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.

In 1968, (Jaime) Robbie Robertson, Levon Helm, Garth Hudson, Rick Danko and Richard Manuel, the five musicians who made up The Band, were known as the best backing band in rock ‘n roll. From their early days as mere youths in rock ‘n roll patriarch Ronnie Hawkins’ band, The Hawks, to their backing up of Bob Dylan on his hatred-inducing first tour as an electric performer, this tight, five-piece collective of four Canadians and one lone American had played together for nearly ten years before heading out on their own. It was through the urging of Albert Grossman, Dylan’s legendary manager, that four of the group decided to make their own music (Helm, having left that Dylan tour in disgust over the rudeness of its attendees would soon rejoin the fold).

The four were in Woodstock, New York; Dylan’s residence at the time, finding themselves with nothing to do for the first time in nearly ten years. They had set up a four-track recording studio in the basement of the house that Hudson, Manuel and Danko lived in (affectionately known as “big pink” for its exterior paint color - Robertson lived elsewhere with his French girlfriend of the time), where the band and Dylan proceeded to record the infamously long-unreleased “The Basement Tapes”. Soon enough, too much time had become a burden and they soon worked up songs in their own manner, beholden to no one else.

With a deal brokered by Grossman to record for Capitol Records, the group called Helm to ask him to come on up to New York and take part in their good fortune. Helm, who had been working as an oil rigger off of the coast of Louisiana, came up toots sweet and the songs were reworked at both “big pink” and at Capitol’s studios in Los Angeles.

Having gone through the names Levon and the Hawks and one that was given to them against their wishes (The Canadian Squires - from a record label they cut a single with), the members went with the tag bestowed upon them by Woodstock locals and those involved in the Dylan tour: The Band.

Music From Big Pink came out amidst great social change. America was knee deep in Vietnam, Chicago Mayor Richard Daley had ordered the crackdown on so-called “radicals” at the Democratic Convention and the music of the time was of a raucous, psychedelic vibe-aimed to be as abrasive to parents as possible. But here were five men reveling in the confines of a time thought past. Rich in the spirit of American bluegrass, rock ’n roll, folk, gospel, country, R&B and, even classical, The Band’s Music From Big Pink was a radical departure from the hedonism heralded in its day. Their attire was also against the grain of modern rock of its time (dressing in clothes that reminded of the nineteenth century).

At times deeply somber and filled with dark portents, Music From Big Pink was soul music swollen to the breaking point with heavy emotions. Right in the opener, “Tears Of Rage” is The Band’s mission statement. An album was rarely, if ever, opened with a slow track. The members wanted to make it clear that what was being listened to was something new and wholly original. The song, written by Dylan and Manuel, is a mournful, heartbreaking song that consistently sounds as if it will stop dead in its tracks from the grief intoned by Manuel.

Robertson assumes vocals on “To Kingdom Come”, a role he would not undertake on another song of The Band’s for another eight years. His voice, never a strong instrument (it is rumored that for its final concert at the Winterland in San Francisco, documented in the Martin Scorsese’s film, The Last Waltz, the other members ordered Robertson‘s microphone switched off while they played), floats along singing lyrics steeped in religious imagery reflecting Robertson’s reading selections of the time period.

Most can recognize “The Weight” in the first few seconds. Robertson’s acoustic guitar opens up the song, soon followed by Helm’s drums, Danko’s bass and Hudson’s piano. Helm sings the first three verses, followed by Danko on the fourth, with Manuel laying down his trademark falsetto moans after every chorus. The song’s fifth verse finds Helm and Manuel sharing vocals. This format will prove to be The Band’s signature sound in its history. Robertson has said that he wrote the song as an homage of sorts to Spanish surrealist filmmaker, Luis Bunuel. The song is about a man sent to do a favor, but who soon finds himself immersed in much more than he had anticipated.

The antithesis of “The Weight” is “Chest Fever”. Starting off with a swirling mass of keyboard work by Hudson, which includes the opening of Bach’s “Toccata and Fugue in D Minor”, the song soon shifts into an existential groove filled with tumbling tom rolls by Helm, groove-based bass work by Danko and fiery riffing from Robertson. During the break at the mid-point, a New Orleans-style funeral dirge pops up. Helm’s snare-hits crack like thunder under Manuel’s insistent piano. The song’s lyrics are utter nonsense and are indecipherable, but sure sound cool. Lines like, “I feel the freeze down in my knees / But just before she leaves / She receives”, cannot be explained and The Band has never bothered to appropriate any deep meaning to them. There simply isn’t any.

Using the time old vocal tradition of call and response, “We Can Talk” is a back and forth between the singers. Helm sounds as if he is another room, while Danko’s voice is immediate and high. The song shifts from its revved up beginning to a nice little gallop towards the middle.

The album closes out with the elegiac “I Shall Be Released”, which Manuel sings in falsetto from beginning to end. The drum sound, which most would attribute to wire brushes, is instead Helm running his fingers against the actual snare of the drum. Producer John Simon gave Helm the suggestion of turning the snare upside down and playing that way. The tones give it the sound approximation of a few snare drums being hit simultaneously. The sound of the keyboards being fed through a wah wah pedal gives it a sweeping style that fades in and out again.

The Band would go on to bigger success on its follow-up album, simply titled The Band, but would never make an album that was front to back filled with as many classic songs as Music From Big Pink.

Conflicts between most of the members against Robertson for continually taking songwriting credit when they claimed the songs had mostly been written in unison, as well as Robertson’s ultimate decision to end the group’s existence without actually asking for the other members’ input ultimately led The Band to its final concert at the Winterland where their first show had taken place nearly eight years before.

Danko, Helm, Manuel and Hudson regrouped in the early 80s, sans Robertson, and toured for a few years until the suicide death of Manuel in 1986. Danko, Helm and Hudson regrouped again in the 1990s and recorded a few albums with some extra musicians to flesh out the sound, but were then derailed by Danko’s untimely death in 1999. Now, Helm is reportedly battling a severe case of throat cancer. The prevailing thought of leaving well enough alone haunts these members. Robbertson’s solo albums, while being creatively ambitious, have failed to find remotely the audience that The Band once had and is now primarily a high-in-the-ranks executive at Dreamworks Records.

Still, what has become of these once astonishing musicians takes nothing away from the emotional impact and innovation that they brought forth over the course of their albums. Especially on the stellar “Music From Big Pink.