My theory as to why this album towers so high above most
everything else C, S, and N ever did: the gravitational pull of four gigantic
egos held everyone down to earth for once (more or less: Crosby can’t resist
one aimless pseudometaphysical sonic quagmire on the title track) and the
competitive spirit when each one only got a few songwriting at-bats meant all
killer, no filler—there’s no space on the record for the latter. Crosby might
think almost cutting his hair is an event as important as the civil rights
movement, but it’s better that he sticks to the smaller topic, and the
musicians around him burn and slash through his self-absorption anyway. Nash
spends his two tracks on domesticity, but for once his vapidity took on
topicality in the historical moment, and the buoyant melodies help. Stills
seems to have tried revising his songs for once instead of just thought-vomiting them
straight out; it helps, too. And Young, who could never be contained
by these milquetoast clowns for long, delivers some quivering beauty on
“Helpless” and then pretends Crazy Horse is around with some garage-stomp to
close things out. It all holds together better than it could ever deserve to.
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