The 100 Greatest Neil Young Songs

“Too Far Gone” is a lovely, plaintive song that Young originally recorded during the sessions for 1975’s Zuma, with Frank “Poncho” Sampedro on mandolin. It’s an aging-hippie’s lament for a love that fell apart, and a classic Young evocation of the emotional wreckage of the Sixties: “We had drugs, and we had booze/But we still had something to lose,” he sings. It was a live favorite all throughout the Seventies and Eighties, finally seeing official release on 1989’s Freedom. Sampedro was on mandolin this time too, joined by Ben Keith on pedal steel — proof that some bonds do stand the test of time.

This 16-minute travelogue, which recalls “Powderfinger” and “Like a Hurricane,” unspools over multiple verses and guitar excursions, with Crazy Horse chugging along like an old steam engine. It tells a story of a couple who are in it for the long haul. “So many years now together/All those good times, ups and downs,” he begins, as the team travels through time and space, surviving imperfectly. “Every morning comes the sun,” Young sings, guitar aimed straight at it. “Ramada Inn” came with a video that combined home-movie-style footage and psychedelic imagery — looking backward through a haze.

Young had already quit Buffalo Springfield three times when the group recorded this sweetly nostalgic tune in December 1967, and the lyrics make clear he was ready to bolt for good. “Now I won’t be back till later on,” he wrote. “If I do come back at all/But you know me and I miss you now.” As with many Young songs of the era, “On the Way Home” was sung by Richie Furay because the band’s label felt he had a more commercial voice. Stephen Stills thought the song was written directly to him, and it serves as a bittersweet endpoint for a band that, in Young’s words, “never achieved [its] potential.”

After ostentatiously bummed-out albums like On the Beach, which contained three songs with the word “blues” in the title, Frank “Poncho” Sampedro came to Young with a question: “Here we are in L.A. There’s beautiful chicks everywhere … isn’t there something else to write about?” Young’s response was another “blues,” this one a curt, catchy Crazy Horse rocker. Brilliant stream- of-consciousness lyrics roll off Young’s tongue, apparently the product of a hazy late-night creative rush. “We came home from the bar, and I wrote that song,” says Young. “I woke up, and I went, ‘Fuck!’ I couldn’t remember writing it.”

Young once called On the Beach “one of the most depressing records I’ve ever made,” and the depression peaks with its seven-minute bad dream of a title track. “The world is turning,” Young moans over languid, despondent strumming. “I hope it don’t turn away.” Backed by a Frankenstein band featuring Crazy Horse’s Ralph Molina on drums, Graham Nash on electric piano, and Tim Drummond of the Stray Gators on bass, Young sings about career anxiety, aloneness, and the desire to escape life entirely. Perhaps because the song is so intensely downcast, Young has played it live only four times since 1975.

“Ain’t singin’ for Pepsi/Ain’t singin’ for Coke,” declares Young in this wicked sendup of corporate-sponsored music. His backing is bar-band blues, courtesy of his short-lived group the Bluenotes. And when he adds, “Don’t sing for Bud,” it’s clearly a shot at Eric Clapton, who had recently done a Michelob ad. The song’s hilarious video was banned by MTV, probably so no advertisers would be offended, yet it won Video of the Year at the Video Music Awards. “When I thought of [the line] ‘This note’s for you,’ ” Young said, recalling an epiphany on his tour bus, “I laughed my ass off. For miles and miles.”

For his debut solo album, Young worked for the first time with producer David Briggs, and this menacing rocker — which blends Young’s fuzz-tone guitar with an orchestral interlude — was one of their finest early hours. “The Loner” was later covered by Young’s friend/nemesis Stephen Stills, fueling the rumor that he was the subject of the song (“a perfect stranger, like a cross of himself and a fox”). Young himself has never been clear about any specific inspiration, saying that the songs on the album were “mostly dreams, nothing concrete; they were mostly created as vehicles for record-making.”

Twenty-five years after they’d first joined forces, Young and Crazy Horse demonstrated the enduring potency of their on-again, off-again collaboration with this roiling 14-minute triumph, Young’s first extended-jam foray in many years. Twice as long as “Like a Hurricane,” “Change Your Mind” juxtaposes numerous needling, stabbing guitar solos with lyrics that mull the salvation of love, and its stresses. Given how mercurial Young has been throughout his career, the title could also have been a kind of elusive statement of purpose: “I never believe [if] what I know is good or not, so I’m always scanning,” he once said when asked about the song.

Cut, like much of Tonight’s the Night, in a tequila haze at Los Angeles’ S.I.R. studio, “Albuquerque” is a crushing road-dog lament. Young had played the New Mexico city with the Stray Gators in March 1973, just two months before the fatal overdose of roadie and friend Bruce Berry; here, he makes the word “Albuquerque” sound like a sigh from the deepest region of his broken soul. Ben Keith’s rich pedal steel adds an extra wallop of pain. “I couldn’t believe all that weird slide,” Nils Lofgren said of Keith’s work on songs like this. “All those shades of melancholy that were in us.” As Crazy Horse bassist Billy Talbot later said, “It was like an Irish wake on tour.”

The arena tour to support Harvest was one of the most difficult periods of Young’s career. He was physically weakened after undergoing spinal surgery, and band infighting quickly turned the experience into an agonizing slog. Young poured out his pain and frustration each night when he sang “Don’t Be Denied,” a brand-new tune that told his entire life story — from his parents’ divorce to the kids beating him up at school to the breakup of Buffalo Springfield. It’s the best of his many biographical tunes about his early life, and a highlight of his recent tours with Promise of the Real.

Young’s most succinct mea culpa was the product of a short-lived but muscular band of Crazy Horse’s Frank “Poncho” Sampedro with the rhythm section of bassist Charley Drayton and drummer Steve Jordan. It’s the highlight of Ragged Glory, an album that reasserted Young’s bona fides not just as a forefather of guitar-throttling Nineties alt-rock, but also as a musician who still made most of his young acolytes seem pretty lightweight. Fittingly, he played it with members of Pearl Jam when he was inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 1995. And, a year later, he dedicated a hometown performance of it to his high school gym teacher.

Young began struggling with epileptic seizures around the time he moved from Canada to Los Angeles. After an attack left him in an L.A. hospital for 10 days, he wrote this taut, nightmarish peek into his head, fame, and the increasingly volatile Buffalo Springfield. “A lot of songs take a long time to write,” Young said. “But this one took only five minutes.” Tensions within the group — specifically between Stills and Young — were mounting beyond control. “I don’t know where it came from, but it really tells the story of my life at that time,” Young said of the song, which features a riff unintentionally nicked from the Rolling Stones’ “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction.” (In fact, legend has it that Young briefly quit Springfield when Stills objected to releasing “Mr. Soul” as a single due to its similarity to the Stones song.) For all their clashes, “Mr. Soul” featured Young’s and Stills’ guitars playing off each other in mind-bending ways, all set to a tense, throbbing arrangement. Young returned to the song several times: Stills and Young played an acoustic version of it at Woodstock during CSNY’s set, and in 1982, Young released a synthed-up reboot on his controversial Trans album.

In January 1970, CSNY traveled to London for a headlining gig at the Royal Albert Hall. Paul McCartney was in the audience, as were Donovan, Ahmet Ertegun, and thousands of others eager to see the new supergroup shine. The show was a smashing success, but you’d hardly know it from this bruised ballad, which Young wrote about the trip. Musically, it’s one of Young’s most haunting compositions from that era, thanks to the D-modal tuning also heard on “Ohio,” “Cinnamon Girl,” and “Mr. Soul.” Young later said he favored the tuning for “the way it just sustained. I liked the drone.”

This lilting ballad, as close to a campfire singalong as Young would ever write, was an ode to his first car — a 1948 Buick Roadmaster hearse he named Mort. In 1965, Young tried driving the car from Canada to California, and as the lyrics reveal, it did indeed break down on the way. “I felt that Mort was a large part of my identity,” he said later. The song, introduced in 1974 on CSNY’s reunion tour, was recorded two years later, with Stills, as the title track for their Stills-Young Band collaboration. In the years since, Young has performed it with CSNY and at the Vancouver Olympics in 2010, where the lyrics took on a more universal feel.

The pinnacle of young’s unlikely collaboration LP with Pearl Jam is this seven-plus-minute mini memoir, which Young biographer Jimmy McDonough deservedly called “perhaps the greatest track Young has done in the Nineties.” Over churning guitars, Young conjures ghosts of ex-lovers, the plight of Native Americans and war vets, American blood lust, and his own unquenchable creative thirst. “I tried not to think about what I was writing — I just tried to keep going. And now, when I listen to it, it’s different every time,” Young said the year it was released, when he turned 50. As he explains in the song, “People my age/They don’t do the things I do.”

Although Young was heavily influenced by the punk explosion for Rust Never Sleeps, “Sedan Delivery” is the one track that could pass for an actual punk-rock song, pure high-speed aggression. A slower, sludgier version was released in 1977. But Young revved it up for Rust Never Sleeps. It’s the flip side of “Tonight’s the Night” — if that song was about a workingman destroyed by drugs. “Sedan Delivery” is about the workingman who happens to be the drug dealer. The pressures of the job are getting to him (“I just can’t accept the stares”). But he cynically shrugs it off and goes back to the hustle: “Sedan delivery is a job I know I’ll keep/It sure was hard to find.”

The terrifying “Revolution Blues” is written from the perspective of a Charles Manson–type murderer. “I hear that Laurel Canyon is full of famous stars,” hisses Young, who briefly knew Manson. “But I hate them worse than lepers, and I’ll kill them in their cars.” David Crosby played guitar on “Revolution Blues,” even though the subject matter freaked him out. (The Sharon Tate massacre took place at the former home of Terry Melcher, who had produced Crosby in the Byrds.) “I thought it was kind of a creepy song,” Crosby says today. “I didn’t want to censor him, though I don’t want to celebrate murderers in my own songs.”

The lone Crazy Horse track on a set otherwise powered by Booker T. and the MG’s, this grinding rocker is a quintessential Young reverie, with images of Custer “making his last stand/With the Indians all around,” a man (maybe the singer) “slicing through the culture,” and an elusive woman reaching transcendence in her car while the radio plays. It was originally recorded for a shelved Crazy Horse set called Toast, which included many songs later recut with the MG’s for Are You Passionate?. But Young left this nearly nine-minute steamroller alone. It remains one of his most powerful latter-day moments.

This gorgeous, harmony-driven lament was originally slated for a Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young record in 1973. That project was derailed, but Young ended up repurposing the song five years later with singer Nicolette Larson. Its title also got recycled when he used it for his notorious 1982 film with Dennis Hopper, Dean Stockwell, and Devo — a movie about the day the Earth ends, as Young once described it, “made up on the spot by punks, potheads, and former alcoholics.” Human Highway flopped, despite costing Young $3 million. But it did generate collateral ideas, among them the title for Rust Never Sleeps.

Young wrote this cathartic moaner with CSNY in mind, and it’s fun to imagine their harmonies merging with his fraying yowls. But even though it’s one of the most tuneless moments on an album Young called “the most out-of-tune thing I ever heard,” it captures a mood, especially the way he squawks the phrase “ain’t got nothing.” “I still get chills when it gets to that fuckin’ note,” drummer Ralph Molina said. “It’s so real.”

The title track of what Young called “the quietest record I’ve ever made” was a delicate beauty that tipped its hat to the Everly Brothers’ “Walk Right Back.” The song reunited Young with most of his Harvest-era band, the Stray Gators, as well as Linda Ronstadt, who’d sung on “Heart of Gold.” “I wanted to feel the feminine side of the content of the songs,” Young said at the time, referring to Ronstadt’s swooning harmonies. Ronstadt, Young said later, “really made that record what it is.” One of his most straightforward and sentimental love songs, it was augmented by a music video in which he’s seen dancing with his wife, Pegi, in a bar.

Young’s third solo album became a singer-songwriter classic in part due to this simple but sturdy ballad. Its lyrics, which offer advice for the hippie lovelorn, were so relatable that it became Young’s first Top 40 hit, peaking at 33 on the pop charts. Addressed to “a friend I’ve never seen” who needs to “lose the down that he’s found,” it was supposedly inspired by Graham Nash’s breakup with Joni Mitchell, which took place around the time Young was recording After the Gold Rush. Given that Mitchell ended things with Nash by way of a brief telegram, Young’s words must have been extra-comforting.

This surreal psychedelic-folk meditation begins by invoking Native American genocide, confesses lust for its titular muse, and ends up sitting by a fire talking shit with Marlon Brando. But for all its loopy free-associating, the unplugged Rust Never Sleeps standout is one of Young’s most piercingly sad performances. It was written in a mid-Seventies creative outburst that astonished longtime producer David Briggs. “I’m talkin’ about pickin’ up a guitar, sittin’ there and lookin’ me in the face, and in 20 minutes — ‘Pocahontas,’ ” Briggs marveled. “No lyric sheet, no pen, no paper, none of that bullshit. Just picks up the guitar and the demon takes control.’ ”

“Danger Bird” is one of several songs on Zuma that dissect Young’s failed relationship with Carrie Snodgress. It evolved out of a song he wrote but never recorded called “L.A. Girls and Ocean Boys,” based on a trip he’d taken to visit Snodgress in Hawaii, only to learn she’d been cheating on him. One of that song’s lines — “ ’Cause you’ve been with another man/ There you are and here I am” — made it into the grueling seven-minute “Danger Bird,” amid bleary riffs and divebombing solos. “Sometimes that’s what happens,” Young said. “One song doesn’t come out. I’ll be writing another one and say, ‘Oh, that fits.’ Bang! Drop it right in.”

Like “Expecting to Fly,” this cinematic montage reflected the psychedelic experimentalism coursing through pop in 1967. It interspersed lyrics about the perils of fame with interludes of jazz piano, circus music, and Buffalo Springfield drummer Dewey Martin singing bits of their song “Mr. Soul.” Young wrote the song during one of the many periods during which he was at odds with the rest of the band. “I wrote this after quitting the group in ’67, due to one of many identity crises,” said Young, who chose the title image because it evoked “being scared and mixed up.” Young and producer Jim Messina painstakingly pieced it together from “over a hundred takes,” as Young later recalled.

Young had already finished most of Harvest when he made one more trip to Nashville to record additional material. Out of those sessions came this lonely-guy ballad, since covered by everyone from Lady Gaga to Deer Tick’s John McCauley. The song’s self-pitying lyrics are almost a parody of the singer-songwriter genre that Young would soon abandon — previewing the song for a film crew before he cut it, he chuckled at the words as he sang them, as if they were a joke. But his quavery delivery, Ben Keith’s high-lonesome pedal steel, and the spare, terse accompaniment of the Stray Gators show how Young could add depth to a trite sentiment.

“Zuma was breaking free of the murk,” says Young. “My best records are the ones with Crazy Horse.” Zuma brought the band back together after a three-year hiatus, with new guitarist Frank “Poncho” Sampedro and a restored energy. The LP kicks off with “Don’t Cry No Tears,” which takes its melody and many lyrics from “I Wonder,” a song Young recorded with his high school band the Squires more than a decade earlier. He refashioned the old tune to address his disintegrating relationship with actress Carrie Snodgress. “I would be so overwhelmed with my feelings I would start to cry,” she said years later. “It made Neil crazy.”

Young’s hugely successful 1992 album, Harvest Moon, was touted as his long-awaited return to the acoustic country rock of his biggest hit, Harvest. But the album’s centerpiece ballad, “From Hank to Hendrix,” was a million miles away from wide-eyed post-adolescent yearning. Young mourns a relationship that’s seen big changes come and go, both personal and cultural: “From Marilyn to Madonna, I always loved your smile/Now we’re headed for the big divorce, California-style.” He sang it solo in a memorable Saturday Night Live performance, casting a spell that few performers his age could match — a rock elder sharing a little of his hard-won wisdom.

“It’s much bigger than Southern Man,” Young said. “It’s White Man.” He was in the midst of a furious fight with his wife, Susan Acevedo, when he recorded “Southern Man.” “She was angry at me for some reason, throwing things,” Young said. “They were crashing against the [studio] door.” The song was an FM staple, inspiring proud Southerner Ronnie Van Zant of Lynyrd Skynyrd to write “Sweet Home Alabama” as a response. Young took it as a good-natured barb, and Van Zant began wearing a Tonight’s the Night T-shirt onstage to show there were no hard feelings. “I’d rather play ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ than ‘Southern Man’ any time,” Young told Rolling Stone.

A Topanga Canyon cocaine deal in 1972, at a house with an orgy going on: It should have been the ultimate California hippie dream, but it turned into a driveway gun battle and a couple of dead dealers. Only Young could have turned these murders into such a beautiful song. “That actually happened to a friend of mine,” Young admitted. “My friend was the guy who shot the other guys. It was just one of those deals that turned bad.” “Tired Eyes” is the elegiac centerpiece of Tonight’s the Night, mourning the casualties of the Sixties, wondering how it all went so wrong. Young strains for high notes he can’t hit, over the ghostly lurch of Ben Keith’s pedal steel and Nils Lofgren’s piano. Young mumbles the chorus — “Please take my advice/Open up the tired eyes” — over and over, as if he’s trying to wake himself up from a nightmare. In the America of the 1970s, he sure wasn’t the only one who knew that feeling. “We all got high enough,” Young later said of the Tonight’s the Night sessions, “right out there on the edge where we felt wide open to the whole mood. It was spooky. I probably feel this album more than anything I’ve ever done.”

Due to painful back problems, Young played acoustic guitar on much of Harvest. “The doctors started talking about wheelchairs and shit, so I had some discs removed,” he said. After surgery, he recorded some songs on electric guitar, including this twisting jam, with guest vocals by Stephen Stills and Graham Nash. A 16-minute version appears on 1972’s Journey Through the Past.

This gleaming, gut-wrenching love song was first performed by Young solo-acoustic at a club show in Ann Arbor, Michigan, in 1968, and then cut with Crazy Horse the following year. It was shelved until 1974, when it was rerecorded with Ben Keith’s pedal steel standing in for the late Danny Whitten’s guitar. Nixed from the final version of Tonight’s the Night, it finally saw the light of day as a surprise highlight of Decade. For a sense of the Crazy Horse original, check out the serrated version on Live at the Fillmore East, where Whitten and Young poignantly join voices.

Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere closes with this heady 10-minute jam, a perfect distillation of the chaotic beauty of Crazy Horse’s first incarnation. Young wrote it while he was sick with the flu and recorded it with the band in a single day at his Topanga Canyon basement studio — the same day they knocked out “Cinnamon Girl” and “Down by the River.” “There wasn’t much need to discuss it,” said bassist Billy Talbot. “Cowgirl in the Sand” has gone on to serve as the centerpiece of many Crazy Horse shows over the following decades, often stretching out to 18 minutes or longer (for a definitive experience, listen to the version on Live at the Fillmore East, from 1970). One reason for its live power, according to Young, is the dreamy vagueness of the lyrics. “The words to ‘Cowgirl in the Sand’ are very important because you can free-associate with them,” he said. “Some words won’t let you do that, so you’re locked into the specific fuckin’ thing the guy’s singing about. … This way, it could be anything.”

In the final months of the 1980s, Young suddenly roared back to life. “Rockin’ in the Free World” delivered what most of Young’s work in that decade had totally lacked: passion, noise, energy, and that madcap Neil Young grin. Guitarist Frank “Poncho” Sampedro remembers coming up with the iconic phrase after seeing newspaper photos of Iranian protesters burning American flags. “Whatever we do, we shouldn’t go near the Mideast,” he remembers saying. “It’s probably better to keep rockin’ in the free world.” Young thought the phrase was “such a cliché” that he had to use it. Two versions of “Rockin’ in the Free World” bookend Freedom – first a live acoustic version, then a stomping electric finale, with Young shredding away on guitar as he rants its lyrics about crack, poverty, the military buildup, and environmental disasters. He introduced the song on Saturday Night Live, raging on guitar in an Elvis T-shirt, as if he’d woken up from a coma, shocking fans around the country. His massive creative resurgence was just beginning.

According to collaborator Jack Nitzsche, this trippy piece of orchestrated melancholia dealt with Young’s “fear of making it with a girl.” But the song was also a testament to his singular vision at the dawn of his career. Although credited to Buffalo Springfield, it was recorded with session players including drummer Jim Gordon, bassist Carol Kaye, and backup singer Merry Clayton. Young and Nitzsche, his fearless co-producer, spent weeks crafting the grandly spacious record, even the singing. “I overdubbed my vocal line by line to get it in pitch,” Young said. “Studio singing was still very nervous for me then.” When the Beatles’ “A Day in the Life” was released just after “Expecting to Fly” had been completed, Young thought the two songs too similar (particularly their shared hovering, sustained finales) and worked on his track some more. “We had it all ready to go,” he said, “so we just went back into the studio and changed it around.” He needn’t have worried: “Expecting to Fly” is still unlike anything Young had created before — or since.

Young wrote this paean to youth the month he turned 19. At the time, he was living hand-to-mouth in Toronto, crashing on floors and beginning to play his originals at local folk sessions. Praise for this song in particular “made me feel like I was somebody,” Young later said. Among those he wowed was a young Joni Mitchell, who wrote her early gem “The Circle Game” as an answer song to “Sugar Mountain.” Released at various times as a single B side (initially of “The Loner,” in 1969), the song has remained in Young’s repertoire. One of the more moving stories in Waging Heavy Peace describes his moment of transcendence singing it to an empty stadium in Missouri in 2011, with just a guitar and harmonica, a teenage folk singer come full circle.

“I’m not a preacher, but drugs killed a lot of great men,” Young says in the Decade liner notes. “The Needle and the Damage Done” laments one of them: Crazy Horse guitarist Danny Whitten. One of rock’s first explicit anti-drug songs, this moving ballad was written as Whitten was being pulled under by his addiction. “He’d gotten so wasted, so strung out,” Young said later. Young tried to get Whitten to play on the tour to support Harvest, but it soon hit the point where he was nodding off in rehearsals. “He was too out of it,” Young told Rolling Stone in 1975. “Too far gone. I had to tell him to go back to L.A.” Young sent Whitten packing with $50 and a plane ticket; the guitarist spent the cash on heroin and was dead within hours. “I sing this song because I loved the man/I know that some of you don’t understand,” he testifies in the lyrics. (In 1971, Young introduced “The Needle and the Damage Done” live by commenting on all the talent he’d seen ruined by heroin — “over and over.”) As Young said later, “I never sat down with him and said, ‘Danny, listen to this.’”

It’s seen by many as the ultimate Crazy Horse anthem, but the first time Young played “Hey Hey, My My,” he was backed by New Wave oddballs Devo. Young was filming the surreal movie Human Highway with the band, and he picked up the expression “rust never sleeps” from frontman Mark Mothersbaugh, who’d heard it in an ad for Rust-Oleum paint. They filmed a wild, frenetic 10-minute version of the song, and months later, when Young asked Crazy Horse to tackle it, they balked. “We were like, ‘Fuck that,’ ” says Frank “Poncho” Sampedro. “ ‘Devo already did it.’ We then watched the video of them playing it, and were so pissed off, we played it three times harder than they ever could — and we still do.” The song closes Rust Never Sleeps with an acerbic commentary on rock’s changing climate (“The king is gone but he’s not forgotten/Is this the story of Johnny Rotten?”), but Kurt Cobain flagged a line from the acoustic version that opened the album in his suicide note: “It’s better to burn out than to fade away.”

Young wrote this front-porch singalong about Louis Avila, the seasoned foreman of the Lazy Double L — a ranch spread in the Santa Cruz Mountains that the 24-year-old rock star, flush with cash, purchased in 1970, renamed the Broken Arrow Ranch, and made into what would become his lifelong home. Like much of Harvest, it was recorded in Nashville with the Stray Gators, and the song also features James Taylor, surprisingly enough, on six-string banjo (“I don’t think I played on one before or since,” notes Taylor). An acoustic meditation on age and life’s through-line — two of Young’s favorite themes; see “Sugar Mountain” — it sweeps past the specifics of its writing to address any sort of cross-generational relationship with respect and reverence. “My dad thought it was written for him,” Young confides in his memoir, “and I never told him it wasn’t, because songs are for whoever receives them.” A highlight of his singer-songwriter phase, it was the last time in his career he would reach the Top 40.

After an especially fun night out bar-hopping in L.A., Young stopped at a scenic look-out and, in his friend’s car, dashed off lyrics about desire, dreams, and “getting blown away” by it all. Since he’d recently had an operation for nodes on his vocal cords, he couldn’t sing, so he whistled the melody. If only the recording of one of Young and Crazy Horse’s most epic songs — eight minutes of cathedral-size guitar majesty — had been so easy. Young and the band spent 10 days on his ranch trying to nail it. But after endless takes featuring their two-guitar lineup, the song still wasn’t coming together. Then, guitarist Frank “Poncho” Sampedro tried putting down his axe and began fiddling around with the Stringman synthesizer that’s heard on the final version. “Yeah, I think that’s how it goes,” Young told him. “Just like that.” The result is a driving, intensely powerful rocker. “It is one of those performances you can never repeat,” Young said. “We just kept wailing on those changes until we couldn’t move anymore.”

Two weeks after four student protesters were killed by National Guardsmen at Kent State University, Young saw a photo spread on the incident in Life magazine and was inspired to write this furiously melancholic song, which took the unprecedented step of calling out Richard Nixon by name. He brought Crosby, Stills, and Nash into a Los Angeles studio the next day, and Crosby began weeping uncontrollably after one of the takes. Atlantic Records rushed it to radio stations, even though “Teach Your Children” was then in the Top 20. “We were speaking for our generation, we were speaking for ourselves,” Young said in 2012. “It rang true.” The song became a hit, but CSNY broke up just two months later.

“CSNY put my name out there, but After the Gold Rush was the turning point,” Young told Rolling Stone’s Cameron Crowe in 1975. Young was talking about his third solo album, and the way it vaulted him into a new class of singer-songwriter success and artistic brilliance. But he could just as easily have been referring to the album’s superb title track, a surreal sci-fi piano ballad about the aftermath of an environmental disaster, complete with the chillingly prophetic line “look at Mother Nature on the run in the 1970s.” Young nicked the title and the idea from a lost screenplay by a friend, the actor Dean Stockwell, about a tidal wave sweeping over Southern California. The movie was never made, but the song, which producer David Briggs recalled Young writing in just half an hour, became one of Young’s most enduring classics. “I would listen to Neil singing that all the time on the road,” said Linda Ronstadt, one of the many artists (including Thom Yorke and Patti Smith) who have tried their hands at cover versions of “Gold Rush.” “I would think, ‘This is the future.’ ”

The greatest one-note guitar solo in rock history? No question. Young summed up all the crazed extremes of his music in the three-minute rush of “Cinnamon Girl,” his first successful single as a solo artist. The song showed off his tuneful, romantic side as well as his love for savage guitar feedback. “Cinnamon Girl” was a pop moment of sorts amid the hard rock of Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere, reaching Number 55 on the Billboard charts in the summer of 1970 (“The closest thing Crazy Horse had to a hit record,” Young said). It makes the most of the band’s club-on-the-head approach, climaxing in that proudly anti-virtuosic moment, as Young sails away on a naggingly repetitive one-note clang. He even lets out a “whooo!” of delight, with girl-group-style hand claps (inspired by the Angels’ 1963 hit “My Boyfriend’s Back”) buried in the mix. “Cinnamon Girl” introduced the Neil Young solo style he’d pursue his whole career — and remains one of his evergreen live crowd-pleasers.

“Helpless” is a heart-rending highlight from Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young’s Déjà Vu, a slow, beautiful country-rock reverie in which Young spools through childhood images of rural Canada. He did, as the lyrics tell us, grow up in a small town in Ontario (Omemee; population in 1950: 750), but he insists “Helpless” isn’t a simple autobiographical tale. “It’s not literally a specific town,” he said, “so much as a feeling.” The gentle, sweetly nostalgic song was imagined by Young as a thrashed-out Crazy Horse jam, but when a studio technician forgot to press “record” on the band’s best take, Young tried a radically different direction: “I took it as an omen. That’s why I did it with CSN.” It’s the finest song he recorded with the trio; they add lush harmonies, but the rest is strictly Neil. Young has played “Helpless” more than 400 times live, most memorably with the Band at the Last Waltz, where he had so much cocaine visible in his nostrils that director Martin Scorsese had to take it out frame by frame while editing footage for the concert film.

The dark inspiration for “Tonight’s the Night” was two almost simultaneous drug deaths in the Crazy Horse family, as Young put it, “The whole thing is about life, dope, and death.” Heroin took the life of guitarist Danny Whitten in 1972, and, less than a year later, their beloved roadie Bruce Berry; Young’s response was this harrowing dead-junkie lament. He mourns Berry as a rock & roll workingman whose honest passion for life was corrupted by drugs. As you can hear, Young and the entire band are in rough shape — drunk, off-key, enraged, wracked by grief and tequila. “We played Bruce and Danny on their way all through the night,” Young told Rolling Stone in 1975. “It was spooky.” Young began and ended Tonight’s the Night, one of his most emotionally intense albums, with ravaged versions of the theme song. “Tonight’s the Night” became an unlikely stadium-shaking rock anthem — the definitive version is the big climax of 1979’s Live Rust, where you can hear the fans whoop, cheer, and whistle along with a funeral dirge.

The prototype for all Young’s massive Crazy Horse guitar jams to come appeared on his second solo LP, his first with the band and the album that fully announced his arrival as a solo artist in the late Sixties. Young wrote the song during a legendary bout with the flu, one of the most musically consequential 103-degree fevers in rock & roll history, which produced three of his career-defining songs: “Cinnamon Girl,” “Cowgirl in the Sand,” and this. “There was a song in E-minor on the radio that I liked, ‘Sunny’ or something like that,” Young wrote in his memoir Waging Heavy Peace, referring to soul singer Bobby Hebb’s 1966 hit. “[It] kept looping in my head, endlessly, like some things do when I’m sick and maybe a little delirious. So I started playing it on the guitar, and then I changed the chords a bit — and it turned into ‘Down by the River.’” He once dismissed the song’s murderous lyrics, saying, “It’s about blowing your thing with a chick.” But Young’s guitar duels with Danny Whitten on this nine-minute spectacle suggest something different — they play like they’re out for blood.

It’s never been clearly explained why Young decided to write a (wildly unhistorical) song about the 16th-century Spanish conquistador Hernan Cortés. Over the years, Young has claimed to have authored it on the spot while writing songs for Zuma, but at a 1996 show in Virginia he swore he wrote it in high school after eating six hamburgers and getting terribly sick. “I was studying history, and in the morning I woke up and I’d written this song,” he said. “I never told anybody else.” Whatever the truth, Young and Crazy Horse cut the song one debauched day at Zuma Beach in 1975. Crazy Horse guitarist Frank “Poncho” Sampedro and bassist Billy Talbot smoked angel dust right before the session, but they still managed to help Young create one of the most overpowering guitar epics ever recorded. The electricity went off in the studio midway through recording the song. “We didn’t know and just kept playing and playing,” says Talbot. “We lost a verse, but Neil said it was a good verse to lose.” That explains why the song ends so abruptly. The lost verse has yet to surface anywhere.

Young was all of 27 years old when he sang the chorus of his biggest hit: “Keep me searching for a heart of gold/And I’m gettin’ old.” “Heart of Gold” became his first and only Number One single, the epitome of his mellow, countrified soft-rock phase. Like many songs on the hugely successful Harvest, it was recorded in Nashville with producer Elliot Mazer and a backing band known as the Stray Gators. “Heart of Gold” has Young’s most mournful harmonica-playing, Ben Keith’s steel guitar, and the Tupelo-honey harmonies of Linda Ronstadt and James Taylor. Ironically, the song got bumped from the Number One spot by America’s “A Horse With No Name,” the most shameless Neil Young imitation of all time (it even confused his father, who called to congratulate him). But nobody’s ever duplicated the vulnerable twang of “Heart of Gold,” and to Young’s credit, he steadfastly refused to copy it. Indeed, after his big commercial breakthrough, Young avoided Top 40 radio like the plague. “‘Heart of Gold’ put me in the middle of the road,” he wrote in the liner notes to the 1977 anthology, Decade. “Traveling there soon became a bore, so I headed for the ditch.”

“It’s easy to get buried in the past/When you try to make a good thing last,” Young sings midway through “Ambulance Blues,” an exquisite reconsideration of the dizzying distance he’d traveled — in space, time, and outlook — since his career began in Toronto’s folk clubs a decade earlier. Gently finger-picking an acoustic melody lifted from Sixties folkie Bert Jansch, Young spends nearly nine minutes at the end of On the Beach’s down-and-out Side B reminiscing about his “old folkie days” at the Riverboat Coffee House. There’s an innocence to the way those scenes play out in his memory, a feeling that’s crushed when he starts talking in code about Mother Goose and a kidnapping plot a few verses later. The skeleton key to this dream? When Young resignedly sings “You’re all just pissin’ in the wind,” he’s reportedly quoting his manager Elliot Roberts’ take on the internal acrimony that broke up CSNY. What began as nostalgia has lapsed into weary bitterness.