For the first time in years, Robertson was sitting through the entirety of The Last Waltz, the Martin Scorsese-directed adios recently dusted off and polished up for re-release--in theaters this month, followed by a DVD come May. Till that night in Austin, he'd seen little of the film he produced and instigated; every so often he'd come across it on television and keep on cruising right past it. "I would say, 'Oh, God, look, they're showing The Last Waltz,'" he says now, "and it just wasn't the time or place for me to sit there and watch the whole thing." Last month in Austin, it was the right time and the right place. Mostly, he wanted to check the restored sound, which he supervised, and see how it played in a theater; maybe he even wanted to spend a couple of hours up there with dead friends and old ghosts he'd never see again.
Further pushing the night into weird-shit territory was an audience that applauded after every song and gave a standing ovation before the last notes of The Last Waltz had begun to fade. "It was like, holy smokes," Robertson says a few days later, his deep, raspy voice full of genuine delight and surprise. "I love the idea that people could get lost between the audience that was at the concert and the audience in the movie theater. It all started to feel like it became one, in a way. That's pretty extraordinary. I've never had that experience before."
Through some specious math equations, this is supposed to be the 25th anniversary of The Last Waltz, which was filmed on Thanksgiving Day 1976 and released in 1978; perhaps this is the 25th anniversary of the movie's editing. Even so, it's an occasion rife with hoopla: Not only is MGM/UA putting the film in theaters and releasing the DVD, complete with outtakes and two commentary tracks, but Rhino Records this week is issuing a four-disc boxed set containing the original 30 tracks and 24 oft-bootlegged outtakes. And Robertson has been working like hell to promote the sucker: Everywhere one turned during the South by Southwest Music Conference last month, there he was--delivering a keynote speech that recounted the history of The Band (after which you felt as though you lived through every day of those 16 years), catching Norah Jones' showcase at a local Indian restaurant, attending a showcase by a band he helped sign to DreamWorks Records, giving a speech before the screening.
He's often said he's not fond of backward-glancing; the past is just that and, far as he figures, not worth a second look. After The Last Waltz, he would never again perform with his old pals Levon Helm, Richard Manuel, Rick Danko and Garth Hudson, and he never will: Manuel hanged himself in 1986 after a concert by an atrophied version of The Band, and Danko died in his sleep 13 years later. Working on this project was "sad sweet," Robertson insists. "I wouldn't say bittersweet, but, you know, there's definitely a sadness to think, you know, that I'll never be able to talk with Richard or with Rick again."
But after years of making albums that sounded like a conscious effort to distance himself from The Band's sepia-tinted sound--as though they were Civil War soldiers trapped in a time warp and landed in Woodstock in 1968, with electric guitars in hand--Robertson spent long hours for many months working with Scorsese to buff up The Last Waltz. The director oversaw the picture, the songwriter retooled the sound, and the result is magical--the end of an era made more viable now than perhaps it was upon initial release. After all, back then audiences might have taken The Band--and its guests that night in San Francisco, from Bob Dylan to Neil Young to Van Morrison--for granted; they were everywhere and, it seemed, not going anywhere. Today, with the exception of Dylan and perhaps Young, they've been done in--by time (which claimed Muddy Waters and Pops Staples), maybe even by themselves. Robertson figures we need to be reminded of their importance; and maybe they do, too.