Album Review: Brad Paisley – American Saturday Night

Somewhere between Mud on the Tires and Time Well Wasted, Brad Paisley went from traditionalist to traditionalish. The emergence of the new Paisley can perhaps be traced to Time Well Wasted opener “The World,” an exercise in guitar layering that signaled a definite shift from the lean, straight-ahead sound of his first three albums. While Paisley would still opt for the leaner sound on occasion, his aesthetic would increasingly rely on bigger and more elaborate production from that point forward.

The musical change coincided with the witty West Virginian’s rise to headliner status: The aptly titled Time Well Wasted Tour saw him booking arenas for the first time. Since then, even with the surprisingly spotty 5th Gear and indulgent Play intervening, a Paisley single has not once missed the top of the charts. His 10 consecutive number one hits are more than Chesney, McGraw, or Jackson have ever experienced. Even George Strait hasn’t had that sort of a run since the second half of the ’80s. Brad Paisley is on a roll.

American Saturday Night is a timely reminder of what the country audience has come to like about him. Even when the subject matter is typical, his keen eye for detail and famous sense of humor make his treatments fresh and interesting. Even his guitar playing seems to come complete with a knowing smirk.

Although the theme here is purportedly Saturday night, this feels more like Paisley’s fatherhood album. There are lots of grandpa mentions, lots of boyhood memories, lots of generational musings. Love songs like the bluesy “She’s Her Own Woman” and “I Hope That’s Me” exhibit a maturity lacking in some of the singer’s past ballads, sounding rather adult-like by comparison. The boyish charm of “Me Neither” reappears in “Catch All the Fish” and “The Pants,” but now feels more like a good-natured wink to Paisley’s past than an artistic direction in itself. The heart of the album is in songs like “Welcome to the Future” and the title track, which see Paisley easing into an armchair and commenting on the world around him from a smart historical perspective.

It’s a very good album, and a very rare one (for 2009, at least) in that it seems to have been crafted by an artist rather than recorded by a singer. But one could say the same about most of Paisley’s previous albums; he’s known as an album artist for good reason. So what is it about this latest effort that has many people calling it his best to date?

Until now, Paisley’s albums have been structured like variety shows: funny songs, love songs, a weeper or two, an instrumental, a talking song, a gospel number. That structure very clearly marked Paisley as a different sort of artist. What other contemporary stars were giving George Jones, Bill Anderson, and Little Jimmy Dickens time to joke around on their albums? Or taking the time to feature standards like “Farther Along” and “When We All Get to Heaven”? For Paisley’s traditional base, those gestures meant something.

Aside from the reprises of “Welcome to the Future,” American Saturday Night finds Paisley adopting a more typical contemporary album structure. Coupled with the thematic consistency of the material, the abandonment of the variety show format makes this album feel unified and whole in a way that previous albums haven’t. Paisley has said that the difference is that this time he means it. Indeed, this may be the best and most earnest encapsulation of the character of Brad Paisley. But that’s different than calling it his best album.

What the album has in a strong sense of character and personal connection, it lacks in diversity and differentiation between songs. Perhaps it’s no coincidence that the two songs that have been singled out as highlights by reviewers and fans alike–the title track and “Welcome to the Future”–both show up in the first 15 minutes. After that, it’s easy to get lulled into a semiconscious state by a series of enjoyable songs that you might have trouble remembering several minutes from now. It doesn’t help that two of the album’s weakest songs, the paint-by-numbers “Then” and lightweight “Water,” show up right after the first 15 minutes to kill some of the early momentum. The album features bits of Paisley’s sharpest songwriting so far, but the setting is such that they’re often washed away in the persistent tide of competent sameness.

Once a wry traditionalist upstart, Brad Paisley has turned into a major mainstream headliner. With American Saturday Night, he’s sanding away some of the rough edges and sounding more comfortable than ever in the role of contemporary superstar. Goodbye, Little Jimmy Dickens telling jokes that are only sort of funny. Goodbye, requisite gospel standard. Welcome to the future. Welcome to a Brad Paisley primed to compete on the level of Chesney and McGraw. The change has been underway for several years now, but American Saturday Night is the most convincing evidence yet that Paisley has mastered his new direction and will remain on top for a long time to come.

Forgive me if I take a moment to mourn the guy we lost along the way.