By Matt Bissonnette -Filmmaker/Writer
Like a lot of people, one
dull afternoon in my tender years I heard a record by a punk band and
it changed my life forever, but before that, before punk rock laid it
all to waste, there were albums that I grew up listening to, albums
that seemed to be in the house from the day I was born, much like my
mother and my brother, the fridge, the dog, and the television. And
now that I’m older, it seems that these albums mean as much as
anything I’ve ever heard. It’s much the same way with
books, Tropic Of Cancer may have changed the way I thought
about everything, but the way I thought was, and to a large degree
still is, deeply rooted in Frank Bonham classics like Durango
Street and Cool Cat.
These
albums are familiar to anyone with a radio and ears, but the one that
I recall most strongly, and has stayed with me the longest is The
Band’s Music
From Big Pink.
On the front cover is a painting, which looks like a child’s work,
but was, in fact, smeared by Bob Dylan, who also wrote a couple of
the tracks, and which I spent many hours staring at and wondering:
why is that one guy pushing the other over the piano; why is the bass
player wearing a feather in his hair, and, in a similar vein, why is
a big red tea cup balancing on the head of the guitar man; and,
what’s with the elephant? On the inside (it was/is a gatefold
sleeve) is a mildly matter a fact explanation of Big Pink, the house
where the album was recorded; a small black and white photo of The
Band standing in a field looking rural suave; and then, a very large
colour photograph titled Next
of Kin,
which looks like a family reunion that I could have attended. At the
time, and today, the cumulative effect of the album’s artwork was
at once completely familiar and totally mysterious. 1 And
this seems, to me, to be one of the most powerful things about The
Band’s music: it is of the world I know (or, at least, the one I
think I know), and also from a land years ago and miles away from any
place I’ve ever been. I looked at that record jacket for hours, as
the red Capitol label spun on the old turn-table, just as it’s now
spinning on my new stereo.
Side
one begins with Tears
of Rage,
which begins with a wheezing organ guitarish type thing that sounds
like the instruments have chest pains, and it then ambles into a
story that seems to involve men and women and affairs of the heart,
and concludes with the cheery observation that we are so alone and
life is cruel. Though the photo is small, and in black and white, the
players look like men in their mid-to-late twenties, and with that in
mind, the striking thing about this song, and the rest of the album,
is its incredible world-weariness. To
Kingdom Come and
In a
Station
carry on in this vein, the music tinkles and crinkles and groans,
while the lyrics paint pictures of hard knocks and tired broken
dreams. And then a funny thing happens, and that funny thing is the
first note of Caledonia
Mission
… a deep bass voice singing: she
… and
then the tune gurgles off into this strange mystery of a song full of
Trout
Fishing In America lines
that tip toe through the verses, and bounce and shuffle into the
choruses, and let the listener know that if the good times see him
through, then the dark may not bother her.2
Following this bang on platitude, 3
the first side ends with The
Weight, and
really, what can you say about the song. The same that can be said
about Merry
Christmas, My Way or
I’m A Man
… that
some things are timeless, indestructible, and so far above the
competition that there is none, and when they walk in and grab you by
the shirt, it is completely clear that you are in the presence of
genius, and should just count yourself lucky for it.
Side
two begins with We Can Talk a song that features a couplet
that has stayed stuck in my mind for most of my life: Did you ever
milk a cow? Well I had the chance one day, but I was all dressed up
for Sunday. I don’t know why, but over the years those lines
have come often, and often at the oddest times, weddings, long car
rides, funerals, nude walks on the beach, etc. Next is Long Black
Veil, and it’s as a heart-breaking version as I’ve ever
heard. And then there is the extended organ intro of Chest Fever,
which has always reminded me of the Rocket Robin Hood episode
where Robin and the Merry Men are on a strange planet ruled by a
creepy buggish alien, who lives in an old castle, and plays a
gigantic gothic organ, which turns the planet’s vegetation into
fierce insect warriors: electro quarter staff battles ensue! But more
importantly, Garth Hudson, the organ player, was a cousin of Tim
Etherington, a good childhood friend of mine, and a hockey teammate
with an odd but effective skating style. This tenuous connection to
the group, along with the fact they were mostly Canadian, served, in
my kid’s imagination, as a link out of end of the seventies
Montreal to some weird, mythic world filled with things like Bob
Dylan, New York City, Lonesome Suzie, Richard Brautigan, William
Faulkner, Laurel Canyon, Sal Paradise, and so on and on and on …
Next
up is This Wheel’s On Fire, and though I love Absolutely
Fabulous, I have always found the use of this tune, and,
especially the cover version, kind of totally terrible. There is a
big scratch on my copy, so the first verse is a bit of a loss to me,
but the song once again returns to themes of struggle against
failure, defeat, treachery, and a worldview that can only be
described as pretty fucking bleak. And
then the record ends with I
Shall Be Released,
which out of a catalogue of stone cold classics, is perhaps the most
immortal Dylan tune—his Your
Cheating Heart or
This Land Is Your
Land. But it is also a song from a soul that has
lived ages, it’s a song for the end of the movie, and listening to
it now, I wonder what an eight year old boy would, or could make of
this song. Of course a little rain falls into every life, and even
eight year olds have troubles, but I would spend hours listening to
this song, and I assume, somehow relating to its concerns. It’s a
funny image, a seventies cut off jeans kid, lying on the living room
floor on a sunny Saturday afternoon, listening to a hymn of final
surrender. I’m not exactly sure why this record has meant so much
to me, but it seems to have something to do with this: a mixing of
worlds that are totally regular and as known as homework with those
that are creaky, mysterious, funny, and old time beautifully
heartbreaking. And then, of course, my best friend Willy came over
with his older brother’s copy of Never Mind The Bollocks, and
the rest, as the fat lady says, is history.
Matt Bissonnette - July 2010
1 [i] It’s been said often, but of the many evils of the compact disc, the loss of album cover art sits high on the list, as anyone who has ever held a real copy of Cheech and Chong’s Up In Smoke, which comes with a giant rolling paper, can attest.
2 I am quoting lyrics from memory, only mildly supplemented by recent listenings, and there is a good chance that I’ve gotten some/most of them wrong.3 I believe it was David Cronenberg who pointed out that the thing about clichés is that they are all true, another comforting bit of insight you gather after a few rodeos, and another pretty good reason to avoid novelty.
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dear hashish billy, please see footnote 2. and keep up the good work! m
Posted by: mb | 02/10/2011 at 01:56 PM
its the big bambu that comes with a giant rolling paper. check yr facts !
Posted by: hashish billy | 07/26/2010 at 11:09 AM