ALBUM REVIEWS
Way back when, Dylan and the Beatles demonstrated how musicians could evolve dramatically, overhauling their sound on record once or even twice a year. They were hardly alone, but few others shape-shifted during than era like Tim Buckley. By 1968, the L.A.-via-Orange-Country troubadour was moving beyond the keening-balladeer mode of his early work — a mere two years before — and gravitating toward jazz and improvisational music. That exhilarating shift, a key period in his career, is documented in this newly unearthed live tape, recorded that year at the Carousel Ballroom in San Francisco by the late sonic wizard (and acid impresario) Owsley “Bear” Stanley.
The sense that Buckley was already outgrowing any sort of new-Dylan expectations on him arrives pretty much right away. The album opens with “Buzzin’ Fly,” that musical snuggle blanket that captures the rush of new love, the joy of discovery. Other than stretching out a few words to extra syllables, Buckley sings it much as he would on Happy Sad, which wouldn’t be out for almost another year.
But by the second song, “I Don’t Need It to Rain,” he’s starting to leave conventions behind – and not just in its lyrics, the oblique and borderline kinky tale of an “undercover tinsel queen.” His musicians – bassist John Miller, vibes player David Friedman and percussionist Carter “C.C.” Collins – lock into a folky-improv groove behind him, and Buckley starts flying. Over the course of nine minutes, his voice is howling, moaning, swallowing syllables, and emitting muted yodels, and he’s slamming chords on his 12-string.
The most hypnotic parts of Merry-Go-Round at the Carousel pick up where that command performance leaves off. Buckley drops his voice up and down several octaves on a version of the folk standard “Green Rocky Road,” and he becomes a fervent folk preacher on the newly discovered “Blues, Love.” It’s telling that he dispatches accessible songs like “Happy Time” and “Sing a Song for You” in a few minutes’ time, but then dives headfirst into “Merry-Go-Round” by his hero, Fred Neil. There, Buckley begins with Neil’s words, sung in the voice of a black child in the South — wandering a circus and looking for his own playground there – before shifting to a few verses of Lead Belly’s “In the Pines.” Buckley then pivots to his own ad-libbed lines about women and race, finally wrapping up the song (with some of his own, Miles Davis-inspired “Strange Feelin'”) 11 minutes later. Here and elsewhere, Miller’s upright bass serves as both Buckley’s musical backbone and its partner in improv. As with Phil Lesh in the Grateful Dead, Miller is as much lead guitarist as bass player, and he and Friedman lend a smokey-jazz-club feel to the songs.
Buckley’s devotion to pushing his voice and his art would soon lead to albums like Starsailor, a collection of musical zigzags that, over 50 years later, remains one of the most daunting albums ever made. That journey starts on recordings like these. For any other “folksinger” – a term barely suitable for describing Buckley – it would be anathema to stop a song midway through so that your conga player could take a long, unaccompanied solo. For Buckley, it was just another day at the ballroom.
Way back when, Dylan and the Beatles demonstrated how musicians could evolve dramatically, overhauling their sound on record once or even twice a year. They were hardly alone, but few others shape-shifted during than era like Tim Buckley. By 1968, the L.A.-via-Orange-Country troubadour was moving beyond the keening-balladeer mode of his early work — a mere two years before — and gravitating toward jazz and improvisational music. That exhilarating shift, a key period in his career, is documented in this newly unearthed live tape, recorded that year at the Carousel Ballroom in San Francisco by the late sonic wizard (and acid impresario) Owsley “Bear” Stanley.
The sense that Buckley was already outgrowing any sort of new-Dylan expectations on him arrives pretty much right away. The album opens with “Buzzin’ Fly,” that musical snuggle blanket that captures the rush of new love, the joy of discovery. Other than stretching out a few words to extra syllables, Buckley sings it much as he would on Happy Sad, which wouldn’t be out for almost another year.
Bruce Springsteen was right. At the risk of simplifying the value of this impressive box set, giving away the main storyline of his new biopic, and flattening decades of mythmaking, the reality is just what Springsteen always claimed. Even when he tried the material with his closest collaborators, using some of the strongest songs he had ever written, the most powerful version of Nebraska is still the one he recorded at home in Colts Neck in January 1982. Just a lonely man in his early thirties with an acoustic guitar, a TASCAM PortaStudio, and an Echoplex, capturing solo demos for what he thought would be a full-band project. Everything that came after was an experiment.
But what an experiment it turned out to be. For those who don’t know the story, here it is in brief. After the success of his upbeat 1980 single “Hungry Heart” and a long streak of relentless touring and critical praise, Springsteen entered one of the most creatively intense chapters of his life. He began by writing the grim ballads and shadowy lullabies of Nebraska, which he then tried to recreate with the E Street Band and in solo studio sessions before ultimately choosing to release the home demos. He did no press and no tour, which left him free to keep writing, and that work became 1984’s massive commercial hit Born in the U.S.A. During that time, he tossed aside enough songs to fill multiple albums, later shared through collections like Tracks and Tracks II: The Lost Albums. He also found time to help revive the career of early rock’n’roll icon Gary U.S. Bonds, co-writing and co-producing two comeback records, contributing a Grammy-winning song to Donna Summer, and hitting the gym with enthusiasm.
It might sound like a golden moment, but for Bruce, it felt like a creative cage—the kind of brooding, restless chapter that inspires a filmmaker to cast Jeremy Allen White to play you on screen. The twist is that the most crucial moments, from the original Nebraska to the electric and explosive version of “Born in the U.S.A.,” happened quickly and naturally, before anyone could complicate the process. Unlike anything else in his official catalog, Nebraska 82: Expanded Edition offers a clear window into that moment. Within this tight collection is a sharper, more complete image of one of Springsteen’s most legendary and personal records—still the one he treasures most—along with rare insight into his creative rhythm.
The set includes a newly remastered version of the album, a disc of solo acoustic outtakes carrying the same raw emotion, the legendary Electric Nebraska sessions, and a live album and film capturing Springsteen performing the record start to finish in an empty New Jersey theater earlier this year. The live material feels reverent, with beautiful support from former Bob Dylan bandmate Larry Campbell. The remaster reveals that, despite the album’s association with the birth of lo-fi, the sound is richer and more intentional than much of what followed. Listen to the last half minute of “Atlantic City” through headphones and focus on how the acoustic guitars, mandolin, and background vocals fade away layer by layer. It’s a reminder of how much careful craft went into creating such stark beauty.
Unlike his earlier box sets for Darkness on the Edge of Town and The River, this one isn’t about showcasing how many different paths he could have taken. It’s about sharpening the vision. Where Nebraska is known for its unbroken mood, Electric Nebraska jerks between heartland laments and roaring rock songs across its eight tracks. These takes feel like rough sketches more than finished recordings—mostly Springsteen on electric guitar and vocals, Max Weinberg on drums, and Garry Tallant on bass—hinting at an album that could have been more accessible and mainstream in 1982. And yet, this raw version of “Downbound Train,” with its clanging rhythms and unsettling bridge, may be one of the strangest things he ever put to tape.
It’s easy to see why Springsteen thought these sessions didn’t work. Versions of “Open All Night” and “Johnny 99,” which on the original album burn with desperate energy, sound here like something a bar band could fall into with a casual count-in and some good-natured rockabilly riffs. On one hand, it highlights how his delivery gives shape and gravity to his songwriting. (Compare the early acoustic “Thunder Road” to its triumphant album version for proof.) On the other hand, slipping into different musical skins was a key part of his process then. He could turn something as playful as “Pink Cadillac” into a moaning, shadowy reflection of itself, as if the character had returned to earth wrecked and hollow, fixated on one thought.
For devoted fans, these shifts are what make the box set essential: witnessing how songs like “Working on a Highway” transformed from a chilling ballad called “Child Bride” into a loud, laughing, raucous number. Some of the outtakes, like the quietly devastating country song “Losin’ Kind,” have been passed around unofficially for years. But this set also reveals two entirely unheard songs: “On the Prowl” and “Gun in Every Home.” In the first, he ends with a dizzying repetition of “searching,” drenched in slapback echo that mimics the sound of a live band. In the second, he paints a nightmarish portrait of suburban life and ends with a bare, defeated admission: “I don’t know what to do.”
Within a single song, Springsteen might take the role of a killer hiding in the dark or a runaway on the move, either escaping or facing the question of whether being caught is actually a strange kind of salvation. That’s the point of sitting in the dark: you can’t see the exit. Yet sometimes he caught brief glimpses of where it all might lead. Along with the original demo tape, Springsteen sent a letter to his manager, Jon Landau. He went through each track, detailing the grim subject matter, floating arrangement ideas, and occasionally letting a sliver of optimism shine through.
He scribbled a note next to “Born in the U.S.A.,” which appears here in two early forms: a heavy acoustic blues and a full-band rocker stripped of its later synths, leaving no doubt about how the narrator feels. “Might have potential,” he wrote. That small spark of belief carried him through. He knew these songs would take work, and that truly understanding them would take time. But he also trusted that at the end of each hard-earned day, there would still be magic in the night.
