The inclusion of Dylan’s spirited harmonica breaks proved a perfect nod to the socially conscience songs that had inspired Warren—and his entire generation—during the 1960s. His wailing harp offered not only a cultural blessing by the workingman’s great musical champion but also fit perfectly into a song that had been specifically composed to include the instrument—a rarity for one of Warren’s edgier rock songs.
“Trouble Waiting to Happen” was the very first song written for the album, having been a cathartic exercise immediately following the devastating notice of his termination at Elektra/Asylum. J. D. Souther was visiting Warren in Philadelphia that fateful weekend and attempted to cheer up his old friend by pushing him to vent his anger through writing. In effect, as Warren’s direct answer to Rolling Stone’s “obituary” for him, “Trouble Waiting to Happen” marked the next phase of his career. Coupled with “Detox Mansion,” “Trouble Waiting to Happen” was also the most overtly autobiographical song on an album that many critics initially regarded as quite the opposite. Warren’s signature self-deprecating humor, now safely returned to its recognizably biting best, kept those critics at bay. Don Henley stopped in for the session, adding to the lush harmony vocals, as well as rockabilly guitarist Brian Setzer from the Stray Cats, who provided the mean, distinctive lead.
The sessions for “Reconsider Me” took place toward the midpoint of the album’s production, in time for a major single release. By the time Warren laid down the track, which had been for Crystal all along, its arrangement had been meticulously refined through numerous live solo performances. Stevie Nicks had already recorded her version, and Warren’s initial demos with R.E.M. had made “Reconsider Me” a prominent selling point to record labels. That original lineup did not return for the studio cut, however, and Slater compensated with an all-star ensemble. Mike Campbell, best known for his ongoing work with Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, took lead guitar, while Waddy Wachtel visited to play the warm, acoustic rhythm; seasoned session bassist Tony Levin came in, as did additional keyboardist Jai Winding, which allowed Warren to focus on his ballad vocals. According to Slater, he had been haunted by the heartbreaking tune ever since Warren had first played it for him. “I was so moved by ‘Reconsider Me’ that I was obsessed about getting Warren a deal—based on that song,” he later remembered. “When I couldn’t get anybody interested, I wanted to get somebody to cover that song because it just struck a chord in me that has not been rung too many times since.”
If Sentimental Hygiene was a deliberate push in introducing Warren to a new generation of fans, “Detox Mansion” was the song that his original listeners—those critics and baby boomers who still held fond memories of the energetic heyday of Los Angeles’s most notorious rock troubadour—were surely waiting for. With Warren’s cunning humor back in full force, he gives a tongue-in-cheek account of his times in and out of rehabilitation, taking on the exaggerated role of a burned-out rock star detoxing at a luxurious rehab clinic. Among his fellow “guests” are Liza Minnelli and Liz Taylor and, much as “Gorilla, You’re a Desperado” had parodied the propensities of the “Me Generation” for racquetball and therapeutic analysis, so the spoiled celebs at “Detox Mansion” pat themselves on the back for doing their laundry between rounds of golf. While some critics didn’t approve of his teasing attitude toward the dark trend of celebrity substance abuse, indoctrinated Zevonites applauded the return of their favorite rock-and-roll social commentator. Warren later claimed that the earliest version of the tune had sounded like Johnny Cash’s “I Walk the Line,” while the earliest performances found him also incorporating Cash’s signature thumbed-guitar bass line, coupled with a melodic mimicry of Cash’s famous baritone drop in in the verses of “Folsom Prison Blues.”
“It wouldn’t be a Warren Zevon album if it wasn’t likely to stir up trouble with someone somewhere down the line,” wrote Chris Willman in The Los Angeles Times. “The new ‘Sentimental Hygiene’ is the acclaimed singer/songwriter’s first album in five years, and one of the incendiary record’s most prominent satires is a sizzling ditty called ‘Detox Mansion,’ which pokes sharp-pointed fun at the celebrity withdrawal syndrome and those who would check into the well-appointed Betty Ford Center rushing to tell their victory stories on Entertainment Tonight.” In The Village Voice, Robert Christgau added, “‘Detox Mansion’ sends up every pampered substance abuser turned therapy addict in Tinseltown.”
As the man who had inspired the song’s title, it was only right that Jorge Calderón come down to the studio to sing alongside Warren. As Warren later recalled, David Lindley overdubbed “many layers of lap steel guitar parts, one of which he referred to with great seriousness as ‘The Wibble-Wobble.’” Lindley’s almighty “Wibble-Wobble” was in fact a baglama—or bowed saz—an obscure Turkish lute not usually associated with rock-and-roll albums. The track was released as the fourth single off Sentimental Hygiene, and to many older listeners who remembered Warren’s ongoing, very public struggle with addiction, the song became synonymous with his comeback and welcome return to their musical landscape.
The next track utilized a similar oblong, plucked instrument, as Warren incorporated session sitar player Darius Degher into his final arrangement of “Bad Karma,” perhaps the most R.E.M.-influenced of the album’s sessions and the album’s fifth single. Lyrically, Warren had here penned another humorous “woe is me” fable in the recognizable vein of “Poor Poor Pitiful Me,” but now from a weathered and world-weary narrative voice, and from a man ready to chalk his misfortune up to a spiritual level. R.E.M.’s lead singer, Michael Stipe, laid down harmony vocals, giving “Bad Karma” the good fortune of having that band’s entire lineup present, giving Warren’s “mild reincarnation spoof” the appropriate balance and palatable pop leanings. The same could be said of “Even a Dog Can Shake Hands,” the biting pseudo- sequel to “Detox Mansion,” in which our antihero narrator is apparently back home in Los Angeles, trying to get by in a house on Mulholland while every possible person already has their hands out for a financial piece of his comeback; as stated, even his beloved canine seemed to have his own agenda these days. He later described the song as his version of the Byrds’ 1967 satirical pop hit “So You Wanna Be a Rock ’n’ Roll Star.” Of his Beatles-influenced incorporation of the Indian sitar, Warren later offered, “It seemed like an agreeable gag.”
Although unintentional, as a companion piece to “Detox Mansion,” Warren had come full circle with a short, semi-autobiographical narrative, updating all the themes and humor of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s later Pat Hobby stories, swapping an aging screenwriter’s various misadventures through a haze of functional alcoholism for the similar challenges facing a 1980s rock star cashing in on his much-hyped sobriety. “Those looking for Zevon to release a highly personal, confessional saga of his struggles after five years’ absence may be disappointed by the lack of overt autobiography in Sentimental Hygiene,” wrote The Los Angeles Times, overlooking Warren’s veiled roman à clef within the rock and roll. And nearly a decade after radios across the world had blared the soon familiar sound of Warren’s primal howl, he now made sure to bark appropriately for the hard anthem’s fade-out.
As close to home as the humorous rock track’s subject material seems, it had actually been an equal-parts collaboration between Warren and the three R.E.M. members who’d made up his core band. While Warren may have had years of playing the Hollywood celebrity game under his belt, Berry, Buck, and Mills’s stars would only rise over the next decade; their additions to this critical assessment of the music industry was only a harbinger as they slowly became one of the quintessential bands of the next decade.
“Reconsider Me” had become the unofficial theme song of Sentimental Hygiene’s release, even more so than the title track or the immediately popular “Detox Mansion.” With “Reconsider Me,” Warren had crossed over into the most popular of radio-friendly 1980s genres, the power ballad. But even within the confines of his new, self-described “heavy me
tal folk” status, he composed a genuine ballad to help round out the album. Upon their earliest meetings, Virgin executive Jeff Ayeroff had made it a point to emphasize Warren’s potential romantic appeal in the album’s marketing. Notoriously self-conscious about his vocal work, Warren leapt at the chance to record a proper ballad. With “The Heartache,” he returned to terrain similar to “Hasten Down the Wind” and enlisted some old friends: bassist Leland Sklar, Waddy Wachtel on guitars, and Jennifer Warnes for harmony vocals. As far as his instructions to the members of R.E.M. on the delicacy needed to address the gentle tune, he advised them, “You gotta pick this thing like pussy,” mimicking his own father’s similar advice.
With the reunion feel of its guest appearances and an arrangement reminiscent of Warren’s 1970s work, had Sentimental Hygiene been made during his Elektra/Asylum tenure, “The Heartache” could have potentially served as a traditional Zevon closer. Marking a distinct departure from that era, Warren’s Virgin debut concluded with his first foray into overtly commercial dance trends with “Leave My Monkey Alone”—an electronically fused, funk hybrid. Featuring prominent cameo appearances by Parliament funkmaster George Clinton and flamboyant Red Hot Chili Peppers bass virtuoso Flea, the song ushered in Warren’s first use of computer programming via drum machines and sound effects—in this case, the calls of chimpanzees.
When the song was selected as the sixth and final single off the album, Warren was given the full 1980s treatment: a ten-minute dance remix was added, in the hopes of it working its way into the Los Angeles club circuit. The colorful music video, featuring Warren dancing alongside George Clinton bizarrely juxtaposed against public domain footage of political violence in Africa, was choreographed by singer and dancer Paula Abdul, only one year away from her own string of mainstream hits. But, as was always the case with Warren, even in the most commercial of circumstances, his subject matter was unorthodox, to say the least. The Los Angeles Times accurately described it as “a dance number that touches on the violent conflict between the colonialists and Mau Mau in 1950s Africa”; the song also gave Warren homework for the first time since “Veracruz.” As he later recalled, “It took some research to find the Swahili part of that song.… And as far back as ‘Frank and Jesse James,’ I’ve tried to make sure that the facts [that] are presented as facts in a song are historically accurate. Which takes some of the burden of being poetic off me, too, when I’m getting things out of history books.”
Niko Bolas remembered of the sessions, “Warren knew what he was doing, always. His professionalism was always the same during that album—it wouldn’t matter if we were doing demos, or if it was a real record, or live at the Grammys—he only knew one way, which was all the way. To me, that was what made him a genius.”
Critics and longtime fans were quick to note the apparent shifts in Warren’s persona and songwriting. Unlike the unrepentant alcoholic who had once asked his wife to have press releases issued to alert the world of his rehab stints, during the promotional tour for Sentimental Hygiene, Warren deliberately steered all interviews away from the subject of his checkered past. “Although he wrote and sings about addiction and rehabilitation, Zevon will not discuss his own battles,” the Sun-Sentinel’s Chauncey Mabe wrote, “at least not with reporters.”
“I don’t have much to say about alcoholism,” Warren had responded. “‘Detox Mansion’ is about people who go through it and become oracles just because of their celebrity. It’s clear that I don’t drink or do drugs, and I will talk about it to people individually. But it’s much too serious a topic for me to be quoted on.”
Warren had uttered similar sentiments to the Philadelphia Inquirer, apparently regretful for the extreme candor with which he had once revealed himself to Paul Nelson. “[Now] I don’t even use mouthwash,” he told John Milward, “but I’ve also decided that talking about it publicly is no longer helpful to me. Whatever my intentions were back then—to save the world, I suppose—no longer apply. Certainly my sobriety is important to me, but it’s a personal matter now.”
Many critics wouldn’t let him off the hook so easily, however. “Wait a minute,” wrote The Los Angeles Times’ Chris Willman. “Wasn’t it Zevon who was publicly detailing his battles with alcoholism years ago? And didn’t he have a few problems before he finally climbed on the wagon not all that long ago? Where does he get off giving those who are ‘raking leaves with Liza’ and ‘cleanin’ up the yard with Liz’ a hard time?”
To that, Warren had retorted, “Well, I figured I was giving myself a hard time first and foremost.”
But those critics had also noted that in a relatively short amount of time, Warren’s well-known, long-term classical ambitions had seemed to shift, as well. Earlier in the day of Bob Dylan’s harmonica session for “The Factory,” Warren had proudly played some of an in-progress symphonic work entitled “Prelude” for Virgin executive Jeff Ayeroff.
Ayeroff had responded, “Don’t give up your day job.”
Five months later, the Philadelphia Inquirer said of Warren, “He no longer pretends that a symphonic work is just around the corner.” When Steve Tarson of the Sun-Sentinel inquired about his “long-awaited symphony,” Warren had offered, “When there’s time, I’ll try to write something a little more realistic.”
The Sentimental Hygiene tour kicked off the first week of September 1987, less than a month after the album’s release. Virgin had opted to release all six of Warren’s individual singles in the weeks building to Sentimental Hygiene’s August 29 street date. By the time he made his triumphant return to Late Night with David Letterman in mid-July, the studio audience was already familiar with his night’s performance piece, “Boom Boom Mancini.” Once seated across Letterman’s desk, the two had no problems getting their warm camaraderie going again. Following a glowing review of Sentimental Hygiene, Letterman was quick to ask what Warren had been up to for five years. “Touring salad bars,” Warren had quipped to the host’s amusement. “I’d be putting my amp next to the Thousand Island, going, ‘Don’t get any croutons in the electric piano!’ But,” he added, “I was going to tell you I was breeding pit bulls.”
Letterman had been particularly surprised by Warren’s turn at lead guitar during the “Boom Boom Mancini” performance, prompting Warren to proudly relay how he’d gotten $200 out of Andrew Slater for the album recording’s final piano solo. In his recollection, however, Warren added that Slater had first tried to write him a check—which just wouldn’t do. “I need cash, man,” he recalled telling the young producer.
“Didn’t you feel guilty?” Letterman asked, grinning.
“For about five seconds,” Warren said, smirking.
Having the members of R.E.M. had its pluses and its minuses. While the album had benefited greatly from the youthful and stellar playing of Bill Berry, Peter Buck, and Mike Mills, their own superstardom kept the band’s dance card pretty full. For the Late Night appearance, Warren performed his latest single with Letterman’s esteemed house band. But a full-scale world tour was imminent, leaving him and Slater the crucial task of recruiting a tight, steady road band. They were able to get star founding members of Little Feat, Kenny Gradney on bass and Richie Hayward on drums, joined by seasoned lead guitarist Greg Beck and multi-instrumentalist Karen Childs, now primarily handling keyboards, to allow for Warren’s starring lead guitar turns.
“Mr. Zevon has suffered from alcoholism, but at the Beacon he was in full control and strong in voice,” reported The New York Times’ Jon Pareles. “While he slighted his best album, The Envoy, his set mixed a few good new songs with tough-minded old ones… The set showed the geopolitical savvy of Mr. Zevon’s older songs, and he updated lyrics on the spot, landing ‘Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner’ in TriBeCa and singing about Judge Robert H. Bork in ‘Mohammed’s Radio.’ The concert wasn’t a comeback, but a return from hibernation, lean and mean.”
Critics took note that Warren still seemed to enjoy performing his older, better-known material, both t
o take full advantage of once again having a large, quality band, and also for the energetic recognition that the songs received from tried-and-true fans in attendance. “Zevon worked the crowd at the Front Row Theatre in Highland Heights like a carnival barker, dusting off his unique, terror-laden pop repertoire,” wrote Carlo Wolff of The Akron Beacon Journal. “His trademark baritone sounded fine, and he played vigorous piano and guitar… Though his band performed little from his new Sentimental Hygiene album, it stormed through material from his best record, Excitable Boy. Surprisingly, he also delivered a hard, funny version of Prince’s ‘Raspberry Beret.’”
Critics also took note of the political edge present in his stage banter. “These are terrible times,” Warren had said to his New York audience at the Beacon Theater, “and I shouldn’t be joking about them.” That didn’t prevent him from suggesting that the NFL players then striking be sent “to third-world countries where we don’t belong,” as his biting cue for the band to launch into “Jungle Work.” Only a few weeks later at the Landmark Theater in Syracuse, he returned to the theme. “People sometimes ask me why I write disturbing songs like that,” he quipped to the amused audience. “I tell them I never found rock and roll particularly disturbing… Reading the newspaper? Now that disturbs me. Acts of war in the Persian Gulf? I find that kinda disturbing. All those earthquakes back home, those are disturbing… But then again, there’s the most terrifying of all—the NFL strike.”
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