THE JEFFERSON AIRPLANE: MAN, IT WAS WILD
The apocalypse has come to the O'Keefe Centre. It arrived last night with the Jefferson Airplane, in the opening of a week-long exposition of the San Francisco Scene. Lights flashed, incense incensed, and there was dancing in the aisles. There's no description possible for the wildness: if you are interested, go and let it happen to you.
Of the three groups which appeared last night, the Jefferson Airplane is the single one to which the term musicians may be applied. Their originality, inventiveness, and excitement place them light years beyond anything else at the O'Keefe last night.
The show opened with Luke and the Apostles, a regional religious group, full of sound and fury. Amid their self-conscious, pretentious and stupefyingly awful performance, there was not a shred of talent. (I must admit, though, that Luke himself performs with a spectacular repertoire of gyrations, as if he had heat rash all over.)
Worse was to follow, in the person (and how hesitantly I use that word!) of the Grateful Dead, five simian men who presumably reek with San Francisco authenticity. Not only were they clueless enough to repeat a song which had just been sung by Luke (and Good Morning, Little School-girls scarcely deserved a single hearing) but their time onstage was nothing but noise. Not volume, not intensity, but noise.
It sounded like a jet taking off in your inner ear, while the mad scientist was perversely scraping your nerves to shreds. The hallucinatory horror of the first half was relieved only by the quite spectacularly beautiful light show by Headlights, with additional environmental lighting (by Sensefex Inc.). The sensual appeal of the variety of colors and images was direct and visceral: great colored waves lazed about the three great screens on the O'Keefe Stages, flowers bloomed suddenly, naked nymphs splashed in the surfs, Thoreau and Toscanini drifted through space.
Both the groups in the first half repeatedly urged the audience to dance. But with trash like that, the dividing line between spectator and collaborator was rigidly maintained. The two groups were also so carried away with their own performances that they literally had to be dragged off the stage.
There were no problems with the Jefferson Airplane. Its hypnotic performance brought the dancers out. For a moment, it looked as if the O'Keefe guards were going to act as deterrents, but the Airplane manager Bill Graham ran about like King Kong amok to make sure that dance space was available.
The striking versatility of the Jefferson Airplane enabled it to make a variety of effects. Its instrumental gifts are secure, its improvisatory sense is invigorating, and its lyrics are often moving. It also has the immense advantage of the services of Grace Slick, one of the most beautiful and spellbinding persons on view today. Her shattering performance of White Rabbit and Two Heads were unforgettable. All the songs (particularly Fat Angel, the beautiful Today, and Somebody to Love) are carefully constructed and arranged. The group's performances are a direct communication from one consciousness to another, with no extraneous interference.
It was a pity, therefore, that the audience response which the group inspired was frequently so superficial. One revolting sub-teen stood onstage trying out a variety of Judy Garland gestures, with no greater interest than having himself photographed. There were many like him, an objectionable distraction for those who had come to listen, and not to indulge in ludicrous self-exposure.
(by Urjo Kareda, from the Toronto Globe & Mail, August 1, 1967)
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