vilmann skrev:vilmann skrev:
Senere bliver det Plant/Krauss:
Det blev et kort visit. Umiddelbart lyder det helt rigtigt. Krauss og Plant passer fint sammen, og Blue Grass/Country/American Folk eller hvad det nu er, er egentlig ikke særlig langt fra Robert Plant.
Mest positivt kunne jeg holde ud at høre mere end 3 numre i træk: Alison Krauss og Union Station fint nok, men det skal være i meget små doser. De er for enerverende i længden. Det er Krauss og Plant ikke.
Forøvrigt spiller Marc Ribot guitar og dobro, og så er der vist rigtig god lyd på den.
Men nok om den. Jeg skal tilbage til kromdrømmene
/vilmann
ZIG skrev:
Vælger Young fra.
Jeg har vist sovet i timen.
There is a strain of Neil Young devotee that has more in common with the crossword buff than with other music fans. Like those whose week feels incomplete unless they've been driven to distraction by Azed or Araucaria, they thrive on a kind of bewilderment, and bewildering people is one of Young's specialities. Said fans had a rough time in the 1990s, when Young hardly did anything bewildering at all. The famous Baffling Inner Logic that previously governed his actions had apparently been laid to rest: Young seemed set on seeing out his career by alternating Crazy Horse-fuelled hard rock with untaxing acoustic albums.
But in the new millennium, the Baffling Inner Logic came back with a vengeance. We've had both a virulent post-9/11 pro-war album, Are You Passionate?, and a virulent post-9/11 anti-war album featuring a choir, Living With War. Six months after Living With War came its follow-up: exactly the same album with the choir removed. He made a film, Greendale. Like every other film by Young, it made no sense whatsoever. There was a Greendale stage show, too, featuring lip-synching actors and interpretative dance: nothing, after all, screams out for interpretative dance quite like the lumbering din of Crazy Horse.
Even among sexagenarian rock cranks, Young cuts an antic figure. By contrast, Lou Reed is painfully eager to please, Bob Dylan but the hapless puppet of his record label. He makes Van Morrison look like Gary Wilmott. In Young's head it presumably makes perfect sense that his latest effort should be a belated follow-up to a 30-year-old album that he never actually released in the first place. With a tracklist featuring Like a Hurricane, Powderfinger, Pocahontas, Look Out for My Love and the devastating ballad Stringman, Chrome Dreams could have been Young's strongest album of the 70s, but in a ripe example of the Baffling Inner Logic at work, he scrapped it in favour of his worst album of the 70s, the half-baked American Stars 'n Bars. The only thing Chrome Dreams II seems to have in common with its predecessor is a multiplicity of styles: raging rock songs sit alongside gentle country.
It also features Shining Light, one of the 60s soul-influenced numbers Young occasionally releases in order to remind listeners that his voice sounds deeply weird when singing 60s soul-influenced numbers: it's as if a session at Memphis's legendary Muscle Shoals studio has been gatecrashed by a lovelorn Muppet.
Its opening three songs are plucked from his vast back catalogue of unreleased material. The heart doesn't exactly leap at the prospect of Beautiful Bluebird, which failed to make the cut for 1985's hopeless foray into Nashville schmaltz, Old Ways - it turns out to be slight but pretty - and he makes rather a pig's ear of Boxcar, famed among bootleggers as the highlight of yet another unreleased album, 1988's Times Square. The original arrangement consisted solely of Young's electric guitar, clearly being played at enormous volume, but here there's a straightforward country backing. It's still a fine song, but much thrilling, spooked intensity has been lost in translation.
Both pale next to Ordinary People, which went unreleased for two decades. You have to be either supremely confident or hugely misguided to believe that any song warrants taking up 18 minutes of your listeners' lives, but nothing here feels superfluous or wasted: it races by in an exhilarating blur of gripping, witty lyrical vignettes - barflies watching a Las Vegas title fight, homeless squatters occupying the derelict factory in which they used to work, a hustler "tryin' to help the people get the drugs to the street" - blasting brass arrangements and guitar solos that sound like anger boiling over. Perversely, Ordinary People is so extraordinary that you wonder at the wisdom of its inclusion here. It's fit to stand alongside anything Young has ever recorded, but it's also 20 years old, which casts the recent material that follows in an unforgiving light.
Another extended work-out, No Hidden Path, is four minutes shorter, half as inventive and feels five times as long. The Believer and Spirit Road pass unmemorably. But just when the listener starts reflecting on Young's waning abilities, two songs arrive that suggest the fire is far from out. Dirty Old Man offers impossibly grizzled punk: the guitars don't sound distorted so much as decomposed, Young's voice fights to be heard above the sludge, but there's something gleeful about the delivery that suggests a sneaking affection for the song's lecherous, alcoholic protagonist.
Finally there's The Way. Gentle, piano-driven and meditative, it comes with both a gorgeous tune and a whopping caveat: the Young People's Chorus of New York City. Inviting a childrens' choir to needlessly dunk a beautiful song in syrup is a cussed, bewildering move. A certain strain of Neil Young fan would expect nothing less."
Aside from Bob Dylan, there has never been a performer more full of shit than Neil Young -en af de bedre anmeldelser der også giver lidt indblik i archives-føljetonen.
Brugere der læser dette forum: Ingen tilmeldte og 2 gæster