Here's Robert Wilonsky's review of Lucinda's "Car Wheels" from July 1998.
As a fan of Lucinda, I am quite pleased with the review, I have no
criticism of his words or style here.
Perfectly Imperfect
Lucinda Williams
Car Wheels on a Gravel Road
(Mercury Records)
Worth her wait: Lucinda Williams.
In the end, only critics and accountants care about the eternity it took
Lucinda Williams to record her fourth record in nearly 20 years. That it
took her six years--not to mention four producers (including Steve Earle), a
handful of engineers, a dozen or so backup musicians, and two
start-from-scratch attempts--makes for good press-release and glossy
rock-tabloid fodder, but in the end, it's just a story, and musicians should
never be judged on their gossip. Besides, no one in the world will listen to
Car Wheels on a Gravel Road and complain that it sounds too produced, too
sterile; indeed, if you didn't know better, you'd swear it was recorded over
a relaxed summer weekend out in the country--surprisingly, inexplicably, it
plays out like a casual masterpiece.
Then again, the most critically celebrated singer-songwriter of the past
decade--and a woman best known among record buyers for someone else's cover
of her work (Mary Chapin Carpenter's sweet, muted rendition of "Passionate
Kisses")--took seven years to record her 1988 self-titled record, and nobody
complained then; hell, if there's a knock on that flawless gem, it's only
that it's not as good as Car Wheels. Williams, once a Folkways artist whose
acoustic blues sounded like some bastard hybrid between Robert Johnson and
Woody Guthrie, has evolved into a country artist whose heart pumps to a rock
and roll backbeat; a lesser musician might have become, well, Bonnie Raitt.
But Williams is made of resilient, shrewd stuff: She writes deceptively
plain lyrics that reveal a dozen little broken-hearted truths between the
lines, and she sings each song in a voice that might be mistaken for soft if
it weren't for the occasional rough edges that split you open when you're
not paying attention. A song like "Drunken Angel," about an Austin musician
who pissed away talent and adoration till he died at the bottom of a bottle,
could well have been an overwrought farewell; but Williams sings the lyrics
("Blood spilled from the hole in your heart/Over the strings of your
guitar") with a little spit mixed in with the tears--she's not just sad, but
angry and betrayed. Not since Bruce Springsteen on Nebraska has a singer
delivered lyrics so pointedly and perfectly; she pauses, whispers, growls as
though she's making up the words on the spot.
Car Wheels contains its surprises: When Emmylou Harris shows up to sing
harmony on "Greenville" or when Williams throws in a ZZ Top reference to
remind an old lover of better times or when she closes out the record in a
previously unheard gospel voice so thin and pretty, you can't help but stop
and smile and wonder why no one makes records like this anymore. It's about
love, the death of love, and the miles in between--familiar stuff; but
Williams makes it all seem brand new and unknown, even if the music is
carved from the most ancient of wood. (Robert Wilonsky)
