The much-ridiculed “Almost Cut My Hair” could well have been on Croz’s 1971 solo debut, “If Only I Could Remember My Name.“ “Our House” is of a piece with Nash’s “Songs for Beginners” album, also from ‘71. But now it really does sound like four solo projects. At the time, it still sounded like a collective coming together, though that may have been our own collective will to hear it that way, a need to hear it that way as things around us were tearing apart. The four worked for the most part separately, crafting their own songs on their own and then bringing them in to add the others’ vocals. It’s unlikely that anyone, or anything, could have provided a unifying force. “If I had ever been before I would probably know just what to do,” he sang in the title song. More tragically, David Crosby’s love Christine Hinton had recently died in a car crash, and he was, understandably, an emotional mess, breaking down crying in recording sessions. It’s not exactly Altamont to the Woodstock of Crosby, Stills and Nash’s debut from the previous May. Of course, in some key ways that mirrors what was going on with America’s youth at the end of one decade and the start of the next, with factions and divisions cracking the peace-and-love vibe. But the fact is, Neil never fully integrated into the group. Same for Graham Nash’s “Our House” and “Teach Your Children.” Same for David Crosby’s title song and “Almost Cut My Hair.” Bringing in Stephen Stills’ ex-Buffalo Springfield partner Young to boost the sound in deference to needs of a now-touring band was a good idea, certainly (though it came only after Steve Winwood and, reportedly, Jimi Hendrix turned down invitations). So those heavenly harmonies on “Carry On” is still a blend of three, not four. His voice is only heard on two songs, his own “Helpless” and the “Country Girl” suite. While there are times at which the sum is greater than the parts, much of the album shows the parts being, well, the parts, and often at odds with or at least apart from the others, a sense affirmed through the years in interviews with the participants.įirst, the dirty little not-so-secret of the album is that Neil Young is absent for half of it, and more or less a bit player on most of it. And unlike with the Beatles’ White Album, which now sounds remarkably coherent, time has only increased that perception. It is certainly clearer than ever that this is essentially four solo projects jammed together, with a few exceptions. Half a century later, it’s hard not to hear “Déjà Vu” as a portrait of fractures and dissension, of sadness and disillusion.
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