Closer in spirit to RAYMOND CHANDLER than any contemporary rock lineage, STAN RIDGWAY is one of life's naturally gifted storytellers whose talents should never have left him languishing in obscurity.
Stumbling into the pop arena when his soundtrack project WALL OF VOODOO mutated into a real band and subsequent underground LA heroes, RIDGWAY had a minor brush with stardom via VOODOO'S ace single "Mexican Radio" and its' parent album, "Call Of The West", another fascinating artefact that frequently escapes critical reappraisal.
Striking out on his own, Stan scored a surprisingly enormous European hit single with "Camouflage" (1986), one of those annoyingly catchy pop moments allied to a strange tale involving the ghost of a marine in the Vietnam war. It remains the signature Ridgway tune for anyone adventurous enough to pan for pop gold in the murky mid-80s musical stream.
Stan's debut LP, "The Big Heat" (also 1986) received a fair hearing on the back of "Camouflage", but the fanfair afforded his belated follow up, 1989's "Mosquitos" was significantly muted and since then Ridgway has been paddling in pop's gentler backwaters.
Of course, there's been more intriguing Stan since then - notably 1992's "Party Ball" -and I dobt the man himself has much truck with sales graphs, but the apathy that met "Mosquitos" especially still galls as in many ways it's the very essence of Ridgway.
Co-produced by long-time desk man JOE CHICARELLI, "Mosquitos" features subtle contributions from heavy friends such as STEVE BERLIN (LOS LOBOS/ BLASTERS) and ELVIS COSTELLO/ TOM WAITS guitarist MARC RIBOT, while the arrangements are evocative and (yes!) cinematic throughout, but it's he songs themselves and Ridgway's clinical attention to the smallest details that shine up the real jewel.
Hell, there's loads of 'em too. The fabulous, neo-MORRICONE of the instrumental "Heat Takes A Walk" (with strings from BRIAN WILSON acolyte VAN DYKE PARKS) leads into "Lonely Town", a lovely languid groove sunkissed by balmy percussion and Ridgway's drifting harmonica. It reeks of the desert and a distant foreboding, with Stan's laconic vocal and noir-ish hints via simple lines like: "Ask for directions from a plumber outside/ He says don't go there, bud." Fantastic stuff.
"Can't Complain", however, is even better. A bona fide off beat classic, it features Ridgway in a wry narration mode, relating a bar conversation between Bert and Charlie, the former reeling off a list of his grievances before leaving the bar to meet his maker by way of a falling piano. This superb tale of life (and death)s vagaries is relayed through marimbas, congas, ukelele and Ridgway on "piano accident" and is a minor masterpiece.
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Then there's "Peg And Pete And Me", Stan delving deep into film noir territory, playing Fred McMurray to Peg's Barbara Stanwyck in an excellent first person scenario of temptation, greed and feminine deception; Ridgway the patsy, ever ready to dispense sagacities like: "if there's any advice I can give from this cell/ never trust a dead rich man's wife." Nuff said, huh?
Both the downbeat, accordion-led editor's tale "Newspapers" and the album's one true rocker, the evangelism-baiting "Last Honest Man" display impressive credentials, but it's surely "Mosquitos" kiss off, the glorious "A Mission In Life" that will convert the coldest heart.
Because, simply put, "A Mission In Life" is one of the most heartfelt, poignant five minutes you'll ever encounter. Over tremulous piano, upright bass, brushed drums and desolate harmonica, he relates perhaps his finest vignette of all: the bartender - after hours - pondering what might have been when there's just the last few drunks to throw out. Ribot's electric "ghost" guitar shadows the ballad as it rises to its' climax, Ridgway nakedly imploring: "You've got a mission in life to hold out your hand/ to help the other guy out, help your fellow man/ that's why I own this bar, they're thirsty outside/ I give them oceans to drink and they just drown in the tide." Never once does it slide into sentimentality and it's guaranteed to do in even the most hardened cynic every time. And I should know.
Ultimately, then, Stan Ridgway deserves at least a decent footnote in pop history for his ability to weave his finely wrung human interest stories into a musical tapestry of quality and distinction. "Mosquitos" succeeds brilliantly here, laying you low with the sort of fever you desperately hope will recur. For God's sake, succumb to the shivers.
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