You can’t please all people all of the time; some never seem to learn that. We’ve all known someone who is on a constant mission to get approval from not just family and friends but everyone under the sun. It’s tough to tell whether Bobby Conn is attempting to please everyone or infuriate everyone. Most likely, he’s just trying to please himself. Unfortunately, that’s not good enough for me. I want results, dammit! King for a Day will definitely ‘love you long time’ with its bloated tracklisting, but you’ll soon realize that the attention-getting devices are working in reverse. Sure, they’ll cause you to crook your neck and gaze curiously, but once it all comes into focus, you’re likely to move on to better things.
One aspect of King for a Day that must be praised, however, is the lyrics. They’re absolutely, positively a cut above the rest. They take on the trials of a 21-year-old runaway (“I’m looking for an older man/ because the boys my age don’t understand), a rock 'n' roll frontman (hmmmm), an egotistical fella (double-hmmmm), and several other protagonists, real or imagined. There’s even a part where someone feeds a cracker fragment to a duck and feels overly self-satisfied because he/she has “helped him to survive.” It doesn’t get much better than this story-telling-wise, so a tip of the cap to you, Mr. Conn. Whether the music matches the thrust of the writing largely depends on the song in question. I found myself completely won over by some of the arrangements, thoroughly alienated by others. Most damning is the fact that the best lyrics seem to accompany the worst-written compositions. THE WORLD’S GONE ALL TOPSY-TO-THE-TURVY!
The best I can do as a reviewer is hip you to the straight-up truth: If you like the idea of half of your record collection — well, that is if you have a relatively limited record collection — getting consolidated down to one disc, King for a Day will sit atop your throne (a.k.a. your CD player) for weeks, maybe months. We’re talkin’ prog, psych, garage, soul, doobie-doo-wop, cornball ’80s schmaltz, funk, experimental, some cornet-led jazz, and even hip-hopping... rock ’n’ roll in the most impure sense possible. But that’s not all; you MUST be down for all forms of cheekiness. You must be down with confessional lyrics. You must be down with, when it comes right down to the peas and carrots of the matter, Bobby Conn.
Because I’m not the sort of reviewer who can ignore other shortcomings if the lyrics are grand, I’m only sorta down with Bobby Conn. Sorry.
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