Yeah, like Alfred,I think the early years were his best. But he had his moments later. Chuck Eddy's Voice view of Keith's career, as of 2008:
...Tobyâs image is clearly his own fault: When he made the Statue of Liberty shake her fist in 2002âs outrageously rousing âCourtesy of the Red, White and Blueâ (awesome karaoke song, btw), Toby defined himself despite himself, and the self-proclaimed conservative Democrat has been trying to live it down ever since. Except when he hasnât: Heâs currently making a movie somehow based on âBeer for My Horses,â the even more despicable ode to lynching (of âgangstersâ) that he sang with Willie Nelson around the same time. Add his camel-jockey cartoon, âThe Taliban Songâ (âAhab the Arabâ updated for the age when âTurkmenistanâ is a very rhythmic word), his obligatory âAmerican Soldierâ (about how freedom isnât free), and his soggy dishrag âAinât No Right Wayâ (implicitly anti-choice and explicitly proâprayer in public schools), and it looks like weâve got ourselves some Neanderthal species of nationalist numbskull.But hereâs the thing: That handful of songs (a couple of which appeared on a surprisingly funky 2003 album entitled Shockân YâAll, har har) is pretty much where Tobyâs editorializing ends, at least on record. His output is no more limited by his war-machine anthem than Merle Haggardâs was by the comparably opportunistic âOkie From Muskogeeâ and âThe Fightinâ Side of Meâ when Nixon was president. And not many country artists since Merle have managed a creative streak like Tobyâs these past few yearsâin fact, to my ears, his â00s output (six albums plus change, including half of 2006âs Broken Bridges soundtrack and a few spare tracks collected on his new 35 Biggest Hits) just might stand up to anybody elseâs this decade, in any musical genre.
Go ahead and attribute my fandom partly to biographical coincidence: Toby was born in July 1961, a half-year after me; we both have three kids; weâre both straight white guys whoâve done time in inland suburbia. Then again, Iâve never personally worked an oil field or a semi-pro football field, my grandma didnât run a supper club, Iâm not six-foot-four and 240 pounds, I donât own a bar and grill in Oklahoma, and I donât do Ford commercials. But we both apparently cut our teeth on the same Bob Seger and John Cougar LPs, so Iâm a sucker for the chili-dog-outside-the-Tastee-Freez heartland-rock riffs he stuck in four songs on last yearâs Big Dog Daddy, the first album he produced himself. And where I come from, âwater-tower poet class of â73â is a right pithy depiction of hip-hopâs fourth element, and calling your most ZZ-worthy boogie âZig Zag Stompâ is a darn clever pun.
It also helps that the big lug isnât afraid to make fun of himselfâfor being a bumbling husband, say, or for being a boyfriend who likes his girlfriend but loves his local bar, or for his aging-athlete body not working as well as it used to. His class resentment (in âGet Drunk and Be Somebodyâ and âHigh Maintenance Woman,â say) is totally good-natured as well. But where Toby most manifestly trounces the competition is with his singing (and, frequently, talking), which only gets smarter and warmer and more conversationalâricher in both his high and low registersâas his career goes on. The song that first made me take notice, 1999âs âHow Do You Like Me Now,â had him bellowing like Billy Ray Cyrus in Meat Loaf mode, but since then heâs figured out how to communicate a masculine vulnerability with an easy-as-Sunday-morning soul phrasing equal to Ronnie Milsap or T. Graham Brown, if not quite Charlie Rich (listen to âThatâs Not How It Isâ or âYour Smileâ); his latest move is a Barry White cover with power forward turned jazz bassist Wayman Tisdale. On his best album, 2006âs White Trash With Money, Toby jumped ship from DreamWorks to his own Show Dog Nashville imprint, where green-eyed country-soul convert Lari White surrounded him with Tex-Mex accordions, Western swing saxes, Dusty in Memphis orchestrations, and Dixieland kazoos, coaxing laid-back nuances and big, blue notes out of him that made perfect sense alongside the same yearâs Collectorâs Choice reissue of Dean Martinâs 1955 Swinginâ Down Yonder.
So Tobyâs a bit of a late bloomer: He had six regular-issue albums and a handful of country Top 10s under his belt before his ass-boot woke up the world beyond CMT. The chronological 35 Biggest Hits, for its part, starts off as cautiously (but as competently) as any good Alan Jackson retrospectiveâthe hit about the 18-year-old getting her first upstairs apartment downtown kills me, seeing how I just helped my daughter move to Brooklyn, and âWhoâs That Manâ and âA Womanâs Touchâ employ open space in a ghostly way. And though I hope Mercury canned whoever thought a Sting duet was a marketable concept, even that song makes for a decent divorced-dad depiction. But Toby qua Toby doesnât really bust out until âDream Walkinâ â/âGetcha Someâ/âHow Do You Like Me Now,â beginning 14 tracks in; after that, thereâs no looking back. If youâre new to the guy, start with disc two, then check out a few â00s albums before you shift back to disc one.
Getting loudâeven a bit blowhardâwas the first step. But for years now, Tobyâs sincere ballad side has been catching up with his funny rocking side. Even in a genre where vocal aptitude is a prerequisite for career longevity, masterful voices and discernible personalities (especially personalities with hot beefcake sex and a sense of humor and a chip on their shoulder attached) donât always coincide: Shooter Jennings might match Toby in a war of wits, but he can barely sing a lick, while Toby out-sings squeaky-clean goody-goodies from Travis to Jackson to Strait. And on top of that, though heâs been known to borrow winners from wooden-voiced wordsmiths like Paul Thorn or Fred Eaglesmith on occasion, Tobyâs also the rare Nashville star who seems to do most of his own writing.
And again, dude can write. I admire his move-over-small-dog-a-big-dog-daddyâs-movinâ-in shtick, and how he does way more songs celebrating one-night stands than somebody married 24 years should be able to get away withâand how they donât come with angst or a moral attached. Heâs the kind of burly old teddy bear whoâll stash his sleeping bag (and dog bowl?) behind your couch and finally remember your early-November birthday in December, when he shows up with a ribbon tied around your presentââBrand New Bowâ beat âDick in a Boxâ by eight 2006 months. And if heâs playing wing man for a night, heâll take one for the team, even if it means sleeping with the fat girl.
OK, that one, âRunninâ Blockâ (great football metaphor, huh?), is indefensibleâor it would be, anyway, if its chorus melody wasnât so amazing. Like âThe Taliban Song,â itâs one of the âbus songsâ that Toby sometimes tacks on at the end of albumsâa disingenuous escape hatch he uses when he feels like pulling your chain. Not surprisingly, theyâre usually among his livelier tracks. So when do we get a whole disc of those? Soon, I hope, unless the r&b album comes first.
― dow, Thursday, 8 February 2024 02:08 (seven months ago) link