Acid Rock

"Turn on, tune in, drop out"

Acid Rock is a form of Rock’n’Roll music that was developed in the U.S.A. during the 1960’s. It can be characterised by a few distinctive characteristics. Although containing a large Folk influence, it featured a loud, malleable, and experimental sound. Acid Rock was heavily amplified, drenched in effects, and manipulated with brazen production, included eclectic performance techniques, and swam in copious amounts of mind-altering substances. Jerry Garcia of the Grateful Dead thought of it as “a sensory overload….it’s very loud.” (Szatmary, 1987).
Germinating in San Francisco and coaxed into maturity by the increasing flow of marijuana, the psychedelic drug L.S.D. (lysergic acid diethylamide), and mescaline, Acid Rock bands favoured extended guitar improvisations, distorted guitar effects, and created a unique style which combined folk music with a liberal helping of blues riffs, ripples of country-western, and trace elements of exotic ingredients including Indian ragas.

Other significant features of Acid Rock include an unusually strong spirit of community that was spurred along by a social movement of the time that became known as the ‘Counter-Culture’. Burgeoning alongside, and in parts intertwined with, the ‘hippie movement’, the Counter-Culture was a rejection of the traditional taboos and constraints of mainstream America. A polyglot of dissent connected by the thread of a common enemy, the creators of the Counter-Culture came from varied backgrounds and socio-economic classes, yet, were fused together by the shared agreement that this new generation were going to create and define a revolutionary period in American history. The Grateful Dead were to become one of the bands providing the soundtrack to this war against ‘The Man’, and their psychedelic sound pulsated to the rhythm of a country in the midst of a splendorous turmoil.

The core partnership of the Grateful Dead, lyricist Robert Christie Burns (known as Robert Hunter), and lead-guitarist Jerry Garcia, first met after (suitably) being discharged from the army. Based in Palo Alto, the site of Stanford University, they began to work as a two-guitar duo in 1961 (Buckley, 2003). While part of the nascent band, Garcia participated in a U.S. government research programme held at Stanford to assess the effects of hallucinogenic drugs, and during the experiments befriended a young novelist who was to help shape the future for the Grateful Dead, Acid Rock, and a whole generation of Americans. His name was Ken Kesey.

Ken Kesey formed ‘the Merry Pranksters’, a busload of psychotropic improvisers, kind of like a beat generation ‘Chaser’ on acid. Private Prankster parties at La Honda, California expanded into the Acid Tests – experimentation with L.S.D. in a group setting. (Garafolo, 1997). These Acid Tests (which would later be chronicled by Tom Wolfe in ‘The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test’), needed a party atmosphere. Cue the Grateful Dead, who were at the time known as ‘The Warlocks’. Although they continued to play at Acid-Tests and other venues, the band were soon forced to change their name due to another group performing under the same moniker.

The band, smoking the psychoactive D.M.T. (dimethyltryptamine) at the time, decided upon a name that would become indelibly inked into rock history: the Grateful Dead (Troy, 1995).

Just like the names, the sounds that Rock bands of the time were making were largely channelled through the altered states provided by the popular drugs of the time, such as D.M.T. and L.S.D. Acid Rock was particularly impacted by L.S.D., due to its immense potency and potential to alter the perception of the user. Timothy Leary, known as the godfather of the L.S.D. surge, describes the effects of L.S.D. below:

“...The organ of the corti your inner-ear becomes a trembling membrane seething with tattoos of soundwaves. The vibrations seem to penetrate deep inside you, swell and burst there...You not only hear but see the music emerging from the speaker system like dancing particles, like squirming curls of toothpaste.” (Szatmary, 1987)

L.S.D., as a result of its consciousness expanding high, affected the performance and visual aspects of Rock; designers attempted to evoke the visuals of the psychedelic experience by developing a new kind of ‘swirling’ concert poster, and stage shows were enhanced by light shows as a way of incorporating the vibrant colours and movement of a trip, all melded together as an integral part of the music the bands were playing. Many San Francisco Rock bands also referenced psychedelic drugs in their songs. The Jefferson Airplane hit the airwaves with the anthem, “White Rabbit”, a song that wears its influence with pride:

“One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small,
And the ones that mother gave you don’t do anything at all,
Go ask Alice when she’s ten-feet tall” (Garofalo, 1997).

Nothing exemplifies the impact that L.S.D. had on Acid Rock in a more matter-of-fact way than the means by which the Grateful Dead afforded to record their 1968 work, “Anthem of the Sun”. A man by the name of Augustus Owsley Stanley III underwrote the band’s finances during the recording process. Otherwise known as ‘The Bear’, Stanley III was also the country’s biggest L.S.D. magnate, and handed out so much acid that he is regarded by some as one the main facilitators of 1967’s ‘Summer of Love’, a significant cultural turning-point for Acid Rock, the Counter-Culture, and the U.S.A. in general.

The final word on the impact of L.S.D. on Rock music during the late 1960’s is best left to the late Jerry Garcia;

“Along came L.S.D. and that was the end of that world. The world just went kablooey...It changed everything, you know, it was just – ah, first of all, for me personally it freed me, you know, the effect was that it freed me because I suddenly realised that my little attempt at having a straight life and doing that was really a fiction...it just wasn’t going to work out”.

Jerome John "Jerry" Garcia (August 1, 1942 – August 9, 1995)

About God

She asked me about God - about life and everything. She told me that she knew God, that she had a relationship with Jesus. I have known people - I have loved people - that have said the same. But, this time, I asked her,

"do you know where we are?"

"Do you know how big our galaxy is?"

"Do you know how many stars there are in our galaxy - each on average as big as our Sun"

Then again, what do I know?

I'm just an ignorant, naked ape.

Under the Sea

I wonder what they would say to us if we could understand them. Do you think that they would be angry, or shun us for our stupidity? Would they forgive us for the destruction we have caused, chide us as one berates a child for wreaking havoc - stern yet forgiving?

Maybe they wouldn't talk to us at all - maybe they would continue going about their business as best they can, as they have before we came along and as they will once we're gone.

Someone - I think it was Buckminster Fuller - said that we are the crew of a great ship, planet earth, our great vessel carrying us through the vast seas of the universe. Our ship is grand and true, but we are fools navigating while we mutiny.

Maybe, when are all washed overboard, drunk and drowning and ruined - maybe they will swim beside us. Saying nothing, quiet as we arrogant captains of a beautiful wreck struggle against the tide - they will say nothing and guide us to shore.

Graffiti

I have corrupted myself.

I lie prostrate, not bare, before the Universe. I am covered in my own graffiti, my own technicolor scars. I am streaked with my own mess, the spray of age, highlights of my crimes. Each crime goes unanswered, committed silent and perfect. Scrawled across walls under midnight's cloak, only the stars witness my wrongdoing - only the stars that burn hot and bright in the vicious, freezing depths of infinity.

I am corrupted.

I look into the face of a stranger, stare deeply into pupils like black holes, colour seeping from the edges; a lucid brown corona waxing and waning as I breathe in and inflate my chest like the breath of the Universe as it expands ceaselessly. The vacuum within is my own creation.

Corrupt me.

Is there a voice that whispers? Is there a reason for the pictures I paint, the signatures and limbs and slurs and words I scratch on my wall? Do they mean something, these strange hieroglyphs; is there a meaning to the pain the symbols create?

The more I draw the heavier I feel; weighed down by the ghetto-art of sins and slumber I inflict upon my soul.

Fantasy Land

I am walking, alone in the dead of night, watching a halo of starlight softly dust Centrepoint's crest, beams grazing the sides before falling to Earth. I pick up the pace as I reach the halfway point, breathing heavily and letting my briefcase swing like a pendulum from my right arm.
There aren't many people about; mainly barflies and shift-workers, a few stragglers and some of Sydney's homeless. I pass by one of the transients, he's lolling drunkenly on a bench. I'm caught by suprise when he emits a rapid-fire slur in my direction.
The first part of his message is unclear - lost in translation - I can tell he's swearing, but aside from that, I can't make out his meaning.
The second half of his statement is clear, eerie on a sullen night;

"You're living in a fantasy land".

He spits this phrase with hatred and venom, glaring directly into my eye, and while I continue walking he snarls it several times at my heels.

The clarity of his intention are a shock to my system, juxtaposed against his unshaven, drool-encrusted jowl. The words hit hard because I have spoken them to myself many, many times, over, and over, silently.

"You're living in a fantasy land".

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Drifting Away

I've seen things become change, people become indifferent
I've seen them shifting - only pieces remain
See; they're shells on beaches that keep drifting away
With the waves like

....sssshhhhhhhhhhh.........

Rolling into the bay
Sometimes I could give it away, just go swimming and
Ride the horizon - dive towards infinity
Sink to the bottom; would I lie with divinity,
Rust like a relic or be treasure like memory?
I'm trying to surface but my conscience's heavy, see,
Kind of like the Earth in relation to the heavenly
For what it's worth there is so much ahead of us
That I'd be content if the ocean remembers this
I get the bends when friends become anonymous
You never know how it ends till the moment hits
And no regrets till this heart stops beating this chest
and all these questions come to a rest, yet;
I'm dealing with a lot to confess - aren't we all, right?
We build them up in the day and dream them all night
Swept away by the currents, they keep on coming, and coming,
But I don't want to be pulled under
To nothing

The Only Thing to Fear...

One of my fears is that I am crazy.

Sometimes I will be chatting with a friend in the middle of the city, a close friend from school or a girl that I'm seeing, and all of a sudden a wave of anxiety will sweep through me. I'll catch the eye of a stranger, feel a pang of fear, sense something..... My friend could still be chattering away in the background but I lose focus and feel my heart pump through the skin of my slightly sweaty palms as their voice is drowned by the blood rushing through my ears.

The thing is; I wonder if my friend is real.

Am I just standing here by myself, laughing and joking around in the thick of the CBD, sharing memories and playing games with a phantom? I notice people looking at me with a sheen of awkwardness, yet my friend keeps talking to me as though everything was completely normal. I kid you not, I often look into the nearest window or shiny metallic surface, telling myself that even my vivid imagination could not create the perfect reflection of a ghost.

What do they see? What do they hear? These people we pass - swearing at shop fronts and arguing with the sky. Is that me, so deluded that I have created a fantasy to whisk myself away from the life of a transient? Am I locked in a perfect cage, the perfect prison? So perfect I really think I'm free.

Please. Please be real.

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Boys

At first I see one group; a collection of thin legs, long and gangly, clad in dark jeans, puncuated with loafers. Their hair hangs loose over gaunt faces, arms dangled straight down by their side. They are very 'trendy'. Soon they are joined by another group, dressed the same, individuals fresh from the cookie cutter. It looks like feigning disinterest is also in this year; conversations are held while gazing at navels or hands, words spoken this way and that, anywhere but at the target.

These men look like boys. I wonder if girls like that. Is this a reaction against overt masculinity? We had our metrosexual phase, then went back to blokes, is it now the time for pretty little men with fine, glossy hair and size-zero hips?

Then I see a group of girls walk past, baggy pants and crewcuts, arms like tree-trunks. One of them looks as though she would destroy me with ease. I am very confused.

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Daggers

They have daggers for eyes. They stab at each other through red-veined slits, cutting through the strip. There are nodders on all corners, droopy, half-asleep and worn-out from days that melt into one big confused puddle. As night drifts across the metropolis the vibe stiffens, the streets jitter and sway with the meth-heads that bounce from corner to corner like shiny silver pinballs. On drab corners underneath neon signs hookers drowsily offer themselves, legs for the mind but the heart’s not in it.
A thick-jawed man and a blonde stand to one side of the strip, heads twitching while they discuss something. It’s not the daily news. The blonde has boobs like bazookas, and her husky voice is an octave too low to be safe. Their discussion is disrupted by a swarm of motorbikes cruising down Darlinghurst Road, mufflers baying for action, helmets bright and flashing as they rev past. Men peer out of open bars over middies of beer, and bouncers jut from doorways, draped in black, sullen and silent.
A deal is done. It all happens in the blink of an eye, blades glinting razor sharp. This is a hunting ground, when the time is right - when the price is right. It’s not piss that marks this territory, though there’s plenty of that; up walls and seeping through pavements, ingrained in the fibre of the strip. There’s a code here, raw as morse, deadly staccato taps on the spine. Tapping out letters to loved ones lost long ago.

Lady Beetle

Looking out the window onto Fauveaux Street, I notice a lady beetle trapped in a spider's web. The poor little thing, speckled black on a sunflower shell, legs pushing against nothing, struggling to no avail. I call out to Luke, and we both stoop down and ogle a life's last moments. I mention to Luke that I would save it if I could open the window, but we are in an office building and there are no latches. There is nothing that can be done.

It is at this very moment that I feel the eyes of the gods penetrating my soul, peering down through the window of the Universe, staring down at my struggle, well aware of my plight, yet, helpless all the same. For a split second I feel like my own god, wanting to help but unable to; there are no latches on this window, no way to save me, to save the lady beetle.

The insect writhes furiously, and, for a moment I become excited; it looks as though it may free itself. Spinning on a tenuous thread, its wings are splayed and flapping crazily, liberation within reach. I urge on the David, fighting against Goliath - life. A gust of wind shoots through and the lady beetle is trapped more securely than ever.

Luke and I walk away and continue our conversation. The beetle is still there.

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Homo Vendens

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Gossip

A new job. Hey, you gotta do what you gotta do. The boss isn't so crazy. Not that he isn't, it's just that his is the comfortably normal kind of madness, the kind we all find seeping out like drips from a leaky faucet. The shop is situated right in the middle of the shit in Kings Cross, the red light district of Sin City It seems as though I can't escape this area, as though it wants to suck the blood right out of me, suck me down into the vortex, spinning and twisted, screams drowned out by the gurgling of the drain. So let it.

The huge front windows provide a handsome view of the ugly outside, the junk and mess tossed about by the whims of a sleazy wind. All the drunks on the streets are having a blast, the peakers are scratching at their lips, licking and chewing feverishly, clumps of spittle gathering at the corners of their writhing cakeholes. A young thug slams his fist on the window, pointing out a customer to his fucked-up mates. My boss isn't happy, but I get it. The youth makes a giant phallus out of a long neck; the customer is looking at porn. After a while they move on; better things to do and be done by.

Sparrows

I don't see sparrows anymore. I have memories of them as a child, watching them scattered on the playground, pecking seed from between the cracks of rough gravel. The little speckled things, hopping about, just doing what they do. Sparrows are not like magpies; birds to fear or avoid, shocking black and swooping, low and fast. Sparrows are not like pidgeons; cumbersome and ungainly, tattered and slow. Sparrows are spritely fellows, speckled brown, soft and petite.

Through the distorted liquid of my memories I can see them everywhere, from the break of day to the end of night. They dust the sky with their wings, sparks of joyous energy, to and fro. Sometimes I would tear crusts from sandwiches, toss them to the ground, chunks of wholegrain smeared with peanut-butter. The sparrows would gather about, supping on the gift politely. Sparrows were nice little things, happy just to be dining, not ferocious and squawking like seagulls; harping at each other over inflated chests.

Where have they gone? Now all I see is city.

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Hot Knife (4)

Today is the day. I know it. I have been offered another job, more money and nicer owners. Over the past four days it has become plain to see that Anthony and I will never get along. Sometimes I wish I was the type of person that could get along in a place like this; nodding assertively to the local cops, swapping 'fucks' and 'cunts' with the local drunks. Sometimes I wished I felt comfortable with the trendy boys and girls, the people with fresh haircuts, and $300 jeans, and those looks that say so much, look down from so far.

I am not ever going to fit in here. Anthony is a madman, he strikes me as the kind of guy that masturbates to snuff flicks, thickly drooling at the money shot, grunting angrily. His eyes are dead, his is not hollow; he is filled with icy-cold rage. I feel my edges melt in his presence, his outside is fierce and molten, not so much his body, more his aura. I hate using bullshit new-age garbage, but that man glows with dark.

I make up my mind. Still, as frightening as the man is, I can't just walk out. I decide to finish my shift, feel a burden lift from shoulders with each passing minute. As the seconds tick by I ask myself one more time if I really must quit. A few minutes later Anthony enters the room, shooting me a glare that confirms everything.

I wait until closing. I finish lugging rubbish to the cans out the back, return to the bar, grab my bag. He saunters out slowly. I swallow heavily. I feel sweat rising to the surface of my skin.

He explodes when I tell him. He fucking detonates with even more fury than I had dreamed he was carrying. Abuse erupts from his mouth, floating through the cafe in a thick mist, noxious and sharp. I fear for my safety. I wonder if he will grab a blade and tear my throat out. I picture him strangling me with an apron; my last vision the knives I had polished harder than I had ever screwed. His language is rotten, and despite my impressions of the man I still find myself suprised by the outburst. And then; I see it.

He is a little boy. He is a sad little boy, crying for a mother who never comes home. He is lonely and sullen and frustrated. He has been rejected in life, he is a child who never got the love he needed. Now, as an adult, power can come through the injection of fear into the veins of those around him. He can feel people shrink away from him when he pushes hate forward, and his reward is a power that replaces the love his mother never relinquished.

I prepare to leave.

"I'm sorry I wasted your time, Anthony."

"How about; Fuck off?"

I open the door, turning to say one more thing.

"Thanks for the opportunity."

The sad little boy replies the only way he knows how;

"Fuck off you fucking cockhead."

I am gone.

Hot Knife (3)

The Mardi Gras was building towards a climax. Groups of men sat around tables, gesticulating wildly amidst hearty gulps of wine. There was a buzz all around and, outside, huge groups were forming on the pavement, boys and girls, flirting and peaking and drinking and fucking. A table at the front of the cafe was taken by a bunch of tarty young girls dressed to the nines; apparently very little fabric goes a long way. I swung trays of coffee and burgers and beer to all corners of the joint. The night was warm, heated by the gyrating dykes parading down Oxford Street, helped along by drag-queens caked in make-up and doped out on all sorts of poison.

Sydney goes wild on a Mardi Gras night. It's an excuse to let your hair down, put on a wig, shave a leg. Testosterone and eostrogen and methamphetamines gushed down roads and through train stations, tainted with ecstasy and fury. I could feel the energy crackling amongst the crowd, all hearts racing together in an orgy of pouting lips and sneers and cackles.

I signed off, leaping out into the pulsing air, alive with the overlayed bubbling of a million crazed voices. I felt out of the loop in a way; I was just finishing and all these people were just winding up their engines. Admittedly there did seem to be a few early casualties, mini-skirts retching in grimy alleyways and black, puffy eyes weeping lightly. I felt an itch creep up the back of my spine, the first tingle of the hunt. My eyes darted about, sizing up opponents and prey, adrenalin seeping into my brain, hairs standing on end. I clenched my teeth and fought desire, then fought my way through the crowds, then fought my way to sleep.