Paul K & The Weathermen – Love Is A Gas

If you’ve ever the need to find Paul K, you can find him hanging in that same darkened and dead-ended Bowery alley in which you may have stumbled over like-minded writers and poets such as Jim Thompson and Charles Bukowski. At one point in his life, this analogy was way more literal than figurative, which is why Mr. K (Kopasz to his parents, just K to you and me) has amassed quite the reputation for his ability (and willingness) to tap into the dark and desperate side of the human condition.

It’s a result of those allegorical insights that have led some folks to throw out comparative reference points like Van Zandt, Haggard and Cash — a few guys who have endured their share of troubled times and lived to tell about it. And I would have to say that, lyrically, I wouldn’t hesitate for a minute to sit Paul K down in a songwriter’s circle with the aforementioned. Yeah, I know such a statement will trigger a mass raising of eyebrows, but few artists today display keener social commentary or more adept storytelling skills.

Love Is A Gas is the best opportunity to date to discover what all the fuss is, and has been, about. With former Velvet Underground drummer Maureen Tucker producing, it’s by far his most accessible and fully realized production to date, almost startlingly so. While I admittedly found it difficult to sit through the claustrophobic din that cloaked last year’s Achilles Heel, his newest is awash with a retro expansiveness that evokes much of what was actually listenable in the ’70s.

Maybe it’s the glammy recklessness of album opener “Apple In My Eye”. Or perhaps it’s the neo-Motown lament of “Jimmy Ruffin’s Tears” (“Many of my songs have been forgotten”). It’s definitely evident on the brilliant rapid-fire rhyming couplets set inside the Bolan-esque lope of “Slow It Down” (“When the fat’s on the fire and the mercury gets higher/And the best friend you had you heard is now wearing a wire”). And then there’s his telling choice of covers: An appropriately soulful take on Stevie Wonder’s “Jesus Children Of America”, and a very personal rendering of Queen’s “You’re My Best Friend” (tacked onto the end as a bonus track).

There’s probably not a lot here that will appeal to the loyalist fan of twang (though “Liar’s Prayer” and “To See You If You Fall” are imbued with a mournful elegance that may serve your purposes). But if you’re feeling a bit adventurous, give this one a chance.