One summer in the early `80s, my mother and step-father rented a small, two-bedroom house on Quantuck Lane in Quogue, out on the East End of Long Island. We’d previously owned a house about two blocks away from that spot, but my Mom & John had sold that, which should have been a giant bellwether of things to come, but I was an oblivious and petulant teen, at the time. Unbeknownst to my older sister and I, this particular summer would be one of our little family’s final ones all together, but things hadn’t quite gotten to that breaking point, just yet.
In any case, as my collegiate elder sibling claimed the rear second bedroom for herself, I was bequeathed the house’s ersatz “den” as my bedroom, which I immediately decorated by sloppily taping an Iron Maiden poster to the deep forest-green-painted wall. At the end of the summer, upon removing said poster, I would unwittingly remove some of that paint, but that’s a different anecdote.
I honestly don’t remember all that much about the house, other than having to — under pronounced protest — periodically mow its lumpy, uneven lawn with end results that failed to please any of the concerned parties. I also remember rummaging through its closets and finding a vintage, electronic sign for Champale — a festive malt liquor that allegedly tasted like sparkling wine — that changed colors when you plugged it in. I’d made a furtive plan in my head to take that with me when we left, at the end of the summer, but was talked out of it in the wake of sullying that aforementioned paint job in the den.
Beyond all that, however, my most indelible memories of the Quantuck Lane house involve the stereo system in the living room, a hotly contested piece of consumer electronics over which my sister and I vied for absolute dominance. Her copies of, say, the Flashdance soundtrack, Thriller by Michael Jackson and All This Love by DeBarge sat nervously in fragile and unconvincing detente alongside copies of some of my favorites like First Issue by Public Image Ltd., No Sleep `Till Hammersmith by Motorhead and the live hardcore compilation, Rat Music for Rat People. The conflict was constant, and each of us would brazenly disregard the other’s commandeering with blithe dismissal. It wasn’t at all uncommon to hear the jarring, signature scratch of a stylus being hastily wrenched from a record mid-spin, replacing an emphatic bash through “Live Fast Die Young” by the Circle Jerks with an umpteenth airing of “What a Feeling” by Irene Kara. It was simply that kinda summer.
But there was one LP, however, that always managed to restore the tenuous peace. Procured, I believe, during the latter portion of her years at Milton Academy in Massachusetts, my sister’s well-loved copy of So Far…, a compilation of songs by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, was a record that soothed both our intra-sibling ire, and whose melodic mellifluousness also appealed to our long-suffering mother and step-father, who were swiftly losing patience with our perpetual squabble.
While inexorably steeped in the very freewheelin’ hippie ideals my favorite punk bands strove to decimate, the songs off of So Far.. were pretty hard to argue with, although I tended to steer well clear of the more cloyingly twee selections like “Our House” (still kinda hate that one) and “Teach Your Children” in favor of the more assertive fare like “Ohio” and “Wooden Ships.” But whether they were singing about social injustice or the comely charms of folk singer Judy Collins (allegedly the subject of “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes”), the sheer combination of those voices — Graham Nash of the Hollies, Steven Stills of the Buffalo Springfield and former Byrds firebrand David Crosby (and, on occasion, Neil Goddamn Young, also late of the Buffalo Springfield) — that richly distinctive, inimitable sound could sway all skeptics and silence all naysayers. It may have lacked the ponderous heft of Venom, the splenetic fury of Black Flag and/or the willful contrarianism of John Lydon, but So Far.. was undeniable to me. And, again, beyond its sonic warmth and timeless songwriting, those songs became synonymous with moments of harmony and happiness in that little house on Quantuck Lane.
At the end of the summer, instead of swiping that flashing Champale sign, I swiped my sister’s copy of So Far…
Seemingly a bajillion summers later, when my own children were just barely out of their toddlerdom, I remember buying a copy of Greatest Hits by Crosby, Stills & Nash at a long-vanished bookstore in Westhampton Beach. That disc went onto become a “car favorite” of my little family’s, with both “Marrakesh Express” and “Southern Cross” becoming crucial to my kids (the latter being re-dubbed “The Beach Song,” as it perfectly scores the drive from our home to the beach, and the former because its opening guitar parts made my little Charlotte and Oliver giggle inexplicably).
We lost David Crosby, yesterday. I could write several paragraphs about why he was rightly revered as a true voice of his generation, a wildly talented songwriter and a notoriously erratic, drug-fueled rock star, but I’m relatively certain all that material has been well covered by every major music and news periodical. I figured it might be more impactful to express what his music meant to me, and that is nigh on indefinable.
I will forever associate the music of David Crosby and of CSN(Y) with family, happiness and home, and the loss of that singular voice is tremendous, no matter which particular band t-shirts you’re inclined to wear.
May he finally rest in peace.
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