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101 of 106 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Robertson vs. Manuel in a life and death struggle, February 8, 2003
The conventional wisdom is right: Pound for pound, "Big Pink" and "The Band" are more complete successes for this group, and I love them both. But I love "Stage Fright" more. It is the album where this group drops its masks and speaks directly to the audience about themselves and each other. The Band is really two duos: Helm and Danko, who are usually paired as singers on some of the group's best-loved material, and Robertson and Manuel, who are engaged in a sort of musical and spiritual dialogue that often forms much of the depth, richness and mystery of this group. That dialogue is the dominant theme of "Stage Fright" in its many evocations of the theme of self-destructiveness, especially the self-destructiveness of a great artist. My theory is, Richard Manuel was the artistic soul of the The Band. He was their best singer, by far. His "feel" approach to playing the many instruments he played, especially piano, gave the Band a funky, soulful "bottom" that contrasted with the highly intellectual approaches of both Robertson and Hudson. Manuel was responsible, on their first three albums, for some of their very best songs as writer or co-writer: "Tears of Rage," "In A Station," "Lonesome Suzie," "Whispering Pines," "Across the Great Divide," and, on this album, "Sleeping" and "The Shape I'm In" were at least partly his. But...Richard Manuel was not a particularly responsible person. He was, in fact a drunk, and an unmotivated writer. He was a sadly vulnerable man, for whom, as Robertson writes in "Sleeping," "the world was too sore to live in." In some ways, being in the Band destroyed him. At the same time, it created a place for him to hide. Robertson, ever the brilliant control freak, clearly admired and loved Richard Manuel, and was also exasperated with him. Robertson was basically in charge of the business of The Band, and also the artistic direction of The Band as its most prolific songwriter. He wanted Manuel to play a bigger role, but eventually saw that he couldn't, or wouldn't. And so, according to my theory, he wrote songs to reach him when nothing else would work. It is no accident that the leadoff track is "Strawberry Wine," a fun but desperate track in which Levon Helm sings (brilliantly) the part of a drunk who wants to be left alone to "feel good all the time." This is followed by the album's first masterpiece, "Sleeping," which at first seems to be about life as a musician on the road, but expands into a poem about isolation and hiding. This song, one of Manuel's most treasured performances, almost seems like a dialogue between the two men, with Robertson acknowledging that perhaps life on the road, in which "to be called by noon, is to be called too soon" is part of the drill if you're performing before crowds of people "searching" for something special every night. Maybe, Robertson seems to suggest, that's why Richard is such a juicer; it's the road's fault. But then, the song seems to say, that's not why. He would be living this way on his own, even if he weren't part of The Band. Maybe the rock and roll lifestyle isn't killing him; maybe it's really keeping him alive. I won't go through every song, but themes of drunkenness, fear, isolation, and hiding take some form in almost every remaining track. Even the two songs that have the "old-timey" historic and mythic resonances of their prior albums, "Daniel and the Sacred Harp" and "W.S. Walcott's Medicine Show" are tales full of personal symbolism. Richard Manuel plays the role of the music-mad Daniel who sells his soul to play the sacred harp, but Levon Helm sings the part of the narrator who becomes horrified at Daniel's fate: "When he looked to the ground, he noticed no shadow did he cast." Again, this is Robertson assessing the cost of the music career to himself and his bandmates, especially Manuel. "Walcott" reinterprets the rock and roll touring lifestyle as a 19th century medicine show, in which alcohol-laced snake oil and other mind altering substances are purveyed to the dazzled crowds as the keys to health--which, back in '69 is about right. Manuel just happened to be the guy who kept sampling the stock. After this album, Manuel had many more wonderful performances ahead of him, but he wrote no more songs. From the Last Waltz and everything one can read about the Band, he appears to have not taken the bootstrap advice of the singer in "Stage Fright" who "when he gets to the end, wants to start all over again." He went on, and kept singing because that kept him afloat long enough to get the next drink. He began the long, slow retreat that to the people who knew him best and admired his talent was probably an agonizing spectacle to watch. I see "Stage Fright" as a collection of songs in which Robbie Robertson alternately rages at, laughs at, cries about, and tries to save, Richard Manuel--and in which Richard Manuel finally escapes Robertson's tender mercies. And, as great as the first two Band albums might have been, they don't have this kind of intimacy and depth. This album is hardly the coda or afterthought to a classic period--it may be its culmination.
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is The Band's 
