Elliot Roberts has managed both Dylan and Young. “They’re both very flighty. They have the exact same road habits, they prep the same way. They’re very, very similar in what satisfies them—good shows, bad shows. There’s some huge dissimilarities. Bob likes to have his families in place and go to them. He’s on the move, doesn’t like to stay in one place long. Neil will stay in one place forever, given the opportunity.”
“Neil’s eccentric with a purpose—Bob’s eccentric with a purpose, but I’m not quite sure what that purpose is, and the only person who knows what that purpose is may be Bob,” said tour manager Richard Fernandez, who’s worked for both of them. “Everybody else is speculating.”
The difference in their art? Neil’s longtime friend Sandy Mazzeo saw it this way: “Dylan’s songs are what’s happening all around him. Neil writes about inside.”
The quintessential Dylan/Young interaction occurred in June 1988. Dylan was on tour in California when Neil decided to sit in for a couple of shows. “Neil drove up in his Cadillac convertible, his Silvertone amp in the back,” recalls Fernandez. Was Young ever intimidated to be joining one of his heroes onstage? “I’ve never seen him be intimidated by anyone musically,” said David Briggs. “If Willie is playin’ with Neil, Willie follows Neil. If Neil is playin’ with Waylon, Waylon follows Neil. When he’s got his ax in hand, his aura becomes solid. He’s the gun.”
Even with Dylan, Young was the gun, and as much as Bob loves Neil, he quickly found himself in the line of fire. “Neil took over the whole show,” said Elliot Roberts, who was listening to Dylan’s postshow apprehension over Young playing the next night when Neil bounded over. “Great show! See ya tomorrow night, Bob?” “Yeah, Neil,” said Bob wearily. Even Dylan can’t say no.
At the Beacon, an extra guitar was set up at the end of the final show, and the buzz was that Dylan was going to step out for a number or two. He never showed.
“The other day I was thinking about Neil Young’s voice,” Rickie Lee Jones writes. “Hesitant, whiny, masculine and feminine…. all the sadness and the unresolved [in his voice conveys] what it’s like to be a teenager. You are saying goodbye to childhood in those years.” For Jones, Young is the sound of that goodbye, a voice that speaks freely and immediately, unhampered by “adult” restraints. The impromptu, unedited nature of Young’s art only adds to the reality, and what’s left off the canvas is just as important as the paint sloshed on.
“His songs were never finished pictures. He’d look at this, he’d say this, he’d feel this. But things usually didn’t have a clear moral meaning at the end, there was no punch line, no reason for the lyrical journey….” In these unfanciful sentences Jones conjures up much of what’s special about this guy. For her, as for so many others, Neil Young possesses an “unquestioned integrity.”
Although it’s mellowed into melancholy over the years, Young’s voice is one of pain. A Canadian, he’s written a cockeyed history of America as evocative and spare as any Walker Evans photograph. His songs don’t provide any answers, they just underline the questions.
Young’s output is overwhelming. From 1967 to 2001, forty-six albums, seven certified platinum, nine gold (as of 1997). Over four hundred songs. First-person confessional songs, time-travel songs, character songs, hallucinatory songs, one-joke songs—every kind of song, yet all instantly identifiable as Neil Young. “Expecting to Fly,” “Mr. Soul,” “Cowgirl in the Sand,” “Helpless,” “I Believe in You,” “Harvest,” “Tired Eyes,” “On the Beach,” “Star of Bethlehem,” “Will to Love,” “Like a Hurricane,” “Danger Bird,” “Powderfinger,” “Transformer Man,” “Depression Blues,” “Rockin’ in the Free World,” “Fuckin’ Up,” “Unknown Legend,” “My Heart,” “I’m the Ocean.”
And that’s just a few highlights from released material. In the Archives lurk songs and performances that stand among his absolute greatest, yet have never been heard. Entire albums that were hidden away because Neil changed his mind. Add to that three feature-length films, two soundtracks, scores of video projects and countless tours. Everything Young touches bears his unmistakable stamp, whether it’s a song, an album cover, car or guitar. Neil Young is a visionary, and for many he’s one of the few reminders outside of Dylan that anything happened at all in the sixties.
RANDY NEWMAN: Most people did their best work when they were younger. Neil Young is as good as he ever was, which is quite an accomplishment…. It seems like there’s no tricks to him. I don’t know if you could name anybody better who came out of rock and roll.
LINK WRAY: Neil’s a superstar, but he don’t let it get in the way. If he wanted to be a phony, he could. Not this guy. He chooses not to. Neil’s always been real.
LINDA RONSTADT: Most of us only get a year to top the charts, then you’re out of style. Neil has had an astounding career.
ELTON JOHN: Neil has remained on top of his game on all counts—there’s not many people you can say that about. He can move me whether he’s playing loud music, soft music or country music. There’s so many different facets to Neil, and I think that’s why he has so much respect from everybody, whether they’re older musicians like myself or the younger generation like the Pearl Jams. He just goes out there and gives it his all.
JAMES TAYLOR: I love his attitude. It’s meant a lot to me. His clear stand on things like sponsorship and the sort of corporate takeover of music … Neil’s always resisted that. It’s good to have someone like him out there talk the way he talks—and walk the walk, too.
DAVID BOWIE: I have an incredible admiration for Neil. There’s a youthful redemption in everything he does, a joyfulness about being an independent thinker in America.
WILLIE NELSON: What can you say? The guy knows how to write a song. He’s more than a writer, more than a singer, he’s an entertainer. To be a triple threat like that is very rare.
BRYAN FERRY: I like Neil Young. Very much.
J. J. CALE: There’s nobody that sounds like Neil Young. A very, very original sound. If he has influences, they don’t show.
DEAN STOCKWELL: I can’t think of anyone I respect more than Neil Young. I think he’s one of the greatest—if not the greatest—living artists.
PETER BUCK: I’m always inspired when I look at Neil Young and realize he’s doing whatever the fuck he wants. Some of his messages are positive, some are negative, some don’t make any sense at all.
EDDIE VEDDER: I don’t know if there’s been another artist inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame that is still as vital as he is today. Some of his best songs were on his last record.
EMMYLOU HARRIS: He’s timeless, his music is almost mystical. Neil makes brilliant records and they’re easily identifiable. You don’t have to be told who it is. He’s an original. I can’t think of anybody who’s even close to him.
THURSTON MOORE: Neil’s the real thing. He’s Hank Williams.
TOWNES VAN ZANDT: I can read auras—pale green is trouble, boy. I know a lotta cats with green ones—most of them are dead. And there’s one that’s more golden, glowing, approaching fulfilled—that has fulfilled other people. Neil has that. Neil’s is gold. Gold.
Despite the platitudes, Neil Young remains a lonesome figure. He is reclusive and mysterious even to those closest to him. His friendships are all based on his work, which never seems to end. And while Young has played with many bands—Buffalo Springfield; Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young; Crazy Horse; the Stray Gators; Booker T. and the MGs; Pearl Jam—he would tell the audience at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1995, “It’s a solo trip.”
And, though he’d never admit it, it’s not an easy journey. From the beginning, Young faced ridiculous odds. He was told he couldn’t sing, couldn’t play guitar, couldn’t write. But he’s let nothing stop him. Young has not only succeeded, he’s prevailed.
He’s a model-train mogul, actor, rancher and, although he’d probably be loath to admit it, a humanitarian. He’s raised millions for the American farmer as a founding member of Fa
rm Aid and, with Pegi, done the same for children through the Bridge School. Young shoots from the hip. He’s been a cantankerous critic of the music business, particularly when it comes to digital recording and corporate sponsorship. He’s been critical of the government on environmental issues. In the eighties, he was an outspoken supporter of Ronald Reagan. One thing he is not is predictable. For better or worse, Neil Young has done it his way.
His single-mindedness is inspirational. It can also be exhausting. Even frightening. There is a dark side to Neil Young. By his own admission, he’s left behind “a lotta destruction … a big wake.”
One day, while I was talking to Gary Burden—art director for Young’s greatest album covers and a longtime friend of his—the subject of Neil’s will came up. It didn’t seem to matter who it was, I mused, they all deferred to Shakey. Burden laughed. “Oh, yeah. So did I. So do you. Neil’s a real artist, but he’s also a ruthless motherfucker. He’s on his trip all the time. The wheels are always turning.”
—Have you ever looked the Devil in the eye?
No. Don’t do that.
—This is a phrase you use a lot in interviews.
Yeah … [looks in the author’s eyes] Jimmy, level with me—heh heh. I gotta ask you—you’re not him, are ya?
Boy, I’d hate to write an autobiography, the more I think about it.
—Maybe we should just give the fuckin’ money back.
Heh heh. Why don’t you just get as much money as you can, then bury the fuckin’ thing? You can run to Panama. I’ll cover ya—heh heh. And then when I die, everybody can read it. Waddya think? It’s a good idea, but it involves me dying too fast.
—Or me.
Or you.
Neil Young’s music changed my life when I was a kid. Through a lucky break, I was dropped into his world. He was someone I admired and I wanted to find out what made him tick. I wanted to take a can opener to his brain, get some sense of what coursed through there that could stir the emotions and affect the spirits of half the planet.
It was a long journey. There were times when I thought I would end before it did. During the decade-plus process, ten people I had interviewed died. Marriages collapsed, families drifted apart. Musicians came and went. And Young kept moving, searching, creating. It was maddening to keep up with. Our interviews sprawled the continent and always took place on the run—in planes, cars, even boats. It must be said that I still have enough unanswered questions to last another decade. This work is not an obituary but an action painting. Still in progress.
Young wasn’t entirely thrilled with the prospect of losing what privacy he’d managed to retain over the years to a hundred million microscopes. Would you be? Early on he said to one associate, “I told Jimmy he’d face a lotta resistance on this project. I didn’t tell him where it would come from.” I should’ve known better. Neil is no publicity junkie—on the subject of interviews, he once told Newsweek magazine, “It’s not really advantageous for me to do them. I don’t want to be there. I’d rather be noted for my absence.”
So in part this book is a mystery. A psychedelic detective story. In a quote from an old yellowed clipping, Young offered one lead: “Some people around me think I’m the phenomenon, but it’s all these people around me who are the real phenomenon.” I took the hint, interviewing hundreds of people who’d played some part in Young’s life, many speaking for the first time. They were the witnesses and they were my guides. I went on my own journey through the past, following his trail from Canada to Los Angeles and out into the world. Curiously, when I finally got to him, Young was more than a little interested in what I’d brought back. “I can’t go,” he said wistfully. “But you can.”
Interspersed with the biographical text is one endless, ongoing interview with Young, floating through his own life like a ghost. Imagine Citizen Kane with Charles Foster Kane still alive and well in Xanadu, not only willing to talk—however begrudgingly—but, in the end, taking me into the very heart of his creative process, revealing what it takes to keep the flame alive.
Of course this is also a story about rock and roll, what it means to Young and what his has meant to me. Is it strange to change or just the only way to survive? And is it better to burn out than to fade away?
—What do you think your faults are?
Fuck, how much time do you have?
—Plenty.
Yeah, well, I don’t have that kind of time. Just go over your other tapes. People will fill you in on all the faults, and they’re all right. All of them.
—That was easy. My fact checking is done.
Heh heh.
—Are you a guarded person?
No, no, no. You think so?
—Oh, fuckin’ A.
Guarded. Waddya mean? In what way? Well, shit, you ask questions, it’s my whole fuckin’ life! When you look at me, I’m goin’, “Fuck, this guy’s talked to, like, every fuckin’ person I know. People I’ve forgotten about.”
I keep turning you on to these people. I’ve given you all my friends. I’m responsible now. You better do a good fucking book or I’m really an asshole. Whew, Jimmy—I’d hate to be in your shoes.
—Aaaaah, we’re getting near the end. You can’t bullshit me now.
I liked that remark. That was encouraging … I tried to cooperate in a way that I can cooperate. I’m gleeful now that it’s almost over. I’m reaching nirvana just anticipating it, but I’m dedicated to completing the task as far as it can go—up to this point. After that …
It’s hard to write a story about me, because this is only part one.
—I want the book to say that. On the cover.
Part one? It’s up to you, man. It’s your book.
—What?
It’s your book—now waddya gonna do with it, heh heh heh.
mr. blue & mr. red
“C’mon in. The door’s open.” I was standing at the screen, hand poised and ready to knock, when the disembodied voice emanating from somewhere inside gruffly offered the invitation. The Florida heat was stifling.
Once inside, I came face-to-face with Rassy Young, a compact, intense woman wearing an ill-fitting polyester ensemble, soft drink in one hand, remote in the other, eyes riveted to a tennis tournament on the screen before her. Since her back was to the door and the TV was blaring, I wondered aloud as to how she knew I was out there. Without shifting her gaze from the match, Rassy jerked a thumb in the direction of her little security system on the mantel: a framed portrait of Neil’s family positioned at just the right angle so she could see the reflection of any interloper invading her driveway.
“Pretty tricky, eh?” said Rassy, emphasizing the “eh” like a true Canadian. I’d think of Rassy when Neil remarked on encountering strangers at sea from the safety of his boat. “You can see them before they see you—and in every direction,” he enthused.
Rassy lived alone. A tempestuous nineteen-year union to Scott Young, Neil’s father, ended in 1959, and she never remarried. “I have no interest in marriage. Too damn much trouble. I run my life my own way.” Rassy was a proud woman, and although the split had taken place over thirty years before, the indignity was still fresh in her mind. It was a betrayal Rassy could never forgive—right up to her dying breath.
The last few years had not been kind to Rassy. A stubbornly independent woman, she had been an avid golfer and hunter, but now cancer confined her to a living room chair. She watched as her garden slowly died and the birds she loved feeding no longer came to roost. “I don’t do a damn thing,” she said, sighing. “Every once in a while I’ll start to do somethin’—I get half done and I can’t finish it. I’ll get so I can’t stand it.” Rassy claimed she was not afraid of death. “I’m gonna be cremated and flung in the trash. I already paid for it,” she said, chuckling. “Four hundred and eighty-five dollars—the high price of dying.”
Rassy had left Winnipeg decades ago for this modest bungalow in New Smyrna Beach, Florida. Like Rassy, it was nothing fancy—spartan furniture and
a few dusty knickknacks. Neil had bought his mother the house and picked up the tab for her life, and you didn’t have to look far to find his presence. The living room wall was heavy with his gold records; on a table next to her easy chair were dusty cassettes that archivist Joel Bernstein had made for her years earlier, featuring Rassy’s eclectic favorites from her son’s work—like “Sedan Delivery,” a maniacal rocker she liked to blast while washing her car, much to the chagrin of her elderly neighbors.
Rassy’s sentences were punctuated with a litany of exclamations such as “Holy smut!” or “What in Sam Hill?” and peppered with a lexicon of poetically mangled words—“basedump” for basement, “snthudderstorms” for thunderstorms. Country/western was “cow music.” Rassy could cuss like a sailor and drink like one to boot. Since she gave up her beloved Black Cat Plain cigarettes—a particularly nicotine-potent Canadian brand—Rassy retained only liquid vices. “What would I do without Coke?” she’d ponder, snapping open can after can. Coke would invariably turn to rye and water at some point early in the afternoon. “Well, I’m gonna have a drink or drop dead!” she’d bark as she shuffled off to the kitchen, my abstention only increasing her suspicion.
“Make way for the star’s mother,” she’d announce imperiously at her son’s shows, pouncing on the first backstage lackey who didn’t fetch her a beer. No one escaped the wrath of Rassy. Certain waitresses in New Smyrna Beach still tremble at the memory of serving Rassy a steak. She kept close tabs on all her neighbors, each of whom seemed to annoy her in one way or another.
Today she was planning to turn in one fellow senior for watering his lawn during rationing season and was threatening another poor old soul for not tending to an unwieldy woodpile. “The ninny next door and her stick farm,” said Rassy with a harrumph as she eyed the inconsequential pile out the back window. “She drives me into the middle of next week.”
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