One of the bigger shocks of my recent vinyl-digging
adventures has been the resolute mediocrity of Graham Nash’s solo work; I have
such positive Hollies associations in my head that I expected more than his
trite and fairly tuneless solitary efforts. At least he writes actual songs
here, with a few, like opener “Southbound Train,” even rising above the moon/June/spoon
template so familiar from his solo LPs. That’s in contrast to Crosby, who
continues to warble idiotic sweet nothings over barren soundscapes that never
once resemble a verse, chorus, melody, or iota of songwriting aptitude, all the
while thinking he’s some sort of countercultural shaman or something. The man’s
utter fraudulence is so risible that I can’t play this without ranting to
anyone nearby, even if it’s just the cats. I'm pretty sure they hate Crosby, too.
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