A Metalhead Salutes Jimmy Buffett
Image credit: Joe Daly
In the infernal haze of bourbon, hallucinogenics and the twisted politics of the 1970s, the American music scene spewed forth a hodgepodge of gems, junk, and jaded undertones. But among those psychedelic relics and bloated rock operas, a criminally underrated masterpiece was born, only to be buried by the mainstream muck: Jimmy Buffett’s Rancho Deluxe.
Now, by all typical standards and bizarro-world expectations, I should have precious little to say about Buffett, let alone praise the man. After all, what possible appeal could the rum-soaked, Hawaiian-shirt-wearing bard of beach bums hold for a recovering alcoholic obsessed with the sacrilegious potency of Norwegian black metal and the mad rhythm of relentless exercise? More than you’d think.
Rancho Deluxe wasn’t just a record; it was a testament to the free-wheeling spirit of the times. It wasn't the sun-soaked jingles for which Buffett became a household name. No, this was a raw, pure, unadulterated sound that penetrated the superficial skin of the American Dream and gave us a tantalizing glimpse of the strange and wonderful chaos that lay beneath.
The grooves of this album have tales to tell. They speak of freedom, of nature, of love and of a wild-hearted exploration into the uncharted territories of the American psyche. In Wonder Why We Ever Go Home, Buffett dives deep into the existential conundrum of the human soul, grappling with the all-encompassing restlessness that plagues all those who dare to dream beyond their picket-fenced confines. And the title track is nothing short of a wild, western ballad for the modern age. It's both an homage and a challenge to the maddening conventions that entrap us. And it’s just about as beautiful as anything the Margarita Man ever wrote.
But the beastly machinery of the commercial music industry, ever eager to spit out mind-numbingly generic tunes for mass consumption, failed to recognize the genius of this album. Instead, they chose to pigeonhole Buffett as the eternal poster child of beach parties and cheeseburgers. The true essence of Rancho Deluxe was lost amidst the clamor for catchier, pop-friendly beats.
Talk about a steaming pile of horseshit. The media and music industry’s dark alliance to push this sumptuous auditory feast into mainstream radio’s dustbin was nothing short of a conspiracy of the deaf against the harmoniously enlightened. They tried to bury this album in the annals of obscurity, but like the Phoenix, it demands to rise and be recognized for the brilliant anomaly that it is.
The crime isn’t just that Rancho Deluxe was underrated; the real crime is the audacious ignorance of a society that consistently fails to recognize vital, defiant art when it stares them in the face. The mainstream music scene of the 70s, drugged up on its own self-importance, was blinded to the understated brilliance of this record. Few travesties underscore the penetrating failure of the collective American soul with greater emphasis.
You won’t even find this album on Spotify. It was buried once after its 1975 release and it was buried again after Rykodisc re-released it in 1998, when the album first came to my attention. But it’s out there on YouTube and tucked away in other forbidden recesses of the Internet. If you’ve never heard Rancho Deluxe, I highly recommend that you remedy that condition at some point in the near future. Turn off the phone, pour a bracing mug of coffee or hell, even a margarita if that’s how you roll, and let Jimmy’s lazy, wind-blown guitar strings wash over you. Immerse yourself in its rawness, its authenticity and its fearless exploration of the human condition. If you’ve got a pulse, you’ll play it again.
Nearly fifty years after its release, Rancho Deluxe stands as a rare oasis. A testament to a time when music was more than just a tune—it was a movement, a revolution, and a wild-hearted cry for freedom. And damn it, it's high time it got its due.