Never mind being Australia’s “poet laureate” (and putting aside whether that epithet carries any weight when you’re dealing with a country that calls a cricket ball a “cherry” with no sense of shame), Billy Bragg probably nails it best when he says of Paul Kelly: “Paul Kelly is one of the greatest observers of the human condition working in rock music. His songs articulate the pains and pleasures of his people in a manner that affirms their sense of belonging.”
This – his 30th album, and the one that contains his 500th song – is a perfect example of exactly that.
“Tell Us A Story” (Part A) opens SEVENTY in suitably reflective fashion. There are touches of Van Morrison and Dylan in the phrasing and the looseness of it all, Kelly singing “I got a story that makes me fill with shame / Everybody here I guess could say the same.” There’s no middle, no end, no beginning – it just is. Part B later gives it a cyclical, quietly satisfying resolution.
Elsewhere, the warmth keeps coming. Meg Washington guests beautifully on “Don’t Give Up On Me”, while “Rita Wrote A Letter” – jauntier than you might expect given its subject – carries tinges of Steve Harley as its protagonist steps out of prison. It also acts as a sequel of sorts to a Christmas song Kelly wrote 30 years ago, which tells you everything about the long view he’s always taken.
“The Body Always Keeps The Score” wears its scars openly, while “I Keep On Coming Back For More” sounds like a troubadour’s anthem for a life well lived. “Take It Handy” crackles with energy and class, and “Happy Birthday Ada Mae” is especially affecting – the words of an old man who has come to terms with himself, sung with pure, unguarded love for his granddaughter.
“The Magpies” jangles along with a gentle 60s edge, the banjo adding real charm, while “Made For Me” is a perfect example of the album’s genteel nature, Rebecca Barnard’s duet fitting so naturally it feels inevitable. “Sailing To Byzantium” is as grandiose as you like, but the fact that Kelly largely speaks the lyrics only deepens its poetic weight.
It also has to be said that the music always matches the words perfectly. The piano on “My Body Felt No Pain” underlines its emotional core, while there’s a genuine sense of light at the end of the tunnel about “I’m Not Afraid Of The Dark”.
As someone who hit 50 last year, I can empathise with the need for reflection. But I am not Paul Kelly. He’s mastered it brilliantly here, delivering an album of genuine warmth, craft and skill. Almost enough for us to forgive him for being from the same place as David Warner and Steve Smith.
Almost.
RATING: 8.5/10
