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Louder
Louder
Entertainment
Rob Hughes

“Christine had been killed. The studio was somewhere I could go where I’d feel something other than lost”: how David Crosby turned grief into hazy magic on his solo masterpiece If I Could Only Remember My Name

A portrait photograph of David Crosby in the 1970s.

The Roman Catholic Church isn’t exactly renowned for its love of rock music, but a curious recent event suggests otherwise. In the summer of 2010, L’Osservatore Romano, the Vatican’s official newspaper, decided to publish a list of its Top 10 albums of all time. It was full of pretty obvious big-selling selections: Rumours, Thriller, Achtung Baby, Graceland, (What’s The Story) Morning Glory. But at the real business end of the list – tucked between Revolver at No.1 and The Dark Side Of The Moon in third spot – was If I Could Only Remember My Name, a relatively obscure offering from David Crosby.

Just how this album became the pope-pickers’ record of choice is something of a mystery. Released in February 1971, it was the product of weeks of weed-fugged recordings made by one of the era’s most Dionysian characters and his assorted chums, featuring songs about free love, getting high and driving by the local high school at hometime, just to watch the girls come out. 

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