David Crosby

I'm a fan. Not for his political and social views, because I think he sounds like an idiot. We can all sound like idiots, I'm sure, but most of us don't get national press.

But he is a fascination of mine. This man, Crosby, is a brilliant songwriter with a natural unaffected voice. As a young man, he was simply beautiful to look at. I remember when I was a teenager and looking at the photo of him, below, there was something in his eyes that made me feel a little uncomfortable. I remember I couldn't look at it very long.

As a full grown woman, I can see why. He was the very image of Pan, the ancient god of Greek mythology. Of fields and forests, of shepherds and flocks... and fertility. Pan had great appetites for everything in his domain. He played his pan-pipes, made wine, and chased (and caught) nymphs with complete abandon.

David Crosby was blessed with that pure and beautiful tenor voice and a gift for writing enchanting lyrics, delivered with a slight lisp that still gives me chills. And, like Pan, he lusted and consumed. Crosby, though, is not a god but a man. The stories of his drug addictions and sometimes badly executed sexual relationships are well-known and he is quite candid about them. It's amazing he's alive.

David's written two books, Long Time Gone (1988) and Since Then (2007). They are eye-opening. He seems to take full responsibility for all of the events he describes. He conquer ed and discarded countless women, fathered children out of wedlock, betrayed friendships, took amazing quantities of drugs, defaulted on contracts and financial obligations... there was no sin unsinned except for murder. He knows mansions and jails and gutters equally well.

His good looks faded early on because of all the self-abuse, but he miraculously held on to his musical talents and that captivating voice. I saw him perform live with Stephen Stills, Graham Nash, and Neil Young in 2006, twice. It's still there, as vibrant as it was when he was a young man. Some kind of miracle, gotta be.

He is paunchy and his white hair is thin and whispy. His face and arms are scarred by burns he got passing out with a free-base torch left on so many times.  He is a wiser man now, maybe just worn down, but I understand he lives quite happily with his wife, Jan Dance, who has stuck with him for at least three decades. She's seen him through his worst, and lived it all with him. She's a miracle survivor herself. He's met the children who grew up without him, integrated them with the ones he has raised, and made amends with most of the people he severely let down during his fall from grace.

A happy man, I think. I hope so. He'll never impress me with his opinions, but I can easily ignore that.

Look at those dancers gliding around

Seems as if their feet

Don't hardly touch the ground

Look at them smiling like they knew one another

And they never would come down

Turn around and hold me

I'd like to see your face alone

I'm hoping there's someone home

I'd like to meet you.

Who do you see?

Introduce yourself to whichever of me is nearby

Close behind your eyes you're laughing at me

And I'm stuck here with no instructions

That I can easily steer by

Stick around, it's tricky ground

I'd like to see your face alone

I'm hoping there's someone home...

In My Dreams, David Crosby