by Neil Young
I always wrote when I was high before. Getting high is something I used to do to forget one world’s realities and slip into the other world, the music world, where all the melodies and words come together in a thoughtless and random way like a gift. I always have said that thinking is the worst thing for music, and now I would like to know how to get back to music without getting high. Some people are probably saying I should get high and write more songs ’cause that works. My doctor does not think that is good for my brain.
My brain has a lot of something else in it that you can only see on an MRI. I don’t know what it is or what it isn’t, but I do know my dad’s history. He was a writer and lost his mind to dementia. What the hell is that cloudy stuff in my brain? I wish I’d never seen that shit. Anyway, I have been advised to stop smoking grass, and I have. As a matter of fact, I’ve written this whole damn book straight. It certainly is a quandary.
Of course there are many reasons to be straight and many reasons to be stoned, but that doesn’t solve anything. There are many reasons to live and die, too. Where is this headed? I’ll be damned if I know, Hoss; some highway at the bottom of some hill? Tell me about it. I’ve been there. I can still see myself out on that road, ripping it up in some honky-tonk or tearing down some arena with the Horse, but when I occasionally see myself in the mirror, it just doesn’t add up. Where are we headed with this? Beats the hell out of lookin’ back, that’s for sure. I’m not sure of what’s real anymore, I can tell you that. The straighter I am, the more alert I am, the less I know myself and the harder it is to recognize myself. I need a little grounding in something and I am looking for it everywhere.
Cravings. Yes, I have ’em. And they are not insignificant, but then I imagine where that takes me and it scares the shit out of me. I have been with some of you for a real long time, and others of you don’t have the foggiest notion what I am or what I stand for. I am possibly joining those legions myself. I am okay when I focus on something and stay with it; I may get abrasive and overbearing about it, but at least I’m busy. It’s those other times that get me.
“It’s Those Other Times”: is that a song or what?
When will I put it together? How fucking loose do I have to get to put a song together again? Why not? Have you ever heard of transference? Am I taking on someone else’s battles? Is that it? How the heck did I get to this place?
Now, in a few moments, I know this will pass and I will focus in on something a little easier. Maybe back on that highway, climbing that grade, burning that damn gas, heading for that pollution. Listening to “Bad Example” by the Pistol Annies. (Check that one out. Those girls can sing.)
When I was onstage at Farm Aid in Kansas City a couple of weeks ago, that was the realest I have been in a while. I was really happy to hear that echo. That’s the closest to being high I’ve been in a long time. It was being high. I was so into that moment, and everything was so easy. I have to remember how the heck I got to that place. Why did that happen? What was the key? At least I know it happened and I was there. If I can bring that to the Horse when we get together in the White House, then I will be really happy. Farm Aid was a solitary experience, though; just me and my old guitar were playing. No other people. Except for the thousands of fans in the soccer stadium—I forgot about that.
When I started out I did a lot of acoustic solo playing and found it to be quite liberating, if confining in that it meant jamming was more or less out of the question, while improvising was definitely easy and totally unencumbered. Dropping beats and bars is no problem when you’re alone and is part of the folk process and storytelling freedom. All the while in my life I have been on these two separate paths, acoustic and electric music. Some people like one and some like the other. I like them both. Especially with the Horse, I have fans who could totally miss my acoustic solo stuff and not care at all, while fans of the acoustic solo appearances have little use for the Horse. I have often wondered why Bob, who was so great with just his guitar and harmonica, has never returned to that form since his first foray into band music with Barry Goldberg, Mike Bloomfield, later Al Kooper and the guys. That was great sound, but so was his solo acoustic stuff that defined a whole era. He has just never gone back, and that is notable. I don’t know why. He plays a unique guitar and his harp playing is definitive. His storytelling is beyond my description, so why doesn’t he do it? I guess I’ll have to ask him someday.
I would really like to make a solo acoustic record at some point. You really have to have songs to pull that off. Usually when I do try to do that I end up with a band, because you can always hear a band playing songs when you write them, at least I can. In the studio with the Horse, though, you have to be real careful. Analysis is no good for the Horse. The Horse defines music without thought. The physical feeling of playing with the Horse is like nothing else. It leaves your brain wide open, like you can feel the wind blowing right through it. I am looking forward to that relief, that feeling.
Another thing about the Horse is that knowing the song structure before starting is important. There are no run-throughs. Generally the best feelings are the early takes. First or second takes, mostly. Whatever you think of the music I have made with Crazy Horse, those songs are the most transcendent experiences I have ever had with music. That has an immeasurable value to me, and I think it will still be there when we get together to record.
Of course, I have seldom played straight with the Horse.
With David Briggs, the night I was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, New York, 1995.
Chapter Sixty-Five
Someday I would like to write a book, The Life and Times of David Briggs. I could research everyone he touched and really get to the bottom of some things about my mercurial, mysterious brother.
He was born Manning Philander Briggs on February 29, 1944, and grew up in Wyoming with family members who took care of him. His best friend was Kirby, and one day in the mid-sixties they up and went to LA to find their fortunes. Kirby became a grip, working in the movies, and Briggs became a record producer, eventually marrying a Wyoming girl, Shannon, and having a son, Lincoln Wyatt Briggs, in Topanga Canyon, which is where I met him. Shannon was a great girl, and he loved her. He was a wild man, and she loved him. Lincoln was a good boy, and I’m not sure how he is doing now, although I worry about him sometimes.
Briggs and I made my best records, the transcendent ones, the ones where I am closest to the Great Spirit. I say that because She visited me more often with Briggs than when I was with any other human being. Briggs and I had a way of getting to the place. We somehow knew the way. He was the most influential person on my music of anyone I’ve met. His guidance and friendship through the creation of countless pieces of music are one of the greatest gifts of my life, right up there with my wife’s love and all of my children. I feel the loss. I feel the memories. I feel the weight of every mistake I made in our long relationship, the times he was right and I was wrong, the times I didn’t use him to produce for the wrong reason, every battle we had. I feel the absence of his unbelievable energy for music, combined with mine. There is no replacement for that. It is one of life’s little voids.
So there he was in his apartment in San Francisco with Bettina, his sweetheart. Barely standing and all crooked and bent over. Short in stature, this giant of a man, now resembling a tree with no leaves waiting for winter, was looking right at me. It was obvious he was dying from something and the process was well advanced. I was surprised at how far it had come in a short time, having only heard he was sick. It had been a few years since we had worked together, and this was not the Briggs I remembered. Be that as it may, there he was, barely able to stand, which he did, for some reason I can’t remember. He was in pain from an ailment, a mysterious ailment that may have visited him once earlier in life, in the seventies. At that time, he had disappeared for a few months and come back as if nothing had happened. There was a rumor of cancer and a hospital stay in Sacramento, but nothing was for sure. Da
vid was mysterious, and that is the end of that. Nobody knew what was really happening with David, ever. That is why a book on the subject might be worth a shot.
So now here we were with David’s second big bout against whatever it was, and it had pretty well gotten him. He was taking a lot of morphine for the pain and looked terrible, although the spirit was still in his eyes, weak as it was.
“Do you have any advice for me on my music going forward?” I asked David.
“Just make sure to have as much of you in the recording as you can,” he said. “Stay simple. No one gives a shit about anything else.”
He told me to keep it simple and focused, have as much of my playing and singing as possible, and not to hide it with other things. Don’t embellish it with other people I don’t need or hide it in any way. Simple and focused. That is what I took away. He didn’t exactly say that, but I got that message. I have failed to do that in some instances. “Be great or be gone,” his famous phrase, echoes in my head. I have to remember that for sure. Damn.
So I left the apartment after a hug. It was devastating. He died a week later. He wanted to go. His body was all fucked up, and it was not easy. His tenacious spirit would not let him go.
—
The last time I saw Danny Whitten, it was late 1972 and he had come to play in the Stray Gators with Jack Nitzsche, Kenny Buttrey, Tim Drummond, Ben Keith, and me at the ranch. We were rehearsing for the first tour since my Harvest album had been released. The tour was my longest and biggest ever. I wanted the band to be able to play well live, and just as CSN wanted me for that, I wanted Danny in this band.
I had heard he was doing well, and had called him and invited him up. I went to pick him up at the airport and take him to the ranch. He wanted to stop at a liquor store and so we pulled over in Millbrae, a little town near the San Francisco airport. There was something weird about that. I really can’t put my finger on what it was, but something happened at that stop. I wish I could describe it, but now I just have a feeling. I think it was because he didn’t want me to go into the liquor store with him. Anyway, he reappeared and got back in the car and we headed up to the ranch, where I set him up in a little cabin on the ranch called the Red House.
Rehearsals started the next day, and I was excited. It was great to hear Danny singing and playing with these guys, but it didn’t last long before he had to take a break and go back to the house. Eventually I started to see that he was still strung out. I’m pretty sure Jack knew right away, and maybe Tim knew, too. But no one was talking. After a few days of this, it was becoming obvious that Danny wouldn’t be able to cut it. He wanted to. You could really see that. I had to let him go, and that was difficult. So I got him a ticket home and a ride to the airport. It was sad, but we had work to do to prepare for this huge tour that was already booked. It would have been great if Danny was with us, but that was not to be. We rehearsed without him and got started rebuilding the band.
That night Carrie and I were asleep in our little bedroom at the ranch house when the phone rang. It was the middle of the night, and Carrie got up to answer it. I fell back asleep. She woke me up.
“Danny has OD’d,” she said. “That was the LA county coroner. He had the ranch phone number on a piece of paper in his wallet.”
I lit a fire and sat there in my rocking chair. We lit a candle for him. It was as simple as that. I knew that what I had done may have been a catalyst in Danny’s death, but I also knew that there was really nothing else I could have done. I can never really lose that feeling. I wasn’t guilty, but I felt responsible in a way. It’s part of what I do. Managing the band and taking care of the music is very painful at times. It’s a sad story. A moment I will never forget, years I can never replace, music the world will never hear, all gone in the turning of a second.
—
One of the true greats, Tim Drummond is a musician at the highest level, and a very funny character, full of expressions like “You crack the whip and I’ll make the trip,” “We are the mighty few,” “Been around like shit on a wagon wheel,” and “Front row, white socks,” to name just a few. He called me Rainy. As I have said before, he played with a lot of greats: Conway Twitty, James Brown, JJ Cale, Bob Dylan, and Jimmy Buffett come to mind. He had the big groove. He was sometimes known as The Moth by the crew because he was always in the edge of the spotlight when it was on me. I never minded that at all, because he was always watching my foot to see what I was doing with the beat. His playing on Harvest was wonderful, and he is responsible for putting that band together. Tim played with me in many bands over the years and was one of the very best.
Something happened to him when he broke up with his wife, Inez. He gave up music. He has been drinking a lot and is in a wheelchair now. The last time I saw Tim was in Nashville when I flew him there to be with me for a party celebrating the release of A Treasure, which is one of my favorite records of all time, featuring the International Harvesters with fiddler Rufus Thibodeaux, Spooner Oldham, Joe Allen, Karl T. Himmel, Hargus “Pig” Robbins, and Anthony “Sweet Pea” Crawford. Although Rufus had passed away, the rest of the band except for Pig was all there at the party, and it was fun to see everyone together again. A Treasure, titled by Ben Keith, was a record that had never come out before, a compilation of beautiful performances from the eighties by a seminal road band. Tim is one of the best I have ever known, right up there with Ben Keith. I wish he hadn’t given up his music. Something in him just broke. And I miss playing with him and having him active. Thanks, Tim.
—
Jack Nitzsche was the composer-arranger who did the charts for Phil Spector’s Wall of Sound. These masterpieces always had Jack’s brilliant orchestrations as the major component or influence. In the back room at Gold Star Recording Studios in Hollywood, a few doors south from Hollywood Boulevard on Santa Monica Boulevard, there was a legendary echo chamber. The magical tones of this chamber adorned many, if not all, of the Wall of Sound records by the Righteous Brothers, the Ronettes, and the Crystals, to name just a few. These records are part of the history of rock and roll.
The Wall of Sound featured multiple players in the studio, many people all playing the same parts together, multiple tambourines, basses, and pianos, with string sections always in the same room at the same time. These sessions exemplified the spirit of music as I know and love it. It was a capture of the essence of many musical forces, musicians all playing their hearts out at the same time, following a chart, or a loosely preordained order, arranged by Jack. Of course, this was an analog recording, and the overtones were all universal and real. The Gold Star echo brought it all together into the Wall of Sound.
Imagine all of these people getting together in the room, setting up, and then Spector in the control room with Jack in the corner with his charts. Legendary. This was real music, mixed with that magical echo. Goose bumps were felt every night, at every session.
The echo chamber itself was somewhat of a secret. Stan Ross, the owner of Gold Star, would never let anyone see it. No one could go in there. Unlike today’s little echo machines, this was a real echo chamber: A sound was fed into a speaker in the chamber from the control room, and a microphone placed in the chamber picked up that sound, with the added echo in the chamber, and sent it back to the control room, where it was remixed into the music according to how much of the effect was desired. The echo effect amount was varied by how loudly you sent the sound into the chamber and how much of it you remixed into the music. You could turn it up or down, change the treble and bass by EQing it, but you never, ever went in there and moved that speaker or messed with that microphone! That would be taboo! No way. It was already great, and the sound was magic. If someone were to change the placement of the microphones it would be disaster and the sound could be gone!
It was spooky, that sound. It was as real as it gets, not some adjustment on a digital device. The sound was different every time something resonated it. You could lose yourself just listening to the depth. It was true
magic.
Outside the studio there was a little lounge for musicians where multicolored phones hung on the wall for several answering services to call in and book musicians for sessions at other studios. These phones were each dedicated lines to the different services. Musicians were always moving around town, going from studio to studio, with their cartage services delivering drum kits, stand-up basses, amplifiers, you name it. The services would set up drums or electric instruments so the musicians could just arrive and start playing. Many drummers had multiple sets, and guitar players had multiple amps. Vibraphones and harps were all rented from instrument rental services and delivered around town to multiple sessions, day in and day out.
Then, one day in the eighties, Stan Ross sold Gold Star. Those Wall of Sound days were gone, and it was real estate. Stan called me and asked me if I would like to buy the chamber. I said no. I regret that. I felt it would never be the same if it was moved. I think I was right, but now I’m haunted by that decision. The legendary chamber was an abandoned meat locker.
There was another great Hollywood chamber at Sunset Sound. It was there for a long time, until digital music arrived. Prince recorded exclusively at Sunset for a long time, and I heard he had the chamber made into a lounge. That may or may not be true. I hope it isn’t. Anyway, Sunset Sound is where Jack and I recorded and mixed “Expecting to Fly” with Bruce Botnick, one of the most influential and accomplished recording engineers in the history of recorded sound. Jack and I spent weeks working on the chart for “Expecting to Fly” in his house in Coldwater Canyon.
