If I Could Only Remember My Name

this album is so boring, i have to beg - why is this on this list? David Crosby has no less than 6 other albums that he contributed to on this list, a boring solo album is not necessary imo.

innocuous rambles and noodling for fans of CSNY. Maybe I'm missing something but I've no idea why it's in this book nor does it make me want to find out why.

I feel like this album lies somewhere between the scathing contemporary reviews and the far-too-glowing later retrospectives and the cult fandom this album accumulated. It is indeed very sloppy-sounding and almost half-assed at times, much what one might expect from a heavily (self-)medicated musician who lost his girlfriend in a car accident and wanted to heal by collecting a lot of big-name musician friends all jamming together in a San Francisco studio. But it's also a somewhat compelling meditation piece, floating away in a hazy-but-ever-so-harmonious grief; I can see how enjoyable this might be for someone who's a bigger fan than me of his voice or style(s). The highlights are probably the opener "Music is love", "Laughing" and "What are their names"; the rest isn't really all that memorable aside from wanting "Orleans" to turn into a Queen production number. Some day either we'll hit the end of the project or we'll finally get the last of the innumerable CSNY-related albums; I don't think today is that day, though, even if this would be a good sendoff.

Probably don't do enough drugs to appreciate this

it’s fine

Some uneven improvisation but lush sounds and supreme harmonies save the day.

CSNY was sort of like the Wu-Tang Clan back in the day. Not really sure if David Crosby was Raekwon the chef, or maybe ODB.

I never thought a song called "Laughing" could be so devoid of human emotion

This was an alright album, I did enjoy its comments on the resistance to conformity but the weight of nonconformity. While I did deeply resonate with that message, I never really enjoyed many of the songs sonically, not many catchy tunes or hummable melodies, which unfortunately, does matter alot to my horrid npc brain.

Album cover? Oh shit, I forgot about that! When’s it due? Today?!? How about my nostrils snorting a sunset, yeah? Then just lump the words together in the shittiest font you can find. Good enough!

Folk Floyd

I'm spending the whole of today travelling from Montrose to Truro, a journey that involves crowded trains, changes of direction, a substantial proportion of Britain's railway network and an arrival scheduled for long after sunset. It's an undertaking governed by timetables, connections, announcements and the perpetual requirement to be somewhere other than where I currently am. And somewhere in the middle of this thoroughly untranquil experience, I encounter an album of such exquisite, unhurried plangency that I find myself wondering how I've managed to live for more than sixty years without hearing it. David Crosby's *If I Could Only Remember My Name* is an extraordinary discovery. Not simply because it happens to provide a soothing accompaniment to a fairly mad day, although it most certainly does, but because the qualities that make it so welcome in these circumstances turn out to be fundamental to its musical identity. This is an album that doesn't hurry, doesn't insist upon conventional progress and seems remarkably unconcerned with demonstrating its considerable accomplishments. It creates a musical environment and allows the listener to inhabit it. Yet beneath that apparent ease lies an astonishing degree of compositional sophistication and an almost complete certainty about what the music is trying to achieve. There's a distinction here between aimlessness and the confidence to dispense with a destination. The former is frequently a consequence of insufficient musical discipline; the latter requires an unusually clear understanding of the possibilities within a piece. Crosby's album is overwhelmingly an example of the latter. Its music unfolds through repetition, subtle shifts in texture, instrumental conversation and elaborate vocal arrangements that often operate independently of conventional song structures. Some of the pieces barely trouble themselves with lyrics at all. They don't need to. The music possesses an expressive vocabulary that makes words seem almost incidental. And then there's the company he keeps. The recording sessions brought together an extraordinary collection of musicians from the Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane and Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, alongside Joni Mitchell and others. Reading the personnel, one might reasonably anticipate a monument to early-1970s rock-star self-importance: a succession of celebrated performers taking turns to demonstrate their individual magnificence. Instead, what emerges is one of the most unshowy records imaginable. The musicians seem remarkably content to listen to one another, to create space, to contribute a few carefully judged details and occasionally to disappear into the collective sound altogether. There's an essential difference between assembling exceptional musicians and creating exceptional ensemble music. This record demonstrates it repeatedly. The virtuosity is undeniable, but rarely advertised. Much of the pleasure comes from noticing the relationships between individual parts rather than admiring those parts in isolation. Guitars weave around one another in delicate filigree, vocal harmonies bloom and recede, instrumental phrases are introduced and answered without any apparent anxiety about establishing dominance. For all the famous names, the prevailing impression is of musical companionship rather than musical competition. The album's opening establishes this character almost immediately. *Music Is Love* has the warmth of a meditation session, something approaching the repetitive devotional character of a Krishna chant. Its acoustic guitars circle gently around a simple musical figure while the voices gather, gradually becoming richer and more luscious. There's little harmonic urgency and scarcely any suggestion that the song needs to arrive somewhere. Its pleasure lies in the deepening of an existing atmosphere. Rather than developing through a sequence of dramatic events, it seems to invite everyone into a shared musical space. That opening also establishes something that becomes increasingly important as the album progresses: Crosby's fascination with the architecture of voices. His harmonies aren't merely decorative additions to otherwise complete songs. They are frequently the principal compositional material, capable of providing movement, texture and emotional meaning without the assistance of language. At their most elaborate, they approach something orchestral, with separate lines occupying different registers, interacting and resolving in ways that make the conventional distinction between melody and accompaniment increasingly unhelpful. *Tamalpais High (At About 3)* is an especially remarkable example. Its largely wordless harmonies are absolutely gorgeous, but concentrating exclusively on the voices would overlook the equally important interplay between the guitars. The instrumental lines have their own independent movements, answering and weaving around one another while contributing to the larger structure. The result feels almost symphonic in its ambition, despite being realised by a relatively small ensemble. And yet, for all this activity and intricacy, the effect is almost ambient. That's a fascinating achievement. The arrangement is complex, with a considerable amount happening beneath its apparently tranquil surface, but nothing demands that the listener follow a particular element. Attention can wander between voices, guitars and the spaces separating them. It's orchestral in construction but ambient in effect: a carefully organised soundscape that invites exploration rather than requiring obedience. I can listen intently to the intricate relationships between its components or simply allow the entire thing to wash over me. Neither approach feels inadequate. Something similar happens in *Song with No Words (Tree with No Leaves)*, which may be the most magnificently self-assured performance on the record. The lead vocal frequently operates in an almost ostinato-like manner, establishing recurring figures around which the harmonies and instruments move. The relationships between these elements are wonderfully fluid. Lines meet, separate, overlap and find one another again, producing a sensation I can only describe as a proper downstream drift. There's continuous movement, but no apparent exertion. The music seems to carry itself along, following a current that nobody feels obliged to accelerate. It's extraordinarily confident music. Nothing about it suggests musicians struggling to find an idea, nor is there any of the ostentatious cleverness that can make elaborate arrangements exhausting. Crosby clearly knows what he wants, and his collaborators possess the musical intelligence to realise it without turning the exercise into a competition. The freedom from conventional song structure doesn't produce uncertainty. It produces something approaching complete assurance. There is, admittedly, one glorious exception to the album's prevailing restraint. *Cowboy Movie* occupies eight minutes of a record lasting approximately thirty-eight, and Crosby evidently has something he wants to get off his chest. It's an elaborate Western allegory of the romantic complications and interpersonal disagreements surrounding CSNY, delivered over an insistent acoustic riff while Jerry Garcia's electric guitar conducts an increasingly animated commentary of its own. The disproportion between subject and treatment is magnificent. A relatively small collection of musicians getting themselves entangled in romantic difficulties becomes an epic tale of frontier loyalty, betrayal and masculine honour. It's tremendously self-important, although not without a certain entertainment value. The narrative suggests a man rather impressed by the dramatic significance of his own social circle. Meanwhile, Garcia appears to have discovered a more interesting subject altogether. His guitar becomes progressively more compelling, practically competing with Crosby for the listener's attention. At times, the musical argument seems almost independent of the lyrical one. This is classic solo-album weirdness: the sort of extravagant personal idea that might never survive the collective editorial process of an established group. But I don't regard that as a strike against it. The freedom that allows Crosby to devote such a substantial proportion of his debut to a peculiar piece of personal mythology also allows Garcia to develop an extraordinary performance. Remove the self-indulgence and you risk removing the musical liberty that makes the recording worthwhile. There's no requirement for artistic freedom to produce uniformly sensible results. Sometimes its value lies precisely in allowing musicians to follow unusual ideas considerably further than anyone exercising conventional editorial discipline would permit. And this, after all, is an album whose greatest achievements frequently depend upon musicians being allowed to pursue ideas without the usual constraints of popular songwriting. The early 1970s were also a period in which rock musicians were increasingly expected to have something important to say. The singer-songwriter was becoming a figure invested with a peculiar moral and cultural authority, someone apparently required to provide meaningful commentary upon politics, relationships, spirituality and the general condition of humanity. The reception afforded McCartney's *Ram*, released only a few months after this album, provides an instructive comparison. McCartney's apparent reluctance to make grand statements contributed to critical accusations of irrelevance, as though the pleasure of making inventive, melodically sophisticated music were no longer sufficient justification for making a record. Crosby approaches the question rather differently. He is perfectly willing to address the grand concerns of his generation, but seems increasingly uncertain that anybody possesses the answers. *Laughing* is particularly revealing in this respect. Inspired by Crosby's reservations about George Harrison's enthusiasm for the Maharishi, it examines the 1960s search for spiritual enlightenment and the authority of those claiming to have discovered it. The essential conclusion is something approaching, "I haven't a clue, mate." There's a refreshing humility in that. Crosby doesn't replace the guru's supposed certainty with his own competing revelation. Instead, he questions whether the search for ultimate wisdom is well served by investing particular individuals with the authority to dispense it. The possibility of enlightenment isn't necessarily dismissed, but the spiritual salesmen are treated with considerable scepticism. And then the music does something quite extraordinary. Garcia's pedal steel, together with the exquisite harmonies involving Graham Nash and Joni Mitchell, produces a sound of almost celestial beauty. The voices seem to hover above the arrangement, their lines blending with the sustained, bending guitar notes until the boundaries between instrumental and vocal sound become wonderfully indistinct. The song's lyrical uncertainty is accompanied by a performance of complete musical assurance. More than that, it creates something resembling the transcendent experience whose accessibility the words have been questioning. A song about the failure to find spiritual certainty achieves, through music, something remarkably close to a spiritual revelation. I find that paradox immensely affecting. Crosby's refusal to pronounce upon the ultimate meaning of existence doesn't diminish the beauty of what he creates. Indeed, it arguably makes that beauty more persuasive. There is no requirement to accept a doctrine or acknowledge somebody else's superior wisdom. The music simply offers an experience that might be understood as transcendent, without insisting upon an explanation. There's a related quality in *What Are Their Names*, although the means are quite different. The piece rambles into existence with the loose, exploratory character of a Grateful Dead performance, gradually establishing its rhythmic and instrumental identity through an extended crescendo. It takes considerable time to reach the vocal section, but that passage is essential to the effect. The instruments establish the scene and build anticipation before the voices finally arrive. And when they do, it's a proper choir. Rather than the intimate, interlocking harmonies of the more contemplative pieces, the voices become a great collective presence. The lyric itself is comparatively straightforward, questioning the identities and conduct of those who hold political power. There's little particular sophistication to the argument, and it might easily have become another example of generic countercultural indignation. But the music gives it weight. The slow instrumental development creates a sense of collective purpose, and the eventual massed vocal entrance transforms a simple political accusation into something approaching a communal demand for accountability. Once again, Crosby permits the music to accomplish what a more elaborate lyric might struggle to achieve. The relationship between *What Are Their Names* and *Traction in the Rain* is especially revealing. Both are unhurried, but they use their patience quite differently. The former accumulates musical force until its collective vocal declaration becomes almost inevitable. The latter has no comparable destination. Instead, it finds extraordinary beauty in the delicate interaction of acoustic guitar and autoharp. *Traction in the Rain* is a little gem, almost the epitome of the early-1970s back-to-the-land aesthetic. There's something wonderfully pastoral about its gently unfolding arrangement, an intimacy and simplicity that suggests a retreat from the grand ambitions of the preceding decade. The word I keep returning to is *filigree*. Its instrumental relationships are intricate, delicate and exquisitely proportioned. The music seems assembled from tiny decorative details, none of which disturbs the song's essential tranquillity. This is complexity on a miniature scale, sophistication expressed through touch rather than grandeur. And, like so much else on the record, it doesn't hurry. By this stage, that quality has become central to my understanding of the album. Its apparent disregard for conventional momentum is neither an absence of ideas nor an inability to develop them. It is a recurring artistic decision, expressed through several quite different musical forms. Sometimes repetition creates a devotional atmosphere. Sometimes extended instrumental exploration establishes anticipation. Sometimes the intricate movement of multiple musical lines becomes its own justification. Sometimes the purpose is simply to inhabit a small, beautiful arrangement for a few minutes. The remarkable thing is how these different approaches contribute to such a coherent emotional atmosphere. Even *Orléans*, a brief arrangement of a traditional French song, seems perfectly at home. Its layered voices introduce another musical tradition without disturbing the album's prevailing character. By this point, the common element isn't a particular instrumentation or songwriting method. It's an attitude towards music-making: patient, assured, attentive to texture and remarkably unconcerned with imposing itself upon the listener. This is when I find myself wondering how I've never encountered the album before. It has become an unexpectedly soothing partner to a mad day, providing a musical space in which the relentless practical requirements of travelling across Britain can temporarily disappear. I can scarcely imagine a more appropriate soundtrack to a day spent negotiating Britain's railway network than a record that seems utterly indifferent to timetables. But another consideration is gradually asserting itself, and it has less to do with my journey than with the circumstances in which Crosby made the album. His girlfriend, Christine Hinton, had been killed in a car accident in September 1969. This record was created in the aftermath of that devastating loss, with an extraordinary collection of friends and fellow musicians contributing to its sessions. I don't want to reduce the album to a straightforward expression of bereavement. Some of Crosby's musical ideas predate Hinton's death, and his interests in elaborate vocal arrangements, unusual structures and collective improvisation were already well established. It would be facile to attribute every contemplative passage or delicate harmony to grief, as though the tragedy provided a convenient universal explanation for his artistic choices. Nevertheless, the relationship between grief and the album's prevailing temperament becomes increasingly difficult to ignore. What strikes me isn't any overwhelming sense of sadness. Much of the record is positively comforting, occasionally playful and frequently full of musical curiosity. Rather, it's the manner in which the music seems to make room for contemplation without insisting upon resolution. Grief can alter one's relationship with time. The ordinary expectation that life should proceed through a sequence of recognisable stages, each leading efficiently towards the next, can become strangely irrelevant. There may be no destination towards which one particularly wishes to hurry, no revelation that makes the experience intelligible and no comforting explanation that renders the loss acceptable. And here is an album that repeatedly allows music to exist without those demands. Its pieces don't always resolve conventionally. Its lyrics sometimes acknowledge uncertainty rather than offering answers. Its most beautiful performances often depend upon musicians allowing one another room to breathe. I begin to hear that collective generosity differently. The extraordinary supporting cast no longer seems merely an impressive list of contributors. The record increasingly resembles the sound of friends spending time together, creating something beautiful without requiring their host to demonstrate that everything is all right. That's an interpretation, of course, rather than an established account of the musicians' intentions. But it's an interpretation supported by the qualities I've been hearing throughout the album: restraint, companionship, patience and an unusual willingness to allow things to remain unresolved. And then comes *I'd Swear There Was Somebody Here*. For all the musical beauty preceding it, nothing quite prepares me for the ending. After an album filled with extraordinary musicians, suddenly everyone disappears. Crosby is alone, layering his own voice into a brief, wordless composition that sounds like a solitary act of devotion in a vast cathedral. The scale of the imagined acoustic space is enormous. Voices rise and overlap, creating the impression of a great choir, yet every sound comes from the same man. There's something profoundly affecting about that combination of intimacy and grandeur, the solitary human presence multiplied until it seems capable of filling an immense building. The piece has no need of lyrics. Indeed, words might diminish its expressive power. Its emotional content lies in the sound of those voices occupying the space, in the suggestion of reverence and absence, and in the title's almost unbearably poignant implication that somebody might once have been there. Given Crosby's bereavement, the association is difficult to resist. And suddenly the album's emotional architecture becomes apparent in a way that hadn't been obvious during the earlier tracks. It begins with *Music Is Love*, a warm, communal gathering of voices, something resembling a devotional chant in which companionship itself seems to be the principal source of comfort. Throughout the record, musicians assemble, collaborate, exchange musical ideas and construct extraordinarily beautiful environments together. Then, at the end, Crosby is alone. He creates the sound of companionship entirely from his own voice, filling an enormous imagined space with the suggestion of other presences. **From communal consolation to solitary contemplation.** That movement is astonishingly powerful. It doesn't necessarily establish that Crosby deliberately constructed the album around such a narrative, but it profoundly affects my experience of hearing it. The ending retrospectively changes the meaning of the music that precedes it. The extraordinary generosity of the ensemble performances becomes more poignant, the contemplative atmosphere more emotionally significant, and the album's persistent refusal to hurry acquires an entirely different resonance. There's no neat conclusion about recovery. No suggestion that the love and support of friends can somehow eliminate the experience of loss. Nor is there a grand philosophical statement that explains grief or offers a route out of it. The album simply permits companionship and solitude, uncertainty and confidence, musical beauty and emotional absence to coexist. That seems an extraordinarily humane achievement. It's also striking how thoroughly the record avoids the self-important solemnity that might reasonably have accompanied such circumstances. Apart from the magnificent absurdity of *Cowboy Movie*, Crosby rarely seems inclined to advertise the significance of what he's doing. Even when confronting the great spiritual questions of his generation, he is prepared to admit ignorance. Even when surrounded by musical giants, he seems content to allow individual brilliance to disappear into the collective sound. There is tremendous confidence here, but it's a confidence that rarely requires an audience to acknowledge it. Crosby knows how to construct music of extraordinary sophistication and appears equally certain that its beauty will be apparent without additional insistence. And perhaps that's the album's greatest quality: **it never mistakes the importance of what it has to express for an obligation to make that importance obvious.** I'm still travelling south as these impressions settle. Truro remains hours away, the railway continues to operate according to its own rather less contemplative priorities, and there are further connections to negotiate before this long day finally concludes. Yet for thirty-eight minutes Crosby has provided somewhere entirely different to be. The circumstances undoubtedly contribute to my enthusiasm, and I make no apology for that. The value of music cannot be separated completely from the circumstances in which we encounter it. An album heard at precisely the right moment can reveal qualities that might otherwise remain unnoticed, or provide a kind of companionship that no abstract assessment of musical merit can adequately describe. But this is far more than a fortunate piece of soundtrack selection. The record's unhurried plangency is the product of an unusually assured musical imagination, realised through some of the most beautiful and unselfconscious ensemble playing I've encountered. Its intricate harmonies, pastoral delicacy, improvisational freedom and occasional eccentricities belong to a coherent artistic world whose emotional character becomes increasingly moving the longer I spend within it. The album doesn't instruct me to relax. It doesn't demand an emotional response, announce profound truths or promise that everything will eventually make sense. It simply offers an extraordinarily beautiful space in which music, companionship, uncertainty and contemplation can exist together. And at the very end, it leaves me alone with the sound of one man trying to fill an enormous absence. Perfect. Five stars, without hesitation. Not because the record is flawless in any conventional sense, but because its occasional excesses are inseparable from the freedom that makes its greatest achievements possible. And because, on this particular day, its extraordinary combination of musical sophistication and emotional generosity has provided something I didn't even realise I needed. How on earth have I never heard this before?

Can’t say there was much I liked about this album. I was pretty bored throughout the whole listen.

Don’t recall ever hearing before, pretty good.

It’s good but I didn’t grow up listening to this

Fine, just kind of quiet

3 city

Spiritual record. Peak hippie movement record inspired by the countless American plains and native American culture. From the instrumental tracks to the closing vocal track, this record was more experimental than other folk records. Not a bad listen at all.

Pretty good, not as great as Crosby can be

Normally, this style would be right up my alley, but this album was uninteresting and seemed somewhat flat. I’ll give it three stars since I didn’t hate it, but wouldn’t choose to listen to it again.

Reasonable album with good instrumentals. Never was a fan of his voice.

Vaca catch up

If only I could not remember this one!

7/10

Very experimental and minimalistic. I should get back to it one day.

Gram Parsons replacing David Crosby in The Byrds has to be the biggest musical downgrade in history.

If only I could remember a song from this David Crosby album.

solid

Very boring. 1 or 2

This is the kind of country album that I have an affinity for. It is soft, classic and stripped back, nothing too poppy or modern. There are nice vocals and harmonies throughout, particularly on the closing track 'Kids and Dogs', but my favourite track was 'Laughing'. Its polished nature and technical quality made it a standout from the majority of the rest of the tracks, which are utterly raw in a way that almost requires them a bit of a polish. Anyway, all in all, a good album for someone who owns an acoustic guitar.

I'd put it in the "good not great" category.

Obsessed with the album cover, really enjoyed song with no words (which isn’t intended as a dig lol), and thought some of the harmonies on the later tracks were totally unexpected but very beautiful. I’m honestly just so surprised by how much i like this??

Other than Cowboy Movie nothing here really struck me..and that's probably only because it's a heavy steal of Down By The River musically. David Crosby seemed like a cool guy before he died though and interacted a lot with fandoms on Twitter so that was cool

Enjoyment: 7/10 Replayability: 6/10 Cohesion: 7/10 Flow/Pacing: 6/10 Artistic Merit: 6/10 Weighted Average: 6.5/10 Review: A peaceful, easy, and melodic album with gentle harmonies and thoughtful lyrics. There was nothing exceptional but there wasn't anything untoward nor does it overstay its welcome, so I'm excited to hear more of Crosby's discography. Liked Song(s): Tampalpais High (At About 3), Laughing, What Are Their Names, Song with No Words (Tree with No Leaves), I'd Swear There Was Somebody Here Disliked Song(s): (None) Recommend? Yes Heard Before? No

This is all a bit meh It washed over me. Nothing exciting or interesting stood out.

Kind of boring, like CSNY phoned it in

eeeeeeeeee

Good vibes, this is what I think of when I think of great rock.

Started really strong for me then weakened once we got to Song With No Words

Boomer slop

Good album. Great early 70s vibe

You don't see The Dead playing sidemen too often but unfortunately it's for a musical lost cause. If I Could Only Remember I Hate This Record.

Mmm, not sure what to say here. I enjoyed some elements of the album. There were rocky guitars, and an intriguing Cowboy song. I struggled to understand from this, where and why his status was gained. In total I listened to it three times, partly in deference and partly in case I missed anything. But it is not for me and there won't be a fourth hearing.

If I could only remember a song from the B side... Rating: 6/10

At times, Crosby flirts with a really incredible album, but seems to fall short of the mark by never really letting the songs be as emotional as I think he wanted them to be.

Real sweet and chill, probably should be a 4 but it didnt grip me super hard. Standouts are cowboy movie, laughing and orleans.

At least he remembered to make an absolute banger.

Pleasant listening hours :)

Like Neil Young without the voice

This list has convinced me that CSN&Y is the most overrated band of its day. There is absolutely no way that each of their members’ solo albums also deserve a place on the list. This sounds like a bunch of Neil Young’s B-sides propped up by David Crosby’s famous friends as guest artists. 2⭐️

A psychedelic exploration of folk, blues, singer-songwriter and more, all done with this raw edge, hazy guitar passages and an overwhelming atmosphere. Amazing summer vibes throughout, it's like this album radiates with warmth while at the same time soothing the listener with it's softness.

Bluesy rock like Canned Heat. Less hippy sounding like how he looks. There’s soul in his voice. I thought it would just be wussy in his voice. Like gosh dang it this is mellow Too mellow for me Like some Paul Simon shit. That aside, it isn’t terrible and I guess it’s decent for the clientele it wants to arouse. No arousal from me but I get it.

David Crosby saß gerade ohne Band da – CSNY war im Sommer 1970 auseinandergebrochen – und ging trotzdem oder gerade deshalb in die Wally Heider Studios nach San Francisco. Mit dabei: halb Jefferson Airplane, halb Grateful Dead, dazu Jerry Garcia, der laut Crosby "praktisch mitproduziert" hat. Herausgekommen ist sein Solodebüt für Atlantic, US-amerikanischer Psychedelic Folk, der eher nach durchwachter Nacht als nach Plan klingt. Ich finde es schwer, das Album von seiner Entstehungsgeschichte zu trennen: Crosbys Freundin Christine Hinton war 1969 bei einem Autounfall gestorben, und man hört das Album eigentlich nur richtig, wenn man das im Hinterkopf behält. Konkret: "Laughing" und "Song With No Words" haben kaum noch klassische Strophen, nur noch Stimmen, die sich übereinanderlegen, bis man den einzelnen Sänger kaum noch heraushört. Ob das Absicht war oder einfach passiert ist, weil ständig irgendjemand aus der Bay-Area-Szene im Studio auftauchte und mitsang – schwer zu sagen. "Music Is Love" und "Cowboy Movie" sind dagegen fast schon Songs im klassischen Sinn, mit Garcia, der auf der Gitarre alles zusammenhält, was sonst auseinanderzufallen droht. Kritiker haben das 1971 ziemlich verrissen, was im Rückblick vor allem zeigt, wie wenig sie mit einem Album anfangen konnten, das keine Aussage machen wollte, sondern nur einen Zustand. Ich weiß nicht, ob man das Album "mag" im üblichen Sinn – aber ich höre es mir seit Jahren an, wenn ich selbst nicht ganz beieinander bin.

Lige jammy nok engang i mellem men udmærket, lyder meget som crosby stills and nash

Ret lækkert. Har lidt ondt af Nash, ser ud til at han er den eneste af gutterne der ikke er på listen solo

Great jam shit!

Strong 3.5.

Pretty slow, but not bad.

Not bad!

Some good folk music. Album art is confusing "If I Could Only Remember My Name...David Crosby", well if that's your name seems like you're remembering it bud.

Good stuff!

Lindo álbum, con un sonido bastante limpio y cristalino para ser una mezcla de folk con rock psicodelico, no me cierra tanto que tenga prácticamente 3 instrumentales porque las letras en varios temas son muy interesantes.

Ive never heard of this or the musician so not sure what to expect. This is pretty alright very repetitive but enjoyable. Really solid instrumentals but all basically the exact same.

Really boring outside of Cowboy Movie.

Cowboy Movie was pretty cool. Mr. Crosby really lets it rip on that one. The rest of the album is kinda flat though.

kind of middling but mostly a positive listening experience. first half has some fun but the second half is just very soft in a way i apparently don't vibe with. favorite song is Cowboy Movie. solid 2

Rating: 7/10 It's a different kind of folk than I expect will otherwise show up on this list, very psychedelic hippie with its spaced out dreamy sound. I thought it was mostly pretty good, nothing exceptional that blows me away. A good collection of tracks that form this chill hazy experience that also has plenty of good guitar playing. The last two tracks kinda sputter out but that's only 3 minutes of runtime. The longer tracks really form the bulk of the whole thing and the strongest material, like with Cowboy Movie and Laughing being the biggest highlights to me

Another ok album by a memeber of a super group

If someone mentions "Hippie music" this is what they are talking about. 2.4/5

jesus... the harmonies are off the charts

Decent. I went into this a little biased against it since we’ve already had so many albums from this time and various CSNY-esque folks. I did enjoy a few moments on this. I should probably give this album another chance and try to familiarize myself with it without my own BS clouding things.

This took me by surprise somehow. I’d never heard it and knew I’d probably like it but I didn’t know it would be so good. One to hunt for on vinyl for sure.

Pretty good! This is one that I wouldn’t mind getting into more. Given my affinity for acoustic-y, mellow-y, music, it’s no surprise Crosby gets a thumbs up from me.

Really quite lovely, especially the closing tracks. It has everything I've yet to hear from CSNY but with a lot of unrestrained experimental folk to it. It's actually quite stirring and beautiful.

Music for smoking a doobie out back. Will make you want to start sentences with “Man”

Bastante tranqui. Un poco aburrido. Nada fuera de lo común. Creo que le doy dos estrellas pero sólo porque las de una no me gustaron nada de nada.

Actually a very pleasant listen. The demos were sweet too

I like some of CSN's stuff (minus Y), and this solo album has its moments, but most of it is somehow bland.

Know he least of CSNY

Doesn't stray too far from the CSN(Y) aesthetic, which is a good thing. Also fairly similar in that it's an overall good album, with a few weak points. "Cowboy Movie" was a standout track. Yeah, pretty good.

Listened today in the car, not much going on here, average

Loved the first half. Thought it dropped off towards the end. 3/5

I wholeheartedly agree with another reviewer on this page. The album has good playing and singing, but there are no songs here. Boring

Awful start. More freaking Neil Young’s nails on a chalkboard voice on a not Neil Young album… I can’t get a break from that guy. Cowboy Movie was great. The rest of this is kind of a snooze fest, ending with a weird chant at the end. (2)

This one is such a pleasant surprise, really really enjoyed it. I thought it was going to be a middle of the road acoustic guitar record, but it feels like it was more than that. It’s surprising to hear a perception, I think the ambience and lightness of the record made it shine.

Everything CSNY played during that era is gold! It was exactly what I expected. 5 stars.

Eh, the harmonies on some of these songs are nice but you could hear that with the same people involved if youre listening to Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. I really dont need this in my life but I also am not going to say this is bad.

6/10… folk / singer-songwriter / *1971

It's folk, it's blues, it's rock, it's perfectly fine. Very middle-of-the-road stuff from an artist I'll admit I'm not too familiar with, aside from his collaborations with the likes of Neil Young and Stephen Stills of course. The lyrics contain a lot of pain, which you'd expect from somebody struggling with heroin addiction, but I'd say that the instrumental stuff had slightly more impact on me personally. If I could only remember a single track...

Just take it one day at a time, and know that I love you

The epitome of late 60s/early 70s bullshit. There are 104 albums here just released in the period from 1969-71 alone. Imagine if there were 104 albums here from 2014-16? That would be ridiculous! And I’m willing to bet that out of the 104 albums from 69-71, maybe only about 20-30 are actually albums you must hear before you die. The only people who actually listen to David Crosby are boomers. And these are the same type of boomers that call rap boring or metal annoying while listening to virtually the same song over and over again. This album in particular isn’t even that great for country standards, if you would consider it country. All while leaving out important country singers like Hank Williams Sr. and Garth Brooks. Oh, and I forgot to mention, a few of the songs on this album have Neil Young as a writing credit. And even on the songs that he didn’t have credits for, you can tell they were very Young inspired. Does everything that Neil Young has ever made and everyone that he has influenced need to be on this list? Unbelievable.

Pretty cool. I like the loose feel, but nothing really that memorable.

Pretty boring

It's alright, perfectly listenable but really not memorable.

Better than Coldplay

Not what I expected. Honestly OK background music, but nothing worth a second listen here. "What are their names" is about the only thing that made me stop and listen, and even that seems a sad echo of the protests of the late 60's. Oh well, not every album can be ground-breaking. 2/5

Good voice (obviously) but just not my thing.

Exactly what you’d expect this to sound like. Just meh.

Yikes no. This is the worst of boomer rock.

⭐⭐ Funkar som bakgrundsmusik det är soft och drömskt och musikaliskt håller det hög nivå men det är ju inte mycket till låtar, har lyssnat på det här albumet tidigare och även då kände jag att jag inte blev särskilt engagerad eller att det väckte så mycket intresse. Tycker inte det är dåligt men jag hade behövt något mer för att söka upp det här albumet igen, tycker det är för anonymt. Det får bli en 2a. Bäst är Cowboy music