Vikings & Beekeepers

Musical obsessions are seasonal. One minute I’m spazzing out about the workingman folk rock/glam metal guitar fusion of Thin Lizzy, the next I’m tripping over myself to spread the word about This Heat. I am always in the middle of/getting over/getting into a musical obsession. For example, right now I’m on the tale end of a King Crimson kick, fully immersed in a Guided By Voices fascination and I’m considering a love affair with either Frank Black or Gene Clark’s solo work. They come and go. The admiration stays forever, but the Pac Man-like gorging on anything and everything that links to these special artists eventually fades. There is one major exception, however: The Band.

The word “timeless” is frequently bandied about when discussing storied artists. Classic albums are considered timeless because they have broad appeal - good songs don’t go out of style, they exist on a higher plain than any fad. While I consider the Band’s best albums to fall into this elite group, their music is timeless in a completely different way. Literally, their sound is outside of time. Even though the groups creative output spans from 1968-76, their music, a blend of rock, country, jazz, Dixieland, bluegrass and God knows what else, never sounds like it’s married to any singular time in history. These songs could as easily be from the 1930’s. Hell, most of these songs could be released today and people would fawn over them.

A (very) brief (and incomplete) history lesson: The Band formed in Toronto in 1958 as a backing band, called the Hawks, for Good Ol’ Boy rock n’ roller, Ronnie Hawkins. A few years later they became the backing band for Bob Dylan’s first electric tour. Then they moved to Woodstock (before it was Woodstock), broke off from Bob Dylan, signed their own record contract, named themselves the Crackers, renamed themselves the Band and began work on their first of many amazing albums, 1968’s Music From Big Pink.

Comprised of four Canadian boys (songwriter/guitarist Robbie Robertson, bassist/ singer/fiddle player Rick Danko, pianist/singer/drummer-in-a-pinch Richard Manuel and multi-instrumentalist Garth Hudson) and one Arkansawyer (drummer/singer/mandolin player Levon Helm), the Band absolute lived up to the boast of their namesake. Robertson may have been the primary songwriter (Danko, Helm, Manuel and Bob Dylan also chipped in on songwriting – Big Pink is as much Dylan and Manuel’s handiwork as it is Robertson’s), but he never sang and his guitar playing, while awesome, was rarely put in the forefront. Helm was a natural showman and probably edges out Danko and Manuel on vocal appearances, but he was also the drummer and relegated to the back of the stage for live performances. Hudson was the least represented personality in the Band, but he had his hand in the production of many of their albums and it’s his virtuosity on the organ and elsewhere that really makes up the meat of the Band’s sound. There was no focal point to the Band, they were a unit – five brilliant musicians and performers coalescing to form what may be the greatest group of all time.

It’s difficult to pinpoint what it is that draws me to the Band so much. The aforementioned timelessness is one thing, as is the mixture of styles and genres influencing the group’s sound, but there’s something deeper than that, something almost spiritual. The purity of their music comes in how they approach it. The Band sings and performs rock songs like they’re singing hymns. There’s an almost holy reverence to be found in these songs. When the soulful high end of Richard Manuel’s voice comes together with the expressive Southern bottom end of Helm’s voice and the pained, barked mid range of Danko’s, like they do on “Makes No Difference” or “I Shall Be Released,” it’s like hearing a long forgotten hymnal – powerful, moving, hopeful, heartbroken, on a completely different plain from anything contemporary. It’s an exaltation, a rock of ages.

This sound is also open and slightly shapeless, inviting the listener to join in, adding an additional layer of harmony. The previously mentioned tracks, from Big Pink and Northern Lights – Southern Cross respectively, are a good example of this. You can sing anything and it will fit in with these songs. It’s a truly rare thing - songs that are greater than the sum of their parts – I can think of only some of Neil Young’s tracks as a comparison (“Helpless” and the any-solo-works “Cortez the Killer” come to mind). These songs, in fact, the Band’s entire catalogue of songs, are open and inclusive, inviting you, the listener, to interact with the material as a member. It’s not that the songs feel incomplete, far from that, the songs are as fully realized as possible, it’s more that the Band has left a tiny opening for a new voice, a new harmony, a new convert.

That’s why The Last Waltz, Martin Scorssese’s masterpiece concert film about the band’s final performance, has become the go-to document for Band newbies (but please, dear reader, do not let the discovery end their – pick up The Last Waltz first, study it, devour it, then go back to the groups first two albums, Big Pink and their self-titled masterpiece. The Last Waltz is but a mere entry drug, the first two albums are the making of full on addiction. After these two, pick up Stage Fright, their autobiography on record; Rock of Ages, the pre-Waltz double live album that more than holds its own next to the more celebrated live document; and Northern Lights-Southern Cross, a stunning late era album that boasts some of the Band’s most astounding tracks. These three albums are essential to any true fan of the Band. Finally, go after, the experimental Cahoots; the slight but fun covers album Moondog Matinee; the diamonds-in-the-rough contractual obligation, Islands; anything and everything the Band did with Bob Dylan; and last but not least, be sure to get your hands on any box set, greatest hits compilation or reunion album that will satisfy your craving). In the film, the Band performs some of their greatest songs, but also invite some musical contemporaries – converts, if you will – to perform their own popular tracks. Appearances include Joni Mitchell, Van Morrison, Eric Clapton, Dr. John and the aforementioned Hawkins, Dylan and Young. This is where we truly get to see the Band being a band. No leaders, no front man. And when the solo performers join the fray, they get sucked into this shapeless and open mass of perfection that is the Band.

Occasionally, these new voices - these converts - helped to actually elevate the emotional and nearly spiritual depth of the Band’s sound. Take for instance (and remember, this is just one of many, many shockingly good performances from The Last Waltz), this version of the Band’s most well-known song, “The Weight” (video imbedded below). Joined by the Staple Singers, the Band builds and builds the song to the point of near catharsis. Levon Helm, the main vocal contributor of the original version, starts the song off with the kind of can’t-miss delivery that made Helm a fairly prominent performer even after the group’s breakup. Always passionate, always on the mark, Helm’s verse sets the standard, and everyone who follows more than meets it. Mavis Staple takes the second verse and her powerful voice pushes the song into the stratosphere. Her vocal dexterity adds the gospel element, but in a way that is entirely organic and unforced. Her dad, “Pops” Staple, goes the opposite direction, with a smooth, soulful alto. If Mavis’ verse was that of a joyful, worshipful noise, than “Pops’” verse is that of a prayer. Solemn and dignified, “Pops” Staple hits all the listener’s pleasure centers and radiates an overwhelming sense of cool. It’s an older, wiser cool, but it’s cool nonetheless. Rick Danko, who I’m totally gay for, by the way, takes the final solo verse. Visually, he’s always been the most striking member of the group, bopping up and down like a marionette while he not-so-gracefully runs his along the bass frets. The combination of the spotlight, Danko’s crazy movement and his harsher, comparatively less smooth voice, make his appearance a little bit jarring, but that’s all apart of the appeal. The guys just fucking nails it. The way Danko’s voice shakes and quivers on those last couple of lines is just…well, it’s just perfect. The final group verse is where everyone kicks it into high gear, emphasized by Mavis’ little clap solo on the off-beat. It’s powerful stuff and it means that the final chorus has to be a showstopper. Of course the sheer range of voices is overwhelming and it looks and sounds spectacular. Or as Mavis puts it, unable to contain the absolute joy of performing such profound music, “beautiful!”

Those additional voices with their varying styles and harmonies are what the Band encourages. Every song, from the gut wrenching lament of “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down” to the celebratory “Life is a Carnival” (the live version from Rock of Ages streaming below) to the wistful and homesick “Home Cookin’” is an invitation to join the fold. When I listen to the Band at home or in the car I sing along, but I don’t necessarily become Richard Manuel or Rick Danko, I’m just myself, an honorary member, adding to the sound, making something beautiful that somebody else created into something I could contribute to. I become emotionally invested, awestruck by the something other that the Band has – the sound of rock music being played with an evangelical fervor. I am welcomed into the fold. I am a convert.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, August 1st, 2007 at 11:49 am and is filed under Classic Artists. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.