Happy 45th Anniversary to The Band’s The Last Waltz, originally released April 7, 1978.
Over the years, I’ve had many favorite moments in The Last Waltz (1978). At first, I was drawn to the rousing finale, with The Band’s choir of guests backing them up on a performance of “I Shall Be Released” that makes you feel like enlightenment is actually possible. For a little while, my favorite part was Levon Helm’s yodeling in “Up on Cripple Creek.” In the summer, I usually go for “Down South in New Orleans,” and in the winter, “Helpless.” If I’m listening in the morning, it’s the whole Joni Mitchell section. Exactly once, and I can’t say I’m proud of this, it was “Dry Your Eyes.”
These days, my favorite moment comes during “It Makes No Difference.” “Ah,” you say, “Rick Danko’s vocals on that track are one-of-a-kind! Excellent choice.” While it’s true that Danko delivers a career performance that drills down to the depths of human sadness, for me it’s all about Garth Hudson’s saxophone solo. After Danko spends five full minutes pouring out his soul, Robbie Robertson comes in with a sputtering guitar solo that sounds like someone trying to get the words out between tears. Once he’s through, Hudson steps forward with a smooth, graceful, minimal solo that just says, “I understand.” The crowd erupts after the first few notes. It’s the sound of a friend’s love: someone who understands you so well that they know how to finish your song.
The amazing thing about this four-hour tour de force, which chronicles the band’s supposed final concert, is that it functions like a Shakespeare play: an audience member can find whatever they’re looking for if they spend enough time turning it over. (It is also Shakespearean in the sense that there’s one character who dresses weird, doesn’t have much to do with the plot, does silly things, and everyone likes it. In Shakespeare’s case it’s usually a clown; in ours, it’s Van Morrison).
Across this incredible night of music, The Band span the full range of human emotion. You can say it’s about goodbyes, you can say it’s about the history of rock & roll, or about drugs, or good, old-fashioned fun, and all of these things would be right. But when I hear Garth Hudson play the saxophone, I know that The Last Waltz is about the necessity and fragility of friendship.
First, there’s the onslaught of guest musicians. The Band got as good as they were because they spent years backing up the likes of Ronnie Hawkins and Bob Dylan before they ever put pen to paper. This is how you get a crew that can credibly back up Joni Mitchell (on tunes from 1978’s Hejira, mind you) and Muddy Waters on the same night. Their decision to put themselves in the background for more than half the songs played at their final show obviously demonstrates that they feel gratitude toward people who have helped their career, but there’s something deeper going on.
Watch Clips from the Film:
The guests give the night its geography. They divide up the soundtrack in ways that The Band might not have done on their own; there’s the blues section in the beginning, the folk section in the middle, and the hard rock near the end. This feels like the arc of a life—there are moments of incredible, uplifting joy, and moments of searing, don’t-know-what-to-do-with-myself anger. The Band lean on the guests to pull these different sensations out of them, sometimes rollicking, sometimes mournful, to say: “wherever you are, we have been there too, and we got through it because of what we have done for one another.”
But of course, The Last Waltz was not all sunshine and rainbows. Famously, the evening itself was a point of contention for the group, with Robertson advocating for the group becoming a studio-only outfit and the rest of the members wanting to continue. If Hudson, Helm, Danko, and Manuel had their way, we wouldn’t have this album.
This is the part that burns me up. I’m not here to adjudicate who was right and who was wrong—I’m just pointing out that The Last Waltz reminds us that every great friendship somehow comes to an end. Someone moves away, mean things get said, bands break up, people die. Maybe you stay in touch, and maybe you don’t, but most friendships don’t get a swan song—they don’t get a four-hour stretch to celebrate everything that these people have done for you. If you’re lucky, there’s a hug goodbye, a long overdue letter, or a speech at a wedding.
But the ideal is The Last Waltz. The ideal is a chance to do what you’ve always done together, one last try, a victory lap, celebrating everything that you have done for one another.
There are two ways to listen to this record, and they’re both right: the first way is as the last time the group did something. If you’re looking for this, listen to the yearning in the voices on “Forever Young,” or the special-occasion filthiness of “The Shape I’m In,” the joy of “Life Is a Carnival” or the ominous tenor of “Chest Fever.”
The other way to listen is as every time a group did something: a lightning-in-a-bottle distillation of years of music. If you want this version, look for the carefree romp of “Such a Night” or, yes, Hudson’s practiced entry into “It Makes No Difference.” This is dwelling in the history; not looking in the bleakness of the future without these people and leaving everything you have on the stage. It’s finding delight in what these friendships have given you.
The Last Waltz is a night of incredible musicianship, yes. The versions of “The Weight” and “Helpless,” on their own, are worth writing a tribute about. But in its sprawl and lack of artifice, I also see so many things I’ve wanted to say, or so many things that I’m yet to say to the people who I love. Any time I watch it, I’m reminded of a new dimension of the human story—making it one of the most necessary albums I know.
Or, as Dr. John put it, “Thankfulness to The Band and all the fellas.”
LISTEN: