After the waltz

The world is remembering Robbie Robertson, the brilliant musician who left the world from L.A. yesterday. He was 80 years old.

Of course, most of the remembrances are highlighting his leadership of the famous band known simply as The Band. They chauffeured Bob Dylan into the world of electric rock, then made a wonderful noise as a stand-alone combo themselves. If you're of a certain age, you know some of their songs by heart. They are timeless. And the film of the group's farewell concert, directed by Robertson's former roommate, Martin Scorsese, is one of the finest concert movies ever committed to celluloid.

I can't outdo the critics who are telling Robertson's story today. But if you're interested in the man's work, here's my two cents. Don't overlook the solo albums he released after his involvement in The Band ended. If these were the only records he ever released, maybe they'd be appreciated more: his stunning initial solo effort, "Robbie Robertson," with the BoDeans; a late-in-life musical memoir, "How to Become Clairvoyant," in which he exorcised some demons in the company of assorted rock royalty; but most importantly, "Storyville," an opulent dreamscape loosely about New Orleans, with the Neville Brothers on hand to stamp it as authentic. Really an amazing record. 

For years now we've been watching musical legends pass from this realm, and every now and then we let out the lament, "This one really hurts." And so it is today. I was an enormous fan of Robbie Robertson, but his time is up, as it will be for everything that lives. I'm grateful that his music is there whenever I want or need it.