Sixties sacred cows Buffalo Springfield are a much-revered institution, much like Dinosaur Hall at Philadelphia’s Academy of Natural Sciences. And some people love dinosaurs, so I’ll have to tread carefully in this review, like a soldier making his nerve-wracking way across an IED-strewn mountain pass.
Buffalo Springfield fans are a surly and fanatical lot. You write about the band at your own risk. To pan them is to risk being impaled by a pitchfork. So politeness is called for. A delicate touch. Diplomacy. The de-escalation skills of a police negotiator.
So here it is, my measured and diplomatic opinion: Buffalo Springfield suck. They were folk-rock bores, and perhaps the most overrated band of the pre-Woodstock era. They left us a small handful of memorable songs, the most popular one being the dated “For What It’s Worth.” There are oldies, and then there are geriatrics. “For What It’s Worth” has one of those electric chair lifts to get it up and down the stairs.
Looking back at what I just wrote, I suppose I’m not very good at diplomacy. This could explain why I never achieved my lifelong dream of becoming Ambassador to Liechtenstein. And I think I’m in trouble. News spreads fast in the Buffalo Springfield fraternity, and fans are already up in arms, ululating as they stream out of every city, town, and country ending in “stan.” And word has it they’re letting their collective Freak Flag fly as they head in my direction, looking to give me a thorough peace and love mauling.
But please allow me, in the time I have left, to explain why I find Buffalo Springfield as appealing as a night of sexual congress with England Dan & John Ford Coley.
1. They sound hopelessly dated. Brittle. I may despise CSN&Y, but at least they sound like they hail from the modern era. When I hear Buffalo Springfield, I see an antique shop filled with delicate period pieces, Tiffany lamps, and the like, all bearing tags saying, “Fragile. Break it, you bought it.”
2. And mostly it’s the folk songs that are to blame. I count zero good folk songs on the band’s debut, 1966’s Buffalo Springfield. They hit on a vocal harmony approach featuring Stephen Stills, Neil Young, and Richie (later of Poco) Furay, and while they don’t sound as “chestnut brown canary” as their antecedents, that’s only because David Crosby and Graham Nash WERE chestnut brown canaries, and can be found in any bird-watching guide.
Will anybody stand up and testify under oath that Young’s “Nowadays Clancy Can’t Even Sing” (which is sung by Furay) isn’t a folk club anachronism? Pass the hat for small change? Or that “Go and Say Goodbye” isn’t proto-Poco pickin’-and-grinnin’ hokum and a Peter, Paul & Mary song in disguise?
“Flying on the Ground Is Wrong” is a great song title without a great song behind it, but it might have been great had Young handled lead vocals and Stills and Young had done some guitar dueling and turned it into the psychedelic rave-up that would have done that title justice. As it is, it’s folk underwhelming.
“Do I Have to Come Right Out and Say It” is an easy-listening pop song sung by Furay that could have been an AM hit. It doesn’t sound like it came out of a time capsule, but I don’t like the back-and-forth between lead singers. Stills’ “Hot Dusty Roads” is an anti-goin’ up the country blues pop number that would have benefited from some rip-roaring guitar solos.
Buffalo Springfield boasted two of the best guitarists on the West Coast, and perhaps my biggest gripe is that they didn’t kick out the jams often enough.
Stills’ “Everybody Is Wrong” also has a title the band doesn’t do justice to—it should be meaner and more guitar-heavy than it is. I get the same feeling listening to it as I do “Flying on the Ground Is Wrong”—namely that these guys were too wimpified for their own good.
Their folk sensibilities neuter them, and they were—let’s face it—too damned nice. It was a California affliction. Nobody had an edge, nobody had a spiteful thing to say about anyone—it was like they’d never listened to Bob Dylan. What was needed was some good old-fashioned decadence, although The Doors did their best to represent it. No wonder the Velvet Underground despised the West Coast.
And then there’s the band anthem “For What It’s Worth.” Stills’ overheated account of the teeny-bopper riots in Hollywood seems like much ado about little when seen in the light of the riots to come, but there’s no denying the unforgettable opening chiming guitar riff or the urgency in Stills’ vocals. Or Stills’ guitar solo towards the end.
Still, I can’t hear it without thinking of Five Man Electric Band’s trite protest song “Signs,” which always makes me queasy. Neither song has stood the test of time unless you’re the kind of unreconstructed longhair and Barry McGuire-fan who gets all giddy every time he hears Country Joe’s “I-Feel-Like-I’m-Fixin’-to-Die Rag.” Vietnam War’s over, people! Move along!
But all is not wrong with Buffalo Springfield. “Out of My Mind” is a real mindbender, a slow and vocally lush folk-rock number that works and doesn’t sound dated. “Pay the Price” is an upbeat country rock tune that the band plays with passion. Young and Stills lay down frantic licks, the guitar solo is a thing of beauty, and while it’s not as good as “Mr. Soul,” it proves that Buffalo Springfield could come through on occasion.
The vocals are a bit too folky on the rave-up “Leave,” which (hallelujah) demonstrates why Young and Stills carried those electric guitars around. They’re all over the song, sounding very psychedelic, with Neil Young playing a solo that’s six-string fantastic and a taste of the decades of Young’s “Like a Hurricane” electric guitar blowouts to come.
Which leaves us with “Burned.” Stills plays lead, Young piano, and what you have is acid pop doo-wop, a song that successfully melds folk vocal harmonies and “the LSD Sound.”
Buffalo Springfield was a period piece, the sixties embedded in amber. In the end, their legacy isn’t their music—it’s their historical role as the band that gave birth to CSN&Y. That’s why they mattered. They make me think of The Yardbirds—would anyone care if they hadn’t spawned a trio of legendary guitarists?
Actually, people would—the same people who love Buffalo Springfield. I blame rear-view mirror nostalgia—would Buffalo Springfield be the sixties legends they are if they hadn’t included the names Young, Stills, and Furay?
But it’s time for me to run—those lovers of Buffalo Springfield are almost within catapult range.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
C-
