or better or worse, we here at Stylus, in all of our autocratic consumer-crit greed, are slaves to timeliness. A record over six months old is often discarded, deemed too old for publication, a relic in the internet age. That's why each week at Stylus, one writer takes a look at an album with the benefit of time. Whether it has been unjustly ignored, unfairly lauded, or misunderstood in some fundamental way, we aim with On Second Thought to provide a fresh look at albums that need it.

There are so many things that we look for in music that defining what you truly want from it can sometimes become utterly impossible. Inevitably, something will be sacrificed. While searching out angst, one could lose depth. Seeking instrumental prowess could yield a loss of spontaneity. Of course, music is always what you make it out to be; weaknesses can become endearing, forging an intense fondness for a flawed record and its apparent shortcomings. But sometimes, there are records where it all truly comes together. Everything that you could ever want in an album can be found in one place. Although the true number of records where this occurs is debatable, I’m sure that few would put its ranks beyond ten or so. No recorded work synthesizes so much for me more than The Band’s self-titled sophomore album. It is, in short, one of the crowning achievements in the history of recorded music. Its depth-- musically, vocally, instrumentally, lyrically, emotionally-- is unrivaled, and in my opinion, never again to be topped. I’m not a fan of quoting another writer’s words on an album when reviewing it, but I think Rob Bowman said it best in the linear notes of an expansive 2000 CD reissue of the album: Popular music simply doesn’t get any better.

The modus operandi of The Band is a pointedly ironic one: four Canadians, along with a pure-blood, Arkansas-born Southerner, providing the most romantic, lasting vision of old America since the earliest blues and folk recordings. Maybe the romanticism of Robbie Robertson’s lyrics came from his outsider’s post; perhaps it’s more fantasy than fact. On the other hand, maybe it takes an outsider-- an unbiased intermediary-- to shine the truest light on our country’s post-Colonial years. Frankly, that’s over my head. Things like this are important to The Band’s music, but I’m hardly the one to get into that; I’m not going to pretend I understand something that I don’t. If you want a tedious, overly serious discourse on it, read Mystery Train. What matters here is the music.

The legendary “Basement Tapes,” recorded in the remote pink house rented by the band members shines a light on the road that leads to this album. The songs sound timeless. Robertson’s lyrical focus is almost born completely mature, and the group’s instrumental skill is highly unique, yet never fails to recall methods that are as old as the dirt of the Catskills. Music From Big Pink, the debut album that followed a year later, is nearly The Band’s equal. It is there that every facet of what may be the greatest ensemble in rock is introduced. The subtle, aching guitar and brilliant story-songwriting of Robbie Robertson, the solemn, off-kilter drumming and gritty Southern growl of Levon Helm, the mad-scientist keys of Garth Hudson- seemingly rolling across every instrument that ever resembled a piano, the deep, woody bass and unnerving quiver of Rick Danko, and the angelic falsetto of Richard Manuel. Although it was ravaged by drink and drugs just three years later, it is recognizable here as the richest, most moving voice in rock music. Every “heartfelt” emo song ever put to ever put to tape doesn’t even stand a chance against three seconds of “Tears of Rage.”

But that was just the beginning. Whereas Big Pink evoked breezy, wistful summer days, The Band brought to mind the cooling, colorful moments of fall; past and present, cheerful and absolutely devastated. The Band isn’t just essential for its crack songwriting and music force-- it’s a picture postcard of a world that we’re getting farther away from every day. But as long as I can listen to this record, I will be able to be transported to simpler time that was concurrently complicated as hell. Every Americana album following this one is a mere afterthought-- it only supports and seconds what this one said.

“Across The Great Divide” and “Rag Mama Rag” open the album on an upbeat note, as up tempo, piano-based compositions. The former introduces the wheezy, picture-perfect horns that pepper the record, while the later is a full fledged hoe-down; with Helm yelping away under Danko’s fervent violin and Manuel’s ragged drumming. Robertson’s intention to bring many disparate parts of old American life together while still bringing timeless storylines to the fold is readily apparent, and he succeeds more than ever here. His trump card comes on the third track, which remains his most discussed. “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down” is a heart-wrenching account of one Southern family, torn apart by the Civil War. Although the song has been likened to the conflict in Vietnam and its affect on the people of the country, both young and old, Robertson frowned upon the idea of commenting on the social events of the time. With Helm, well, at the helm, summoning ghosts on the choruses, the song takes on a completely authentic tone, and bypasses mere recreation by miles. Music is rarely this pure.

The country-funk workout of “Up On Cripple Creek” gave The Band a relatively successful single and is more a display of the group’s tightness and inventive nature than anything else (check the lightning quick switch that Hudson takes from the wah-wah clavinet [!] to organ). Danko takes his first swing at the mic on “When You Awake,” a charming ditty that takes on almost childish tone, even when taking a line like “Ain’t no reason to hang my head, I could wake up in the morning dead” into account. “Whispering Pines” finds Manuel in “Lonesome Suzie” mode on his most contemplative track. When he utters the line “try looking through a haze at an empty house in the cold, cold sun,” you can almost hear his heart swell, an effect that is gorgeously re-created by Hudson’s swirling, dirge-y organ.

Half of the second side is composed of a trio of likeminded rockers that are a welcome relief from the more anguished tracks that preceded them and those that would follow. “Jemima Surrender” and “Jawbone” boast addictive melodies that evoke crowded Friday night dancehalls, and are delivered with gusto by Helm and Manuel, respectively. The stuttering syncopation of “Jawbone” is a more obvious example of the group’s ever present, ever subtle time signature manipulation and also contains Robertson’s most raucous guitar solo to date. “Look Out Cleveland,” however good it is, seems like an afterthought, and isn’t as strong as “Get Up Jake,” which was included as one of seven bonus tracks in the aforementioned reissue.

That side’s remaining three tracks, to me, compose the heart of an already incredible, affecting album. “Rockin’ Chair” tells the tale of a retiring sailor with some of the best vocal harmonies available-- ghostly, yet unflinchingly real. The shiver-inducing overlapping climax stands as perhaps my favorite musical moment of all time. Simply heavenly. “Unfaithful Servant” continues in the same vein, with Danko giving his best vocal performance until 1975’s “It Makes No Difference.” Although the levels of emotion are identical, his insecure-yet-in-control singing is a welcome respite from Manuel’s anguish. The record’s grand finale bottles up every ounce of feeling accumulated throughout the preceding eleven tracks and pours it out over an open wound. “King Harvest (Has Surely Come)” is the sound of five artists going for broke and coming out on top. Helm’s thudding drums, Manuel’s raw vocals, Hudson’s carnival organ, Danko’s wavering bass, Robertson’s chicken-scratch guitar-- it’s a startlingly powerful piece of music that packs every bit of punch now as it did thirty-three years ago. Pieces of not only this song, but this album, have been in rock and roll’s blood ever since, from the Boss to Wilco.

Assigning a numerical rating to this album is simply not possible. No 10.0 could relate what this album does for me every time I put it on. Hell, you might think that what you just read is unadulterated, hyperbolic fanspeak. Well, it is. But still, I think that this is an album that seems to warrant it. No ridiculous Pet Sounds-like backlash has touched it, and I don’t think it ever will. One reason is that The Band will simply never achieve the kind of worldwide recognition that Pet Sounds has, but another is that I think people understand. People understand what this record is trying to say, and they understand that it is incredibly important. But whatever. I’m on no crusade to have every music fan in the world to love the hell out of this album. It’s for me to enjoy the way you enjoy your favorite album of all time.