Ten of the eleven songs on the Younger Than Yesterday album were originals, with Bob Dylan’s “My Back Pages” rounding out the lineup. David Crosby and Gary Usher butted heads on recording another Dylan song, which David thought was becoming formulaic. He believed it was pushing us a step back as we sought to leap forward. I can see why it would make sense to include one of Bob’s songs given our history, but we were certainly coming into our own as a group of writers at that point. Either way, I was really proud of our work on that project. In my humble opinion, Younger Than Yesterday is still one of the best Byrds albums.
Not long after finishing the sessions for the album, we had a rare day off in January of 1967, and I was at home in Laurel Canyon. Today Laurel Canyon is known as a once-thriving music community that was home to Graham Nash, Joni Mitchell, Jim Morrison, Neil Young, Jackson Browne, and many others. I certainly wasn’t trying to start any trends, but I think I was the first musician to locate there when I moved into my place in 1965. Jim and David soon established themselves in the area too. Though I was among the first to arrive, I was also probably the first to leave thanks to the events of that January day. Though it was winter, it was one of those beautiful, crazy Southern California days. Crazy in that the Santa Ana winds were kicking up—hot, dry, and screaming across the top of Laurel Canyon. Ominous. The Spanish used to call them devil winds—and for good reason. I had just bought a Bultaco dirt bike and was about to head out for a ride when David Crosby showed up unannounced. We went back in the house, listened to some music, had some refreshments, and hung out for a while.
After David left, I went back out to the garage and opened up the door to leave for that ride. As I was walking back toward the bike, I noticed gas was leaking from the carburetor. Not thinking much about it, I hopped on and kick-started the bike just as one of those massive wind gusts came bursting through the open garage door. You know that sound when you light an old-fashioned gas stove? I heard that sound—except about ten times louder—as the fumes blew into the gas water heater in the corner and instantly ignited on the pilot light. Suddenly, I was in the middle of a ball of flame. Realizing I was on fire, I instinctively dropped to the ground and rolled around. With smoke filling the garage, I could see the walls around me beginning to crumble from the intense heat. I jumped to my feet. I was no longer on fire, though my eyebrows and some hair had been singed off. Ditching the bike, I jumped in my car and backed up the dirt driveway. By the time I reached the road, the garage was fully engulfed, and black smoke was billowing out from the edges of the house’s roof.
That house up on the canyon had a beautiful view, but it was hard to get to. It took the fire department about an hour to get up the road and go to work on it, but it was too late. The house burned to the ground. I got out with my car and the clothes on my back, but that was it. I lost everything in the fire. McGuinn, who lived across the canyon, had recently gotten a new sixteen-millimeter video camera. When he saw the flames and smoke across the way, he thought it might be my house and started filming. Derek Taylor took the film and got it on the local CBS affiliate’s evening news. There it was: “Member of The Byrds’ house burns down!” Two days later, I went back to see if anything could be recovered, but there was nothing more than the foundation. The dentist who owned the house lived upstairs and had been out of town when the fire happened. He happened to arrive home when I was there surveying the damage. That was one of the worst moments of my life when the landlord came home to realize that he, too, had lost everything. Despite the rough start, 1967 would prove to be an eventful and particularly memorable year for me.
By June, “Have You Seen Her Face,” the first single that I’d written solo for the band, was on the charts, and we were on our way to perform at the Monterey International Pop Festival. That, in my opinion, was the absolute best rock festival ever held anywhere in the world. Monterey, California, was where they had the annual Monterey Jazz Festival, as well as a folk festival that they launched in 1963—which I had played with The Golden State Boys. Our old friend Alan Pariser, along with club owner Benny Shapiro, who first brought the Byrds to the attention of Miles Davis, had come up with the original idea of presenting a three-day “rock festival.” The lineup of talent at Monterey was incredible—from Jimi Hendrix’s first US appearance as a solo artist to Janis Joplin, Otis Redding, The Who, Lou Rawls, Hugh Masekela, and others. We were in between recording sessions at the time, so we Byrds all drove our Porsche 911s up to Monterey on the Pacific Coast Highway. As the festival got underway, the weather was absolutely perfect. It was a beautiful time for everyone who’d gathered to hear great music. What the audience didn’t know, however, is that storm clouds were beginning to gather around the band.
By the time we got to Monterey, there had been an unfortunate breach in our brotherhood. We had recorded a song of David’s called “Lady Friend” that included vocal parts by me and Jim. The original recording was pretty good, but David thought he could make it better on his own. When the rest of us weren’t in the studio, he went in and replaced our vocal tracks with overdubs of his own voice—and he added some dreadful horn parts, too. The end result wasn’t as good as the original version, and the whole episode created unnecessary drama. It was becoming increasingly clear to me and McGuinn that David was feeling restless and was seeking new musical outlets beyond The Byrds. I don’t have a problem with that desire, if one is honest with all concerned. Unfortunately, David handled it differently.
When we got on stage at Monterey, David—without any of the rest of us knowing he was going to do it—got on the mic between songs to rant about the Kennedy assassination, LSD, and other nonmusical topics. It threw the rest of us off, and we played what felt to me like a terrible set. I was embarrassed by it, but somehow we pulled it together. It may not have turned out as bad as it felt that day, but I know it certainly wasn’t our greatest moment. McGuinn and I were caught off-guard once again the following day when David took the stage with Buffalo Springfield to sub in for Neil Young, who was on a temporary hiatus from the band. We were fine with David singing with the Springfield, but we were surprised that he hadn’t made us aware of his plans beforehand. I also thought it was a little ironic, as I’d been a huge champion of Buffalo Springfield early on. They were a fantastic band. I’d even briefly considered managing them early on and had convinced the owners of the Whisky a Go Go to book them in the summer of 1966. I had to practically beg Crosby to come down to the Whisky to see the Springfield play. Much to my surprise, he insisted he wasn’t that impressed with their show at the time, but now, here he was onstage with them at Monterey less than a year later.
Not only were cracks appearing in the relationships among the band members, but we had also grown dissatisfied with the business side of The Byrds. On the following Monday after the Monterey weekend, we parted ways with Jim Dickson and Eddie Tickner’s management company. As is often the case with artists, we decided our management team wasn’t delivering what we thought they should. Now that we were writing more songs than ever, one of the areas of frustration is that they had signed each of us to their publishing company without any of us having consulted outside legal counsel. We all felt like we needed a fresh start, so firing them seemed to make sense.
Jim Dickson wasn’t the only Jim who disappeared in this era. Somewhere along the way that summer, Jim McGuinn changed his name to Roger after joining a mystical Indonesian religious philosophy called Subud. We just accepted it along with all the other strange things that made up the ongoing Byrds saga. I don’t think the change had any real impact on us as a band. What did have impact, however, was dumping Dickson. In hindsight, Dickson was the catalyst for the Byrds brand; he had the vision. We thought we needed something different at the time, but it didn’t lead to better things. Instead, we were swept away by a new addition to the cast—a round little man named Larry Spector that Crosby had met at Peter Fonda’s house. Larry, who always reminded me of the Pillsbury Doughboy, had worked as an accountant an
d was somehow loosely related to the Max Factor cosmetics family. He was the business manager for Hugh Masekela, as well as two members of The Monkees, and would be involved with Fonda and Dennis Hopper as they put together the film Easy Rider. Quite an impressive roster. Larry managed to charm us all into believing he was a great financial manager who could save our careers. Unfortunately for all of us, he proved to be a thoroughly dishonest individual who led us down a path of extreme hell.
Before it all fell apart, however, we had some wonderful experiences together. I was happiest when we were on a stage, in the studio, or swapping song ideas. For me, it was always about the music, not the politics or the behind-the-scenes drama. I just loved getting the chance to make music. Perhaps the last idyllic moment for the original era of The Byrds came in early August when we were booked for a couple of big shows in Honolulu. Afterward, we had a couple days off, so we rented a house on the far side of Oahu and holed up together. Without any outside distractions or influences we hit on a shared burst of creative energy that led to the creation of the songs “Draft Morning” and “Dolphin’s Smile.” We were collaborating together like a band should. The tensions of Monterey were behind us. We had a new manager. Columbia had just released our Greatest Hits album, and we just knew great things were ahead for us.
The good vibes after the Hawaii trip came to a screeching halt the following week when we were back in the studio with producer Gary Usher to begin work on our fifth album, The Notorious Byrd Brothers. While trying to hammer out the arrangement for “Dolphin’s Smile,” David ripped into Mike about his drumming. They exchanged heated insults that resulted in Michael finally admitting he wasn’t into the song. Before long, we were all sniping at each other and, when pressed on why he was there if he didn’t like the music, Michael confessed—in his anger—that he was only sticking around for the paycheck. After a couple of days, Mike quit showing up at the studio altogether, and we had to bring in Jim Gordon to cover his spot.
I think David probably wanted to call the shots, and we all probably allowed our egos to get in the way during those early Notorious Byrd Brothers sessions. We’d seen hints of it at Monterey, but we knew that David was hanging out with other well-known musicians, some of whom were assuring him that he wasn’t getting the attention he deserved in The Byrds and were encouraging him to take more control. It soon became clear that David just wasn’t happy with the direction the band was taking, and he wasn’t comfortable working with Gary Usher. He was rapidly losing interest in everything related to the band, would show up late for sessions and, when he was there, would usually fall asleep. Though we’d shared a great moment in Hawaii, it turned out to be an anomaly. It was obvious that David’s heart just wasn’t in the band anymore. Tensions escalated further when Roger and I turned down his original song “Triad,” which was about a three-way relationship—nice melody; not-so-nice lyric. We just weren’t on the same page.
Though we had some good original material, things got ugly when Usher brought us a Gerry Goffin and Carole King song called “Goin’ Back.” Crosby had raised the issue during the sessions for the previous album, but he was still adamant that we should only be recording our own songs rather than cover material. Roger and I could see his point, but we also knew that our last single, “Lady Friend” (the song of David’s that had caused tensions when he replaced our vocals on the track), was the first Byrds single since “Mr. Tambourine Man” that had failed to chart at all. Though chasing big hits wasn’t our goal, we still felt like the charts were at least a barometer of how our music was being received. Even in the aftermath of “Lady Friend,” David hadn’t softened on his stance. He and Roger got into it when David pushed back on recording “Goin’ Back.” Crosby left the studio, and things were icy between everyone. When we went up to play the Fillmore in San Francisco a couple of days later, David stayed at a different hotel.
David Crosby was a vital part of The Byrds’ sound, but it was time to make a decision. It was not something that Roger and I wanted to happen, but we knew we had to part ways with him. After so many musically productive years together, things were now falling into the abyss. Roger and I drove our Porsches up to David’s house in Beverly Glen and gently told him that we just couldn’t work with him anymore. It was a hard conversation. Though it almost seemed like he was going out of his way to create chaos around The Byrds, David was taken by surprise when we delivered the news. He certainly didn’t expect anything like that to happen. That wasn’t a fun experience. I genuinely cared about David, and I was relieved and happy to see him back on his feet soon after, creating beautiful songs with Stephen Stills and Graham Nash.
We started The Notorious Byrd Brothers as a four-man band, but were down to only me and Roger by the end of the process. Michael was still playing live with us but only ended up recording about half the songs on the album. In addition to Jim Gordon, we brought in Hal Blaine on drums to complete a couple of the songs. Fortunately, the trio of Usher, McGuinn, and Hillman worked extremely well together in the studio, and after David’s departure, the rest of the recording process came off without any serious glitches. Continuing the country thread that had begun with “Satisfied Mind” on Turn! Turn! Turn! and continued with Clarence White’s wonderful playing on Younger Than Yesterday, we brought in Red Rhodes, the bandleader from North Hollywood’s legendary honky tonk, The Palomino Club, to play pedal steel guitar on four songs: “Goin’ Back,” “Get to You” and “Change is Now,” which I co-wrote with Roger, and my song “Natural Harmony.” It was virtually unheard of for a rock band to incorporate the instrument, which was only associated with country music at the time.
Though it had been the source of considerable conflict, the final version of “Goin’ Back” came out nicely. Columbia selected it to be The Byrds’ next single with a planned release in October of 1967. We were booked to appear on some national TV shows to promote it but were down to a three-piece band. We agreed we needed a stand-in for the shows and reached out to Gene Clark to see if he’d be interested in coming back. Gene had briefly rejoined us for a residency at the Whisky a Go Go a year prior when David was having some trouble with his voice due to a sore throat. He even went up and did a couple of shows with us at the Fillmore in San Francisco after the run at the Whisky. Michael and I had been working with Gene on his solo album (the sessions where I reconnected with Clarence White), and there was a nostalgic feeling about it at the time. Gene sat in with us for old time’s sake, but none of us viewed that as a permanent reunion. This time around, we thought maybe Gene might be ready to return to the fold.
We got some great national television opportunities when we played The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour and The Joey Bishop Show, both with Gene alongside us. Joey Bishop was fantastic, inviting us into his dressing room and offering us drinks. He and Michael Clarke hit it off immediately, and Joey’s introduction of us on the show was beyond generous. “These guys have sold millions and millions of records,” he told his audience. Totally untrue, but it sure sounded good to our ears. Tom and Dick Smothers were also wonderful guys who took on the network by offering up topical—and almost taboo—subjects along with the music. Being on their show with Moms Mabley and Eddie Albert was amazing. One of my fondest memories is watching Eddie Albert rehearse his dance steps before we taped. Now, that’s show business. Fabulous!
With an out-of-town gig booked in the midst of those TV appearances, Roger, Mike, and I flew to the show. Gene opted to take a train. After only one show, his old anxieties came roaring back. It was obvious that Gene’s return wasn’t going to work out, and he was gone almost as soon as he’d arrived. Back to being a three piece, we shot the cover for The Notorious Byrd Brothers in Topanga Canyon with Guy Webster, who had photographed the Turn! Turn! Turn! cover back in 1965. I had rediscovered my love for horses during that time after purchasing an Appaloosa/Palomino stud that I boarded at the Topanga Stables. Michael used to join me for horseback rides around the hills of Topanga, as did our friends Br
andon De Wilde, a wonderful actor and friend of Peter Fonda, and Bill Wildes, a true horseman with whom I would go on to co-write many songs. Mike and I somehow talked Roger and Guy into packing up our gear on a couple of horses and shooting the cover in a run-down Topanga cabin. One of the horses is peeking out of the cabin window next to Michael, and people still ask me today if the horse represented Crosby. Maybe so, but not intentionally. That was the horse Mike was riding, and it just happened to stick his face in the window next to us. It wasn’t a set-up deal—more like a happy accident.
Not long after that photo shoot, Mike announced that he, too, would be leaving us. To this day, I’m not entirely sure why he made that choice. I know he was disillusioned and burned out, but I hated to see him go. He ended up moving to Hawaii, perhaps in an attempt to recapture a bit of the tranquility we experienced there before the Notorious recording sessions began. The end of the year found us with some new challenges ahead.
We turned the album in to the record label, and they set a release date for January 1968. Despite all the turmoil, The Notorious Byrd Brothers ended up becoming one of our most successful albums, garnering great reviews and wide acceptance with the fans. As the new year dawned, however, we had some serious work ahead. Roger and I had a band to rebuild.
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