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Concert
Review by Nick Morgan |
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CROSBY
STILLS & NASH
Hammersmith Apollo,
London, Tuesday 28th June 2005 - by
Nick Morgan |
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| Apparently,
according to a bloke I met in my new briny local
by the Thames, the Lord Nelson, this gig was organised
as part of the celebrations of the 200th Anniversary
of the Battle of Trafalgar. That explains, I thought,
why tickets were being promoted by the Daily Mail
(who also spent the last week pumping up the Nation’s
loins for this celebration of our greatest day)
amongst the adverts for stair-lifts and time-share
hideaways in Cyprus, and why they gave away a CS&N
CD with the paper (I use the word in its loosest
sense) at the weekend. And why the venue was the
Hammersmith Apollo, originally named (as everyone
knows) The Victory Theatre when it was built in
1805. And of course just before the gig HM the Queen
& Co were conducting a review of the Fleet at
Portsmouth: “Our greatest Victory over Europe
ever” or some such was the Mail’s headline.
In case you don’t remember Trafalgar was the
one when the brave British boys, against the odds,
destroyed a combined enemy fleet under the flag
of, errr….well, you know who. Odd really I
thought that it had come to this for these one time
princes of peace and outspoken critics of injustice
and oppression. But I suppose we all change as time
goes by, and after all this is a band that’s
heading for the Bank of America Pavilion in Boston,
the Hampton Beach Casino, and the Borgata Casino
Resort in Atlantic City (other visitors will include
Stevie Nicks, the Moody Blues, Chicago and REO Speedwagon
– ‘nuff said?). |
| But
I have to confess that I’m like much of the
audience (for surely no-one can really like much
they did after about 1972) – taken back by
CS&N to an innocent world, captured by the naive
insouciance of songs like Nash’s Marrakesh
Express. On the positive side it’s the very
late 1960s in North Oxfordshire with a friend who’d
turned up from San Francisco to live with his Mum
and stepfather (who made classical guitars and things,
which seemed very cool at the time) with a bag full
of long playing records that changed my attitude
to music. Moby Grape, the Band, Quicksilver Messenger
Service (damn – I did like that album), Strawberry
Alarm Clock, Love (forever gets re-released) and
Crosby Stills and Nash. |
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| On
the other hand, if you take Nash’s great song
as an exemplar, it’s a grotesque mix of cultural
ignorance and cultural imperialism. Peace, love,
but not a great deal of understanding, until maybe
thirty or so years later when that train came down
the tracks like an Express out of control and forever
shattered the complacency (I hope) of western Europe
and North America. |
 |
On
our left is Steve Stills. Played the guitar very
well, but he seemed distressingly out of sorts (looked
like he was heading for hip surgery at best) and
spent long periods off-stage. Lucky the backing
band behind them were so good. As the on-stage chemistry
went he said not a word to Nash, but spoke and hugged
with Crosby. Saddest of all his voice was spent
(even when he tried to rock his way through Booker
T’s Ole’ Man Trouble from his most recent
CD) – he managed few of his original harmony
parts, the reason I guess that we were spared Suite:
Judy Blue Eyes. Centre stage Graham Nash. I wanted
to describe him as hopelessly talent less, but even
with my deeply ingrained prejudices realise this
could not be so. |
| After
all, as Crosby later said, “we all had our
jobs man. Nash wrote the anthems. Stills wrote the
rock and roll. And I did the weird stuff. A dirty
job, but …” So let’s just call
him an egotistical prat. Bare footed, silk trousered,
compared to his band mates grotesquely insincere,
he seemed like one of those spooky old guys who
hangs around in gyms in Lycra looking at himself
an awful lot in the mirror. And to our right was
Crosby. Strolling around his patch like a benign
and increasingly avuncular walrus this man who once
made his body a temple to drug and alcohol abuse
(‘till he had most of it replaced) gradually
stole the show – with his personality, presence
and most of all, his singing. What a star! |
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 |
So
I would have to say that ‘Guinnevere’,
led by DC, was the moment of the evening, probably
followed by ‘Long Time Gone’ (Crosby
leading) and ‘Almost cut my hair’ (Crosby
again). It was an interesting mix of material, probably
only 50% truly from the old days, mixed with songs
from Still’s more recent work and the new
(2004) Crosby and Nash album. Oh yes, and in the
week of G8 and L8 we had to have ‘Feed the
world’. |
I
have to say that much of this was enough to make
you wince – like the sort of stuff they play
when the golf is on the TV, and confirmed my theory
that for blokes song writing is for the most part
a very young man’s game – it’s
rare they can hack it once over about 25. Makes
you wonder really how they could ever have written
songs like ‘You don’t have to cry’,
‘Chicago’, or ‘Helplessly hoping’
(when Stills really gave it a go on the harmonies
– “They are one person …”).
And they finished the evening – of course,
give the intimate link with that greatest of all
British victories over those chaps from across the
English Channel, with ‘Wooden Ships’.
Oh how we danced. But not for long before a bizarre
encore of ‘Teach your children’, which
saw Crosby being surrounded by an increasingly large
number of his progeny, ages ranging from 30 or so
down to about four. Which bits did he have replaced?
Oh yes. One final point. I know Serge has been overwhelmed
with anxious enquiries about the date for my Glastonbury
review. Guys – don’t you know me better
than that? I went sailing in Devon instead, but
still had to suffer the new age hippies –
actually pilled up City-boys and tequila juiced
secretaries, in their mud cased Armani jeans on
the way home on the train. For those who don’t
know, it’s a smug self-satisfied weekend in
the country for crass adolescents and over-grown
middle-class Guardian readers. I nearly choked on
my Brora, when watching it on TV late on Sunday
I heard one BBC young-thing say (in a music-hall
northern accent) “Ooooh, I had that real tingle
when Coldplay came on stage”, only to be told
by the other (more comedy accent) “No for
me it was Brian Wilson …”. When we saw
poor old Brian, empty eyed in front of an unplayed
piano bop-bop-bop-adoping his way through the surf
classics like a man trapped in a Dante’s Inferno,
I really had to wonder what sort of drugs they’d
all been taking. But never mind. We do have an upcoming
Festival special, for the very best of English music,
later in August. Watch this space. Nick Morgan
(concert photos by Kate) |
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the index of all reviews:
Nick's Concert Reviews
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