25-09-2010, 03:04 AM
I saw Jimi Hendrix May 11, 1969 at the Indiana State Fair Coliseum. He asked that the crowd not flash their flashcubes, and when they persisted, he dedicated the next number, “some people never learn.”
Satini the little bundle of energy from our crew went down after to experience him, appearing the next day with lovely parting gifts of a bottle, fifty dollars, and a bus ticket.
1969 began with our going to the Nixon Counterinnaugural January 19, at which we filmed the Hogg Farm and Wavy Gravy, and I saw Mark Rudd and his “Maoists” in their red armbands running down the street shouting, “Ho Ho Ho Chi Minh! The NLF is gonna win!” One of them ran up and banged the iron knocker on Justice, and the shirt-sleeved lawyers on the second floor gave everyone the finger.
These were the neverchanging tundra that persisted under Johnson, under Nixon, smug as barnacles.
Rudd showed up at Purdue, within our parameters, we went with cameras and tape recorder; he spent seven hours in recruiting for the Rage. I sat next to him on a living room rug at one of the smaller venues where he amiably explained, “My friends don't like my talking to you; they think you're cops.” We weren't.
Also that season, Abbie Hoffman, live, flanked by two Chicago cops, he swinging a fireplace poker, declaring the stage a liberated zone, showing the Yippie movie wherein Daley declares, “The police are not there to create disorder; the police are there to preserve disorder.”
October 8-11, SDS Days of Rage. We in Roger's Econoline with the hatch sawed in the top, the windows meshed, cut off at every block by speeding convoys of three sedans (black, white, bronze, navy, light blue) punctuated by a black wagon.
Platoons of pigeon-egg blue helmets, knots of Dick Tracy's in trenchcoats clustered around the milk carton walkie talkie. The ragged revolutionaries round their smoldering fire of police barricades exhorted by the bullhorn, racing off pursued by dozens of off-duty cops looking for a little ultraviolence.
The 24-hour Emergency Board-Up Service trucks with generators and plywood sawed to cover the minikristalnacht and in restaurants the angry diner, “Whadda I think! I think they oughta be in jail!”
Bill Ayers would go from mug shot to making a bigger bang. A paranoid force would snuff Jimi—can it have been his role in some “Woodstock Nation” threat to the Gay Goose-Stepper?
Along comes karma, and following the red harvest of 68, the Reaper took Hoover May, 72 (heart attack), Johnson January, 73 (heart attack), Nixon August 8, 1974 (“Effective at noon tomorrow”).
Some people never learn.
Satini the little bundle of energy from our crew went down after to experience him, appearing the next day with lovely parting gifts of a bottle, fifty dollars, and a bus ticket.
1969 began with our going to the Nixon Counterinnaugural January 19, at which we filmed the Hogg Farm and Wavy Gravy, and I saw Mark Rudd and his “Maoists” in their red armbands running down the street shouting, “Ho Ho Ho Chi Minh! The NLF is gonna win!” One of them ran up and banged the iron knocker on Justice, and the shirt-sleeved lawyers on the second floor gave everyone the finger.
These were the neverchanging tundra that persisted under Johnson, under Nixon, smug as barnacles.
Rudd showed up at Purdue, within our parameters, we went with cameras and tape recorder; he spent seven hours in recruiting for the Rage. I sat next to him on a living room rug at one of the smaller venues where he amiably explained, “My friends don't like my talking to you; they think you're cops.” We weren't.
Also that season, Abbie Hoffman, live, flanked by two Chicago cops, he swinging a fireplace poker, declaring the stage a liberated zone, showing the Yippie movie wherein Daley declares, “The police are not there to create disorder; the police are there to preserve disorder.”
October 8-11, SDS Days of Rage. We in Roger's Econoline with the hatch sawed in the top, the windows meshed, cut off at every block by speeding convoys of three sedans (black, white, bronze, navy, light blue) punctuated by a black wagon.
Platoons of pigeon-egg blue helmets, knots of Dick Tracy's in trenchcoats clustered around the milk carton walkie talkie. The ragged revolutionaries round their smoldering fire of police barricades exhorted by the bullhorn, racing off pursued by dozens of off-duty cops looking for a little ultraviolence.
The 24-hour Emergency Board-Up Service trucks with generators and plywood sawed to cover the minikristalnacht and in restaurants the angry diner, “Whadda I think! I think they oughta be in jail!”
Bill Ayers would go from mug shot to making a bigger bang. A paranoid force would snuff Jimi—can it have been his role in some “Woodstock Nation” threat to the Gay Goose-Stepper?
Along comes karma, and following the red harvest of 68, the Reaper took Hoover May, 72 (heart attack), Johnson January, 73 (heart attack), Nixon August 8, 1974 (“Effective at noon tomorrow”).
Some people never learn.