Cultural historians of the future will have a tough time
explaining 1970s rock stardom. Did it depend on songwriting skill? Musical
virtuosity? Charm? Good looks? Crosby & Nash defy all of the above; they
plod along inexplicably, dropping LPs with no legitimate grounds for existence.
Like this one: Nash continues to strain for poetry and profundity, consistently
achieving neither (he’s clearly been listening to frenemy Neil Young, but just
can’t get it right; “And the cannibals are waiting on the edge/to eat the meat
that they can smell” is just . . . dumb), while Crosby churns out more vaguely
song-like temporal chunks of sound. The best moments come in spite of the
nominal figureheads: when Crosby finally shuts the hell up on the wordless
“Dancer,” or when “Mutiny” achieves a second-class Steely Dan sound that nearly
drowns out Nash’s insipid lyrics. I remain baffled by this entire phenomenon.
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