When the world heard about the death of David Crosby, it caused a collective gasp, a brother of ours was gone, placing a timeline on our own mortality. Many of us had some kind of encounter with David through the years. He was a regular at the Biltmore and other such venues.

I had my share of exposures with the man, starting with an autograph session with the Byrds in St. Louis in the late ’60s. I presented the most imbecilic smile to him and he returned the same facial gesture. Years later, I stayed on a boat he formerly owned in Sausalito. I never saw him but felt his presence.

I spotted him at a Clinton rally at City College, sauntering along wearing an inconspicuous name tag with his name written out in pencil. The last time I saw him was driving down State Street, both of us stopped at the Las Positas light when I looked to my left and saw him riding shot-gun and eating an ice cream cone.

“Looks good,” I said. He shook his head.

“It is. From McConnell’s!” Then the light changed. And I changed after enjoying that quick banter with a rock legend.

Forever the iconoclast, Crosby posted this message about heaven just one day before his death. “I heard the place is overrated….cloudy.”

David Crosby, your harmonies transported us and know that we will remember you. You are for the ages.


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