I once had the opportunity to interview legendary American singer and bandleader Cab Calloway, who had been an integral part of the notorious Harlem nightclub scene in the thirties and forties. It was my rather naive belief that by my simply mentioning the words "Cotton Club," Calloway would immediately fill my tape recorder with a stream of fascinating anecdotes. Trouble was, he was in a foul mood that day and would rather have been betting on the ponies at Fort Erie. Getting anything out of him was like trying to wrestle a lamb chop from a pit bull.
This long-suppressed incident popped back into my mind early on during the reading of The Long Trail, the autobiography of Canadian singer/songwriter/rancher (and Order of Canada recipient) Ian Tyson. It is obvious that Tyson has had a long, fulfilling and interesting life. The problem is, he just doesn't seem very interested in expostulating about it. It's as if someone, somewhere, told Tyson that he really should write his autobiography, and he stolidly set about to do it. So he skims through his childhood, touches on his decision to learn to play guitar, speeds through his partnership (musical and matrimonial) with Sylvia Tyson, and so on through the rest of his life.
The problem is, one could easily gain this information simply by typing the words Tyson and wiki into Google. What's missing from this perfunctory retelling of the Tyson tale is any depth of feeling, any real insights into the events that are listed. Except when he begins discussing the things that interest him today (women, horses, protecting the western environment, not necessarily in that order), the whole affair comes across as not much more illuminating than a timeline in a history text.
For example, during his glory days in the burgeoning folk-music movement in the late fifties and early sixties, the by-then-successful Tyson (Ian and Sylvia had had big hits with Four Strong Winds and Someday Soon) met up with the young Bob Dylan while both were hanging out in Greenwich Village. We learn that it was a widely held belief that Tyson introduced Dylan to marijuana, arguably a fairly important moment in Dylan's development. But that tidbit of information is all we get. No background, no colour, no insights into the personality of the developing folk singer.
Additionally, Tyson notes that in 1964, the Beatles famously appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show, an event that proved to be the kiss of death for the entire folk movement. But again, the event is allowed to pass by with almost no consideration. Many names are recalled from Tyson's New York City dalliance, including legendary manager Albert Grossman, singers Ramblin' Jack Elliott, Tom Russell and more. But they are tossed off as one might mention the list of towns one has driven through on a motoring holiday. Just names, no insights.
One would assume that this would have been a concern for collaborator/ghost writer Jeremy Klaszus, who would presumably have been charged with the task of pulling more from Tyson than the latter was immediately willing to give. Quite probably, that would not have been an easy task. Tyson has described himself here as "irascible," and one can pretty much conclude from reading the text that he is also a somewhat taciturn individual, not a great combination for Klaszus to deal with.
Certainly we gain some insights, even if we have to read between the lines to do so. Tyson's love affair with the Old West, now obviously fully developed, was stimulated not by birth, but by art and literature, and grew from there. While he certainly enjoys the company of rough-and-tumble cowboy types like himself, he also has a strong loner streak, writing much of his latter-day material in isolated cabins on the fringes of his property. His relationship with son Clay is well documented. And, as is detailed near the book's conclusion, he has become a tireless advocate for the protection of the western environment.
But again, so much of this is already known, or easily discovered. Tyson had the opportunity here to show us so much more about himself than he ultimately did, but, for whatever reason, declined to do so.
Alan Niester is a Toronto freelance writer.