no easy way down

Here is something that I believe I wrote about ten years ago; probably still one of my favorite piece of writing from when I was younger (But I was so much older then/I'm younger than that now):

It is the rare gift of a supreme songwriter to be able to connect intuitively to his listeners, something that Mark Eitzel accomplishes with such ease.

His songs are never of the morbid death-wish variety. It is more about getting reflective: about the day that didn't turn out fine, about contemplating dashed dreams as you crawled into bed alone, and about the faithless lover who just left. And the cruel ironies of life and death he mocks so readily when he sings "nobody cares if I live or die" on his second solo album West (1997). And Eitzel could probably write a drinking song better than anyone, from the early barfly wisdom on American Music Club songs such as "Somewhere" to the sublime beauty of "Some Bartenders Have the Gift of Pardon" (off his first and best solo album, 1996's 60 Watt Silver Lining), on which the lyrics and title of the song pretty much says it all ("Just some old poets drinking the last nightmare in/ and the comfort of the dark and being forgotten").

Eitzel just lets it bleed so well, and it is to 60 Watt that I keep going back for more. It is here that his personal vision really shone through, on an almost concept album revolving around a near deserted bar by the shore. From where Eitzel sits in a corner, quietly observing the lonesome people and washed-out drifters that come around. The empty man forever distracted by his memories of decay and the old ghost by the wild sea, sad-eyed Cleopatra Jones with the drunken smile, all too disarmingly kind to strangers. Or of the old friend, gone beyond any salvation, as they sit down for a drink and conversation down at mission rock resort. The vivid imagery are all there, from the wrecked ship on the album cover to the many oceanic and barroom references in the songs; "a bar has a longer history than a country," he reminds us as he proceeds to drink to the last drop of his own reflection.

The song arrangements are appropriately sparse, with trumpeter Mark Isham lending much to its mood of elegaic weariness. On 60 Watt, Eitzel finally got around to being what he perhaps wanted to become all along - a torch singer par excellence, the way Chet Baker once was before that fateful day he came falling through his hotel window. In his own drab fashion, Mark Eitzel also comes across as curious hopeful in his songs, giving the promise of deliverance for the hangarounds from their troubles. "And there is no safety net in this world/ I have no time for good luck charms/ But I still long for your touch/ 'cause I know I'm saved," he muses on "Saved", almost enough to turn the stoniest-faced detractors into believers.

Make no mistake about it; this is not social music for the masses. Eitzel's songs are made for the downtrodden, the terminally disappointed, the haplessly drunk, the loveless and heartbroken. And those bartenders who have the gift of pardon.