Byrds

Byrds means a lot of things: folk-rock, raga-rock, country-rock, space-rock. Styles, intuitions, sonic "flashes" that McGuinn and co., in a few years of relentless, continuous evolution, left behind for the benefit of every musician eager to break new ground. Because while it's true that rock'n'roll can be played with three chords, it's equally true that this music, which has flooded our imagination for more than fifty years, has proven able to constantly regenerate itself, presenting and re-presenting itself to at least three generations of passionate listeners (many of whom have also been, guitar in hand, emulators of their idols).

Let's move on to the pivotal record (in this writer's opinion) of the quintessential American band of the Sixties (well, yes, alongside the Beach Boys, heroes of surf and therefore diametrically opposed to the McGuinn & co. outfit). "Younger Than Yesterday" — even though underpinned by a single, magical sound — is anything but a concept album, because it happily houses the rhythms and styles characteristic of the band's different souls (at least three): McGuinn's persistent jangle on his trusty Rickenbacker 360 12-string, Hillman's ever-present flirtation with country, and the splendid, fantastic dreamlike raptures of Crosby.

When they recorded the album, the Byrds were a foursome. Besides those already mentioned, there's Michael Clarke on drums, while Gene Clark, standard-bearer of their early folk-rock work, had decided to leave the spotlight behind, only to return shortly after as a refined solo artist. The band's two geniuses, McGuinn and Crosby, latter-day Lennon–McCartney, pour their respective souls into the grooves of the record, standing side by side without clashing, and indeed enlivening the whole thing precisely thanks to the deep, evident difference in inspiration that yields immediately distinguishable compositional results. That confrontation, human as well as artistic, which would unfortunately soon lead to their split, here plays out and thrives on a miraculous balance, tying in with the splashes of American tradition signed by Hillman. Everything is perfect, everything is in line with the Byrds we already knew, who now reach the peaks of a dreamy psychedelia already refined on the previous "Fifth Dimension".

"So You Want To Be A R'n'R Star" opens the parade of songs with an ironic, disenchanted anthem (punk ante litteram by a good ten years) warning against the deceptions of the limelight, behind which lie the pointless screams of fans, the greed of the record industry, and the countless traps set by managers. The solo, instead of McGuinn's "Rick", is entrusted to the light, insinuating trumpet of Hugh Masekela, making everything airier, more... levitating. The first song is counterbalanced by the love song "Have You Seen Her Face", with an explosive guitar solo made of notes sharper than ever before. "CTA 102" pays the Byrdsian tribute to the myth of space (our heroes are, yes, dissenters, but they still keep a stars-and-stripes flag tucked in a drawer): an obsessive, endless riff that sounds like a radio signal sent to extraterrestrials. The Byrds' sweetness then emerges in "Renaissance Fair", a dreamy account of one of the first rock gatherings, punctuated by the liquid notes of McGuinn's guitar (Eric Burdon would later borrow a line from it for his "Monterey").

As for good old Chris Hillman, his are the beautiful "Thoughts And Words", "Time Between" and "The Girl With No Name". The first aims to astonish (and succeeds) with its backwards-recorded guitar sound (Beatles-taught), while on the other two future Byrd Clarence White lends his skillful touch, unspooling small solos that flow across the vinyl like streams over mountain rocks in spring.

We've saved Crosby for last, because his contribution is truly original, setting itself apart from the rest, foreshadowing Dave's solo glories and his unsurpassable performances with Stills, Nash and Young. "Everybody's Been Burned" first of all, an enchanted ballad in which the sweetness of the sound (with an almost jazzy McGuinn) is countered by the stark prophecy of nuclear holocaust. And then, "Mind Gardens", a Crosbyan parable that hovers, sustained by sitar: clear, crisply sung, intelligible down to the single syllable.

Naturally, with barely two years gone since "Mr. Tambourine Man", there had to be a tribute to guru Dylan, with "My Back Pages", buoyed by a twelve-string solo as beautiful as it is simple in retracing the vocal melody; a line from this song (the tribute of tributes) even gives the album its title.

Closing it all out, "Why", in a version different from the one on the single, with McGuinn's twelve-string running wild throughout the solo break and a splendid, almost dragging finale, made of dry chords and smeared solo lines (many, especially garage bands, would go on to cover the song in fine, faithful versions).

Deliberately, the chronology of the tracks has not been strictly followed, in favor of teasing out the different souls that coexist on the record. It's undeniable that the band had already proven itself magnificently on previous records. The fact remains, however, that "Younger", together with "Fifth Dimension", celebrates the explosion of the Byrds' creative imagination. Folk-rock is still just around the corner, but, filtered through electronic sounds and small studio inventions (still valid today), and casting the occasional glance toward the country-rock soon to come, it flows into an "unintentional" psychedelia, one born from within, from the head and heart of the musicians, who found themselves in one of those moments of grace that rarely repeat themselves over the course of an artistic career. Of course, the individual members of the Byrds would go on to do great, even greater things, both solo and in the company of others (just think of the triumphs awaiting Crosby in years to come), but this quartet (let's include good old Clarke on drums too) would never again reach such heights. Yes, the following year would bring "Notorious", an album that would sound a bit melancholy, developing and pushing to the extreme concepts and sounds already crystallized to perfection on "Younger", and standing as the swan song of an unrepeatable band, which would reform, under McGuinn's energetic lead, with other (highly talented) partners. A band that, enchanted by the eternal western myth rooted in America's DNA, would go on to produce fine songs still, but never quite like before. At the end of the road, the reunion of the five original Byrds, who would charm audiences with their strength and skill, but without ever again being able to resurrect the jingle-jangle sound that left us awestruck some 40-odd years ago.

One last note on the album. "Younger" is a record that makes you dream (certain songs are best enjoyed lying on a bed with your eyes closed and, perhaps, a drink in hand), a collection of tracks that seem to fly (levitate) a few feet off the ground, with voices stretched to their extreme, guitars reaching for the highest octaves, notes bleeding in every direction. This is psychedelia, unintentional (as already mentioned), but "unloaded" onto listeners by those who conceived music (drugs or no drugs, who knows?) as a ride outside the everyday world, as a thin but sturdy thread connecting those who, in music, seek life, self-fulfillment, and even a few dreams. All you have to do is let go and believe in it.

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27/10/2006