1976: The Band, The Last Waltz

By Muna Ahmed, Jeff D’Silva, Jeff Boyd, Kevin Cartwright, Sasha Debevec-McKenney, Manuel Aragon, Andrew Chow, John-Francis Quiñonez

Helpless

By Manuel Aragon

There are songs, bands, places, people, that just feel like home. Neil Young is one of those places for me, those musicians, the wraps me up in the good, the bad, the complicated mess that feels like home. During my freshman year at NYU, in a class taught by Sam Pollard, I watched The Last Waltz for the first time. Sam loved films and music, and went through a meticulous ritual to ensure that we as students got the complete experience of any given film. He’d spend some time before class started checking out the sound, adjusting the picture. If we were lucky, he’d even secure a film print. The magic of this viewing experience of The Last Waltz is not lost on me to this day. 

“You know this guy, I think.” That’s the intro Neil Young receives as he takes the stage in The Last Waltz. And I did know him. He was treated with reverence in the Chicano community that I grew up in Denver, the Northside. Folks my parents' age were the dawn of the musical omnivore, transitioning from the soul of Earth, Wind, and Fire on Saturdays, to rancheras and cumbias on a Sunday morning; oldies in their cars on a Sunday afternoon; the Beatles, Crosby, Stills, Nash, and most importantly, Young, on the weekdays. Because of that, his songs about moving on, looking back regrettably, mournfully, of days gone by, resonated with me. In another life, another world, Neil Young could have been a Mexican, his songs an American extension of rancheras. 

And like home in a place where I was feeling lonely and lost, there was Neil, thrust onstage between Robbie Robertson, Levon Helm, and The Band, who had sat on the edges of my musical tastes for so long. He was there with harmonica in tow, and a smile upon his face that reminded me that all sadness is deeply intertwined with joy and happiness, as he sang “Helpless”, Joni Mitchell’s backing vocals perfectly matching and moving along with Neil. “Helpless” still reminds me of that time in New York, still so often reminds me of home. 

Manuel Aragon is a Latinx writer, director, and filmmaker from Denver, CO. He is currently working on a short story collection, Norteñas. His work has appeared in ANMLY. His short story, "A Violent Noise," is nominated for the 2020 PEN/Robert J. Dau Short Story Prize for Emerging Writers.

Coyote

By Richard Kevin Cartwright

It was suggested, perhaps even murmured in hushed tones, that when Joni Mitchell showed up at The Winterland Ballroom in San Francisco for The Band’s farewell concert appearance - The Last Waltz - tanned and wearing a hip ensemble of a flowing white dress with swooshing patterns, that she could easily be mistaken for a chic Beverly Hills housewife.  But as she moved onstage, bowed to the audience and kissed Robbie Robertson on his left cheek, Mitchell jumped the band into “Coyote”, the lead track on her new album Hejira and unwittingly headlong into the unknown.  

The unknown was exactly the space rock & roll inhabited in 1976.  By all intents and purposes, The Band looked exhausted at their own hoedown; Bob Dylan appeared to be just a few stutter steps away from finding Jesus; and the denim-clad troubadours of Rolling Stone Magazine lore seemed to be waylaid by the cultural zeitgeist of the moment - and with little to say about it. Mitchell, on the other hand, had lain tracks a year prior for a different kind of musical disruption, one that would see her writing move from the personal confession to a socially descriptive, and buoyed by distinct Jazz stylings and variations on melody that would drive so-called rock critics into lathers of disrespect.  Seemingly, they needed the nordic goddess of poem and song languishing over lost loves and tending to her garden and broken heart.  

Rather, what they got was a unique heavyweight with a remarkable melodic, lyrical and compositional sophistication that set her part from all of her contemporaries like Dylan, Neil Young, Leonard Cohen, as her two mid-1970s masterpieces, “The Hissing of Summer Lawns” and “Hejira”, demonstratively spells out.  Mitchell singularly gathered the raw materials for the necessary musical bridgework - all of the unique guitar tunings, unorthodox textures and sheer guile - to build a different way for rock music, but, ultimately, she would trespass the newly-paved road alone.  Who realized that as the last few strums of Coyote filled the elevated spaces of Winterland Ballroom what they were truly witnessing?  American culture has a tendency of misidentifying brilliance and heaping praise on the unwarranted.  Who knew that one of the eras great troubadours dressed like a chic Beverly Hills housewife?

Richard Kevin Cartwright is a former Program Director with KPFA Radio, as well as a producer and contributor to a number of local, regional and national public affairs programs that have included Living Room with Larry Bensky, Democracy Now, the KPFA Evening News, The Morning Show, as well Education Today, 1440 and various short run documentaries. Kevin has also contributed production work at other local Bay Area radio stations such as KALX, KALW and KQED-FM. Additionally, Richard is an Oakland-based playwright, poet and short story writer His playwork is mostly set in Oakland and at various decades, particularly after the post-World War II movement of Black people to the Bay Area from the South.

I Shall Be Released

By Muna Ahmed

I was first introduced to Bob Dylan’s music five years ago in a high school history lesson. It just so happened that the US Civil Rights Movement was part of the English curriculum on the particular exam board I was studying under, and Dylan’s heavy involvement in the political happenings of the time and the lyrical themes pertinent to his discography made him a textbook example of the politicization of music in the 1960’s. As a 15-year-old Somali-British student this was the first I’d heard of both his music and his politics. A little later on, I discovered and enjoyed Nina Simone’s cover of ‘I Shall Be Released’. I didn’t recognize Dylan’s handiwork until I stumbled across his live rendition performed alongside Joni Mitchell, Eric Clapton, Ringo Starr, Neil Young, Van Morrison, Stephen Stills and Ronnie Wood and it suddenly dawned on me that they had not covered Simone’s track but vice versa. Upon my discovery, I couldn’t help but feel largely underwhelmed at the disparities between the two versions of the track. The warm depth to Simone’s voice that perfectly complimented her broad range of musical styles was gone, as was the classic piano instrumental I had fallen in love with. In their place, a supposedly star-studded collective of musicians warbling in unison, as if they were determined to win a wager for whose performance could best personify white mediocrity. The group of eight had banded together to support The Band for the final performance of their farewell concert - the Last Waltz. And while the concert-movie classic courtesy of Martin Scorsese consisted of exclusive backstage interviews and unseen rehearsal footage spliced between a series of performances by the aforementioned artists, not even the archetypal auteur’s best attempt could cover up the stink on that stage. 

Muna Ahmed is a Somali-British freelance writer currently studying Politics and International Relations. She is based in London and has published works on music, politics and culture in publications such as gal-dem, GUAP and Black Ballad.

It Makes No Difference

By Andrew Chow

I remember being slightly repulsed the first time I heard Rick Danko’s voice. He quavers and croaks, as if he has a perpetual lump in his throat; he sounds like the embodiment of fear. 

But it is his strange vocal box that makes “It Makes No Difference” so convincing. In the hands of a more muscular or refined singer, this dirge could come off as self-pitying soft-rock. But Danko’s fallible delivery elevates it to the blues. The other ballads of The Last Waltz, from “Helpless” to “I Shall Be Released” to “Dry Your Eyes” get far more attention for their starpower. But “It Makes No Difference” is the saddest and most arresting of them all. 

“It Makes No Difference” is also the song that perhaps most accurately captures The Band’s collective state of mind going into The Last Waltz. At the time, they were burnt out from touring, sick of each other and nursing a variety of addictions. Robbie Robertson had written the song just a year before, and had plunged headfirst into an unrelentingly bleak mindset: “There’s no love as true as the love that dies untold / but the clouds never hung so low before.” 

At The Last Waltz, Robertson himself approaches the song with a chipperness that almost ruins the performance. He grins, preens and bobs, attacking the guitar in spastic bursts (the many stimulants involved in the production may have played a role). I also never loved Garth Hudson’s saxophone solo, which, conversely, felt too maudlin and on the nose. 

But Danko redeems them both, and then some. The best camera shots are the ones that ignore Robertson and zoom in on Danko, his eyes crinkling, his jaw clenching, his voice fluttering over some held vowels before charging strong over others. It feels like he’s zoned out the Winterland entirely to summon an isolation chamber--and there, he finds a meditative state of reverie in total blackness. 

Andrew R. Chow is an entertainment and business reporter for TIME Magazine.

Such A Night

By Jeff D’Silva

Over the past 16 years I have watched the Last Waltz with my White Father-in-Law approximately 69 times. This breaks down to: 1 viewing on Christmas, 1 on Easter, 1 on his birthday, 1 on my birthday TIMES 16 PLUS the 4 bonus viewings I got the year I lived in his house AND the 1 extra special one I got the night I asked for permission to marry his daughter (terrible patriarchal practice, I know, but it’s what they do on the Bachelor)

The first time I watched the Last Waltz I thought “wow this elderly caucasian gentleman is cool as heck”, the fifth time I watched it I thought “MAN this old white dude REALLY likes the Last Waltz” the sixty-ninth time I was like “DAMN does he own ANY other VHS tapes?

The thing about watching the Last Waltz with my Father-in-Law, is you never really get to hear ANY of the Last Waltz. You are basically taken hostage and treated to anecdotes about how he used to watch Rompin’ Ronnie Hawkins play in Toronto, how he saw Joni Mitchell at Massey Hall, how he met Bob Dylan and he was a “REAL ASSHOLE”. All of these are super cool stories the first time you hear them but after hearing them 69 TIMES you feel like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day; stuck in an endless loop.

The one time this DIRECTOR’S COMMENTARY FROM HELL stops is when Dr. John comes onstage. I don’t know who Dr. John is, why he’s dressed like a Lite-Brite, or if he’s even a real doctor, but whatever it is he shuts my Father-in-Law right up. For that reason Dr. John is my favorite part of the Last Waltz because it’s the ONLY PART I’ve ever actually heard.

Jeff D’Silva is a writer/comedian/cool dad who likes to party, based out of Calgary, Canada. He can be found on Twitter and Instagram @jeffdsilva. His biggest claim to is he tripped over David Hasselhoff’s leg once. He also worked for Conan and has been featured on Funny or Die.

Dry Your Eyes

By Sasha Debevec-McKenney

I have seen Neil Diamond’s performance of “Dry Your Eyes” in The Last Waltz exactly once. I remember it being bad. I remember ombre sunglasses. And did he have a coif? A maroon top, unbuttoned too far? I will never know for sure, because I have skipped it every time since.

Does skipping “Dry Your Eyes” give me as much joy as watching the performances I love? Yes. Two days before Thanksgiving, 1976, one of Robbie Robertson’s “flunkies” asked Levon to tell Muddy Waters he would be cut from the show for length. Levon responded that Robertson should go and “tell Neil Diamond we don’t even know who the fuck he is!” Diamond was the obvious musical outlier, but Robertson co-wrote “Eyes,” and wouldn’t budge. They both played. I read that in Levon’s memoir when I was 14 and I chose his side. 

Levon couldn’t stop it then, but with the wonders of technology, I can stop Neil Diamond from performing at The Last Waltz whenever I want. I don’t have to be held hostage by Robbie Robertson’s 1976 poor coke decisions anymore. I’m not alone in my erasure: the performance before it in the movie (“Dixie”) has a million views on YouTube, and “Coyote,” which comes after, has more than two. The top three uploads of “Eyes,” combined, have 654,954. Either a willingness to pick sides is a prerequisite for loving such a fractured band, or his performance just isn’t as good. 

I have the rest of the movie memorized: I know how Levon’s shoulders move and when, I know which words in which songs have the most spit when he sings, I can see the exact shade of blue of his shirt when I close my eyes. If I ever watch Neil Diamond’s performance, it will be to see Levon. I’m lucky, because there’s a little part of my favorite movie, starring my favorite band, that I’ve practically never seen. Those three minutes and sixteen seconds will be totally new to me if I ever need them, and I’m not ready to give that up, either.  

Sasha Debevec-McKenney is a poet who studies the presidents. She is currently the Jay C. and Ruth Halls Poetry Fellow at the University of Wisconsin Institute for Creative Writing. She was born in Hartford, Connecticut.  

The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down

By Jeff Boyd

Our keyboard player had just gotten a big screen television and figured out how to connect his DVD player to his awesome vintage sound system. This was over a decade ago. I remember going to his house one night and watching Sign O' the Times, which I had seen before, but hadn’t really heard until that night, not really. After that, probably sometime close to midnight, he put on the The Last Waltz. I was familiar with most of the guests. I’d listened to The Basement Tapes, but the concert film was my formal introduction to The Band. Every performance was fantastic. But “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down” took me out. I made my friend rewind that performance multiple times. Nowadays, this is The Band song I skip when my kid is around, because I don’t want her getting the idea that her father is crying over the fall of The Confederacy. Because fuck those guys.

 Everyone in The Band was Canadian, except for Levon Helm, who hailed from Arkansas. Robbie Robertson didn’t know much about American history, but he got the idea to write a story song about a guy who’d lost everything he held dear in the Civil War, of watching everything around him crumble and burn. He was also trying to write a song that would be perfect for Levon. And it was. Levon’s voice, his drumming, the way he makes them work together, his face, look at that face, he puts everything he has into this song. It’s impossible for me not to get emotional and belt along while playing air drums. Play it loud. Look and listen. Everyone on that stage is crushing it. To me, this song is The Band at their very best.

Jeff Boyd is a recent graduate of the Iowa Writer’s Workshop. He is currently working on a novel.

Caravan

By John-Francis Quiñonez

"I'm sick of looking in at this. I want this.  I want to be this " they said and so - we ran. 

With the snowfall heavy and getting heavier - gazing in at a packed house of folks eating and cackling from the window seemed to do my sweet friend an unkindness. With the advice of another friend in mind (who always insisted that the move, when caught in a frost, was to divorce hesitation and book it)  I led the charge off in solidarity. 

We sprinted the whole way to my apartment with hands in our pockets and soon shouldered into my home where I put on a kettle and The Last Waltz. As I pulled more things from the stove for us, it just seemed like something else to warm our hands over. 

That performance of Caravan really took us that night, and of course. There is something indisputably victorious about that moment that makes it impossible to turn away from. Van puts his whole gut into igniting that stage - barely opening his eyes to see the Band, visibly grateful, ramp up around him and yet there is almost a comedy to it. 

At times we hunched over with laughter -  applauding his attempted one-third kicks and notably maroon & be-sequined get up. We counted off each time he belted “one more time” (a good eight times if memory serves) before throwing his wrist up and marching off. 

To be clear - we loved this unironically. There's a reverence under the elation - a testament to the kind of performing one does when you realize you are acting in a memory. There are times you can see it in Van’s eyes - coveting the moment as it passed through him, and certainly we were doing the same thing. We rewound this bit again and again - unable to stop crying until suddenly the night was through. 

Weeks Later I would see the same friend looking back at me from the Piano at my place of work playing into the chorus “Laaa la La-La, La-la Laa.” The image kept me warm.

John-Francis Quiñonez (they/them) is a Desert Flower & Current Resident of Providence, Educator, Provider of Accessible Aide as Your Queer Mawm, and Poet. They have a handful of Poems in Maps for Teeth, Yellow Chair Review, Voicemail Poems, Counterclock, and Pigeon Pages. // Is trying their best not to talk too much about Rock and Roll or Fruit Bats, but Promises Nothing.