Yes. The two were on Crosby’s boat when I arrived. Crosby had the first part and Kantner had the second part. And then it kept drifting around. So I went down below deck and finished it off. Everyone else was up watching the stars, and I polished it off.
Did you three discuss what it was about?
Dude, there’s no telling what we discussed that evening. [Laughter] It was one of those overwrought hippie things. The boat was humming, if you will.
Back then, your peers were writing conventionally short songs and you wrote “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes.”
It started out as little bits and, all of a sudden, I realized that they fit together, and one thing led to another, but nothing was finished.
When you put it together, did you consider that it was too long?
No. I grew up on “Rhapsody In Blue.” This was the same thing with words. I never worried about it. And it wasn’t that long anyway, only seven minutes. But they still wouldn’t put it out as a single.
The vocal blend of CSN was miraculous, and-
That’s your word, miraculous.
When the three of you would sit down and sing, were people blown away?
I guess so. Crosby thought so. [Laughs] It ceased to be so miraculous after the first temper tantrum. [laughs].
Were all three of you having those?
I could be temperamental back then. But I got over it.
To capture that vocal blend in the studio, would you all sing your parts at the same time?
Yes. We always sang them gathered around a big beautiful Neumann 87 [mic]. Back when I started singing with ensemble singing groups, the mic would be at least three feet away. And you’d stand back from it, and the mic would capture the blend. I still sing at least six inches away from the mic. My voice sounds too heavy if it’s miked too close. Where you stand from the mic is everything. Miking is all…Often it would sound almost right and the engineer would say, “OK, Crosby-take one step backwards,” or “Graham, take one giant step backwards.”
You were at a creative peak at the time of Just Roll Tape. What happened to allow so many great songs to come then?
I don’t know. There was a period there when I was writing lots and couldn’t keep up. But I could never be like Neil [Young] and basically write an album and record it in a week. There are people who can do that, but not many. Who can do that? I take them as they come. And right now, I’m waiting. Or gestating.
Some songwriters feel they are receivers, and songs come through them from beyond. Others feel it’s a conscious process.
It’s both. [Laughs] When you’re compelled to write, as I am sometimes, social commentary, it comes through you. It’s conscious and unconscious. Sometimes you feel I have to say something about this. But there are a lot of them that are the result of a lot of good craftsmanship. A lot of them come from just keeping yourself open. Where could “Eleanor Rigby” have come from other than taking a walk and seeing this little church? I mean, what a great story.
But these songs, I didn’t write them all at one time. This was just the first crack at a tape recorder I had. Judy wanted me to play guitar, and then I took the studio after she was finished. The last thing she said was, “Don’t stay all night, ‘cause I need you fresh tomorrow.” And I didn’t. I stayed just as long as it took to record all those songs one time. “Just roll tape” was my way of keeping my word to Judy.
“Suite: Judy Blue Eyes” was written for her?
Yeah, of course. She called me up and said, “Gosh, it was like getting a love letter. After all these years.”
I love all the alliteration in “Helplessly Hoping.”
A lot of alliteration for a cautious cowboy. [Laughs] When I did the first few lines, I thought, “How long can I keep this going?” [Laughs] It’s basically a country song, and it sings like that. It wants brushes on the drums.
It’s fascinating to hear these songs solo because it was never obvious which part was the melody.
Yeah. In some cases, being the one with the highest falsetto, I was the one who ended up with the castrato part. I’m happy to be back on the melody.
I thought Graham had the highest parts…
Graham doesn’t have a falsetto. He just sings really high. When we sing “Suite,” for example, I’m way on top.
Is that how you would always do the vocals for CSN-with you on top?
Well, we were very clever boys. And we changed it all the time. For no reason at all. It’s kind of like “stump the band.” David was really good at finding the really cool, weird part.
Is he usually the middle part?
We really wanted you guys to be just as confused as you obviously are. So I’m not telling [laughs].
Those parts cross and overlap…
Exactly. One of the secrets of singing ensemble is imitating each other.
Would it take intense rehearsal to get the phrasing so perfect?
No, we were very lazy. But it was so much fun to hear ourselves that they were easy.
Graham told me CSN was born when you and David were singing your song “You Don’t Have To Cry,” and he heard it, listened a couple of times, and then added the third part.
Right. It was at Cass Elliot’s house in the dining room. Some people said it was at Joni’s house, but they’re wrong and I’m right.
You could have easily done a solo thing then instead of getting into another band-
Yeah, but I’m a band guy. Back in the day when I was in New York City doing the solo coffee-house circuit, I was miserable. I’m a band guy. I love the camaraderie.
You’re a great acoustic guitarist, but you’ve always been a burning electric player, too.
I want to keep flaming while I can.
And you’re playing better than ever-
The longer you do it, the better you get.
Is that true with songwriting as well?
No. Those first passionate ones are really special. And later in life you might get deeper and more resonant and more crafted, but they’re not as free as those first ones. You end up out-crafting yourself. You get too cute. Losing the point. Getting contrived.
Which is why I admire Bob Dylan so much. He’s managed not to do that.
How was “For What It’s Worth” born?
I had a house in Topanga. Me and a friend went over to Laurel Canyon to go clubbing. We were young and bored. We came to Sunset Boulevard. On one side was this whole battalion of cops. In full Macedonian battle array. I had been working on this song about guys in Vietnam. We considered turning around. But we got out of the car to see what was happening, and there was this funeral for [the club] Pandora’s Box that was spilling out onto the street. And the cops just went nuts. So I said to my friend, “Get me back to my guitar.” I wrote it in about fifteen minutes. Everyone heard the song and loved it, and Ahmet [Ertegun] said, “You have to record it.” We had a record in the pipeline, and he said “Stop the presses,” and we had it out in seven days…which is a trick that people have been trying to replicate ever since.
I understood you brought Neil Young into CSN because you wanted another guitarist with whom to spar.
I definitely wanted another musician. And first, we wanted John Sebastian. But he had his own plan. I was thinking a keyboard player. But Ahmet brought it up, getting Neil. But it was odd, because he [Neil] had already walked out on me once, in Buffalo Springfield…at a pretty critical time. It turned out to be a pretty good match. There was always a bond between us from the very beginning.
You’re a prolific songwriter-was it tough to have to share songwriting with the others?
Sometimes. But that turned into solo careers. Neil quickly discovered that’s where you get all the money. [Laughs] It got crowded. But that’s okay. Life gives you the curves it does.
Were you a kid when you wrote your first song?
I was 19, I think. I was already out of the house. Already been in and out of college.
A lot of your friends felt that you would stop playing music at 35 or so.
Not me. I always knew I’d keep doing it. Everything else seemed like a crushing bore. Sportswriter, maybe.
Are you optimistic about your future, where you’re going musically?
No one in their 60s is optimistic about their future. [Laughs] Except politicians.