Word: raspings
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Dates: during 1980-1989
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...once he dons his rubber and leather bat costume, Keaton is something else again. His face, hidden behind a black rubber mask, is almost expressionless. His voice, somewhere between a rasp and a whisper, reveals almost no emotion. It is easy to understand why the people of Gotham are afraid of him--early sightings of the superhero describe a six-foot bat who drinks human blood. Keaton does his best to make Batman a creature of the supernatural...
...through the last two -- or is it three? Guilt breeds resentment, which in turn fosters rationalization. Anyone who writes that much must be doing a pretty slapdash job of it. And this impression has led to a distinct tilt in contemporary taste and criticism toward "bleeders," those who rasp and file their words meticulously before issuing slim volumes at discreet intervals...
...that Richards sings lead on every track--and does it with dexterity. If you laughed at Keith's occasional attempts at lead vocals on Stones albums, you'll be astonished at how adept his singing has become. His voice still has the narrow timbre of old, and his rasp is raspier than ever, but his vocal gymnastics display an unexpected spryness. On one song, the Stax-like "Make No Mistake," he even croons and whispers like Al Green (though without Green's range), curling his voice around each syllable with palpable relish. Keith also proves himself a reasonable blues shouter...
...struggle to pin down Steve Earle, however. "Stylistically, I'm a country singer, and I will always be a country singer because I talk like this," he says in a striking Panhandle rasp. "What I'm doing is country and rock, and I don't think they are mutually exclusive terms." It is no easy matter to convince everyone, though. Guitar Town, his seminal 1986 MCA album, was full of great tunes -- Springsteen on a two-lane blacktop -- and should have settled all conflicts of style. But, he reports, "I'm at war with the record company on the West...
...direction, Candy performs the slow burn of a put-upon Mr. Middle America, and Aykroyd perfects his impression (first exhibited in the 1981 film Neighbors) of Richard Nixon as a used-car salesman. It would be nice if these acute comics had achieved the intimate hostility of cousins who rasp on each other's nerves. But Hughes cannot be bothered here with surprise or subtlety, so his antagonists have the fatigued familiarity of sitcom characters toward the end of a long run. Next time, Hughes might consider a longer gestation period for his script. Or maybe a writer's block...