Uncertain, unfair and bloodthirsty

Mystic and record collector Harry Smith knew life was cruel, yet his folk "Anthology" promised a way to "see America changed by music."

By Andy Battaglia and Rennie Sparks

Jun 14, 2000 | Various Artists, edited by Harry Smith
"Anthology of American Folk Music, Vol. 4"
Revenant

Andy Battaglia: Digging into Harry Smith's "Anthology of American Folk Music" means grappling with the shadowy realms of alchemy and black magic. If mindful folk music collided with mindless rock 'n' roll to form a sort of perfect storm in the '60s, then Smith was without a doubt the mystic rainmaker. When his original three-volume "Anthology" was released in 1952 it gave the folk scene a swift kick in the jeans by exposing strumming idealists to what Greil Marcus called the "old, weird America." From the collection of rural shakedowns, murder ballads and possessed hymns of the '20s and '30s came Bob Dylan, who tired of folk's insularity and traveled rockward to move the people, change the world, etc.

Back then, Smith said that there would be forthcoming volumes of the "Anthology." He never made good on his promise during his lifetime, but thanks to the active Harry Smith Archives and folk hero John Fahey's Revenant label, we now get to hear the songs he picked for "Volume 4." The meat of the new volume is similar to the first three -- old scratchy recordings pulled from 78s released between 1928 and 1940. But this volume also comes at an interesting time, following the Smithsonian Folkways CD reissue of the original set two years ago. Judging by the '90s swell of alt-country, or Moby sampling field hollers on "Play," or indie rockers discussing favorite Appalachian banjo players, the fallout after an explosion that happened 50 years ago has left some hot spots even today.

At the same time, listening to "Memphis Shakedown," which opens "Volume 4," it's hard to figure out why music ever evolved beyond jug bands. The sound of some guy blowing and humming into an empty jug backed by a bunch of guys in a hillbilly-boogie group may say just about all anyone needs to know about music's ability to move the soul. Of course, music has changed a bit since the song was recorded in 1934. And though I'm (sort of) kidding about the jug band thing, it's hard to conceive of that history without the songs Smith handpicked to "see America changed by music."

Rennie Sparks: The thing about the original "Anthology" that stunned '50s folkies and '90s alt-hipsters alike was its ability to transport us into a distant and seemingly unobtainable past, and to show us how little things have changed since then. What a comfort it was to listen to morbid songs like "Ommie Wise" by G.B. Grayson or "Fatal Flower Garden" by Nelstone's Hawaiians and see that life has always been uncertain, unfair and bloodthirsty. The recordings themselves were not all that ancient (most were from the '20s and '30s), but many of them were modern American mutations of ancient European hymns and ballads. The "Anthology" revealed a path of music leading back through time and across the world. It was this heartfelt connection to the distant past and the not-so-distant past that caused many people, myself included, to talk about before and after when speaking of the original "Anthology." Listening to it felt like waking up from a long sleep. It reminded me that music could be so much more than just background for a barn-dance reel or barroom brawl -- that music could teach, console and mourn the unchanging tragedy that we are all born to die.

So I don't think I'm alone in admitting that my hands shook when I heard there was a fourth volume. But sadly, I found no new revelations in this latest release. Of course it's a fine record. Smith, collector of found paper airplanes and arcane Native American dances, who once asked Sara Carter how her quilt patterns connected to the songs she sang, was always meticulous and visionary to the extreme. But this fourth anthology is far too familiar to my ears. Household names like the Carter Family, Leadbelly and Robert Johnson are here and more than once are represented by songs I've already heard elsewhere. Here are Black Jack David, John Henry and that old 9-pound hammer as well. Even the Carter Family's "No Depression in Heaven," which, via Uncle Tupelo, gave name to an entire musical movement, is included -- certainly no hidden treasure anymore.

Beyond ringers like the Carters, the Monroe Brothers and Blue Sky Boys, there is the quiet rage of Bukka White's "Parchman Farm Blues" and the nihilistic spiritualism of the Heavenly Gospel Singers' "Mean Old World." But ever since the first "Anthology" showed me how Ice Cube and Nick Cave connect to "Stackalee" and "The Butcher Boy," it takes far more than another jug band to make my heart skip a beat.

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