Gram Parsons with the Flying Burrito Bros, Live at the Avalon Ballroom 1969 (2007)

The first impressions of this 2-disc set effectively cancel each other out: Amoeba has outdone itself with lovely packaging, full of great archival photos and two short essays, one a loving recollection of Parsons and the Burrito Bros by Pamela Des Barres, the other a nicely detailed recounting of digging through the Grateful Dead archives (for whom the FBB were opening) for these tapes, and then the desperate quest to secure rights, by Dave Prinz. But then, that title: I’m hardly here to demand a place on the marquee for Michael Clarke, but it simply misrepresents things—as the opening audio itself makes clear—to credit this to Parsons and reduce the FBB to a supporting band. For a release so committed to musical history, that’s an unfortunate concession to (admitted) market realities, and a bit of an insult to (perhaps overly sensitive) listeners.

Well, there’s also music here—though mostly, nothing crucial from the two (April 4 and 6) very-similar live sets that replaces any LP versions. The real treasures are the two demos on disc 1, especially a spare, heartbreaking “Thousand Dollar Wedding.” "Nothing crucial" doesn't mean unworthy of a listen, though--learning the story of the "old boy" line from "Hot Burrito #1" while hearing it is worth a sniffle or two. 

Dillard & Clark, The Fantastic Expedition of Dillard & Clark (1968)

The Byrds all went rustic concurrently in the late 60s, despite being apart. Unsurprisingly, Gene Clark did it best; while the remaining official-Byrds began strip-mining the past for inspiration, Crosby rotted away on a farm with CSNY, and the Burrito Brothers only slowly eased into place, the best songwriting, melodies, and singing were all to be found here—naturally, in the shadows of all those albums, in terms of public profile.

It is a literal expedition—down to New Orleans, from Memphis to Colorado, crossing into San Bernardino (in the restored outtake “Lyin’ Down the Middle”)—and unlike the space-age flight fixations of Roger McGuinn, Clark still travels the old routes; “Train Leaves Here This Morning” is both song and entire worldview. He drifts from one heartbreak to the next, and if it’s not quite as sorrowful as subsequent solo albums, Dillard’s ace picking and strumming has a lot to do with it. Clark is in righteous form as always, forlorn until he tears it up on a (non-LP) “Don’t Be Cruel” that sounds like an instruction manual for Gram Parsons, who wished he could do this (and whose fellow Burritos pop up, including a mini-Byrd reunion with Chris Hillman and Michael Clarke). It’s hard to believe these are nearly all originals—they whisk by in under a half-hour, sounding effortless and timeless. 

The Byrds, Dr. Byrds and Mr. Hyde (1969)

Clarence White is here, and he ain’t yer Sweetheart: he rings this LP in with some crashing chords that bring “This Wheel’s on Fire” closer to Blue Cheer than Gram Parsons. Later, fellow Byrd-n00b Gene Parsons adds such a cavernous drum sound to “Child of the Universe” that one might mistake it for a guest appearance from John Bonham. This is what happens when you repopulate a rock band in 1969, apparently. 

Dr. Byrds and Mr. Hyde is an odd, deeply uneven LP, lost in the shadows of 1968’s moment in the sun, and their biggest commercial dud, according to David Fricke’s reissue liner notes (which strive nobly, if futilely, to reclaim it as "the Great Forgotten Byrds Album"--it is one of those things, but not both). I’ve been listening to it every other year or so for a decade, and have only just begun to appreciate it, so I guess it’s what you’d call a grower. Still, it has its moments: “Old Blue” proves you can’t go wrong singing about a favorite dog, and “Bad Night at the Whiskey” is a great title for an anomalous outlier at the rockier end of the Byrds spectrum. There’s some dumb, lazy political commentary in “King Apathy III” and “Drug Store Truck Drivin’ Man” (a McGuinn/Gram Parsons co-write that the latter would also play, and also fail to bring to life), and I’m not sure why White and the new Parsons imported some of their Nashville West jamming, but all the confusing twists and turns do ultimately make for an unpredictable, if muddled, one-off experiment. Clunky as the title is, it captures the schizoid feel of this one. And that title-font, wow. 

Gram Parsons and the Fallen Angels, Live 1973 (1982)

Tuesday afternoon in Long Island: Gram Parsons and crew show up at the local radio station, play a live set, then head on to Philly. Probably nobody involved would have ever thought of it again, but a decade later some suit sees green, and presto: posthumous live album. Nothing here supersedes LP versions, though a sparse “Love Hurts” lets the Gram-and-Emmy duet vocals run the show, without the distraction of lead guitarist Jock Bartley, building some cred as a Fallen Angel before shaking it for soft-rock lucre in Firefall (and thus constituting one more node in the dense web of Byrdsian connections of 70s rock). All too often, Bartley drenches songs in what wankers used to call “hot licks,” but the more restrained takes, such as “The New Soft Shoe,” can be lovely. Parsons’s demeanor ranges from diffident to dickish in his banter, and he doesn’t seem particularly enthused to be there; the tired toursong “Six Days on the Road”—which the Parsonsless Burrito Brothers were also playing at the time—might be the truest thing here.

So, hardly revelatory, but no album with Emmylou Harris has ever been less than listenable.

Chris Hillman, Like a Hurricane (1998)

As mushy old-man country-rock of the late 90s goes, the closing track here, “Heaven’s Lullaby,” isn’t bad—not quite a melody for the ages, but it would have been a more deserving hit than, say, that crapulent “Butterfly Kisses” song. The rest of the album suffers from the same blandness as most Hillman solo LPs—apparently he really needs a band around him to shake him from his complacency. Still, it’s never less than pleasant, and the old Searchers song “When You Walk in the Room,” which the Byrds picked up from them three decades earlier while gigging together, retains power-pop kick even as midtempo country. Hillman frequently sounds treacly and churlish—“Sooner or Later” opens by chiding a woman for wasting money “buying foolish things,” gah—but the most obnoxious thing here is the title. I know titles can’t be copyrighted, yada yada yada, but come on man, I think you might be familiar with an obscure Canadian recording artist called Neil Young? Not only is your song vastly inferior to his, but the central simile isn’t even developed in any extended way that makes it crucial. Couldn’t you just call it “Like a Tornado” instead? Like a Whipping Wind? This always annoys me, though I suppose it's better than that classic track “Wish You Were Here,” by those gods of hubris, Incubus.

Manassas, Down the Road (1973)

Several months ago, the first Manassas album pulled off the surprising feat of forcing me to say nice things about Prig of Prigs Stephen Stills. So I approached the followup with trepidation: must I set aside my disdain yet again? I prefer to wallow in scorn. 

Well, hmm: it’s not bad. Down the Road has none of the epic sweep of the debut double-LP, coming in at a concise half-hour. The first side has some strong moments; opener “Isn’t It About Time” comes vaguely close to incisive social commentary, while a rare Chris Hillman composition, “Lies,” approximates rocking. While the second side begins to blur together, Stills is still at his best when drowned out by his large, dexterous band, and there’s an ambitious multiculturalism here, with some lyrics in Spanish (including all of “Pensamiento”). As always, Stills has little to say but a big desire to say it, though the ego sprawl is held in check by a rhythm section that knows how to assert itseslf, and it’s over before it can grate. Dig the cover art, too (though of course Stills poses himself like the lord of the table). 

Rice, Rice, Hillman & Pedersen, Running Wild (2001)

Louvin Brothers citation notwithstanding, that title wildly overstates the case; Sitting Mild comes closer to the condition of these four gents (longtime friends who first met in 1963, as Geoffrey Himes’s helpful liner notes observe), who sound as if they’re chilling on a porch together having an off-the-cuff hootenanny. I mean that as praise, though—they’re all pros, who have eased into a relaxed warmth that suffuses the whole album. Songs come and go, but the organic vibe stays cohesive, with the one glaring exception of Larry Rice’s cringe-inducing, treacly “The Mystery That Won’t Go Away” (if you’re going to sing a godawful song about JonBenét Ramsey, maybe try to at least pronounce her name right?). Hillman sings lead on about half the tracks, with the others spread around; there’s not a ton of original songwriting here, with covers ranging from the Beatles to the Louvins to Buck Owens to Hillman’s old bandmate Stephen Stills (a terrible songwriter, but nicely redeemed through performance alone on “4 + 20”), but Hillman’s “San Antone” kicks things off a strong Desert Rose Band note. 

Pretty sure anyone who listens to this knows exactly what they're in for; there's something comforting in that, though at times you almost wish for some random left-field radio-bait cameo from, say, Dave Grohl or Christina Aguilera just to throw a curveball into the mix.