Behind the Scenes of the Star-studded Supergroup Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young
Behind them, a crew is setting up the curtains that’ll hide their electric gear until their acoustic “wooden music” is finished. The curtains are black; there’ll be no light show behind Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young. It’s Thursday, 5 PM, rehearsal time at the Winterland Auditorium in San Francisco. Four hours before showtime, a guard is already stationed at the old Ice Capades auditorium’s doors, brusquely challenging all visitors. Outside, in brisk autumn weather, a line has already begun, a sidewalk full of hair and rimless glasses and leather and boutique colors. These people know Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young won’t go on until 11:30, maybe midnight. No matter. They’ll grab good places, on the hardwood floor at the foot of the stage. And they’ll wait.
Dallas Taylor, the drummer, is moving along the foot of the stage now, out of view from Steve Stills, who’s on the stage testing out the piano. Dallas is edging toward Steve, a mischievous smile splitting his wide face. It’s time for games. Suddenly Dallas springs, with a shout, up behind Stills, his right hand now a pistol, and kills him. Stills stiffens, falls off his seat, and plunges straight into David Crosby and his guitar, causing a crashing cacophony.
Across the floor, in the first row, Graham Nash is stirred alert by the noise. He’s trying to put together the order of tunes they’ll do that night. Seeing what’s just happened, he calls out to Dallas, who’s scampered off to stage center by now: “Hey, man — not around axes, man! Not when you’re near an axe!” Dallas, the big little boy, nods, but he knows that any minute now, Stills will have to come back and kill him.
More puttering around the stage, and suddenly it happens. Stills pantomimes the biting of the ring off a hand grenade, waits three seconds, and stuffs it into Dallas’ mouth. Taylor dies beautifully, jumping out of his skin a second later, at the “explosion,” then falling six feet down off the stage, tumbling, landing on his back.
Graham Nash looks up again. No guitars in the way this time. He smiles, shakes his thin, rectangular head, and goes back to work on his list.