Young was skinny and quiet and more than a little freaked out by the bright automotive sprawl of Los Angeles. His intense dark eyes, framed by long sideburns, mesmerised women. ‘Neil was a very sweet fellow,’ says Nurit Wilde, who’d known him in Toronto. ‘He was sick and he was vulnerable. Women wanted to feed him and take care of him.’ At least Young and Palmer didn’t have to sleep in the hearse any more. When Stephen and Richie took them over to Barry Friedman’s house on Fountain Avenue, a floor and mattresses were proffered. ‘The whole thing was…a tremendous relief,’ Young told his father Scott. ‘Barry gave us a dollar a day each for food. All we had to do was keep practising.’
‘People thought Neil was moody, but he didn’t seem moody to me,’ says Friedman. ‘He seemed like just another guy with good songs, though he did have a funny voice.’ To Young, the affable Richie Furay was ‘the easiest to like’ of the Springfield members, though he told World Countdown News that Richie’s ‘hair should be longer’. Furay had a small room in a Laurel Canyon pad belonging to Mark Volman of successful LA pop group the Turtles. ‘Our living room was the frequent meeting place for Stephen, Neil and Richie,’ Volman recalls. ‘Dickie Davis was always coming by. With the Springfield, a lot of it was created around the energy of Dickie.’
Between Davis and Friedman, the Springfield’s career took off with a flying start. Their first performance was at the Troubadour on 11 April, barely a week after their formation. Little more than a public rehearsal, the set was the prelude to a mini-tour in support of the Byrds, whose Chris Hillman was an early and ardent champion. To the other Byrds, the Springfield came as a galvanising shock. Within a space of weeks the group had developed a fearsome live sound that was rooted in the twin-engine guitar blitz of Stills and Young. ‘ The Springfield live was very obviously a guitar duel,’ says Henry Diltz, who took the group’s first publicity shots on Venice Beach. ‘They’d talk back and forth to each other with their guitars and it would escalate from there.’
Friedman wanted to sign the Springfield to Elektra, but Jac Holzman wasn’t the only record executive interested in the band. Nor was Friedman the only person keen to manage them. When the Springfield returned from their tour, Dickie Davis introduced them to a pair of Hollywood hustlers named Charlie Greene and Brian Stone. The duo had hit town five years before, ambitious publicists who set up a phoney office on a studio lot. With Greene as the frontman schmoozer, Stone hovered in the background and controlled the cash flow. Inspired by flamboyant svengalis like Phil Spector, Charlie and Brian rode around in limos and played pop tycoons.
For Van Dyke Parks, schemers like Greene and Stone changed LA’s innocent folk-rock vibe. ‘There was a severe competitive atmosphere in this scene,’ Parks recalled. ‘The Beatles had exploded and the youth market had defined itself.’ Greene and Stone set about wowing the Springfield, fuelling Stephen Stills’s fantasies of stardom. And they were ruthless in cutting Barry Friedman out of the picture. Taking him for a limo ride, the duo sat Friedman between them. Minutes into the journey, Greene quietly placed a pistol on Friedman’s thigh. By the end of the trip Barry had signed over his rights to Buffalo Springfield on a hot dog napkin. ‘People like that do what they do,’ Friedman says. ‘I don’t, though I’m still waiting for a cheque. I read in Neil’s book that he owes me money, but he must have lost my address.’
When Lenny Waronker saw the Springfield live they were wearing cowboy hats, with Neil Young positioned to one side in a fringed Comanche shirt. He went berserk: ‘I thought, “Oh my God, this is it!”’ Waronker got Jack Nitzsche interested early on: ‘I needed weight behind me, and Jack had that weight. I talked to him about co-producing the group.’ Nitzsche instantly bonded with Neil Young, intuitively recognising a fellow square peg in LA’s round hole. ‘Jack really loved Neil,’ says Judy Henske. ‘He told me Neil was the greatest artist that had ever been in Hollywood.’ Young, aware of Jack’s pedigree, reciprocated. Nitzsche’s approval wasn’t enough, however, to land the Buffalo Springfield in Burbank. Greene and Stone turned to Atlantic’s Ahmet Ertegun in New York. Upping Warners’ offer of $10,000 to $22,000, Ertegun was only too delighted to whisk the group from under Mo Ostin’s nose, assigning them to Atlantic’s affiliated Atco label.
By the time Greene and Stone were in the studio with the Springfield, having imposed themselves as producers of the band’s Atlantic debut, it was too late. The group’s career was obviously in the hands of charlatans. For the naive Neil Young especially, the sense of scales falling from the eyes was almost too much to take. ‘There were a lot of problems with the Springfield,’ he later said. ‘Groupies, drugs, shit. I’d never seen people like that before. I remember being haunted suddenly by this whole obsession with “How do I fit in here? Do I like this?”’ Compounding Neil’s unease was the growing competitiveness between him and Stills. The band wasn’t big enough for the both of them. Neil acknowledged and respected Stephen’s drive and versatility, but the guy’s ego – the presumption that Buffalo Springfield was his group – was beginning to grate. Although Buffalo Springfield’s first Atco single was Young’s fey and slightly pretentious ‘Nowadays Clancy Can’t Even Sing’, Stills was soon coming down hard on Young’s material. To the consternation of the hippie chicks who nursed Neil’s emotional wounds, Stephen undermined Neil at every turn.
Robin Lane, briefly Neil’s girlfriend, recalled Stills storming into the small apartment his bandmate had rented. Irate because Neil had missed a rehearsal, Stephen picked up Lane’s guitar and only just restrained himself from smashing it over Neil’s head. ‘You’re ruining my career!’ Stills screamed at the cowering Canadian. Dickie Davis thought it no coincidence that Young had the first of several epileptic fits just a month after the Springfield formed. During the band’s residency at the Whisky in the groovy summer of 1966, the sight of Young thrashing around onstage in a grand mal seizure was not uncommon. The real truth was that Stills and Young were both driven and egomaniacal – Stills’s pig-headedness was merely more overt. Neil, a classic passive-aggressive, stifled his resentments and licked his wounds in private. ‘We know each other,’ Stills would later say of his relationship with Young. ‘There was always a kind of alienation to the people around us. They are old things that no amount of analysing and psychotherapy and all of that stuff can wash away.’
For all the conflicts, Buffalo Springfield represented a new chapter in the unfolding narrative of LA pop. They were hip and genre-splicing, angry young men with talent and attitude. Last of the folk-pop groups, they were also one of the new electric rock bands. Now they even had a hit record. After Stills watched the LAPD come down hard on a demonstration march on the Sunset Strip on 12 November 1966, he wrote ‘For What It’s Worth (Stop, Hey What’s That Sound)’. With its lines about paranoia striking deep and ‘the man’ taking you away, it was protest pop à la Barry McGuire’s ‘Eve of Destruction’. But unlike Neil’s singles it cracked the Top 10.