by Neil Young
497 pages, Viking/Penguin
Review
by Pat Black
Some
folk don’t get Neil Young. Maybe it’s a blind spot – a recognised medical
condition. Or it could be the voice.
I
have my own blind spot about Springsteen. No matter how many compilations are
burned for me, I just can’t get into him. I like the guy, agree with his politics,
admire his longevity, but… It’s not happening. It might be the brass on Born to
Run; it sets my teeth on edge.
Perhaps
it’s something that’ll come with age. I was 27 before I discovered Neil Young,
and you could say I’ve never looked back since.
Waging
Heavy Peace is Neil Young’s autobiography. He’s notoriously picky and controlling
about his work, in some cases taking 40 years to release albums from his
archives, and in some cases simply never releasing them. He got a bit awkward about
Jimmy McDonagh’s titanic biography from 10 years ago, Shakey, famously writing
his own incerpts in the text and keeping the manuscript under lock and key for
years due to litigation. God knows how much money and effort this wasted. To
this day I’ve no idea what Young didn’t like about that book, or what purpose
his opposition served – but he’s an unusual guy, to say the least.
Like
much of Young’s oeuvre, Waging Heavy Peace doesn’t travel in straight lines.
Indeed, the chief pleasure of this book is that it follows the dips and bumps
in the road in much the same way his music does. It meanders on occasion,
thoroughly enjoys digressions and sidesteps, and whole chapters can zip by
without music even being mentioned. If you’re looking for an orderly chronological
record of events taking Neil Young from his early days in Canada through to his
position as one of the world’s most revered musicians, then you really must
look elsewhere.
For
example, Young might start talking about LincVolt, one of his most cherished engineering
projects; a car which can run on biofuel. A lover of strange, even baroque American
automobiles, he’ll then talk about cars he’s owned in life, and the weird,
Frankensteinian adapted tour buses. From there he’ll finally mention how his
disabled son loves to ride in these buses. Many times, he uses discourse over physical
objects as a gateway to talking about his life and the key events in it.
Another
project Young has on the go is PureTone, a digital music platform that seeks to
reproduce the depth and audio quality of analogue tech. This seems more like a
crusade than a commercial adventure. His zeal in protecting the depth and
nuance of his recordings is admirable, and seems to have caught the attention
of many of his contemporaries. He acknowledges that there’s a huge, fruity
obstacle in his way, though.
Young
says a friend asked him: “Are you waging war on Apple?” and Young replies, “No
– I’m waging heavy peace.” Neat line, an open goal of a book title, and it
illustrates something I’ve always loved about the guy. He sees a dodgy
photograph of himself walking past a dwarf, or an awful drawing of a winged
naked woman, and he’ll think: “That’s it – that’s the album cover.” Snap
decisions are revelled in – no matter if there’s a human cost somewhere down the
line. That could be offended eyeballs or eardrums, or it could be people out of
work thanks to cancelled tours. Snap decisions are better than dishonest ones,
Young reasons.
He’s
an instinctive man, but instinctive doesn’t quite seem the right word. Impulsive?
Perhaps, but there’s a backbeat to what he does, too – it isn’t just chaos. A
notorious stoner and a child of the sixties, Young claims to have only just
given up getting bent in the service of his muse – no booze, no weed. His
pronouncements get lovably spacey, particularly when he talks about moving with
the Great Sprit. He’s like the sixties acid casualty uncle you never had
(although Young says he was never into acid). You might think this is purest
flower power nonsense, but Young is a man in tune with certain things, hidden
rhythms.
Attuned
– that might be the best word to use.
Similarly,
Young goes into detail on his favourite things in life, including his passion for
model railroads. Something he shares with Rod Stewart, as regular readers of
this site may recall. He can go into page after page of recollections of this
hobby, how it’s built up over the years. You have been warned.
There
are reminiscences about life on the road if you want them, as well as
recollections of Young’s late, great collaborators, including producer David
Briggs and Crazy Horse sideman Danny Whitten. He’s both candid and
complimentary about Crosby, Stills and Nash, takes a look at how his relationship
with Carrie Snodgress didn’t work out (the word “womanising” is mentioned but
it’s like pulling teeth), and reveals some of his appalling health struggles. Young
contracted polio as a child and also suffered from epilepsy, as well as
developing crippling problems with his back (it’s hard to believe that when you
see him performing the Massey Hall concerts, he was wearing a brace). Later in
life, he had surgery on an aneurysm that might have killed him as quickly and
effectively as a bullet. The problems his children faced are also examined –
Zeke and Ben’s cerebral palsy, Amber Jean’s epilepsy.
What
you sense is that Neil Young is a guy who doesn’t give up, or turn back. What
impressed me was not so much the way he overcame what fate dealt him in
physical terms, but the way he dealt with repeated knocks and setbacks in his
musical career up until he formed the Buffalo Springfield with Stephen Stills.
He had so many disappointments in those times, so many tragedies and instances
of poor luck. Losing hope can be the worst thing of all. A lot of people might
have given up. A lot of people would have just gone home. But he stuck to it
and got there.
I
sense that this book didn’t change much from first draft to last. There’s a
little bit of feedback here and there, and it can come across as a freewheeling
and sometimes ramshackle piece of work, like some of his unending guitar solos
and jams with Crazy Horse. If, like me, you know of few aural pleasures to
match pouring a wee glass of something and sticking on Everybody Knows This Is
Nowhere or Tonight’s The Night or Live at Massey Hall, then you’ll love that
style translating to the page. If you’re not a fan, then it’s best to move on.
Neil Young’s never been for the casual listener, and his book shares the same
difficult, but rewarding DNA as his records.
Young
admits he loved writing his book. He is from good writing stock, with his
father Scott having been a noted journalist and author in Canada. He says he
can see himself forging a new career with a pen rather than a guitar pick, and
spitballs ideas for his next books.
I
do hope he makes good on these proposals. But not before I finally get to see
him with Crazy Horse in concert next summer.
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