Voodoo Lounge (1994)

Yes, they're back: The Rolling Stones have returned after five years with a new album, Voodoo Lounge, the first fruits of their $45 million contract with Virgin Records. In the past, a new Stones record was a certified Event in rock & roll. But how does Voodoo Lounge fit into this era of grunge, acid jazz, hip-hop bebop, and pop divas? To confront these and other vital questions, we decided to get our ya-ya's out by devoting every inch of space in this section to this bound-to-be-debated album, with reviews by music critic David Browne, critics-at-large Greg Sandow and Ken Tucker, and our usual gang of contributors. (We've asked them to divulge their ages to see if the generation gap still exists.) Read on to see how those dice still tumble.

When we last saw their weathered faces, the Rolling Stones appeared to be victims of the same malaise that's claimed numerous former band members and past girlfriends. Steel Wheels was the most tired studio album they'd ever made, and its accompanying tour in 1989 — complete with souvenirs like collectible silver coins of each Stone — confirmed them as job-related ennui incarnate. Had they finally given in to their most cynical tendencies, and was the only logical solution to embalm them in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame?

And yet it's difficult to despise the Stones. At a time when peers like McCartney and Clapton have settled for roles as professorial dullards, the Stones are still their unapologetic raunchy selves, even if by calculated design. On Voodoo Lounge, Mick Jagger, his voice deeper and rangier than ever, tosses off enough expletives to merit a parental-advisory warning sticker. Guitar solos sound as if they were conceived on the spot; songs crash to a close. When Jagger's and Keith Richards' voices join together, they sound like aging tomcats reuniting for a back-alley serenade. If Jon Bon Jovi sang a silly chorus like ''Hey, hey/You got me rocking,'' we would burst out laughing. But when that dunderheaded phrase slides out of Jagger's throat, it reeks of lust, fear, desire, and anger, just like old times.

Of course, these aren't old times, but for whatever it's worth, Voodoo Lounge is the Stones' crispest work since that late-in-the-game home run, Tattoo You, some 13 years ago. First off, Jagger and Richards have actually written songs, rather than mantras. (While making the album in Ireland, the duo were actually seen cavorting together like friends, with no handlers or bodyguards in sight, and the results of that camaraderie are evident.) Don Was, who coproduced the record with the band, has made a second career of adding radio-friendly touches to vets like Bonnie Raitt. He hasn't done precisely the same for the Stones — the group is far too ornery to be manhandled in the studio — yet his touches, such as clearly showcasing a harpsichord here or an acoustic guitar there, help wipe away the corrosion that has caked the band's last few albums.

Most of it, anyway: The rockers on Voodoo Lounge — like the single ''Love Is Strong'' — are standard late-period cock-and-bull Stones, and their idea of a new twist seems to be ''Brand New Car,'' an auto-as-woman snickerer of the kind Bruce Springsteen stopped writing once he hit 40. Sticking to grizzled-Lothario sentiments like ''I have never found a woman so hot,'' the lyrics tell us next to nothing about what is going on in their fiftysomething heads; Jagger's guarded admissions of being jealous of all the ''New Faces'' around him are the closest things to a confessional. At least the band has reclaimed a sense of grace that's been absent from their music since Tattoo You's ''Waiting on a Friend.'' ''Out of Tears'' sounds like ''Lady Jane'' at her 30th high school reunion, while ''The Worst,'' one of Richards' two lead vocals, is a woozy, but quite lovely, honky-tonk. Neither song seems to have been written with a football stadium in mind, and they're all the better for it.

Naturally, little of this ultimately matters, since the Stones themselves are no longer on the cutting edge of anything other than high income-tax brackets. In the ever-churning world of rock & roll, they stand as the last vestige of the old-guard world of white male empowerment, Chuck Berry riffs, and concerts as stadium rallies.

There may have been no better metaphor for their establishment status than the testimony of one of their business managers — on the side of Ticketmaster! — at the recent Congressional hearing into Pearl Jam's complaint against the ticket monopoly. Yet as it meanders along, Voodoo Lounge brings back the old witchcraft in fitful, satisfying spurts. It's not voodoo, but it isn't a lounge act, either — and sometimes, as these guys used to say, you just get what you need. B

-David Browne, 34

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