Sony Pictures Classics
David Crosby is the first to admit that he shouldn’t be alive. Yet, here he is, telling his story on camera. David Crosby: Remember My Name is a running dialogue between the singer-songwriter and director A.J. Eaton with stops on the way for places from the past. At the same time, Crosby prepares to go on tour, a dangerous undertaking for a man with diabetes and eight stents in his heart.
Pivotal in ’60s rock, Crosby’s voice and songs were integral to The Byrds and essential to Crosby, Stills & Nash (and, soon enough, Young). He released a hauntingly beautiful album on his own, If I Could Only Remember My Name (1971), but is the only member of CSNY who never had a solo hit single. In the documentary, Crosby rues the years lost to addiction; notoriously, he was imprisoned in the ’80s, became a fugitive and finally cleaned up with the encouragement of the woman he eventually married, Jan Dance.
Some of Remember My Name was filmed at Crosby’s home, a palace of memory whose walls are covered with photographs of time past. He met The Beatles and knew most everyone. He was Joni Mitchell’s lover and Bob Dylan’s friend. But don’t get him started on Jim Morrison. He’s still irked at the Lizard King 50 years on.
But nowadays, with his white walrus mustache and matching mane of hair, Crosby is an amiable old fellow in suspenders. He’s become a raconteur, recalling much of his past with healthy good humor—except regarding cocaine and, more so, heroin. That first taste was an exultation. And what followed were years of groping for a high that can never be regained. Nowadays, Crosby is afraid to die and “I’m close,” he confesses. “I’d like to have time—a lot more time.”
The archival footage is revealing. In concert, The Byrds pounded out a raving punk take on “Hey Joe”—before Crosby launched into JFK assassination conspiracy theories. In home movies of Crosby, Stills & Nash’s first rehearsal (August 1969), the personal chemistry is already unstable. Crosby was never an easy partner.
Given his past reputation for being insufferable, Remember My Name presents Crosby as surprisingly lucid, even disarmingly charming. It’s an enjoyable two hours for anyone interested in the ’60s rock scene
