When they reach a certain age, it seems as if American authors are duty-bound to take a shot at the Great American Novel. A wise, satirical, incisive, covertly passionate examination of how their nation works, where it's going, why it may be falling apart. Most of the time, though, their ambition defeats the vision, their magnum opuses hamstrung by the terrible obligation to be a magnum opus.
If only they could measure the iniquities of America with such grace and precision as Steely Dan. 'Everything Must Go' offers most of what we want from a intelligent doorstop, with the bonus of some spectacularly good music. It's a record to get lost in, one that constantly surprises with its apparently infinite number of hidden harmonies and wry asides. Like the best books, it improves with each study. And unlike, say, DeLillo's 'Underworld', it only takes 42 minutes to get through.
Donald Fagen and Walter Becker's ninth album together, 'Everything Must Go' is something of a rush-job by Steely Dan standards, having taken only a measly year to record. Not that you can tell, of course. This is breathtakingly elaborate music, a scientific experiment in examining every possibility of the perfect groove, then making the whole process sound effortless. As ever with Steely Dan, it's not the sort of thing, post-punk, we're meant to admire: those jazz moves translated into silky adult rock; the way the session musicians and the battalions of engineers ensure every last sound on 'Everything Must Go' is quite, quite flawless.
But this is what Steely Dan do - subvert our ideas about music, and America, and the ridiculous anxieties of the male menopause. Yes it's hard to explain, in a world where the rawness of The White Stripes or the futurism of The Aphex Twin are so justifiably eulogised, quite why the systematic whiteboy funk of 'Blues Beach' is quite so seductive. Essentially, Steely Dan 'swing', and sound more aspirationally luxurious than even Jay-Z could ever imagine, but then undercut every pristine riff with the blackest lyrical ironies.
So 'Things I Miss The Most' sees Fagen brilliantly playing the divorcé who can't quite decide what is the greatest loss - love, sex, or the Audi TT. And so 'Slang Of Ages' finds Becker - in his first lead vocal for the Dan - as a middle-aged creep trying to pull a young girl, juxtaposing the hipster argot of his youth with increasingly excruciating attempts to speak her language. The moment when he drawls, "These tabs look iffy, you say they're good? Let's roll with the homies and knock on wood," ranks as one the most perceptively embarrassing moments in recent rock history - Roth or Updike, you feel, would be proud.
We could go on for hours, days maybe. About how 'The Last Mall' and the title track wryly present American corporate excess as initiating, then struggling to cope with, the prospect of Armageddon. About how loss - of youth, love, property, dignity, security and, potentially, life - pervades most everything here. About how the stunning liquid tunes surpass 2000's reunion disc 'Two Against Nature', recall Fagen's brilliant solo debut from 1982, 'The Nightfly', and are frequently a match for Steely Dan's revered '70s heyday. For here are a band uncommonly suited to the cynicism, awkward passions and elevated tastes of middle-age. And like the best writers who are their true peers, it's hard to imagine Becker and Fagen doing anything but improve with age.
by John Mulvey