The Fogelberg Files: Live at Carnegie Hall

My Facebook Memories brim with bittersweet remembrances, from our routine weekend outings with my late mother-in-law to lunches or dinners with my late mom, plus bookstore jaunts with a friend who passed far, far too young. Interspersed throughout, as well, are memories that range from fun to mundane, such as check-ins at concert venues and coffeeshops, not to mention donut runs and my comments on random life events. Here’s one from this day in 2011: “Comcast guy arrived and swapped out our dead phone modem for a new one. Nice guy, but talkative.”

More memories await me elsewhere. My iPhone blurts out photo-based recollections every so often, some themed (Pet Friends) and others tied to specific days. My old desk diaries—1977 and 1982 through ’85—sit in one desk drawer; I recorded the ephemera of life in them, plus my ever-shifting work hours, and—in the early years of this blog—used them as the basis for a few of my Top 5s.

The same’s true for others, I’m sure. We’ve constructed a culture that constantly looks back and re-evaluates, dinging this person for not living up to today’s mores and re-assessing the importance of artists and their works long after the fact. Rolling Stone’s ever-shifting Top 500 Albums of All Time is one example. The annual Rock & Roll Hall of Fame magician’s ball, which fosters the myth that sales equal influence, is another. Bloggers such as myself indulge in such things, as well. It’s part and parcel of fandom.

I launched the Fogelberg Files during the heart of the pandemic, when there wasn’t much new to highlight. Dan Fogelberg (1951-2007) was a singer-songwriter I always thought I should check out but never did—blame time, circumstance and a myriad of competing interests. I was somewhat familiar with The Innocent Age, having bought it around the time of its 1981 release, and thoroughly enjoyed his mid-‘80s bluegrass outing, High Country Snows, but the rest of his catalogue was a mystery to me. A slalom through his discography sounded like it might be fun and, even if it wasn’t, it’d give me something to write about. 

In the months prior to launching the series, as I explained in my introduction, I’d listened to and enjoyed Zach Phillips’ The Wine of Youth, an album that conjured The Innocent Age to my ears—or, to be accurate, my memory of it, as I hadn’t listened to the album in near 40 years. Once I did revisit it, however, well, wow. Just wow. I then clicked play on the archival Live at Carnegie Hall, a concert from April 17, 1979, that was released in 2017. It is, in two words, simply phenomenal.

I assumed, that January day in 2021 when I launched the series, I’d be done with Fogelberg’s canon by year’s end or, if not, at least midway through 2022, concluding with my musings on Carnegie Hall and whether he deserved to be in the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. Such has not been the case. My thoughts on several of his sets fueled rancorous ripostes from some fans, which turned me off for a time. (It’s fine to disagree, and I will approve such comments, but don’t call me names!) Too, as the pandemic eased, a deluge of new music began spilling through the headphones that I felt compelled to spotlight.

I still plan to eventually finish the slalom—four studio albums, his original Greatest Hits, plus two additional live sets are left. None will top Live at Carnegie Hall. At the time of the 14-date solo tour, which spanned April 1979, he was immersed in the recording of his Phoenix album, which would rise from the record bins that November. The 25-song set serves as a “best of,” in a way, highlighting favorite tracks as well as two forthcoming gems. 

To my ears, his early LPs were mostly hit-and-miss affairs due to awkward lyrical phrases and a penchant for overproduction. There’s not much to be done about grammatical faux pas; they are what they are and, more often than not, can be overlooked when the sentiment driving the songs ring true. The slathering on of background vocals and strings, on the other hand, can’t be ignored. Captured Angel often sounds to me as if it’s smothered in syrup, for example. Perhaps that’s why I enjoy Live at Carnegie Hall as much as I do. It’s just him alone on stage, playing piano or strumming a guitar.

The recording hails from a cassette that, as Fogelberg’s widow Jean recounts here, was plugged into the mixing board by PA engineer John Logan almost as an afterthought. At some point in the decades that followed, Fogelberg converted it to a DAT tape—and then, for reasons unknown, set it aside. Jean came across it in 2015 and set out to share it with fans. 

The first thing to know about the recording: If you close your eyes, you’ll swear you’re in the legendary concert hall. The sound is pristine. The second thing to know: Fogelberg is in the zone throughout. Whatever nervousness he may have had from playing the historic venue, which first opened its doors in 1891, dissipated the moment he hit the stage.

“Nether Lands” opens the night in sterling form. He’s at the piano, no doubt looking out at the audience—which included his parents—and weaving magic from the keys. Then his lonesome high vocal flies in and time all but stops. It’s a song about loneliness and wishing for love, of leading a life beyond the spotlight. “Once Upon a Time,” which follows, finds him switching to acoustic guitar but mining the same basic theme. The guitar strings shimmer.

Similar enchantments are present throughout.

Much has been made in some quarters of whether Fogelberg should be inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. I’m long past caring who is and isn’t included in what’s little more than an annual TV special. The only Hall that matters is one’s own music collection, be it vinyl, CD or, as is increasingly common, virtual. Live at Carnegie Hall deserves admittance to that. There’s magic in the grooves. If you enjoy Crosby, Stills & Nash, Neil Young or Suzanne Vega, Indigo Girls and on down the line, not to mention such modern singer-songwriters as Margo Cilker and Caroline Spence, give this a go. It’s a spellbinding set.

The track list:

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