The recent death of Neil Young's father, sports writer Scott Young, seems to weigh heavily on Prairie Wind. Throughout the lightly strummed album, judiciously enhanced with Stax-style horn swells, Young loses himself in childhood recollections. Save for oddly quoting Chris Rock on the 9/11 disaster, he's determined to ignore the empire crumbling around him and turn back the clock to simpler times, reminiscing about sunny days at the fishing hole, flocks of Canada geese and locomotives chugging past while the laundry is hung on the backyard clothesline to dry. There's no life-altering wisdom imparted on Prairie Wind - it's essentially the musical equivalent of a Norman Rockwell series on small-town life, only Young's rose-tinted view is slightly more sentimental. Sorry, Neil, all the sad shrieking in the world won't bring back the good ol' days.