Levon Helm and the Impossibility of Sainthood. A Night at the Ramble.

Honeysuckle. It smelled like damn honeysuckle as we drove home from Levon’s house. And not just a hint. It dominated the air, hung in your lungs and coated your synapses.  

Saturday morning began in Manhattan, with a late breakfast of Katz pastrami and a cannoli to go. Sunday morning began with a good buzz and the windows down on a dark country road. The air was tinted with a light, early summer rain that was about to fall... and it smelled like honeysuckle. My hand to God. 

What happened in the hours in between was a Ramble. 

“I read somewhere a few years ago that Robbie said “The Weight” was about the impossibility of sainthood. Well, I’ve sung that song enough times to agree with him.” - Levon Helm. 

In an era of self-righteous flag wavers, they were the reluctant, self-conscious load bearers. The pack mules amongst the show horses. And of course, they’re the ones who ended up carrying the weight, whether they wanted to or not. It might not have been their goal, but it seems to be their purpose. Despite some half-hearted efforts to put some other name on it, they ended up being defined as exactly what they were, with an accented definite article. Just The Band. 

Bob Dylan was trying to antagonize the masses and prove a point by going electric. Levon and The Band stood behind him, the somewhat unwitting white-knuckled accomplice trying to keep the getaway car between the ditches. And when the hate and boo’s came down, Dylan bathed in the light of the villagers’ torches, reveling in a plan that had come together. It was the Band and, Levon especially, who carried the brunt. He had no interest in playing the heel, or more precisely, to play the heel’s enabler. 

What happened next was a sort of literal metaphor. Levon went to back  to his Arkansas roots. Dylan took the curve too fast and broke his back. And like a horse with a thrown jockey, the rest of the band went to find a barn. Levon decided exile was better with company and joined his bandmates in seclusion in Woodstock. And in that seclusion, they found self-awareness in a simple truth-- who needs rei(g)ns? Let’s run for the sake of the wind in our face. And that was their sound.

“Woodstock proper was a picturesque town with a white steepled church, village green, and a flagpole. At night, the only sign of life was the red neon sign that flashed DRUGS in the window of the Colonial Pharmacy. We thought that was pretty funny, that sign.” - Levon Helm

I can count on one hand the concerts I would pay more than $50 to see, and only if those tours came within a short drive of my house. For Levon, I, along several other well-seasoned live music junkies, paid $120 and travelled to his house in way the Hell nowhere. It’s a set-up that would make the disembodied voice of Shoeless Joe Jackson envious. Levon rolls out of bed and walks to his shed to play music with his friends. And people pay the price of a Rolling Stones ticket to stand around and watch. 

We were downright giddy about it.

We worked up elaborate daydreams of what might happen at the show. The guests tonight were the reluctant saviors of Southern Rock, the Drive-By Truckers. But, we also knew a host of other acts were in the area for the Hunter Mountain Jam, including Warren Haynes, Steve and Justin Townes Earle, Grace Potter, Ray LaMontagne, Allison Krause, any of whom might drop by for a song. It was, after all, Levon’s 70th birthday weekend. Why wouldn’t anyone with a guitar and an open invitation show up? 

It was a long drive to Woodstock. By the end of the trip, we had concocted a set that included Jason Isbell, reuniting with the Truckers, showing up to pay tribute to Levon’s former bandmates with “Danko/Manuel.” Not to be out done, Allison Krause would surely sing the Emmylou Harris part to “Evangeline.” The Earles might work up a rendition of “Dead Flowers” that flows into “Tennessee Jed.” Maybe Warren steps in for the guitar solo to “Further On Up The Road.” 

We met up with friends and housemates for the weekend at the local swimmin’ hole. The instructions were to drive until we saw the rusted 50-gallon drums on either side of a dirt path and then take a right. We found it exactly as it was described and spent the afternoon sitting on a rock at what was little more than a fat part in a small creek, complete with rope swing and jean-shorted families-- watching kids and dogs splash. 

As the sun started to set, we packed it up and went into town for supplies. A case of Busch Gold Tops, a couple of fifths of whiskey and maybe a little sweet tea vodka...you know...for the ladies. 

We headed back to our house for the weekend in the heart of residential Woodstock, tucked away in a cove that defines the difference between a neighborhood and a sub-division. It was an incongruous relic of dark, creaking wood, strange corners and appliances that were out-dated the day they were ordered from some musty Sears and Roebuck catalogue. Out back, there was a patio, a pool that hadn’t seen chlorine since the Reagan administration and a barn full of forgotten treasures or rusty junk (dependent on if to you were to ask the husband or the wife, I'm sure). We were lucky to get invited in on this place.

We had family dinner on the patio. We tossed a frisbee while Ross grilled a pork loin, Claire and Mary Claire pulled together a salad and somebody did something amazing with some potatoes. Ali baked Levon some birthday cookies, which we packed up along with the Gold Tops and whiskey, and headed for the Ramble. 

Easier said than done. The Google Earth truck hasn’t made its way to Nazareth or the Catskills, and we’re not looking for a bar or a theater. This is Levon’s house. Finally, we came up behind what looked like a band’s tour bus and decided to follow them. A whale-like U-turn and some quick back-tracking brought us to a hidden cut down a dirt road barely visible from the street. If this bus wasn’t going to Levon’s, this could get awkward. 

“Take a load off, Fannie. Put the load right on me.” - “The Weight”

The story of The Band is one where the ambition and the heart slowly grew apart and everything in the middle died. Robbie Robertson was pure, cold ambition and Levon Helm has all heart. Not a rounded, Valentine cartoon, but pure blood and muscle in constant expansion and contraction. Their tug of war defined the group, and as each grew stronger, the rope stretched tighter, creating a tension that would give off the most honest voice in American music-- in accordance with the prophecies of bearded, rabid possum demi-god Ronnie Hawkins who first brought them together.

The Last Waltz is that rope pulled absolutely taut, and after it was over, unwound was the only place left to go. But Levon kept pulling, trying to keep the strands together, and never forgave Robbie for letting go. He refused to accept that something so good had to end. It’s true the Band had lost some of their edge since Big Pink and the self-titled follow-up, but that was just a reason to dig back in. In his mind, the Waltz was Robbie putting a gun to the head of a flu patient and calling it a mercy killing. Just like Dylan going electric, Levon was once again asked to be the machinery for somebody else’s self-promotional cause, only this time it was coming from within the family. 

It doesn’t mean Robbie wasn’t right to pull the trigger. While a full examination of that night at Winterland could fill a whole blog, repeated viewings (and there have been many of them) reveal some holes in Levon’s reality. 


Dylan, Dr. John, Van Morrison, Neil Young, Muddy Waters, Eric Clapton, Paul Butterfield, Ronnie Wood, Ringo Starr, Joni Mitchell and Ronnie Hawkins all take the stage and everybody looks absolutely happy. That's what makes it great. It’s the look and sound and the stories of Jack Ruby and Sonny Boy Williamson; but it’s that, on that night, everybody on that stage was there because there was nowhere else they would rather be. And when you watch it, in some way, you get to tap into that feeling for 117 minutes. 

Except for the Band. They look every inch of stretched thin. Robbie and Levon weren’t on speaking terms. Richard Manuel was still recovering from a serious car accident and struggling with various addictions. Rick Danko looks like a dancing scarecrow from a long-fallow field. And Garth is...well, honestly who knows what’s going on with Garth. And that’s the tragic charisma of The Last Waltz on closer examination. It’s watching someone trying to survive their own wake, while the mourners have the time of their life. 

As far as I know, Levon hated it until the day he died. The Last Waltz, he thought, was a routine performance by an exceptional band, with a little help from some friends. All the praise that piled up was just proof of life and proof of blood on Robbie’s hands for putting a good thing down before its time. Maybe they just needed some time off, a chance to get straight and take a breath. Maybe they just needed to get back to Woodstock, but there was no reason this had to be the end. 

And Levon refused to let it go. He kept the Band together without Robbie as long as he could. Then Richard Manuel hung himself in a hotel room on tour. Levon got throat cancer and Danko’s heart gave out in his sleep.

It wasn’t just throat cancer. The tumor was on his vocal chords. To remove the tumor, the vocal chords would have to come with them, and he would never speak again. The alternative was an extended period of radiation...and he probably would retain only a whisper. He took the treatments. 

The Midnight Rambles at his barn began as a rent party, with Levon limited to the drums. The medical bills had put him into bankruptcy and he wasn’t healthy enough to tour. His wife booked the shows and his daughter helped put together the band. Then his voice started to come back. And then it got stronger. And with even the threat of hearing Levon sing again, the rent party turned into a pilgrimage.  

“So if what you have is working for you, or you think that it stands a reasonable chance, and whatever’s broken seems fixable and nothing’s beyond repair. If you still think about each other and smile before you remember how screwed up it’s gotten, or maybe still dream of a time less rotten. Remember, it ain't too late to take a deep breath and throw yourself into it with everything you’ve got. It’s great to be alive. It’s great to be alive.” - Patterson Hood, “World of Hurt.”

The bus we followed belonged to the Truckers and a few hundred yards of narrow dirt road brought us through the woods to a small security shack. There aren’t tickets, you just have to see if you’re on the guest list. Again, this isn’t a concert. This is a house party. 

“What’re yalls names?”

We tell them. “We’re from Arkansas! Tell Levon some Arkansans are here to see him on his birthday.”

“Awesome! You’re all set.”

There’s no alcohol sold on the premises and a very Oxford-like red cup rule is in place. There’s a pot luck dinner going on in the barn’s basement, and Levon’s birthday cookies get added to the table, while Patterson and Cooley from the Truckers pick through the potato salad. We sit on the tailgate and drink whiskey in the dirt field used as a parking lot. There’s a lake down the hill for fishing and smoking. We asked somebody with an orange vest who looked somewhat official where the bathrooms were. He told us to find a tree and go for it. 

Finally, we start making our way into the barn. We find some space on the rail of the second level loft, enough for about 3 people in front and 4 to stand behind-- directly above the piano and horn section, facing the drum set. There are no bottles allowed and no concessions sold, but you’re free to take the side stairs back out the parking lot to refill your cups. And we did, establishing a sort of bucket-brigade rotation. 

The Truckers put down a tremendous set. Patterson brought his dad along to play bass and they worked in two Eddie Hinton covers (later included on their next album) that just thundered in the friendly confines. Intimate is the word, but that doesn’t capture it. It doesn’t feel like you’re being performed for or catered to. You’re all here for the same party. Everybody’s eating off the same table, grabbing beer from the same cooler, pulling brown liquor off the same bottle and pissing in the same bushes. A group of us just happened to find some instruments and an electrical outlet. 

Cooley asks for requests. Christoph yells out for “Cottonseed.” 

Cooley, fiddles with his guitar for second, then yells back: “Shit, I can’t remember it.”

Christoph: “D minor, F, C, D minor!”

Cooley: “No, I mean I don’t remember the words.”

We settled for a pretty good go at “Zip City.” 

Then, Levon rambles out with a full 10-piece backing band. His daughter Amy sings harmony and Donald Fagen (co-founder of Steely Dan and now married to Amy’s mom) takes a seat behind the keys. Levon’s sticks come together, he whispers out the count and it starts. 

In the days since throat cancer, Levon singing is no given thing. When he speaks, it’s still barely a whisper and there are apparently days when all he can do is pass handwritten notes. The music starts and everybody waits...and in between beats, he wets his lips and then leans into the mic hanging over his drum kit...and belts out the opening lines of “Ophelia.” 

It’s not the steam whistle pipes of the Waltz, but he’s still crisp and powerful. And after hearing his whisper of a speaking voice, it sounds like nothing short of a miracle. The barn erupts and Levon smiles. 

The Truckers milled around the room, grinning ear-to-ear. Patterson leans against the wall with his arm around his dad. Shauna and the new guitar player cuddle in a corner. Cooley’s wandered off to smoke, but Neff’s found a solo cup and is tapping his foot in the back of the room. They'd faded back into the barn party. Maybe they were all thinking that this is where they could end up...and it’s not all that bad at all. If touring, journeyman musicians say their prayers and eat their vegetables, one day they will spend their days paying the rent by inviting their friends over to play music. It doesn’t have to end in the ditch.

I have no idea how long Levon played, never daring to check the time for fear even a toe dipped into reality might break the whole damn spell...or worse yet, betray the fact this was going to end at some point. Fagen sang a full-horn version of “Shakedown Street” (which I love every time I hear live and never fail to be disappointed in when I try to listen to the recording). Levon came out from behind the drums for mandolin on “Long, Black Veil” and "Rag, Mama, Rag." The horn section staged a brief insurrection for a full blown, second-lining rendition of “All On Mardi Gras Day.” Amy Helm took the lead for “Keep Your Lamps Trimmed and Burning.” 

We watched it all, draped over the railing three feet above Levon’s head dancing like the reborn at a revival, trying our best not to spill whiskey on Fagen’s head (and probably failing on a few occasions, if we’re honest. Sorry, Don.). Then, the bittersweet moment came. Levon called the Truckers onto the stage. And then you hear that opening riff to “The Weight.” And you know it’s the end. Patterson takes a verse. Shauna sings harmony with Amy. The whole barn joins the refrain. The last time it runs through, a hopeful crowd holds the staggered “AAANNNNNNNNNDDDDDDDDD” a second or two longer. For that moment, we stood with Levon. A chorus of hard-headed believers refusing to let go of the rope. 

“Because Levon knows what we can only guess: That there is no last waltz. That we'll forever file in through the barn door with the ones we love, drawn by the firelight, grab our children and go round and round in a dance interminable. We doe-see-doe. We stomp the boards. Shout. Kiss. Cry. Sing. Spin. Laugh. Squeal. Study the stars through the gaps in the ceiling.” - Simone Felice.

Levon Helm was a prideful, hard-headed son of a bitch. He was Southerner who flew North. An American who went Canadian to dodge the draft. A drinker and a user. An adulterer and a malcontent. A man who could find redeeming words for Orval Faubus, but not for the Scorsese concert film that defines his legacy. He was a sinner. And the world is a much dimmer, more compromised place without him in it. Not because we asked him to carry our weight, but because he set an example of the staggering weight that can be beared. 


Because he was proof that a good heart can overcome careless ambition, and redemption comes to those who keep the faith and the beat long after the others have let go in the name of good sense or practicality. He refused to believe anything good ever had to die or what's golden cannot stay. And in his second act, he seems to have achieved two things every one wants before they go-- he found some peace and he proved his point. 

Of course, it is all a lie. Levon sung the truth himself-- "everything dies and that’s a fact." But admitting reality is not the same thing as accepting it. You can fight the gravedigger all the way down to the last shovel-full of dirt. It’s the only way to go, and if you don’t believe that, then you never made it to Woodstock. 

And so we drove back to the house with the windows down and the smell of honeysuckle. If it crossed anybody’s mind that our fantasy lineup from the car ride didn’t pan out, they didn’t speak such a blasphemy. 

We sat on the patio, drank what was left of the Gold Tops, played guitar and sang into the Woodstock darkness until we ran out of songs we knew...and then we went a little further, even to the point of “Hey....Hey...play that song about the barbeque sauce on the t-shirt...” Finally, a light rain started and we headed inside. A short time later, the sun rose and we started a long and painful journey home.