There is a quiet triumph in hearing someone like Mayer using his substantial resources to recreate this sound, bringing in first-hand witnesses like producer Don Was, bassist Pino Palladino, and keyboardist Greg Phillinganes. Blockbusters like Dire Straits’ Brothers in Arms, Steve Winwood’s Back in the High Life, and Don Henley’s The End of the Innocence-all contented statements from well-established rock acts in the mid-to-late-’80s-come to mind. It was a time when new technology allowed career artists to embellish their music with smooth, luxurious textures, better suited for the digital precision of CDs than the analog crackle of vinyl.
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Instead of an artist who dominated VH1 and frat houses in the early 2000s, what if he’d emerged during the classic rock era and found himself, decades later, as a late-career musician attempting to update his sound? “Pretend someone made a record in 1988 and shelved it,” he explained, “and it was just found this year.” It’s an intriguing concept until you realize that, even in his fantasies, John Mayer is making music doomed to be lost to time, sapped of inspiration and out of his element.īefore we get any further, I will note that the ’80s staples Mayer references on Sob Rock in overt, almost shockingly accurate ways represent a moment in popular music I have a lot of fondness for. (Judging by the title, bargain bin stickers on the cover, and fake pull-quotes on the merch, the tone is not so enthusiastic.) To make this music, Mayer gave himself a prompt. In fact, its vision is so complete and confident that it pretty much writes its own review. None of this is to suggest that Sob Rock, his eighth studio album, is thoughtless. The earliest single arrived in spring 2018, because why not? The suave, undeniable “New Light” sounds no less relevant today than it did back then, and its inclusion proves that Mayer can work at his own pace-trends, release cycles, and global pandemics be damned. (For Mayer, now 43, it’s all about luxury watches.) Yes, he’s got a new record, but even that seems like a hobby, something to pass the time. “I’m somewhere between a pop artist and a jam band-maybe closer to pop artist,” Mayer recently surmised, and this particular niche has thrust the guitar virtuoso from Billboard charts and magazine covers squarely into the Neil Young-buying-ownership-in-a-model-train-company phase of his career. At the same time, you’ve got a dignified side gig as the touring guitarist for a classic rock institution, the kind of role that you can age into gracefully, gainfully employed without ever having to step back into the spotlight. You’ve got some baggage who doesn’t? Some notable exes have painted damning portraits of you in a small playlist’s worth of songs, and you’ve said a couple indefensible things to the press that follow you like hellhounds wherever you go. Two decades in, you’ve amassed a solid run of hits and a devoted community of fans who will buy tickets any time you’re in town. Let’s say you play your cards right and end up like John Mayer.
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