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Rating: How many ways are there to react to pain?
How would you react if you were suddenly deprived of something or someone very dear to you?
On May 4, 1970, at Kent State University in Ohio, four young students were deprived of their lives. Everyone else of the most precious asset, freedom. Because at the same instant someone is deprived of it, everyone is deprived of it. Freedom is singular, and it belongs to everyone.
Four youths were killed by the National Guard during one of the numerous protest demonstrations against the Vietnam War, yet another battlefield of the third world war, where puppet governments, marionettes at the mercy of the two superpowers, coordinate the massacre in what to the eyes of the world should only have seemed like a civil war.
Four youths were killed during a demonstration in which those who haven't learned to silence their conscience in the face of an endless massacre parade, in the face of images that burn—if possible—more than napalm on living flesh; images that shake the consciences of a generation too busy singing that the times were changing to realize that the times had really changed.
What shook the consciences of Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young was the photographic reportage by Life magazine on what was immediately renamed the Kent State massacre. Indelible images such as the young Alan Canfora challenging the National Guard alone, in war gear (and reminiscent of the unknown protester of Tian'anmen Square), and heartbreaking like the desperate scream of Mary Ann Vecchio kneeling in front of Jeffrey Miller's corpse, which earned John Filo the Pulitzer Prize.
Nash is astonished. One cannot be a human being and ignore what's just happened. Young is outraged. He writes "Ohio" on the spot, in a few minutes. That same evening, the four of them meet at the Record Plant Studios in Los Angeles, and they record it live in a couple of takes. Crosby cannot find peace. After the recording, he bursts into inconsolable tears. The atmosphere is intense. The single must be released immediately, but the B-side is still missing. Stills is disillusioned. He is about to give birth to one of the greatest anti-war songs ever. In the studio, four chairs, four microphones, four guitars are arranged. In less than an hour, "Find The Cost Of Freedom" is brought to light.
"Ohio" is a claustrophobic and pounding track, supported by a syncopated riff with a military cadence, where the guitars scratch almost as much as the words themselves. "Find The Cost Of Freedom" is an ethereal and intangible acoustic gem in which the guitars chase each other before making room for vocal intertwinings of rare beauty.
"Ohio" is a furious track, permeated by a strong feeling of pain, soaked in freshly shed blood, which menacingly points the finger at the Nixon administration and its lead soldiers. In "Find The Cost Of Freedom" the gray sky depicted by Neil Young clears up: Stills manages to sublimate the pain, transcending the particular event, making it forever relevant, immortal.
"Ohio" is nothing but the musical transposition of Mary Ann Vecchio's desperate scream, of all her frustration, and of the sense of powerlessness and injustice that pervades that shot. "Find The Cost Of Freedom" is instead the musical transposition of Alan Canfora's flag as the only weapon to counter a firing squad ready to strike, which will soon inevitably and inexorably hit him.
How many ways are there to react to pain?
For me, only two: "Ohio" and "Find The Cost Of Freedom", two sides of the same coin, two sides of the same single.
The single will be released just ten days after that fatal May 4. On the mourning-clad cover will appear only the lyrics of the two songs, signed by Young and Stills. The explicit reference to Richard Nixon and his administration will lead to a boycott by most AM stations. The FM radio circuit, however, will do nothing but play it in loop. The magic of Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young will repeat for the last time in "Four Way Street", before the four roads separate—this time, for good.
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