73.
the band
the band [capitol, 1969]
in apposite response to the wayward discord and unchecked chaos of the 'Nam era, maple-slurpin' Canadian Robbie Robertson and his Band of merry musicians scour America's past for inspiration, seeking the source of the turbulence; the origin of the discontent; the genesis of a musical heritage that stretches back to the mountains and the fields, parlors and playhouses; the roots. this is a Bande à part backstroking against mainstream currents, a group of self-aware hipsters shucking off flower-power head-trips for headlong excursions into the dark recesses of history; this self-titled record captures them at the pinnacle of their prowess. "across the great divide" is a woozy, boozy morning-after lover's lament fueled by Levon Helm's street-corner stomp, while Rick Danko's hell-raising fiddle on "rag mama rag" threatens to set the hay on fire during a barn dance. Garth Hudson's lantern-in-the-distance Clara Barton organ hovers over the opium-addled narrator on "when you awake," while Richard Manuel's barrelhouse piano gets kicked out of the saloon on "look out cleveland." with Manuel's distraught quiver and downcast, brokenhearted lyrics, "whispering pines" is the record's emotional zenith, branching out from the rollicking, drunken ruckus of "up on cripple creek," on which Hudson's Clavinette filters through a wah-pedal for that funky bayou croak later copped by Stevie Wonder. though the old folks' home creak of "rockin' chair" comes across as patronizing, the Band's obsession with the arcane is justified by the Dust Bowl fury of "king harvest (has surely come)" and the mournful Confederate elegy of "the night they drove old dixie down," which may be the fullest realization of their sepia-toned modus operandi. with shrugged-off, nonchalant virtuosity and expertly-forged, timeless songs that would make Stephen Foster blush, The Band excavates the ghosts of the past to critique the present, setting a precedent for the disillusioned and disaffected to, for better or worse, look backwards instead of treading forwards.
you talkin' to me? moment: The Last Waltz is known as the best concert film ever for many reasons - Martin Scorsese's direction [and by extension, Thelma Schoonmaker's incomparable editing], a groggy, elusive Dylan, Neil Young with blow stuck in his nostrils - but, i was impressed by just how badass the dudes in the Band dressed and acted. they were unflappable musicians, but they knew how to rock a fedora and three-piece.
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