Harry Smith – Harry Smith’s Anthology of American Folk Music, Volume Four

Indulging his discursive wont, Greil Marcus breaks from Invisible Republic’s examination of Dylan’s storied Basement Tapes to excavate the remains of a forgotten frontier town, Smithville. Peopled by card sharks and confidence men, vengeful lovers and bewildered cuckolds, bombastic holy men and salt-of-the-earth farmers, Smithville is a decidedly rough town, with murder in its past and dim hopes for the future.

But what’s most striking about the town is its unquenchable spirit. Locals meet to dance and drink, sharing a brief respite from encroaching oblivion. Their religion is stern and sometimes unforgiving, but still they look to it for inspiration and reassurance. And, perhaps most importantly, they gather to sing, joining in a communal voice at once fresh and strange, open with possibility and freedom.

For the many music enthusiasts previously unfamiliar with Harry Smith’s three-volume Anthology, its re-release in 1997 was nothing short of a revelation. From his vast collection of 78s, Smith constructed a world existing outside of time, hardly utopian but distinguished by its creator’s peculiar sense of independence, freedom and fun. Though born in the midst of economic crisis (most tracks were recorded between 1926 and 1930), the performances on Anthology are seemingly untouched by the era’s hardship. In effect, the Great Depression acts as a structuring absence — an absence now squarely addressed by Smith’s previously unreleased “lost collection,” Volume Four.

The set begins, unassumingly enough, with an inspired bit of nonsense, a wild, comic Memphis Jug Band romp. The following tracks, a genteel though winningly silly English ballad and a typically sober Carter Family performance, continue to sketch in the by now familiar terrain. But by the fourth track, Smith’s original vision has become strangely warped, as if reflected in a funhouse mirror.

For the most part, Volume One’s murder ballads are comfortably distanced. Rooted in a mythic past and often undercut by vocal bravado, they’re cautionary if not always morally correct. By contrast, Volume Four’s “Down On The Banks Of The Ohio” is positively chilling. The Blue Sky Boys’ performance is emotionally flat and detached, almost clinical, foregrounding a lyric that recalls the modernist horrors of Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood and Patricia Highsmith’s Ripley series.

Following this dispassionate riverside murder, the once-familiar landscape of Smith’s Anthology seems altered — less mythic, more fatalistic. Tellingly, the bulk of Volume Four’s performances were recorded between 1933 and 1938, resulting in a subtle yet notable perceptual shift. With the Depression a tangible, ongoing fact rather than a nascent period of uncertainty, the country clung to the hope of Roosevelt’s New Deal with an edgy desperation. Once familiar scenes and figures now appear slightly off. The doomed John Henry returns, but J.E. Mainer’s headlong pursuit of speed trivializes the song’s admonitory tone while his Mountaineers’ furious pick-and-saw eerily recalls the rhythms of the steam drill. On the following track, “Nine Pound Hammer”, Bill Monroe’s tenor edges his brother’s lead ever closer to pure velocity, recklessly dismissing Henry’s fate with an idle boast.

In an unsettled moral universe, even the redemptive power of religion and God has lost its force. The usually devout Carter Family sounds more comfortable recounting the trials and tribulations of the secular world (“Hello Stranger”) than extolling the glories of the next (“No Depression In Heaven”). Their stunned, almost numb rendition of the latter belies an uncertain faith, as if cherished, once-familiar Bible passages no longer signify. Similarly, the bleak, almost scolding message of the Heavenly Gospel Singers’ “Mean Old World” is subsumed in an a cappella tour de force. Driven by the rolling, roiling bass of Jimmy Bryant, the performance is marked by a primitive, otherworldly quality, reminiscent more of Tuvan throat singing than devout Christian gospel.

Throughout the collection, performance upstages song, mirroring a growing rift in the social fabric. Following the collapse of trusted collective institutions, increasing emphasis was placed on personal well-being and gain. Not surprisingly, the re-emergent recording industry redefined its focus, prioritizing individual style and virtuosity. Blues musicians such as Robert Johnson and Lead Belly recorded with an eye toward potential career. On Volume Four, Johnson’s sophisticated guitar work and Lead Belly’s sly, nuanced dual character construction belie a formal mastery well beyond the average Smithville resident’s grasp. Similarly, Jesse James flaunts his considerable chops — a rollicking barrelhouse piano and humorously flashy vocals — while recasting the Casey Jones saga (formerly a compellingly intricate narrative on Volume One) as a freewheeling jaunt.

Ultimately, Volume Four represents Smith’s ambitious attempt to reconcile his idiosyncratic worldview with historical realities, a perilous balancing act that yields an exhilarating if sometimes uneven mix. Weighed down by a string of three overtly topical songs, his tenuous structure threatens to collapse altogether midway through the second disc. Blind Alfred Reed wonders “How Can A Poor Man Stand Such Times And Live?” while Uncle Dave Macon bemoans a corrupt Tennessee works project before hitting the campaign trail for Alfred Smith. Regardless of these tracks’ individual merits (Macon’s “Wreck Of The Tennessee Gravy Train” is especially fine), they tend to undermine Smith’s gift for creating subtle, deeper meanings through juxtaposition and indirection, flirting with a one-dimensionality that the original collection never approached.

In retrospect, the Anthology was a left-field miracle born of financial necessity. Forced to convert his cherished collection of 78s into cash, Smith approached Folkways’ Moe Asch, who, recognizing a unique opportunity, commissioned an archival collection. Though rumors of additional sets date as far back as the original collection’s liner notes, a fourth volume was never released during Smith’s lifetime. The only remnant of his conception: a well-traveled work tape that passed through many hands before arriving at Revenant.

Over the years, numerous reasons have been proffered for this “non-event”: Smith and Folkways clashed over track selection, Smith had already sold the original records, his critical documentation had been lost, or perhaps he simply lost interest in the project. Another avenue Revenant’s typically detailed and informative documentation neglects to pursue is the possibility that Smith was never fully satisfied with his creation.

It’s rarely noted but worth stating: Selecting and sequencing a meaningful, potentially timeless multi-artist compilation is deceptively difficult. The very qualities that render an individual track worthy of inclusion often conflict with the collection’s more democratic demands of flow, pace and coherence. A compulsive collector obsessed with deep patterns and blessed with a near-photographic memory, Smith was uniquely suited to this intricate, involved work — his original Anthology is all but perfect. Understandably, Volume Four is somewhat less so. Track-by-track annotator Dick Spottswood questions Smith’s sequencing on at least two occasions, and several of the set’s lesser blues selections are actually diminished by the proximity of such masters as Robert Johnson and Lead Belly.

Though the original Anthology is teeming with great performances, its tracks announce themselves as distinct, individual entities only after repeated listenings. Instead, Smith’s careful construction compels the listener to experience the album as a whole. Boasting a near-narrative flow, the collection is an almost flawless example of the compiler’s art. By contrast, after only two listenings I’d already isolated favorite cuts on Volume Four. “Down On The Banks Of The Ohio”, “Southern Casey Jones”, “Mean Old World”, “Stand By Me” and “West Virginia Girls” are all classic (with many others bubbling under), but they’re not appreciably enriched or redefined by their surroundings.

Smith briefly recaptures his past mastery on Volume Four’s final sequence. Memphis Minnie’s celebration of Joe Louis (and by extension, black pride) is followed by Minnie Wallace’s dumbfounded take on the “Cockeyed World”. Unlike the collection’s earlier protest numbers, these selections are positivist statements, burdened by neither resignation nor defeat. Next, the Mississippi Jook Band indulges a love of speed that blithely skirts the destructive forces which haunt the collection’s earlier John Henry tracks. Smith closes Volume Four with two selections from America’s periphery, specifically the Cajun backwaters of Louisiana: the first a gently swinging reverie, radiating the lazy warmth of a bayou afternoon; the second a spirited, festive dance, returning us safely to the friendly confines of Smithville.

In a 1968 interview with the New Lost City Ramblers’ John Cohen, in the wake of the peak of the folk-rock revival, Smith reflected on the profound influence of the Anthology: “I felt social changes would result from it. I’d been reading Plato’s Republic. He’s jabbering on about music, how you have to be careful about changing the music because it might upset or destroy the government.”

With little fear of contradiction, it seems unlikely that anything so drastic will follow in Volume Four’s wake. After all, the Anthology was arguably the most important reissue of the ’50s and ’90s. Nonetheless, Volume Four is hardly a musicological footnote; this formidable work, though flawed, is likely to be remembered as one of 2000’s finest archival releases.