The Harvest Moon album done solo and acoustically (guitar and piano) in front of an attentively reverent audience.
You can almost hear the sound of nodding. It’s a committed performance and Young sings with familiar withering inelegance, but it has to be said that, denuded of their tasteful studio arrangements, not all of the songs stand up well to this kind of exposure. Hippie romanticism needs to keep its threads on, man. Naked, its basic triteness is horribly pale and shiversome. For Young fanatics only.