 Next Article | Previous Article | |
| Back |
by Seth Rogovoy
After ``The Last Waltz'' in 1976, the members of The Band briefly went their own separate ways. Helm released a number of fine solo albums, using various ensembles that included some of his Band- mates, other veterans of The Hawks, musical confreres like Dr. John and Paul Butterfield, and Booker T. and the MGs. Rick Danko released an excellent solo album in 1977, and Garth Hudson worked on various projects, including a brief stint with the new-wave group The Call.
After a series of tentative get-togethers in various duos and trios, playing small clubs and halls in and around New York City, the musicians re-grouped as The Band in 1983, and since then -- with various ``reinforcements'' but always without Robbie Robertson and since 1986 without Richard Manuel -- they have been plugging away, for the most part on the secondary touring circuit playing clubs and small theaters or occasionally larger venues in the warm- up slot.
So today we are left with the reality of a group called The Band serving up nostalgia for old fans and making new ones among a new generation who have heard of them but never heard them. What today's concertgoers see is not The Band of old, of course, but a close facsimile, one that approximates the real thing but inevitably falls far short.
Richard Manuel's vocals are sorely missed, as is the three-way, tag-team singing style Manuel, Danko and Helm perfected. Jim Weider, the group's new guitarist, is competent, but he is no Robbie Robertson. Like the Allman Brothers or the Grateful Dead, the group now tours with two drummers. Ostensibly a move to free up Helm to play mandolin on some songs, it only underlines how far they have come from their days as a versatile, self-contained unit. After a short, embarrassing stint with Billy Preston on keyboards, Richard Bell is now behind the piano, a move that at least boasts the poetic justice of Bell's having once been a member of the Hawks. The group has also occasionally appeared with two guitarists, further distorting its original image. Even the stage setup has changed. At some point in the mid-'80s, Levon Helm's drum kit moved to the front of the stage from its usual position in the back, where the drummer traditionally sits and where for 16 years Helm had no problem sitting, keeping the beat and taking his vocal turns. He even calls it ``the best seat in the house.''
To say that the group misses the instrumental and vocal contributions of Richard Manuel and Robbie Robertson is stating the obvious. To say that it misses the chemistry that, for whatever reason, came from the original quintet is obvious to anyone who was lucky enough to have seen them when they were all still together -- that intangible mix that is captured on the group's early albums. To say that the group misses Robertson's songwriting skills is a little more subtle, for ``Jericho'' is an artfully, craftily assembled album that sounds an awful lot like a vintage album by The Band. Perhaps Helm's most vicious charge against Robertson is that he took songwriting credit where credit wasn't due, and then robbed his partners of what little remained of their performing royalties. Helm claims that Robertson should not have gotten sole songwriting credit on the bulk of the group's material, as was the case. He argues that if every member did not contribute in some way to the writing or crafting of the group's work, at least Garth Hudson, the only trained musician and arranger in the group, definitely deserved equal billing.
One need look no further than ``Jericho'' for strong evidence that if it were not for Robertson, there would have been no songs at all after The Band's second album. The surviving members had 16 years since Robertson left the group to come up with one album's worth of songs. Instead virtually all the songwriting duties on ``Jericho'' were farmed out to outside songwriters and musicians associated with the group. (An insider told this writer that Robertson once agreed to write new songs for the group on the condition that they did not call themselves The Band.) Rick Danko, who showed himself to be an estimable songwriter on his 1977 solo album, contributed nothing original to ``Jericho,'' and Helm shared one-fifth credit on one song and one-third on the title track, which is, ironically, a paint-by-numbers version of one of Robbie Robertson's typical historical dramas.
Perhaps the most insulting aspect of the album is that none of the founding members took part in drafting ``Too Soon Gone,'' the album's epitaph for Richard Manuel, which was written by songwriter Jules Shear, a friend of the group, along with Stan Szelest, a one- time member of the Hawks who briefly held Manuel's chair in the resuscitated group before suffering a fatal heart attack. (Robertson, incidentally, penned a gorgeous ballad in Manuel's memory, ``Fallen Angel,'' for his first solo album, as compelling a eulogy as has ever been recorded.)
To add insult to injury, Manuel's name was spelled wrong under his photo in the booklet that comes with the ``Jericho'' CD. And for all of Stephen Davis's insights into the group, which are many and considerable, he shows himself to be either inept or an accomplice in the project to rewrite the history of The Band by referring in Jericho's liner notes to ``Northern Lights/Southern Cross'' as The Band's last studio album, conveniently overlooking ``Islands,'' the Robertson-dominated album which Helm has pretty much disowned and which is omitted on all promotional materials put out by The Band's current management.
As I write this in the summer of '95, The Band is touring the summer circuit throughout the country, at festivals and theaters and fairs, occasionally holding down the opening slot on a bill with other groups from their era, such as the Grateful Dead. Levon Helm has apparently recovered from a liver ailment that caused the cancellation of a number of shows in late spring. The group's inclusion in the 25th anniversary of the original Woodstock Festival introduced these living legends to a whole new generation who had only heard about them from older brothers and sisters or, just as likely, from their parents. Interest in The Band as a historic musical force and as a living entity is probably at its highest point since ``The Last Waltz.''
It no doubt does not hurt that in contemporary pop music there is a whole new wave of groups -- a subset of the so-called alternative rock movement -- playing a brand of organic country- rock that recalls the music of The Band. Reviews of albums by groups with names like the Jayhawks, Hootie and the Blowfish, Counting Crows and the Wallflowers inevitably invoke The Band as an influence, if not a model. Blues Traveller even enjoyed a full- fledged radio hit that borrowed, if it did not actually steal, the chord changes and structure of ``The Weight.'' But fans of The Band should hesitate before rushing out to buy too many of these albums by their supposed musical progeny. Of all these groups, only the Wallflowers evidence any real originality or vision, which isn't surprising given the group's lead singer and songwriter: one Jakob Dylan, son of Bob. The rest are for the most part uninspired and uninspiring.
No one -- least of all this writer, still a fan -- begrudges Levon Helm, Rick Danko and Garth Hudson the right and opportunity to make a living playing music identified with The Band. But given the whole trajectory of their career, there is perhaps a more dignified way for the surviving members of The Band to continue playing together old and new material in a way that would pay homage to the group's legacy and to the memory of Richard Manuel while at the same time acknowledging what has been lost.
It would be perfectly fitting and make historical and musical sense for the current group performing and recording under the name of The Band to call itself The Hawks. ``The Hawks,'' after all, was simply the name of a group that kept evolving over time, as opposed to ``The Band,'' which I am arguing should be confined artistically, if not legally and in reality, to the five musicians -- Helm, Danko, Manuel, Hudson and Robertson -- who played by that name from 1968 to 1976.
The current group touring and recording as The Band may well be a ``living, fire-breathing R&B orchestra,'' as Stephen Davis calls it in the liner notes to ``Jericho.'' Interestingly enough, the description much more aptly characterizes The Hawks of yore than The Band. Perhaps even Davis realizes that this group calling itself The Band is really The Hawks in disguise.
The Hawks' legacy as the greatest bar-band in the world is totally respectable, and -- judging from his solo work, his post- 1983 concerts and his autobiography -- apparently what Helm is most proud of. ``The main thing that still gets my juices flowing is to get over to the venue on the night of the job, wherever it might be, anywhere in the world,'' writes Helm. ``The man that's running the joint knows we're coming, and he invites me in and helps me set up my stuff. We play some music, and then he pays us. That's the only way I ever wanted it.''
The Band died once when Robbie Robertson bowed out, and a second time when Richard Manuel left the scene. The Band is dead. Viva The Hawks forever.
Seth Rogovoy has written about popular music, culture and politics for the Boston Phoenix, The Forward, the Providence (R.I.) Phoenix, the Worcester (Mass.) Phoenix, the Bennington (Vt.) Banner, the Woodstock (N.Y.) Times and other publications. He is a columnist and music critic for the Berkshire Eagle in Pittsfield, Mass. He lives in Williamstown, Mass.
COPYRIGHT 1995 SETH ROGOVOY. All rights reserved.
| Next Article | Previous Article | |
| Back |
