NEW MUSIC MAY CAUSE HISTORY TO REPEAT ITSELF
The rock jam sessions at The Matrix on Fillmore Street, judging from a couple of hours there last night, are the most consistently interesting experimental music in town.
The Matrix a few years ago was the seed bed of what is now the astonishingly successful San Francisco sound.
The new music that guitarist Jerry Garcia and his friends were getting into last night may indicate history will repeat itself and The Matrix will be the home of a renaissance in the San Francisco rock musicians' attitudes.
Garcia, the prodigious instrumentalist and nominal leader of the Grateful Dead, is a spokesman for more freedom of expression and a far looser and expanded musical scene.
"Fate brought us together here tonight," he quipped, "so this is fate music."
"We're trying new things, feeding ideas to each other, using new instrumental blends, inviting guests to join us...we are enlarging our world."
The Grateful Dead is still alive, but Garcia doesn't believe in months on end of traveling, doing regular concerts, playing things safe.
"We may have a full Grateful Dead show some day," he said, "with girl singers, more complex rhythms. We may even enlarge the band."
Last night with two drummers, guest guitarist Elvin Bishop, and bassist Phil Lesh, Garcia was getting into more fascinating and enjoyable expressions than I run into in most of the more stereotyped rock and jazz clubs and concerts.
This electronic experimentation will never be commercially successful. It has long-line themes with continuous improvisation. Far closer to the jazz sessions of old than to the neatly processed pop-rock of today.
The Matrix is a relaxed musical workshop. It's a beer-wine place with neat decor, an inexpensive menu, a beautiful sound system, and some beautiful people, too.
(by Philip Elwood, from the San Francisco Examiner, 31 October 1968)
https://archive.org/details/gd68-10-30.sbd.sacks.1205.sbeok.shnf
Sep 7, 2018
June 7, 1968: Carousel Ballroom
BALLROOM IS NO PLACE FOR A CONCERT
Sure recipe for a mob scene - the Jefferson Airplane and the Grateful Dead in a downtown ballroom on a Friday night in June.
The Carousel last night was jam packed, but crowd quantity did not guarantee musical quality, and neither group was at its best form.
These affairs aren't dances, they are concerts. The San Francisco sound is no longer the catalyst for dancing. The fans either don't want to dance or they can't because of sardine-can conditions. So what's happening on stage, through the loud speakers, is the whole scene.
And as a concert hall the Carousel is woefully inadequate. The light show doesn't illuminate enough of the stage; the sound system, last night, was distorting badly; and if 3000 people are going to sit, there might as well be chairs.
Far more bodies would be closer, and more comfortable; maybe the created floor space would then invite dancing. I miss it.
The Jefferson Airplane always comes on strong, and they did last night. But after "It's No Secret" the set I heard became muddled. Grace Slick is singing louder and guttier than in the past but seems to have lost some of her melodic beauty. Her duets with Marty Balin have a sameness and often are hurried and ineffective.
The Airplane's ensemble strength was inconsistent; even the heavy bassist Jack Casady was often lost in the acoustic imbalance. Lead guitarist Jorma Kaukonen, always steady, worked in some nice solos and wah-wah effects with his usual taste.
But the group's long experiments-in-sound, electronic dissonance, drum breaks, etc., failed to come off.
The Dead should be Grateful for guitarist Jerry Garcia. Without him, last night, their set would have been a shambles, a joke. Garcia's astonishing performance consistently places him ever further ahead of his colleagues.
(by Philip Elwood, from the San Francisco Examiner, 8 June 1968)
https://archive.org/details/gd68-xx-xx.sbd.vernon.9426.sbeok.shnf (might include some recordings from the Carousel, June '68)
Sure recipe for a mob scene - the Jefferson Airplane and the Grateful Dead in a downtown ballroom on a Friday night in June.
The Carousel last night was jam packed, but crowd quantity did not guarantee musical quality, and neither group was at its best form.
These affairs aren't dances, they are concerts. The San Francisco sound is no longer the catalyst for dancing. The fans either don't want to dance or they can't because of sardine-can conditions. So what's happening on stage, through the loud speakers, is the whole scene.
And as a concert hall the Carousel is woefully inadequate. The light show doesn't illuminate enough of the stage; the sound system, last night, was distorting badly; and if 3000 people are going to sit, there might as well be chairs.
Far more bodies would be closer, and more comfortable; maybe the created floor space would then invite dancing. I miss it.
The Jefferson Airplane always comes on strong, and they did last night. But after "It's No Secret" the set I heard became muddled. Grace Slick is singing louder and guttier than in the past but seems to have lost some of her melodic beauty. Her duets with Marty Balin have a sameness and often are hurried and ineffective.
The Airplane's ensemble strength was inconsistent; even the heavy bassist Jack Casady was often lost in the acoustic imbalance. Lead guitarist Jorma Kaukonen, always steady, worked in some nice solos and wah-wah effects with his usual taste.
But the group's long experiments-in-sound, electronic dissonance, drum breaks, etc., failed to come off.
The Dead should be Grateful for guitarist Jerry Garcia. Without him, last night, their set would have been a shambles, a joke. Garcia's astonishing performance consistently places him ever further ahead of his colleagues.
(by Philip Elwood, from the San Francisco Examiner, 8 June 1968)
https://archive.org/details/gd68-xx-xx.sbd.vernon.9426.sbeok.shnf (might include some recordings from the Carousel, June '68)
* * *
An earlier article from the March Airplane/Dead shows...
FUTILE DANCE-REVIVING ATTEMPTS
There were those Friday and Saturday evenings a couple years back when the original Jefferson Airplane, the Great Society, and the Charlatans got together under promoter Bill Graham's roof to hold a dance - not a sitdown affair or a mixture of the two highly unbalanced by the latter - but an uninhibited bash overflowing with perpetual physical motion.
Those were the days in the "dark ages" when curious rock fans left their homes for an evening of entertainment and flocked together to live a few hours with a new breed of music which was still a seedling at the time but threatening to blossom at the first possibility. In the beginning the reaction was slow but progressed naturally and, as a likely response, people danced.
There were a few people back then, though, hardly more than a handful in the crowds, that for reasons of their own risked soiling their bottoms to sit gaping at the bands. Though being stationary wasn't the most positive reaction to this new movement of rhythms, this minority was accepted.
There have been many changes since those early days, the most obvious being the tremendous influx in the number of disciples attached to the ever-expanding music revolution occurring locally. The scene has become a way of life, and each day new recruits discover how beautiful it is.
Another remarkable change is the manner these disciples now react to the entire rock circle at the ballrooms here. People, for the most part, don't dance anymore. Whether the groups performing be English bands, New Yorkers or locals, there's a new philosophy which has risen locally out of rock followers: the majority, reversing the tables of a couple years back, now storm the ballrooms to park their rumps at the most comfortable floor angle adjacent to the stage to become part of a huge mass of "eyes and ears."
Rock bands in the immediate area also seem to be on a 'kick' of trying to revive the old ballroom routine of "everyone dance because it's the thing to do."
A couple weeks ago at the Carousel, pleas to "please dance" coming from both the Airplane and the Dead more or less back-fired with an audience response that was somewhat nil. Most stood up still securing their posts on the floor, a few made attempts to dance, but overall the pleas were futile ones.
Where has dancing gone? Better yet, why is it people prefer to sit motionless hour upon hour in ballrooms just listening?
This writer has reason to believe that the crux of the "problem" lies in the designs of local ballroom promoters who are continually presenting two and sometimes three "big name" bands on the same bill each weekend, thus drawing full house crowds which naturally are unfavorable to a dancing atmosphere. They make great concerts, but rather congested dances.
It seems the only logical solution is for the promoters to "lighten" the bills, that is if they're sympathetic to this "dance drive" currently being undertaken by local musicians and aren't in the scene "just for the money." And until favorable dancing conditions are reached, this writer feels that bands should permit their audiences to sit (or stand) and breathe comfortably rather than strive to have them do the impossible.
It's not that people don't want to dance anymore, but this beautiful thing called rock music seems to draw massive crowds as if it were a living magnet.
According to a spokesman for Headstone Productions, which is now putting on the shows at the recently "revamped" Carousel Ballroom, dance-concerts "will become a very regular thing" at the Carousel, quite possibly on a steady weekend basis. This weekend the Grateful Dead and the excellent showman, Chuck Berry, will headline.
Country Joe and the Fish, Steppenwolf, and the Flaming Groovies are at the Fillmore this weekend while Jeremy and the Satyrs, Sons of Champlin, the Fourth Way, and Al Alexander's Timeless Blues Band are at Avalon.
(by Martin J. Arbunich, from the Guardsman, March 27, 1968)
Sep 5, 2018
October 1, 1967: Greek Theatre, Berkeley
A BIG DAY FOR JAZZ FROM UC TO THE BAY (excerpt)
It was a big day, yesterday, for the sophisticated jazz fan.
Eleven hours of mainstream swing and traditional Dixieland flowed from the Club Pier 23 on the Embarcadero during the Bill Napier benefit, and nearly four hours of the University of California's musical potpourri absorbed the afternoon at the Hearst Greek Theatre on the Berkeley campus.
About 5000 attended the Cal "Centennial Jazz" matinee and the Napier benefit drew over 500 to the waterfront festivities.
I would wish the two events could have been shuffled occasionally: the informal enthusiasm at the Pier 23 was missing at the Berkeley show, and the modern musical experimentation was lacking on the waterfront.
In Berkeley the Grateful Dead, rock-blues group, a generally interesting and popular electronic band, was boring. In an outdoor environment with brilliant sound projection (and the Greek's naturally superlative acoustics) the Dead's presentation never grabbed the audience and took them aloft.
No one danced, nor indicated any desire to, and other than Jerry Garcia's wonderful guitar variations there wasn't anything very interesting in the Dead's hour of ordinary chord changes, occasional vocals, and undistinguished rhythms.
The Charles Lloyd quartet, in contrast, displayed superlative individual musicianship, fascinating complexities in their ensemble performance, and a wide ranging series of themes on which to improvise.
Pianist Keith Jarrett constantly taunted leader Lloyd into esoteric flute or saxophone expressions, and when Jarrett devoted his whole introductory solo space to variations on strummed-piano strings and microphonic percussion, the Greek Theatre audience roared with delight.
I have never heard Lloyd's quartet in a more exuberant mood and their artistic good humor and good taste might well have been noted by the dour Dead.
The Bola Sete trio introduced the afternoon with a typical cross section of Sete's appealing guitar. His Bach, Villa Lobos, and Haydn mixed with flamenco and Brazilian themes is one of the most attractive blends of musical expression on the American scene.
[ . . . ]
(by Philip Elwood, from the San Francisco Examiner, 2 October 1967)
It was a big day, yesterday, for the sophisticated jazz fan.
Eleven hours of mainstream swing and traditional Dixieland flowed from the Club Pier 23 on the Embarcadero during the Bill Napier benefit, and nearly four hours of the University of California's musical potpourri absorbed the afternoon at the Hearst Greek Theatre on the Berkeley campus.
About 5000 attended the Cal "Centennial Jazz" matinee and the Napier benefit drew over 500 to the waterfront festivities.
I would wish the two events could have been shuffled occasionally: the informal enthusiasm at the Pier 23 was missing at the Berkeley show, and the modern musical experimentation was lacking on the waterfront.
In Berkeley the Grateful Dead, rock-blues group, a generally interesting and popular electronic band, was boring. In an outdoor environment with brilliant sound projection (and the Greek's naturally superlative acoustics) the Dead's presentation never grabbed the audience and took them aloft.
No one danced, nor indicated any desire to, and other than Jerry Garcia's wonderful guitar variations there wasn't anything very interesting in the Dead's hour of ordinary chord changes, occasional vocals, and undistinguished rhythms.
The Charles Lloyd quartet, in contrast, displayed superlative individual musicianship, fascinating complexities in their ensemble performance, and a wide ranging series of themes on which to improvise.
Pianist Keith Jarrett constantly taunted leader Lloyd into esoteric flute or saxophone expressions, and when Jarrett devoted his whole introductory solo space to variations on strummed-piano strings and microphonic percussion, the Greek Theatre audience roared with delight.
I have never heard Lloyd's quartet in a more exuberant mood and their artistic good humor and good taste might well have been noted by the dour Dead.
The Bola Sete trio introduced the afternoon with a typical cross section of Sete's appealing guitar. His Bach, Villa Lobos, and Haydn mixed with flamenco and Brazilian themes is one of the most attractive blends of musical expression on the American scene.
[ . . . ]
(by Philip Elwood, from the San Francisco Examiner, 2 October 1967)
* * *
A GOOD CONCERT, BUT OVER-LONG
A concert so long it lost both impact and listeners ushered in Jazz '68 at UC yesterday afternoon.
Staged in the Greek Theater on the Berkeley campus, the program was 20 minutes late in starting and then ran for nearly four hours.
Before it ended, a large portion of the 4,700 persons who attended had departed. As a result they heard none or little of the concert's stellar attraction, the Charles Lloyd Quartet.
This is the group that created a sensation at the recent Russian jazz festival in Tallin, subsequently became the first jazz group to play in the prestigious music festival at Bergen, Norway, and in two weeks will leave on a tour of [Europe].
Much of what the quartet plays might be described as avant garde music that pays heed to form and to the blues.
Lloyd plays flute, alto flute and tenor saxophone and, when occasion demands, percussion. His associates are pianist Keith Jarrett, bassist Ron McClure, and drummer Jack DeJohnette.
Their offerings included "Temple Bells," which featured the leader's scintillating flute and DeJohnette's telling use of cymbals; "Sweet Georgia Bright," a piece with a blues foundation but which was far removed from Memphis; a beautiful ballad, "Love Ship," an Indian-influenced number, "Tagore," and the lyrical "Forest Flower."
Jarrett's use of his instrument, including plucking of the strings, is remarkable, and McClure is accomplished in both accompaniment and solos.
Guitarist Bola Sete's trio began the program with an hour-long set that featured the music of his native Brazil and was enjoyable if somewhat overlong.
Next came the Grateful Dead, a leading quintet in the acid rock realm. Drawing heavily on Negro blues-rock creations, the combo is chiefly notable for the playing of its lead guitarist, Jerry Garcia, and of Pigpen McKernan, who doubles organ and harmonica. There are too many instances, however, of a lack of variety in the group's offerings, and its hour-long program would have been improved by trimming.
(by Russ Wilson, from the Oakland Tribune, 2 October 1967)
Thanks to jgmf.blogspot.com
June 28, 1967: Oakland Auditorium, Oakland CA
TEEN-AGERS SIT STILL FOR A FIASCO
Last night at the Oakland Auditorium my incredulity at the patience of a teen-age audience hit an all time high.
The Oakland event appeared, on paper, to be the best rock concert of the season, with the Young Rascals heading a high quality bill.
Scheduled for 8:15, absolutely nothing happened on stage until 9:20 when a disc-jockey m.c. lamely commented that there were amplification difficulties. No one, naturally, heard his remarks.
By 9:30 the Sons of Champlin tried to get going, but with no vocal mikes in operation it was a lost cause. They finally knocked off a straight instrumental ad-lib blues and split.
Another panic button was hit backstage, the audience passively hung on, and by 10 p.m. Country Joe and the Fish launched their usual barrage. Someone had cleverly deduced that the auditorium's sound system might be used. It was, although the balance was wretched for the rest of the concert.
Meanwhile the Bob Holt light production crew, projecting abstractions from backstage onto a fine mesh curtain, found that the Young Rascals' organ amplification boxes had been piled like a Stonehenge right in the projectors' line of sight.
The Rascals refused to move anything, the curtain didn't capture the visuals adequately, and Holt's artistic efforts (although of the most consistent quality of anything on stage all night) were pale representations of what might have been.
After another typical 15 minute scuffling on stage with cords, mikes, instruments, and workmen careening into one another, the Grateful Dead ploughed through a pedestrian set.
Bill the Drummer squashed a hole through his bass drum head (occasioning another delay) and Phil Lesh made pertinent comments regarding the debacle in which the audience and performers had become involved.
Pigpen's "Good Mornin' Little School Girl" came through the electronic haze well enough, although his organ was incomprehensibly mushy. Pigpen is now wearing his hair pulled back, with an old-style Admiral's fore-and-aft hat with Robin Hood feather locks.
By 11:30 producer Bill Quarry had taken over the mike, explaining that there had been more problems at this one concert than he had ever before experienced. He laughingly said it might be "the latest concert in the history of Oakland," and launched into announcements of his future presentations.
Virtually all the concert's faults could, of course, have been eliminated had the show been properly produced in the first place.
The Grass Roots were still assembling equipment at 11:40. Quarry announced that there would be an intermission (!) after their set, and this reviewer left without discovering if the Young Rascals ever got groovin'.
It is astonishing that teen-agers and their parents (dozens of whom were pacing the sidewalk) continue to support such fiascos.
(by Philip Elwood, from the San Francisco Examiner, 29 June 1967)
Last night at the Oakland Auditorium my incredulity at the patience of a teen-age audience hit an all time high.
The Oakland event appeared, on paper, to be the best rock concert of the season, with the Young Rascals heading a high quality bill.
Scheduled for 8:15, absolutely nothing happened on stage until 9:20 when a disc-jockey m.c. lamely commented that there were amplification difficulties. No one, naturally, heard his remarks.
By 9:30 the Sons of Champlin tried to get going, but with no vocal mikes in operation it was a lost cause. They finally knocked off a straight instrumental ad-lib blues and split.
Another panic button was hit backstage, the audience passively hung on, and by 10 p.m. Country Joe and the Fish launched their usual barrage. Someone had cleverly deduced that the auditorium's sound system might be used. It was, although the balance was wretched for the rest of the concert.
Meanwhile the Bob Holt light production crew, projecting abstractions from backstage onto a fine mesh curtain, found that the Young Rascals' organ amplification boxes had been piled like a Stonehenge right in the projectors' line of sight.
The Rascals refused to move anything, the curtain didn't capture the visuals adequately, and Holt's artistic efforts (although of the most consistent quality of anything on stage all night) were pale representations of what might have been.
After another typical 15 minute scuffling on stage with cords, mikes, instruments, and workmen careening into one another, the Grateful Dead ploughed through a pedestrian set.
Bill the Drummer squashed a hole through his bass drum head (occasioning another delay) and Phil Lesh made pertinent comments regarding the debacle in which the audience and performers had become involved.
Pigpen's "Good Mornin' Little School Girl" came through the electronic haze well enough, although his organ was incomprehensibly mushy. Pigpen is now wearing his hair pulled back, with an old-style Admiral's fore-and-aft hat with Robin Hood feather locks.
By 11:30 producer Bill Quarry had taken over the mike, explaining that there had been more problems at this one concert than he had ever before experienced. He laughingly said it might be "the latest concert in the history of Oakland," and launched into announcements of his future presentations.
Virtually all the concert's faults could, of course, have been eliminated had the show been properly produced in the first place.
The Grass Roots were still assembling equipment at 11:40. Quarry announced that there would be an intermission (!) after their set, and this reviewer left without discovering if the Young Rascals ever got groovin'.
It is astonishing that teen-agers and their parents (dozens of whom were pacing the sidewalk) continue to support such fiascos.
(by Philip Elwood, from the San Francisco Examiner, 29 June 1967)
Sep 4, 2018
1966: The Grateful Dead - Good for Dancing
THE BUILDING OF A NEW MUSIC (excerpt)
There are many interesting similarities between the current rock 'n' roll scene and the great Swing Era dance-band activity of the late Thirties.
During the Swing Era there were dozens of bands, all the kind you could dance to with pleasure for hours but only a few with really exciting and interesting soloists. The others were remarkable for a good dance beat and for their ensemble sound. But the average band's performance level was good enough to make you want to dance.
The same thing is happening in the rock bands. Even though Bob Dylan says his music is not for dancing, his songs have been adapted by many groups including the Byrds and the Grateful Dead and played for dancing.
During most of the recent weekends, anywhere up to a dozen rock 'n' roll bands played public dances here and, with rare exception, the bands were good enough to dance to. Once in a while a band would start to play and the dancers would slowly leave the floor after a few tentative steps.
Then above that level of professionalism are the really exciting and interesting bands like the Jefferson Airplane, Paul Butterfield, the Grateful Dead, and the Blues Project. What these bands do is to play good dance music (some play better than others for this, incidentally) and have interesting and unusual arrangements, original material, and good soloists.
The main solo instrument in these bands is the single body electric guitar, though many of them have organists, flute players, etc. [ . . . ] They are only now beginning to define the possibilities of these instruments through the work of soloists such as Mike Bloomfield in the Butterfield band. [ . . . ]
These soloists make the rock bands exciting in addition to the excitement of the ensemble. Players like Bloomfield, Jorma Kaukonen of the Jefferson Airplane, Jerry Garcia of the Grateful Dead, these are the Lester Young and Charlie Christians of this genre.
There's a fundamental difference in how the music is played, too. Drummers, for instance, are not just timekeepers added from the outside; they play best from the inside of the tune in terms of the structure of the tune, rather than the time. [ . . . ]
(by Ralph Gleason, from the San Francisco Examiner, 22 May 1966)
* * *
7/15/66 - Fillmore Auditorium
MAKING THE FILLMORE SCENE (excerpt)
The Opera Guild is hoping that the taping of the Jefferson Airplane last Friday at the Fillmore Auditorium by the Bell Telephone Hour will convince more conservative members of the organization that "pop" music is a valid part of the local music scene.
Ever since the committee for the guild's annual Fol de Rol announced a "pop" theme for the annual bash Oct. 19, they have received critical letters from the old guard.
A crew from Bell Telephone has been filming chamber music ensembles and the Symphony as part of a program on music in San Francisco which will be a New Year's Day spectacular.
Guild members celebrated the taping by gathering for cocktails . . . The group then drove to the Fillmore Auditorium, where they were whisked to the projection room to watch the goings-on by promoter Bill Graham. Most of them . . . elected to stay there, although a few other intrepid souls attempted the jammed dance floor.
Opera director and Mrs. Kurt Herbert Adler . . . obliged the television crew by frugging away for several numbers to the Jefferson Airplane, which Dr. Adler termed "very interesting musically." However, he confided he preferred the music of the second pop group, "The Grateful Dead," for dancing. . . .
As colorful as the Guild group looked, they couldn't compare with the costumes on the floor, which included a girl in a bikini, another in an Edwardian costume of flowing velvet robes and a plumed hat, and a third in brief gold-spangled tights.
There were favorable comments on the well behaved, if far out, crowd. "Why, there's more noise on Friday nights in the Burlingame Club," said one.
No one expected to see any one they knew, but the Adlers bumped into ballerina Linda Meyer, and Bob Phillips greeted the long-haired, barefoot teenage daughter of one of his friends.
(by Joan White, from the San Francisco Examiner, 15 August 1966)
* * *
9/4/66 - Fillmore Auditorium
On Sunday night [at the Fillmore], Country Joe and the Fish, a Berkeley Bluesrock gang, were in fine shape on “Flyin’ High,” and The Grateful Dead again convinced me that they are on the way to big things; especially good for dancing. The Quicksilver Messenger Service’s “Got My Mojo Workin’” although almost drowned in electronic rhythm (a trait) was bright and effective.
(from Philip Elwood, "A Lively Weekend for Rock and Jazz," the San Francisco Examiner, 6 September 1966)
* * *
12/20/66 - Fillmore Auditorium
OTIS REDDING - RHYTHM AND BLUES TIDAL WAVE (excerpt)
Shouting singer Otis Redding and his band, an overwhelming rhythm and blues tidal wave, roared through Fillmore Auditorium last evening to begin a three-night engagement. No one interested in what's happening to popular music can afford to miss Redding: he's too much.
Redding has a giant voice to match his big powerful body. He uses both to create a sensational and sensuous performance. Riding on top of the surging four-beat waves of sound from his blasting 8 piece band, Redding shouts, struts, and lurches. He sends the audience reeling with the first vocal blow, and from then on it just wilts and collapses in roaring approval during each tune.
In the 50 years of blues notation the underlying theme has been hardship in life, and love. For singers like Redding there is no distinction between the two and everything he does on stage drives that message on down.
"I don' wanna stop, I been loving you too long...I'm getting stronger," rambles one of his chants, and on "Try a Little Tenderness" there is no sign that Redding would ever take that advice himself. Even his "Sad, Sad Song" is boisterous, rough, raw...and real. . . .
[The band's] ensemble style is sustained unison wailing, accentuated by electric organ, guitar and bass. It suits Redding, and the song and dance show which preceded him, quite perfectly.
The Grateful Dead, sharing the bill with Redding last night, proved their superiority over other local rock groups. Jerry Garcia (guitar) and Pigpen McKernan (harmonica-piano) are superb vocalists and soloists. The Dead has imaginative variety in format and a steady assured ensemble sound, and beat, which make it singularly listenable and danceable.
(by Philip Elwood, from the San Francisco Examiner, 21 December 1966)
* * *
1/13/67 - Berkeley Community Theater (early show)
MAMAS AND PAPAS DRAW FULL HOUSE (excerpt)
The Mamas and the Papas . . . played a double-header concert in Berkeley last night that filled the 3,500-seat Community Theater for the first show and drew almost as many for the 10:45 p.m. repeat.
[ . . . ]
The program was opened with a 30-minute set by The Grateful Dead, a Westbay rock quintet that is memorable because two of its members (male) have hair that reaches to their shoulders.
(by Russ Wilson, from the Oakland Tribune, 14 January 1967)
* * *
2/12/67 - Fillmore Auditorium
WILD FUN FOR ALL AT A 'HAPPENING'
'Twas in the Name of Civic Unity
It was family night, you might say, at Bill Graham's Fillmore Auditorium the other evening, when the Council for Civic Unity sponsored a wild and wonderful "Happening"... Board members not only came and saw, but danced and listened, joining the ranks of regular enthusiasts...many of them brought their teen-aged children with them. And it was a toss-up who had the most fun. Although youth, to be sure, has the greatest lasting power. Sighed Sally Hellyer, during one lull, "I'm afraid I'll have to stay 'til the very end." She had son Stephen and a group of friends in tow, and THEY weren't about to leave until the last ear-splitting number was over. Four rock 'n' roll bands kept people jumping (and the musical din at a crescendo) - the Grateful Dead (whose lead guitarist is Bob Weir, 19-year-old son of the Frederick Weirs of Atherton), Moby Grape, Notes from the Underground, and the New Salvation Army Band. And those who had never experienced the Fillmore Auditorium before, who were there because it was a Council for Civic Unity benefit, vowed they would have to come again.
(from the San Francisco Examiner, 19 February 1967)
* * *
3/14/67 - Whiskey a Go Go
LISTENING TO THE CHANGING JAZZ NOTES (excerpt)
At Whiskey a Go Go the hard rocking Grateful Dead (and a good Love Conspiracy lightshow) are having problems. The band sounds fine...all four times its fortissimos ricochet across the club's incredible dimensions (a glass wall 40 feet high is one example).
The move from Fillmore Auditorium into a go-go club, a trend which probably will increase, also poses non-audio problems. Most important is trying to lure the Fillmore rock fans into a night club while at the same time holding the club's regular drinking crowd long enough for them to get used to the psychedelic explosions of such as the Dead.
(by Philip Elwood, from the San Francisco Examiner, 15 March 1967)
There are many interesting similarities between the current rock 'n' roll scene and the great Swing Era dance-band activity of the late Thirties.
During the Swing Era there were dozens of bands, all the kind you could dance to with pleasure for hours but only a few with really exciting and interesting soloists. The others were remarkable for a good dance beat and for their ensemble sound. But the average band's performance level was good enough to make you want to dance.
The same thing is happening in the rock bands. Even though Bob Dylan says his music is not for dancing, his songs have been adapted by many groups including the Byrds and the Grateful Dead and played for dancing.
During most of the recent weekends, anywhere up to a dozen rock 'n' roll bands played public dances here and, with rare exception, the bands were good enough to dance to. Once in a while a band would start to play and the dancers would slowly leave the floor after a few tentative steps.
Then above that level of professionalism are the really exciting and interesting bands like the Jefferson Airplane, Paul Butterfield, the Grateful Dead, and the Blues Project. What these bands do is to play good dance music (some play better than others for this, incidentally) and have interesting and unusual arrangements, original material, and good soloists.
The main solo instrument in these bands is the single body electric guitar, though many of them have organists, flute players, etc. [ . . . ] They are only now beginning to define the possibilities of these instruments through the work of soloists such as Mike Bloomfield in the Butterfield band. [ . . . ]
These soloists make the rock bands exciting in addition to the excitement of the ensemble. Players like Bloomfield, Jorma Kaukonen of the Jefferson Airplane, Jerry Garcia of the Grateful Dead, these are the Lester Young and Charlie Christians of this genre.
There's a fundamental difference in how the music is played, too. Drummers, for instance, are not just timekeepers added from the outside; they play best from the inside of the tune in terms of the structure of the tune, rather than the time. [ . . . ]
(by Ralph Gleason, from the San Francisco Examiner, 22 May 1966)
* * *
7/15/66 - Fillmore Auditorium
MAKING THE FILLMORE SCENE (excerpt)
The Opera Guild is hoping that the taping of the Jefferson Airplane last Friday at the Fillmore Auditorium by the Bell Telephone Hour will convince more conservative members of the organization that "pop" music is a valid part of the local music scene.
Ever since the committee for the guild's annual Fol de Rol announced a "pop" theme for the annual bash Oct. 19, they have received critical letters from the old guard.
A crew from Bell Telephone has been filming chamber music ensembles and the Symphony as part of a program on music in San Francisco which will be a New Year's Day spectacular.
Guild members celebrated the taping by gathering for cocktails . . . The group then drove to the Fillmore Auditorium, where they were whisked to the projection room to watch the goings-on by promoter Bill Graham. Most of them . . . elected to stay there, although a few other intrepid souls attempted the jammed dance floor.
Opera director and Mrs. Kurt Herbert Adler . . . obliged the television crew by frugging away for several numbers to the Jefferson Airplane, which Dr. Adler termed "very interesting musically." However, he confided he preferred the music of the second pop group, "The Grateful Dead," for dancing. . . .
As colorful as the Guild group looked, they couldn't compare with the costumes on the floor, which included a girl in a bikini, another in an Edwardian costume of flowing velvet robes and a plumed hat, and a third in brief gold-spangled tights.
There were favorable comments on the well behaved, if far out, crowd. "Why, there's more noise on Friday nights in the Burlingame Club," said one.
No one expected to see any one they knew, but the Adlers bumped into ballerina Linda Meyer, and Bob Phillips greeted the long-haired, barefoot teenage daughter of one of his friends.
(by Joan White, from the San Francisco Examiner, 15 August 1966)
* * *
9/4/66 - Fillmore Auditorium
On Sunday night [at the Fillmore], Country Joe and the Fish, a Berkeley Bluesrock gang, were in fine shape on “Flyin’ High,” and The Grateful Dead again convinced me that they are on the way to big things; especially good for dancing. The Quicksilver Messenger Service’s “Got My Mojo Workin’” although almost drowned in electronic rhythm (a trait) was bright and effective.
(from Philip Elwood, "A Lively Weekend for Rock and Jazz," the San Francisco Examiner, 6 September 1966)
* * *
12/20/66 - Fillmore Auditorium
OTIS REDDING - RHYTHM AND BLUES TIDAL WAVE (excerpt)
Shouting singer Otis Redding and his band, an overwhelming rhythm and blues tidal wave, roared through Fillmore Auditorium last evening to begin a three-night engagement. No one interested in what's happening to popular music can afford to miss Redding: he's too much.
Redding has a giant voice to match his big powerful body. He uses both to create a sensational and sensuous performance. Riding on top of the surging four-beat waves of sound from his blasting 8 piece band, Redding shouts, struts, and lurches. He sends the audience reeling with the first vocal blow, and from then on it just wilts and collapses in roaring approval during each tune.
In the 50 years of blues notation the underlying theme has been hardship in life, and love. For singers like Redding there is no distinction between the two and everything he does on stage drives that message on down.
"I don' wanna stop, I been loving you too long...I'm getting stronger," rambles one of his chants, and on "Try a Little Tenderness" there is no sign that Redding would ever take that advice himself. Even his "Sad, Sad Song" is boisterous, rough, raw...and real. . . .
[The band's] ensemble style is sustained unison wailing, accentuated by electric organ, guitar and bass. It suits Redding, and the song and dance show which preceded him, quite perfectly.
The Grateful Dead, sharing the bill with Redding last night, proved their superiority over other local rock groups. Jerry Garcia (guitar) and Pigpen McKernan (harmonica-piano) are superb vocalists and soloists. The Dead has imaginative variety in format and a steady assured ensemble sound, and beat, which make it singularly listenable and danceable.
(by Philip Elwood, from the San Francisco Examiner, 21 December 1966)
* * *
1/13/67 - Berkeley Community Theater (early show)
MAMAS AND PAPAS DRAW FULL HOUSE (excerpt)
The Mamas and the Papas . . . played a double-header concert in Berkeley last night that filled the 3,500-seat Community Theater for the first show and drew almost as many for the 10:45 p.m. repeat.
[ . . . ]
The program was opened with a 30-minute set by The Grateful Dead, a Westbay rock quintet that is memorable because two of its members (male) have hair that reaches to their shoulders.
(by Russ Wilson, from the Oakland Tribune, 14 January 1967)
* * *
2/12/67 - Fillmore Auditorium
WILD FUN FOR ALL AT A 'HAPPENING'
'Twas in the Name of Civic Unity
It was family night, you might say, at Bill Graham's Fillmore Auditorium the other evening, when the Council for Civic Unity sponsored a wild and wonderful "Happening"... Board members not only came and saw, but danced and listened, joining the ranks of regular enthusiasts...many of them brought their teen-aged children with them. And it was a toss-up who had the most fun. Although youth, to be sure, has the greatest lasting power. Sighed Sally Hellyer, during one lull, "I'm afraid I'll have to stay 'til the very end." She had son Stephen and a group of friends in tow, and THEY weren't about to leave until the last ear-splitting number was over. Four rock 'n' roll bands kept people jumping (and the musical din at a crescendo) - the Grateful Dead (whose lead guitarist is Bob Weir, 19-year-old son of the Frederick Weirs of Atherton), Moby Grape, Notes from the Underground, and the New Salvation Army Band. And those who had never experienced the Fillmore Auditorium before, who were there because it was a Council for Civic Unity benefit, vowed they would have to come again.
(from the San Francisco Examiner, 19 February 1967)
* * *
3/14/67 - Whiskey a Go Go
LISTENING TO THE CHANGING JAZZ NOTES (excerpt)
At Whiskey a Go Go the hard rocking Grateful Dead (and a good Love Conspiracy lightshow) are having problems. The band sounds fine...all four times its fortissimos ricochet across the club's incredible dimensions (a glass wall 40 feet high is one example).
The move from Fillmore Auditorium into a go-go club, a trend which probably will increase, also poses non-audio problems. Most important is trying to lure the Fillmore rock fans into a night club while at the same time holding the club's regular drinking crowd long enough for them to get used to the psychedelic explosions of such as the Dead.
(by Philip Elwood, from the San Francisco Examiner, 15 March 1967)
Aug 29, 2018
September 26-27, 1969: Fillmore East
HOLY MODAL ROUNDERS, IT'S THE GRATEFUL DEAD
If you live on the East Coast, and somehow never crossed the wide Missouri and the Continental Divide...or if you've flown into L.A. on some amphetamine trip, your mind clouded by the classic New York myopias, "Smog, Hollywood, Cops, Reagan" and those sad things, it is unlikely that you have much of a feeling for the serene, WILD magnificence that is the West. Movies, television, pictures, stories don't really do it. What blows the mind is the reality of that space and that landscape, not the images of it. Sure the self-destructive poisons alive in the land are thriving in California, but then most things thrive in California. What other state could have Timothy Leary as a potential gubernatorial challenger to Ronald Redneck?
The lack of understanding is too bad. New Yorkers come on a bit paranoid and snooty. Californians are defensive and put down New York for the squalor and lack of air, sunlight, not to mention the inhuman current of life...but all that is beside the point.
IF oh IF ONLY, the true heads and spirits of California could get it together with the true heads and spirits of New York, America would have two golden coasts, and dealing with the middle of the country and that darkness would take care of itself. It's beginning to happen, just needs some weeding and watering.
That's why when, on the very same evening [Sept. 26], New York was being treated to The Greatful Dead, the Fish and Country Joe, The Flying Burrito Brothers, and (wonder of wonders) The Byrds, there was a certain feeling of celebration at getting such a rich hit of California all together.
It was a chinese puzzle deciding whether to go to the early show at the Fillmore (Dead Fish) or at Carnegie Hall, but the promise of a Byrds-Burritos jam at the late show, which happened, was the answer in the coins. Sha Na Na was also at the Fillmore, but the baby-sitter was late...the people next to us said "yes, they already played"..."Oh yes, they were quite good, very, very good!" And these were people from a foreign land, so Sha Na Na it looks like all that college education is paying off. Sorry. It won't happen again.
The Dead were the first group of the "put it together yourself one night California rock festival," and the Byrds were the last. To love the Dead is to know them live, and the East got their first taste of the wild, open, acid spontaneity of San Francisco when the Dead played outdoors at Thompkins Square and Central Park 2 years ago. Indoors, less success. Their music is complicated, delicate and subtle, on record it might have sounded monotonous, and their completely relaxed manner in concert went right past Easterners unused to the magnificent phenomenon of mutual, free-wheeling head tripping, and full of expectations of a structured stage performance. That kind of entertainment formality is alien to the Dead. Either everyone is busy grooving on the ecstasy of the music or it's all a drag. Without this good-friends intermingling of vibrations the Dead don't make sense, even to themselves.
But the Fillmore Friday night was a gas. Even Bill Graham is pretty proud of his new snack bar and has filmed an outasite short about it in which everyone seemed (and was, according to one of the chicks behind the counter) stoned out of his loving head. Didn't mention two weeks ago, because I hadn't discovered it, the orange juice in cans, thin cylinders of really good juice.
The Greatful Dead...grateful? dead? How do you mean? Stoned into eternity? Dead to the American amphetamine-money-success-hate-fear thing? The Dead are alive and dead too... If you get into this while you're listening to their music it will take you a long way.
Although guitarist, singer and composer Jerry Garcia is the axis of the group, I think their performances depend on the remarkable fact that the Dead have two drummers, Mickey Hart and Bill Kreutzman. When the set started on Friday there wasn't very much happening, just sound, and even that trailed off (relaxed all right) while the drummers looked at each other and fooled around...and then, VOOM, the drums were suddenly locked together. Like a VCLO taking off they shot, at 45 degrees, right up into the clouds. Overwhelming. That double percussion, when it hits, transforms them. They got off into what may be the most beautiful side of any of their albums, side one of "Anthem of the Sun". Garcia was raised by a Hopi Indian woman.
"Anthem" has a connection to nature and ecstasy that Western culture is only just rediscovering. But the culture of the West is a release of spirit and natural stoned state impossible to conceive of in the East. Get out in the desert, the sage brush, wander the piney mountains of California, groove on the different shades of green, purple blueish green, tanish green, sea green of the brush on the ocean hillsides between San Francisco and Los Angeles...you can love New York after California.
I would also like to thank Mr. Garcia and companions for their performance of "He Was A Friend of Mine"...oh lyrical, wonderful music. Greatful, grateful, great, full!
Once upon a time a wild Mexican rolled out of the hills, marijuana billowing from his nostrils, bandoleros across his bare chest, hat over his eyes. His name, my friends, Country Joe! And his faithful companions The Fish! What wild music they made. That was once upon a time.
Mr. Joe McDonald, American citizen and musician, has just returned from Europe. He has enjoyed himself, sampled the cuisine, experienced the cultural deceleration, and for some strange reason developed a Jim Morrison fetish. Well, guitarist Barry Melton, who has survived the European ordeal true to his origins and is really carrying the group along, made lots of fun of him for doing all those silly things. Joe, wearing an all-white outfit, did a couple of songs which didn't light any fires and went off stage and changed his clothes. Mind blowing. Changed his clothes! Dear Joe, go back into the hills, smoke some more weed, and fight a coyote. Then come back and let us know how you are.
Natural California: rough, pure, wild, mind-blown. Sophisticated California: cool, fast, Mississippi river boat gambler slick in a way that insults the Dude. Talk about speed, cool, smooth, and you're talking Byrds.
Superbyrd Roger McGuinn rides the wind. Even Dylan learns from the Byrds. Dylan, the Airplane, and the Byrds are the great American originals.
Who are the Byrds? Well, that's the problem. They change around a bit. Gets so confusin' they hardly know themselves who's singin' and playin'. Why on the album cover of "The Notorious Byrd Brothers" they even put a picture of a horse... And just when you think "aw c'mon now," you realize they've been gone for a while, just putting you on.
Dylan and the Byrds, heads and spirits of the East and West together since the days of Mr. Tambourine Man. No other group has more fully or freely done Dylan's songs. In fact, like Bacon and Shakespeare, maybe Dylan is really a Byrd or vice versa. The title song of "Nashville Skyline", "Nashville Skyline Rag" credited to Bob Dylan, was released several months before the Dylan album on the Byrds' "Dr. Byrd and Mr. Hyde", as "Nashville West" (a slightly different version, sure, but the same song) credited to the ex-Byrd, now Burrito, Graham Parsons. See what I mean.
And so the Byrds flew into Carnegie Hall to lay a little gold on the folk and split for the canyon. Another disconcerting vibration of their - and California - cool is a remarkable lack of insistence on competitiveness. This can really throw a New Yorker died in the purple of the scramble. It's like, "We're the Byrds, and we're cool and this is what we do." It's not indifference, just part of the style of the wide open spaces. The very fact that you're together is proof of mutual interest. Why say more?
Carnegie Hall is a barn as far as the sound system goes. It's as if the speakers were jammed into the speakers backstage. The seats, however, are incredibly comfortable. (Hey, Mr. Graham, check it out.)
Before things unroll any further let me tell you that the wild, weird, really country, really funny, really funky "Holy Modal Rounders" got it going. A group of long standing recently expanded from two to five (piano, drums, and second guitar added to the original (incredible) fiddle and guitar band), national prominence is suddenly theirs with the release of "Easy Rider" to which they contributed "If you want to be a bird", while stoned Hopper, Fonda, and Nicholson do highway acrobatics on their glittering bikes. The Rounders are something to see. A mind-twisting fiddler and a spectacular version of cajun Doug Kershaw's "Alligator Man."
The sound system (we are promised that the amazing Pavillion crew will absolutely transform it before the Zeppelin arrives) was so lame that serious musical talk is pointless. Gram Parsons (along with another ex-Byrd Chris Hillman, Sneaky Pete, and Chris Ethridge - the brothers Burrito) kept holding his guitar up to the microphone. He did it with love, but you couldn't hear it anyway.
The Flying Burrito Brothers played Burrito, Byrd, and Dylan music. The Byrds played Burrito, Byrd, and Dylan music. And when they jammed...you guessed it, and I can't quite remember who did exactly what exactly when. "Dark End of the Street" was done sensationally well with Gram doing the singing. "Sin City" and "Wheels of Fire" also made it through the system more or less together. A fair approximation of the concert and subsequent brief, brief jam (it wasn't worth more under the conditions) with magnificently improved acoustics can be had by playing, in almost any order, "The Notorious Byrd Brothers", "Sweetheart of the Rodeo", "Dr. Byrd and Mr. Hyde" (all Byrds) and "The Gilded Palace of Sin" (The Burritos - dig the marijuana leaves embroidered on Gram's white suit on the cover). If you like, throw in a little "Nashville Skyline" (the Mad Hatter) and "Music From Big Pink".
It was beautiful to have seen them, and so I'll close now with a passage from Parson and Hillman's "Sin City"...could that be us?
"A friend came around
Tried to clean up this town
His ideas made some people mad
He trusted his crowd
So he spoke right out loud
And they lost the best they had.
This old earthquake's gonna leave me in the poorhouse.
It seems like this whole town's insane.
On the thirty-first floor
A gold-plated foor
Won't keep out [the] lord's burning rain."
(by James Lichtenberg, from the East Village Other, 1 October 1969)
Thanks to jgmf.blogspot.com
* * *
SEEING DOUBLE (excerpt)
[ . . . ]
I went to Carnegie Hall to see the first of Pavillion promoter Howard Stein's rock concerts in answer to Bill Graham. I just wish this midnight concert had been better attended. Although there were problems - namely vocal mikes that were distorting all the vocals - the concert built steadily to a smash finish. It began with a very free ok set by The Holy Modal Rounders, followed by a set by The Burrito Brothers who became progressively more appealing and went off to cheers.
The star attraction, The Byrds, did a nice set - virtually the same they did this past summer at the Fillmore East.
The evening's highlight was a jam by The Burrito Brothers and The Byrds. There were five guitars, three drummers, and one tambourine-vocalist (Graham Parsons of the Burritos) and the sound was tremendous. They did a too short twenty minutes climaxed by a stunning version of EIGHT MILES HIGH. At the concert's conclusion they offered two roosters to anybody who would give them a decent home. The fowls were a present to some of the Byrds.
Saturday [Sept. 27], I tripped down to the first show at the Fillmore East. I skipped SHA NA NA (like cyanide you can take them only once). I arrived towards the end of THE GRATEFUL DEAD's set. I must say that they were lively and the most together that I have ever heard them. They were followed by Country Joe and The Fish - with three new little fishes - Mark Kapner (Keyboards and burning uke), Doug Metzler (Bass), and Greg Dewey (Drums).
Enhanced by a FAR OUT version of The Joshua Light Show (why with all the power coming from the front lights can't I see the musicians' faces?) Joe did a very entertaining set of twelve numbers, that were being recorded live by Vanguard. The group was very free and foolish. At one point, lead guitarist Barry Melton was writhing all over the stage floor, and I thought for a moment that it was Iggy Stooge. Barry Melton was also responsible for the evening's "incident". As part of the "show", he pretended that his guitar would not play. Prodded by Joe to hurry up because the promoter would become upset, Barry yelled "FUCK BILL GRAHAM!" The audience cheered this statement. Country Joe told Barry that he should not have said that as Bill had been very good to them. The number - the last of the set - was eventually concluded.
Naturally, the audience, or part of it, screamed for MORE (the subject of a very interesting editorial in the Fillmore's program). I assumed that there was no encore, because it was 11:40 and 2,800 people were waiting outside for the 11:30 performance to begin.
Backstage, after the set, Joe and his manager Ed Denson were having an intelligent conversation with Bill Graham about the lack of an encore. Graham maintained, rightly so in my opinion, that the audience response did not indicate the need for an encore.
Joe and Ed Denson maintained their opinions that Bill was wrong.
Later Denson told me that he felt Bill was angry about the FUCK BILL GRAHAM remark, and that is why there was no encore. Denson said Bill was furious but cooled down. Denson felt, as I do, that Graham despite all the rap is a good guy who is one of the few promoters in the country who can be counted on for gigs. We also felt that Graham is most responsible for the success of the rock underground today. We agreed that Graham's promotional brilliance and tenacity made a dumpy old movie house one of the most important outlets for rock music today.
[ . . . ]
(by Robert Weiner, from the East Village Other, 1 October 1969)
See also:
http://deadsources.blogspot.com/2012/02/september-27-1969-fillmore-east.html
http://deadsources.blogspot.com/2017/10/september-27-1969-fillmore-east.html
* * *
A bonus review of the Byrds/Burritos show:
STOMPING AT THE CARNEGIE HALL
Carnegie Hall in the hands of "the other people" always conjured up for the cultural plutocrats the nightmare vision of young people running rampant through its august corridors, dropping acid in the water coolers and painting the walls in psychedelic tinges. Such I suspect were the thoughts of the Carnegie management before September 26 when it was decided to re-open the hall to popular culture after the invasion of the Beatles in 1963.
Things have changed indeed for everyone concerned. Howie Soloman, promoter of the Pavilion series this summer, negotiated with Carnegie Hall representatives and achieved the impossible. He opened the hall again to pop music, giving to this city's youth yet another place in which to enjoy good music.
Prior management policy aside, Carnegie is one of the better places to hear pop music. The acoustics still drive the purists wild - even balcony seats are fantastic because the sound rings true. Besides acoustics, Carnegie is accessible from all the boroughs by the subway. In this department as well, Carnegie can't be beat.
Beyond that, nothing extra has been done to the hall, no light shows to distract from the performance, no free grass in the lobby for ticketholders. However, it does offer a unique opportunity to practice one's own sort of fantasy out. Imagine hairy freaks invading the sacred environs of the first tier boxes, red velvet boxes with places to hang "Madame's" cape or "the Gentleman's" cloak.
It is a beautiful place to see so many in a place which was formerly reserved for concert subscription addicts...I digress.
September 26, kicked off by an evening of Country-Rock music, [formally] ushered in the new season in grand style. Performers in this gala were the Holy Modal Rounders, an infamous electric jugband troupe, The Flying Burrito Brothers, and The Byrds. Before the concert review, a short parenthesis. (Marring the overall effect of this opening night was the execrable PA system. The fault, however, was not with the promoter but with the hall's union which refused to help install a more effective system...union red tape forced the performers to use a system normally reserved for the hall's organ. The result was that alternatively, the PA was too loud or not loud enough. Hopefully that will be remedied in some way by the coming weeks.) Oh yes, the concert...of course!
The Holy Modal Rounders have been in existence in one form or another since 1963. They specialize in electric-eclectic jugband music. No, they don't have traditional instruments like washtub bass, washboard percussion, or jugs. They have modified everything so that there is electric bass, one drummer with a full complement of drums, and one rather far-out fiddle player who waltzes between and during numbers. They are not polished musicians, nor do they need to be for the type of music they do. Jug band music requires country soul and makes no bones about fluffs, clinkers, or broken strings. All is taken with good humor and the Rounders are both goodly and humorous. They write songs which are topical and satirically biting in their commentary and wit. Some of their better known numbers include "Half a Mind", "The STP Song", and "Take-Off Artist Song". They are worth seeing and hearing because they represent in many ways the true jugband spirit.
The Flying Burrito Brothers are made up of old Byrds members, Graham Parsons (2nd generation Byrds), Michael Clarke, Gene Clark, and Chris Hillman. Their speciality seems to be country music with a lot of LA syrup which the audience seemed to enjoy very much. No matter, I guess that 3/4 Byrds is better than none at all (wasn't that the way the saying ran?). All personal matters aside, plastic country music is what they play and play rather well. Their only redeeming feature (and alone worth the trouble of enduring the Flying Burrito Brothers) is Sneaky Pete, probably the best pedal steel guitar player in the business. He plays lead on most tunes instead of doing the rhythm and twang bit. After the demanded encores, the Burrito Brothers emerged after the Byrds set to jam and make the reunion scene to the delight of the audience.
Which leaves us with the Byrds, very unlike the original product, but as tight as they ever were due to the unity-influence of Jim McGuinn, personification of the Byrd heart and soul. There's not that much one can say about the Byrds as they are, they have a pleasant sound if you're into the country music renaissance. The Byrds, The Band, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young have done much to turn on many to the country music sensitivity. At the same time, it would be foolish to say that they play authentic country music. One could, however, have a real country music show in New York City featuring Buck Owens and the Buckaroos, Flatt and Scruggs, or the New Lost City Ramblers. Hell, why not give it a try.
Although the concert itself was disappointing in spots, Carnegie never had it so good. The audience was never more alive. George Szell never got that type of standing ovation accorded to the Byrds, but then again, I wonder what would have happened if some sneaky promoter put the Julliard String Quartet onstage in drag and had them jam with The Nice. No matter, it was rather a happy situation for all concerned.
Carnegie was chosen for its excellent acoustics and in lieu of a real bathroom setup, it will have to do along with the Fillmore Auditorium in providing the New York area with another place where musicians can expose their craft. Though playing in this august hall definitely sacrifices certain intimacies of the small club atmosphere, it more than makes up for it in the numbers of people who can be reached in an evening's 2 concert set.
Finally, I don't think that the Carnegie concert will conflict with the Fillmore Auditorium - God help the city if there was an entertainment war. There's enough of an audience for both places. The opening of Carnegie may even clue in other halls to take a step into the present decade and modify their attitude about this generation and its music.
(by David Wally, from the East Village Other, 1 October 1969)
The same issue also ran this notice:
Prospect Park Be-In
Sunday Oct. 12
12 noon at The Meadow
Betw 1st & 3rd St
GRATEFUL DEAD (supposedly)
GYPSY
DUST
If you live on the East Coast, and somehow never crossed the wide Missouri and the Continental Divide...or if you've flown into L.A. on some amphetamine trip, your mind clouded by the classic New York myopias, "Smog, Hollywood, Cops, Reagan" and those sad things, it is unlikely that you have much of a feeling for the serene, WILD magnificence that is the West. Movies, television, pictures, stories don't really do it. What blows the mind is the reality of that space and that landscape, not the images of it. Sure the self-destructive poisons alive in the land are thriving in California, but then most things thrive in California. What other state could have Timothy Leary as a potential gubernatorial challenger to Ronald Redneck?
The lack of understanding is too bad. New Yorkers come on a bit paranoid and snooty. Californians are defensive and put down New York for the squalor and lack of air, sunlight, not to mention the inhuman current of life...but all that is beside the point.
IF oh IF ONLY, the true heads and spirits of California could get it together with the true heads and spirits of New York, America would have two golden coasts, and dealing with the middle of the country and that darkness would take care of itself. It's beginning to happen, just needs some weeding and watering.
That's why when, on the very same evening [Sept. 26], New York was being treated to The Greatful Dead, the Fish and Country Joe, The Flying Burrito Brothers, and (wonder of wonders) The Byrds, there was a certain feeling of celebration at getting such a rich hit of California all together.
It was a chinese puzzle deciding whether to go to the early show at the Fillmore (Dead Fish) or at Carnegie Hall, but the promise of a Byrds-Burritos jam at the late show, which happened, was the answer in the coins. Sha Na Na was also at the Fillmore, but the baby-sitter was late...the people next to us said "yes, they already played"..."Oh yes, they were quite good, very, very good!" And these were people from a foreign land, so Sha Na Na it looks like all that college education is paying off. Sorry. It won't happen again.
The Dead were the first group of the "put it together yourself one night California rock festival," and the Byrds were the last. To love the Dead is to know them live, and the East got their first taste of the wild, open, acid spontaneity of San Francisco when the Dead played outdoors at Thompkins Square and Central Park 2 years ago. Indoors, less success. Their music is complicated, delicate and subtle, on record it might have sounded monotonous, and their completely relaxed manner in concert went right past Easterners unused to the magnificent phenomenon of mutual, free-wheeling head tripping, and full of expectations of a structured stage performance. That kind of entertainment formality is alien to the Dead. Either everyone is busy grooving on the ecstasy of the music or it's all a drag. Without this good-friends intermingling of vibrations the Dead don't make sense, even to themselves.
But the Fillmore Friday night was a gas. Even Bill Graham is pretty proud of his new snack bar and has filmed an outasite short about it in which everyone seemed (and was, according to one of the chicks behind the counter) stoned out of his loving head. Didn't mention two weeks ago, because I hadn't discovered it, the orange juice in cans, thin cylinders of really good juice.
The Greatful Dead...grateful? dead? How do you mean? Stoned into eternity? Dead to the American amphetamine-money-success-hate-fear thing? The Dead are alive and dead too... If you get into this while you're listening to their music it will take you a long way.
Although guitarist, singer and composer Jerry Garcia is the axis of the group, I think their performances depend on the remarkable fact that the Dead have two drummers, Mickey Hart and Bill Kreutzman. When the set started on Friday there wasn't very much happening, just sound, and even that trailed off (relaxed all right) while the drummers looked at each other and fooled around...and then, VOOM, the drums were suddenly locked together. Like a VCLO taking off they shot, at 45 degrees, right up into the clouds. Overwhelming. That double percussion, when it hits, transforms them. They got off into what may be the most beautiful side of any of their albums, side one of "Anthem of the Sun". Garcia was raised by a Hopi Indian woman.
"Anthem" has a connection to nature and ecstasy that Western culture is only just rediscovering. But the culture of the West is a release of spirit and natural stoned state impossible to conceive of in the East. Get out in the desert, the sage brush, wander the piney mountains of California, groove on the different shades of green, purple blueish green, tanish green, sea green of the brush on the ocean hillsides between San Francisco and Los Angeles...you can love New York after California.
I would also like to thank Mr. Garcia and companions for their performance of "He Was A Friend of Mine"...oh lyrical, wonderful music. Greatful, grateful, great, full!
Once upon a time a wild Mexican rolled out of the hills, marijuana billowing from his nostrils, bandoleros across his bare chest, hat over his eyes. His name, my friends, Country Joe! And his faithful companions The Fish! What wild music they made. That was once upon a time.
Mr. Joe McDonald, American citizen and musician, has just returned from Europe. He has enjoyed himself, sampled the cuisine, experienced the cultural deceleration, and for some strange reason developed a Jim Morrison fetish. Well, guitarist Barry Melton, who has survived the European ordeal true to his origins and is really carrying the group along, made lots of fun of him for doing all those silly things. Joe, wearing an all-white outfit, did a couple of songs which didn't light any fires and went off stage and changed his clothes. Mind blowing. Changed his clothes! Dear Joe, go back into the hills, smoke some more weed, and fight a coyote. Then come back and let us know how you are.
Natural California: rough, pure, wild, mind-blown. Sophisticated California: cool, fast, Mississippi river boat gambler slick in a way that insults the Dude. Talk about speed, cool, smooth, and you're talking Byrds.
Superbyrd Roger McGuinn rides the wind. Even Dylan learns from the Byrds. Dylan, the Airplane, and the Byrds are the great American originals.
Who are the Byrds? Well, that's the problem. They change around a bit. Gets so confusin' they hardly know themselves who's singin' and playin'. Why on the album cover of "The Notorious Byrd Brothers" they even put a picture of a horse... And just when you think "aw c'mon now," you realize they've been gone for a while, just putting you on.
Dylan and the Byrds, heads and spirits of the East and West together since the days of Mr. Tambourine Man. No other group has more fully or freely done Dylan's songs. In fact, like Bacon and Shakespeare, maybe Dylan is really a Byrd or vice versa. The title song of "Nashville Skyline", "Nashville Skyline Rag" credited to Bob Dylan, was released several months before the Dylan album on the Byrds' "Dr. Byrd and Mr. Hyde", as "Nashville West" (a slightly different version, sure, but the same song) credited to the ex-Byrd, now Burrito, Graham Parsons. See what I mean.
And so the Byrds flew into Carnegie Hall to lay a little gold on the folk and split for the canyon. Another disconcerting vibration of their - and California - cool is a remarkable lack of insistence on competitiveness. This can really throw a New Yorker died in the purple of the scramble. It's like, "We're the Byrds, and we're cool and this is what we do." It's not indifference, just part of the style of the wide open spaces. The very fact that you're together is proof of mutual interest. Why say more?
Carnegie Hall is a barn as far as the sound system goes. It's as if the speakers were jammed into the speakers backstage. The seats, however, are incredibly comfortable. (Hey, Mr. Graham, check it out.)
Before things unroll any further let me tell you that the wild, weird, really country, really funny, really funky "Holy Modal Rounders" got it going. A group of long standing recently expanded from two to five (piano, drums, and second guitar added to the original (incredible) fiddle and guitar band), national prominence is suddenly theirs with the release of "Easy Rider" to which they contributed "If you want to be a bird", while stoned Hopper, Fonda, and Nicholson do highway acrobatics on their glittering bikes. The Rounders are something to see. A mind-twisting fiddler and a spectacular version of cajun Doug Kershaw's "Alligator Man."
The sound system (we are promised that the amazing Pavillion crew will absolutely transform it before the Zeppelin arrives) was so lame that serious musical talk is pointless. Gram Parsons (along with another ex-Byrd Chris Hillman, Sneaky Pete, and Chris Ethridge - the brothers Burrito) kept holding his guitar up to the microphone. He did it with love, but you couldn't hear it anyway.
The Flying Burrito Brothers played Burrito, Byrd, and Dylan music. The Byrds played Burrito, Byrd, and Dylan music. And when they jammed...you guessed it, and I can't quite remember who did exactly what exactly when. "Dark End of the Street" was done sensationally well with Gram doing the singing. "Sin City" and "Wheels of Fire" also made it through the system more or less together. A fair approximation of the concert and subsequent brief, brief jam (it wasn't worth more under the conditions) with magnificently improved acoustics can be had by playing, in almost any order, "The Notorious Byrd Brothers", "Sweetheart of the Rodeo", "Dr. Byrd and Mr. Hyde" (all Byrds) and "The Gilded Palace of Sin" (The Burritos - dig the marijuana leaves embroidered on Gram's white suit on the cover). If you like, throw in a little "Nashville Skyline" (the Mad Hatter) and "Music From Big Pink".
It was beautiful to have seen them, and so I'll close now with a passage from Parson and Hillman's "Sin City"...could that be us?
"A friend came around
Tried to clean up this town
His ideas made some people mad
He trusted his crowd
So he spoke right out loud
And they lost the best they had.
This old earthquake's gonna leave me in the poorhouse.
It seems like this whole town's insane.
On the thirty-first floor
A gold-plated foor
Won't keep out [the] lord's burning rain."
(by James Lichtenberg, from the East Village Other, 1 October 1969)
Thanks to jgmf.blogspot.com
* * *
SEEING DOUBLE (excerpt)
[ . . . ]
I went to Carnegie Hall to see the first of Pavillion promoter Howard Stein's rock concerts in answer to Bill Graham. I just wish this midnight concert had been better attended. Although there were problems - namely vocal mikes that were distorting all the vocals - the concert built steadily to a smash finish. It began with a very free ok set by The Holy Modal Rounders, followed by a set by The Burrito Brothers who became progressively more appealing and went off to cheers.
The star attraction, The Byrds, did a nice set - virtually the same they did this past summer at the Fillmore East.
The evening's highlight was a jam by The Burrito Brothers and The Byrds. There were five guitars, three drummers, and one tambourine-vocalist (Graham Parsons of the Burritos) and the sound was tremendous. They did a too short twenty minutes climaxed by a stunning version of EIGHT MILES HIGH. At the concert's conclusion they offered two roosters to anybody who would give them a decent home. The fowls were a present to some of the Byrds.
Saturday [Sept. 27], I tripped down to the first show at the Fillmore East. I skipped SHA NA NA (like cyanide you can take them only once). I arrived towards the end of THE GRATEFUL DEAD's set. I must say that they were lively and the most together that I have ever heard them. They were followed by Country Joe and The Fish - with three new little fishes - Mark Kapner (Keyboards and burning uke), Doug Metzler (Bass), and Greg Dewey (Drums).
Enhanced by a FAR OUT version of The Joshua Light Show (why with all the power coming from the front lights can't I see the musicians' faces?) Joe did a very entertaining set of twelve numbers, that were being recorded live by Vanguard. The group was very free and foolish. At one point, lead guitarist Barry Melton was writhing all over the stage floor, and I thought for a moment that it was Iggy Stooge. Barry Melton was also responsible for the evening's "incident". As part of the "show", he pretended that his guitar would not play. Prodded by Joe to hurry up because the promoter would become upset, Barry yelled "FUCK BILL GRAHAM!" The audience cheered this statement. Country Joe told Barry that he should not have said that as Bill had been very good to them. The number - the last of the set - was eventually concluded.
Naturally, the audience, or part of it, screamed for MORE (the subject of a very interesting editorial in the Fillmore's program). I assumed that there was no encore, because it was 11:40 and 2,800 people were waiting outside for the 11:30 performance to begin.
Backstage, after the set, Joe and his manager Ed Denson were having an intelligent conversation with Bill Graham about the lack of an encore. Graham maintained, rightly so in my opinion, that the audience response did not indicate the need for an encore.
Joe and Ed Denson maintained their opinions that Bill was wrong.
Later Denson told me that he felt Bill was angry about the FUCK BILL GRAHAM remark, and that is why there was no encore. Denson said Bill was furious but cooled down. Denson felt, as I do, that Graham despite all the rap is a good guy who is one of the few promoters in the country who can be counted on for gigs. We also felt that Graham is most responsible for the success of the rock underground today. We agreed that Graham's promotional brilliance and tenacity made a dumpy old movie house one of the most important outlets for rock music today.
[ . . . ]
(by Robert Weiner, from the East Village Other, 1 October 1969)
See also:
http://deadsources.blogspot.com/2012/02/september-27-1969-fillmore-east.html
http://deadsources.blogspot.com/2017/10/september-27-1969-fillmore-east.html
* * *
A bonus review of the Byrds/Burritos show:
STOMPING AT THE CARNEGIE HALL
Carnegie Hall in the hands of "the other people" always conjured up for the cultural plutocrats the nightmare vision of young people running rampant through its august corridors, dropping acid in the water coolers and painting the walls in psychedelic tinges. Such I suspect were the thoughts of the Carnegie management before September 26 when it was decided to re-open the hall to popular culture after the invasion of the Beatles in 1963.
Things have changed indeed for everyone concerned. Howie Soloman, promoter of the Pavilion series this summer, negotiated with Carnegie Hall representatives and achieved the impossible. He opened the hall again to pop music, giving to this city's youth yet another place in which to enjoy good music.
Prior management policy aside, Carnegie is one of the better places to hear pop music. The acoustics still drive the purists wild - even balcony seats are fantastic because the sound rings true. Besides acoustics, Carnegie is accessible from all the boroughs by the subway. In this department as well, Carnegie can't be beat.
Beyond that, nothing extra has been done to the hall, no light shows to distract from the performance, no free grass in the lobby for ticketholders. However, it does offer a unique opportunity to practice one's own sort of fantasy out. Imagine hairy freaks invading the sacred environs of the first tier boxes, red velvet boxes with places to hang "Madame's" cape or "the Gentleman's" cloak.
It is a beautiful place to see so many in a place which was formerly reserved for concert subscription addicts...I digress.
September 26, kicked off by an evening of Country-Rock music, [formally] ushered in the new season in grand style. Performers in this gala were the Holy Modal Rounders, an infamous electric jugband troupe, The Flying Burrito Brothers, and The Byrds. Before the concert review, a short parenthesis. (Marring the overall effect of this opening night was the execrable PA system. The fault, however, was not with the promoter but with the hall's union which refused to help install a more effective system...union red tape forced the performers to use a system normally reserved for the hall's organ. The result was that alternatively, the PA was too loud or not loud enough. Hopefully that will be remedied in some way by the coming weeks.) Oh yes, the concert...of course!
The Holy Modal Rounders have been in existence in one form or another since 1963. They specialize in electric-eclectic jugband music. No, they don't have traditional instruments like washtub bass, washboard percussion, or jugs. They have modified everything so that there is electric bass, one drummer with a full complement of drums, and one rather far-out fiddle player who waltzes between and during numbers. They are not polished musicians, nor do they need to be for the type of music they do. Jug band music requires country soul and makes no bones about fluffs, clinkers, or broken strings. All is taken with good humor and the Rounders are both goodly and humorous. They write songs which are topical and satirically biting in their commentary and wit. Some of their better known numbers include "Half a Mind", "The STP Song", and "Take-Off Artist Song". They are worth seeing and hearing because they represent in many ways the true jugband spirit.
The Flying Burrito Brothers are made up of old Byrds members, Graham Parsons (2nd generation Byrds), Michael Clarke, Gene Clark, and Chris Hillman. Their speciality seems to be country music with a lot of LA syrup which the audience seemed to enjoy very much. No matter, I guess that 3/4 Byrds is better than none at all (wasn't that the way the saying ran?). All personal matters aside, plastic country music is what they play and play rather well. Their only redeeming feature (and alone worth the trouble of enduring the Flying Burrito Brothers) is Sneaky Pete, probably the best pedal steel guitar player in the business. He plays lead on most tunes instead of doing the rhythm and twang bit. After the demanded encores, the Burrito Brothers emerged after the Byrds set to jam and make the reunion scene to the delight of the audience.
Which leaves us with the Byrds, very unlike the original product, but as tight as they ever were due to the unity-influence of Jim McGuinn, personification of the Byrd heart and soul. There's not that much one can say about the Byrds as they are, they have a pleasant sound if you're into the country music renaissance. The Byrds, The Band, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young have done much to turn on many to the country music sensitivity. At the same time, it would be foolish to say that they play authentic country music. One could, however, have a real country music show in New York City featuring Buck Owens and the Buckaroos, Flatt and Scruggs, or the New Lost City Ramblers. Hell, why not give it a try.
Although the concert itself was disappointing in spots, Carnegie never had it so good. The audience was never more alive. George Szell never got that type of standing ovation accorded to the Byrds, but then again, I wonder what would have happened if some sneaky promoter put the Julliard String Quartet onstage in drag and had them jam with The Nice. No matter, it was rather a happy situation for all concerned.
Carnegie was chosen for its excellent acoustics and in lieu of a real bathroom setup, it will have to do along with the Fillmore Auditorium in providing the New York area with another place where musicians can expose their craft. Though playing in this august hall definitely sacrifices certain intimacies of the small club atmosphere, it more than makes up for it in the numbers of people who can be reached in an evening's 2 concert set.
Finally, I don't think that the Carnegie concert will conflict with the Fillmore Auditorium - God help the city if there was an entertainment war. There's enough of an audience for both places. The opening of Carnegie may even clue in other halls to take a step into the present decade and modify their attitude about this generation and its music.
(by David Wally, from the East Village Other, 1 October 1969)
The same issue also ran this notice:
Prospect Park Be-In
Sunday Oct. 12
12 noon at The Meadow
Betw 1st & 3rd St
GRATEFUL DEAD (supposedly)
GYPSY
DUST
Aug 28, 2018
1968-1969 Short Pieces
(Sometimes I come across pieces that are too brief to post by themselves; a few are collected here.)
12/1/68 Grande Ballroom, Detroit
Dear Editors,
I've read so many uncomplimentary articles about the Grande Ballroom that I just had to write in and tell you what a wonderful time I had Sunday, Dec. 1st. Uncle Russ had the Grateful Dead in to do their thing along with the Popcorn Blizzard. The Hog Farm was also on hand to supervise a group therapy thing.
There was something for everyone and it was so beautiful I couldn't believe it. A group of Rocks let me play jump-rope with them. I sat on the floor next to a guy who was diligently coloring and started coloring with him. He was kind and we joked about his work of art. The kids around us were tapping a balloon back and forth, the object...simply keeping it off the floor and I loved it. A jester gave me a lollipop and I thanked him. I played ball with a kid whose name I didn't even know and when that lost its appeal, I took up tinker toys.
The Dead played for 2 hours...straight through the candle burning, right through the paper plate tossing, and they were still going when I left.
I never had so much good clean uninhibited fun in my life. I thank you, Grande Ballroom, I thank you Uncle Russ.
Peace,
Marlene Bordin
(from "Letters," the Fifth Estate (Detroit), 12 December 1968)
* * *
1/31-2/1/69 Kinetic Playground, Chicago
WHEEL OF JIVE
[ . . . ] Closely dig the tricks of the bass guitarist; the second most overlooked man in most rock groups . . . Watching the bass has become one of my favorite pastimes at live performances.
Several individuals stand out clearly, and as much as I don't cotton to the glory trip, they should at least be given some semblance of equal time with the lead players, drummers, and singers who seem to get most of the limelight.
A few weeks ago at the Electric Theater (whoops, Kinetic Playground), Phil Lesh of the Grateful Dead gave a short course in the advantages of playing the bass keyed to the lead guitar. Jerry Garcia is a very fine guitarist, but the intricate and imaginative Lesh lends power and sustenance to every note he plays.
Another superb supporting bass player is Jack Cassidy of the Airplane. Listen to some of the cuts on "After Bathing at Baxter's," notice how Cassidy will sometimes hold back, entering the fray at the crucial moment with a dramatic, unexpected run. He, like Lesh, is a distinct and inseparable part of the "sound" that characterizes the group.
[ . . . ]
(from the Chicago Seed, 15 March 1969)
* * *
12/19/69 The New Old Fillmore, San Francisco
BLACK SHADOW
Do you remember how groovy it used to be to go to the Fillmore (on Fillmore St.) and get stoned? Are you bummed by the monstrosity that the Fillmore West has turned into? Well, old buddy, there's hope for you yet.
The New Old Fillmore (on Fillmore St.) has been running weekend music events for more than a month now, but I only made it over there last weekend. What a gas! A crowd of people, but there was room to move even up near the front. What there was, to get right to it, was good vibes. I dug the Grateful Dead (who seemed bored) and the Rhythm Dukes (who haven't quite got it together yet), danced with chicks I never met before, smoked a lot of other peoples' dope, and generally had a really great time.
The Dead's bassist was late, so Garcia and Lesh [sic] came out with acoustic guitars and sang folk songs for a while. It could never have happened at the Fillmore West, but at the New Old Fillmore it seemed right on. What we need around here are more places where we can be easy together, and share whatever we have. There used to be a lot of such places, but lately they have been in short supply. If you've got a weekend free (and you've got some bread - there's always that), bop on down to Fillmore Street and recapture those carefree days of old. Tell 'em Black Shadow sent you, and maybe they'll let you in for free.
(from the San Francisco Good Times, 1 January 1970)
https://archive.org/details/gd69-12-19.sbd.hanno.9183.sbeok.shnf
* * *
ONE-LINERS
"I am sitting here with the cat listening to the Grateful Dead and thinking of you and hoping all is well. The Grateful Dead are nice but it is the idea of them I enjoy more than the record, maybe; now I'm playing Howling Wolf and getting a more visceral shudder."
(from a letter by Angela, the San Francisco Express Times, 2/8/68)
"Every so often some groovy new place will open up such as the Kaleidoscope . . . But the Kaleidoscope and the Cheetah and the Shrine are really rock places where one goes to stimulate the senses and abandon oneself through the mass rock confessional. Anyway, some people still dig to talk with other people and more often than not, words seem out of place if not totally sacrilegious when uttered to a stranger during a set by the Grateful Dead."
(from "Looking Out," by Elliot Mintz, the Los Angeles Free Press, 8/2/68)
"In San Francisco the audience grew with its performers who grew with their audience . . . Lots of San Francisco bands started off with their audience and then developed hoping people would dig what they were doing...but it was all an inside trip...backs to audience sometimes...now they are reaching out to the audience...doing things that are entertaining, working to the audience...Jerry Garcia dances for the audience; before, no one looked at the audience. . . . People like Janis Joplin and the Grateful Dead should have themselves filmed. . . with a performance, you see it better on TV than you do being there and seeing it on the stage..."
(from Sal Valentino interview by Liza Williams, the Los Angeles Free Press, 1/24/69)
"[It's A Beautiful Day] seem compelled to insert the same minor keyed electronic freak in the middle of each song. Psychedelic Breakdown obligato. It's all right for the Good Ol' Grateful Dead to come unmoored in the middle of each song, but for most groups it gets to be a drag."
(from "Seattle Pop Festival" by J. Cunnick, Helix, 7/31/69)
"When she gets into a song, she pulls you in with her and holds you there till she's ready to let go. The experience is not unlike sitting on the floor in front of a stage containing the Grateful Dead when they're really ON: it's one that you don't forget."
(from "Jacques Brel," the Berkeley Barb, 9/26/69)
12/1/68 Grande Ballroom, Detroit
Dear Editors,
I've read so many uncomplimentary articles about the Grande Ballroom that I just had to write in and tell you what a wonderful time I had Sunday, Dec. 1st. Uncle Russ had the Grateful Dead in to do their thing along with the Popcorn Blizzard. The Hog Farm was also on hand to supervise a group therapy thing.
There was something for everyone and it was so beautiful I couldn't believe it. A group of Rocks let me play jump-rope with them. I sat on the floor next to a guy who was diligently coloring and started coloring with him. He was kind and we joked about his work of art. The kids around us were tapping a balloon back and forth, the object...simply keeping it off the floor and I loved it. A jester gave me a lollipop and I thanked him. I played ball with a kid whose name I didn't even know and when that lost its appeal, I took up tinker toys.
The Dead played for 2 hours...straight through the candle burning, right through the paper plate tossing, and they were still going when I left.
I never had so much good clean uninhibited fun in my life. I thank you, Grande Ballroom, I thank you Uncle Russ.
Peace,
Marlene Bordin
(from "Letters," the Fifth Estate (Detroit), 12 December 1968)
* * *
1/31-2/1/69 Kinetic Playground, Chicago
WHEEL OF JIVE
[ . . . ] Closely dig the tricks of the bass guitarist; the second most overlooked man in most rock groups . . . Watching the bass has become one of my favorite pastimes at live performances.
Several individuals stand out clearly, and as much as I don't cotton to the glory trip, they should at least be given some semblance of equal time with the lead players, drummers, and singers who seem to get most of the limelight.
A few weeks ago at the Electric Theater (whoops, Kinetic Playground), Phil Lesh of the Grateful Dead gave a short course in the advantages of playing the bass keyed to the lead guitar. Jerry Garcia is a very fine guitarist, but the intricate and imaginative Lesh lends power and sustenance to every note he plays.
Another superb supporting bass player is Jack Cassidy of the Airplane. Listen to some of the cuts on "After Bathing at Baxter's," notice how Cassidy will sometimes hold back, entering the fray at the crucial moment with a dramatic, unexpected run. He, like Lesh, is a distinct and inseparable part of the "sound" that characterizes the group.
[ . . . ]
(from the Chicago Seed, 15 March 1969)
* * *
12/19/69 The New Old Fillmore, San Francisco
BLACK SHADOW
Do you remember how groovy it used to be to go to the Fillmore (on Fillmore St.) and get stoned? Are you bummed by the monstrosity that the Fillmore West has turned into? Well, old buddy, there's hope for you yet.
The New Old Fillmore (on Fillmore St.) has been running weekend music events for more than a month now, but I only made it over there last weekend. What a gas! A crowd of people, but there was room to move even up near the front. What there was, to get right to it, was good vibes. I dug the Grateful Dead (who seemed bored) and the Rhythm Dukes (who haven't quite got it together yet), danced with chicks I never met before, smoked a lot of other peoples' dope, and generally had a really great time.
The Dead's bassist was late, so Garcia and Lesh [sic] came out with acoustic guitars and sang folk songs for a while. It could never have happened at the Fillmore West, but at the New Old Fillmore it seemed right on. What we need around here are more places where we can be easy together, and share whatever we have. There used to be a lot of such places, but lately they have been in short supply. If you've got a weekend free (and you've got some bread - there's always that), bop on down to Fillmore Street and recapture those carefree days of old. Tell 'em Black Shadow sent you, and maybe they'll let you in for free.
(from the San Francisco Good Times, 1 January 1970)
https://archive.org/details/gd69-12-19.sbd.hanno.9183.sbeok.shnf
* * *
ONE-LINERS
"I am sitting here with the cat listening to the Grateful Dead and thinking of you and hoping all is well. The Grateful Dead are nice but it is the idea of them I enjoy more than the record, maybe; now I'm playing Howling Wolf and getting a more visceral shudder."
(from a letter by Angela, the San Francisco Express Times, 2/8/68)
"Every so often some groovy new place will open up such as the Kaleidoscope . . . But the Kaleidoscope and the Cheetah and the Shrine are really rock places where one goes to stimulate the senses and abandon oneself through the mass rock confessional. Anyway, some people still dig to talk with other people and more often than not, words seem out of place if not totally sacrilegious when uttered to a stranger during a set by the Grateful Dead."
(from "Looking Out," by Elliot Mintz, the Los Angeles Free Press, 8/2/68)
"In San Francisco the audience grew with its performers who grew with their audience . . . Lots of San Francisco bands started off with their audience and then developed hoping people would dig what they were doing...but it was all an inside trip...backs to audience sometimes...now they are reaching out to the audience...doing things that are entertaining, working to the audience...Jerry Garcia dances for the audience; before, no one looked at the audience. . . . People like Janis Joplin and the Grateful Dead should have themselves filmed. . . with a performance, you see it better on TV than you do being there and seeing it on the stage..."
(from Sal Valentino interview by Liza Williams, the Los Angeles Free Press, 1/24/69)
"[It's A Beautiful Day] seem compelled to insert the same minor keyed electronic freak in the middle of each song. Psychedelic Breakdown obligato. It's all right for the Good Ol' Grateful Dead to come unmoored in the middle of each song, but for most groups it gets to be a drag."
(from "Seattle Pop Festival" by J. Cunnick, Helix, 7/31/69)
"When she gets into a song, she pulls you in with her and holds you there till she's ready to let go. The experience is not unlike sitting on the floor in front of a stage containing the Grateful Dead when they're really ON: it's one that you don't forget."
(from "Jacques Brel," the Berkeley Barb, 9/26/69)
Aug 24, 2018
June 21, 1969: Fillmore East
(I've only seen a poor & barely readable scan of this article, so there are many missing lines and [uncertain words] here. But I'm posting this as a placeholder until a better copy can be found.)
GRATEFUL DEAD
Saturday night [late] show at the Fillmore East (it will always be East) [on] June 21, 1969. The Grateful Dead and their family arrived in New York and revived an era - that of live performances. Bringing with them lots of orange sunshine [from] San Francisco, they proceeded to [turn] New York into a Dionysian festival of love. Orgy might be a [better] word, for they [succeeded] in totally conquering everyone.
The group was created to [blow] sounds and stimulate good trips by the legendary Augustus Stanley Owsley III. In addition to [making] the [finest] acid, [old] Owsley was also a [mean] technician and therefore capable of fostering a technological sound, as well as a psychedelic sound. The Dead knew about acid rock (they invented it), but not the Sgt. Pepper's variety. They came to their sound via the Byrds and Roger (although at that time he was Jim) McGuinn.
Paul Williams described the first album as coming on like Rolling Stones Now. In terms of where they've gone, it's incredible that they began with hard rock. Until I saw them, I had forgotten that they had a bass player [ . . . ]
[The first album contains] old [esoteric] standards such as "Beat It On Down The Line" (blues), "Good Morning Little Schoolgirl" (trad.), "Sitting On Top of the World" (C&W), "Morning Dew" (folk, out of Canada). They even go the Nanker Phelge route on "Golden Road," "Cold Rain and Snow," and "New, New Minglewood Blues," crediting authorshop to McGannahan Skjellyfetti. The guitar is fast, accurate, and perfectly correct. Tasteful, not excessive. The difference between technological and feedback, is that you hear the latter (Jeff Beck, Jefferson Airplane) but not the former (Byrds, Quicksilver Messenger Service). There is a Moog on the entirety of Notorious Byrd Brothers (Columbia) yet it is apparent only on "Dolphin's Smile" and "Space Odyssey."
Anthem of the Sun (Warner Bros.) is a movie. Only the Dead could have come out with that cover, as much a part of the whole trip as the music. Only with the San Francisco Sound (promoted by Bill Graham) would have come the San Francisco Nouveau Art thing, a la Fillmore posters (also promoted by B.G.). Wes Mouse, Rick Griffith and other freaks capably translated the audial to visual stimuli.
Anthem was almost a live album, minus the screaming and general pisspoor quality of most "Live at PJ's" recordings. By now, they had added a second drummer, Mickey Hart, and Pig-Pen had been replaced by Tom Constanten on piano. This last personnel change was accomplished brilliantly: instead of eliminating Pig-Pen, he just was shifted to a [position] he [more] [competently] [fulfilled], [therefore] [removing] the [possibility] of a nostalgic [posture].
With this change in [structure], there was a [corresponding] change in [nature]. Where the Byrds from rock and roll had [extracted] technological sound, the Dead took technology and [recreated] rock. They have adapted the [essence] of electronic music - melodic structure, something our avant-garde [geniuses] ([Zappa], Harrison, Lennon) fail to [appreciate].
Aoxomoxoa (Warner Bros.), a title to be [grokked] not comprehended, [effects] a [synthesis] of the earlier [albums]. [Not] as [?] as Anthem, [nor] as [hard] as the Dead, we have Garcia [competing] with Sneaky Pete as the Dead take a little country trip.
By side two, the pleasant [caresses] of an [acoustical] Gibson have given way to the [psychic disintegration] of schizophrenic [genius]. Distorted reality reigns hard on the head in a [most intense/mood intensive] passage, "What's Become of the Baby". We become acutely aware of the hauntingly beautiful cover design: the skull, the [sun]
[ . . . ]
The [concert] began when [someone] [noticed] that some lemonade had been spiked with THC (tranquilizer) and acid (not tranquilizer). You knew the Dead were in town and their gay, rollicking party had begun. Heads began to be blown as they walked on stage, first Captain trips with a purple tee-shirt bearing the legend Anthem. Next we took the Bob Weir trip. At one time, he had the longest, most beautiful blonde hair in rock. That's all gone as he now sports a quasi-conventional coiffure. That was heavy, but not as heavy as his pink rhinestone-studded shirt from Nudie's. They did a couple of country and western numbers for starters. Garcia played pedal steel. Now Jerry is no Sneeky Pete and he mined the nostalgia vein as opposed to the technological (i.e., he made no [movies]), but that's okay because he did it well, which, of course, is a [movie] itself.
With these pre-flight instructions, our plane was suddenly hijacked to Cuba and the trip began. A two hour non-stop masterpiece. The longest I have ever heard anyone play nonstop was [once] the Dead did a forty-five minute jam off "Good Morning Little Schoolgirl" and Sun Ra plays a set (hour duration) if he's cooking, but two hours - too much. Never boring either. In essence, it was a history of the Dead in non-chronological arrangement. Pig-Pen ended (he sang for half an hour) this journey with "Turn On Your Lovelight." And exploding cherry bombs.
(by Bobby Abrams, from Fusion, 26 July 1969)
https://archive.org/details/gd69-06-21.early-late.aud-sbd.cotsman.16334.sbeok.shnf
(the SBD portion from tracks 13-24 was thought to be from the late show Saturday; however it may actually be from the late show on Friday the 20th)
See also other brief notes on the June 20-21 Fillmore East shows here and here.
GRATEFUL DEAD
Saturday night [late] show at the Fillmore East (it will always be East) [on] June 21, 1969. The Grateful Dead and their family arrived in New York and revived an era - that of live performances. Bringing with them lots of orange sunshine [from] San Francisco, they proceeded to [turn] New York into a Dionysian festival of love. Orgy might be a [better] word, for they [succeeded] in totally conquering everyone.
The group was created to [blow] sounds and stimulate good trips by the legendary Augustus Stanley Owsley III. In addition to [making] the [finest] acid, [old] Owsley was also a [mean] technician and therefore capable of fostering a technological sound, as well as a psychedelic sound. The Dead knew about acid rock (they invented it), but not the Sgt. Pepper's variety. They came to their sound via the Byrds and Roger (although at that time he was Jim) McGuinn.
Paul Williams described the first album as coming on like Rolling Stones Now. In terms of where they've gone, it's incredible that they began with hard rock. Until I saw them, I had forgotten that they had a bass player [ . . . ]
[The first album contains] old [esoteric] standards such as "Beat It On Down The Line" (blues), "Good Morning Little Schoolgirl" (trad.), "Sitting On Top of the World" (C&W), "Morning Dew" (folk, out of Canada). They even go the Nanker Phelge route on "Golden Road," "Cold Rain and Snow," and "New, New Minglewood Blues," crediting authorshop to McGannahan Skjellyfetti. The guitar is fast, accurate, and perfectly correct. Tasteful, not excessive. The difference between technological and feedback, is that you hear the latter (Jeff Beck, Jefferson Airplane) but not the former (Byrds, Quicksilver Messenger Service). There is a Moog on the entirety of Notorious Byrd Brothers (Columbia) yet it is apparent only on "Dolphin's Smile" and "Space Odyssey."
Anthem of the Sun (Warner Bros.) is a movie. Only the Dead could have come out with that cover, as much a part of the whole trip as the music. Only with the San Francisco Sound (promoted by Bill Graham) would have come the San Francisco Nouveau Art thing, a la Fillmore posters (also promoted by B.G.). Wes Mouse, Rick Griffith and other freaks capably translated the audial to visual stimuli.
Anthem was almost a live album, minus the screaming and general pisspoor quality of most "Live at PJ's" recordings. By now, they had added a second drummer, Mickey Hart, and Pig-Pen had been replaced by Tom Constanten on piano. This last personnel change was accomplished brilliantly: instead of eliminating Pig-Pen, he just was shifted to a [position] he [more] [competently] [fulfilled], [therefore] [removing] the [possibility] of a nostalgic [posture].
With this change in [structure], there was a [corresponding] change in [nature]. Where the Byrds from rock and roll had [extracted] technological sound, the Dead took technology and [recreated] rock. They have adapted the [essence] of electronic music - melodic structure, something our avant-garde [geniuses] ([Zappa], Harrison, Lennon) fail to [appreciate].
Aoxomoxoa (Warner Bros.), a title to be [grokked] not comprehended, [effects] a [synthesis] of the earlier [albums]. [Not] as [?] as Anthem, [nor] as [hard] as the Dead, we have Garcia [competing] with Sneaky Pete as the Dead take a little country trip.
By side two, the pleasant [caresses] of an [acoustical] Gibson have given way to the [psychic disintegration] of schizophrenic [genius]. Distorted reality reigns hard on the head in a [most intense/mood intensive] passage, "What's Become of the Baby". We become acutely aware of the hauntingly beautiful cover design: the skull, the [sun]
[ . . . ]
The [concert] began when [someone] [noticed] that some lemonade had been spiked with THC (tranquilizer) and acid (not tranquilizer). You knew the Dead were in town and their gay, rollicking party had begun. Heads began to be blown as they walked on stage, first Captain trips with a purple tee-shirt bearing the legend Anthem. Next we took the Bob Weir trip. At one time, he had the longest, most beautiful blonde hair in rock. That's all gone as he now sports a quasi-conventional coiffure. That was heavy, but not as heavy as his pink rhinestone-studded shirt from Nudie's. They did a couple of country and western numbers for starters. Garcia played pedal steel. Now Jerry is no Sneeky Pete and he mined the nostalgia vein as opposed to the technological (i.e., he made no [movies]), but that's okay because he did it well, which, of course, is a [movie] itself.
With these pre-flight instructions, our plane was suddenly hijacked to Cuba and the trip began. A two hour non-stop masterpiece. The longest I have ever heard anyone play nonstop was [once] the Dead did a forty-five minute jam off "Good Morning Little Schoolgirl" and Sun Ra plays a set (hour duration) if he's cooking, but two hours - too much. Never boring either. In essence, it was a history of the Dead in non-chronological arrangement. Pig-Pen ended (he sang for half an hour) this journey with "Turn On Your Lovelight." And exploding cherry bombs.
(by Bobby Abrams, from Fusion, 26 July 1969)
https://archive.org/details/gd69-06-21.early-late.aud-sbd.cotsman.16334.sbeok.shnf
(the SBD portion from tracks 13-24 was thought to be from the late show Saturday; however it may actually be from the late show on Friday the 20th)
See also other brief notes on the June 20-21 Fillmore East shows here and here.
Aug 23, 2018
August 1969: The Dead and the Community
COMMON SENSE (excerpt)
If you are a performer in any sense of the word you belong at the common meetings at the Family Dog. It happens at 1 p.m. Tuesdays. It began with what some have called "Berkeley Bullshit" - confrontation with a march - but has evolved into a strong community of artists who want to be able to do their thing together with the people.
From now on the game is not draw at the Dog. Their new trip is not a game. There will be no more flat guarantees to groups, families, performers. The name of the trip is share. And everybody brings their trip to share.
No longer do the common want the sardine-can environment. An integrated construct by all artists and the community is where it must be at for the total scene to further its form. There will be jams and parties where everybody contributes to the trip. No longer will one performer work in the corner while everybody else is forced to just sit or stand there because no one can move.
In the process of the so-called [light-show] strike, as Jerry Garcia stated: "We discovered the inequities." To share with all the performers the common had to define just exactly who is a performer. And that's everybody that works toward what is finally put on. [ . . . ]
[ Discussion of out-of-town groups, benefits, and the planned Wild West festival. ]
This week the question was: "Where is Wild West's head?" Can the common extend the form of WW to include not only the park but the ocean? Let's call it Wild West and work together. Could WW and the common work together to create a 72-hour-plus environment that would really be remembered as a good trip? The biggest thing that seems to loom in everyone's mind is that Kezar should be free too, besides the rest of the action in the park. But no matter how it comes out, we should really all just get out there in the park and put it on. [ . . . ]
"We have this fantasy painting of an experience in the park that is being labeled Wild West," according to Rock, "and the common has explored fantasy more than them. Now we have to see if we can make it work on a community basis." Chet then asked if it couldn't be done as a non-competitive alternative to WW. The common could in that way communicate what the scene at the Dog and other places could be like. Steve Gaskin, whose Monday night thing is over capacity, wants to join and do a thing in the park. The Grateful Dead, says Jerry Garcia, will join in and do it for free, too. Rock Scully wants to lay down a free trip at the Horsemen's Retreat.
But, can they communicate this to the people at Wild West? They don't want conflict. It should all happen together. So far it hasn't been too together.
The Haight Ashbury Commune, the Mime Troupe, and other groups are calling for a strike against Wild West. . . . A People's Festival is scheduled for Sunday, August 24, on Hippie Hill. We'll all get together and have a free blast.
(by Verne, from the San Francisco Good Times, 14 August 1969)
The same issue reports that "The Wild West has been shut down."
The 8/21/69 Good Times included in its rock listings for August 24, "Hippy Hill: Trans-Cultural Rip-Offs, Inc. presents Steve Gaskin & the Grateful Dead in concert with Shiva Fellowship. Bring dope (the sacrament) and good vibes. noon. free."
*
UNCOMMON COMMON
It was Tuesday afternoon at the Family Dog.
"Nights? Nights?" Jerry Garcia was shouting, "what about during the day? We got musicians running around looking for a place to jam - why not here?"
It was a meeting of the Common, and all the tribes had come together to discuss the form of what should happen at the Family Dog. About a hundred brothers and sisters sat around in a circle, with their dogs and their children. They passed the peace pipe, and exchanged ideas.
"You want to lower the price of admission," somebody was saying, "from three dollars to two fifty. That doesn't make much difference. I'll tell you, the audience isn't going to supply much magic at $2.50. The audience is going to supply a hell of a lot of magic at a buck!"
After about twenty minutes cross rapping, it was decided that each show should have its own price, and there should be enough "cheap" nights for those who can't afford the steep weekend rates.
Chet Helms likes to talk about "new forms."
The Common is a new form. It is all the people who want to do a trip out on the Great Highway: musicians, light artists, impresarios, auctioneers, media people. And most important, the people in the streets who come to goof, and dance, and get high.
Steve Gaskin is part of the Common. Steve is a sort of priest of the new age. Every Monday night, 1,500 of his friends come out to the Family Dog to rap with him, and get stoned together on each others' vibrations. Steve wants to get people high, so they'll stay stoned on the street - and maintain at the same time.
Last Tuesday night, the Common put on a good ol' hoedown. The dance hall was transformed to a psychedelic barn with bales of hay, charcoal-roasted corn (ten cents a hit), and the New Lost City Ramblers.
For the people who didn't have the price of admission, there was a "hassle door," where you could barter your way in for baked goods, clothes, and other nifty shit like credit-card numbers. But it was, be forewarned, truly a hassle. There was an auction: box lunches and apricot pies. If you didn't like German chocolate cake, there were carob cookies at the Messiah's World Commune health food stand.
At the square dance Tuesday, a new San Francisco band made its debut, sort of. The New Riders of the Old Purple Sage, with Jerry Garcia and Mickey Hart of the Grateful Dead, and starring the fair-haired John Dawson on vocal and acoustical guitar. The sound was as smooth as the Dead is, yet it had this sweet country pulse and tune that just made you swoon.
The week before, Fuzzy Dice Productions staged a sock hop. The Fuzzy Dice are in real life a bunch of old men who sit around and play rock and roll records. But, one day, they put all their records together and decided to do something. With the help of KSAN's Tony Pig and Mike Daly, they staged a camp trip that parodied the middle fifties.
Next Tuesday night Howard Wolfe will be playing tapes of some of the classic San Francisco music concerts of the past few years. Wolfe, who worked with the Family Dog for two and a half years, wants to get together a musical and pictorial history of what went down in San Francisco. Nobody is better qualified to do it, he feels, than the people who created it in the first place.
That same night Jerry Abrams will conduct a light show laboratory. Jerry promises "a whole history trip, in film, of the San Francisco scene." The tapes to be played Tuesday will hopefully be released as records, Wolfe hopes, to help pay for the expenses of the Common.
Something is happening in San Francisco again. People are trying to create their own scene once more, rather than be content merely to lay out bread to watch and listen to somebody else's pre-packaged product.
"What about a Latin night?"
"We can raffle off enchiladas?"
"A juke box out of a Mexican restaurant for intermission - "
"How about a cock fight?"
"We'll get busted for that."
"We ain't talkin about chickens, man!"
For the past several years, the most creative and alive artistic energy of our generation has come from San Francisco. But the San Francisco music scene is going through a change. Bill Graham is closing the doors of the Fillmore. The Family Dog is about bankrupt.
Only the concept of the Common - all of us tripping together, coming together, standing together - will enable our culture to survive and grow.
The Common. Get behind it. At the Family Dog on the Great Highway.
(by Art Johnson, from the Berkeley Tribe, 22 August 1969)
*
ROCK RIPPLES MOVE OUTSIDE
Right now, September 1969 is a major turning point in the evolution of Rock Music as well as the crucial test of whether or not there IS a hip community in the Bay Area.
The Family Dog is faltering, folks. We are the family, this is the pet we have (sort of) kept for the past 4 or 5 years. Now it looks as bucolic, dyspeptic & strung out as an establishment pet. Who has not witnessed the 55 year old matron with her freaked-out, watery eyed fluff ball of a dead dog under her arm as she waddles off to oblivion? Is it happening to us? Maybe so, if we let it. Kennel master Chet Helms has tired of looking at his weekly loss sheet, and is showing it to the public.
The Family Dog has $50,000 in debts and Chet Helms has only been eating because his wife has a straight gig. There are many reasons for the Dog losing, among them, the performers want such exorbitant fees, attendance is down, lack of advertising saturation, but even when the house was full he wasn't making money.
As a result Mr. Helms has thrown the situation open to a "Common," composed of Members of the Dog, Members of the Light Artists Guild, Musicians, and people of the community. "The Common," which meets on Tuesdays at 1:00 at the Family Dog, is trying to set up a co-operative system whereby everyone involved with the production receives a percentage of the profits.
At the same time, Bill Graham has announced that he is quitting the scene when his lease runs out in December.
"This town has never stopped rapping an honest businessman for four fucking years," says Mr. Graham. "I leave here very sad...I may be copping out, but your attitudes have driven me to my decision." Mr. Graham is tired of having fingers pointed in his face, the hateful crazies screaming: "Capitalist Motherfucker, Capitalist Motherfucker!"
Jerry Garcia of the Grateful Dead, after many a war, says that Capitalism is the only game in town. Chet Helms also says that "aside from the fact that they don't leave ya much choice in this society," he has "always used a capitalist format out of a feeling that there are a lot of groovy ideas about how things could work, but you gotta get from here to there, and anything we do has to start with a capitalist system and evolve to some other point. In fact you do not create the ideal society and sort of go out into the woods and set it up...we must evolve that structure so that the cumulative effect of it over a period of years becomes something else."
One of the major problems, as stated before, is the fees charged by the performers. The fees for all groups are going up and up. Graham, with a capacity for 2500 people, can work within that framework, while Chet Helms would rather have a participant theater of smaller proportions with access to the outside, trees, fountains, etc., introduce new bands, and have a free-flowing total scene in which everyone can get his rocks off.
Here I think we have stumbled onto the crux of the issue. Getting one's rocks off. In the midst of mechanical monsters, frozen psyches and tension-ridden bodies, Rock music in the dance halls has allowed us the opportunity to relax, to release the dit-dot-ditty-da fragmentary consciousness of everyday intellect into a flowing unity. The loud pounding music, the flow of the lights and colors, all the stoned bodies dancing, weaving through the maze, can shake all the uptights into the stream.
It was thus the scene began, in '65 and '66. Then dances were not super concerts but stoned out Bacchanalian delights. But eventually the bands did sign huge contracts, their fees did go up, until now the bands would rather play the large Rock Festivals and charge huge fees.
The Rock Festivals have developed rapidly into something beyond anything the promoters imagined. The Woodstock Festival had more than 400,000 attending. Atlantic City drew 110,000, Seattle 70,000, Dallas had 40,000. Bob Dylan drew 140,000 at the Isle of Wight Festival, knocked 'em out with 14 songs and split, probably bothered by the photographers. Here in San Francisco Speedway Meadows draws upwards of 10,000 of a Sunday.
Why are people gathering in such huge numbers? The music? Well, it seems that the stage is more like an emotional center for the audience. Many people are lying down, many face away from the stage. The stars of the show are the spectators. Thousands never get to hear the music clearly, but if you ask them how they like the festival, they will say: "Fantastic, the most fun in years," etc. A better explanation is that everyone is starved for good vibrations. Festivals are a gathering of the tribes, people coming together around a common focus and absorbing the high-tension vibes in the air. They will suffer anything, mud, hunger, fuzz, no matter, in order to give love, feel love, be love.
This is tribalism coming on strong, NOW. It is happening. We are beginning to remember about dancing together, singing together, doing Yogic breathing together. As a group and as one-to-one partners we can get it together.
The Bay Area is obviously a nerve center for this thing which is beginning. All the good and bad vibes pass through here. We must be the ones to keep the fires lit. The Bay Area is 5, 10, 20, 40 years ahead of other parts of the US.
Whether our music is inside or outside, whether you want to be a dancer or a thinker, it is ours to CREATE the place in which we wish to live, and the style in which we want to live.
(by Muhammad Khan I, from the Berkeley Barb, 5 September 1969)
*
The 8/14/69 Good Times also ran an interview with David Rubinson, record producer and owner of the Fillmore Records label, on the record business. An excerpt:
How come there is only one band in SF right now that has a checking account with money in it? Out of all these fucking people who made records, there is one band that is reasonably solvent and they're not doing as well as they should be. They are the Jefferson Airplane. The Grape has no bread, the Dead no bread, Country Joe has no bread.
[ . . . ]
GT: Let's get into the Grateful Dead. Most of the community can identify with the Dead more than other bands and you said the Grateful Dead don't have any money - could you talk about that? How much money do they need?
DR: What I mean is that if they have a gig in New Orleans tomorrow they don't have the money to get on a plane - their life style demands that when they get a gig that they can ship themselves and their equipment to the gig. They don't have the money necessary for a national tour and they're very very deep in debt. I don't know where the money went. Rock Scully has been on the street and knows where it's at - he's a very smart guy. Jerry Garcia has been on the street, he knows where it's at.
But the Dead and many other groups of this sort are not getting even the money they should get out of what they've sold. Also the Dead spent a huge amount of money in the studio they'll never make on sales. That was I think because no one was able to sit down and say look this is where it's at, you're looking for a given sound this is how you get it.
I know right now that the Dead is as famous in this country as the guy who wrote Moon River. But the Dead aren't making nearly as much money because the guy who wrote Moon River is the kind of artist and kind of writer toward whom the whole music industry is geared. Hoagy Carmichael is making a fortune - Jerry Garcia is starving.
(untitled interview from the San Francisco Good Times, 14 August 1969)
See also:
https://deadsources.blogspot.com/2017/08/august-1-1969-family-dog-playland.html
http://jgmf.blogspot.com/2017/12/magic-at-edge-of-western-world.html
http://jgmf.blogspot.com/2015/06/the-common-september-5-6-7-ish-1969.html
http://lostlivedead.blogspot.com/2010/04/hartbeats-family-dog-on-great-highway.html
http://lostlivedead.blogspot.com/2010/04/family-dog-at-great-highway-august-13.html
http://lostlivedead.blogspot.com/2010/01/september-6-7-1969-family-dog-at-great.html
http://www.michaeljkramer.net/taming-the-wild-west-festival/
http://rockprosopography101.blogspot.com/2010/02/august-22-23-24-1969-fillmore.html
If you are a performer in any sense of the word you belong at the common meetings at the Family Dog. It happens at 1 p.m. Tuesdays. It began with what some have called "Berkeley Bullshit" - confrontation with a march - but has evolved into a strong community of artists who want to be able to do their thing together with the people.
From now on the game is not draw at the Dog. Their new trip is not a game. There will be no more flat guarantees to groups, families, performers. The name of the trip is share. And everybody brings their trip to share.
No longer do the common want the sardine-can environment. An integrated construct by all artists and the community is where it must be at for the total scene to further its form. There will be jams and parties where everybody contributes to the trip. No longer will one performer work in the corner while everybody else is forced to just sit or stand there because no one can move.
In the process of the so-called [light-show] strike, as Jerry Garcia stated: "We discovered the inequities." To share with all the performers the common had to define just exactly who is a performer. And that's everybody that works toward what is finally put on. [ . . . ]
[ Discussion of out-of-town groups, benefits, and the planned Wild West festival. ]
This week the question was: "Where is Wild West's head?" Can the common extend the form of WW to include not only the park but the ocean? Let's call it Wild West and work together. Could WW and the common work together to create a 72-hour-plus environment that would really be remembered as a good trip? The biggest thing that seems to loom in everyone's mind is that Kezar should be free too, besides the rest of the action in the park. But no matter how it comes out, we should really all just get out there in the park and put it on. [ . . . ]
"We have this fantasy painting of an experience in the park that is being labeled Wild West," according to Rock, "and the common has explored fantasy more than them. Now we have to see if we can make it work on a community basis." Chet then asked if it couldn't be done as a non-competitive alternative to WW. The common could in that way communicate what the scene at the Dog and other places could be like. Steve Gaskin, whose Monday night thing is over capacity, wants to join and do a thing in the park. The Grateful Dead, says Jerry Garcia, will join in and do it for free, too. Rock Scully wants to lay down a free trip at the Horsemen's Retreat.
But, can they communicate this to the people at Wild West? They don't want conflict. It should all happen together. So far it hasn't been too together.
The Haight Ashbury Commune, the Mime Troupe, and other groups are calling for a strike against Wild West. . . . A People's Festival is scheduled for Sunday, August 24, on Hippie Hill. We'll all get together and have a free blast.
(by Verne, from the San Francisco Good Times, 14 August 1969)
The same issue reports that "The Wild West has been shut down."
The 8/21/69 Good Times included in its rock listings for August 24, "Hippy Hill: Trans-Cultural Rip-Offs, Inc. presents Steve Gaskin & the Grateful Dead in concert with Shiva Fellowship. Bring dope (the sacrament) and good vibes. noon. free."
*
UNCOMMON COMMON
It was Tuesday afternoon at the Family Dog.
"Nights? Nights?" Jerry Garcia was shouting, "what about during the day? We got musicians running around looking for a place to jam - why not here?"
It was a meeting of the Common, and all the tribes had come together to discuss the form of what should happen at the Family Dog. About a hundred brothers and sisters sat around in a circle, with their dogs and their children. They passed the peace pipe, and exchanged ideas.
"You want to lower the price of admission," somebody was saying, "from three dollars to two fifty. That doesn't make much difference. I'll tell you, the audience isn't going to supply much magic at $2.50. The audience is going to supply a hell of a lot of magic at a buck!"
After about twenty minutes cross rapping, it was decided that each show should have its own price, and there should be enough "cheap" nights for those who can't afford the steep weekend rates.
Chet Helms likes to talk about "new forms."
The Common is a new form. It is all the people who want to do a trip out on the Great Highway: musicians, light artists, impresarios, auctioneers, media people. And most important, the people in the streets who come to goof, and dance, and get high.
Steve Gaskin is part of the Common. Steve is a sort of priest of the new age. Every Monday night, 1,500 of his friends come out to the Family Dog to rap with him, and get stoned together on each others' vibrations. Steve wants to get people high, so they'll stay stoned on the street - and maintain at the same time.
Last Tuesday night, the Common put on a good ol' hoedown. The dance hall was transformed to a psychedelic barn with bales of hay, charcoal-roasted corn (ten cents a hit), and the New Lost City Ramblers.
For the people who didn't have the price of admission, there was a "hassle door," where you could barter your way in for baked goods, clothes, and other nifty shit like credit-card numbers. But it was, be forewarned, truly a hassle. There was an auction: box lunches and apricot pies. If you didn't like German chocolate cake, there were carob cookies at the Messiah's World Commune health food stand.
At the square dance Tuesday, a new San Francisco band made its debut, sort of. The New Riders of the Old Purple Sage, with Jerry Garcia and Mickey Hart of the Grateful Dead, and starring the fair-haired John Dawson on vocal and acoustical guitar. The sound was as smooth as the Dead is, yet it had this sweet country pulse and tune that just made you swoon.
The week before, Fuzzy Dice Productions staged a sock hop. The Fuzzy Dice are in real life a bunch of old men who sit around and play rock and roll records. But, one day, they put all their records together and decided to do something. With the help of KSAN's Tony Pig and Mike Daly, they staged a camp trip that parodied the middle fifties.
Next Tuesday night Howard Wolfe will be playing tapes of some of the classic San Francisco music concerts of the past few years. Wolfe, who worked with the Family Dog for two and a half years, wants to get together a musical and pictorial history of what went down in San Francisco. Nobody is better qualified to do it, he feels, than the people who created it in the first place.
That same night Jerry Abrams will conduct a light show laboratory. Jerry promises "a whole history trip, in film, of the San Francisco scene." The tapes to be played Tuesday will hopefully be released as records, Wolfe hopes, to help pay for the expenses of the Common.
Something is happening in San Francisco again. People are trying to create their own scene once more, rather than be content merely to lay out bread to watch and listen to somebody else's pre-packaged product.
"What about a Latin night?"
"We can raffle off enchiladas?"
"A juke box out of a Mexican restaurant for intermission - "
"How about a cock fight?"
"We'll get busted for that."
"We ain't talkin about chickens, man!"
For the past several years, the most creative and alive artistic energy of our generation has come from San Francisco. But the San Francisco music scene is going through a change. Bill Graham is closing the doors of the Fillmore. The Family Dog is about bankrupt.
Only the concept of the Common - all of us tripping together, coming together, standing together - will enable our culture to survive and grow.
The Common. Get behind it. At the Family Dog on the Great Highway.
(by Art Johnson, from the Berkeley Tribe, 22 August 1969)
*
ROCK RIPPLES MOVE OUTSIDE
Right now, September 1969 is a major turning point in the evolution of Rock Music as well as the crucial test of whether or not there IS a hip community in the Bay Area.
The Family Dog is faltering, folks. We are the family, this is the pet we have (sort of) kept for the past 4 or 5 years. Now it looks as bucolic, dyspeptic & strung out as an establishment pet. Who has not witnessed the 55 year old matron with her freaked-out, watery eyed fluff ball of a dead dog under her arm as she waddles off to oblivion? Is it happening to us? Maybe so, if we let it. Kennel master Chet Helms has tired of looking at his weekly loss sheet, and is showing it to the public.
The Family Dog has $50,000 in debts and Chet Helms has only been eating because his wife has a straight gig. There are many reasons for the Dog losing, among them, the performers want such exorbitant fees, attendance is down, lack of advertising saturation, but even when the house was full he wasn't making money.
As a result Mr. Helms has thrown the situation open to a "Common," composed of Members of the Dog, Members of the Light Artists Guild, Musicians, and people of the community. "The Common," which meets on Tuesdays at 1:00 at the Family Dog, is trying to set up a co-operative system whereby everyone involved with the production receives a percentage of the profits.
At the same time, Bill Graham has announced that he is quitting the scene when his lease runs out in December.
"This town has never stopped rapping an honest businessman for four fucking years," says Mr. Graham. "I leave here very sad...I may be copping out, but your attitudes have driven me to my decision." Mr. Graham is tired of having fingers pointed in his face, the hateful crazies screaming: "Capitalist Motherfucker, Capitalist Motherfucker!"
Jerry Garcia of the Grateful Dead, after many a war, says that Capitalism is the only game in town. Chet Helms also says that "aside from the fact that they don't leave ya much choice in this society," he has "always used a capitalist format out of a feeling that there are a lot of groovy ideas about how things could work, but you gotta get from here to there, and anything we do has to start with a capitalist system and evolve to some other point. In fact you do not create the ideal society and sort of go out into the woods and set it up...we must evolve that structure so that the cumulative effect of it over a period of years becomes something else."
One of the major problems, as stated before, is the fees charged by the performers. The fees for all groups are going up and up. Graham, with a capacity for 2500 people, can work within that framework, while Chet Helms would rather have a participant theater of smaller proportions with access to the outside, trees, fountains, etc., introduce new bands, and have a free-flowing total scene in which everyone can get his rocks off.
Here I think we have stumbled onto the crux of the issue. Getting one's rocks off. In the midst of mechanical monsters, frozen psyches and tension-ridden bodies, Rock music in the dance halls has allowed us the opportunity to relax, to release the dit-dot-ditty-da fragmentary consciousness of everyday intellect into a flowing unity. The loud pounding music, the flow of the lights and colors, all the stoned bodies dancing, weaving through the maze, can shake all the uptights into the stream.
It was thus the scene began, in '65 and '66. Then dances were not super concerts but stoned out Bacchanalian delights. But eventually the bands did sign huge contracts, their fees did go up, until now the bands would rather play the large Rock Festivals and charge huge fees.
The Rock Festivals have developed rapidly into something beyond anything the promoters imagined. The Woodstock Festival had more than 400,000 attending. Atlantic City drew 110,000, Seattle 70,000, Dallas had 40,000. Bob Dylan drew 140,000 at the Isle of Wight Festival, knocked 'em out with 14 songs and split, probably bothered by the photographers. Here in San Francisco Speedway Meadows draws upwards of 10,000 of a Sunday.
Why are people gathering in such huge numbers? The music? Well, it seems that the stage is more like an emotional center for the audience. Many people are lying down, many face away from the stage. The stars of the show are the spectators. Thousands never get to hear the music clearly, but if you ask them how they like the festival, they will say: "Fantastic, the most fun in years," etc. A better explanation is that everyone is starved for good vibrations. Festivals are a gathering of the tribes, people coming together around a common focus and absorbing the high-tension vibes in the air. They will suffer anything, mud, hunger, fuzz, no matter, in order to give love, feel love, be love.
This is tribalism coming on strong, NOW. It is happening. We are beginning to remember about dancing together, singing together, doing Yogic breathing together. As a group and as one-to-one partners we can get it together.
The Bay Area is obviously a nerve center for this thing which is beginning. All the good and bad vibes pass through here. We must be the ones to keep the fires lit. The Bay Area is 5, 10, 20, 40 years ahead of other parts of the US.
Whether our music is inside or outside, whether you want to be a dancer or a thinker, it is ours to CREATE the place in which we wish to live, and the style in which we want to live.
(by Muhammad Khan I, from the Berkeley Barb, 5 September 1969)
*
The 8/14/69 Good Times also ran an interview with David Rubinson, record producer and owner of the Fillmore Records label, on the record business. An excerpt:
How come there is only one band in SF right now that has a checking account with money in it? Out of all these fucking people who made records, there is one band that is reasonably solvent and they're not doing as well as they should be. They are the Jefferson Airplane. The Grape has no bread, the Dead no bread, Country Joe has no bread.
[ . . . ]
GT: Let's get into the Grateful Dead. Most of the community can identify with the Dead more than other bands and you said the Grateful Dead don't have any money - could you talk about that? How much money do they need?
DR: What I mean is that if they have a gig in New Orleans tomorrow they don't have the money to get on a plane - their life style demands that when they get a gig that they can ship themselves and their equipment to the gig. They don't have the money necessary for a national tour and they're very very deep in debt. I don't know where the money went. Rock Scully has been on the street and knows where it's at - he's a very smart guy. Jerry Garcia has been on the street, he knows where it's at.
But the Dead and many other groups of this sort are not getting even the money they should get out of what they've sold. Also the Dead spent a huge amount of money in the studio they'll never make on sales. That was I think because no one was able to sit down and say look this is where it's at, you're looking for a given sound this is how you get it.
I know right now that the Dead is as famous in this country as the guy who wrote Moon River. But the Dead aren't making nearly as much money because the guy who wrote Moon River is the kind of artist and kind of writer toward whom the whole music industry is geared. Hoagy Carmichael is making a fortune - Jerry Garcia is starving.
(untitled interview from the San Francisco Good Times, 14 August 1969)
 | |
| Garcia at a Common meeting, August 1969 |
See also:
https://deadsources.blogspot.com/2017/08/august-1-1969-family-dog-playland.html
http://jgmf.blogspot.com/2017/12/magic-at-edge-of-western-world.html
http://jgmf.blogspot.com/2015/06/the-common-september-5-6-7-ish-1969.html
http://lostlivedead.blogspot.com/2010/04/hartbeats-family-dog-on-great-highway.html
http://lostlivedead.blogspot.com/2010/04/family-dog-at-great-highway-august-13.html
http://lostlivedead.blogspot.com/2010/01/september-6-7-1969-family-dog-at-great.html
http://www.michaeljkramer.net/taming-the-wild-west-festival/
http://rockprosopography101.blogspot.com/2010/02/august-22-23-24-1969-fillmore.html
Aug 21, 2018
July 7, 1969: Piedmont Park, Atlanta
Excerpts from an untitled article on the Atlanta International Pop Festival:
. . . you enter the cove of piedmont park 9:30 monday night down the stone grotto sheltered by the elms, the music ringing buddy holly-beatles, softly buoying you pam jesse, now floating you down onto an electric soft blanket of people covering the floor, no one stands still. currents move people smiling . . .
. . . people exchange, move on, dance, truck, hug, and you walk through this caught by something strange. delirious, you laugh, you smile amazed. the afternoon rain still hangs on the trees and in the air and the ground still springs spongey from its bath. you walk through wholly different communities of people spawned by the electricity of the music - Sitters, Viewers, Dancers, Listeners, Talkers - the light and music combining in areas to animate dances of wild beauty. lying on the ground an old black worker with his woman in his arms, both at a peace that no sound can breach. as you slide through these waves, the laughter wells, grows inside, blurts out and falls onto the heads of people around. a young girl - fairy, nymph - trips about, a redknobbed wand is her hand touching heads, the light tap spreading, suffusing its gentle innocent love - soon gone. . . .
. . . as the beatles stop, you come down almost into the womb of the speakers. catching the tuning notes of the grateful dead and you find miller, k.m., sally, bob, becky and you smile/laugh/hug. the dead play and people are not ready for them and stand at odds confused while the soft, sometimes jerky rhythms search for the chord, the cord, the resonance of the people. And soon it begins to form, as if mutually agreed upon, and people began to move again. The rhythm is caught. In the core of the left speakers' wake a dance begins. A tall slender red haired girl dances gracefully the dance of enticement, of friendship offered. A black man moves a careful, gameful dance of pride. The resonance grows, the music replies, the dance accelerates. People gather and clap and dance. The circle becomes magnetic and generates a ring of hand in hand dancers, encircling in affirmation the now contagious motion of the couple. The black man steps quickly into the circle, and selects a successor and the dance dissolves into individuals dancing. the dead play on, now gently loosing its audience. the music moves off into a corner jam session, and people find themselves again, but now elevated, and talking, moving and relaxing. . . .
. . . younger kids run through the audience sweating smiling hand in hand in a long chain of what seems to be a school day recess game of pop the whip - but there is no pop. a cheer rises. the crowd finds its modulations, the dead listen, and v-signs are thrown high. you find the core of vibration and see a young black policeman buoyed on the shoulders of an ecstatic procession. the cheers rise again and again and you smile wondering what this black jesus in uniform can mean in the day of the black panther. but the movement is delirious and you too are caught to the point of crying. he is hoisted high to the top of a car and as he stands beaming, his fist raised, surrounded by his disciples, a young girl bursts up onto the platform to hug Him and the cheers go up wild mingled with the strains of the dead. . . .
. . . the dead are through. clumps of audience still vibrate, playing in the lake, some wash their sweet sweat. out of the park in all directions people spread, radiate - like a slowly bursting nova.
(by Jim Gwin, from the Great Speckled Bird, 14 July 1969)
https://archive.org/details/gd1969-07-07.123468.sbd.miller.flac16
See also:
http://www.thestripproject.com/TheStripProject/Hippies_Stories/Entries/2007/5/19_Dead_in_Piedmont_Park.html
*
The rest of the review, on July 4-5:
pontiac, ford, v-w, camaro - stacked one mile long in the concrete heat of july fourth afternoon. you approach the hampton raceway through groups of ambling long hairs and straights, some hawking, some hitching, here in the dusty glare to see Atlanta's "International Pop Festival" carnival of superrock and lesser sounds. tents spring up and parked cars stretch on the rolling hills like seas of metallic dead whales glinting dully through a layer of dirt. . . .
coming up out of the tunnel onto the raceway infield you ride across a red clay plain slowly realizing the immensity of the area encompassed by the 4-5 mile ribbon of asphalt and steel fence. all ready in the middle of this gargantuan shadeless pit rise pavilion tents, merchant booths, people tents, polyethylene domes, parachutes held up by helium balloons and anchored for shade, yellowredwhite coca cola houses and ten thousand people thronging - and waiting - 100degrees - for the palpable vibrations of the monstrous amplifiers to dispel the heavy clinging heat. dylan warms up via phonograph, his intimate earthy home lyrics flying off desperately unheard in this huge alien expanse. . . .
you begin to set up your own little merchant booth, bird booth, a makeshift affair of ropes, cardboard, and poles, on a slight hill some one quarter mile from the platform. from there we watch the afternoon fade into a sustained heat. The music starts, but can do nothing with the warm jelly audience. people escape to coca cola, beer, a water hosing, any precious shade. many are soon prostrate, sick. some sprawl in the direct sun in the area of the stage, trying separately, desperately to listen to the music. watermelons are given away, and soon the entire grounds are spread with half eaten fermenting rings. the evening brings coolness and a slight relaxation. you walk down to the audience, jammed increasingly toward the all absorbing one stage. there are occasional signs, deep eyes, soft eyes, and there are efforts made. but there is something frantic here, a slow eating mulling tone of desperation - or is it in you only?
al kooper starts the evening with his big band swing sound and a few apologias for the Festival and I begin to wander back through the watermelon rinds, beer cans, and bodies as his rapt audience continues applauding. the evening wears into johnny rivers, power failures and random fireworks, and very tired i drive home, disappointed that so many could meet for so little. there are those who stayed - down close - through the night to hear creedence clearwater, canned heat, and johnny winter, and there are those who say there were good things happening. i was not there. . . .
saturday at hampton starts slow. people stream into the infield constantly from 1:00 to 7:00. the heat is still paramount, but a tension begins to build, a waiting for the cool evening, a waiting for the evening, led zeppelin, blood sweat and tears, and janis joplin. many groups play. chicago transit authority floats out nice tones, but you are too far away to get caught in it, or to feel the audience. as evening comes a two year old vigorously, violently, plays kick the can, and his subtle little symphony of grunts and scuffles and the can's clat-a-tat-a-whaat is what you hear as music. dark comes down and once again you move down toward the brightly spotlighted stage where someone is performing. at first, chatting, sauntering, you soon pass into groups of people, standing, electric, transfixed to the stage, and you too are caught by a tremendous wave of sound, pulsing through the air, a sound at once of panic, of power, and of death. you are drawn closer to the light, to the stage, and now see the flesh torso of the lead singer/performer, his violent motions and his sweet painful cries moving the led zeppelin and the audience into mass orgasmic anticlimax - a vision of virility and sterility, everywhere and nowhere, schizophrenic. you are no longer: HE IS. the music dies way up there in one last bitter cry of failure, and you and people around you fall back onto the ground. you wait interminably for blood sweat and tears, and you get it, a harry james in the age of the airplane, a frank sinatra-frank lovejoy in the time of hendrix. many in the audience decide they can make it here, and stay. you wander away to the sounds of flight of the bumblebee. . . .
joplin draws you back down but somehow is not for you. her voice though strong has the unwavering nuances of a tired woman. when she stops to speak she is warm, even beautiful, but she is tired. the screams and standing bodies attest to her incredible will. though joe cocker is to come with some interesting theater, the festival is over. in darkness the exodus has begun, the pilgrimage over, the war ended, the worship completed. the trudge stretches for an endless quarter mile, the mood is tired.
. . . you enter the cove of piedmont park 9:30 monday night down the stone grotto sheltered by the elms, the music ringing buddy holly-beatles, softly buoying you pam jesse, now floating you down onto an electric soft blanket of people covering the floor, no one stands still. currents move people smiling . . .
. . . people exchange, move on, dance, truck, hug, and you walk through this caught by something strange. delirious, you laugh, you smile amazed. the afternoon rain still hangs on the trees and in the air and the ground still springs spongey from its bath. you walk through wholly different communities of people spawned by the electricity of the music - Sitters, Viewers, Dancers, Listeners, Talkers - the light and music combining in areas to animate dances of wild beauty. lying on the ground an old black worker with his woman in his arms, both at a peace that no sound can breach. as you slide through these waves, the laughter wells, grows inside, blurts out and falls onto the heads of people around. a young girl - fairy, nymph - trips about, a redknobbed wand is her hand touching heads, the light tap spreading, suffusing its gentle innocent love - soon gone. . . .
. . . as the beatles stop, you come down almost into the womb of the speakers. catching the tuning notes of the grateful dead and you find miller, k.m., sally, bob, becky and you smile/laugh/hug. the dead play and people are not ready for them and stand at odds confused while the soft, sometimes jerky rhythms search for the chord, the cord, the resonance of the people. And soon it begins to form, as if mutually agreed upon, and people began to move again. The rhythm is caught. In the core of the left speakers' wake a dance begins. A tall slender red haired girl dances gracefully the dance of enticement, of friendship offered. A black man moves a careful, gameful dance of pride. The resonance grows, the music replies, the dance accelerates. People gather and clap and dance. The circle becomes magnetic and generates a ring of hand in hand dancers, encircling in affirmation the now contagious motion of the couple. The black man steps quickly into the circle, and selects a successor and the dance dissolves into individuals dancing. the dead play on, now gently loosing its audience. the music moves off into a corner jam session, and people find themselves again, but now elevated, and talking, moving and relaxing. . . .
. . . younger kids run through the audience sweating smiling hand in hand in a long chain of what seems to be a school day recess game of pop the whip - but there is no pop. a cheer rises. the crowd finds its modulations, the dead listen, and v-signs are thrown high. you find the core of vibration and see a young black policeman buoyed on the shoulders of an ecstatic procession. the cheers rise again and again and you smile wondering what this black jesus in uniform can mean in the day of the black panther. but the movement is delirious and you too are caught to the point of crying. he is hoisted high to the top of a car and as he stands beaming, his fist raised, surrounded by his disciples, a young girl bursts up onto the platform to hug Him and the cheers go up wild mingled with the strains of the dead. . . .
. . . the dead are through. clumps of audience still vibrate, playing in the lake, some wash their sweet sweat. out of the park in all directions people spread, radiate - like a slowly bursting nova.
(by Jim Gwin, from the Great Speckled Bird, 14 July 1969)
https://archive.org/details/gd1969-07-07.123468.sbd.miller.flac16
See also:
http://www.thestripproject.com/TheStripProject/Hippies_Stories/Entries/2007/5/19_Dead_in_Piedmont_Park.html
*
The rest of the review, on July 4-5:
pontiac, ford, v-w, camaro - stacked one mile long in the concrete heat of july fourth afternoon. you approach the hampton raceway through groups of ambling long hairs and straights, some hawking, some hitching, here in the dusty glare to see Atlanta's "International Pop Festival" carnival of superrock and lesser sounds. tents spring up and parked cars stretch on the rolling hills like seas of metallic dead whales glinting dully through a layer of dirt. . . .
coming up out of the tunnel onto the raceway infield you ride across a red clay plain slowly realizing the immensity of the area encompassed by the 4-5 mile ribbon of asphalt and steel fence. all ready in the middle of this gargantuan shadeless pit rise pavilion tents, merchant booths, people tents, polyethylene domes, parachutes held up by helium balloons and anchored for shade, yellowredwhite coca cola houses and ten thousand people thronging - and waiting - 100degrees - for the palpable vibrations of the monstrous amplifiers to dispel the heavy clinging heat. dylan warms up via phonograph, his intimate earthy home lyrics flying off desperately unheard in this huge alien expanse. . . .
you begin to set up your own little merchant booth, bird booth, a makeshift affair of ropes, cardboard, and poles, on a slight hill some one quarter mile from the platform. from there we watch the afternoon fade into a sustained heat. The music starts, but can do nothing with the warm jelly audience. people escape to coca cola, beer, a water hosing, any precious shade. many are soon prostrate, sick. some sprawl in the direct sun in the area of the stage, trying separately, desperately to listen to the music. watermelons are given away, and soon the entire grounds are spread with half eaten fermenting rings. the evening brings coolness and a slight relaxation. you walk down to the audience, jammed increasingly toward the all absorbing one stage. there are occasional signs, deep eyes, soft eyes, and there are efforts made. but there is something frantic here, a slow eating mulling tone of desperation - or is it in you only?
al kooper starts the evening with his big band swing sound and a few apologias for the Festival and I begin to wander back through the watermelon rinds, beer cans, and bodies as his rapt audience continues applauding. the evening wears into johnny rivers, power failures and random fireworks, and very tired i drive home, disappointed that so many could meet for so little. there are those who stayed - down close - through the night to hear creedence clearwater, canned heat, and johnny winter, and there are those who say there were good things happening. i was not there. . . .
saturday at hampton starts slow. people stream into the infield constantly from 1:00 to 7:00. the heat is still paramount, but a tension begins to build, a waiting for the cool evening, a waiting for the evening, led zeppelin, blood sweat and tears, and janis joplin. many groups play. chicago transit authority floats out nice tones, but you are too far away to get caught in it, or to feel the audience. as evening comes a two year old vigorously, violently, plays kick the can, and his subtle little symphony of grunts and scuffles and the can's clat-a-tat-a-whaat is what you hear as music. dark comes down and once again you move down toward the brightly spotlighted stage where someone is performing. at first, chatting, sauntering, you soon pass into groups of people, standing, electric, transfixed to the stage, and you too are caught by a tremendous wave of sound, pulsing through the air, a sound at once of panic, of power, and of death. you are drawn closer to the light, to the stage, and now see the flesh torso of the lead singer/performer, his violent motions and his sweet painful cries moving the led zeppelin and the audience into mass orgasmic anticlimax - a vision of virility and sterility, everywhere and nowhere, schizophrenic. you are no longer: HE IS. the music dies way up there in one last bitter cry of failure, and you and people around you fall back onto the ground. you wait interminably for blood sweat and tears, and you get it, a harry james in the age of the airplane, a frank sinatra-frank lovejoy in the time of hendrix. many in the audience decide they can make it here, and stay. you wander away to the sounds of flight of the bumblebee. . . .
joplin draws you back down but somehow is not for you. her voice though strong has the unwavering nuances of a tired woman. when she stops to speak she is warm, even beautiful, but she is tired. the screams and standing bodies attest to her incredible will. though joe cocker is to come with some interesting theater, the festival is over. in darkness the exodus has begun, the pilgrimage over, the war ended, the worship completed. the trudge stretches for an endless quarter mile, the mood is tired.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)