Saturday, October 31, 2009

The legendary Roky Erickson finally hits Detroit

He has never been here before ...

http://www.metrotimes.com/music/story.asp?id=14499

The legendary Roky Erickson finally hits Detroit

By Bill Holdship
10/28/2009

Although there are certainly other candidates, the man born Roger
Kynard Erickson 62 years ago in Austin, Texas, just might be the
greatest rock 'n' roll cult hero of all time. But first, some backstory ...

It was always a personal pipe dream ­ to host a panel at South by
Southwest or one of the other national music conferences and to title
it something like "Rock's Greatest Crazies." The number of possible
participants has sadly been greatly reduced over the past dozen years
or so. But the general idea was to have Brian Wilson, Syd Barrett,
Roky Erickson, Arthur Lee, Sky Saxon, Arthur Brown (Bob Dylan may
have even fit at certain points in his career) ­ people like that ­
on a panel, let someone like late Brian Wilson psychotherapist-guru
Eugene Landy moderate, and then just let them all go wild.

The concept involved no mean-spiritedness. Sure, it would be
immensely entertaining ­ but it would also be fascinating and there
would certainly be things to be learned from all these so-called
"crazies." As Sonic Youth's Thurston Moore once said while commenting
on Wilson at his most "gone": "To me, it's really fascinating to hear
such complex harmonies coming out of somebody who's considered 'not
right.' I mean, I'm learning something about beauty from this person.
So it's like, hey, who's 'not right' here?"

But even beyond what might be learned from these "loonies," having
met and even interviewed a few of these damaged but great artists
over the years, I can safely say that there's a certain sweetness ­
something even childlike ­ to a lot of their spirits.

And sweetness was surely on display when Roky Erickson phoned Metro
Times from his Austin home early one evening several weeks ago. I was
warned beforehand that Erickson is often very brief with his
responses these days. And honestly, a few of his answers weren't
exactly coherent, or at least they didn't follow a linear path. But
then I also felt bad afterward, wondering if perhaps he just didn't
hear or understand some of the questions and was too nice (or sweet)
just to say so. But the sweetness and the fact that there's any
coherency there at all should come as a relief to those who saw
You're Gonna Miss Me, Keven McAlester's excellent 2005 documentary
about the musical legend's career and troubles, both mental and
legal, or read an infamous MOJO magazine interview from the late '90s
in which Erickson seemed so far gone, there didn't appear to be any
chances for a return to anything resembling normalcy in sight.

He still seems obsessed with television, but only because he enjoys
watching TV, as opposed to the days when he'd constantly run three
televisions in his home at the same time at top volume; it's been
suggested it was an attempt to drown out all the voices (or demons)
residing in his head. Of course, at least a few of those voices ­
even some of those demons ­ were responsible for some of the finest
rock 'n' roll music to be found in the canon ...

For those not yet indoctrinated into the cult of Roky Erickson, he
first came to prominence as the singer, rhythm guitarist and
co-songwriter for the 13th Floor Elevators, the most legendary Texan
psychedelic band ­ hell, possibly just psychedelic band in general ­
of all time. The group's first single, "You're Gonna Miss Me," was
released in 1966, and it sounded, as über Elevators fan and expert
Bill Bentley once wrote, "like a rocket-fueled message delivered by a
man from another planet." The song would gain new and even greater
life when it was featured on Nuggets, Lenny Kaye's now-legendary
psychedelic garage rock compilation, but the Elevators were already
well known and loved in certain circles as perhaps the most
psychedelic band in history, thanks to their belief in the bible of
Timothy Leary and the religion of LSD and mescaline (a certain point,
it's doubtful they ever did a show when they weren't under the
influence of hallucinogenics).

Entire books and essays have been written about the band's colorful,
eventful career ­ but things had started to fall apart for the
Elevators even before Erickson was busted for marijuana possession
(one joint, actually) in 1969. Texas, which had some of the strictest
drug laws in the country and already knew the band members as
"troublemakers," surely would've given the musician prison time ­ so,
at a lawyer's advice, he pled not guilty by reasons of insanity and
was sentenced to the Rusk (Texas) Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

Erickson spent three yeas in the facility, where he was subjected to
electro-shock therapy and experimental medication, including
Thorazine. When he finally returned to Austin in the early '70s, he
appeared to be a shell of his former self; the mental deterioration
had been dramatic. (More than one fan has said over the years that if
they had the money, they'd have sued Rusk for what it ultimately did
to Roky Erickson). Slowly but surely, though, he was drawn out.
Fellow Texan outlaw Doug Sahm started a new label, Mars Records (of
course!) just to release a new Erickson single in 1975 ­ "Starry
Eyes" b/w "Red Temple Prayer (Two Headed Dog)." The single
effectively showed the two very different sides of the "new" Roky
that have remained consistent throughout his solo career.

"Starry Eyes" sounds like it could have been written by Buddy Holly
at the height of his powers. Erickson has recorded the song various
times over the years, including a gorgeous duet version with Lou Ann
Barton in 1995. Each version has been different but each has stood as
a testament to the song's power as one of the sweetest, most
beautiful pop-rock love songs ever written. The flip side, however,
was closer to the electric blues-rock preferred by the Elevators
(perhaps by way of CCR; that band's Stu Cook produced one of
Erickson's finest solo albums). Subsequent forays into the style
almost always borrowed imagery (and even titles) from Erickson's
favorite classic B monster and horror films. In effect, the zombies
and devils in his lyrics became metaphors for the aforementioned
demons in his head. Talk about artistic sublimation!

Erickson released an album on Columbia UK and another for San
Francisco's progressive punk 415 label, as well as some for smaller
indie companies; some of the best is collected on Restless Records'
You're Gonna Miss Me: The Best of Roky Erickson, now out-of-print but
definitely worth seeking out. Bill Bentley put together a tribute
album, Where the Pyramid Meets the Eye, on Sire/Warner Bros. in 1990,
featuring such acolytes as R.E.M., Primal Scream, T. Bone Burnett,
and the Jesus and Mary Chain ­ but the late '80s and '90s saw
Erickson's life unravel into further instability. Nevertheless,
Butthole Surfers drummer King Coffey rallied the Texan troops in
1995, got Roky back into a studio with some of Austin's finest
musicians, including Charlie Sexton, and the result was All That May
Do My Rhyme, one of his finest works and surely one of the sweetest
rock 'n' roll albums of that decade.

As McAlester's documentary revealed its conclusion, Erickson's
younger brother, Sumner, gained legal conservatorship of Roky in
2001. After 13 months in Pittsburgh, where the siblings lived
together (Sumner was a member of that city's symphony orchestra) and
Roky was placed on a new therapeutic and medicinal regime, the elder
Erickson seemed to regain some stability, even happiness, in his
life. He returned to Austin in 2002, where everyone knows him and
honors him as a hometown hero. In 2005, Bentley and A&R executive
Gary Stewart assembled I Have Always Been Here Before, the first
compilation to spotlight Roky's entire career, including the
Elevators, for Shout Factory (although I've never completely forgiven
them for excluding the great "I Walked with a Zombie," perhaps better
known to '90s "college radio" fans via R.E.M.'s cover version).

He started touring again that same year, including high-profile gigs
in Britain, other parts of Europe and at California's Coachella
festival. This new life finally brings him to Detroit this Devil's
Night, backed by a band that includes guitarist Kyle Ellison
(Butthole Surfers, Meat Puppets), bassist Matt Harris (the Posies,
Oranger) and drummer Kyle Schneider (Charlie Sexton's band, Ian
Moore). The Midwest should feel especially honored; last year, L.A.
got Roky on Devil's Night, with San Francisco getting a Halloween
show; this year, it's Detroit ­ his first show here ever ­ and then
onto Chicago. Which is what led to his phone call to us.

After an initial "false alarm," during which manager Darren Hill said
he'd have to call right back because Roky suddenly decided he "needed
to wash his hands first," they phoned again and Roky began with one
of the most enthusiastic and sincere "Hiiiiiiiiii!"s this writer has
ever heard.

Metro Times: How are you?
Roky Erickson: I'm doing real good.

MT: We're really excited about you coming to Detroit. You've never
been to Detroit before, have you?
Erickson: No, I never have. I heard about it, you know?

MT: I know you like to play shows on Halloween. You've done Los
Angeles and San Francisco in the past but this time you're playing
Detroit/Chicago. Any reason for that?
Erickson: No. I'm just trying to hear about these things, you know.

MT: Is Halloween one of your favorite holidays?
Erickson: Yeah, Halloween's real fun. You have to be careful because
I like to go through the stuff, you know what I mean?

MT: Are you happy to be back in Austin?
Erickson: Yeah, I'm real glad to be here. I've been having a good
time. I've been watching TV, you know what I mean?

MT: In addition to watching TV, though, I hear you've been playing
out a lot. People have told me that, in Austin, you'll actually go
onstage and guest with a lot of bands. Is that true?
Erickson: Yeah, I've been taking it easy for some time, you know.

MT: Are there any young bands in Austin right now that you've seen
that you like?
Erickson: I've been watching TV, you know. They like to do these
Farmer's Almanac shows, you know what I mean?

MT: Gregg Turner of the Angry Samoans told me there's an ice cream
parlor in Austin where they actually have an ice cream special called
'The Roky Erickson."
Erickson: That's right, yeah. Or something like that. It's "Roky,
Roky." It's made with Rocky Road ice cream

MT: That's a pretty cool honor, to have an ice cream named after you.
Erickson: Yeah, it is. And then they said they were going to put me
on the, you know, whatever it is. They're gonna put a nice thing on
the wall or something.

MT: You're like a hero in Austin. People must look at you like "Roky
Erickson, the rock 'n' roll hero.
Erickson: Yeah. I went someplace the other day and it was good, you
know? A real crowded place.

MT: Did people recognize you when you came in?
Erickson: Yeah, they did.

MT: Who is currently in your band? I know you were playing with the
Explosives and the Black Angels. Are you playing with either of them right now?
Erickson: Well, I haven't played with them in a long time. They gave
me a picture and it's kind of filled out with a zombie or something
like that. Usually I've been playing with people who have names that
are kind of, you know, they keep them a secret.

MT: I recently saw the gig you did on the Austin City Limits TV show.
Erickson: Yes, I enjoyed that a lot. Yeah. We didn't play a lot of
songs but we had a really good show.

MT: A few years ago, you played Coachella in California. It must have
been fun playing in front of a crowd that big.
Erickson: Yeah. I never did really find out who they all were. It was
really, kind of . . . the heat was real bad!

MT: There's been a rumor for years that Janis Joplin almost joined
the 13th Floor Elevators. Is that a true story?
Erickson: Well, the thing was, we heard her scream, you know what I mean?

MT: Her scream was good but it was not anywhere near as good as your
scream on "You're Gonna Miss Me."
Erickson: Well, I never really even heard her scream. I'm sure that
she probably had some good ones, you know?

MT: So many bands and artists have covered your songs over the years.
Do you have a favorite cover version of one of your songs?
Erickson: Well, let's see, a cover version that somebody else
performed ... I have a bunch of things here but I haven't had time to
listen to them.

MT: In the '90s, Bill Bentley did that tribute CD, where a bunch of
artists like the Jesus and Mary Chain and R.E.M. did your songs. Did
you ever get to hear that?
Erickson: Well, I have one here called The Scandinavian Tribute. And
then there's a band that's called "The Rokys."

MT: It must be rewarding to have so many young bands who were
influenced by you.
Erickson: Yeah, I'll tell you. I really like it. That's great to do
that, you know what I mean?

MT: You recorded "Starry Eyes" several times. Of course, there was
the original version and then you did a duet with Lou Ann Barton ...
Erickson: You're aware of that, and I heard things about that.

MT: Do you have a favorite version of "Starry Eyes" or do you like them all?
Erickson: Well, let me see ... I like them all.

MT: Yeah. Well, it's one of the best songs ever written. It really is.
Erickson: I appreciate that.

MT: The documentary that was done a few years ago by Keven McAlester;
did you ever see that? Did you like the movie?
Erickson: Yeah, we did. It's just a very strange thing. You have to
figure out what harm it's after. It could be hell. You know, "the
night he came home" or something like that. It's that one part. It's
just good to move in on something, you know what I mean? And then it
goes into stuff that would be more personal that should only be "for
your eyes only" or something else.

MT: The personal stuff must be weird when the movie's about you.
You've been playing a lot these past few years. Does it feel like you
have your mojo back?
Erickson: The wardrobe back?

MT: No, the mojo.
Erickson: Oh! Well, yeah. I just read a book called something about
heads. Shrunken heads, you know? "Have You Seen My Shrunken Head?" Or
something like that.

MT: Right. Was it a good book?
Erickson: Yes, it was real good. Yeah.

MT: Darren [Hill] mentioned to me that you're working on a new album?
Erickson: Who mentioned that to you again?

MT: Darren Hill, your manager.
Erickson: Oh, right. I thought you said Barry!

MT: I'm sorry. Maybe I'm not talking loud enough.
Erickson: That's alright. It doesn't bother me. It's kind of windy
here, you know what I mean?

MT: But he had mentioned you're working on a new album. That must
mean you're writing some new songs then?
Erickson: Mostly, I play my organ.

MT: Do you prefer the organ to the guitar these days?
Erickson: Yeah, I like all the instruments. They're kind of like TV,
you know? I don't know. There's something that's supposed to be
guided; something that's supposed to be there.

MT: The new songs that you've been working on, have you been working
on those on the organ or the guitar or both?
Erickson: I've been working mostly on my organ.

MT: Any idea when the album might be done, when it might be coming out?
Erickson: I haven't thought about it. We had this one, you know, it
was a real slow thing. They played it for me. It was just one long
song. It was just like [makes high pitched noise] Everybody said they
liked it, though. (According to management, the new album was
recorded with Okkervil River and will be released sometime in the new year.)

MT: I'm sure it's great. You're one of the great songwriters.
Speaking of which, it always seemed like there's an interesting blend
to Roky Erickson's music. There are two sides. You had the
psychedelic side. But you also have the "Starry Eyes"/"I Walked With
a Zombie" side where you were obviously influenced by Buddy Holly. I
take it you were a big Buddy Holly fan.
Erickson: Yes, I still am! I have a little bobble-head thing of Buddy
Holly here right now, you know.

MT: There was a bootleg several years ago that had you singing "One
Last Kiss" from the movie Bye Bye, Birdie. I figured you probably
learned that from listening to Bobby Vee's version.
Erickson: It's really strange. It's like, you can't really figure out
who that is. The same kind of thing as [makes high noise again]. A
real strange thing. Like a siren or something, you know what mean?

MT: I see that Webb Wilder recently covered "Don't Slander Me." Did
you get to hear that?
Erickson: Webb Wilder? I didn't know he did that or something like that. But it
sounds like a good one, yeah.

MT: A few years ago, I was watching TV and a Dell computer commercial
came on and "You're Gonna Miss Me" was on it. Did that surprise you ­
to hear your song on a TV commercial?
Erickson: Yes, it did! I didn't mishear that one.

MT: That book came out last year or so called Eye Mind. It was about
the 13th Floor Elevators. Did you get a chance to look at that book at all?
Erickson: Yeah, I have it here. I didn't interpret it that much, you
know. You have to have someone read it for you, you know?

MT: It is a big book. That's for sure.
Erickson: It is a big one, yes. I just read these articles where it
said we were having trouble with Texas or something like that.
Wondering about the Texas people or something, you know?

MT: Well, you're a Texas hero.
Erickson: Well, thank you! I don't let it be too weird when I read
things like that, but, you know, I don't think we ever did have
trouble with them.
MT: Sometimes people, when they write about things that you actually
lived, they don't always get everything right.
Erickson: Oh, well. They try, don't they?

MT: They do, especially if they're a fan. Do you like looking back at
your past, with books like that? Or do you prefer to look toward the future?
Erickson: Well, I just mainly like to take it easy and try to gauge
what I'm doing.

MT: Are you enjoying being onstage again? Except when it's too hot
like at Coachella. But whenever you perform, do you enjoy it?
Erickson: You know, I have to gauge that too. I was ... one time, in
this room and this person came up and said "Boy, we smell smoke in
the auditorium!"

MT: Well, that would make you nervous, for sure.
Erickson: I'll tell you it will. It'll straighten you right out. I
didn't think they were too mad at me but ... you know what I mean?

MT: Yeah, well maybe you're just so good onstage that they thought
you were smokin'.
Erickson: [laughs] They just said they smelled smoke or something.
They saw something in a cloud or something like that, I don't know.
They tried to be polite but there was just something wrong, you know?

MT: I read that you recently recorded with the Scottish band, Mogwai.
You did a song with them called "Devil Rides."
Erickson: Well, I did something like it. It's a strange song. It says
"Will you come into my mind and teach me about things?" And then the
devil will really, really enjoy it and you can travel with him or
something like that, you know?

MT: Maybe they thought of you for that song because you've written so
many songs about Lucifer and stuff like that.
Erickson: "Lucifer" is a very hard one to sing.

MT: Are you still a big fan of horror and monster movies?
Erickson: Yeah, I am. You've heard that thing "Curb your dog" or
whatever it is? That your dogs have guidance so they won't be hoggin'
... being a road hog, you know? And so, like, I do enjoy that.

MT: Well, we're really happy to have you back and we're so excited
about you coming to Detroit.

Erickson: Detroit is the capital of what? Machines or something?

MT: Well, we make cars here. It's not going real well right now, though.
Erickson: Cars! Yeah! I'll tell you, that sounds good.

MT: Do you have a car in Austin?
Erickson: In Austin, right? I do. I do.

MT: A couple years ago there was a Roky Erickson anthology that came
out on Shout Factory. Did you ever get to listen to that?
Erickson: It would be beautiful to find that. I have one here, and
it's called The Anthology that Swedes do to Erickson. Something like
that, you know? I'm going to have to listen to it. It's real strange.
It gets around. It says one thing and then I look at it again and
then it says another.

MT: It must be interesting to hear other people doing music that you
wrote. I'd imagine that must be pretty exciting sometimes.
Erickson: Yeah, I enjoy it. But our record player ­ it's working
pretty good but we want to get another one, you know? We were looking
the other day. It was pretty good, but there was no telling what part
of it fell off or something.

MT: Well, I appreciate your time, Roky. It was a pleasure to finally
talk to you. Thank you so much for your time.
Erickson: I enjoyed it. Who is this again? You're calling on the
telephone from ...

MT: From Detroit. A newspaper in Detroit.
Erickson: Sounds good ...

MT: We're all looking forward to seeing you play here.
Erickson: Alright then. Bless you. I'm glad. This was a nice, nice interview!
-

Roky Erickson plays Friday, Oct. 30, at the Magic Stick, 4120
Woodward Avenue, Detroit; 313-833-9700. With KO & the Knockouts and
the Octopus.

.

The story of Ramparts Magazine

'A Bomb in Every Issue' by Peter Richardson

http://www.latimes.com/entertainment/news/arts/la-et-book2-2009oct02,0,3663251.story

Short, explosive, unforgotten: The story of Ramparts Magazine and its
lingering influence long after it was gone.

By Erik Himmelsbach
October 2, 2009

Live fast, die young, leave a good-looking corpse. That's the stuff
of myth, but Ramparts pulled it off.

Published for just 13 years, the San Francisco magazine not only blew
the cover off the biggest stories of its era, it also helped set the
ideological agenda for its core demographic, the New Left, and forced
the mainstream press to follow its lead. At its peak in late 1967,
circulation reached 250,000 -- proof, notes Peter Richardson in his
lively history of the magazine "A Bomb in Every Issue," that
"mainstream media techniques could be used to advance leftist politics."

Yet less than a decade later, Ramparts was history, taken down by the
usual stuff that eats away at organizations: financial strife and
power struggles. Richardson compares the trajectory to that of a
highflying rock band: "It blew minds, launched solo careers, and
spawned imitators," he writes.

Also like a rock band, Ramparts was very much a creation of its time,
and when that time passed, its creative evolution couldn't keep up.

Ramparts launched quietly in 1962, started by an idealist named
Edward Keating to challenge the traditional dogma of the Catholic
Church. That same year, Keating recruited young Bay Area journalist
Warren Hinckle, a hard-drinking, eye-patch-wearing wild man with a
sense for the sensational. Part muckraker, part P.T. Barnum, Hinckle
initially was a writer, then served as promotions manager before
taking over as executive editor.

Hinckle understood the value of controversy. Ramparts got its first
taste in 1965, after it ran an interview with German playwright Rolf
Hochhuth, whose play, "The Deputy," accused Pope Pius XII of failing
to challenge the Nazis during the Holocaust. Readers were outraged
and the magazine had the buzz it wanted. By mid-1965, Ramparts had
ditched Catholicism for good.

Hinckle brought in fellow travelers such as art director Dugald
Stermer, who gave Ramparts its stylized look. Robert Scheer became
its editorial soul. By the time Scheer was named managing editor in
October 1966, Richardson writes, "the magazine had found its voice,
identified its causes and joined the battle."

The battle was also taking place internally, Richardson notes, as
Hinckle wrested control of the operation from Keating. Opinion soon
gave way to investigative reporting. A 1966 exposé, about the CIA
using the Michigan State University campus to train the Saigon
police, put the staff on the agency's radar.

Two years later, Scheer and Stanley Sheinbaum broke the bombshell
that the agency was secretly funding civilian organizations such as
the National Students Assn. It was a major moment for the New Left.

When Ramparts broke a story, Hinckle made sure everyone knew about
it; he took full-page ads in the New York Times to trumpet the
scoops. There was much to trumpet: The magazine published Eldridge
Cleaver's prison diaries, championed his release from prison and
hired him as an editor when he was freed.

Ramparts also began covering a small militant group across the Bay
called the Black Panthers, formed by Huey Newton and Bobby Seale in
October 1966. Suddenly, the militants became international
revolutionaries. "Ramparts made celebrities of the Black Panthers and
their star power increased the magazine's cache," Richardson writes.

The hits just kept on coming. Ramparts was the first magazine to
publish New Orleans district attorney Jim Garrison's conspiracy
theories about the JFK assassination, and it got the U.S. rights to
the diaries of Che Guevara, since, as Richardson points out, it was
the one American outlet Fidel Castro trusted with these writings.

But Richardson is also quick to dispel the mythology surrounding
Ramparts: In spite of chronic financial issues, Hinckle was an
egregious spendthrift whose devil-may-care attitude often put the
magazine in peril. And in spite of its radical cred, Ramparts
attitude toward women and sexuality left a lot to be desired. A
sample headline tease from 1968 read: "Breaking the Faggot Barrier in
Men's Clothes."

Richardson traces Ramparts' downward spiral to its coverage of the
1968 Democratic National Convention in Chicago. Sparing no expense,
Hinckle sent 10 staffers to cover the tumultuous events. Though the
daily Ramparts Wall Poster was a valuable resource, it failed to tell
the entire story -- that the staff was complicit with organizers such
as Tom Hayden and knew in advance of Hayden's plan to confront Chicago police.

"We didn't dare touch the one big story that was ours exclusively:
how a relatively small group of American radicals had made common
cause with the enemy and was leading the left toward self destruction
and nihilism," Sol Stern recalls.

The left imploded after Chicago. By early 1969, Ramparts declared
bankruptcy. Scheer replaced Hinckle in the top spot but lacked the
charismatic firepower to lead the staff through lean times. When he
offered Susan Sontag $1,500 -- the entire monthly editorial budget --
for a piece on Sweden, the staff was outraged. He was ousted in a
coup led by David Horowitz, who sought to reshape Ramparts as a collective.

But even as Ramparts faded, Richardson notes, its influence was seen
in better-funded operations such as Rolling Stone, "60 Minutes" and
even the New York Times, which published the Pentagon Papers in 1971
-- an instance of Ramparts being beaten at its own game.

Meanwhile the magazine chugged along, serving as a political forum
for radical celebrities like Jane Fonda and John Lennon, until it
died in 1975. "Toward the end of its life, it was competing not only
with established outlets but with upstarts created or at least partly
in its own image," Richardon writes.

Yet we're still talking -- and writing -- about Ramparts today
because it did change America. In addition to birthing a generation
of thoughtful writers like Scheer, Stern and Seymour Hersh, its
existence forced the press to keep the power structure honest and for
all of us to question authority -- which is, no matter what anyone
tells you, the benchmark of a healthy democracy.
--

Himmelsbach is a Los Angeles writer and producer.

.

1968: Minnetrista Takes Us Back

1968: Minnetrista Takes Us Back

http://www.munciefreepress.com/node/21452

by Tolu olorunda
09/30/2009

Seminal in tone and historic in proportion: M61 grenades, Molotov
cocktails, rifle butts, fiery hoses, howling canines, hostile
missions, army tanks, burning buildings, political scandals,
ascending rockets, sensational Rock-bands, senseless assassinations,
televised protests, racial unrest, rampant poverty, social death.
Explosion. Expression. Explosion.

The year was 1968.

Perhaps no other year, in the last century, has yielded more
historical consequences­of racial, national, social, and
international dimensions­than 1968.

It was the year Martin Luther King, regarded by many the greatest
moral crusader of a generation, was gunned-down in Memphis, Alabama,
on the top balcony of the Lorraine Motel.

It was also the year President Lyndon Baines Johnson had to come to
terms with the unwinnable war he was waging in Vietnam­a war
inherited from his running-mate, who, three years prior, had fallen
victim to a sniper's bullet at the prime of his presidency.

It was the year the sure-to-be next Democratic President of the
country, Robert F. Kennedy's life was stopped short while on the
campaign trail.

The smoke of assassination, betrayal, and loss was thick in the air.

But it was also the year when the public sphere began taking
seriously its critical role, its civic duty, as watchdog and
legitimator of government. The functions of government, it was
beginning to find out, depended wholly on the compliance or
courageous opposition of the people­"Everyday People," as Sly Stone
called them in his hit record released that year.

In defiance against what they considered grotesque misuse of
government privilege, protests became the tall order of the day.
Droves of citizens dashed into the streets, surrounded by signs and
placards in honor of whatever causes they supported. From the Vietnam
War abroad, to the Nigger War at home, those who chose to make noise
in the name of humanity did it unabashedly. Some even went further
down the corridor of extremism, blowing up and burning up buildings
to call attention to the many issues they felt the Johnson
administration had abandoned in its War efforts.

1968 is also a special year because it­along with the years preceding
it­produced the finest work advocacy journalism had ever manifested.
While mainstream media networks were working overtime­as they always
are­in sensationalizing the war, televising graphic battle scenes for
the amusement of a deceived public, remarkable voices like Malcolm X,
I.F. Stone, Martin Luther King, Jr., Utah Philips, Fannie Lou Hamer,
James Baldwin, Rev. Jesse Jackson, Grace Lee Boggs, Harry Belafonte,
Coretta Scott King, and even Sammy Davis Jr., rose up in pale
comparison; writing, broadcasting, singing, speaking, preaching, and
editorializing about a much different reality­of a harmless Vietnam
population being blown out of existence; of a national, racial unrest
in need of as much attention as the international war was receiving.

The year was, indeed, seminal in tone and historic in proportion, and
with the help of Minnetrista Cultural Center & Oakhurst Gardens, we
can visit­at least partially­some of the wonders that made it so.

Minnetrista, located close to the downtown area of Muncie, is
featuring an exhibit, from now through January 7th, which strives to
bring back some of those memories, retell some of those tales, and
rekindle some of those spirits which made 1968 not only a memorable
but monumental year.

The exhibit isn't nearly as large as one might expect­for a project
bearing such magnitude­but it does well in capturing the essence of
the moment with sound recording samples from the period (The Rolling
Stones, "Jumping Jack Flash," The Beatles, "Revolution" & "Lady
Madonna," Diana Ross & The Supremes, "Love Child," Sly & The Family
Stone, "Everyday People," etc.), a TV set built with several
recordings to commemorate the social and political ramifications 1968
brought forth, pictures and magazine cover stories frozen-in-time 40
years ago, historical artifacts of various conditions, and cue
card-length posters to provide meaningful information about the era
that defined a whole generation. It also features great work of text
written in commemoration of '68. Taylor Branch's At Canaan's Edge:
America in the King Years, 1965-68 (a personal recommendation),
Benjamin Quarles' The Negro in the making of America, and Charles
Kaiser's 1968 in America: Music, Politics, Chaos, Counterculture, and
the Shaping of a Generation are noteworthy mentions.

The sections are divided to address specific issues of substance '68,
and the years that introduced it, brought forth. Included are The
Civil Rights demonstrations, the Vietnam War demonstrations, the
presidential campaigns, and the changing musical landscape (British
Invasion). In between are splattered mentions about the racial,
social, and political ramifications the assassinations of Martin
Luther King Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy accounted for.

One picture of great significance displayed was of two women, part of
a larger group, peacefully protesting against the Vietnam
occupation­but with signs that established the double-consciousness
of their struggle. One lady held up a sign that asked: "DOES NAPALM
TEACH DEMOCRACY?" while the other's was less ambivalent: "DEMOCRACY
at home PEACE abroad."

Another important feature was the discovery of a white posterboard
with large black letters inscribed on it: "Honor King: End Racism."
It was donated by a current university professor who had worn it,
shortly after the King assassination, in hopes of preserving the
legacy of moral vigilance King nurtured tirelessly for nearly two decades.

But perhaps the greatest highlight of this exhibit is the local focus
it keeps on the national and international events that fateful year yielded.

One poster detailed how much unscathed Muncie wasn't from the
nationwide racial tensions. "Trouble at Muncie Schools" is the
header. The background:

A fight between black and white students broke out at Southside High
School at 8:30 a.m. on Tuesday, January 30, 1968, apparently because
several white students shouted names at and traded insults with a
group of black students. Police were called in and used tear gas to
break up the brawl. Nine black and two white students were arrested,
and approximately 75 students left the school grounds. The direct
cause of the fight was uncertain, but school officials noted that
tension had been building for a while.

The principal, accepting no personal responsibility, blamed it all on
the evil deeds of "agitators from outside."

Another poster, in chronicling the human toll of the Vietnam War
(reportedly 58,168 dead and 153,303 wounded), lists Indiana's share
of that total: 1,500.

One other, more upbeat, discovery is a flyer for a March 27th, 1968,
concert which featured the late, unquestionably great guitarist, Jimi
Hendrix, on top bill. The event was "for all ages," though a Muncie
Star Press reporter wrote, in review, that Hendrix didn't disappoint
in smashing his guitar into the ground­as he was known, and loved, for.

The year was 1968, and whether it was The Weather Underground, The
Chicago Seven, The Black Panther Party, The White Panther Party, The
Youth International Party, SNCC, CORE, or SCLC, activism­direct
agitation­was one of the only media through which accountability was
brought to bear on the powers that-be.

The exhibit organizers did a fine job putting together something
worth touring and exploring­and like the Jimi Hendrix concert, it is
truly for all ages. More so the young. It's a collections of memories
that, although falls short on substance and purpose, although fails
to inspire anything beyond the obvious, although unable to
distinguish itself from any other exhibit of its kind, manages to
leave a discernible impact on anyone lucky enough to visit.

1968 is an inextricable part of American, Vietnamese, and World
history that cannot, should not, must not, be forgotten so
easily­lest we make the same mistakes we spent the last 40 years
correcting and recovering from.

For more info, visit:
http://www.minnetrista.net/Visit/Calendar/Exhibitions/1968.html

http://www.divshare.com/slideshow/8705289-573

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Yoko Ono's life of love, war and Lennon

Yoko Ono's life of love, war and Lennon

http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/music/article6887223.ece

Have Beatles fans finally learnt to love Yoko Ono? She talks about
building a tower of light for Lennon

October 24, 2009
Craig McLean

Yoko Ono was thinking ahead. That was the only way she could think.
Like an art-shark ­ not one of this elaborate theoriser's metaphors,
but it could be ­ she has to move forward at all times. To think
about the past would mean thinking about her upper-class,
conservative upbringing and eventual disowning by a family with
rarefied banking and imperial connections; about Hiroshima and
Nagasaki, whose destruction happened when she was a 12-year-old in
Japan; the firebombing of Tokyo by the Americans, which she actually
lived through.

"I'm sure that's part of me, of course," the artist and musician says
when asked if the horrors of the Second World War are reflected in
her work. "The Holocaust? That is something I feel very close to and
feel very badly about it, only because I was on the other end. I was
experiencing not anything so terrible, but I witnessed a lot of
things. It was terrible: there was the siren, and the American planes
are coming over our heads, and we have to go down to the shelter and
in the shelter all the kids are praying." She clasps her hands
together and mutters a quick, childish imprecation in Japanese. "And
when that's over we come out. Well," she smiles, "another day. We
lived another day. That's the only reality we knew. In a way it
wasn't that horrible," is her rather remarkable conclusion.

But in 1964, Ono was thinking ahead. After a stint as part of the
Fluxus movement in New York, she was now an avant- garde artist
working in London. She had drawn up a "sales list" ­ a catalogue of
theoretical artworks she would like to make. One of these was
entitled Light House ­ "a phantom house that is built by sheer
light". What was its purpose?

"I just thought it would be a cool idea! I was also into that idea of
something that is not concrete and set in reality. Something that is
between the reality and the conceptual; the physical and the metaphysical."

Also on that list was a "wind house", in which all of the rooms would
make a different noise. Back then Ono had so many ideas that she
didn't know what to do with them ­ the technology hadn't been
invented ­ other than show them to friends. In 1967, for her show at
the Lisson Gallery in London, she rewrote the Light House concept.
That was the year she met John Lennon, and the Beatle invited her to
lunch at his home in Weybridge, Surrey. He asked if she would build
him a Light House for his garden. She replied: "Oh, that was
conceptual. I'm convinced that one day it could be built, but I don't
know how to do it."

"They were ideas you couldn't create in one day," Ono, now 76,
reflects. "So it was better to just write it down." Hence Grapefruit,
"the book of instructions", she says of her famous Sixties
manual-cum-event. "In other words, I'm saying, 'I can't do it, I have
this idea, please do it'."

Another famous mid-Sixties work was No 4, aka Bottoms, a film that
showed exactly what it said on the tin. Whose bums were they?

"Well, so many people," Ono replies, laughing. "I don't know if
they'd want me to mention them! That was really the London Sixties bottoms."

Famous Swinging Sixties bottoms?

"Yes! It was really like an incredible expression of energy."

Is John Lennon's bottom there?

"I don't know," she replies, giving a smile one feels obliged to
describe as enigmatic.

Several years later, Ono would deploy nude body parts again, in an
installation piece called My Mummy was Beautiful. It featured images
of a breast and a vulva, and was made for the 2004 Liverpool
Biennial. Did she expect the upset it caused?

"I was totally surprised! I said, 'This is Liverpool, the birth of
the Beatles and everything.' Just a hip city, I thought. And I was
dedicating it to John because John was so much into his mother, you
know? And I thought people would love it. And I wanted to cover
Liverpool with beauty. And they didn't think it was beauty!"

Even when she tries to do right by the Beatles and their legacy, it
seems that Ono will always be cast as the villain in some quarters.
But it's hard to square the antipathy of some cultural observers with
the small, giggly, friendly woman sitting so close that our knees are
almost touching. It is Friday, October 9, 2009 and we are in a
Reykjavik hotel suite. This would have been John Lennon's 69th
birthday. It is also the birthday of Ono and Lennon's son Sean, who turns 34.

Today ­ 42 years after Lennon first voiced his enthusiasm for Ono's
light tower ­ on the small island of Videy, just offshore from the
Icelandic capital, the artwork will become reality. At 8pm, six
mirrors and nine searchlights will be turned on, shooting a beam high
into the sky. This is the Imagine Peace Tower. Inaugurated by Ono,
Ringo Starr and Olivia Harrison (widow of George) in 2007, it will
stay lit until December 8, the day of Lennon's murder in New York in 1980.

Ono is dressed all in black; not widow's weeds ­ the horizontal and
vertical prominence of her frankly remarkable décolletage further
belie that image ­ but the funky, utilitarian threads of the artist
who still feels compelled to work, despite her years and the
countless millions in the bank. Art work, peace work, memorial work:
it's what Ono does, and she can't imagine life without it. Little
wonder, perhaps, that in June she was awarded the Golden Lion at the
Venice Biennale for Lifetime Achievement.

Musically, too, she's super-busy: shortly after our trip she was
coming to the UK to film a contribution to this week's episode of
Later ... with Jools Holland, she's a guest vocalist on Basement
Jaxx's new album, and has just made an album produced by Sean Lennon
and released on his label. She's also had a hand in a key soundtrack
component of Nowhere Boy, Sam Taylor-Wood's forthcoming biopic of the
teenage John Lennon. In the field of music, too, Ono has earned
another lifetime achievement award this year, from Mojo magazine. All
this while approving the myriad details involved in the release in
September of The Beatles: Rock Band.

So many questions ... First, though: why are we in Iceland? "I wasn't
intending to, it just happened," she says, her girlish and airy-fairy
response at odds with a woman (in)famous for her steely business
mind. "In the beginning I was incredulous, when they invited me to do
a museum show here, why would I go to Iceland?" she continues in an
English that is still heavily accented and still circuitous 60 years
after leaving Japan. "And this curator was very intelligent ­ he
said, 'Well, two thirds of the Icelandic people have the experience
of publishing their own writings.' Two thirds!" she exclaims. "I come
from a land with so many illiterate people you have to put them in a
bag and drag them around . . ." I think she means, in her singular
style, that this is ­ or was in the Fifties ­ how one makes the
Japanese read books.

"And I came here," she says, gesturing out of her window at Viday
island and the mountains beyond, "and it was beautiful. The land was
clean, the water was clean, the air was clean."

Also, 's a] totally different type of people here ­ sort of like a
land of gnomes or a land of wizards!" Ono adds, with more affection
and less patronising intent than it might seem from her words. "So I
thought it was very interesting. And I fell in love with this place.
And of course it's the northernmost land on the map. And north is
wisdom and power. You want to give that power and wisdom to the whole
world from the north, you know." She stretches out her arms and draws
them down. "So that's why I thought it was very good place to have the tower."

Somebody up above must agree with her: just before our interview,
there was a brief lull in the violent storm outside and a rainbow
filled the horizon. It seemed to touch earth right on Viday. Ono was
delighted by this, not least because she seems to have an affection
for the sky. Her album is called Between My Head and the Sky. Her
last UK exhibition, held at the Baltic Centre in Gateshead earlier
this year after its debut in Germany, was entitled Between the Sky and my Head.

Why, I ask her, does she like the sky so much?

"My theories are so far-fetched that you are not gonna think it's
serious. But I think that we all came from another planet. Some of us
were probably here. And the sky is the passageway. And so I feel like
the sky is the passage to my home planet."

This is similar to the theory of exogenesis, an idea that the
cosmically inclined British rock band Muse also explore on their new
album. Has she always believed this?

"Yes."

Why does she believe in it?

"I don't know. There was some proof ­ the things I was thinking, even
when I was very young, about 4 or 5. I got inspired by all these
ideas, which was not of this planet." She clarifies, a bit. "I didn't
think they were coming from another planet, but coming from me who
probably had different roots."

So she's an example of a kind of interstellar reincarnation? She nods.

A few hours later, just before the lighting of the Imagine Peace
Tower, a small crowd, including the mayor of Reykjavik, gathers in
the hotel's eighth-floor function suite. Ono, unstinting activist
that she is, is bolstering the Imagine Peace Tower message with the
spreading of the "ONOCHORD" message. That is, "I LOVE YOU" blinked
out, Morse-code style, using little torches that she is distributing.

Kyoko, Ono's daughter by her second husband, the American film
producer Anthony Cox, is also here, with her two children. After Ono
and Cox split before her 1969 marriage to Lennon, Cox kidnapped Kyoko
and raised her in a religious cult. Mother and daughter were
estranged for years, reuniting in 1994, but "we have a very good
relationship now".

Of the ups and downs of her life, she says: "I thought it was strange
that so many challenges were given to me." Her losses, it seems ­ of
her family, her daughter, of John Lennon ­ were channelled into her
art. "I know. I'm so thankful that I have that, otherwise I would
have gone crazy. That was the only thing I could do, if I wanted to
survive. My back was up against the wall."

Sean Lennon is here too, with a small group of hipster New York
friends. Ono said she encouraged her children to accompany her as a
show of solidarity with an Iceland bankrupted by the financial crisis.

I ask Sean how it was working with his mum on Between My Head and the
Sky, which has received plaudits for its mixture of dance beats and
more experimental, Ono-like textures. Mum and son both admit to
liking being in control. "Sean's a little bit more passive-aggressive
[than me]," Ono had said. "John was really upfront. Aggressive-aggressive!"

Says Lennon Jr: "I respect her as a single parent, someone who's been
through a lot of things, so I didn't want to be a brat any more."

Between My Head and the Sky is, in a way, classic Ono: adventurous,
daring, and not a little bonkers. It makes Madonna sound like Vera
Lynn. Ono's banshee wail encapsulates her Marmite nature: for Beatles
luddites it will be torture; for the rest of us it makes for one of
the albums of the year.

Do John's fans like her? "I still don't feel that John's fans are
accepting me. I don't know who's really John's fans, and who's really
John and Yoko fans. The Beatles fans, some of them really denounced
John in a way. So I don't know who's who. So whenever I create
something I never think about who's gonna listen to it.

"But then, I'm getting some beautiful letters. So they like the CD or
something. It's really great, but I'm not gonna ask, 'Are you a Beatles fan?'"

Here in the hotel, Yoko Ono's redoubtable New York lawyer is, as
ever, on hand. He and Ono meet every Tuesday to discuss the latest
issues pertaining to her work and the Lennon estate ­ with his other
clients including the heirs to Bob Marley and Janis Joplin, her
lawyer knows all about managing dead legends. Similar "eyes and ears"
duties are provided by a middle-aged couple who have travelled from
Liverpool ­ they are involved with the upkeep of Mendips, Lennon's
childhood home, which Ono bought and donated to the National Trust.
It was opened to the public in 2003.

One thing that recently passed ­ fleetingly ­ across her lawyer's
desk was the script for Nowhere Boy. Written by Matt Greenhalgh, who
captured the life of Ian Curtis in Anton Corbijn's Control,
Taylor-Wood's film is an affectionate but gritty telling of the life
of Lennon in the years leading up to the formation of the Beatles.
Deprived of his mother Julia for much of his childhood and raised by
his Aunt Mimi, he was reunited with Julia in his mid-teens, only to
lose her again when she was killed by a car when he was 17.

Ono says she is asked to approve many scripts about her late husband.
"It was hard for me ­ I didn't want to say no to Sam, to another
artist. And I was so glad when I saw it ­ I didn't have to feel bad about it."

Her involvement in the film was "nothing". But she was impressed
enough to agree to let them use the singularly appropriate song Mother.

Does she think that Aaron Johnson ­ a 19-year-old actor from
Buckinghamshire, most recently seen in the teen movie Angus, Thongs
and Perfect Snogging ­ makes a good John?

"Oh, isn't he good?" she gushes. "Fantastic. The mannerisms were very
accurate."

Was it emotional watching the film?

"Yeah," she nods slowly, before adding hastily, again, "well, I was
looking at it from an objective point of view. But I thought, 'My
God, he's doing a great job'."

A few hours later I catch another glimpse into the strange world Ono
has been forced to inhabit by the tragedy of her husband's murder and
his all-powerful legend. A concert is being held in a draughty
Reykjavik art space to mark the switching on of the Imagine Peace
Tower. On the VIP balcony some large-screen computers have been set
up. The online community Second Life has set up a Viday section.
Members can visit the peace tower and groove to Lennon's music. Ono,
swaddled in a black Puffa jacket, is controlling her own Second Life
avatar. She spins the computer-generated likeness ­ Ono notes
approvingly how skinny and tall it is ­ around the beam of light
while fans dance with her.

Over in the main hall a selection of Icelandic pub bands are playing
covers of Lennon songs. Huge black-and-white photographs of
John'n'Yoko scroll through a screen behind the stage. Ono walks over
to watch briefly, then wanders off again. One of the bands plays
Jealous Guy. Then the MC, talking in Icelandic, says something about
"the lost weekend", the fabled 18-month period when Lennon and Ono
separated and he embarked on a bender in Los Angeles, having an
affair with May Pang in the process. Then the band play Woman. Even
in a pub-rocky incarnation, it's heartbreaking. How hard must it be
for Ono to see and hear this stuff, still, constantly?

But she's tougher than that. Ask her about her critics and, now, the
plaudits coming her way for Between My Head and the Sky ­ and ask her
about her still-youthful artistic exuberance ­ and she brushes it all
away. "I don't compare myself with anybody. But the point is, I feel
physically good. And I think I'm given this opportunity to do something."

A short while later she's on stage, with Sean Lennon on drums,
leading musicians and crowd in a performance of Give Peace a Chance.
She may look like a groovy grandma, but the power and feeling in the
room is incredible. "Iceland, I love you!" she yells before leaving the stage.

Earlier I had asked her what John Lennon, idealist and dreamer, would
have made of the state of the world some 30 years after his death?

"He'd be angry. And he's right to be angry. But you see, anger is not
going to solve the problem. So we have to be extremely intelligent,"
she nodded sagely. "And we will be."
--

Between My Head and the Sky is out now on forte

LSD And The Search For God at Hi-Dive

LSD And The Search For God at Hi-Dive

http://www.avclub.com/denver/articles/lsd-and-the-search-for-god-at-hidive,33539/

by Patrick Kelly
October 1, 2009

When your band is called LSD And The Search For God, there are
certain expectations; for example, hallucinogenic live shows that
unfold like that crazy graveyard scene from Easy Rider. As the San
Francisco act took the stage Tuesday night at the Hi-Dive, the
bartender appropriately quipped, "It's about to get weird in here."
But hope for a mind-altering, possibly spiritual experience wasn't
totally fulfilled as the band put out a lot of loud, pretty, and
pretty loud noises that transpired into an overall by-the-book shoegaze sound.

Shoegaze is defined by a certain sonic aesthetic­a wall of sound, a
loud-quiet-loud kind composition run through an insane number of
effects pedals­and LSD had that down pat. Singer-guitarist Andy
Liszt's breathy voice hauntingly resembled that of Seam's Sooyoung
Park, and the band seemed to have studied from the same manual as
Chicago's Airiel. Waves of distorted and flanged rhythm guitar hit
with sparkly, heavily processed leads, and churning, quarter-note
bass lines played against crashing drums. It was certainly dreamy,
the kind of noise that encourages the mind to wander off.

Despite these layers, there was nothing much to engage the audience
beyond sheer volume. Neat-sounding effects were plentiful (thanks to
the guitarists' dozens of pedals), but otherwise it was all simple
pop tunes. The members of LSD never spoke to the audience, not even
offering a thank you; instead the band kept the loops of ambient
sound flowing between songs with no break in the music. The group
occasionally whispered and nodded to each other, but aside from these
small gestures, there was no indication that they even existed on the
same plane of reality as the crowd.

Which brings us back to this: Would it be possible for the LSD guys
to even be on LSD at every stop on the tour? It seemed like that's
what they were going for from this show, or maybe the band members
were just concentrating really hard on the effects pedals.

.

A Grand Central Station of High Times

Chelsea on the Rocks (2008)

http://movies.nytimes.com/2009/10/02/movies/02chelsea.html

A Grand Central Station of High Times

By STEPHEN HOLDEN
Published: October 2, 2009

Abel Ferrara's ramshackle documentary "Chelsea on the Rocks" is not ­
I repeat not ­ a sober history of the Hotel Chelsea, the Manhattan
landmark and artist hangout on West 23rd Street. An enraptured
fantasia of high times at the hotel, the film is so intoxicated with
the Chelsea's bohemian mystique it virtually consumes itself.

Built in 1883 as an apartment cooperative, the Chelsea began
operating as a hotel in 1905 and in the decades since has served as
both a welcoming longtime residence and stopover for artists and
musicians. Two years ago, Stanley Bard, its artist-friendly manager
since the 1970s, was ousted from his position, and its future as
shabby palace of art and excess remains in doubt.

The film is madly infatuated with the Chelsea's notoriety as a nexus
of sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll. As people who have stayed there ­
some famous, some not ­ parade through the documentary, Mr. Ferrara,
a sloppy interviewer whose off-screen voice is heard, pointedly (and
annoyingly) refuses to give them the usual identifying titles. One of
the wild men of American cinema, Mr. Ferrara adores them all,
demonstrating special affection for the most eccentric, cantankerous
and self-destructive.

Structurally the movie is a hodgepodge of reminiscences,
conversations, archival footage and feverish re-enactments of famous
incidents at the hotel. By far the most attention is given to the
unsolved fatal stabbing in October 1978 of Nancy Spungen, who was
staying there with Sid Vicious. Bijou Phillips and Jamie Burke play
the happy couple who are visited in a re-enacted scene by two drug dealers.

In this disorderly documentary about disorderly lives, outrageousness
trumps art. When the camera scans the paintings on the lobby walls,
none are credited. Nor does the documentary bother mentioning the
scores of great artists from Mark Twain to Bob Dylan who have spent
time at the hotel.

Desperate to stir up drama, it brings in recollections of 9/11
accompanied by images of the smoldering twin towers. One employee
recalls attending orgies with 60 people. Another man recounts the
details of his brain hemorrhage while pumping iron. People relate
personal ghost stories.

The hotel's biggest celebrity fan is Ethan Hawke, who gratefully
recalls that Mr. Bard gave him a room when his marriage was breaking
up. Eight years ago, Mr. Hawke, who does a decent imitation of Mr.
Bard's New York accent, filmed a fictional homage to the hotel,
"Chelsea Walls." It is marginally better than this one.
--

CHELSEA ON THE ROCKS

Opens on Friday in Manhattan.

Directed by Abel Ferrara; re-enactments written by Christ Zoist,
David Linter and Mr. Ferrara; director of photography, Ken Kelsch;
edited by Langdon Page; music by G. E. Smith and Tony Garnier;
produced by Jen Gatien and David D. Wasserman; released by Aliquot
Films. At the Clearview Chelsea Cinemas, 260 West 23rd Street.
Running time: 1 hour 28 minutes. This film is not rated.

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Journalism’s New Beat: Marijuana Critic

Journalism's New Beat: Marijuana Critic

http://blogs.wsj.com/speakeasy/2009/10/01/journalisms-newest-beat-marijuana-critic/

October 1, 2009
By Steven Kurutz

On Tuesday, the Denver Westword, a respected alt-weekly, posted an
unusual job opening on its Web site. "Calling all potential pot
reviewers: Westword wants you!"

The ad went on to ask, "Do you have a medical condition that
necessitates marijuana? Do you have a way with words?" It turns out
the paper wants to hire someone to review the dozens of medical
marijuana dispensaries that have recently popped up in Colorado ­ at
least 70 since January ­ for a weekly on-line column, "Mile Highs and Lows."

The reviewer would work on a freelance basis and be "an objective
resource on the state's burgeoning medical marijuana scene,"
according to the classified ad. In this era of contracting newsrooms,
Westword is seemingly creating a new journalism beat: Pot Critic.

Whoever gets the job will have the terrain mostly to himself. A few
Web sites like Cannabis CoPilot offer cursory reviews, but even High
Times has yet to formally review a dispensary (the magazine is
working on an upcoming special issue that will provide a guide to the
medical marijuana scene, including reviews).

Westword has already published a few reviews by a fill-in critic; the
pieces mix basic information like hours of operation and "raw
marijuana price range" with a critical appraisal (of the facilities,
not the foliage). For instance, Patients Choice of Colorado on South
Broadway in Denver "offers strict but high-caliber service ­ sort of
like the Ivy Leagues of dispensaries."

The rapid spread of marijuana dispensaries in Colorado is a serious
issue, but Westword is handling the search for a pot critic with
tongue firmly planted in cheek. They've asked candidates not to
submit resumes on rolling papers, for example. Editor Patricia
Calhoun said the paper is going about the process much as they did
when they hired their current food critic, by posting an ad and
asking for a sample review. "Our restaurant critic, Jason Sheehan,
won a James Beard award," Calhoun said. "We're hoping we'll have
similar success, although there don't seem to be as many rewards for
marijuana reviewers."

As with a dining or architecture critic, a background in the subject
helps but Calhoun said the paper is looking for someone who displays
a talent for writing and analytical thinking rather than getting
baked. In other words, she said, "You don't have to smoke pot for 30 years."

Calhoun is asking candidates to submit an essay on the subject of
what marijuana means to them, and hopes to pick a reviewer by next
week. "We'll see what we get," she said. "I know that within five
minutes of the posting, we already had an application ­ which is very
fast turnaround for a stoner."

.

Can't stop the rock [Tom Stoppard]

Can't stop the rock

http://www.cbc.ca/arts/theatre/story/2009/09/30/f-rock-n-roll-stoppard-paul-wilson.html

Tom Stoppard's Rock 'n' Roll spotlights the Czech band that helped
spark the Velvet Revolution

September 30, 2009
By Martin Morrow

True story: a hippie rock band with a Canadian vocalist inadvertently
helped bring about the collapse of Communism in Czechoslovakia. The
band was the legendary Czech group the Plastic People of the
Universe; the singer was Ontario native Paul Wilson; and their role
in what became known as the Velvet Revolution is the stuff of Tom
Stoppard's award-winning play Rock 'n' Roll.

The British playwright's London/New York hit, currently receiving its
Canadian premiere at Toronto's Canadian Stage Company, is a heady
elixir of history, ideology and rock 'n' roll, set partly in
Czechoslovakia during the final decades of the Soviet-backed regime.
It spotlights the Plastic People, whose persecution in the 1970s
inspired the human rights movement that would eventually topple the Communists.

The play, co-produced by Edmonton's Citadel Theatre, contrasts the
old-school Marxist idealism of a Cambridge professor (Kenneth Welsh)
with the harsh reality of life behind the Iron Curtain. The latter is
embodied in the experiences of Jan (Shaun Smyth), a Czech graduate
student and die-hard Plastics fan, who endures blacklisting and
prison in his devotion to rock 'n' roll.

Although Stoppard was born in Czechoslovakia, he grew up in England
and was enjoying early success with his play Rosencrantz and
Guildenstern Are Dead at about the same time the Plastics were
forming in a Prague suburb. So, when he began research for Rock 'n'
Roll, he turned to Wilson to provide him with firsthand knowledge of the band.

Now a distinguished translator of the works of Vaclav Havel, Josef
Skvorecky and other Czech literary figures, Wilson was just a
rock-loving graduate student himself when he came to Czechoslovakia
to teach English in the late 1960s. He arrived in time for the Prague
Spring of 1968, the period of reform under new party secretary
Alexander Dubcek that promised a more humane brand of Communism.

"I intended to stay for a year," Wilson recalls by phone from his
home near Collingwood, Ont. "But I got really involved in the life
there." He remained even after Moscow sent in the tanks that August
and crushed the attempt at reform. The following winter he
encountered the Plastic People, who, despite an official crackdown on
rock music, continued to perform as an underground band. The
musicians and their manager, poet Ivan Jirous, were devotees of
subversive American rock acts, taking their name from one of Frank
Zappa's satirical songs and their lo-fi aggression from the Velvet
Underground. They wanted to cover the songs of their idols, but they
needed someone who could sing in English. "That was something I could
help them with," Wilson says, "so, I joined the band."

In the play, Jan speaks admiringly of the Plastic People's refusal to
adopt a political stance. That echoes Wilson's initial impression of
the group. "It was the first time since I'd been in Czechoslovakia
that I met people who were not interested in the Prague Spring at
all," he says. "They kind of turned their backs on it; they didn't
expect much to happen. So, they were, in that sense, apolitical. But
of course, in a totally politicized state, being apolitical is
political. Even if you don't want to be, you essentially are ­
especially if you engage in something as public as making music."

They wound up at the centre of a massive underground rock scene that
drew in the kids and drove the authorities mad. "The police really
put a great deal of effort into trying to contain it and stop it,"
Wilson says. "It was that clash that made the Plastics the political
force that they became."

The band members were finally arrested in 1976. They were tried for
disturbing the peace, and Jirous and reed player Vratislav Brabenec
were sent to prison. Playwright Havel, already a leading dissident
and a rock fan to boot, was outraged. Their treatment led him and
others to draft the Charter 77 manifesto, the foundation for the
opposition movement that would eventually facilitate the peaceful
Velvet Revolution of 1989 that ousted the Communist regime.

Wilson escaped arrest, having quit the band in 1973. By then, the
Plastics had gone from VU covers to writing their own music, with
lyrics by Czech poets such as Egon Bondy. But his association with
the group and with signatories of the charter led to his deportation in 1977.

Back in Canada, Wilson defiantly launched an indie label, Bozi Mlyn,
and began releasing smuggled Plastic People recordings in the West.
"Whenever anyone here wrote about the band, they wrote about it as a
political phenomenon, but no one really knew what their music was
like," he explains. "I thought it was really important to get the
music out there so people could judge for themselves."

The stint in prison didn't keep the Plastics from continuing to
secretly play and record. Ironically, they only broke up in 1988 ­
the year before the revolution they'd helped bring about. In 1997,
Havel, now president of the new Czech Republic, urged the band to
reunite for a gig to mark the 20th anniversary of Charter 77. "It was
meant to be a one-night stand," Wilson recalls, "but they had so much
fun, they kept on going, and they're still performing today."

Wilson's own career in Canada took him into translation and
journalism, both as a magazine editor (Saturday Night) and a CBC
Radio producer (Morningside). He has kept in touch with his former
bandmates and visits Prague annually. It was there, several years
ago, that he met Stoppard, who was gathering material for a new play.
Wilson became his consultant on the Plastic People and got a glimpse
into the playwright's mania for detail. When he was writing Rock 'n'
Roll, Stoppard would make transatlantic calls to Wilson in the wee
hours, wanting to know, for example, about the layout of a certain
room in which the band had played.

"We also had long discussions about the possible motives that the
Plastics had for disbanding in 1988," Wilson says. "He was really
trying hard to get inside the mindset of these kids. When you see the
play, you realize that he managed to do it. It's an amazing feat of
imagination."

Rock 'n' Roll premiered at London's Royal Court Theatre in 2006, then
transferred to the West End. It made its Broadway debut the next
year. The Canadian Stage/Citadel co-production, directed by the
Stratford Festival's Donna Feore, opens Oct. 1, but Wilson won't be
in Toronto for it. He'll be in Prague, where he is receiving the
Czech Foreign Ministry's Gratias Agit award in recognition of his
lifelong devotion to promoting Czech arts abroad.

Wilson says he saw the acclaimed London production of the play, but
the most moving one he's witnessed was at the Narodni Divadlo,
Prague's landmark national theatre, in 2007. That version featured
the actual Plastic People of the Universe, who played before and
during the performance.

"That was quite an emotional experience for me," he says. "This is a
band that, under the Communists, were not even allowed to play in the
dingiest of small-town community centres. And here they were,
vindicated by playing in the largest theatre in the country."
--

Rock 'n' Roll runs at Toronto's Canadian Stage Company, Oct.1-24, and
at Edmonton's Citadel Theatre, Nov. 7-29.

.

How Twiggy made the cut

How Twiggy made the cut

http://www.timeslive.co.za/lifestyle/article133412.ece

Oct 3, 2009
By Sean O'Toole

As the face of the Swinging Sixties turns 60, Sean O'Toole recalls
the moment an underrated waif hanged fashion forever.
--

It was a boyish haircut and the andro-gynous look it lent to the
stick insect of a woman who started it all. Really, it's that simple:
Twiggy's iconic status as the poster child of the '60s "youthquake" -
an expression coined by American Vogue's editor Diana Vreeland - was
kickstarted by her softened version of Vidal Sassoon's era-defining,
five-point bob.

The look, first captured by a Durban-born photographer, mesmerised
the ruling fashion cognoscenti and, with them, much the rest of the world.

Just how Twiggy, born Lesley Hornby 60 years ago this past September,
came to conquer the fashion world with her fragile beauty, is the
stuff of legend. Which is a good enough reason to be cautious. After
all, legends are pliable things, easily adapted to the needs of their
narrator.

As a starting point, listen to how Time magazine reported on the
already famous 16-year-old, North London waif in their November 11
1966 issue. The heat-of-the-moment testimony draws heavily on the
hype proffered by Twiggy's then boyfriend, manager and spokesman,
Justin de Villeneuve.

"He took her to a hairdresser last February to have her long,
scraggly locks chopped off," stated Time. "The London Daily Express's
fashion editor Deirdre McSharry happened to be on hand for the
shearing, was beguiled and ran her pictures next day - Twiggy was on her way."

McSharry, an influential fashionista during London's Swinging
Sixties, remembers things slightly differently. In a recent tribute
to Twiggy, McSharry recalls being shown "black-and-white snaps" of a
young schoolgirl taken by the expatriate South African photographer
Barry Lategan.

McSharry was a client and friend of Leonard, the surname-deprived
celebrity coiffeur to the likes of the Beatles. It was Leonard who
presented McSharry with Lategan's now famous head-and-shoulder
portraits of an unheralded, gnomic beauty: "Leonard was hoping this
new face might be useful to launch his "little-boy" haircut - a
haircut that, like her paint-on eyelashes, "the twiggies", became the
waif look of the season."

McSharry was instantly taken by the girl in the photographs, which is
not how Lategan first felt when an unimpressive-looking teen with
"straggly hair" arrived at his studio one day with a referral from Leonard.

"She was skinny, young, a kid ... There was nothing I could have seen
as a potential model in her," offered Lategan when I interviewed him
two years ago. His memory of the day remains vivid.

"Stop biting your nails, Twiggs," Lategan recalled De Villeneuve, a
former bookie and fairground boxer, reprimanding his 41kg,
working-class girlfriend.

"What did you call her?" asked Lategan. "Twiggy, because she's so
skinny," replied De Villeneuve, who was a decade older than his girlfriend.

Lategan advised the pair to keep using the nickname: "Models then
weren't internationally known by their name."

When they left, Lategan phoned Leonard. She'll be okay, he said, but
the skinny thing desperately needed a haircut.

"The next day she came back to the studio with her hair cut like a
boy and eyelashes painted on her face," remembered Lategan. "She sat
in front of the camera. I thought, Wow, this is it!"

Unsurprisingly, Twiggy remembers details that add nuance to this
well-worn story. It started with a chat with a woman who suggested
the youngster consider portrait modelling; she was too short for
anything else. But first things first, the bird's nest on her head,
it needed attention.

"I was a teenager, it was a terrible mess; I used to colour it
myself," explained Twiggy in a 2006 interview with Swindle magazine.
"So she sent me to Leonard's to get my hair done."

Impressed by her latent potential, Leonard sent the young fashion
disciple to Lategan for a look-see. Following Lategan's nod of
approval, Leonard summoned her back for an extreme makeover. "I took
a day off school, went back to Leonard's, had all my hair cut. It was
so exciting - I was in this posh Mayfair salon, and they were doing
it for free. I was in there for eight hours. They cut, they coloured,
they cut, they coloured, and I ended up with that little urchin haircut."

The outcome, which so engrossed McSharry, led to an interview with
the influential style journalist.

"Every day for about two weeks, my dad would buy the Daily Express
and there'd be nothing. We thought it'd be a little tiny column. Two
weeks later, my dad came in. It was the whole centre page. The
headline was "Twiggy: The Face of '66." It was the big headshot that
Barry took. And that's when my life turned around."

Lesley Hornby, the fashionably unkempt schoolgirl, was no more. From
now on she would indisputably and always be simply Twiggy, the
world's first supermodel.

.

Sun Ra's otherworldly gifts

Sun Ra's otherworldly gifts

http://www.newsobserver.com/entertainment/story/123269.html

BY MICHELE NATALE
Oct 04, 2009

An evocative array of ephemera and objects relating to the career of
one of America's most far-out jazzmen, Sun Ra, is part of an exhibit
under way at the Durham Art Guild. The show, titled "Pathways to
Unknown Worlds: Sun Ra, El Saturn and Chicago's Afro-Futurist
Underground 1954-1968," bridges the sonic world of Sun Ra and his
"Arkestra" with the visual manifestations that embodied Ra's unique philosophy.

Born Herman Poole Blount in Birmingham, Ala., in 1914, Sun Ra was a
musical prodigy who was playing professionally in his early teens.
Eventually re-christening himself Le Sony'r Ra, he developed his own
complex cosmology, a blend of his interests in arcane and esoteric
thought systems, such as Rosicrucianism, numerology, Freemasonry and
the Kabbalah, combined with a heightened awareness of the Black Power
movement and crowned by his insistence that he came from the planet Saturn.

The presentation at the Durham Art Guild includes an array of
sketches for album covers by various artists, including Ra himself.
Sketches by Claude Dangerfield and others favor space-themed
subjects, including rocket ships speeding by the moon and lightning
bolts flashing through the sky. A framed blue ticket stub announces
"The Antonites present an Evening of Outer Space Music and Dancing
featuring Sun Ra and his Outer Space Arkestra."

Sun Ra's own record cover design of an unfurling spiral finds its way
from sketch to printing plate to record cover for "Other Planes of
There," printed in black ink on a silver ground and released by his
own El Saturn label. Artist Aye painted black light murals in spaces
communally inhabited by the Arkestra in which motifs of ancient
Egypt, such as the eye of Horus and the ankh mingle with psychedelic
themes, documented here by a series of small color photographs of the period.

Dominating the center of the gallery is a short documentary film,
"Sun Ra: A Joyful Noise," by Robert Mugge, set to the music of Sun Ra
and his Arkestra in full-tilt cacophonic mode. Ra, it should be
remembered, was a pioneer of electronic music and synthesized
keyboards. In voice-over, Sun Ra proclaims that he is here to show
people "otherness than what they are and what they have known," and
that he is "playing pure sounds to vibrate the world into synchronization."

The film captures the Arkestra in its costumed gear -- in
performance, the Arkestra donned "uniforms" simultaneously evocative
of ancient Egypt and outer space, replete with elaborate headdresses.
The Arkestra was a floating group of 20 to 30 musicians, resembling a
big band in type, but also incorporating acrobatic dancers and
fire-eaters who would parade into a club alongside the musicians,
creating a memorable spectacle.

The exhibition features a few hand-made musical instruments, such as
a lyrelike "Space Harp," painted purple, and a cymbal incised with
mystic symbols.

Ra's open notebooks are encased in vitrines, one turned to a
handwritten page proclaiming:

All in the realm of Death
Is nothing but Peace
Its inhabitants have all received
Equal rights because they have received equal rites
That is, the services (personal and complete without prejudice) of Death.

Through the device of claiming Saturn as his birthplace, Ra could
profoundly challenge Earth's status quo and fight, albeit
idiosyncratically, for equal rights.

Besides packing a philosophical message, Ra educated his audiences,
always insisting on the lineage of classic jazz to his own often
difficult, hermetic compositions and free-jazz improvisations.

As Kenneth Ellzey has written, "Ra broke through all genres, his
music featuring massed percussion and often having more in common
with composers such as [Edgard] Varèse, [Iannis] Xenakis or
[Karlheinz] Stockhausen. But he could swing as well, playing the
music of his heroes Duke Ellington and Fletcher Henderson. When he
tackled Rachmaninoff (on his album "Aurora Borealis"), it would send
shivers down your spine."

"Pathways" is a tasty repository of ideas, a rewarding introduction
to Sun Ra's insistent, highly personal journey and a reminder of his
continuing trail-blazing influence a decade and a half after his death.

.

Friday, October 30, 2009

1960s hippie fugitive arrested

[3 articles]

Fugitive member of worldwide LSD ring arrested after 40 years

http://www.ocregister.com/articles/group-smith-member-2586158-brotherhood-years

Brotherhood of Eternal Love member reportedly arrested returning from Nepal.

By JON CASSIDY
The Orange County Register
September 29, 2009

A fugitive member of a local group that distributed LSD worldwide has
been arrested after nearly 40 years on the run.

Brenice Lee Smith, 64, was arrested at San Francisco International
Airport on Saturday after flying in from Hong Kong, the OC Weekly reported.

He is being held at the Maguire Correctional Facility in Redwood
City, a jail spokesman said.

In the 1960s, Smith was a member of the Brotherhood of Eternal Love,
a group of hippies who lived in shacks, tents and caves in Laguna
Canyon, dropping acid and smoking weed. The group, which was
associated with psychedelic guru Timothy Leary, evolved into an
international hashish- and LSD-distribution network that was
eventually brought down by authorities.

The group smuggled hashish in from Afghanistan and Pakistan, and
produced high-grade LSD nicknamed "Orange Sunshine."

The Brotherhood of Eternal Love was nicknamed the Hippie Mafia in a
1972 article in Rolling Stone.

Smith was one of the group's founders, and was returning home after
years living in exile in Nepal, according to the OC Weekly, which
first reported the arrest.

The OC Weekly's Nick Schou, who is working on a book on the
Brotherhood, published an account of Smith's life in exile after
talking to two former group members, who went to San Francisco to
pick Smith up at the airport.

After authorities cracked down on the Brotherhood, some of the
members who escaped arrest fled the country.

The last member of the group to turn up was Nicholas Sand, the
chemist responsible for producing more than 1.5 million hits of acid
for the group.

Sand, who was fleeing a 15-year sentence imposed in 1976, was
arrested at a Canadian drug lab in 1996. He had five years added to
the sentence as punishment for fleeing.

In 1994, group member Russell Joseph Harrigan turned himself in to
local authorities. He had taken an assumed name, married, and was
raising his five kids.

A judge showed Harrigan leniency, dropping the charges with the
district attorney's consent.
--

Contact the writer: jcassidy@ocregister.com or 714-704-3782

--------

Suspected LSD ring fugitive arrested in Calif.

http://www.google.com/hostednews/ap/article/ALeqM5iiUpaDVS1ooIk-ChkrXAzXqpz9qAD9B1U22O3

(AP) ­ Sep 30, 2009

SAN FRANCISCO ­ A suspected member of an LSD distribution ring has
been arrested in California after nearly four decades on the lam.

San Francisco police Lt. Bill Darr said Brenice Lee Smith was taken
into custody Saturday at San Francisco International Airport after
arriving from Nepal.

He was arrested on two, nearly 40-year-old warrants issued in Orange
County related to the sale and possession of drugs.

The 64-year-old Smith is suspected of being part of the Brotherhood
of Eternal Love, which Rolling Stone magazine once dubbed the "Hippie Mafia."

The group is suspected of smuggling large amounts of hashish from
Pakistan and Afghanistan and producing and distributing "Orange Sunshine" LSD.

The Brotherhood was also known for paying the Weather Underground to
bust LSD guru Timothy Leary out of jail.

--------

1960s hippie fugitive arrested in S.F.

http://www.upi.com/Top_News/2009/09/30/1960s-hippie-fugitive-arrested-in-SF/UPI-97361254336613/

Sept. 30, 2009

SAN FRANCISCO, Sept. 30 (UPI) -- The last remaining fugitive from a
bunch of 1960s drug-smuggling hippies has been arrested in San
Francisco, authorities say.

Brenice Lee Smith, a member of the Los Angeles hippie clan the
Brotherhood of Eternal Love, was taken into custody last weekend as
he got off a plane after arriving from Kathmandu, Nepal, the OC
Weekly in Orange County, Calif., reported Wednesday.

A spokesperson for the Redwood City jail where Smith was being held
told the publication it was likely the "Hippie Mafia" fugitive would
be extradited to Orange County this week.

Smith was being sought on two nearly 40-year-old warrants in which he
and other Brotherhood of Eternal Love members were charged with
smuggling hashish into the United States from Afghanistan and for
manufacturing the group's trademark LSD, "Orange Sunshine," through
which they said they hoped to change the consciousness of the world,
the OC Weekly reported.

Friends and former Brotherhood members reportedly said Smith had been
living in Nepal since 1981, part of that time as a Buddhist monk, but
decided to return when attacks by Maoist guerrillas prompted concerns
for the safety of his 21-year-old daughter.

.

The day I tried LSD [by Andy Williams]

The day I tried LSD - by Andy Williams

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1217933/The-day-I-tried-LSD--Andy-Williams.html

By Andy Williams
03rd October 2009

As the king of easy-listening music he revelled in a refreshingly
wholesome image during the drug-addled Sixties.

Yet in a fascinating ­ and movingly honest ­ new autobiography, Andy
Williams, now 81, makes a confession that will stun his millions of
admirers...

The Sixties brought me some of the happiest times of my life ­ three
beautiful children, a smash-hit TV show, sell-out concerts and gold
albums ­ but they ended in sadness when I split from my wife Claudine.

The turmoil of our break-up led me down a shocking and unexpected
path, especially for someone seen as a wholesome, all-American
entertainer. I experimented with LSD.

I first met Claudine Longet in 1961 when I was performing in Las
Vegas. By that time I was appearing regularly on TV and had a number
of hit singles, including a No1, Butterfly.

Claudine was 19 and appearing at a Folies Bergere show. She didn't
speak English and my French was useless, but we were able to
communicate enough to date for the entire time I was in Vegas. After
my stint finished, I followed Claudine back to Paris, where I
proposed. Her English must have improved because it took her just a
fraction of a second to say yes.

We married in December 1961 and two years later our daughter Noelle
was born. We went on to have two more children ­ Christian was born
in 1964 and Bobby arrived in 1969.

That same year, I returned home after being away on tour for two
weeks. As I poured Claudine and me a glass of wine each, she told me
we needed to talk.

'I can't go on living like this,' she said. 'The kids and I hardly
ever see you and when we do, you're preoccupied, or on the phone with
your manager, or the studios. And...' She paused for a moment. 'And
things aren't the same between us.'

She was right.

The thrill I used to get when I saw her walking towards me had faded.
The private, intimate looks we used to exchange were less frequent,
but until that moment I had not understood how far down that path we
had travelled. Claudine had fallen out of love with me.

We knew what we were losing, but we couldn't undo what had already
been done. I think it broke our hearts, but in the end we agreed to split.

My marriage was over and I had to live with the knowledge that I bore
responsibility for that. The decision made, there seemed no point in
delaying so I packed a bag and moved out.

Being on tour was a way of hiding from my problems for a while, but
they were still waiting for me when I returned. Whether because of
the parting from Claudine or for other, less tangible reasons, my
life was in turmoil.

I couldn't figure out why I wasn't happier with my life. Why wasn't I
feeling well physically? I decided to get a full examination at the
Scripps Clinic near San Diego, California.

The last person I saw there was the psychiatrist. It was a surreal
moment as I lay on the black leather couch in his book-lined
consulting room, while he sat behind me in a straight-backed chair
with a notebook on his knee.

It was such a cliched scene ­ I had seen it in films a hundred times.
It was all I could do not to laugh, even though my reason for being
there was entirely serious.

After I told him my life story, he said: 'You might be helped by
taking LSD treatments.

You could see a shrink for years trying to find out why you're not
happy, but with LSD you might do that in just a few sessions.'

LSD was at the time seen as a miracle drug, although doubts about it
were beginning to surface, as Timothy Leary's 'turn on, tune in, drop
out' rhetoric drew unfavourable Press.

I persuaded Claudine to try LSD with me. I wonder now if I had really
accepted we had split up for good or whether I clung to the hope that
somehow it might be all right again.

In fact, by the time the first session was set up, the Scripps Clinic
had bowed to pressure and ceased doing LSD treatment. Instead, I flew
alone to Canada and stayed for a couple of weeks at a clinic while a
doctor named Ross MacLean administered LSD and another hallucinogenic
drug, mescaline, to me in different doses and supervised my trips.

The session took place in an antiseptic-looking room, watched over by
Dr MacLean and his assistants.

The LSD was in liquid form, dripped on to a sugar cube or a tiny
square of blotting paper. It was odourless, colourless and tasteless.

The mescaline was solid and had a bitter, musty taste ­ the first
time I took it, I was sick. For my first LSD experience, nothing
seemed to be happening at first.

'I don't think it's working,' I told Dr MacLean. He smiled and said:
'Give it time.'

Then things did start to happen ­ shapes began shifting and changing,
while colours
and sounds intensified. I became absorbed in one object or sensation,
totally unaware of anything else around me, but then I'd snap back to
reality, spiralling in and out of awareness of my surroundings. I
fought it at first, feeling a wave of panic at the loss of
self-control, but as the drug took hold I relaxed and was engulfed.

Hours later, when I began to come down again, I could not have told
you if minutes, hours or even days had passed. Dr MacLean gave me
different visual stimuli and played different kinds of music, from
soft and sensual sounds to marching bands, and noted my reactions.

I experienced the things that most people did when taking psychedelic
drugs ­ the intensely heightened senses, the beauty of colours and
sounds, the contrasting phases of feeling. One moment, I would feel
like I was a lord of the cosmos, the next I would be focused on a
microscopic detail ­ a coloured thread fluttering in the breeze, or
specks of dust hanging in the air.

LSD gave me powerful feelings of euphoria ­ some sex-related ­ but
also a sense of fear and despair. During one session I was even born
again ­ not in the evangelical sense, but in believing I was
experiencing the very painful physical sensations of birth.

I'm not sure if LSD did me any good, but one thing did come out of my
stay at the clinic.

It was probably the first time in years I had taken a few days away
from my career.

Between the LSD sessions in Canada I had time to reflect on the
direction my life had been taking and to examine my priorities. I
came to realise my children and my relationship with my family were
the things that really counted.

Sadly, that realisation had come too late to save my marriage; it was
fractured beyond repair. That had been my fault and I had to face up
to life without Claudine. Although we separated, there was no
personal animosity between us, just sadness that our relationship had
come to an end. Even after we divorced in 1975, we remained on good
terms. It was such an amicable divorce that we used the same lawyer
to represent us.

As part of the settlement, Claudine kept our beachfront house in
Malibu. Despite what had happened, I was determined to remain a good
friend to her, if she ever needed me, and to be a good father to our children.

I tried to fit family life around my work as much as possible and
sometimes I took the children on tour with me, but they also had to
deal with the drawbacks of being children of a celebrity.

Noelle once said: 'I loved being with you, Papa, and always wanted to
be with you. The only problem was that everybody else in the world did, too.'

In one way the break-up of my marriage may have been less traumatic
for my children than for other kids. I had been away on tour so often
they were already pretty much living just with Claudine and seeing me
only at weekends and holidays, an arrangement that continued in much
the same way after we split.

Years later, my son Bobby admitted that for years he hadn't realised
his mother and I were divorced. In my less self-aware moments, I
might almost have taken that as a compliment. But what it really
revealed was how distant I must have been in the years before we separated.

It has been said that the only inscription you never see in a
graveyard is 'Wish I'd spent more time at the office', and my
greatest regret is that I didn't spend more time with my children
when they were young.

Despite growing up with every material advantage, my children haven't
become spoiled, rich kids, celebrity fodder for trashy magazines.
They are grounded, normal people.

For that, Claudine must take the lion's share of the credit.
--

Why I had to say No to Frank Sinatra's wife

Frank Sinatra and I were neighbours for a while when he was married
to Mia Farrow.

My relationship with him was good, although it is doubtful things
would have stayed that way if he had seen an incident with Mia one night.

I was having a drink at a popular nightclub, when Mia walked over and
said: 'Andy, do you want to dance?'

As soon as we started dancing, she put her arms around my neck.
Fooling around with Frank's wife on a crowded dancefloor wasn't

a smart move and I tried to ease away, saying: 'Mia, this really
isn't a good idea.' She laughed.

A few seconds later, two of Mia's friends came over, disentangled her
from my neck,

and said: 'Come on, Mia. Time to go home.'

Sinatra could be a loyal friend, but he had a vindictive side.

I saw that one evening when I was having dinner in Palm Springs with
Frank and about eight other friends, including the actress Lucille
Ball and her husband Gary Morton.

Frank seemed relaxed, wise-cracking, until a drunk accidentally
spilled red wine over Morton's suede jacket. Frank's mood changed
instantly. Although the drunk offered to pay for cleaning the jacket,
Sinatra fixed him with a look that would have frozen a martini.

He then muttered something to his bodyguard Jilly, who took the guy
outside and broke his nose.

It was a mystery to me how someone like Sinatra, who could sing with
heart-melting tenderness, could act with such cold cruelty.
--

So poor and hungry I ate my dog's food

I was just five when my three elder brothers and I first sang in
public. Our father Jay was our driving force and moved the family
from Iowa to Los Angeles to get us work, leading to radio shows and a
contract with MGM.

But it was Kay Thompson, a singer, dancer, pianist and comedian, who
persuaded us to become a nightclub act, cutting Dad out of the picture.

The Williams Brothers went on to be highly successful, but by 1953 we
had split and I moved to New York to work on my solo act with Kay. I
had always harboured a huge crush for Kay, despite her being 19 years
my senior, and soon our work together became more than strictly business.

A new career was not going to be easy. After the adulation I had
enjoyed in the Williams Brothers, my early appearances as a solo
singer were a brutal comedown.

I was earning so little on tour that I couldn't afford to have my
tuxedo pressed, so I made it a rule never to sit down in it.

The low point came in an unsavoury hotel in Cleveland, Ohio, where
cockroaches could be heard scuttling across the floor.

I didn't have two cents in my pocket, had not eaten all day and only
had my dog Barnaby for company. That evening I gave Barnaby his dog
food ­ big chunks of horsemeat and gravy. I was so hungry and it
smelled so good that I ate a whole plateful.

Fortunately after that low point, I got a slot on NBC and a deal with
a small record label. In 1957, Butterfly went to No1.

Moon River was recorded in more or less one take in 1962, as the time
booked in the studio was running out. I never released it as a
single, but it has become the song with which I'm always identified.
--

Moon River & Me, by Andy Williams, is published by Weidenfeld &
Nicolson priced £20. To order your copy at £16 with free p&p, call
The Review Bookstore on 0845 1550713. Andy Williams will be appearing
in concert at the Royal Albert Hall tomorrow.

To book tickets call 0845 4015045 or go to royalalberthall.com.

.