Wild Tales: A Rock & Roll Life

by Graham Nash

  He decided that he would have to raise his voice and speak out against what he and his fellow soldiers had been doing, and became a founder of the Vietnam Veterans Against the War organization, after seeing the many atrocities our soldiers had committed against Vietnamese civilians.

  I’d been cutting tracks for my solo album for some time and finally had enough good material to give it the requisite weight. I cut most of Songs for Beginners in early 1971 at Heider’s in LA, which was like old home to me, while producing two other albums at the same time, for my friends Seemon and Marijke, half of the Fool, and for the poet Charles John Quarto. All my supertalented friends turned out to help: Croz and Rita, who played piano and sang all the voices with me on “Simple Man.” Phil Lesh, Jerry Garcia, Dave Mason, Dorian Rudnytsky, Johnny Barbata on drums, and Chris Ethridge on bass. Clydie King, Vanetta Fields, Brenda Lee Eager, and Dorothy Morrison sang backup. Most great backup singers know instinctively when—as well as when not—to sing; they had it down to a science and managed to turn it into an art.

  All told, I was pretty proud of that album. As a writer, I thought I’d come a long way since the Hollies. In the interim, I had learned a lot about myself, and working with these accomplished people taught me a damn sight more. My engagement with what was happening in the world had become more sophisticated, and I felt the confidence to express my political and social opinions. All of it fed the music, and the music fed me, which is right there in the grooves of that solo record.

  At this point, CSNY were all caught up in our individual projects. David was involved with the Dead and the Airplane in a mash-up called the Planet Earth Rock and Roll Orchestra, and he was working with Paul Kantner on Jefferson Starship’s Blows Against the Empire. I had the acid-drenched pleasure of mixing the entire second side, which included “Have You Seen the Stars Tonight.” Neil was out on tour and writing material for Harvest. And Stephen was up to his eyeballs in a second solo album, cutting it in Miami, presumably as far away from us as he could get.

  Our double-record live set, 4 Way Street, was released in February 1971 to mostly mediocre reviews. None of us was happy with the way it sounded: spontaneous and authentic, which meant occasionally out of tune. Stephen had pressed us to fix the mistakes, arguing that the album would still be live as long as it maintained the live feel. But Croz and Neil argued for a warts-and-all approach … It had to be pure. And they won.

  Even though it sold millions of copies, the album didn’t bode well for our long-term future together. With each of us off in his own little world, rumors were flying all over the place: We weren’t talking to each other, it was the end of CSN, the end of CSNY, the end of the innocence, the end. But that’s all they were at that point: rumors. Although I knew better. In our hearts, we all did.

  CSNY performing at the Fillmore East, New York City, June 1970 (© 1970 Joel Bernstein)

  CSNY in the dressing room, Metropolitan Sports Center, Bloomington, Minnesota, July 9, 1970 (© 1970 Henry Diltz)

  CSNY with Dallas Taylor and Greg Reeves; Studio City, California, July 1969 (© 1969 Henry Diltz)

  CSN at Criteria Recording Studios, Miami, March 1977 (© Joel Bernstein)

  Taping the Daylight Again television special at Universal Amphitheatre, Universal City, California, November 28, 1982 (© Henry Diltz)

  CSNY performing, 2004 tour (© Joel Bernstein)

  With David Crosby, during the recording of the Graham Nash/David Crosby album, November 1971 (© 1971 Joel Bernstein)

  David Crosby, early days of the Byrds (© Harry Goodwin/Michael Ochs Archive/Getty Images)

  Performing with Croz (© Henry Diltz)

  David Crosby onstage with Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, Campus Stadium, University of California at Santa Barbara, November 9, 1969 (© 1969 Henry Diltz)

  With Neil Young, Fifth Avenue Hotel, New York City, June 1970 (© 1970 Joel Bernstein)

  Backstage at Roosevelt Stadium, Jersey City, the night Nixon resigned, August 8, 1974 (© Joel Bernstein)

  Me on the big screen at Live Aid in Philadelphia, July 13, 1985 (© Philadelphia Enquirer)

  No Nukes concert at Madison Square Garden (© Lynn Goldsmith)

  Chipping the wall down in Berlin, 1989 (© Stanley Johnston)

  Occupy Wall Street event; David’s son James Raymond, playing melodica, 2011 (Getty Images)

  At the White House: John Hartmann, far right; Michael John Bowen, far left

  Me and David with Jacques Cousteau and his son, Philippe

  Receiving the Office of the Order of the British Empire from Her Majesty, 2010. The emerald was gigantic. (© Buckingham Palace)

  chapter11

  CROSBY, STILLS, NASH & YOUNG NEVER DISBANDED. Ever. We fought, splintered, swore vengeance and swore off each other, declared fatwas, placed ancient curses on a member, sabotaged each other, you name it—if there was a way to thwart our collective mission, we’ve done it, and in spades. But despite all that, to this day we remain a group. That doesn’t mean we haven’t strayed from the marriage. Oh, baby, have we strayed, and often. Then again, CSNY is the most successful open marriage I’ve ever encountered. Any one of us was free to work outside the band, either by himself or with other musicians, recording or touring. No questions asked, no permission necessary. However, as CSN or CSNY we contractually owed Atlantic Records a lifetime of product, which more or less guaranteed our dysfunctional marriage.

  As 1971 rolled on into summer, and Songs for Beginners came out, David and I both wound up living in the San Francisco Bay Area. David was restoring a house in Mill Valley while crashing part-time aboard the Mayan, which was docked in Sausalito harbor. I was entrenched in the Haight. My house then was finally habitable. Two hippie friends, Leo Makota and Harry Harris, had gutted the place and rebuilt it. The structure included a sixteen-track studio, a dark room, and a billiards room in the basement. David had his own room there, too—the Crosby Suite—on the second floor, where he kept a lot of his stuff.

  Croz and I wound up hanging out a lot, singing together, and working on myriad music projects.

  I love singing with David. There’s an intimacy between us that’s hard to describe, a kind of vocal shorthand, but more than that: something deep and warmer, like a comfortable old leather shoe. It’s easier to make music with just the two of us. I understand where he wants to go and I can shadow him insanely well. Croz has a beautiful Welsh voice. I don’t know what it is about those singers from Cymru—Tom Jones, Bryn Terfel, Dave Edmunds, Duffy (okay, maybe not Duffy). Maybe it’s the coal dust in their voices—who knows? But they have a beautiful tone, a natural vibrato, that resonates like a cello, rich and luxurious. That’s David’s sound, not mine. I have a north of England voice, very simple and uncomplicated, perhaps with greater range than his, which makes our voices a little bit like oil and vinegar. That combination is not supposed to work, but, you know, if you shake it up, you get great vinaigrette.

  In any case, we’re very comfortable singing with each other. We don’t have to think. We know instinctively that we’ll make each other shine. David was a huge fan of the Everly Brothers and the Louvin Brothers, as was I, so we share the same kind of ear where harmony is concerned. But what really makes it work is the trust we have. He can go anywhere he wants with his voice, and I’m there. So often, from the way he’s breathing before a vocal line, I know just where he’s headed. And many times I’ve sensed him about to sing the wrong words, and I’ve sung the same wrong words, so the audience can’t tell we’ve made a mistake. On a couple of occasions, we’ve listened to playback of us singing together, looked at each other, and gone: “Who the fuck is singing that third voice?” When we isolate our voices, there is no third part! Together, the air and wave generation of our voices create a ghost harmonic, a third harmony, that is only sometimes evident when we sing duet.

  Voices aside, I just happen to love the guy. He’s a really fascinating cat: curious, confident, complicated, imaginative, tasteful, generous, romantic, with a huge heart. H
e’s also reckless, audacious, hotheaded, and cheeky, which are also attractive in their own Crosby ways. Once again, it’s the whole package, take it or leave it. I’ve always been inclined to accept him for who he is.

  June 22 was the date that Croz and I started recording what I hoped was going to be a hit single. I’d heard the Tom Rush recording of Joni’s song “Urge for Going” and I was excited to begin translating the song to our style. Cass Elliot and Geffen came by for support, and I remember watching Geffen as he put on headphones and looked like he was going to sing to the track we had just cut. I dove quickly over to the tape machine, managed to press the Record button, and captured Geffen in the only recording he’s ever made. He was awful, truly dreadful, and I have the tape to prove it.

  The next day Cass came by again to introduce me to a beautiful lady friend of hers, but got into a huge argument with Croz about some petty matter. Croz ended up yelling that Cass was a parasite and throwing both women out of the studio. This completely shocked me, not only because he was being so rude to someone we both had loved for so long, but also knowing how important Cass had been in getting Croz together with me in the first place. I was so angry that I went to hide out at Joel Bernstein’s place in Topanga Canyon for three days, avoiding even speaking to David. Not a great start for us as a twosome.

  But, as usual, all was forgiven. We really did want to sing together and, also as usual, that’s what mattered the most. So we agreed to book our first tour as a duo.

  Beginning in September, we took our act on the road for a two-month swing, hopscotching merrily around Canada and the United States like two stoned Pied Pipers, doing medium-sized halls.

  Our repertoire was a vast songbook of CSN standouts, individual solo tunes, and stuff we just happened to love, which included some of Joni’s songs and Beatles favorites, whatever we felt like. If you listen to any of the tapes or bootlegs that are floating around of those shows, it’s clear the stripped-down versions of the CSN songs are remarkable for their intimacy and power. We brought a rawness to them that reinterpreted the old standbys, allowing you to hear different emphases and harmonic elements. Another highlight of those shows was the way we interacted in front of a crowd. Turns out Croz and I were natural comedians. Who knew! Our spontaneous, stony dialogue between songs was funny as hell. The audience loved it—and so did we. It provided a nice counterpoint to the intensity of those songs, taking the edge off and giving the shows a laid-back, understated feel.

  We opened our tour in Vancouver. Normally crossing the border was routine, but not for me, not at this particular checkpoint. I’d played Vancouver with CSNY in early 1970. At the airport, on our way back to California, we got one of those classic fascist lines: “Show me your papers, please.” A few minutes later, a guard began waving us through. “Mr. Young … Mr. Crosby … Mr. Stills … you can go. Mr. Nash—not so fast.” So I got left behind. Now, we were pretty famous at this point, and a number of people standing around there recognized me, asking for an autograph. But this asshole gave me the runaround for another half hour while they checked through all my stuff. It was bullshit, and it infuriated me. I don’t like being left out, and I especially don’t like bullies, so steam was coming out of my ears. I fumed the whole way back to San Francisco. The minute I got to the house I went straight to the piano, carrying a book I’d been reading, The Silver Locusts by Ray Bradbury. I just folded the cover back and began writing a song on the pages, trying to express my disgust with people who always want your papers.

  There I was at the immigration scene

  Shining and feeling clean

  Could it be a sin?

  I got stopped by the immigration man

  He says he doesn’t know if he can

  let me in. Let me in immigration man.

  Can I cross the line and pray, I can stay another day …

  At the end of October, when we got to New York for our concert at Carnegie Hall, Stephen walked onstage with an acoustic guitar about an hour into the show. This was an interesting development. There was a residual edge, and we both felt it because of what had transpired with Rita. I had been with her for almost a year, and he had to deal with it, making it awkward to be in our presence. I don’t think he was in another relationship at the time. I do recall two insanely gorgeous sisters who were staying at Shady Oak and were always naked. Jaw-droppingly beautiful girls. Those girls were incredible playthings. They were available to whomever they fancied fucking. It wasn’t like they were with Stephen or Dallas. They were with the house. It was a crazy time.

  In any case, Stephen played a few CSN songs with us. And the next night, in Boston, we did the same thing—but the three of us were joined by Neil. We did excellent acoustic performances (fortunately recorded) of “Ohio” and “Find the Cost of Freedom.” All four of us on one stage, completely unrehearsed. It’s hard to explain how enjoyable it was to play with those guys. We launched into it beautifully together, no rehearsal, no set list, no band, no egos, nothing but music. Our four voices in their purest form. So informal and relaxed. Nothing like it. It felt so good that we did it again the next night, when we returned to Carnegie Hall, with more or less the same result, although amazingly we forgot the words to the “Suite” and stumbled hilariously through it. For a while we toyed with releasing a live album from those three shows, but following 4 Way Street, it wouldn’t have made sense.

  On October 10, 1971, Croz and I played an acoustic show at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion in LA. What made it interesting was that Croz had a temperature of 104 and was also suffering from the “Lebanese” flu. His mother was in the audience and he had to be on his best behavior. This concert eventually became the bootleg record A Very Stony Evening. Funnily enough this was the very same hall in which I became an American citizen many years later.

  The tour behind us, in early November, David and I began recording sessions at Wally Heider’s in San Francisco for our first album together. We put together a dream band: Russ Kunkel on drums, Leland Sklar on bass, Danny Kortchmar on guitar, Craig Doerge on piano, and the multifaceted David Lindley, incredible musicians whom we called the Jitters. Every musician longs to play with an outfit like that. It’s a true joy working with creative stylists. Once we decided what key the song was in, we left everything up to them. There was no need to tell them what to play; they were innovative and exploratory. Occasionally, we had a preconceived arrangement in our heads, but within that, a certain spontaneity took place, especially in the solos, where we just said, “Fuck it—let them express themselves however they want.” Onstage, that makes it fresh every night, and in the studio it creates unexpected energy, offering up all kinds of interesting alternatives. We took advantage of everything that band gave us, and you can hear the result on every track. The album, which was dedicated to “Miss Mitchell” for many reasons, wasn’t the all-out commercial success we’d hoped for, but it represented exactly where we were at, which, at the time, was a very agreeable place.

  Back in March of 1969, David and I had been in the studio doing some mixing on the first CSN album. David had a nasty habit of taking out a buck knife and cutting little notches in the desk next to the studio board. You could gauge the progress of the album in those little nicks. On this occasion he was doing exactly that when the door flung open and a young, good-looking kid charged inside. Crosby leapt up and pointed the knife at the kid, who boldly grabbed it out of David’s hands.

  “That’s my fucking knife,” the kid insisted.

  I thought, “Wow! Who talks like that to Crosby?” David was a pretty formidable character, and he didn’t take shit like that from any skinny, cocky kid.

  Croz grinned. “Aw, that’s just my friend Jackson Browne.”

  A couple of years later, I’d been hearing about this guy more and more. Word was all over the LA music scene about what a great songwriter he was. A huge talent in the rough. Plenty of artists had already covered his tunes, and recently he’d been convinced to record his own material. In fact,
Geffen had signed him to his label, Asylum Records.

  Now, in November of 1971, Joni and I, with David and Joel Bernstein, were driving to Neil’s ranch for Thanksgiving dinner with him, his wife, Carrie Snodgress, and Stephen. Croz had that “I just ate a goldfish and you didn’t” look on his face. “So what is it?” I asked. “None of you have heard this,” he said, and whipped a cassette out of his pocket. “This is the new Jackson Browne record.” Joni asked, “Who’s Jackson Browne?” Joel and Croz said, in unison, “Only your next boyfriend!” How true indeed. Later, Jackson invited me to sing a high part on his single “Doctor, My Eyes.”

  THERE WAS A LOT of pressure on us to reunite as CSNY, but throughout 1972 the four of us were too busy working the margins. Stephen was in Europe with his eight-piece band, Manassas; Neil was shooting his first movie, Journey Through the Past, and promoting Harvest, his follow-up to After the Gold Rush, which became the top-selling album of the year. Croz and I were marching from theater to theater, entertaining joyous audiences, as well as ourselves.

  One show in particular gave me a rush of significance. We played a benefit, along with Neil, for the Prison Inmates Welfare Fund at the Winterland Ballroom in San Francisco, and I couldn’t help flashing on my father’s incarceration. All these years later, it remained one of the most affecting events of my life. The memory of it still haunted me. That night, departing from our usual onstage banter, I made a special plea for funds. “The prisoners—they don’t want luxury in there,” I told the audience. “They just want to be able to live like decent human beings.” Later, I said, “A man shouldn’t spend four years in there and be exactly the same when he comes out, maybe even less of a human being. He should be able to improve himself … C’mon, man, this is the world.”