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Wild Tales (Anglais) Broché – 5 juin 2014

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Descriptions du produit



August 1968

It always comes down to the music.

I had a tune running through my head as my flight touched down a few minutes late at LAX. All my life I’ve had music in my head, but that night the tune (the theme from the TV series 77 Sunset Strip) was doing battle on my behalf, helping me fend off the other shit that was rattling around in there. For the past few months, my well-ordered world had been turned upside down, and throughout the long flight from London everything seemed to gang up on me. There was no escaping it in that crowded cabin. With few distractions, I’d taken stock of the difficult choices on my holy mess of a plate.

How’s this for starters: I was contemplating leaving my country, my marriage, my bank account, and my band—all at once! Any one of those would have been enough to put a grown man in the hole, but I was close to running the table.

My band, the Hollies, and I had come to an impasse. We had grown up together, spent many years making music, writing songs, drinking and larking about; we’d had a fantastic string of hits, incredible success—but from where I stood we were growing apart. I’d moved on, I was headed in an exciting new direction, and my heart and soul weren’t in the Hollies anymore.

The same with my marriage. My wife, Rosie, and I had been drifting for some time. We both knew things were coming to an end. In fact, for the last six months, we’d started seeing other people. Now she was off in Spain chasing another man, and I was on my way to Los Angeles to visit a woman who had captured my heart.

I was also in love with LA and the States. I’d known it from the moment I first set foot on American soil. It was the Promised Land, and I was drenched in the Hollywood scene—the music, the sun, the palm trees, the attitude, the looseness. The way people there asked me, “What do you think?” In England, nobody ever asked your opinion of anything. You learned to keep your business to yourself, to mind your p’s and q’s. In America it seemed like there were no rules, everything was up for grabs, and I loved the freedom of it. I wanted all of it for myself.

No doubt about it, my life had gotten complicated. I was at a hell of a crossroads. There were plenty of unanswered questions. My plight became more apparent as I got off the plane and headed to the taxi stand. There was no point stopping for baggage. I had my guitar, that was it, that was all I had come with. Nothing else mattered. I was in America. I was going to see my new girlfriend, to be with Joni.

The sun had just left the western sky as the cab crawled up Laurel Canyon, bathing the Hollywood Hills in the golden flush of summer. I got a great vibe every time I came up here. Only a few minutes from the madness of the Strip, but a world apart. There was a shabby hippie chicness to it, with crazy little houses on stilts teetering along each side of the twisty-turny road. It was a place where there were free-spirited people just like me doing the things that I wanted to do, being creative and making music. I felt the pull of Laurel Canyon, its community spirit. Man, it looked like home to me.

We stopped in front of a small wooden house on Lookout Mountain Avenue. It wasn’t a posh affair, just a one-bedroom bungalow, a little jewelbox, with a sloping shingled roof and a lovely garden out back on a lick of land. A tiny tree had taken root near the porch. A green VW van was parked by a mailbox at the curb. Inside, lights glowed brightly and I could hear the jingle-jangle of voices rising in unison. I knew she had company; I’d called her from the airport. And I knew who was with her. Still, I hesitated, fearing to intrude. I leaned on my guitar case and considered again where I was and what I was doing. Deep down, I was still a kid from the north of England, a place that continued to leave its mark on me. Sure, I know, I was an English rock star, I had it made. But my past made me feel that I wasn’t cool, that maybe, even now, I was out of my element. Ahhh—what the hell? I’d been in all kinds of situations the past ten years. No point in getting hung up on that now.

Suddenly, Joni was at the door and nothing else mattered. It had been a few months since we’d last seen each other—and that was, in fact, the first time we’d met—but our connection was instant. Joni Mitchell was the whole package: a lovely, sylphlike woman with a natural blush, like windburn, and an elusive quality that seemed lit from within. Her beauty was almost as big a gift as her talent, and I’d been pulled into her orbit, captivated from the get-go.

Behind her, sitting at the dining room table, two men I’d expected to see were finishing dinner. I grinned the moment I laid eyes on them.

“Hey, Willy!” David Crosby called from across the room, using a nickname reserved for my closest friends. He was one of those incredible guys it was impossible not to like, a gregarious character, irreverent as hell, with a gorgeous voice and a great sense of humor. I’d met him almost two years earlier, when he was still a member of the Byrds, and we’d become fast friends. There was something that just clicked when we were together. We were on the same wavelength. We loved the same music and the same kind of women, including Joni, who’d been a lover of his some months back. Croz was a no-bullshit kind of guy who called things as he saw them. Besides, he always had the best dope in LA—maybe the best dope anywhere.

The guy next to him was Stephen Stills, an amazing guitar player who was in Buffalo Springfield, one of the primo LA bands. We’d gotten to know each other a little the last time I’d been in the States. He was already something of an underground legend, a guy who played and held his own with Eric Clapton and Jimi Hendrix, totally unique, with a slew of incredible songs. Together, Stills and Crosby were a powerful combination. They had great chops, and I could tell from things they said that they had something cooking.

Seeing them put me totally at ease. Plus Joni really loved them. Stephen had played on her first album, which David had produced. They were all great friends, really comfortable in each other’s company, and were eager to roll me into their circle.

Crosby had been smokin’ it before I got there and was reasonably high, so I had some catching up to do. They must have been making some music, too, because guitars were lying all over the place, which I’d come to learn was par for the course. In that Laurel Canyon scene, people always brought their guitars to dinner. They took their guitars everywhere; it was part of who they were. And at some point, someone would always say, “Get a load of this new song I’m working on.” You could set your watch by it, never failed.

I hadn’t been there a half hour when David whacked Stephen on the arm and said, “Hey, play Willy that song we were just doing.” Stephen, who was sunk into an armchair next to a giant antique pig from a carousel, uncurled and grabbed his guitar. He fingerpicked a few bars of a beautiful intro while David walked over next to him and joined him in the verse. “In the morning, when you rise / do you think of me and how you left me crying . . .” Their harmonies were gorgeous, airtight, two-part—Stephen on the melody with David underneath—that rivaled the Everly Brothers. “Are you thinking of telephones / and managers and where you got to be at noon?” I was blown away. The song, “You Don’t Have to Cry,” was a killer, and their voices double-killed it. You hear something like that, you know it’s special right away. The words and tune were perfectly pitched.

They got to the end and I said, “Fuck, that’s a fabulous song! Man, Stephen, you wrote a beauty.” I glanced at Joan, who was sitting by the piano, and flashed her a smile before asking them: “Would you mind doing it again?”

They looked at each other, shrugged, and said, “Okay.”

The next time around I really concentrated on the lyric and the way their voices intertwined and shadowed each other. Hearing them individually, you’d think they’d sideswipe each other. David’s tenor was polished to a high gloss, while Stephen’s voice was husky and less disciplined, influenced by bluesy southern roots rock. Somehow they didn’t compete so much as complement. And they had a natural vibrato, which cast a haunting shade. Those cats could sing.

But so could I.

“Okay, bear with me here,” I said when they finished. “Do it one more time.”

Three times, the same song. They must have thought I was stoned out of my gourd. But I was English and a guest, they figured let’s amuse this guy. Now, I’m a quick study, so I already knew the words and had the harmony down. I’d been listening to it internally and thinking: I know what to do, I know where to go, I got it—I got it. As Stephen launched into the intro again, I casually made my way over, standing to his left, and when they hit the opening line—I’m there. I had my breath down, the phrasing, the tuning. I put my harmony above Stephen, and off we sailed. You are livvvv-ing, a reality / I left years ago and it quite nearly killed me. In the lonnnng run . . . What a sound! We were locked in, tight as a drum. Flawless three-part harmony. It sounded so soft and beautiful, so incredible that a minute or so into the song we collapsed in laughter. Especially when we hit that chorus. It was insane!

“Wow! Wait a second. What the fuck was that?”

The three of us were harmony freaks and came from groups that had refined two-part as an art: the Hollies, the Springfield, and the Byrds. But the sound we’d just made was different, so fresh. We had never heard anything like it before. It was the Everly Brothers plus. And yet so simple: just one acoustic guitar and three people singing as one.

It shocked David and Stephen. I’m not sure they’d ever thought about the song in three parts. But I’d heard it right away.

Crosby was beaming ear to ear. “That’s the best thing I ever heard!” he said.

I asked Joni: “Did that sound as incredible to you as it did to me?”

“Yeah, it sounded pretty incredible.”

Something magical had happened, and we all knew it. When you sing with two or three people and you get it right—when the whole becomes greater than the sum of its parts—everything kind of lifts a couple feet off the ground. The three of us were levitating, all right. The vibe was so high, it was hard to touch down. There was an intense joy that we had found something new, an original sound different from anything that was out there. It was there, complete, a minute into our relationship. We all felt it, knew it. We wanted it for ourselves. But we were reluctant to discuss how to pull it off. It was almost as if we were afraid to talk about it, to let the secret out in case it wasn’t there tomorrow morning.

Besides, there were so many roadblocks in our paths. To sing with these guys I would have to sever my ties with the Hollies—not such an easy thing to do. For one thing, they were my mates; I loved those guys. Allan Clarke and I had been joined at the hip since we were six years old, and I was an integral part of the group. I’d have to get out of my record contract, get my publishing rights back. It was a mess, but it could be done. Stephen had to figure out how to extricate himself from Buffalo Springfield.

“We have to make this work,” he said.

I nodded. “We have no fucking choice but to make this work.” There was no doubt in my mind. The moment I heard that sound I knew the rest of my life was headed in another direction. No two ways about it. I had no choice.

Eventually the guys left and, frankly, I was happy to see them go. I only had three days to spend with Joan, to get to know her intimately, and there are some things that even music doesn’t trump. Nor did I see them the rest of the weekend. I was just with Joan; let’s get real. But I couldn’t get that sound out of my mind. I was haunted by those voices, the way they’d blended so naturally. And those guys. And their songs.

On the flight back to London, I was more fidgety than ever. Not confused: I knew now what was in my heart. I had fallen deeply in love with Joni Mitchell. I was a goner in that department. And those two rascals, Stills and Crosby, were messing with my head. Maybe I had fallen for them, as well.

Everything in my world was spinning, colliding, but I knew what I had to do. There was no doubt in my entire body. And by the time the plane touched down I had it all figured out. I was going home to untangle the first twenty-six years of my life, and to tie up loose ends for the next however many decades. I had heard the future in the power of those voices. And I knew my life would never be the same.


In 1996, I found myself in Blackpool of all places, a kind of run-down seaside resort where workers from northern England ventured for relaxation, and where I happened to be spending some precious downtime. My two sons, Jackson and Will, were with me, and one hazy afternoon as we strolled down New South Promenade, I detoured into a joint called the Kimberley Hotel, whose two-and-a-half-star Trip Advisor rating kind of says it all. At the front desk, the porter on duty looked up from a magazine he was reading as we hovered into sight.

“Listen, I have a really strange question,” I said.

He waved a hand to cut me off. “It’s around the corner. You go down two stairs and turn left.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, with something less than tact, “but how do you know what I’m about to say?” --Ce texte fait référence à l'édition Broché .

Revue de presse

A fascinating memoir tells of life on the other side of the ampersand... optimistic, charming and terribly British (Mojo)

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Détails sur le produit

  • Broché: 368 pages
  • Editeur : Penguin (5 juin 2014)
  • Collection : VIKING NFIC PB
  • Langue : Anglais
  • ISBN-10: 0241968046
  • ISBN-13: 978-0241968048
  • Dimensions du produit: 12,9 x 2,3 x 19,8 cm
  • Moyenne des commentaires client : 5.0 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (3 commentaires client)
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: 22.221 en Livres anglais et étrangers (Voir les 100 premiers en Livres anglais et étrangers)
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1 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile  Par Jean Bal TOP 50 COMMENTATEURS le 4 novembre 2013
Format: Relié Achat vérifié
Graham Nash est né à Manchester.
Non, il n'est pas américain. C'est un pur British qui a grandi dans l'Angleterre des Beatles (des amis), alors que lui-même chantait au sein des Hollies, un des groupes de pop mélodique majeurs des sixties.
Et puis un jour, il est tombé amoureux d'une Américaine. Une grande artiste blonde nommée Joni Mitchell, qui lui a permis de retrouver chez elle deux de ses copains musiciens: David Crosby (ex Byrds) et Stephen Stills (ex Buffalo Springfield). Un soir, après le repas, les deux gaillards lui jouèrent une chanson qu'ils venaient d'écrire et Nash eut l'idée d'ajouter sa voix à leur duo.
L'histoire de la musique anglo-saxonne allait en être bouleversée à jamais...
Graham Nash est un homme sensible et attachant qui écrit très bien. Il sait merveilleusement raconter ses souvenirs d'une époque où la jeunesse croyait qu'elle pouvait changer le monde avec quelques chansons.
Dans son autobiographie, il nous dépeint l'Angleterre grisâtre des années 60, la Californie hédoniste du début des années 70, la culture superficielle des années 80 ... et l'inexorable faillite des utopies libertaires qui découla de l'embourgeoisement des baby-boomers.
Cette histoire, il l'a vécue au travers d'une brume toxique de drogues diverses, mais il est parvenu à garder - relativement - les pieds sur terre. Ce qui ne fut pas toujours le cas pour ses compagnons musiciens.
Lire la suite ›
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Par Chevaux Patrick le 19 janvier 2014
Format: Format Kindle Achat vérifié
Un gamin des banlieues pauvres de Manchester devient un artiste rayonnant, il chante, il joue guitare et piano, il écrit et compose ses chansons et celles du groupe CSN (et parfois CSN&Y). Mais il se réalise aussi dans la photographie et les arts graphiques. Ce livre est d'abord bien écrit, il est fondamentalement honnête et il dévoile des facettes méconnues du groupe CSN et de chacun des membres. C'est une très belle histoire d'humanisme et d'espoir. A conseiller aux amoureux de CSN.
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Par Christine Nickles le 7 décembre 2013
Format: Relié Achat vérifié
Pour qui aime le groupe Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, ce livre ne pourra que plaire. On se rebaigne dans l'ambiance des 70's, bien entendu, et j'ai aimé la façon de Nash de raconter les choses.
A lire tout en écoutant leur musique, c'est un plus... Avec à la clé un brin de nostalgie, of course !
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Amazon.com: 517 commentaires
67 internautes sur 76 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
In desperate need of an editor 10 novembre 2013
Par D. Becker - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Relié Achat vérifié
Here we have a self-proclaimed artistic genius who has conquered the worlds of music, art and photography, tackling a memoir. After all, how hard can it be? Simply pour out everything you can remember about your childhood and musical career, rearrange it here and there, add some music for e-book readers, and there you are. Don't allow any competent editing, because that would reduce the size of the book by about half.

The first third to half of the book is by far the most interesting, detailing Nash's childhood in the north of England, a hardscrabble existence punctuated by his father's incarceration for a year for a minor crime. His childhood friendship with Allan Clarke and the story of their meeting the Everly Brothers is endearing, as is his first unplanned session of singing harmony with David Crosby and Stephen Stills. The latter experience resulted in the birth of CSN and directed Nash's future career path. It is interesting to read of the origins of some of CSN's iconic songs, such as Teach Your Children and Our House.

Then Nash starts to tell us both less and more than we want to know about the subsequent history of CSN/CSNY. Drug and alcohol abuse by Crosby and Nash, and Neil Young's pain in the neck personality constantly contributed to drama in the recording studio and on the concert trail, but interestingly, while Nash smoked, snorted, and drank as much as any of them, he was never responsible for any of these problems. He says he could have quit cocaine any time; you see, he doesn't have an "addictive personality," so drugs were not a problem for him. Along the way, he is an unabashed name dropper--he doesn't miss mentioning any of the great rock 'n' roll performers and bands of the day at least once, and many get repeat mentions without advancing the narrative one whit. And does he need to mention every benefit concert performed by CSN/CSNY over the years? You bet, stuff them all in. Nash glibly proclaims that since the No Nukes concerts of the early 80's, no new nuclear plants have been built in the U.S. Oh, I hadn't realized that the concerts were the reason for that. There must be about a thousand other reasons that could be cited.

Lastly, Nash spits out his no war/environmental philosophies in a bumper sticker style, substituting invective for logic. I am generally in agreement with his views, but not on the basis of the shallow reasoning he presents. Again, the absence of a strong editor is a glaring defect. The last half of the book was a slog, and I had to force myself to finish it. The e-book musical snippets are a nice feature, but Nash overreaches by jamming in far too many of them at the end to further demonstrate his musical genius. I suppose you could argue that more music and fewer words in this memoir would have been a good thing.
97 internautes sur 114 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
Perhaps the most brilliant memoir I've ever had the opportunity to read!! 17 septembre 2013
Par Steve - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Relié
Perhaps the most brilliant memoir I've ever had the opportunity to read!! Just ordered ten of them to give out as gifts this Christmas.

It would seem obvious to even the casual observer that an autobiography of one of the biggest rock stars in history, would probably be a book replete with tales of sex, drugs, and rock and roll; a book laden with stories of decadences and dalliances, and of living life to the excess. Well don't worry, Nash pulled no punches here, and those stories all there for the taking but that's NOT what this book is about. Wild Tales is about so much more than that. In the end, it is about the music transcending all else, about people, about family, and most of all about LOVE, FRIENDSHIP and LOYALTY. I picked up the book and was literally transfixed for hour after hour, unable to put it down until I got to the last of it's 360 pages before starting again from the beginning. I laughed, and I cried, over and over again, learning as much about love as I learned about loss. The stories were just so mesmerizing, and seemed to flow so naturally, that for that one brief moment I was transported back in time and witnessing first hand the seemingly cathartic retelling of the most amazing events in musical history cloaked in the wrapper of a life lived with honor, integrity, caring and commitment, by someone who may well have been one of the few islands of saneness in a generation where sanity was hard to come by.
Interspersed with stories of love triumphing over all, we are taken to the places all of us may wish we could have been, as Nash lays down a historical record for us, and for future generations, of glimpses into musical history, many of which had never before been documented. We learn how with the support of his parents, a young man growing up in abject poverty, wasn't allowed to fall into the trap of many of his peers, working in the mills or the mines, and was instead allowed to pursue his passion for music.

"When I was back in England, I went to visit my mother, whose health had been in a steady decline. " "...I'd been carrying around a question for 25 years that my mother could only answer with some serious reflection. I wanted to know why all of my friends had been forced to get a real job when they turned 16, and I'd never gotten that pressure, especially from my mom." Because, Graham," she said, "you are living the life I wanted for myself." She said, "Believe it or not, I thought I had a pretty nice voice and wanted to be on stage, to be a singer like you. I thought I had something to offer with my talent. But World War II came and I married and had three kids - and the dream was over for me. So you are doing what I wanted to do."

"A few years later, after my mother had passed, I found myself describing this conversation one night while Crosby and I were playing Carnegie Hall." "My mother wanted to be on the stage," I said, "and I thought how great it would be if she had made it to Carnegie Hall. As I spoke, I reached into my right-hand pocket, into which I had slipped a few of my mothers ashes, and I started to sprinkle them on the stage." "Mom, you finally made it!"

We learn about the lifelong relationship Nash would have with artists such as the Stones, Eric Clapton, Mama Cass, The Everly Brothers, and of course, the Beatles.
"On Sunday morning, June 25, 1967, I was awakened by a phone call at my house in Kynance Mews...not my favorite way of waking up, but still I sleepily answered it. It was Paul McCartney, and I was awake immediately. Paul invited me down to Abbey Road, where he and the boys were about to put on a live show for the whole world. Using the new Telstar satellite, and the BBC, the Beatles were going to be singing a song (All You Need is Love) representing the best that Britain had to offer." It was going to be the first worldwide television show - broadcast to some 400 million people."

The most amazing tales however were those that transcended music itself, and really just spoke to the true meaning of friendship. We learn how Nash's love for his musical partner David Crosby, would lead to his spear-heading an intervention to save him from the drugs that took so many others, way too young. How when David seemed to have lost it all, Graham stepped in and bought up his publishing rights, to protect them from creditors, and how he took his dear friend, despondent and nearly suicidal over the death of Christine Hinton, and got him away from the madness and out onto the open seas in David's boat, The Mayan, an effort that no doubt saved his life.

Of course we are told of the workings of the inner of the music industry, from the forming, dissolving, and re-forming of all the best bands in history, to David Geffen being thrown in a pool, to how Nash agreed to listen to the 15 year old son their managers neighbor, who begged to have them listen to the songs he had written, and how he and Hollies co-founder Allan Clarke sat there transfixed as this little kid, Michael Gouldman, belted out "...Bus stop, wet day, she's there I say, Please share my umbrella" and "Look through, any window, yeah, what do you see...." He wasn't done, of course, and went on to write "For Your Love," and "Heart Full of Soul" for the Yardbirds, and ultimately form a band we know as 10cc.

While I found myself spellbound reading the tales of the visionary Ahmet Ertegen, the often confusing relationship with Neil Young, and of course knowing at last just what some of my favorite songs are really about, my personal favorites are those glimpses into the two loves of his life, Joni Mitchell, and of course his amazing wife Susan, who he describes eloquently as one of the most amazing people in the world. Pouring his feelings out onto the page, you can feel just how deeply and passionately Nash truly cares about the people who are special to him. Whether he's talking about his pride in his three wonderful children, his love of his new grand-daughter Stellar Joy, his musical partners, his friends, or just his fellow members of the human race, he is truly one who lays it all out on the table and is willing to give of himself to enrich the lives of all he touches.

As Rock and Roll memoirs go, Wild Tales is sure to be an instant classic, and a must have addition to any rock and roll fans library. More than that, however, it's a mesmerizing read presented by a true man of the world, who teaches us about how friendship and love transcends music, and that the secret to thriving in a tumultuous world, is in letting your passions guide you, and giving back to those around you at each and every turn.
57 internautes sur 66 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
Par Stuart Jefferson - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Relié Achat vérifié
"I am a simple man." Graham Nash.
"This is how I remember it." Graham Nash.

This (345 page) book covers Nash's musical life from his time in The Hollies (the first 130 pages or so) to his move to SoCal's Laurel Canyon (where the story really begins in earnest), up to the present. The first portion of the book about Nash and The Hollies is the most interesting and informative part of this book. Little has been written about The Hollies by someone who was close to the band, so it's nice to have Nash's perspective on that period. But don't let the three "stars" fool you. This is a well thought out interesting, and (sometimes) informative book from Nash. His stories do bring out those years, but much of it has already been relived by his musical partners and others. But Nash's writing style is very personable and straightforward--which makes reading his book a pleasurable experience--more so than other similar memoirs.

Even if you're familiar with all the stories about CSN&Y, Nash's memories of his early musical life--before and with The Hollies--is well worth reading. His up close and personal description of the early years in England really bring that whole period alive and make the book worthwhile. Reading Nash's memories makes me wish a good writer/editor would interview, in depth, the members of The Hollies and those connected with them, for an in depth book that includes each band member, the band, important people on the scene at that time, and that whole era when music was rapidly changing. The Hollies were there, and witnessed and were a part of that change, from pretty-boy crooners to The Beatles, The Stones, The Hollies, and other bands of the era. It's a piece of English rock'n'roll history that's crying out to be told. Maybe someday.

The majority of the book is taken up with stories fans have already read about in several other books--including Neil Young's recent book and David Crosby's two books from a few years ago--plus books about the Laurel Canyon era ("Fire And Rain" is a good example) of the late 1960's. Nash writes in a straightforward style that makes for easy reading, and it's nice to read his slant on things, but too much of the information on CSN&Y--which is a good portion of the book--has been told before. And like other similar memoirs Nash has told a number of stories, but has had to leave out many more ("a thousand more")--which is understandable. But as Nash says--"I don't give a s--t about stuff 30 years ago". Included are many b&w photographs (including a great shot of Nash's father singing, a great picture of The Hollies performing at the Cavern Club in 1963, a beautiful photo of Crosby's late lady Christine Hinton, and a shot of Nash chipping away part of the Communist East Berlin wall in 1989), some throughout the book, but the majority are in three groups spaced throughout the book.

But for those who have read little about CSN&Y this is an informative look from someone who was (and is) still there and making music. The Hollies is where Nash learned his songwriting/singing craft, but finding his music was growing away from the group, Nash ups sticks and moves to Laurel Canyon and immerses himself in his new chosen lifestyle like a moth to a flame. He also describes the now well known scene during that period, with his meeting up with Crosby and Stills, and overlaying his voice over their two-part harmonies to make something incredible sounding.

He also talks about Joni Mitchell and his almost instant affection for her and his feelings about the wife (and everything else) he left behind in England. And there's the meeting with Cass Elliot and how important that was. The parties at Peter Tork's (The Monkees) house and all the drugs and available women. Nash also talks about the group's appearance at Woodstock ("scary") and other important festivals of the period. Of course a good deal of the book is given over to Nash's dealings (both good and bad) with the other three members of the group. He talks about Stills' massive ego, Crosby's massive, crippling intake of illicit substances ("he always had the best pot") which altered his personality and Crosby's appetite for women ("they were always around"--worse than Nash or Stills), and Young's using of bands he was in to further his own solo career. Throughout Nash is seen as "the peacemaker" among the four and he talks at length about his longtime friendship with Crosby and the many ups and downs they went through together. He also describes the intense rivalry between Stills and Young which added even more pressure on the group. He recounts what Woodstock was like for the group, along with other experiences over the years (like Altamont) that does bring out the flavor of those times.

Nash also shares his feelings on the other members of the group through the years--they're still concerned with the craft of music-making--as a group, in a duo setting, or solo. They have never really split up--reuniting for concerts or social causes. And as Nash sees things, each of the four still maintain their musical integrity and their personalities--perhaps mellowing a bit. But they're still together--if not as friends (Young's loner tendencies) certainly as performers (Crosby-Nash) who still perform today.

In the end Nash sees CSN&Y as "the four of us against the world." And even with all the problems and hassles over the years the most important thing--the music--is still most important. As Nash says--"Did it enrich people's lives, or was it a waste of time?". But he answers his own question--"I don't believe that any of this was a waste of time". And as I said earlier, if you've read little about CSN&Y you'll come away thinking that Nash's book wasn't a waste of time either. Other fans who know much of the story of CSN&Y won't find much new here except for the portion of the book concerning Nash and The Hollies. All in all, Nash's stories are told a little to late for most fans of both himself and CSN&Y, but it's nice to finally read Nash's perspective on his life with his three "brothers". "It always comes down to the music". Graham Nash.
10 internautes sur 10 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
Disappointed 11 avril 2014
Par Suzi W. - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Relié Achat vérifié
I've always liked Graham Nash's music and of course loved CS&N. The book shares the rich history behind the band and recalls what it was like for similar bands including the Beatles breaking out in the 60s. I enjoyed Nash's tales of the early days. The further I read, the more aggravated I became. He seemed to trash Crosby, Stills and Young among others. He recognizes their talents but continually faults their decision making and tempers. Although he admits to his own drug usage and womanizing, he minimizes it in comparison to almost everyone else. He just seems egotistical and self-absorbed.
23 internautes sur 27 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
Wait up, Neil, I'm getting on the bus with you. 23 novembre 2013
Par Amazon Customer - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Format Kindle Achat vérifié
I bought this book after reading one of the more positive reviews. I am a big CSNY fan going all the way back. Mr. Nash has written some lovely songs; I only wish I could say the same about this book. Nash's beginnings, inspirations, and formation of the Hollies were interesting. His enthrallment with Crosby, the U.S., and the expected rock star descent into cocaine debauchery (and I'm no stranger to debauchery), is where I tried to find some reason to continue the book. Crosby's pathetic spiral into the toothless wonderland of crack addiction, loads and loads of 3 ways, and good ol' American gun-slinging; hell, that's all going on at your local trailer park. Only they don't get a free pass for a new liver. And how many times do we have to be told there was a sh**load of coke? OK. We get it. For a guy who met and worked with a lot of insanely talented people, there is little more than superficial information here. (And a lot of cocaine) If you absolutely MUST read this book, get it at the library. Not worth shelling out any dead presidents, and besides, Mr. Nash assures us he has a sh##load of cash, too (and he hoovered a ton of...well, you know).
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