Of the Woodstock generation, Neil Young has weathered the storms of age better than most. He may not be the easiest grizzled rocker to admire: 2010’s brutal Le Noise tested even his most ardent followers. But Young remains committed to the spirit of rock’n’roll and the power of innovation, which is why you won’t find him phoning in an album of smooth jazz standards in the manner of Rod Stewart. He has, however, made an album of American folk songs — and the British national anthem. It sounds like a bad idea. It turns out to be an excellent one.
The material is strikingly obvious. What possible reason is there to record songs we’ve heard thousands of times before, like My Darling Clementine, This Land is Your Land and even God Save the Queen? Has the well of creativity that is Neil Young’s brain finally run dry? Then you hear Americana and it all makes sense. Young has got back with Crazy Horse, the band he has been hiring and firing since 1968. Crazy Horse have been annoying the professional music fraternity their entire career, not least because of their seeming inability to go beyond the most rudimentary command of their instruments. With the right material, however — like this bunch of campfire singalongs — Crazy Horse is the best band in the world, because they are not in a position to let virtuosity get in the way of raw feeling.
Americana begins with Oh Susannah. Drummer Ralph Molina just about manages to hold the beat. Bassist Billy Talbot plays in a way that suggests his tongue is sticking out of the side of his mouth. Guitarist Poncho Sampedro sounds like he’s tuning up. They all sound fantastic. For a star of Neil Young’s magnitude to hire Crazy Horse at a time when his contemporaries are hiring orchestras shows a refreshing lack of hubris, and besides, the point about Crazy Horse isn’t that they can only play uncomplicated music. It’s that they play uncomplicated music better than anyone.
Americana sounds fresh and new, perhaps because there is something odd about a rock band doing songs generally performed by the kind of people who would end up on the naughty step if they threw a television out of a hotel window. Young’s unmistakable voice, fragile but resolute, rips through the kindergarten classic She’ll Be Coming Round the Mountain, and he brings out the loneliness of Wayfarin’ Stranger. As for God Save the Queen, one detects a hint of sarcasm in its primeval thump and overly enthusiastic vocal delivery, but you can never be sure with Young. Maybe he just wanted to honour the jubilee in his own special way. It ends an album that leaves you as confounded as you are enervated. Warners