Stephen Stills
Manassas
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Stephen Stills and David Crosby have been taking it on the chin lately, and the blows hurled against them have not been without justification: the live album of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young may have been an accurate reflection of that group's performance, but it conveyed the feeling of a slipshod half-effort, while the two Stills solo LPs were marked by distressing egocentricity at all levels, and the Crosby solo effort by a stupefying vagueness. It wasn't evaluations of a cool, objective nature, however, that mattered most. What really mattered was the intense hero worship, often approaching adoration, that had been bestowed upon these musicians as charter members in America's two
Read More most revered groups, the original Byrds and the beloved Buffalo Springfield. Stephen Stills and Neil Young were walking myths within weeks after the demise of the Springfield. Young took advantage of his mystification by doing his best work yet, but Stills reacted differently, using the opportunity to commit sometimes grievous excesses in the name of art. Both became enormously popular, as their late group had never been. But Stills began to encounter some resentment from the disenchanted legions after they'd spent their money on his two albums, which contained ample evidence of his loss of good taste and good sense. The biggest of heroes was rapidly becoming the biggest of goats. "Bluebird Revisited," with its horns and Stills' sad parody of his own singing style, was the sacrilege that completed the transformation. What people didn't realize, blinded by disillusionment as they were, was that even in his worst moments, Stills was writing some pretty good songs and cutting tracks that were not without appeal: "Sit Yourself Down," "Love the One You're With," "Change Partners," "Marianne," and "Know You Got to Run," while hardly monumental, were real treats when they came over the car radio. But the disastrous "Bluebird Revisited," "To a a Flame," and "Ecology Song" overshadowed them–a true talent wasn't supposed to miss that badly. What was Stills to do, knowing he was better than the disgusted press was giving him credit for, but wondering in the back of his mind whether he had lost it for good? He needed to retrench and get back to more friendly territory. It was time to call for help, for some trusted, steady, able support. Help has arrived, and in the nick of time. Most of it has come appropriately enough, from an original Byrd, Chris Hillman (late of the personally lamented Flying Burrito Brothers). Hillman leads a cavalry charge known collectively as Manassas, and Manassas has indeed saved Stephen Stills' skin. This new album suggests strongly that Stills should have been in a working band all along–it suits him. Backing up Stills and Hillman, who sing and play guitars (Chris also contributes mandolin), are drummer Dallas Taylor and bassist Fuzzy Samuels, who've been with Stephen all the time, sessio
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