Prairie Wind

Neil Young

Reprise

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The cover art for Neil Young’s new album “Prairie Wind” evokes the sorely-missed western aesthetic last heard on his 2000 record “Silver and Gold,” but most fully realized on Young’s folksier mid-seventies albums “Comes a Time” and “Harvest.”

The sepia-tinted prairie photograph recalls turn-of-the-century daguerreotypes, and its focus—a laundry line—is a similarly archaic piece of technology. The liner notes reveal that Young’s atavistic tendencies extend to the studio: “Prairie” was recorded and mixed on analog equipment.

“Prairie”’s tone is usually genial and nostalgic. The strident politicking of Young’s previous outing, “Greendale,” has been replaced by a sober remembrance of things past.

The album’s fourth track, “Far From Home,” is a spirited trek down memory lane. After an energetic horn intro, Young launches into verses that recall the family sing-a-longs of his youth and his first excursions into Nashville, or “Music City” as he names it.

Young reflects that his career has taken him far from the domestic bliss of those early days, but his voice evidences no regret or longing—only acceptance.

“Prairie” bears little resemblance to Young’s “Doom Trilogy” of records—“On the Beach,” “Time Fades Away,” and “Tonight’s the Night,”—in which remorse and a sense of loss foreground every track. Not that “Prairie” lacks substance or depth.

Songs like “The Painter” and “The Old Guitar” acquit Young of any charges of inanity. The former is a marvelous evocation of artistic suffering: the lyric “She saw the pictures and she painted them / She picked the colors from the air” suggests the near-magical power artists have to conjure images and emotions.

A later verse warns of the darker side of creativity: “But in the end she fell down / Before she got up again,” subtly reflecting Young’s own fluctuating commercial and critical success.

“The Old Guitar” sees Young wrestling with the problem of death—both physical and creative. The titular guitar performs double duty, serving as metaphor for both artist and art. Young sings, “This old guitar ain’t mine to keep / It’s mine to play for a while / This old guitar ain’t mine to keep / It’s only mine for a while,” as if to remind that both he and his artistic legacy are fleeting.

“Prairie”’s only real misstep is the cloying and sentimental Elvis tribute “He Was the King.” The track is book-ended by superfluous studio banter, and what transpires between is uniformly bad: platitudinous lyrics, uninspired honky-tonk jamming, and a piss-poor Elvis impersonation, adding insult to injury.

The album closer, “When God Made Me,” a simple and earnest plea for tolerance in the aftermath of 9-11, is likely to split opinions. The song’s first verse is artlessly direct, and betrays Young’s leftist sympathies: “Was he thinking about my country / Or the color of my skin? / Was he thinking about my religion / And the way I worshipped him? / Did he create just me in His image / Or every living thing? / When God made me.”

In a flourish that is either inspired or ridiculous, a gospel choir underscores “God”’s lyrics. The listener’s world-view, more so than the song’s intrinsic merits or deficiencies, will probably determine whether or not “God” proves enjoyable.

Nothing on “Prairie” cuts as deeply as career highlights like “Heart of Gold” and “Thrasher.” The album suffers, ironically, from a lack of ambition: typically, Young records are burdened by an excess of stylistic and thematic invention. This album captures him doing what he does best, but not breaking any new ground in the process.

For that reason, “Prairie” seems stuck between times—neither belonging fully to the present nor the past—just like a photograph.

—Staff writer Bernard L. Parham can be reached at parham@fas.harvard.edu.