Melbourne, 1993/2001
It’s early 2001 and I’m clearing out all my stuff. Lately, I have become a minimalist with the unrealistic goal of fitting everything I own into a single mahogany trunk. Inevitably, this means a lot of old vinyl records have to make way. I’m house-sharing a derelict weatherboard joint out in Surrey Hills with three under-employed musicians and fate has it that in just a few months’ time we will be evicted. I think we all have a premonition that this is on the cards.
The house is a pigsty: multiple leaks, gathering mould, mice pooh in the breadbox, possum arses sticking out of the walls to block out the sunlight while they sleep, empty pizza cartons, cheap wine bottles – it’s a cross between Animal House and the Dead Poets Society. Dessie, one of my housemates, has the distinction of discovering a decomposing mouse while he is watching TV with his new girl.
I am unemployed (by choice), single (not by choice) and soon to be a nomad (I will spend the next three years couch-surfing, house-sitting, sponging). Going through my record collection is a journey through the past ten years. What initially surprises me is the number of Neil Young albums I have. I reckon there’s about a dozen. Slowly, it starts to come back to me where and when I purchased these gems.
In first year uni (1992) I hired The Last Waltz from the local video store and was mesmerized by the Neil Young song Helpless. This in turn led to some opportunistic purchases from the second-hand record store Dixons in nearby Blackburn. The first album I got was Harvest; Young’s most commercially successful album with countrified folk classics like Heart of Gold and Old Man. Over the next few years I also acquire After the Gold Rush, Everybody Knows This is Nowhere, Tonight’s The Night, Time Fades Away, Zuma, American Stars ‘n Bars, Comes A Time, Decade, Rust Never Sleeps and Live Rust.
I later realise that all these albums were cut in that classic 1969-79 period. I’m well aware that Young has been a fearless and prolific artist since ’79 but for some reason that’s where it all ends in my record collection. Not a conscious decision. Maybe I got sucked back into the Dylan vacuum – I can’t remember now.
I play a few of the records and I’m transported back to the slothful glory of my university days…up all night studying for an Economics exam under the influence of Crazy Horse…late for a lecture and stuck in traffic on Middleborough Road with the opening line of Tell Me Why ringing in my ears…Barstool Blues blasting from my car stereo at three o’clock in the morning after returning from another ill-fated nocturnal pursuit:
And I saw you in my nightmares
But I’ll see you in my dreams
And I might live a thousand years
Before I know what that means.
With the old records spinning, the overriding feeling that comes back to me is one of solitude. Not so much in the loneliness sense – I had a great bunch of friends at uni – but more so the realisation that I had no one to share this music with. In 1993 not one person that I knew listened to Neil Young. I’m not even sure any of my mates had heard of him. Dudes were more into rap, R&B, house, heavy metal, etc.
Ironically the grunge thing was starting to take off at that time and Neil Young was considered to be godfather of that genre. I tried listening to some of that stuff but sonically I didn’t get it. I couldn’t connect. In retrospect I think it was only the distorted guitar sound that the 90s grunge movement had in common with the Shakey one. For me, Young had much more going on with his tenor voice coming through with clarity above the mayhem of the music, fused with evocative melodies and strange, enchanting lyrics.
The panoramic imagery of songs like Cortez The Killer take you back to the 16th century Americas. Pocahontas is in that world too – albeit with the unexpected entrance of Marlon Brando into the final verse. Then there is the doo wop harmonies of Winterlong sounding like something out of a 1950s dancehall. And the wistful harmonica and nostalgia of Long May You Run. And the sheer autobiographical determination of Don’t Be Denied.
But Powderfinger is the crowning achievement. I had subconsciously neglected this song for the past seven years because of my horror at learning an Australian band had stolen its identity – that’s not a reflection on the band in question (whom I’ve never listened to), but more a reflection of my stubbornness at the time. This song was my secret. How dare they publicise it to the world!
The version of Powderfinger that stands out for me is the cut from Live Rust – the album that is inextricably connected to its predecessor Rust Never Sleeps (where the song first appears). As I pull the record out of the sleeve and drop it in the slot, I know exactly where I’m going to place the needle. Side 3. Track 1. It’s late but I turn it up a few decibels. Let it rip Neil. This will scare the possums away. This will shake up Dessie and his new girl.
Powderfinger is a Southern gothic novel told in just a few verses, ornamented by a succession of blazing, screeching guitar solos – each of which adds to the narrative. Inexplicably the ghastly lyrics are accompanied by an almost doo wop backing vocal by the Crazy Horse musicians. The way the slain man’s last words come to mind just as he is dying:
Remember me to my love, I know I’ll miss her
is just gut-wrenching. And then the song just ends, winds up in a flash – leaving you with that last poignant thought of the dead man. Songmakers dedicate their whole lives trying to come up with something like that.
Crime In The City by Neil Young Story by Markus Zusak
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Damian Balassone
Damian Balassone is the author of three volumes of poetry, including the forthcoming collection of short poems and epigrams Love is a Weird Cat.
Comment by Colin Ritchie:
Great read Damian! Powderfinger is also my favourite Neil song. It wasn’t until I saw Neil in concert at Festival Hall in 1985 or 86 that I first heard the song and was completely mesmerized. That opening chord, Neil laconically moving into the vocals has stayed with me ever since. What surprised me was I thought I was au fait with all his music but for some reason I missed this song until the concert. It’s a great song to crank the volume up. Cheers Damian.
The Shakey One – that says it all. This is a great story.
“Remember me to my love, I know I’ll miss her” is so great because we somehow know he’ll live on (and haunt on) in some other fashion and he might just miss her more than she’ll miss him. Maybe. I love that the main riff is a weird country-sounding thing on steroids.
Damn good story, Damian – mz
Outstanding Damian. Powderfinger is an wonderful example of Young’s ability to affect us. He taunts us and challenges us and just when we think we have him cornered he moves again. How else can you explain a song like “When God Made Me”?
Cheers Dip. So true. Does this man ever get writer’s block? I think not. He’s always seems to have a stack of new tunes to serve up to his fans every few years.
Cheers Colin & Markus. Colin, there’s so much to discover with Neil Young with what 38 odd albums, so it’s easy to miss the odd pearler. Only recently have I started to catch onto epic songs like Ordinary People. Markus, spot on re that haunting last line and the weirdness of the main riff. I’ve never heard anything like it.
One of the Great Man’s greatest songs and Crazy Horse could not be bettered in their accompaniment. Thank you for posting this and thanks, too, for the thoughts on ‘Barstool Blues’ – Best of luck as you prepare for three (!!) years of couch-surfing, house-sitting, etc.
Cheers Inncent. Glad to hear you’re a fan of Barstool Blues. One of the underrated gems in Neil’s back catalogue (or as we say here in Australia ‘black cattle dog’).
Thanks Damian. A wonderful story that brought back so many memories. It is difficult to disagree with the choice of Powderfinger as the #1 Neil Young song. I totally agree with the comments about the music – the ramshackle beat that somehow holds together, the swooping guitar, the backup harmonies and the somewhat foreboding lyrics. And a story that makes you think, where is he going with this.
He told me red means run, son, numbers add up to nothing
I first heard Powderfinger in the film Rust Never Sleeps in 1979 or 80. Epic movie. And then the brilliant 1985 concert mentioned above (we saw it at Memorial Drive, Adelaide) that amounted to three concerts in one. Neil Young with the International Harvesters, then solo, then with Crazy Horse. We stood about two metres from the stage, replete with a smuggled dram or two. Richard Clapton opened the show, I reckon. And the pounding beat of Ralph Molina on drums produced an immediate, profound reaction from my heavily pregnant wife Deborah. She lasted the distance, but viewed the rest of the concert from further back.
It was a long time ago but I remember the concert as a brilliant performance. I was enthralled. It opened with country fiddle and I recall his solo renditions of Birds and The Needle and The Damage Done on piano and then a swaggering Cortez the Killer. I had to check the setlist online for the rest and discovered that Powderfinger was the finale. A somewhat more fulfilling night than Van Morrison fans experienced a night or two later where The Man apparently played most of the Adelaide show with his back to the audience.
Powderfinger rates highly amongst many gems. Unadorned ballads, rollicking country songs, political statements and outright crunching, grungy rockers.
The sound of the music, the lyrics and his voice in complement, ranging from fragile and delicate to blunt and confronting.
His lyrics tell stories or profoundly turn things upside down;
See the losers in the best bars
Meet the winners in the dives
Yes he has sometimes missed the mark but his philosophy is simple;
Don’t let it bring you down
It’s only castles burning
He has always moved on, ever obtuse, always his own man, posing questions or making statements to ponder.
Thanks again, Damian.
Thanks for your feedback Peter. What a thrill it must have been to be there in ’85 and what a story – I bet your unborn baby would have been kicking like crazy once Ralph started pounding those drums! And a finale with Powderfinger. Wow! As you say the song’s ‘a story that makes you think’. There’s quite a few intereprations out there on the web about what exactly happens & what it means. One thing for sure, it’s a helluva ride. Cheers, DB
Many thanks Damian. My reply was probably too long but I am glad we have been able to share our thoughts about the man and his music. Great line of yours about his “voice coming through with clarity above the mayhem of the music, fused with evocative melodies and strange, enchanting lyrics”. Funnily enough, while son Matthew is into the likes of Hendrix, he has never been a great fan of Neil Young. I put it down a generational thing and his desire to create his own heroes rather than any subliminal message from Molina’s poundings. Good luck with the possums. Cowgirl in the Sand at cranked up volume may also help.
Love it DB. Had some of my best times during the share house years (but don’t wanna do that ever again). A couple of best friends for life came out of the share houses we, er, shared in the 80s. I got my music education from a couple of best friends. Whether it was the mystery of REM, the confusion then delights of Springsteen’s Nebraska, the first time we heard Steve Earle, defending every bad Dylan album (it was the 80s) or Paul Kelly entering our lives and Sonic Youth. Then Public Enemy introducing us to hip-hop. Lived, learned and loved it all through share houses. Your story woke a lot of those memories for me.
As for Powderfinger, it’s a sublime song. Every line, every note, every abrasive, distorted bita feedback. And under that a story that Mark Twain would put his name to. “Big John’s been drinkin’ since the river took Emmy-Lou”. In one line you get a person’s broken hearted life and that line is really only there to serve the main story!
Onya DB, that’s a ripper of a reflection.
Thanks Rick. You’re right – great times, great friends, but couldn’t go back. Interesting you mentioned Earle – one of my house mates was a drummer and once got a call (circa 2000-2001) about doing a one-off gig for him (not sure what happened to his band drummer – maybe sick). He turned it down as he’d never heard of Earle. Later when he told me I almost flipped – talk about a missed opportunity!
Agreed re your Twain comparison to Powderfinger. That’s the landscape I see as well. Cheers.
Steve Earle and drummers. At the legendary Bridgeway Hotel (Adelaide) concert in 1997, Steve Earle introduced his drummer, Brady Blade saying “I’ve never had much luck with wives and drummers, I keep losing them”. Brady just grinned. Seemed to me he was a bloody good drummer. This was the same concert that Aust harp player Chris Wilson got stuck into the audience because they weren’t applauding his band Crown of Thorns (who opened the show) loudly enough. He was very scary.
Great read Damian. I have all those albums plus a few more. On the Beach, Live at Massey Hall, Americana. Powderfinger is my favourite song, along with Like A Hurricane. I believe Powderfinger, the band, started out as a Neil Young cover band, hence the name.