December 11, 2014

Boomer Anthems: Jefferson Airplane - White Rabbit (Grace Slick, Woodstock, aug 17 1969)

"I'm not a singer. I'm a shouter." -- Grace Slick

Posted by gerardvanderleun at December 11, 2014 6:41 PM
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"It is impossible to speak in such a way that you cannot be misunderstood." -- Karl Popper N.B.: Comments are moderated and may not appear immediately. Comments that exceed the obscenity or stupidity limits will be either edited or expunged.

She was something to look at then. Ridden hard and put away wet, you wouldn't recognizer her now.

George C. Scott as Patton: "For over a thousand years, Roman conquerors returning from the wars enjoyed the honor of a triumph - a tumultuous parade. In the procession came trumpeters and musicians and strange animals from the conquered territories, together with carts laden with treasure and captured armaments. The conqueror rode in a triumphal chariot, the dazed prisoners walking in chains before him. Sometimes his children, robed in white, stood with him in the chariot, or rode the trace horses. A slave stood behind the conqueror, holding a golden crown, and whispering in his ear a warning: that all glory is fleeting."

Posted by: Fat Man at December 16, 2014 6:36 PM

Indeed, but -- as a friend remarked earlier --even today if you could have off about 25 pounds and darken her white hair you'd still have a fine woman. A bit of a moonbat, true, but as soon as she started to sing "Somebody to Love" that would be utterly irrelevant.

Posted by: vanderleun at December 16, 2014 7:05 PM

It was psychotropic drugs that allowed a lot of the bands to sound good. Not the performers, the audiences.
The technology of the sound system and many of the instruments enhanced the sound before it reached their stoned ears.
The setting, who the listeners were with, all part of a package referred to as "an Experience."
Back in their house, apartment, or basement the music was always played too loud on the box and a fog of pot or hash lay across the room and dayglow art under black light jumped out at the folks.

I used to play music in third-rate bar bands and the magic of Saturday night — the romance, drama, social dynamics were all-consuming.
Pitchers of draft on the tables, reefer in the john, pills surreptitiously downed, good old rock and roll or some bumpin' soul music I the air, ah, it was magic. Magic I tell ya.
Come Sunday morning when we came back to pick up our instruments and get paid the room smelled like people jerked off in dirty socks, puked and pissed in the corners and spilled flat beer all over it. Magic gone.
Similar to the "experience" music. play it at nine in the morning with nothing but a cuppa coffee in you and it was obnoxious.

Posted by: chasmatic at December 16, 2014 11:57 PM