“Hey, I know that guy! It’s Neil! Turn around, quick!”

Stephen Stills, struggling musician and songwriter, was riding shotgun in a white Ford Econoline Van driven by his manager, Barry Friedman. The date was April 6, 1966. In back was his old friend, Richie Furay, another aspiring singer-songwriter. They were stuck in a huge traffic jam on Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles, going west toward Beverly Hills. The lumbering black 1954 Pontiac hearse traveling in the opposite direction was easy enough to spot amongst the gaggle of slow moving vehicles, and the license plate was a dead giveaway: Ontario, Canada.

“That’s him!”

Friedman somehow managed to complete an incredibly dangerous and highly illegal U-turn in the middle of rush hour traffic. After much horn-honking and frantic maneuvering, Steve, Richie and Barry finally managed to pull up behind the hearse. At the next stoplight, Stills jumped out of the van and ran up to the driver’s side window of the black car, pounding on the roof, yelling.

“Hey, Neil! It’s me, Stephen Stills, man! Pull over!”

Neil Young and his companion, fellow Canadian Bruce Palmer, were on their way out of town. The two of them had driven all the way from Toronto to Los Angeles looking for none other than Stephen Stills. They had given up trying to find him in L.A. and were about to get on the 405 freeway north to try their luck in San Francisco. They’d spent the better part of two weeks hitting every music store and nightclub in the city asking if anyone knew where Stills could be found, but no one had even heard of him.

Stills had no idea that Young was looking for him. The chance encounter on Sunset Boulevard has since become part of rock music folklore. Call it fate, a miracle, God’s will – whatever stars aligned that day reunited two of rock music’s most famous egos: Neil Young and Stephen Stills.

The caravan eventually pulled off the strip into an abandoned parking lot, and after much elated hugging, hand-shaking and back-slapping, the introductions were complete and the occupants convoyed over to Barry’s house on Fountain Avenue in North Hollywood. Thus began the saga of the Buffalo Springfield, one of the most influential and ill-fated rock bands of all time.

At Barry’s place, secluded up in the hills, they swapped stories and pulled out acoustic guitars, trading licks and getting high long into the next morning. Neil and Bruce were blown away when Steve and Richie played them their own version of an original song Neil had taught Richie how to play almost a year before when the two first met in New York City: Nowadays Clancy Can’t Even Sing. That sealed the deal. They were now a band for all intents and purposes; all they needed was a drummer and some equipment and they’d be on their way. Neil and Bruce had pawned all of their gear to finance the cross-country drive to L.A., and Richie and Steve had been writing and performing as an acoustic duo since Richie’s arrival in March. None of them owned an electric instrument.

The next day, Barry Friedman made sure the boys got their hands on the discarded instruments from another band he managed called The Dillards. Neil was given a black, semi-hollow body Guild guitar, Stephen a dark blue Duane Eddy semi-hollow body Guild. Richie received a blonde Fender Telecaster, and Bruce was given a red Gibson SG solid-body bass to play. All were now plugging into nice, barely-used Fender and Traynor amplifiers.

Within a few days, Barry was able to recruit a suitable drummer. Dewey Martin, another Canadian, had recently been made redundant when the aforementioned local band he was playing in, the Dillards, decided to return to their bluegrass roots and dump the whole electric folk-rock thing. Since the Dillards no longer needed a drummer, Martin was free to join the new group. Two birds killed with one stone.

Dewey was a few years older than the rest of the guys, aged twenty-six: a pick-up player and former Nashville session man who’d jammed with the likes of Roy Orbison and Patsy Cline. Dewey’s blond hair and surfer-dude looks belied his eastern Canadian origins. He could sing like Otis Redding, too, and his only condition upon joining the band was that he’d get to sing at least one song. In The Midnight Hour by Wilson Pickett was the only cover tune the Springfield ever played live.

Martin wasn’t too keen on joining a band of such unknown quality when he was used to making good money gigging around town. Steve, Neil, Bruce and Richie had only been together for a couple of days at that point, but when Dewey heard Richie and Steve singing together on Stills’ song Go And Say Goodbye in what was to become their trademark unison vocals, he was convinced these upstarts had some definite promise. “Man, I’ve never heard singing like that!” he remarked when they finished. “That was incredible, guys!” Dewey reached out his hand. He was in.

The next day at the very first rehearsal, Dewey and bassist Bruce Palmer immediately clicked into a rock-solid rhythm section, and the two of them never looked back. It was magic from the start.

Palmer, only twenty years old, was an enigma. Probably the best musician in the band, Bruce was classically trained and he was an absolutely brilliant bass player. Bruce’s innovative technique was highly complex yet very fluid. It complimented and enhanced the melody but didn’t overpower it, as his sinewy bass lines rode underneath and through the beat; driving it along. His experience was in Rhythm & Blues and Motown before he met Neil. Tall, rail thin, his long stringy brown hair fell unkempt down the sides of his long face. Bruce appeared to be quiet and sensitive, but in reality he was just stoned out of his gourd most of the time. He had left a new wife and infant son back home in Canada to try his luck out in California with his friend Neil Young.

Twenty-one year old Neil Young was a prolific songwriter, folk singer, and lead guitarist. Dark and brooding, with a penetrating gaze and a sharp, sardonic wit, he was gangly and awkward looking. Straight black hair and thick mutton chops framed his youthful face. Neil had just begun to suffer from the epileptic seizures that would soon plague him. The first episode occurred on the drive out west in Albuquerque, New Mexico, while he was behind the wheel.

Neil had a budding career as an acoustic folkie back home in Toronto’s Yorkville District, but he was an incredibly versatile writer and musician who could play virtually anything he set his mind to. His high-pitched, nasal singing voice was quite unconventional, Dylan notwithstanding, and on more than one occasion he was told to can the vocals. But Neil never gave up easily. He had supreme confidence in his abilities. Neil had played with Bruce Palmer in a band called the Mynah Birds up in Canada, fronted by a charismatic young black singer named Ricky James Matthews.

The Mynah Birds managed to score a coveted recording contract with Motown Records – the first for a mostly white band – but the sessions at the famed studios in Detroit were halted virtually mid-song when the military police raided the studio and hauled Matthews off to the hoosegow as a draft dodger. The contract was torn up and the Mynah Birds disbanded, precipitating Neil and Bruce‘s trip to Los Angeles to look for Stephen Stills. Many years later, Ricky James Matthews resurrected his career as Platinum-selling funk maestro Rick James, writing and producing R&B classics like Super Freak and Give It To Me Baby.

Stephen Stills, twenty-one years old, first met Neil Young in Fort William, Canada in late 1964 when Neil’s old band, The Squires, played a gig with Still’s band the Au Go Go Singers, who came through town on a short tour across the great white north. The two of them felt an instant connection. Stills partied with The Squires after their set, getting drunk on strong Canadian beer in the back of Young’s black hearse, which Neil used to transport the band’s equipment. He had named his beloved vehicle Mort (Latin for ‘death’).

Stills and Young bonded musically and spiritually on that cold Saskatchewan night. “Next time you come to New York City,” Stills told him, “Look me up at 171 Thompson St.” Stephen was living there at the time, sharing an apartment with Richie Furay near Greenwich Village.

Stephen Stills was raised in a military family and he had spent his formative years living in Central America, where he learned to appreciate the rhythms and complexities of Latin music. He became proficient at guitar, bass, keyboards and drums, in addition to developing a powerful, soulful singing voice. His shoulder-length blond hair was already thinning by the time he arrived in L.A. and that, along with his bad teeth, kept him from becoming one of The Monkees, a job he’d auditioned for thanks to Barry Friedman’s suggestion. He was hugely disappointed by the snub, but he recommended another struggling folk singer friend by the name of Peter Torkelson to the producers. Torkelson got the job and changed his name to Peter Tork, and he never forgot the favor paid by Stills. The Monkees was a critically-acclaimed comedy TV series about a fictional rock band, modeled after the Beatles‘ movies, Help! and A Hard Day’s Night. The show won two Emmys and ran for three seasons until NBC pulled the plug in 1968.

Stills was another aspiring folkie, but upon seeing A Hard Day’s Night in the summer of ‘64 he realized he wanted to be a rock star instead. He was not alone. Half of America now wanted to strap on a guitar and play rock music in front of a pack of screaming girls. Folk music’s status was waning by the end of 1965, and the growing popularity of The Beatles and the “British invasion” had a lot to do with it. Even folk icon Bob Dylan was going electric with songs such as Like A Rolling Stone and Maggie’s Farm.

Stephen met Richie Furay when the two sang together with the Au Go Go singers, touring the east coast as part of a folk revue. Furay was twenty-two years old and the most down-to-earth member of the band. A clean cut kid from central Ohio, Richie came from a stable, religious family; he was the all-American boy. Unlike the others, he usually wore button-down shirts and a suit and tie – even on stage. His short black hair never grew beyond the bowl cut he always wore. Tall, thin and handsome, Richie was a dynamic performer with a powerful singing voice. Richie had already quit the Au Go Go Singers before the Canadian tour when Stills met Neil Young, but he was at home at 171 Thompson St. in New York City when Neil showed up at the door looking for Stills a few months later.

By that time Stephen was already in California, but Richie and Neil enjoyed their time together, playing songs to each other and trading licks before Neil returned briefly to Toronto in advance of the trip west with Bruce. This is when Neil taught Richie how to play Nowadays Clancy Can’t Even Sing, a quirky, moody, folk-ish song with strange, enigmatic lyrics and an unusual tempo change at the chorus.

Richie was lured to Los Angeles on false pretenses when he received a call one day from Stephen, urging him to drop everything and get on the next flight to LAX.

“Hey, Richie! I’m out here in L.A. and I’ve got this band all ready to go, man. All we need is your voice. You’re the missing ingredient…”

When he arrived, Richie discovered – much to his chagrin – that the “band” consisted of just him and Steve. He was just about to give up and buy a plane ticket back to Ohio when Neil and Bruce miraculously appeared that fateful afternoon on the Sunset Strip.

Clancy was one of the first songs the band worked up in rehearsals. Within a short time they had amassed an entire set of original tunes, playing all day and through the night. Witnesses to those first practice sessions were surprised at how tight the band already was. It seemed like they’d been playing together for years instead of just a few days. These five young men had waited all of their lives for this moment.

They were driven. The group instantly gelled; the music they created was fresh, original, and exciting. Stephen, Neil and Richie all wrote songs that blended current pop musical trends with a country-western flavor. Neil’s screaming guitar and Bruce’s thumping bass-lines gave the songs a hard rock edge. Having three strong lead vocalists in the band – four counting Dewey – was unique among their contemporaries. These elements combined to create a distinctive sound. Fame and fortune lay just around the corner.

But first they needed a name. As luck would have it, Fountain Avenue was being re-paved by the city that week, and one day Barry’s driveway was blocked by a huge steamroller. The nameplate on the back of the behemoth said ‘Buffalo Springfield.’ Neil pulled the metal sign off the back of the vehicle and hung it on Barry’s living room wall. Problem solved.

***

    Based on word of mouth alone, Freidman was able to get the group booked as an opening act on a few local dates with The Byrds: established hit-makers, and one of the most popular bands in the world at the time – a rival of The Beach Boys, The Beatles, and The Rolling Stones. The Byrds’ producers Jim Dickson and Terry Melcher took Bob Dylan’s song Mr. Tambourine Man and melded folk sensibilities to a rock and roll beat, creating a pop masterpiece. The instant success of Mr. Tambourine Man in June 1965 ignited a musical revolution and created an entirely new genre – folk-rock. The Byrds were never a particularly good live band, however, and the Buffalo Springfield consistently blew them off the stage wherever they played. Incredible for a band that had only been together a few weeks!

On the recommendation of the Byrds’ bass player, Chris Hillman, the Springfield managed to finagle a prestigious gig opening for Johnny Rivers at the Whiskey A Go-Go, L.A.’s hottest night club. The Whisky was co-founded and managed by retired Chicago vice-cop Elmer Valentine, and it opened on January 16, 1964 at 8901 Sunset Boulevard. The Whisky A-Go-Go soon became the principal hangout of Sunset Strip musicians and hipsters in the 1960s. The club also originated the “go-go” trend by featuring mini-skirted girls dancing in cages suspended above the heaving crowd.

The Whisky played an important role in many musical careers, especially for bands based in Southern California like Love, The Seeds, the Doors, and of course The Byrds.

Valentine reluctantly agreed to book the Springfield for a two-week residency, but soon there were lines around the building waiting for a chance to see this awesome new band. Word got around quickly in the close-knit L.A. music scene. The initial run extended for six weeks, then eight. They began drawing more fans than the established headliners – an amazing feat for an unknown, unsigned band.

The Whiskey A Go-Go is where the Buffalo Springfield came of age, forging their musical identity both collectively and individually, and it sealed their reputation as a brilliant, exciting live act. In concert they were incredibly dynamic, combining energetic presentation with superb musicianship and original songs. Working together nearly every night, they honed their skills until they became virtually telepathic on stage. The Springfield was the hottest ticket on the thriving Los Angeles music scene in the summer of ‘66.

By 1966, Los Angeles had displaced New York as the nation’s music capitol. With the advent of bands who wrote all of their material and played their own instruments, the ‘Brill Building’ concept of using teams of songwriters and studio musicians to create hits became outdated. The industry realized it had to adapt to the changing times. Most of the major record labels uprooted to the warmer, more laid-back climes of L.A., where there was also an endless supply of talented studio musicians to tap into.

The music industry wasn’t the only thing moving west in the mid-sixties. Young people across the country were flocking to the idyllic shores of the west coast in search of a better life amid the palm trees and sunshine. Songs like California Dreamin’ by the Mamas and the Papas and San Francisco (Be Sure To Wear Flowers In Your Hair) by Scott McKenzie were a clarion call to Baby Boomers. They came in droves.

A bidding war among major record labels for the services of Buffalo Springfield quickly ensued. Buoyed by their initial, immediate success, the band’s egos started running hog-wild. They callously fired Barry Friedman as their manager and were sucked into the clutches of two music-business hucksters, Brian Stone and Charlie Greene, against the advice of fellow musicians and confidants. Stephen Stills convinced the rest of the band to hire Greene and Stone as their new managers based solely on the fact that they owned the biggest limousine in town. They were also the best ‘pharmaceutical’ providers.

Greene and Stone managed the totally unhip husband and wife recording team known as Sonny & Cher, but they represented themselves to the band as music producers, even though they had never been near a mixing console and couldn’t produce their way out of a paper bag. Sonny Bono had studied production under the tutelage of infamous producer Phil Spector at Goldstar Studios in Hollywood, and it was Bono who’d produced their hits, not Greene and Stone.

Still, Charlie and Brian got the Springfield a lucrative recording deal with Atlantic Records, thanks to their tenuous relationship with legendary record mogul, Ahmet Ertegun. Fortunately for them, Ertegun loved the Springfield right from the start and advanced the band $15,000 – a hefty sum at the time. Spending accounts were set up  for each band member around town at all the hippest shops, and whenever they needed anything – clothes, cash or drugs – all they had to do was ask. For added effect, Greene and Stone would see to it that their new charges were chauffeured everywhere in the sleek, black limo. They all bought new instruments and they began stocking up on expensive toys, bad habits and stylish attire to fit their expanding vision.

Neil began wearing custom-made fringed Comanche buckskins and beads; people thought he was an Indian. Stephen wore a cowboy hat and custom-made suits – or dressed like a hippie, depending on his mood. Bruce went completely overboard with the Native American look: fringed buckskins, bandanas, scarves, beads, necklaces, bracelets and moccasins. Dewey and Richie had some Nehru suits and kaftans tailored for them on Rodeo Drive.

Greene and Stone even leased brand new cars for the guys: Corvette Stingrays for Dewey, Neil, and Bruce; Stephen, always having to outdo the others – opted for a Ferrari. Ever resourceful, Richie chose a VW Beetle. Each of them had their own bevy of female supplicants to call upon in a time of need. They had everything they wanted and they hadn’t even made a single record yet!

Thanks to the ineptitude of Charlie Greene and Brian Stone, the raw power of the Springfield’s live set was never properly captured in the studio. Frustrations began early in those first recording sessions at Goldstar when the team’s inexperience became more obvious as the days wore on. At one point, following a near-perfect take of Stephen’s song Leave, Charlie’s voice crackled over their headphones from the control booth: “No, that’s too long,” he sputtered. “Can you play it faster?” Neil and Steve exchanged concerned glances. Neil rolled his eyes. Steve pulled off his headphones and whispered into Neil’s ear: “We’ve gotta figure out how to do this for ourselves, man…this is our vision, not his.” From that moment on, they endeavored to learn as much about the recording process as they could, especially after hearing playbacks of what they‘d already completed. Something didn’t sound right.

Besides the growing anxiety about the production values on their debut record, the unity of the band was shattered when the sessions slowly deteriorated into a battle of egos between its two main songwriters. Buffalo Springfield was unique for the time to insist on playing strictly original songs, especially considering the two chief composers were virtually unknown. The issue of royalty payments became a major point of contention early on. The more songwriting credits on the album, the bigger the royalty check, and this fact didn‘t escape either man.

A good manager would have stepped in at this point; instead, a bitter competition ensued. Greed began to creep into the picture. Richie bowed out of the songwriting stakes early on and let the two heavyweights fight it out. Ultimately, Stills won the battle, 7 songs to 5 for Young. Young took it in stride, but he began to assert himself in other ways. In the beginning, Richie had sung all of Neil’s songs due to the perceived commercial weaknesses in Young’s voice, but suddenly Neil changed his mind and insisted on singing two of his own compositions himself: Burned and Out Of My Mind. The united sense of purpose the band had once shared at the Whiskey was already disintegrating.

Near the end of the sessions, Bruce got busted for drugs, and even though he was in the country illegally, Stone and Greene were able to get him off the hook. Palmer was unable to make several gigs while his legal troubles were temporarily cleared up.

When their debut album Buffalo Springfield was released, it was a huge disappointment for the band. They played brilliantly, the songs were great, but the production was horrendous: tinny, lacking any punch – the overall sound was bland and uninspiring. Although it sounds slightly dated now, the music was excellent for the most part: Stills’ poppy, commercial fare sits well alongside Young’s more cryptic tunes, but in regards to the overall sonic quality Neil reckoned, “It sounds like an orchestra of ants.” Tensions grew.

Despite extensive touring the album sold moderately, but nowhere near the expectations of the band or its producers. The Springfield decided they would produce their own music in the future. Pressure for a hit single was greater than ever.

***

“Riot on Sunset Strip!” screamed the headlines on the front page of the L.A. Times. Late in 1966 the LAPD started cracking down and enforcing curfew on the many young people who began crowding the streets of Hollywood as part of the growing club scene on Sunset Boulevard. The closing of one particular nightclub called Pandora’s Box led to an all-out riot, including the requisite police brutality: tear gas, clubbings, beatings and mass arrests followed.

Stephen Stills was with the Springfield playing at the Filmore West up in San Francisco that night, but he saw the melee on the news that night and by the time he returned from the bay area he had written one of most iconic songs of the sixties, For What It’s Worth (Stop, Hey What’s That Sound?) At the time, nobody could foresee the profound impact that one song would have on American popular culture. The opening bump, bump, bump of the bass drum and chiming guitar harmonics make the song instantly recognizable.

Finally, the Springfield had a bona fide hit on their hands. Self-produced with the help of Atlantic Records CEO Ahmet Ertegun and released within a week of recording, For What Its Worth became the anthem for an entire generation. It climbed as high as number 7 on the Billboard charts and served as a temporary life-line for the artistically frustrated band. It would not last.

In January of 1967 the band de-camped to New York City for a ten-day stint at Ondine’s nightclub. The weather was cold and miserable, the venue was tiny and unaccommodating, and everyone was sick. Recording sessions were planned as well, but these were curtailed when Green and Stone showed up uninvited and had to be physically removed from the studio. During the second week of the Ondine’s engagement, Bruce got busted again for drugs. First he was hauled off to the slammer when the NYPD raided his hotel room and upon his release the next day he received a tap on his shoulder from Immigration officials. Without Brian and Charlie there to grease the wheels, Bruce was detained and ultimately deported back to Canada for several months until he was able to sneak back into the country illegally. Gigs had to be canceled, but eventually a string of replacements were employed and the band tried to carry on without him. Bruce’s excessive drug intake, not to mention the fact that he was an illegal alien – became and ongoing issue.

For What It’s Worth brought the Springfield some much needed national recognition, but the song’s success only stoked the bitter rivalry between Stills and Young. Stills began asserting his authority over the band’s direction, and this is when Neil’s epileptic seizures returned. Neil collapsed on stage on more than one occasion, and originally people thought it was part of the act. He began to withdraw from the group in a haze of medicated paranoia and suspicion. Young’s health was being affected by the stress of instant fame at such a young age, and he became jealous of Stills’ success at writing a hit song. He started to resent what he saw as Stills’ overbearing influence on the group, even though Stills was the acknowledged leader.

Neil quit for the first time just as the band was on the verge of nation-wide success. The Springfield was booked to play on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, but Neil baulked, claiming that their appearance on the show would constitute selling out. “What the fuck are we doing Carson for, man?” He grumbled, “Whatever happened to artistic integrity?” Young walked out the night before they were scheduled to perform in front of millions on national television. The band was forced to cancel their shot at the big time just when they needed it the most…

END OF PART ONE

(Part 2 coming whenever I can muster the energy! –JD)

[Repost from 2015]