The documentary « David Crosby: Remember My Name » is a reminder that the legenrady musician is a man who lays it all on the line in song and in conversation.
Working on a film about musician David Crosby, director A. J. Eaton and producer Cameron Crowe knew one thing going in: They weren’t going to have to dig up any dirt on their subject.
No, the protean, prickly Crosby has always been an open book in many ways, honest about his triumphs and his tragedies, the drug use that nearly destroyed his life on numerous occasions, the wreckage that always threatened to overshadow the beautiful music he made with the Byrds, with Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young and on his own.
Crosby is a man who lays it all on the line in song and in conversation, and “David Crosby: Remember My Name,” which premiered on Saturday at the Sundance Film Festival, is a reminder of that.
But it is also something more. As much as the film celebrates his creativity and gazes unflinchingly at his failings, it also functions as a valedictory, almost a requiem of sorts. Think of it as the film version of the final albums made by Leonard Cohen and David Bowie, who made wrenching final statements that they likely knew would be their last.
