About this CD
- Release date: May 6, 2008
- Label: Sony / Columbia
- Catalog number: 728078
- Produced by Rick Rubin
- Arranged by David Campbell
- Musicians: Neil Diamond: guitar, vocals; Mike Campbell: guitar, bass; Benmont Tench: keyboards; Smokey Hormel: guitar, bass; Jonny Polonsky: guitar; Matt Sweeney: guitar; David R. Stone: bass; Charlie Bisharat: concert master; David Campbell: leader; Armen Garabedian: violin; Julian Hallmark: violin; Michele Richards: violin; Andrew Duckles: viola; Larry Corbett: cello; Rudolph Stein: cello; Earl Dumler: English horn, oboe; Chuck Findley: trumpet; Gary Grant: trumpet; Steven M. Holtman: trombone; William Reichenbach: trombone; Joe Meyer: French horn; Nathan Campbell: French horn; Rose Corrigan: bassoon; Ralph Williams: clarinet; Dan Higgins: flute; Larry Klimas: flute; Don Markese: flute; Robert Shulgold: flute; Marvins Gordy III: timpani
- Engineered by Bernie Becker, Andrew Scheps, Greg Fidelman, Jason Lader
- Mastered by Vlado Meller, Mark Santangelo
Pros
- Rubin expands the production ever so slightly from the bare-bones 12 Songs, allowing Neil's songs to gently open up like philosophical flora.
- Diamond has never sounded more clearheaded in his lyrical vision, and the music, still free from any trace of bombast, drives it home.
- That Voice is still in fine form; if anything, it's mellowed with age like a fine wine.
Cons
- These tunes take a long time to fully reveal themselves, which can be a burden for those raised on Neil's three-minute operas.
My review
That was one trick, however, but the greater accomplishment of Home Before Dark is in revealing a Neil we never truly came face to face with before: not just an elder statesmen ruminating about the end of the road, but a great -- and honestly terrified -- philosopher holding forth on life and love. The result makes this Neil's finest moment on record, a more emotionally satisfying and lyrically sensible album even than his Robbie Robertson-produced bid for respectability, 1976's Beautiful Noise.
The opener, "IF I Don't See You Again," sounds just like the kind of bittersweet sendoff Diamond made big bucks on in the late Seventies, and, not coincidentally, the quiet scrapbook-flipping sometimes found on those Cash records. But then, over seven minutes, the song gently and relentlessly unfolds into an epic tug of war between need and regret:
