‘Dark of My Moon’ Part 1: 1988-1991
Notwithstanding the excellence of So Rebellious a Lover, his 1987 duet album with Carla Olson, or Tom Petty’s high-profile 1989 cover of the evergreen ‘I’ll Feel a Whole Lot Better’, Gene Clark’s professional reputation had reached its nadir in the last two and a half years of his life.
Why? Well,
apart from the bridge-burning antics of the 1970s that precipitated the loss of
contracts with major labels like Asylum and RSO, his mid-80s decision to form the
20th Anniversary Tribute to the Byrds – a loose aggregation of under-rehearsed,
substance-abusing pirates and assorted confederates – betrayed almost pitiable desperation
and shortsightedness, if not downright tackiness. He must have really
needed the money to sell his musical soul in this way. Indeed, the Byrds tribute period is an
awkward, if not cringe-inducing, time to discuss, even for Gene’s most ardent
fans.
After all, Gene had always been the coolest, most handsome
Byrd; the one with sartorial dash and a darkly mysterious aura born of
fascinating contrasts. He was by no means inarticulate, but Clark’s folksy speech gave no
indication of the tortured poet within.
He had a muscular build that oozed rugged masculinity, yet he penned
some of the most emotionally vulnerable lines in all of rock. (As an aside, it’s my belief that this
juxtaposition of strength and vulnerability largely constitutes Gene’s appeal
to both sexes.) He had also created a body of work that commanded respect from
his modest, but fiercely loyal, fanbase.
The Byrds tribute period, however, tested the tenacity of
one’s fandom and faith in -- as Paul Nelson put it in his notorious review of Two Sides To Every Story -- "the once-classy Clark."
Indeed, some might say that this fateful decision robbed him
of his previously unassailable cool, the stigma from which he would never fully
recover (certainly the bitterness remained for McGuinn, Hillman & Crosby,
who unforgivably froze Gene out of their brief reformation of the Byrds in
1989).
Cynical, opportunistic cash-grabs like the Byrds 20th
Anniversary might reap benefits in the short term, but the lingering after-effects
tend to besmirch the integrity of the brand. Just ask any purist fan of The Who.
In the period immediately after the release of So Rebellious a Lover leading up to his
death in May 1991, Gene had been out of the major leagues for over a
decade. He had seemingly resigned
himself to the club circuit. The
promised follow-up to So Rebellious never
seemed to materialize. And, more ominously,
on certain occasions Gene’s struggles with substance abuse were startlingly
apparent Рculminating in the coup de gr̢ce at the Cinegrill in April 1991. With all of these things in mind, any casual
Clark fan could be forgiven for the retrospective assumption that, at the time of his death, Gene was
simply a spent force; that there was, if you will forgive me, no other No Other in him.
“It’ll be fun to do a new record; I’m very much looking forward to it.” Gene Clark, February 3, 1990
In spite of his fall from major-label grace, Gene certainly
felt he had another record in him.
In both the posthumous official releases and various live tapes in
circulation emanating from the 1988-1990 period, Gene speaks with palpable
ebullience about a new record. The
stunning series of October '88 solo live recordings (he was on fire that month) provides fulsome evidence of a
sober, fully focused performer in fine voice; his skills in no way diminished. In stubborn defiance of the demons
surging and conspiring within him, he continued to speak about some mysterious
new album that was, alas, always on the horizon, just out of reach. Out on the end of time.
But, tellingly, there is no effort to elaborate during these
announcements; no details are ever provided. His words are vague, non-committal. Everything is qualified. Everything is pending, suspended…intangible.
The word “probably” got used a lot.
Consider this exchange from October 2, 1988, Mountain Stage,
West Virginia, later released on the In
Concert CD, in which Larry Groce refers to a recent archival release
(presumably Murray Hill’s Never Before) then turns to asking Gene about his current activities.
Groce: Your new
album, solo album, is that in the works still? You said that you’ve released one of the old ---
Clark: I’ve got a
new one in the works too. We’re in the preproduction right now. Should be
started next month.
Groce: Original
tunes?
Clark: Probably
mostly.
Groce: What label
is it on? Is it placed yet?
Clark: We’re
talking with a few right now, so …
With his curt response, “We’re talking with a few,” Gene
accomplishes two things. He
perpetuates the notion that he’s still a big, swaggering star that the labels are
fighting over – i.e., he’s still talking the talk. (Whether this was merely braggadocio or
a sign of acute delusion is up for debate. I’d say the former.) He also manages to avoid the
embarrassment of having to acknowledge that self-sabotage meant any label
interest would have come from strictly minor league entities.
“I hope the moon is in the right place”
Two days later, on October 4, 1988, in Nashville, Gene introduced a song thusly:“This is a song that I wrote not too long ago that hopefully will probably be on a record before too very long. I’m actually supposed to start on this next month – November. I hope the moon is in the right place, you know.” [italics mine]
Perhaps self-conscious about the quasi-mystical sound of
this remark, Gene laughs with the audience, before further mocking himself,
adopting the voice of a fast-talking music-biz type. “You know how that
goes, you get the moon in the wrong place…the album ain’t a hit…”
Self-deprecating comedy out of the way, Gene launches in a soul-stirring
version of ‘My Marie’, replete with the “angry sons” verse he left off the legendary
Mountain Stage performance. No
person in their right mind could hear this remarkable performance and come to
the conclusion that Gene’s best days as a writer were behind him.
The truth of the matter is that, at the time of his death,
Gene had put together his most impressive collection of songs since No Other. And one of them, ‘Dark of My Moon’, almost seemed predictive
of the final tragic irony in a life that was plagued by them.
Yes, Gene had the songs for a major-label
comeback and, quite possibly, the finest, most ambitious album of his career. But his voice was getting weaker; his
health more fragile.
His moon was most decidedly not in the right place. In fact it was becoming darker every day.
Comments
Catherine
[all me on home 8 track]
But maybe I have a bad taste :)
But keep up the Good work.
It's not that Gene's performances were uniformly poor with the Byrds Tribute that irks me, it's that he had to resort to this kind of tacky exploitation of his past when he was still writing top-notch material that would never be released. It permanently tarnished his reputation to boot.