:: Record Review

Colin Meloy

Sings Sam Cooke EP
(Self-released; 2008)

Rating: 35%
Combined Rating: 33%

So this sucks, but who cares, right? It’s just a tour-only EP. It’s stripped down (just acoustic guitar and voice). It’s “for the fans,” a humble gift from Colin Meloy to his most devoted followers. Presumably the fans would rather have something than nothing, and by this standard Colin Meloy Sings Sam Cooke (and anything that exists) is a win…but people still have to pay $10 for it, right? It still takes up shelf space, hard drive space, and (most importantly) time. Like it or not, all artistic creation—especially that from much-loved recording artists—has its pretensions, its justification for being, its argument for why you should fit it (and not another earnest tryer) into your life. The other installments in the Colin Meloy Sings… series had their modest, insiders-only charm; they were suitable for an afternoon here and there. Colin Meloy Sings Sam Cooke, on the other hand, is not worthy of your life space.

Here’s why: releasing a disc of Sam Cooke covers is too complex and ambitious an endeavour for such a meager effort, and to wield a fishing knife against this dragon is to demonstrate a vast misunderstanding of the challenge. I stop short, but not too short, of deeming it an affront to the cultural legacy of Sam Cooke.

It’s a shame because I’m actually quite a big fan of the Decemberists, and against Meloy’s detractors I would argue that his voice possesses considerable charm in many contexts. But even on his best day, how could Meloy expect to fare well in comparison with Sam fucking Cooke? Covers are rarely “better” than the original, but in such naked arrangements Meloy’s voice stands alone against its antecedent with little to recommend it. One of the principal irritants in hearing these versions is the feeling that one would do better to spend five minutes with Cooke’s once-in-a-generation tenor than an hour with Meloy’s cloying whine.

Though I do not relish being another in a long line of white dudes with opinions on what’s best for race relations in America, I am rather disappointed with how cavalierly Meloy approaches this material. The history is well-known: Cooke was perhaps the leading founder of soul music, and along with his personal involvement in the civil rights movement his work opened up previously unimagined crossover possibilities. His songs—and not just the explicitly political “A Change Is Gonna Come” (which Meloy mercifully avoids)—are reminders of a troubled time and remain anthems of peace and resistance for a beleaguered community. Now, it is certainly not impossible for Meloy specifically to engage with and even contribute positively to this legacy, but does it not demand more thought and energy than just singing sweetly into your tape machine? Meloy’s position on how to grapple with this problem is either non-existent, or one that seeks to ignore the plethora of socio-political complications involved in recording this work and treat Cooke’s songs with as much nonchalance as he did Morrissey’s and Collins’. Again, this sort of insistently blind egalitarianism is one possible take, but any attempt to make this point with such a casual, one-off release cannot possibly preempt or disprove its objectors. In other words, Cooke’s legacy is not something to be taken lightly, but that’s exactly what Meloy does.

That there’s not much to say about the music is, of course, part of the problem. There’s some light tambourine and an unidentifiable piping instrument on “That’s Where It’s At.” Meloy’s guitar is unaffected, strumming its way along, and Laura Gibson’s vocal clarity is a somewhat ingenious counterpoint to Meloy’s nosey croon. The songs themselves are wonderful, and yet Meloy’s indifference to history is so irritating that even “Bring It On Home To Me” cannot please. As I listen and re-listen I move along a spectrum between indifference and resentment. It’s barely worth mentioning the obvious: the original recordings and legions of excellent covers are clamoring for your much-deserved attention; every moment spent listening to this is one neglecting Otis Redding and Percy Sledge. Only a completist’s obsession would make this worth the while.

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