Farther Along —

The Byrds.

Imagine (its easy if you try) the following conversation "Remember long hair? And John Lennon.....son of a gun, whatever happened to him.....and grass, man remember grass? How'd we used to say it, oh yeah, Fahhhh Out!" Instant nostalgia, yes, but did you realise that its already nearly Ten Years since the Beatles? Ten years since Lennon spoke in prophecy" whatever we'll be doing at 30 we won't be on a stage together 'Twist and Shout.'

At the end of these ten years its grown all over the Stones and Lennon has lost his way and the Airplane have degenerated into a platform for Kantner's dreams of the millenium and Dylan is living his private joys, too simple to be communicated and you begin to wonder whether there's a place for a thirty year old on a stage singing about anything. And now the Byrds, the beautiful Byrds, have crapped out, too. There's a time for every purpose and this was contract time for a new Byrds LP so they did it, but I can't think of any reason why you should want to own it. For the record there are two old fifties throwaways, two novelty numbers, and lots of glossy magazine songs about mountain streams and shady groves inhabited by those spaced out chicks beloved of hip male chauvinism, you know, the passive serene type who know too much to argue or to judge. Oh, and Alvin Lee plays supersonic banjo on the last track.

Of course the Byrds are really Roger McGuinn and its significant that his contribution is a bastardised melody ripped off from Chuck Berry's Nadine and Dylan's 115th Dream over the top of that elderly Satisfaction guitar riff. Even the name of the album Farther Along is depressing. Farther where? I dunno, just farther. Just older. Tireder.

Gordon Campbell.