He Shall Be Levon

I would be willing to wager that when most people think of Levon Helm (those who are aware of his long legendary career), the word "integrity" cannot be too far behind. The word conjures images of something strong or solid like an ancient oak, or a strict adherence to a noble code. Levon Helm is the epitome of musical integrity. Musical integrity isn't something that can be studied for, bought, or affected. It's not necessarily a byproduct of talent either, even though talent is it's intrinsic ingredient. It comes from being born of music, nurtured on it, and basically, eating, sleeping, living, breathing, and eventually dying with music. All of the great classic musicians had it, Coltrane, Charlie Patton, Hank Williams, Django just to name a few.
Levon Helm grew out of the musically fertile ground of the Mississippi delta where so many of the greats of American music were harvested, Muddy Waters, Howlin' Wolf, Robert Johnson, Skip James... even "Rice" Miller, one of Levon's lifelong musical heroes, better known to the world as "Sonnyboy Williamson" (even though there already existed a famous blues man with the same moniker when Miller "adopted" the title) was from the same town of Helena, Arkansas that spawned Levon. But geographical proximity to music can only play so much of a role in musical integrity. In the end, it's an intangible that some people have in greater degrees than the rest of us. Levon Helm is one of those people. His greatest work (usually within the context of "The Band") stands easily amongst the finest of the aforementioned greats, as well as many more. He literally oozes musicality no matter who he's playing with, or what instrument he's plucking, banging, or blowing. He IS music. It's this absolute love of music that has driven him all of these decades regardless of the success of the outcome, health concerns, or personal tragedy. This is the code that Levon Helm lives by. No matter how high he flies, or how dark it gets, he follows the music of his soul wherever it takes him. That's not to say that ALL of Levon Helm's musical endeavors fall into the "classic" category, but I think that's true of all of the greats. In fact, Levon's musical success (or lack of) is, as is everyone's, dependent upon material, arrangement, production, and performance. Not being a prolific songwriter himself, he has sometimes had to rely on sub par material, been the victim of misguided production perhaps aimed at radio airplay, or just playing with musicians that he loved regardless of their fitness (or again, lack of) to play well.
Sometimes, the material is great, but the musicians wrong for it. Sometimes the material's fine, the musicians perfect, but the production too this or that. Sometimes it's all wrong, but sometimes... sometimes! every once in a rarest of rare moments, everything is musically perfect. Not in the sense that it's technically flawless, but in a way where the artist, material, musicians, and production are totally in sync, conjuring a harmonious spell even greater than the sum of it's ingredients... this brings me to Levon's magnificent instant classic, "Dirt Farmer."
With daughter Amy, and fellow Dylan alumni, Larry Campbell at the production helm (yep, I said it!) the sound is earthy, haunting, and grand all at the same time. It's a record that stands easily next to any Alan Lomax field recording for sheer authenticity, yet has the benefit of crystal clear modern production with master strokes of evocative light and shade. Thuddy drums, mountain fiddles, mandos, church harmonies (often supplied by Helm's daughter, Amy, and singer Teresa Williams) and a powerful new post-cancer plaintive wail all add up to the richest musical feast I've digested in too long a while. The material is interesting in the sense that it's very traditional sounding even though some of it is new, like his brilliant reading of Steve Earle's "The Mountain" or Byron Isaac's soulful "Calvary." The stunning "Anna Lee" with it's glorious harmonies and lone fiddle brings me to tears every time I hear it. It's really astounding that in his long and varied career, this is the first time Levon has ever taken a full record in this direction, directly to his roots. The Band always hinted at this type of music, but morphed it into a brilliant form that sounded completely new, yet felt a hundred years old. Every song on "Dirt Farmer" is a story told by a master storyteller, each mini film with it's own heartrending soundtrack... but then again, the whole record is a bigger story, the story of a soul. A soul known to the rest of us as "Levon." This is Mark Lavon Helm come back home to jam with parents, Nell and Diamond, and sister, Modena, in Marvell County... The fact that he enables us to take that trip with him, makes us extremely fortunate. Now, kick on back, swig on this, close your eyes, and just listen.

Lemon Fresh

driving down a secluded road on a pitch black night somewhere on the outskirts of philly hearing only four sounds: the rumble of the engine, the hissing wind through the windows, and one haunting ancient voice supported by the faint pluck of a stringed instrument...
songs about black snakes, tin cups, weary dogs, & hangmen...
on this particular trip, the voice is that of blind lemon jefferson, a very successful and talented bluesman of the nineteen twenties and thirties... but there have been many journeys like this, sometimes maybe skip james, another day bukka white, ishman bracey, son house, charlie patton, etc... each one a little different, providing cosmic transportation to their own variation of the blues landscape... each providing a slightly different chill to the spine...
it's mind boggling to think that some of this still important and strikingly well performed music is over eighty years old, and that people who weren't born for generations afterward, still turn to robert johnson, tommy johnson, or blind joe reynolds for companionship and inspiration...
guitarists, who seem so much more proficient at a younger age than used to be the case, still struggle (most often in vain) to emulate the styles of these ghosts of the delta...
granted, there are many who remain unmoved by a lonesome slide guitar riff buried like treasure beneath the surface dirt of a seventy year old 78 or acetate record, or are totally unimpressed that these recordings had no special effects to rely on, just one microphone, one musician, and his or her instrument (you could either play and sing, or you couldn't!)... and yet, i can't help but wonder how much of the music that has been recorded, and lauded during my lifetime will still be deftly sought out and considered absolutely essential by people (or even musicians!) eighty years from now... will future kids torture themselves trying to figure out the lost chords of madonna, pearl jam, u2, or tupac shakur? that is not to in any way cast aspersions on recent performers... they all obviously have talent... for all i know, future generations may very well pour over britney spears body (of work!) for inspiration, or research the mysterious life and death of sting... of anyone, the beatles and bob dylan certainly have a decent shot (it's over forty years right now), but there is one thing i am fairly certain about... whichever of our generation's crop of artists make it to the bandshell of musical immortality eighty years from now, blind willie mctell, mississippi john hurt, sleepy john estes, doc boggs, blind lemon jefferson, and a whole host of immortals from the earliest days of recorded music will still be right there with them.
for that, i am eternally indebted.

expose

a slamming hammer upon child fingers

a doctor sentencing the terminal man

the last tyrannosaurus before extinction

a tortured soul eternally damned

hold these feelings before you always

be not afraid

bare your wires

raw your nerves

bleed for all

except your own self

smash that ego with sledge humility

in this dark night

empathy is saviour

embrace the suffering

which earns His favor

He will not abandon you

do not abandon your Self

hover

in delicate unrest i wander

through rough hewed alleyways

derelict and overgrown

searching

imperviously plowing

black frost bitten fields of night

reaching blindly for comfort

while clammy ether escapes

through these cracked bleeding fingers

humbled and bowed yet unbroken

unrepentant yet patient

moving briskly

past shimmering shop pane

ornate temptation

and sideshow attraction

determined

deaf to desire save one

single pointed as a shark

stalking his prey

relentlesslyceaselesslylonginglyachingly

for that single moment

when eyes roll backin ecstasy

and you are mine

receiver

tucked dreams

in breast pocket

silence guards them

water the garden in secret

call no attention to the blooming

looking outward from the film

the theater reveals itself

divinity is bathed in filth

purity forged in pain

cancel all of your appointments

when your soul calls

it will not leave a message

mirage

he speaks in the desert

subtle whispered majesty

through tongues of swirling sandy agony

and caressing redemptive breezes

closer than breath itself

more elusive than mercury

a lucky few are driven

past the brink of utter madness

to the very heart of now

the unsensitized discard

as mere fata morgana

at best a comforting notion

their own voice

the song of their own self

never the less

Poetry

While most of the last three decades I've spent playing music, writing and exploring music,
I've recently, at the behest of a sweet lady at dashing.com, been trying my hand at poetry...
I'm not so comfortable with it, nor adept at it, but I am enjoying the freedom of it...
Below is one sample... more to follow...

empty

and so left we are

fallow and transparent

scraping dust through frail fingernails

while sifting cinder for gold

caressing discarded clothing

and visiting abandoned houses

honest in our self deception

we guard misery

that none may steal her from us

these finely tuned words

take the utmost care

to say nothing as cleverly as possible

this is where we build our temple

this is how we paint our face

row your boat into a tempest

covet pride and shun disgrace

self congratulations

are always in order

nail more boards across the window

before you escape

freedom doesn't become you

why seek the bird's song

in the sky around you

when you can yearn for it

in an empty cage