Steve Wynn, Here Come The Miracles (Innerstate) 9+
In the nineteen years since The Dream Syndicate's drop-dead classic The Days Of Wine And Roses, Steve Wynn has consistently produced workmanlike music that was not nearly as inspired as his stunning debut, but far from embarrassing. Talk about a comeback, wow. I don't know what they were slipping into the goat meat tacos down there in the Tuscon desert, but Here Come The Miracles nearly rivals The Days…. I only say nearly because The Dream Syndicate's magic in their time and place in musical history is hard to compete with. Miracles is a double album featuring 19 songs, one for each year Wynn had to confront the possibility that he'd never measure up to the benchmark he set first time in the studio. It measures up not only to that, but also to George P. Pelecanos' outrageous claim that this is Wynn's Exile On Main Street, his Zen Arcade, his Physical Graffiti. Pelecanos is a successful crime-fiction writer in the tradition of Raymond Chandler, James Ellroy and Jim Thompson, who's writing has often made references to Wynn's music. Fittingly, the album is an epic series of hard-boiled pulp noir tales. Assisted by a crack band comprised of Chris Cacavas (Green On Red), Chris Brokaw (Come, Pullman), Dave DeCastro, Linda Pitman and producer Craig Schumacher (Calexico, Giant Sand), Wynn paints expressive, expansive grooves loosely based on blues riffs. The raw distorted garage sound owes much to fellow Velvet Underground/Neil Young acolytes Eleventh Dream Day. However, while Eleventh Dream Day's recent albums mix shimmering beauty with oblique experimentalism, Wynn holds things together with timeless hooks and epic lyricism. The album is so consistent, it's hard to pick highlights. It starts with three intensely memorable psychedelic pop songs in "Here Come The Miracles," "Shades Of Blue" and "Sustain," and loosens up on the twisting, rambling "Crawling Misanthropic Blues." The second disc is even more freewheeling, as the peyote, mushrooms or whatever was hidden in the spicy goat meat kicked in. Wynn has not quite reached geezer status, and this album sounds familiar, yet avoids retreads. Instead, it's a fresh, raw, vital shot in the arm, a vaccination against cynicism that rock 'n' roll is dead.
