Opher Goodwin

Introduction

1968 and the winds of change were gathering pace. The first tsunami of psychedelia had swamped the scene, saturating everything in its acid-drenched glow. Everything was bright colours, kaftans, afghan waist coats, scarves and swirling paisley. A great surge of euphoria, optimism and possibility was rampant. Experimentation was in. The youth of the day were rising up to overthrow the conservative values of their parents, displacing the grey conformity and class structure with an anti-establishment defiance and radical outlook. This was the sixties revolution. It shot straight out of the feedback drenched music and poetic lyrics into art, fashion, design, film, magazines and philosophy. Hedonism was in. All things were possible. The war and rationing were a fading memory. I lost count of the number of times one of the ‘older generation’ disapprovingly told me that he’d fought a war for the likes of us. Not that we cared. War was a product of the old ways. This was the new age. We had different values. We were doing it differently. Sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll. Keeping it real.

   Ethnic was in. Hitch-hiking was the mode. The whole world opened up. The hippie trail brought back the Moroccan incense, Indian fabrics and new rhythms, new instruments. Everything exploded.

   This was the time of equality and freedom. Careers were discarded. Long-hairs had formed a new culture. Instant recognition. Adopted slang from the world of Jazz where the black musicians had begun calling themselves ‘Man’ in response to the whites disparagingly calling them ‘Boy’. This was the time of openness and sharing – joints, food, a floor to sleep on, a lift–to the background of ‘our’ music. This was the time of the album, of what the media called ‘Adult Orientated Rock’. Except that it wasn’t adult orientated at all; it was aimed at us, youth; it expressed our values and feelings.

   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 music 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.

   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.

The Beatles: White Album – Rock Classics: Amazon.co.uk: Opher Goodwin: 9781789523331: Books