Shakey: Neil Young's Biography - Couverture rigide

McDonough, Jimmy

Couverture rigide

ISBN 10 : 0679427724 ISBN 13 : 9780679427728

Editeur : Villard Books, 2002

Synopsis

Book by McDonough James

A propos du livre

Extrait :

Innaresting characters

–Who gave you the Nixon mask?

I can’t recall, as John Dean would say. I’ll always tell ya if I remember, Jimmy. You talk about things and it comes back.

–Every question seems to stir up something in you.

Not the answers you were looking for . . . but they’re answers, heh heh. Hard to remember things. It’s all there, though. Maybe we oughta go into hypnotherapy, fuckin’ go right back. Take like, six months to get zoned in on the Tonight’s the Night sessions -- exactly what was happening? “Okay, we’re gonna go back a little further today, Neil. . . .”

–I’m frustrated.

Hey, well, you’ve been frustrated since the beginning, heh heh. You’re not frustrated because of this–we’re doing it. You’re asking questions and I’m answering them. What could be less frustrating than THAT?

–Maybe I should tell people in the intro you don’t wanna do the book.

You can tell ’em if you want. The bottom line is if it went against the grain so hard, I wouldn’t be doin’ it. The thing is, it’s not necessarily my first love. I think that’s a subtle way of puttin’ it. Heh heh.

The first time Jon McKeig really encountered Shakey he was under a car. Shakey’s a nickname–from alter ego Bernard Shakey, sometime moviemaker. It’s just one of many aliases: Joe Yankee, overdubber; Shakey Deal, blues singer; Phil Perspective, producer.

The world knows him as Neil Young.

McKeig had been toiling away on Nanoo, a blue and white ’59 Cadillac Eldorado Biarritz convertible of Young’s, for months without actually seeing him. The car was a mess, but McKeig would soon realize that this was Shakey’s M.O., buying beyond-dead wrecks for peanuts, then sparing no expense to bring them back to life. “I can name five automobiles he has that the parts cars were in better shape than the cars that were restored.” McKeig shook his head. “That’s extreme. I don’t believe anybody anywhere goes to that length. If the car smells wrong, you’re screwed; if it squeaks, it’s not cool . . . he’s fanatical.”

One day Neil happened in for a personal inspection. “Neil came right over to the car, looked at it and -- I’ll be damned -- all of a sudden he went down to the concrete and slid right underneath. All you could see was his tennis shoes.”

McKeig asked Young how far he wanted to go with the thrashed Cadillac. “Neil looked me straight in the eye and said calmly, ‘As long as it’s museum quality.’ ” McKeig shuddered. “I never heard it said like that -- ‘museum quality.’ Then he left. That’s all that was said. I never saw him -- for years after.” Decades later, Nanoo still isn’t finished.

Cars are a major part of Shakey’s world. He’s written countless songs in them and they figure into more than a few of his lyrics: “Trans Am,” “Long May You Run,” “Motor City,” “Like an Inca (Hitchhiker),” “Drifter,” “Roll Another Number (For the Road),” “Sedan Delivery,” “Get Gone”; the list goes on.

Young would even advise me on touch-up paint and carburetor problems -- until I flipped my ’66 Falcon Futura twice off the side of a two-lane, nearly killing myself. Out on the road in his bus, Young called me a few days after. “See, Neil?” I said. “You tried to bump me off, but I’m still here. Now I gotta finish the book.’’ Unnerved, he immediately called back after we hung up. “Jimmy,” he said, his voice awash in cellular static, “just want ya to know I’m glad ya didn’t die in the wreck.” Shakey and I had a colorful relationship. But that was all in the future.

Right now it was April 1991, and I was in Los Angeles, watching McKeig -- now Young’s live-in auto restorer and maintenance man -- pilot members of Neil’s family through the service areas of the L.A. Sports Arena in a sleek black ’54 Caddy that Young called Pearl: He nicknames everything. It was a stunning vehicle. He had paid $400 for the car in 1974 and spent years and a fortune restoring it. Legend has it that some rich Arab saw Young tooling Pearl through Hollywood and offered him a pile of loot on the spot.

Out of the Caddy’s backseat emerged Neil’s wife, Pegi, a striking blonde and a powerful force in her own right. She and Neil have two children, Ben and Amber. Family is a priority to both of them. Ben, born spastic, nonoral and quadriplegic, went everywhere with his mom and pop. It wasn’t unusual to see him at the side of the stage in his wheelchair, watching his father work.

“Spud,” Ben’s nickname, graced the door of Pocahontas, which was parked not far from Pearl. A huge, Belgian-made ’70 Silver Eagle, forty feet long and sporting a souped-up mill, the bus had been Young’s home on the road since 1976. Young had gone to outlandish lengths in customizing it. Down one side was an extravagant stained-glass comet circling the earth; the roof was domed with vintage Hudson Hornet/Studebaker Starlight Coupe cartops that acted as skylights. The interior of the bus -- designed under Young’s supervision to resemble the skeletal structure of a giant bird -- was lavish with hand-carved wood, down to the door handle of the microwave. Above the big front windows hung a large brass eagle’s eye. “This bus is so fucked up and over the top,” Young would tell me with a grin. “Which is just how I was back in the mid-seventies when I built it.”

Bus driver Joe McKenna was making sure Pocahontas was shipshape for Neil’s arrival. An Irishman with a low-slung belly, a silver pompadour and a voice lower than a frog’s, Joe loved the golf course and let little faze him. He seemed to have a calming effect on Young, who once dubbed him “The Lucky Leprechaun.” McKenna would beat cancer after Young helped him get alternative medical help. “Neil Young saved my life,” he told me. “Put that in your book.”

Next to the steering wheel hung a sign that read in bold block letters, don’t spill the soup.

I wouldn’t have driven that bus for love, money or drugs. When it came to Pocahontas, Shakey was like a hawk. He knew every ding and dimple and wanted the ones he didn’t know explained immediately.

An intense relationship with his bus drivers, I mused, but tour manager Bob Sterne set me straight. “In all honesty, I think the intense relationship is with the bus,” said Sterne, a big, bearded, no-nonsense monolith with a constantly peeling nose and sporting a Cruex jock itch ointment T-shirt. Sterne and Joe McKenna weren’t exactly the best of pals.

Sterne was forever seeking info on Young’s elusive doings and one of McKenna’s jobs was to keep the world away.

Bob was no stranger to that task -- his makeshift office inside the sports arena was plastered with signs like if you want a backstage pass, get lost. Sterne was hard-core. It came with the territory. “Neil’s not gonna do what you think he’s gonna do or what he said last week -- it’s not a good place for the average person to be. The people who are looking for a paycheck don’t last long.”

Young likes to keep everyone on their toes. “Neil’s come to me and said, ‘Go get all the set lists and throw ’em in the trash can’ -- and he said this to me fifteen minutes before the show,” said Sterne. “He’s not just talking about the band’s set list, he’s talking about the lighting guys, the sound guys -- every single set list in the building.”

Sitting in the office not far from Sterne was Tim Foster, Young’s stage manager and primary roadie. Foster had worked for Young off and on -- mostly on -- since 1973. With a Dick Tracy chin, a mustache and a baseball cap pulled down to his eyes, Foster saw everything and said little. “Tim never gets flustered,” said Sterne. “He understands Neil has no schedule.”

Making his way through the backstage maze out to the arena’s mixing station was Tim Mulligan, his long hair, mustache and shades making him look like the world’s most sullen Doobie Brother. Nothing impresses Mulligan. He’s been working on Young’s albums and mixing his live sound for decades. “Producers, engineers come and go,” said Sterne. “Mulligan hangs in there. He doesn’t have an opinion.” Tim lives alone on Young’s ranch, without a phone. “Mulligan has this incredible allegiance,” said longtime Young associate “Ranger Dave” Cline. “He lives and breathes Neil. It’s his whole life.”

It took years for Mulligan to warm to me, and even then he wouldn’t give me an interview, just tersely answered a few questions. Getting any one of Young’s crew to talk was like breaking into the Mafia. They were fiercely devoted, and although they’d all been subject to the ferocious twists and turns of Neil’s psyche, most had been around for decades. And every one of them was an individual. “Innaresting characters,” as Young would put it. “They’re all Neil,” said Graham Nash. “They all represent a slice of Neil’s personality.”

“Neil likes quirky people around him,” said Elliot Roberts, Young’s manager since the late sixties. “I think having quirky people around him lessens -- in his mind -- his own quirkiness. ‘Yes, I am standing on my head, but look at these two other guys nude standing on their head.’ ”
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Revue de presse :

“Most people did their best work when they were younger. Neil Young is as good as he ever was, which is quite an accomplishment.... I don’t know if you could name anybody better who came out of rock & roll.” -- Randy Newman

“For someone like me, who loves Neil Young’s music with a deep and abiding passion ... Jimmy McDonough’s fat, teeming, obsessive and revelatory biography of Young is a pure shot of all-access pleasure.” -- LA Times

“As the music journalist Jimmy McDonough makes clear in Shakey, his exhaustive, quarrelsome and sometimes maddening biography, it’s never wise to presume to understand this complicated artist.... Fans thirsty for the melancholy hues of Neil Young will not be disappointed: He avoids lights! He drinks tequila all night long! Songs are recorded in one take! Songs are made up on the spot!.... Part of the uncanny shrewdness of Neil Young, never more apparent than in the nearly 800 pages of Shakey, is the evasion.” -- The New York Times Book Review

“Inconsistent? Eccentric? You bet. McDonough’s Neil Young is a reclusive loner in flannel shirt and workboots, a stubborn changeling and zing-zag wanderer whose erratic genius and pursuit of the muse has made him a potent force in popular music for 35 years at the same time as he’s left lovers, business associates, friends and fellow musicians puzzled, angry and disillusioned.... The Neil Young in Shakey ... is finally an impossible, even ridiculous man. Impossible to predict, impossible to categorize, impossible to unreservedly love, perhaps, but just as impossible to really hate. Even more than Sinatra, he’s done it his way on the human highway.” -- The Globe and Mail

“McDonough spent a decade writing his semi-authorized tome, the first three years just trying to get Young to talk. Even then it was like meeting Brando’s Kurtz in a cave at the end of Apocalypse Now. McDonough, 42, has taken the trip upriver for every journalist who ever had a notion to interview Neil, and after reading the exhaustive results, I can only say better him than me.... Young comes across as a Jekyll-and-Hyde loner whose life has unfolded like a reckless chemistry experiment -- a control freak on an endless quest for the uncontrolled moment.... Displaying an obsessive zeal that matches his subject’s, McDonough traces every step, and misstep, of Young’s life in staggering detail. [Shakey] offers a motherlode of fascinating detail, especially about the circus of characters around Young.” -- Maclean’s

“The thrill of McDonough’s breezy, anecdotal prose is that it sheds meaningful light into every cranny where it chooses to snoop.... With its rotating cast of characters, Shakey presents Neli Young’s messy, brilliant, erratic story with humour, sadness and big, greasy dollops of truth -- a rarity in the “official biography” genre.... a worthwhile read for fan or foe alike.” -- The Ottawa Citizen

“...a meticulously detailed and thoughtful book that sidesteps the sort of robotic adulation and self-censorship that often drags down rock biographies.” -- The Toronto Sun

“Despite there being a virtual cottage industry in Young books in recents years, McDonough’s access to the man himself, along with his tenacious research, renders [Shakey] the definitive volume. McDonough crafts an engrossing portrait of a man whose obsession and focus turned to megalomania.”
–Winnipeg Free Press

“For Young, authenticity is all, and more than any previous book, Shakey shows to what extremes he is prepared to go to stay spontaneous and fresh.”
–The Gazette (Montreal)

“This book is a necessity for the rabid Neil Young fan, the sort who lies around contemplating where the idea for the hand claps in the intro to Cinnamon Girl came from, or wonders what particular brand of guitar was responsible for the sound on Zuma. But any fan at all will enjoy it.”
– The Calgary Herald

“...a sympathetic and understanding, yet clear-eyed and merciless biography...Young, who has always sought authenticity above refinemnt, truth over glamour, has...got the biography he deserves.”
–Vancouver Sun

“Jimmy McDonough’s biography of Neil Young is...passionate, urgent and thorough. Young fans, get ready to bliss out.”
–NOW magazine, Toronto

“Through the different voices of friends, relatives, enemies and associates, as well as the often profane talks with the man himself, McDonough is able to provide strong, penetrating insight into a unique, complex individual.”
–The Toronto Sun

À propos de cette édition

• Éditeur: Villard Books
• Date d'édition: 2002
• ISBN 10: 0679427724
• ISBN 13: 9780679427728
• Reliure: Relié
• Nombre de pages: 786