When I was a kid first getting into classic rock, Neil Young was “the weird one.” The Beatles, the Stones, the Who, Led Zeppelin, they all had their legions of fans. Young, did, too. But they were the loners, the wanderers. My elders would quip about his voice, or the darkness simmering underneath his writing. For every beautiful, enduring folk-rock hit, he had a whole array of gnarled music unafraid to lean into some harrowing adult shit — not foreign amongst his peers, but rarely conveyed with so much unflinching honesty. Out of all the Boomer icons, Young was the dark horse.

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