In preparation for this review of director A.J. Eaton’s documentary David Crosby: Remember My Name, I Googled “genius,” seeking a definition that would serve as a starting point.
I landed on a Wikipedia listing with a description of what I sought: “A genius is a person who displays exceptional intellectual ability, creative productivity, universality in genres or originality, typically to a degree that is associated with the achievement of new advances in a domain of knowledge.”
In the case of singer-songwriter David Crosby, a founding member of The Byrds and Crosby, Stills & Nash (later Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young), there’s a unique discussion to be had about whether or not his creative productivity achieves genius-level, but while watching Remember My Name, I found myself willing to vote in his defense.
I have a general appreciation for the music of these groups, without an intense specialized insight into their full discographies. Who doesn’t know “Mr. Tambourine Man,” Bob Dylan’s first No. 1 hit, which came from The Byrds? Or “Guinnevere” and “In My Dreams” from Crosby, Stills & Nash? Or “Déjà Vu” from Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young?
What matters more than his bands’ output and their impact on popular music is the uncompromising pursuit that drove David Crosby. His life has that mythic “hellhound on his tail” quality to it, in which his peculiar brand of genius won’t let go. I was far more intrigued by the question of whether music itself, at this level, breeds this relentless focus or if the process of making the music is what pushes musicians to their breaking point.
Crosby is a tragic figure who was touched by something that, if not genius, was the next best (or worst) thing. He couldn’t turn his back on music or the counter-cultural ideas that fueled his passion. His bold statements and posturing created rifts in his creative partnerships — leading to his ouster from The Byrds and later an acrimonious split from Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young (an ongoing situation with no easy resolution).
Crosby’s dark creative impulses sent him spiraling into drug abuse, dealing with legal problems from the time he spent as a fugitive from justice and years in prison, and chronic health issues that have stunted his creative productivity in certain phases of his decades-long career. He is a difficult man to like, but there is a blunt honesty in his telling of his story that is both bracing and heartfelt.
He is real, and that is how he helps redefine what genius is. That early Wikipedia listing is far too idealized and willfully ignorant of the flaws in such individuals who strive for perfection and precision. They may do good works and affect change on universal social and cultural spheres, but how much harm do they cause along the way?
When not engaged in creative efforts, do they embody an Omega-level menace to society?
Richard Linklater’s new film Where’d You Go, Bernadette looks at what happens to an architect (Cate Blanchett) operating on this rarefied plane — she was a celebrated MacArthur Fellow (a recipient of the unofficially named “genius grant”) — who lost her mojo after a monumental work was demolished. She tried to zero-in on her daughter, but couldn’t connect with anyone else in a meaningful way. She was brittle, too in-her-head, unable to suffer the fools around her and she wreaked havoc in a suburban community that had no defense against her unfettered energy. The film captures Bernadette as she bottoms out and figures out what she must do to survive and thrive.
In a nutshell, that is the story of Crosby, but with far more dire results. People died around him, some due to the direct influence of his actions. Being estranged from Stills, Nash and Young is akin to losing family. He even acknowledges that he doesn’t necessarily bear any ill-will toward them. The sad reality for him is that they cannot reconcile with him. If everyone feels that way, it probably means that Crosby is the problem.
And he has lost time, the one thing, possibly above all else, that he wishes he could get back. If only music could grant this one reprieve. But such are the limits of genius. David Crosby: Remember My Name reminds us that those limits cannot (and should not) erase the greatness that was born from that initial spark. (Opening Friday) (R) Grade: A
