Category Archives: Music

Miami Pop – 1968 Experience

miamipoptoots

(c) 1998 Patrick Edmondson   (Excerpted from a longer work in progress)

After High School graduation, Gabi had moved to Atlanta to start Georgia State just as Fred was planning to do while living with his benefactors, Uncle Paul and Aunt Evalene. Gabi’s sister, Pixie, had an apartment off North Peachtree so she didn’t have to look for apartments for rent. I was going to be nearby at Oxford, a small country town east of Atlanta, in the fall.

Pixie realized that with Gabi came me, her boyfriend. Pixie drove her light blue Dodge dart down to Oxford almost every weekend to get me for her sister Gabi, then drove us back on Sunday night. Often we gave rides to other weirdoes I was meeting at Oxford.  Pixie didn’t suspect that she had become a stop on the hitchhiker’s trail through Oxford.

We had become friends with Dan del Vecchio at Oxford. His brother Jeff had hitchhiked down to visit him. Dan and Jeff are both skinny.  Jeff is tall; Dan is medium like me. Dan wears an old-fashioned tuxedo coat with split tails. Jeff has wide glasses and was just out of the Navy and still wore navy bells.  They both went to Atlanta and of course came by Pixie’s. Jeff Del Vecchio came by one Sunday and seemed to really tickle Pixie’s fancy, which was great as she had been so down for so long.

December 1968 I had finished one quarter of Oxford and returned home to scandalize Tifton and my father. Gabi of course came with me. We, also of course, came prepared to turn on our old high school buddies and spread the enlightenment.

Meanwhile Pixie had to move, but would not look for a place. Then she called for Gabi and me to come help her move.  We came up and went through want ads and called at pay phones and drove around. Finally she found a place in Decatur. Some poor old lady had split off the up stairs of her house on Adams Street, but never knew what was up when she rented to Pixie, her mother and Gabi. A hint should have been when everything besides furniture was just carried in big sheet bundles.

I had to get the family car home for Christmas. We had been talked out of sending for tickets to the Monterey Pop Festival the previous June, so when our Oxford friend Jan Jackson had heard about a similar music festival in Miami at Christmas and had volunteered her boyfriend from UGA, Martin’s VW bus as transportation, we mailed off for four tickets. The day after Christmas, Martin, Jan, and Gabi were to drive to Tifton to pick me up for the trip to Miami in Ol’ Baby, the faithful blue VW bus into which Martin had built a double decker bed.

miamitix
Miami Pop Festival tickets

My parents and siblings were very curious when Ol’ Baby pulled into the carport and Gabi and this couple got out. I was surprised to see Jeff DelVecchio and another guy, Mike Smith, also climb out. Seems they had heard of the festival and being inveterate hitchhikers had headed to Atlanta. They surprised Mrs. Ujhelyi when they came knocking at Adams Street late at night.  Now they were in the mix and Jan also had promised a woman from Oxford we’d stop by Leesburg, Fla. and pick her up to go to Miami.

Thus was our merry band to be. Later we would be joined by a woman from Miami Mike had planned to see. She ran away, sort-of, to go with us. Later they got married and came to Atlanta to honeymoon at a big hotel and called Gabi and I to “get stoned and fuck up the plot of Streets of San Francisco on this big color TV with us to celebrate”. We’d already fucked in sleeping bags beside each other in the Indian Reservation dump; kinda creates a special bond.

Almost as soon as we pulled out of our driveway Martin asked Jeff,” Where did you hide that acid?”

“Up here in the light. All the grass is in the toolbox.” He answered from the top bunk. After this exchange I was aware I was leaving Kansas.

We were passing around a joint as we headed down I-75 at a steady purring 55 – 60 mph. Gabi and I took turn chattering like magpies, stoned ones at that, in the bottom bunk. We had been apart for a few days so had lots of information to exchange. We were almost two receptors of the same brain it seemed at times.

The radio stations came and went. It rained and the windshield wiper on the passenger side stopped. Martin told Jeff to bang on it. He did until he broke the windshield, which annoyed Martin a bit. I had brought Rolling Stone. I had subscribed and got my copy early. It was on groupies. I believe we all read it cover to cover over the trip since it was the only reading material we had.

Finally we turned off to pick up Laura. Her suburban parents eyes were filled with horror at the thoughts of her getting in that bus even with Gabi and Jan, but they were polite. I do believe she inhabited both Jeff and Mike’s sleeping bags before we returned her home.

miamijan
Earth Mother Jan Jackson RIP

We drove into Miami and called some friends of someone. They directed us to meet them at Coconut Grove which was full of hip shops and people.  Stopped to see Michael Lange, who someone knew, at his head shop. We bought a leather headband and bag he had made. He later ran another  festival in Miami then the Woodstock festival.

We sat in the sun under palm trees and watched the people flow.  Later we worked our way back to a campground nearer the festival spot. The people were very wary of our crew checking in to a family campground. Little did they know of the collecting invasion forces.

Awoke, used showers and went searching for a Huddle House for breakfast. Martin has high metabolism and must eat regularly. Then we went and got high to await the start. We then waited outside the racetrack at Hialeah for the gates to open. Martin starts talking to a man by a van. He is a professional photographer and gets to drive his van of cameras inside. He invites us all for the ride. We saw him all through the festival and saw pictures we’d seen him take in Rolling Stone. We were quite impressed.

The festival began at 1PM and lasted until 10PM each day for three days. Saturday December 28th Jose Feliciano, Procol Harum, Buffy Sainte Marie, Country Joe and the Fish, Three Dog Night, Chuck Berry, The Infinite McCoys, Booker T and the MGs, Fleetwood Mac with Peter Green, Pacific Gas and Electric, The Blues Image.

Some acts performed more than one day. Also some brand new groups were slotted in as The Amboy Dukes with Ted Nugent still an acidized hippie in tight velvet pants. The ads said “a thousand wonders and a three day collage of Beautiful music”.  That was an understatement. There was a stage on the racetrack with all the seats then another stage way out in the parking lot. You could walk from one and be at the back or plan ahead and be right at front for special acts.

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Earth Mother Jan Jackson and Joni Mitchell by the giant milk cartons strewn around.

Art works from the Coconut Grove art school had been strategically placed throughout the grounds. Tripping people were constantly discovering them and getting hung up in examining the art and never leaving its tiny alcove in the hedges for hours.

There were milk cartons like kids use at school, except made of plywood and so big the mouth is a full size door entrance. We were walking one time and saw a group of people collected around one and we could hear music. Joni Mitchell and Jimi Hendrix were playing acoustic guitars and harmonizing.  Duane Allman, then unknown except to Georgians, watched from the crowd.

When Joni later performed at the fest Hollies singer-songwriter Graham Nash, whom Joni had met through their mutual friend, David Crosby, accompanied her. Joni’s account

But we were in a hurry to see County Joe and the Fish, of whom we were big fans, for the first time.

Later we found out Hendrix was involved in the financing of this festival and held one of his own at this raceway later in the spring of 1969. His other partners in putting on this one got emboldened by the great success and started planning one at home in New York state where they were from. They later did it as Woodstock.

Also Duane Hanson http://arted.osu.edu/160/18_Hanson.php had his realistic looking people in unusual places to be found. Once I’m stumbling along with the crowd which parts and leaves me hanging over the most realistic bloody motorcycle wreck!hansonmoto

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Touristas! by Duane Hanson

Then there were the stereotypical old tourist couple standing and pointing out something.

Most performers hung around the grounds and enjoyed themselves as long as they could stay. Other famous people had just come to experience the east coast Monterey.

We realized the campgrounds would probably be filled or closed by the time the crowd exited for the night. We asked around and heard the Indians were coming to the rescue of their brothers the hippies.

Yeah, and scalp them! The Seminoles motioned the line of campers with signs, “camp cheap. This Way.” with an arrow. We should have learned to beware American Indians bearing arrows.

We followed in the dark out into areas looking swamp even in the darkness. Then a campground, but the arrows sent us further. Phantasmagoric sights to exhausted people. Finally. You can stop. Sleeping bags plopped and people were asleep on hitting the ground.

Upon awakening in the morning we found ourselves in the dump for the reservation campground. A garbage filled swamp surrounded this tiny isthmus full of cars. Lots of bugs and we heard gators grunting in the bushes around the water. They would only allow hippies access to a standpipe for water, so no shower. Also wouldn’t allow access to the laundry. Why are hippies so dirty?

Jeff’s experience in naval matters had him direct us to a big marina. We hung outside the clubhouse until we saw a hip looking kid. He let us in and lent us his key so we could get in both genders for showers and hair washing.  He left telling us which boat, yacht actually, to return the key. It felt good to wash off the Seminole dump. We were a clean but scraggly still collection of beatniks.

When we returned the key, the kid’s father came out and we thought he would be mad, but he invited us aboard and kept filling a pipe of high quality hash to smoke before we left. Wow, is this world changing or what. We hurried to eat ravenously. Everything, even salt crystals were exquisite in their tastes and textures. As hunger slacked everyone went from wolf to aesthetes enjoying the very essence of the act of eating. And we had a Pop Festival to go yet today!

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Ms. Toots and Martin at the 2nd stage

Sunday December 29th Steppenwolf, Marvin Gaye, Grateful Dead, Hugh Masekela, Flatt and Scruggs, Butterfield Blues Band, Joni Mitchell, James Cotton Blues Band, Richie Havens, The Boxtops.

The second night we would not fall victim to Seminole arrows. We went to look for the girl Other Jeff knew. He called and she told us to come quietly. We drove stealthily into the Miami suburbs and cut the engine to drift into the driveway of a split-level suburban manse with a large lawn. Again exhausted sleeping bags deployed.

We awoke to the sun and a small girl walking around looking at us. She ran back into the house and we scrambled to collect ourselves back into Ol’ Baby to make a get away. Before we were successful, the girl returned. “Mama wants to know how many of you want eggs?”

Mom invited us inside and made a big spread. Biscuits, honey, orange juice, eggs, ham, lots of coffee. It was like being home something my mother would do. “Invite your freaky friends in dear and introduce them!” Mom even made sandwiches she put in a pack and handed the women in the group before sending us all off to the festival.

But first we had to make a stop for her teenage daughter to pick up a sack of acid for she and Other Jeff to sell today. I had never knowingly been around tripping people or certainly so many varied drugs, but still Gabi and I were fine with Cannabis forms alone since we didn’t even drink.

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Sweet Inspirations onstage and off!

Monday December 30th Iron Butterfly The Turtles, Canned Heat, The Grassroots, Jr. Walker and the All Stars, Ian and Sylvia, Charles Lloyd Quartet, Sweet Inspirations, Sweetwater, The Joe Tex Revue.

 

 

 

The Grateful Dead Miami set (Free download

http://www.archive.org/details/gd68-12-29.sbd.cotsman.5425.sbeok.shnf),

Grateful Dead drums
Grateful Dead drums
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Jerry Garcia, Phil Lesh, Bob Weir at Miami Pop.

 

miamidead2

The Castle – Golden Horn

http://ethunter1.blogspot.com/2006/08/golden-horn-revisited.html

posterplace

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SUNDAY, AUGUST 27, 2006

The Golden Horn – Revisited

the castlehorn

 

 

 

 

Photo by Rocky Hunter

This morning we were looking at the pictures on Rocky’s blog he took in and around the High Museum in Atlanta yesterday.

 

When the above house materialized Anna asked wasn’t that where I went to the Beatnik Coffee House when I was a teenager. It took me a second to refocus on it, because the front door and big window have been replaced by a double set of garage doors – but that is it!

 

On March 29, 2006, I wrote a blog entry on our beatnik experience in a coffee house that was there on the sidewalk level of that building and how I almost became a slab of meat in their cooler in 1959 or 1960. Back then it was called “The Golden Horn”

http://www.uer.ca/forum_showthread_archive.asp?threadid=46237

http://www.bloglanta.com/archives/date/2005/12

Is it a house, fort or castle?

Monday, December 5th, 2005

It’s all three, actually, depending on who you ask. Perched atop a hill on Fifteenth Street, just off of Peachtree Street, and facing the Woodruff Arts Center is a strange complex that puzzles each new passerby. Former Mayor Andrew Young referred to it as a “hunk of junk” and was scheduled for demolition in the 1980s until preservationists ultimately saved it. In 1989, it was designated a landmark by the city.

The “hunk of junk” was originally a retirement home for Ferdinand McMillan, Confederate veteran and co-founder of the McMillan & Avery firm, dealers in agricultural machinery. McMillan designed it himself and construction was completed in 1910. Residing with his wife and niece, McMillan dubbed it Fort Peace and lived there until his death in 1920. Viewing the interior of the house during McMillan’s stay would be interesting, but it is the exterior, still mostly intact, that is unique.

Michael Rose, in his book “Atlanta: Then and Now”(I’ve referenced this book before and if you don’t have a copy, put it on your Christmas list) notes that the house reflects the eccentricities of McMillan, built on a solid, two-story Stone Mountain granite base (judging by the capitalization, I assume that the granite for the base may come from Stone Mountain), canon openings and a Chinese turret. The house is built in the Victorian style that characterized mansions and homes in the area (most now gone) of the same period.

McMillan was a friend and one-time neighbor of Joel Chandler Harris, author of the “Uncle Remus” stories. According to atlantaga.gov, two niches in the second story façade and another niche below those contained small marble rabbits, the “Uncle Remus spring,” drinking fountain for pedestrians passing by, and other carved replicas of characters associated with Uncle Remus.

The position of the house allowed McMillan to maintain a large garden. Aside from his interest in gardening, McMillan had a great interest in inventing, according to atlantaga.gov. He reportedly designed one of the region’s first cottonseed oil presses, “the suction system for gins,” as well as the sub-irrigation system for his garden. With all of the unique features, McMillan said his basic intention was “to get as high into the air as I could, and there to build me a country home in the city.”

The surrounding four homes in the area were acquired by the Art Association and eventually demolished in the 1950s and ‘60s as the museum of art complex expanded. McMillan’s dream house remained, was dubbed “The Castle” and was inhabited by the burgeoning artistic community. From the end of World War II through the 1970s, Hazel Butler Roy owned the home and opened it to the artistic community. Various individual artists and performing arts groups rented rooms, lived, worked and played in the house. There was even a restaurant inside called the Carriage Room Restaurant.

Today, the towering skyscrapers of Midtown dwarf the house. Atlantaga.gov reports that AT&T plans to use the house for its Promenade project (I was unable to find specific details on this project after searching the Web. Anyone who knows more, feel free to share.). Aside from the significant architecture, The Castle remains a monument to the early Atlanta artistic community and a reminder of the four Peachtree Street homes demolished to make way for the Woodruff Arts Museum and the newly expanded High Museum of Art that we know and that it now overlooks.

Posted in Looking at the Past | 6 Comments »

kathy thompson Says:

July 7th, 2006 at 10:56 pm

What do you know about a building called “The castle” adjacent to the High Museum? I once lived in the Church’s Home next to it (1966). In 1969 I considered renting the apartment at the top and met the owner. In the end I chickened out since those who rented the studios did not spend nights there. I am saddened that it remailns abondoned.
Dr. Kathleen Thompson
Blue Ridge GA

http://ethunter1.blogspot.com/2006/03/beatniks-and-golden-horn.html

WEDNESDAY, MARCH 29, 2006

Beatniks and The Golden Horn

Back in either 1959 or 1960 my friend Monty called me and wanted to know if I wanted to go to a Beatnik coffee house in Atlanta. “Beatnik coffee house?” I said. I wasn’t keen on going out on a school night when it was going to something I knew nothing about – in some of our misadventures back then when we went to a place we knew nothing about we suddenly had to scatter or suffer some consequences, and I was afraid this might be the case this time, and Atlanta is/was a long way away for a school night.

Neither of us knew anything about beatniks or coffee houses. From TV we figured the males were bearded, wore berets and the females had long straight hair and wore black stockings. In the coffee houses we knew from TV all they did was hang around zonked on opium or espresso coffee and recited beat poetry. The most important lure for us was that we thought the females in their black stockings were all opened minded and all for free love….. which is just what a teenage boy would want.

So Monty, I, and two more friends headed to Atlanta in Month’s mother’s Volvo PV544 on a dark foggy night.

The place we were looking for was The Golden Horn on 15th Street. We found it without any problem. The Golden Horn was located on the street level floor of an granite building that was a three story apartment building, each level above street level had a porch or patio. It was across the street from the High Museum which was also known as the Atlanta Art Museum. The museum was facing Peachtree Street, but the side of it was along side 15th Street.

Monty parked the car down the street about a block, you never know if what might happen that we would have to leave suddenly.

We went in. To the left was a table full of tasty looking cakes, and behind that was a bar that did the serving of beverages. A lean lady with long black hair and black stockings came up and asked us did we want a seat and we said we did. Yep, she was just what we expected.

The room was not that large. Maybe 10 or 15 tables in a dim lit room. On the far end was a small low stage. We sat down and expected someone to come out on stage and play some bongo drums or maybe recite poetry, or whatever beatniks do.

The people at the other tables seemed quiet, chatting among themselves. I would guess they were college students, Georgia Tech was only a few blocks away.

The dame with the long black straight hair and black stockings asked what did want and we said coffee. This is a coffee house – right? She brought back four coffees and our bill.

A man in white skin tight leotards and a unicorn head climb up on stage and music was played… it was flute music. The man with the unicorn head starting lightly dancing, at times it was like a ballet because he would leap and tip toe and piloret…. all this to classical flute music.

We were not music appreciators by any means. Any thing musical we like was on the top 40 radio stations. Our minds had not yet matured to appreciate good music or interpretive dancing.

Monty would later become a disc jockey.

Our whispering conversation went something like this: “Good god! We came all way down here to see this shit?”

“Is this a queer joint?”

“No, there is a couple of girls here.”

“How much is the bill? Lets pay and get the hell out of here!”

“Damn! It is sixteen dollars!”

“Sixteen dollars?”

“yes – that coffee must cost $4 a cup.”

“Shit! Now what?”

The thing is, we didn’t have $16 between us. We had something like $3 and some change.

So, we made plans. While we were whispering making our plans the woman brought another round of coffees and added it to the bill.

The table with the cakes were on a table, just a leap from the front door. We decided we would get up and stand over the cakes as if we were planning on which cake to pick out and run out the door the first chance we got.

All four of us got up, went over to the table and stood there looking at the cakes. The wench with the long straight hair came up to watch us. To make it look like we were dead serious on picking out a cake I put my hand out, finger extended and said, “Hmmm Lets see….”

She interrupted me by putting a sharp butcher knife up to my face and say, “Touch a cake and off goes your finger honey!”

I let out a nervous laugh.

The bitch said, “You think I’m joking!” and jabbed the knife in midair within inches of my stomach. I backed up.

She jabbed at me again and I backed up some more….. how in the heck did I find myself in this mess? I thought.

About that time the door slammed and we both looked at the door. We could see my three friends heads bobble by the window as they were running.

Now she was mad. She jabbed again and I turned around and ran. Somehow to get away from her knife tricks I found myself on the stage with the unicorn, then she joined us. People in the audience were laughing. I jumped off the stage with her behind me swiping at me.

This time the door was in front of me and she was in the back of me. I opened the door and ran out and ran down towards the car, but I was running scared and caught up with them before they reached it.

We all had a good laugh when I told them what happened and we all climbed into the car. Monty said, “I lost my wallet.”

“What did you do with it?”

“I had it out when we were counting our money. I must have dropped it on the floor.”

“Let it go, the dollar you had in there isn’t worth it.”

“I an’t leaving without my wallet. My phony driving license is in there, do you know how long it took me to draw the Seal of Georgia on that thing?”

Me: “I’m not going back in there for anything.”

We agreed the other three would go back in and demand the wallet back and I would be out side with the Volvo running, and as soon as they ran out they would hop in and away we would go – back home.

They went in and I sat in the drivers seat with the engine running, one foot on the clutch and the other foot ready to stomp down on the gas. I was the get-away driver.

They ran out laughing. Monty had his wallet, which he put in his back pocket.

“How did you get it?” I asked.

As a last second inspiration, Monty and his two companions when they entered The Golden Horn fell down to their knees and began crawling all over the room squealing like pigs. Everybody cracked up laughing, even the witch with the long straight hair and butcher knife. While crawling, Monty made a straight line to the table we were at and saw his wallet on the floor and snatched it up.

Alls wells that ends well.

hot grease

The Great Speckled Bird  vol 2 #26 pg. 14

hot grease

Sunday in the Park. Coo] breeze, light rain, sun – shine, sweet air and green, summer held motionless before fading gently out. People filter down and come to rest around the pavilion, inhaling the pleasant sounds of a folk-rock trio named Robin. More people materialize, exchange greetings and mill about while Robin leaves the stage and the Hampton Grease Band begins to bring up equipment. A couple drops mescaline because they know this will be good; the music will be a gift to them.

The band is set up then and they begin a long instrumental riff, relaxed and feeling out the day, getting themselves together and the audience together with them. Harold Kelling’s long easy guitar notes climb up and soar out over insistent rhythms working though bass, drums, and second guitar. The music is alive and the audience is getting behind it now as the band finishes out the number and Bruce Hampton takes the mike, tightens the tempo and starts to take care of business, laying down hard driving lyrics that soon have the crowd swaying, clapping and then some are up dancing.

And on. The music and the gathering went steadily up from there. Shouting and stomping vocals. Beautiful stretched-out instrumentals, silver singing guitar solos beating against the raindrops. “Gonna Let My Love Light Shine.” Blues. Soul. Rock. The drummer leans into it. Incredible counterpoint guitar work between Glen Phillips and Harold Kelling. perfectly matched, pushing each other on out, exploding in sound, exploding the people who are following the music now like a jazz audience, applauding riff after riff.

An afternoon of music. People radiate out from its center, circling the pavilion, populating the hill behind it. An afternoon of life, peace and consciousness, a still center in Piedmont while our brothers get castrated in Taos, heads beaten elsewhere. We needed it. They’re some of the best things we’ve got, these afternoons. Space to breathe. And live. We need our musicians.

Look for another one of these medicine shows around the middle of September. They are free, because music and medicine and people and expression should be free. Musicians have to eat, though. Maybe we can do something for them, too, next time?

—Clifford endres

Universal Life Piedmont Park Music Festival

The Great Speckled Bird Vol 2, #  oct 27, 1969

thebirdback

FRIDAY AFTERNOON was almost frightening all those big names, the abruptness of the pop festival’s appearance, the overall speculative nature of this ambitious musical venture and when we got over to the park, there was only a small crowd and some folk singer type running through a Dylan (new) imitation of “Lay Lady Lay.” The portable toilets on the ball field looked desolate in their isolation. Nothing looked good about the scene, and Frank Hughes of the Electric Collage light show was saying over and over, “Everybody’s wrecked!”

Then, miraculously, it happened. The Allman Brothers appeared on stage and began their set a familiar set of blues pieces, long, hard improvisations worked on a tight rhythmic foundation. “I’m Gonna Move To The Outskirts Of Town,” Donovan’s “There Is A Mountain,” one from their new album on Atco which might be called “I Feel Like I’m Dyin’,” some fantastic slide guitar from Duane Aliman on an excel lent arrangement of “Statesboro Blues,” and much more. One of the best exponents of where young pop music is at today, the Allman Brothers got the audience moving and initiated the festival atmosphere that had been absent up until that time.

The crowd was still small by sundown, but it was grooving and becoming larger all the time. We had just begun to realize that the night would be quite cold, but the idea of a pop festival in winter weather seemed oddly appealing (for once a tightly packed audience made some sense). The hippie/freak audience was there, a few straights, some familiar community winos, plus many, many new faces. One short fat fannie dug the music and the people; she thrust her dancing figure up front whenever possible and moved in and around the crowd with a beautiful smile on her face. A wonderful old wino with the face of a leprechaun put down his weather beaten suitcase and umbrella and asked her to dance with him, proceeding to demonstrate his own talents in a Wonderlandish dervish. Soon, everyone was in good spirits.

The band that followed included The Second Coming guitarist from Florida, plus the brilliant, beautiful bass work of John Ivey, and vocals and harp by Atlanta’s Wayne Lackidisi. The lead guitarist was into an erotic contortion bit (he turned in a better performance Sunday), and while Lackidisi’s screaming vocals sum up what is either the best or “the worst of white blues singing (depending on whether you like it or not), some of his harmonica contributions were exciting indeed.

The performance by Joe South in Piedmont Park should have been a major musical event; instead it was a fiasco. South appeared on stage with a trio of accompanists that looked like a Southern Velvet Underground (the suit South was wearing looked like silver velvet). There was an immediate reaction from the audience, one of suspiciousness and distaste from some, amusement from others. To say that a threat to the communal spirit did not exist for a moment would be a lie. South does not relate to the immediate experience of the Atlanta left/hip community in the same way that, for example, the Hampton Grease Band does, and the shiny, luxuriant exterior of the studio talent was perhaps too much in evidence, and with no conditioning for the audience. At the same time, Joe South is unquestionably one of the finest songwriters in all of pop music. We don’t think of him as a performer (though he is a brilliant one), but we are all familiar with his songs through the Top 40. Teenybopper purists who label his three minute pop songs “commercial” and relate to the twenty minute blues extravaganzas of the Allman Brothers as anything other than commercial simply create a false dichotomy between a business oriented around 45 rpm singles and a business built on the 33 1 /3 rpm album. Joe South and the Allman  Brothers are merely extensions of the same pop music experience, and they both make some fantastic music in their own areas.

Unfortunately, the sound system was fucked up throughout South’s entire set, and in the middle of one song, the power cut off altogether. South’s excellent vocal style was lost, some of the best lyrics ever to come out of modern country could hardly be heard, and what could have been some exciting guitar work by South was wasted on electronic distortion and noise. South was trying his best to get through “Hush,” “Redneck” (on the new Pacific Gas & Electric album), “Don’t You Wanna Go Home?” a hymn to the Atlanta community called “Gabriel,” and one of the best pop songs ever “Games People Play.” Aside from some attempts at humor that were often misdirected, a female vocalist whose raucous, out of tune shouting al most ruined what little music the South group managed to force through the faulty sound system, and a certain lack of acceptance from some in the crowd, it was good to hear this musical genius in our own park, and it is hoped that the event can happen again under better circumstances.

Considering the formidable musical achievements of Joe South, his last words “Thanks for putting up with us” seemed incredibly ironic. At this time in our development of a youth culture, we need all the bridges we can get, and Joe South may very well be the most important bridge between white country music and black blues and pop that we have. Certainly if one listens to his album Intercept, he will get one of the most all inclusive statements of the Southern hip youth experience available anywhere.

 Mother Earth followed South, and again the sound hassles seemed insurmountable. Tracy Nelson was there guzzling bourbon and turning what were probably exciting vocals on “Wait,” “You Win Again,” and a couple of others. She didn’t sing often enough for me in any of the sets in which Mother Earth performed. Boz Scaggs, an excellent guitarist but a largely uninspired vocalist, did some bluesy numbers and an “I Shall Be Released” that didn’t stir up anybody too much. The bassist was featured on a song that he wrote, and the pianist/ organist was the dominant voice on the closing number by Bobby Blue Bland. All in all not very heavy, but the things they did on Saturday with a functioning sound system were a more accurate demonstration of how good this band can be.

Frank Hughes’ Electric Collage light show, one of the finest anywhere, was in operation during the ill-fated Joe South performance, and even though the temperature went way down into the forties, people were grooving, and the loud applause that followed South’s exit from the stage showed that we were prepared to be patient and understanding while the hassles were being worked out.

Dope was everywhere. Various people made announcements (including some absurd compliments on our “peacefulness”), pleas for donations of $1, and at one point Robin Conant asked if we wanted a ballroom in Atlanta. Friday was filled with intimations that much more is going on at these musical events than can be confined within the boundaries

Of Piedmont Park. One hell of a lot of work was put into this park music festival; a lot of people deserve a lot of credit; and just as in the past, the community must support the developing music scene in Atlanta by its involvement. Whether we have a music of community, or end up as merely another link in a capitalist chain of “music” entrepreneurs is up to us.

-miller francisJr.

Saturday

Once more into the tentative temple of Atlanta Aquarians, to the ritual womb of the New Age, to get together, to let our music pour over and through us, hopefully like bonding cement same thing churches sometimes still pretend to be about to weld a communist whole, energized to sustain the struggle to smash the atomizing force working to pry us apart. To dig, that is, some music with the Family.

Crystal-blue day, throbbing (not baking) warmth, folks lolling around on the grass. Hand Band just finishing up (“Apologize for doing other people’s stuff, but it’s a fine tune.” Right on.) Comes now from Macon, GA, the Boogie Chillun, setting up their paste-on flower bedecked drums, testing their l-2s, then Thh-wanng! Into their opening/warm-up number like they knew what they were doing. They did. (Their bass man too far into it to perform “intelligently” he just let his fingers follow the rest of his body, which made the axe a supportive appendage of his total investment in his music. Fine.) Much excited appreciation of their vocalist’s copy of Led Zeppelin’s “I Can’t Quit You, Baby.” A copy is a copy, but Boogie Chillun‘s a young band, still putting it together, still, I felt, trying to “prove” something, still “performing” “for” an “audience,” instead of working with us to get off a tribal celebration. But. That’s how bands grow together.

Like Lee Moses. Four black bluesmen who both presented and built upon that genre. Lee Moses on lead guided all of us on a guided tour of the mysteries of the guitar, excitement modulator: advancing and retarding the frenzy building across the grass, until one incendiary riff jerked us to our feet, there to remain until the set concluded, we reluctant, but also relieved from concentration of energy that might have spilled us over our permit-bordered reservation (that’s a no-no). Nor was Lee Moses THE show never having seen the group before, we were several minutes into the set before I knew for sure who Lee Moses was one sign of a together group. Because the denimmed rhythm man toured his own force with a rendition of Tony Bennett’s classic (just-named-that-city’s-official-song) “I Left My Heart In San Francisco.” Not a song, though, not a performance, but an invitation to take a trip. (“If you wanna go, clap your hands, clap your hands now, clap!” We did.) Chanting the intro (Bennett never thwumped a crowd the way this guy did), and then rocketing into an improvised delivery of the (same old, but not really) lyrics, and we were there (that may have been what yanked us off our collective ass). Yeah, fine group-let’s hear’em s’more.

Then 1 split for dinner, despite Hampton Grease Band, who were, I understand, extreeeeeemely greezy, thwacking the skulls of the straight voyeurs with “Gimme an E G G S: EGGS!” (Whaduzitmean, whaduzitwmean?? Suck you ), and putting the Mobe leaflets distributed on the fringe of the park (dig?) to fine functional use the airplanes still filling the air long after I returned just in time to hear the Allman Brothers launch their own airplane.

Which circled for about forty-five minutes before coming down for a landing, hearing occasional reports from the control tower about topographical conditions (“First there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is”), and cooking up a fine in-flight meal of intricate interplay, lead bass-rhythm organ, spiced occasionally with individual riffs. Hard number to top, but the rest of the set demonstrated what has been known and said well: the Allmans lay down fine, solid, gimmick-free sounds that do indeed work on you, if not as evocatively as Lee Moses (or the Hampton Grease Band), certainly as thoroughly Before Mother Earth the day’s last rap for funds (how to solve the dilemma: either admission charges or sugar daddies. The festival itself an attempt at synthesis: $1 donation, but when I dropped my buck into the box the attendant responded with “Far out,” like maybe not too many dollars were dropping the final balance sheet on the festival will be most instructive, and, I fear, sad) and a check to make sure most of us had got off (on?). ‘Feared we had.

Then an improvised Mother Earth, short I  understand, some personnel with Boz Scaggs added. Interesting-combination, creating a multi- focus group like Crosby et. al. or Blind Faith. Scaggs, and Toad Andrews traded off the lead, and the group changed coloration accordingly. As it also did, understandably, when Tracy Nelson, sang, the sound pouring from her mouth caked with clay, and oozing the richness of a stout young taproot. They were about the  transcendence of atomized clouds, the building of  power that occasionally thundered over us Saturday in sheets of undifferentiated energy. And when it all came down to borrow from the group’s title song), it was about the basics of life: love, sound health (“I Don’t Need No Doctor”), and making do.

The festival ended Saturday night at 10; permit ran out. But suppose it had not. Then why end at all?

(Concluding park-generated fantasy: how to make revolution. Suppose, I dreamed, enough groups got together to maintain continuous music beyond the saturation point. Two, three, four solid days. So that people could leave satiated, not fearing that they would miss anything/too tired to care. But leaving with the desire to keep it going, for what is more worthwhile, fulfilling, rewarding fuck it, FUN, than a festival? Not, of course, simply for the music, but for the communal consciousness: the shared joint, the freely given and received) food, the common caring for each other. And so people leave just to re- turn, but with sustenance for the festival. Bring back food, or dope, or bread for the generator. Take a job for two days, rap (automatically, unconsciously) on the job about the festival, come back, bringing three new freaks from work. Extrapolate extend the vision, so that ever more complex tasks are perceived and done to keep it going. So that the tribal existence is carried beyond the festival site; all life is viewed through the lens of the festival; all tasks are performed in order to get back to the festival, bringing something with you: food for ten folks, dope for 20, $40 for the electricity. Then it gets too big, so groups break off, start a new tribal campground, and it builds and grows organically, as revolution must in a country which is controlled in no one place, simplistic “Marxist” analysis to the contrary not withstanding. Until the old folks disappear bemusedly, and nobody wants to be PresidentGovernorSenator- MayorPig, and the whole world is a rock festival.

But.)

The permit did expire.

 -Greg Gregory

 Sunday

SUNDAY: after almost two entire days of a fucked up sound system, Sunday’s concert was a pleasure to listen to. The crowd, although sparse early in the day grew to several thousand by nightfall, and still exhibited its beautiful spirit of sharing, with much free grass and fruit circulating.

The old “star” system prevailed, and the local groups played during the afternoon. First to play was Radar, who sounded good for two reasons: one, the sound system was functioning properly, and two (more important), their material was enjoyable. After two days of almost all blues, good old rock and roll was a welcome relief. And they played it well, seeming to enjoy it as much as the crowd did. Only fault of this popular local group was a drum solo which seemed to be added on as an after-thought, especially because no other members of the group did soloes.

Following Radar came an unimpressive, but nice jam session, with the lead guitarist of The Second Coming, the bassist and drummer of the Allman Brothers, and organist and harmonica player of Mother Earth.

Next, the incredible Hampton Grease Band. Saturday they had destroyed the audience with their playing, and Sunday was no different. Playing a great version of “Wolverton Mountain” among their numbers, they again finished up only to have the audience bring them back for an encore with chants of “More, More!” After a set by an unknown Black group, came The Sweet Younguns. Unfortunately this group has been hung up playing too many high school and college dances, with the resulting Top 40 commercial sound demanded by these events. But Sunday night they proved that they have great potential, and given the proper environment to explore this potential, they could become a really first-class group. Their excellent singing and playing are already quite evident. Also they possessed some of the finest equipment seen and heard during the festival, and they used it effectively.

 Lee Moses returned to play again, after a really exciting performance Saturday. Their fine blues playing was one of the most popular acts of the weekend, and included an incredible version of “Love Is Blue” as well as “Hey, Joe” and some other more traditional blues numbers in the style of B. B. King. Real blues, and really singing the blues as well! And a real mind-blower for a finish a young boy about 10 or so came out on stage to play drums on Moses’ last number, and quite well, too!

Finally nighttime, but sadly no light show. Especially sad because Friday night’s show was the Electric Collage at their best. But the Allman Brothers made up for it. Little more can be said about them, other than the fact that only The Grateful Dead in Piedmont Park have generated the same energy that was created Sunday night. The whole experience was highlighted by a lovely girl dancing beautifully on stage.

And so ended Sunday night, but not before two couples were married on stage by a minister of the Universal Life Church, as a finishing touch to the Piedmont Park Music Festival.

-Charlie Cushing

Atlanta has had Radar for about two years now,

The Great Speckled Bird Dec 10, 1970 Vol. 3 #49 pg. 9

 Atlanta has had Radar for about two years now, and still isn’t aware of it. Besides the hunk Rock freaks who are subtly possessed and those insane followers from Radar’s roots in Sandy Springs, there exists few people whose spirits are lifted by the prospects of a Radar performance. This is an oddity, for Radar is one of the three Rock groups in Atlanta who have something to offer with their music. There are other groups with potential, but Hampton Grease, Booger, and Radar are the only ones who’ve matured to a point of originality and performance to rate acclaim.

I first heard Radar early on a warm Sunday in the Park during the season of 1969. Their material was fresh and away from the trends, but in the time passed they’ve unified the band and the music into a strong solid drive that excites and arouses. They’ve shown a growth in every performance, new material, new blends for old material, personalities, exploring each component of the Radar music for its maximum effect. They are four intense personalities who* have found that hard slot they best move together in, their energies providing a full cycle of lyrical motion and entertainment through one set. Characters

Jim Cobb is a product of music, dressed like he just pulled off his tie leaving church, bedroom slippers, and his notebook of song charts under his arm. Performing, Cobb’s bass draws motion from his open imagination, single-noting his runs through tight elative patterns that illustrate his knowledge and skill with the bass, innovative and progressive, yet he retains that purity and spirit of the early Rock that stormed our culture into its^ eventual recycle. Jim’s vocals are handled with a comparative fervor, loose with his casual yet forward manner, filled by that drive and whole with the Radar motion. Chris Cornish once seemed a rather plain and sober guitarist, but he is coming out as his musician’s confidence builds. His quality is not in being a “lead” guitarist, but a tasteful component of the whole. He listens and moves in where it’s needed, never overpowering the group sound with flashy up-front runs, an attitude used by George Harrison when he filled in the gaps for the Beatles. Meanwhile, Chris is nodding his body, making faces, and stretching into the mike to make his disciplined and capable voice perform for Radar. Singing the tales of noble reptilic monsters and senior class tragedies, his unique style and animated personality form the delivery and excitement.

Ottie Offen is all hunked up with motion. His skills, torn by a spectrum of influence, collect into successive flows through the progressions and burst into spiraling riffs in between, occasionally becoming a little too crowded during these peaks, but most often his piano is contributing to their entity. Ottie’s voice has a slight gravel vibrato and inflections that hint soul roots, violent, compassionate as he pours his dynamics into the swell of Radar.

Crazy Tony Garston addresses his drumming much the same erratic way he listens or talks. He’s constantly involved in finding new patterns and changes to give the music, never content with those tired patterns that makes Rock repetitious and horny. Tony pounces right out on top of you when you least anticipate his explosions. But Radar is rarely humble, and justly so, therefore it makes sense.

These four heroes concentrate to make the Radar music we fans all know and love. Even that “old war horse” of Cobb’s, the Mozle, is still stirring excitement, and more so than before for Radar |s always learning new tricks. Review

Radar’s climactic performance of the Mozle ’70 highlighted their last Gate: appearance, October 23. Their deranged following jammed the room to get their dues, and ever faithful Radar gave their all. The whole place was syncopated with that “motion” as Radar pumped out their music. Such favorites as “Jailhouse Rock”,’ “Louie, Louie”, and a “Whole Lotta Love” complete with destructive finale, shook the old house full that night. The clear feeling of their originals stimulated an aura of rushing excitement that peaked and calmed in complete cycles. 1 especially relish their performances of Chris’s “Swashbuckler,” Ottie’s “Georgia Moon,” the blend of Cobb’s “Heavenly Heartache” with Ottie’s “American Mag,” and Cobb’s two new songs introduced that weekend, “Long, Long Way” and “White Sun,” which illustrated his maturing as a writer and arranger.

The excitement eased and nearly subsided as piano-bar-style hip-medley-man Joel Osner played a terribly boring guest set, but was reinstated as Radar opened their final set with a one-act installment of “The Adventures of Lightning Lad,” a serial that is dedicated to good and evil simultaneously. The material, the antics, the between song patter, it cycles and Radar is always fun. Projection

Friday and Saturday evenings, December 4 & 5, the 12th Gate once again proudly presents Radar for your pleasure and elation. Ottie tells me that Radar has five new numbers to display and further “Adventures of Lightning Lad.” I expect Radar’s following to grow, in a town with so many people there should be absolute sell-out crowds to see a band this good, therefore it may be advisable to come early. It is well worth the effort and more than worth the lousy dollar admission.

—uncle tom

Well it was a good week for music

The Great Speckled Bird Jan. 25, 1971 Vol. 4 #4 pg. 10-11

Well it was a good week for music, at least. Maybe they’ve ail been good weeks for music, somewhere, ! don’t know. I’ve been staying home mostly with my pipe and Captain Beefheart, John Lennon, Derek and the Dominoes, the Jefferson Starship and like good company. Leave the street to the heat., oh yes.

But I got on the street and beat the heat to hear Little Feat down at the Twelfth Gate. And got a bonus. On the bill with Little Feat were the Stump Brothers, one of the Hampton Grease’s spin-off groups and always a smile to hear. The Stump Bros. are good musicians and generally play music which runs from solid rock to primitive jazz with a lot of echoes from the Fifties especially in the horn riffs. But this night (Tuesday) John Ivey had joined them on bass. I don’t know whether the addition is permanent or not but I hope it is, because Ivey’s playing took the whole group into another dimension of music. More than technical mastery of his instrument he possesses a musical conception of the bass that is way out front, in both roots and vision, of almost everybody around since Albert Stinson.

Little Feat were good, too. Solid “blues/rock/jazz/ folk stuff (categories!) in tight arrangements with Zappa overtones and showcasing a precise and biting lead guitar (lots of slide work), a very smooth and liquid bass (great night for bassmen), and especially near to my heart—some tasty old funky piano that looked to the traditions of Champion Jack Dupree and Little Brother Montgomery, et al, for inspiration. People are really taking to the piano these days, like Grace Slick and Bob Dylan for example. Anyway Little Feat were very together and made people feel good and, according to a well-rounded observer, generated even more electricity the next evening.

On the strength of such luck I went to check out the Bistro a couple of nights later where Jeff Espina and Ray Whitley were sharing the bill. Not having heard Espina since a magical night at the Barrel some time ago when Buddy Moss wandered in and joined him, and Whitley not at all,  I was curious as to what they might be doing, maybe even together. Okay well Ray Whitley and Jeff

Espina are both very good musicians and if you have never heard them you should go and do it. But I ended up disappointed in their performances for different ^ reasons. Although Espina is one of the powerful folk/bluest singers around lie did a set that 1 had already heard a number of times and I could not get turned on by it again. I even remembered the jokes. As for Whitley, he is a very warm and appealing performer, with strength underneath, but I must have caught a down set: I wanted to hear him do his own songs, a couple of which I had heard by other people and had really liked, but here he sang mainly John Lennon and Beatle songs and was not really into it either. Part of the blame for this might be laid to the audience which, although the Bistro itself is a nice enough place, has got to be one of the lamer audiences around. Whitley and Espina did not work together while I was there—1 left early— but they would probably be dynamite and I’d sure like to hear them do it sometime.

Saturday night was the giant hoopla concert at the Auditorium with Hampton Grease and the Allman Brothers, $3, $4, $5 a ticket, and completely sold out. The sound system was amazingly together at last thanks to great work by the Carlo Sound people from Nashville, and this apparently made a difference to the Grease Band. They turned in a fine set, introducing some new material in the tradition of their tight and complicated best, moving from rock into free jazz breaks a la Roland Kirk with flutes, sticks, and weird little noisemakers and putting down some electronic music on top, too. Strange how the shadow of Zappa peers out from the music of both Hampton and Little Feat in such different ways, but it does. The Greasers went on into a great parody of Detroit rock, did their old standby “Jim Evans,” and wound up with “Rock Around the Clock” and “Boney Maroney” just so we wouldn’t forget where they come from—rock , classicsville. Their record will soon be out on Columbia, and as an indication of just how good they are— which we who hear them so often tend to forget when the shock of surprise wears off-listen to WREK and the mix they have of “Jim Evans” from the forthcoming album. It relates to t schlock around it about like pearls to swine. If this record should happen to take off Hampton and company could find themselves turned into rock stars overnight. Oh yeah? Far out. What then? Well, speaking of stars….

 The Allman Brothers back in town! Great! Beautiful! Over the past couple of years their music has made some fantastic magic here in the park on Sundays, the different festivals, the concert with the Dead, etc., and we were all ready for more of the same in spite of the 3, 4, and 5 dollars—the band after all deserves some bread for their work and some thanks for those freebies.

Well the boys have made the big time now, that’s for sure. In two weeks they play Carnegie Hall. A more accurate sign of their new commercial success, however, here in America’s heartland would be all those rows of shining teeny-bopper faces gleaming out in adulation from the darkened hall, eyes fixed, riveted upon the sparkling stage and the spangled shirts, mouths slightly ajar. And by god they we re there. And then the Big Sound rolled out ….

The musicians worked their asses off. Leading off with the ancient “Statesboro Blues” in a somewhat defunked version, they moved quickly into album cuts, “Midnight Rider” and a very fine rendition of “In Memory of Elizabeth Reed.” They did a new tune, “Hot- lanta,” dedicated to the people of Atlanta, and they stretched out and tried hard. But somehow it just didn’t quite happen like the old days. No telling why. Maybe the star syndrome. If you’re a star you often tend not to take too many chances because you might blow one and fuck up your good thing; and without risks and reaching the tension drains out of your act. Duane Allman is certainly a super-guitarist, but this time his runs seemed all to have a certain sameness about them. Dicky Betts, the other lead guitar, appeared on the verge of really taking off once 01 twice. Where the Brothers came closest to really getting it on, though, was in a planned encore with their old favorite the “First There Is A Mountain” medley, and people were finally jumping and moving. But not like in the park or the Sports Arena, with the dying light and soft shadows and the common groove that folks have been working into all day high on each other and the trees and music and dope and freedom and room enough to run. So maybe again it was the whole set of a concert situation with fixed places and arbitrary distance between performers and audience that limited the show. But if it was not a mind-blower of a performance it was still quite mellow, and we look forward to Grease and the Allmans sharing a bill again soon. ; Incidentally, here’s a beautiful example for your primer book of the star system and the arbitrariness of concert promotion. Certain sources had it that the Allman Bros. were paid around $13,000 for their appearance, whereas the Grease band got $400. Isn’t that •weird’! Is there really $ 12,600 worth of difference between the two? Arid is it really necessary for someone (probably not even the musicians) to charge thirteen grand for a night’s work? Strange world. When asked for comment, International Ventures (the promoters) denied the thirteen figure but refused to say what it was they had paid, Phil Walden, Macon manager of the Allman band, also denied the thirteen grand figure and also refused to name the true sum, although he did mention that the band plans to do some more free concerts soon as they have a chance. Good news. But one has to wonder what all the secrecy is about- The Allman Brothers themselves were out of town and could not be reached. Ah, the romance of the music business and the sweet smell of…. BULLSHIT.

Later, craving some peace and quiet after the giant bash, I retreated to the Twelfth Gate again just in time to hear the tail end of Doc Watson‘s set there. Now this too was odd. For, lacking not only a huge group to back him up but also a massive p.a, system to put him across, armed only with a guitar or banjo and behind him a bassman, and sometimes not even any of those, this man was just sitting there generating more good vibes and magic and music than anything I had heard all week. Singing folk ballads and some slow country tunes and stuff like that. Not really what he sang, but the way he sang it. As if there were some sort of message hanging around it or something like that, not in the words but maybe in the feeling, or .. .. well, there was something he said.

 “If any of you people out there happen to own any big hippie clothing stores, I’d just like to remind you that you wear your clothes on the inside.” .

Could it be that this.,. .is closer?

This may not have been a great week for -MUSIC’, but it was a mighty damn good one.

-cliff enders

RADAR ! BUSTED

The Great Speckled Bird April 26, 1971 Vol. 4 #17 pg. 24

RADAR !  BUSTED

 Acting on a tip from their usual reliable sources, the GBI pulled a vehicle raid New Year’s Eve on several cars in Tifton, Georgia, suspected to be hauling distributional quantities of illegal narcotics. If their tip had any factual foundation to it, the culprits eluded the long arm of the law. However, the GBI was able to arrest Radar, along with some friends and Tifton acquaintances whom they had met at the gig they played that evening at Abraham Baldwin Agricultural College. The only contraband found was about a quarter ounce of marijuana and a little less than a gram of hashish: the straight press in Atlanta and Tifton also reported some amphetamines, but it seems that was merely a media invention. The GBI were hardly pleased with their find and were almost apologetic to Radar. One agent was reported to have said, “We’re after the trees, not the leaves.”

The ultimate results of all this was but one conviction and sentence. Jimmy Cobb, bass-vocal and leader of Radar, was sentenced to sixty days in Tifton County Jail. This of course, means that Radar will be out of action for this period of time, already having to cancel  their appearance with Spirit and Trapeze this past Sunday. It’s actually a good thing for the other two groups, for with a good wind Radar would have blown them off the stage.

—uncle tom

MUSIC TO EAT! FIVE YEARS IN THE MAKING! A CAST OF THOUSANDS!

The Great Speckled Bird May 3, 1971 Vol. 4 #18 pg. 5

MUSIC TO EAT! FIVE YEARS IN THE MAKING! A CAST OF THOUSANDS!

Music to Eat

musictoeat

by the Hampton Grease Band  columbiaG30555

My first thought about the Hampton Grease Band’s new album is the same I had when the Allman Brothers’ record came out—it’s not the same music, of course, but the same feeling’, this is the band which has shared their music a thousand different times and a thousand different ways with our (their) community, and finally their efforts result in a chance for them to reach all the rest of those people out there, who I believe are gonna get their minds blown by music which I almost take for granted now—surely a kind of mild arrogance on my part, but more a natural pride and silent thanks as I witness Good Karma completing a cycle.

This album drastically deviates (does it ever!) from the write-some-quick-songs-go-into-the-studio-knock-out-an-album-in-two-days thing which is becoming a popular riff among groups. Anyone who has ever been at a Grease Band performance (and I use that word loosely) should know why. Probably the most critical part of the Grease experience is the chaotic interplay between the band and the audience (As Hampton once said, “They’re as much of what we’re playing about as we are …”; the resulting wide-open environment provides the chance for magnificent musical experimentation, and allows moments of weak music to go mostly unnoticed. Thus, for the Grease Band, submitting to the discipline of making tight, flawless music in the unnatural surroundings of a studio was a long, energy-draining process. For example, I was at the studio the night the band cut “Evans.”‘ For six hours they did re-take after re-take, Hampton being confined in a special soundbooth with only close.. friend Sam Whitesides for an audience. As the night progressed, the strain and tension of getting the full lyrical power of “Evans” to a final version was very evident. Now, six months later, I hear the result. I think they did it.

The album is a “family” (ad)venture much in the form of the Grateful Dead’s music: the band provides a core for group of people whose personalities (?) and relationships with the band strongly influence the music look at the song titles “Evans,” “Hendon” “Burt’s Song”,  “Lawton. ‘) And the Grease Band and their family, from what I know and have heard, can usually be found playing on that thin edge where Genius and Insanity come together. Sid (of the family) once told me that they are all simply children who never grew up—1 think I am beginning to understand …

hampton-grease-bandAs a final thought, I’d like to reprint the answer the band gave in an old Bird interview to “What kind of music do you play?”: “Suckrock. It’s a combination between suckrock and ointment. See there are a couple of people in the world who are playing Grease -The Mothers, Igor Stravinsky, Bill Haley and the Comets. They all got their own kind of Grease. Otis Rush Blues Band, Albert King, B.B. King, Buddy Guy, John Coltrane, Archie Shepp. It’s not a musical form, it’s a musical concept. It can include any category. It covers country, it covers everything you do. Grease is a form of life; it’s also a form of eggs; it all leads back to eggs.” And eggs are to eat. So is their music.

—moe1971-music-to-eat-box-back

Allman Brothers meet Atlanta!

 

A Personal story of May 11, 1969.

Upon first seeing the Allman Brothers Band, an interracial rock and roll band from the heart of segregated, reactionary Georgia not only calling themselves brothers, but acting like it, Miller Francis of The Great Speckled Bird put Duane on the cover with the words: “There are times when it’s easy to think that the rock and roll musician is the most militant, subversive, effective, whole, together, powerful force for radical change on this planet; other times you know it’s true. “

Georgia State University’s Library has this issue of the Bird available as a pdf. here.

The Great Speckled Bird

Vol 2 # 11 April 19, 1969

by Miller Francis

duane

The Allman Brothers play a form of what some might want to call “hard blues” but that term merely relates their music to what we already recognize and accept as valid; it says nothing of their real achievements. What informs their creation is not black music but the experience of young white tribesmen in experiencing black music. After all. Ray Charles, and what he means, is a crucial part of the lives of this new generation of non-blacks. Thus black music can be approached creatively by our musicians if the jumping off place is our experience of that music rather than the music itself.

 

EPSON scanner imageQuote of the Week:

Policeman, after complimenting Barry for getting together such a pleasant, orderly crowd, “You can stay in the park all night for all we care.”

A leaflet drawn up by our “leader” says “Last week we were attacked. Some of us were shot. We were jailed, the culprits have not been caught The police did not and have never protected us” yet the same self-appointed “leader” personally takes it upon himself to represent the community by asking “permission” from the same power structure which exploits us, permission to listen to music which belongs to us, permission to meet together in a park which also belongs to us! The Man can’t bust our music. -don’t count on it.

Definition of MUSIC AS POWER. A perfectly straight middle-aged man stood near the band in the park Sunday, mesmerized for two hours at sounds which took him places he never knew existed. After the band took a break, his remark, more than a little unconvincing even to him as he said it, was, “That’s just a lot of noise. ” He knows things he doesn’t know he knows, and the character of our generation is determined by just those things.

 EPSON scanner imageRock & Roll, our New Music, is sound for the head and body, orchestrated, electric, cosmic music that will rip you up by your corporate America roots and set you down just inside the Gates of Eden outside of which, we’ve known for some time now, there are no truths. You don’t, can’t, “listen” to the Allman Brothers; you feel it, hear it, move with it, absorb it, you “let it out and let it in” (the Beatles) and enter into an experience through which you are changed. You catch a glimpse of the kind of world we are becoming and you know more than ever the horrendous load of bullshit we’ll have to drop off on the way in order to give birth to that kind of world.

 A rampant fear of the mythical dragon of “Communism” (a la J. Edgar), nourished and fed by the power structure, flows throughout the hip community of Atlanta like a poison fragmenting us, blocking any efforts at organization, and our self-appointed “leader” holds up an SDS button, and says, “I transcend this.”

EPSON scanner imageTHE ALLMAN BROTHERS

Duane Allman-Guitar & Vocal

Gregg Allman-Lead Vocal & Organ

Berry Oakley-Bassist

Butch Trucks-Drums

Dickey Betts-Guitar

Jai Johnny Johnson-Drums

 Class prejudice the whole “redneck” concept—destroys the community from within, rendering it impotent, and our “leader” organizes us around contempt for the working man.EPSON scanner image

The Colony 400 monster rises in our very midst, attempting to determine how we will live our lives, and our self-appointed “leader” tell us hat “fear” and “paranoia” are our only enemies.

 

The Allman Brothers from Macon, Georgia, are a fantastically together group of young rock and roll musicians whose music draws as heavily from the blues: as the experience of young white tribesmen can without exploiting its source—a few steps farther and you get a merely talented farce like Johnny Winter. Since our generation is tribal, totally unlike our parents and grandparents and their parents, it is only natural that we would turn to the black man, whose tribal roots go so much deeper and do not have thousands of years of bullshit “civilization” to cut them off from these roots, for forms with which to relate to the new world. image020The history of the black man in America is the history of tribal man in an alienated, fragmented, capitalistic, literate, industrial, “I”-oriented culture; young people are simply showing good sense when they attempt to co-opt black culture (just as the dying order desperately attempts to put its stamp on the culture of its youth)—but creating and redefining our own culture in terms of the new space-age tribalism is the crucial struggle and follows as naturally from where we are at now as Grace Slick follows Patti Page. The blues, the entire complex of music which has come out of the experience of the black man in America, belongs to forms and patterns and relationships to experience of which we now have only the tiniest fraction of an inkling (even that is a hell of a lot). The black man’s blues (whether manifested in Lightnin’ Hopkins or Smokey Robinson and the Miracles) flows out of him while our “blues” is wrenched out bloody like a prematurely pulled tooth. image022Contrast the shouting subtleties and the rock- like soul of a Mahalia Jackson with the strained histrionics of a Janis Joplin (who, somewhere down under her package, probably does have some soul of her own). Art is not a product, it is a process: the blues—whether country or urban, acoustic or electric, raw or commercial -cannot be copied from records or concerts or books on black culture. The musical language of the black man cannot be co-opted simply because it happens to be powerful and sings of things we are just now recognizing as more valid than what we have been hung up in for centuries. Our music must develop its own power, its own forms, its own patterns of relationship with our tribal roots and our space-age technology in an unbroken line all the way down into our preliterate origins and all the way out into unknown galaxies.EPSON scanner image

The Allman Brothers know all this, and a lot more.

 

What we find in Piedmont Park on Sundays is a celebration of the awareness of the tribal experience. It in no way resembles the mass media bullshit image of the Haight-Ashbury community of “hippies” living like stoned zombie children off the sweat of others; it is an integrated collectivity of many different kinds of people intermeshed in an unbroken psychic web that transcends class, color, age and sex, and makes all of these things meaningful only within the context of the struggle to crush the power structure that stifles all of us.

 image014The “political” manifestation of the Sunday Piedmont Park experience undid everything the music had built up. The sounds produced a together, militant, upright, powerful group of people involved in a psychic community struggling to become physical, to become “political” in the largest sense of the term. The politics of the “open” microphone is the equivalent of a band in which only a “lead” guitarist is amplified-it belongs to the past along with “teachers” and “employers” and “managers” and “leaders.” If we must have raps with our music, let them be unamplified groups planning whatever action they deem necessary. If hundreds of tribalists get sufficiently turned on, each one on be his own open microphone.

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 The Merry-Go-Round exudes an odor of capitalist shit that you can smell all the way down in the park, and we are told by our self-appointed “leader” that our enemy is “violence.”image018

Capitalism the logical extension of the word “I” exploits the life style of our movement and our current self-appointed “leader” attempts to organize his own ego trip.

The only happening at the park Sunday which approached the power and the glory of the music was the waving red flag, another nonverbal experience which colored the events of the entire day and night.

 

 UPS:  The tribal altar of Piedmont Park-stone pillars on either side of a two-stage stairway, level after level of people, sitting on the grass, on the steps, on the pillars, with the band, behind, in front, on all sides, across the top outlined by sun and sky, milling around, surrounding and enveloping and being enveloped by the music in an unbroken web of tribal psyche, sun, trees, grass, grass, music, animals, man woman and child all vibrating as one out of tune with die seats of established power and in tune with other communities wherever our music is being played

 One together person reading Cummings’ “I sing of Olaf” to an overwhelmed audience unused to hearing those most militant statements—

“I will not kiss your fucking flag”

“There is some shit I will not eat”

 Black saxophonist coming out of the crowd to jam with the band

New tribesmen passing their own version of the peace pipe

Phil Weldon rapping gently but forcibly about the red flag blazing above the stone pillar

Angry interchanges between Barry Weinstock and members of the community at midnight Sunday when it became obvious to everyone that spending the night in the park would accomplish not one fucking thing for anyone except those who dig spending the night in the park with the blessing, approval and “permission” of their city “fathers”

 The power structure takes policemen out of our community and sends them into black neighborhoods to do their rotten thing and gives us our very own detective to soothe our ruffled white middle class beautiful gentle people (i.e. non- violent) feathers, and our self-appointed “leader” leads us to believe that we have won a great victory.

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DOWN OF THE DAY-Barry Weinstock asking the band to stop playing so he could go into his rap!

 

 

The most subversive manifestation of the power of our music is its ability to weld an entire park full of every type of person from all walks of life into one, throbbing pulsation of experience.

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Georgia State University’s Library has this issue of the Bird available as a pdf. here.

 

Byron – Still Savoring the Magic By Bill Mankin

Still  Savoring  the  Magic

 By Bill Mankin

 [Originally written for ClassicRockPage.com]

 Early June 1970, Byron, Georgia:  The advance team / construction crew arrives.  Our mission:  build a rock festival.  This would be my fifth, and last, rock festival experience during those heady three years between 1968 and 1970 when the rock revolution burst out of indoor arenas into the grass and open air.  Oddly enough, even at the time it felt like the end of an era.  But as I drove down to Byron that first day it felt like the beginning of “Bill’s Excellent Adventure.

 Byron would also be my second rock festival as an actual employee, in both cases working for the team of seven promoters who had produced the first Atlanta International Pop Festival one year earlier.  I could barely stand the wait for this one.

 Memories from the previous summer’s Atlanta festival were already giving me great expectations:  backstage chat with Janis Joplin;  on-stage arms-length vantage point for Led Zeppelin’s set;  a quiet hotel-room discussion with Jim Morrison and one of the festival’s promoters in an unsuccessful attempt to convince Morrison to bring the Doors to the festival;  … and MUSIC!  God, the music!

 For me, the music was the point.  In 1969 I had worked before the festival distributing posters and other promotional materials, but had declined to work during the festival so I could concentrate my full attention on enjoying the music.  By 1970 I was evidently ready for a deeper commitment.  So I signed up for the construction crew and in early June moved to a rag-tag campsite next to the Middle Georgia Raceway and the soybean field that would soon welcome the musical masses.

 My tent-mate was a guy named Sandy, actually “Psychedelic Sandy” in his college radio DJ persona.  The tunes he had spun on the radio a couple of years earlier had really expanded my musical mind.  But in reality he didn’t look at all psychedelic, nor for that matter like a construction hand ready for a month of heavy sweat and poor pay.  But there he was, like me, trying to get as close as possible to the high energy, counter-cultural tidal wave of live rock’n’roll.

 Our campsite was initially inhabited by about thirty similarly inclined long-haired aficionados from throughout the Southeast, mostly males.  The women that came with them ran the campsite and cooked three great meals a day for the crew (what can I say, this was 1970).  The facilities were rustic but the camaraderie – and our mission – more than made up for it.  When necessary we could even be pretty inventive, such as with our daily showers. 

 The Middle Georgia Raceway, a small oval blacktop track, had an appropriately-sized fire truck – a pickup truck with a square metal tank in the back holding 300-400 gallons of water in a pressurized tank.  Every day one of our crew would go fill up the tank and drive the truck back to the campsite.  Everyone, men and women, would strip; we’d all get sprayed down; we’d soap up and scrub ourselves; then we’d get blasted with spray again – en masse.  It was great fun.  It was also interesting that the local sheriff would sometimes manage to time his daily rounds so that he could drive out from town and through the campsite just about shower time.  I guess he decided not to arrest anyone for public nudity so that he could come back again another day. [By opening day of the festival the guy had become a pretty good sport – he even proudly displayed a smiling pig face someone had drawn for him on his squad car door.]

 Our primary job was to build an eight-foot tall plywood fence around the entire, soybean-covered festival seating area.  This was a big job – about 24-acres worth.  And after a couple of weeks it got old.  Once I was asked to collect wild blackberries for the morning pancakes… much better than building the damn fence.  It was a welcome relief to join the crew working to build the spotlight towers or the stage, just to get a break.  The spotlight towers were really something to see – soaring triangular platforms built high up between three huge tree trunks sunk into the ground, like telephone poles but much bigger, each painted a single color – red, white or blue.  Erecting the scaffolding to build the platforms was tricky, and required both caution and stamina.  Although the sunsets from the top were a sight to behold, after a day of it I was ready to go back to fence-building;  it was much safer.

 During the construction phase some of the area newspapers gave the festival a media buildup.  I managed to get my photo into two articles.  My favorite was the Atlanta Journal-Constitution article (6/28/70) headlined: “Hippies Working? And They Don’t Bite!”  The article went on to list some of the scheduled musical acts, describing Jimi Hendrix as someone who “makes funny noises with an over-amplified guitar.”  You get the idea.  The reporter obviously didn’t.

 Did I mention how HOT it was?  I would awake in my tent every morning… sweating.  One day during the festival I felt so desperate when I woke up that I grabbed someone’s ice-filled cooler and dumped the whole thing over my head – a truly unforgettable rush!  Needless to say, the heat made the porta-potties a real challenge; every conceivable alternative went through your mind as you approached the door – and every time the door opened you’d suddenly think of more.

 Several things made this festival feel very different from others I had attended.  It had been almost a year since the unexpectedly large crowd at Woodstock had forced its promoters to declare it a “free festival.”  We all wondered how big our own crowd would be and whether fences and tickets would mean anything in Byron.  Soon enough, as opening day approached and the crowd swelled, we heard the cries of “Music should be free for the people!”  Then, even before the gates opened, all our hard work erecting plywood was for naught and the fences fell.  Oh well.

 The main thing, however, that made Byron different was Altamont.  Combined with our feelings of expectation and excitement about the music ahead, Altamont gave Byron an added, subtle, edge of dread.  Only six months earlier in Altamont, California, an audience member had been murdered in plain sight of a rock festival stage by members of the Hell’s Angels motorcycle club.  The aftermath produced a dark cloud that spread all the way to Byron, Georgia.  Although it was nearly invisible in the middle-Georgia sun, we felt it was there anyway, hiding and waiting.  We just didn’t know if it would appear or not.  The best we could do was try to ignore it.  Sometimes that was hard to do.

 About a week before the festival opened someone had found a girl in the woods across the main highway whose face had been beaten so badly it no longer looked human.  One of our crew had brought her into our campsite where she was hidden as she recovered.  The word was that she had tried to leave a biker club and was met with a violent ‘NO’.  As opening day approached we began to see more and more bikers riding around the festival grounds, some armed.  Once as I was leaving the back-stage security gate to head for my tent I passed a biker with a pistol on his belt.  He was sitting on his bike, gunning the engine, acting as though he was going to be admitted through the gate without a backstage pass.  He was.  Fortunately, once the masses of music lovers arrived, the good vibes vastly outnumbered the bad.

 By opening day I had maneuvered myself from fence-builder to stage-hand.  It was exactly where I wanted to be – as close to the music as possible.  Unfortunately it was about the worst place to be from a musical standpoint – the sound was really bad.  It was virtually impossible to hear the vocals above the bass & guitar amps and drums.  But it was still hard to complain – the excitement level was intense!  There’s no good way to describe what it’s like to stand next to a high-decibel rock band at full tilt with a several-hundred-thousand-strong mass of humanity spread out in front of you, swaying to the beat and cheering at every crescendo.  I guess I can always listen to records at home, I told myself.  This is something else! 

 On a couple of occasions I also managed to step up to the microphone between performances to deliver some of the obligatory public service announcements all rock festivals were known for.  You know:  “Don’t take the purple acid, people!”;  “Hey, if you lost a kid named Sally, you can pick her up at…”;  that sort of stuff.  Actually, I have no memories of what I said;  I can only hope I was at least coherent.

 Stage crew duties were hard work but fairly routine, that is until about the middle of the second day when the plywood surface of the stage had begun to suffer from the repeated rolling of heavy, wheeled music gear.  It had developed some wrinkles and ripples, which then made some spots unstable.  One night, during Mountain’s performance, I ended up having to baby-sit their seven-foot-tall, double-stacked wall of Marshall amplifiers, which were rocking ominously with massive lead guitarist Leslie West’s every move.  If that wasn’t enough, I soon sensed something behind me and turned to find another wall – of bikers, all without stage passes but standing very resolutely, arms folded.  I did my best to do my job and avoid being crushed by either wall.  By the way, Mountain was great!  And loud!

 When I wasn’t on stage I was usually too tired to do much of anything else.  One day I was so hot and tired I crawled under the stage to try to sleep in the shade, with blaring, bouncing rock bands just ten feet over my head. 

 For me the most memorable performance I witnessed was Hendrix, who took the stage late on July 4.  Although it was not actually my work shift during his set (and thus I was technically not supposed to be on stage), I was determined to get as close as I could.  So I crept into the shadows about twenty feet from Hendrix’s microphone and tried to stay out of the spotlight pools.  My reward was something I will never forget.  Again, although the sound was not the best, the sights were:  midnight, Jimi’s otherworldly performance, a light-show on a raised rear-stage projection screen, fireworks, even someone’s lear-jet screaming in a low pass overhead.  It was more than sufficient to mesmerize and hypnotize, which is apparently what happened to at least one observer – Biff Rose.  On the opposite side of the stage from me, quirky songwriter/singer Rose was sitting like a stone(d) statue, face staring wide-eyed heavenward, mouth wide open… for what seemed like a very long time indeed.  I can relate, Biff!

 As seemed typical with every festival I ever attended, the last act would take the stage long after the published schedule had originally indicated.  In Byron it was sunrise by the time Richie Havens walked on stage, pulled up his wooden stool and sang for us.  I was dead tired and had crawled up to a scaffold platform at the side of the stage, where I looked down on Richie.  What was left of the audience were mostly sprawled on the ground, asleep or otherwise immobile.  I loved Havens and had seen him many times.  His was a true festival persona, and his music was a perfect and welcome accompaniment to such events.  As I recall, he opened his set with “Here Comes the Sun.”  What else?  By the time he finished his performance, the whole audience was on its feet swaying and singing along.  So was I.  The Woodstock generation was alive and well and would survive to live another day, smiling all the way.  I took Richie’s stool home with me that day.  I still have it.

 Then it was over.  Nothing left but the remnants.  As I stumbled down to the stage I noticed a familiar face in the audience, like a needle in a haystack – a friend from college.  He was just as surprised to see me as I was to see him, and our faces both burst into double-wide smiles.  We would have a lot to talk about next semester, when I would also become stage manager for the University of Miami’s rock concert series.  But that’s another tale.

 The remnants of rock festivals always intrigued me, and as tired as I was that final morning I made a special point to wander through the field in front of the stage staring at the trash and trinkets left in the wake of the musical mayhem.  I was not searching for treasures, just staring at whatever was there, like an absent-minded archeologist, not really expecting to find anything worthwhile, but still interested enough to make the effort.  Now that I reflect on it, I think I was probably trying to hold onto the crowd, the energy, the music for just a bit longer… to keep it from ending, to hold onto the remnants long enough to re-build the magic.  I’m sure that’s why, as I drove with a friend back to college after Christmas break at the end of the year, we stopped by the Byron festival site early one morning to pay our respects.  The spotlight towers were still standing, so we climbed up.  It was sunrise again and everything still seemed possible.  If we tilted our heads just right we could almost hear the music.

 Fortunately, Byron was not a second Altamont.  It was the Second Atlanta International Pop Festival.  I’m still sorry there wasn’t a third.