Neil Young Rocks Adidas Arena: A Stunningly Sharp Performance!

On paper, there were plenty of reasons to do something else on Saturday, July 13, other than postponing vacations to stay in Paris to see Neil Young perform. First, the venue, the newly minted Arena at Porte de la Chapelle, backed by the three-stripe brand, was inaugurated with a concert by La Fève on April 11, 2024. Our own fear of aging made us apprehensive about a potentially hearing-impaired audience. Then there was Young’s new backing band, the Chrome Hearts, previously unknown until their recent collaborations on Big Change and the album Talkin to the Trees. And finally, there was the age of the man himself, turning 80 in the fall—typically a time better spent in front of German soap operas than running around stadiums for over two hours.

Yet, against all these doubts, there remained one compelling reason to be there, waiting in line, eager—and that reason was Neil Percival Young. Just the mention of his name conjures up an array of images: a lanky figure nearly 1.90 meters tall, always seeming to move sideways, constantly in motion, crossing spaces, loathing to linger. Young is known to be a challenging man, fearing nothing more than being captured by another’s expectations. Throughout his 60-year career, he has consistently done the opposite of what people expect from him. For some, he embodies the essence of hippie detachment: patchouli-scented ballads strummed casually by the fire. For others, he represents instability turned to fury, the unofficial father of grunge: rough, enraged, aggressive, all feedback and distortion.

Which side will prevail tonight? And in what condition?

Neil Young was performing in town, an occurrence that hadn’t happened for ten years. His concerts in France are extremely rare, and this date—the last of his European tour—was added as an afterthought, almost reluctantly. It was also the only indoor show, meaning it wasn’t designed for the muddy fields of a massive festival. The tension was palpable: would tonight’s performance be disjointed, excessive, or would it be magnificent, a grand finale? The suspense is unnecessary: it might have been the most cutting-edge performance we’ve ever witnessed.

We’ve never cried so much at every damn song. The concert was possibly decided in the first few seconds, with his choice to open not with an anthem but with a dark, intimate masterpiece: Ambulance Blues. You can’t get classier or more incisive than starting a 2025 concert with this track from On the Beach—a laid-back album that was a commercial flop upon its release in July 1974, hard to find for a long time, then became a cult classic upon reissue in 2016. Ambulance Blues, whose lyrics paint a picture of America caught in the web of a perpetual liar: “I never knew a man could tell so many lies / He had a different story for every set of eyes / How can he remember who he’s talking to? / ‘Cause I know it ain’t me, and hope it isn’t you.” Tonight’s privilege of age? The luxury of targeting Trump without altering a line from a song written in 1973 to politically take down Nixon. Yet, there’s a note of hope: politicians may come and go, even the vilest ones, but the people remain. They are the ones to speak to.

A New Imaginary

The band gradually takes the stage, and with Cowgirls in the Sand, the furious, epileptic portion of the next two hours begins. There are no words to describe how, through what magic, what potion, the man before us—aged, stooped, with a voice more nasally and metallic than ever, as if processed by a vocoder—transforms into the Neil Young of our fantasies. A resurrected Neil Young. This is thanks to the imaginary created by this new band.

To truly accompany Neil Young musically, one must deeply understand the enigma that he is. In this regard, The Chrome Hearts might just be the best band he’s ever had, rivaling the early days of Crazy Horse in the mid-1970s. Young loathes nothing more than having to change musicians. He knows that an overly prominent drum, a too orthodox, too academic guitarist can weigh down his vision and make it caricatural. This is precisely where the Chrome Hearts excel, merging seamlessly with the Loner. Initially, the band was a stripped-down version of Promise of the Real—who occasionally backed him for the past decade. However, Promise of the Real was originally Lukas Nelson’s band, Willie Nelson’s son. With Lukas embarking on a solo career, Young kept the younger brother: Micah Nelson, a towering figure over two meters tall, with extraordinary charisma, elegance, and generosity, a guitarist whom he initially integrated into Crazy Horse before now letting him lead the Chrome Hearts. The “Particle Kid,” as he is nicknamed, is tasked with setting the coordinates for the mire from which Neil Young’s lava surges.

Peaks of Volcanic Emotion

Micah, just 35, has a clear vision of what he loves about Neil Young. It comes from the double live album Arc/Weld, precisely the moment in 1991 when bands like Sonic Youth, Nirvana, Dinosaur Jr., Nick Cave, and Earth looked up to Neil Young, a bridge between furious feedback and melodic detachment. This band also knows something else, a crucial secret to getting it right: Neil Young as a soloist is influenced by only one person, John Coltrane. And the drummer of the Chrome Hearts possesses the freedom and simmering tension of a jazz drummer. All this elevates the two-hour concert to peaks of volcanic emotion.

We witness an extraordinary journey through Americana of almost cinematic power. Although if we’re talking about Westerns and the Great West, it’s important to know what kind of cinema we mean. Neil Young tonight isn’t like an Eastwood film (he leaves that to Springsteen, whom he’s never really admired), nor is it John Ford or even Sam Peckinpah (reserved territories of his revered Bob Dylan). The Neil Young of tonight, minority, drifting, contemplative, political, lurking, has something that retro-projects onto Jim Jarmusch (his friend since Dead Man) or Kelly Reichardt.

An Encore That Levels Everything

Sunday night was a blend of vastness and intimacy, Apache fury and Sioux ghosts: at one point, Young retreats alone, to sing in turn The Needle and the Damage Done and Harvest Moon: one song for two friends lost to the heroin disaster and another for his ex-wife who died of cancer. A moment of reflection to summon the spirits of the dead before the band reforms and resumes the sonic propulsions of Ohio and Cinnamon Girl.

Young says nothing to the audience, except a generic “How are you doing here?” Known from live recordings for his lengthy talks between songs, joking, and showing wit, not tonight. Tonight, it’s the taciturn, grumpy Neil Young, uncomfortable with language, preferring guitars to express the impenetrable truths.

A single encore, lasting over ten minutes, comes to level everything: Hey Hey, My My (Into the Black), the flagship song from Rust Never Sleeps. King Presley died in 1977, Johnny Rotten the little punk king is now just a clown supporting Trump and about to reunite the Pistols for money. Neil Young, ever-enduring, is still there to remind us that it’s better to burn out than to fade away like that, slowly, through betrayals. That’s the enigma: the one who knows that once you’re gone you can never come back, is still there to remind the others. But tonight, no, Neil Young is not 80 years old. The band surrounding him, protecting him, preserving him, gives him an incredible strength, a power he didn’t even have at twenty, back in… 1965!

Neil Young Forever.