These came out in 2000 — or at least that’s when I got ’em. Here’s what I said about them back then (with some minor editing):
A time to live, a time to die, a time to reap, a time to sow — and a time to remix, remaster and reissue?
Thanks to the CD revolution and the aging boomer population, the latter era has come around for a lot of classic ’60s bands. Lately, it’s been The Byrds’ turn (turn, turn); Sony and Byrds man Roger McGuinn have spent the last few years slowly refurbishing the rereleasing most of the the seminal country-rock outfit’s catalogue in chronological order. The four discs above are the last chapter in that tale, covering the combo’s final days as a McGuinn-led foursome, long after their Eight Miles High glory days and minus original members David Crosby, Gene Clark, Chris Hillman and Michael Clarke.
Like many bands in similar shoes, by the late ’60s The Byrds survived primarily as a live act, obligingly (if not grudgingly) cranking out the hits on endless tours that hammered them into an onstage outfit as predictably precise as a Swiss watch. Still, as the newly unearthed tapes of Live At The Fillmore – February 1969 attest, Roger and co. could still weave some magic on occasion. After barreling through the obligatory hits medley — Turn! Turn! Turn!, Mr. Tambourine Man, Eight Miles High — early on in the set, the boys turn their attention to their just-released Dr. Byrds and Mr. Hyde disc, jangling their way through a fiery set peppered with the usual Bob Dylan covers (This Wheel’s On Fire, Chimes Of Freedom) and the sort of cool country and bluegrass tunes that seldom made it onto their studio albums: Buck Owens’ Buckaroo and Close up the Honky Tonks (penned by Red Simpson), along with Merle Haggard’s Sing Me Back Home.
By contrast, the live half of 1970’s double-album (Untitled), with its own collection of Dylan tunes and hits — including a 16-minute hippie-jam version of Eight Miles High — seems uninspired. Still, it earns its status as the last great Byrds album on the studio portion, which contains underappreciated originals like Chestnut Mare and Just A Season, along with covers of Lead Belly’s Take A Whiff On Me and Lowell George’s Truck Stop Girl. For fans, though, the real draw here is the accompanying disc (Unissued), with 14 unreleased cuts, including live versions of some studio tracks (and vice versa), another George cover (Willin’) and a sweet a cappella coda of Amazing Grace.
Sadly, there’s little amazing about ’71’s lifeless Byrdmaniax, a syrupy, over-produced affair that even McGuinn admits isn’t the band’s finest hour. The only mitigating factors are the bluegrass breakdown Green Apple Quick Step and the touching Pale Blue, one of McGuinn’s finest tunes from the period. Here, bonus tracks include a starker alternate version of Pale Blue and — yes, you guessed it — a Dylan cover (Just Like A Woman).
Thankfully, the band put away the Bob fakebook and regrouped in time for 1972’s Farther Along, their final disc before McGuinn sacked the rest of the band for a short-lived reunion of original members. From the opening Chuck Berry chords of Tiffany Queen and the country boogie of roadie ode B.B. Class Road to the R&B of Johnny Otis’s So Fine, Farther Along sends the band out with a bang, not a whimper — and reminds us The Byrds’ era was a time to remember.
