Great expectations | 5 December 2009

After many years writing about my enthusiasms, I’m still fascinated by the relationship between expectation and actual enjoyment.

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Matthew Parris

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After many years writing about my enthusiasms, I’m still fascinated by the relationship between expectation and actual enjoyment. How often have we seen a film everyone has been raving about, and been vaguely and obscurely disappointed? Or read a book of which we expected nothing, and loved it to pieces? My most complex relationship of this sort is with the CDs I have bought but haven’t played yet. They sit in a drawer in my desk, silently berating me for not having put them on as soon as I got home. It’s not that I buy so many that I don’t have time to play them (well, I don’t think so, anyway). But just as one might delay eating the best piece of pizza until last, so I feel inclined to put off possibly indefinitely the discovery that the latest album by some chronically underperforming former favourite of mine is just as poor as the past few have been. Call it deferment of disappointment, if you like.

So it wasn’t until a few weeks ago that I finally listened to the new Randy Newman album, Harps And Angels (Nonesuch) — ‘new’ in the sense that it was released 15 months ago. In pop music, where success is usually achieved young, artistic decline can be long and slow and painful. After five magnificent albums between 1968 and 1977, and two not-bad ones in 1979 and 1983, Newman released just two studio albums, the weary Land of Dreams (1988), and Bad Love (1999), which received the best reviews of his career but seemed very slender to me. If you are best known as a mordant, satirical lyricist (whose legendary ‘Short People’ is apparently still misinterpreted by the dim-witted), more fond of the unreliable-narrator device than possibly any other songwriter alive, then critics are likely to give you a little leeway when your tunes aren’t up to scratch.