http://spectrumculture.com/2010/05/k...1968-1972.html
Kris Kristofferson:
Please Don't Tell Me How the Story Ends: The Publishing Demos 1968-1972
May 16, 2010 7:43 AM
Kris Kristofferson
Please Don't Tell Me How the Story Ends: The Publishing Demos 1968-1972
Rating: 4.5/5.0
Label: Light in the Attic
During time spent working oil platforms, Kris Kristofferson kept himself sane with just an acoustic guitar and his voice, writing songs that would soon outstretch their humble beginnings. The man who would later become an American songwriting icon had nothing to do but think- about his future, about what freedom really was and the shifting nature of the American dream. When he gained a position working for Columbia Records as a janitor, he saw it not as a crap job with little prospects but an opportunity to get his voice noticed. This background isn't necessary to enjoy Light in the Attic's stellar collection, Please Don't Tell Me How the Story Ends, but it does make the stakes clear, allowing the demos presented here to become all the more noteworthy since they very well could have been the glorious failed demos of an unfortunately unknown talent instead of a latter day testament to how fully formed Kris Kristofferson's writing was from the beginning.
Please Don't Tell Me is an almost perversely intimate look at the writing process of one of this preeminent songwriter, collecting embryonic versions of the likes of "Me and Bobby McGee" and "If You Don't Like Hank Williams." The recordings are takes that were never meant to be commercially released, that are minimally fussed over and often reveal mistakes or are interrupted by engineer talkback or Kristofferson laughing at himself and are all the better for it.
Yet despite the sometimes lo-fi quality of the recordings, it's clear that it was always a matter of when Kristofferson would become an icon, not if, as the version of "Me and Bobby McGee" that opens this release so clearly indicates. Accompanied only by his simple acoustic guitar strums and later an organ line, Kristofferson's aching voice and lyrics are left to carry the weight almost entirely on their own. For those familiar mostly with the bombast of Janis Joplin's version, this minimalist presentation grants the song even more heft, sounding instead like the forgotten document of a dying old man looking back on his glory days.
"Smile at Me Again" is given a more fleshed-out production, Kristofferson backed here by a full band. Even with the addition of extra instrumentation, though, the performance feels loose and playful, Kristofferson sounding as though he's taking pride in how he's "still a stranger/ In this god forsaken land." Throughout Please Don't Tell Me, there's an overwhelming feeling of acceptance of the role of outsider, whether it's in Kristofferson's characters or his performances themselves. Kristofferson's career itself has always found the consummate outsider somehow succeeding in spite of himself, but on these recordings, the production and instrumentation somehow also exemplify this characteristic, as though these songs were recorded after-hours and secretly, the engineer keeping one eye on the board and one eye on the door for fear of the brass getting wise to what was going on.
"Border Lord" in particular sounds like a band of outsiders finding their voices together, led by Kristofferson's world-weary croon. The track has a swagger to it that would be at home in a Southern boogie bar, the bassline more like a jug than an electric instrument, the piano endearingly lazy, the drums charmingly sloppy. That the backing vocals sound like The Band on a bender isn't so much surprising as simply suitably strange. The rollicking "Slow Down" uses its backing vocals to similarly great effect, the folky call and response extending the image of these sessions as playing for playing's sake, Kristofferson and crew emboldened by the joy of trying out songs that have some magic to them, the chemistry apparent in every note. Kristofferson would later have the finances to let these songs match his ambition but here the lack of studio trickery or finesse brings out that indescribable quality performance often has, the notion that musicians are channeling something rather than controlling it.
It's near the end of the collection when even Kristofferson himself seems to acknowledge this magic himself. At the conclusion of the absolutely heartbreaking "Enough for You," Kristofferson is heard talking back to the engineer, proclaiming "was I just perfect?" That statement isn't a cocky declaration but a moment of the artist himself being awed by what has just been captured. The skeletal grace of the production, the delicate, flawed vocal performance that adds more depth to each line, it all comes together in a way that's almost terrifying in how eerily perfect it is. Kristofferson's question is shock at the beauty of a singular moment, captured like lightning in a bottle and in it lies both the justification for and value of Please Don't Tell Me How the Story Ends.
by Morgan Davis