Neil Young with Crazy Horse, Barn (2021)

By SoDak

I commend Neil Young for remaining an active musician for so many years. His forty-first studio record, Barn, was released in December 2021. I have every one of his records, including the best of collections, live recordings, and bootlegs. With every new release, I think maybe this will be a good record. Unfortunately, this is often not the case. In fact, to be quite honest, it has been a very long time since Neil has released a great record. He has a handful of incredible records, for me this includes: Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere, After the Gold Rush, On the Beach, Harvest Moon, Silver & Gold, Decades (a collection), and Unplugged (live). He has quite a few good records, which include some extraordinary songs. “Old Man,” from Harvest, remains a favorite. There are many other great songs, and it is on this basis that his reputation is built. The problem is that there is a huge amount of garbage in his discography. I have long known this, as I have followed his work throughout my life. I do appreciate that he is never really content and wants to explore different styles and sounds. Not everything is going to land and resonate with me. 

In a recent interview, Neil Young discussed the importance of his archive project, sorting through old bootlegs and unreleased recordings. I love his passion for this work and some gems have certainly surfaced as a result. He also noted that he is always looking forward, wanting to make new music. This is also something that I really like about him. But so much of the new music seems incomplete. 

On Barn, Neil Young and Crazy Horse recorded in an old barn in the Rockies, which seems like a great idea. It certainly ignites romantic notions. But listening to the record extinguishes any sparks of excitement. The songs, whether they are folky or rocking, are plodding. As with many of the previous records, this one feels like a jam session. As Neil said in an interview, he showed up at the barn with the lyrics and the music for “Human Race.” He showed the song to the folks in Crazy Horse, telling them to give it their best, as they were going to record it in one take. I get that he wants to capture the raw, unbridled feeling. But this is not always very interesting, and it is not working here. Many songs need to be rehearsed, letting musicians explore the song itself and figure out what they can contribute to it. Some songs need to bake for a while to be transformed into something extraordinary. Unfortunately, it seems that Neil Young does not want to spend time refining and crafting excellent songs at this point. Instead, we get another collection of songs where the band knocks out the basics and Neil Young mutters the words. While listening to the record, my wife commented that, “his singing is horrible and he is out of tune—how can folks put out records like this?” She is not wrong. Neil is approaching my territory, as no one ever wants to hear me sing. The lyrics, whether they are personal or political, are perfectly fine. The big issue is that songs themselves are not presented in a way for me to internalize them. They do not generate interest or a desire to invest in listening to them. As a result, they will not be woven into my life, like so many of his classic songs. Instead, they will be forgotten. Until the next release, I remain naively hopeful that Neil Young will devote more time to crafting excellent songs, as such a record is long overdue. 

Ian’s Favorite Music in 2021

By Ian

1. Ovlav, Buds (2021).

This album came out pretty late in the year. November might as well qualify as the following year, as we all scramble to arrange obligations of family, business, etc. What got me though was how intimate this album sounded. I’ve always been a fan of Ovlov, with their loud, alt-rock sensibilities channeled through mounds of fuzz and pounding drums. This album actually took a stripped-back approach. The distortion and steady punk thumping remain, but within lays a wonderfully comfortable, approachable album for those old and new to Ovlov’s catalog. The song “Feel the Pain” especially encapsulates this. The last song on the album rides along on four-chord 1-2-3-4 riffs until, surprise, distortion reigns supreme and a blast beat makes its way into the frantic wall of fuzzy noise, carrying the song into its inevitable conclusion.  

2. Little Kid, Transfiguration Highway (2020).

I originally became familiar with Little Kid when I thankfully stumbled upon a YouTube link that tantalizingly rested in the recommended sidebar of some other video. God only knows what that original catalyst page may have been, but whatever it was led me to Little Kid’s 2017 album, Sun Milk. It’s hard to describe exactly why I like this band so much. Little Kid’s music is tinged with Christian themes, but it is also blended with slice of life stories that pepper the album. I find it all to be a very wholesome experience, so maybe that’s why. 

3. Disimperium, Malefic Obliteration (2021).

I am a metalhead by trade. I make it, I breath it, I love it. If there’s one thing I really love in metal, it’s songs that are almost all blast beats. “Dynamics” are cool and all, but nothing is more cool to me than relentless, uncompromising blast beats and riffs that are almost incomprehensible among the onslaught of noise. This EP is only 3 songs in total, but I have high hopes for this band. 

4. Richard Lockwood, In the Doorway of the Dawn (2012).

There is so much to say about this album (compilation). This Aussie, bearded man has crafted so many wonderful, beautiful songs for years and years and only released them in 2012. I’m hearing it now, 19 years later. This collection is immaculate. It’s reminiscent of early prog, a la King Crimson and Yes. Of course, the music is similar to many 1970s folk outfits, but it’s all this one guy who was just off the radar for who knows how long. Either way, it’s a wonderful collection of eclectic folk songs from a man who deserves far more recognition. 

5. maudlin of the Well, Bath (2001).

Those of whom are familiar with Kayo Dot will know what I’m mean when I say maudlin is necessary for avant garde metal. This album is chock full of atmosphere, riffs, and other curveballs that average extreme music listeners may have never had the pleasure of having packed into any album they’ve listened to. I fortunately happened upon this during 2020, when I found myself at home with nothing else to do but tool around YouTube and Encyclopedia Metallum archives to find new things. If you color yourself an enjoyer of the “artful” side of extreme music, do yourself a favor and listen to maudlin. If you do not, listen to Kayo Dot. If you don’t like that stuff either, I dunno what to tell you. Open your mind, maybe. 

Ricky Schroder (1970-2021)

 The following post is part of the imaginary obituaries series.

Conservative celebrity, subpar actor, Ricky Schroder died this past weekend in his California home. Ironically, he choked to death shoveling foie gras down his gullet with a silver spoon. He was celebrating the acquittal of Kyle Rittenhouse, who Schroder had previously donated over a hundred thousand dollars for bail. Schroder was primarily known for his acting roles as a spoiled rich kid in the television show Silver Spoons and a detective in NYPD Blue. In real life, he was also a prick, opposing Black Lives Matter, promoting anti-vaccination, committing violence against loved ones, and protesting Foo Fighters concerts, arguing that vaccination requirements are equilivent to segregation. Perhaps, Schroder’s mother said it best when she was asked to reflect upon her son, “Every day of his life, I wish I would have had an abortion.” 

The Heart of Rochford

By SoDak

On cold, November evenings, the smoke climbs to the moon, as it escapes from the rusting chimney that sits precariously on the roof of a ghostly wooden bar in Rochford, South Dakota. A few pickup trucks, belonging to the locals, are parked in front of the porch, where a black Labrador lays watching the mice scurry across the gravel road, which leads to a highway. From the junction that is twenty-three miles away, it is still over half an hour to the nearest city.

Rochford is an old mining town, composed of a few houses, a general store, a church, and, most importantly, the Moonshine Gulch, the bar. Some of the locals work for the U.S. Forest Service, others raise a few cattle, and almost all of them, historically, have run off developers. There are a few old timers, as well as a handful of redneck-hippies, nestled in the gullies between the rolling hills that are surrounded by the yellowed Great Plains where herds of cattle and sheep graze.

The Moonshine Gulch is the heart of this community. The building shows its age and seems quite fragile. Inside there are a few tables with chairs, a couple of wooden booths, and a small counter with stools. An old oil drum, turned on its side, serves as a wood stove. A jukebox, stocked with songs by Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, and Willie Nelson, keeps the toes tapping on the uneven plank floor. The pool table was vanquished to make room for weekend hootenannies. Hats and business cards adorn the ceiling. The cap with the foam boobs draws attention to itself among the standard hats with names of electrical companies and other businesses printed across them. Drawings of outhouses, horses, and political satire cover the walls. A sign promoting this year’s gun raffle to raise money for the volunteer fire department is posted on the wall. A beautiful painting of this poor man’s paradise, the Moonshine Gulch, is proudly displayed behind the counter, above the door, which leads to the kitchen where Betsy, the owner, cooks homecut fries, grilled cheese, hamburgers, and Campbell’s Soup, if one desires. While food is not the reason that people head to the Moonshine, it adds comfort to the experience, as Betsy adds something extra special, a little extra seasoning. She is the pulse of the Moonshine, as she greets each person, who enters through the front door. Locals sit on the stools at the counter to catch up on happenings and gossip. When vagabonds find this out of the way place, Betsy solicits life stories and intentions from these strangers. Part of this is due to curiosity and another part reflects a tradition of hospitality in these hills, even as new folks buy up land and build big homes, threatening to undo what has long been so special about this place.

For many years, Roy was a fixture at the Moonshine. He sat at a table, next to the counter, lighting cigarette after cigarette, while drinking beer through the midnight hours. From this position, he watched the happenings of this world, rarely speaking, except to locals. Despite the appearance of disdain and disinterest on his face, he was not grouchy. As Betsy’s husband, he tended to the fire and a customer from time to time if more than a few folks drifted into the place. On a rare occasion, he would cut the potatoes and cook the fries, but this was only if Betsy had headed to town for supplies. Otherwise, until his death, Roy sat in his chair rubbing the scar on his arm, left by the metal stitches that long ago closed an injury.

Betsy remains the guardian of this sanctuary. Almost every night of the year, she is hugging friends and strangers, sharing stories, taking photos, distributing beers, and cooking meals. Her love for life and this place burns hotter than the glowing metal drum, which she feeds throughout the day, as whiffs of smoke escape, climbing to the ceiling, searching for a crack between the boards, to float towards the celestial stars, which envelope this home in the Black Hills. 

Spooner D and Me

 By SoDak

The breeze feels like spring, 

bringing memories from thirty years ago,

when we were driving

through the hills

and you showed me 

all of those places 

that one day we would call

our own.

Thunder and Consolation

intertwined our lives

with the power of song.

“I love the world”

and I think of you, 

sitting by the campfire, 

laughing at our follies,

basking in the glow of the moon, 

above Castle Peak, 

when life was uninterrupted.

Today, I am reminded of 

“these valleys of the green and the grey,”

as the sun is out

and the clouds look the same 

as they did thirty years ago.

Spring always feels lonelier,

when you are miles away,

but these memories

are an embrace, 

waiting for your return.

Cory Farley: Horrible Voice and Cheap Gimmicks

By SoDak

This past summer, I had the unfortunate experience of seeing Cory Farley as an opening act. Before the concert, I was a bit nervous, wondering whether or not it was wise to go given the ongoing pandemic. My mother was visiting and was excited to see the main performer, as this was the rescheduled show from the previous year. We went to the stadium, masked up, and took our seats. Farley took the stage with his band, which included his brother playing bass. All I knew about him was that he was originally from a rural community in Iowa. Generally, I am quite curious to see a newer musician and to hear something new. On that night, during his set, I might as well have been at a shitty bar. Farley played a mix of cover songs, interspersed with his own tunes. He started with Toby Keith’s “Should’ve Been Cowboy.” It was immediately evident that Farley could not sing. His voice did not warm up as the set progressed. He just belted out each song, lacking any inflection or emotion. Musically, he played crappy rock music, which parades itself as modern country. He strutted around stage, trying to play up that he was a “good ole boy.” As he introduced one of his own songs, he indicated that it was about all the people who are refusing to work for a living, as they lived off the backs of hard-working folks. Is it possible, he was talking about the rich and the deepening economic divide between the classes? Nope. Instead, he sung a song attacking the poor, describing them as parasites. He launched into a medley of bad 1990s songs, which included “Achy Breaky Heart.” He played another Keith song, “A Little Less Talk, Lot More Action.” He asked his brother to sing a song, which further revealed how horrible Cory Farley’s voice is by comparison. He talked about all the hard work associated with farming, before playing his song “You Can Go Farm Yourself,” the title of which is a bit clever. While addressing some important issues, such as the rural-urban divide and aspects of what can be seen as alienation, the song was still rooted in reactionary politics. Farley just gets to pretend that he is a rebel. All of my relatives are ranchers and farmers, but they have a much more sophisticated understanding of these issues than Farley, who wants to believe that he is the voice of them. To further cheapen the entire performance, Farley closed his set with jingoistic bullshit and cheap gimmicks. He played yet another Keith song, “Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue,” followed by the National Anthem as the U.S. flag was unfurled. This ploy was clearly used to get most of the crowd to stand and clap. It was complete bullshit, but it was done because Farley lacks good songs that can move an audience to stand and cheer. Sadly, he is likely the type of scoundrel who can thrive in such reactionary times.