side of the road | Every Moment Has A Song

Lucinda Williams (1988)

Sometime around 1989 I went into Eide’s Records in Pittsburgh with money in hand and no clue what to buy. In the days, you see, before Amazon.com and Pandora there were limited ways to sample music before you bought. Maybe a friend would tell you about a record, or maybe you’d read a review. Or once in a while in desperation you might just take a flyer on a record based solely on its cover.

That’s what I did that day at Eides. Flipping through rows of records by artists I mostly didn’t know (theirs was a fairly Metal-centric selection) Lucinda Williams’ modestly adorned (to be charitable) album cover seemed to dare me not to give a shit about it; there was an indifference to it that intrigued me. Never had an album seemed to care so little if I found it interesting or not. My first thought was: “Eff you, Lucinda whoever-you-are. You don’t even care about your album cover–your music must really suck”.

But my next thought was: maybe this isn’t indifference or arrogance, but confidence. An album that does so little to pull you in with packaging must be all about substance, about what’s inside.

Was it ever.

Lucinda’s voice and songwriting amazed me from the first listen. My brother was quickly converted as well, and for a short time Lucinda seemed to belong to us alone. I named my dog Cinda…now there were three of us.

This wasn’t Lucinda Williams’ first album, but it was the first one that mattered, the one that created the template for what you still hear her doing today. And it’s still her finest album, despite what any Rolling Stone critic might have given more stars to. And I find it strange indeed that her best collection of songs remains out of print as of this writing while her more recent work is so highly praised.

I don’t think any subsequent album spawned more covers than Lucinda Williams. “The Night’s Too Long” was a country hit for Patty Loveless. Mary Chapin Carpenter’s take on “Passionate Kisses” was a smash single. And Tom Petty covered “Changed the Locks” for the soundtrack of She’s the One. Lucinda’s versions were superior in every case. She was, essentially, the female John Hiatt.

In the interest of full disclosure, I somewhat soured on Lucinda a couple of albums down the road from this one. The formula here, and on her next album (1992’s Sweet Old World) worked beautifully, and owed a lot to the production, lead guitar and vocal harmonies of Gurf Morlix, who seemed to be Williams’ perfect foil.

Perhaps Lucinda eventually feared that Gurf’s myriad contributions would suppress perception of her as an independent artist. But like a band member who think’s he’s outgrown his band and has to go solo, Lucinda broke up the musical partnership in search of something grittier, and more like that defiant album cover of ’88. She’s written many fine songs since, but her voice seems a little more of an affectation to me now, the voice of a singer who’s read too many reviews about how distinctively “authentic” or “world-weary” or “tough-but-vulnerable” her singing is. It could just be me–but beginning with 1998’s Car Wheels On a Gravel Road she seemed to be trying to be those things, where she’d just let it come out naturally in 1988.

It’s a hard record to find, but worth seeking out. It’s been reissued once; maybe some label will see the value in doing so again. Lucinda Williams is one of the best albums of its era. Before she went “a bit up herself”, a less contrived singing style, her best batch of songs, and the Gurf Morlix touch made this the best work of Lucinda’s career.

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