DAVID CROSBY 1941-2023
Final Flute
With his sharp tongue and gossamer voice, huge appetites and high ideals, lent beauty and edge to every band he was in: The Byrds, CSNY, and more. We pay tribute with a celebration of 20 of his greatest songs and a fix of his mercurial spirit from a funny, scathing, poignant, recent encounter with MOJO. But first, some words from John Hulvey
Portrait: Henry Diltz
THE LAST TIME DAVID CROSBY spoke with MOJO was in the summer of 2022. We talked to him about The Beatles, and the world of possibilities they opened up for a young man from Los Angeles who was already quite the free spirit. Crosby had, as he once again reminded us, introduced George Harrison to the sitar, and to Ravi Shankar. But he was generous in his praise, and revealing in his competitiveness. “Revolver’s impact on The Byrds was obvious,” he explained. “Look at how hard we were trying to go in the same direction, as fast as we possibly could… Revolver completely convinced me I was playing music at the most adventurous level I could manage.”
When Revolver came out, Crosby and The Byrds had already released three albums in the space of 13 months. In the following year, he would record one and a half more with them, then swiftly jump over to the heady world of Crosby, Stills, Nash – and, briefly, Young – for two more group albums and an even more adventurous solo effort, If I Could Only Remember My Name. Between 1965 and 1971, Crosby released the best part of eight albums, with great songs to spare that would only turn up in his catalogue many years down the line.
What happened next remains one of rock’s more harrowing and oft-told legends, as bohemian decadence spiralled into chronic addiction, near-death experience, relapse, prison and tortuously interconnected feuds. It was a story, too, that over the years seemed unlikely to find a redemptive arc. “I wasted a lot of fucking time, man,” Crosby told MOJO in 2020. “I’m a good musician and I could have written five times as much music as I have done.”
David Crosby’s survival – two, three, four decades longer than many had anticipated, perhaps even himself – had many obvious benefits. But one of the most satisfying was the late flood of albums where he re-engaged with his questing spirit; as a singer and songwriter whose uncanny ear and harmonic gifts unanchored the rock song. Crosby’s appetites may have historically been carnal, earthy, sometimes problematic, but his aesthetic modes of articulating them were airborne, transcendent.
Those albums, beginning with Croz in 2014, also had a potent effect in resetting popular perceptions of their maker. For years, Crosby had been notorious for his excesses rather than venerated for his genius. People talked about Roger McGuinn, Gene Clark, Stephen Stills, Graham Nash, Neil Young and Joni Mitchell’s songs first. For Crosby, his rap sheet always took precedence. But as he packed his last years with music-making, the narrative shifted. The war stories finally lost their dubious cachet, and the brilliance of the music came belatedly to the fore. For a man whose self-belief often seemed to be so vigorous, validation was still precious, even when it came on Twitter.