Postcards From Paradise (2015)


 

  1. Rory and the Hurricanes
  2. You Bring the Party Down
  3. Bridges
  4. Postcards From Paradise
  5. Right Side of the Road
  6. Not Looking Back
  7. Bamboula
  8. Island in the Sun
  9. Touch and Go
 10. Confirmation
 11. Let Love Lead

 

One hesitates to admit it after all these years, but Postcards from Paradise forces a somewhat embarrassing realization: Ringo Starr badly needs a lyricist. That may sound like a nitpick—after all, no one ever expected Ringo to pen sonnets—but on this album, more than perhaps any other in his catalogue, the weight of weak lyric writing drags otherwise promising songs into mediocrity. The result is an album that never offends, but very rarely satisfies—and could have been something considerably better with a firmer editorial hand.

Ringo has long leaned into certain familiar themes: his Liverpool upbringing, his Beatle past, and his commitment to peace and positivity. None of these are inherently problematic—until they’re rendered in lyrics so juvenile, repetitive, or outright embarrassing that even the most forgiving listener is left cringing. These issues have been evident before, but here they are almost aggressively present.

Take the opening track, Rory and the Hurricanes—a nod to Ringo’s pre-Beatles group. It’s a decent enough premise, set to a pleasing, mid-tempo tune with a genuinely catchy chorus. But the words are pure sugar, and not the refined kind. The forced cuteness, the awkward phrasing, the “aren’t I cheeky?” tone all conspire to undercut what might have been a strong opener. It feels less like autobiography and more like a clumsy classroom assignment.

Then there’s the title track, Postcards from Paradise, which—musically speaking—is easily the best thing on offer. The melody is solid, the arrangement tight. But the lyrics? A patchwork quilt of Beatles song titles, stitched together into what one assumes is meant to be a sort of “tribute” to the legacy. Instead, it plays like parody. It’s the kind of track that causes you to glance around the room to see if anyone else is grimacing too. And the worst part is: Ringo has done this sort of thing before. Repeatedly. And no one, apparently, has stopped him.

It’s a shame, because buried within this record are glimpses of what could have been. Touch and Go is a sprightly little pop number that holds together well, while Bamboula incorporates Caribbean textures with charm and a sense of light experimentation. Best of all is Not Looking Back, a quietly beautiful track that recalls Ringo’s strongest solo period—namely the 1990s and early 2000s—when his work was grounded, sincere, and subtly crafted.

The rest of the album drifts by pleasantly enough. At just under forty minutes, it doesn’t overstay its welcome. But the sense of resignation lingers—both from the artist and the listener. It’s difficult to tell whether Ringo has grown content with coasting, or whether he genuinely believes this is his best foot forward. Either way, the lack of lyrical care continues to hamper material that otherwise shows promise.

One wants, instinctively, to give him the benefit of the doubt. And perhaps he deserves it. If Ringo is happy—genuinely happy—in this late chapter of his career, then perhaps the rest of us should simply be grateful he’s still recording at all. But as someone who has seen just how much he’s capable of, albums like Postcards from Paradise remain a frustrating listen. Not because they’re bad, but because they could be so much better.


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