by On Crosby Stills and Nash’s self titled 1969 debut album, almost every single song would have been the envy of another artist.
The effortless three-part harmonies glided across the tracklist, shining best on songs like ‘Suite: Judy Blue Eyes’, ‘Helplessly Hoping’ and ‘Wooden Ships’. Somehow, this band of three transatlantic brothers had stumbled upon a winning sound that no one in the rich community of 1960s musicians could come close to replicating.
Of course, many other artists deployed harmonies in the studio but none quite to the same effect as Crosby, Stills and Nash. They were the primary, hypnotising facet of this compelling sound and so the band carved out their own niche.
So, in a decade where the cover song was as commonplace as originals, tracks from the band’s debut seemed to be left alone. But it was one man, one icon I should say, from a completely different genre who decided to put his hand to a Crosby Stills and Nash track. On paper, the prospect of enigmatic jazz icon Miles Davis laying down his own version of ‘Guinnivere’ is as compelling a musical product as any, for he could take the twisting guitar lines into a wholly transcendent space with jazz sensibilities as his support. But according to David Crosby, the finished result wasn’t worth writing home about.
During a chance encounter in New York, Crosby bumped into Davis, to the stern sound of “Are you Crosby?” After the songwriter stood in stunned silence for a few seconds, Davis took it upon himself to properly introduce himself and let him know that he was a fan of his music. But then, he swiftly told Crosby, “I recorded one of your songs.” “Which one?” he asked. “Guinnevere’,” said Miles. “Wanna hear it?”
In Graham Nash’s book Graham Nash: Wild Tales, a Rock & Roll Life, he continues to tell the story in an entertaining fashion.
“Miles put on the song, a twenty-minute version that riffed in myriad cosmic directions, and went into the bedroom with the blonde, leaving David there to smoke it and listen to the track. A half hour later, Miles emerged from the bedroom rendezvous. ‘So, Dave, what do you think?’ Crosby threw him one of his trademark glares. ‘Well, Miles, you can use the tune, but you have to take my name off of it.’ Miles was crestfallen. ‘You don’t like it?’ he asked. Crosby refused to temper his opinion, even for royalty like Miles Davis.
“No, man – no. I don’t like it at all.”
The story didn’t end at the rather awkward, post sexual-encounter where Crosby was left semi-high, shooting down the enthusiasm of a scantily clad Miles Davis. Now it bled on into the next decade, when Crosby’s refusal to accept the cover still ate away at Davis.
Nash continued, “About ten years later, I was at an after-party event for the Grammys at Mr. Chow in LA and saw Miles come in with Cicely Tyson. He caught my eye and started waving insistently at me. I looked over my shoulder, certain he must be gesturing to someone else. ‘No, no, c’mere, man,’ he insisted. When I got within earshot, he leaned close and asked in his low, gravelly voice, ‘Crosby still pissed at me?’ I said, ‘You mean about Guinevere’?’ ‘Yeah.’ He nodded. ‘He still pissed?’ ‘I don’t think so, Miles. He was either too high or he wasn’t in the right mood to hear your take on it. He probably expected the chords to be the same as his, but I don’t think he’s pissed at you one bit’.”
Crosby’s rather gruff demeanour was well known in musical circles, so the story of his ungranted approval doesn’t come as a surprise. Even if it was Miles Davis.
