Stuck in the Sixties
To use a favorite term from the Vietnam War, this listening project has become a quagmire. While I could tell you that I listened to a compilation of "primitive" gospel tunes called Get Right With God and enjoyed it very much indeed, that's hardly much alphabetical "progress" in the past month. I do intend to slog through the alphabet, but I might not always write about it. Why, you might ask (if there was actually someone reading this blog)? Because as I'm trying to motivate myself to go back to the sixties in search of memories to write about, I need to listen to the proper music. That's probablly what I'll be writing about for the time being, with brief mentions of alphabetical progress (if any).
Recently I've been reading Vincent Bugliosi's Helter Skelter, the story of the horrific Charles Manson-directed Tate-La Bianca murders and the subsequent trials. Bugliosi was the prosecuting attorney of the Manson murders, and he presents a riveting first-hand account of those mad events. A couple of years ago I read Edward Sanders' The Family, his hippie-beat account of those same episodes. In either late 1968 or early 1969, I spent a half an hour or so at The Spahn Ranch (home of the Manson family) in the company of my aunt, her boyfriend, and my sister. My aunt's boyfriend took us there to drop in on a friend of his who was living in a gypsy tent on the property. He didn't know what sort of scene he was bringing us into. While my aunt stayed outside and watched my sister and I play in a creek, her boyfriend went into the main house to look for his friend. My aunt observed that there were all sorts of zombified looking girls wandering around the place. Meanwhile, all my aunt's boyfriend received for his visit was very hostile vibes. Clearly not a groovy situation. He sussed out the situation, decided it wasn't worth a confrontation, and beat a hasty retreat. He hustled over to the creek and said, "Let's go." It was nearly a year before we found out how truly hostile those people were. Whether Charlie and his zombie murderers were there that day, I can't say.
I tell you all this as a lead in to the fact that I've been listening to The Beatles' The White Album a lot lately. No album captures my little LA hippie boy days as much as that two-record set. I must have heard it everyday for months. I created a world from the songs on that album, and can still to back there a little bit when I hear such songs as "Dear Prudence" or "Blackbird."
Very creepy to think that the Mansons used my "house of memories" as a pretext for senseless slaughter. Also creepy to read that Paul McCartney did intend for "Blackbird" to be a message of courage to struggling African Americans, so that in a way, Manson partially--but obviously not totally--understood the song.
More thoughts on bloody sixties LA to come.
Recently I've been reading Vincent Bugliosi's Helter Skelter, the story of the horrific Charles Manson-directed Tate-La Bianca murders and the subsequent trials. Bugliosi was the prosecuting attorney of the Manson murders, and he presents a riveting first-hand account of those mad events. A couple of years ago I read Edward Sanders' The Family, his hippie-beat account of those same episodes. In either late 1968 or early 1969, I spent a half an hour or so at The Spahn Ranch (home of the Manson family) in the company of my aunt, her boyfriend, and my sister. My aunt's boyfriend took us there to drop in on a friend of his who was living in a gypsy tent on the property. He didn't know what sort of scene he was bringing us into. While my aunt stayed outside and watched my sister and I play in a creek, her boyfriend went into the main house to look for his friend. My aunt observed that there were all sorts of zombified looking girls wandering around the place. Meanwhile, all my aunt's boyfriend received for his visit was very hostile vibes. Clearly not a groovy situation. He sussed out the situation, decided it wasn't worth a confrontation, and beat a hasty retreat. He hustled over to the creek and said, "Let's go." It was nearly a year before we found out how truly hostile those people were. Whether Charlie and his zombie murderers were there that day, I can't say.
I tell you all this as a lead in to the fact that I've been listening to The Beatles' The White Album a lot lately. No album captures my little LA hippie boy days as much as that two-record set. I must have heard it everyday for months. I created a world from the songs on that album, and can still to back there a little bit when I hear such songs as "Dear Prudence" or "Blackbird."
Very creepy to think that the Mansons used my "house of memories" as a pretext for senseless slaughter. Also creepy to read that Paul McCartney did intend for "Blackbird" to be a message of courage to struggling African Americans, so that in a way, Manson partially--but obviously not totally--understood the song.
More thoughts on bloody sixties LA to come.
posted by ken at 1:11 PM
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