Tag Archives: Topanga Canyon

Hey, Who Really Cares – Linda Perhacs

LA was crawling with singer-songwriters in the early 1970s, from the stunningly talented likes of Tim Buckley, Joni Mitchell and Judee Sill, through the foursquare and reliable Jackson Browne/JD Souther types, to the pleasant but inconsequential talents like Ned Doheny and Pamela Polland.

Laurel Canyon is the part that stands for the whole of the LA singer-songwriter scene, but Linda Perhacs was a Topanga Canyon resident, and the difference was all the difference. Physically further removed from Hollywood than Laurel Canyon, Topanga in 1970 was where Neil Young had made his home, and Young’s rather-be-on-my-own attitude epitomised the Topanga spirit. Perhacs was not a joiner or a hustler, wouldn’t have fit in among the more ambitious Laurel Canyon crowd, and indeed would probably never have been heard at all if composer Leonard Rosenman hadn’t have been a patient at the Beverly Hills dental practice where she worked.

In Perhacs’ version of the story, it was only after many appointments that Rosenman asked her what she did when she wasn’t working and, sensing she could be a gateway to the hippie community he wanted to access in order to come up with the right kind of a music for a TV project he was working on, asked to hear the songs she wrote in her spare time.

Rosenman was impressed by what he heard, particularly the song Parallelograms, and told Perhacs he wanted to make an album with her and would secure the budget needed to make it happen.

Hey, Who Really Cares appeared on Parallelograms, and became the theme for Matt Lincoln, the short-lived TV series for which Rosenman had been commissioned to provide music. It’s a stunning piece of work. In feeling and mood, it recalls the moody medievalisms of David Crosby (songs like Guinnevere, Where Will I Be and The Lee Shore) and Clouds-era Joni Mitchell; musically, the fingerpicked chords with ringing E and B strings sound a little like Love (on, for example, Maybe the People Would Be the Times and Alone Again Or). The sinuous bass guitar, meanwhile, reminds me of nothing so much as PFM backing Fabrizio de André. Perhacs’ voice is clear as a bell, often sounding like that of a cut-glass British folk singer. It’s a beautiful song, with some heart-stopping melodic twists and turns, and a wonderful arrangement by Rosenman. If Perhacs isn’t quite up there with Sill, Mitchell, Buckley, Crosby et al., she was light years ahead of many of the cowboy-chord mediocrities whose music receieved greater exposure than hers.

The hype over “rediscovered” artists can be off-putting, and their art seldom lives up to the grand claims made for it. At the time that Linda Perhacs’ 1970 album Parallelograms began to be reissued (and at this point, it’s been reissued five or six times by as many different labels), I was hyper wary – the media fad for freak folk was at its height, and I’d been left mystified by the popularity of Devendra Banhart and Joanna Newsom, and astonished at the reverence being afforded to Vashti Bunyan’s 1970 precursor, Just Another Diamond Day. So with Banhart singing Parallelograms‘ praises to the UK monthlies, it seemed wise to steer clear.

A shame. Some records, some artists, really are deserving of their reputations. I’ve chosen Hey, Who Really Cares as a representative track, but if you like it, you’ll dig the whole thing.

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Don’t Let It Bring You Down – Neil Young

Each of Neil Young’s first five solo records (Neil Young, Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere, After the Goldrush, Harvest and Time Fades Away) reveals a different side to Young and his songwriting, and taken in totality they point to all the paths he’d explore in the future. Well, nearly all: there’s nothing at this stage that predicts Trans, on which Neil and Crazy Horse attempt to do Kraftwerk.

Of that initial burst, After the Goldrush and Harvest are the two most similar records – predominantly acoustic, with songs that are mainly concise (no 12-minute guitar jams). But the two albums have, in fact, significant differences in attitude, arrangement and feel. Harvest is a big-budget studio record with expensive Nashville session players and the London Symphony Orchestra. After the Goldrush was largely recorded in Young’s makeshift home studio in Topanga Canyon with a four-piece band: Young on acoustic guitar, Ralph Molina from Crazy Horse on drums, Nils Lofgren (long-time sideman for Young and Bruce Springsteen) on piano and Greg Reeves (Motown and James Brown) on bass. It’s spare, raw and dry: no echo, no delays, no solos, no frills. It takes a lot of confidence in your songs to resist the temptation to fill them up with stuff (and god knows there’s a lot of choices you can make if you’re in a maximalist, more-is-more kind of mood), but it’s been a very long time since Neil Young’s been short of confidence in himself and his art. The French horn on the title track is the only lead instrument, and one of the few overdubs. Even the cuts that were recorded in real studios* with extra musicians (Stephen Stills, Danny Whitten, Billy Talbot, Jack Nitzsche) sound lo-fi and sparse.

After the Goldrush is the record where Young starts singing like the public expect Neil Young to sing, pitching his vocals up to the top of his chest range, and starts writing the songs that are most closely associated with him by casual listeners rather than Young fanatics: After the Goldrush, Don’t Let it Bring You Down, Only Love Can Break Your Heart and Southern Man (to which Sweet Home Alabama was written as a response).

My personal favourite is Don’t Let It Bring You Down. I love how integrated it is; Young has a really impressive knack of making his guitar and the piano feel almost like one instrument, while at the same time making the guitar and the drums feel like one instrument; a lot has been said about Young’s noise-mongering electric guitar playing, but not nearly enough about his skill as an acoustic rhythm player. I love the rhythm of the chord changes in the intro (One, two, three, One, two, three, four, five).

Most of all though, I love how naked this song is, how much presence it has. When I listen to it, the spatial and temporal distance between him there and then and me here and now are dissolved and I’m there in that Topanga Canyon basement while Young sings in his fragile tenor and Ralph Molina bangs his cardboard drum kit.

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Neil Young, early 1970s, with a Strat this time

*After the Goldrush figures prominently in the promotional hoopla for Dave Grohl’s Sound City movie. I haven’t seen it yet, so I would guess that perhaps After The Goldrush was mixed at Sound City, as McDonough is pretty clear in Shakey that Birds, Oh Lonesome Me, I Believe in You and When You Dance I Can Really Love were tracked with Crazy Horse at Sunset Sound, and the rest were recorded at the home-studio sessions.