Really good stuff.īut here he sits tonight, leather jacket pulled in tight against an early-evening chill, big soulful puppy-dog eyes looking more pensive than usual. And every time he sees a paparazzi, he can’t help himself, he’s got to act out just the other day, he and his friend the well-known lesbian Samantha Ronson engaged in a bit of hot up-against-the-wall-oral-sex silliness for the cameras. He’s huge on Twitter, where he is an acknowledged modern-day master of the lowbrow bon mot, having amassed a fan base of 2,919,691 souls who hang on his every “My mouth is the Don King of my penis” and “I thought I had to fart but it turned out it was just a poop.” He’s everywhere in the gossip press, often in connection with celebrity ex-girlfriends, the last being Jennifer Aniston, who followed Minka Kelly, who followed Jessica Simpson, etc. Meanwhile, for better or worse, he’s become a kind of inescapable pop-culture staple. He’s a golden boy (whose label, Columbia, had the good sense to sign him to a 10-year Fort Knox-size deal in 2008). In fact, commercially, Mayer has never come close to failing. And I think you gain more than you lose by saying that”), it debuted at Number One. Since 2001, he’s released four studio albums, starting with Room for Squares, that have all been big successes, with hit songs like “Your Body Is a Wonderland,” “Daughters” and “Waiting on the World to Change.” And while his newest record, Battle Studies, isn’t up to his previous one, Continuum (an assessment even Mayer agrees with: “I know that I’m supposed to say that my newest is the best one. But his guitar chops, especially in the bluesy area, are unquestionably great, and he can count Eric Clapton among his admirers. Sure, lots of people don’t like him and his music, too poppy, too sensitive, his head is too big, he uses the word “meta” too often. So maybe that really is his situation, despite who he is. He sings like a man who knows his place in the world.John Mayer Taps Dave Chappelle, Bob Weir for Montana Flood Relief Benefit ConcertsĪnd he looks serious, too. Lyrically, Mayer can be bitter, complaining: “You shoulda been sad instead of being so fuckin’ mean” on “It Shouldn’t Matter But It Does,” or philosophical, quipping “Hurt me once I let it be/Hurt me twice you’re dead to Me/Three times makes you family” on the unfortunately titled “Why You No Love Me,” or even hopeful on “Til the Right One Comes.” But uniting these different moods, and the different styles in which Mayer dabbles, is the effortless warmth in his voice, which never puts too much weight behind his heartbreak or his happiness. And as session men go, both his core touring band, bassist Pino Palladino and drummer Aaron Sterling, and Greg Phillinganes, the keyboardist who appeared on both Thriller and Songs in the Key of Life, are the cream of the crop. Smart country-pop groundbreaker Maren Morris contributes fitting harmonies. Producer Don Was made his name in the ’Eighties and Nineties helping middle-aged rockers like Bonnie Raitt and the Stones adapt to contemporary styles without going overboard. Mayer has assembled some classy accomplices for Sob Rock. collaborates with him on the sleek pop-funk of “New Light.” And on the disillusioned “I Guess I Just Feel Like,” Mayer solos with the Jerry Garcia-like tone that earned him his job touring with the Grateful Dead. The veteran Chicago hip-hop producer No I.D. A booming drum intro announces the lead track, “Last Train Home,” which sounds like a historical recreation of a forgotten Eighties soundtrack cut, complete with a few economical period-appropriate Eric Clapton guitar bursts. Mayer is a sly craftsman and a virtuoso chameleon on guitar, adept at mimicking disparate styles. The guy can’t even sing a cliché like “the road keeps rolling on forever” insincerely. He may come off glib in interviews, but he’s either blessed or cursed with an inability to preserve any ironic distance from his material, so what might seem like genre exercises from a flashier performer sound as heartfelt as diary entries. Is this self-deprecating? A jab at critics? Either way, the self-consciousness of the packaging is notably absent from Mayer’s music itself. The muted pastels of the throwback cover art, complete with a simulation of the “Nice Price” sticker that Columbia Records used to slap on its bargain LPs, dares you to call him a purveyor of slick, dated studio-rock. The title of his eighth studio album acknowledges past accusations of sad-boy mopery. No one is more aware of what people think about John Mayer than John Mayer himself.
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