By Christina Li
By Dave Pehling
By Ian S. Port
By SF Weekly
By Ian S. Port
By Ian S. Port
By Ian S. Port
By Ian S. Port
In the inaugural issue of No Depression -- a fanzine out of Seattle that has somehow grown to embody the genre of "insurgent country" -- the editors wrote: "We claim Gram Parsons as our unholy ghost, minister of the shotgun wedding of country and rock 'n' roll long before the Eagles crashed the reception." Not just a cornball tip of the cowboy hat, but an aesthetic and political stance -- which, for No Depression, is both remarkable and obvious. If Parsons didn't invent country rock (or a progressive, electrified country that happens outside of Nashville), he certainly went far in setting up its parameters. And, aside from L.A. record executives in banana-colored Maseratis, who would ever want to claim the Eagles as a point of origin?
For those of you unfamiliar with Parsons, here's the thumbnail bio. A handsome, rich, fragile Southern boy raised dysfunctionally in Waycross, Ga., Parsons went North to Harvard for college, then to Greenwich Village in the mid-'60s to sing in the folk scene. He then headed to L.A. to help engineer the country/rock crossover that was, thanks to Dylan's recent electrified folk, in many ways predestined. He played in the International Submarine Band, joined the Byrds for an album, formed the Flying Burrito Brothers with ex-Byrd Chris Hillman, then went solo for a couple of albums (with Emmylou Harris appearing for the first time as backup). In 1973, at the age of 26 and worn out from touring (and partying with Keith Richards), Parsons OD'd and died at Joshua Tree National Monument. Some friends stole his coffin from a Waycross-bound train and torched it in the desert.
Parsons (much to his chagrin, by all reports) died on the cusp of fame, and his following through the '70s and early '80s remained cultish: nasal-inflected collector-types shelling out the bucks for first-press vinyl and bootlegs, passing along in hushed tones the "ice cube up the butt" story. (If you haven't heard, ask your hippie aunt.) But his influence was enormous -- seen not just in the emergence of horrifying Hollywood cowpokes like Poco, but also in the first wave of disgruntled Nashville emigrants to Luckenbach -- er, Austin. (Just follow the ganja breeze as it blows from left to right -- or is it west to south?) By the time CD technology finally facilitated his rereleases and some of the long-rumored "previously unreleased," Parsons was finally getting his due as a trailblazer. And by now most alternacountry fans, as noted above, claim him as the figure who rescued the "white man's blues" (as alternacountry is too often, too quickly, called) from the bucktoothed reactionaries.
The Parsons legend must have turned into a minor moneymaker as well. In 1990 Columbia released a Byrds box set with several "lost" tracks featuring Parsons, and now it's rereleased the final four Byrds albums individually, with even more "lost" tracks: The Notorious Byrds Brothers (January '68); Sweetheart of the Rodeo (August '68); Dr. Byrds & Mr. Hyde (February '69); Ballad of Easy Rider (October '69). While all of these albums show the Byrds in various, sometimes complicated, stages of late-'60s collapse, Sweetheart is the album where Parsons steps in for a just-fired David Crosby, and sutures his love of sin and salvation to Roger (formerly Jim) McGuinn's psychedelic folky jangle. Because of this (and because of Clarence White's oft-overlooked country guitar work), the album has a less dated feel than the others; as a cultural artifact, it's both interesting and pleasurable. The same cannot be said of the others. (Or: I guess you had to be there.)
Take the Louvin Brothers' waltz "I Like the Christian Life," a song originally included to introduce Byrds fans to (and probably brought to the studio by) Parsons, which, due to recording contract intricacies, was rerecorded with McGuinn on lead. What does one make of hippie maximalists paring back to a reliance upon a Spartan Appalachian harmony? Of a fire-and-brimstone spiritual getting sung by incense-burning bacchanalians, sans smirk? Aside from a very pretty cover job, you're left with a reclamation of a prim, unyielding Jesus by the groovesters. Weird. One might think of it as penitential desire proffered by the guilty lovemongers, which even today, in these post-everything doldrums, extends beyond its contrivance to remain psychologically complex and emotionally affecting. On the Sweetheart reissue, you get to hear Parsons doing it on a "lost" track (in rehearsal, take No. 11). Unfortunately, his version isn't a whole lot more tortured than McGuinn's, and neither rivals the creepy haint given to us by Ira and Charlie in the original -- which, granted, most of us wouldn't know about if not for Parsons' or the Byrds' boosterism.
Immediately following "I Like the Christian Life" comes William Bell's "You Don't Miss Your Water." What are we to make of a Memphis soul song originally released on Stax in 1961, then rerecorded by an agonized Otis Redding in '65, done yet again -- this time countrified with a pedal steel and a honky-tonk piano? A sympathetic hand extended across the racial divide? (Stax was somewhat integrated to begin with.) Or the further appropriation of "race music"? Nestled between the Louvin Brothers and Woody Guthrie's "Pretty Boy Floyd" as it is, is "You Don't Miss Your Water" a call for a roots music/working-class solidarity made by entitled white kids -- one of whom (the trust-funder, Parsons) hailed from plantation aristocracy? All these questions, artfully posed 30 years ago regarding class, race, and various forms of interconnected American popular music, remain unsatisfactorily answered to this day.