Pictured above are The Quicksilver Messenger Service
There was a song which was released as a single in May of 1967 by Scott MacKenzie. It was entitled San Francisco (Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair). It went into the charts nationally and also became an international hit. All of my friends were avid listeners to the popular music of the day and yet I never heard a single one of them enthuse about Scott MacKenzie or his song. I heard it on the radio and regarded it as a purely commercial pop record cashing in on the hippy scene in the Bay Area. And yet whenever there’s a television or radio documentary about the Haight Ashbury in that year this is the song that’s always trotted out to accompany it.
It was written and produced by John Philips of the Mamas and Papas. The tune was catchy enough but the lyrics were a bit worthy with references to all the “gentle people” to be found in the city by the bay. True there were many Be-ins and Love-ins that year which is what the song was on about. But there was a dark side to the hippy phenomenon as well with regular reports in the Chronicle about overdosed dead bodies collapsed in doorways along Haight Street. The name Charles Manson was unknown then but he too resided in the Haight Ashbury district at that time with his ‘family’ which, along with him, would become infamous in just a few years time.
The summer of 1967 in San Francisco became known as the summer of love. The hippy happening was at its height with young people from all over the United States and the world arriving on Haight Street every day, possibly encouraged by Scott MacKenzie and his wretched song.
For me, however, as the summer of love reached its peak, I went off the rails on a psychedelic substance and wound up incarcerated in a psychiatric hospital. I was twenty years old and, as a result, my memories of that year are skewed by this experience. With hindsight, I was headed for psychological trouble with or without LSD but that doesn’t alter the fact that I flipped out on acid. And I do know from others that it was a particularly bad batch.
Working for Bill Graham at the Fillmore Auditorium provided an exciting window on the emerging San Francisco rock scene which had, by 1967, become world famous. I returned from a trip abroad in January and rang up Bill at the Fillmore to let him know I was back in town and available for any poster work he needed. I had only been away a few months but things had changed dramatically. The scene had become nationally and internationally renowned with reporters from all over the world turning up to write about Haight-Ashbury and the music it had spawned. The two biggest bands, Jefferson Airplane and The Grateful Dead were becoming very famous indeed and there was a gaggle of new poster artists in town. Before it was Wes Wilson, Mouse and a few others but now psychedelic artwork was everywhere and the advertising industry had begun imitating the lettering style that Wes had made popular with his poster art. Also Bill Graham was different. He too was in the process of becoming a celebrity.
I went in to see Bill and Bonnie at the Fillmore and he seemed more polished somehow. He was certainly better dressed, sporting a snappy green suede jacket. He was now mixing with famous people in the music business and the glow was rubbing off on him a bit. Enjoying his suede jacket he asked Bonnie if she thought it made him look like a ‘rock mogul.’
He’d been back east and seen a special preview of the soon to be released Don’t Look Back, a documentary on Bob Dylan, by D.A. Pennebaker. He gave his verdict loudly: “Bob Dylan is an asshole! Albert Grossman steals the show.” Dylan’s manager, Grossman, is seen in the film prodding London impresario Tito Burns to get more money for Bob. Bill had become friendly with Grossman after negotiating with him for an exclusive deal on the Butterfield Blues Band.
I overheard Bill giving an interview in his tiny office at the Fillmore to a reporter from Time Magazine. When the article came out, he was furious with the way the guy had written about him. He felt misrepresented.
The job Bill gave me was a poster design for a weekend show featuring The Blues Project, Jimmy Reed, John Lee Hooker and the Stu Gardner Trio. I was very excited about doing this poster and, following my old pattern, I walked up Russian Hill to the corner store where I bought a pack of cigarettes and a Cadbury’s chocolate bar. I started work about 8pm in the kitchen at my parents’ apartment on Union Street and worked through the night. I drew a picture of a black male blues musician playing a harmonica which stretched off into the distance and swerved around in a liquid shape to frame the lettering. On the top of the harmonica I drew a keyboard being played by musicians. I had a drummer and depicted the vibrations his drumsticks created. I also did cartoons of Paul Butterfield, Bob Dylan, Pig Pen and Jerry Garcia. Down below was a black street scene with people dancing and in the right hand corner stood a white police officer with a billy club observing them. The police officer was not sympathetically drawn. He looked mean and intolerant. I was trying to put the blues into a political context.
All of this appeared on a light green background with the letters coming out white. I delivered the artwork to the printer and thought no more about it until I wandered into the Fillmore that Friday night. Being apologetic was not a quality I was used to seeing in Bill Graham but that is exactly how he approached me as I walked up the stairs. “After all the trouble I’ve had with the police,” he said, “I simply couldn’t allow that picture of the cop to be on the poster. It would be a red rag to a bull. I’m sorry but the printer and I had to change your artwork.”
What he and the printer had done was to black out the entire street scene as well as all the musicians playing. The only bit of my work remaining was the blues player, the harmonica and the lettering. To be honest it looked very good. It was dark blue with a lighter blue for the harp player who was reversed out of the background with the lettering in white.
On the left is the original poster and on the right is what Bill Graham and the printer cooked up.
The trouble with the police that Bill was referring to had occurred at the Fillmore before I came along. I remember reading about raids on the hall by the police in the Chronicle before I knew him so I was aware of the reality he was dealing with. The police definitely harassed him in the early days and the memory of those encounters clearly lingered. For me the abiding recollection of my poster being changed was the diplomatic way in which Bill had explained it to me. He was a very persuasive person.
Being part of the furniture at the Fillmore meant I got very used to seeing the bands up close and becoming familiar with them and their repertoire. Quicksilver Messenger Service was a five piece unit which featured John Cipollina on lead guitar. Cipollina had been in my sister Katie’s class at Old Mill School. I remember being impressed by their image. Both lead singer/guitarist Gary Duncan and Cipollina had long straight hair and wore dark cowboy hats making the band look like a gang of wild west outlaws. For some numbers Duncan would slide his guitar strap around so that his instrument was on his back and he’d beat a cowbell with a drumstick. As with all the bands at the Fillmore these guys were constantly stoned on weed.
I didn’t get to know members of Jefferson Airplane until they changed female vocalist. Originally Signe Andersen was in the band but at some point during my time at the Fillmore she left and was replaced by Grace Slick who I had seen performing with her band The Great Society. Grace was a very beautiful woman, good musician and terrific singer. She was also a very nice person, at least to me. They used to rehearse at the Fillmore in the afternoons and I was always impressed that they would lug their own gear up the stairs. Early on Bonnie MacLean had introduced me to Marty Balin and I would have regular chats with him in the foyer of the Fillmore while painting my boards. Another local band, Sopwith Camel, had a hit record on the radio entitled Hello Hello, which Marty described as “a piece of shit.” The fact that it was being played on KFRC irritated him. “We’ve got to get a single out,” he said.
RCA ad art for singles by Jefferson Airplane.
In addition to Marty Balin I became friendly with their drummer Spencer Dryden. I remember one day taking a ride down into the Tenderloin district with Spencer in his VW Beetle. His ashtray was heaving with roaches and cigarette butts. He lit up an enormous joint as we sped down Geary. By the time we hit the Tenderloin I was seriously stoned. Spencer went into some building while I loitered on the street and was soon approached by this smiling black guy in a leather jacket. “Hey little brother,” he said. “You want something good?” He opened a shiny pouch with three or four enormous fat joints wrapped in bright yellow cigarette paper. When he realised he wasn’t going to make a sale he moved on quickly. Then Spencer came out and we drove back to the Fillmore. I don’t remember why I was along for the ride but I was.
My favourite musician in the Airplane was Jorma Kaukonen whose guitar playing was so exotic. His riffs had something of the Arabian Nights about them. I never spoke to Jorma but he and Bill had a conversational rapport which was interesting. He was regularly sitting in Graham’s tiny office just talking. Bill didn’t shoot the breeze with many people but Jorma was an exception.
The other band I became very familiar with was The Grateful Dead. Bass player Phil Lesh and I regularly had a chat as he was a fan of the EC horror comics of the early 1950s and had seen my cartoon of the Old Witch in a comic strip I had done for one of the psychedelic newspapers. On an evening at the Fillmore I would often go up to the band room and just hang around. I did an awful lot of hanging around at the Fillmore. One afternoon up there I saw Pig Pen and Bob Weir leafing through binders with plastic window pages containing black and white 8×10 photographs of good looking women.
Like Jorma in the Airplane, I truly enjoyed watching and listening to Jerry Garcia play the guitar. He seemed to physically propel himself forward with each note he played which was hypnotic to observe. Garcia was probably the most friendly person on that scene. He seemed so approachable. I never engaged Jerry in conversation but he’d always say hello to me.
The look of the Grateful Dead was something to send shivers down the spines of most middle class parents. Very long hair on guys who didn’t really have the right kind of hair to be that long with the exception of Bob Weir. The Dead had the Haight Ashbury lifestyle written all over them. One of the funniest numbers in every one of their sets was when Pig Pen (aka Ron Mckernan) would come out from behind his electric keyboard and sing Good Mornin’ Little School Girl. He had a terrific blues voice and the sight of him with his long hair and beard singing: “Tell your mama and papa, that I’m a little school boy too,” was such a contradiction that it made me laugh every time.
Members of The Grateful Dead, from left: Jerry Garcia, Phil Lesh, Bob Weir, Ron (Pig-Pen) McKernan, Bill Kreutzmann
Bill Graham kept a cowbell and drumstick in his office and when the Dead were doing their second set of the evening he’d bring them out and go to the side of the stage behind the amplifier and accompany them rhythmically. I never saw him do this with any other bands.
Bill Graham at the side of the Fillmore stage accompanying The Dead with cowbell. From left: Bob Weir, Pig Pen and Bill Graham.
The band room was guarded during gigs by Dicken Scully whose brother Rock was one of the Dead’s two managers (the other was Danny Rifkin). Dicken was tall, thin, wore glasses and had long blond hair. He was a very nice guy to me but was very strict about who got beyond that door. Lots of people tried to get past Dicken but unless he knew you had a genuine connection to one of the bands playing he was resolutely firm in denying access.
One thing that hanging around the Fillmore did for me was to feed the fantasy of becoming a performer myself. I was much too shy to get up on a stage and sing but it was an aspiration which grew as I clearly had the talent and a good singing voice. On long walks home from the Fillmore I would compose my own songs. My route home took me down Geary to Van Ness. I’d then turn left on Polk Street and walk however many blocks to Union. Then I’d turn right, going up and over Russian Hill until I reached my parents’ apartment. The walk took me about forty minutes which was just long enough to write a song and once inside I’d scribble the words down on a piece of art work. I had a big professional drawing board in my bedroom and was constantly doodling.
Hanging around the Fillmore was not like having a social life for all my real friends were across the Golden Gate Bridge in Mill Valley. Every opportunity I had to go there was seized upon with enthusiasm. My mode of transport was hitch hiking. I’d put my thumb out on Lombard street and within half an hour I would be walking down Miller Avenue. I’d make my way to one of many houses where, invariably, I’d get loaded on weed with my friends who were all indulging in this activity. As I’d walk in, I’d be handed a lit joint and away we’d go. The music on the record player could be Dylan’s Blonde On Blonde or Revolver by The Beatles. A lid of grass sat in a plastic bag on a table surrounded by packets of Rizla cigarette papers. We’d roll skinny little joints, light them and suck the smoke deep into our lungs. We would then hold our breath as long as we could and finally release the smoke in a mighty dizzy exhalation. Much of the conversation which followed was whispered by people holding their breath.
This was the way of life I had embraced. Being loaded meant that everything was either interesting or funny. The smallest detail in a work of art became something enormous and recorded music seemed that much more exciting. One negative side of being stoned so often was my tendency to talk about creative things I might do rather than actually doing them.
To be continued...
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