American Stars 'n Bars

Neil Young Reprise

American Stars n Bars evidences a 70:30 good, bad dichotomy, but it is apparent that despite the temporal gaps separated by the thickness of the vinyl this division does not follow an arbitrary topside/backside split. The concerns that occupied so much of Zuma have been replaced by Young with a more settled view of himself as 'the big rock star', a stance several times removed from that of the earlier 'loner' and one in which he seems decidedly more comfortable. As improvements go it weighs in at about 500 percent.

Some historical data might be in order to inform readers that the schizophrenic aspect evinced by the material's spacing is a natural consequence The first half consists of 1977 tracks cut with the aid of the Bullets, another of Young's backing agglomerations who just happen to include Linda Ronstadt.

These recent tracks represent the distillation of the more modern facet of Young's forays into the studio and, surprisingly, the greater proportion of it works. The pre-present day tracks — collected on side two — are infinitely more intriguing and span 1974 - 76, an exercise so often transformed into an excuse for an artist to release anything he might have been able to force past the mixer's scissors. Fortunately here it's not the case, and amidst these only the tailender is a downright failure. There are the cognoscenti who would submit that Young can't sing in tune, his appeal having more to do with his distinctive vocal twang, and to whom the prospect of Young carrying this song, Homegrown, with only a doubletracked vocal tine would be enough to induce a coronary thrombosis. This horrendous rendering was originally a good idea, especially in the contest of a 'Conserve New Zealand Forest's campaign, but here the overall effect is ludicrous. He is not only more than usually whining, but this which starts with eerily plangent guitar (Young's) silhouetting the doleful vocal, gradually falling awat to his acapella (sic) posturing is merely awful.

The lyric shows a firm handling of archetypal country concerns, and combined with Young's whining could possibly come off as a disaster, except that it's delivered here with a degree of forceful honesty that enables it to stay well clear of being either maudlin or mawkishly pretentious. Saddle up the Palamino is spiced with more jangly guitar, sufficiently abrasive for it to appeal on a rock and roll level. Linda Ronstadt's support vocals imbue it with a texture of highly wrought eroticism — great for driving yourself to distraction.

Hey Babe and Hold Back the Tears, unfortunately, display the whingeing side of the whine, and together they comprise a gaping hole right in the middle of the side, so the less said about that the better. Hold Back the Tears tails off rather loosely with an inconclusive refrain about ". . . just around the next corner ..." and suddenly you're slammed with a wall of wailing guitar introducing Bite the Bullet, a fierce slash the likes of which Young hasn't committed to vinvl since the days of After the Gold Rush. Amidst the flailing guitars Ronstadt end Young trade off perfectly. When Young gets as good as he gets here damn few get any better. 'No prizes for guessing which particular bullet he's thinking of biting.

Side two stirs one into thinking about Young's management and just what in the hell they've been doing since Gold Rush, and how much good material is still sitting in the can. The kicker for the side is Bethlehem Star, recorded in 1974 with Emmy Lou Harris — just two years after Gram Parsons' ashes circled into the still desert air above San Bernardino, and it's brilliant. No slight to Ms Ronstadt, but it could almost be a logical and superior conclusion to the material on the first side. As a friend noted it is a personal song, Young getting right down to the bone, and is best treated as an aural experience, one to be heard. Harris adds a gorgeous harmony, in her own inimitable style, the whole piece neatly laced with harmonica, shrieking like a siren in the middle of the night.

The truly strange Will to Love follows. Young's interpretation of the Hendrix 1983, A Merman I Shall Turn To Be science fiction opus shaded and coloured with phasing and echo. Perhaps not quite as successful as Hendrix but an interesting departure from the normal run of things. Like A Hurricane is another demented, vicious slash showcasing guitar along the lines of Bite the Bullet, et, extended and with emphasis on the guitar, ripping through several changes to catharsis: and Homegrown, dismissed earlier, deservedly.

So — not as consistent as On the Beach or Zuma, but its highspoet equal anything he's put down since Gold Rush — and the Emmy Lou Harris duet is worth the price of the album alone. How, in 2:42, he—apparently lackadaisacally and with so little effort — managed to force in so much of import frizzles the brain.

Flatulence, incurred by the frittering away of profit (on God knows what) from previous albums and masterpieces means that this album only amounts to seven tracks which are in any way healthy, and from an artist of Young's calibre I think we are entitled to demand total consistency. Young may be sincere in wanting to make the revolutionary statement of 1977, and one would have to be dense to miss the title's tie in with the Confederacy, but such smugness rings hollow in the light of his lifestyle. That he was, however, prepared to make something of a political statement — be it brazen effrontery, or motivated by vestiges of rebellious spirit left over from 1968 — attests to the fact that Young is definitely not to be sneezed at. And the music gives added weight to the implication in the title, initially, so what is at first seen as overbearing pretentiousness ultimately transcends the tweeness implied by the title, Neil Young — along with Presley, Dylan, Jackson Browne, Brian Wilson, Lou Reed and not too many others is one of the few real artists spawned by the American rock ethos, and when his hits outweigh his misses — as they do here — the results are nothing short of pretty damned astounding.

— Patrick O'Dea.