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Rating: When you’re in your twenties and you listen to your father’s music, seeing a concert is practically impossible for the following reasons:
a) Your favorite artists have been dead for three or four decades already;
b) Your favorite artists have died more recently, due to old age;
c) Your favorite artists have finally retired and now live leisurely on a Pacific island, thanks also to the money you’ve given them—and continue to give them;
d) Your favorite artists have gone senile and at their concerts, they sing in playback, always making sure their dentures don’t fall out;
e) Your favorite artists ask for 200 euros for a ticket to a concert in a rickety sports hall (see also point d);
Or, in other cases:
f) Your favorite artists are still (more or less) in shape, they remember well how to sing, how to handle a guitar, and how to enchant an audience of about three thousand people.
This is the case with Crosby, Stills, and Nash, who, a few days ago, delighted the Roman audience (and others) with a splendid concert at the Auditorium Parco della Musica. Okay, not exactly delighted, but the ticket prices were absolutely justified.
The evening is warm, and the hostesses hand out timely fan-shaped flyers while showing the audience where their seats are. I look around: the crowd that fills the Cavea couldn’t exactly be described as a “team of youth.” There are few young people, very few indeed, then there are fifty-sixty-year-olds of various types. There’s the distinguished man in a suit (despite the heat), the more “casual” middle-aged man, and “overgrown” and never-repentant rockers in jeans and Pink Floyd T-shirts, bald but with a flowing gray ponytail and David Crosby-like mustaches (indeed). All these gentlemen here could be my father. Too bad I already have a father, and he's sitting to my left, in the cheaper seats section, right in front of a damned railing (which, I imagine, was built to prevent fans from throwing themselves over in excitement or perhaps despair during Gigi d’Alessio concerts). Oh, let’s not forget about the women, there are those too: many of them are just patient wives who accompanied their husbands to make sure they didn’t go visit a mistress. Some are dressed as if they were going to the Opera (or the opera in other senses...), then there are the real girls of the roaring Seventies, like the lady sitting to my right who, at one point, points out that she grew up with “this music” and I didn’t.
At exactly 9 PM, the lights begin to dim, but the Cavea is not yet full, and people continue to trickle in (Italians, the usual latecomers...). No matter, the concert starts anyway. On stage appear three cheerful elders: two still fit, one (Crosby) a bit worn, chubby, clumsy, but not tired. And what charm, that Graham Nash! Joining them are Joe Vitale on drums, Bob Glaub on bass, James Raymond on keyboards, and Todd Caldwell on organ.
The concert opens, to general enthusiasm, with a Woodstock that evokes not only the famous festival but also and especially the good old days, those days that nostalgics like us (?) – maybe – would like to (re)live. At the first call, the audience responds by singing and moving – each in their place, on their seat, however. A more “gentle” Military Madness follows, directly from Mr. Nash’s solo repertoire, then a harder rock reignites in a sensual Long Time Gone with a bluesy echo, and again in Bluebird (Buffalo Springfield).
Needless to say, our guys still have full control of their voices, definitely more mature compared to their beginnings, of course, but still capable of interlocking perfect harmonies and intertwining, chasing, complementing each other.
Marrakesh Express, offered in a kind of “soft” country with exotic nuances, is not enough to calm an already enthusiastic audience, which, on the contrary, proves ready to hum the catchy melody of the song, eager to continue the evening’s journey. “All on board the train!”, we all sing together. And that train is a “Southbound Train” - staying on topic - heading straight towards the Southern Cross. In fact, Southern Cross is the next stop, directly from Daylight again (1982).
The guitars are put aside for a small speech that preludes In Your Name, written by the evening’s lead, still Graham Nash:
“I am old enough to realize that millions and millions and millions of people have been killed in the name of religion,” he tells us, amid applause, before beginning with a real prayer, a gospel accompanied by guitars and organ, adorned by the voices of lifelong companions.
The American spirit hovers over the Cavea on the somewhat nostalgic country of Long May You Run, dug up from the self-titled album by Stills and the “Skinny Canadian” Neil Young, unfortunately absent. The guitar intro that follows is unmistakable: Dejà Vu. The audience is ecstatic, but immediately falls silent to make room for those psychedelic atmospheres. I know what everyone is thinking: “We have all been here before, we have all been here before.” The piece is offered with a long tail where—after the canonical guitar solo—an harmonica, an organ, a jazzy piano, and, in succession, a bass rework, in turn, the song's theme, before coming together again to conclude it. Obviously, to close the first part, there must be a dreamy Wooden Ships, a rock classic also known for the memorable Jefferson Airplane version. “We are leaving - you don't need us.” And yet we need you, my gentlemen.
The break of about fifteen minutes is altogether too long, people come and go with plastic cups full of cold beer and once again return late for the second piece of the concert, despite the “luminous” warnings issued by technicians who evidently know their crowd.
The pause has reinvigorated the three on stage (as if it were needed) and the spectators are now ready to listen with bated breath, to enjoy in religious silence even the second part. It resumes under the banner of acoustic music, with the nonsense of Helplessly Hoping, pure wordplay, guitars, and perfect harmonies. An excellent restart.
We soar high with a very delicate Norwegian Wood that starts a series of covers crafted by the trio: there’s an energetic Midnight Rider (Allman Brothers Band), a respectful Girl from the North Country (Bob Dylan) which, for some reason, fills me with sudden melancholy. It feels like we're around a gigantic bonfire on the beach when we sing the well-known Ruby Tuesday by the Rolling Stones and, later, after other songs, also Behind Blue Eyes by the Who, mistreated by Limp Bizkit a few years ago and tonight finally redeemed.
We return to the CSN repertoire—actually, only C for now—with What Are Their Names, a committed song offered a cappella by the three. You could hear a pin drop, the audience freezes and falls silent. The atmosphere doesn’t change during the magical Guinnevere, a welcomed gift from the Crosby-Nash duo. The audience is now in silent ecstasy, suspended in mid-air among the “beetles” of Parco della Musica. The intensity of Delta, a blend of David Crosby’s powerful voice, a piano, an organ, and drums, pulls us back to earth, but still leaves us floating a few meters from the ground. Again, it’s the organ that introduces the next piece ominously, perhaps the one that impressed me the most in the entire concert: Cathedral. Evocative, distressing, and epic at the same time. I inadvertently touch my arm: I have goosebumps. Chills.
To diffuse palpable tension, Our House comes along, greeted by everyone with a certain enthusiasm. Many don’t remember the lyrics, but the song's tune is pretty hard to forget. Lights go on and off over an audience now on its feet. “Sit down! We can’t see!” the girl behind me shouts. Bitch.
For the finale, there are still very famous pieces, still spectators on their feet enjoying the much-requested Almost Cut My Hair, sung by David Crosby, perhaps worn in body, but certainly not in voice. The anthem of a rebellious generation gets under your skin and gives you one last thrill before the end. Love the One You’re With is offered in a pure rock’n’roll outfit that only heightens the Cavea’s excitement.
Applause, applause, and more applause as our heroes make to exit, applause that calls them back in for the grand finale, the real one. Chicago blazes first. “We can change the world, rearrange the world,” we all sing together. “But does anyone still believe in it?” I wonder.
The evening concludes with Teach Your Children, another staple of the CSN catalog, sung at full voice by a single grand choir that includes everybody.
Yes, teach it to your children, teach it well: this, gentlemen, is real music.
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