Album: Harvest
Released: February, 1972
“Think I’ll pack it in and buy a
pickup, take it down to L.A.”. These
are the first versus sung on Out on the
Weekend (and ‘Harvest’ for that matter, seeing as this is the first cut on
the album). Whenever I hear them, I
think of my old friend, Bob Bouvier, who passed away far too young several
years ago (and who I have dedicated this ‘Forever Young’ series to). Bouv would sing these lines routinely on
Friday afternoons during our senior year at North Adams State College (now the
Massachusetts College of Liberal Arts), after his last class was complete and
with nothing but the weekend looming ahead.
It was a declaration empathizing that it was time to broaden the horizons,
or at least give it the old college try.
Bouv could flip the switch like no one I knew, but any of us who have
spent years living away from home immersed in college-campus life can probably
name someone with similar abilities. I’m
talking about the type of person who can hit the books heavy Monday thru
Friday, and then let it all loose for what was left of the week. To only know Bob Bouvier on a Saturday nite,
you would think he was a one-semester-and-done casualty (and I certainly knew
my share of these cases). But this was
not the story with Bouv, not by a long shot, as he mastered the curriculum and
graduated with honors.
I met Bob that last year in North Adams, 1983-84. The prior year I had spent on an exchange
program at Carleton University in Ottawa, Canada. When I got back, many of my strongest
connections had transferred, graduated, or dropped out. One of my few remaining ties was able to
secure the last slot in a 4-room off-campus house for me (a last minute
scramble after another prospect fell thru).
Bob was one of my new roommates.
We connected as soon as we met. I
recall the moment clearly. Our new
apartment was, shall we say, a bit to be desired (Dad still recalls he and I
trying to get in the house through a back window - seeing as I had arrived
before everyone, sans a key -and “being attacked” by the overgrown shrubbery). After I settled in and my parents departed,
Bouv walked in the door. We were
standing in the kitchen greeting each other, when a bird flew into the window next
to us and collapsed in a heap outside.
We peaked out the back door (not able to go any further, seeing as there
were no stairs!) and caught the woozy bird getting back on her feet in that
unkempt backyard before flying off. A
few moments later, back in the kitchen, we noted shades of an old nest above
the stove. We put two and two
together. This bird had been coming home
to roost. The house had been open to the
elements for god-knows how long and the window had just recently been put in.
Bouv surmised that the bird had just flown all the way from Capistrano
(despite this being the fall). He imitated
the moments just before it slammed into the window, ecstatic to be home at last. He did this in slow motion. It was hilarious. After a few more elucidations on the story by
both of us we were in hysterics, despite having had met one another just 15
minutes earlier. I realized right off
that Bob could take a pathetic situation and make it funny. Considering where we were living, this would
be an invaluable tool all year long.
It was not long before our landlord was the butt end of much
laughter. Many tenants would recoil in
anger at what we had to deal with that year (including extremely poor heating
and rats). Not Bouv. After Ransford (our slumlord) had told us a
handful of times that he would fix something “tomorrow”, and it never would be
fixed, we concluded that what he really said was “tomoraaa” and that this was a
word unique to him. The notion was that
“tomoraaa” never came, and that Ransford would be oblivious to any reasoning if
confronted the following day (“I told you I’d fix it tomoraaa!”).
The jokes never stopped all year.
Not much was sacred. It was
simple humor, but boy did it work for me.
Being back in North Adams (at the time, a run-down former mill city in the
Berkshire Hills, at the northwest corner of Massachusetts) after an amazing
year in Ottawa felt like a regression. Bouv
made the year bearable. He was a kid at
heart, unencumbered by the weight of conformity that many of us struggle with. This was just what I needed that otherwise melancholy
year.
One of our strongest connections was music. If a student is lucky, there is at least one
year in college life where the music dominates the scene. Free time is spent listening to it; loudly, and
with your roommates. Of course, this
requires similar musical tastes. It also
requires that you are learning from one another. Bouv and I (and another roommate, Gaff) were primed
for this experience that year. It was as
intense of an education as any of my classes.
Neil Young was in the mix, and Bouv lead the way on this musician. Album selections included ‘Everybody Knows
This Is Nowhere’, ‘Decade’, ‘Rust Never Sleeps’, ‘After the Goldrush’ and
‘Harvest’, among others. The stimulation
from that cross section of Young’s catalog would lead to a lifelong interest in
his music (including a significant investment in concert attendance, and of
course this blog series). I had enjoyed Neil
Young beforehand, but Bob took things to another level. Bouv would always let you know when he found
a moment in song particularly powerful, looking over at you through the high
decibels with an astounded look on his face.
You could not help but be drawn into the fascination. I got
those looks a lot while we were in the midst of a Neil Young album.
Out on the Weekend (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CCeX4UqCzVo
) was a very poignant song to Bouv (and in turn, to me). I don’t think it a coincidence that it’s the
opening cut on Neil Young’s best-selling album of all time (‘Harvest’). We sang a lot of songs when we hung out
together, but this was a signature tune for Bob to belt out. There is profound depth to Out on the Weekend. Lyrics and music combine to paint a portrait
with an almost eerie corollary to what we were living out that year in North
Adams. Neil Young expresses ennui in
this song. To be able to hear that on
record and in the process know that the singer had also been through a similar
period was for us, reinvigorating.
When music is at the core of a friendship, something unique
happens. Inhibitions go out the
window. Ideas flow. Memories flow. Discussions about the meaning of life, love
and faith flow. Music gives you a
bee-line to the inner core of a person. From
this perspective, that year living in a dilapidated home, yet surrounded by
quality speakers and turntables and albums, and similar tastes in music was
invaluable. Looking back now, it was a
growing experience in many ways, which is what any of us would hope to get out
of a snapshot in our time here on earth.
Bob Bouvier was a friend. He
called me his brother (he had four sisters, so I think it was a wish of
his). He took our friendship very
seriously, often looking me in the eye to emphasize this point. ‘Brother Bouv’ is missed, but he does live in
the music for me, and over this past year, listening to and writing about Neil
Young has been quite therapeutic. It’s
allowed me to reflect and appreciate what we had all those years ago.
- Pete
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