Crosby, Stills and Nash - CSN (1977)

It took seven years for Crosby, Stills and Nash to issue a studio LP to follow up their Déjà Vu album, which they recorded with Neil Young, and by the time CSN was released in 1977, a lot had changed in popular music.  Seven years are an eternity in pop.  When Déjà Vu was released, the Beatles were about to call it quits, and Elton John had yet to take their place as rock's biggest phenomenon; by the time CSN came out, Elton's own Beatlesque reign over the charts was done, and punk rock exploded in Britain while disco reigned in America.  The times had changed in other ways;  in 1970, the hippie movement was ascendant, the Vietnam War was raging, and Richard Nixon was the object of so much derision from American youth.  By 1977, the Aquarian movement and the Vietnam War were over, and Nixon was gone (as was his successor, Gerald Ford).  And Crosby, Stills and Nash themselves were older and more seasoned than when they first emerged as troubadours of the flower-child generation.

Changes would have been an appropriate (and more creative) title for the CSN album, because many of the songs here are about just that, as well as the trio's attempts to understand change.  The music remained immaculately produced, folk-tinged pop, dominated by acoustic guitars, low-key electric arrangements, piano riffs ranging from somber to spirited, and of course the trio's trademark harmonies.  But the voices were more worldly, the lyrics were noticeably more introspective, and the occasional string section complemented their observations.  The trio had been though several personal problems and tragedies while struggling to get together to make another studio album (two attempts with Neil Young had collapsed), and the weariness was reflected in their songs.

Crosby, Stills and Nash probably haven't done as much soul-searching on one album as they do here.  David Crosby muses about wisdom and how it raises more questions than it answers in "Anything At All" and "In My Dreams," two soft numbers with slow tempos, while the more intense, mildly thunderous "Shadow Captain" (the music of which was written by keyboardist Craig Doerge) finds the Cros struggling to figure out what he can control or direct and what is completely up to destiny.  Nash's songs are the most wistful, as he ruminates about love, life and faith.  "Cold Rain," about Nash's return to his hometown of Manchester, England, is a moody requiem for the city, still the dreary, run-down place that Nash had left behind but can never completely escape and still feels connected to, while "Cathedral," a maddeningly angry diatribe about the crimes committed in the name of religion, feels as jarring as the chilly English rain itself.  Even when Nash's arrangements soothe, there's a unsettling, unsettled hunger for peace of mind bubbling under the surface; the placid "Just A Song Before I Go," the LP's hit single, finds Nash tired of traveling and wanting the security of a place to stay put.  Stephen Stills's deceptively gentle electric guitar denies the request.

Stills, having just endured a divorce, counters his partners' contributions with some of his finest and most personal work; while the enigmatic "Dark Star," with its warm visions of domesticity and its upbeat, subtle Latin jazz keyboards, is an enjoyable number, it's also wishful thinking.  "Run From Tears," with a growling guitar riff, and the fatalistic "I Give You Give Blind" force the listener to confront the pitfalls of relationships and face the possibility of pain and disappointment in them.  Stills may sound more bitter than his partners on this record, but he's no less realistic about how sobering middle age can be when youthful optimism fades.  Life had gotten more complicated for the Woodstock generation by 1977, and few acts other than Crosby, Stills and Nash could illustrate that fact in such personal, vivid terms.