“I used to live in a room full of mirrors; all I could see was me. I take my spirit and I crash my mirrors, now the whole world is here for me to see.” ~ Jimi Hendrix
One of the great things about not being young is having a raft of experience that has pitched up in some interesting places during momentous occasions, so when a day like today comes along I don’t have only vague notions of pop culture-fed imaginings, but personal recollections that pull me along and surround me in a sea of memories I can touch, smell and taste.
I can cast my mind back to the day before today 40 years ago … September 17, 1970 … and conjure that world of long, flowing locks on everyone, Indian bedspread material curtains on widows of VW vans, the fragrance of brown rice bubbling with patchouli and weed undertones wafting just about everywhere, the tingly-tongue-taste about to bloom to bare feet from a dot of blotter.
Was there ever another such time? Has history ever gifted such a hopeful youth, one so committed and convinced it perched on the edge of greatness and could easily force feed a future on hope, dreams and hallelujah hallucinations of humanity humbled?
There was a war happening and we shook off our parents’ orchestrated baaing and sang back into their faces that we should all give peace a chance instead of playing dominos and watching our friends and brothers fall in organized lines … confident in the fact that if you want to end war and stuff, you gotta sing loud.
Much of mass media was kept well beyond our reach, but we had our music, and it took over the world. Any song had anthem potential and could become a rallying point, and those who made the music became heros … but everyday heros. The stars of those times inhabited the world we lived in, not some distant, exotic celestial body. They created music for the world, not at it, dissecting and reflecting common experience. (Even the most obscure themes were easily grasped when minds eagerly altered to span distance, ethnicity, exposure and any other differences that weren’t.)
Yes, it was a sanguine saga, a buoyant, confident and expectant generation, but by definition youth lacks experience and growing up had to happen.
Some of that growing up started today 40 years ago … September 18, 1970 … hence this post, today being the anniversary of the death of one of the best guitarist to ever pluck a string, Jimi Hendrix.
Sixteen days later, the world lost Janis. Nine months after that it was Morrison.
We had been accustom to death by war, by accident, by disease, but we’d rather missed the specter of death by life … by excess of passion, by a profligacy of youth, by presumption that power manifested assured immortality.
Or did we?
We grew up … for sure … grasped impermanence and assimilated the assumption of disillusionment into our core just like every generation before us. We’ve shifted gears and goals, darkened the rose tint on our shades, and some have developed a conservative shell to fend off what they once may have embraced.
But … and this is huge …
the music lives, and will outlive us.
A collection of my short stories:
I'm in this one, too ...
And I'm in here, as well ...
Paradise Preoccupied 
OMG……really? but well said my dear…..I wouldn’t of wanted to live at any other time. Best years of my life. Ah me……..
It’s our time, Robbie … for better and for worse. As for you and me … we’ve done the best with it …
Thanks for a beautiful, poignant look at the best of our generation. Too bad the idealism of a world without war, without the doctrines of religion … a world filled with creativity and tolerance was left behind by so many of “us.”
Left behind, lost, languishing somewhere in the recesses of consciousness … who knows?
What a magical time. Hendricks, Joplin, and Morrison. LSD and pop festivals. Far out! I still catch a tune of theirs every once in awhile, and I just have to sing and dance along…
I’ll never forget those times with you. Wild child.
You were my youth, V … so many memories … I could write volumes on those days and nights: Ronnie’s cabin; Lake Shasta beach sleeping; adventures in Oregon; hours in Pandora’s Box; Dark Shadows; Babette; riding to Redding with the newspaper-reading, ice cream-eating teacher; “Talk Talk” … my GAWD, Girl … we lived!
I’ve tried but just cannot remember the sixties š
They do say, sims, the memory is the second thing to go …
I was six. What I remember about that time was my father coming home from work and complaining about the tear gas and tanks in the streets.
And, for sure, you know the music, Bri …
Sandra,
I wish you would write about those times. Those crazy, crazy, fun times. And oh, the angst of having a boyfriend and trying to keep him in line! The 60’s was an amazing adventure and you made it so wonderful for me. I would love to revisit the uniqueness of those days. Especially from your point of view. Your amazing gift of memory and talent for writing would bring it all to life. And it was an important time in our lives, we were so young…
I still can’t believe some of the experiences we had. That paper reading, ice cream eating, yakking teacher we hitched a ride with to Redding…very scary. She only looked up at the road every once in awhile, and there were moments when I was ready to start screaming in terror. No seat belts, pedal to the metal. I couldn’t believe we got to Redding alive and in one piece. That was wild…but there is so much more. If you wrote about those times it would be so funny and compelling…even with the heartache of young love. I encourage you to write your memoirs. Yours is a story worth telling, and one that I would dearly love to read.
I do have a memnoir on the go, but don’t dedicated much time to it. Maybe someday …