Robbie Basho
The Voice of the Eagle
There’s a moment near the midpoint of “Wounded Knee Soliloquy” where Robbie Basho abruptly aborts the song’s deliberate strum and pick method in favor of a ringing wall of jangle while he calls out to the heavens. His voice, which to this point had been a controlled groan with the occasional flare, is freed into a full out bellow over the caterwauling guitar rubble. “Are you ready, my son / For to ride This Rainbow of His Light?” Such a spiritually obtuse suggestion, while certainly present, rarely fits well within the ethos of the early Seventies outsider folk scene. It can seem too bold and grandiose for the usually timid, simple melodies of the era. But in Basho’s hands they are commonplace and become extragalatically comforting.
Much like his music, Basho’s life was an adventure of human spirituality. From his early orphan days through a youth of Catholic schooling, he catapulted into the beat-inspired, wild cultural melting pot that existed on the fringes of Washington, D.C., in the early 1960s. Along with John Fahey, Sandy Bull, and Davy Graham*, Basho helped pioneer a new era of experimentation in the American folk community, both technically and stylistically. Over a bed of Americana-laced Indian ragas, he meandered through ancient Hindu teachings, samurai honor systems, the dark corners of the Caribbean magic, and American Indian mythology. Along the way the recordings, melodies, and mantras became clearer, while his voice developed from a piercing howl into a musically emotive, melissma-laden croon.For 1972’s The Voice of the Eagle, Basho stays solely in the Western hemisphere. The Hopi, Lakota, Incan, and Nez Percé stories and imagery provide a stable narrative of honoring nature and the Creator, while living in awe of their accomplishments and striving for a blessed path. Punctuated by a South Indian log drum, “The Voice of the Eagle” and “Omaha Tribal Prayer” bounce along as if they belonged to the American road music trope while they, unmistakably, do not at the same time. The album’s sole terrestrial fare, “Roses and Gold,” ruminates, with a melancholily deliberate delivery, on the emotional ecstasy of love and sitting quietly in a forest, watching nearby deer graze. At Eagle’s close, the ascension of “Moving Up a Ways” with the seemingly infinite expanses of Basho’s six-string propulsively droning bigger and stronger, his voice warbles and careens until he comfortably relaxes in redemption.
Towards the end of his career, Basho’s form had become something extraordinary. Always a willing guitar smith, he had made his career on experimenting and honing a style that knew no bounds when it came to imaginative musical story arcs. Similarly, his voice had, album by album, become a sharper conduit of spiritual empathy. Eagle marks the first moment where both his playing and singing could stop you in your tracks. It’s unreal. In fact, there are moments when it’s easier to imagine Basho as a face in a cloud, his booming voice drifting down a mountain slope, than it is to picture him as a man. While that might be taking it a bit far, Eagle and the rest of his later catalog can create equally otherworldy ideas about the man and his motives. He is a unique force that needs to be taken in and digested.
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*Actually British. Thanks Chris.
