Making out the Band

A Musical History makes us believers.

By Mike McGuirk

I HAVE THIS theory about people who like rock music. I think in order to be the kind of person who likes rock, you have to love the Band. You have to know the Stones inside and out, and you have to love the Band. Everybody loves the Stones, but when you meet someone who loves the Stones and the Band, you know this is a person whose tastes may be trusted. If you don't like the Band, it's OK. You just don't like rock music. You like punk or new wave or something. And there is nothing, absolutely nothing, wrong with not liking rock music. Just don't come to parties at my house and request shit.

The Band has just released a box set covering practically every single recorded moment they have to offer – all the albums, a bunch of live stuff, and many song outtakes. I don't have access to the booklet that comes with A Musical History (Capitol), because I am writing this from some godforsaken jungle in southeast Asia. No lie. But from what I've read while looking for info to plagiarize for this article, it seems like people are shitting their pants over just the booklet, which makes me really wanna know what's in it. Actual photographic evidence of Robbie Robertson marveling at himself in the mirror? Richard Manuel's suicide note? What is in there? Tons of writing about the Band? Please, not that. It seems like when people write about the Band, they get a little, uh, what's the word ... how do I say it? Totally full of ponderous, annoying shit, maybe? Yes. It's true.

People – and I do it myself – start trying to write something as deep and reverential as the Band's music itself. It's usually a bad idea (see the liner notes to The Basement Tapes for starters – ugh). There is something natural about the Band and their music, something that exists almost nowhere else. These are guys who could play with Jimmy Reed and have it be the right thing to do for everyone involved. They could play "Froggy Went A-Courtin'<\!q>" and (a) not sound like morons and (b) reveal the side of the song that no one ever thought of: that it is a part of the very fabric of what America was when it had not only something but everything to offer the world. See? I told you I would do this.

Burnin' up

So with no booklet to go along with my listening to this box set, I can't really give any tidbits of info regarding the songs I like the most. I can recognize the first songs as being from The Last Waltz, with Ronnie Hawkins on fuck-all-these-big-stars vocals. And I think that's Reed singing on the second track, although his voice seems awfully strong for what could only have been a pretty old guy at the time. Maybe this was cut from The Last Waltz? Anyway, it's awesome. So is "Further on up the Road," which I think has Clapton on vocals, but I'm not sure, because it doesn't totally sound like him.

The thing here is that I've seen The Last Waltz many times, and I listen to the album a lot, but Robertson's guitar sounds particularly burnin' on these cuts. This is a theme throughout the first disc of this 25-disc set: Robertson's guitar playing. Every time he screeches out that precise, economic channeling of early rock 'n' roll guitar-god Mickey Baker, you can't help but forget the incredibly annoying things he's said over the years. Recently I read Bob Dylan's autobiography, Chronicles, Volume One, and in it he describes this period where the world is touting him as a prophet and the voice of his generation. He actually says, "Screw that." Then he's in a car with Robertson, and Robertson asks him, "Where are you gonna lead them, Bob?" So the dude was clueless – there's your proof. But, Jesus Christ, the downward spiral of his last solo on "Robbie's Blues" here is heavy, heavy shit. And the rest of the time he adds those little rock 'n' soul phrases. No other (half-)white man plays guitar like that.

So Robbie's a great guitarist, but the other thing – the real thing – about this box set is that it has all this stuff from way early in the Band's career when, as a unit, they just smoked. That said, using the words smoke, smoked, or smoking should be illegal unless used to describe the Band when they are nailing it.

Tell me more

Much of this box set is music you should already own, but if you don't already, you can get it all done in one stop. For folks with the records, the first disc is the best Band stuff I've heard since The Bootleg Series, Vol. 4: Bob Dylan Live, 1966: The "Royal Albert Hall Concert" album came out, where they practically kill everyone in the room with "Tell Me, Mama."

The pre-Band songs are like blueprints for how a rhythm section, organist, and guitarist are meant to play rock 'n' roll. There is a hippie song from Rick Danko that is almost as sweet as watching him teach the Dead "Ain't No More Cane" in Festival Express. Then there's all the stuff the Band released when they were together, and those beautiful versions of "The Weight" and "The Night They Drove Ol' Dixie Down" from The Last Waltz. But right off the bat, on the second song, they play with Reed, and it's one of those Band moments where you think you might cry. Why? I don't know. It's the Band. This happens.

Epilogue: Manuel and 'Ruben Remus'

Manuel really is the most important component of the Band. I think the reason the group's music can sometimes go right through you has more to do with Manuel and his voice than anything Robertson did.

Robertson is the guy in "Bessie Smith" – he fucks over his girl and goes off into the world and then does her the favor of coming back after he's burned all his bridges. Manuel, on the other hand, is the guy in "Ruben Remus": naive, a mark, too good-hearted for this world. Everybody's always ripping him off, and he is the guy who finds out last that his intended girl prefers some slick dude to his own plain and slow-talking self. Maybe this is a stretch; after all, I never met Manuel, but the footage of him shyly mumbling in The Last Waltz, the things he seems to hold back from saying (when Robertson's saying way too much), have always indicated to me that he was some kind of gentle soul. Is this corny? Yeah, whatever.

Then the dude killed himself, which is awful and speaks to the deep, deep pain he sang with. You can hear it in everything. Desperation. Listen to him giving in to his lady in "Honky Tonk" or facing the music in "Shape I'm In." There are a million band songs where Manuel's sad, baffled character comes to life.

The thing about his voice is that Manuel actually sounds like Ray Charles. He doesn't try to sing like him – he just sounds like him, naturally. This is important because the only other person who can really, truly bring a listener to tears is Charles. Why? I don't know. Let's just agree on this one.

I have a bootleg of Manuel playing a solo show not long before he died. It's called Whispering Pines. His voice is ravaged from drink and drugs, he screws up the words to some songs, and plays "Across the Great Divide" twice. Then Rick Danko shows up, and the whole show devolves into drunk dudes singing too close to the microphone. It's kind of dark. There's no answer there. It's just that Manuel was a troubled man, for sure, and his contribution sometimes gets lost in the shuffle. I just wanted to that point out.

 To purchase the music featured in this article, visit iTunes:

• The Band, A Musical History (Capitol)
• The Bootleg Series, Vol. 4: Bob Dylan Live 1966 - The Royal Albert HallConcert