Tonight’s The Night is part funeral, part séance. Rarely, in any medium, have abjection, misery and disillusionment manifested themselves so gloriously as catharsis, or resulted in greater art. Tonight’s The Night finds our chapfallen hero reeling from the drug-related deaths of two friends: roadie Bruce Berry and Crazy Horse guitarist Danny Whitten. Within these tormented songs, Neil veraciously chronicles the void like a Fender Broadcaster-slinging Rimbuad in Elvis shades. The band members, out of tune and out of their heads, follow suit, underpinning the shit-faced atmosphere with bloodshot, feral accompaniment. Never has rock and roll exhibited such compassion or volunteered so much pain; never has a musical artist gambled so recklessly with their reputation in an attempt to express their innermost feelings at any cost. Tonight’s The Night is less a record than it is an open wound. At its heart, the album is redemptive, but the path to that redemption would seem to require immolation; Tonight’s the Night will leave ashes on your turntable. The songs — morose, disturbing, and magnificent — are, for once, beside the point.