BY OUR RESIDENT WRITER, ERIC LASTICK...
1965 thrusts thru—the whole hippie movements, revolution and the volunteers of ”Flower Power” Like brigades of free love, not war. Utopian celebratory—aid and it’s puller’s towards the Haight street avenues of peace…the feeds of circuses and dresser drummed-up images of peace-nicks in Edwardian wardrobes…and funny wrapped smokey tyesticks—up and down the roadside show of long haired hippie freaks; as the straight world of it’s collective society had referred and called of them. Family types as tourists board on bus and famous San Franciscan trolly cars for a nominal fee—as the holiday grouped guided speaker who they entrust to witness first hand of the life and eventual fall of ”The Hippie”
(PSYCHEDELIC ART AS A WELL-SPRING IN 60’S CULTURE)
Allegory reads a color packed fancy poster sign…designed of acid laced pictures of current rock bands—as if the actual pictures presents of an ”eye opening’ movement in bizarre collages of tranquil colors—-bursts right before you;and draw the artist’s work—right directly off the pages in dreams. Local Charlatans and old west coasters dive-bomb in a vat of psychedelics.Hazy Hit-Masters, the local scene…as the straight and narrow circles of inquisitive review and acknowledge: ”The Seeds” ”The Fever Tree” ”Arthur Lee’s, Love” & Scott McKenzie’s ”Are You Going To San Francisco with Flowers in Your hair”. Written by his hip-writer’s pal, Papa John Philips. One can feel the tones and vibrant scene of the beauty in the voice of Mama Cass Elliott. The Byrds Mcguinn, art-thou-Roger…and anew from Jim—spill of the mescaline on the Coltrane tracks—8 miles high…and never look-in’ back!
(GOLDEN GATE PARK…AND THE GOLDEN BRIDGE’S OF THOSE TIMES)
San Francisco hindsight …intercom of remnants out of ”a ghost in the machine”. High line and high lighted spoke the observer…see it of the concerts at Golden Gate Park. The heavy of ”Haight”. The revolution of Hippies form unison of beliefs and crazy zany headdress…woman loose and barely clothed…drapes a little like fawns and raw hides scarfs reveals of true body and shapes. Holding signs in protests of the Vietnam involvement…and Lyndon Johnson’s heavy hand in small percentage winners…deaths of innocents…soldiers dares in the streets to face horrible cruel setbacks…labels of baby killers…army riggers clear dust bombs carpeted of created death and destruction—while leaving the actual heroes like scatters of gunfire and psychological holes in one’s head…Metaphorical as it was real. Jerry Garcia grand old movement…and father of the hippie—and all the players in the band— & as too these remnants and revolves of so–heavy a time. A riff and a charmed genre to it’s fulfilled: ‘HERE STAND THE GRATEFUL DEAD’S EVOLUTION!’
From warlock pages of pasts…motorcycle driving of musical bends too the chords and roads. Courage stops at sleazy dines and that new developmental of the Golden Roads of age old Utopia.
BRIDE’S MARRIER OF THE GOLDEN ROADS OF UNCLE JOHN’S BAND: Space jam fine flowered and earth bedded sole wonder-er, compressed of such earthiest clothed hippie woman of the 60’s anew…and new fangled life’s run with the sunshine—so very to it’s color of Orange…Jerry-mandering Garcia; a certain fill of earth father to the dead of it all…and the Tibetan book’s girth and challenges of early worth and time peddler of depths of mystical know-how and of it’s structures…was a male witch— branching thru—psychedelics of the 1965’s, the cranium natural; although soon after…and in the terrace and of where acid dreams; proclaimed a new founded band out of San Francisco…given the heart-ed rightful name of ”The Grateful Dead” Star liner grant me a son named Weir. Bob, a teenage bloke seemingly a hundred year in waiting…dead drawn humor out of psychos sciences of the young! The new incarnate, a guitar style reveals to join in this working man dead; and now, so drawn-in to the concept of acid runs…trails so vivid…look into the eyes of the beholder. Jerry a guide maid…all out of gander; and so clear the four way…a pained glass find- ‘as bassist Phil Lesh discovery of ”The Pigpen United” There extrudenior and keyboard splendor—go the lucky 7’s of our rare earth’s. The journey just begun. Play-in’ in the band, forever more…and even after death…and greatful. This is what makes of ”The Dead” Love um or lump um… one must sooner or later confess of the brilliance in the maze. The space cases hooting and hollering like over zealous nut jobs! NO, this is a real concept of good music.Unique even. Robert Hunter a wordsmith traveling with the band, whether in check of all the roadies…bus riders…good acid laced fun. NO, Robert to his living quarters, writing the lyrics so splendidly good. Purple micro dot and blues makeup draw so large to the actual effects of lyrical music making. The Dead had it all. Fan-base huge in your socks…you’re traveling shines. Followers as natural body lovers in the in of taking of the day trip to months thrust-ed thru years…as it was an institution out of the sunshine madness of LSD trips. Group in large pairs all along the highway…coast to holy coast. The law of the land was ”Dead’ & much greatful for it! The avenues were systemic of culture…follows as if a movement…a surge much more than music…and that of fun. A love-in to conquer all. Mona, i’ll be home soon. The Dead has taken places of love i cannot receive anywhere else, like family…and new place of birth! I have found home here on the road…The trip of a lifetime with Jerry Garcia. And so Greatful alongside it’s dead.
Fabulous ‘write up’ By Erick Lastick, at least from my neck of the States..Michigan..we can relate. I was a bit young in ’65..but I was THERE..and really was just about everywhere… the only way you would not be affected by ‘all of this’ was if you were in total seclusion but there are still those VIBES. I feel, Eric, and I thank you kindly! You brought them OUT of the closet.