Dillard & Clark
The Fantastic Expedition of Dillard & Clark

Notoriously, the family tree of the Byrds is a true gold mine, offering a wealth of simply extraordinary records, although often overlooked. It couldn’t be otherwise, given that there served three of the greatest songwriters of all time (Gene Clark, David Crosby, and Gram Parsons) and a series of unparalleled musicians, starting with the man who from his Rickenbacker shed new light on an entire decade and more, the despotic Roger McGuinn.

Gene Clark was the first to leave captain Roger’s ship: the eight miles high vertigoes were too many for someone who was genuinely afraid of flying. Continuing the path begun with his 1967 solo debut with the Gosdin Brothers, Gene joined banjo wizard Doug Dillard the following year and formed a brand-new band, “Dillard & Clark.” An adventure that lasted the span of a couple of records ignored by the general public (“Fantastic expedition” and the subsequent “Through the morning, through the night,” which were reissued a few years ago on a single CD: as Sofia Loren would say, accattatevillo!), but that left a fundamental mark for anyone who cares about country-rock. Dillard had indeed been a key musician in the bluegrass scene, having played live with his band, the Dillards, with the Byrds themselves in 1965-66: it’s no coincidence that early 70s Roman chronicles would immortalize him as none other than Gram Parsons' accompanist at a concert at Piper. Doug gathered around Clark a series of multi-instrumentalists of country-bluegrass extraction (from future Eagle Bernie Leadon to Chris Hillman passing through Byron Berline), aiming to unite the music of the fathers with the folk-rock of which Gene was an undisputed icon. The “Fantastic Expedition” is indeed a pioneering breakneck journey through dusty American roads, in a frenzy of fiddle, steel guitar, bottleneck, and organs that marry Clark’s virile baritone, and his stories steeped in lost innocence and blinding candor.

The opening “Out on the side” is a comprehensive and sublime manifesto of “americana”: soul of boundless depth, frescoed by sinuous organ and dazzling brass, which wouldn’t have looked out of place on the monumental “Music from the Big Pink” or on the “Basement Tapes” that at the same time Dylan & the Band’s companions were putting together in the famous pink mansion. It continues with Gene’s romantic nursery rhymes blended in the convulsive country-rock of “She darked the sun,” “In the plan,” “Lyin’ down the middle,” “Don’t come a rollin” or in the astonishing country-rockabilly syncretism of the Presleyan “Don’t be cruel”: fiery as a drained December swamp but made vivid by that singing constantly torn from darkness, from which lyricism and sweet melancholy drip. Because Clark’s secret has always been that, since the days of Byrdsian resurges: beneath the frantic asperities lies his disarming tenderness, which in melodic gems like “With care from someone” (a poignant noir with a jazz aftertaste), “Why not your baby,” and “Something’s wrong” paves the way for his mature masterpiece “White light.” Up to the lot's most famous song, the bittersweet “Train leaves here this morning,” seasoned with stunning harmonies and fragrances, composed with Leadon, who would cash in with it alongside the Eagles.

Verses like

“I lost ten points just for bein’
In the right place at exactly the wrong time
I looked right at the facts there
But I may as well have been completely blind

So if you see me walkin’ all alone.
Don’t look back I’m just on my way back home
There’s a train leaves here this mornin’
I don’t know what I might be on”

well represent the unfortunate career of Gene. And so we imagine him, still on that puffing train, as he crosses the vast American open spaces, capturing their intimate essence and imprisoning it in timeless melodies.