Hand of Kindness

Richard Thompson: Hand of Kindness [June 1983]

I am not certain whether to say that this is a new Richard Thompson, but it is definitely the beginning of a completely new stage in his career and life. Certainly, Hand of Kindness, his first solo album after breaking up with wife and partner Linda, is a kind of re-birth of sorts. There is, on this stunningly fresh, mostly exuberant album, an emergence of joy, energy and independence that firmly announces a new kind of presence, if not a new presence itself.

This is not to say that Richard Thompson has here fundamentally changed - there is still the irony and the bewilderment of his greatest work, but here they are mostly worked for comic and lightly cathartic effect. That is not to say that there is no darkness here - it wouldn’t be a Richard Thompson album without it, and one feels the "ghost" of Linda and the shadows of guilt emerging throughout all the buoyant mood of the record.

There is remarkable energy here, however, and much of that is indeed the energy of freedom - a self-release that a man in his early thirties can feel when he’s suddenly cut loose and do exactly what he wants to do. And from that source, there emerges so much of Hand of Kindness’ power and freshness, even at the loss of the indescribable depths of Shoot Out the Lights. In a sense, this is an album by a much younger man.

Another thing that makes this album distinct is the sense of a band. The group assembled here are mostly familiar faces from Richard & Linda’s previous albums and tours, and of course, Fairport Convention - Simon Nicol, Dave Pegg, Dave Mattocks, Pete Zorn (on saxophone this time), and John Kirkpatrick. This group, along with Pete Thomas on baritone sax, makes a lively and exciting presence, a full-blown show band that have developed a sound specifically for this album. The "live" sound and ambience on Hand of Kindness enhances is ready-to-like appeal.
Thompson would tour with this group to support the album. Their sound, both on the record and on the road, were a revelation to those that managed to hear them. The blend of instruments, some of which seemed at the time archaically antithetical to rock (accordion, saxes), especially in the wake of dying embers of punk and new wave, combined with such rock-ready enthusiasm and intensity (not to mention virtuosity), helped establish a new mode of presentation that deftly leaped past conventional assumptions and presented an extraordinary forward vision that could be described as the essence of "postmodernism."

Though never a big seller, Thompson, with this hip/straight rocking ensemble neatly skirted the ever-self-conscious "cool" definition, and would provide inspiration, love and loyalty to a whole generation of "alternative rockers," as diverse as Los Lobos, Brave Combo and They Might Be Giants.

At the center of all this fresh energy was Thompson, full throated, with that odd Scots accent, and ever and ever more electric guitar. Thompson, one of the most gifted guitarists rock has yet produced, had always provided showcases for his virtuosity within certain songs ("Night Comes In," "Shoot Out the Lights," etc.), but always to the furthering of the text of the composition. On Hand of Kindness, he finally, unashamedly, steps into the spotlight and just lets her rip. The result is sheer joy, ecstasy and release.

Everything great about this approach, and the resultant excitement are all completely manifested in the opening song of the album . . .

"Tear Stained Letter" - This classic barn burner simply blows doors. The energy and irony of this kickoff celebration to musical/emotional independence is one of the strongest songs in the Thompson canon, and it still sets of fireworks in concert to this day.

The song is constructed by a series of riffs that sound like a crazy sailor’s hornpipe played by the saxes, accordion and guitar, with a breathless energy and roller-coaster sense of endless development. The rhythm is hard, driving and relentless, and the resultant impression is a kind of crazy-quilt explosion that effortlessly fuses British folk rock, zydeco, rockabilly and punk with a zany majesty.

Richard’s vocal enters, and his voice is full, rich and confident, yet fed with an affected kind of delirium that mocks itself (and its past) in its feigned desperation:

It was three in the morning when she took me apart,
She wrecked my furniture, she wrecked my heart.
She danced on my head like Arthur Murray,
The scars ain’t never going to mend in a hurry.
Just when I thought I could learn to forget her,
Right through the door came a tear-stained letter.

Cry, cry, if it makes you feel better,
Set it all down in a tear-stained letter . . .

Here, Richard Thompson has pulled off a major coup - coming off the much-publicized breakup with Linda and the painful insights of Shoot Out the Lights, he manages with his first shot out the gate both to confront and mock any and all expectations. The thrill of self-release and abandonment is absolutely thrilling.

After a repeat of the musical theme, the zany lyrics continue:

Well, my head was beating like a song by the Clash,
It was writing checques that my body couldn’t cash,
Got to my feet, I was reeling and dizzy,
I went for the phone but the line was busy.
Just when I thought that things would get better,
Right through the door come a tear-stained letter . . .

Of course, the knowledgeable listener thinks immediately of Linda. What would Richard Thompson produce on his first effort after the breakup? Would we find his sense of regret, of sadness, his confessions of guilt?

Well, I don’t think anybody expected this. The good-natured sense of sentimental mockery of "Tear Stained Letter" is absolutely the furthest thing from any morbid sense of contriteness that one could imagine.

Is the song biographical? Of course not. Even if Linda had written some kind of yearning plea after their divorce (extremely unlikely), Richard certainly wouldn’t have flaunted it in public. But it is personal, in a sense, This is Richard Thompson at his wickedest, and in some ways his most brilliant. With brilliant irony, he both answers and derides his audience and critics’ expectations of him to reveal his true self, to put his emotional laundry out on the line.
Tear Stained Letter is the parody of a soap opera, a manic, furious attack on his personal/artistic situation, a punk-fueled middle finger at sententiousness, and a joyous declaration of independence.

Richard’s first guitar solo takes up an entire verse and chorus with lightning runs, mocking jiggles and phony bended-note cries in a display of virtuosity that is both ecstatic and nasty. For the first time since the late Fairport Convention days, the shy, non-showy Thompson rips out a solo that would leave Clapton fans dropping in the dirt.

For all the seriousness and sensitivity that he has shown in his lyrics for so long, it is a liberating thrill to hear Thompson tear back into his ridiculous tail of personal mayhem:

Well, I like coffee and I like tea,
But I just don’t like this fiddle-di-dee.
It makes me nervous, gives me the hives,
Waiting for a kiss from a bunch of fives.
Just when I thought I could learn to forget her,
Right through the door came a tear-stained letter . . .

The ridiculousness of it all is simply sublime. And the fact that Thompson sounds like he means every ridiculous word of his diatribe makes it that much more hilariously liberating.
The musicians begin swapping solos, beginning with one sax, followed by a brilliantly dramatic accordion by Kirkpatrick, another sax that threatens to take the roof down, and finally comes back to Thompson, zapping through his seemingly infinite possibilities of speed runs and crazy clusters until he drives the song defiantly home.

What a way to kick off a solo career!

Video - Richard Thompson: "Tear Stained Letter"

http://youtube.com/watch?v=8hEWFsXrXv4

"How I Wanted to To" - If the album kicks off with a frantic parody of Thompson’s personal life, its second offering, "How I Wanted To," resonates with deep, heartfelt emotion. No matter what Thompson might say, indeed no matter what his intentions, this song, this performance, are unmistakably addressed to Linda, right from his very soul. Personally, I believe that he must have meant it to be so, quite explicitly, but even in the event that he did not, it comes across that way with such direct, confessional force that whatever universal meaning might have been intended becomes immortalized - through perception and context - as severely personal. Ironically, in this instance, the personal nature of the song gives it greater power, and thus universalizes it further than it could have been otherwise.

A slow, deep mournful ballad, tuned to a low D on electric guitar, Thompson begins his soliloquy in a dark, resonant wail:

When we parted just like friends
We never tied loose ends.
I could never say the words that would make amends.

This seems so brutally forthright and honest that the confession is not only convincing, but absolutely disarming. Admitting his inability to voice expression to his failures, he turns in his art to reach for the words he could never summon in a plain voice.

Ultimately, his desire for communication, even here, is limited. The repeated words of the chorus are brief, simple and inadequate, but they are given force by the gorgeous melody and the intensity of the singing:

Oh, how I wanted to,
Oh, how I wanted to,
To say I love you,
To say I love you,
Oh, how I wanted to.

In a sense, this economy of limitation in verbal expression reveals more than mere words could. In this case, less is more, as what else could be added to make the inexpressible more coherent?
As the slow, martial drum joins the procession of the song, Thompson continues singing, his voice saying more than his words, and his words limited at that. Pain, regret, guilt, sympathy, and the recognition of the enormous emotional tie between himself and his ex-partner keep him nearly tongue-tied, and it is is the confession of this that makes the song profound:

Now hearts do what hearts will,
And my nights are sleepless still.
Well, I never was the one to speak my fill.

His admission makes his effort more beautifully effective, and genuinely moving in its stark humility.

Finally, towards the end of the song, the words simply give out, and Thompson, in pure emotional abandon, gives up on words completely. Instead, he plays his guitar, and sings along to the notes he plays, such notes that convey that expression that goes far beyond words. The moment is unexpected, astounding in its emotional impact. It is an inspiration that comes not just from art, but from deep within the recesses of the self, that self that knows the bottomlessness of meaning, as well as the confusion of commitment to self and to other - and the self that realizes the futility of either explaining or excusing either.

In short, it is one of the most beautiful, transcendent moments ever to occur in music, and the years have not diminished its power to shock, hurt and heal.

The song builds to a climax and reaches its conclusion with increased dynamics that have been earned. This is pure honesty, and there is nothing remotely contrived about "How I Wanted To."

He needed to say this - that is, to play and sing it. He has now done it, and it is time to move on.

"Both Ends Burning" - What the album does move onto, is perhaps the silliest song Thompson has ever done. "Both Ends Burning" is a galumphing tribute to an impossibly decrepit nag that somehow miraculously crosses the finish line a winner. There is an affable goofiness to this stomp, and the band is in fine form, but one still feels like this might have been better left on the discard reel.

Of course, you can search for an allegory in the story - perhaps something like tenacity in the face of impossible odds, or (more likely) the irony of the last coming in first, but any interpretation here seems like a bit of a stretch.

The repeated chorus of the song:

Both Ends Burning, Both Ends Burning,
That’s how she got her name,
Both Ends Burning, Both Ends Burning,
I never will sleep again.

might suggest diligence, but the choruses don’t really seem to support this contention. At any rate, if one can bear it, the song definitely takes the listener far afield of the depths of "How I Wanted To," and the sax and guitar solos are certainly there to be enjoyed. In short, it’s fun if you want it to be. If there is any more depth here, I would be delighted if someone would point it out to me.

"A Poisoned Heart & A Twisted Memory" - An uncertain, twanging guitar chord hangs, repeating in the air, and then suddenly - bang! - the band joins in for a shaky sledgehammer parody of a blues-rock song with Thompson screeching at the edge of hysteria:

Oh, you took my word and you took my key,
You took my pride and you took my dignity.
How can I still pretend
To be what a man should be?

If we are back in the realm of Linda, we have returned via the way of parody, the way we began, with "Tear Stained Letter." However, instead of the manic fury of that lunatic masterpiece, here we are, stumbling along, punch drunk.

The song drips sarcasm, but the humor is so rich and self-pointed that we cannot help but be swept along by the damned thing. Thompson is too much aware of the predicament in which he’s placed himself, so he admits it, singing about it with only half-feigned amazement:

Well, whatever I say is in a book,
Whatever I do there’s someone there to look.
You just can’t shake a man
The way that I’ve been shook.

So what do you do when you’re a public artist whose personal life has become inextricably enmeshed with his public’s perception and expectation? Apparently, you sing about it:

Is this the way it’s supposed to be?
Is this the way it’s supposed to be?
A poisoned heart and a twisted memory?

The effect of Thompson parodying himself as the public victim is energizingly shocking, funny, and liberating. Someone as oddly intelligent as Richard Thompson is not going to be shoved into the confessional singer/songwriter mold, and if he’s going there, he’s going on his own sarcastic terms.

Everything about this song is bigger, more ridiculously impactful than life. Thompson mocks the role he is supposed to play by exaggerating it and playing it to the hilt. His vocals sound like a madman losing his grip, barely in control, and the lyrics are outrageously inflated:

Oh, see that lifer doing his time,
If I could have his place and he’d have mine,
We’d be no better off
On either side of the line.

For me, the height of the ridiculousness that always brings me to laughter is Thompson’s mock-anguished cry, "You treat me like a creep." Both the use of this hilarious word and Thompson’s pained pronunciation (as if it were the ultimate denunciation) are deliriously rich.

This brilliant band is so adept at playing this shook-up version on a rock ‘n’ roll nervous breakdown, that it seems to totter and sway like a tower that could crash down any moment. Near the end, with a holler like he’s falling off a bridge, Thompson rips into a screaming, manic guitar solo, full of anxious jetties and screaming wails that make you think his head is about to explode. This neurotic parody of the blues is so ripe in its pitch, so dead-on in its delivery, it simply blows any sententiousness aside.

Still, Thompson seems to have his cake and eat it too. As ridiculous as he makes this madcap farce, the intensity is such that you cannot help but feel that everything he says and plays comes straight from his gut. That authentic human emotions creep through this seething, sarcastic mush is the true testament to Richard Thompson’s true artistic power - perhaps, his genius. The sheer intelligence of an individual aware of being locked into such a ridiculous situation, despite his seemingly conscious abilities is palpable. That Thompson can put this to words, play it, scream it and enact it with such self-effacing skill is absolutely extraordinary.

Here, at the end of side one of Hand of Kindness, we are suddenly aware, not that we have a new Richard Thompson, but one that has been through his own private hell and is re-emerging with his spirit intact and his keen mind still punching at the windmills of uncontrollable chaos.

"Where the Wind Don’t Whine" - This fantasy of escape sounds madly triumphant even though it ends in failure. To the rhythm of martial drums and a bagpipe-like electric guitar, Thompson spins a tale of being taken up by a strange young woman ("She looked too fresh for twenty-one") and being driven off in her fast car to a promised land. The song demonstrates the singer’s maturity, while still accepting his susceptibility for delusional fantasy - in the end, he recognizes it as such, and what’s more, he recognizes his own limitations. Essentially, he recognizes who he is.

"Get in the car," she said, "and drive me into next week."
I should have turned her down, blame my curious streak.
I never dreamt that we’d be driving into trouble
Until we hit a rock that bent my nose double.

As this maiden promises to lead him into an ever-youthful, erotic paradise, devoid of trouble and strife ("where the wind don’t wind), the singer is ultimately not up to the trip:

I was feeling weary when the car died on me,
I pulled her over, and my strength just drained from me.
The price of running’s getting dearer and dearer,
And nothing ever seems to get nearer and nearer.

In the end, he readily acknowledges that the entire affair was an idealistic fantasy, a recognition both of limitation of self, as well as the ephemerality of evocative, sirenic visions;

I suppose I didn’t make the grade, grade, grade.
When I looked around, she’d slipped away, ‘way, ‘way.
Out in the night, you’ll see her shine, shine, shine,
Waiting where the wind don’t whine . . .

Looking out upon this futile vision like an eternal star in the night, one short trip has been enough to teach the singer the lesson that he’d probably already known.

The joyful exuberance of the song (and its attendant guitar solos) I relate to Thompson’s joy in recognition that he will not become entrapped in the cliche’-ridden world of the male in mid-life crisis.

This is a song of admission - temptation lays out there - but more a song of escape from romantic self deception. In a way, it’s a kind of inverted "Born to Run," that celebrates the trip not made, and makes staying home a more realistic model of behavior for a thirty-something divorcee.

"The Wrong Heartbeat" - This energetic rocker with its infectious ska rhythm belies its warning content. Speaking, perhaps, to his new (or any) love, he attempts to define himself brushing aside false expectations right from the start:

Don’t think my love is something you can play with,
I’m not the one to spend the time of day with.
You learn to hide love, you look it up or find it gone.
You think you need me, you think you read me,
From the beating of my heart.

But you’re listening to the wrong heartbeat . . .
My love is strong.

Here’s a head’s up to any surface lover that here’s not a man to be trifled with. It’s also a rare confession (or rather, profession) that what appears on the surface is not necessarily what one is going to find inside. "Don’t take me at face value," he seems to be saying. Here’s a person who’s not going to wear his heart on his sleeve - but that doesn’t mean that it’s not there.
The next verse continues the caution against surface detection:

If you should see a tear, you won’t see many,
If you should hear a sigh, it’s not for any.
If you should greet me as I am walking along,
You only want to see just the shell of me,
You don’t know the other part.

Why, we have to ask ourselves, does this individual have to define himself so, right up front? Why the warning, why the hiding? Is this just a confession that he is an introvert? A posting that he is a serious man, not to be trifled with? It’s all that and more.

One could take the song a step further and suggest that Thompson is seeking to define himself to his audience - and to defend himself. After the shockingly swift and very public breakup with Linda, perhaps he feels somewhat vulnerable before his public and critics. He’s not going to go so far as to apologize or anguish over a personal decision he has had to make, but he is certainly not going to be dismissed as not worth hearing because of it, either.

Hand of Kindness is a remarkable album in so many different ways, but most importantly, and perhaps most subtly, it is a declaration of independence, a statement of self. If he has "reneged" on any bargains he has kept, he has his own reasons, and we are not to assume that it is foolishness, insensitivity or shallowness on his part. The song is, at least in part, a reminder to his public that they really don’t know who he is, and that they had better withhold judgement.
A searing, self-defiant guitar solo that starts out against the grain of the chords seems to make his point all the more emphatically. This is not a man who is going to grovel and beg - he’s going to stand up straight, proud and direct, and this is part of who he is going to be from now on. If we can’t take it, perhaps we should just move along.

Our ultimate lack of capacity in understanding the true person is nailed down flat in the third verse:

Don’t throw your secrets where men will steal them.
You’ve got to hide them, you’ve got to seal them.
No matter what you try, you’ll never take my love from me.
And if you might think that you can move me
From the beating of your heart . . .

You’re listening to the wrong heartbeat . . .

In short, you’re never going to get the real Richard Thompson, at least not in the sense of a confessional singer/songwriter. That does not mean we cannot deduce certain things, but it is indeed a caveat that what we analyze is merely a projected image, constructed by art. And, yes, it is a little humbling to a critic or analyst to be reminded that their subject matter is ever elusive.

Still, like any other writer of any notable merit, Richard Thompson continues to give more away the more he tries to hide it. Ultimately, we meet him halfway, and the other side of the story is that which we always bring to it ourselves.

Video - "The Wrong Heartbeat" Video
http://youtube.com/watch?v=zVc_4pgE2_w

Video - Richard Thompson performs "The Wrong Heartbeat"
http://youtube.com/watch?v=vF5q8iU_2Aw

"The Hand of Kindness" - Smack dab in the middle of side two comes the album’s central, defining - and greatest - song. It’s no accident that this song shares the title with the record as a whole. We have parodied pity, played with ghosts, flitted with dreams and been warned not to think we’re too close to the center. But "The Hand of Kindness" is as clear a definition of just who Richard Thompson is, in the perception of his audience, and perhaps even just what he expects from us.

One thing is certain - we are never going to get that clear and definitive answer as to why Richard Thompson left his wife, why Richard and Linda Thompson are no more. And even less are we going to get some confessional or apology. This is, after all, none of our business. But for those who were, and wish to remain, fans, there is an emotional investment there on our part that demands some sort of answer.

This is as much as we are ever likely going to get - and actually, it is quite a lot.

The song is set in an ominous, minor key at a thudding mid tempo that suggests a kind of stalking. But who is stalking whom? Thompson begins by painting a portraiture of where he’s led himself to, publicly, perhaps artistically, through his actions:

Well I wove the rope, and I picked the spot
Well, I stuck out my neck, and I tightened the knot.
This is a startling, but honest recognition and affirmation that whatever situation he now finds himself, it is ultimately of his own making, his own doing. He continues, and he addresses us:

Oh, stranger, stranger, I’m near out of time,
You stretch out your hand, I stretch out mine.

If the singer is committing suicide, why does he expect us to help save him? The answer comes in the powerful chorus, which is not a defense, nor is it a statement of universal love and forgiveness. In fact, the answer to the question, aims much lower, more humbly - and thus more universally and convincingly:

Oh, maybe just the hand of kindness,
Maybe just the hand of kindness,
Maybe just a hand,
Stranger, will you reach me in time?

In the last analysis, is that all that anyone can reasonably ask for? Is it not reasonable? Is it not human? And who are we if we refuse it? Are we any better? Are we not far worse?

Thompson does not have to supply the other side of this equation. He simply states the situation, places us in it as a (perhaps unwilling) participant, and then asks for the least we can do - which in essence is to give our fellow man the benefit of the doubt.

There is something special in "The Hand of Kindness" that strikes us as palpably real human emotion, even within the context of such an honest writer as Richard Thompson. He doesn’t have to come out and say that there’s an unspoken bond between all people - he simply lets you know where he is, which of course could just as easily be us, or indeed anybody, in any situation. He simply asks for the human decency, upon self reflection, we know that we should and must deliver. At the very bottom of the matter, it is just a simple request for acceptance of human imperfection.

In this one stroke, Thompson regains the moral high ground that we fear he may have squandered by deceiving, finally, not Linda, but us, through his "betrayal."

He makes this more explicit:

Well, I scuppered the ship, and I bent the rail.
Well, I cut the brakes, and I ripped the sail.
And they called me a Jonah, it’s a sin I survived.
Well, you stretch out your hand, I’ll stretch out mine.

He does not try to justify himself - he knows he can’t. Whatever guilt lies on his shoulders, he’s going to have to carry. It’s all up to us - will we accept his plea or turn away. It’s all up to us. There’s nothing else he can do, and he knows it.

Suddenly, the pulsing of the drums and bass cease, and Thompson’s guitar is left alone to plead for itself, traveling now through shifting, unknown corners of chord changes, a glistening wanderer, uncertainly, through previously unknown territory. He negotiates his way with skill, yet still alone. Dave Mattocks’ drums return to pound against the beat, seemingly fighting him back, then finally they push heavily against the pounding return of the main riff. It is stalking, indeed - and there is no question now that it is stalking him. But there’s still no denying it’s of his own making, and he lays himself open for whatever will come as its result:

Oh, shoot that old horse, and break in the new,
Oh, hung are the many, and the living are few.
I see your intention, it’s my neck on the line,
You stretch out your hand, I stretch out mine . . .

The song pauses, hovers in space, then renews its humble request. Thompson repeats the chorus twice, then joins up again with the ominous riff, soloing against its inevitable pulsations without any sense of resolution. Here, the guitar seemingly uses every phrase it knows to entreat, but it cannot conclude - nor can the song - without some intervention from the listener.
"Hand of Kindness" gradually fades away, unresolved, forever suspended above a precipice. How can we answer? I suggest that the only way is by continuing to listen to Richard Thompson, and to trust that he will do his best to live up to his side of the bargain. And that is to be honest with us.

All his subsequent career validates our trust.

Video - Richard Thompson: "The Hand of Kindness"

http://youtube.com/watch?v=xiSDJc4SuFE

"Devonside" - Thompson finally returns to the ballad form in third person here, though it glistens with the steely sounds of electric guitars. The theme of deception is annunciated musically, as the carefully arranged introduction suddenly resolves to a completely unrelated chord before the story begins:

By Devonside she was a-marching,
It was a gang of no great size.
And surrender was the banner that she carried
And hungry was the shiver in her eyes.

Who is this mysterious lady, and where was she marching? I do not know where (or if) Devonside is, or what its significance is, if any. If "surrender" was her banner, and she was leading a small group, the obvious question is "surrender to what?" And we also ask if this is a literal scene or a figurative one. If hunger is the reason for her surrender, from what was she holding out? It seems a very strange image to me to march with a banner of "surrender." Does this image simply describe a mind set or mood in the woman, and is the "hunger" literal? There seems to be no question that "hunger," in whatever sense, is the cause of her "surrender."

She met a boy, his health was failing,
She dropped the banner and took her prize.
And the only food she had was bread and morphine,
Ah, but he fed on the shiver in her eyes.

By claiming the boy, the woman drops her banner of surrender. Then was her "surrender" a denunciation of love? If so, she has abandoned it, and no doubt it has something to do with the boy’s ill health, which may be of a spiritual nature. Still, her hunger cannot be completely appeased - for with only "bread and morphine," she is receiving only the barest sustenance, along with a kind of delusional sense of love. The boy, on the other hand, is truly nourished by her love. Strangely, it is this mysterious "shiver in her eyes" that both sustains the boy (perhaps thinking it true love), while for her it was, and perhaps remains hunger - maybe the hunger for that love that she cannot give or receive.

By Devonside his love was drifting,
He looked for comfort otherwise.
And there never was a rope or chain about him,
Ah, she held him with the shiver in her eyes.

Some time has apparently passed, and the young man has begun to mentally stray and look for love elsewhere. It is once again that "shiver" that holds him to her, that hunger that had fed him when he was ill.

I’ll dare to venture forth a picture here of a dysfunctional romance. If, on one hand, the woman "hungers" for love, in which she invests it in a relationship which is not substantive, on the other, the young man is held immobile, entrapped by the sense of power that she holds over him. The "shiver" that did feed him before is in fact, a projection that he places on her, which is now revealed (to us) as not true love, but rather as emotional, psychological need on her part. And when once he fed on this appearance when he was weak, now that he is stronger, it is what holds him to her, perhaps through guilt.

There is a key change here, back to the original, introductory mode, and the song is graced by a beautiful, mournful violin solo by guest Aly Bain.

The final verse:

"Ah," she said, "my John, I’ll be your pillow.
I’ll be your mother, lover, whore and wife."
And he knew that he had loved and never seen her,
When the light fell from the shiver in her eyes.

In her complete submission to him - and it is notable that the song now becomes personal with the introduction of a proper name - he loses all illusions about her. She is now no longer the food on which he emotionally subsists, nor is she the lover to which he felt dutifully bound. In point of fact, he does not know her at all - she is a stranger.

This beautiful, heartbreaking depiction of need in disguise of love, this sad, but too common marriage of codependency into which so many young lovers fall, is a masterpiece of pathos and empathy.

"But is it about Richard and Linda?" we anxiously want to ask. Well, the answer is that we will never know - and possibly Thompson could not tell you definitively himself. What does remain is Thompson’s extraordinary sensitivity to the blind psychology of love, and it is as obviously doubtful that he never experienced it as it is for all the rest of us.

In the end, the biographical details are irrelevant (though admittedly unavoidable in this context). What remains starkly relevant is Thompson’s return to the Brit-folk story form on which his first songwriting was originally based, and its renewed power to mine emotional gold. Richard Thompson will ever after use this time-honored technique of traditional balladry to evoke universal truths in the post-modern era. In "Devonside," the old Richard Thompson is irrevocably fused with the new, and a very old art form is once again given new life and power.

"Two Left Feet" - Hand of Kindness opens with raucous sarcasm, and it ends its emotional journey in the pure, unabashed joy of silliness. This polka-driven rave up features Thompson’s most succinct put down to date - "How can you dance with those two left feet?" Well, in the metaphorical depths of Richard Thompson’s sarcasm, "two left feet" could mean quite a bit indeed. Coming from this voice, this criticism can carry as many ominous overtones as one would care to imagine.

Still, this song reminds us that humor is as essential to Richard Thompson’s vision and art as any other component, and the effortless style of throw-away satire is at the core of his vision. Still, at the root, this song is mere fun.

In between verses and choruses, Thompson and his band play a charming little Celtic-rock ditty that may or not have some traditional source - but it effectively shoves that unique British perspective of timelessness that’s been going on since Fairport Convention. As the song continues, this melody is taken out of its harmonic boundaries and twisted up into something approaching an avant-garde jazz line. The shift is both stunning and hilarious, but it zooms quickly back to its source.

This riff, along with the raucous solos by the sax players, accordion, and finally Thompson’s wild, devil-may-care Stratocaster connect this, the final song, with the album’s opener, "Tear Stained Letter," and while it may lack the harsh ironic bite of that brilliant barn burner, together the two songs serve as perfect sandwich ends for the heartbreaking travails and hilarious send ups in between. The fact that this song works, and works so well, is a testament to the power of what has gone before it, and more precisely, the moral, musical, and spiritual power that Thompson has earned, not only over this album, but over a decade and a half.


Video - Richard Thompson performs acoustic version of "Two Left Feet"

http://youtube.com/watch?v=LQzVhBVQ7Z8

The fact that no one else could end an album as powerfully, as ridiculously cathartic as "Two Left Feet" is testimony to who Richard Thompson now is. Here, on Hand of Kindness, he definitively begins the solo career that he is still pursuing without interruption to this day. Emerging from the 1960s, from triumph and tragedy, emerging from the conjurations of hell and heaven in the 1970s, emerging from his great musical partnership, and its abrupt, messy fatalistic demise, Richard Thompson finally stands here alone as the mature, confident, albeit satiric and melancholic artist that is given its final definition.

I remember when this album first appeared, and I can still feel the exhilaration of its shocking impact on myself and my small cadre of friends who were (thanks to me) Thompson-savvy. Perhaps the most remarkable aspect of Hand of Kindness was its appearance in the MTV-dominated post-music world of 1983 as a life-affirming, genre-defying statement of individual purpose. Amidst all the other "real" music of the day, which was basically rooted in a commercial-defying, postpunk aesthetic (U2, R.E.M., X, the Smiths, XTC, the Replacements, etc.), this was something wholly different, yet somehow carrying the same kind of audacious power. In fact it was more powerful, considering the artist’s age and pedigree. Of the artists of Thompson’s generation, only Neil Young would be able of pulling off such a startling coup upon the new music scene, while retaining the essence of what he had established in the counter-culture period. And while Neil Young would prove increasingly (though interestingly) erratic from here on out, Richard Thompson would amazingly hold and even expand upon this form, functioning much in the same way for the next quarter century.

Given the seemingly paralyzed size and composition of Richard Thompson’s small, yet rabidly faithful audience, it is difficult to declaim precisely the enormity of his impact. But Thompson has always had a larger group of admirers than Vincent Van Gogh had, and his music, then and now, continues to remain a vitally important resource, not just for the fringes of the culture in which it operates, but in its ever-living potential for wider discovery. For Richard Thompson is such a powerful and unique artist, that his existence on the periphery merely highlights the enormous shortcomings of the center of our culture, and from the Thompsonite’s view, the perspectives are transposed - Thompson cuts to the core of our being and moves to the center of our emotional/aesthetic lives, casting the blaring, empty, official culture off to the meaningless sidelines where it belongs, cowering it his overwhelming shadow.

Another thing must be mentioned in regards to Hand of Kindness - and that is the spectacular, cohesive playing of the band, as well as Thompson’s skill and ease at being a bandmaster. It’s odd to remember that this group is basically Fairport Convention (minus Sandy Denny and Dave Swarbick), with saxophones to boot. But it’s all Richard’s show. Never before has he stood alone, so center stage, and good lord, does he have the aplomb to pull it off! We must also remember that here is also the birth of Richard Thompson, the great showman - always before he played a supporting role, even if he had composed all the material. To say that he exhibits true star quality here is not only an ironic understatement, but ultimately, to be missing the point.

Thompson’s move to the spotlight was not just an aesthetic decision, but somewhat circumstantially determined, now that he and Linda had parted. That this naturally shy young man was finally emotionally capable of coming out and commanding an audience, speaking on his own, says volumes about his personal development, now at the ripe old age of 31. That he did so - and so victoriously - is a tribute to his great sense of nerve in overcoming an inferiority complex (which, considering his genius and virtuosity is truly silly). But it is more than that - Richard Thompson’s bold first step on his own here represents the emergence of the self-reliant individual, who - truth be told - has put himself in his own position, to sink or swim. That he not only swims, but surfs and glides was probably a surprise to no one but him.

And this is probably the key, after all, to "Both Ends Burning," which can be read as a self-effacing look at his own dogged career, along with the surprise at his own attempt at success on his own. Sales and airplay aside, Hand of Kindness is a stunning success from start to finish, a bravura sense of self-release, yet still carrying all the weight and baggage of all the achievements in which he has participated, and has now left behind.

In the last analysis, Hand of Kindness is the birth of a true icon - the artist that one can turn to in solitude and measure their own sense of personal achievement and efforts of survival against. He is now, and will remain, a survivalist’s sounding board, a true test case - a constant, both in effort and honesty, by which one can feel reflected one’s own sense of tenacity, sanity, combined with the ridiculousness of the notion of the weight of the entire world on one’s shoulders.

If there’s one artist you’re going to be able to trust from here on out, it’s Richard Thompson. He simply is incapable of being anything other than what he is - even if that includes being brilliantly talented. That unique, humbling combination is what finally makes him so desperately important, perhaps even necessary, especially to those dwelling on the fringe of a society that values none of his essential virtues.