Tag: “Americana music”

By Paul T. Mueller
–If music reviews included credit for style points, Ray Wylie Hubbard’s latest effort would earn plenty of them for its title alone. The Grifter’s Hymnal? Who but “the Wylie Lama” could have even imagined such a thing, much less fill it up with a batch of cool songs?

Great title aside, this Hymnal has a lot going for it. Hubbard started out as part of what Steve Fromholz once called “the great progressive country scare of the seventies” and spent some years wandering down unproductive paths, but after dealing with some bad habits a while back, he’s been making the most of his second shot at the music business.

The Grifter’s Hymnal is another in a string of fine albums he’s turned out in recent years. Mostly bluesy rock with a little Texas twang thrown in, it’s a collection of musings on life, death, salvation and rock ‘n’ roll, all filtered through Hubbard’s unique consciousness.

The playing here is excellent, featuring Ray Wylie on various guitars, his son Lucas on electric guitar on several tracks, Rick Richards on drums and percussion, and George Reiff (who co-produced with Hubbard) on bass for most of the tracks. Other artists include guitarists Brad Rice, Audley Freed and Billy Cassis, keyboardist Ian McLagan (formerly of the Faces and the Small Faces, now living in Austin) and Ringo Starr (yes, that one) singing and playing backup on Hubbard’s version of Starr’s “Coochy Coochy.”

The standout track here is “Mother Blues,” named for an old-time Dallas nightclub. It’s a wildly entertaining account of how a young Hubbard came to acquire a classic goldtop Les Paul guitar and eventually passed it on to his son (who’s credited with playing the very same instrument on the track). More than that, it’s the story of Hubbard’s career as a musician and his journey through life – and whether all the lurid details in this nearly six-minute opus are strictly factual is pretty much beside the point. Hubbard ends the song with a litany of people and things he’s grateful for (including the chance to share a stage with his son) and concludes, “The days that I keep my gratitude higher than my expectations – well, I have really good days.” That’s wisdom worthy of a lama.

Other highlights include “South of the River,” another tribute to the musician’s life that moves from Chris Whitley-style acoustic blues to Exile-era Stones-y boogie, fueled by McLagan’s honky-tonk piano, and “Red Badge of Courage,” a quietly furious antiwar rant that concludes, “We was just kids doing the dirty work/For the failures of old men.”

Hubbard cranks up his slide guitar on the lively “New Year’s Eve at the Gates of Hell,” in which he imagines defending his life at the Last Judgment (“By the way, kid, why am I here, when I wasn’t that bad? I just never liked churches, but I never wore plaid”). Many amusing music-biz references later, he ends up admitting, “The truth of the matter is, I really can’t sing/But I can quote Martin Luther King.”

Not all of the songs are quite that accessible. As befits a spiritual leader, Hubbard can be a little cryptic with his lyrics. There’s surely some deeper meaning in there somewhere, or maybe not; just go with the flow and enjoy The Grifter’s Hymnal for its fine songcraft and topnotch playing.

Photo of Ray Wylie Hubbard by Paul T. Mueller