The song that taught David Crosby the art of collaboration
In a world where the processing power of a laptop and the general reticence to leave the bedroom have produced a wave of singular autodidacts, it might be easy to think that the art of musical collaboration is dead. Yet, due to technological advancements, it has never been healthier, with this distinctly countercultural undertaking crossing traditional boundaries to create an array of fine intersections. It might seem strange, but one man who was a precursor to the modern artists linking up in the ether was David Crosby.
Back in the era when the notion of computers and the internet was just a figment of the imagination for far-gone LSD lovers and perceptive science fiction maestros such as Philip K. Dick, the countercultural vanguard were artistically uniting in the personal space, seeking to create a better world through such endeavours, which they certainly did.
Not only did Crosby witness almost constant creative cooperation, but he also personally participated in some of the greatest instances from this period. He first came to prominence as a vital part of The Byrds, the folk-rock and psychedelic pioneers who featured a cast of artistic forces, most of whom would commit to a myriad of other influential alliances such as Gram Parsons and Chris Hillman’s later outfit, The Flying Burrito Brothers.
Crosby was ousted for his larger-than-life character in 1967, and the following year, he linked up with former Buffalo Springfield powerhouse Stephen Stills and ex-Hollies driving force Graham Nash to form one of the definitive supergroups in the imaginatively named Crosby, Stills and Nash. While their oeuvre is relatively small, this period would be one of the finest for all involved. Their legacy was cast in stone when Neil Young entered the fold, and the newly named CSNY produced the ultimate hippie album, Déjà Vu, in 1970.
Although he had already worked with The Byrds, their time together was fractious, with each member vying for dominance over proceedings. This meant that when Crosby eventually linked up with Stills and Nash, he had yet to fully realise the art of collaboration. He would later reveal one particular moment when the penny dropped: writing ‘Wooden Ships’ with Stills and Jefferson Airplane’s Paul Kanter aboard his boat Mayan.
While Nash wasn’t present during this formative 1968 writing session, it would give CSN’s debut one of its highlights and open Crosby up to a career brimming with collaborations. As he penned the music and Kantner and Stills brought the lyrics to life, he realised just how potent the art can be.
Speaking to Uncut in 2021 to celebrate his album For Free, Crosby explained why he was so prolific and attributed it to writing ‘Wooden Ships’. He said: “I learned a long time ago when I wrote ‘Wooden Ships’ with Paul Kantner and Stephen Stills, that you can write really good songs with other people. Most of my compatriots in this business want all of the credit and all of the money, and so they don’t do that. I’ve found that it’s really fun and it generates good art. I didn’t come for the money and I don’t care about the credit, but I do really care about the songs.”
Crosby used his son, James Raymond – who played extensively across the album – as a perfect example of such a stance, suggesting he’s a better writer. He then described some of his other collaborators, such as Michael League, Becca Stevens, and Donald Fagen, as joys to work with, who “extended my useful life as a writer by ten or 20 years”.
In typical style, the moustachioed folk hero concluded he would have faded years before For Free without such partnerships. Given that his career was launched by working with others, it does make you wonder what would have happened to him amid the nadir of the 1980s.
