fury, but has neither the internal nor the external means to do this like a real Boss. Even when the soulful parts of the suite are upheld by strings and angelic female harmonies, everything is politely held back, and only Cat's voice is allowed to soar, Otis Redding-fashion... except he ain't no Otis Redding, and pure soulfulness and sincerity that is not backed by power and technique has no chance of standing competition. The only thing that ultimately saves ʽForeigner Suiteʼ from being a complete embarrassment is the sheer amount of work that went into the composition — with blues, pop, jazz, and gospel influences all around the place, it is quite an ambitious piece indeed, despite the unfortunate lack of memorable themes or powerful culminations.
The second side, despite being mercifully divided into four distinct parts, still continues the line of the suite — soulful love anthems, for the most part, spearheaded by ʽThe Hurtʼ, another obvious tribute to the soul masters that Stevens put out as the single. But while the public still loved him enough to put the LP on the charts, it was clear that ʽThe Hurtʼ on its own lacked com­mercial power, being utterly hookless and completely dependent on the conviction power of the singer's voice; and, honestly, there is nothing said with this song that had not already been said much better by... well, Marvin Gaye, for instance.
The only song on that second side that has something at least vaguely reminiscent of a hook is the semi-sinister funk groove ʽLaterʼ, with wah-wah guitars and ominous strings creating a sort of «blaxploitation vibe», even if the actual hook, centered around a particularly threatening "later!" coming from both Cat and his backup assistants, is a bit weird (why does he want to create such a threatening aura around the perspective of having sex with his loved one after he's had a chance to "talk it out with you"? how come, after all these years of Gallant Stevens, we are suddenly treated to an out-of-the-blue round of Macho Stevens?). And, of course, there is no resisting ending the album on a preachy note, with a more traditional Cat Stevens folk-rocker (ʽ100 I Dreamʼ) telling us to pick up the pieces, not let our weaknesses destroy us, "and in this way you will awake" because, apparently, at the present time we all happen to be dreaming. Well, no shit, man, you happened to be seriously instrumental in putting us all to sleep this time around.
I give the record a thumbs down — despite appreciating the wish to experiment and do some­thing different, this is simply not the kind of direction that it made any sense to choose, and it is good that the experiment was not repeated. Oh well, it could have been worse: what with that stay on Jamaica and all, he could have picked up the reggae vibe, which, fortunately, never took place. (Curiously, the album was recorded at the exact same studio where just a few months before The Rolling Stones laid down the basic tracks for Goats Head Soup — another experimental and partly failed musical trip that also fortunately avoided any reggae influences. Clearly, Jamaica was not the most auspicious place for British musicians in 1973).