by Neil Young
Crosby was forever the catalyst, always intense, driving us further and further. Just looking in those eyes made me want to deliver from the heart. He so believed in what we were doing. Graham was the consummate professional, always there with his parts, cheering us on as we jammed, writing the songs we became best known for. Stephen, my brother, always the soulful, conflicted one, was battling unseen demons and many-colored beasts through the days and nights, contributing an edge that was unmistakable.
The combination of that energy all at once—with our audience!—that is what CSNY was to me at its best.
But then came the fame, the drugs, the money, houses, cars, and admirers; then the solo albums. I had to break away. I had so much to give, so many songs in me, so many ideas and sounds in my head. I had to do it. The band didn’t break up; it just stopped. It did not regenerate itself. It stopped functioning, like it had a lapse or a heart attack or something. No new songs came forward from anyone. We were all doing our own things. We needed a reason to get together and a purpose behind our music. In the end, we became a celebration of ourselves, and there was no way to keep that going. It doesn’t regenerate. We had a golden time, and then we lost our way. Be great or be gone.
—
In the aftermath of my breakup with Carrie, Crosby was a really good friend. He kept in touch with me throughout, and we had some really deep conversations about that. He was so supportive; I could not have asked for a better friend. He has since gone through hell and back, and written two books about it with his friend Carl Gottlieb. I would like to read a book that he wrote in his own words because he is masterful with language and very articulate.
When he started to take a dive it was terrible to see. There was nothing we could do to stop him. Once he came to my boat and broke out his pipe to smoke some freebase. He wanted to share some so I could see how it was. As we all sat around, he got it out and started his torch. Then he did it all by himself, forgetting what he was doing completely. That was my experience with freebase, and I came away with a bad impression. He and his wife, Jan, were both into it, but their deep love for each other eventually rescued them from it. They picked up the pieces and moved on with their lives, having a beautiful son and getting the blue sky back finally. They really pulled it out of the jaws of hell and took it back. I still remember “the mighty Cros” visiting the ranch in his van. That van was a rolling laboratory that made Jack Casady’s briefcase look like chicken feed. Forget I said that! Was my mic on?
Larry Johnson, me, and David Briggs, playing pool at the ranch, 1978.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Pegi and I were at the Hawaii house relaxing from something or other. Conan and Jay Leno were having their moment with NBC, and Conan had walked out on The Tonight Show, which turned into a political quagmire when Jay Leno decided he was not going to step down as he had said he would. Conan was left hanging. So Conan’s last show was coming up and I was his musical guest. Eric Johnson had come over to Hawaii to fly with me on the United flight to LA that I was taking. When we arrived, he got off the plane and went to make sure everything was ready so I could go straight to a car and to the hotel. Then he came back and said, “I have got some really bad news; Larry Johnson has died.” I took that in. Larry was a lifelong friend.
Elliot met us at the LA airport. We hugged. I was in a fog. Tim Foster, my old stage manager, was there, too. We hugged. What can you say? I called Pegi, who was crying like a baby. Larry had died in Ben Young’s van. He just slipped behind the wheel to drive Ben to the Sharks’ hockey game and let out a last breath. He was gone. Just like that. On the phone, Pegi cried and cried. All I wanted to do was go back to Hawaii and be with her.
I had to go to the hotel, where Dave Matthews and I sat together in my room, learning a song while the time passed. Conan’s last show was the next day, and later that night, Dave Matthews and I were doing a thing together for the Haiti Relief Fund; we had to rehearse to get a grip on what we were performing together.
The next day was the Conan show. It was surreal. Conan’s shows were always loose and fun. This one was different. As I was singing “Long May You Run,” the TV audience must have thought I was singing it for Conan. I was singing it for Larry, too. I barely made it through that performance. I looked over at Conan, and he was watching me with his head in his hands. That guy really got screwed. But he is a survivor. I said good-bye and off we went to the Haiti benefit over in Hollywood. It was the same place we had done the 9/11 Tribute to Heroes, where I sang “Imagine.” I think we did a good job. Someone said Kanye West had left a message there for me. I kept seeing Larry in the hallway outside my dressing room. I never got the message.
Pegi came home to California, and we met at the ranch. Pegi cried for six months. She grieved and grieved. Pegi and Larry were very close, and there was nothing I could do but hold her, comfort her, and feel my own thoughts. Life again. (You might notice I refer to my son Ben as Ben Young all the time. Larry always called his son Ben Johnson. I liked the pride with which he would say “Ben Johnson.” It is a lingering memory of his great spirit.)
—
While it’s true that Larry Johnson and David Briggs have perhaps played the major roles supporting my endeavors, the others who have worked at my side cannot be underestimated. I have been very lucky to know and create with all of them. Elliot and I are getting older now and can feel the passage of time, but the energy to do what we do is still very much alive. Ben Johnson, Larry’s son, and Will Mitchell, who worked beside Larry, are still with me every day, carrying on the work. Hannah Johnson, Larry’s daughter, is doing my photography archiving and the preservation/re-creation of manuscripts and art for my current projects. There is a lot of love and caring going on with our whole team. Toshi Onuki, who worked tirelessly with Larry and me, is still with me, helping with UX (user interface) design and film editing. Our work together is so rewarding. Mark Faulkner is editing film for videos in Larry’s old Airstream, known affectionately as the “Upstream Airstream.” Larry loved those Airstream trailers almost as much as he loved Quonset huts. So although something has been lost, something has been gained along the way, and I am grateful to be working and creating. The Shakey Pictures team lives on in the great space that Larry found and moved us into just before his untimely passing.
I am very proud of the people who have worked with me. Probably my “front of house” sound mixer Tim Mulligan, who has been with me the longest besides Elliot, has withstood the most of my changes in style and content, just riding it out with me. I can always count on Tim to come to the dressing room and tell me how we made out in a show, and not just the good shows. Dave Lohr has been right by Tim’s side for years, providing feedback and quality care in tuning the sound in each venue where we play. Honesty, constructive criticism: those things are priceless in this game. I have always had excellent people with me; Joel Bernstein is another one. He is a great photographer and archivist who came along with me for years and tuned my instruments. Now he is working with Graham Nash and others doing a lot of archiving work. In the early years Joel took a lot of pictures that have been priceless in my Archives projects.
—
Recently I visited my brother, Bob, in Ontario. I stayed in his house on the lake with him and his friend Vicky. Dave Toms was there with us, too. Dave is an old friend of me and my dad. We had a really good time together, and it gave me time to reflect on some of the changes in my life. Dave is a big Canadian guy with white hair. I gave him the name SnowBear to go with the character SnowBear in the continuation of the Greendale story. If we ever do that movie, Dave will play that part, I’m sure. He has been a traveling companion on the last couple of tours we have done with Lincvolt, sitting in Larry’s old seat, and now plays in that story as well. Ben Johnson will be helping with that once I get home and can focus on it again.
Actually, Ben is the one who will be sitting in his dad’s seat when we finally take our trip around the country in Lincvolt. Dave will be there, too.
There are sure starting to be a lot of loose ends. When we lost Larry Johnson, we had a lot of balls in the air. Maybe too many.
Performing with Pegi at the 25th Annual Bridge School Benefit Concert at the Shoreline Ampitheatre, Mountain View, California, 2011.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Dustin Cline and Ben Young are on their way here to Hawaii right now and should arrive in a few minutes from the mainland. Dustin, the son of David Cline, who was my road manager and sometime bus driver, was born just about the same time as Ben. He is now one of Ben’s main caregivers and the Minister of Fun and Social Activities. Tony Rivera, “Uncle Tony,” will be traveling with them as well. We have tried to always have a crew of two with Ben Young to make his comings and goings as safe, fun, and easy as possible, while also taking excellent care of him.
He is completely dependent on others now and is taking nourishment through a feeding tube in his stomach. That is something we implemented a year or so ago, and Ben has responded well, especially now that we prepare our own food for him that is fresh and organic. One of Ben Young’s original caregivers, Anne Marie Holmes, a very sweet and kind English lady with an excellent sense of humor, has created some nourishing and healthy formulas for Ben. Rather than the canned formula most people like him would have to settle for, Ben is Mr. Gourmet. You are what you eat. And Ben Young is looking good.
Ben has seen a lot in his thirty-three years, including Larry Johnson’s passing. We talk about Larry a lot, and Ben is often a part of the memories. Larry was an excellent friend for Ben, taking him everywhere and including him in everything he possibly could. Larry was one of Ben Young’s strongest advocates for inclusion in every activity, no matter what logistics were involved.
Ben Young will be rolling up the sidewalk anytime now and into his room for an overhaul before we all take off to the Bamboo in Hawi for our traditional Sunday brunch with friends. Next week, the shift will change and Ben Bourdon will arrive. With him will be Marian Zemla, “Uncle Marian,” the senior caregiver who has been with Ben for the longest (except for Anne Marie). Marian, a former practicing doctor from Poland, loves Ben Young very much. I suspect Ben is like a son to Marian and his wife, Teresa. Everyone on Ben’s team is top-notch, and we are so blessed that we have this assistance. Pegi and Anne Marie are always looking to have someone “in the wings” so we are never short should something ever happen to one of the team members. Pegi is masterful at organizing this and seeing that Ben Young’s staff is organized and running smoothly. That alone is a full-time job. How she does all of that and writes and records a brand-new record that is totally top-notch is incredible to me. She is finally living the dream she had when I first met her. Even with all of the great singers I have sung with, there is nothing like singing with Pegi.
Pegi and I with Ben and Amber at Willie Nelson’s Pedernales Ranch, Spicewood, Texas, June 1984.
Chapter Thirty-Six
My daughter, Amber Jean Young, was born May 15, 1984. We brought her home to the ranch from the hospital in a baby-blue 1957 Chevy Bel Air wagon called the Mother Ship. She grew up relatively shy with others and showed a strong interest in art right away, painting first with one hand, then with the other, switching back and forth as she went. Her sense of color is so pleasing to me that I feel it in my heart every time I see one of her works. And now she has an MFA.
Rich with an artist’s sentiment, Amber Young today is a beautiful young lady, making her way through life’s guesswork and planning her future with grace, style, and conviction. Of course, she would never say that about herself. This is her father talking. I love her. She has been well raised by her mother, who has a natural sense for the art of mothering and nurturing. Amber’s art is as complex as it is beautiful, and the textures and boldness she uses speak to me. I get a visceral feeling from her colors, just like great-sounding music gives me. What a pleasure to watch her develop her natural talent. She really wants to be an independent artist, making her way with her art and not asking for anything. Amber works at galleries in San Francisco and curates exhibitions.
Looking at the poster for my new Jonathan Demme movie, I am especially proud of my daughter Amber’s art. She has done the titles, at Jonathan’s request, and the result is so cool. In her strong personality, she is a combination of her mother and my mother, two of my favorite people, plus a little bit of me thrown in there for good measure, along with that indescribably original thing that is just totally her. She is a true original, having created houses built of Ben Young’s feeding bags, tubes, and medical devices, heavy-duty construction vehicles made of felt, a wedding cake you can walk inside with beautiful felt roses adorning it, and countless works that hang on walls—works in wax, in paint, and in other mediums I can’t adequately describe at the moment.
There is nothing on earth like the feeling of a parent for a child that has matured as Amber Young has. She is my pal, sometimes my confidante—although I am careful not to burden her unnecessarily—and my muse. Named after my granny Jean, an active musician who worked in the copper mines of Flin Flon, Manitoba, during the day, handing out the metal ID tags to the miners before they descended and collecting them back, hanging them on nails in the wall of a little shack, when they finished their shifts, thereby becoming the first to learn of a missing soul in the mine. Then she was partying into the night, singing and playing a barroom piano or producing and playing in the local theater productions she created. She is my daughter, Amber Jean Young. Over the years her mother and I have tried to do our best raising her, and now it is up to her. She is well equipped, soulful and talented, wise and idealistic, and comes fully loaded with the Young/Morton temperament.
I remember once we were having some problems, and she told me I was gone too much when she was growing up and I missed a lot of things. She was so true, so right. Of course I felt terrible, but that was the price I had to pay for my choices. I followed my music and missed her moments. Amber was very honest with me. Who could ask for more? She’s my girl.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Another Word from PureTone . . .
I think a lot about the music business and how it is reinventing itself. Streaming services like Spotify make ALL music available free instantly or through a subscription and a cool, easy user interface. This is completely different from the way I started, but I am open to it because it gets music to the people in a way that works with today’s expectations of the capabilities of technology.
The convenience is fantastic, with instant access to and discovery of the history of recorded sound, but you can’t feel it like you used to. I don’t want to complain and not have a suggestion about how to fix the problem—complaining without a solution is a waste of time. So I have developed a solution. It’s just a matter of dealing in the business world and offering people a new way to make money that reintroduces ongoing quality into the equation. I know a way to combine streaming services and PureTone, while improving the sound of streams and making some tracks in playlists available instantly in PureTone-master quality.
I keep thinking about this all the time because I want to make a contribution that lasts. I know I am obsessive about it. Music is an art form compromised by technology; this is not what technology is supposed to do. Maybe the music I make now will not have a huge audience like it once did, and my time in the light may or may not have passed, but I can reach more people than I ever have by helping to bring all kinds of music to them in a way that is superior to anything that has ever been presented in the history of recorded sound. I think great digital sound is the future of music, and we are a few steps away from delivering it. It could happen really soon, and that would be a massive sea change for the art of recorded music.
With book art director and friend Gary Burden, on the beach in Malibu, 1975.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
My very first recording session was on July 23, 1963, at CKRC radio in Winnipeg. I was seventeen years old. Harry Taylor was the engineer behind the board, and Bob Bradburn was the
producer, a CKRC DJ. The Squires were there to make a record! The first day we played all of our songs so we could hear how they sounded when recorded. It was very exciting, and I was really jacked up. Just before and just after the sessions, we played at the Crescentwood Community Centre and earned $35 the first night and $36 the second night. As you can tell, we were hot.
The CKRC studio had a pair of mono tape recorders, some EQ, some echo, and a control board. The mixing was done live. It was at this session that I first sang on tape. I had a couple of songs, one of which I called “I Wonder.” It was the best one that I sang, but we decided, because I had a “different” voice, that the Squires would be an instrumental recording group. I knew that I had to work on my singing, and I knew I felt good when I sang. Those songs meant something to me. I had written several instrumentals that we were also playing.
The two tunes picked from the audition session were “The Sultan” and “Image in Blue.” During the second session we practiced recording these, working on the arrangements. At that time it was decided that “Image in Blue” needed a name change so that Bob Bradburn could say the title at the end of the record in echo. “Aurora” was the new title. They thought of the title and had the idea. I was so young and eager, I didn’t complain. I was just happy to be making a record. I did like that a prerecording of a gong was added to “The Sultan” to give it that special sultanesque, desert-tent vibe—we knew all about that in Winnipeg.
After a few long weeks of anticipation, the record was released on V Records, a local company that mainly did polkas but was just getting into rock and roll. We were very excited. Then the big moment came, and we heard “The Sultan” on the radio! I was in my mother’s car with my bandmate Ken Koblun, driving somewhere. I felt so good. I am sure I was walking on air for weeks. The Squires were recording artists. My mother was telling everyone she knew. I could hear her on the phone calling all of her friends. She was my biggest fan!
