by Neil Young
Larry showed up on the ranch one day in early 1990 in his 1970s Camaro SS, one of his many muscle cars, and set me up in the car barn with all of my equipment, after which I started arriving each day at around ten a.m. in the Jeepster. At that point, the car barn was just a huge empty building, save for a few cars. I would plug in Old Black, fire up my amps and a joint, and start playing and writing. That is where I wrote Ragged Glory, maybe one of Crazy Horse’s favorite studio albums.
Well, I saw an old man, walkin’ in my place
When he looked at me, I thought I saw my face
His words were kind, but his eyes were wild
He said, “I got a load to love, but I want one more child”
There’s a mansion on the hill
Psychedelic music fills the air
Peace and love live there still
In that Mansion on the Hill.
—“MANSION ON THE HILL”
The setup stayed there for about a month, undisturbed except for my daily comings and goings. I was in a groove writing, and soon I was recording Ragged Glory in the big wooden white barn located on the courtyard of the old ranch house. This area was the center of the original Bella Vista Rancho, which was more than two thousand acres in its prime. The courtyard had a beautiful fountain that flowed depending on the state of the water source for the ranch. If there was a water problem, a break in a pipe, the fountain would not flow. After a big storm, it would gush, sending water into the air. When the foreman walked out in the morning, the first thing he would see was that fountain. That’s the way it worked back in the day.
Under the direction of Briggs, we had converted the inside of the white barn into a studio we called “Plywood Analog” because of its plywood construction and analog equipment. We had a rented recording truck that we parked outside in the courtyard. Recording trucks were common at that time, full of great-sounding analog gear. Briggs was in the truck with John Hanlon engineering. The Jeepster and all the other cars would be parked around in the courtyard as we recorded, like they were listening and waiting. After a few weeks we had completed the album.
Ragged Glory is the only record we have ever made where we played the whole running order twice a day, never listening to playbacks and always taking notes on how the music felt. At the end of the recording stage, when we sensed we had played all of the songs well, we read the notes and reviewed the tapes. It is often true that the initial reaction to a performance is the most valuable and that postanalysis can be tedious and unproductive.
After construction on the car barn was finished, we brought all the cars up from Pescadero, the three moth-eaten ones included, and stored them on the ranch. It was great to finally see them all in one place. What an amazing collection it was! That was the moment when I really started to see how many cars I had accumulated. I noticed again that things had gotten a bit out of control and that I was obsessed. I had too many cars that needed extensive work and I knew I could never afford the money or time to fix them all. I had some guilt about the moth-eaten ones, and I got a few of them repaired.
Knowing that I loved cars and rewarded myself by buying them, I felt there was something good that would come out of it. The cars were beginning to talk to me, to tell me things about themselves: their problems, the damage they caused. I started thinking a lot about the damage they caused.
Jon McKeig worked continuously on the building for a number of years and made it a beautiful place to service, display, and restore cars. I loved the space he created, but we didn’t have the staff to take care of all of the cars, and money was becoming more and more scarce as things changed in the music world and consequently in my private life.
I think I gave Jon more organizing, bookwork, and overseeing responsibility than I should have, and he was unable to focus on what he did best. I now know I could have enabled Jon to be more productive if I had handled things differently. It takes a lifetime to learn some things.
One of the jobs Jon took on was restoring the Jeepster. We had defined our own restoration process. Our idea was to make it look old but get it into perfect condition: retaining its age in the bumpers and dashboard and staying with the original materials while blending the new paint colors to look faded yet new. Jon took his work very seriously. It was during this project that I saw Jon’s genius and how his demons manifested in his problems with completion. Jon spent many years searching for parts, straightening and painting, rubbing and filling, painting and rubbing. The Jeepster felt like a baby’s skin, soft as it could be. The edges were smooth as silk and the colors were faded to perfection. It was a masterpiece to behold. When it was completed, the Jeepster was a work of art; a restoration that all of my other restorations would have to live up to. It took more than ten years to complete. I loved it and still do.
The Jeepster was mechanically restored by Bruce Ferrario, a man committed to excellence and probably Jon’s counterpart in the mechanical field. If I had only known Bruce earlier in life, the completion of so many more projects would have been possible. You live and learn. I found Bruce through Roy Brizio of Brizio Street Rods, and I had found Roy when Larry Johnson, my partner in filmmaking, mentioned his shop, having noticed it on his way to an editing suite we worked in nearby in South San Francisco.
In 2012, the finished Jeepster was parked in the place of honor, my garage under our house. I hope it has many more miles with my family, my dogs, and me. Having been around for so much of my life, that 1951 Willys Jeepster occupies a special place in my soul and is just like an old friend.
Recently, in 2013, I met Ben Young up on the mountain and we enjoyed a dinner together at the Mountain House, the restaurant-bar where I had met his mother some forty years before. This night, Pegi was out on the road playing a club tour with her band, the Survivors. Pulling the old Jeepster up in front of that place, with the heater blasting welcomed warmth, I felt the passage of life and how fleeting it really is. In a silent prayer to the Great Spirit, I asked to be worthy of more time. There was still so much to do.
1947 Buick Roadmaster Estate Wagon
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
efore moving to the North Country in 1970, I lived for a while at the Chateau Marmont, a gracious old hotel in Hollywood that looks down over Sunset Boulevard. Ahmet Ertegun, president of Atlantic while the Buffalo Springfield was recording for the company, always stayed at the Chateau. I met him there a few times and liked the old place with its Spanish architecture. When I moved out of my Topanga house and into the Chateau as the escrow cleared on my new ranch up north, I spent a lot of that time hanging out with Gary Burden, the art director and co-creator of my album covers, at his studio in Hollywood. Gary’s artistic nature and supportive friendship accompanied and guided me as I made a transition to my new life, away from Hollywood and the fast-moving scene there.
Time rolled gently by at the Chateau Marmont. One summer morning I was outside on the patio, taking in the ambience of Sunset Boulevard as traffic passed below, reading section 445, collector’s cars, in the paper. I saw an old 1947 Buick Roadmaster Estate Wagon for sale. I called up the number and Gary and I went to see it in the parking lot of the Roosevelt Hotel in Hollywood. This ramshackle hotel was full of old movie stars and filmmakers who had already seen their big time in the spotlight and were more or less on the skids. What a bunch of characters. The owner of the Buick was a porn-film producer. He had painted the Estate Wagon navy blue with a regular brush on the outside, and similarly applied construction-orange paint completely covered the beautiful wood interior. The old Buick ran well, though, with its smooth Dynaflow automatic transmission. It was very soulful and reminded me of Mort. Of course, the dash and instruments were identical.
I have a big soft spot in my heart for that vintage of Buick. I would still find it hard to turn one down if it was presented to me, even today, particularly a convertible. The owner wanted $750 for it, so I gave the man his money and we drove the old baby
over to Gary’s studio and started to remove the paint with some wire brushes and paint remover. That didn’t last long. It was hard work and we were not that energetic. Smoking grass, dreaming, writing songs, and creating album covers was more our speed at the time.
In Hollywood, I found an auto restoration place on Melrose Avenue named Coachcraft. There was an old German master craftsman in there, Rudy Stoesel, who ran the shop. He had a couple of Rolls-Royce woodies, called shooting brakes, under restoration. When Rudy saw my Buick Roadmaster Estate Wagon, he said, “Why do you want me to work on that piece of shit?” I was sold! He was the guy. His puffy face looked up at me with a near sneer. He showed me how the metal panels would never line up perfectly because it was American made and the car companies here never got anything right.
I knew different. It would line up if Rudy restored it. I said, “Rudy, I want you to do it.”
Over the next year or so I went back to Hollywood regularly to check the progress on the Buick Estate Wagon and Rudy would abuse me for spending all that money on “a piece of shit.” He showed me how I screwed up. “You fucked up the registration plate with your stupid wire brushes. I can’t do anything about that stupidity,” he said, waving his finger at me. Then he showed me the original color, dune beige, and the original interior material, Bedford cord. It was beautiful. He purchased another car for parts, again because mine was “a piece of shit.” About a year and many dollars later, he finished the car and it was flawless. I picked it up and drove it to the ranch. It had the wrong gear ratio on the rear end, so the top speed was compromised, but I didn’t want to take it back to Rudy and Coachcraft. It looked too cool. I would get that ratio changed up north.
By mid-1971, I was living with Carrie Snodgress on the ranch. Her brother John was around, living in the neighborhood, and he had a dog whose name was Tobias. Tobias was a hound, and as a memory to take with me, he scratched the back hatch of the Estate Wagon with his paws trying to get in. He loved to ride in cars. That mark is still there. I don’t hold it against him. It’s just cars and dogs.
Yet another dog left his mark on the 1947 Buick Roadmaster Estate Wagon. His name was Elvis, a great hound dog I got from Pegi in the early eighties. When I first saw Elvis, he was in a cardboard box under the Christmas tree, his little head popping up over the edge. He was beautiful.
What a soulful dog he was. Elvis was a Tennessee bluetick hound and a fine example of one, already with a good howl even as a puppy. Ben Keith had found Elvis for Pegi in Tennessee. I had first met Ben while I was in Nashville doing The Johnny Cash Show. We went into the studio there to record some of the new songs I had written. Ben became my lifelong friend and played steel guitar on those sessions, making one of my most popular albums ever, Harvest. He played and sang with me on every record that had steel or slide guitar from then on, and even more that didn’t, because Ben could play anything. He was playing with me right up until the day he died on Broken Arrow Ranch in 2010. Ben Keith was one of my very best friends and perhaps the greatest musician I have ever played with.
I had Elvis for many years. Elvis was a good boy most of the time but not all the time. Once he had a little sore on his tummy and it leaked out some while he was in the Roadmaster Estate Wagon’s backseat, where he loved to ride. There is still that little stain there on the backseat. I’m keeping that the way it is. It’s just a little stain, and it reminds me of him.
1944 Military Jeep “The Blue Jeep”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
he Lazy Double L ranch, so named by its owners, Long and Lewis, employed Louis and Clara Avila as caretakers. Louis and Clara were each about sixty years old and Louis had a very leathery face from being out in the sun working the land his whole life. His hair was full and white and he talked slowly in a friendly way. Clara, his wife of about forty years, was a very nice, soft-spoken lady. They were very much in love and lived in a little house about two hundred yards from my cabin, just on the other side of the beautiful little lake. They were there the day I first saw the place.
Louis took me around the Double L that day in a 1944 military jeep, painted blue and very faded. On the front of the jeep there was a burlap sack that was tied with ropes and covered the whole flat surface of the hood. The purpose of this was so that Snip, Louis’s dog, a little Australian shepherd cross, could ride up there and not slip off while the jeep traversed the rough hills and fields of the beautiful cattle ranch. It gave Snip’s feet a good purchase.
Whenever Louis wanted to move his cows, he would just take Snip down and aim her at the right cows, whereupon the little dog would take off nipping at the feet of the bovines, moving them toward whatever area Louis pointed to. Louis, Snip, and I drove all around the breathtaking property together. It was summer and I knew I wanted the place. The price was right and I was ready. I had just had two big hits in a row with my records Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere and After the Gold Rush and was flush with cash. When I purchased the ranch, the blue jeep was part of the deal and Louis and Clara stayed on as caretakers.
Louis stood a little off-center due to an injury he sustained while walking through a field one day when he stepped in a deep hole and put his back out. He never got it fixed. He just soldiered on. His manner was always casual, country.
My dog at that time, Filmore, was a white German shepherd pup, just like Winnipeg. I got him right after I moved to the ranch. Those were some happy times, driving all around discovering my new ranch, getting to know every acre in that old jeep with Filmore running alongside.
My army jeep is still alive
Got locking hubs and four-wheel drive
Ain’t got no radio,
Ain’t got no mag wheels
Ain’t got no digital clock
Ain’t got no clock.
—“MOTOR CITY”
Filmore definitely did not like riding in cars. He would instantly get carsick. It only took one look at that forlorn face of his to see that he was about to throw up all over the seat. Filmore went with me on a lot of walks in the morning. I liked to carry a cup of coffee in one hand and I would place it on a fence post when I was done so I could pick it up on the way back. Usually Filmore and I went back a different way, so there were a lot of fence posts with coffee cups on top of them.
We both loved our morning walks, a great tradition between man and dog. When I left to go on the solo acoustic tour through Canada in January 1971, I had to leave Filmore behind with Louis and Clara, but something went amiss. When I got back from the tour, Filmore was gone. I vowed that would never happen again. Later, when I got a bus, I planned to take my dogs with me everywhere, and I did.
It was the late seventies when Ben Young was born, and he was diagnosed with cerebral palsy at the age of six months and Pegi and I were trying everything to help. Ben Young was a quadriplegic.
Pegi and I were living on the ranch and had enrolled Ben in a development program designed by the Institutes for the Achievement of Human Potential in Philadelphia. The program we were on was an intense one, with no rest, and round-the-clock patterning every day. We did the program with Ben and his volunteer patterners for eighteen months, seven days a week, approximately fourteen hours a day.
At the end of every day, Ben’s reward was a blue jeep ride with Mom and Dad. Sometimes it was sunset. Sometimes it was dark, but we still went on a ride together and told Ben Young what a great job he had done and how we were so happy with his progress. He loves the blue jeep rides with us to this day, and so do we. They are always a very special family time. Ben certainly has earned as many as he wants. The phrase “blue jeep ride” is very meaningful to us.
For the love of man,
Who could understand
What goes on
What is right
And what is wrong,
Why the angels cry
And the heavens sigh,
When a child is
Born to live,
But not like you and I?
—“FOR THE LOVE OF MAN”
Today the blue jeep is in the barn where it has been since the first day I came to the ranch and met Louis and Clara. It has been mechanically restored by Bruce Ferrario and is in excellent shape. It has never been painted and still has the old blue color I love, but it has faded slightly during the years of service to our family.
1951 Jeep Overland Pickup Truck
CHAPTER NINETEEN
hen I started to live on the ranch in September of 1970, I realized I should have a pickup truck to lug things around. I wanted an old one and thought maybe a jeep would be good, and when I found one in the local paper, it was at American Auto Works, down the hill in San Carlos, a little town on the peninsula.
It was about forty-five minutes to San Carlos on one-lane roads that wound their way through the redwood canyons from the ranch to the flatlands of the peninsula. Every route I chose was always based on avoiding other cars or traffic lights until the last possible moment. Sitting inside of my old cars while I was driving on these roads, it was easy to lose track of who I was and what year it was. After driving for a while and not seeing anyone, it became the year of the car. I was generally not in a hurry, especially back in those days, when time was on my side.
The redwoods are still like church to me, good for the soul, I love driving along surrounded by their grace while the sun streaks through like God-rays.
We went lookin’ for faith on the forest floor,
And it showed up everywhere,
In the sun and the water and the falling leaves,
The falling leaves of time.
—“YOU’RE MY GIRL”
It was on one of those routes that I drove the Jeepster, making my way down gradually toward the hustle and bustle of San Carlos. I think Johnny Barbata was with me so he could drive the Jeepster back to the ranch if I bought the pickup. Soon, we arrived at the place where the car was located.
