by Graham Nash
Before we parted company, I asked Paul what he was listening to. He told me about a record called The Music of Bulgaria, which was a live recording of the Ensemble of the Bulgarian Republic made in concert in Paris in 1955. The music originated in the fields—in this case, the ladies who worked farms in Bulgaria, cutting down huge sheaves of wheat. To alleviate the everyday tedium, they would sing together, usually solo or two-part. In the early fifties Philip Koutev had put together the National Ensemble, comprised of the winners of local, regional, and national competitions. Koutev featured a women’s choir, for which he extrapolated these two-parts to many parts, producing a cappella harmonies unlike any I’d ever heard before: five-, six-, seven-part harmonies. As a lifelong student of such singing, it made my head spin.
I asked Paul where I could get this record, and he said, “I happen to have an extra one right here,” and he handed it over. I took it home, and it instantly became my favorite record of all time in terms of musical harmony. In my London apartment, I had an incredible sound system: two Brunell tape recorders in each corner. And when I played this record, the music went from the turntable into the first tape recorder, then through the second tape recorder into the speakers, so that everything was a microsecond off—but brilliantly so. I would get loaded, get a couple brandies and Coca-Colas under my belt, and play this record—loud. I would lie in the middle of the floor listening, and that’s how I turned people on to it.
I must have given away at least three hundred copies over the years. So in the early nineties, I got a call from Nonesuch Records to tell me that the Bulgarian Choir was going to do a short tour of America. Would I be interested in flying to New York to introduce them to the world’s press? I said, “Absolutely, I’m there.” There was a media event at the old Americana Hotel, where I got up and told the story of how Paul gave me the record and how, for thirty years, Croz and I had tried to spread this music throughout the world. Afterward, their translator came up to me and said, “Mr. Nash, the ladies would like to say something to you,” and they all gathered around me. I was expecting something in pidgin English: “Thonk yu, Meester Nosh, for takink and showink us to Amerka.” Instead, one of the leaders of the choir counted off, and they burst, in perfect harmony, into the end of “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes.” “Do-do-do-do do / do do / da-do-do-do.” It completely floored me. It was such an honor that this choir that I had revered for so long had learned that song and was singing it back to me.
After New York and Texas, my head was in a different place, but it was nothing compared to our introduction to Los Angeles. LA was uptempo, vivace: the Beach Boys, the Ventures, Jan and Dean, the Mamas and the Papas. Hollywood! Blondes! I was in love with it before I ever set foot there.
Flying over the city, I was already sold. There were turquoise-blue pools spread across the landscape, the ocean licking across the western shore, sunshine as bright as klieg lights. Minutes after we got out of the plane, I climbed to the top of the nearest palm tree and told Clarkie I was never coming down. It was a metaphor he should have heeded.
Things got off to a wretched start. We had to cancel gigs and an appearance on the Hullabaloo TV show because our work permits weren’t in order. Again. A little cockroach from the musicians’ union came up to us right after soundcheck and said, “Cards, please?” Of course we didn’t have them. Tony told the guy to fuck off, but union guys are tough little bastards. “But we’re here,” we pleaded. “We’re all set up. We can’t play?” Nothing doing. We had to sit out those gigs, all of them, in fact, making the tour a complete washout. Fortunately, the Hollies were being thrown a party on April 27 by our American label, Imperial Records, and it promised to be a glossy affair.
The press party was the usual nonsense, lots of pretty strangers, too-fancy hors d’oeuvres, hearty corporate backslapping. A high-octane schmoozefest. But it was good to bump into Jackie DeShannon, one of my favorite songwriters. And I recognized Burt Bacharach and Sharon Sheeley, Eddie Cochran’s girlfriend, in the crowd. While we were refilling wineglasses, a young kid came over and started chattering at us. Hold on a second, squirt! With English people, you don’t just start talking—you introduce yourself. Not this kid. He launched right into a rap about the Hollies and it became apparent that he knew everything about us: every B-side we’d done, our middle names, things we’d forgotten about, like an ad we did for Shell Oil in 1964. It was obvious this kid was a real fan.
His name was Rodney Bingenheimer, later to become a famous deejay at K-Rock in Pasadena. And he was about to change the direction of my life.
“What are you doing after this party?” he asked.
Where were this kid’s manners? I didn’t know him from Adam. And I wasn’t about to tell him my plans. So I did what most English people do in cases like this: I turned the question back to him. “I don’t know,” I said. “What are you doing?”
“I’ve got these friends who are recording down the street, and I wanted to know if you’d like to come hang out in the studio?”
Turns out it was the Mamas and the Papas. Well, sign me up, baby. I loved “California Dreamin’ ” and “Monday Monday.” I knew those records backward and forward, and what a brilliant arranger John Phillips was. And I knew how great Cass and Denny sang. Sure, I was interested in hearing what they were doing. But I really went because I had seen the album cover and wanted to fuck Michelle. Hey, I wasn’t a bad-looking kid, and I was in the Hollies. I had as good a shot at her as any other guy. So off I went with Rodney Bingenheimer, ostensibly to check out the Mamas and the Papas.
As it happened, they were at Western Recorders in Hollywood, the scene of so many classic sessions with Nat King Cole, Elvis, Ray Charles, the Beach Boys, and Sam Cooke. Inside the studio, Michelle, John, and Denny were huddled around a microphone, putting an overdub on “Dancing Bear.” Michelle was every bit as advertised: gorgeous and sexy—but otherwise engaged—so I wound up talking with Cass. She was hanging around outside the studio when I got there and seemed eager to talk about British rock ’n’ roll, especially her idol, John Lennon.
“What do you think John would say about our music?” she wondered.
Loaded question. Lennon was a gnarly sort. Compliments from him were hard to come by. I wasn’t going to bullshit this woman, so I put it to her straight.
“He’d keep you at arm’s length until he’d trusted you enough to let you into his personal space,” I explained. “So he’d probably put you down at first.”
The minute the words were out of my mouth, Cass burst into tears. Holy shit! I’d only just met this woman and already she’s crying. “What did I say? What did I do?”
Little did I know that Cass Elliot had a huge crush on John, and that was the last thing she’d wanted to hear. Carefully, I skated around the awkward moment, so much so that when Cass recovered she asked me: “What are you doing tomorrow?”
“What is it with you Americans?” I said. “You always want to know what we’re doing? What are you doing?”
“I want to introduce you to a good friend of mine,” she said. “I have a feeling you guys are going to like each other.”
The next day, around noon, Cass pulled up to the Knickerbocker Hotel in a convertible Porsche, her long, honey-colored hair blowing aimlessly in the wind. She had the radio turned up loud: B. Mitchell Reed on KMET, one great song after the next. I slipped in beside her and off we went, snaking up Laurel Canyon Avenue to the top of the Hills, where Cass lived in a lovely ranch-style house, and we hung out for a while. Later, I would realize how much interesting hanging out went on there, but at the time I was just discovering what an incredible character she was—very complex, bright, talented, lonely, with a fantastic sense of humor that was at turns both sardonic and self-deprecating. Thanks to my meager self-education, I’d learned quite a bit about Gertrude Stein and her role in bringing people of different disciplines together, having meals, encouraging conversation. And Cass was exactly like that: Mama Cass. I got the feeling she sensed seismic s
hifts that were going on in my life—even before I did—and she immediately took me under her wing.
We jumped into the car and went halfway back down Laurel Canyon, pulling into a carport under one of those teetery stilt houses on Willow Glen. Upstairs, I could have sworn the place was deserted. There was absolutely nothing in it other than a couch, a chair, and a fabulous stereo system. There might have been a guitar leaning against the wall. Otherwise, there was a barefoot guy lying on his back on the couch, with the lid of a shoe box full of grass resting on his chest, and he was shaking it, separating the seeds and stems. I’d seen this guy before and suddenly realized: Holy shit—it’s David Crosby! He didn’t seem at all threatening, as he had in New York. In fact, he looked harmless and agreeable. (Probably the last time I could ever say that!)
Cass handled the introductions without telling him I was in the Hollies. I could tell he was slightly suspicious, wondering why I was with Cass, whether I was another starfucker trying to ride her fame. I could have been a roadie, for all he knew. David is, by nature, a suspicious man; you’ve got to really prove to him who the fuck you are and what you’re up to before he’ll even talk to you. And where Cass was concerned, he was overly protective. She’d been a dear friend for a long time, since she was a member of the Mugwumps and the Big Three back in her folkie days. Later, he’d gone on the Hootenanny tour with her as part of Les Baxter’s Balladeers, a second-rate folk-pop group modeled on the New Christy Minstrels. She, in turn, looked out for David, who was difficult, opinionated, stubborn, a punk, all the things that made it hard for you to make it in the business. But Cass recognized his talent and mentored him through the music industry. So they had a lot of history. He wasn’t about to let some English gigolo fuck it up.
The entire time we were talking, Crosby continued shaking the shoe-box lid, which was quite impressive. And without taking his eyes off me, he rolled the most perfect joint I’d ever seen. Now, full disclosure: I hadn’t seen many, and truthfully I’d never smoked one myself. The closest I’d come was at a gig we did in Morecombe, on the same bill with Donovan. I went over to Dono’s dressing room to say hello, and he and Gypsy Dave were smoking something that smelled strangely enticing. So I went, “Oh … sorry,” while backing comically out of the room.
Crosby had a suspicion I’d never smoked dope before and he seemed eager to initiate me. Honestly, no one was more eager than I was. There was no controlling my curiosity in those days. Even today. I wanted to see where marijuana might take me, how it could open me up. I was ready for any new experience, real or pharmaceutical. Little did I know at the time that Crosby had the best dope in Hollywood. In fact, he had the first sinsemilla, which was two or three times stronger than anybody else’s pot. And I proceeded to get ripped, from my tits to my toes. I was out of my mind. Man, I loved the feeling, and instantly I became a lifelong fan.
I’m not sure how long we hung out at Crosby’s. It seemed like days, but it was probably an hour and a half. Afterward, Cass drove me back to the Knickerbocker, where the Hollies were waiting for me. I was totally wasted, but in an incredibly good way, and couldn’t hide the fact that I was high. It was one of those cases, when you first smoke dope, where everything becomes insanely hysterical. “Look! A fly on the wall. A fly!” To their credit, the Hollies were amused—they were beginning to get used to my making left turns—but devoted to staying straight.
I didn’t see Crosby for another couple months, but Cass stayed on my radar while we remained in LA. It was obvious she was someone I really wanted to know better, and I saw her every chance I got. I was fascinated by her, especially the sweep of her influence. She seemed to know everyone who mattered, and her take on them was delicious. She showed me many wonderful things in a very gentle way, opening my eyes and my mind. I loved hearing her stories about the various groups she was in—how the Mamas and the Papas, who were all longtime friends, had gone down to the Virgin Islands on John’s American Express card and formed the group there, singing together while taking acid every day. I think she was always in love with Denny Doherty, but knew she didn’t stand much of a chance. Broken hearts and egos continued to get in the way. Cass’s life was a comedy and a tragedy and a life lesson all at the same time. If you really got to know her, it was impossible not to love her.
Crosby, too. I couldn’t shake the guy from my mind. He was such a free spirit, so irreverent. Just a different kind of guy than I’d ever met, an incredible character. He hated the status quo, said whatever was on his mind. You didn’t like it, tough shit. The energy he put out was incredible. Meeting Croz and Cass was a turning point for me.
And now things were about to get wild.
My father during the war
My mother, 1953 (© Graham Nash)
My father singing at a holiday camp, 1954
My father and his sister, Olive, 1953. One of my earliest shots. (© Graham Nash)
Me and Allan Clarke at school (© Graham Nash)
With Allan Clarke, the Guyatones, 1957. We were fifteen.
Playing my black Epiphone guitar with “Hollies” lettering, June 19, 1965 (© 1965 Harry Goodwin)
The Hollies at the Cavern in early 1963
The Hollies in New York City, 1967 (© Henry Diltz)
The Hollies, 1983 (© Henry Diltz)
David in Sag Harbor, 1969 (© Graham Nash)
Stephen Stills, “Captain Many Hands,” at the Caravan Lodge Motel, San Francisco, 1969 (© Graham Nash)
Self-portrait; Plaza Hotel, September 1974 (© Graham Nash)
Singing the chorus of “Marrakesh Express” at Heider Studio 3, LA, 1969 (© Henry Diltz)
The infamous disappearing house, Santa Monica Boulevard, LA, 1969 (© Henry Diltz)
The cover of my album Wild Tales, 731 Buena Vista West, San Francisco, December 26, 1972 (© Joel Bernstein)
My lyrics to “Immigration Man,” 1971 (© Joel Bernstein)
Photo from the cover of my boxed set, Reflections, Surrey, England, March 1973(© Henry Diltz)
The Mayan (© Graham Nash)
Sculpting Crosby, Miami, 1977 (© Joel Bernstein)
Tokyo, November 1975; the joint was rolled in a copy of the International Herald Tribune. (© Joel Bernstein)
chapter6
NOTHING WAS THE SAME WHEN I GOT BACK TO LONDON. My head, for one thing, was turned inside out, and I began looking at my life in an entirely new way. Meeting Paul, Cass, and Croz put a whole new spin on things. I loved the guys in the Hollies, but they were … content—satisfied with the type of material we were doing, grateful to play the role of happy, bouncy pop stars, comfortable with their parochial north of England sensibility … content. They wanted nothing more than what they already had, whereas I was ready to devour the world. I had been turned on by my encounters in the States, just turned on in general. Smoking dope had had a profound effect on me. It jolted my curiosity onto an entirely higher plane. The Hollies, on the other hand, were strictly pub guys; they had their eight pints a night to get their jollies. I felt like we were starting to drift apart.
Professionally, things couldn’t have been better. As soon as we got back, we landed a truly important gig, appearing on Sunday Night at the London Palladium. This was the show that everyone in England stayed home to watch, like The Ed Sullivan Show in the States, a revolving door of acts from across the spectrum: opera singers, ventriloquists, sword swallowers, comedians, dogs that barked to “God Save the Queen,” circus clowns, and the occasional tatty rock ’n’ roll group. It was the show where the term Beatlemania was coined, so we knew its power as far as our career was concerned.
Incredibly, our bass player, Eric Haydock, didn’t want to play it. He claimed to be suffering from nervous exhaustion as a result of our trip to the States. Nervous exhaustion! We were workingmen from the north of England. That tour was a spa vacation to guys like us. What he really had was a gorgeous girlfriend stashed away in Manchester. He wanted to be with Pam, and that was the dodge. Eric flat-out refused to do the
Palladium. He was done with us, which was a complete shock. Who the fuck do we get to play bass on such short notice? Klaus Voorman, who that year created the seminal album cover artwork for the Beatles’ Revolver, was an excellent bass player. Best of all, we all knew him and he was willing to step in at the last minute. So at least the Palladium show would go on.
That Sunday night—May 15, 1966—Pete Seeger was headlining, and I was looking forward to hearing his set. We’d finished soundcheck around four o’clock and were hanging out in the wings, waiting for Pete to go on, when the phone rang backstage. Our road manager, Rod Shields, picked it up.
“Yes … yes … he’s right here. Hold on.” Rod cupped a hand over the receiver and waved the phone in my direction. “Graham, it’s Phil Everly.”
Wanker. He knew how I felt about the Everlys. No way I was falling for that one. “Hey, fuck off, Rod. Don’t do this to me now.”
“No, honest, man—it’s Phil Everly.”
I shot him a sly, knowing grin and decided to play along. Taking the phone, I said, “Nash here.”
“Hey Graham, it’s Phil.” And I couldn’t help but recognize the voice, the voice I grew up on, with that thick, gorgeous Kentucky accent.
“Hi, fantastic. What can I do for you, Phil?”
“Don and I are in town. We’re about to make an album here in England, and we wanted to know if the Hollies had any songs they haven’t recorded yet?”