When I was young boy, Neil Diamond encompassed the sun and the earth. This isn’t an easy thing to admit. From birth until this very moment, with a good six to seven year lapse, Neil Diamond has been a part of my life. Every waking moment is haunted by that luxurious comb over and the unusually thick chest hair protruding from sparkly stage shirts. Acting out the various scenes in The Jazz Singer, or putting on an hour and a half concert to Hot August Night in my Grandparent’s living room are some of the most cherished memories I have. What I’m really wondering, though, is that if this life long obsession with the self proclaimed Solitary Man has fucked me up in any tangible way?

It’s one thing to ponder the Nick Hornby, High Fidelity question as to whether us devotees of pop music are miserable because of pop music, but it’s another ball of wax entirely as to examine whether one’s own life has become the embodiment of an artists songs. It’s impossible to think about, really, without wanting to run away, burn your record collection, and spend the rest of your days living as a Mormon. The fundamental question as to whether your life’s path thus far has anything to do with the songbook of another human being is also a foolish and selfish one, I mean, can the body of Neil Diamond’s work have put me here? Does it have anything to do with the way that I think?

I spent most of my youth ingesting some of the most trite lyrics and syrupy production values on a daily basis. As a five year old, I somehow bonded with the sorrow filled and meloncholic lyrics of songs like “Solitary Man,” “I Am…I Said,” “Love on the Rocks,” and “Hello Again” to name a few. Repeated listening at the most important years of my development of lines like, “But I’ve got an emptiness deep inside, and I’ve tried but it won’t let me go,” has to play some sort of role in my life as a semi-functioning adult. Again, am I miserable because I listen to Neil Diamond or do I listen to Neil Diamond because I’m miserable? Did I spend my youth in vain trying to imitate the every move of a self described “loner?” To try and blame anything on Neil and his music seems to be a bit selfish, and most definitely a cop out of some kind.

Which brings me to Neil Diamond’s latest dispatch, Home Before Dark. I remember several years ago when it came through the wire that Neil Diamond was working with uber-producer, Rick Rubin. The combination seemed odd to say the least. For many reasons, Neil Diamond’s reputation through the years has been that of a pop crooner, the Jewish Elvis, writer of “Sweet Caroline,” and other infectious, but rather lightweight pop hits. His vocal bombast, as well as the outright corny nature of his live shows have turned fans of “serious pop music,” off for years. In a lot of ways, he is the prototypical housewife’s dream. Not too offensive, and not too heavy either. While the flower generation ate up bands like Jefferson Airplane and The Doors, Neil was making records for their more conservative counterparts not interested in revolution, but interested in listening to music that made them feel good or feel something anyway. Yet, underneath that image of the sparkly shirts and showman attitude, always lay another, deeper level to Neil Diamond that so many miss when assessing his career. It took Rick Rubin to get to that level, first on 12 Songs, and now on Home Before Dark.

Like his previous effort, Home Before Dark is a stripped down affair with Neil’s voice front and center in the production, and only accompanied by himself on guitar, as well as Heartbreaker Mike Campbell and Matt Sweeney on Guitar, Smokey Hormel on bass, and another Heartbreaker, Benmont Tench on piano. There are no drums, the guitars are all acoustic, and there are a few tasteful string arrangements. While some of my “hipper” counterparts argued back in 2005 that because of this stripped down sound, as well as the production credits going to Rick Rubin, that Neil Diamond was trying to ride on the coat tails of the great Johnny Cash to a late career resurgence, I argued that Rubin was boiling the songwriting of Neil down to its essence. The first hit records of Neil’s career, “Cherry Cherry,” “Kentucky Woman,” feature no drums, acoustic guitars, and little flair. While those were somewhat happier affairs, the point is that these Rubin produced albums are all essentially Neil Diamond and nobody else.

Being that they are Neil, these songs are quite dire and dark. Neil is more blunt than he’s ever been before. Where casual sex has never been part of the Neil Diamond songwriting vocabulary, the subject comes up in the first track, “If I Don’t See You Again.” The title sounds like about a million album tracks from the early 70’s that Neil penned, and in this somber and sober tale of a breakup that Neil sounds as though he’s initiating, he states, “And at the end of the day, I hated sleeping around. There’s nothing worse when you’re lost and you don’t want to be found.” The melody is intense, catchy, draws you in like a million other Neil songs. The solitary man is in full bloom.

He is for the rest of the album, too, making this probably one of the most depressing records of the year. It’s just heavy lifting. Songs like “One More Bite of the Apple,” and “Forgotten,” are indeed catchy and hook laden as hell. The duet on “Another Day (That Time Forgot)” with Dixie Chick, Natalie Mains, is so fine that you’ll forget about his last duet with Streisand as long as you live. Yeah, sure, there are some cliches and endless metaphor, but that’s ok. That’s part of the reason that many of us like Neil.

So now, I sit here, after digesting this record for a month straight wondering where my life would be and how I would be different had my childhood hero had been Spiderman instead. Listening to this record, even with this being one of the darker albums I’ve listened to in a long time, I don’t think I’d have it any other way.