Band

The Band was a more than rare phenomenon in rock music. Their early albums captured a private, domestic, and rustic dimension that seemed paradoxical in the era of folk-rock (an urban phenomenon) and the hippies (a public, communal phenomenon), doing so with a style directly rooted in the music of America’s humblest regions: the Appalachian folksingers and the gospel preachers of the southern churches. At the same time, they infused these songs with an austere spirit, worthy of chamber music, and a solemnity befitting religious music.
The Band (originally called The Hawks) formed in Canada in 1960 to back Arkansas rocker Ronnie Hawkins. Drummer Levon Helm (the only member not born in Canada and the first to play for Hawkins), bassist Rickie Danko, pianist Richard Manuel, organist Garth Hudson, and guitarist Robbie Robertson (son of a Jewish father and a Mohawk mother) made up a solid backing group that was noticed and brought to New York’s Greenwich Village in 1964, when they were called Levon and the Hawks.
Bob Dylan hired them in 1965 for his famous conversion to electric music, and from that moment they remained in his entourage. When Dylan retreated to the woods of Woodstock, to a house called “Big Pink,” the Band followed him. In that bucolic atmosphere, Dylan and the Band recorded what became famous as the Basement Tapes (1975), but the Band also began writing their own material, which would become their first album, released in July 1968.

Music From Big Pink (Capitol, 1968) is one of the albums that marked the decisive shift from acid rock to country rock. Leaving behind long, psychedelic improvisations, the Band returned to the traditional song format and adopted a sound rooted in America’s traditional music. The experiment succeeded because the Band was composed of five exceptional musicians. It boasted perhaps the best rhythm section of the era—powerful, solemn, exuberant, and concise—one of the finest ever. It had two keyboardists who complemented each other perfectly: Richard Manuel on gospel piano and Garth Hudson on a “Bachian” organ. It could also rely on the catalytic personality of Robbie Robertson, who gave the songs a tone that was a mix of existential, mystical, and epic. Robertson was also an original guitarist, using the wah-wah pedal to emulate the traditional sound of the steel guitar. The group was unafraid to experiment with unusual combinations, roaming among gospel, spirituals, blues, country, soul, Cajun, ragtime, rock and roll, funk, and even a touch of baroque church music. The result was catchy, compelling, and surreal. The Band occupied a unique borderline zone in the musical landscape of the era—and perhaps of all eras. At the same time, the album promoted moral values as unusual as the music itself. The Band adhered to the values of the “American way of life”: first, the pillars of home and family (the domestic); then love of the countryside, prairies, and nature (the rural); and finally, the ideals of the great nation—freedom and equality (patriotism). In short, the Band cultivated a “conservative” folk, without the nostalgic rhetoric of conservatism, with a sober and kindly tone; they embraced old-fashioned values without making them a political platform. Nothing could have been more at odds with the ethos of the hippie era. Music From Big Pink (Capitol, 1968) quickly became famous because it contained some previously unreleased Bob Dylan songs, at a time when he was silent. But its true value lies primarily in the parade of robust, bittersweet songs, among which Robertson’s more anguished compositions and Manuel’s more lively pieces stand out. Among the former are the syncopated gospel of To Kingdom Come, Chest Fever, with its demonic baroque organ opening, anguished boogie rhythm, and Salvation Army-style interlude, and the majestic existential ballad The Weight, sung with the fervor and pain of a spiritual and played in a hybrid style combining Native American dance and saloon piano (their unsurpassed masterpiece). From Manuel come the heartfelt In A Station, with country and soul accents, and We Can Talk, one of their most airy and jovial soul choruses, structured like doo-wop novelties.

That first album had actually been only a tentative attempt. It was the second, Band II (Capitol, 1969), that truly took flight, decisively breaking with the prejudices of the hippie era. Curiously, the group had just moved to California, to Los Angeles. This time the album was entirely composed by Robertson, without any influence from Dylan. It was superbly arranged, with Levon Helm prominently featured as the driving force behind both the vocals and their characteristic syncopated rhythm. The album is even more varied and dense, containing several other classics of their ragged, limber style, drawing partly from the city bands of the 1920s, partly from barrelhouse entertainers, partly from country town ensembles, and partly from nineteenth-century minstrels. The group revives the culture of the Frontier, fully exploiting the legend genre, wandering among emigrant camps and the racist South, while also exploring the humblest village music of the roaring decades, using tuba orchestras and pub choruses. The passage of time is marked primarily by the metamorphoses of the keyboards: rag pianos, street organs, pipe organs, and gospel organs take turns leading the way. Thus parade The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down, a mournful evocation of early-century rural band style; the crackling Rag Mama Rag, driven by tuba with ragged honky-tonk piano runs; Across The Great Divide, a New Orleans-style jump rhythm and blues; the choral country of When You Awake; and Look Out Cleveland, an accelerated soul piece in ironic doo-wop. But there are also powerful, syncopated dance songs, like Up On Cripple Creek, with its funky cadences; Jemina Surrender, a dragging, festive boogie; and Jawbone, the most martial spiritual of their career. Anachronistic country folk clinging to family values and the Bible, the five of them created, in the midst of the generational war, a phenomenal bucolic rock—surprisingly loved and respected by almost everyone.

However, The Band was never able to repeat its earlier success. Stage Fright (Capitol, 1970) mostly contains melancholic, autobiographical litanies such as Daniel And The Sacred Heart, Stage Fright, and The Shape I'm In, while the livelier tracks, Strawberry Wine and WS Walcott Medicine Show, are pale imitations of the previous album. Cahoots (Capitol, 1971) is a luxurious failure: Robertson stubbornly sought formal perfection, achieving it only in Life Is A Carnival and River Hymn.

Moondog Matinee (Capitol, 1973) is simply a tribute to the music of their beginnings, to the rock and roll and rhythm and blues of the 1950s.

La Band helped Dylan to record Planet Waves (1974).

Northern Lights Southern Cross (Capitol, 1975) succeeded where Cahoots had failed and was worthy of the first two albums. The epic Acadian Driftwood, in particular, as well as It Makes No Difference, are ambitious and complex tracks that make use of modern electronic technology. However, Islands (Capitol, 1977) was a terrible album, hastily put together for contractual reasons. The Band’s breakup was commemorated with a 1976 farewell concert in San Francisco that became a colossal event, filmed by Martin Scorsese and released as the triple album The Last Waltz, an event that seemed to mark the end of an era and retire an entire generation (just as the first new wave and punk rock albums were appearing). To Kingdom Come (Capitol, 1989) is the best anthology. Rickie Danko’s first solo album, Rick Danko (Arista, 1977)—he had always remained somewhat in the shadows in the Band—is actually a happy appendix to the group’s story, featuring Manuel’s gospel piano on Share It and Robertson’s strong guitar on Java Blues, still radiating creative energy. Robertson, in turn, writes soundtracks for Martin Scorsese and only at age 44 begins his solo career, establishing himself with Robbie Robertson (Geffen, 1987) as a modest hero of ordinary people, a minstrel of the vast American epic (Fallen Angel, Sweet Fire Of Love, with U2), and more than ever the collective subconscious of the Native American people (Broken Arrow). The album presents a modern sound, far removed from the Band, perhaps thanks in part to producer Daniel Lanois.

Levol Helm also released The RCO All Stars (ABC, 1977), with Steve Cropper, Dr John and Paul Butterfield, American Son (ABC, 1978), and Levon Helm (ABC, 1982).

Manuel, the tragic voice of so many of their ballads, killed himself in 1986.

Robbie Robertson scored soundtracks for film director Martin Scorsese and then, at the age of 44, started a solo career. Robbie Robertson (Geffen, 1987) is the sermon of a humble hero of the common people, a bard of the vast American epics as well as the voice of the collective subconscious of the Native-American people. The sound, though, is tough and noisy, almost frantic by the standards of the Band, probably due to the influence of producer Daniel Lanois. Fallen Angel, dedicated to Manuel, opens the collection with thunderous syncopated drumming, agonizing vocals, ringing guitar and floating keyboard drones. The whole soundscape (voice and instruments) of Somewhere Down The Crazy River is reminiscent of the most elaborate productions of soul music (Norman Whitfield, Marvin Gaye). There is even a collaboration with U2, the roaring, Bo Diddley-ian shuffle of Sweet Fire Of Love. The moral centerpiece is the Native-American requiem Broken Arrow, a double wham of mournful soul chant and suspenseful atmosphere, obtained via a diluted backdrop of loosely-coupled instrumental sounds.
Robertson flirts repeatedly with dance music. Showdown At Big Sky combines the loud and thick polyrhythms of Talking Heads plus the visceral "shout and rock" attitude of Bruce Springsteen. At its melodic zenith the tribal beat of American Roulette (one of the harshest songs) mutates into dancefloor beats. The flirt turns into a full-fledged affair with the explosive fusion of hard-rock and disco-music of Hell's Half Acre, that sounds like Stan Ridgway covering the Guns N' Roses, and the pounding funk music (replete with raging horn fanfares) of Testimony.

Richard Manuel committed suicide after a show in 1986. He was only 40.

Robertson returned to the scenes with Storyville (Geffen, 1991), a concept album that reads like a tribute to New Orleans at the turn of the century (he even enrolled the Neville Brothers and the Meters). It is also a dense textural pastiche that stands on its sheer musical values (Night Parade, Soapbox Preacher, Shake This Town, What About Now, Sign of The Raibow)

The drawback of both his albums is that they rely on a sound that is borrowed from someone else (a producer or a city). They are as personal as a Martin Luther King speech read by a porno diva.

Again, many years elapsed before Robertson made another album, Music for the Native Americans (Capitol, 1994). Continuing his experiment with stylistic cross-pollination and assimilating the latest techniques of electronica and sampling, Robertson delivered his most ambitious work yet, Contact From The Underworld Of Red Boy (Capitol, 1998), despite some truly embarrassing moments. The psychedelic world-music of The Sound Is Fading is not particularly original, but the tribal funk-soul of Making A Noise falls halfway between Fleetwood Mac's Tusk and Marvin Gaye's I Heard It Through The Grapevine. The album suddenly drops into a subdued, melancholy mood. Enya-esque vocals float over the electronic beats that propel the lament of Unbound. An electronic heartbeat pumps life into the anemic litany of The Lights. However, the haunting atmosphere created by some of the best meditations is ruined by trivial, stereotyped ballads. He fails to ignite the anthem Stomp Dance or to capitalize on the catchy refrain of the sample-heavy Take Your Partner by the Hand. And the rather uninspired Native-American chant Peyote Healing seems to belong to another album.

In the meantime, Rick Danko recorded Danko Fjeld Andersen (Rykodisc, 1990) with Jonas Fjeld and Eric Andersen.

Danko, Hudson and Helm reunited as the Band and recorded the albums, Jericho (Pyramid, 1993), that contains at least one number worthy of the past (The Caves Of Jericho), High on the Hog (Pyramid, 1996) and Jubilation (River North, 1998). Lacking a strong composer, the repertory was largely serviceable and relies mainly on covers.

Danko formed a trio with Eric Anderson and Jonas Fjeld which recorded two albums: Danko/Anderson/Fjeld (1993) and Riding on the Blinds (1997). Danko's second solo album, Live on Breeze Hill (1999), was released just before his death in December 1999 at the age of 56.

After recovering from throat cancer, Levon Helm wasted his talent on Dirt Farmer (2007) and Electric Dirt (2009), both devoted to covers. Ramble at the Ryman (2012) is a live album. Levon Helm died of cancer in 2012 at the age of 62.

A Musical History (2005) is a five-cd box-set career anthology of the Band.

Robertson spent most of his old age working on music for films, particularly for Martin Scorsese (Raging Bull, 1980; The King of Comedy, 1983; Casino, 1995; The Departed, 2006; The Wolf of Wall Street, 2013; The Irishman, 2019; Killers of the Flower Moon, 2023). Robertson's How to Become Clairvoyant (2011) was rich in famous guests but lacking in his trademark elegies. His final solo album was Sinematic (2019). Robbie Robertson died in 2023. Hudson, the last surviving member of the Band, died in january 2025.