Randy Newman

Randy Newman 1968 ★★★½

Love Story (You and Me) • Bet No One Ever Hurt This Bad • Living Without You • So Long Dad • I Think He's Hiding • Linda • Laughing Boy • Cowboy • The Beehive State • I Think It's Going to Rain Today • Davy the Fat Boy

Long before Randy Newman became the patron saint of emotionally complicated toys, he made this strange, bleakly orchestrated debut. In 1968, everyone seemed to be getting psychedelic or stripping folk music down to the bone. Newman takes a different door. He brought out an orchestra—albeit a relatively minimal one. Sad sacks, the lot of them. Mournful strings. Sighing brass. Even a mandolin, because nothing smells like melancholy more than a mandolin. This album sounds like Newman wrote the soundtrack to a sad little movie that only he can see. Even the songs that sound rather upbeat are carrying bleak news. “Bet No One Hurt This Bad” has a sad title but a brighter flavor to the instrumentation—enough that I thought the lyrics were supposed to be ironic. But they’re not. The song is about a man staring at the rain through the window, wishing that his “baby” would call or write. Still, that song and most of the others stick with me: the plainness of Newman’s voice, the strange melodies and harmonies, the sense that he notices things about humanity that most other lyricists walk right past. “Love Story” opens the album with this innocent sweetness before the orchestra rushes in like feelings arriving all at once. “So Long Dad” turns sentimental without becoming syrup. “Linda” is so cinematic that it practically demands a bittersweet romantic comedy to be built around it. Even the darker songs keep bumping into Newman’s sense of humor. The album sags now and then, for sure, and it’s not all that fun to sit through. But there’s too much unmistakable Randy Newman-ness to ignore. So break out the Kleenex, arrange that melancholy face of yours, and prepare to grin tiredly through all your misery.

12 Songs 1970 ★★★½

Have You Seen My Baby? • Let's Burn Down the Cornfield • Mama Told Me Not To Come • Suzanne • Lucinda • Underneath the Harlem Moon • Yellow Man • Old Kentucky Home • Rosemary • If You Need Oil • Uncle Bob's Midnight Blues

Randy Newman cannot tell a lie. After an in-depth investigation, I can confirm that this album indeed contains twelve songs. The gloomy, minimalist orchestration that defined his debut album has packed up and gone off to depress something else. A standard pop-rock combo shuffles in, and Newman starts rummaging through an American songbook he found in a thrift store. Barroom R&B, old show-tune bones, country-western, a few blues numbers that sound like they were left out to rust a bit. “Have You Seen My Baby?” opens the set with a loose New Orleans bounce. It’s upbeat, but it wanders into the saloon like it already knows who in there is going to disappoint him. “Old Kentucky Home” slides into country-western territory, bringing along some acerbic humor with it. “Shootin’ at the birds on the telephone line.” “Yellow Man” has the usual Newman contradiction—a light, catchy tune, and also a piece of satire dangerous enough to punish anyone listening casually. “Mama Told Me Not to Come” is probably the one song here most people know—maybe due to the Three Dog Night cover. A party anthem about looking around the room and regretting every party invitation he’s ever gotten. “Suzanne” gets quieter and heavier—Newman hunched over the piano, sounding—at just twenty-six—worn out by humanity. Overall, a sturdy Newman record. Funny in that dry, slightly sour way of his. Plenty of solid melodies overflowing with his crooked views of humanity.

Randy Newman Live 1971 ★★½

Mama Told Me Not to Come • Tickle Me • I'll Be Home • So Long Dad • Living Without You • Last Night I Had a Dream • I Think It's Going to Rain Today • Lover's Prayer • Maybe I'm Doing It Wrong • Yellow Man • Old Kentucky Home • Cowboy • Davy the Fat Boy • Lonely at the Top

Randy Newman’s first official live album began as a radio promo that was recorded in front of an audience so small that you can hear the individual claps. Newman jokes around, takes requests, sits there with only his piano. Which works fine for him. Many of his songs were already halfway there—even with the debut having its gloomy little orchestrations and 12 Songs had some band grease on it. Here, the orchestration gets stripped out, and the songs are left standing there in their undershirts. “Living Without You” and “I Think It’s Going to Rain Today” were already slow movers for me. Here they feel even thinner. Newman can write melodies, but not always the kind that enjoy being left alone in a room. But the album is still good company. The highlight is “Yellow Man.” Still a sharp song without the horns and drums. He introduces it carefully enough to make sure nobody calls the station in a rage. That kind of thing is the value of the record. Hearing these songs reduced to their small-room versions, with Newman’s dry little explanations attached.

Sail Away 1972 ★★★★½

Sail Away • Lonely at the Top • He Gives Us All His Love • Last Night I Had a Dream • Simon Smith and the Amazing Dancing Bear • Old Man • Political Science • Burn On • Memo to My Son • Dayton, Ohio – 1903 • You Can Leave Your Hat On • God's Song (That's Why I Love Mankind)

The first two Randy Newman albums had plenty of wonderful moments, but Sail Away is where he stops collecting moments and starts stacking masterpieces. The melodies get stronger. The lyrics get sharper. The singing—already sincere before—goes completely disarming now. Nothing drags. Not a dud in sight. Like 12 Songs, he’s poking around American music—ragtime, folk, old pop, gospel touches, little bits of Americana, everything delivered with Newman’s usual slouching and observing manner. And the lyrics. You just don’t listen to Randy Newman the way you listen to most singer-songwriters because of all the little knives he keeps sneaking into his songs. One minute he’s wistful, the next he’s being sarcastic, then suddenly God has entered the conversation. The title track opens the album beautifully with soft piano, graceful strings, and a salesman’s pitch for America delivered with so much charm that you almost miss the joke. “Lonely at the Top” crunches in afterward with ragtime swagger. “Dayton, Ohio – 1903” feels like Newman tipping his hat to old America while quietly checking whether it still fits. “Old Man” may be the emotional center of the album—a lonely portrait of aging that hits with frightening precision. Then he pivots and gives us “Memo to My Son,” a song so affectionate that it almost makes you want children just to hand them the song later. “Political Science” remains probably the funniest songs ever written about international relations. His solution to America’s problems with the rest of the world not liking them is to bomb everyone. Except for Australia where he would build an America-themed amusement park. The best thing about Sail Away is that it keeps improving. He doesn’t always hand you a melody that sinks in after the first listen. While they settle into you, you also notice new things about the lyrics with little pieces of irony or profundities that you actually want to revisit.

Good Old Boys 1974 ★★★★½

Rednecks • Birmingham • Marie • Mr. President (Have Pity on the Working Man) • Guilty • Louisiana 1927 • Every Man a King • Kingfish • Naked Man • A Wedding in Cherokee County • Back on My Feet Again • Rollin'

I’ve been arguing in my head for years whether Good Old Boys or Sail Away is Randy Newman’s masterpiece. On one hand, Sail Away cuts a little deeper emotionally. On the other, Good Old Boys has catchier melodies, more provocative songs, bigger arrangements… in other words, more brass in its knuckles. Of course, the sensible solution is to stop arguing and just love them both equally. Because, unlike stepchildren, you’re allowed to do that with albums. He opens the album with easily the most provocative song here, “Rednecks.” On first listen, “Rednecks” seems to be taking a bat to the South, with its narrator proudly talking about “keeping the n***** down.” But Newman widens the target. The song isn’t really about Southerners. It’s about Northern liberals who feel superior, even though Black people are still segregated into rundown neighborhoods. It strolls right through the poison with piano out front, bass thumping underneath, woodwinds dropping in, and little country touches everywhere. “Birmingham” has affection in it, but not the clean kind. More like someone smiling at a place that roughed him up. “Marie,” still my pick for the best song here, sounds like a love song sung from the bottom of a bottle, sentimental strings and all, and the melody gets me every time. “Guilty” turns toward addiction and damaged love, dolled up in weary Americana colors. Then there’s the historical-political side: “Mr. President (Have Pity on the Working Man),” “Kingfish,” and “Every Man a King,” the latter two tied to controversial populist Huey Long. Newman doesn’t turn any of this into a history lesson. He pokes at the myth and lets the strings and brass swell grandly as they might. Newman is truly a great American songwriter, here at his peak. He gets America better than almost anybody else out there because he knows the place is funny, cruel, sentimental, and self-deluding. My personal musical taste seems to spend an awful lot of time in England, but Newman is a force who keeps pulling me back home. And I appreciate him for that.

Little Criminals 1977 ★★★½

Short People • You Can't Fool the Fat Man • Little Criminals • Texas Girl at the Funeral of Her Father • Jolly Coppers on Parade • In Germany Before the War • Sigmund Freud's Impersonation of Albert Einstein in America • Baltimore • I'll Be Home • Rider in the Rain • Kathleen (Catholicism Made Easier) • Old Man on the Farm

“Short People” cracked the Top 40. A bouncy piano tune where Newman holds bigotry up to a funhouse mirror until it looks as ridiculous as it is. Some listeners took it literally—which only makes the whole thing funnier. There he was on the radio, out of nowhere, chirping away about how awful short people are. The rest of Little Criminals is good, vintage Randy Newman material, and this is another excellent album. But it’s thinner than Sail Away or Good Old Boys. The melodies don’t bite as hard. The emotional pull isn’t as strong. “Baltimore” starts gently, Newman at the piano, singing softly while the city seems to be falling apart outside the window. Nice song. Bleak little postcard. “You Can’t Fool the Fat Man” has a nice bounce at first, then keeps stepping back onto the same short melodic phrase until the song starts running in place. The title track tries on a heavier rock arrangement. Louder guitars, sourer mood, not necessarily better Newman. Still, there are pleasures. “Jolly Coppers on Parade” has atmosphere and tongue-in-cheek lyrics about the glorious police. “Sigmund Freud’s Impersonation of Albert Einstein in America” is strangely beautiful, opening with slow German cabaret and slipping in prickly, crooked humor about Nazi scientists jumping into Switzerland and traveling to the Land of the Free. Even minor Newman gives you corners to poke around in. The quality of the songs can feel a little scattershot, especially compared to his earlier albums. A step down, absolutely. But it still has plenty of pathos and grins, plus his immortal classic “Short People.”

Born Again 1979 ★★★

It's Money That I Love • The Story of a Rock and Roll Band • Pretty Boy • Mr. Sheep • Ghosts • They Just Got Married • Spies • The Girls in My Life (Part 1) • Half a Man • William Brown • Pants

Randy Newman albums usually come with simple piano—maybe guitar or drums if the occasion calls for it. Then, of course, lyrics rife with sharp social satire, weathered humanity, and at least one narrator you wouldn’t trust to water your plants while you’re away from the office. Born Again is the black sheep of the catalog, complete with Newman looking a little despondent on the cover in kabuki makeup. I guess he only just found out Kiss didn’t need a piano player. This is still Randy Newman, of course. Same voice, same dry wit, same fascination with crummy little human motives. But Born Again is more pop-oriented than usual. It’s brighter in places, stranger in others, with some songs supplied by synths, rock-band gestures, and arrangements that take him away from his piano-room comfort zone. Still, it opens with an all-time Newman classic, “It’s Money That I Love.” An earworm of a melody with classic sardonic lyrics about a man who loves money simply because it buys him things. Drugs, for instance. “The Story of a Rock and Roll Band” is an ELO pastiche—not high on my list of things I would expect from him, but I’ll take it. Every little addition—the off-kilter strings, the puffed-up operatic flourish—pushes it further into parody without ever losing affection. “Mr. Sheep” tears into herd mentality with snarling vocals and an instrumental palette that feels mildly deranged. “Ghosts” is sparse—maybe too sparse—but it’s a devastating little thing about an old man staring down his regrets. “Spies” wanders into electronic territory, while “Pants” is Newman announcing his intention to remove his trousers—and damn anyone who objects. I get why this album got side-eyed by many critics and audiences. It takes some uncharacteristic detours, a few of which feel tossed off. But the melodies still keep turning up. Black sheep, absolutely, but a sheep worth keeping around.

Trouble in Paradise 1983 ★★★

I Love L.A. • Christmas in Cape Town • The Blues • Same Girl • Mikey's • My Life Is Good • Miami • Real Emotional Girl • Take Me Back • There's a Party At My House • I'm Different • Song for the Dead

Randy Newman had already dipped a toe into film scoring by this point. His score for Ragtime was behind him, and Hollywood was beginning to notice he might be a valuable resource. But he wasn’t finished with pop records yet. He’d never be finished with pop records, thank goodness. Four years after Born Again, Newman comes back with Trouble in Paradise. Same eccentric streak, only a little easier to approach. Not quite as inventive. Far removed from his peak ’70s albums, but unmistakably part of Newman’s discography. “I Love L.A.” is the obvious headliner. A sunny civic anthem catchy as anything about a city he simultaneously celebrates and gives side-eye to. Somehow the sincerity still shines through. It managed to find its way onto the pop charts—even with lyrics like “Rollin’ down the Imperial Highway / With a big nasty redhead at my side.” The album is also willing to go nakedly contemporary in places. “The Blues” falls into soft-pop territory, while “Take Me Back” flirts with ska. “Mikey’s” takes an unexpected stab at synth-pop and it sounds like something out of a vintage Nintendo soundtrack. Not entirely successful, maybe, but an interesting thing to hear in a Randy Newman album. The big highlight for me is “My Life Is Good.” It starts politely enough but then slips into something jazzier and seedier. Then this huge chorus comes barreling in. It’s beautiful and oversized—almost too much for the song to contain. Then Newman goes into full play-acting mode: Bruce Springsteen shows up, tired of being the Boss, apparently, and hands the job to Newman for a while. The quieter piano songs don’t hit me as hard. “Same Girl” and “Real Emotional Girl” are pretty but a little sleepy compared to Newman at his best. Those are places where I miss the bouncing piano and the sly grin. Still, even as one of the weaker entries in Newman’s discography—belonging in the same oddball neighborhood as Born Again—this sounds like Newman entertaining himself in the studio. And I’m happy to listen in.

Land of Dreams 1988 ★★★★

Dixie Flyer • New Orleans Wins the War • Four Eyes • Falling in Love • Something Special • Bad News from Home • Roll with the Punches • Masterman and Baby J • Red Bandana • Follow the Flag • It's Money That Matters • I Want You to Hurt Like I Do

Land of Dreams opens with family memory and Southern scenery. “Dixie Flyer” begins with a sweet piano melody and autobiographical detail that looks back on (presumably his own) childhood without polishing it into nostalgia. “New Orleans Wins the War” keeps that thread going with warmth and jazz coloring. Spiky lyrics circle the racism that was embedded in the old South. With those two songs, Land of Dreams seems headed for reflective Newman territory: piano, memory, Southern ghosts, an old knife wrapped in velvet. But any idea that this will be a subdued autobiographical record disappears pretty fast. “Four Eyes” blows the doors open with massive drums, huge synth chords, and lyrics about childhood embarrassment, abandonment, and ending closer to the fear of getting old. Then comes the strangest detour: Randy Newman raps. That’s right. Our man is fearless. He briefly takes on the identity of “Masterman” in “Masterman and Baby J.” It’s somehow not disastrous. In fact, it’s delightful. The lyrics are acerbic little things about growing up in a rough neighborhood. “Falling in Love” enters laid-back Caribbean territory à la Jimmy Buffett and is another one of the album’s surprising highlights. “Follow the Flag” has that classic Newman ambiguity, where patriotism and satire sit at the same dining room table and pretend not to notice each other. The masterpiece is the closer, “I Want You to Hurt Like I Do.” The soft organ and very late-’80s drums made me nervous at first. Then the melody arrives. Then the lyrics. It’s devastating—about a man who hurts everyone around him and understands himself well enough to know exactly what he’s doing. All in all, one of Newman’s better later records. Funny, warm, nostalgic, occasionally strange—and home to one of the best songs he ever wrote.

Faust 1995 ★★½

Glory Train • Can't Keep a Good Man Down • How Great Our Lord • Best Little Girl • Northern Boy • Bless the Children of the World • Gainesville • Relax, Enjoy Yourself • Life Has Been Good to Me • Little Island • The Man • My Hero • I Gotta Be Your Man • Feels Like Home • Bleeding All Over the Place • Sandman's Coming • Happy Ending

Randy Newman wrote a musical, and I wish I liked it more. That’s not a fun sentence to type. I love musicals, and I love Newman too. It seems wrong for me to look at this soundtrack holding a wet blanket. But here I am. While there are some very nice moments here, Faust never quite convinces me it belongs onstage, on record, or anywhere besides Newman’s desk. The cast is pretty much what any Boomer would come up with when they close their eyes and say “Take me to my Happy Place.” James Taylor as God, Don Henley as Faust, Linda Ronstadt as the innocent, Bonnie Raitt as the bad influence, Elton John as an angel, and Newman as the Devil. Newman playing the Devil is the part that needs no explanation. He’s always had a devilish tinge in his voice. Henley is the biggest surprise; he sounds tortured enough to sell the part. Taylor, unfortunately, makes God sound like he’s just hanging around patiently waiting for his bridge partner to show up. The best numbers are the ones where Newman stops trying to be a Broadway composer and simply turns back into Randy Newman. The opening song “Glory Train” starts as pretty polite gospel-pop but improves the moment his Devil takes over. “Can’t Keep a Good Man Down,” “Best Little Girl,” and “Life Has Been Good to Me” have some of the bite and bounce you want. For sure, they’re clever and tuneful. A little bit nasty too. The arias are another matter. Ronstadt sings them beautifully, because of course she does, but too many of them sit around. “My Hero” is the best of them, dreamy and sweeping in a way that actually works. Elsewhere, Newman reaches for Broadway grandeur and comes back with something dry and dutiful. Elton John’s “Little Island” sounds like something Elton might have written during one of his duller afternoons. Still, Faust isn’t a complete chore. It has plenty of good moments. It certainly earns its place in a Newman collection. There’s funny stuff here. Sincere stuff too. But overall too stiff and stately. And by the end, all I could think about was I really just wanted Newman alone at the piano, singing this whole doomed thing by himself.

Bad Love 1999 ★★★★

My Country • Shame • I'm Dead (But I Don't Know It) • Every Time It Rains • The Great Nations of Europe • The One You Love • The World Isn't Fair • Big Hat, No Cattle • Better Off Dead • I Miss You • Going Home • I Want Everyone to Like Me

Eleven years between Randy Newman albums. Long enough for him to become one of Hollywood’s most recognized composers and also long enough for his face to finally catch up with that old man that his voice, I assume, has been impersonating since approximately birth. But for all the years that had passed, Bad Love doesn’t sound radically different from the records in the ’70s that made Newman famous. Same sharp writing. Same funny songs standing next to songs that are quietly devastating. The difference is presentation. The orchestrations are a little cleaner and more timeless—not so much stylistic wandering as in the old days, apart from the occasional mutant like the grunge-adjacent “I’m Dead (But I Don’t Know It).” But the personality remains entirely intact. “My Country” starts the album with Newman looking backward. At first it sounds almost casual, but the arrangement keeps getting bigger, and the song turns into something knottier than nostalgia. Six minutes long and it’s easy to see that he had spent the last decade composing movie soundtracks. “Every Time It Rains” might be even better—one of the loveliest melodies he ever wrote, sung with enough acidity to cut through all that handsome orchestration. “I Miss You” is another heartbreaker. Something you wouldn’t want to listen to if you were hoping to remain emotionally organized. Of course, Newman still can’t resist being Newman. “Shame” brings in female backing singers, then has the narrator get increasingly annoyed until he starts yelling at them to shut up. “Big Hat No Cattle” takes a swing at Texas. “The Great Nations of Europe” sounds amused and horrified—done in a patriotic style, intended to take a swipe at the old European mentality of invading countries and asking questions later. What impresses me most about this album is how naturally it holds together and how naturally it fits in with his ’70s records. The funny songs are funny. The serious songs hurt. And there’s Randy Newman still sitting at the piano, looking at civilization like it just tracked mud on the floor.