Hearing Ballad of Easy Rider from a fifty-five-year perspective no doubt evokes the same reaction as it did at its original release: ‘This doesn’t sound like the Byrds!?!’
And indeed, with the only remaining original member, Roger, nee Jim, McGuinn, sharing lead vocals with his three bandmates and mere flashes remaining of the signature chime of that same man’s twelve-string Rickenbacker guitar, this eighth studio album by the Byrds hardly evokes any vivid memories of the sound that made them famous four years prior with the likes of “Mr. Tambourine Man” and “Turn, Turn, Turn.”
Neither the Byrds nor the Columbia label over-emphasized the connection between the album and the now-iconic film. The cover doesn’t even feature an image from the movie but rather a sepia-toned photograph of Lemuel Parsons (Gene’s father) sitting astride an archaic 1928 Harley-Davidson. Nevertheless, the relative success of the longplayer–upon its release, it would become the band’s highest charting album for two years in the U.S–set the stage for a resurgence of the Byrds fortunes in both the recording studio and on stage.
As the third LP in a row with only a superficial resemblance to the music by which the original quintet became famous, Ballad of Easy Rider adds rather than detracts from the legacy of the Byrds. Gram Parsons’ passion for country music infused 1968’s Sweetheart of the Rodeo (even after many of his lead vocals were replaced by McGuinn’s before the title’s release). Its successor, Dr. Byrds & Mr. Hyde, is as schizophrenic as its title implies: surgically-modified rock and roll didn’t quite mesh with the remaining strains of C&W (that actually hearken back two years in Byrds canon to Younger Than Yesterday).
It is important to note, however, that Ballad of Easy Rider is the second studio effort by the same four-man lineup. In addition to Byrds co-founder McGuinn, the quartet included bassist John York, guitarist Clarence White, and drummer Gene Parsons (no relation to Gram). In fact, the on-stage chemistry of the foursome, documented so vividly on Live At The Fillmore 1969, took a slightly different but no less tangible form in this studio set.
Much of the credit for the functional and largely positive democracy evident in Easy Rider must go to producer Terry Melcher. Having overseen the first two Byrds albums, he came in because the group was displeased with Bob Johnston’s work on the previous LP, despite the latter’s pedigree based on collaborations with Johnny Cash, Bob Dylan, and Leonard Cohen, among others.
The very first of the eleven cuts manifest Melcher’s influence, too. It’s a very different take of the title song than appeared in the famous movie and its soundtrack, its judicious orchestration elevating the metaphysical leanings of the lyrics (originally written by McGuinn and Bob Dylan, who subsequently asked his composting credit be removed from the song).
The Byrds’ interpretation of “Jesus Is Just Alright“ also features a smattering of strings, a component of the arrangement missing from the version that became a hit for the Doobie Brothers (in contrast to the Byrds’ single). Certainly, the group vocals on the latter don’t display the intricacy of early incarnations either–how could they without harmony savant David Crosby!–but the singing is as wholeheartedly fulsome as that on “Oil In My Lamp.”
One of the rare instances of lead singing by the brilliant fretboarder White–whose use of the Stringbender device he invented with Parsons allowed him to emulate the sound of a pedal steel guitar on his Fender Telecaster–this take illustrates how his voice complements those of his bandmates in every respect. And that goes for McGuinn too whose friendly phrasing is eminently familiar on an elegiac interpretation of Dylan’s “It’s All Over Now Baby Blue.”
Along those same lines, Parsons steps authoritatively into the spotlight for his own composition “Gunga Din,” where his homely vocal tones suit the woeful tale of the tune just as much as bassist York’s on his self-composed ode to a stray dog, “Fido.”
Ornamented with a punchy percussion break, that track suggests how this long-player manifests virtually as much variety in the arrangements as in the choice of material.
To that end, a cover of Woody Guthrie’s “Deportee (Plane Wreck at Los Gatos)” hearkens directly to the Byrds’ folk roots and, in hindsight, is as relevant to our contemporary times as the conclusion to this deceptively wide-ranging long-player: “Armstrong, Aldrin And Collins” is a heartfelt homage to Apollo astronauts who landed on the moon earlier in the year this record came out.
Still, the contemporaneity of that tune belies some of the more courageous outings for this album, most of which remained unreleased until the expanded CD remaster of the longplayer in 1997. The then-novel tones of Moog synthesizer dominate “Fiddler a Dram,” a traditional tune that correlates to the more conventional take on the sea shanty “Jack Tarr the Sailor”
Meantime, a young Jackson Browne’s wry and worldly “Mae Jean Goes to Hollywood” was also (rightly?) relegated to the vaults. Still, these Byrds were sufficiently discerning and adventurous to cover Mad Dogs And Englishmen emigre Pamela Polland’s “Tulsa County Blue” and allow Byron Berline to ornament it with his authentic fiddle playing.
Within those same stylistic margins, “There Must Be Someone” is a number indirectly connected to Byrds C&W leanings, too, as its co-writer, Vern Gosdin, had worked with Gene Clark on his earliest solo effort after his 1966 departure from the iconic American band. And while “Way Beyond the Sun” might’ve derived from the English folksters Pentangle, its bluesy allusion to Muddy Waters is indicative of the eclectic reach of the Byrds throughout their history.
Self-professed shortcomings as a performing unit plagued the group in their early days, but no such weaknesses afflicted this configuration. In fact, upon York’s departure in the wake of this recording, the enlistment of Skip Battin only strengthened the group chemistry as captured on the concert portions of the 1970’s (Untitled) (further preserved for posterity in its (Unissued) format).
Unfortunately, the latter’s fondness for kitsch in his songwriting undermined 1971’s Byrdmaniax (oddly overproduced by Melcher). And even as this quartet sought to counteract the negative impressions left by that project with Farther Along, a half-century plus retrospect only ratifies how the self-produced effort betrays its five-day sessions in England.
In the end, this somewhat rushed release is but one more stuttering step down from prestigious heights attained by earlier incarnations of the Byrds. Even the eponymous reunion of the original five in 1973 was beset with personal and creative baggage that left it too tentative for its own good. Around that time, McGuinn jettisoned the moniker of their famous band for less-than-stellar projects under his own name, and his subsequent collaboration with Clark and Chris Hillman (co-founder of the Flying Burrito Brothers with Gram) was the definition of mercenary.
In contrast, even taking into account its minor blemishes, Ballad Of Easy Rider ultimately comes across as a microcosm of the expansive musical history McGuinn envisioned in the wake of the brilliant 1967 album The Notorious Byrd Brothers. As such, it now seems like one of the most uniformly excellent entries in the Byrds’ discography.
