Chris Isaak

Chris Isaak (born in Stockton, later relocated to San Francisco) forged a striking hybrid of Orbison’s romantic pop, the instrumental rock of the Ventures, Elvis Presley’s hiccupping tenor, Morricone’s film scores, and the languid cocktail-lounge slow songs.

The sad and fatalistic atmosphere of Silvertone (Warner, 1985) is actually a celebration of life. Accompanied by the understated strumming of James Calvin Wisley, his singing delivers songs like Dancin' in an abulic and pained style—existential statements indifferent to the passage of time, the debate between urban alienation and rural spontaneity, the beauties of nature, people, and daily vicissitudes. They live in their own nirvana of absolute, unquenchable pain, riding the crest of a faded rainbow. Not venomous, not desperate, simply immanent and universal. Much of the album consists of odes to solitude, spiritual supplications such as Talk To Me and The Lonely Ones. The waltzes Western Stars and Funeral In The Rain perhaps indulge too much in the ecstasy of a lone traveler before the vast desert landscape.
Only in Voodoo does fear take over, driven by a jungle beat à la Bo Diddley and a shout à la Howlin’ Wolf. Thus, the driving country rhythm of Gone Ridin' finds parallels with the Southern Gothic of the Gun Club. When the music speeds up into an exuberant cadence (Livin' For Your Lover, Unhappiness), the effect is delightfully sweet. The funeral pauses for a moment to observe life continuing, then resumes, aware that it is just one phase. Critics focus on the 1950s references, but in reality only Tears (Orbison) and Pretty Girls Don't Cry (Everly Brothers) are carbon copies of other styles. The bulk of the album could not be more original and personal.

Chris Isaak (Warner Bros, 1987) completes his artistic maturation. His penchant for the 1950s and 1960s—the era he most easily identifies with—remains, but it is like a blurred photograph seen from infinite distance. All the songs transport the listener to sunlit paradises, yet he, the singer, is not there; he is hidden in a gray, rainy landscape, singing of that unbridgeable abyss (existential before material) separating him from his dream. His desolate lament is accompanied first by sinister swampy tolls (You Owe Me Some Kind Of Love), then a delicate jingle-jangle (Fade Away), a thin blues-rock in the style of Radar Love (Wild Love), a country trot (You Took My Heart), and even flamenco steps (Lovers Game). The full arsenal of signs from that magical era is converted into a desperate mood, a dark sense of powerlessness. The contrast between premise and execution culminates in formally impeccable songs such as Blue Hotel, where one seems to hear Roy Orbison leading a surf band.
Intense and introspective compositions like Lie To Me and Waiting For The Rain To Fall resemble private masses, religious services obsessively rummaging through memory’s recesses, as if Tim Buckley had been consumed by the past rather than drugs.
The only moment of respite comes from the melodious This Love Will Last, set to exquisite folk-rock harmony.
Isaak thus finds an improbable balance between the nervous depression of his lyrics and the optimistic landscapes evoked by his music.

On Heart Shaped World (Reprise, 1989), all this often feels forced, as if Isaak were compelled by success to imitate himself. Nothing's Changed and Blue Spanish Sky have virtually no musical structure, being pure atmosphere. The country of I'm Not Waiting and the polka of Forever Young leave behind the populist, domestic 1950s vibe and project it into 1970s showbiz, as if Isaak were tired of being catalogued within the philological revival vein. The verbose In The Heat Of The Jungle returns to the sinister climates of Voodoo, but feels more like an extended jam of the Creedence Clearwater Revival than a swamp blues. This is also due to the unusually varied and meticulous arrangement. Yet it is this album that brings him fame.
That ethereal recital, Wicked Game, suspended in ghostly atmospheres, with the softened chime of the guitar and the gentle beat of the drums marking Isaak’s very sad crooning—almost a yodel—became a hit nearly two years after its release. It is no coincidence that it is also the track most naturally connected to his previous albums.

In the 1990s, Isaak nonetheless achieved well-deserved success, establishing his image as a solitary poet adrift in his cultural roots through his nostalgic compositions. San Francisco Days (Reprise, 1993) even elevates him to the status of a national hero. Once again, the sound of the title track seems artificial, too aggressive to truly be his own. The sprightly rockabilly of I Want Your Love, the languid Hawaiian croon of Except The New Girl, and the rock and roll of Lonely With A Broken Heart are mere revival experiments, lacking the somber existential charm of his meditations. Isaak is a poet, not a newsboy. The demon-blues à la Slim Harpo of Round And Round and the lively collage of Two Hearts (which borrows from Queen Of Hearts and La Bamba) have compelling structures, but—with the sole exceptions of the suspense in Move Along and the soft-step swing of 5:15—they entirely lack the lyrical atmospheres that made him great. Worse: Can't Do A Thing To Stop Me attempts to craft him a cocktail-lounge career. Isaak remains a master of atmosphere, just as Hitchcock was a master of thriller, but his albums increasingly lean toward craft rather than art.

It is no coincidence that Isaak composed part of the music for David Lynch’s films (Isaak is also a film actor).

Forever Blue (Reprise, 1995), at the height of his fame, perhaps achieves the right balance between a much more powerful and modern sound and deeply personal themes (in this case, a true obsession with the loss of his girlfriend). Things Go Wrong (Orbison) and There She Goes (Presley) serve as tributes to his past idols, but Baby Did A Bad Bad Thing is a driving John Lee Hooker–style boogie, Somebody's Crying is a ballad worthy of Gordon Lightfoot, and the album suddenly soars in the martial pace, organ riffs, and distorted garage-rock style of Go Walking Down There.

Baja Sessions (Reprise, 1996) passes mostly unnoticed: a minor work recorded on the Mexican beach intended as an ideal soundtrack for courtship. Some tracks are old, others are covers. Pretty Girls Don't Cry, Wrong, and Waiting For My Lucky Day steal the spotlight from the more famous compositions. Yet Isaak increasingly resembles Roy Orbison and less Elvis Presley, relying more and more on Hershel Yatovitz’s guitar.

Isaak has written some of the greatest classics of the desolate ballad. With him, revival (“American Graffiti”) becomes more than mere nostalgia; it becomes existential nostalgia, a constitutional spleen, a metaphysical longing for one’s historical and individual identity. Isaak is a philosopher of time. No one else, like him, can capture the cruel and relentless passage of time.

Speak Of The Devil (Reprise, 1998) is (unusually for him) a rock album (check out Speak of the Devil), although littered with his plaintive warbling and ghostly Elvis impersonations (Please, Don't Get Down On Yourself, Black Flowers). He even finds space for a surf instrumental, Super Magic 2000.

Issak seems prisoner of his own stereotype, incapable of bettering it or of innovating it: Always Got Tonight (Reprise, 2002) sounds like a Chris Isaak tribute album.

Mr. Lucky (Reprise, 2009), his first album in seven years, is background muzak for old Isaak fans: it recycles stereotypes with manic attention to sonic details (that simply enhance abovesaid stereotypes). We've Got Tomorrow and Best I Ever Had well represent the atmospheric side, while Mr. Lonely Man and Big Wide Wonderful World flex the muscles. The real protagonist, though, is the production work.

Beyond the Sun (2011) is an album of (very old) covers.