Love For Levon: Our Staff Weighs In On Helm, Pt. 1

Dan Alford

I first saw Levon play in the summer of 1991 at the Berkshire Performing Arts Center, a little, out of the way theater in Lenox, Mass. with great acoustics and a very chill atmosphere. I had begun listening to The Band as part of my classic rock education, and since I had received a greatest hits cassette for Christmas, they had become a staple of my musical diet.

I convinced my buddy Jay to come with me to the gig. He wasn’t a big fan but was usually up for doing something, and besides, we were going to see Phish with the Giant Country Horns at the same venue the following night (it would be my first Phish show; my hundredth is coming up this summer). We sat down for a song or two–it was a seated crowd–but I’m pretty sure it was Ophelia that made me turn to Jay and proclaim, “I gotta dance!” I jumped up and joined a couple fellow freaks in the back of the room. Having no real perspective, I was pleasantly surprised that they played a number of
tunes I had never heard on the local classic rock channels but knew from my cassette. I was especially choked up with It Makes No Difference, which was the soundtrack to that summer’s unrequited love. I was also psyched to hear them bust into The Beatles’ Get Back.

It wasn’t too long before Jay joined me, and by the end of the show the whole place was hopping. I remember that the power kept giving out on Garth’s organ and he missed only half a beat each time, lurching out of his black, leather office recliner and shouldering his accordion to continue the groove. It was a seminal night in my 17-year-old life. The music was more rowdy and rambunctious that I imagined it would be, and utterly alive. The next night I was chatting with a guy before the show and he asked if I had gone the night before. I started gushing and talking about how hard I had danced, how elated I was, never even considering that Phish had played in New Hampshire. When
it became clear that we were talking about different gigs, he slipped away and I was sure he had missed out on the real show. I still am.

I also caught The Band the night before Garcia died in Central Park. The earliest version Ratdog opened (or do I have the bill switched?), with Bobby, Rob and Jay as a trio, really just an enhanced Scaring the Children. It was a hazy night at best and don’t remember much, other than Bobby getting down on one knee during Throwing Stones, and Rick Danko bouncing all over the stage. I remember thinking if Danko and John Popper had been on the same stage, they would have belly bumped each other off, which struck me as hilarious at the time, and still makes me grin. I also remember being shepherded through the crowd to get to the far beer tent, and really just wanting to stay where I was and get down with The Band. The next morning my brother called to ask how I was, and when I told him about the show, he said, “Oh man. You don’t know, do you?”

A couple days later I left for India with a select stash of Grateful Dead, Phish and The Band’s The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down: Live in Concert, in tow. That album, which was a cassette I grabbed on a whim from a bargain bin in Albany, was really just a selection of material from Rock of Ages, but became a real desert island listen for me, something that was always in the car, something that I put on when I wanted to trump any headier than thou conversation–that Don’t Do It is easily one of the greatest single performances ever recorded, and shut everyone up with its bad ass backbeat. As a teenager, I spent many many many hours driving in my car with my then girlfriend, now wife, with no destination in mind other than a great ride with a great soundtrack. Any number of Dead shows filled that spot, but that Dixie Down tape was always a constant. Somewhere along the way, I became aware that the music of The Band was good for my soul.

In recent years, I had the pleasure to see Levon Ramble and Ramble on the Road a number of times, at The Barn, The Beacon, festival sets and opening for Phil and Friends. The warmth and love that came from that band every single time, even when its membership fluctuated, was something to not just witness but to bear witness to, especially if that roots vibe makes sense to you, if The Band is at your roots. The one gig I saw at The Barn was special, of course, but my favorite single set was a random free show in the middle of Stamford on a Saturday night. There was something about the lazy weekend feeling suddenly tuned with an electric buzz, the families gathered around, the sense that somehow the music made that weird, open, impromptu venue into everyone’s personal living room where a collection of friends had gathered to share songs… It was a great night. I’ll miss Levon so much, his music and spirit.

How many times have I lamented the deaths of Richard and Rick, so saddened by the idea that had they persevered, they too could have joined in the veneration that he enjoyed in these last years, the respect and accolades and elegant, simple regality accorded to him that he so richly enjoyed. I’m so glad he had that. I wish I knew the exact words of the dedication at the back The Barn so I could appropriately add Levon’s name to those of his friends, knowing that though he’s passed now, the world is better place for his being here.

PAGE 3 = Chad Anderson

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