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Nevertheless, if the album had continued in this Superior Singing Method Review  soul-searching vein Campbell might have delivered one of pop's great concept albums, a countrified Astral Weeks, or a star -spangled Blood on The Tracks. The reflective mood, however, is undermined fatally by the inclusion of Smokey Robinson and Ronald White's soul-standard, 'My Girl'. Campbell, as one would expect, handles the number in an entirely professional way, but after hearing the irrepressible Otis Redding knock this song clean out of the ball park I wouldn't have volunteered to be next up to bat! Despite the accomplished vocal, the end result is no more than a pale imitation of Redding's classic version. It sounds like someone put a little too much water in the whiskey!

"Rhinestone Cowboy" is, without doubt, the emotional lodestone of the album. Whilst it might fall short of the unimpeachable 'Wichita Lineman', there's no denying that, under the right circumstances, it can bring a self-pitying tear to the eye and a lump to the throat as you sing along with Campbell on that super-sized chorus -"Like a rhinestone cowboy / riding out on a horse in a star-spangled rodeo / like a rhinestone cowboy / getting cards and letters from people I don't even know / and offers comin' over the phone".

On paper "Rhinestone Cowboy" seems a hackneyed tale - the travails of a country boy drawn to the bright lights and the big city - however Campbell has plenty to work with in the shape of an insightful, evocative lyric -"I've been walking these streets so long / Singing the same old song / I know every crack in these dirty sidewalks of Broadway / Where hustles the name of the game / And nice guys get washed away like the snow and the rain".Campbell plays it dead straight and he delivers the 'western' lyric with all the poise and purpose of a Shakespearian actor.

Time can be unkind to a certain kind of song, just this kind of song, as a matter of fact. The kind of song sung by a man sporting an ultra-white rhinestone suit, the kind of suit that not even Jay Gatsby in his Cotton Club pomp would ever have dreamt of wearing. "Rhinestone Cowboy", though, transcends time and place, transcends our sickly obsession with image, transcends its source material, transcends even the supposed wisdom of F. Scott Fitzgerald. It's a starry -eyed song and my guess is that it will continue to orbit rock 'n 'roll heaven forever.

No sooner have we reached the album's highpoint than we're brought back down to earth with a bump, courtesy of a pair of mundane ballads. "I'd Build a Bridge" is a clichéd love song that left me more than a little queasy before its sorry end, while "Pencils For Sale" is laboured from the word go and not even an outbreak of whistling at the songs close usually a sign of desperation can salvage this schmaltzy, underwhelming ballad.

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