By Jacob Katel
By Laurie Charles
By Nate "Igor" Smith
By Abel Folgar
By Kat Bein
By Jacob Katel
For those of you unfamiliar with Parsons, here's the thumbnail bio. A handsome, rich, fragile Southern boy raised dysfunctionally in Waycross, Georgia, Parsons went North to Harvard for college, then to Greenwich Village in the mid-Sixties to sing in the folk scene. He soon headed to L.A. to help engineer the country/rock crossover that was, thanks to Dylan's recent electrified folk, in many ways predestined. He played in the International Submarine Band, joined the Byrds for an album, formed the Flying Burrito Brothers with ex-Byrd Chris Hillman, then went solo for a couple of albums (with Emmylou Harris appearing for the first time as backup). In 1973, at the age of 26 and worn out from touring (and partying with Keith Richards), Parsons OD'd and died at Joshua Tree National Monument in California. Some friends stole his coffin from a Waycross-bound train and nearly got away with torching it in the desert.
Just when Parsons was on the cusp of fame (much to his chagrin, by all reports), he died. His following through the Seventies and early Eighties remained cultish: nasal-inflected collector-types shelling out the bucks for first-press vinyl and bootlegs, passing along in hushed tones the "ice cube up the butt" story. (If you haven't heard, ask your hippie aunt.) But his influence was enormous -- seen not just in the emergence of horrifying Hollywood cowpokes like Poco, but also in the first wave of disgruntled Nashville emigrants to Luchenbach -- er, Austin. By the time CD technology finally facilitated his re-releases and some of the long-rumored "previously unreleased," Parsons was finally getting his due as a trailblazer. And by now most alternacountry fans, as noted above, claim him as the figure who rescued the "white man's blues" (as alternacountry is too often, too quickly, called) from the bucktoothed reactionaries.
The Parsons legend must have turned into a minor moneymaker as well. In 1990 Columbia released a Byrds boxed set with several "lost" tracks featuring Parsons, and now it has reissued the final four Byrds albums individually (with even more "lost" tracks): The Notorious Byrds Brothers and Sweetheart of the Rodeo (both from 1968); and 1969's Dr. Byrds & Mr. Hyde and Ballad of Easy Rider. While all of these albums show the Byrds in various, sometimes complicated, stages of late-Sixties collapse, Sweetheart is the album on which Parsons steps in for a just-fired David Crosby and sutures his love of sin and salvation to Roger McGuinn's psychedelic folkie jingle-jangle. Because of this (and because of Clarence White's oft-overlooked country guitar work), the album has a less dated feel than the others; as a cultural artifact, it's both interesting and pleasurable. The same cannot be said of the others. (I guess you had to be there.)
Take the Louvin Brothers' waltz "I Like the Christian Life," a song originally included to introduce Byrds fans to (and probably brought to the studio by) Parsons, which, owing to recording-contract intricacies, was re-recorded with McGuinn on lead. What does one make of hippie maximalists paring back to a reliance on Spartan Appalachian harmonies? Of a fire-and-brimstone spiritual being sung by incense-burning bacchanals, sans smirk? Aside from a very pretty cover job, you're left with a reclamation of a prim, unyielding Jesus by the groovesters. Weird. One might think of it as penance proffered by the guilty lovemongers, an approach that even today, in these post-everything doldrums, extends beyond contrivance to remain psychologically complex and emotionally affecting. On the Sweetheart reissue, you get to hear Parsons doing it on a "lost" track (in rehearsal, take number eleven). Unfortunately, his version isn't a whole lot more tortured than McGuinn's, and neither rivals the creepy tone given to us by Ira and Charlie in the original -- which, granted, most of us wouldn't know about if not for Parsons's or the Byrds' boosterism.
Immediately following "I Like the Christian Life" comes William Bell's "You Don't Miss Your Water." What are we to make of a Memphis soul song originally released on Stax in 1961, then covered by an agonized Otis Redding in '65, now countrified with a pedal steel and a honky-tonk piano? A sympathetic hand extended across the racial divide (Stax was integrated to begin with) or the further appropriation of "race music"? Nestled between the Louvin Brothers and Woody Guthrie's "Pretty Boy Floyd" as it is, is "You Don't Miss Your Water" a call for a roots music/working-class solidarity made by entitled white kids -- one of whom (the trust-funder, Parsons) hailed from plantation aristocracy? All these questions, artfully posed 30 years ago about class, race, and various forms of interconnected American popular music, remain unanswered to this day.