“For What It’s Worth”: There were certain songs from the 60’s that deserve the label “iconic,” and this is one of them. I think it’s more accurate to say that Buffalo Springfield was a vehicle that allowed Neil Young, Stephen Stills and Richie Furay to get their feet wet before moving on to other things, and in the process, produced a few great songs. Given such a meager catalog, it’s hard to buy my dad’s insistence that Buffalo Springfield ranks with the all-time greats. The third was cobbled together by Richie Furay and Jim Messina from tracks gathering dust in the studio, for by that time, the parts had gone their separate ways.
The second album, Buffalo Springfield Rides Again, was more like Abbey Road or The White Album-collections of individual works with minimal collaboration. They lasted two years and produced a grand total of three studio albums, but only the first was a truly collaborative work. and get on with the review.īuffalo Springfield didn’t leave behind much of a catalog to explore, and to say they were a band is a generous application of the word. Let’s just say that I have certain preferences when it comes to music and more than a few exceptions to those preferences. This aversion to country has nothing to do with my admitted aversion to things associated with the Deep South, like grits, fried everything and born-again Republicans. When a rock band goes country, it’s a sign they’re getting lazy and comfortable with the old routines.
The “alt-country” movement hasn’t moved that needle, for though Neko Case’s lyrics may be more interesting, the underlying musical structure is same-o, same-o.
It’s now louder and more electric but it’s the same old chord structures and motifs. Country music is inherently conservative and hasn’t progressed in sixty years. The Byrds did that, and to a lesser extent, so did Buffalo Springfield. When American bands start to go too country on me, I check out. I like Jimmie Rodgers, Hank Williams, Patsy Cline, Chet Atkins and Johnny Cash, period, end of discussion. I find most American folk music as predictable and boring as Springsteen, and compared to the melodic, rhythmic and lyrical quality of British folk music, it’s pathetic (though I am fond of Woody Guthrie’s more socialist numbers). I really dislike white roots music like bluegrass, and I’m less than fond of country music in general. Blues led to jazz, R&B, soul and rock ‘n’ roll, the genres where I spend most of my time, so there is a consistency to my tastes. The only American roots music I care for is blues. I have many theories about why I feel this way. I found them rather predictable and their unusual song titles gimmicky. Some of my high school mates were into R. American music in the intervening decades was dominated by Springsteen, a musician who defines the phrase “predictable and boring,” and the loud and obnoxious Aerosmith, Metallica, Ted Nugent and Kid Rock. Promising bands like The Doors self-destructed, much like Nirvana did in my teens. The Byrds could never could never quite escape their status as a Bob Dylan cover band and finally went more country-western thanks to Gram Parsons. The most successful American band from that era was Creedence Clearwater Revival, a band I’ve always considered a fraud, since there ain’t no riverboats, bayous or fishin’ holes where John Fogerty grew up, in a dreary Bay Area burb called El Cerrito. The San Francisco Sound was a passing fad, and the bands from that era either didn’t last or lasted way too long in cult status like The Grateful Dead and Jefferson Airplane Starship. I don’t think there have been any American rock bands who come close to approaching the British in terms of quality or consistency. Buffalo Springfield wasn’t really an American band, since they permitted entry to Canadians. The truth is that I’m not especially motivated to do much with American bands from that era. In exchange for his guest post, I’m letting him have Buffalo Springfield, which I know is cheating. My father has been pushing me to do more American music, especially from his salad days.
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