‘David Crosby: Remember My Name’ Documentary Found The Late Rocker Spinning Yarns Of Glory And Regret

There’s a great story in Chronicles: Volume One, Bob Dylan’s obtuse and often hilarious autobiography, where he’s given an honorary degree by Princeton University and brings David Crosby along for shits and giggles. In between praising his musical abilities, Dylan calls Crosby an “obstreperous companion” and says he, “didn’t get along with too many people.” After Dylan receives his degree amidst much pomp and pomposity, Crosby says of the ceremony, “Bunch of dickheads on auto-stroke.” That story always makes me laugh.

David Crosby died today at the age of 81, but the singer-songwriter’s humor, charm, insights and obstreperousness were on full display in David Crosby: Remember My Name, the 2019 bio-doc which was produced by Cameron Crowe and directed by A.J. Eaton. As a member of The Byrds and Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, the chubby mustachioed musician was on the frontlines as the 1960s counterculture staged a musical insurrection and morphed into the mainstream rock of the 1970s. He partied with The Beatles, hung out in Laurel Canyon, and played the Monterey Pop Festival, Woodstock and Altamont.

As incredible as the history Crosby made is the fact that he was still alive to recount it in rich and lucid detail. Before kicking drugs in the mid-’80s thanks to a 9-month bid in a Texas penitentiary, predictions of his imminent demise rivaled those of Rolling Stone guitarist Keith Richards at his junkie worst.

Whether or not you enjoy or even know their music, the thing about these old rocker dudes is they have the best stories. Remember My Name starts with Crosby talking about seeing John Coltrane with a midget German hooker high on every drug he could get his hands on and hearing the most intense music of his life. A drive past the Whisky a Go Go prompts a story about seeing The Doors while tripping on acid and Crosby saying nonchalantly, “That’s probably where my dislike of (singer Jim) Morrison started.” Later, he calls Morrison “a dork.” Funny stuff.

A trip to the symphony orchestra as a child turned him onto music and The Everly Brothers soon followed, teaching him the joys of singing harmony. His mother instilled in him a sense of social justice while his father was an Academy Award winning cinematographer. He calls his father, “a crusty old guy” who had no friends. Later we learn he could be talking about himself.

Crosby pioneered folk-rock with The Byrds but was later thrown out for being “insufferable,” according to his bandmates. Footage of them playing poorly at Monterey shows Crosby ranting on stage about the JFK assassination a good decade before alternate theories about his murder were commonly known.

His next group, Crosby, Stills & Nash, gelled quickly and played their second live show at Woodstock. After their debut album they added Neil Young and became one of the biggest acts of the era, with millions in record sales and arenas filled with worshipping fans. Crosby regales us with stories of his past while driving around Laurel Canyon with Crowe, stopping at Joni Mitchell’s old home, immortalized in CSNY’s “Our House,” and staring at it wistfully.

The death of girlfriend Christine Hinton in a 1969 car crash devastated Crosby emotionally. The only thing that seemed to kill the pain was getting high. He would eventually become addicted to heroin and cocaine and speaks with regret of dragging successive girlfriends along for the ride. He became a fugitive after leaving court ordered rehab and later turned himself in, resulting in his prison stay where he finally kicked hard drugs.

After myriad breakups and reunions, it would seem Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young are done for good. “We really did like each other when we first started playing and we were thrilled by each other’s songs,” he says ruefully, “…but 40 years later it devolves into just turn on the smoke machine and play your hits.” At the time of filming, Crosby was not on speaking terms with most of his former bandmates, who he says “all really dislike me.” He admits his own culpability, saying he turns into an “instant asshole” when he’s mad, but seems at a loss as to how to repair the relationships.

As the only member of Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young who never had a hit – his words, not mine – Crosby must still tour to pay the bills, no small endeavor for a man in his late seventies with diabetes and 8 stents in his heart from “two or three heart attacks.” Since 2014, he has released 4 new solo albums, more than he had released in the previous 3 decades. “It’s the only place I can help,” Crosby says of playing music. “It’s the only thing I’ve got to offer, really.”

As Crosby’s off camera foil and interogator, Crowe is often too easy on his subject (see also: Pearl Jam Twenty), making it hard to reconcile the likable septuagenarian rocker we meet with the person whose behavior we learn has driven away friends and family. Crosby is the first to admit his failings and nearly every tale of victory is tempered with regret. Though David Crosby: Remember My Name narratively wanders at times, what emerges is a moving portrait of a musician who seeing the end on the horizon, takes stock of his past and still looks to the future. “I’m afraid of dying. And I’m close. I don’t like it,” he says. “I’d like to have more time. A lot more time.”

This review was originally published in February of 2020.

Benjamin H. Smith is a New York based writer, producer and musician. Follow him on Twitter:@BHSmithNYC.