Imagine owning 20,000 copies of your own album just to keep the world from hearing it. That’s not a metaphor—it’s Neil Young’s bizarre yet telling story about his 1978 album Comes a Time. To most, this would be a bizarre act of self-sabotage, but for Young, it was a calculated rebellion against the industry’s obsession with polish and perfection. What makes this particularly fascinating is how it underscores a deeper truth: artistry often thrives in the cracks, where imperfection becomes authenticity. I’ve always believed that the most enduring creative works aren’t born from formulas but from moments of raw vulnerability. Young’s decision to bury his album—literally, as he later admitted—wasn’t about hiding his flaws. It was about protecting the essence of what he created. The irony, of course, is that Comes a Time remains one of his most emotionally resonant records, a paradox that speaks volumes about the tension between intention and reception.
Let’s talk about Goin’ Back, the track Young called ‘one of my favourite records.’ To me, this song isn’t just a nostalgic lament—it’s a psychological portrait of someone grappling with the weight of fame and the erosion of innocence. The ‘funky’ sound he describes, with its muddled textures and stripped-back production, feels deliberately unpolished. But here’s the thing: that ‘muddle’ isn’t a flaw. It’s a deliberate choice to let the listener sit in the discomfort of uncertainty. I’ve always found it interesting how Young frames this as a ‘snapshot of his life’—a moment frozen in time where the sixties’ idealism has crumbled into debris. What this really suggests is that true art often emerges from the spaces between clarity and chaos. The song’s warmth, despite its imperfections, feels like a campfire conversation at his Broken Arrow Ranch: intimate, unfiltered, and unapologetically human.
Now, let’s unpack the 20,000 copies anecdote. This isn’t just a quirky trivia tidbit; it’s a window into Young’s psyche. Why would someone destroy their own work to keep it from the public? From my perspective, it’s a manifestation of his lifelong battle with self-doubt and the fear of being misunderstood. The story of using the albums as shingles for a barn roof is almost mythic in its absurdity. But what many people don’t realize is that this act of destruction was also a form of preservation. By rendering the record inaccessible, Young protected it from the commercialization that might have diluted its meaning. It’s a perverse kind of love letter to his own artistry—a way of saying, ‘This is mine, and no one else gets to interpret it.’
And yet, the album’s legacy endures. Comes a Time is a testament to the idea that art doesn’t need to be flawless to be profound. In an era where music is engineered to sound perfect, Young’s willingness to embrace ‘imperfection’ feels revolutionary. I’ve often wondered if this is why his work still resonates so deeply: because it reminds us that life itself is messy, and so should our art be. The ‘funky’ sound of Goin’ Back isn’t just a relic of 1978—it’s a challenge to modern listeners to find beauty in the unrefined. What this really suggests is that the greatest artists aren’t those who chase trends, but those who dare to be unapologetically themselves, even when it means burning their own bridges.
In the end, Comes a Time isn’t just an album. It’s a manifesto for creative integrity. Young’s refusal to conform, his embrace of imperfection, and his willingness to protect his vision—even at the cost of obscurity—serve as a reminder that art is not a product to be sold, but a mirror held up to the soul. As I reflect on this, I’m struck by how rare it is to see an artist so unapologetically honest about their own contradictions. In a world that demands perfection, Young’s ‘funky’ legacy is a defiant celebration of the messy, beautiful truth that lies beneath the surface.
