Gettin' Trippy in "Lullville"
Fort Knox, Kentucky was a strange place to close out the Summer of Love. "Easy Rider" played at the post movie house--for 25 cents, a bargain, but when the lights came up, you were still in your fatiques, with no chopper (at least not a Harley chopper) outside waiting for you.
Still, we did our best to put a little Haight-Ashbury into "Luullllville." (You don't say "Louis-ville" or even "Louie-ville", you sort of gargle out the first syllable, lulling your way into the word--"Luulll-ville".)
Having spent a big hunk of my youth in California, I was the de facto authority on hippy life. We might be in the Land of Fast Women and Beautiful Horses, but we still wanted to experience that Dawning of the Age of Aquarius.
I had one trick that I thought might get this party started--a "poor hippies' light show" technique--you turned off all the lights in a room, hung a hanger from the ceiling, tied a knotted plastic bag dangling above a red plastic water-filled bucket. Light the thing on fire, and the dripping, sizzling plastic lit up the room, particularly when the flaming drops crashed into the fire cauldron below. Iron Butterfly's "In-A-Gadda-da-Vida" was the musical backdrop.
"Oh, wow--" said the Lieutenant, "it looks just like tracers."
Apparently the pulsating red light from the window at the officer's barracks drew attention and the MPs came by late into the drum solo. They seemed disappointed we didn't have any reefer on hand. Nothing illegal going on here, Sergeant, just good fun.
"Conduct unbecoming..." muttered the Sergeant, but nothing came of it. 'Scuse me while I kiss the sky.
Gettin' Trippy in "Lullville"
Fort Knox, Kentucky was a strange place to close out the Summer of Love. "Easy Rider" played at the post movie house--for 25 cents, a bargain, but when the lights came up, you were still in your fatiques, with no chopper (at least not a Harley chopper) outside waiting for you.
Still, we did our best to put a little Haight-Ashbury into "Luullllville." (You don't say "Louis-ville" or even "Louie-ville", you sort of gargle out the first syllable, lulling your way into the word--"Luulll-ville".)
Having spent a big hunk of my youth in California, I was the de facto authority on hippy life. We might be in the Land of Fast Women and Beautiful Horses, but we still wanted to experience that Dawning of the Age of Aquarius.
I had one trick that I thought might get this party started--a "poor hippies' light show" technique--you turned off all the lights in a room, hung a hanger from the ceiling, tied a knotted plastic bag dangling above a red plastic water-filled bucket. Light the thing on fire, and the dripping, sizzling plastic lit up the room, particularly when the flaming drops crashed into the fire cauldron below. Iron Butterfly's "In-A-Gadda-da-Vida" was the musical backdrop.
"Oh, wow--" said the Lieutenant, "it looks just like tracers."
Apparently the pulsating red light from the window at the officer's barracks drew attention and the MPs came by late into the drum solo. They seemed disappointed we didn't have any reefer on hand. Nothing illegal going on here, Sergeant, just good fun.
"Conduct unbecoming..." muttered the Sergeant, but nothing came of it. 'Scuse me while I kiss the sky.