David Crosby “Oh Yes I Can”
When I was young I went to sleepaway camp for eight weeks. The food at camp was fairly bland but, most horrifying to me was the fact that we were completely deprived of snacks and candy. Two months without refined sugar. All summer I would dream about that first meal, waiting for me upon my return home. I had big ideas. Lots of them. And I thought about them every day for 56 days. Mercifully, my parents understood these cravings and would offer me a brief window of dietary carte blanche. And so, at the end of one summer, my “welcome home” dinner consisted of a large McDonalds’ Coke, twenty McNuggets, sweet and sour dipping sauce, two small fries and a mint chocolate chip Reese’s Pieces sundae from Friendly’s.
Later that night I puked up my dream meal.
My regurgitation was two months in the making. David Crosby’s second solo album, “Oh Yes I Can” was roughly eighteen years in the making, a span that included nine months in prison for heroin, cocaine and weapons possession. It’s hard to fathom the creative thirst of a lifelong artist who has been locked up. And yet, somehow, it would be another six years after prison before Crosby prepared his feast and served up the twenty year old cud that is “Oh Yes I Can.”
Crosby already had quite a career before 1971, when he released his debut solo album, “If Only I Could Remember My Name.” In between that year and his 1989 follow-up, a lot of shit went down. He met everyone, went there, did that, had and lost it all. His name is famous. His bands are famous. His stories are, perhaps, more famous. And yet, I must confess that, until recently, I did not know very much David Crosby. Even having watched “David Crosby: Remember My Name” and having read a whole lot of his interviews, I still struggled to get a handle the man or his music. Most specifically, I never understood whether Crosby was a pivotal musician and creative force of the 60s and 70s counterculture or whether he was just a bougie Angelino who all the artistic migrants met when they arrived in LA. I can identify his contributions to CSN(Y) songs -- the harmonies and odd guitar tunings -- but I honestly cannot say if I enjoy them, separate from the other ingredients.
My take on Crosby has been equal parts curiosity and suspicion. On the one hand, my relative lack of history with “The Croz” makes me an unlikely, and perhaps unqualified, essayist on the subject. On the other hand, my blankish slate also insulates me a bit from biases.
Quite literally, a lot of 1989s “Oh Yes I Can” is regurgitated. Four songs were rejected from various CSN projects. One song was recorded previously with a Grateful Dead side project (David and The Dorks) and one is, simply, a short rendering of “America (My Country Tis of Thee).” The old hippie-artiste Croz meeting the new lease on life Croz made for musically odd pairings. That being said, even cud has nutritional value and — sure — “Oh Yes I Can” does have some fine moments.
David Crosby’s voice is gentle and accurate. But it is not exceptional or strong. There is a reason why he was generally not a lead singer. When he attempts straight forward Rock or Blue Rock songs, he sounds overmatched and uninteresting. “Drive My Car” was, astoundingly, a minor Rock radio hit in 1989. But it is clumsy and showy at the same time. It sounds like David Crosby pitching Porsche for an ad campaign with a song that should have been performed by Sammy Hagar. It’s not a great opener.
Similarly, “Monkey and the Underdog,” presumably about his battles with addiction, and “Drop Down Mama,” a cheeky blues rocker, do nothing to distinguish David Crosby, the singer songwriter. Both sound like very professional, Austin Blues bands on a Tuesday night on Sixth Street; the former sounding not unlike an average Stevie Ray Vaughan and Double Trouble cover band.
To the album’s credit, there are nearly a half dozen tracks filled with acoustic guitar, interesting time signatures and pretty harmonies. This style is not my cup of tea -- frequently it sounds like music you might find at a New Age, Vermont bookstore in the “Local” section. However, I can recognize Crosby’s unique value on tracks like “In The Wide Rain,” which could have been a hit for late Eagles or solo Don Henley, and “Tracks In The Dust,” which is objectively lovely, if a little on the nose. Predictably, Jackson Browne, James Taylor, Bonnie Raitt, Graham Nash and J.D. Souther all contribute backing vocals, elevating Croz’s wispy songs from shapeless to endearing.
However, even when he is in familiar territory -- gentle guitar, plinking piano, textured harmonies -- Crosby can flirt with the limits of listenability. “Flying Man” is a three and a half minute mostly instrumental, save for the incessant “ba da dum na noo na bi doo da doo doo bi bi doo doo” scatting. And the title track closes out by endlessly repeating: “Fire and ice make water.” It’s pleasant until you realize that ice is water. And then you think that he had nearly two decades to hone this stuff. And then you can’t unthink those thoughts.
At forty eight and in the midst of persistent health struggles, Crosby managed to sound mostly vital on “Oh Yes I Can.” Almost eighty today, Crosby has persevered and continued to make music following the lackluster reception of this album. For sure, his life story story has been almost equally cautionary and inspiring. But, stripped of the magic of his great collaborators and the culture that he came of age in, The Croz sounds more like the guy playing songs on the small stage at a farmers’ market.
While I still don’t feel like I know David Crosby, I do believe he was better than this.