Truly, would it trouble Stills or Crosby so much to write actual songs? Their
formless, lifeless tunelesscapes drone on interminably, then crawl away without
leaving much but the sticky residue of their insufferable smugness; park bench
mutations, indeed. The beneficiary here is Nash, whose trite simpleton songs at
least bother to gesture at things like melody (though dropping acid in
Winchester cathedral, however personally transformative it may have been,
hardly makes for compelling song fodder; way to go, Graham, nobody did anything that wild and crazy in the 70s). At least it ends with Stills
riff-rocking a bit on “I Give You Give Blind”; it would be better as a Neil Young jam, but generally speaking, the more and/or louder guitar, the relative less overt Stills presence--always for the better.
Still, you could listen to this album, vote for Gerald Ford, and feel no cognitive dissonance.
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