Rick Danko: Artist Without a Genre
I've always found it interesting that The Band was--and is--referred to as a "rock group." Actually, I haven't always found it interesting--I sometimes catch myself referring to them that way, even now. Old habits die hard, but the truth is, The Band was not a rock group. And Rick Danko was not a rock artist.
The Band was much more complex, subtle--and pure--than rock and roll. And though, when I was younger, long before I ever knew him, I had thought of Rick as a "rock star," I realized quickly after I met him just how ill-fitting that moniker was.
First of all, Rick was a country boy--born and raised in the country, and with a country mentality and a country sensibility. Second, the music he grew up loving--really loving--was country music. Later, Rick developed a love for the blues and, still later, R&B, but, by the time rock and roll was considered a genre, Rick was a teenager. His formative years were spent listening to country radio stations and daydreaming about the Grand Ol Opry. And his first instrument was not a guitar, but a four-string tenor banjo; not your typical rock-star axe.
So, while early rock and roll did affect him and influence him to an extent, it was by no means his driving musical force. And, like many other elements of his life and his career, his musical persona was rife with contradiction, a study in contrast. On the one hand, there was this backwoods bumpkin singing Burl Ives campfire singalongs on a tiny lonesome stage, and on the other, there was this ultra-cool longhaired rebel with sunglasses and a cigarette and black leather boots helping Dylan set the music world on fire by going electric.
The dichotomy helped define Rick and his music over the years, yet, at the same time, kept him from being pigeonholed. It also kept him from becoming a "household name"--but it's just as well. That's the way God, or fate, or the cards, or the universe intended it.
It's why The Band was a nightmare from a promotional and marketing perspective, and why they endure and mystify decades after so many of their contemporaries have fallen by the wayside. It's why "Somebody to Love" sounds dated and "Long Black Veil" seems timeless, why a great song like "A Whiter Shade of Pale" sounds like a 60s song, while a great song of the same era, "The Weight," sounds at once brand-new and eternal. It's why Rick could yodel while wearing a pink shirt and a gambler's hat on The Ed Sullivan Show while his cohorts were blowing out amps and wearing Nehru jackets and love beads. It's why he could sing "Lucky Old Sun" to a beer-drinking crowd and nobody laughed, and why he could sing "It Makes No Difference" to the same crowd and everybody cried.