Return of a Supergroup

A potent but short-lived rock phenomenon was the supergroup--an amalgam formed by the talented malcontents of other bands. While they lasted, groups like Cream and Blind Faith--both starring Guitarist Eric Clapton and Drummer Ginger Baker--played enormous arenas and made megabucks, and sometimes megamusic. Their performances were fueled by dueling egos. Musical infighting built up the excitement they generated, but it also made breakups inevitable. Now, with half a decade gone, perhaps the mightiest U.S. supergroup of all is back together: Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, whose pungent lyrics and soft-edged counterpoint to acid rock made them a primal force in popular music.

C. S. N. & Y. existed as a unit for only 15 months in 1969-70; during that time the group completely dominated the U.S. rock scene. If Bob Dylan was the generation's prophet, C. S. N. & Y. was its social conscience. Their songs about campus murders (Ohio), conspiracy trials (Chicago) and racism (Southern Man) were uncompromising, but the message was balanced with more tender lyrics like Teach Your Children and On the Way Home.

Since they disbanded, their two albums have become oral histories of an era, selling 3,050,000 copies. When the 26-city, 31-concert comeback tour was announced, the 30,375-seat Roosevelt Stadium in Jersey City, N.J., sold out in less than a day, a Ticketron record. Before opening night in Seattle, advance sales for the tour--at an average of $7.50 a ticket--projected a $10 million gross (compared to the $5.7 million grossed by Dylan last winter), which would make C. S. N. & Y. the most commercially successful tour in the history of U.S. music. The group's share of the gate: a whopping $4.5 million.

What ever prompted C. S. N. & Y. to abandon such a lucrative musical trust? "We could have made a lot of money in the past four years, but the feeling between us wasn't there," admits Graham Nash, 32. According to Stephen Stills, 29, tumescent egos were responsible. "None of us were willing to give up our identities," he says. "We could have called ourselves the Eternal Spinach, but we used our names instead --it made us the Merrill Lynch, Pierce, Fenner & Smith of rock." Crosby once belonged to the Byrds, Nash was a member of the Hollies, and Stills and Young came from the Buffalo Springfield. Each man in C. S. N. & Y. was a skilled guitarist and singer-songwriter capable of rilling an entire album with original tunes. At one point Neil Young, who felt that the group was not using enough of his songs on C. S. N. & Y. records, stopped speaking to Stills. After disbanding, the four pursued separate careers with mixed success but gradually became better friends. A year ago, on the Hawaiian island of Maui where all four had rented beach houses, plans for a professional reunion were discussed, then crystalized after the success of the Dylan tour.

The new songs have the same clean, tight harmony that made C. S. N. & Y. the barbershop quartet of rock. The muted sound comes as a welcome respite from the roar of Led Zeppelin and the rest of the heavy metal kids. The 14 new lyrics (mostly written by Young) are generally serious. "People want words that say something with their music," says David Crosby. In Ambulance Blues, Neil Young reveals his disillusionment with today's political morals:

I never knew a man could tell so many lies.

He had a different story for every set of eyes.

How could he remember who he's talking to?

'Cause I know it isn 't me and I hope it isn't you.

The revived C. S. N. & Y. is amazingly relaxed. Each star has his own sound man and crew, which adds up to a combined entourage of 84. Like four affable, affluent businessmen bound for a Sunday afternoon of pro football, C. S. N. & Y. travel from hotel to concert in the comfort of an air-conditioned Winnebago motor home. Elaborate picnic barbecues precede each concert, with a catered steak-and-salad dinner served afterward.

Onstage, wearing numerated football jerseys, work shirts and crisp khakis, C. S. N. & Y. work energetically through a grueling 3 1/2-hour set. In between numbers the group confers in a football huddle, selecting songs by collective whim but carefully allowing each artist a chance to display his own material. Packed tightly together in front of the stage, teen-agers too young to have been concertgoers in 1970 sway in a mass and sing every word of Carry On. Older C. S. N. & Y. fans occupy stadium bleacher seats, many with small children.

It is all just a bit suburban. Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young are themselves all prosperous adults, owners of mansions and 800-acre ranches. The rhythm of their lives, private and professional, has settled down to moderato. Loud fracases and nocturnal revelries no longer conclude their day's work. Groupies, once omnipresent, are rare. After a recent Oakland concert, Stills, on his way to an informal jam with some members of the Grateful Dead, was accosted by one persistent young lady. To turn her off, he launched into a monologue on the virtues of family living. "Can I stay with you tonight," she insisted, "please, please?" Blinking several times, Stills wearily focused on the girl and made a polite escape: "Can I go jam first?"

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