It took the Eagles 28 years and 13 years of reunion tours playing oldies to come up with a new studio album, Long Road Out of Eden. And they could have made most of the album back in 1979. Back then, they were young stars singing well-made, meticulously harmonized, twang-tinged pop songs about the disillusionment and self-pity of a comfortable American life. Now even more world-weary, they cling to their old musical templates.
They sound, all too neatly, like the Eagles of yesteryear in the Almost Gone boogie of How Long, the Tequila Sunrise revamp Waiting in the Weeds and the falsetto funk of Fast Company, which could be a late-1970s Bee Gees take on Life in the Fast Lane.
Not until 12 songs into the album do the Eagles unveil something contemporary: the 10-minute title song. It's their take on the war in Iraq, declaring, "the road to empire is a bloody, stupid waste." The music is customized with what sounds like a duduk, an Armenian flute, and a military snare drum, but it's still the kind of stolid, mid tempo song the Eagles have long relied on, with a guitar solo that virtually reruns Hotel California, stopping unfortunately short of the twin guitars.
With the first couplet of his inescapable hit single, A Bay Bay, the 18-year-old rapper from Shreveport, Louisiana, known as Hurricane Chris established himself as one of hip-hop's most promising young stars. In case it's not already imprinted on your brain: When I holler 'A bay bay,' I'm finna get my groove on/It's so hot up in the club that I ain't got no shoes on. Just like that he painted a vivid, if misleading, portrait of nightlife in northwestern Louisiana.
A mixtape, Louisi-Animal, further revealed his knack for playful, dexterous rhymes. Now, at long last, comes his major-label debut, 51/50 Ratchet. Sadly, it doesn't do much to advance his cause. The beats are puzzlingly dull; Phunk Dawg, the Baton Rouge producer behind A Bay Bay, doesn't contribute anything else to match that song's sleek propulsion. And while Hurricane Chris excels at loopy rhymes that sound like freestyles, this album doesn't give him much chance to show off his antic approach.
The occasional slippery, sing-song refrain hints at the addictive album he might still make one day, with a big budget or without. And his disarming sense of humor remains his greatest advantage. In Leaving You he absent-mindedly repeats his catchphrase, then promptly fesses up, rapping, "This supposed to be a sad song, but I said 'A Bay Bay.'" Bad news and good news, then: "promising" is still the word.
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