by Neil Young
One other time we were in Malibu driving down the Pacific Coast Highway in Nanu. We had a gram of coke with us, and Art Linson, who was David’s friend and Nils Lofgren’s manager and friend, was in the backseat. David and I were sitting in Nanu’s bucket seats up front. We were cruising Malibu and feeling real good about life. A Malibu sheriff pulled up beside us and turned his lights on. He was pulling us over! When we stopped, he got out of his car and walked up to ours.
I rolled down my window and asked, “What’s the problem? Is it against the law to drive a ’59 Cadillac convertible in Malibu?”
He was taken aback by my question.
“This car was made for this town!” I said.
He shook his head, smiled at me, and said, “Just take it easy. Have a good evening.”
We drove away. After holding our breaths for a minute, it dawned on us.
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” said Briggs. “You just blew my fucking mind.” Linson just stayed put in the backseat, shaking his head.
Sometimes timing is everything. There was ZERO thought process involved in that. I had absolutely no idea what I was saying or doing. It just came out. It was a spur-of-the-moment event. We drove away laughing, counting the minutes till we did another blast. Those were some big times, a long way from the Flamingo Club.
Chapter Seven
Why This Book Exists
Remember the goose that laid the golden egg? This book is all about that. This book will keep me off the stage (except for a few benefits—Farm Aid and the Bridge School) for over a year. I need to go away and replenish. This book is one thing that I am doing to stay off the stage. It all started when I broke my toe at the pool.
Back at the ranch, Pegi and I were having a great time with Amber and Ben up at the pool. The pool is up a hill behind the house. Anyway, we were up there and having a great time on July 3 celebrating Father’s Day, because Amber had been in Montana at an art retreat and Pegi had been down in LA working on her new record on the real date. So now we were together and celebrating Father’s Day and all was cool. That’s when I stubbed my toe on a rock and broke it. My little toe!
So I have to slow down. That’s why I am writing this book now.
Or maybe it’s because I’m not smoking weed anymore. I am a lot more focused now. That’s odd. On one hand, I am wondering whether I can write songs straight, and on the other hand, I am saying that because I am straight I am probably writing this book. Someone should take note of that for his or her own research on the subject of sobriety, but not me.
I am feeling very fashionable, even trendy, for having stopped smoking and drinking. I should be in People magazine or on Entertainment Tonight. I am missing a lot of exposure. (Actually, I cannot imagine anything further from my mind than doing that type of thing, thank God.)
I am no fun to watch TV with. I am constantly heckling and criticizing and making fun of it. I suppose I will be on TV hawking this book, though.
Jonathan Demme recently made another movie about one of my performances. This is the last one of a trilogy. It’s really about life. It’s a docu-music-entary, what was once clumsily called a rockumentary. Promoting it, I could be on Colbert! Now that guy is really funny. Or Jon Stewart! Thank God for humor! Those guys are brilliant. I am always getting scared that I will be in the middle of some long-winded story and forget what I’m talking about and my secret that I am slowly losing my mind will be out. It is a real fear. Everyone will know! But that is not new. That is not a recent development. I have always been like that. That is what makes detecting the onset of early stages of dementia in me so difficult. Maybe there won’t ever be any. Maybe it’s all in my mind.
Chapter Eight
My first band that worked a lot was called the Squires. We formed in the early sixties in Winnipeg, Manitoba, and were made up of Jack Harper on drums, Allan Bates on guitar, Ken Koblun on bass, and me. The band went through a lot of changes over the first years, but that was the starting lineup. We played high school dances, church dances, community clubs, and the odd outside gig on the back of a flatbed truck. Once we even played a wrestling match.
Those were the kinds of gigs we did in the beginning. We made very little money, sometimes as little as five dollars for the whole band. This was our beginning. We didn’t know where we were going, but we were going. There were good and bad gigs, but they all added up. Eventually, the Squires started getting booked out of town, and we would travel fifty miles to make a gig. We had my mother’s little Ensign packed so full that I could never see out the back when I was driving to the gigs. It’s a wonder we weren’t pulled over. We never were.
Ken’s amp was homemade and it was a big wooden box that provided a huge bottom sound for the bass. Eventually we had to cut it down because it was too big for the car. Ken drove that speaker with a Heathkit amp he purchased as a kit and built. We had the shoddiest equipment in the beginning. My guitar, a Gibson Les Paul Junior, was hard to keep in tune. I didn’t know that the intonation could be adjusted, so it went on like that until I got my next guitar, a Gretsch Chet Atkins “Horseshoe,” just like Randy Bachman’s from the Silvertones and the one I played later in Buffalo Springfield. My first amp was an Ampeg Echo Twin, until I graduated to a Fender Tremolux, which was a really big deal for me: The Tremolux was the smallest of the piggybacks, but it was my first big amp.
There was also a band in town called the Galaxies. They had three huge Fenders, two Showmans, and a Band-Master. They were the coolest band as far as equipment went. Then there was the Silvertones; they had a Fender Concert amp and they got big. Randy Bachman played guitar in the Silvertones. They were the best musicians in town, and Ken Koblun from the Squires and I used to watch them all the time whenever we could. They played everywhere and got all the big gigs. They were simply the best.
Randy’s playing was the inspiration for a lot of my sound. He had an echo sound he derived from using a tape recorder to get a slapback effect from a tape loop. That is achieved by recording the note and automatically playing it back a split second later. The split second later comes from a length of tape between the two magnetic heads: one records, one plays back. The delay is created by the distance between the two recording heads that is heard when the tape travels from one head to another.
Randy was very advanced, and his echo sounded just like Hank B. Marvin’s of the Shadows whenever the Silvertones did one of their Shadows instrumentals. I would go to their gigs with Ken and we would just stand there transfixed. The Silvertones did not have a weak link. Their singer, Allan Kobel, was really great. Bob Ashley on piano was unreal. He could really rock and play anything from Floyd Cramer to Professor Longhair. Jimmy Kale, the bass player, was totally unreal, and he helped us a lot. We got Ken’s first bass through Jimmy—he connected us to order it through Cam’s Hardware, a local shop that sold some musical instruments. Cam’s had a connection to Silvertone, the musical instrument and amplifier company, in the States, and Silvertone made a cool bass. Later, Jimmy would lend us his concert amp for recording and big gigs. He was a real good friend. Thanks, Jimmy!
Eventually, Jack Harper, an original member, was replaced by Ken Smyth as drummer. Allan Bates knew Ken from high school. That configuration of the Squires recorded “The Sultan” and “Aurora.”
Allan eventually wanted to further his education and was replaced by Doug Campbell (who later quit because his mother didn’t want him to take a chance on music). Doug was a genius and played lead guitar. I say he was a genius because he actually worked on his guitar, shaving the frets down and adjusting the intonation. He was able to create a “fuzz tone” by doing something inside his amp. He knew no boundaries. He was really impressive. Too bad he couldn’t go with us when we took off, but that’s the way it goes. He left a hole and I had to fill it myself, but I had learned a lot from Doug.
The Squires played my own songs and rock arrangements of folk classics like “Oh, Susanna,” “Tom Dooley,” and “Clementine.” We got that id
ea from the Thorns, another band that came through on the circuit. We learned their arrangement of “Oh, Susanna,” and I developed a theme doing other old folk songs along that way, with new melodies and arrangements that rocked. Tim Rose, leader of the Thorns, was one of those credited with writing “Hey Joe,” later made a big hit by Jimi Hendrix. The Thorns were really great. I don’t know what happened to them. They should have been huge. But we know life has her ways. Nothing is obvious, and you never know what is going to happen. The Thorns and Danny and the Memories were great bands that could have been huge, but just disappeared. Who knows what is next or why it isn’t?
The Squires eventually became the number-three or -four band in Winnipeg, and we got really good. We had the most original material of all the bands. I was writing a lot, because I always was thinking about music. First it was instrumentals, and then songs with words that I had to start singing. That set us apart. I knew that and I took advantage of it. Original music was the key to moving up. Doing covers was good for gigs, but I wanted other bands to be doing my songs. A few years later, the Guess Who (formerly Allan and the Silvertones) actually recorded one of my songs, “Flying on the Ground,” fulfilling that dream. I was very happy about that. They did a great version.
Original songs were not found that often in the bands that competed with us in Winnipeg. I never had to try to write. I learned to be ready to write when an idea came into my head, whether it was in school or wherever. I learned to drop everything else and pay attention to the song I was hearing. The more I did that, the more songs I heard.
We also had a constantly changing lineup. We had Al Johnston on drums, then Bill Edmondson, who moved in across the street from me when he arrived from Montreal with his mom and grandma. He was a genuine rocker with all of the attitude required. I was a big believer in attitude; I think that set the Squires apart as well. Bill Edmondson played on “I’ll Love You Forever” and “I Wonder,” eventually recorded at CJLX in Fort William and produced by Ray Dee, the number-one Fort William disc jockey who adopted us when he heard us at that first Flamingo Club engagement. Bill ended up marrying the secretary from CKRC, where we had our first sessions in Winnipeg, and ultimately stopped playing with us because she missed him so much when we were out of town. There were many reasons why guys dropped out of the Squires, but I never did really get them. I was in for the long haul.
Then, just before we left Winnipeg for the last time, we got Bob Clark. Bob was game and traveled with us to Fort William. He was really cool, and we rehearsed in a room above his brother’s store where he gave drum lessons. He and his older brother were mostly into jazz, and there was a big jazz scene in Winnipeg, but Bob was into playing rock and roll and liked where the Squires were going. Bob Clark was a fine musician. He was really into it. With Bob on drums, we really had the version of the Squires that could move out of town and be successful. Bob sang, and Ken was getting better at singing, too. I thought we were ready to go. As I mentioned, we packed up Mort and headed to Fort William.
A list of some of my early shows with the Squires, from Ken Koblun’s diary, 1963.
In Fort William, Ontario, a working-class port town at the head of the Great Lakes where the Squires first played the Flamingo Club and hit the big time, we stayed and settled in. We played the Flamingo a few more times and sent our tapes out to record companies. Nothing happened. One of them is a song about Pam, who I have mentioned before, a beautiful, soulful girl I met at Falcon Lake who was my first love, in a fantasy setting by the ocean, which of course I had never seen at the time. I called it “I’ll Love You Forever.” We used sound effects of waves. I thought it was really cool. Another song I had written, “I Wonder,” was recorded at CJLX, too. Those tapes live in my archives now.
I was writing more, and the Squires played the Hootenanny at the Fourth Dimension Club, a local coffeehouse in town that had entertainment all week long; the Hoot was on Sunday or Monday nights. There were 4D clubs in Fort William, Winnipeg, and Regina, and they became known as the circuit. One of the acts that came in was called Two Guys from Boston—they were Joe Hutchinson and Eddie Mottau. They were really good. They sang together and had a 45 rpm record that they played for us called “Come on Betty Home.” I loved that song. I was so impressed that they had a record.
One day they received some black ganja in the mail and they were ecstatic. I had no idea what it was, and still really don’t know whether it was hash or weed, but it was something and they were happy as hell. I hadn’t smoked either weed or hash at that time, and I didn’t then.
Around then, the Beatles had “Ticket to Ride” out, and it was on the jukebox at the Fourth Dimension as well. “Come on Betty Home” and “Ticket to Ride” got a lot of play. Many bands and performers played the 4D circuit. Mostly they were from the States (as we call the United States up in Canada). I saw Lisa Kindred, Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee, and Don McLean before he had his hits “American Pie” and “Vincent,” plus a lot of other performers. Don was traveling in a Dodge van, and he had changed the letters DODGE to read DOG. These were the early days that left such a mark on me. I was always fascinated and impressed by these groups and artists. I was so envious of them for being from the States and on the road.
The next band to come in and play on the circuit was called the Company. There was a guy singing in that band who was really great. He played guitar and sang, and it sounded like he was a soul singer. You had to look at him to be sure he was white. His phrasing was amazing. I really noticed him. He walked up and introduced himself to me. His name was Steve Stills. We got along real well immediately. We struck up an instant friendship after he heard us playing at that Hootenanny. It was amazing to me that after hearing us play he was so impressed.
A great friendship rose up between Steve Stills and me that goes on to this day. Stephen is a genius. Like any genius, he is sometimes misunderstood, and I misunderstood him many times when we were young. Later on I came to recognize him and understand him better. When I left CSNY to do my own thing, I missed him. Although Crosby and Nash loved him and his music, I always felt they never completely got the point with him, and he became a little reclusive in his creativity because of that, in my opinion. No one really knows him like I do, though. He is my brother. We went through so much and learned from each other along the way, discovering our music and life at the same time. It was all so new to us, and we discovered it together, like brothers, and I don’t think we are finished with that yet. The way we play off of each other, the joy of that, is something seldom found. I never felt that David and Graham had that same sense about him; of course, we were older friends and both lead guitar players who could play together in a way that made it hard for us to tell who was playing what. David and Graham did not have that with Stephen in the same way. I think I respect Stephen’s talent and genius in a way that they don’t. They see something else, and now they have spent a lot more time with him than I have. When I spend time with him today, I still see that original genius. I want the Buffalo Springfield to play yet again, with a drummer who can drive the band in a way that we have never really had, and that goes way back to Stephen’s original problems with Dewey Martin, our first drummer. There is still more to do there and no reason not to do it.
Before the Company left Fort William, Stephen gave me an address on Thompson Street in New York’s Greenwich Village, where I could find him if I ever went there. Then the Company left to go to Winnipeg, and the Squires stayed at a motel called Dinty’s Motor Inn. We were able to live there for nothing in exchange for playing Saturday and Sunday afternoons at the Fourth Dimension Club. Gordie Crompton, “Dinty,” owned the motel and the Fourth Dimension. After we finished at the Fourth Dimension we got some other gigs around town, but times were rough and we had little money. For a while, we lived on Spam and Ritz crackers we bought in a little liquor store across the street from the motel.
Eventually we got kicked out of Dinty’s Motor Inn and moved to the YMCA. Then we started p
laying at a place called the Pancake House on Sunday afternoons. That was okay, but it didn’t make us enough money to live.
We played a lot in Fort William until I left after a long period of doing that and moved on to Toronto. That was a very sudden move. Late one night I was hanging with a bunch of guys from local bands, some guys from the Bonnevilles and Terry Erickson, a bass player who also played good guitar. We were thinking of him becoming a Squire and had even taken some pictures together. I decided to drive Terry to Sault Ste. Marie in Mort. We jumped in the hearse and left. Just like that. Ken was back at the YMCA, so he missed the trip and was left behind. Bob Clark and the Bonnevilles came along with us. We took Terry’s motorbike with us in the back of Mort.
We were about halfway there, near a town called Blind River, when we broke down. Mort’s transmission was toast. We got towed to Bill’s Garage, a harrowing experience with the hearse being towed backward, the rear tires in the air and me steering in reverse. After holding on for dear life at a high speed and terrified, we finally got to Bill’s Garage in Blind River, Ontario. Bill said he could find us a part to fix the hearse and get us going. Several days later, we were still there and running out of money; we were living on roasted potatoes from the market. We hung out in an old junkyard/dump near the edge of town.
A graveyard was just across the gravel road from that dump. We were a funky lot. The Bonnevilles hitched back to Fort William for a gig they had that weekend. Bob went with them. Realizing that Mort was gone, I thought being in Fort William without the hearse would be nowhere. It was a feeling. The hearse was part of the whole thing. The picture. The image. There is an intangible to a group and a persona. You can’t lose that. If you do, you have to start again. I felt that Mort was a large part of my identity, so I took off with Terry to North Bay to see his dad and try to get some cash. I don’t remember what happened to Terry’s gig in Sault Ste. Marie, but I do remember that when we got to North Bay, we saw a lounge band, the Mandala, with a great guitarist named Domenic Troiano and George Olliver, a fantastic vocalist. Wow! Those guys were really cool; very slick and professional R&B. I eventually went back to North Bay later on to do a folk club as a solo, working out of Toronto, just before I met Bruce Palmer and Rick James and joined the Mynah Birds.
