Forever Young # 48: "Just About Out of Superlatives"

Song:  Cortez the Killer
Album:  Zuma
Released:  August, 1975

Alas, I’ve reached the end of the road in this ‘Forever Young’ year, 2014, which included 48 blog entries centered on the music of Neil Young.   Along with the 2 ‘Gem Music Video of the Week’ (GMVW) entries from ~ six years ago (GMVW # 32, August, 2008 and GMVW # 67, April, 2009), that’s an even 50, which is the same as what I did for the Rolling Stones in 2012 (the ‘Stepping Stones’).  It’s been fun.  It’s been real.  But there is a lot of other music out there, much of which has been set aside for an entire calendar year (a pretty substantial chunk of time to dedicate to one artist if you think about it).  And so it is time to move on.

I have dug deep into the music of Neil Young this year, which was the intention from the get-go.  This musician is one of a handful who I have determined to be on my top shelf, and therefore deserving of a broader connection in these weekly musings than my earlier writings.  The original GMVW series (100 in all) focused on a different musician practically every week.  Those entries were centered on the linked videos (hence the title of the series) - much of which was concert footage, some MTV-like - and the thoughts those videos stirred up in me.  The intent with ‘Stepping Stones’ and ‘Forever Young’ (and hopefully future series centered on the Who, Bob Dylan, and the Beatles) is to flesh out my broader interest in these musicians through all of their albums, allowing me to build new thoughts, old memories and deeper insights upon.  I hope that has come across in the writing. 

So, what did I learn from this ‘Forever Young’ year?  Well, I’m more convinced than ever that Neil Young marches to the beat of his own drum more than any other musician I enjoy listening to.  This has led to an amazing diversity of sound.  For example, other than the vocals, it can be difficult to connect the guy who penned Speakin’ Out with the guy who penned Walks Like a Giant or Transformer Man or People on the Street or Powderfinger or the entirety of ‘Greendale’.  Yes, this singer/songwriter is all over the map.  I don’t believe he has ever been swayed by the critics or his fans.  In many respects, this is what defines an artist.  Rock and Roll needed this attitude to help it climb to the pinnacle of respectability:  It needed Neil Young even more than Young needed it.

In 1986, Rolling Stone Magazine aired a 20^th anniversary documentary on prime time television.  It was an excellent program with a number of high profile musicians interviewed for it.  This was the heart of the 80s and many of the interviewees, including Mick Jagger and David Bowie had the period-piece fluffed up hairdos.  Neil Young on the other hand (as well as Jerry Garcia) made no fashion statement.  He didn’t even attempt to look presentable, and was actually slouched his whole interview, with a ragged, shaggy look about him.  But his comments were clear, concise and riveting.  I was drawn in.  I’m sure a number of future grunge-band leaders were too.

Neil Young is a very personal writer, but I believe this is the case because he feels his life relates to all of us and that it’s his duty to make as strong of a connection as he can with the gifts he has been given.  The ‘ditch trilogy’ of the early 70s (‘Time Fades Away’, ‘On the Beach’, and ‘Tonight’s the Night’) alone bears this out.  There is dissolution and despair on the music of these albums that is palpable.  But somehow, it’s all reassuring because it’s all so human.  This had me coming back for more to that period throughout the year despite the downcast mood and subject matter.  The fact that Neil Young stuck with this mood (or was stuck with it) for a good half decade is impressive; he lay prone on that psychiatrist couch until there was nothing left to say.  He faced his (and his 60’s contemporaries) demons head on, so that by the time ‘Zuma’ was released, there was a natural feeling of uplift.  Any premature attempt to do this would have likely sounded contrived.   Thankfully, we will never know that sound.

Neil Young has done a lot of great work with a lot of great musicians, but I believe it’s his band Crazy Horse that has emboldened him most.  Perhaps it’s because 2014 was the Chinese Year of the Horse, but I found myself turning to the Crazy Horse albums when I needed a bit of creative spark in my writing from time to time.  That simple, driving, relentless beat of this faithful band can be hypnotizing.  I’ve had the opportunity to see it live on a handful of occasions (most recently, 2013) and this year I finally dedicated time to listen to their deeper cuts.  I was not disappointed.  Heck, T-Bone was the centerpiece to one of my ‘Forever Young’ blog entries.  That alone should be testament enough to my admiration.

A few songs in Young’s catalog hit me like a ton of bricks this year.  There was Lookout Joe off of ‘Tonight’s the Night’, and Truth Be Known off of ‘Mirror Ball’ and Love and War off ‘Le Noise’ and the title track off ‘Time Fades Away’ and Barstool Blues off ‘Zuma’.  These songs stared out at me in the past, but they entered another level of my consciousness this time around.  I got the same boost with a number of Rolling Stones songs several years ago.  It’s a bonus to this intense process I suppose.  These gems now stand hand in hand with other Neil Young songs that were already masterpieces to me, including Ordinary People, Harvest, Walks Like a Giant, Long May You Run, Powderfinger, Someday, Wrecking Ball, Horseshoe Man, Razor Love and Change Your Mind.  When you feel a song to the degree that I have felt these songs, you know there is something special there.  For that feeling alone, which hit me blindside on these handfuls of occasions, I believe this process was worthwhile.

Where Neil Young seems to take his biggest risks are in his experiments with sound.  'Trans', 'Le Noise', 'A Letter Home' and ‘Landing on Water’ are all pivotal albums in this regard.  I tried explaining what I heard in this music, but occasionally it got difficult.  The echoing sounds of 'Le Noise' in particular brought me somewhere I could not put my finger on despite repeated listening.  I kept on thinking of Howard Blake’s Walking in the Air (from The Snowman), but the feelings I get from that are just as fascinatingly mysterious.  Several times I felt close to interpreting the feeling, but then it would wisp away in a flash.  As Iris Dement once sang, sometimes you just got to let the mystery be.  Most of the time however, I think I got what I was looking for in word. 

I found this year a bit more challenging than when I wrote about the Rolling Stones.  When I wrote about the Stones, I had a chance to bounce around some, seeing as my interest is almost equally divided among its members, present and past.  For the most part, Neil Young is known as a solo artist, despite the fact that he has accompaniment on most of his songs, and so topics and themes took a bit more effort as the entries mounted.  Perhaps I should have stopped at 30, although I believe I had a pretty good stretch there near the end that could have been missed otherwise.  Anyhow, this will also be a challenge for Bob Dylan, but that’s a subject for another time.

Neil Young has done an amazing job of avoiding hubris, which has brought down many in his field.  This is the key reason for his longevity.  Young was 34 when he toured ‘Rust Never Sleeps’.  In that footage, he looks as if he is 24.  He’s svelte and wiry.  By that time, many of his generation were looking their age and then some.  Neil Young is no angel and has consumed his fair share of substances.  But everyone who looks younger than their years has some secret.  For Young, it’s his ability to sidestep pride.  As is the case with Leonard Cohen, who just released a fantastic album at the age of 80, Neil Young could be producing quality for many years to come for this very reason. 

A general rule of mine with these blog writings has been to stay on the positive side of the ledger, but with Neil Young and his passion for singing about hot ticket items like contrived wars and global warming and racism and inequity, there was no avoiding my dipping into these issues.  It was somewhat easy to do, since I sympathize with most of Young’s protestations, but it still broke me out of the mold.  But like I said to my Mom a month or so ago, you can’t ignore what’s gnawing at you.  It’s got to come out.  So I wrote on these topics here and there.  Considering the central figure, it would have been a sham not to have.

A few potential entries will be left on the vine.  I flirted with songs like Stringman and Touch the Night and My Boy and Hitchhiker and Philadelphia and The Loner, but nothing beyond a few sentences ever materialized out of these.  They are all magnificent songs, as are so many others in Neil Young’s catalog that I had to pass on.  However, I believe the 50 songs chosen represent the broad swath of what this musician brings to the table. 

I’d like to thank everyone for their support, particularly my wife Nancy and my brother Fred.  Laying ones thoughts out on the line can on occasion feel as if you are out on a limb, so the support is much appreciated.  I’d also like to thank my good friend Jeff Strause, who gives me insights to the times that preceded my own formative years (late 60s and early 70s) as well as to what is happening now (I don’t  know of anyone that comes close to having attended the number of shows Jeff has in his lifetime).   And also Chris Brady, who sent me some great live Neil Young music, which definitely helped to stimulate ideas throughout the year. 

And finally, I’d like to make another nod to Bob Bouvier, who opened the door to my deeper interest and insights into Neil Young’s music, and to whom this ‘Forever Young’ series is dedicated to.  Cortez the Killer is chosen as the final entry with Bouv in mind (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m-b76yiqO1E )   .  Back in 1986, when I attended my first Crazy Horse show with Bob, it was this song that captivated us the most.  The self-dubbed “3^rd best Garage Band in the World”, were immersed in piped-in ‘fog’, and Young came “dancing” out of it.  One could almost picture Cortez making his way on to North American soil for the first time, Montezuma awaiting, not yet realizing the implications.  Young blends history, myth and love into this song (“and I know she’s living there, and she loves me to this day”).   This can be said for many other songs in his catalog, (i.e. Southern Man, a story about lynching, which includes “Lily Belle, your hair is golden brown”).  It’s never simple with Neil Young.   There are always multiple levels and numerous possible entry points. 

I’ll close with the ending set of lyrics in Thrasher:

But me I'm not stopping there,
Got my own row left to hoe
Just another line in the field of time
When the thrashers comes, I'll be stuck in the sun
Like the dinosaurs in shrines
But I'll know the time has come
To give what's mine.

Neil Young has always set the bar high for himself, which comes through in these lyrics.  I hope that I followed his lead this year with these ‘Forever Young’ blog entries.

-          Pete

Forever Young # 47: "The Great North American Narrative"

Song:  Peaceful Valley Boulevard
Album:  Le Noise
Released:  September, 2010

Often during the writing of this ‘Forever Young’ series I have contemplated Neil Young’s place in the broader context of the ever-evolving story of America.  To this end, a term has played out in my mind: “The Great North American Narrative”, the story of North America in the modern era.  To my knowledge, nothing like it has been written.  It may be too all-encompassing.  There’s Mexico, and the United States, and Canada and the Caribbean, and Central America and Native America, and the interplay between these entities.  But despite all this diversity, there is a commonality.  There is a story there.  It’s about trailblazing and risk and opportunity.  There are many subplots, a number of which are centered on historic events.  But the vast majority of the narrative is about individuals; people who made a difference. 

Neil Young is now an undeniable piece of that Great North American Narrative, and so are several of his musical contemporaries, including Robert Johnson and Woody Guthrie and Bob Dylan.  Yes, there is no doubt in my mind that this bluesman (Johnson) and beatnik (Guthrie) and folkie (Dylan) and hippie (Young) are now a part of the narrative, right up there with the likes of Henry Hudson, and Samuel de Champlain and Alexander Graham Bell, and Tecumseh, and Lewis and Clark, and Harriet Tubman, and Abraham Lincoln and Geronimo and Pancho Villa, and Charlie Chaplin and Judy Garland and Joe DiMaggio and Al Jolson and, and Ernest Hemmingway and Crazy Horse and Babe Ruth and Fred Astaire, and Martin Luther King and Teddy Roosevelt, and Walt Disney and Albert Einstein and Andrew Carnegie and Mark Twain and John Wayne and Thomas Edison and George Gershwin and Irving Berlin and Hank Williams.   

Who would have thought?  Forty years ago, such a declaration would have been scoffed at.  But the times, they have changed, and the contributions of these musicians, with others on their heels, are getting recognized now as revolutionary in their own way.  Yes, these men have helped shape the American experience.  Dylan himself was recognized in this regard with the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 2012, the highest honor that can be bestowed on an American civilian. 

Neil Young is certain to be a future recipient of this distinguished medal. This long haired, flannel loving, self-proclaimed hippie has climbed to the top of the mountain.  He’s done this in both the depth and breadth of his works, which has come with a boatload of independent thinking.  He’s done this by taking his own personal story and thrusting it out there for all to hear.  In the process, we have learned that Neil Young is not proud.  In fact, he’s just the opposite, which has allowed those of us who listen to his music to relate, and in turn see our place in the narrative as well.  To know an open, honest musician the likes of Neil Young is, in many ways, to know ourselves. 

Neil Young’s story covers large chunks of the North American narrative.  He identifies himself as a Canadian and a citizen of the United States.  He connects with Native Americans too.  One could even make a case that he has tapped into the New World Hispanic experience (case in point, the ‘Freedom’ song Eldorado).  Neil Young is urban and rural, prairie and coastal, ancient and modern, and almost all of it traces to those American roots. 

I just finished the Levon Helm book, ‘This Wheel’s on Fire’, a fascinating story of The Band.  One take-home was the role Canada (particularly the Toronto region) played in the evolution of Rock and Roll in the early 60s.   When we think of Rock and Roll origins and its early evolution we think of the Deep South and Memphis and New York and Chicago and San Francisco and Detroit and Cleveland.  The intriguing thing about the Toronto region is that they picked up on this new sound relatively early.  This interest drew in the Southern rockabilly bands.  Musicians like Ronnie Hawkins and Levon Helm found they could make more money north of the border.  In turn, Canadian upstarts like Robbie Robertson, Richard Manuel, Garth Hudson, and Rick Danko got a leg up on young musicians in other parts of North America simply by being there.  Soon, they were being recruited by those Southern rockabilly bands that had made their way North.  At the same time upstarts including Gordon Lightfoot, Joni Mitchell and Neil Young were establishing themselves in Toronto.  A scene had been established in the Yorkville district of the city and soon expanded to the entire region. 

I bring this Toronto scene up because I believe it is where Neil Young began connecting those North American dots.  He was in a very advantageous position to be living there at that time, albeit in a precarious, almost day-to-day existence.  I lived in Canada for a year, Ottawa, Ontario to be specific, and in the process I made some great and lasting friendships.  At the time and in the years since, I’ve come to gain a bit of insight into what Canada brings to the Great North American Narrative table.  It’s about proximity to the USA, our common language (for the most part) and Canada’s love of the good things that come out of this country.  Where many of us in the States tend to take cultural shifts a bit for granted, or simply not see the tide changing, the Canadians hone in.  Often, they become so enamored with some of these trends, that they push the envelope and make the original concept better.  They’ve done it with comedy (i.e. Second City improvisation), they’ve done it with baby-boomer self-absorption (i.e. Trivial Pursuit) and, as explained above, they’ve done it with rock and roll.

From that original scene, Neil Young continued to make all the right moves which ultimately tied him to the entire continent, both musically and geographically.  This is what puts him in the narrative. 

There are numerous songs in Neil Young’s catalog that dig deep into the American psyche.  A prime example is this week’s Forever Young entry, Peaceful Valley Boulevard ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kE9AwJtZ3gw&list=RDkE9AwJtZ3gw ).  This song has historical context; that being the struggles of the early western settlers.  But it also delves into current events, namely the heavy, overarching issue of global warming.  Young ties it all together, in a way only he can do.  It’s all about cause and consequence, despite the passage of time that would have most of us thinking otherwise.  There is outrage in this tune; however this sentiment comes with an undertow of love for his home land, respect and reverence mixed with anger.  It’s this ability to hit you from both angles that makes Neil Young a rare spokesperson for his generation.

One more Forever Young entry to go.

Merry Christmas!

-          Pete

Forever Young # 46: "Bouv"

Song:  Out on the Weekend
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

Forever Young # 45: "Dog Story"

Song:  Old King
Album:  Harvest Moon
Released:  October, 1992

It’s not often that the simpler-meaning songs on an album are the ones I connect most strongly with.  Typically I enjoy grappling with the more complex tunes; the ones that get your mind spinning in different direction with multiple interpretations, or the ones that have you tapping into the historical context of the times, or the ones with a legendary story behind them. 

The music on ‘Harvest Moon’ is a rare exception.  Don’t get me wrong, the entire album is as smooth as silk, with nary a hiccup from start to finish.  However, my favorite songs on this 1992 gem-of-a-record are lyrically undemanding.  There’s the iridescent title track, which was the cornerstone song for my parents on their golden wedding anniversary video (compiled by their children).  This is truly one of Neil Young’s best works.  There’s the opening number (Unknown Legend), with lyrics that allow for the magnificent imagery of an inspirational free spirit, and One of These Days; a promise to friends and family, and Such a Woman; as sweet of a love song as we are going to hear by a musician with an anthology chock-full of them. 

Then there’s Old King, the focus of this week’s Forever Young entry ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uXvXCtXkd68 ).  A simpler constructed song you will not hear in Neil Young’s repertoire (excepting perhaps the bizarre T-Bone off ‘Re-ac-tor’).  However, this Rockwellian tune has energy, powered along by great backing vocals and a topic many of us can relate to:  A pet dog. In this case, Young’s pet dog (whose real name was Elvis, which may have been changed either out of respect for “The King” or because not much rhymes with ‘Elvis’ other than ‘pelvis’,  and Presley himself has sole ownership of that custom-fit word combo).  The vocals are serious, counterbalancing the upbeat-banjo beat, and pointing out in the process that this is not a giddy kiddy song.  Young seems to be stating here “this may be about my dog, but I loved this creature”.   Hear, Hear!

Anyhow, along with the Beatles Martha My Dear, Old King makes surprising inroads into my psyche in regards to songs that are about man’s best friend.  It stirs up memories of my youth, where the dogs were as much a part of the old gang and the family as any one of us.  With this in mind, I thought it fitting to reflect on my old pal, Nicky, and several of her (and my) canine sidekicks. 

Nicky, a black female mutt (“Heinz – 57 varieties”), was as faithful of a dog as there was.  My parents brought her home the evening my favorite rabbit, Chrissie died (and what a character she was, but that’s another story), back when I was in 5^th grade.  Before the night was over, Nicky was my new best pal.  Although she would never be a dog akin to Old King  (who “wasn’t scared of jumping off the truck in high gear”) or one who could fetch a ball or wow you with her smarts, she was loyalty personified.  Yes, Nick stood by me through thick and thin.  She joined me on fishing trips down the track in the early morning hours, and on treks thru swamp-laden woods and on precarious hikes up rock ledges and, oh yeah, running from trouble (of the teenager prankster variety).  She waited patiently outside of stores and ice cream parlors downtown for me to come back out.  I confided in her when it was time to call it a night, as I sat on the chair by the wood stove before heading upstairs.  She perked right up at these moments, no matter the hour. 

There were other more specific moments.  For example, while in my junior year of high school, a motley crew from another part of town showed up one night in our neighborhood for no other reason than to pick a fight.  It got pretty ugly for a few moments, as one of my friends was signaled out for some high-octane abuse.  This was the only time I ever saw Nicky show her teeth.  She worked her way into the melee, prompting the ringleader to say something along the lines of “get that thing away from me or I’ll hurt her”.  The kid was scared, which, looking back now, is pretty comical considering my dog’s placid reputation.  Things soon broke up and the intruders backed off.  I’m not certain Nicky could take the credit, but I was sure proud of her that night. 

There was the day at Dean Junior College when my friends and I walked in through the front door of the main hall for a jaunt through the heart of the school.  We loved to explore Dean, because all the buildings were connected, and most were very old.  Often we would run into my friend Bruce’s Dad, who was a professor there.  We’d also run into the President, Dick Crockford, who lived next door to Bruce.  We’d look at the portraits of all the Presidents (of the USA) along the main-hall staircase and take a look to see what was happening in the gym and music hall.  Anyhow, after this one particular jaunt through the school, I exited out a back door and completely forgot about Nicky, who I had left behind outside up front.  Later that evening, after dinner, my Mom went to feed her and she was nowhere to be found.  I panicked for a moment, but then suddenly remembered where I last saw her.  Feeling terrible, I hustled my way down to the front entrance of Dean Junior College, and there she was, sitting nervously by the front door with a few students patting her.  She knew her way home, but I had told her to “stay”, and she did!

My favorite memories with Nick may have been on my paper route.  My good friend Phil’s dog, Whiskers, would routinely join us, meeting in the parking lot at the bottom of the hill from my home (with an uncanny sense of timing, seeing as Whiskers lived 2 blocks away and always showed up at the precise moment).  We would then make our way down another hill to Dean Ave, where I started my door-to-door deliveries.  No two dogs could have been more different than Nick and Whiskers, and they ignored each other for the most part.  Whiskers was an old, wise male terrier.  Other than a bad habit of chasing cars and another of shredding dolls and stuffed toys, he was about as smart of a dog as I’ve ever known (and the shredding may have been a veiled aspect of Whiskers smarts, as he would only tear up the tacky teddies).  And Whiskers loved our family.  When Dad would tell him a particularly funny joke, he would do as close to an imitation of human laughter as is possible for a creature on four legs.  You had to see it to believe it.   His head would cock to the side, and so would his mouth, tongue protruding through agape jaw, and a faint “ha, ha, ha” utterance when you listened close enough.  This was not panting, oh, no….this was a dog heartily yukking it up!

Anyhow, Whiskers and Nicky routinely joined me on my paper route.  Many on the route looked at the three of us as a team.  If I were alone, which was unusual (on occasion, in the rain) there would be comments to this effect.  There were numerous other dogs on this route, and over time, many of them got a sense for the circular nature of it (up one street, down another), and in turn would join us.  For a lark, I started keeping a checklist in a small notebook of the number of times each dog joined us.  Often I had no idea what the name of the dog was, so I came up with my own names:  “Mutt Mutt”, “Chumly”, and “Mr. Friend” are a few of the names I recall.  Since I wanted to give every one of them a check for the day, I’d often plead my case for them to join us, as I believe would Whiskers and Nicky. 

The vibes were all there, and over the months, the momentum built up.  Soon there would be at least 5 dogs I could rely on regularly on any given day.  But often there were more, and one day in particular I had reached critical mass; 15 dogs were with me that fall afternoon.  I still remember one customer opening her door and seeing me with all these dogs.  Her jaw dropped, and she insisted the lot of us freeze so she could run back and get her camera.  Man, I wish I could see that photo.

Neil Young expressed quite well the emotions that are tied to what a good dog brings to the table.  A handful of memories of an old pal confirmed that.

-          Pete

Forever Young # 44: "Stretching It Out Some"

Song:  Cowgirl in the Sand
Album:  Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere
Released:  May, 1969

Back in 1992, Nancy and I mapped out a vacation that eventually connected us with all 5 of the Great Lakes (including a circumvention of Lake Superior).  To date, it remains one of my favorite road trips and I recommend this extremely underrated region to anyone who loves to explore.  Destinations are endless, and include Sleeping Giant Provincial Park, Isle Royale, Pukaskwa National Park (Canada), Mackinac Island, the Apostle Islands, Tettegouche, Wawa, Niagara Falls, the Point Abino Lighthouse (and numerous others), Bruce Peninsula National Park (Canada), Thousand Islands, Georgian Bay, Manitoulin, Superior National Forest (USA) and so much more:  Simply magnificent. 

One stop we made along the way was in the village of Grand Portage, on the Minnesota / Ontario border.  It was there where we witnessed a Native American powwow.  The tribe was of Chippewa decent and a feature of their powwow was a lengthy ‘jingle’ dance.  We had been driving quite a bit that day and were pretty burned out by the time we arrived, but this dance chilled us out.  We kicked back and soaked it in. 

By 1992 I had been to a handful of Neil Young concerts, and as a consequence, I could not help but make a connection.  This event we were taking in on the remote Northwest side of Lake Superior was almost trance-like, and for that matter, so were the Neil Young w/Crazy Horse shows I had been to that point.  The similarities were most pronounced when comparing the chanting (on the Chippewa end) and extended jams (on the Crazy Horse end). 

I discussed jams briefly last week in the context of improvisation.  This week I’d like to get in a bit deeper.  What makes a great extended jam?  What mood does it set?  How does it highlight a show?  If there’s any subject that should be fleshed out more in regards to Neil Young, it’s this one, as I don’t believe I’ve ever read anything that attempts to do this.  Yes, concert reviews and the like will mention the extraordinary moments of shows, including the jams, but other than a comment here or there about  Young’s guitar playing, there’s little beef there; at least from what I have read.

I suppose it’s all a bit out of the realm of standard journalism.  What I’m talking about here delves more into the personal journey; what goes on in your own head when you are taking in a musical moment.  But folks who attend live events collectively know when they are spectators of something exceptional.  They talk about it after, and good write ups usually capture those moments too.  In general, how do we know when something is very good versus so-so?

When a jam is done right it brings you deeper into the song.  Most rock/pop songs are short ditties, three to five minutes on average.  Often when a good short song ends you are left wanting more.  Neil Young and others in the Rock realm realized this in the 60’s and figured they would do something about it.  Songs like Down By the River, Change Your Mind, Cortez the Killer, and this week’s focus, Cowgirl in the Sand were stretched out musically in-between the lyrics.  This gave us listeners a chance to think.  A pop-quiz became an essay.  The Confucius in us was satiated.  The urge for a re-listen (though still tempting) was subdued.

In honoring the reasoning behind extended jams, I’ve decided to devote the remainder of this entry to a stream of consciousness thought process as I listen to Cowgirl in the Sand.  I’ve played it repeatedly, as I can’t always type as fast as I can think.  At 10 minutes a pop, that’s a good solid hour after only 6 listens:  (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3fAXl97-RFg ). 

All this was written while listening in my living room on headphones next to a crackling fire, volume turned up to eleven:

> The slow introduction to this song is a welcome touch; the two guitarists getting in tune and in the process creating a mood for the familiar licks that follow.  That familiarity kicks in with a burst, as all 4 instruments (guitars, bass, and drums) chime in simultaneously at the 33 second mark.  An attention-grabber if there ever was one.

>  Nice having these headphones on to clearly distinguish Neil Young’s guitar licks (left side) from Danny Whitten’s (right).  Of course, this can be reversed by flipping the headphone.  After doing this I can’t determine if listening to rhythm guitar on the right side of the brain (vs lead guitar) is any different than the left.  This will take some time.

>  “Hello ruby in the dust.  Has your band begun to rust?”  Interesting line.  I believe it’s the first reference to ‘rust’ in a Neil Young song (to be followed 10 years later by ‘Rust Never Sleeps’ and “It’s better to burn out than it is to rust”.  Neil Young clearly realizes what he has with this new band, Crazy Horse, and wants to emphasize right up front that none of it should be taken for granted. 

>  Billy Talbot’s bass keeps the beat.  Steady and strong

>  And so the story goes that this song (along with Cinnamon Girl and Down By the River) was written by Neil Young while in the midst of a flu and a 103 temperature.  The story also goes that all 3 songs were about a brief encounter Young had with a Toronto girl in the mid-60s.  Fate would have it that a rendezvous would never happen because the girl of Young’s desires got ill and was never able to reconnect downtown at the agreed on time (the fact that each of them got ill at key moments speaks to the legend of these songs).  Without an exchange of phone numbers, they were never able to reconnect.

>  This song was produced in Hollywood.  Thinking of a good number of my classmates that made the exodus to California after high school graduation. What became of them?  Thinking of Nancy and I venturing to the region for the first time after winning tickets to a Roy Orbison Tribute show in 1989, driving the Sunset Strip and the Hollywood Hills and the nearby beaches.  The region had a certain aura about it that you do not feel in New England.  Neil Young and Crazy Horse’s sound fits the bill.  It’s the feel of discovery.

>  The guitars, bass and drums on their own come across as simplistic, but collectively you have a unique, powerful sound.  How does this happen?  I think it’s related to how this band can build up the intensity and then scale back.  It’s all about timing and tempo.

>  Something to chew on:  My generation heaps praise on rock musicians when they become successful.  Yet it is often the case that the success came thru risk or desperation or both, including dropping out of school or hitting the road with little or nothing but a pocket full of hope.  These are not traits parents typically look for in their kids, but from afar, it’s something we admire.  It’s a strange thing.

>  I’ve been stuck on the album ‘Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere’ for 2 weeks now.  This is partly due to the short work week this week and the travelling last week, but it’s also due to this album being loaded with ‘Forever Young’ qualifiers, and I am simply not going to be able to get to all of them (including the title track and Down By the River).  This is a groundbreaking album and a path you want to point someone toward if they want to connect with Neil Young’s music.  There’s much to ponder when listening.
> Man, those Patriots have been playing great this past month.  Wait, I have to refocus!
> I read a review one time that had an interesting take on how Neil Young plays his electric guitar ‘Old Black’.  The reviewer stated that it is as if he is fighting the instrument, trying to get the most out of it.  It’s a one on one battle and you can picture this being the case when you see him play live with Crazy Horse.  The guitar wants to be lazy and call it a day early on, and Neil will have nothing of it.  Hilarious and heavy at the same time.  I envision this going on here on Cowgirl in the Sand. 

Hope everyone had a Happy Thanksgiving.

 

-          Pete

Forever Young # 43: “Alright Wilson, Pick it!”

Song:  Losing End
Album:  Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere
Released:  May, 1969

Over the course of these blog writings, my primary hope has been that I find a way to explain why it is I choose the songs I do for each entry.   In every case, the overriding factor is that I consider these selections to be top drawer in terms of listenability.  The tough part is then fleshing out the ‘why’.   There are many reasons, and they cover a whole range of topics from the visceral to the cerebral.  In a nutshell, music can be difficult to critique, but if you love a song, there is something there to tease out, be it on the critical or personal level; or both. 

Although it is the rare entry where the insights come fast and furious, finding the explanation behind this particular week’s selection was even less clairvoyant than usual, despite swinging back to the song on several occasions over the year.  It’s crunch time, however.  I’m near the end of this ‘Forever Young’ series; just a handful of songs remaining on the to-do list.  There’s simply no more wiggle room.  It’s either shit or get off the pot.

So, feeling the heat to get it all down, allow me to wade in slowly here.  The biggest factor that makes it difficult to offer up a distinct critique on the song Losing End is that there’s nothing all that revolutionary about the music or lyrics.  In fact, I don’t think the lyrics could be any simpler:  A straight-up love-lost song for the most part.  A start-up band would most likely be turned away at the record company door if they presented a demo of this sob story to the producers, which could have been the case here considering the fact that at that stage in the game, Neil Young’s collaboration with Crazy Horse was in its infancy.  This rough, hard-edged (and often out of tune) sound was a novel one to most ears, and said sound was still being tweaked.  Success was far from a foregone conclusion. 

But you never know what a band is going to bring to the table until they are allowed to actually do it. Intangibles can play out in positive or negative ways.  If the unit is cohesive, things will click in the studio in ways that are not always predictable.  These are risks that a good record company (in this case, Wally Heider Studios in San Francisco) has to take on occasion.  And because these risks were taken in this circumstance, we all get to hear how a great song (on a phenomenal album) can play out from something seemingly average at best.   Neil Young’s contributions all around are virtuoso, as are Danny Whitten’s solid backing-vocal support, and Billy Talbot impassioned up-and-down-the-fret bass playing (a big reason why this was one of the first songs I learned on bass guitar). 

All these efforts help to distinguish Losing End from the pack, but where the passion and virtuosity really kick in is at the bridge. There is a subtle shift in tempo here… in the upbeat direction.  Something about the mood changes with it.  Where at the onset of the song the listener braces himself for a soup-to-nuts onslaught of maudlin, at the bridge we hear the singer (Young) beginning to come across as someone working his way through the pain of loss, with the hope of being transformed for the better.   By the last set of verses, the lyrics remain tear-jerker, but there is a sense that the protagonist has been emboldened. 

This is pretty impressive, considering the brevity by which any musician can make a statement in a song.  There is typically room for just one emotion.  Most tunes try to capture that singular emotion and ride it out for all it’s worth.  Not here.  Neil Young and company take a chance on changing the mood midway, and they succeed mightily in this endeavor.

How do they pull this off?  I believe it comes down to a spontaneous high-pitched shout-out by Young just before the bridge (at the 2:45 mark: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mrc68TbyywU ).  The exclamation “Alright Wilson, pick it!” throws the somber mood completely out of synch.   Was this the intention?  ‘Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere’, produced in 1969, is one of the first releases in Neil Young’s solo career, and so there was not much to base such an observation on at that stage.  With hindsight being 20/20 all these years later, I’d say there is now plenty to work with in this regard.  Yes, Young is trying to shake things up, and in the process we all get to hear a monumental band begin to gel for the long haul.  This singular utterance may on its own drive to the heart of why I enjoy Neil Young’s music so much.

 If there is anything I appreciate in performance its spontaneity, those moments when you know there was nothing premeditated about it.  Think Ringo Starr’s “I’ve got blisters on my fingers!” (closing the door on Helter Skelter) or Pete Townshend blurting out “I saw ya!” at the end of Happy Jack (in response to Keith Moon trying to sneak his backing vocals onto the track at the last second).  There’s the laughing at the start of Bob Dylan’s 115^th Dream, and David Crosby sobbing the lyrics “How many more!” at the end of Ohio (see Forever Young # 27: “It’s Enough To Make a Grown Man Cry”). 

And there’s the music itself, including the spontaneous extended jam on the Rolling Stones Can’t You Hear Me Knocking, most noted for Mick Taylor’s seminal lead guitar playing (see ‘Stepping Stone’ # 19, May 2012).  The Grateful Dead, the Who, Neil Young and the Allman Brothers are all known for their extended improvised jamming, and I’ve been fortunate enough to witness all these acts on numerous occasions.  These jams were the moments that made the events memorable (I plan to write more on this topic in the upcoming weeks).

This sentiment carries into my viewing of other art forms as well.  Marty Feldman was a master of the ad lib, including hilarious bits of his contribution to the dinner table scene in the movie ‘Young Frankenstein’ (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AS1HIThPcz8 ).  Gene Wilder looks as if he’s barely holding back the laughter.  Andy Kaufman had his numerous moments as well, including disrupting several scripts on Saturday Night Live (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bN5vhvIAqY8 ).  I caught a few of them at the time of the original broadcast.  They gave meaning to the “Live” part in the title of the show.   

This love of spontaneity carries into my own life.  My favorite memories are of the unexpected; those incidents that shook things up.  Marty Feldman’s dinner table takes in ‘Young Frankenstein’ were probably so funny to me because they reminded me of all the laughter around my family dinner table growing up.  Familiar comments often lead to something completely out of left field.  Those new twists would then be used as fodder for weeks on end:  Inside jokes that were virtually impossible to describe to someone who was not there.  Same goes for the family vacations.  Then there are the event shakeups.  A missed train in Bordeaux, France while travelling with Bob Mainguy in ’86 leads to a change of plans, making for a fantastic few days on the French Riviera.  A missed airline connection in Denver this past year leads to an eye-opening drive over the Rocky Mountains to Salt Lake City (where I had to give a presentation that next morning).  Sometimes you just gotta take what is thrown at you and run with it.

Neil Young has been doing this his whole career.  Often it’s the big picture where you see it:  A reaction to war (‘Living With War’) or the death of close friends (‘Tonight’s the Night’) or in response to a tragic clash of cultures (Ohio).  But occasionally we get to see it in the wisp of a moment.  “Alright Wison, pick it!” is a perfect example:  A quirky and seemingly out-of-context exclamation that takes a middle-of-the-road song to unexpected heights.

 -          Pete

Forever Young # 42: "A Heart Transplant"

Song:  Pardon My Heart
Album:  Zuma
Released:  November, 1975

‘The Basement Tapes Complete’ was released this week, a significant portion of which had spent almost 50 years under wraps.  I hope to write much more on this astoundingly prolific period in Bob Dylan’s career when I get around to ‘Dylanology’ in this blog (although with 138 songs in all, it would take 3 years to write on this album alone, which ain’t gonna happen).  But for those who need a little primer, I’ll oblige, seeing as this story sets the stage for this week’s entry.   

In 1967, when the Beatles and many other musicians of the times were going all psychedelic on us, Bob Dylan and The Band holed themselves up in a tacky cookie-cutter pink house in Upstate New York and focused on American roots-style music.  They set up the basement of this home as a makeshift recording studio (unheard of in those days) and played daily for months on end.  There was never any intention to release any of the material they were recording, but over time it began to dribble out in one bootleg form after another.  In 1975, admitting defeat to some degree, The Band asked Dylan if they could release something official from the time (and include some of their own newer material in the process) which turned out to be a compilation of 24 songs dubbed ‘The Basement Tapes’ (one of my all-time favorite albums). 

For all the bootleg material that leaked out after those ‘Big Pink’ sessions, it’s amazing how much this new comprehensive release has to offer in terms of unheard music.  And this coming on the heels of ‘Another Self Portrait’ (the most fascinating thing about that revisit is that the unreleased music on it is far superior to what Dylan originally released on ‘Self Portrait’ and ‘New Morning’ back in the early 70s!  Why would he do this?  I have a few theories which I’ll share at some time down the road). 

Although Neil Young is not quite as prolific (which is no slight, just a recognition that Dylan is in a league all his own), he has recorded his share of hidden, unreleased gems over time.  In the era surrounding the mid to late-70s, he would actually record 3 albums that would never see the light of day:  ‘Homegrown’, ‘Chrome Dreams’, and the original ‘Old Ways’.  Some of the songs from these albums, however, would eventually find themselves on other releases, including this week’s entry, Pardon My Heart (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KdzUcZ8UzuQ ) which was slated for ‘Homegrown’ and ended up on ‘Zuma’.

So, what is it that drives some of the best artists to hold back from releasing a significant achievement, or assume pseudonyms (i.e. Jack Frost, Bernard Shakey) instead of taking full credit for something?  Last week I wrote about Neil Young following his musical muse at the expense of continuity with fellow musicians, and often at the most inopportune of times.  This shakeup style also happens with projects.  Some are simply aborted, often at the tail end, after all the toil and trouble.  You would think that the momentum alone would close the deal.  Obviously, this is not always the case with artists like Bob Dylan and Neil Young. 

How can they bring themselves to do this?  When I start something, I need to envision the end game as having a real possibility of success.  A bit of recognition is always nice too.  If I’m to write a proposal at work for example, I don’t want it to be pie in the sky.  Proposals can be time consuming.  If there is little to no demand up front, I’m not all that inclined to put in the effort.  But some folks in my office can do this.  Maybe there’s a little desperation there, I don’t know.  I just consider it a waste of time.

But perhaps this is the character trait that drives to the core of the most brilliant among us.  Success, or the avoidance of failure, appears not to be the motivation for these individuals.  It’s all about the pursuit; the principle element that fuels the most creative of minds.  This is the well that never runs dry.  Most of us are capable of tapping into this source, but few actually do it on a regular basis.  Often, we get sidetracked by other more alluring results.  Not so the genius types.  And for the rest of us, this can be a treat to witness.  We soak in the ride for all it’s worth.  It’s what brings us to the museums and the opera houses and the theatres and the nightclubs and the bookstores.  It’s what has us listening to a handful of classic albums over and over again.

Seven years ago, daughter Charlotte sketched a brilliant booklet of nature scenes for my birthday.  A considerable effort went into those sketches, but a few days later in a huff and a dare she started ripping them up (when I could see she was serious, I managed to put a halt to the carnage before losing a bulk of her works) .  At the time I was mortified, but now I look back on it as part of a process:  As anyone who has seen Charlotte’s paintings of late, she got quite a talent (if I do say so myself).  Thinking back, I believe there was a part of me that knew then that Charlotte had what it took; a creative mindset.  Her willingness to ‘shed’ herself of a snapshot in her lifetime portfolio spoke to this.  We see similar acts play out all around us in the street painter and the sandcastle molder and the ice sculptor, and the cairn builder (Pat!), and even the guitar smasher.  These statements make an impression.  There are lessons to be learned there.

Projects come and projects go.  Some are destined to be completed and others look just fine in the foundation phase. Some are good to throw out there to see if they stick and others are meant to box up in the basement or attic, perhaps to be unearthed at a later date.  Neil Young appears to have always realized this.  It’s all part of the creative process.  The pieces held close to the vest just as important - if not more so -than the pieces shared.

Pardon My Heart starts off haunting and ends up hopeful; a splendid acoustic number about a romantic relationship on a roller coaster ride.  Ralph Molina and Billy Talbot offer up the backing vocals of the singer’s conscience.  “You brought it all on” they repeat.  “No, no, no, I don’t believe this song” fights back Neil Young in the first set of lyrics.  Later the same conscience-based backing-vocal refrain plays out in a positive, reassuring light.  Young’s guitar playing weaves its magic in.  It’s a love story compacted into 3 minutes and 48 seconds.

But let us not forget that Pardon My Heart has that other story behind it; a transplant that once belonged to something else.  It’s part of the fun of digging deep into an artist’s gallery.  You gain an understanding of what was for a short time, what could have been in the long term, and what became of it all as a consequence.  It’s enough to stir those creative juices within you as a fan.

Perhaps that was the intention all along.

-          Pete