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Rock/pop

Neil Young: Le Noise

Le Noise
Neil Young: Le Noise
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Neil Young has long had a talent for writing lyrics that are elusive yet compelling. Although many of the lines in “Tell Me Why” from After the Gold Rush elude me, that doesn’t make it less powerful—and when he sings “I am lonely but you can free me/All in the way that you smile” the sudden clarity has all the more impact. Lyrically his new release, Le Noise, is so straightforward it may catch you off guard. This is a time for reckoning, for looking back without flinching, for admitting mistakes and for hanging on to what’s left. With music this personal, it makes sense that Neil recorded his first studio album that’s completely solo: it’s just him and a guitar.

Le Noise isn’t, however, a “return to his folk roots”—far from it, actually. With the exception of two cuts Neil uses an electric guitar, and by the time he’s run through “Walk With Me,” “Sign of Love,” and “Someone’s Gonna Rescue You,” it’s clear he wants to make a lot of (le) noise. Never mind that these opening songs are about love and relationships and the lyrics often unabashedly romantic; this is a rock and roll album with a huge, symphonic sound, all from one guitar and one voice. Daniel Lanois, who’s worked with U2, Bob Dylan, and Peter Gabriel, produced the record, and at times Neil sounds like he’s not in Lanois’ studio but in a coliseum. On these and the other electric songs Neil’s attack and the layered and expansive sound of his guitar are compelling—especially impressive on the 180-gram vinyl version of Le Noise. The vocals are a different matter, however. The heavy reverb and delay often seem excessive. They also seem like a distraction to Neil, who sometimes seems overly seduced by the wall of sound he and Lanois create.

There are two acoustic guitar cuts on the record. “Peaceful Valley Boulevard” casts a dark eye on America’s past and future— but the melody and the guitar playing are gorgeous. On this cut, though, the vocal treatment seems especially inappropriate. It’s one thing to electronically alter the vocals over an electric backdrop, but why over an acoustic one? The vocals sound more natural on the other acoustic track, the Spanish-tinged “Love and War,” one of the highlights of the record. Again the guitar work is memorable, with a warm sound that shines on vinyl.

The trippy vocal treatment is most effective on a detailed account of Neil’s drug use over the years. The strongest cut on the album, “The Hitchhiker,” may also be the most depressing—and if the worst is over, anxiety remains: “Many years have come and gone like friends and enemies/I tried to leave my past behind but it’s catching up with me/I don’t know how I’m standing here, living in my life/I’m thankful for my children, and my faithful wife.” Although I have issues with the sound, that sense of honesty and vulnerability helps make Le Noise a return to form for a major if inconsistent artist. 

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By Jeff Wilson

This will take some explaining, but I can connect the dots between pawing through LPs at a headshop called Elysian Fields in Des Moines, Iowa, as a seventh grader, and becoming the Music Editor for The Absolute Sound. At that starting point—around 1970/71—Elysian Fields had more LPs than any other store in Des Moines. Staring at all the colorful covers was both tantalizing and frustrating. I had no idea who most of the artists were, because radio played only a fraction of what was current. To figure out what was going on, I realized that I needed to build a record collection—and as anyone who’s visited me since high school can testify, I succeeded. Record collecting was still in my blood when, starting in the late 1980s, the Cincinnati Public Library book sale suddenly had an Elysian Fields quantity of LPs from people who’d switched to CDs. That’s where I met fellow record hawk Mark Lehman, who preceded me as music editor of TAS. Mark introduced me to Jonathan Valin, whose 1993 detective novel The Music Lovers depicts the battles between record hawks at library sales. That the private eye in the book, Harry Stoner, would stumble upon a corpse or two while unraveling the mystery behind the disappearance of some rare Living Stereo platters made perfect sense to me. After all, record collecting is serious business. Mark knew my journalistic experience included concert reviews for The Cincinnati Enquirer and several long, sprawling feature articles in the online version of Crawdaddy. When he became TAS music editor in 2008, he contacted me about writing for the magazine. I came on board shortly after the latest set of obituaries had been written for vinyl—and, as fate had it, right when the LP started to make yet another unexpected comeback. Suddenly, I found myself scrambling to document all the record companies pressing vinyl. Small outfits were popping up world-wide, and many were audiophile-oriented, plus already existing record companies began embracing the format again. Trying to keep track of everything made me feel, again, like that overwhelmed seventh grader in Elysian Fields, and as Music Editor I’ve found that keeping my finger on the pulse of the music world also requires considerable detective work. I’ve never had a favorite genre, but when it comes time to sit down and do some quality listening, for me nothing beats a well-recorded small-group jazz recording on vinyl. If a stereo can give me warmth and intimacy, tonal accuracy, clear imaging, crisp-sounding cymbals, and deep, woody-sounding bass, then I’m a happy camper.

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