The Band: Music From Big Pink

The Band played an integral role in changing the direction of American music, which is especially impressive when you consider that Levon Helm was the only member who wasn't Canadian. But much of the quintet's success and genius stemmed from coincidence as much as talent, as well-timed events were instrumental in the group's rise and vital to much of its mythology. After working on the bar-band circuit backing Ronnie Hawkins, a chance run-in with bluesman John Hammond Jr. (son of the influential talent scout) led to a historic stint backing Bob Dylan just as he decided to go electric. Then known as The Hawks, The Band's organic interplay made Dylan's plugged-in transition painless, and when Dylan was injured in a motorcycle accident, he retreated to the group's Woodstock home for rest and relaxation. Laying low, Dylan and The Band woodshedded what is now known as The Basement Tapes, dozens of widely bootlegged songs recorded in the house nicknamed Big Pink. Most of this material has never been officially released, but the occasion did, for all intents and purposes, mark the start of The Band's career. At the height of the counterculture movement, the group released the 1968 masterpiece Music From Big Pink, a subtle statement of purpose that couldn't have been more at odds with psychedelic music, the British Invasion, or acid-rock. Instead, it was a thing of lyrical grace and pastoral beauty, displaying the distinctive songwriting of Robbie Robertson and the fine vocals of Helm, Garth Hudson, and Richard Manuel. Takes on standards and soon-to-be-standards such as "Long Black Veil" and Dylan's backward-looking "I Shall Be Released" demonstrated The Band's grasp of American roots, while original works such as "Tears Of Rage," "The Weight," "Chest Fever," and "This Wheel's On Fire" were despondent instant classics that meshed blues, folk, country, and rock, like Creedence Clearwater Revival but in slow motion. The Band's eponymous second album, from the following year, is even better, offering such remarkable slices of Americana as "Across The Great Divide," "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down," and "Up On Cripple Creek." If 1970's Stage Fright showed The Band losing steam, 1971's Cahoots confirmed the creative decline, and though the group continued to tour, it released only three more studio albums before the decade's end. The Band's last great moment was also its last—the 1978 concert film The Last Waltz, directed by Robertson's then-roommate Martin Scorsese—and years later, the inevitable and ongoing reunion didn't include Robertson. The 1986 suicide of Manuel and 1999 death of Rick Danko ensured that The Band's original dynamic will never be duplicated again, leaving only its haunting early albums as the almost mysteriously raw documents of the group's magic. These reissues are notable not just for their improved sound, but for their wealth of additional songs, 26 in all. Many are demos and alternate takes from these albums or The Basement Tapes, and their addition brightens the lesser Stage Fright and Cahoots. More reissues are on their way, too, as several of The Band's '70s albums remain out of print. Newcomers and fans alike would be well-served exploring or rediscovering this wealth of great music, which wrote the blueprint for Americana and wrote itself into the timeline of great American music.