John Hartford
1979-11-10
nov 11th
Bottom Line
NYC (NY) USA


FM sourced cassette of unknown generation
from the R.S. archive

transfer by R.S.
Nak BX-1>Tascam DR-07MK II>wav 24-48

hanwaker mastering
in 2026-08+09 :
-channel balance
-lowering applause
-splicing tape break
-peak smoothing
-tracking



TT
57:01

01. Two Dollar Bill
02. Skippin in the Mississippi Dew
03. Do the Boogie
04. Don’t leave your records in the sun
05. Work in tall Buildings
06.
07.
08. Long Hot Summer Day* (midway splice)
09. Orange Blossom Special
10. The Golden Globe Award
11. -encore and announcing of Peter Rowan
12. w Peter Rowan
13. (cuts) w Peter Rowan

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from New York Times
November 12, 1979, Section C, Page 15

EVERY once in awhile, even the most cosmopolitan music reviewer finds himself in an alien, almost incomprehensible situation. The Bottom Line”s Saturday late show, which found John Hartford and Peter Rowan playing to crowd that might charitably be described as delirious, was such a situation.

Mr. Hartford, who wrote the countypop standard “Gentle on My Mind” back in the 60's, plays the banjo, guitar and fiddle and sings in a flat but somewhat appealing baritone while clog dancing on a piece of plywood. On Saturday, he turned in competent but unexceptional performances of several traditional and original tunes.

He also sang a slight song about steamboat* for more than 20 minutes, with the audience happily roaring along. The young woman sitting next to the reviewer kept shrieking, at what seemed to him to be random intervals and for no discernible reason.

Peter Rowan, wearing a sort of mariachi costume, opened the show with a performance that was alternately intriguing and silly. The blend of his acoustic guitar with his accompanists’ electric guitar and string bass made for a rich ensemble sound, and his fusion of Tex‐Mex music, balladry, rockabilly touches and the odd Indian war whoop was deftly handled. But he kept insisting that he was some sort of psychedelic cowboy, riding his white horse Mescalito.

As every student of psychedilic lore knows, a horse named Mescalito should be green, not white. But the reviewer has to admit that he has never really grasped the conceptual underpinnings of the psychedelic cowbow gestalt. Nor does he understand why anyone would want to shriek while John Hartford was playing the banjo. The whole thing was simply too avant‐garde for a listener accustomed to the simpler pleasures of jazz, electronic music and new wave rock.

ROBERT PALMER
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from the R.S. archive
a hanwaker upload 2026-09