Crosby, Stills and Nash: There And Back Again

It’s less than two hours before Crosby, Stills & Nash are set to walk on stage at the Ryman Auditorium in Nashville, Tennessee, and Graham Nash and I are sitting in his backstage greenroom checking out each other’s tattoos. Crosby – whom everyone refers to as Croz – has gone down the street to Gruhn Guitars, a Lower Broadway institution peddling the likes of a 1953 custom Les Paul, which retails for 27k. Outside, women in tie-dye shirts and chinos stand near the tour buses – three, glossy, side by side – pretending to talk on their phones but really waiting for a glimpse of Stephen Stills and his big sideburn-like chops, which have only thinned a little since the sixties. “Let me see your ink,” Nash says in his slightly relaxed Northern English accent, motioning for me to stand and spin around so he can see my back. In the southern July heat, I can only hope I’m not sweating. “May I remove your strap?” he asks with the confidence of a man who has done so many times, in many a dressing room, when he was fighting off groupies as a member of the Hollies during the British…

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