Underrated Neil Diamond Songs From the ’70s That Deserve Another Listen

Neil Diamond’s catalog has a strange imbalance to it. A handful of songs loom so large that they’ve practically become cultural shorthand, played at weddings, ballgames, and karaoke nights until they feel welded into the public memory. Meanwhile, the drop-off in attention after those staples is steep enough to hide entire stretches of strong material in plain sight. When an artist releases dozens of albums over several decades, that kind of imbalance doesn’t mean the rest is weak—it usually means people stopped digging.

That makes the idea of “underrated” Neil Diamond songs trickier than it sounds. His writing often lives in a familiar emotional lane, with recurring moods, tempos, and lyrical instincts that can blur together if you’re skimming instead of listening. The goal here isn’t to single out tracks that reject his signature style outright, but to focus on songs that stand apart just enough—whether through rhythm, arrangement, or thematic weight—to feel overlooked next to their better-known neighbors. To keep things focused, this list stays firmly in the 1970s, even if that means leaving behind some obvious fan favorites from earlier years.

Taken together, these songs show a version of Diamond that’s more varied than his reputation suggests. There’s spiritual curiosity, rhythmic experimentation, and flashes of grit that don’t always make it into the oldies rotation. With Diamond no longer an active presence, revisiting these lesser-played tracks feels less like nostalgia and more like recovery work—pulling overlooked moments back into the conversation where they belong.

“Soolaimon” (Tap Root Manuscript, 1970)

The moment “Soolaimon” settles into its groove, it feels like Neil Diamond stepping into unfamiliar territory without sounding unsure of himself. The arrangement is dense and colorful—percussion driving the rhythm, layered voices lifting the chorus, keyboards and acoustic guitar weaving everything together. It’s a song that immediately raises eyebrows if you’re used to Diamond sticking to safer, radio-ready structures. And yet, for all its ambition, it never loses its sense of melody or accessibility.

“Soolaimon” sits inside the long-form suite “The African Trilogy,” which makes it even easier for casual listeners to overlook. Context matters here. Diamond wasn’t chasing novelty for novelty’s sake; he was clearly listening outward, absorbing influences that weren’t common in mainstream pop at the time. The result isn’t a pastiche or a gimmick, but a sincere attempt to expand his musical vocabulary while still writing something that invites participation rather than admiration from a distance.

What’s striking is how well the song aged in Diamond’s own estimation. When he returned to “Soolaimon” decades later, he leaned into its theatrical qualities rather than smoothing them out. Live versions became bigger, louder, and more immersive, suggesting he always saw the song as a journey rather than a period experiment. That long arc—from studio curiosity to late-career centerpiece—helps explain why “Soolaimon” deserves more than a footnote in his catalog.

“Crunchy Granola Suite” (Stones, 1971)

“Crunchy Granola Suite” has one of those titles that almost dares listeners not to take it seriously. But once the song kicks in, the joke is on anyone expecting novelty fluff. The guitar work has real bite, the rhythm section pushes harder than expected, and Diamond’s vocal leans into a rougher, more playful register. It’s confident, loose, and surprisingly heavy for an artist often associated with polished sentimentality.

The lyrics only deepen the odd charm. What sounds like counterculture satire is, in fact, played remarkably straight. Diamond wasn’t mocking the lifestyle so much as embracing it, turning health food and clean living into sing-along material without a trace of irony. That earnestness is part of why the song works. It refuses to wink at the audience, even when the words themselves are delightfully strange.

Live performances helped cement the song’s reputation, especially during the early ’70s when Diamond’s concerts were built around momentum and crowd energy. Over time, though, “Crunchy Granola Suite” slipped out of the conversation, overshadowed by bigger hits and softer ballads. Revisited now, it sounds less like an outlier and more like proof that Diamond could rock when he felt like it—and enjoy himself doing it.

“Walk on Water” (Moods, 1972)

“Walk on Water” asks for patience, something pop music rarely does anymore. Its opening minute is understated, almost tentative, built on a gentle vocal and sparse instrumentation. Taken on its own, that introduction might seem unremarkable. But it’s only the setup for a song that quietly redefines itself as it unfolds, rewarding listeners who stick around.

As the arrangement fills out, the track transforms. Background vocals shift the tone, the rhythm picks up, and gospel-inflected elements begin to surface. There’s a sense of motion here, as if the song is deliberately climbing toward something brighter and more expansive. It’s a compact piece of storytelling through sound, managing multiple moods without ever feeling rushed or cluttered.

Lyrically, “Walk on Water” carries an emotional weight that’s easy to miss on a casual listen. Diamond himself hinted that the song may be rooted in personal reflection, possibly tied to family or memory. That ambiguity works in its favor. Rather than spelling everything out, the song leaves space for interpretation, making its quiet rise feel intimate instead of theatrical. It’s a subtle achievement—and one that’s long overdue for reconsideration.

“If You Know What I Mean” (Beautiful Noise, 1976)

“If You Know What I Mean” feels like Neil Diamond leaning fully into the emotional weight people expect from him—and doing it with enough restraint to make it land. The song unfolds patiently, anchored by his voice before swelling into a lush, string-heavy climax that mirrors the ache running through the lyrics. It’s dramatic, no question, but the drama is earned. Every musical rise feels tied to the sense of distance and longing baked into the song’s narrative.

What separates this track from earlier Diamond ballads is perspective. There’s a noticeable shift from romantic optimism to reflection, as though the singer is taking inventory rather than chasing feeling. The small details—the remembered sounds, the half-formed images, the fleeting attempts to relive something already gone—give the song a sense of lived experience that wasn’t as present in his late-’60s writing. It’s nostalgia, but not the glossy kind.

That said, the song occasionally undercuts itself with broad, familiar phrasing that smooths over sharper emotional edges. Even so, those moments don’t erase the impression that Diamond is letting listeners closer than usual. As a result, “If You Know What I Mean” stands as one of his most quietly revealing songs from the decade, even if it never fully escaped the shadow of his bigger hits.

“Mama Don’t Know” (September Morn, 1979)

“Mama Don’t Know” arrives late in the decade sounding like Diamond experimenting with tension rather than comfort. It’s leaner, more rhythm-driven, and powered by electric guitar lines that give the song a restless edge. His vocal delivery shifts too, occasionally pushing into territory that feels sharper and less controlled than his usual style. The result is a track that feels deliberately unsettled.

Structurally, the song takes an unexpected turn near the end, extending itself into an instrumental passage that doesn’t exist to please radio programmers. It’s an indulgence, but an interesting one. That decision alone sets the song apart from much of Diamond’s catalog, suggesting a willingness to let mood and texture carry the final moments instead of a neatly wrapped refrain.

Lyrically, “Mama Don’t Know” is unusually pointed. The song hints at hypocrisy and exploitation, circling around themes of authority and blind faith without spelling everything out. That ambiguity gives it staying power, especially when viewed alongside Diamond’s later, more overtly spiritual work. Whether taken as social commentary or character study, it’s one of his most intriguing late-’70s tracks—and one of the easiest to overlook.