Excerpt – 1967 had been the year of great change. Psychedelia had swept through with the Pink Floyd’s piper, Hendrix’s experience, Traffic’s fantasy and Cream’s gears. Acid rock had stormed in from the West Coast. Bringing the strange days of the Doors, Captain Beefheart dropping out, Zappa freaking out, the Byrds being notorious, Love forever changing, Country Joe and the Fish applying electric music for the mind, and Jefferson Airplane taking off.
The music had evolved. In the 1950s, rock ‘n’ roll had been viscerally subversive; in the 1960s that had taken on a more sophisticated cerebral direction. Whereas rock ‘n’ roll had been music to madly jive to, psychedelia was music to get stoned with, to lose yourself in its intensity and nuance, to dance expressively, listen intently with friends or sit with headphones on and absorb the sounds and words. An album had to be pawed over, concentrated on and sucked dry of all that it contained. The cover and liner notes were studied and analysed, the lyric sheet searched for meaning and the music internalised through repeated listening. Albums were sacred.
But by 1968 the rot had started. The tendrils of exploitation were creeping in. Revolution was big business. Money bred excess. The values were already being undermined and trust tested. The casualties were beginning to surface. Reality hit home. In San Francisco in October 1967, they held a march for ‘The Death of Hippie’ in protest at how the values had become commercialised. The ‘Summer of Love’ was officially dead. The sharing culture, love and peace, equality and freedom, was tainted.