Neil Young, like Dylan, has a lot to live up to. Most obviously, he has to contend with his own reputation, and the expectations of his audience: two things which are not entirely compatible.

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Still, there is something odd about the way he sets up for the acoustic part of the show. With the broken theatre lights at the back of the stage, and the sense of clutter, it looks as if itโ€™s designed to give the suggestion of a man looking back from the end of his career, alighting on memories, and finding new significance in things heโ€™d forgotten. This may be an accurate representation of the state of Youngโ€™s mind as he curates his back catalogue in preparation for the release of his extensive Archives project, but it doesnโ€™t always encourage a sense of intimacy. The set design adds a layer of theatricality, and the painter at the back left of the stage seems to represent the act of creation โ€“ but none of this is as helpful as, letโ€™s say, speaking to the audience, or explaining the context of the songs, some of which are pretty obscure. (Incidentally, The Clash employed graffiti artist Futura 2000 to paint the backdrop on the Sandinista! tour, but his art was more dynamic, and more in tune with the spirit of the music).

It is a reverential crowd. Neil gets a standing ovation before he does anything. He gets a cheer when he drinks a glass of water. And when he plays, the audience is so quiet that you can hear every cough and wheeze. When things get this precious, the quality of the songs is laid bare, and it doesnโ€™t always help. As a writer, Young has always prized sincerity over poetry, and some of his lyrics can be a little gauche. But the acoustic set does seem to be telling a story of sorts. โ€œFrom Hank To Hendrixโ€ has him โ€œwith this old guitar, doinโ€™ what I doโ€, while the line โ€œitโ€™s easy to get buried in the pastโ€ jumps out from the beautiful desolation of โ€œAmbulance Bluesโ€. It is a treat to hear this song live, and it shows how, even as a young man, Neil sounded old and dismayed, circling around burnout.

โ€œKansasโ€ has a thin tune and bitter lyric (โ€œI feel like I just woke up from a bad dreamโ€), while โ€œSad Moviesโ€ is more straightforwardly autobiographical. On earlier dates in the tour he explained how he wrote it about his movie-going days in Toronto, but in this setting, the words play into the theme of a man examining a life of performance: โ€œBlack and white, the exit lights up in the balcony, looking for someone to feel for a whileโ€. โ€œMexicoโ€ sounds weary (โ€œthe feelingโ€™s gone, why is it so hard to hang on?โ€), and โ€œA Man Needs A Maidโ€ with a slight โ€œI Donโ€™t Like Mondaysโ€ feel on the piano, gets a big cheer.

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Finally, in response to a shout of โ€œOld Manโ€, Neil speaks. โ€œTimeโ€™s funny,โ€ he says, โ€œsometimes itโ€™s standing still, sometimes, itโ€™s going like hell. I like it though. The older I get, the better I feel.โ€ And then he plays โ€œHarvestโ€, and itโ€™s only at this point that he truly starts to overcome the self-consciousness of the setting. It is tremendous โ€“ sad and wistful, and Neil himself seems to spark into life. Suddenly he canโ€™t stop talking โ€“ reprising the story of his Granny Jean (mentioned in Johnโ€™s earlier review), who worked in a copper mining town, checking the tags of the miners as they came back above ground. โ€œShe was a valued member of the community, but more than that, she played a helluva honky tonk pianoโ€. And Neil plays โ€œJourney Through The Pastโ€, his hands rolling over the keys like a saloon bar entertainer.

Itโ€™s a sentimental journey. He picks up the banjo. Put it down. โ€œIt comes down to: would you rather hear about plant life or dogs? Thatโ€™s the way government works, isnโ€™t it?โ€ He plays โ€œHomegrownโ€. Afterwards, he says he used to think it was a drug song. Then he thought it was about food, and how people could eat healthily, โ€œThen fuel โ€“ growing plants and using โ€˜em in cars. Thatโ€™s pretty good.โ€ He hesitates. โ€œThatโ€™ll never work. Theyโ€™re all over thatโ€ฆ so all you getโ€™s a stupid song and all this informationโ€. He rambles on endearingly, losing his way. โ€œIโ€™m losing the whole audience,โ€ he says. โ€œThank God it doesnโ€™t matter!โ€

More evidence that he is curating the soundtrack to his life? The lyric of โ€œLove Art Bluesโ€: โ€œMy songs are all so long and my words are all too sad โ€“ why must I choose between the best things I ever hadโ€. โ€œOld Manโ€: in which the young Neil compares himself to a codger, and he here he is, singing it when heโ€™s old. He hasnโ€™t touched some of these songs for years, and age has changed them. The words mean different things.

The electric set is something else. Suddenly, the theatricality doesnโ€™t matter. After all that introspection, the second half is about the joy of noise, and itโ€™s still a thrill to hear that heavy guitar sound. Itโ€™s isnโ€™t metal โ€“ itโ€™s live rust, a corrosive, crumbling noise that sticks to your skin. It doesnโ€™t even matter much when the song is bad (thank you, โ€œDirty Old Manโ€), Young and his band play them as if they are controlling the weather, with the emphasis on thunder. โ€œPowderfingerโ€ is a terrific example of the raw power of riffing, but the show hits the heights with โ€œHey Hey My Myโ€, a quite preposterous celebration of the power of rockโ€™nโ€™roll which makes perfect sense, with Young careening off into a jet engine guitar solo, and the crowd doing call and response on the line about Johnny Rotten.

โ€œToo Far Goneโ€ is a step down in intensity, but leads perfectly into Youngโ€™s reworked version of โ€œOh Lonesome Meโ€ (โ€œone of the greatest sets of lyrics I ever heardโ€), stretched out from Don Gibsonโ€™s original into an achingly sad song, with Youngโ€™s voice almost snapping on the chorus. And that leads into a fantastic version of โ€œWinterlongโ€ (โ€œfor Danny Whittenโ€); all grungy sadness, with lovely steel guitar and plaintive melodies. It doesnโ€™t get any better, though the second encore of โ€œTonightโ€™s The Nightโ€ comes pretty close.

The show ends where Youngโ€™s career began, with the surf instrumental, โ€œThe Sultanโ€, which he recorded with the Squires. Not that Neil explains that. Instead, the song is introduced by an Ali Baba character in a pantomime costume, banging a gong.

In the end, itโ€™s a thrill โ€“ a mix of the obscure and the familiar, and a lesson in the way the meaning of songs is changed by time and context. Oddly enough, it feels like the beginning of something, not the end.

ALASTAIR McKAY

Set 1

From Hank To Hendrix

Ambulance Blues

Kansas

Sad Movies

Mexico

A Man Needs A Maid

Harvest

Love In Mind

Journey Through The Past

Homegrown

Love Art Blues

Love Is A Rose

Out On The Weekend

Old Man

Set 2

The Loner

Dirty Old Man

Spirit Road

Powderfinger

Hey Hey My My

Too Far Gone

Oh Lonesome Me

Winterlong

No Hidden Path

Encores:

Fuckinโ€™ Up

Tonightโ€™s The Night

The Sultan