Over the fifty-five years since the release of The Band’s eponymous second studio record (released 9/22/69_—often called ‘The Brown Album’ based on its dominant color scheme—this long player has become ever more deeply imprinted upon the consciousness of contemporary rock followers.
And no wonder: its evocative tales hearken to a romantic and highly mythologized past, not all of which eras (such as the Civil War) existed quite like they’re described. But that perception only renders the black-and-white photo of the group on the front cover all the more appropriate: the music sounds as weathered and resilient as the five musicians appear.
The dozen tracks unfold in a very literal-minded way, in stark contrast to the depth of mystery that arises from the quintet’s 1968 debut, Music From Big Pink. However, the two records do have a significant trait in common: with time now being over half a century, the most durable songs and performances on each LP are not necessarily the most well-known.
In juxtaposition with a half-dozen outtakes on The Band’s 50th-anniversary edition, the twelve cuts on the formal album sound more than ever like a crystallization of variations on themes nurtured through the assiduous but good-humored patience displayed by The Band and engineer, multi-instrumentalist, and unofficial producer John Simon.
The distinctly different likes of “Across The Great Divide” and “Look Out Cleveland” not only suggest the malleability of the material but also the versatility of the players involved: vocalist/keyboardist Richard Manuel plays drums at times and in contrast, vocalist/drummer Levon Helm picks up a guitar or mandolin on occasion.
And that only makes the back cover photo most apropos. The five hirsute individuals look to be depicted in the attic of an old home, having seemingly just discovered antique musical instruments used by their forebears. And that’s an image supported by the sound of the music in all its deceptively homemade glory. For “Up On Cripple Creek,” for instance, the quirky facsimile sound of jaw harp Garth Hudson formulated on keyboard corresponds to the wooden thump of Levon Helm’s wooden drums as punctuated by the rough gutbucket plunk of Rick Danko’s bass.
An additional credit to Simon on the cover of this package rightly assigns credit and clarifies his collaboration with the group. After helping the Band craft the aforementioned first LP, he helped the quintet set up a studio on the West Coast to record this follow-up. He was an integral part of the creative process that resulted in a seamless piece of work that resonated throughout the culture of the late ’60s and continues to do so today.
As much as The Band had an uncommon range of choices in arranging a song like “Jawbone”—unusual enough with its 6/4 time signature—their discerning efficiency at this point in their career is more than a little evident. The increasing recognition for Simon’s unusually varied contributions is directly in line with how certain tracks, once overshadowed a half-decade ago, have risen to their rightful prominence alongside the resonant narrative of the Confederate era “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down.”
Where the latter now seems lyrically straightforward to a fault, especially in comparison to the cryptic likes of “The Weight” and “Chest Fever” from the prior album–both of those more than a little derivative of the surrealism favored by their one-time upstate New York neighbor Bob Dylan when they first got together on his behalf in 1965–the soulful enduring quality within “The Unfaithful Servant” is now more readily apparent (not to mention more apropos to its subject and more accurate an invocation of history than Neil Young’s “Southern Man”).
Yet even that deeply affecting number pales compared to the combination of mystical and practical residing within “King Harvest (Has Surely Come).” Fittingly sequenced as the very last track, the vocal tradeoffs and whispered singing of the refrain highlight the inexorable but deceptive process of progress laid out in the narratives of the verses, the fitful likes of which Robbie Robertson’s sputtering electric guitar mirrors with great clarity.
Likewise, “When You Awake” and “Whispering Pines,” to name just two other such cuts, feature lead vocals by the late Rick Danko and Richard Manuel and were co-authored by the latter with fretboarder and chief songwriter Robertson. The ghostly singing is as unaffected as the arrangements are sparse, like the best of the preceding Band album, relying more on the human element than au courant style.
Along those same lines, “Rockin’ Chair” and an outtake titled “Get Up Jake”-a harbinger of the formulaic approach to composing Robertson would soon adopt—also evoke a bygone time. Fictional though it may be, its vivid story line arrives borne along an economy of musicianship as carefully wrought and crafted as these marriages of melody and word.
When The Band began to tour after this record’s release, the ensemble remained diffident regarding the cult of personality, especially as it applied to their enigmatic group persona. Consequently, the quintet chose to emphasize their musical skills as prevalently on the stage than in the studio and, as a result, the focus on playing and singing came at the exclusion of any overt stage theatrics, a detached stance that didn’t always stand them in good stead with the less-discerning in their audiences.
Nevertheless,The Band contains music that refuses to become dated from start to finish. Robbie Robertson would never compose with such abiding purpose again after this 1969 release, and neither would the band so methodically prepare a studio record with such consistency (though 1975’s Northern Lights Southern Cross comes close).
Their collective torpor was at least somewhat allayed by the 1974 reunion with Dylan. The much-vaunted group originally known as The Hawks soldiered on during road work that slowly but surely wreaked havoc on them in various ways (as did, eventually, their sojourn in Woodstock, NY) until The Last Waltz brought to a close the era of the original lineup in 1978.
Sans Robbie Robertson, the remaining members of the fivesome regrouped with additional musicians five years later. While the subsequent products of their efforts, like 1993’s Jericho, barely echoed the resonance of their prior efforts, neither did those titles besmirch their legacy. Nor did the public disagreements that circulated in subsequent years, even as the passing of group members occurred (Manuel committed suicide in 1986, and the brilliant but taciturn Garth Hudson is the only surviving member at this point),
Such soap operas seem lost in their most loyal following. And for that same cross-section of their devotees (plus the most discerning of rock historians), the five-and-a-half-decades of hindsight applied to The Band delivers such trenchant an insight into the psyche of an era that the record itself almost transcends the decidedly rare (and now mythic) alliance of musicians who created it.
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A very astute take on a memorable album by a uniquely talented group. The Band changed music, beautifully.