Fire from the Mountain

A country fiddler scores with a city boy's great tune

It is a match-up that has all the makings of a barroom brawl. On the right of the room, Charlie Daniels, roof-raising country rocker, the good ole fiddler who a couple of seasons ago sang about the devil going down to Georgia and about solid American spunk: "This lady may have stumbled, but she ain't never fell/ And if the Russians don't believe it, they can all go straight to hell."

On the left of the room, Dan Daley, New York City born and raised, at 28 younger than Daniels by 17 years, and at least 75 pounds lighter. A singer-songwriter with a solid dose of urban angst who has been plugging away in the music business for over a decade, with little to show for it but a cassette full of promising tunes.

Part of the peculiar physics of rock 'n' roll, however, is the ability to fuse opposites. What happened between The Charlie Daniels Band and Dan Daley and his demo tape is a hit song called Still in Saigon, featured on Daniels' new album, Windows, already 24 on the singles charts and climbing fast. At this bleak and uncertain moment for rock 'n' roll, Still in Saigon is not only the best single of the year so far; it would be a standout in the most bountiful of times.

Harsh, haunted, as chilling as a fever dream, Still in Saigon is music made from the silence of the dead. Like John Fogerty in his great songs for Creedence Clearwater Revival (Run Through the Jungle, Fortunate Son, Who'll Stop the Rain), Daley writes with ruthless simplicity. Still in Saigon has no patience with protest. Its power comes from undeflected imagery and reflective compassion: "The ground at home/ Was covered with snow/ And I was covered with sweat/ My younger brother calls me a killer/ And my Daddy calls me a vet .../ Damned if I know who I am/ There was only one place I was sure/ When I was ... Still in Saigon.":

Some have argued that the unlikely success of such a song demonstrates that the war in Viet Nam is now, securely, a safe issue. But Still in Saigon does not play it safe in the writing or in Daniels' slightly rowdy, defiant delivery. This is a war memorial of present and continued agony, about flashbacks that never stop and bad dreams that do not end with daylight: "Every summer when it rains/ I smell the jungle/ I hear the planes/ I can't tell no one/ I feel ashamed/ Afraid some day/ I'll go insane ..." It shows that popular music can still express strong and complex feelings, not mere sentiment. The true rock spirit may not be languishing after all, just waiting.