what we talk about when we talk about levon.

Over the years I lived in Toronto, I probably watched The Last Waltz no less than a thousand times. My best friends were hippies and music lovers and someone always had a copy kicking around. There was one summer when my brother and I were back at home and we had three Last Waltz DVDs in the house: his, mine, and dad's. There existed among us an encyclopedic and apocryphal knowledge of the film: the story about the supposed editing-out of Neil Young's coke nose, Mavis Staples' so-quiet-you-might-miss-it whisper at the end of The Weight. We knew that concert backward and forward, knew the Band's catalogue better than the books we pretended to study from as we listened in. And I always knew that it was Levon Helm I loved best.



What was it about Levon? He just seemed like a gentleman. He was quiet and kind in the interview portions of the film. Immortalized in his prime in The Last Waltz, I had such a crush on him; in the present day, he was the best father figure you could ask for (second only to my own father, of course). And oh my lord, could he ever drum. I've always had a soft spot for the guy keeping the beat. Watching Levon crane his neck over to the mike to sing as he drummed filled me with this surge of joy every single time. What a combination, to hold steady as you sing your heart out.  My brother is a drummer, and the first time I ever heard him sing and play was ten years ago at the Casbah, when his band had a weekly gig doing cover songs over the summer. Toward the end of the night, Noah kept time as he sang From The Back Of The Film by Thrush Hermit.  It was, and still is, one of my favourite songs. I felt like my heart might explode. "He's our Levon Helm!" I shouted into my boyfriend's ear. It was the highest praise I could bestow on anyone, really.



My own copy of The Last Waltz accompanied me out west, where I'd watch it whenever I was feeling homesick or sad. That music was a balm for all that ailed me. Sometimes I'd just watch the first few minutes over and over again; that incredible, rip-roaring version of Don't Do It made me feel like I was complete again. I loved the fact that the movie began where the band ended, with the last song they ever played together. Levon's voice held me back from the edge. Years later it would become the theme song for my doomed relationship with Tom. There was a particularly sketchy period out there at the lake when the only thing we had to listen to was a scratched-up copy of The Band's greatest hits and a Last Waltz DVD held together with tape and sheer force of will. We would drink wine and blast the volume and sing along with Levon till we lost our voices. Sometimes on Sunday afternoons as I debated driving back into town, Tom would put on the movie and say, "don't go yet." And so I wouldn't.

Tom had a great voice too, he really did. He'd always deny it when I said so, but he could harmonize with the best of them. Not surprisingly, he sounded best when he was singing along with Dylan or The Band, the music that was so ingrained in him it was more familiar than his own breath.  One of our favourite songs to sing together was Ain't No More Cane from The Basement Tapes--again with Levon's heart-wrenching vocals off the top. It was, and still is, one of my favourite songs. We'd sing it with the album accompanying us, we'd sing it with me on guitar, we'd sing it without any backing track at all. We'd sing it till people told us to shut up and go home. 


(I couldn't find the Basement Tapes version online. This one's a very, very, VERY close second.)

When they announced his death on the CBC on Thursday, I felt something in me sink. I fumbled through the CDs in my car, looking for Levon, and I found him in no time--there he was, singing The Weight along with the Staples Singers, on a mix CD I made in 2004 just before moving to Vancouver.  This morning I heard The Band's version of When I Paint My Masterpiece on the radio. It was, and still is, one of my favourite songs. (I'm sensing a pattern here.) I learned to play their version of it on the guitar when I was younger. I loved Levon's interpretation, so much more melancholy and beautifully world-weary than Dylan's. It was a song that made me feel sad and longing and full all at once. This morning I heard him sing his heart out one more time and I cried. Garth Hudson talked about Levon and then wished Jian Ghomeshi well, saying he hoped everyone was "doing alright up at the station," making the CBC feel suddenly like a solitary broadcasting tower in the middle of an Eastern Ontario pine forest. 



What was it about Levon? It was his soulful, groovin' voice, his incredible beat, his handsome face, his mesh-back trucker hat, his lanky arms, the way he held it all together.  He may have been a good old Southern boy, but Levon sounded the way Canada felt to me--the way it felt to be alone near water, watching the moon rise, the way it felt to be on the open road out of town, the way it felt to fall in love with a person and a place so fully and completely. I am, by all accounts, a city child, but Levon's voice helped me find my country heart, beating deep down.