To be fair, this album is less terrible than one would be justified in fearing; for two tracks in the middle of side 1, it achieves a decent groove (even if Stills strains so hard for anthemic weight on “Southern Cross” that gives himself an REO Speedwagon hernia). I think Nash might be going for some very un-Hollies-like Foreigner-style riffage on “Into the Darkness”; Crosby opens “Delta” with “Waking/Stream of consciousness,” never a promising sign—but fortunately he’s otherwise held in abeyance. Stills largely hijacks side 2 and runs it into the ground with turgid MOR rock; never one to bypass a chance to relive past (pseudo-)glories, he ends things with an idiotic glommed-on revival of “Find the Cost of Freedom” that drags the title track from very-nearly-evocative to sad Cleveland-rock-city-where-are-we-again? medley terrain. As usual, Nash comes off best, even when he writes such an insipid platitudinal greeting-card of a song for his wife that you briefly wonder if it was really some sort of passive-aggressive insult.
I do love the album cover, no kidding.
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