Warren Zevon – The First Sessions

These four discs represent the first, tentative steps at getting Warren Zevon’s back catalog in order. Wile it’s nice to have this material available again, it also represents, disappointingly, a series of missed opportunitiesFirst things first: The First Sessions is a true archaeological dig, and places the teenage Zevon smack dab in the middle of Los Angeles’ 1966 folk-rock hub. Beautifully packaged (dig that Zevon-as-Warhol cover shot!), with insightful notes by Dawn Eden, the disc traces Zevon’s murky back pages through Lyme & Cybelle (who made a run at the charts with the mildly psychedelic “Follow Me”) and subsequent sweetly romantic demos aimed squarely at producer Bones Howe’s stable of popsters — especially the Turtles and the Association. (It’s too bad Varese didn’t also dig up Zevon’s ultra-rare sides as a member of The Brothers.)

Zevon’s rapier wit is mostly subservient to pop craftsmanship here, but the withering loner’s tale “Outside Chance” and the hit single that shoulda been, “You Used To Ride So High” (think “Ticket To Ride”), with a truly wigged-out guitar solo, are signposts. The real payoff comes with a powerful solo piano demo of “A Bullet For Ramona”; a later version appeared on Zevon’s first album. Freed from stultifying studio niceties, he sings this spare murder ballad with hangdog conviction; prophetically, Zevon inhabits this pathetic tale of revenge.

That first album, Wanted Dead Or Alive, appeared on the Imperial imprint in 1969, months before the label went belly-up. It’s long been considered the skeleton in Zevon’s closet; during his high-flying Elektra years, he virtually disowned it. Primitive, amateurish, at times embarrassing, Wanted is heavy-metal folk for the Zevon true believer, though three or four cuts, primarily the intense acoustic blues “She Quit Me” (shades of John Hammond) and the autumnal love-lost tune “Tule’s Blues”, genuinely deserve a spot in Zevon’s rich canon. (Capitol had planned to expand this disc, which clocks in at 31 minutes, with a heretofore-unknown second album, A Leaf In The Wind, recorded in the early ’70s, but someone pulled the plug at the last possible moment.)

Fast-forward to the late ’80s, through Zevon’s glory years and past the inexplicably out-of-print masterpiece Stand In The Fire. On the sidelines through much of the ’80s, Zevon returned in 1987 with Sentimental Hygiene. Recorded with R.E.M. (minus Michael Stipe) in tow, it remains, arguably, Zevon’s best single platter.

From the sly, faux Springsteenisms (“The Factory”) to the odd psychedelic touches in “Bad Karma”, everything Zevon throws out works. Neil Young’s serpentine guitar leads bracket the shadowy title track. The songs at the album’s spiritual heart — “Detox Mansion”, “Trouble Waiting To Happen” — are comically autobiographical yet strangely universal. But it’s the ghoulish spectacle portrayed in the brutal rhythms of “Boom Boom Mancini” that remains one of the artist’s finest achievements. Using the boxer Mancini as a hook, the song’s deceptively simple refrain ultimately dissolves the line between entertainment and reality — just as the cable news channels are doing right this minute.

Two minor bonus cuts are tacked onto this remaster (which, like the others, is a nice improvement in sound quality on the old editions). Untold demos recorded with R.E.M., as well as the much-raved-about outtake “Studebaker”, continue to languish in the vaults.

Evidently encouraged by the mild success of Sentimental Hygiene, Virgin spent lavishly on its 1989 follow-up. Transverse City was Zevon’s high-minded concept album. It was also, as one pundit has pointed out, his Heaven’s Gate, and when it sank in the marketplace, Zevon ultimately had to downsize his ambitions.

Zevon toyed with his cyberpunk opus endlessly, adding layer upon dense layer to the mix, and calling on Young, Jerry Garcia, David Gilmour and George Clinton to pitch in. A sprawling, sometimes funny (“Down In The Mall” ), sometimes frustratingly overwrought (the title cut) work, Transverse City exposes Zevon’s tendency toward self-indulgence (not to mention prog-rock) while simultaneously offering up one of his most enduring songs — “Splendid Isolation” — which somehow, in its harmonica undertow, manages to make loneliness seem romantic.

Tucked away near the album’s end is “Nobody’s In Love This Year”, a gorgeous, hushed slice of pure pop that clashes directly with Zevon’s macabre public image, and, in its ache and vulnerability, is reminiscent of those prehistoric Lyme & Cybelle cuts.