Bands and Concerts and Musicians from 1968-1973

61 Concerts, events, musicians I "kind of" remember.

Pre- Woodstock:

1. Johnny Winter

2. Edgar Winter

3. The Band

4. Van Morrison

5. Sound outs, coffee houses, etc.

Woodstock (the acts remembered):

6. Santana

7. Canned Heat

8. Grateful Dead

9. Mountain

10. Creedence Clearwater Revival

11. Sly & The Family Stone

12. Janis Joplin [ of course]

13. The Who [the windmill arm was awesome]

14. Jefferson Airplane

15. Joe Cocker [love, love, love Joe.. saw him again a few years back 2008 or 09]

16. Country Joe & the Fish [got to see him later as well]

17. Ten Years After

18. The Band [had seen them locally too]

19. Blood Sweat and Tears [saw them several years later as well]

20. Johnny Winter [use to see him perform in coffee houses]

21. Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young

22. Paul Butterfield Blues Band

23. Sha-Na-Na [never liked them, but saw them twice]

24. Jimi Hendrix [best guitar player… saw several times before his death]

NYC – other

25. Janis Joplin [met on streets, saw in December 69 in concert]

26. Richie Havens [got to meet him backstage, friend of his opening act, was at Carnegie hall]

Met –outside of performance

27. Arlo Guthrie – Eugene Oregon

28. Tim Hardin – his house, Woodstock

29. Art Garfunkle – coffee shop, Woodstock

30. Janis Joplin – St. Mark’s place, NYC

31. Jimi Hendrix – coffee house in Woodstock

32. Richie Havens- back stage at Carnegie hall

Filmore East:

33. Jimi Hendrix

34. Grateful Dead

35. Blood, Sweat and Tears

36. Voices of East Harlem

37. Iron Butterfly

38. Canned Heat

39. Sly & the Family Stone

40. Ike & Tina Turner

41. Santana

42. Sha-Na-Na

43. Procal Harem

44. Edgar Winter

45. Allman Brothers

46. Isaac Hayes

47. Youngbloods

48. Chicago

49. Humble Pie

50. Joe Cocker

51. Big Brother & The Holding Company

52. Moody Blues

53. Credence

54. Jethro Tull

On Road:

55. Emerson, Lake & Palmer

Winterland:

56. 1972 June Rolling Stones

Berkeley Era:

57. 1973 June Led Zeppelin

58. B.B. King

59. Country Joe & Fish

60. Doobie Brothers

61. Asleep at the Wheel

Woodstock Sound-Outs, Van Morrison and No Beans © Dakini Verona

Woodstock Sound-Outs, Van Morrison and No Beans. © Dakini Verona

1969. The year was an infamous one in the history of the era… and it was a very important year in my life.

I had just turned 15 years old and lived in a very rural area of upstate New York. Actually it was only about 100 miles north of New York City (The City) but anything even 10 miles outside of The City was considered Upstate. I didn't seem to fit in with the other kids at school, always an outsider. I could not relate to their violent ways, the small town mentality never appealed to me. I could not wait to grow up and get out of there. I had no social life with the other kids in school. I only had one friend, Carol Sommers. We had a connection which to this day, I do not understand. Maybe it was that we were outsiders to the rest of the kids our age, maybe it was just destiny that we came to be friends. Best friends. Only friends. The other kids were cruel. So cruel in fact, that I have blocked out most of what was going on in my life, just to survive.  When I was not with my only friend, Carol, I would lose myself in my music. I can not believe I am confessing to this, but the Monkees were one of my favorite groups.

The Day I Died - Part II © 2010 Dakini Verona

The Day I Died  - Part II © 2010 Dakini Verona

I have no idea how long this went on – my fall from reality. It could have been a few nano seconds or a few days. Peaking on acid was sometimes like that. I finally saw a glimpse of reality: a cock roach skittered across the ceiling above where I was lying flat on my back. I found myself suddenly jerked back to reality. I looked around and tried to assess where I was. It was a bedroom, littered with street people. Some of them were sleeping, some talking, and some sitting in their own little worlds, like I had been- just a few moments earlier. This was a “crash pad”. 

Crash pads were places where street people could “crash” for a night or two. No rent was collected and most of the time favors were not even asked. Most crash pads were safe, as long as there were enough people to watch out for each other. At least it got us off the streets and out of the snow. This particular crash pad was like most of the others that existed. It was down in the depths of the bowery, in the dirtiest part of New York’s Lower East Side. It was a five story walk up, meaning you had to climb five flights of stairs to get to the place. Each floor had two apartments and on the landing there was one toilet to be shared. You can imagine that that was like. Filth and grime on every inch and stench to match. Cockroaches shared all living spaces in those dumps. Inside the apartment was a small kitchen, a bedroom and a front room. The floors were wall to wall people, except for the kitchen. The kitchen was bare. The sink had a long white porcelain slab that served as a counter, but actually covered the bathtub. I had never experienced anything like that in my life… but now I was in an honest to God tenement.

I could feel another wave of the acid about to hit. I was going to peak again. The thoughts were again turning into colors. I tried to concentrate on the here and now and begin counting out loud. The words became visuals in front of my eyes. Each letter was a different wild color, floating up to the ceiling like helium balloons. But instead of popping, they all melted together. Was I speaking another language? Were the words understood by those around me? I looked into the faces of the other refugees and did not see anyone I recognized. I was alone in a crowded room. Paranoia, which was not a foreign feeling, began to take over. The thoughts were building and I knew I had to act quickly before I once again lost control over my reality, before I was again thrust down that rabbit hole.

To be continued…

The Day I Died - Part I © 2010 Dakini Verona

The Day I Died  - Part I © 2010 Dakini Verona

December 15, 1969. That date is stuck in my mind forever. Branded in my soul, so to speak. Yes – that is the day I died, or at least I thought I was dead. LSD is a very strange drug, a strong hallucinogenic, the strongest, I believe.  A drug which was developed, or actually stumbled upon,  by the Swiss scientist, Albert Hofmann in the 1930’s. He thought it would be used as an aid in psychoanalysis, but it never quite worked out that way.

Hoffman never mentioned that the US government used LSD in secret experiments on unwilling human participants in an attempt to learn how to dominate the world through mind control. Project MKULTRA  didn’t quite work the way they hoped, either. The mind cannot be controlled while under the influence of LSD. Now, don’t get me wrong, you can influence thoughts and you can alter a thought process somewhat, but is not now how they thought it would work. They were not prepared for the results. I  could have told them that.

Hofmann claimed that his wonder drug, LSD, was “hijacked” by the 60’s counter culture. He had a lot of hopes for the drug, but was not pleased with the abuse of it. One of the most famous of these hijackers was Timothy Leary.

Timothy Leary used LSD as a pathway to spiritual enlightenment. His famous mantra of “turn on, tune in, drop out” was used to promote the benefits of LSD. LSD was more of a religion than a pastime, to Leary and his followers.  To me, it was mostly a way to get high. A way to escape. I thank Dr. Leary for bringing LSD, (or acid, as we called it) to the mainstream. At a dollar a hit, it was easy even for me to get as much as I wanted, even if I had to pay for it myself, which was rare. Regardless of the fact that I did have some bad trips (some really bad trips) I still believe I benefitted overall. You see, through the use of LSD I discovered spiritual enlightenment and the afterlife, but wasn’t until many trips later.    

The Day I met my idol: Janis Joplin © 2010 Dakini Verona

The day I met my idol: Janis Joplin © 2010 Dakini Verona

It was a cold winter’s night in the middle of December, 1969. There I was, standing on the street called “St. Mark’s Place”. St. Mark’s was where I hung out. It was the East Village (lower east side of Manhattan). I did more than hang out in the streets, I lived there. Most people do not understand street life; they think living in the streets means you sleep in the street. That is not always the case and it was not the way it was for me. I spent my waking hours hanging out. Sometimes I would be panhandling; sometimes I would just stand and watch the people go by. Sometimes I would watch them watch me, like those brightly colored tour busses with the gawkers and their flashbulbs. 

We called ourselves “freaks” but everyone else called us “hippies”. Didn’t they know that all the real hippies were gone? Sure, there were those that looked like the flower children of yesterday, but there were posers. We called them the “bourgeois hippies”. They were those that came to the East Village on weekends to attend the concerts at the Fillmore. They lived in the comfort of their mommy and daddy’s home in the suburbs and never went hungry. They wore bell bottoms that were sold in boutiques, not those found in Navy surplus stores. They had money and lots of it. Those “hippies” had no clue about the ideologies embraced by those of us that lived in the subculture. They still revered the values of their parent’s and we – the real hippies had thrown that all away. Materialism was not only rejected it was our enemy.

Well back to the story. There I was – on the streets, no place to go. How did I get there – all alone, on that street corner, in the dead of winter? What was a 15 year old doing in the streets with no place to call home? I’ll get to that a bit later, but meanwhile, let me finish telling the story of how I met Janis.

I was standing in front of the Hippodrome with a small group of freaks. Suddenly, everyone around me started to whisper “Far Out! Look, right there. Across the street, it’s Janis!” I turned and looked. Sure enough. It was Janis. My heart stopped.

Suddenly, I found myself drawn to her. I just had to get closer. I rushed across the wild New York City traffic and melted into crowd which surrounded her. I stood back and watched in awe. Her presence was unmistakably that of the goddess she was. She had earned the title “Queen of Blues”, but even when she was not on stage, she had an unmistakable charisma. I was on the sidelines and watched her glow brighten the faces of those around her on that dark and dirty street. It was like watching a parade of light.

I began to scream from sheer joy, yet I uttered no sound. It was all inside my head. She was giggling like a little school girl – excited to have the adoration of her fans. She devoured the attention. It was then that I heard her infamous “cackle” and my knees went weak. Janis was wearing one of her trademark coats with lots of fur on the collar and cuffs. This one also had trim down the front, which resembled those worn by Russian Royalty. How appropriate that she be regally robed!

On her arm was a small man that seemed to be invisible, compared to her. A young aspiring actor, whose name escapes me as I write this. I remember thinking that he looked like a desperate little leprechaun clutching his pot of gold.  It was his lucky day, too. I guessed. His only claim to fame: to walk in the shadow of a super star. What I saw in his eyes was not what I expected. There was no love, no admiration; in fact, he seemed disturbed that she bathed in the attention she was getting. He actually looked annoyed. He wanted a taste of what she had, but it was as clear to me then as it is to me now – he was nothing… forever to be known to me as “the guy with Janis”.     

So there I was, in disbelief. Stars in my eyes. A grin plastered on my face. My mind screamed silently “Janis is right here in front of me!” And then. It happened. She actually looked over at me. Yes! Right at me! My face flushed and the world stood still for a moment. I could hear my heart beat in my ears, so I knew I was alive – otherwise I would have believed I had dies and gone to heaven.

To my further amazement she smiled at me, her eyes glinted as she nodded her head down and with a slight gesture of her hand beckoned for me to get closer to her. My brain shut down at this point and in disbelief I walked over next to her. To be honest, I almost tripped on myself as I skipped over to her. “Hey chicky” she said, “How the hell are you?” I am sure I must have responded…but not for a million dollars could I tell you what it was I said. “Want a drink?” she asked, as she reached in under her wooly robes and pulled out a bottle of her trademark drink: Southern Comfort. She opened it up and handed it to me saying “here, have some.”

Now, at that point it could have been arsenic or even holy water, it didn’t matter, there was no way I was going to refuse to drink whatever it was she offered. My fingers electrified when I touched the bottle, as they slightly brushed against her hand. I put the bottle to my lips and felt the rim warm my lips. She must have been carrying that bottle for some time under her coat. 

I slowly savored the sweet nectar of the thick swill. My tongue was instantly awake from the burn of the alcohol. I quickly swallowed and the hot glow followed the path to my gut. The burning must have been reflected on my face, because she giggled at my reaction. It was a giggle that only Janis could perform.  I never took my eyes from hers (except for the brief moment I tried to swallow the hot liquid).

She turned to the “shadow man” to offer him a sip of the drink. He too, came alive once she acknowledged his meager existence. Clearly, she was the star that night. Little did I know, little did any of us realize that our precious pearl would soon be lost to the addictions that consumed her body and soul, as is so common for all the great ones. The brighter the light, the faster the candle will burn – so they say.

Within a moment she was gone. She disappeared as quickly as she arrived, all that remained were footprints in the snow. The lingering taste of her “drink” left its impression for a short while.

To this day I smile fondly each time I see a bottle of Southern Comfort. Thank you, Janis – wherever you are, for acknowledging this little girl. It was one small and insignificant gesture on her part: offering a drink of swill to a cute little street urchin – but the experience itself marked my soul forever.

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