Omnivore Records' latest set of Townes Van Zandt reissues speaks to many different aspects of the Texan songwriter's appeal-- the earthy and direct Lone Star troubadour; the decorous, eccentric Cowboy Jack Clement productions-- all playing out the rootlessness, loneliness, senseless tragedy, and unending remorse that featured in his life.
There are two versions of “Pancho & Lefty” among the three new Van Zandt reissues from Omnivore Records, who hopefully have many more in the wings. Not only could the pair not be any more different from one another and still be the same song, but each version speaks to a different aspect of Van Zandt’s appeal. The first, from his 1972 album The Late Great Townes Van Zandt, was produced by Cowboy Jack Clement, who fills the space in the song with strings, mariachi horns, and all manner of studio tricks. The second, an alternate mix on the 2xCD demos and alt-takes set Sunshine Boy, is minimal by comparison, with only a handful of live instruments accompanying Van Zandt. The only elements that connect them are his unpretentiously hangdog vocals and that wandering piano line that never finds a place to rest and so enacts the song’s outlaw existentialism.
Here are two sides of Van Zandt, as clearly distinguished as if by state lines. The full studio version is decorous and even a bit gaudy, as was Cowboy Jack’s peculiar style, but it’s also moody and cinematic, with those horns evoking a wide-open plain that’s either a desert or a void. Historically, it’s been too easy to dismiss this version, as many Townes fans disregard Clement’s studio ministrations as overwrought and overbearing. Even Van Zandt himself disowned the horns and strings, claiming they were added without his say-so. And yet, on “Pancho & Lefty” as throughout The Late Great, Clement’s production tends to be as eccentric as Van Zandt himself. The lackadaisical plod of his cover of Hank Williams’ “Honky Tonkin’” implies a Music Row absurdism bolstered by the pots-and-pans percussion and fuzzed-out guitar solo. The sci-fi experiment “Silver Ships of Andilar” is self-consciously grandiose, almost like Serge Gainsbourg drinking Shiner and munching kolaches, and ominous synths interrupt the crushing desperation of “Snow Don’t Fall”, a devastating memorial to his girlfriend, who was murdered while hitchhiking to a recording session. If The Late Great is overwrought, as even Colin Escott claims in the new liners, it’s always overwrought with great purpose and conceptual weight.
That song appears twice on Sunshine Boy and once on High, Low & In Between, but the alternate take, which features a piano intro and a band that knows the absolute best time to come in, may actually be the definitive version of the song, with a hymnal directness and a stoicism in the face of endless farewells. If The Late, Great sharpens the cosmic cowboy orchestrations and Sunshine Boy winnows the songs to their barest essentials, then High, Low and in Between more than lives up to its title. Unsurprisingly, Van Zandt inhabits the in-between so comfortably that this becomes one of the best country-rock records ever made, full of humor (“No Deal”), heartache (“Greensboro Woman”), and commiseration (“Highway Kind”). Softening that melancholy somewhat is a trio of country-gospel numbers that strike a celebratory note: “Two Hands” opens the album by explaining that his physical body makes possible spiritual salvation through music, while “Standin’” (a rearrangement of a traditional tune) suggests that his troubles extend well beyond his birth and death. In other words, his life is just an excerpt of a continuum of despair; the song itself is, cosmically, upbeat.