DAVID CROSBY

I know of at least two people other than me that bought this album after seeing music journalist Colin Larkin exalt it as the Greatest Album Ever in his introduction to Virgin's Top 1000 Albums Ever book (unfortunately the democratic voting system saw it come in rather lower). It just goes to show the power one person can have in affecting an album's sales and proof that I should shortly be receiving a personal letter from Jon Bon Jovi thanking me for my efforts to ensure that his criminally underrated 1995 masterpiece These Days receives all the accolades it deserves. In any event, the Croz did not go on to have a particularly prominent solo career, more often than not associating with his old crowd, and I am afraid this is the only solo album of his that I am actually familiar with. And, indeed, distinguishing this from his collaborative efforts would be a touch extreme given the fact that all of his old buddies drop by to help out, with Neil Young's contribution being particularly noticeable. It seems odd that a man as egotistical as Crosby should have been so unconcerned about establishing himself on his own terms and although one might suggest it shows up his lack of individual ability one could take the more generous interpretation that Crosby simply knew how best to cushion his own talent within the protective shield provided by so many talented hired hands. Only two tracks bear co-writing credits from other people but to say that David Crosby wrote this entire album would kind of miss the point of the project. Of the nine tracks only three are what one would describe as normal songs, with vocal melodies, choruses and the like, with the rest of the material opting to place mood and feeling above standard pop arrangements. Like the best such hippies, the Croz ain't gonna let the squares drag him down with their starched shirt talk of verses, choruses, middle-eights, bridges and the like. This is all about the feeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeel, man. Thankfully, Crosby has got a great voice for this kind of stuff, gruff but passionate and with a deceptively flexible range, and a whole score of uniquely talented musicians backing him up, particularly guitarists Neil Young and Jerry Garcia, Jefferson Airplane's Jack Casady and Grace Slick, and Santana drummer Michael Shrieve. With Joni Mitchell and, of course, Graham Nash dropping by the recording sessions must have resembled some kind of hippy who's who roll call. Of course, playing music for the texture, rather than the melody, is a risky business, particularly coming from a notorious and oft-ridiculed hippy, and it has apparently taken a long time (according to Mr. Larkin, anyway) for this album to receive the praise it deserves. I am not sold on whether the material on here is really top class legendary stuff but there is no doubt it all flows together beautifully as the hippy appropriation of folk and jazz produces a lush backdrop of reflective meanderings. Comparisons to Astral Weeks are thus not too far from the mark and certainly both LPs occupy similar territory with few other albums for company. However, regardless of the differing resonance of Van's and Crosby's message (universal retrospective reflections vs. meaningless hippy bullshit), the reason Astral Weeks soars so much higher than this offering is because it also worked as a collection of great individual songs. No song on here really demands to be played in isolation, although the delicate melodicism of "Laughing" and "Traction in the Rain" are the closest Dave got to writing a seven incher. Although the majority of the tracks are gentle, pastoral wanderings Crosby does break the flow once with the eight minute electric blues of "Cowboy Movie" which, although repetitive, shows his ability to rescue simplistic ideas through the tenacity with which he approaches them. My favourite moment on the album, though, comes with the most obviously ensemble piece "What Are Their Names", which starts like a stream and builds up momentum into a raging river with almost every member of the recording session playing their part and with Young and Crosby particularly prominent with the scathing finale. The fact that it so successfully rests on mood and atmosphere is indicative of the whole album and I'm sure Crosby probably regards this as being closer to a jazz album than a pop one. In defence, there is probably some truth in that and although the limitations of his songwriting are brought to the fore he at least strikes upon the best of method of negating them, through switching the emphasis elsewhere and with a quite of lot of help from his friends.

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