Читать книгу Rocket Norton Lost In Space - Rocket Norton - Страница 7

At the beginning of January Steve and I went to see a band called William Tell & the Marksmen at a dance held in the Sunset Community Centre near Fraser Street. We had heard great things about them and I was a little nervous. It unnerved me to stand in the presence of greatness. I was still too young and insecure to appreciate talent; it called attention to my own inadequacies.

The first time I laid eyes on their lead singer, Geoff Edington, who I supposed was William Tell, I was awe struck. He was slight of build with long platinum blond hair. The way the lights hit him from behind made him appear celestial, like the noble Achaean warrior Achilles. Girls might have said that he was gorgeous, but he was no pretty boy. He grew up tough in New Westminster. His right forearm bore the remains of a tattoo of a knife with an ugly scar where he had burned off the name of a former girlfriend with a cigarette. He had a wide cocky stance and leaned on the microphone stand defiantly as he sang. Even though he didn’t possess a great voice, he could deliver a song with conviction and that made him a great singer. Although the term hadn’t been invented yet, my mind flashed, “Rock Star”.

The Marksmen were just as impressive. They had an endorsement deal with Tartini’s Music, a music store in New Westminster, and they were equipped with matching Fender amplifiers and guitars. They were great players, especially their guitarist Lindsay Mitchell. Lindsay was a thin English lad whose family had emigrated to Canada when he was twelve. He was now eighteen with strong features and thick black hair. He stood like a question mark on stage. He played his Fender Telecaster with confidence and ability beyond his years and had already developed a gritty blues based style. When he took a solo I was aware that it was pouring out of him; not learned note-for-note from a record.

I left the dance that night somewhat shaken. Geoff was an awesome figure and Lindsay a gifted musician. They made The Seeds of Time seem quite ordinary.

Bob did not like to go and see other bands. The Seeds of Time was his focus and he didn’t want other bands to distract him. Frank would confer with him about certain songs but Bob ultimately dictated what songs we would play. We were now learning songs from albums by The Blues Project featuring Steve Katz and Al Kooper and The Paul Butterfield Blues Band with guitarists Mike Bloomfield and Elvin Bishop. The Blues Project’s album, Projections was especially influential. We played Flute Thing with Bob on recorder, Steve’s Song, You Can’t Catch Me and Two Trains Running. Overall, songs like Paul Butterfield’s Everything’s Gonna Be Alright had a longer lasting effect on me as I loved drummer Sam Lay’sstyle of playing the shuffle. I began to play the shuffle 'ride' on the snare and the hi-hat cymbals simultaneously, “ta-tit, ta-tit, ta-tit, ta-tit”. I could accent snare shots on the down beats or on pick-ups and I could open the hi-hat for effect. I called it the Chicago Shuffle and, for all I know, so did everybody else.

Our new bluesy sound was rewarded with a gig at the prestigious Afterthought on Fourth Avenue. Our first date there was January 13, 1967. We shared the bill with The Unforeseen. The Trans Euphoric Express Light Show provided the psychedelic lighting. The lighting was intended to suggest the swirling colourful hallucinations of an acid trip; that is, LSD-25. I had heard of it, knew that young people were beginning to experiment with it, to take 'trips' on it, but I didn‘t know anything about the stuff. While we played, the lights pulsated on the white screen hung unevenly behind us, on us and on the audience as they danced spontaneously in wide whirly-bird circles. I wanted to imagine that I was on an acid trip but I didn't quite know what to imagine so I just played the songs.

The light show set-up their equipment at the front of the balcony and created some amazing effects from their basic components. They had black lights, whose sole function seemed to be to make the lint show up on your jacket, and strobe lights that flashed on and off at a rapid pace and caused some of the dancers to fall over laughing on the floor. As a drummer, I found it best to shut my eyes when the strobes went off so that I didn’t lose time. They also had slide projectors and 16mm film projectors and the most important piece of equipment of all, the overhead projector.

The lightshow artist would pour some coloured water (say red) into a large glass dish (usually a clock face) and add a contrasting coloured-oil (say yellow). Then he or she would place the dish under the lamp and squish down on the mixture with another smaller glass dish so that the oil and water, while struggling to repel each other, would form wildly colourful amoeba-like blobs. By pounding the top dish up and down on the gooey mixture, the amoebas would create wild dancing shapes. These dancing shapes would be projected onto the screen, walls, band and the whirly-bird dancing humans. I didn’t know if it was as good as acid but it was mind-blowing at the time.

The long-haired manager of The Painted Ship, Doug Hawthorne, opened a shop across the street from the Afterthought and called it The Psychedelic Shop. He sold incense, scented candles, rolling papers and tiny little pipes. He also sold posters from music shows at the Fillmore Auditorium in San Francisco.

Although the bohemian ambiance frightened me, I would wander in and stare at the strange yet extraordinary posters by artists such as Wes Wilson and Bonnie MacLean and a new Vancouver artist, Bob Masse. They were swirls of colour and ballooned, distorted shapes that spoke of exotic names like, Quicksilver Messenger Service, Jefferson Airplane, Grateful Dead, Big Brother & The Holding Company, Charlatans and one that really intrigued me, Country Joe & the Fish. I left with a box of sandalwood incense and an EP by Country Joe & the Fish.

I shut the door to my bedroom, lit up the incense and played Thing Called Love, Bass Strings and Section 43 real loud. I learned the drum and percussion parts to all of the Fish’s songs. This wasn’t easy given that their drummer Chicken Hirsch played all kinds of weird stuff like bells and bits of metal hanging on cords but I figured it out anyway. I’m sure my parents thought I was already on drugs but, as usual, they didn’t say anything.

I'm no sociologist but, in my opinion, this little EP by Country Joe & the Fish best represents the heart and soul of the hippie movement of the mid-to-late-sixties.

Not far away, in the Oakridge area, a band called The Shapes of Things had formed with an organist named John Hall. The singer in The Shapes of Things, Mike Bentley, was a Hershey who went to Churchill and was a friend of Steve’s. Mike told us about John and said he was like us. The Shapes of Things were still playing a lot of the tough British stuff but were attracted to the new sounds that we were playing.

We were told that John had heard that The Seeds of Time were “really great” and he came to check us out. We were playing a small church hall in our neighbourhood on Ash Street near Forty-fifth Avenue. John must have been impressed because the next thing I knew he was meeting with Bob in his rec-room and hanging out with me, listening to Paul Butterfield, The Blues Project and Country Joe & the Fish.

John Hall joined The Seeds of Time at the beginning of March.

John was only fourteen at the time, with a thick mass of long stringy brown hair that hung down over his eyes, but had already developed a cache of eccentricities. He was possessive, pensive, particular, stiff and suspicious and, if he didn‘t know you or if you came on too strong, he could be pretty gruff. He was also talented, intelligent, enthusiastic, dedicated and caring and about as good a friend as anyone could ever hope for.

He came to us with an Acetone organ and a Vox Cambridge amp but soon after upgraded to an Eko-Sonic organ and a Leslie. A Leslie was a large wooden cabinet usually associated with the Hammond Organ. It had two horns at the top that whirled around and a large speaker facing down into a chamber that whirled around the other way. It could be controlled to go fast or slow or stop. It produced a very unique and exciting sound. John’s wardrobe consisted of jeans and an old tweed sports coat that he bought at the San Francisco Pawnbrokers on Hastings for Two Dollars and wore with pride. That jacket got him thrown out of John Oliver High School because he wore a sport coat without a tie. I never saw him without it - knowing John, he probably still has it.

My heavy-petting sessions with Liviana had come to an end. She couldn’t break loose from her strict Catholic conditioning and go all-the-way with me while I was driven by urges that compelled me to do so as soon as possible. We just kind of drifted apart.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t getting anywhere with anyone else either. I don’t think it was due to my appearance but probably that I was still immature and introverted. Mostly I dated the girls who were friends of the girls that dated my friends. Steve had a girlfriend named Donna, who had the best rack in school, and she had a friend named Julie who I got to accompany to a party or two. Dave, who had hosted the make-out party at his house last year, had a girlfriend named Marie. One day Steve and Dave swapped girlfriends and then I was dating Marie’s best friend. That’s the way it went for me.

Steve had no problem attracting women. They loved his confident swagger and his animated personality. He met a beautiful little weekend-hippie chick from North Vancouver, Marilyn, who had a pretty weekend-hippie friend named Louise who got me in the deal. I was hopeful about my chances here as Louise had a liberated and open attitude and 'free-love' was the mantra of the day. As Steve and I drove over to North Van in his mom’s 1964 Ford Fairlane grooving to the sounds of The Young Rascals, Groovin’ on the radio, I was confident that free-sex was about to be mine.

That Fairlane was amazing. We would pull into the gas station at Fourth and Cypress and pool something like eighty-six cents and Steve would carefully pour the eighty-six cents worth of gas into the tank. We’d ride for days on the fumes.

Once again my optimism was teased and tantalized before it was thrashed. Louise's attitude may have been open but her legs were not. Our make-out sessions deteriorated into wrestling matches with me grappling to pry her knees apart and her slapping my hands away in an impregnable defense. I never won a match but I was determined to keep climbing back in the ring. The struggle continued in the back seat of cars, in the park, at the movies, even on the sofa in her parent's family room.

In my painfully slow attempt to scale Mt. Eros, Camp Louise was a disappointing slip on the slope. It would be a long time before I would recover.

The Seeds of Time must have done well enough at the Afterthought because we were asked back on March 4th. This turned out to be a prophetic weekend as William Tell & the Marksmen, who had become our cross-town competition, played Friday with Carousel. We were to play Saturday. I attended their Friday show and once again was awestruck by Geoff’s stage presence. He was mesmerizing. And Lindsay was even better the second time I heard him. He was actually making music while the rest of us were copying. Truthfully, we really weren’t much competition but Bob believed in us and carried us along with his enthusiasm.

The following night, before our set at the Afterthought, Steve went up into the balcony. He was standing in the dark watching the opening band when he felt a chill. He turned just in time to glimpse a shadow coming straight at him. It was a man with a knife. He lunged at Steve. Steve jumped to the side, grabbed the shadow and they both went down on the floor. The knife was knocked free and bounced down a couple of steps under a seat. They fought a brief feeble fight in the aisle. Steve was no fighter and his assailant appeared to be drunk. As Steve held him off a light flashed onto the shadow’s face. It was Geoff Edington, William Tell from The Marksmen! Steve pushed him off and they both lay there wheezing.

“What's your trip, man?” Steve shouted in surprise.

“Stay away ... from Marilyn,” was the slurred answer.

“What?”

“Marilyn’s my chick. I want you ... stay away from her,” Geoff mumbled propping himself up against a seat.

“Marilyn’s your girlfriend?” Steve said sarcastically. “I don’t think so. I’ve been going out with her for months.

“The bitch is two-timing both of us,” Geoff said.

“She’s two-timing both of us?” Steve repeated unbelieving, “all this time?”

“Yeah.”

“Far out!”

“Yeah.”

“Hey! Saw your set last night. You guys rock,” Steve said with admiration.

“Heard you guys are pretty good too,” offered Geoff.

“Yeah, hey, I gotta go play. You gonna stick around?”

“Don’t know. Uh, sorry about ...”

“It's cool. She’s just a chick.”

“Yeah.”

That was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

After our set we were approached by a man who said he was interested in managing us. He stated that it was between us and The United Empire Loyalists. He said he preferred us, even though The Loyalists were better musicians, because we played our songs one after the other without any long gaps and The Loyalists spent a lot of time tuning with their backs to the audience. He conveniently ignored the fact that The Loyalists were already managed by Jerry Kruz. He felt that we had more of a potential for entertaining, whatever that meant. His name was Jim Wilson. I was a little suspicious of him because he looked so straight. He was older, maybe twenty-one, had short brown hair and wore a suit.

But, he had real music business experience. He had been the local promotions man for Phonodisk. They distributed Motown in Canada and his most recent assignment had been to squire Diana Ross and The Supremes around Vancouver while they were here playing the famous Cave Supperclub on Hornby Street.

Bob was also suspicious of Jim mostly because he did not wish to lose control of his band and Jim had some very strong opinions on how we should perform. Any misgivings aside, Bob considered the proposal. There certainly was a positive energy about Jim.

Steve, John and I found ourselves strangely drawn to him. He had a place at First and Balsam in Kitsilano (just up the hill from my grandparent’s house) and the three of us began to hang out there on weekends. I even got to meet Jim’s friend, David Harpine, a short wiry man who ran The Trans Euphoric Express Light Show at The Afterthought.

Steve and I discovered a new boutique on Fourth Avenue called, Positively 4th Street. A British tailor who had moved to Vancouver from Carnaby Street designed and built us suits that were progressive and radical. Steve’s was pink and blue striped and mine was green and purple striped. The double-breasted jackets were long and skin tight. The bell-bottomed trousers were snug at the hip and wide at the bottom. Worn with a flowered shirt it was far-fuckin’-out.

At Easter somebody organized a gathering in the park and called it a Human Be-In. My heroes, Country Joe & the Fish,were in town playing the Afterthought and had agreed to play. They were the draw but several local bands were asked to play as well - including The Seeds of Time. I was amazed when several thousand long-haired freaks assembled in Ceperley Park in Stanley Park. I did not realize that there were so many of us already. It was a warm sunny day but the grass was soggy from recent rain. There was no real stage; just some sheets of plywood lain down to create a solid place to set the bands on.

The United Empire Loyalists introduced their new bassist/lead vocalist, Rick Enns, formally of The Tom Northcott Trio.He had a pure, sweet voice with great range and was an impressive bass player. We only played a few songs including a rockin’ rendition of The Spencer Davis Group’s Keep on Running.

Because of the wet grass the lawn got dug up by all the whirly-bird dancing. After a few hours of 'Be-ing' the entire area was a sea of mud. The next day the papers proclaimed:

Hippies trash park

There was such a fuss I worried that the City might ban all humans from using the park.

What caught my attention was that the paper had called us Hippies. I felt good about that. It made me feel like I belonged to something big, something important. While the world was beginning to flip completely out-of-control, Hippies became known as Flower Children; loving, peaceful folks with long hair and sandals who only wished to get along with other folks, get high and make-love not war. Head Hippie, Dr. Timothy Leary, uttered our mantra, “Turn On - Tune In - Drop Out.” I liked the sound of that.

This was the beginning of the Summer of Love. It was a summer that lasted more than two and a half years!

I heard that Country Joe & the Fish were going to play at the University of Washington in Seattle after they left Vancouver. Steve, John, Howard Diner and I decided to drive down and see them there. Steve scored his mom’s Fairlane and we made the three hour drive down I-5 in two hours.

We pulled into the parking lot of a basketball gym on campus where the band was scheduled to perform. A small number of hippies had assembled, waiting for the doors to open. We nudged our way up near the front and waited with everyone else. When the door time came and went people began to get restless. We wondered what the problem was and if we had driven all this way for nothing.

Eventually, the door creaked open and to everyone’s surprise Joe McDonald appeared. The crowd pressed forward and there was a lot of, “Hey, hi-ya man - Yeah, far out - groovy, man”, but Joe had something on his mind.

“Any of you cats a drummer?” he asked casually.

There was a stunned murmur from the crowd.

“Yeah, well Chicken's sick and we could use someone to fill in, can you dig it?”

I was speechless.

Everyone was in shock - “Chicken sick?”

Then Steve shouted, “Hey, Rock’s a drummer!”

Then Howard added, “yeah, he’s a drummer; he can play!”

All eyes turned to me. Joe looked at me, sizing me up. I don’t think he was impressed but, what could he do, he was desperate.

“Far-out,” he said, “come on.”

He took my arm and pulled me inside.

I nattered nervously at him about how I knew all their songs. He wasn’t listening - He was so together he just assured me that everything would be cool. He introduced me to guitarist Barry Melton, keyboardist David Cohen and bassist Bruce Barthol. I was so anxious I couldn’t speak.

They might have been a bit worried that I would fuck it up for them but they didn’t show it. Instead they all smoked a joint. I only pretended to take a puff because I hadn’t smoked grass yet and now didn't seem like the best time to start.

Joe gave me instructions that I completely forgot once I sat down at Chicken’s drums in front of the rather sparse crowd that had gathered. We launched into Not So Sweet Martha Lorraine and I must have kept up because nobody in the band paid much attention to me. Many believe that if no one notices the drummer he must be doing a good job - or conversely, the only time anyone does notice the drummer is when he blows it.

At the second break, Steve and John came back to remind me that we had to get back home. Steve had been abusing his car privileges lately and he had to get his mom’s car back or risk being grounded. I had to go to Joe and tell him that I had to split and get back to Canada. (I didn’t tell him about the wrath of Steve’s mom and the threat of grounding). He laughed and said it was cool. He handed me fifty U.S. dollars and the whole band thanked me.

As Steve, John, Howard and I were leaving Country Joe & the Fish started their third set with Joe on drums. The song they were playing was, Louie Louie. I didn’t know what was more astonishing; the fact that I had played a gig with Country Joe & the Fish or that they were playing Louie Louie. The fifty dollars filled the Fairlane's gas tank and we all ate pizza for a week.

On May 27th The Jefferson Airplane headlined another Trips Festival, this one at the Richmond Arena. There was also a band from Seattle called The Magic Fern and local bands, The Painted Ship and The Collectors. The Collectors had morphed out of the top forty band, The C-FUN Classics, but now with Bill Henderson on guitar and Ross Turney on drums. They released an exquisitely produced record titled, Looking at a Baby and created a mind-blowing 19-minute piece called What Love Suite. They were one of best bands I have ever heard. It was impressive to see and hear the legendary Airplane and to experience all that they represented from the Hippie 'Mecca', San Francisco, but it was The Collectors who got to steal the show.

Nevertheless, Steve, John and I were there for another reason. We were determined to get high. I had blown my chance to smoke pot with The Fish in Seattle. Now, I felt like I would not belong until I’d dropped acid. I wasn’t afraid anymore. I figured I had already jumped ahead to “Tune In” - now it was time to go back and “Turn On”. I was still unclear about the “Drop Out” part. I didn’t have to be - by design, it would work itself out once I had achieved the first two. We found a guy who claimed to be holding and we followed him to a deserted corner of the arena. We bought six capsules for three dollars, dropped one each and waited for the ride to kick-in. After about a half an hour of forced hallucinations I had nothing but a throbbing headache. No amount of squinting and grunting could conjure up a single vision. Not surprising, given that what we had taken was ephedrine, an antihistamine for hay fever. We were so embarrassed by our failure to get off that we split before The Airplane had finished their set.

Steve, John and I remained steadfast in our quest to score and turned to Jim to help us out. He had a friend who copped us three tabs of genuine LSD-25. It was a huge white pill (like a giant Aspirin) made of baking soda with a blob of bluey-green goo painted on top. I wondered if it came directly from the lab of Californian chemist Stanley Owsley himself who was to acid what Henry Ford was to the automobile.

We skipped school in the afternoon and met Jim at his friend, Norm Williams' parents' house in Kitsilano. It was a nice little bungalow with an English garden and white picket fence. The matching sofa and wing-back chairs in the living room had doilies on the arms. We stood in a circle in the middle of the room each holding the tab in our palm. Then each of us gulped it down and prepared ourselves for whatever was about to happen to us.

It was like the start of a roller coaster ride when the car begins its slow climb up the first big hill and your heart is beating fast and you’re excited and scared at the same time. I could almost hear the sound that the chain makes when it grabs on and pulls the car up the hill; ca-clack, ca-clack, ca-clack, ca-clack.

Norm put the Beatles’ Revolver album on the stereo. I was sitting on the floor in a sunbeam. As Paul McCartney sang Good Day Sunshine I felt the first wave of exhilaration wash over me. The car had reached the top of the hill and was suddenly rushing down the hill at a frightening speed. All my senses were beautifully distorted. Colours were wildly vivid, shapes swirled and shifted, even the music was more perceptive - more lucid. Somebody put on Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan. I sat cross-legged listening intently to every single syllable of A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall over and over as if Bobwas talking directly to me; yeah, me and a million other stoned-out hippies sitting cross-legged staring at a speaker cabinet as if it were the top of the mountain.

We tripped all afternoon at Norm’s until it got to be about the time that his parents were due home. We split and headed to Kitsilano beach. As the sun went down I wandered along the beach acutely aware of sights and sounds. We found some markings drawn in the sand. I was convinced that they were messages from the Martians. 'Mind-altering or mind-expanding?' I thought. Who cares, when for three bucks you can talk to aliens, it’s better than television.

We had crossed the line, creating a division within the band. There was Steve, John and myself, the Acidheads, on one side and Bob and Frank, the Straights, on the other. The tension between the two camps made us all uncomfortable.

My grandfather died. The morning of the funeral I came out to the car inappropriately dressed in my purple and green striped suit made for me by the tailor at Positively 4th Street. My dad was mortified. He couldn't understand how I thought I could show up at the funeral looking like a character from Dr. Suess. He never asked for much from me but he demanded that I change into the one conservative suit that I owned (bought for me when my sister got married). I refused. We argued. He forbade me from going.

My grandfather fought in the Great War then signed on for a stint as a Royal Guardsman at Buckingham Palace. He wore one of those huge busby hats called “bearskins”. He came to Vancouver with my grandmother during the Roaring Twenties and built three houses in Kitsilano. When I was very young, he used to take hold of my hand and lead me through the paths of Tatlow Park even though he was blind by then. He was always nice to me and I loved him.

Being a teenager wasn't easy. I was so fucked up that I chose a suit over the honour of my own grandfather.

The fascist regime at school was bearing down hard on radicals Bob, Steve, Howard Diner and I. One day they came goose-stepping into my class and dragged me out for the crimes of self-expression and non-conformity. I, and my contemporaries, were each locked in separate closets next to the nurse’s office all day long. They claimed that I was a threat to the entire school and must be quarantined so as not to infect the other obedient sheep - er, students. They believed that I must be shunted away in a cell so as not to contaminate these impressionable sheep - er, students, and instigate a full-scale revolt; they did not understand that it was already happening. They turned the screws by informing me, rather gleefully, that if I missed a single day they would kick me out for truancy.

So, each day, I would arrive in the morning and go into the box until lunch. They let me out for the lunch-hour and I was allowed to fraternize with the other inmates but then I finished my educational day with two more hours of solitary confinement.

It all came crashing down around them when, one day, I mentioned what was happening at school to Jim and his friend, Keith Light. Keith’s mother was a writer for the Weekend Magazine in the Vancouver Sun Newspaper. She wrote a story about our plight and the ensuing protest from the public about torturing high school students had heads rolling all up and down the Vancouver School Board.

Since we smashed the reign of terror at school by abolishing the strap and the detention as we knew it, and by disposing of the architects and executors, the entire disciplinary system was disintegrating. Girls were now seen in class wearing jeans and the boys had hair to their shoulders. Many students were congregating on the lawn just outside the school principal's office smoking cigarettes and other strange substances.

Steve was still seeing Marilyn. So was Geoff. They had agreed to share her on some sort of alternating schedule.

Late one night, after another make-out session in Cates Park by Deep Cove, we let Louise off at her house. I sat frustrated and dejected in the back seat of the Fairlane while Marilyn snuggled up to Steve for the short drive down the hill to her house. When we pulled up in front of Marilyn’s place I glanced out the window and noticed a body hunched over in the ditch.

Steve got out and helped Marilyn to slide out his side. When he slammed the car door, the body twitched and struggled to its feet. It was Geoff. He looked really wasted.

Marilyn took a tentative step towards him, “Jeffy?”

Geoff ignored her and said quietly to Steve, “they kicked me outta the band, man.”

“Bummer,” Steve offered.

“It's a fucking bad trip. I dropped a tab of acid at practice and Lindsay said I'm too fucked up to play with them.”

“We're all fucked up man,” Steve consoled him.

Marilyn asked, “Are you alright Geoff?”

Geoff ignored her and said to Steve, “I just like to get high when I play music, man. It's so fucking beautiful, ya know.”

Marilyn looked to Steve, “Steve? Is he okay?”

Steve ignored her and said to Geoff, “I hear ya man. It's a stoned-gas to play when you're high.”

They both laughed and then Geoff hung his head, “I don't have anywhere to go, man.” He stood up straight and tall and shouted, “I'm lost! I'm so fucking lost.”

Marilyn looked to both of them, “Ah, do you boys want to come in?”

They both ignored her.

Steve reached out and put his hand on Geoff's shoulder, “Hey! Why don't you join the Seeds of Time, man?”

Geoff stopped shouting and thought out loud, “The Seeds?”

I got out of the car and stood beside Steve.

“Yeah, you gotta join the band man. It'll be far out,” urged Steve.

Geoff smiled, “far out, man ... Far fuckin' out!”

They both looked at me. I was beaming. This was the greatest news I had ever heard - Geoff Edington, the former William Tell, in The Seeds of Time. I croaked, “Cool.”

We stampeded for the car.

Marilyn asked, “What about me?” But, nobody heard her.

“I'm really fucking peaking, man.” Geoff said to Steve.

“Hold that high.” said Steve. “I'm getting contact off of you.”

We drove off leaving Marilyn standing alone at the side of the road. Neither Steve nor Geoff ever saw her again.

School got out for the summer. Steve and I rushed to tell John about Geoff. John did not like change but his reaction was supportive. Then we all went over to break the news to Bob and Frank. They took it badly and we had a big fight. Bob and Frank did not approve of drugs and they did not want Geoff in the band. During the heated argument they both quit.

This was tragic for everybody. It was Bob and Frank who had started the band and had given us our name. Once, they had been the leaders but now, they had been left behind.

After a petty dispute over a microphone, we parted company. Ultimately, Bob showed what a classy guy he was by allowing us to retain the name even though he controlled it.

Bob and Frank started a band called Strange Brew for a time and then became Fantastic Floon while they both went on to university. Bob earned a PHD in Nutrition and has travelled all over the world working to help underprivileged children. Frank became a systems operator for Vancouver's rapid transit system, Skytrain. Frank died of cancer in 1996.

The Beatles shocked the world when they released, Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. In only three years they had led rock music from I Saw Her Standing There to A Day in the Life. They had progressed from simple lyrics describing a dancing seventeen year old girl to poetry questioning how many holes it takes to fill the Albert Hall.

They blew our minds and established themselves as the voice of our generation.

After the traumatic shake-up of The Seeds of Time, Steve and I drove out to New Westminster to visit Geoff. He didn't have a place of his own and was staying with his parents at the time. Steve waited in the car as I went up to the front door and knocked. Geoff came to the door and I froze. I could not even speak in his presence. Maybe this happened to him all the time, a guy with that much charisma must have been used to adulation, because he just smiled and instructed me to wait for a minute. As I stood waiting in the open doorway I felt an eerie sensation gnawing at me. I looked up and saw, at the top of the stairs, a commanding figure of a man standing rigidly, glaring at me with fiery eyes. He had long gray hair and a beard and was wearing flowing priestly robes.

I jumped and quickly backed out onto the veranda where it was safe. I learned later that Geoff’s dad had been a fabulous singer and actor hanging out with the early beatnik crowd in Los Angeles before he found his true vocation as a professional conman. His current scam was impersonating some kind of an Eastern European holy man and conning money from little old ladies around the neighbourhood.

We drove to Jim’s place on Balsam. There were a lot of people crashing there. One of the hippie chicks sat cross-legged on the living room floor and rolled a marijuana cigarette on a wooden barrel that had been cut in half as a coffee table. Even though I had dropped acid I had not yet smoked pot and I was anxious to try it.

She finished rolling, slid it in and out of her mouth a few times, slobbering all over it, then lit it up. She took a long drag and handed it on over to me. It was strong smelling stuff. She could tell by the way I held it that I was a rookie so she leaned over and gently guided it to my lips. She showed me how to inhale the smoke and hold it in my lungs. On my first try it burnt and I choked it up. Everyone laughed and I felt like an idiot but I tried again.

I forced myself to hold it in and could feel the numbing effect immediately. After three tokes I was bombed! But it was a mellow bombing - except for the exploding seeds ... Nobody warned me about any exploding seeds!

To the best of our knowledge at the time, Acapulco Gold was the sweetest high money could buy. It certainly did the job, but it was unrefined. A person had to pick the seeds out before rolling a joint. I guess the hippie chick didn't care about seeds so every time I took a toke the little guys would pop off like firecrackers.

Regardless, I liked reefer, even if the marijuana high did make me feel even more introverted. I calmed myself, sat back and observed everything around me. I listened to the conversation but did not participate; I never said anything, just eavesdropped on everyone else. Everyone sounded so wise, so funny. I didn’t think that I had anything worthy to add.

This was the first time that Geoff hung out with us. He made me feel that something really special was about to happen to us. At one point during the night he sent a shock wave through me when he referred to me as “Rocky”. It was a thrill to hear him use my name and to use such a familiar form of it. It was so intimate, as if we were old friends. Pretty soon most people started to call me Rocky instead of the harder edged, Rock.

A few days later, on a hot summer night, the whole group of us got stoned on LSD at Jim’s. There was a bowl full of sugar cubes laced with the stuff sitting on the coffee table in the middle of his living room. The manufacture and distribution of recreational drugs was already organized and was becoming a big business.

This was only my second acid trip and Trans-Love Airways was taking me for a beautiful ride. It was transcendental, almost an out-of-body experience. At one point I was looking down at myself as I lay back on a sofa, clutching a pillow to my chest. I told myself to let go and just floated out of my mind. There was no time out there, nor was there any space. There was no reality as I had come to know the meaning of it. I could travel from room to room without moving and communicate with others without speech. At least I thought so.

I saw Jim float by, and Steve and John. I recognized them all vaguely as beings I had once known.

Then Geoff appeared.

He smiled at me and said, “Come on Rocky, let’s go.”

I was immediately sucked back into my body. Geoff was actually talking to me. He had decided to head up to Fourth Avenue and was looking for someone to go with him. I was terrified. I couldn't be alone with him or anyone else for that matter so I muttered, “I don't know.”

He lit a cigarette saying, “Nay nay little's much ... nix nix falsehoods ... let's go Rocky boy.”

I had no idea what he meant but I sensed there was no way out of it. Reluctantly, I got up and followed him out. Luckily, he didn’t say anything as we wandered in a hallucinogenic trance up Balsam Street to Fourth. That was fine with me; I was content just to be quiet and tag along.

We went into the Phase Four Coffee Shop across from the Psychedelic Shop near Arbutus Street and the Afterthought. It wasn’t really a coffee shop; it was more of a 'Score Some Dope, Drink Some Wine, Get Laid And Listen To Music Shop'. There was a small room in the back that was painted black with multi-coloured trim. The only light was from several black light tubes. There were some chairs along one wall and an old Rock-O-La Jukebox standing against the other. My delirious eyes saw the room as a cathedral and the jukebox as a shining stained-glass window.

A singer named Danny McGinnis, whom everyone called Danny Mack, from The Hydro Electric Streetcar, a great band who had just changed their name from The Fantastic Sensations, and played a mix of rock, blues, country and folk, was sitting in one of the chairs slumped over. Geoff and I sat down. I was relieved because now there was somebody else around in case Geoff started up a conversation. But he didn't. Nobody spoke.

The jukebox came alive with a sound so rich and full that it engorged every cell of my body with joy. I marvelled at the music:

There's a light

A certain kind of light

That never shone on me

I had never heard Barry Gibb sound so amazing. He and his brothers, Maurice and Robin, harmonized together like sweet syrup. They were The Bee Gees and the song was To Love Somebody. Then came 'The Note!' After the second chorus they go back into another chorus and Barry wails, “NoNoNoNo - NoNoNoNoNo!”, and we were all pinned to the wall.

Long after the song was over Geoff finally uttered, “I gotta hear that again.”

Quickly, we all fumbled for a dime. Danny found one and we listened again with the same effect. No more dimes. Geoff went out in front and bummed one and we went again.

Then I went out. I had to go, it was my turn. It was scary on the sidewalk in front of the Shop. It was late at night but still crowded with freaks, and everything was moving in slow motion. I thought I was in a tank of thick clear oil. I couldn't move and I couldn't speak. This made it difficult to raise any cash.

A freaky chick approached me. She had butterflies in her long tangled hair. I sort of recognized her but from where I didn't know. She said something to me. It sounded like, “Ump rolf duh yal ruffen?”

I had no answer for that.

She understood what I wanted. She pressed two quarters into my hand and led me back to the jukebox. By now the little room was packed full with others who had drifted in to see what the excitement was. I handed the coins over to Geoff and he plugged the Rock-O-La. We held our breath waiting for the opening violins of To Love Somebody.

Instead, we were blown away by the hypnotic, fluid guitar riff that begins Hey Joe by Jimi Hendrix. Geoff shrugged off his mistake and we all sat back and listened to Hendrix’ wasted vocal narrative of a guy named Joe who shoots his old lady for messin’ around and then flees to Mexico. The story was made even more haunting by his acerbic guitar lines that wove in and around the words. We played Hey Joe into the night. There was something special about that jukebox.

Jim announced his idea to send The Seeds of Time out on a barnstorming tour for the summer. His plan was to take off in whatever direction suited us and play wherever and whenever we felt like it. We embraced this plan wholeheartedly and prepared to get out of town. Of course, first we had to find a guitarist.

George Greenwell played guitar and sang a little with a great band called The Coastmen from the Victoria Drive area of East Vancouver. We heard that they were having some difficulties and asked George if he’d like to come and play with us. His girlfriend had just dumped him, and he was miserable hanging around town, so he jumped at the chance. He didn't want to leave The Coastmen, he said yes in an attempt to escape his broken heart.

We had one afternoon practice a couple of days before the tour. That evening, George, Steve, John and I crashed a gig in a small hall on Main Street. Steve talked the host band into letting us play a few songs. George worshiped Jerry Garcia of The Grateful Dead so he sang Morning Dew and New, New Minglewood Blues. He sawed off some blistering solos and blew everyone away. We believed we had made a wise choice in George.

The next afternoon I got my drum set over to John’s parents' garage. Jim and his friend Norm had rented a small van from Tilden Rent-A-Car and promised to pick us up that evening. Jim’s license had been revoked on an impaired charge so Jim asked Norm to sign for the van. Norm was a slight little guy, about twenty-two, with wispy reddish hair. He quit his summer job at the University of British Columbia to tag along with us. But, license or no license, Jim always drove.

I had some socks and a toothbrush in a brown paper bag. John and I sat in his garage with our gear, waiting all night long to be picked up. Finally, at dawn the next morning, the van arrived. The side door opened and Howard Diner fell out. He was as skinny as a broom handle with a tangle of long, thick hair and his trademark nose sticking out. Steve had brought him along to help set up the gear (the term 'roadie' was not used yet). There was no explanation for the long delay but I didn’t care, I was finally 'on the road!'

We grabbed George on the way out of town and I took my first meaningful step towards the end of the road – wherever that might be. We were eight gypsies crammed into a truck full of dreams on our way to whatever it was that was out there. Of course, there was also a lot of musical gear in the van. I sat on a microphone stand all the way to Hope.

The Tilden van, powered by the grace of Norm’s Gulf Oil credit card, sputtered east and we ended up in Kelowna; a small resort town in the beautiful Okanagan region of British Columbia. The Okanagan is a jewel of a plateau nestled between the Cascade and Rocky Mountains. It is a popular resort area famous for gorgeous weather and endless cherry orchards.

Kelowna's downtown is located next to Okanagan Lake, home of the legendary monster of the lake, Ogopogo. We camped out in City Park beside the lake. Except for the Gulf card we had few assets. We had little money and, as yet, no cash-generating gigs. We had one small Coleman gas-stove. We didn’t even have sleeping bags.

Our first night out, I slept on the grass under the van. In the morning, Jim invested a few pennies in some bread and peanut butter for breakfast.

There was an open band-shell in the park called the Jubilee Bowl. Howard went off in search of a soda while the rest of us hauled our gear out and set up on the stage. We started playing. After a short time, a fair sized crowd had gathered. The young people were thrilled with our impromptu concert but the old folks just scowled at us. They were displeased with our intrusion into their tranquil little world.

News travels fast in a small town. Soon we attracted a large crowd of kids. They danced in front of the stage or sat back and grooved to the music. We also caught the attention of the local RCMP who quickly stepped in and pulled the plug.

When Jim protested the officer said, “We have a civic ordinance against making noise in the park.”

“Noise?” Jim exclaimed, “We don't play noise. We play music. Do you have a civic ordinance against playing music in the park?”

The officer barked, “If you don't have this crap out of here in ten minutes, I'll run you out of town. Now move it!”

The kids helped us pack up the gear and load it into the van. They looked at us with curiosity, a band of hippies from the big city. They wanted to fly closer to the light even at risk of burning their wings. We were happy to meet them; especially all of the cute young chicks. We frolicked till dusk. After a dinner of hotdogs, as the sun set behind the mountains, the last of them headed for home. It wasn't long before we were settled down for the night and all was quiet.

Suddenly, bright lights attacked us from all directions. Dozens of trucks and cars roared into our campsite. I crawled out from under the van and stood squinting into the blinding lights. Men jumped out of the vehicles and rushed at us with baseball bats, tire-irons and two-by-fours. It was like medieval villagers attacking Dr. Frankenstein's castle with pitchforks and torches. It was an angry mob and I was scared.

“Get the Hell outta Kelowna ya fuckin’ parasites!” screamed one.

“I’ll fuckin’ kill ya!” promised another.

Dazed by the onslaught, we started to gather our few belongings. Geoff was the only one standing fast. Steve put a hand on his shoulder and said, “Myself? I've always been a lover not a fighter. I suggest we skedaddle and live to love another day.”

Geoff didn't like it but he allowed Steve to push him into the van.

“We’ll teach you to hustle our girls,” threatened a college jock with a bat who appeared to be the ring-leader at the front.

Calmly, Jim stepped up onto the bumper of the Tilden van in front of him. “You look like a pretty smart guy!” he said directly to him.

The leader stopped. The others bunched up behind him. He looked up at Jim and said, “what'd you say fuckhead?”

“Come on,” Jim continued coolly, “a few skinny hippies couldn’t be any threat to you ... could we?”

There were a few chuckles from his friends. He looked around and then said defensively, “ah, no way. You freaks ain't no threat to me.”

It was at that instant that I figured out that Jim was a homosexual. He didn't look like one. I don't think. Actually, I wasn't sure what a homosexual looked like. At least these guys didn't have to worry about Jim hustling their girlfriends. I wondered if they'd spot him. Who knows what they might do if they discovered a homo?

“Of course not,” Jim agreed. “All we want to do is play some music. You like music don't you?”

One of the vigilantes in back piped up, “I like music.”

“Far out!” said Jim enthusiastically. He looked at the ring-leader again. “What about you. You like music?”

“I like Tommy James,” he admitted. “You boys play anything by Tommy James and the Shondells?”

“Yeah!” shouted another. “The Shondells ... Boss!”

“Hey! Mitch Ryder & ...” Somebody started.

Another voice interrupted, “The Detroit Wheels! ... Whoo! ... Devil with a Blue Dress!”

By now Jim had dispelled their anger. The whole lot of them were milling around in one big embarrassed circle.

“Anyone want some cocoa?” Jim asked.

Steve jumped out of the van and ran off to fetch water, John set up the stove and Howard and Norm served hot chocolate to everyone. George and Geoff hauled out the guitars and improvised bits of top forty songs around the campfire. Almost instantly, like an Elvis movie, girls appeared from all directions, joined their boyfriends and we partied into the night. I didn’t see much of Jim but, when I did, he looked to be having a good time rapping with a few of the younger boys off to the side.

Observing the scene quietly, I realized that, although Geoff could turn on the 'tough-guy' image at any time, he was really quite jolly. It’s not a trait you expect from a sexy, rail-thin rock-god. Although people liked to call him, “Stud”, he referred to himself as “Mr. Food & Booze.” Watching him strumming his guitar with a roll-me-own hanging from his lip, it was hard to imagine that he was really Santa Claus trapped in James Dean's body.

Jim booked the I.O.O.F. community hall on the main street so that we could play that night. John had a talent for imitating the psychedelic artwork of the Fillmore and Afterthought poster artists. He drew a few posters to put up around town.

We were disappointed to learn that The Shockers, one of the best and most popular top-forty cover bands from Vancouver, was also booked to play that night over at the big Danceland auditorium on the wharf beside the lake. They were managed by the powerful Vancouver agency called Jaguar Entertainment and represented stiff competition for our little gig. This was a serious problem for us because we had no money for food and needed to earn something if we wanted to eat.

I don’t know if the altercation and subsequent hootenanny in the park had anything to do with it, but our hall was packed that night. We were so successful; we re-booked for the next night. Word spread and we were full for a second night in a row.

Jaguar Enterprises was the most important agency and the centre of Vancouver’s music scene. If you weren’t represented by them, you were nobody ... We weren’t represented by them. Our victory over The Shockers was kind of a confirmation for us. It boosted our confidence and strengthened our resolve to go our own way.

Geoff met a cute local girl named Elaine at the gig. Her parents were away so she invited us to camp out in her back yard. We moved the hootenanny from the park to Elaine’s house and the party continued.

I had only been on the road for a few days but already I was sucked into the cocoon-like state of road bliss. Time and place were meaningless. All that mattered was the moment. No schedules, timetables, deadline or goals; no phones, no meetings, just where I was and what I was doing - A whole lot of nothin’. We weren’t even working on the band. No rehearsing, no writing, no composing.

Except for Jim - He was planning our future, but in the same way that a mad scientist might mix volatile chemicals together just to see what they might do. His plan was for something to happen. Whatever that something was to be, he would be as surprised as anybody.

Donna, a friend of Elaine’s, came to the house. She took one look at Geoff and led him down the hall into a bedroom. When they emerged a few hours later, Donna insisted that we go and play her home town. As we were easily manipulated, off we went to Nakusp.

Nakusp is a tiny town of about eight hundred residents nestled in the Upper Arrow Valley of the Kootenays. It is one of the most beautiful places in the world with high jagged mountains, deep green valleys and towering trees as far as the eye can see. It’s the kind of a vista that you see in 'Beautiful BC' television commercials or in travel magazines illustrating the majesty of Canada.

We rode the Tilden van along the narrow, winding road past blue lakes and white-water rivers deep into the emerald forest. By the time we pulled into the one street town, Howard was nauseous. Jim pulled over, the door opened and Howard threw-up all over Broadway (the main drag in Nakusp). A lady watching us from her living room window shook her head in disgust. We spilled out onto her lawn; half-naked, long haired and painfully skinny. The poor woman ran from her window as if she had spotted Big Foot.

Donna had called ahead to her friend Bonnie in Nakusp and arranged for us to rent the community hall, called Brouse Hall, for five dollars. It was a wooden A-frame with a small stage and a kitchen in the back. We hauled the gear out. Howard walked by with a crash cymbal held up high like a waiter holding a tray. “Pizza?” he said putting the cymbal on the stage. That was a day’s work for Howard.

Fifty people showed up and paid two dollars to see us play. They were mostly hippies from the communes that had sprung up in the area but some of the curious townsfolk came to check us out as well. Their attendance ensured the flow of peanut butter sandwiches. We slept in Donna's front yard. Donna snuck out in the middle of the night and slept with Geoff in a shed. In the morning we moved on down the road.

We heard that we were the centre of a controversy at the Banff School of Fine Arts in the town of Banff, located on the Alberta side of the Rocky Mountains. In the winter, Banff was a popular ski resort but in the summer it was filled with tourists who wandered the sidewalks pointing up at the mountains. The Fine Arts School itself was highly regarded and well attended.

The student body had heard that we were in the area and wanted us to play at their dance. The board of directors was appalled and refused to allow it. The students had protested by leaving the lights on all night at the dorm or maybe they turned the lights off all night – either way, it was a silly protest.

We drove to Banff to settle the affair.

Jim coerced his way in to see the School Senator, who was also the Head Master. We waited on the lawn outside his office. Jim had him talked into it until the Senator’s wife saw us loafing on the lawn. She was repulsed, Jim was tossed out and we were removed from the campus with a stern warning never to return.

I woke up the next morning under a tree in the Banff campground. A moose was standing just twenty feet away. A herd of elk grazed nearby. It was a beautiful day for a demonstration.

The student council snuck us onto the campus and helped us set up in the school’s auditorium. The Senator found out and was fuming mad. The RCMP was called. The students and the authorities squared off in the street in front of the auditorium. The confrontation could have exploded in violence but, at the last moment, the Senator blinked. He backed down and the dance was allowed to go ahead.

With all of that tension averted, and the victory complete, the students charged into the auditorium overcome with emotion. They were high on freedom, they were stoned on love.

We were inspired by their solidarity. It was magical; we played as if possessed by their spirit. During our first break Jim gathered us in a circle for a pep talk. “These kids laid it on the line for you. They wanted you and they fought for you. They risked everything for you. Make eye contact with each and every one of them. Let them know how much we love them.”

These huddles would become habitual for us. They pumped us up and brought us together.

Our second set was even more ebullient than the first. The students were bewitched by the sheer power of their collective will to make this night happen. We were the consequence of their witchcraft and they were memorized by us. I looked out into the audience, as Jim had instructed, and I looked into their upturned faces. The connection was electrifying.

Before the last set Jim introduced a saying that so eloquently characterized The Seeds of Time, it would become our mantra. He said, “Be fun – not boring. Fun! - not boring!”

Then he went on to direct us in how we would resolve the night.

There was no alcohol and there were no drugs but the vivacity in the room was omniscient, almost hallowed. Each song brought us closer to the climax.

As planned, our last song was Get Together by The Youngbloods. Everyone in the room sang along. Geoff led the last verse like a prayer:

C’mon people now

Smile on your brother

Ev’rybody get together

Try to love one another right now ...

We dropped our instruments, jumped off the stage into the audience, walked right through them and out the front door. For whatever reason, this simple action had the impact of a celestial miracle – Just as Jim had predicted. At that point, we didn’t think we could get much higher. We were wrong.

As coffee was passed around our campsite the next morning, we were approached by a strange older man wearing a brown three-piece suit. When George saw him he bowed his head reverently and went over to him immediately. I watched as they spoke quietly. George looked uneasy. After a long while George came back to us and explained that this was Mr. Brown, the manager of his old band, The Coastmen, and that he had tracked George down with the intent of talking him into returning to the band in Vancouver. It was clear that George had tremendous respect for Mr. Brown, and he did miss his friends, but he told Mr. Brown that he would have to think about it. With that we headed for our next adventure.

We drove down to the Kicking Horse Pass and over the Salmo-Creston Summit, which is the highest highway pass in North America. Howard had developed a habit of calling out each town we came to as if he was a bus driver. He would say, “Kimberly; hiking, fishing, fornicating ... Kimberly!” Or, he would announce the next town, “next piss-stop Cranbrook; Cranbrook!” all in his best bus driver’s voice. This had started on our first day out of Vancouver when we passed by the Sumallo Lodge on the Hope-Princeton Highway near the famous Hope Slide (where, in January of 1965, the side of a mountain slammed onto the road killing four people). As we passed the Sumallo Lodge, Howard cried out as if he were Italian, “What's u-mallo with you?!”

When we came to the small town of Blairmore, nestled on the Alberta side of the Rocky Mountain foothills, we set up camp and put on a dance.

After the gig Geoff spotted the cutest chick in town. He ambled over to her and said, “Wanna ball?”

Only Geoff could be that direct.

She swooned and answered, “fer sure.”

We had to pry her off him when we left the next day.

We continued on to Lethbridge in the southern cattle country of Alberta. We spent a couple of days hanging out. Geoff complained of a minor problem - it hurt when he peed. Jim took him to see a doctor in town and he was diagnosed with gonorrhoea. That chick in Blairmore had given him a present to remember her by.

John observed, “Stud got a dose through moral decay.”

We proceeded with our usual formula of booking the community hall, hanging out at the local coffee shop making psychedelic posters and then playing to a crowd comprised of hippies and curious townsfolk. As we played, Jim noticed the young doctor who had treated Geoff dancing with a girl who had locked her attentions on Geoff as he sang. The good doctor could be seen talking into her ear and gesturing towards Geoff on stage; probably practicing preventative medicine.

The next morning we prepared to make the short trip up to Calgary. Calgary was a real city, a rich oil town, and we were excited.

We pulled into Calgary about noon. It was hot, dry and dusty. It was Sunday and the downtown was deserted. We found a coffee shop that was open. They told us that there was a Be-In in the park. Off we flew like bees to honey. Jim spoke with the organizers and got us a spot. We opened with Donovan's Season of the Witch.

During our set Geoff informed the audience that we had just arrived from the West Coast and asked if anyone had a place for us to crash.

A sun-baked, dirt-caked hippie wearing faded jeans and a ragged vest told us that his folks were away and we could stay at his house. This was not the first time this trip when someone had offered to take us in to their home. It made me think that the world would take care of us wherever we went.

We followed him to a quiet street in the heart of suburbia and a lovely new split-level house. He was a gracious host. He helped us move in lock-stock-and-guitars. He insisted that we indulge in whatever food and booze we could find. There was a large modern double-sided fridge in the kitchen and a deep freeze in the basement chocked full of meat, poultry and fish. His dad kept a fully stocked bar in the den and had cases of beer and wine in the garage. Our host showered us with kindness.

More people arrived and the party escalated. Geoff mixed exotic cocktails at the bar while Steve acted as the zany waiter. They were a hilarious team. John pounded the piano until it smoked and George, on guitar, serenaded a barefooted chick in a corner of the living room. Howard drank his weight in wine while Norm helped in the kitchen. Jim held court in the dining room. Every bed in the house was employed like a by-the-hour two dollar hotel. The pungent smell of sex was thick in the air. I wasn’t in there. I’d given up by then.

Night became morning and the morning melted into the afternoon of the second day. Things were beginning to quiet down. We all dropped acid and the party found a new gear.

I loved LSD. It was like slipping through a portal from reality into the altered state of phantasmagoria. Sight, sound, smell, taste and touch were deliriously transcendent. Sometimes I saw visions. I had no control over these transgressions of my senses. The key was to go with the flow.

For a long while I sat staring at the inside cover of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band with John, Paul, George and Ringo staring back at me. They spoke to me; I could hear their voices in my mind. They assured me that everything was alright, that the universe was indeed unfolding as it should. But, as they offered their wise words of peace and love and drugs, I hallucinated The Fab Four leaping around behind them. They had just arrived at JFK in New York, February 7, 1964 and were conducting their first press conference. They were dressed in their matching black suits with skinny ties. There were a hundred microphones in front of them and Pan-Am logos were hanging behind them.

Those Beatles were being charmingly zany in the background as the Sgt. Pepper's spiritual Beatles sat smiling an all-knowing, all-encompassing smile in their electric satin uniforms.

When press conference John was asked, “how do you find America?” he answered, “turn left at Greenland.”

When a reporter asked George, “what do you call that haircut?” he said, “Arthur.”

Sgt. Pepper's John gave me a wink and a shrug as if to mock himself. I heard him say, “we were just four lads from Liverpool and now there's all this.”

Later that evening I sat with our George - Greenwell - as he strummed his guitar quietly in the midst of the madness. He was really tripping and was struggling emotionally to keep it together. He told me that he wanted to go home. Mr. Brown had had a strong influence on him and he wanted to go back to his friends in The Coastmen. I knew that this was the right thing for him to do but wondered if we could ever find a guitarist as good as him.

The Calgary Police burst in. Neighbours had called them to complain about the hippie infestation. The cops were in a foul mood. They told us that our host did not live at this house and in fact was a drifter who had broken in while the real owners were away. I looked around at what was left of the house. Discarded furniture was left upside down and broken, lamps were smashed into pieces; empty bottles lay scattered on the floor. Ashtrays, overflowing with cigarette butts, spilled their contents into the thick, plush carpets all over the house. There wasn’t a drop of alcohol left in the bar or a crumb of food in the cupboards. It was as if the house had been devoured by locusts (or musicians).

The police rounded us up and herded us into the Tilden van. As dawn broke over the prairie they escorted us to the city limits with explicit instructions to, “Get out of Calgary and never come back.” I slept all the way home to Vancouver.

I crawled into my own bed in my own room at home. The sheets were soft and smelled so fresh, cleaned in a way that only moms can do. It felt foreign to be so cozy. I’d slept on the ground for five weeks, eaten peanut butter with sand and bugs and travelled thousands of uncomfortable miles stuffed into a hot van with seven other lunatics. I missed it already.

George did succumb to his emotions and left us to rejoin The Coastmen. It was the end of August. Geoff, Steve, John and I responded by dropping acid and trying to figure out what Bobby Gentry and Billy Joe MacAllister were throwing off the Tallahatchie Bridge. We lost interest and ended up at Teen City at the PNE.

Lindsay Mitchell and the remaining Marksmen had continued as a four-piece and renamed themselves Paisley Rain. They were playing the main stage. As we watched them play I wondered if Geoff regretted leaving these guys. I looked over at him. He was talking up a couple of chicks, paying no attention to his old band.

After Paisley Rain, we were assaulted by a trio sensation called Segment 41. They consisted of drums, bass and a guitarist/vocalist named Al. Apparently, Al had an unpronounceable Ukrainian last name so everybody called him 'Horowitz'. He hit the stage like Jagger, Ray Davies and Roger Daltrey all rolled into one, with a flashy Gibson Firebird guitar slung down below his knees, and put on a rock & roll spectacle like I had never seen before. He was amazing; dancing, strutting, primping, leaping in the air and landing doing the splits while pumping his arm in a Pete Townshendwindmill fashion. He was short with a mop of thick brown hair. He had an impish smile, laughing eyes and a charm that was undeniable. My heart pounded as I thought what it would be like to have Horowitz in The Seeds of Time.

Steve was impressed too but we were distracted when a friend of John’s named Jean begged us to go to a party with her in North Burnaby. We were peaking and easily drawn away.

The party was in North Burnaby, an area evidently immune to the passage of time. It was still 1957 there. When I walked into the house all I saw was greasy waterfalls and beehives. It reeked of hairspray. My drug warped mind believed that I had become trapped on the set of the Marlon Brando movie, The Wild One. Gene Vincent's, Be Bop A Lula was playing in the background.

I was trying to keep from freaking out. Then I ran into the Glue Guy.

The Glue Guy staggered into me, holding a brown paper bag up to his face. It was filled with airplane glue. He was breathing the fumes up his nose and into his lungs. This was killing him so fast his body elected to purge whatever it had on board. The Glue Guy fell to his knees and puked on the carpet right beside my shoes. I was frozen in fear. He very slowly turned his pasty face and looked up at me with bloodshot eyes. He smiled and croaked, “Wanna snort?”

I ran out into the street and didn't stop until I found my way back to 1967.

There was only a week left of the school's summer holidays. I wasn't sure I would be going back. I was thinking of quitting.

Geoff, Steve, John and I were hanging out on Fourth Avenue. A girl pulled up in a Volkswagen Beetle, stuck her pretty head out the window and said, “hi John”.

John recognized her as a neighbour from down the street from his parents' place. Geoff immediately talked her into taking us to Seattle. She looked at Geoff with that 'I’d do anything for you, Stud' look that most women gave Geoff and off we went to Seattle. Geoff drove with her sitting in his lap the whole way.

We pulled into the University District where all the hippies hung out. We wandered down Pacific Street and Columbia Road exchanging, “groovy man” and “far out” salutations to all the freaks we met. We were drawn to the house of a Seattle band called, Buford. They were happy to have us and invited us to crash on their floor.

Somebody offered us STP and of course we took it. STP was a kind of legendary mutated LSD that was supposed to be super-potent. I’m not sure about that, but the next rational memory I have was two days later. We were totally wasted and John’s friend, Geoff’s girl, had left us and gone home. We were told that she got mad because Geoff was balling some other chick. That sounded about right.

When we had gathered some strength, we hitched a ride back to Vancouver on the Friday before the Labour Day weekend. Steve, John and I were still officially living with our parents so each of us went home.

Our folks were furious. The girl had returned in a fit of jealous rage telling tales of sexual promiscuity and unrestrained drug use. As if the truth wouldn’t have been enough to hang us all, she even embellished the charges by claiming, falsely, that we were not only using heroin but also dealing the stuff.

This was like throwing a torch on a powder keg as our parents already lay awake at night in fearful speculation of what we might be up to. Once the bomb went off, our parents united and confiscated all of our instruments; locked the whole lot in the Halls' garage. We were herded together and informed that we would have to straighten up and prepare to get back to school.

The call of the Revolution had a powerful hold on me. I went to Jim for advice. He thought about it overnight and came back with something he called, 'The Manifesto'. I was shocked to read that he strongly advised us to do as our folks had ordered; go back and finish school. Then, he said, we’d have the freedom to pursue our dreams as musicians. I prepared to obey.

My heroic attempt was well received by my parents, Harry and Margaret. In fact, my dad arranged a loan to the band so that we could buy a van to move our gear from gig-to-gig. We bought a 1964 Ford Econoline. It was blue with windows all around. We decorated the interior with paisley wallpaper and psychedelic posters. We named it Sub-A-Lub which was supposed to mean Blue-Bus backwards.

It was embarrassing to admit that I had experienced the entire first summer of the Summer of Love without getting laid. I justified the shame to my personal narcissism by reminding myself that it was called the Summer of Love not the Summer of Sex.

To make it worse, I ran into Liviana in Stanley Park on Labour Day. She was voluptuous in a skimpy see-through summer dress. When she saw me, she waved and rushed right over to me.

I thought, 'Ha, she can't resist me any longer and she's crawling back to beg me to deflower her.'

I remained cool. She ran into my arms, pressing her familiar Italian breasts against my chest. “Rocky, I've got something wonderful to tell you,” she gushed.

“Yes?” I led her confidently.

“I did it!” she whispered.

“Well, it's about time,” I scolded her not hearing what she had really said.

“I know, I know! I can't believe that I waited so long. I'm sorry it wasn't you ...”

It suddenly dawned on me, “... it wasn't me?”

“... No, but Mark was wonderful.”

“Mark?”

“Yes, Mark. Mark Wosk. He's a friend of yours isn't he?”

Once again I was the fool. I just wanted to get away from there. “Yeah, he's a friend. Hey! Congratulations. It's great to see you but I gotta go.”

She kissed my cheek, “great to see you too. Bye!”

As she skipped away I shouted after her, “He's double-o-seven you know.”

She looked confused and I smiled to myself, pleased with my little in-joke. Then she brightened and yelled back, “oh, yes, I know ... I know!”

Now I was confused. 'What did she mean by that?' I wondered. 'Was that some kind of kinky sexual position? How would I know?' Everyone was doing it except me. I was losing confidence and becoming even more introverted by the day. This was bound to make everything even more difficult.

I dragged myself back to Winston Churchill for my Grade Twelve year. This was the hardest opening since Grade One but I reasoned that this was the bell lap and I thought I could make it. It wouldn't be that easy.

The school informed me that I had failed every class and that I would have to repeat Grade Eleven. I had not bothered to pick up my final report card at the end of last year, so this was news to me. I protested by pointing out that I had passing grades all year. They chuckled a cruel chuckle and told me that, as I had not attended classes for the last two weeks of Grade Eleven, they failed me across the board.

“But you locked me in a room and wouldn’t let me out!” I screamed in frustration.

“Well, that was your choice wasn’t it?” was the smug reply.

My poor parents had been good to me. This would be hard on them. I had to try. I was back in Mr. Waring’s French 11 class. I was so depressed; I didn’t even give the girls a second glance.

Geoff and Steve had approached Al Horowitz about joining The Seeds of Time. Apparently, Segment 41 was a bit of a weekend band and Horowitz was looking for something a bit more real. He had agreed to come over for a meeting in Steve’s parents’ basement where we set up to practice. I was pretty excited about The ‘Witz. I believed he would put us over the top.

He arrived an hour late with Lindsay Mitchell in tow. There was no tension between Geoff and Lindsay. Geoff was so hip that he had forgotten about being fired and Lindsay had worked it over in his mind so often that he could justify it and rationalize it about a hundred different ways. I know this because he proceeded to tell us each and every way and then to re-justify and re-rationalize each way until he had created thousands of sub-groups and arguments that boggled the mind. He exhausted us. We never did play. Instead, we took a break to smoke a joint.

All six of us crammed into Sub-A-Lub parked in the lane out back. Geoff lit up, took a long pull and passed to Lindsay. We all watched in amazement as Lindsay inhaled the entire joint into his lungs. Then, as he sputtered to hold the smoke in, he continued to pontificate out the side of his mouth.

“Witz and I came to the realization that he should join Paisley Rain and I should join The Seeds of Time.” He paused and snorted and let out a little smoke. “You understand that ‘Witz is a trio player and I can play with keyboards. We have decided that this is best.” He blew a cloud of second hand smoke into the car and handed a tiny roach to Steve.

There was a long silence as the thick sweet fog enveloped us. We were stunned by both his logic and his lung capacity. We looked to The Witz. He sat there beaming a trillion-watt smile nodding his head enthusiastically in agreement. Al would say “yes” to anything, go anywhere and do anything as long as it was fun - My kind of attitude. We became instant friends.

“Huh, yeah. Okay,” said Steve looking to see if he could get even a short toke from the tiny nub. He gave up and tossed it out the window.

Geoff, Steve, John, Lindsay and Rock - Here was the cast of characters that would determine my destiny.

Al played with The Paisley Rain for a little while but, as Steve liked to say, “water finds its own level”, and soon Witz found his own level, back with his North Vancouver pals in Segment 41.

Lindsay had a rare off-white Gibson Les Paul guitar but lost the use of the free Fender Twin-Reverb amp when he left The Paisley Rain. He plugged into Steve’s Fender Bassman amp until Jim found him a Fender Bandmaster of his own. Tragically, he snapped the neck off of the Gibson when it fell on the floor at rehearsal. He bought a green Guild Starfire-5 as a replacement while the Gibson got shipped back to the factory for repairs. He was told it would be back in two weeks.

We didn't play much Top Forty and we never learned songs off of the record, we did our own interpretations. If Geoff knew some of the words to a song, we would figure out how it went and play along. Our resulting repertoire turned out to be a hodgepodge of songs like Fire and Purple Haze by Jimi Hendrix, Ray Charles' Hit the Road Jack and Elvis' Jailhouse Rock.

Our first gig together was at the end of September at our old haunting ground, Zeta Beta Tau Fraternity House at U.B.C.

Geoff brought along some hashish which we smoked in the parking lot during every break. We stood in a tight circle around him while he broke off a piece of hash, lay it on a piece of tin foil and applied a flame under it. We each had a rolled up one dollar bill that we used like a straw to suck up the smoke. I liked the hash high. It was a purer high than marijuana, and no exploding seeds.

We took breaks every fifteen minutes so that we could run out and toke up. The Frat boys were so drunk they didn't even notice. By the end of the night we were too bombed to tear down our instruments so we left everything there in the rubble.

Somebody had contacted Jim about organizing a Be-In at Kits Beach for the next day. The Grateful Dead were in town playing at the PNE Gardens and had agreed to play. The next morning Steve, John and I drove Sub-A-Lub to the Biltmore Hotel on Kingsway to pick up Jerry Garcia. The Dead were going to use our gear so Jerry had decided to come out with us to pick it up.

He settled into the passenger seat and pulled out the longest, fattest marijuana bomb that I had ever seen. He licked it and fired it up. As we drove along Broadway with billows of smoke wafting out of every window, Jerry marvelled at all of the gorgeous women on the streets. He said, “Man, these Vancouver chicks are the sweetest in the world.” I couldn't argue with him. It's true, Vancouver is home to the world’s most beautiful women. While we were weaving in and out of traffic the 1980 Playboy Playmate of the Year, Dorothy Stratten, was a little seven year old girl in the suburbs, the future Mrs. Hefner, West Vancouver's Kimberley Conrad, was three and the soon-to-be most sexiest woman of all time, Pamela Anderson, was two months old in nearby Ladysmith. And these were only some of Vancouver's finest who were discovered by the world. Like many of the world's precious gems, the most dazzling were preempted and stashed away by the local guys who found them first.

By the time we got to the frat house we were all whacked. Jerry wandered around the parking lot while we loaded the gear into the van. Somehow we managed to drive to Kits Beach in time and some helpers set up our stuff. I was so high by this time that I cannot remember if anyone actually played. I have a foggy recollection of the City Police shutting us down before anyone played a note.

A promoter named Roger Schiffer, along with partners Jim Allan and Blaine Culling, had opened Dantes Inferno back in June with - who else - Country Joe & The Fish, and had followed up in July with concerts by The Grateful Dead and The Doors. The first weekend, with The Fish, they called it The Fishmarket and then changed the name to Dantes Inferno after.

Dantes Inferno was located at the corner of Davie and Burrard in a venue formerly called the Embassy Ballroom. The Embassy presented rhythm & blues acts like Little Daddy & The Bachelors with Floyd Sneed on drums before he went off to play with Three Dog Night and a guitarist named Tommy Chong before he hooked up with Richard “Cheech” Marinand became Cheech & Chong. The Embassy crowd moved into a room in the basement and called it The Elegant Parlour. Members of Little Daddy & The Bachelors reformed as Three Niggers & A Chink and then under the more refined name, Bobby Taylor & The Vancouvers. They had a big hit on Motown Records titled, Does Your Mother Know about Me, and moved to Detroit for a time. Their drummer’s name was Duris Maxwell and was considered one of the best drummers in the world - The Temptations reportedly begged him to play with them but he wanted to return to Vancouver. Their organist, Robbie King was a genius on the Hammond organ. It was believed that he played the organ intro to The Supremes’ hit, Stop! In the Name of Love.

Schiffer, Allan and Culling rented the venue from a club owner named, Jim Wisbey who owned strip joints all over town featuring sophisticated entertainment such as nude mud-fights and nude Jello-wrestling. He wasn’t that keen on staging concerts but after The Fish did so well he agreed to rent the place full time.

On September 15th Roger and his partners changed the name to The Retinal Circus. As we had been away on our barnstorming tour, our first opportunity to play there was October 27th when we appeared with The Ph Phactor Jug Bandfrom San Francisco and The Painted Ship.

The Retinal Circus was an old ballroom that held about a thousand people. You entered onto a platform and then walked down a wide set of stairs into the auditorium. It had three large ornate pillars across the centre of the floor which created some challenging sightlines for anyone sitting behind them. The stage was positioned on one of the long sides and played wide. There was a skinny balcony across from the stage where the light show set up. We played a nervous set but the room had a natural, forgiving echo and sounded great.

Vancouver had a history of great night clubs. Some of the old-school supper clubs were still flourishing like The Cave on Hornby, Isy’s on Georgia and The Marco Polo on East Pender in Chinatown. Even the burlesque houses like The Shanghai Junk and New Delhi, both on Main, and The Smiling Buddha and Harlem Nocturne both on Hastings were still packing them in.

But it was the new generation of R&B and rock clubs that really established Vancouver as a music town. One of the earliest of these was The Pink Pussycat located in the basement of the V-shaped building where Cordova Street intersects with Water Street. They had a twenty-foot cartoon of the Pink Pussycat wearing a top-hat and leaning on a cane on top of the entrance. Then came The Flame in Burnaby, The Torch on Howe Street (where Bill Henderson started up The Collectors), The King of Clubs on Seymour at Drake and The Hollywood Bowl on Carnarvon in New Westminster (it soon changed its name to The Grooveyard).

The best of them all was Oil Can Harry’s. An entrepreneur named Danny Baceda and his mother took over an underground club for homosexuals called The 752 Club on Thurlow between Alberni and Robson and turned it into the most popular R&B club in Vancouver. People used to drive up from Seattle to go to Oil Can’s. It was packed every night.

And there was a powerful force emerging on the local music scene. A twenty-one year old music fanatic from Dunbar on Vancouver’s West Side had set up shop as a manager and booking agent. His name was Bruce Allen. He was smart, brash and tough. He was intimidating and confrontational. He worked hard for his bands and he worked hard for his clubs. His first band was a great top-forty group called 5 Man Cargo with Gerald Laishley, John Telling and drummer Dave Johnsonformerly of The Shockers. The first club that he booked exclusively was Lasseter’s Den on East Broadway near Commercial Drive. He also started booking bands for a promoter named Drew Burns who ran a singles club called the 5^thDay Club.

Bruce had the balls to succeed no matter what. He also possessed a sincere, profound love of music. The combination made him unstoppable.

He had an eye for greatness. He worshiped Elvis Presley. Elvis was The King of Rock & Roll. He hated The Seeds of Time. He saw us as a bunch of flakes.

Bruce Allen would go on to be one of the most important figures in the Canadian music industry and the single most influential person in my career.

Bruce wasn’t the only someday-music-mogul in the neighbourhood. A drifter since graduating from Lord Byng High School in West Point Grey, Sam Feldman had no idea of the destiny that awaited him in the music business. He was earning a living playing poker. When he went up north to work in a pulp mill, he made ends meet by winning at the pool tables. The extent of his ambition at that time was to fulfill his dream of going to Europe. He’d achieve it, but not the way he thought.

The light show at the Retinal Circus was provided by The Addled Chromish Light Show. It was run by Jeff Lilly and two stoned out hippies named Stephen and Kevin. Jeff was a strong, intelligent young man from the right side of the tracks. When the Revolution started he grew his hair and ran away to start a psychedelic light show. He had a gift for electronics and wires and working with metal and he had the brains to do something with it. Unfortunately, he also had a weakness for things that could kill him. This would sidetrack him for a while.

Jeff’s sister Jocelyn also helped out. She was a lot like her brother except prettier. When Geoff met Jocelyn, it was love at first sight. From that moment on they were inseparable. It wouldn’t be long before they shared more than love.

On Halloween, The Seeds of Time played a dance at the Dunbar Community Centre. We played in a large second story meeting room to a full house of about five hundred brawling teenagers. The band was set up in front of a bank of large windows that had been covered in paper and painted with colourful witches, goblins and ghouls for the festivities.

Jim introduced a friend named Ron. Ron was a speed freak who was dealing methamphetamine. He was adamant about laying some speed on us. He said it would give us a happy boost. He unfolded a little paper and thrust it in my face. I stared at the white powder.

“It'sfuckin'methMan,” he shouted so rapidly it was one word.

I was supposed to lick it off. Down deep, Gary Wanstall was frightened. Gary didn't know what this shit was, he didn't know what it could do to him. The Rock didn't care. The Rock licked the paper clean.

It wasn't a bit like cannabis. It wasn't at all like hallucinogenics. It was more like an acute anxiety attack. My heart pounded so fast it made my chest hurt. I felt flush and vigorous. I was very hot, my ears burned. It was a boost alright, I'm not sure if it was a happy one.

Everyone got a taste then we jumped up on the stage and started playing very fast. When a boulder came crashing through the window to my right, I just laughed at the broken glass and sped up the tempo even more.

I spotted a gorgeous blonde in the audience. She looked like a Vogue fashion model. She waved at me. It was DeeDee, Ann’s eleven year old friend who was all grown up now, at thirteen. I was distracted by another rock breaking the glass behind me. When I looked back for her, she was gone. I didn't see her again. A few years later she moved to England and married an obscenely wealthy old Duke who had the impeccably good manners to kick off in a timely fashion. She was spotted once in the mid-seventies strolling around Kits Beach in a white fur coat and smothered in diamonds – evidently, the old geezer had such excellent breeding he left her the furs, the jewels, the title and the money ... she was barely twenty.

On the way home in Sub-A-Lub Jim said, “Ron wants to make you guys Vancouver's first speed band.”

“That's just not going to happen,” said Lindsay firmly.

Geoff laughed, “Unless you want us to play a four hour gig in two hours every fuckin' night.”

I was glad Lindsay and Geoff put the brakes on this one.

Halloween was a school night that year. When I got home at around one o’clock, my mom and dad were asleep. I crawled on top of my bed and lay awake all night. I tossed and turned and chewed the insides of my cheeks raw. When I got up to go to school, I had a splitting headache and a pain in my chest. I ached all over.

I was seventeen years old. I had natural speed. I didn't need to induce it. I never took speed again.

We were quickly earning a good reputation. We started to get more bookings all over town. We played community centres, high schools and one very memorable private gig in November.

We were hired to play a Debutante Ball for a wealthy family at their brick & ivy fourteen-chimney mansion on South West Marine Drive. The occasion was a 'coming-out' party for the family’s eldest daughter on her eighteenth birthday. They had five daughters in all with the youngest being thirteen. We set up in the basement rec-room, which was the size of a nightclub, and watched as the five daughters, their friends and their dates assembled at the other end of the room. The girls, all in formal party dresses, had their hair in elaborate coifs of intricate blonde ringlets. The boys wore ill-fitting powder blue tuxedos. They were a little embarrassed and we were somewhat uncomfortable so, just before the first set, the band dropped acid.

The first set went well. The kids worked up their nerve and began to dance self-consciously. But, by the time we were ready for our first break I was starting to peak.

It was good stuff and I was already hurling down the first hill of the coaster ride. I lost all track of time while exploring the catacomb of rooms in the basement. Steve found a door and opened it. There was a set of stairs. He looked around at us then turned and started up. Geoff grinned a Cheshire Cat grin and went up after him. Lindsay looked irritated but followed. I was right behind him. John never liked an adventure into the unknown but he wasn’t going to be left down there alone. He joined us on the stairs.

My eyes were strobing as I felt my way up the dark passage. We came out into a spacious hallway. The house was opulent with marble floors, carved woodwork and crystal chandeliers. Steve led the way towards a warm light. We entered what I assumed was the den. Father was sitting in a huge leather armchair reading the newspaper. He looked like Ray Milland as the multi-millionaire up-tight father in the movie, Love Story. His wife was sitting nearby reading a book.

There was a full size grand piano in the centre of the room. John went straight over to it, sat down and lifted the lid. The father was speechless when he noticed him. John ignored him and began to play. The wife put down her book and listened.

“Who the Hell are you?” inquired Father more flabbergasted than angry.

“Hi Daddy-O,” said Geoff. “We’re your musicians. We’re taking a break and wanted to introduce ourselves.”

“But, what about the children?” he asked sternly.

“Oh, I think they’re havin’ a ball without us,” Geoff said in his best Eddie Haskel impression. “You know kids.”

The glow from the fire in the massive stone hearth made the room look like it was pulsating; alternating yellow then red, yellow then red, yellow then red.

“Would you boys like some tea?” asked the missus.

Geoff and Steve went off with her to prepare tea. Lindsay sat down with Father and engaged him in a political discussion; the poor man didn’t stand a chance. John’s fingers danced over the perfect black and white keys; sometimes light and airy and then pounding out the smokin’ boogie woogie that he was so good at.

Tea was served and we all settled in for the evening. At times one or more of the girls would come up. Eventually, all five girls were gathered around us all cozy in front of the fireplace. We never played another note. At the end of the night Father and his wife and all five daughters walked us out to Sub-A-Lub and stood outside in the rain waving their best 'y’all cum back now' wave as we drove off up the winding treed driveway.

In December, Vancouver was introduced to an entirely new concept in radio broadcasting, the FM underground. They only experimented late at night with free form music. That meant music that wasn't pre-programmed top-forty. The new deejays like Bill Reiter, Terry David Mulligan and JB Shayne could play anything and say almost anything they wanted. For the first time, we could hear songs like Son of Suzy Creamcheese by Frank Zappa's Mothers Of Invention on the radio:

Suzy Creamcheese, Oh, baby now

What's got into you

Suzy Creamcheese, Oh, mama now

What's got into you

JB Shayne was pretty out there. He had a whole array of strange and wacky characters and he slipped from one to another whenever he felt like it. There were no rules in the Underground. Sometimes JB would even resort to the number one sin in radio – dead air.

Jim was a good friend of JB's so, on occasion some group of us would drop acid, sneak into the station in the middle of the night and sit on the floor of the control room listening to JB do his show.

On December 9^th, Jim arrived at our practice in the small rec-room of Steve’s parents place in Oakridge. He brought us a record titled, Live In Europe by Otis Redding. We spent the next forty minutes spellbound by Redding and his dynamic band featuring Booker T. Jones, Steve Cropper, Donald “Duck” Dunn and Al Jackson Jr. and the Mar-Keys horn section. Redding’s rendition of These Arms Of Mine made the little hairs on the back of my neck stand up and his vigorous strut & scat style of Respect and Can’t Turn You Loose was the most powerful music I had ever heard. We learned Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa (Sad Song) and the timeless, Try a Little Tenderness on the spot.

The next day, December 10, 1967, Otis Redding died in a plane crash near Madison, Wisconsin. I was shocked and saddened, but I had learned that night that there are many forms of incredible music out there and I should open my ears and listen for it without prejudice. I’m not talking about racial bigotry; I believe that all persons, white, black, green, yellow, purple or polka-dot are made of the same stuff and I give each person an equal opportunity to prove to me whether he or she is an asshole, but I am talking about musical bias. I discovered that there is good and bad everything; rock, jazz, opera and both county and western and that I just need to look for the good in each genre.