Retrospective: The Last Waltz (Patreon)

Robbie Robertson: “The road has taken a lot of the great ones. Hank Williams. Buddy Holly. Otis Redding. Janis. Jimi Hendrix. Elvis. It’s a goddamn impossible way of life.”

Martin Scorsese: “It is, isn’t it?”

Robertson: “No question about it.” [grins]

The Last Waltz is a happy elegy; a joyful last hoorah for a certain kind of Rock ‘N’ Roll. The Band’s career spans the Summer of Love, the break-up of the Beatles, the height of Vietnam protest songs, and the deaths of half of the 27 Club. By the time The Last Waltz premiered, Elvis Presley had permanently left the building (although contrary to Robertson’s reminiscence, Elvis died not on the road but on his own toilet at Graceland, trying to shit out a peanut butter, bacon and banana sandwich). While their contemporaries were dying, The Band was impressively failing to die. Going off their complexions in the interview portions of The Last Waltz, their bodies probably contained more narcotics than a William S. Burroughs novel. Getting off the road probably saved their lives. But the road also supplied them with lives to save.

Artists are often torn between the pressures of maintaining their legacy and the drive to produce more work. After a decade and a half together, The Band had seen a generation of artists fail to die on their own terms. Elvis never had a blowout final concert — The Band needed to perform one before their health caught up with them. And it had to be a night with Muddy Waters growling “I’m A Man,” that groovy ode to gnarly misogyny. Joni Mitchell had to come on and blow everyone away with a swinging performance of “Coyote”, a knotty piss take of cowboy-playwright-king Sam Shepard. Neil Young was bound to come out and sing “Helpless” with a glob of cocaine hanging from his nose that Martin Scorsese would have to airbrush out of the film. And Bob Dylan was bound not to shave before singing “Forever Young” and “I Shall Be Released.”

The Band revels in paying off their debts to their old friends and heroes before curtains fall. Martin Scorsese, one of the great storytellers of America’s imperial decline, for once has his work cut out for him. It’s a goddamn impossible way of life, but we wouldn’t want it any other way.