New Riders of the Purple Sage

s/t (Columbia 1971)

If there was some way to astrally project myself into the my college dorm room circa 1993, I would take great pleasure in revealing that I now absolutely adore the Grateful Dead just to watch my shaggy, elitist doppleganger retch and vomit in disapproval. “Believe me, I tried to fight it, but the years just mellowed my edges and I found myself becoming more and more of a kindred spirit with my hippie brethren whom I once mocked and assailed for their worn shoeboxes of meticulously documented Dead shows. In retrospect, I had no leg to stand on as I look back upon my worship of melancholy mopers and nihilistic noise mongers that seems so shallow and trite when I kick back and listen to a righteously gorgeous, life affirming and downright genius string of albums beginning with Anthem of the Sun and ended with From the Mars Hotel before the drugs, hangers-on, financial and personal disasters took their toll and they slowly became the punchline I envisioned in my 20s. However, my wife has seen the Grateful Dead over twenty times and converted me to the other side.

You are all grown men and women here and have probably picked what side of the fence in which you reside regarding the Grateful Dead, so there’s no point in delivering a passionate sermon about how “Pride of Cucamonga” is a flawless mutation of country music or why American Beauty is a seamless suite of songs that perfectly encapsulate all that is transcendent about 70s Americana, so let’s focus on New Riders of the Purple Sage, an offshoot of the Dead that’s been brightening my dark corners these days.

Although the New Riders of the Purple Sage were an ongoing and occasionally brilliant concern until 1997, it’s their self-titled debut and its followup Powerglide that are worth examining closely if you have even a passing interest in 60s and 70s country rock in the vein of the Byrds’ Sweetheart of the Rodeo, Dillard and Clark, Flying Burrito Brothers and Gram Parsons. However, their self-titled debut is the strongest entry in their discography and best conveys the rollicking, loose and patchouli scented vibe they aimed for throughout the 70s. Centered around David Nelson and John “Marmaduke” Dawson, the band got their start via their connection to Jerry Garcia since they used to play together in the mid 60s and Dawson was the one who turned Garcia onto the sounds of Buck Owens and Merle Haggard. This seamless synthesis of the Bakersfield sound and psychedelic country was  achieved through the talent imported from the Dead as Jerry Garcia returns the favor by playing an integral role here playing pedal steel, guitar and banjo while Mickey Hart provides percussion alongside Spencer Dryden of Jefferson Airplane. I always liked the more country-tinged side of the Dead instead of the bluesy workouts, so the New RIders of the Purple Sage give me all I could ever want since every song mines this fertile vein.

All that is impeccable about the New Riders of the Purple Sage can be found in the very first song on the album. “I Don’t Know You” bests anything recorded by their contemporaries by a long shot as it intersects the late 60s Byrds and 70s Dead and encapsulates all that was blissful about both bands at their best. It captures all the bright eyed and bushy-tailed innocence of meeting a potential love connection and deriving their true intentions as hormones cloud your vision and you battle the urge to dive into the pool or dip your toes in the water. It’s followed by “Watcha Gonna Do” which may repulse anyone who dislikes the Dead since it’s central hook is almost a archetype for any number of Dead “jams” as the guitars lope and dive in a nimble dance in a way only they could in the early 70s. Well, I guess their hippie credentials are stamped and validated next on “Portland Woman” which champions the superiority of those Portland women that “treat you right.” I guess somethings never change since hippies of today would probably parrot the same sentiments. “All I Ever Wanted” counters the Bacchanalian call of “Portland Woman” and flips the script as our protagonist bemoans a love gone sour as the target of his affection spurns him and parades her suitors before his teary eyes as a gentle riff builds and builds in unison with chiming harmonies as instrument and voice plead their case for a little respect and honesty. It’s kind of a simple song, but deep as an abyss if you listen to it enough times. By now, I guess you’ve surmised I’m the guy who listens to New Riders of the Purple Sage far too much. However, I’m unashamed since this is a forgotten gem that has been tarred by its association with the Dead while the same folks embrace Gram Parson and his nudie suit. They may have traveled far beyond their expiration date, but dig into any of their 70s albums and you will find yourself wondering why you’ve ignored them all these years.

Michael Nesmith

Magnetic South (Pacific Arts 1970)

I’ve already covered the history of Michael Nesmith on a previous post, so we’ll skip the biographical information. Magnetic South is his followup to his debut album, The Wichita Train Whistle Sings, and it is the first where he begins to really shine as a mellow, somewhat stoned country rocker. I really cannot explain why I rank a former Monkee as an equal to your Nick Drakes, Jackson c. Franks and Gram Parsons, but his music is so unforced and relaxed. There is a cozy vibe to his albums that make them seem like home. His appropriations of West Coast psych and traditional country balladry don’t aim for innovation, but a simple good time. Although “Hollywood” sort of veers into some honkytonk Doors fantasia, the rest is just a bunch of straightforward country tunes bedecked in bellbottoms.

Although he lacks the charisma and tragedy of a Gram Parsons, Nesmith’s string of solo albums should have cemented with a much stronger reputation than the former Monkee with a Liquid paper fortune. “Keys to the Car” could pass for a George Jones number, but the awkwardly yodeling vocals and chorus about getting stoned would make ol’ George drive his lawnmower off the road. So I don’t become too obscure, Jones was once caught driving his lawnmower to the bar when his car keys were out of his reach. Nesmith is also comfortable with twangy cosmic ballads that document the weary life of a traveling musician where cities, roads and people just melt one rorshach inkblot. Magnetic South isn’t his best effort, but it does pave the way for the progressions made on Loose Salute and Nevada Fighter.