By Eleni P. Austin
2024 has been a busy year for Steve Wynn. He has written a memoir, I Wouldn’t Say It If It Wasn’t True, and has recorded his 10th solo album, Make It Right. He is probably best known as the sonic architect of Dream Syndicate, but he is also a critically acclaimed solo artist. The Los Angeles native began playing music at an early age and was writing his first songs before puberty hit. He paid his musical dues when he attended college at U.C. Davis, working at the local record store, DJ’ing his own show for the campus radio station and finally forming his first serious band, The Suspects.
Returning to L.A. for post-graduate work, with his bandmate and pal, Kendra Smith, the pair decided to form a new band. They recruited guitarist Karl Precoda and drummer Dennis Duck becoming The Dream Syndicate (after settling on the moniker they discovered that it was originally the name of an early ‘60s Avant Garde collective that included Velvet Underground founder, John Cale). It seemed rather serendipitous since the band counted VU, along with Garage Rock, CCR and Neil Young as seminal obsessions.
In 1981, the smoggy metropolis of sunny Los Angeles was in the midst of a musical rebirth. Cocaine Cowboys like the Eagles and sensitive singer-songwriters like Jackson Browne had ditched the rusticity of Laurel Canyon and retreated behind Malibu mansion gates to further deviate their septums and quietly weep in their 1,000 thread count Egyptian sheets. Even though Punk had been birthed in the bowels of New York, it exploded in England and flourished in the smoggy sprawl of L.A. Bands like X, The Blasters, Los Lobos and The Gun Club co-opted the D.I.Y. ethos of Punk but began expanding their musical horizons, incorporating elements of Country, Jazz, Rockabilly, Rhythm & Blues and traditional Mexican flavors.
The Dream Syndicate, along with The Three O’ Clock, The Bangles, Rain Parade (and adjacently, Green On Red and The Long Ryders) salted traces of ‘60s Psychedelia, British Invasion and Garage Rock in the mix. Michael Quercio, leader of The Three O’ Clock, famously dubbed their collective sound The Paisley Underground,
Following a self-released EP, The Dream Syndicate signed with Slash Records. The indie Punk label had already made waves with releases from bands like X, The Germs and The Blasters. Their debut, The Days Of Wine And Roses was produced by Chris D., something of a polymath, Chris Desjardins was a writer and a musician, fronting his own band, The Flesh Eaters, in addition to his A&R duties at Slash.
The record was a sharp synthesis of squally guitars, concise melodies, expansive arrangements and gritty, but erudite lyrics. The band wasn’t afraid to draft off deadpan heroes like Television, Lou Reed and Crazy Horse. In turn, the four-piece wound up inspiring the next wave of influential bands like The Pixies, American Music Club and Nirvana.
After a quixotic seven-year run that included line-up changes, three more studio albums, and a couple of live efforts, The Dream Syndicate called it quits. At the dawn of the ‘90s, Steve embarked on a wildly eclectic career that has included 12 solo albums, as well as myriad collaborations with The Miracle 3, Gutterball, Smack Dab, Sky Saxon, The Baseball Project and Australian Blonde. In the 21st century, The Dream Syndicate would periodically reconvene, by 2017, they had played 50 reunion shows. That same year they returned to the studio to record a fourth long-player, How Did I Find Myself Here? Two years later, they followed up with These Times, a year later, The Universe Inside arrived. This year saw the release of a double LP set, Live Through The Past Darkly, a companion of sorts to the band documentary, How Did We Find Ourselves Here. Now Steve has recorded his 10th solo effort, Make It Right.
The record kicks into gear with “Santa Monica.” Although the album isn’t a companion piece to the memoir, some songs definitely intersect. A knockabout backbeat is quickly supplanted lean rhythm guitar, breezy lead riffs and a buoyant bass line. The opening verses seem to allude to his new literary endeavor and flash back to the heady Dream Syndicate days: “Did you hear the one about the prodigal son? Found himself alone far from everyone, carefully serving up a tattered pedigree, as if to say there was a time when that was me/First flush of mutual attraction, when you’re young that spark quickly turns to action, came together like a pact that was meant to last, so long ago, flickering in the past.” Swoony backing vocals are courtesy Bangles guitarist, Vicki Peterson and her husband, the legendary John Cowsill. On the final verse he tempers regret with a sharp dose of self-awareness: “I wish there was a way to unsay some things I unsaid, use some of the wisdom that I’ve gained since then instead, you learn to mourn the past until you wish it all away, probably go and fuck it up some other way.”
Steve has always felt comfortable coloring outside the lines, it’s no mistake that no two Dream Syndicate records sound alike. That spirit of adventure extends to his solo work. At least three tracks mine a decidedly Country Rock vein. “You’re Halfway There is anchored by weepy pedal steel, willowy guitars, fluttery keys, wily bass and a chunky beat. Tart lyrics offer a pithy take on reaching the other side of middle age: “I heard somebody say that half the fun is getting there, I wish that guy would get behind the wheel so I could stick my head out and get some air.” On the break, keening pedal steel sidles through the mix, echoing the lyrical ambivalence.
On “Simpler Than Rain,” plaintive pedal steel and lithe electric piano notes wash over shimmering guitars, vroom-y bass and a sly shuffle rhythm. Contrite lyrics attempt to reignite an old romance by offering up a wry mea culpa: “All I want to do, is start one more day with you, steal away the days, take away the pain/Same way I explained, same way I couldn’t remain, all the things I couldn’t change, they were simpler than the rain.” The song’s (surprisingly) laid-back ‘70s vibe is magnified on the break, as an electric piano solo, shaded by shivery pedal steel, unspools with the density of a thick shag carpet.
Meanwhile, on the title track, ragged-but-right acoustic guitar partners with high lonesome pedal steel, painterly keys, fluid bass and a splattery snare drum kick. The arrangement evokes that elusive “wild thin mercury” sound that Bob Dylan famously chased on his Blonde On Blonde album, and Rickie Lee Jones effortlessly captured on her song “Last Chance Texaco.” Cryptic lyrics like “Everything I did, I did with the best intent, every straight line I walked, somehow got bent, still I try to scale the heights, I’m trying to make it right,” either hint at how he’s approached his music, or his laissez-faire tactics regarding love.
The best tracks here feel grounded in Steve’s omnivorous love of music. “Making Good On My Promises” pairs Steve with his Australian Blonde compadres and they add a jolt of Garage Rock energy. Spiky guitars collide with spooky keys, prowling bass lines and a stompy beat. Steve’s vocals straddle the line between strangulated excess and inscrutable minimalism. Once again, self-care and a shot at redemption seem to be his raison d’ etre: “Scars, scars, I’ve got them pickled in a jar, fables and warnings, I eat them for breakfast, every morning….I’m making good on my promises.” On the break, angular guitars wiggle across dissonant keys, hitting that sweet spot between the Nuggets era and feral, Punk ferocity. (In fact, this would sandwich nicely between the Buzzcocks and The Blues Magoos on a freeform radio playlist).
Both “Cherry Avenue” and “Madly” execute a stylish 180 and each stick the landing. The former is a low-key groover that blends gossamer guitars, shivery keys, slippery pedal steel, a stealthy horn section and a percolating beat. Steve’s sandpaper vocals lean in to the clandestine mood. Cryptic lyrics recall at a furtive assignation that has managed to get under his skin: “People like us, we keep our distance, we’re the last ones you would ever suspect toying with concepts just beyond our reach, strangers when we finally connect/When defiance comes so cheap, tell me how we got in so deep, tell me, did you mean everything that you said.” Sympathetic backing vocals and a wistful piccolo trumpet solo mirrors the moments of melancholy and ennui.
On the latter, courtly, Spanish guitars wrap around upright bass notes, piquant vibes and a soigne backbeat. Steve’s quiet croon caresses a nuanced narrative that paints a sepia-toned portrait of love gone wrong: “Shall I write it in the stars, on cocktail napkins down in bars, how we run from what we are, she loved him madly, like a drink spilled in the dirt, a teardrop dampening the dirt, only one can feel the hurt, she loved him madly.”
Other interesting tracks include the shadowy grace of “Then Again” and the chilly allure of “What Were You Expecting?” The album closes with “Roosevelt Avenue.” Equal parts ambitious and shambolic, the melody is hot-wired to a staccato beat, slash-y guitars and muted keys. Steve’s slightly distorto vocals are swathed in instrumentation. The lyrics offer a sideways homage to the NYC thoroughfare that runs from Queens (his adopted hometown) and Brooklyn. There’s a shout-out to FDR, the New Deal and the WPA, on a pre-dawn walk where vice and temptation is there for the taking: “Now the gay Disco on the corner seems to know my name, the lottery and the bodega caught up in that game, the MTA is shutting down 74th again, the cops on the back street told me never come ‘round here again.” The song doesn’t really end, it just spins off into the universe with a squiggly guitar and an aggressive piano outro serving as a rollicking coda.
This is a solo album in name only. Steve enlisted a plethora of pals to chime in including a few heavy-hitters like Baseball Project teammates, Mike Mills and Scott McCaughey, Dream Syndicators Dennis Duck, Jason Victor and Mark Walton, along with Long Ryder Stephen McCarthy, Eric “Roscoe” Ambel and wife Linda Pitmon, holding down the backbeat.
While this wonderful record isn’t quite a companion piece to Steve’s memoir, it’s clear that the book subtly influenced several songs here. I can’t rave enough about this book. It’s everything you want from a Rock & Roll origin story. Steve is a born writer. A child of divorce, he takes us through his early years, which took place in swinging ‘60s Los Angeles. Creedence Clearwater Revival and The Who were early touchstones for this young music obsessive. By age nine he’d been to his first concert, started playing guitar and wrote his first song.
Subtitled A Memoir Of Life, Music And The Dream Syndicate, Steve is a wry and laconic raconteur. He fronted his first serious band, Sudden Death Overtime, in Jr. High. Contemplated a career as a sportswriter in high school and discovered Punk Rock when he attended college at UC Davis. By the time he formed The Dream Syndicate back in Los Angeles the four-piece created an immediate buzz and were touted as L.A.’s next big thing. Unanimous critical acclaim followed, matched by a passionate fan base. Things began to move at a furious clip, but the book is packed with sardonic anecdotes during those hazy, crazy (but never lazy) Paisley Underground days. By the time the book winds down with The Dream Syndicate’s amicable demise, I was fully engaged, and I didn’t want it to end. I think you’ll feel the same.
