Many have tried, but no one plays guitar quite like Neil Young. He solos like something’s buried under the fretboard that he’s trying to dig out. When he transposes to acoustic settings, the inertia of his playing can cause his legs to cycle up and down wildly, a source of energy traveling through his entire body, dissipating in the lonesome exhaust of his fragile singing voice and harmonica playing. Even when he was a young man, this sound expressed a world-weariness that complemented his lyrics. But his music always seemed engineered to age with him—to rust and burn and keep on going.
No group better suits this sensibility than Crazy Horse, the pared-down accompanists he first recruited for his sophomore album, 1969’s Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere. The band—which then featured the late guitarist Danny Whitten, bassist Billy Talbot, and drummer Ralph Molina—were built to tear things up. They kept it simple. Young’s guitar solos sometimes consisted of just one note, looped and clipping until the whole band seemed to lock in place with him. And while Young explored a wide variety of genres in the following decades, from pastoral country to arena rock to instrumental guitar, this primal sound will always be the one most closely associated with him.
So when Young reassembles Crazy Horse for new music, there are always heightened expectations. Colorado marks their fourth studio album of the 21st century, following a dense concept album (2003’s Greendale), an unremarkable set of royalty-free cover songs (2012’s Americana), and a brilliantly meandering double album (2012’s Psychedelic Pill). Situated around those releases have been a spotty run of albums (even by Young’s standards), building toward his most inscrutable era since the ’80s. Young himself seems to acknowledge his current standards in the accompanying documentary Mountaintop, as he instructs his reunited bandmates to work quickly but meaningfully during its 11-day sessions. “It doesn’t have to be good,” he instructs. “Just feel good.”
Despite his empowering mantra, a dark cloud hangs over Colorado. Its songs are furious (“Help Me Lose My Mind”), haunted (“Milky Way”), and remorseful (“Green Is Blue”). In “She Showed Me Love,” the closest thing this album has to a characteristic Crazy Horse epic, Young sings about a new generation carrying the torch for climate change and imagines how they might view him. “You might say I’m an old white guy,” he speak-sings. “I saw old white guys trying to kill mother nature.” It goes without saying that the “she” in the song title refers to our planet, and the past tense refers to the shortening timelines of both the narrator and subject. The long jam eventually slows to a trudge and makes sure you feel every passing minute.
The rest of the record is shaded with subdued tones. In addition to Young’s old bandmates Talbot and Molina, he’s accompanied by Nils Lofgren—the E Street Band guitarist who also played with Young on career highlights After the Gold Rush and Tonight’s the Night. While Lofgren is best known for a near-athletic virtuosity, here he mostly colors in the lines. (His tap-dancing percussion in the sweet, Sleeps With Angels-referencing “Eternity” is the clearest showcase for his gifts.) Even for Crazy Horse, the music is simple but heartfelt. On tracks like “Olden Days” and “Rainbow of Colors,” Young’s basic folk melodies are rendered grittier and heavier by the band, if no less tender.
“When you see those geese in the sky, think of me,” go the album’s opening lines, and Young often sings from this distance, watching over a world without him. Outside a few words of gratitude in the gorgeous closing track “I Do,” his lyrics rarely seem autobiographical, but they do seem newly focused and reflective. And while the documentary is certainly not the most riveting film Young’s put his name to (highlights include a story about producer John Hanlon getting poison oak), it does occasionally offer a pure snapshot of his creative process. Seeing how ecstatic Young gets over a subtle tambourine part in “Olden Days” may permanently alter how you hear that song. It offers a reminder of his passion, how the studio remains a source of excitement and joy after all these years.
And yet, if it were up to him, none of us would be listening to this album in its final form. “I get to hear it the way we made it. Too bad about most of you,” he wrote on his website, bemoaning the current state of sound quality via streaming. The concern speaks to a lifelong battle with the industry, also discussed in his new 240-page book, but it also speaks to the struggle he’s faced as a solo recording artist this decade. Whether food justice or the destruction of the planet, his muses have often seemed muffled or misconstrued when they finally reach the market. Colorado surpasses those recent works by speaking directly to that ephemeral nature of life, our tragedies and joys and disappointments. “There’s so much we didn’t do,” Young and his bandmates sing together, their ages averaging around 73, in a ballad called “Green Is Blue.” And if one thing has remained unwavering about them, it’s that you know they mean every word.
Buy: Rough Trade
