The Summer of Love, 1969 (The Hippie Thread)

Oh, my, a silk shantung suit. I still like suits, and around then, or a few years before is when I really started to.

Tracy's Donuts ... that Fish and Chips place, the bowling alley across from the Straight Theater, that drive-in around the corner, there right across from the entrance to the park - what was its name - Don's, I think, but it was so long, and so very, very, so unbelieveably much ago. The Digger's Free Store, The Garuda coffee shop, with those fantastic teas and incredible pastries, and the shop next door that sold leather and fur and shimmering indian silk and paiseley linen in swaths and whole bolts. Love Burger, and the little Chinese grocery, The Drog Store, and the Bank of America branch that Patty Hearst robbed, and big, wide brimmed hats. The Lion coffeehouse, over on the other side of The Panhandle - it was on, or just off, Baker street, I think. Barefoot kids, dirty, tattered, diffidently beseeching passersby for spare change - usually with a dirty, tattered, scared little puppy leashed with a bit of twine. An explosion of smells, a symphony of colors, a riot of sounds. The tinkling of bells, the wail of a sax - a passable riff of classical flamenco guitar, the roar of a bus, a giggle, a tambourine. Patchouli and sandalwood and pot and curry and dust and exhaust fumes. Alone in a crowd, or amongst hordes of freinds you didn't know - did it matter? Not if you were there. There on Haight Street. Then. That's all that mattered. Then.

Geez, I am reading the perfect book for this. The Company You Keep, by Neil Gordon. It's about a group of post-Weather people, decades later, with a lot of mulling by different participants. The review I read said how boring it was (I paraphrase) but instead I am getting into peoples' memories written, purportedly, as they are constructs of the author, many years later. Even though there are a few ranting type memories, it isn't a lefto manifesto, yet anyway, and I am 3/4ths through it, nor a righty scourge of them, yet, anyway.

I wasn't part of all that, was one of the many people that read about it. But in '75, the theater group that subleased our space for a few nights a week (a member of which I married) got a script from Donald Freed, a Patty Hearst story. It had a unique take. I didn't read it, by my ex did, was interested, as he was raised in south LA, right near Florence and Normandie, and at that time was trying to write about it. He was/is white, but when I first knew him he wasn't all that comfortable in non-south LA.

MA and Osso, yes, Hugh Masakela. He was so cute and innocent. He was on a flight of mine going just as far as L.A. where he would connect with another flight to South America. At that time, I was touched at his appreciation when I told him how much fun his concert had been. He was still unknown and thrilled to be recognized and respected. Remembering the innocence is almost painful.

EOE, your memory is part of that time, a part that was elegant and exciting.

Interesting stuff...

Thanks for the background on the Jaynettes Timber...It was on a compilation...one of the first LP's I ever got.

Weird, I remember that song well. Not a favorite, but there, there, and then there. It might be that I remember it from forced listening to oldies stations.

Not that I don't like a few oldies, but not a steady diet of semiprecious pap, ne'er mind how sentimentally I feel from time to time.

The oldies' stations don't really re do the long plays or anything edgy... at least the ones around here.

I remember the night the Beatles came on Ed Sullivan...I had major long Elvis hair with a big pomp, waterfall and ducks...all slicked back.....The Beatles played and it was into the shower, Vitalis and Brylcreem gone forever, and next day I showed up at West Jr. High School with Beatle hair in my face and (GASP) over my ears.....straight home for three days dude......

not really a summer of love rememberance, but i can remember (barely), going to windsor to see my grandparents, we lived about an hour outside the city, adn going down to watch the smoke rising from the riots in detroit (july 1967), as i stated earlier i was only about 4 1/2 at the time and didn't really grasp the whole situation at the time

Black day in july
Motor city madness has touched the countryside
And through the smoke and cinders
You can hear it far and wide
The doors are quickly bolted
And the children locked inside
Black day in july
Black day in july
And the soul of motor city is bared across the land
As the book of law and order is taken in the hands
Of the sons of the fathers who were carried to this land

Black day in july
Black day in july
In the streets of motor city is a deadly silent sound
And the body of a dead youth lies stretched upon the ground
Upon the filthy pavement
No reason can be found

Black day in july
Black day in july
Motor city madness has touched the countryside
And the people rise in anger
And the streets begin to fill
And there's gunfire from the rooftops
And the blood begins to spill

Black day in july

In the mansion of the governor
There's nothing that is known for sure
The telephone is ringing
And the pendulum is swinging
And they wonder how it happened
And they really know the reason
And it wasn't just the temperature
And it wasn't just the season

Black day in july
Black day in july
Motor city's burning and the flames are running wild
They reflect upon the waters of the river and the lake
And everyone is listening
And everyone's awake

Black day in july
Black day in july
The printing press is turning
And the news is quickly flashed
And you read your morning paper
And you sip your cup of tea
And you wonder just in passing
Is it him or is it me

Black day in july

In the office of the president
The deed is done the troops are sent
There's really not much choice you see
It looks to us like anarchy
And then the tanks go rolling in
To patch things up as best they can
There is no time to hesitate
The speech is made the dues can wait

Black day in july
Black day in july
The streets of motor city now are quiet and serene
But the shapes of gutted buildings
Strike terror to the heart
And you say how did it happen
And you say how did it start
Why can't we all be brothers
Why can't we live in peace
But the hands of the have-nots
Keep falling out of reach

Black day in july
Black day in july
Motor city madness has touched the countryside
And through the smoke and cinders
You can hear it far and wide
The doors are quickly bolted
And the children locked inside

dyslexia mentioned H.P. Lovecraft, the musical group.

Wow, that was a hell of a hallucinating group.

I looked once for HPLovecraft lyrics on the internet, to no avail.

One song went: "look at me, I'm rooting like a tree". A vivid description of being mhashish.

Another song was about "the clouds of zero" and had something about "tic-tac muscles".

That record, and similar ones, did not circulate freely in Mexico, under the vigilante wings of daddy-government.

High Flying bird which has been sung, recorded and re-recorded by everyone from Judy Henski to Ritchie Havens.(well yeah and H.P. Lovecraft.

See dys, interpretations like mine is what happens when you're not on your 5.
Anyway, I like the stoned version of that blues that was engraved in my young man's memory.

Here's one from then that still soars - from Dave LaFlamme's "Its a Beautiful Day" (Somebody - Dyslexia, I think, mentioned 'em earlier). Patti Santos, the female vocalist, had a helluva set of pipes. Not quite like Minnie Ripperton, but in the same ballpark.


WHITE BIRD
It's A Beautiful Day


White bird in a golden cage
On a winter's day, in the rain
White bird in a golden cage
Alone.

The leaves blow 'cross the long black road
To the darkened sky, in its rage
But the white bird just sits in her cage
Unknown.

White bird must fly or she will die
The white bird dreams of the aspen tree
With her dying leaves turning gold
But the white bird just sits in her cage
Growing old

White bird must fly or she will die
White bird must fly or she will die

The sunsets come, the sunsets go
The clouds float by, the earth turns slow
And a young bird's eyes do always glow
And she must fly
And she must fly
And she must fly

White bird in a golden cage
On a winter's day, in the rain
White bird in a golden cage
Alone.

White bird must fly or she will die
White bird must fly or she will die
White bird must fly or she will die
White bird must fly.

First, I have to say "Right on, Diane" thanks for the insights.


Okay. Here's a hippie-dippy memory, a blast from the past.

July 4th, 1970 Ballinger, Texas 109 degrees
Folk Rock Festival
Six Thousand very hot, very dry, hot, hot hippies sitting on the grass, in the sun, the west Texas sun, baking as we waited for the next band to set up.

The day had all been about covers : Crosby, Still, Nash and Young: Simon and Garfunkel: America: Eagles(?) and we were all frying on the blankets.....

The guy (I never saw him before) walked up on stage and finger-flicked on the mikes until he found one that was on.....

"Hey ya'll! (applause)
"Yeah, yeah, hey, hey, yeah., yeah... Well, I know you're all hot, (hoots and applause) and the Sound System is setting up now and while they do I have something for you. (applause, hoots, yeah yeahs)

He reachs down into this big canvas bag and yanks up a giant bag of ice.
He holds it up over his head while he says the rest:

"I'm passing this out, i'm sending this out" he says, " I'm asking that if you have anything you can send out, send it out now, send it out now for the love of God, send it out, (applause) send it out now for love (high applause) send it out now for PEACE (huge applause)...

And he steps off the stage and hands the big bag of ice to the front row.

Okay, I am halfway back in the crowd and everybody is looking at that bag of ice and watching it pass down the front row and into the next and everybody is reaching into the bag and getting a cube or two, you can see some guys are bashing on the big chunks and making little pieces and the girls are standing up and waving their arms as the ice bag comes closer and then the bag moves on and there is some kind of commotion down about four rows from me and I can't see what the deal is and then I do...... it's grapes......... that's right....grapes, white seedless grapes and there are lots of them and the bag of ice is now two bags and it's not the same bag ,,,,,,..... it's two new bags,,, and now there are peaches and slices of oranges all being passed around, passed up, passed back ,,,, there's a guy handing out what looks like oatmeal cookies and his girlfriend is throwing them to people three rows back and now there is one of those cheap styrofoam coolers full of ice cold Mountain Dew and Dr Pepper in cans and more ice.

Two girls, t-shirts soaked in ice water, are dancing towards the stage, the crowd is on it's feet, there are shouts and yee-haws rebounding around the grassy field in the Concho County and there are cold drinks and pieces of ice and fruit and water, water, water everywhere, there are gallons of water, water is being thrown around and poured over and splashed on the steaming bodies of the hot, hot hippies in the sun.

It is a lovely afternoon. There is a little grass smoke wafting over the sunset songs of a young singer named Lisa Moss who's voice cuts like a scalpel across our brains and turns a song like " Ticket to Ride" into a lament for the ages. The sun goes down and because there are no lights for the stage the festival ends and we sit on our still damp blankets and look up at the brightening stars.

Sitting beside me, I'll never forget her, sweet Jeannie West of San Angelo ties her bandana more tightly around her dark hair and says "I finally get it, just how he did it and all those people were saved."
"What?" I say dully "What did you get and who are the people you mean? Us?"
"No," she says,"The ones in the Bible, the ones that had followed Jesus to that place way out of town, where he did the same thing that we saw today only with fishes and loaves and baskets of leftovers. Didn't you see it too?"
"Oh yeah," I say wondering, if I even saw anything, "Love spread around is a beautiful thing."
"Truly." she says and she flops down to lie her head on my chest and we watched the stars swim through the heavens like the fish in the sea. We lay there, like the shepherds of old, waiting for the the host of angels to appear.

Joe (miracles are more common than we think) Nation

Great post, Joe! Truly great!

Timber re White Bird by Beautiful Day, kinda thinking the fem vocalist was Linda LaFlame (sp?)
Oops wrong again Linda LaFlamme did the keyboards not the vocals.

speaking of David LaFlamme, he started out in the San Fran sound playing with Big Brother and then Dan Hicks (hot licks) before moving on to Orkustra and eventually It's a Beautiful Day but split with Linda after the first LP, btw the 2nd LP "Marrying Maiden" had a song dedicated to Don "Sugarcane Harris" of Don & Dewy fame. I hung with Dewy (Terry)for a few years when he was doing the Oxford Hotel sat nights in Denver and Don went on to play with John Mayal and the Blues Breakers on the american tours. Ah, the days of yore.

I have a best of Don And Dewy album that smokes...they were truly the equal of Little Richard.

Timber, the perfect album and cover for those days...

Bobby Beausoleil, of the Manson Family, had been a member of LaFlamme's Orkustra, and had played regularly with Dan Hicks. Serving life in prison, he has married, done a couple of semi-major-movie soundtracks, and he released a 2 CD set of his music in 1999. He also has acquired what amounts to a full-body tattoo, in his own words done with " ... ballpoint pen ink and a broken guitar string".

That Its a Beautiful Day cover was inspired by a couple of Maxfield Parrish works from the 1920s



Oh, and while Patti Santos was recording the vocals for that album, she was still in her teens. Supposedly, she was the model for the cover art. In 1978, she and her husband, bassist Bud Cockrell, released a joint album titled New Beginnings. Patti died in December of '89, the driver in a single-vehicle, alcohol-related car crash.


Edited to fix links. Twice. Gotta learn to use "Preview"

In the summer of 1969 I just finished my first year of teaching at St.
Peter's Boys' High School in Gloucester, MA and was working at a
summer camp in East Barrington NH. I had short hair, wore a lot of
black, and was under the vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. So
no hippie stories about me.

My friend Pat, who was a member of the same religious order, is another
case altogether. His assignment was to a camp West Milford NJ.

His recollection: