LADYBUGS, BLUES-BELTS & THE LYRICAL WRITING OF WOODSTOCK

THE REAL WOMEN OF COUNTER CULTURE AND PEACE IN THE 60s

The Society’s resident writer Eric Lastick takes a look at the incredible lyricism and powerful women of the time we forgot we couldn’t remember

JANIS AT MONTERREY POP…23 & one beaded necklace hanging round circle…loud and hunger, the whiskey voice blue maiden…Texas daughter heart, Janis Joplin…smiles of her awaits of East Indian carpets—stretched of a bright orange glisten…calling on one self, sunshine. Sitar supers and mother earth’s samplings of oils, to hash out—large time fun,  singer. Generation cling of their intellectual property…land seated free. Space, a place to share. Janis a song to sing::”Come on, Come on, take a little piece of my heart now baby!” Her 60’s free swing jazzed! Janis stay patient for her guru rug to rug & ceiling, stoned drives & pull cover, the ante room, golden palace of one’s mind. Frigidaire, the cold smooth mix of Bourbon and apple fritters—laughs of the next magic lifts—too the stages of success and instant fame. There ol’ Janis of ” The holding company”…banded guitars…heavy bass drum…and barreling voice of our wild night girl on the stage of the Monterrey fixed eyes…a hundred tested lights bound with the sound of this woman blues buster…eloquent stars dance in isles close to her sounds of Delta crystal and wishes. Everybody whom hits a shock wave of her sound and blues-blasts grooves. Papa John Philips shakes a mile vocal & textures, until the lifted holds of Janis and her holding company, set. Next string is played and pedaled as a Janis blend of setting sun. Wowed, the Mama Cass Elliot, so long in herself, to witness, the whiskey blasts of ”Janis Blues!” Back the next set roller coaster ride called too—like a firm name, she blazes, the beats…and conquests, her own. Beggar dance, the hippie gatherers. So many stars and head trips lift with the voice of Janis. Squeeze us all the orange sunshine…cops gated, but openings to the grooviest weep Sayers in the whole wild scenes sandbox! Kids and law, play nice, this day. Uncle Lou A and Company reach for the stage. Bless these new acts. Produce of way- out- delights. Dishes such the pretties of Monterrey Pop. Sunny association, the spills of the best vocal batch to the very hands and leisure’s of Denny, Michelle and sweet blends and sounds of Mama Cass…as Janis relinquish…and back too— East Indian beaded style, the carpeted Monterrey moon.

GRACE SLICK & HER JEFFERSON AIRPLANE RIDE AT WOODSTOCK, 1969

”REQUIEM OF DREAM”

The Airplane choir call, stumble bum, 6AM. Breakfast songs for several hundred thousand…perform for the sleepy eyed…animal  farm without hurt or shame…as the White Rabbit out of the suede floppy hippie hat was the Woodstock moist of light morning rains. On and Off progenitors of some sort of ”Swamp thing”, on the move—while CCR played, ”Better run through the jungle, don’t look back!”

Earth mothers of wisdom’s streams…see thru iridescent be of the panes…choppers in a ring, the four way circles. Mother earth lie flat with the ‘stoned’ of harmony! And whole channels circling. Winds brushing up to it’s Airplane name of Jefferson—-and to a band-mate folly. Nude swims by watchful critical crisis whips, just up the hill! Swift curry the lookers-on; of Jewish vacationers. Somewhat floored! Seeps their tossed salad in —too the pristine Catskill mountain retreats. Observatory, the foods and armory…beds and breakfasts, here, with Grace Slick in our tent. The passing of pipes of gem of the earth’s herbs…and it’s rightful garden parties.

Moments in the smoky air, as if later; I wish i had a dime bag of earth’s golden goodies—times a several hundred thousand stay! Grace Slick tent’s of peg hammer songfestseds of your heads!” And what if given the right pill in Hippiedom, won’t do anything at all!’ Mother did mean well, as stamping stammered over the edge-wood drills and soars of very poorly manufactured blotter-ed brown acid. Ransacked the notions of all love toward man. Then form a circle in the den of the medicine hand. America core. Never kid or josh on that trip. Ages 16, 17…& such. Unoccupied by a parent…as Wavy Gravy Pig farm, ol’ Reds…boldly asks to help house and feed 4 hundred thousand. Pig-tailed girls surroundings of sea-wave…and of nothing but people. Wavy haired Daddy’os…and merry pranksters color my bus like a ty-dye machine wash…as Grace Slick teaches another lesson on how to sing along a drunk, the whole morning. ”White Rabbit” ”Don’t you want somebody to love”

The balances of feed—your head…at amiable Max Yagger loans…fellow player’s Jim Kantner sings “Saturday afternoon” Hippiedom salutes. ..Cops…& helping out the human touch blends, the hippie crowds. Then, an army man flash a victory sign…as a nun shows, ”the peace sign”. T.v. cameras all aligned high the sky. I saw that all is well. No violent acts. No real crime. Care and share, mostly.

THE AIRPLANE HURRAH’S: Flight of the early fine saddles song of hippie hall bellows…hails of fine waves…freedom. Love and not war, for at least those 3 days. Grace put down all their guns. This weekend fest shows that ‘we won!”

CANADA’S OWN…Joni Mitchell. The writer and lyricist of the quintessential song ”Woodstock”

Although never made the event. And as if an omnipresent force of prophetic accuracy! Joni, a most lovely of such aspritied songwriters flow. Giants sit and wise sip listens in the backdrop of Woodstock— fulfilled in poetic form. Morning that you ware by a window. Deeds in suggestion of care…as of a bird piecing of the comfort of nest of her kids through the carpets of a poetic theme. Honor where the corner store…the homespun of all of the sights of families to the parking malls…bated county junction of folk players with lots of concrete…as Joni sings: ”Don’t it always go too show. They killed paradise, put up a parking lot!” (Big Yellow Taxi”) Yet Joni, as a choir born in words and melodies…keen ears & spirited passion, the insides to tell one’s personal stories. There is simply no better of her sings’…her worded residences from all around…spanning her art—and taking us all for the signs and places, thru the years. Hold tight, this gifted love, dear Joni. Your writes are so true as morning openers brand new regards. The Canadian air saddles of horses…power of the written words, the human felt melodies that abides ones real feels. See of thos winds…currents too perceive like no other! Joni, your gifts are for each and everyone—with acts of kindness…and joy. ”We are Stardust!”