by Neil Young
I was convinced to ride out on the cable car, which was actually just a sheet of metal hanging from some clothesline pulleys that ran along the cable out to the tree. I jumped on a little hesitantly to ride out. The sheet of metal plating hung from the cable, and away I went. I got almost all the way out there when the car stopped moving and started traveling backward toward the middle of the sagging cable. I hung out there in midair! Then Ken started pulling me in toward the tree with a safety rope that was part of the design. There were no railings on the metal sheet. They hadn’t been added yet. Just wire connectors to the four corners. These connectors were joined at the top to a big clothesline wheel that was turning over the cable as the “car” moved along.
I began to notice some of the weaknesses in the overall design. It was important to stay in the middle of the metal plate and maintain good balance. People were cheering. Ken was pulling me in, and the car tilted more and more as I reached the tree. I realized when I arrived at the tree that I was the first person other than Ken who had used the cable car. It took a while for me to get up the nerve for the return trip. Getting in and out of the device was a difficult move from the tree. There was a beautiful girl up there with Ken who had climbed up the tree to get to the house. She was impressive. Her name could have been Sun Green, and she was part of the inspiration for Sun Green, the heroine of a film/album I did, Greendale, years later. Or maybe that is all in my mind, where my imagination has taken charge. That kind of thing can easily happen.
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When I was buying my house in Topanga, Billy Talbot was already living nearby. He was in a place up Fernwood Pacific that he had rented from the music historian Michael Ochs, brother to the great songwriter Phil Ochs. That house was a small place farther up another side of the ridge from mine. It was smaller than what the previous renters needed, so they had moved out and Billy and his family—his wife, Susan, and baby son, Chris—moved in.
They had Chris’s crib set up in a little room, and there was a really creepy painting on the wall above it. The painting was so creepy that Billy covered it with wood paneling. The previous renters had created it and left it there. It was only later that Billy realized the previous renters were Charlie Manson and a small group of girls.
Around the same time, just a bit later, I was visiting with Dennis Wilson, who I had met with Buffalo Springfield when we toured the South with the Beach Boys, doing three shows a day in different cities, leapfrogging across Florida. Dennis and I had become pretty good friends. I wanted to show him some songs I had written. At the time, Dennis had a nice place on Sunset Boulevard near Pacific Palisades—it had been Will Rogers’s old compound, a single-story mansion with a huge pool and a great main room, a very gracious design I remember as being really impressive, with a huge front room featuring a magnificent old fireplace. I really appreciate the old Spanish architecture in the Los Angeles area because it is art and reflects the culture and the times of old Hollywood. Those must have been great days to live in.
Anyway, I went to visit Dennis there and found him living with three or four girls who were kind of distant. There was a detached quality about them all. They were not like the other girls I had met in Hollywood or Topanga, or anywhere else for that matter. He had picked them up hitchhiking. They had a pretty intense vibe and did not strike me as attractive. After a while, a guy showed up, picked up my guitar, and started playing a lot of songs on it. His name was Charlie. He was a friend of the girls and now of Dennis. His songs were off-the-cuff things he made up as he went along, and they were never the same twice in a row. Kind of like Dylan, but different because it was hard to glimpse a true message in them, but the songs were fascinating. He was quite good.
I asked him if he had a recording contract. He told me he didn’t yet, but he wanted to make records. I told Mo Ostin at Reprise about him and recommended that Reprise check him out. Terry Melcher was a producer at that time who made some very influential hit records. Apparently Melcher had already been checking out Charlie and decided not to go for it.
Shortly afterward, the Sharon Tate–LaBianca murders happened, and Charlie Manson’s name was suddenly known around the world. We couldn’t believe we had played with him. Those grisly murders took place in Terry Melcher’s recently vacated house. Sharon Tate was the new tenant who had just moved in.
Chapter Fourteen
A Few Thoughts . . .
I have been told that MIT evolved from a train layout. If that were true, I could understand. Of course, that is not true—I believed it until I Googled it and learned the history—but it still made sense to me. Almost all technology can be found to have some roots in the science of railroading and real railroad operations. During development of what is now Lionel’s system for control of action and sound on a model railroad, I became obsessed. There are so many ways to model the actions and sounds of a machine like a locomotive, it is endless—and the complexity involved is like a drug. For instance, every action has a sound and every sound has variables. Every sound variable needs an algorithm based on an action, and every action needs a variable control mechanism and a sensor to monitor its position or at least predict its position, possibly based on the positions of other related moving parts of the machine’s systems. To me, this is a stimulant. I am fascinated by it, by all of the possibilities. Every sound needs to be recorded in such a way that it is variable by an algorithm based on the mechanical action or by the controller. You can see how I get hung up.
The end result is music.
I always leave these projects and go on to make music. A completely different part of my brain is used for music, and it feels like I am massaging my soul when I make music. The senses and the feelings evoked by the lyrics and melodies and execution of the instruments in cooperation and sympathetic reaction with other musicians is very similar, yet totally different from the act of building and creating. It’s cosmic, dude. (Is this Wayne’s World or what?)
—
Life is exciting.
Jonathan Demme’s new picture is the third concert film we have done together.
Jonathan shot a show I did up in Massey Hall (Toronto) and is really happy with it. It was the last show of my solo Le Noise tour. We also filmed in a ’56 Ford Crown Victoria on the way to the theater from Omemee, my hometown, for about three hours, and he has intercut that with the concert. I’m giving a tour, from the driver’s seat, of my old haunting grounds.
I love Demme. You know, he’s made films like Philadelphia, The Silence of the Lambs, and Stop Making Sense. His energy is infectious. He is so positive, knowledgeable, and up about all aspects of a project; it makes him a complete pleasure to work with. He has now made a trilogy of performance films with me—and I am very honored. The guy is a G-man (G is for genius)! Anyway, Elliot and I both know the most exciting time for any project is when it’s done, when people are experiencing it for the first time, and it hasn’t been released yet. It doesn’t get better than that. Elliot will call me after he sees a screening and deadpan what a disaster it is and how we have to sue Jonathan. That is a great review. (We have our ways.)
With Jonathan Demme at the WNYC studio in New York to talk about Neil Young Journeys, 2012.
Here in Hawaii, in the real world (ha!), Poncho Sampedro just graduated from a gardening course that taught him all about Korean microbiological gardening, where there are no chemical sprays and the earth takes care of itself. He is very high on that. We talked about it for a long time, and I can’t wait to walk over to his house and see what he is up to. Even during Crazy Horse’s most active years, Poncho worked on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno to keep his independence, live his own life, and have a constant income without relying on the group. He worked with Kevin Eubanks, the orchestra leader and a great guitarist, taking care of Kevin’s equipment and helping him with his projects. He worked there right up until the Leno–Conan controversy and departed at that time to come with his cat, Kitty, to Hawaii, where he has a great place just up the road from Pe
gi and me. Kitty, who has been with Poncho a long time, has adapted well after a couple of months. Poncho is a unique person to know and make music with, and he has a big heart. Like everyone in Crazy Horse, his playing is very sympathetic to what he is hearing and feeling.
I love these long-term relationships. Poncho and I talked about doing a Crazy Horse thing again, and he is in. I am very happy about that. Next I will call Billy Talbot, our bass player, and we will talk as well. Billy is up in Zeona, South Dakota, with his wife, Karin, a lovely lady we have all known for a long time. They first hooked up during the Greendale sessions at Plywood Digital in 2002. Plywood Digital was right across the barnyard from an old Victorian house that Karin was living in, where she had raised her children with her husband, Larry Markegard, who had passed away a few years before. Larry was the foreman of my ranch for a good twenty-five years and was there long before I purchased that land. He and Karin came to California from the Midwest, settled down, and raised a family. It was a hard time for us all when Larry died in 1996, because everyone loved him so much. He was a really cool character and a very good man. Now it’s Karin and Billy Talbot. Bless both their hearts for finding each other at this point in their lives. Billy had been pretty much a wild man most of the time up to then, and Karin was always such a sweetheart. I think that it is beautiful, although at first I couldn’t believe it because Billy never seemed to settle. Billy finally did with Karin. Love.
Old Black and my amps, 2012.
Chapter Fifteen
Cars and Guitars
Hank is my 1949 Cadillac convertible, baby blue with a tan top and blue leather seats. She is a beautiful car, named after Hank Williams, the great country music icon singer/songwriter. I first met Hank (the car) through an ad in the paper. I was down in Hollywood with Ben Keith and Rusty Kershaw, recording On the Beach in March of 1974. We were recording at Sunset Sound on Sunset. That place is still there today, and as a matter of fact that is where Pegi just made her new album, Bracing for Impact. It is also where we made “Expecting to Fly” with Jack Nitzsche and Bruce Botnick, the great engineer who did the Doors’ albums with Paul Rothchild. Stephen Stills and I did “Rock & Roll Woman” and many other Buffalo Springfield tracks there. I recorded “I Believe in You” and “Oh Lonesome Me” with Crazy Horse there, too. It is a great place with lots of history for many of us. Today, it looks pretty similar in some ways, although it has grown to include the building next door, incorporated a little courtyard with a basketball hoop, and has a parking lot behind the studio. Stephen and I used to park our Cadillac right where the basketball hoop is while we were making Buffalo Springfield Again, but the rooms where music was/is played remain pretty much exactly the same. These old studios are so wonderful—imagine a building constructed so that music would sound good in it.
Anyway, I was there in 1974 with Ben and Rusty, and we were recording On the Beach. I picked up the paper and saw this ad. I was always in the habit of rewarding myself for doing a project and completing it. I would buy a car or something to celebrate and have a material memory of that time. (As I said before, I am a material guy.)
In December 1974, I took Pegi for our first date. I picked her up at her little cabin in the redwoods in Hank. Zeke Young, who was then about two, went along for the ride. She was living in a very small town called Loma Mar, about fifteen miles from the ranch. I had Zeke with me and thought we would all have a nice day together. We went on a cruise down the Pacific Coast Highway toward Santa Cruz. The beautiful blue Cadillac convertible in its element on an oceanside drive, we were just talking, taking in the sights, getting to know each other. Pegi, twenty-two years old, was a beautiful girl. I loved the way she smiled so brightly, and her blue eyes really caught my attention. I already knew there was something different about her and that I was feeling things that I hadn’t felt before. We stopped in a little town called Davenport, but there was nothing going on there, just looking around. When we got back in the car, Zeke tried to bite her. I think he was anxious for all my attention, since he did not see me every day. I should have known that.
Zeke had a rough start in life, with his mom, Carrie Snodgress, and me breaking up right when he was just getting going. Zeke was born in 1972 with cerebral palsy and had to wear a brace on his foot. Like any other kid who was a bit different from others, Zeke Young was picked on by his peers, but he is a resilient and loving person, with a heart as big as life itself, and he has become a man I am so proud to call son. He is hardworking at his daily job, one he found at the Home Depot, where he started part-time and has stuck with it to become a full-time senior employee.
Zeke had gone to an audio recording school and learned all the technical theory behind recording. He used to work with me on my tours, recording my shows on a Pro Tools system. One day he came to me and said, “Daddy, I think I should get another job, because I need to be independent and you will not be doing this forever. I don’t want to be relying on you for a job.” I think any father would be really proud to hear those words from his son, and I was very impressed with Zeke.
Although he possesses a lot of varied talents, he has made a commitment to work every day for the security it brings. He is well respected at his job, and specializes in handling complaints, one of the hardest things to do. He does it with a smile. Everyone loves Zeke. His sense of humor is legendary. You don’t get away with anything when he is around . . .
But back to Hank. When Harvest Moon came out in 1992, MTV was in full swing and the video age was upon us. We made a video for the song “Harvest Moon,” and Hank is featured in the video. Larry and Karin are in it, too. (Larry is the guy in the video with the big white beard.) It is beautiful to watch them together.
Speaking of cars, during 1983, I was touring with a band called the Shocking Pinks. We had a lot of cars with us. The Pinks were a throwback to the days of old rock and roll. Every night we had a different Cadillac to leave the stadium in, and it was part of the show. At the last note of the last song, we would make a mad dash to the car with the cameras following us, then we would jump in the car and drive away while the crowd watched on a twenty-foot-high model of a portable TV that was onstage. We had this announcer, Dan Clear, who would be chasing us out of the venue, trying to get one last-minute interview. It was a lot of fun! The video is ridiculous! That was about when my record company sued me for making music “uncharacteristic of Neil Young.” Point is, there were a lot of cars.
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Old Black is my guitar. This is the guitar I have played on almost every Crazy Horse recording I have ever made. Black is a 1952 Gibson Les Paul model that I got in a trade with Jimmy Messina back in the days of Buffalo Springfield. Originally, Old Black must not have been black, but was most likely gold. Someone had refinished it and changed the color a long time ago. That was obvious to me when I first got Black in 1968, because by that time Black had aged tremendously—was well-worn, you might say. Someone, probably the same person who made Old Black black, had special chrome-plated metal pickup covers and pick guard made. All the original gold tops had cream-colored plastic pickups (at least they seemed plastic to me—maybe they were not, but they were definitely not steel). Black’s pickups were shrouded with chrome steel covers. They were beautiful.
That is the way the guitar was when I recorded Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere with Crazy Horse. That was our first record, and I played Black on every track that called for an electric guitar. I had added a Bigsby tremolo arm, or wang bar as it was called, to the guitar at some point very early on. (Matter of fact, I think it came that way in the trade. I’m pretty sure the same work—the black paint, the chrome-plated metal pickup covers and pick guard, the Bigsby—were all done by the same person. Special bone inlay was also added, but most of that had fallen out by the time I got it from Jimmy.) Then I used it on “Southern Man” and “When You Dance” from After the Gold Rush.
Sometime after that I decided to get the pickup next to the bridge fixed so that it wouldn’t hum. It hummed like
hell when there was a transformer or weird wiring or lighting in a building, and you had to orient the guitar a certain way in space or the hum was as loud as the notes. I took it to a guitar shop down on Western Avenue in LA and dropped off the pickup to get it wound again; there was a procedure that supposedly fixed the problem. I’m glad I only gave them the pickup, because when I returned later to retrieve it, the store was gone. Not a trace. They left with my pickup! Shit! That sucked. What a bunch of assholes!
I was shocked. My guitar was damaged beyond anything I could have imagined. Later I replaced the stolen pickup with an old Gretsch pickup.
I was never really happy with that Gretsch pickup. It just didn’t sing like it used to. I knew I had to change. Larry Cragg, a master guitar tech and old friend who traveled on the road with me taking care of my instruments from the mid-seventies until 2010, is a very conscientious character, taking wonderful care of my guitars and amps. He played countless parts in my stage shows as well, from “Grandpa” in Greendale to “Farmer John” in Ragged Glory. He always gives it everything he has, no matter what he does. One night in the early to middle seventies, Crazy Horse was playing a coliseum somewhere and Larry ran up to me very excited. He exclaimed, “I have found the perfect replacement for Old Black’s pickup. It’s a Firebird, and it screams.” He was so excited. Larry was really into his work and was always trying to make things better. It really did scream, like a banshee, and I played it for years. It’s still on Old Black today. Larry takes care of much of our equipment now from his shop at home, and spends a lot of time playing steel in bands around the area. He is happy to be a playing musician, and he plays with Pegi when she goes out on the road, too. It’s great to know he is still there to help if we get in any real trouble with our equipment. Thanks, Larry!