Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young - The Musketeers of Folk-Rock

We were all three talented guys, but only we knew that that combination was somehow blessed. The three of us had different voices. We had different accents. We had different attitudes. But what happened when we put our voices together was astonishing. As soon as we started singing, we knew we were onto something new, in a wonderful uncharted land. There was something magical about it. That feeling, man, was like someone giving you a blowjob out of nowhere. Like waking up tripping on acid. A flash, I swear it

(David Crosby)

We're not looking for perfection, we just make music with passion, and all we want is to move people and change the lives of those who listen to us a little

(Graham Nash)

This song is about three friends who had trouble communicating with each other. They wasted a lot of time and money, then they cleared the air and made money. It's really lovely

(Stephen Stills)

Intro

Three-part harmony magic

1969. In the world of rock, it's time for electric flashes. The allegorical triumph of Pete Townshend's "Tommy", the riff-driven orgy of Led Zeppelin, the sonic fury of James Marshall Hendrix.

The summer of Woodstock greets the sun with the lysergic embrace of the children of Haight-Ashbury.

The seven-mile-long serpent writhes to the hot Latin American rhythm of Carlos Santana.

A pagan ecstasy that, nonetheless, betrays a tender, committed, magical side.

It's 1969 when three very different musicians forge an absolutely innovative sound, steeped in folk, country, blues. "Alone", so to speak, to tell the shadows of that same generation, scarred by the first war seen on TV.

Stephen Stills brings to the table the immediate simplicity of Buffalo Springfield.

David Crosby reeks of the psychedelia of "Eight Miles High" and "Renaissance Fair".

The Mersey Beat nurtured the restless talent of Graham Nash.

It is not, then, simply a matter of harmony and syncretism. Moby Grape already know a thing or two about that. It is, rather, a matter of interweaving, the kind that comes together suddenly like a magic formula. Three voices, songs, guitars. That's the whole revolution right there.

At Joni's court

Laurel Canyon, summer 1968. It is not a peaceful time for Stephen Stills (Dallas, 3/1/1945) and David Crosby (Los Angeles, 14/8/1941). The former, after the breakup of the seminal Buffalo Springfield, is reeling from having missed out on a spot as bassist in Jimi Hendrix's fabled Experience. The latter, Crosby, has just quit the Byrds, on a collision course with Roger McGuinn over the exclusion of "Triad" from the album "Notorious Big Brothers". Both men's goal seems clear: stay away from the spotlight of the stage, recharge their batteries, look for a new musical path.

In exile in the living rooms of Joni Mitchell and Mama Cass Elliott, the two mull over what to do next, suddenly hit by a creative lightbulb moment.

In June, an acetate is thus produced – containing "Long Time Gone" and "Guinnevere" (with Jack Casady on bass) – which, in a flash, ends up in the hands of two other figures.

B. Mitchell Reid is a DJ at a Los Angeles radio station, KSAN, and starts playing the record for his listeners in an absolute preview, talking about a new duo called Frozen Noses. The second person to get hold of Crosby and Stills's songs is Graham Nash (Blackpool, 2/2/1942), leader of the Hollies, the glorious Manchester band active since 1963. Nash had already met David during a tour of the US, and listening to "Guinnevere" convinces him to leave his group for a change of scenery. "That day we were in Joni's living room, when David and Stephen sang 'You Don't Have To Cry'. They explained the song to me and how they'd worked on it. Then I asked them to sing it again, and I started getting a vague idea of what I might be able to do. When we first heard ourselves singing together, it was extraordinary. These three people from different backgrounds could sing in a magical way. I don't think anyone can do what we did."

It's on an evening in the summer of 1968 that a band with a simple, unusual name is born: CS&N.

With no time to lose, the trio reconvenes at Record Plant studios in New York, where they record the first acoustic demos, which soon reach the far-sighted ears of Ahmet Ertegun, supreme boss of Atlantic Records. It doesn't take the Turkish producer long to sign the three musicians, genuinely convinced that "they were going to become huge."

At the start of 1969, Crosby, Stills and Nash walk through the doors of Wally Heider Studios in Los Angeles, where, with the help of Dallas Taylor's drums and Mama Cass's voice, they definitively record their debut album.

Crosby, Stills & Nash (Atlantic, 1969) is a sonic mosaic crafted with real artistry, built by musical artisans pursuing a vision as coherent as it is revolutionary. Outside, a rapidly changing society, suspended between protest and utopia; inside, a magical bridge between singer-songwriter craft, the purest roots of country-folk, and the dream of the Californian counterculture. Perhaps it's the devil himself who conjures up the lush, kaleidoscopic fusion of three unique talents, so different in their influences and prior experiences.

The whole can sometimes be worth far more than any single part. Even when that single part grows out of the fingers of Stephen Stills, nicknamed – not for nothing – Captain Manyhands. The creative verve of the former Buffalo Springfield member carries the whole record by the hand, leading it to its own artistic manifesto, "Suite: Judy Blue Eyes", which embroiders the love story with Judy Collins with seamless vocal harmony and skill, right through to the Cuban-flavored finale.

Stills's guitar grinds out brilliant chords, as in the sinuous drive of "Long Time Gone", a blend of folk, soul and blues that quenches the acid lips of the West Coast sound. Stills is also the craftsman behind "49 Bye-Byes", a magic potion brewed from three spellbinding voices.

Graham Nash is too tied to the Mersey to abandon it abruptly overnight. Nash, then, is the melody, the beat rhythm tinged with psychedelia on "Pre-Road Downs", fueled by an irresistible backwards-treated guitar. He's the journey toward the Californian shore, as quirky and sunny as the electro-acoustic rhythm of "Marrakesh Express".

Finally, David Crosby, a friendly-faced hippy hiding a sad depth behind a thick moustache. Starting with "Guinnevere", a mystical medieval lament about a woman, through to the masterpiece "Wooden Ships", written with Paul Kantner of Jefferson Airplane. A lysergic progression built on an apocalyptic fable. A generational utopia in the age of jazz.

These are the stellar coordinates of a new acoustic universe, joyful as in the folk-blues of "You Don't Have To Cry", mournfully intimate as in the skeletal "Lady Of The Island" and "Helplessly Hoping".

A record, in short, that fits perfectly into its era, testament to a sun fighting never to set.

Crosby, Stills & Nash was officially released in May 1969, immediately winning over both audiences and the specialist press. At the same time, however, the trio cancels some scheduled live dates, lacking a rhythm section and an additional guitarist.

Dallas Taylor – already a session man during the album's recording – thus takes the drum seat, while for the vacant guitar spot, it's Ertegun himself who suggests Stills's former Buffalo Springfield bandmate.

This is, of course, Neil Young (Toronto, 11/12/1945) who, through his formidable manager Elliot Roberts, agrees only on the condition that a certain letter be added to the band's name.

Stills is worried that further fights might break out after the Buffalo experience, but in the end he gives in, giving rise to a new version of the supergroup: CSN&Y.

Country boys

Laurel Canyon, summer 1969. At Stills' house, the newborn CSN&Y gather to rehearse some unreleased songs, waiting for a live debut that keeps being delayed due to some trouble with Nash's vocal cords.

The debut finally arrives on August 16 at the Auditorium Theatre in Chicago, opened by a set from the lady of folk, Joni Mitchell.

It is, however, a couple of days later that the band enters a state of living legend proper. At three in the morning on August 18, the four take the floral Woodstock stage, where they open with an acoustic set (without Young) only to close together in the triumphant run of "Long Time Gone", "Wooden Ships" and the then-unreleased "Sea Of Madness".

Despite Young's own verdict - "the gig was a total mess" - this is how the band's adventure begins, as they immediately go on to play the Big Sur Folk Festival and the Altamont gathering, performing shortly before the tragedy that struck during the Rolling Stones' set.

Yet it isn't only the flowers of Woodstock lining the foursome's sunny path. Crosby's girlfriend, Christine Gail Hinton, is killed in a car accident, sending the guitarist plunging into the deep waters of drug addiction. Young and Stills aren't faring much better either, both tangled up in relationships that are already practically over.

There's a whiff of crisis, then, at Wally Heider's Studios in Los Angeles, as CSN&Y kick off work on their debut album. It's precisely the two old bandmates who clash most often. Young wants to record the whole record live in one take, while Stills, a known perfectionist, wants to polish every single note that isn't exactly in place.

The sessions proceed, then, at an uneven pace, enriched by John Sebastian's harmonica and Jerry Garcia's pedal steel.

Between December 1969 and January 1970, while waiting for the studio sessions to wrap up, the band continues touring, reaching Europe for a show for the ages at London's Royal Albert Hall.

With the addition of Neil Young, Déjà Vu (Atlantic, 1970) wraps the acoustic intimacy of the first album in a kaleidoscopic electric force field. Sonic horizons travel at double speed - once again perfectly blended - in the name of a generation's lush, angry chords.

From an existentially troubled hippy, David Crosby emerges as a shaman, fierce in the gorgeous soul-blues build of "Almost Cut My Hair". Here lies the coherent link with Crosby, Stills & Nash, as the band rediscovers its wholesome country roots, as in the isolated folk gem "4 + 20", penned by Stephen Stills. What truly carries the record forward, however, is above all the alchemical magic of its individual minds: Déjà Vu, in fact, is the new, collective magic formula of four sorcerers who are all different from one another, yet united by the same passion for tradition reimagined.

Nash continues his precious melodic quest, hanging the Beatles-esque little portrait of "Our House" before crossing paths with Jerry Garcia's steel guitar in the luminous country corner of "Teach Your Children".

Stills, a stickler for sonic perfection, seems to have as much fun as a kid taking apart and reassembling different songs. A product of his teenage blues instincts, "Carry On" is an Eastern-tinged electro-acoustic chant with a psychedelic interlude. Handmade musical building blocks, skillfully carved by Young's guitar, which embroiders electricity over the baroque winding path of the title track, enriched by John Sebastian's folk harmonica. Bluesy devilry that explodes in Joni Mitchell's "Woodstock", another echo of the August performance that launched the quartet to the top of the rock world.

Young is confident in his contribution to the band, letting the country grass grow up to half a foot off the ground. Shy and reserved, "Helpless" makes love with gospel, just as "Country Girl" revels in its own baroque waltz.

In the end, four men out of another era – at least judging by the album cover – fighting through music for what they believe is right. And perhaps it really is about peace and love, going by what the choral anthem of "Everybody I Love You" shouts out at the end. Or perhaps, instead, it's something deeper, a zen meditation on what we probably will never be again. Like a permanent feeling of déjà vu.

Déjà Vu comes out in March, and most of the press lines up to celebrate the band's great work. But it takes nothing at all for the laurels to turn into a bed of thorns: right after its release, Young ditches his three bandmates to go on tour with the newly formed Crazy Horse. Crosby, Stills and Nash are furious, especially at finding themselves alone with a major album and no way to properly perform it live. The three of them then decide to shelve the band to focus on their own personal artistic pursuits.

All for one, or one for all?

The first to return alone to Wally Heider Studios is "Captain Many Hands" Stephen Stills, who between March and April 1970 records his self-titled debut album. Backing him on Stephen Stills (Atlantic, 1970) is a veritable parade of rock stars, lining up to contribute to the guitarist's already well-established talent. Freed from Neil Young's overbearing presence, Stills can give free rein to his sonic perfectionism, crafting an album that still manages to shine with genuine feeling.

A chart-topping showcase, "Love The One You're With" is a fine anthem straddling gospel and folk, enriched by the vocal harmonies of Crosby and Nash themselves alongside Rita Coolidge.

Stephen Stills is a well-balanced record, poised between displays of instrumental skill (the folk percussion of "Do For The Others" and the gleaming acoustic blues of "Black Queen") and an underlying spirituality, woven by Booker T. Jones's organ on the ballad "Church (Part Of Someone)".

The heart of the album, however, is the summit meeting of electric guitar greats. "Old Times Good Times" veers into funky territory, set alight by the last, devilish guitar of James Marshall Hendrix, who faces off right after with the bluesy magic of the "god" Eric Clapton's "blackie" on "Go Back Home". Ringo Starr also makes an appearance, but it's Stills who puts his whole mind into it, veiling the acoustic west coast sound of "To A Flame" with orchestral melancholy and firing back bluntly at the fugitive Young with the folk counter-ballad "We're Not Helpless".

A debut, then, that is sincere and highlights the most musical side of a band suddenly left suspended in limbo.

A few months later, Young has a change of heart and agrees to a new tour with his three bandmates. Calvin Samuels is brought in on bass, while Dallas Taylor is let go due to deep incompatibility with Neil himself. Former Turtles drummer Johnny Barbata takes his place behind the kit.

In May 1970, young Americans are up in arms against Republican President Richard Nixon's choices regarding the tragic war in Vietnam.

At Kent State University in Ohio, four students are shot dead by the National Guard, who open fire on the enraged crowd. Neil Young learns of the news from the papers and, in a flash of outrage, starts writing "Ohio", which is immediately recorded by the four of them and handed over to Ertegun. The single comes out in June – with "Find The Cost Of Freedom" on the B-side – and, propelled by the general turmoil, rockets up the charts, reaching number fourteen.

On the eve of a new, scorching summer, CSN&Y return to the stage in Boston, kicking off a tour that will go down in the annals of American rock. Following in the footsteps of the Woodstock show, the concerts are split between an acoustic set and an electric one, recorded with an eye toward a substantial live album.

A juicy fruit of several performances from the summer of 1970, Four Way Street (Atlantic, 1971) is the definitive creative orgy of four musician-storytellers. On stage, CSN&Y manage the difficult feat of packing half a century of American musical tradition into a few hours, from the oldest, most anguished blues to folk protest songs. More than a concert, it's like an old radio broadcast caught live, where "those holding the guitars" are exactly the same as "those sitting there listening".

When David Crosby introduces the folk-blues hush of "Triad", you can immediately sense a feeling of intimacy, but above all, of utter sincerity. As if we were all truly inside a west coast dream, swimming in the ocean of arpeggios of "The Lee Shore". The moods and contradictions of four men, too different from one another to survive a unity meant to bring them together, to fuse them as one. And it's these very contradictions that make a double live album like Four Way Street so extraordinarily genuine.

Then comes Nash's moment with “Chicago” – a melodic invective for piano and choir – as well as the tender, heartfelt folk of “Right Between The Eyes”. Then a cowboy with a distant gaze who, without much preamble, begins weaving chords of moondust, crystalline in the light of “Cowgirl In The Sand” and “Don’t Let It Bring You Down”.

Neil Young's path is already marked out, in his own existential solitude, in his melancholy singing. This isn't the double album of a supergroup, but a well-defined musical project, something that goes beyond the individual performers.

Stephen Stills sits at the piano for the artisanal “49 Bye-byes” (in a medley with “For What Is Worth”) and to introduce the future gospel-folk hit “Love The One You’re With”. It's the final celebration of a primordial acoustic soul, wrested from the heavens by the earthly electricity of two shamans.

Towering above everyone are Stephen Stills and Neil Young, who bring to life the blistering sonic war of the anthem “Southern Man” and the endless instrumental jam of “Carry On”.

A crack thus opens in the show, deepening into a coexistence of opposing spirits, not perfect, but absolutely miraculous. Nash leads the boogie-blues of “Pre-Road Down”; Crosby, the majesty of “Long Time Gone”. Yet it's the cantankerous Canadian who detonates the show with the rocking throb of the masterpiece “Ohio”, written in the wake of the protests at Kent State University.

Everyone on their feet, then, for the choral acoustic closer “Find The Cost Of Freedom”, but above all for four supremely gifted musicians, capable of coming together across their creative isolation, in the name of a visceral and genuine love for a sonic tradition that's hard to forget.

The CSN&Y tour wraps up on July 9th in Minneapolis, leaving behind glowing reviews and the usual internal friction.

The effort had been titanic: after the run of shows, the four decide to shelve the celebrated outfit to focus on their respective solo projects.

In early August, David Crosby launches an intense series of studio sessions, calling in the elite of the California rock scene.

In the guitarist's mind is an ambitious project, better known as Planet Earth Rock'n'Roll Orchestra (P.E.R.R.O), involving mainly members of the Grateful Dead and the Jefferson Airplane.

This summit meeting of the acid kids soon turns into a fully realized record, which becomes Crosby's first solo album.

If I Could Only Remember My Name (Atlantic, 1971) is the moving musical testament of an entire generation, not yet ready to let the lysergic sun of the West Coast set. More than a record, Crosby's crystalline talent captures a soul, a broad notion of free-form freedom and utopia set to music.

“Music Is Love” isn't just a motto, but an Eastern-tinged mantra of psychedelic folk, enriched by Nash's melodic voice and Neil Young's chords. The mustachioed hippie needs just “a little help from his friends” to build his vision of the world, as jagged as the acid sobs of the soul-blues jam “Cowboy Movie”, driven by Jerry Garcia's psychic guitar and Phil Lesh's bass.

It's the dream of “peace and love” that seeps into the grooves of “Tamalpais High (At About 3)”, a ballad whispered by Jorma Kaukonen's flawless guitar work, or into the lysergic lightness of “Laughing”, backed by Joni Mitchell's vocal harmonies. Psychedelia reigns supreme in the masterpiece “What Are Their Names”, a strange creature escaped from the mental shores of “Aoxomoxoa” and brought back by the strings of Young and Garcia and the whispers of Grace Slick.

Crosby manages to handle something that, perhaps, is bigger than him, a single folk mantra that takes on the most disparate shapes, as if under the influence of drugs. “Traction In The Rain” unfolds like a dream for guitar and harp; “Song With No Words (Tree With No Leaves)” revisits the old “Guinnevere” against the jazzy backdrop of Michael Shrieve and Gregg Rolie. Before a sudden ending, hermetic in its brevity after so much instrumental delirium. Crosby sings alone, a cappella, the gospel of the traditional “Orleans”, because he alone must be the one to celebrate the rite of a sun that still cannot set. The ascent is in his voice on “I’d Swear There Was Somebody Here”, which carries the generational utopia into the deepest spiritual communion, toward shores that no longer belong to this earth.

Spurred on by the success of the single “Love The One You’re With”, Stephen Stills returns to the studio to record the follow-up to his self-titled debut album.

Stephen Stills 2 (Atlantic, 1971) expands on the sonic experience of the first chapter, kicking off a blazing festival of rock guitar.

Reunited with Eric Clapton and the young talent Nils Lofgren – already heard on Neil Young’s “After A Gold Rush” – Stills is free to let his instrumental verve run wild, even at the cost of sacrificing some of his message. It’s an undeniable skill that breathes through the folk-blues of “Word Game” or the country lilt of “Know You Got To Run”, before climbing to the intense guitar work of “Fishes And Scorpions”.

The album hops effortlessly from one genre to another, while keeping a certain underlying coherence intact, as in the move from the devilish blues'n'roll of “Relaxing Town” to the acoustic intimacy of “Singin’ Call”. Deep down, Stills is the most rock-oriented soul of the original trio, and on his own it's fairly obvious that he lets his instincts run free.

“Nothin To Do But Today” veers toward funky-blues, while “Marianne” indulges a gaudy taste for rock and roll. And yet there's a softer side to Stephen Stills too. The airiness of the pop-folk of “Change Partners” could well match the melodic success of “Love The One You’re With”, while “Sugar Babe” and “Open Secret” are liturgical ballads built on keyboards – with Billy Preston – and horns. Also fascinating is the orchestral finale of “Bluebird Revisited”, a saraband of pop, guitars and Latin inflections that seems to hint at a future artistic direction.

It has nothing to do with David Crosby's visionary, lysergic world, but Stephen Stills 2 is an honest, sincere record from a musician devoted to the cause of blues and rock.

Finally, it's Nash's turn. The quartet's melodic gift is, by now, increasingly detached from the original Mersey beat. His living embers are scattered along the West Coast, the mother of all the angry troubadours of the moment. And it's with exactly this spirit that Nash “the American” approaches his debut in the society of Californian rock, blessed along the way by his majesty Jerry Garcia.

Songs For Beginners (Atlantic, 1971), however, doesn't manage to chase the psychedelic visions of his friend Crosby, settling instead for a precise work of pop craftsmanship. Nash certainly has something to say, and his gift as a storyteller of soft folk comes through forcefully too, as in the two gems “Military Madness” (with Dave Mason and Rita Coolidge) and “Chicago”, a protest song already showcased on the epic Four Way Street. The musical arc reaches its climax before settling into soft acoustic arrangements – the magic of “Wounded Bird” – and bittersweet turns like “I Used To Be A King”.

The album has good ideas, but without making the leap in quality. Young adds his piano to the country lied “Better Days”; Bobby Keys brings sax to the spiritual ballad “There’s Only One”. What still emerges is a sincere songwriter, humble in calling himself a “beginner”, but encouraging in certain delicate moments like “Simple Man”, a lullaby for cello and fiddle. Perhaps the only one who needs the group in order to be great.

So Far Apart

At the start of 1971, David Crosby and Graham Nash play together for the first time as a duo, at a benefit concert organized by actress Jane Fonda. They enjoy it, and a few months later go back into the studio to record a Joni Mitchell song, “Urge For Going”. While Stephen Stills is tearing it up live with his band, Crosby and Nash decide to work side by side, releasing their effective debut album.

Better known as the “Black Album” because of its untitled cover, Graham Nash & DavidCrosby (Atlantic, 1972) is a record of craft, honest and heartfelt. The mustachioed hippy keeps the usual Grateful Dead around, but drops his visionary lysergic drift in favor of a soft yet vibrant acoustic tradition. What results is a fluid blend with Nash's melodic gift, sharp in crafting pop sparkles like “Immigration Man”. Without the electric verve of the Stills-Young pairing, the two travel more conventional paths, more closely tied to the rural American tradition.

“Southbound Train” is, accordingly, a true country-folk classic complete with Dylan-esque harmonica, while “Frozen Smiles” recites its catchy nursery rhyme. Crosby shelves the psychedelic guitar of his first solo album, embracing the intimacy of “Games” and the soul-ballad format of “Whole Cloth” and “Page 43”.

Nash, for his part, isn't ashamed of his Albion roots, returning to the Beatles in the classicism of “Strangers Room”. Of course, reduced to just the two of them, Crosby and Nash struggle to recapture the lost thread of generational epic, but they still manage to put together a sincere record, sealed by “Where Will I Be”, a minimal baroque piece built on liturgical moans. Good, yes, but so far removed from the former glories of the old supergroup.

After the release of the “Black Album”, the newly formed duo kicks off a purely acoustic tour across the United States and Europe, enhanced on a few dates by the presence of Stills and Young themselves.

Stephen Stills, meanwhile, chats in the studio with Chris Hillman (ex-Byrds) about a new musical project. Hillman isn't too happy with his experience in the Flying Burrito Brothers and, above all, trusts Stills's idea: forming — with Al Perkins, Dallas Taylor and Calvin Samuels — Manassas.

With Manassas (Atlantic, 1972), Stills writes a small encyclopedia of American popular music, broadening his range across the bands of sonic tradition. The double LP lives in four different settings, moving with extreme naturalness between genres that are as different as they are akin in complicity and capacity for fusion.

The warm R&B of “Song Of Love” introduces “The Raven”, a crackling blend of rock electricity and Latin rhythms, shaken up by the newly expanded band. It's a small festival of the most sinuous blues (“Jet Set”), reinvigorated by the Santana-style percussion of the medley “Rock'n'roll Crazies/ Cuban Bluegrass” and by the Black-inflected riff of “Anyway”.

“The Wilderness”, on the other hand, celebrates the most rural roots, portrayed in particular by joyous country bluegrass tunes such as “Fallen Eagle” and “Hide It So Deep”. Stills paints delicate country romances (“Jesus Gave Love Away For Free” and “Don't Look At My Shadow”), outdoing himself with the melodic folk of “Colorado”. Indeed, the time comes to remember his “old” Woodstock friends. “In Consider”, “Johnny's Garden” and “Move Around” recapture West Coast-style openness, in the name of a folk vein of sure impact — folk now steeped in rock (“It Doesn't Matter”), now in Eastern-tinged blues (“Bound To Fall”), proving the worth of an eclectic project open to any flash of inspiration.

The funky blues of “The Love Gangster” finally paves the way for “Rock And Roll Is Here To Stay”, the record's final stretch, centred on the bluesy flourishes of “Right Now”. With Hillman, Perkins and Samuels, Stills can vent his instrumental urges, driving the piano boogie of “The Treasure” and the sturdy country-blues of “What To Do”, right up to the solitude of “Blues Man”, an acoustic postcard of freight trains and devils at the crossroads.

Manassas may well be a wordy, “fussy” record, but it breathes music with full lungs and definitively confirms the creative talent of a bluesman from another era.

Manassas go on tour in Europe, meeting with immediate success, but the adventure ends quickly when Hillman throws in the towel after the release of the second record.

Down The Road (Atlantic, 1973) is certainly a less grandiose album, a brief condensation of what had already been expressed on Manassas. The Latin inflections of “Pensamento”, in fact, betray the same eclecticism, though less vibrant, lost among tracks that seem like leftovers from the previous, abundant material. Stills still seems intent on driving the Stones-style boogie of “Lies”, or wild R&B numbers like “Business On The Street” (with echoes of the Small Faces) and the Zeppelin-esque slide of “Isn't It About Time”.

The record is, however, merely a surrogate for the alchemy of the debut, sacrificed in the name of a sort of compilation of minor tracks, thrown together without much rhyme or reason. The folk-blues of the title track sits alongside the bluegrass of “Do You Remember The Americans?”. The small encyclopedia, this time, stays trapped within generic boundaries, between romantic country (“So Many Times”) and festival-style percussion (“Guacanco De Vero”). And Stills also owes us an apology for a rather too faithful rereading of “Let's Spend The Night Together” in “City Junkies”.

An adventure, then, as promising as it was fleeting, one that fails to consolidate a sonic direction that was well planned, at least in its intentions.

Old memories, new quarrels

In the spring of 1973, unexpectedly, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young find themselves together in Maui, Hawaii, to talk about a new album.

Rehearsals begin in June at Young's Broken Arrow Ranch, but something shatters the creative atmosphere: Bruce Berry, roadie for Young and later for Manassas, dies of an overdose. The four decide to halt the recordings, but the reunion still bears fruit, as an agreement is reached for a series of shows planned for the following year.

At the start of 1974, Graham Nash restarts the solo-album carousel with Wild Tales (Atlantic, 1974), recorded in small part with his old bandmates (Neil Young still guests on piano under the pseudonym Joe Yankee). The album, however, lacks standout tracks like “Military Madness” and “Chicago” and, inevitably, slips by without much ambition.

Nash's shy talent doesn't like to overreach, settling instead for a patchwork job steeped in folk-tinged country (“Hey You (Looking At The Moon)” and “You'll Never Be The Same”) and Beatles-esque pop (“On The Line”).

Naturally, there's no trace here of Stills' electric fury or Crosby's psychedelic poetry. Only the catchy blues of "Grave Concern" attempts to pick up the pace.

For the rest, Nash returns to the acoustic guitar-harmonica format, strumming out early Dylan on "Oh! Camil (The Winter Soldier)" and channeling his friend Young in the atmospheres of "And So It Goes". Things improve, however, when the other three lend a hand, as on the keyboard waltz of "Prison Song". Still, the Englishman hasn't lost his touch entirely, and the pop piano lieder of "I Miss You" manages to send a small shiver down the spine.

With Crosby out of the picture, there's a sense that the well of inspiration is starting to dry up.

The months go by and Stills decides to tour with his own band, while Crosby and Nash go their separate ways for a while after wrapping up an American tour as a duo. Until the summer of 1974.

On July 9th, in Seattle, a sensational reunion tour gets underway - christened the "Doom Tour" by Crosby - which runs for three months through major American stadiums, culminating in the only European date at Wembley on September 14th, in a marathon rock bill alongside Joni Mitchell and The Band.

The four thus reunite, long-awaited stars of the stage, performing old hits and new songs live (Young steals the show with his new album "On The Beach") in a series of concerts that are met with great enthusiasm from both press and public.

The final London show is also filmed by the BBC, but CSN&Y decide to shelve the project, unhappy with the vocal performance of the night.

Fans must therefore make do with the band's first official anthology, So Far (Atlantic, 1974), which climbs the charts thanks to the inclusion of studio versions of "Ohio" and "Find The Cost Of Freedom".

At the end of 1974, the four reunite at the Record Plant Studios with the aim of reopening the "lost album" chapter, but Stills and Nash in particular dredge up all their old grudges, now fueled by inflated musical egos, drug problems and onstage rivalries.

The project consequently falls apart, once again sending the supergroup's members their separate ways.

In June 1975, Stephen Stills returns to a highly active solo career following the Manassas interlude.

On Stills (Cbs, 1975), the guitar virtuoso fails to replicate his band's former glories, settling instead into blues autopilot. The Manassas experience, of course, is still too recent to be entirely forgotten. The eclecticism of that first album echoes through the Latin-tinged blues of "Turn Back The Pages" or the Cuban boogie of "In The Way". The rest, however, never quite draws blood, settling comfortably into the country-rock of "My Favorite Changes" and certain piano-bar jazz experiments like "My Angel".

Stills suffers from excessive prolificacy, which degenerates into limp melodic entanglements ("Love Story") and waltz turns ("To Mama From Christopher And The Old Man"). What remains, then, is the usual instrumental mastery, running through the wah-wah of "Cold Cold World" and the funk of "Shuffle Just As Bad". "As I Come Of Age", on the other hand, is a flat ballad, while "Myth Of Sisyphus" slips wistfully into adult soul.

Decidedly too little for a talent like Stephen Stills.

Just a few months later came Stephen Stills Live (Atlantic, 1975), recorded live in March 1974 at the Auditorium Theatre in Chicago.

In the wake of the collective grandeur of Four Way Street, the album captures the bluesman's double soul, starting with the electric verve of the now-classic “Wooden Ships.” Stills showcases his skill with the instrument, firing off the rock 'n' blues riff of “Jet Set” in a medley with the aggressive “Rocky Mountain Way.” No Hendrix-style fireworks, of course, but a solid groove (“Special Care”) as well as a certain passion for gospel-soul, as heard in the organ on “Four Days Gone.”

More moving is the guitarist's other side, mindful of old acoustic friendships. It opens, then, with the catchy “Change Partners” before moving on to a curious run of covers, from the blues medley of “Crossroads/You Can't Catch Me” to Fred Neil's anthem “Everybody's Talking At Me.”

Stills relies on the sure-footed sound of “4+20” and, in the end, succeeds in his aim: making a handful of fine songs shine on stage, with elegance and technical skill.

Still not satisfied, the former Buffalo Springfield man decided to release Illegal Stills (Cbs, 1976), which, however, turns out to be another dud.

Stills appears clearly confused, caught between old sonic memories and new temptations. The result is an equally confused record – if not downright bland – that can't even be saved by his usual instrumental talent.

In the end, the lesson is always the same one from Manassas, poised between boogie-rock shades and Latin inflections, as in “Soldier” and the romantic “Midnight In Paris.” Memories, however, that weigh too heavily and end up slipping into the mediocrity of the salsa steps of “No Me Niegas.”

Stills only regains ground by turning back “home,” returning to the beloved acoustic country-blues of “Stateline Blues” or the riff of the cover of “The Loner.” And that's as good as it gets, because the record then veers off into unconvincing funky-soul rhythms (“Buyin' Time” and “Closer To You”) before sinking into some rather cloying pop on “Ring Of Love.”

One thing is certain: Stills would do better to rein in his prolific output and think more carefully about his music.

Crosby and Nash, meanwhile, find inspiration for a new album as a duo, backed by The Mighty Jitters (formerly The Section on the “Black Album,” with Russell Kunkel, Craig Doerge, David Lindley and Tim Drummond).

Wind On The Water (Abc, 1975) is the final result of the meeting between two now-mature musicians, less fiery and more composed in their approach. David Crosby is far from the sun-drenched beaches of psychedelic introspection: the tender piano of “Bittersweet” or the soul grooves of “Low Down Payment” seem light years away from the sonic “shining” of If I Could Only Remember My Name. Nash, for his part, carries on consistently with the direction taken in his solo career, between the melodic drive of “Love Work Out” and the country-pop of “Cowboy Of Dreams.”

What emerges is a very “middle class” record, with some good ideas but also a few moments of passable tedium. “Naked In The Rain” echoes the same folk intimacy, while “Homeward Through The Haze” is another fine piece of handcrafted pop. It's hard, in other words, to think these are the same heroes behind “Wooden Ships” or “Almost Cut My Hair.”

The love for music, however, is still alive. “Carry Me” returns to the terrain of interlocking vocal harmonies, almost spoken-word in the measured “Mama Lion.” Interesting, too, is the funky jig spirit of “Take The Money And Run,” but above all the closing of “Last Whale,” where a Gregorian intro leads into a crystalline medieval folk ballad.

Maturity means authorial experience, of course, but from David Crosby and Graham Nash one should expect more.

While Crosby and Nash consolidate their chemistry as a duo, at the start of 1976 old comrades Stephen Stills and Neil Young decide to put together a similar project. The Canadian cowboy is about to head out on tour with Crazy Horse, but first secretly flies to Miami to work, indeed, with Stills' band and producer Tom Dowd.

Credited to the Stills-Young Band, Long May You Run (Reprise Records, 1976), unlike Wind On The Water, lets loose the usual electric verve of the two men, who seem to set aside, at least for a moment, their respective egos for a tight, well-blended record.

Young, however, is far more inspired than his friend and pens, almost too obviously, the album's most crystalline tracks. Hence the soft country gallop of the title track, balanced by the nocturnal romanticism of "Midnight On The Bay", amid Latin percussion and harmonica phrasing.

Stills, for his part, tries to revive the "big-band" Manassas sound with "Black Coral", even venturing into the winding organ/guitar interplay of "Make Love To You". The closeness of his old friend bears fruit, though it never goes beyond the sinuous electricity of "12/8 Blues (All The Same)" and certain jazzy atmospheres like that of "Guardian Angel".

It seems, in fact, that Stills' creative vein is somehow caged within a certain technical formalism, while Young's restless spirit manages to shine even in minor episodes like these. Take the melodic shimmer of "Ocean Girl" or the gospel-flecked blues of "Let It Shine". He is, perhaps, the true deus ex machina of the whole affair, a peerless talent who, at least in this period, turns everything he touches to gold.

The other three musketeers, for now, are left to survive on the memory of times gone by.

As if in a sudden back-and-forth between a band now split in two, the third official album by David Crosby and Graham Nash hits the shops. Again recorded with their trusty, seasoned Mighty Jitters, Whistling Down The Wire (ABC, 1976) pushes the languid, composed tones of Wind On The Water to extremes, sinking, for the first time, into genuine banality of inspiration.

"Broken Bird" and "Time After Time", for instance, are more-than-standard ballads, flattened by arrangements fit for "sixty-somethings in armchairs". Nash tries to inject a bit of brio into the proceedings and nearly succeeds with the brief, melodic boogie of "Spotlight", but the rest of the album betrays itself minute by minute, revealing a scant intuition beneath its formal craftsmanship.

Crosby takes center stage with the captivating pantomime of "Dancer", but immediately slips on the sugary, sticky peel of the soul number "Foolish Man". These are, in short, fairly conventional romanticisms, as in "Marguerita", which only shine when the record embraces the most classic country-ballad stylings ("Taken At All").

For the rest, it's a bloodless album, unable to turn a mature sense of folk songwriting into anything current or vibrant. A softener-grade funk-blues like "Mutiny" or the touching harmonic tenderness of "Out Of The Darkness" simply aren't enough.

With their rebellious long hair now cut, Crosby and Nash seem to have lost the strength to cry out even in a whisper.

The situation among the four grows more complicated. In the pages of the specialist magazine "Crawdaddy", Stills and Young — bolstered by an upcoming joint tour — declare they no longer intend to work with their two old bandmates. Crosby and Nash feel hurt, betrayed, and perhaps also somewhat aware of the less-than-stellar material they'd recently released as a duo.

Stephen Stills, however, has little to laugh about. After eighteen dates of the Long May You Run tour, Neil Young abandons his friend, forcing him to cancel the remaining shows. Adding insult to injury, he returns home after the shows to discover that his wife, French singer Veronique Sanson, has already filed for divorce.

Peace and love at the Greek Theatre

Autumn 1976. At the Greek Theatre in Los Angeles, during a charity concert, Crosby, Stills and Nash set foot on stage together again. Peace breaks out among the three. Stephen is going through a period of deep depression following the collapse of his marriage, his falling-out with Neil Young, and his latest solo albums. Old friends matter most precisely in times of greatest need.

In December, together with producers Ron and Howie Albert, they begin rehearsals for what is to become the second official album of the original CSN outfit. On June 2, 1977, in the summer of punk, the trio debuts in Clarkston, Minnesota, on their first tour without the "lone cowboy". Joining them are Joe Vitale on drums, George Perry on bass, and Craig Doerge on piano.

1977. While the white-knuckle guerrilla warfare of the Clash sets London's alleyways ablaze, three reunited friends sip music in the middle of the ocean, amid smiles and intertwined vocal trills. Dubbed by many "the boat album", CSN (Atlantic, 1977) is the intimate remembrance of times gone by. Not necessarily a dusty one: "Shadow Captain" basks in dreamy piano notes and perfectly interwoven voices. Granted, it's an album with more than one shadow looming behind it, but one still capable of stirring emotion beyond its time, simply for the pleasure of listening to songs crafted by hand, with real artistry. Like the harmonic ballad "Carried Away", the fruit of a Graham Nash pen perhaps never so inspired. It really does seem that a plain real-estate-agency-sounding name can carry an unreachable alchemical magic, if only it's taken down solitary roads.

It's at this crossroads, then, that a lost inventiveness is rediscovered. As in the extraordinary acoustic crescendo of "In My Dreams". Unity is strength. Crosby returns to his musical silences, as in the jazzy "Anything At All"; Stills - almost resurrected - returns to the acoustic folk of "See The Changes" and, above all, to the delicate Latin touches of "Fair Game".

An unexpected star turn, Nash writes the most intense track on the whole record, or at least the one that reminds the world that CSN's songs are harsh invectives against an unjust, sick society. Witness the splendid gothic architecture of "Cathedral". Or when he sits at the piano for "Cold Rain", a postcard memory of a liturgical Manchester.

CSN is an album more polished in its arrangements than in its lyrics, which are sacrificed to the sultry shifts of "Dark Star" and the catchiness of "Just A Song Before I Go". Perhaps it's Stills's fault, as he sets the rock of "Run From Tears" ablaze before calling in the orchestra for "I Give You Give Blind".

Nothing, in short, to do with the mawkish solipsism of the Crosby & Nash duo or the mediocre prolificacy of Stills. The same musicians who, together, manage to change and, blending into one another, create something beautiful for the world of music.

To better ride the wave of the reunion, a live album by the C&N duo was immediately released, recorded during the 1975 and 1976 tours. Simply titled Live (Abc, 1977), the album brings to the stage the sugary sweetness of the pair, drawn mainly from their first three records. "Foolish Man", "Mama Lion" and "Page 43", fortunately, take on a more rock-oriented guise that makes them more enjoyable than their original studio versions. There is, however, a certain fraying to be heard, no doubt due to the absence of the two knights of rock, Stills and Young. The two guitarists, backed as usual by the Mighty Jitters, hold their own admirably, opening with the verve of "Immigration Man" and closing with the bite of "Déjà Vu".

It's the power of glory that helps the bold and the wandering troubadours.

Galvanized by the widespread acclaim for CSN, the three decide to carry on and, at the end of November, reconvene in a Los Angeles studio, again with Ron and Howie Albert. The sessions drag on until April 1978, when Stills decides to call a halt in order to work on his next solo album.

Perhaps overly confident in his own prolificacy, Thoroughfare Gap (Cbs, 1978) is another shaky step for the Texan guitarist. The producers are the same ones behind the brilliant CSN, but the absence of his two rediscovered friends is plain to see, soon turning into a lack of direction, amid oddball disco-funk experiments like "You Can't Dance Alone" and "What's The Game". Stills, indeed, seems paralyzed while "dancing alone", forced to rehash old tropes, such as the Latin percussion of "We Will Go On" and the Cuban electricity of "Woman Lleva".

A bland record that fails to bring out the tribal pulse of the "Not Fade Away" cover or, above all, the much-handled blues of the "Midnight Rider" version. Better, perhaps, the laid-back blues-soul of "Lowdown" or the honeyed one of "Beaucop Yumbo", provided one accepts listening to music made just to entertain while doing something else. Because it seems impossible to be moved by the melody of the title track. One need only sway a little to the vibrant slide of "Can't Get No Booty". Yet it seems hard to believe this is the same musician from the last album by the reborn wonder-trio of folk.

In July, CS&N kick off a short summer tour that proves a great success with audiences.

The three immediately try to resume their recording careers, but in directions too divergent from one another. Crosby and Nash attempt a new project as a duo, but the former is in a degenerated psycho-physical state due to heavy drug use. Stills is faring no better, rather discouraged after his latest, lackluster solo efforts.

The magic seems, then, broken once again when, in September 1979, the three take the stage once more at New York's Madison Square Garden to support the cause of the Musicians United For Safe Energy foundation, promoted by Jackson Browne and Graham Nash himself.

The "No Nukes: The Muse Concert For A Non-Nuclear Future" features, among others, Bruce Springsteen and James Taylor, but above all CSN, who play now-legendary songs such as "Teach Your Children", "Long Time Gone" and "You Don't Have To Cry".

Visibly satisfied, Nash decides to return to the studio at the end of the year to record his third solo album.

Earth & Sky (Capitol, 1980) continues, in the wake of "No Nukes", with a strong ecological spirit, steeped in soft orchestral arrangements. Nash favors territory halfway between gospel and soul - exemplified by "Skychild" and "It's All Right" - proving to be decidedly more inspired than the confused Stills and the fallen Crosby. Tracks like "Barrel Of Pain" and "In the 80's" even attempt to bite with restless boogie.

The record, however, never manages to rise above a modest environmentalist languor, fed by the flabby pop of the title track and by certain melodic liturgies like "T.V. Guide" and "Magical Child".

All in all, faded memories too for the Englishman, who indulges in a déjà vu with the West Coast-style folk of "Out On The Island".

The public doesn't seem to warm to it. Cbs immediately terminates its contract with the ex-Hollies man.

Alliance in the light of day

At the end of 1979, David Crosby goes back into the studio to start work on his second solo album. The sessions drag on for almost a year, but the ex-Byrds man is in a pitiful physical state because of drugs. The material actually sounds good, but Capitol rejects the album, plunging the guitarist even further into the abyss.

It's a tough time for the three of them, watching their creative wells gradually dry up, reduced to treading America's stages with songs that have by now become timeless classics.

In October 1980, Stills and Nash decide to launch a first project as a duo, but Atlantic doesn't like the new tapes, deeming them pointless without Crosby's presence.

So the mustachioed one tries to pull himself back up, heading to Rudy Records to lend his old friends a hand.

Daylight Again (Atlantic, 1982) is the album that attempts to turn around the mixed fortunes of the illustrious trio, relying on a safe, traditional way of writing songs. Right from the soft riff of "Turn Your Back On Love" you can hear a genuine compositional charm, nestled in the warm cocoon of vocal harmonies. Nash lays out sizzling pop melodies, as with the violin of "Wasted On The Way" or the sturdy structure of "Into The Darkness". And Stills doesn't need much persuading, rivalling his partner in the soul-chorus stakes on "Southern Cross".

The Texan guitarist, however, is still smarting from his recent recording disappointments, and fails to pull off the same miraculous feat as CSN. Hence the return of the blander blues of "Since I Met You", paired with the usual electric tribal stomp of "Too Much Love To Hide".

The real problem is that the album isn't truly a three-way creation, but rather the leftovers of a Nash and Stills project, with Crosby lending a hand as best he can. The mustachioed one is in a sorry state and, indeed, needs a divining rod to find any inspiration worth the name. "Delta" is his moving, final effort at the piano.

It isn't the same man who wrote "Triad" who moves us here, with the gospel-soul tenderness of "Might As Well Have A Good Time". Things work better when Nash tries his hand at the baroque pop of "Song For Susan" or Stills revisits the ballad format with "You Are Alive". Still, these are just honest songs, and little more. It takes, in fact, a gem fished out of the past – the year 1972 – to talk of "glory days": the title track opens with an evocative, stripped-back folk sound before continuing – between a banjo and the voice of Art Garfunkel – into the classic "Find The Cost Of Freedom".

The definitive proof that CS&N belong to a long-buried past?

The album, however, enjoys solid success with both audiences and critics, prompting the trio to go back on tour in the United States. It's the right moment to push CS&N even higher.

A sonic diary of the last two reunion tours, in 1977 and 1982, Allies (Atlantic, 1983) is the first live album by the CS&N three-man outfit. The shows, however, are light years away from the electro-acoustic lightning bolts of Four Way Street, with the trio reduced to the condition of a has-been living legend.

The record, in other words, cannot afford to leave out any track before CSN, instead settling for a collection of covers (from the tenderness of "Blackbird" to the only genuinely moving moment, Joni Mitchell's "He Played Real Good For Free," sung by what remains of a once-great David Crosby) and mediocre new songs like the artificial, eighties-flavored riff of "War Games."

Stills, then, continues to suffer from a creative drought, only partly eased here by a particularly brilliant version of "Dark Star." The live album, however, is merely a stopgap release, a hopeful chase after a fame that can no longer be recaptured. Times change, and Crosby knows it only too well, stepping aside — ravaged by drugs — to let the far more buttoned-up Graham Nash take the wheel, churning out pop melodies tailor-made for car radios. "Wasted On The Way" and "Barrel Of Pain" are two effective examples of this.

It's no coincidence that the album doesn't close — as tradition would demand — with the epic "Find The Cost Of Freedom," but with the anthem "For What It's Worth," proof that this is a frayed group struggling to find the thread of its own inspiration again.

After releasing Allies, the trio head out on tour once more, this time in Europe. Success is guaranteed, but it's merely the prelude to another internal split. Between late 1983 and early 1984, Nash reunites with the Hollies to record a sensational (and disappointing) reunion album, while Crosby keeps trying to finish his second solo record.

Stephen Stills, on the other hand, succeeds, delivering yet another studio effort.

Right By You (Atlantic, 1984) is the Texan guitarist's most disastrous fall, plunging with nothing to hold onto into a pit of flat, artificial music. From the synthesized Latin flourishes of "50/50" onward, it's clear that the eighties sheen of the single "War Games" was no fluke but a sign of a genuine change in direction. Stills fills an entirely pointless album with a string of mechanical funk numbers ("Stranger," "No Problem"), interspersed with dreary ballads like "Love Again" and "Only Love Can Break Your Heart," which comes close to blaspheming against Neil Young.

A collapse, though not a fatal one. Stills only redeems himself when he returns to older forms, between the blues-and-roll of "Flaming Heart" and the vintage bluegrass of "No Hiding Place."

A superfluous record, then, a mirror of an extremely difficult moment for one of the most fascinating consortiums in pop music history.

Stills is disappointed with his new album, and so he returns to base for a long tour with Crosby and Nash that runs through December 1984.

The real surprise, however, comes in July 1985, when the three reunite on the Live Aid stage alongside Neil Young to perform "Only Love Can Break Your Heart" and "Daylight Again/Find The Cost Of Freedom." The Canadian cowboy even goes so far as to promise David Crosby he'll get back in the saddle for a new album — on the condition that Crosby first gets clean of drugs.

Crosby, instead, is arrested for illegal possession of firearms and sentenced to eight months behind bars. It's the last straw for the guitarist with the friendly, peaceable face. Thus begins, for him, a long process of detox that will eventually lead him to find light at the end of the tunnel.

Meanwhile, Nash returns to the studio on his own and, in March 1986, releases his fourth album.

With Innocent Eyes (Atlantic, 1986), the Blackpool troubadour gets mired, much like his friend Stephen Stills, in an eighties-flavored sludge, which spreads from the very start with the synth-pop of "See You In Prague" and "Don't Listen To The Rumors."

The record seems to undo all the good Nash has done with the band, in pursuit of a presumed chart-friendly catchiness through bland rhythms à la Phil Collins ("Keep Away From Me" and "Over The Wall"). Perhaps the only thing worth appreciating is an eclectic approach to the song format, which nonetheless never manages to take flight, clipped by the bland R&B of the title track and by "Newday," a sort of leftover from a Police session.

Between a Hawaiian postcard ("Chippin Away") and the robotic funk of "I Got A Rock," the only thing Graham Nash truly pulls off is "Glass And Steel," a sad tribute to his troubled friend David Crosby. A tiny speck against the folk-pop universe it's supposed to represent.

The Fantastic (?) Four

At the start of 1987, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young came together again to tread the boards, specifically in Santa Barbara, California, for two Greenpeace benefit shows.

Right after the successful concerts, the first three shut themselves away in a Los Angeles studio to record a handful of brand-new songs. The sessions, however, didn't go smoothly, so the trio decided to wait for reinforcement from Neil Young, who was in the meantime busy with a new European tour with Crazy Horse. Thorny contractual problems also arose, since Neil's label — Geffen — was none too pleased with the idea of a "new CSN&Y album on Atlantic."

Elliott Roberts, Young's manager, soon sorted the situation out, and so, in 1988, the sessions for the long-awaited reunion album could finally begin. The mood seemed fairly calm: Stills and Young found a working arrangement, while Crosby appeared to be in great shape after going through detox.

CS&N went back on tour in the US.

By summer, though, things started to go sour, amid old artistic grudges and clashing setlists. Despite everything, on November 12th CSN&Y performed in Los Angeles — during the Children Of America Concert — with an all-acoustic show.

The audience was enthralled, but more than one shadow was already lurking around the corner.

The first studio album since the now-legendary Dèjà vu, American Dream (Atlantic, 1988) is, in effect, the grand comeback of the four horsemen of country-rock.

Front and center, of course, is Neil Young, who was nonetheless going through a creative downturn after reaching a new personal peak with "Rust Never Sleeps" (1979). It's Young who kicks off the supergroup's renewed dance, but the catchy bassline of the title track hardly sounds like the prelude to an album destined to be remembered in the annals of American popular music. The Lonely Man promptly veers into a classic electric-country ballad ("Name Of Love"), but what really fails to click is his chemistry with Stills, who can't find a way into the songs with his guitar solos, lost in the synthesized murk of his recent solo albums ("Got It Made").

Nash, for his part, has no qualms about doubling down on the liturgical piano of "Don't Say Goodbye" and, above all, on the by-now-tired environmentalist ballad "Clear Blue Skies". The bright spot, instead, is the return to (artistic) life of David Crosby, who, fully detoxed, puts his foot down with the keyboard-driven punch of "Nighttime For The Generals". The California mustache suddenly seems to remember his glorious past as a songwriter, moving listeners with the existentialist folk of "Compass", a West Coast postcard also graced by Young's harmonica. The same Canadian does better painting the acoustic watercolor of "Feel Your Love" than with the sing-along nursery-rhyme feel of "This Old House".

The one who suffers most is undoubtedly Stephen Stills, who tries out the blues riff of "Drivin' Thunder" before sinking into the soul horns of "That Girl" and the synthetic rock of "Night Song". So not even Nash's solid anti-war melody ("Soldiers Of Peace") is enough to produce another great album.

American Dream is an across-the-board disappointment, made all the more painful by the weight of expectations resting on the shoulders of a band that seems too frayed to last much longer in the public imagination.

When the album hits stores in November, it immediately scores a solid commercial success, going platinum within just two months. Critics, however, are merciless, and push Young above all to abandon the idea of a world tour. Neil, in truth, doesn't fully trust David Crosby's newfound stability, and Crosby, in response, decides to focus seriously on finally bringing his long-awaited second solo album into the world.

As if to answer Young's doubts right away, the Californian musician finally brings his second child into the light. Oh Yes I Can (A&M, 1989) is a genuine show of strength — artistic and personal — announcing to the rock world that the legendary If I Could Only Remember My Name has finally found its heir.

With "Drive My Car", Crosby sets aside any synthesized temptations and veers toward an electric bite not heard since the famed golden days. The drugs have melted away after almost twenty years, letting resurface the talent of someone who knows how to blend blues and soul, as in the tribal groove of "Monkey And The Underdog". The album bares unexpected claws, between the boogie of "Drop Down Mama" and the delicate percussion of "Flying Man", proving that you can always rise from the ashes and make it through against all odds. There's a return to old acoustic folk ("Tracks In The Dust") and to memories of sun-drenched beaches like those of "Distances". Crosby, clearly, plays the easy card of emotion, indirectly showing Stills how to avoid tedium at the end of the '80s.

As it happens, it's precisely when “the moustache” gets closer to the Texan that the first yawns start. The Hawaiian rhythms of “Melody” and the gospel ballad of “In The Wide Ruin” are leftovers from a bygone era, reshaped to suit the taste of a decade that was all too different.

But with the band having one and a half feet in the grave, an album like Oh Yes I Can seems to do good for both the ears and the heart. If nothing else, it's worth applauding the return of a musician who simply couldn't vanish from the scene like that.

At the end of 1989, Crosby appears on a special stage alongside Stills and Nash. To celebrate the fall of the Berlin Wall, the three perform “Change Partners,” “Chippin' Away” and, above all, the classic “Long Time Gone.”

Reinvigorated, in January 1990 CS&N return to the studio to begin work on their fifth official album, this time joined by some prestigious names such as Roger McGuinn, Peter Frampton, Michael Landau and Branford Marsalis.

Greeted by a cover of questionable taste, Live It Up (Atlantic, 1990) fails to make the most of its illustrious guests, falling instead into a ditch of mediocre, anachronistic arrangements.

While the world braces for the generational vomit of “Nevermind” and the revolutionary passion of “Ok Computer,” CS&N still seem unsure which way to turn, continuing to brew infusions of bass synth, keyboards and electronic drums, as on the opening title track.

Crosby, now fully rehabilitated, wavers through bland soul polish (“Arrows” and “If Anybody Had A Heart”), while Stills shows no sign of wanting to break out of his narrow creative tunnel. “Tomboy” is thus just another one of the countless commercial jingles fashionable in the '80s, while “(Got To Keep) Open” is yet another poolside Latin pastiche. And it's telling that not even the retro acoustics of “Haven't We Lost Enough?” manage to produce a shiver of emotion.

Nash, as usual, tries to save the day with the intimate ballad “House Of Broken Dreams” and, at least in terms of grit, succeeds with the heartfelt closer “After The Dolphin.” Yet the nocturnal sax-driven romanticism of “Yours And Mine” and the sugary pop of “Straight Line” do their best to spoil the party, leaving the album, in the end, as the blandest and most pointless in the trio's output.

Acoustic calm after the storm

Live It Up is met with a fairly cold reception from both audiences and the trade press, but CS&N don't lose heart, going back out on tour across the United States almost until the end of the year. David Crosby, however, crashes his motorcycle, forcing his bandmates to cancel the remaining dates in Japan and Australia. During the forced break in the “Southern Cross Tour,” Stephen Stills decides to give it another shot, working on an album made up entirely of acoustic songs.

With Stills Alone (Gold Hill Vision Records, 1991), the Texan musician returns to an intimate, solitary dimension, effectively leaving behind the dreadful easy-listening temptations of Right By You.

The country ditties of “Isn't It So” and “The Right Girl” honestly retrace a past that no longer exists, carried by a precious acoustic verve. Admittedly, Stills has run out of fresh ideas, and indeed is forced to lean on a generous handful of beachside folk-campfire covers. The refinement of “Everybody's Talking At Me” thus embraces the tenderness of “In My Life” before diving into a fairly traditional country-blues take on “The Ballad Of Hollis Brown.” The instrumental skill, however, remains as sharp as ever, painted in electro-acoustic blues (“Just Isn't Like You”) and delicate arpeggios like “Singin' Call.”

The album, in the end, even manages to be an enjoyable listen, between the “Blind Fiddler” medley and the folk solitude of “Treetop Flyer.” Obviously, nothing new under the old freak sun, but at least Stills proves he's still a great musician.

The real surprise, however, comes in October 1991 when Atlantic decides to empty out the memory drawers and release a quadruple album that stands as a genuine monument to the career of Crosby, Stills and Nash.

CSN (Atlantic, 1991) is the definitive branding iron seared onto the trio's legendary career, an indelible tattoo on the forearm of the American folk tradition.

Over four hours of music take the listener on a journey, starting from the electric seeds of "Suite: Judy Blue Eyes" (here with Dallas Taylor on drums) and arriving at the intense blues of "Dear Mr.Fantasy", a cover of Steve Winwood's Traffic. A ride on the freight trains of country-folk that offers the unforgettable experience of relieving more than twenty years of music through unreleased tracks and alternate versions.

As in the richer version of "You Don't Have To Cry" produced by Paul Rothchild, and the intimate masterpiece "Guinnevere" in its 1968 acetate version with Jack Casady on bass and Faryar on bouzouki. Neil Young pops up here and there, leaving his unmistakable, aching mark: from the electric country of "Helplessy Hoping" to the finest electro-acoustic version of "See The Changes".

It is, however, time to confirm - beyond the countless personal problems over the years - the crystalline talent of David Crosby, who drives the stratospheric soul-blues rage of "Almost Cut My Hair" (here in a live-in-studio version, complete with an instrumental coda) before casting the medieval-folk spell of "Song With No Words". No complaints either about the choral acoustic beauty of "Blackbird". Friend Nash, meanwhile, was never one to sit on the sidelines: with Terry Reid he co-writes "Horses Through A Rainstorm", a pop gem for organ left off Dèjà Vu for being too melodic. Then there's the Beatles-esque pop of "Man In The Mirror", the melodramatic soul of "Homeward Through The Haze", and the acoustic gem "Taken At All".

An orgy of blended genres resulting in a truly unique style. One of the most important box sets in history for its choices, songs, and ability to showcase the very best this trio achieved, both with and without Neil Young.

To support the box set, CS&N return to Europe for a quick run of five concerts that includes two Italian dates, in Milan and Rome. The actual (acoustic) tour, however, begins in summer, when the three perform across the United States until November, culminating at San Francisco's Warfield Theatre, where a video titled "The Acoustic Concert" is recorded.

After Oh, Yes I Can, David Crosby seems to have developed a taste for it and, eager to make up for lost time, releases his third solo album.

Thousand Roads (Atlantic, 1993) is padded out with covers, but it's another small building block in the reconstruction of the Californian guitarist's artistic career. David Crosby has real substance, and he proves it even when handling other people's material, from the electro-acoustic folk of "Too Young To Die" (J. Webb) to the warm, percussive rhythms of "Through Your Hands" (J. Hiatt).

The strings he plays are, of course, the usual ones, as in the jazzy, nervy blues of the title track, yet the mustachioed big man still manages to let his class shine through, unlike his friend Stills, who can't seem to pull himself out of his creative rut. Certain soul-romantic moments ("Helpless Heart" and "Natalie") are undeniably formulaic, but when old lady Joni Mitchell gets involved, everything seems to regain its old magic. The acoustic samba of "Yvette In English" is easily the best track on an otherwise forgettable record like "Hero", syrupy pop made in the company of Phil Collins.

When, however, the funky-blues organ of "Coverage" kicks in, Crosby seems to pick himself back up with real strength from his long, long crisis, confirming what had already been shown on Oh, Yes I Can.

At the start of 1994, CS&N reunite in the studio to begin work on a possible new album as a trio. Guiding them is the seasoned Glyn Johns, already producer for Eagles and The Who. The three feel particularly inspired, energized by an American tour marking the band's twenty-fifth anniversary and, above all, by their participation in the Woodstock revival.

After The Storm (Atlantic, 1994) seems to deliberately position itself as the trio's attempt at redemption after the dreadful, synthetic Live It Up.

The musketeers' comeback is led by Stephen Stills, who finally decides to shake off his creative torpor and embrace the Caribbean rhythms of "Only Waiting For You", an Eric Clapton-style transposition straight out of the good old "Manassas" days. The Texan guitarist is more inspired than usual and, bolstered by Crosby's now-steady hand, throws himself fearlessly into the cuban-pop of "Panama", as well as the familiar rock-blues of "Bad Boyz".

Good intentions, however, aren't enough to make a great album. Nash, as usual, manages to craft pleasant songs, like the martial slow-burn of "Find A Dream" and the acoustic romanticism of "Unequal Love", but the whole thing sounds a bit stiff and struggles to really take off.

Crosby tries to rally the team, driving the organ-guitar interplay of "Till It Shines", but he can't stop a few bouts of run-of-the-mill rock ("It Won't Go Away") and some essentially pointless covers, like that of the Beatles' "In My Life".

The storm may have passed, but the warm, passionate sun of Woodstock is certainly not shining on CS&N.

After the album's release, the tour continues with solid audience numbers, but it suddenly has to stop because David Crosby discovers he urgently needs a liver transplant. The guitarist undergoes surgery in October 1994, and in the meantime decides to release his first live album.

It's All Coming Back To Me Now (Atlantic, 1995) was recorded at the Whisky A Go Go in Hollywood in December 1993, and is a fine example of the Californian guitarist's rediscovered passion.

Crosby frequently banters with the audience, introducing musicians who come across almost like lifelong friends, starting with Mike Finnigan, the voice on the saccharine “Hero” (written, not by chance, with the more pop-oriented Phil Collins). The start of the show focuses on David's new material, from the unreleased “Rusty And Blue” to the rocking “Till It Shines”, a prelude to “After The Storm”.

It's when the big classics kick in, though, that the concert really takes off, at least in terms of intensity. Guitarist Jeff Pevar weaves psychedelic chords into “Cowboy Movie” before leading the inevitable, acid-tinged “Almost Cut My Hair” alongside Chris Robinson of the Black Crowes. The crowd is hungry for star power, and so Graham Nash's melodic talent appears on stage to take his old friend by the hand through “Déjà Vu”, “Long Time Gone” and “Wooden Ships”.

Hardly memorable renditions, but ones that let the auras of two craftsmen of popular music shine, if only for one night.

At the end of 1995, CS&N return to Japan after four years for a ten-date mini-tour. It's just a taste of things to come: with the new year, the three of them play first in South Africa and then in the US, where they keep going until November.

And once again it's Crosby who releases a solo record: a second consecutive live album.

More spacious than its predecessor, KBFH Presents: David Crosby (KBFH Records, 1996) was recorded live to tape at the Tower Theatre in Philadelphia for the famous radio broadcast “King Biscuit Flower Hour”. It's an important moment for the Californian guitarist, who in April 1989 brings to the stage all his hunger for rebirth, already celebrated on the recent, feisty Oh Yes I Can.

At the start, Crosby is alone, as if underscoring a pit of depression that, by now, has hit rock bottom. “Tracks In The Dust”, “Guinnevere” and “Compass” are acoustic gems in pure Four Way Street style. Mournful folk notes before striking up the energy with the boogie of “Drive My Car” and “Monkey And The Underdog”. David, then, is hungry to prove to the rock world that he's still standing, but naturally needs some old, prized gems to electrify the room. And so the psychedelic masterpiece “Wooden Ships” gives way to the radiant beauty of “Almost Cut My Hair”, and then to the anthem “Long Time Gone”.

David Crosby is still (a)live.

At the start of 1997, Crosby sets off on an acoustic tour alongside guitarist Jeff Pevar and his rediscovered son James Raymond. Thus CPR is officially born, David's new incarnation without his longtime bandmates.

Looking ahead

In May 1997 the legend is finally sealed: Crosby, Stills & Nash earn their well-deserved place in the Rock'n'Roll Hall Of Fame.

The trio heads out on tour again, but Crosby is forced into a second surgery. David, however, is hard to keep down, and finds time to get into the studio with his new band, which needs a debut album to promote around the United States.

Together with his two new partners in crime, Crosby seems to suddenly shed years off his age, putting out CPR (Samson Music, 1998), a fresh album full of ideas. Pevar and Raymond are two seasoned, eclectic musicians, and thanks to their crucial contribution, the Californian guitarist is able to deliver excellent blues numbers like “Morrison”.

The album aims for a fusion of genres, blending the most intimate folk (“Rusty And Blue”) with the airiest pop (“At The Edge”). The result is a blend, with colorful tracks like “That House”. The three know how to play and clearly relish it more than once: “One For Every Moment” puts James Raymond's jazz talent to good use, while “Litte Blind Fish” shines with Pevar's fingerpicking.

An album that doesn't shy away from rhythm (the Eastern-tinged funk of “Somebody Else’s Town”), but which also knows how to slow down, as with the melody of “Yesterday’s Child”.

Welcome, then, second youth.

1998 proves to be a fruitful year, opening in January with the release of a new live album by the duo Crosby & Nash.

Recorded at the Dorothy Chandler Pavillion in Los Angeles on the far-off date of October 10, 1971, Another Stoney Evening (Grateful Dead Records, 1998) is the excellent summary of an evening worth framing. “Déjà Vu” and “Wooden Ships” are the opening keys of an album as fine as the best red wine, between warm, fragrant voices and guitars racing headlong into the West Coast dream.

Nash caresses the audience with his proverbial pipes on “I Used To Be A King”, while Crosby colors the atmosphere with chords as sparse as they are enchanting. One after another come “The Lee Shore”, “Laughing”, “Triad” and, above all, the masterpiece “Guinnevere”.

The duo is in a state of grace and can afford anything: “Southbound Train”, “Immigration Man” and “Teach Your Children” are the final gems closing out one of those evenings when rock really does seem capable of changing the world.

There isn't, however, just a glorious past, but also a rather promising future: CS&N return to the studio to record a new album of original material, entirely self-financed, following the split from their Atlantic contract.

Work is in full swing, while Crosby throws a second live album by his band CPR to the fans.

Recorded at the Wiltern Theatre in Los Angeles, the double album Live At The Wiltern (Samson Music, 1998) elegantly blends the new CPR-branded repertoire with the most enduring classics of the David Crosby legend.

It opens, in fact, with a meeting between the Latin jazz of “One For Every Moment”, the most intimate folk of “Little Blind Fish” and the shimmering melody of “Morrison” and “That House”. Pevar and Raymond are a guarantee on stage, allowing Crosby to indulge in notes that are at times aching (“Rusty And Blue”), at times more visceral (“Old Soldier” with Mark Cohn and Graham Nash).

It's a sprawling concert that, naturally, flows into the vast folk ocean of a now unforgettable past. Sprawling like the jazzed-up version of “Dèjà Vu”. Fluid like the precious dusted-off gems of the Byrds-esque “Eight Miles High” and “Ohio”, a timeless masterpiece of protest. Certainly another happy step forward in the mustachioed guitarist's new artistic life.

Rehearsals for the new CS&N album are upended by an unexpected arrival: Neil Young.

The Canadian's electricity reignites hearts and, after numerous sessions, leads to the actual album, the historic reunion of the four following American Dream.

With Looking Forward (Reprise, 1999), four museum-worthy stars of popular music join forces to show the world a timeless relevance.

The opening, however, doesn't bode particularly well, since Stills returns, for the umpteenth time, to his beloved Caribbean with "Faith In Me". It seems hard, then, to "have faith" in these old folk musketeers. But an album with Neil Young is always something special, and so the Canadian sets to work with acoustic embroidery to revive the vocal magic of the title track. Crosby, for his part, seems to be living a second artistic life thanks to his rediscovered son James Raymond. With him he co-writes the activist blues of "Stand And Be Counted" and, on his own, "Dream For Him", a touching, universal meditation on the difficulty of being a father. Nash is, of course, on board his pop vehicle, hitting the mark with the melody of "Heartland" and the tenderness of "Someday Soon".

The album, in short, doesn't falter, not least because Stephen the Texan veers into a robust, hard-leaning rock-blues ("No Tears Left"), even going so far as to border on plagiarism with "Seen Enough", which sits uncomfortably close to "Subterranean Homesick Blues". Young is comfortable in the role of the more seasoned mother hen, and seems almost to be enjoying himself with piano nursery rhymes ("Out Of Control") and rock and roll for kids ("Queen Of Them All"). Light years from the concept of a "masterpiece", but close to a knowing way of making music. "Slowpoke" may be too similar to "Heart Of Gold", but it's moving in its lunar essence.

In the end, it really does seem that CSN&Y are "looking forward", diehards in a world that still needs the symbolic power of their songs.

To promote the historic album, the four embark, at the start of 2000, on a box-office-smashing tour alongside drummer Jim Keltner and bassist Donald "Duck" Dunn.

After the live-album hangover, Crosby returns to the studio to follow up the fine debut album by his new band, CPR.

Just Like Gravity (Gold Circle, 2001) breathes even more deeply than CPR, and brings the new trio's excellent musical fusion to an early maturity.

Starting with "Map To Buried Treasure", old-school rock is elegantly transformed into a tamed jazz, recalling certain experiments already familiar to Steely Dan. In Jeff Pevar's arpeggios and James Raymond's minimal keyboards, Crosby finds fresh compositional ammunition, as is evident in the harmonica-laced "Breathless" and the spiritual "Angel Dream".

It's an album that looks to the past with the eyes of the future, embroidering - never nostalgically - West Coast aphorisms like "Darkness" and "Gone Forever" (complete with an Orientalish intro). An intelligent update of forty years' worth of work, challenging the legend itself when Crosby brushes against acoustic intimacy worthy of his heyday. "Climber" and "Just Like Gravity", in fact, could almost sit on a CSN "best of".

A flawless album that has fun rising up (the Springsteen-esque drive of "Jerusalem") and dropping down (the touching piano-harmonica interplay of "Eyes Too Blue"). An album that surprises with its freshness and creative drive, placing David Crosby's talent once again on folk music's most coveted throne.

On the morning of September 11, 2001, the United States is brutally wounded at the hands of a couple of airliners and a different way of understanding life. The lone cowboy Neil Young is wounded like the heart of New York, and without thinking twice decides to call his old companions back together. In the air there is a desperate need for love, for brotherhood. The "Tour Of America" isn't meant to promote records or make money, but to bring people together around songs that are pieces of American history. Forty dates for forty nightly rites of peace and love.

Among those singing for the "survivors" is also Graham Nash, who, right after the tour, releases his first solo album since way back in 1986.

Songs For Survivors (Sony, 2002) does indeed feel like the work of a popular-music "survivor", a keepsake postcard from an artist who has always stayed true to himself without losing his mind in solitude.

"Blizzard Of Lies" and "Where Love Lies Tonight" are ballads that double as sonic diaries from a pop master. After a full sixteen years, Nash retains his creative freshness, giving himself over to the sacred, intimate fire of American folk, first with the elegant percussive style of "Dirty Little Secret", then with the wise "The Chelsea Hotel".

It is true, however, that certain over-sentimental touches soften the years ("I'll Be There For You"), but the Englishman still knows how to move an audience (the intimate, stripped-down "Pavanne").

In the end, what remains is an inspiration that struggles to shape great music, too entangled in master Bob Dylan when the Californian "Nothing In The World" kicks in and, above all, "Liar's Nightmare", which sounds far too close to "Masters Of War".

Déjà Vu

In early 2004, David Crosby and Graham Nash finally reunite as a duo to make their first album of new material since "Whistling Down The Wire".

With a little help from their new friends Jeff Pevar, James Raymond and Lee Sklar.

As if to make up for the long absence, the double album Crosby & Nash (Sanctuary, 2004) is a flood of words and music.

Starting with the acoustic delicacy of "Lay Me Down" (written by Raymond), the two try to recapture their old alchemy, succeeding only halfway. With forty years of sonic experience behind them, David Crosby and Graham Nash wage a brave battle between an untamed sense of tradition and small cravings for modernity. On one hand, the anachronistic sweetness of "Jesus Of Rio"; on the other, an almost britpop-like rhythm, as in "Puppeteer".

The duo also try to step on the gas, forging hearty but ultimately unnecessary rockers like "Lucky Dragon" and "They Want It All", written by Crosby as a reaction to the disgust stirred up by the Enron scandal. Nash dusts off songs from the past ("On The Other Side Of Town" dates back 25 years) and, in the end, it's clear that nothing could ever top their old, solid vocal harmonies ("How Does It Shine"). What remains, then, is "Through Here Quite Often", a living testament to the longstanding craft of two songwriting artisans.

The ensuing tour is a solid success with audiences, even reaching Italy for five dates in early the following year.

2005, however, is also an important year for Stephen Stills, who returns to the scene after a full fourteen years of recording silence.

More a collage of tracks recorded between 1995 and 2005 than a proper new album, Man Alive! (Talking Elephant, 2005) covers a long stretch of secret activity following the embarrassing Right By You and the covers collection Stills Alone.

Stephen Stills has, unfortunately, remained stuck in the Seventies, unable to reinvent himself or give new meaning to the instrumental prowess that resurfaces, inevitably, on the acoustic "Hearts Gate". While Crosby lives out his second life with Pevar/Raymond and Nash navigates the usual pop byways as a songwriter, Stills can't pull himself away from his most beloved genres, revisited as faithfully as they are tediously — like the soul of "Don't Get It" and the bare-bones folk of "Piece Of Me". And yet it seems to be true: "the man is alive". The record grows on you over time, backed by friends from a lifetime. Neil Young appears on the rock-blues of "Round The Bend" and the traditional "Different Man"; Graham Nash on the fine gospel-reggae of "Feed The People" and the electric blues of "Wounded World". It's a return, never cloying, to a full-blooded way of making music ("Drivin' Thunder"), delivered with the class of someone who can afford to do a Ray Charles impression ("Ole Man Trouble").

Granted, funk numbers like "Around Us" come across as rather sloppy, but when Herbie Hancock's piano enters in the closing section of "Spanish Suite", everything suddenly feels touched by magic.

The Texan, then, is alive — even if he knows he's become a distant memory.

After releasing Man Alive!, Stills goes back on tour with his band before reuniting with Crosby and Nash for a long run across the United States and Europe. It's 2006, and the world watches helplessly as violence rages in Iraq and Afghanistan. Neil Young feels compelled to speak his mind and retreats to create "Living With War", an indictment of President Bush's policies.

Surprisingly, to promote the record, the Canadian decides to return to the stage alongside his old friends, organizing the "Freedom Of Speech Tour" across the United States and Canada. It's a grand-scale live comeback, but above all, a way of remembering a time when music still had the power to change the world.

That same year, David Crosby empties out his secret drawers and releases a triple box set in the wake of the monumental CSN.

Three different albums for three different faces of the Californian artist coexist in Voyage (Atlantic/Rhino, 2006), spanning light and shadow, falls and rebirths.

The first disc opens with bright psychedelia in service of the Byrds via Roger McGuinn (“Eight Miles High” and “Renaissance Fair”) and heads straight for the pacifist shores of the first Crosby, Stills & Nash album (“Long Time Gone”, “Guinnevere” and “Wooden Ships”).

It's the most fertile period for Crosby's talent, which unleashes its full force on the legendary “If I Could Only Remember My Name” before softening into ballads with Nash (“Carry Me” and “Page 43”).

The second disc starts out from isolated gems like “In My Dreams”, “Compass” and “Shadow Captain”, before spreading out along the bright road of Crosby's rebirth at the end of the drug tunnel. “Yvette In English” gently sounds the charge before meeting the talents of Pevar and Raymond, with whom the amiable mustachioed one weaves new, interesting musical patterns. Between present and past come “Rusty And Blue”, “Map To Buried Treasure” and “At The Edge”.

The real reason to buy the box set, though, is the final disc, which holds a splendid mix of unreleased tracks, alternate versions and live rarities. The Stills demo of “Long Time Gone” gives off a fresh soul allure, while “Guinnevere” turns more acidic and “Almost Cut My Hair” is dressed in dazzling acoustic silk. What follows is a series of intimate folk moments straight out of the West Coast dream: “Games”, produced by Paul Rothchild, the gentleness of “Kids And Dogs” and, above all, the aching “Triad”.

It's Crosby in “hidden treasure” mode, thrilling with the guitars of Young and Jerry Garcia (the incendiary version of “Cowboy Movie”) and charming with Nash's melodic voice (live from New York in 1971 on “The Lee Shore” and “Traction In The Rain”).

A box set, in short, that replicates on a smaller scale the grandeur of the previous CSN set and finally pays tribute to a superb musician who has won the battle against himself.

Outro

Find the cost of freedom

On January 25, 2008, at the Sundance Film Festival, a 96-minute film titled “CSNY Déjà Vu” had its premiere. The film is directed by one Bernard Shakey, a fictitious name concealing the identity of a certain Neil Young. It's a journey back through an entire career of quarrels, triumphs and social and political activism, and a well-balanced tribute to a band that still lives on as an unshaken legend.

When the world seems to tremble before the economic crisis and the threat of terrorism and warmongering governments everywhere, four knights of folk, country and blues are ready to get back on the road, tightening their guitars and clearing their throats.

The “Freedom Of Speech Tour” was born in 2006 for exactly this reason, and met with extraordinary success among audiences.

The soundtrack to the film, Déjà Vu Live (Reprise, 2008), is the sonic diary of a political fervor reborn after the reckless choices of the Bush administration. Here, then, a classic like “Military Madness” regains its universal reach, aimed squarely at the new global wars, to the tight-knit rhythm of the trumpet on “Let's Impeach The President”.

The show, in truth, leaves little room for the now-surpassed legend, seeking instead to capture only its spirit. There's the vibrant “Wooden Ships” and the country prairie of “Teach Your Children”; the inevitable “Find The Cost Of Freedom” and the electricity of “For What It's Worth”.

Everything else plays out as if Crosby, Stills and Nash were a backing band for old cowboy Neil Young and his 2006 album, “Living With War”.

And it's precisely the title track that reappears right on cue during the show, first as a piano ode, then as a choral vision. Young's album is certainly no masterpiece, but, live, the power-folk of “After The Garden” seems to tie in coherently with the Springsteen-esque “Families” and the warm riffs of “Looking For A Leader” and “Shock And Awe”.

What remains, then, is the unmistakable mark of the four musketeers who, amid misunderstandings, quarrels and breakups, have perhaps never truly parted, always ready to get back on the road wherever the world needs them.

Crosby, Stills & Nash will reunite for an American and European tour this summer, 40 years after their legendary performance at the Woodstock festival.

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