It was a chilly April night in 1990 when I met Rick Elias for the
first time. The venerable Exit/In rock club in Nashville was hosting a showcase
of various artists as part of the Gospel Music Week convention. A few weeks before, I had received an
advance copy of Rick Elias and the
Confessions from Frontline, a small west coast label, and was quite fond of
what I heard. It was guitar-driven
Americana with gritty vocals…akin to Springsteen, Mellancamp or Petty…not
comparisons often heard in Contemporary Christian Music. But it was the penetrating, gutsy
lyrics that were so honest that really set it apart. Most CCM was rather banal
when it came to its message…you really didn’t want the “gatekeepers” to
question anything about one’s reality in sharing the gospel message thru
song. It was always best to keep
hard questions, doubts, and insecurity out of the equation. That’s what made this bold album from
this unknown entity so compelling, And it only grew with repeated listening.
Rick was kind of hard to miss when he sauntered into the loud music
room. He was an imposing 6’ 6” with flowing black hair in a sort of pompadour
cut, chiseled features, and covered head-to-toe in black (well worn leather
jacket with tassels, frayed jeans, and scuffed biker boots). He looked like his music sounded: ready
to fight for what he believed. Once again, not your typical preppy-looking
Christian pop act.
His handlers had flown him in for the convention, but hadn’t landed
him any performance slots. So he
was just trying to understand this whole new industry. He’d been in the southern California
club scene for years, close to some major label deals on several occasions, but
never quite consummated. His
disappointments had been punctuated with some severe substance abuse issues,
and it was in recent years that he had been able to find some peace and hope
via a renewed faith that he had abandoned in his late teens. All of this led
him to be somewhat flummoxed by all the professional Christians he was
encountering at this Music City confab.
Recognizing him from the cover of that debut CD, I walked up to him
and introduced myself, telling him that I thought his album was truly terrific.
We talked on and off throughout several sets by other artists, and at one point
stepped outside so we could better converse. He asked what I did, and I shared that I worked with
musicians who had a concern for the poor who might like to partner with
Compassion International to find sponsors for needy children around the
world. He was intrigued. Thus
began a long friendship.
Within weeks we began phone conversations, and I was able to get him
added onto an Artist Vision Trip to Guatemala several months later. I thought
this particular grouping had great potential to bond significantly. Rich Mullins and Geoff Moore had both
been friends of mine for five years, but had never met. I thought their
Midwestern sensibilities to their music along with their desire for realistic
discipleship would blend well. Chuck
Tilley, a famed concert promoter, and my boss, Devlin Donaldson (also a
much-published rock critic) were also along. My hope was Rick would find some
cohorts in his yearning for honest communication, too. We all had a meaningful
time engaging with the poor of Guatemala, but also in the fellowship of our own
poor-in-spirit conditions. Everyone hit it off right from the get-go, and the
rest, as they say, is history. Not
only did deep connections begin across the board, but the seeds for the
“ragamuffin band” idea that Mullins had rolling around in his head were birthed
on that excursion.
Within a year, Rick and Rich were heading up said band, touring
across North America and recording award-winning albums. Rick also did two more
solo albums of his own, and made major alliances on soundtracks for films like That Thing You Do, My Big Fat Greek Wedding,
as well as TV shows. His notoriety as a producer grew as well. After Mullins’ tragic auto accident
five years later, Rick helped carry the flame with several more Ragamuffin Band
albums.
But with the demise of the CCM industry and ever-tightening
playlists at Christian radio in the past dozen years, Rick has been unable to
move forward as an recording artist.
He continues writing, producing, and occasionally playing live shows.
He’s also a professor at a music school here in Nashville, passing on his deep
knowledge of art, craft, and business sense to younger musicians.
It’s been 13 years since Rick has been in a studio to work on any of
his own compositions. Seeing some of his contemporaries launch successful
Kickstarter campaigns to raise money for self-released projects, he decided it
was time to give that a shot. The
money came in from eager fans that have waited well over a decade to hear more
from Elias. And, despite a serious tumble that caused a debilitating shoulder
injury in the midst of production, he was able to get his first solo album in
over 15 years finished this year, and it is releasing to the public this week.
It is entitled Jōb, and
the moniker is appropriate, not just for the long-suffering chronicled above,
but also Rick’s desire to probe a thorny theological issue. It isn’t just the
ancient Old Testament story that is examined, but also contemporary--perhaps
even autobiographical--musings on the purposes of pain and disappointment that are
brought to the fore.
Opening with “Do Ya,” Elias serves as a guide of sorts, leading us
into places none of us would choose to go. The plaintive acoustic guitar is
joined by a slowly building cadre of instrumentation and layered voices blowing
across a dusty soulscape.
Who
am I?
Do
you know me?
If
you know
Well
then tell me
Ring
those suffering chimes
Tell
me whose fate is mine
Do
ya feel like an angel?
Or a
pawn in a fable?
Son
of Jōb
Son
of betrayal
There
are no strangers at this table
Ending with one of the coolest chords since the beginning of “Hard
Day’s Night,” the stage is then set for the ripping title track, which is
easily the top rock song of 2013.
Delivered with the edginess of late 60s Rolling Stones but the ferocity
of mid-tempo Metallica, this slide
guitar-fueled cruncher lifts the downtrodden questions into a realm of righteous
anger.
Naked
I came from my mother’s womb
And
naked I will return
My
serpent skins shed in the tomb
And
a lover’s heart that still burns
A spoken word section halfway through, reminiscent of Bono’s laments
in “Bullet the Blue Sky,” was written and voiced by Rick’s old high school
chum, the illustrious Luis Alberto Urrea, now a Pulitzer Prize nominated and New
York Times Best Selling author.
Templars
in the alley performing esoteric rites
Junkies
howl their hosannas in the galleries of night
Gathering
upright citizens running from the light
Just
another blind boy, blessed and cursed, with visions instead of sight
And
I’m still walking…
If I
fell down in the city would I make the slightest sound?
One
the sidewalk where the saddest of the seraphim can be found
Where
the children of the morning chalk their scriptures on the ground
And
sing their hymns with the voices of the drowned
I
hear them talking…
“When It All Comes Down” follows next as protestations begin to turn
inward, examining how sometimes we help create our own quagmires. The
sophisticated arrangement and cool elements like a backwards guitar, stark
keyboard textures, and Tim Chandler’s lyrical bass figures broaden the pallet
that provides paint for the picture.
I
watched the level rise
Debris
brought me to my knees
With
all my crimes
And
all my lies
I
circled the drain
Like
a spider going down the sink
When
it all came down
It
was like a mist that tuned to rain
Until
the rain
Became
a stream
The
stream a river
An
open vein
Bleeding
out across the lowlands
Swallowing
summer and spring
When
it all came down
It
took everything
Willing inner deception is also spoken of in a lament about divas
and drama queens, and the men who are pulled under their spells in “A Kind of
Brilliance.”
Critics,
fakes, and cheap alcohol
Clumsy,
mumbled dialogue
Would
never bring her down
She’s
lost in her soliloquy
Her
lonely, bittersweet elegy
To
love lost, not found
While
here in the shadows I am bleeding, baby
But you
can’t even hear my voice
And
I admit
It
requires
An
exquisite
Kind
of liar
A
kind of brilliance
To
believe
Melancholy and nostalgia soaked in resignation characterize the
aching account of the years of a marriage; good, bad, and indifferent. Surely
“When We Built This House” is one of the frankest songs I’ve heard about the
ongoing challenges of life-long commitment.
Those
were the days
When
grace threw long shadows
And
light filtered through
Now
we see through a haze
Smoke
and dust from a battle
Ghosts
wander from room to room
I
told you, “Love is never abstract
It
will break your heart and never look back”
Then
you ask me how I am
Well
what do you see?
One
heart left to chance
And
the other to bleed
Two
souls in a dance
A
fait accompli
Then
I remember
Your
eyes, your laugh
You
smiled and the world was right
And
I still remember
When
we built this house
A reworking of “Help Thou My Unbelief,” originally on the Prayers of a Ragamuffin album, continues
the flow of recognition within the heart of Jōbs and Thomas’s everywhere that
there is, indeed, a loving God in the midst of the trials and apprehension. A gentle,
earnest plea for anyone that is wrestling with uncertainty.
Father
you led me as I crossed the wasteland
Conquering
the mountains, the rivers, the lowlands
But
you would not conquer me
Abba
you touched me, you heard all my cries
I
sat at your table, I lay by your side
But
as Thomas, no Judas
It’s
you I denied
Still,
you loved me
Bringing everything to a close is “Jōb, Naked,” and addendum to the
title track that starts as an edgy acoustic Steve Earle-like thumper. The
ultimate questions still resound, but there’s an allowance for clemency from
the great beyond, and a hope for the coming redeemer.
Well,
yer straight out of luck
The
hand’s dealt from the bottom tonight
Deals
have been struck
And
the seersucker suits came to buy
After
all their manipulations
Yeah,
all those clever moves
Comes
a single act of mercy
As a
child in a young mother’s womb
The final several minutes morph into a middle-eastern whirling dervish,
reminiscent of the eclectic instrumentation utilized on the Page-Plant Zeppelin
Unledded tour back in the mid-90s.
The interaction between Elias’ frenetic guitar and drummer/percussionist
Steve Hindalong’s accents builds in hypnotic intensity. The rising string section adds to the
mounting crescendo, that ends with an Olympic droning sustain that washes over
the whole procession. As it fades,
one is reminded that Yaweh does speak, usually as a whisper, through the howling
winds on occasion.
Sonically, Jōb is by far the best sounding album Elias has done.
Rich in texture, warm when needed, stark in the right places. Little instrumental flourishes and
sweeteners from accordion, organ, piano, vibes, mandolin, etc. lend just the
right grace notes. The contributions of the aforementioned Hindalong and
Chandler, who make up the rhythm section of The Choir, are stellar. Their band mate,
Derri Daughtery, does a premium effort engineering and assisting on the mix.
But it is Elias, who plays nearly every other instrument, and blends in many
intriguing harmonies alongside his ardent lead vocal, who carries the day.
All said, Jōb is such a
satisfying listen, and worthy of the wait. It is certainly one of the strongest releases of the
year. And all of it combined begs
just one more question: how long until the next one? I’m confident that Rick has much, much more to offer, and
can hardly contain myself in anticipation of more to come. Lord knows, we need
his brand of literate, seasoned, and fervent rock to help us navigate the
thorny questions.
You can buy Jōb as a
digital download here (as well as hear samples):
You can also purchase it at iTunes (as
well as hear samples):
If you want a physical CD (and maybe some
other swag such as a signed album art poster, autographed B&W pic, comp CD,
etc.) go here:
