What better way to take in the sights, sounds and aromas of the Summer of Love than to book a reservation on a Greyhound Bus Line “Hippyland Tour” of the famous Haight-Ashbury district.
This San Francisco neighborhood was the epicenter of psychedelia in 1967. Musicians, akin to snake charmers, hypnotized the beautiful flower-children who gyrated like whirling dervishes. India-inspired glad rags and Peter Max posters filled the funky shops. And LSD had everybody seeing white rabbits. Kids were heading to SF with flowers in their hair to obey Jefferson Airplane’s directive: find somebody to love. George Harrison dropped down from the heavens to partake of the scene. The Monterey Pop Festival was the place to be, and the Beatles’ “Sgt. Pepper” album (released on June 1) was the LP to smoke dope to. Time magazine’s July 7 cover story was “The Hippies: The Philosophy of a Subculture.” Mainstream society was catching on. TV’s most trusted anchorman, Walter Cronkite, clued the clueless in on the happenings on his nightly network news report.
I, a child of 7 whose favorite “Revolver” song was the hypnotic “Tomorrow Never Knows,” stared at our black-and-white cabinet TV with envy at the scenes of peaceniks putting daisies in the barrels of police rifles, hippies dancing in a hallucinogenic stupor in Golden Gate Park, and pinkos burning draft cards in Chicago. Heck, by the time the Age of Aquarius hit Pennsyltucky it was already the Age of Libra. But I could dream, couldn’t I?
It was cultural voyeurs like me (and profit potential) that no doubt inspired Greyhound to launch a “Hippland Bus Tour” of the Haight district in April of 1967. Imagine, everyone from wanna-be hipsters to well-coiffed housewives to short-haired accountants (as John Lennon described the unhip) gawking through bus windows, in awe of this psychedelic horn-a-plenty! It was a Magical Mystery Tour for those who dreaded what their kiddies might dream of experiencing. The media played up the Greyhound tour, drawing thousands of kids to the Haight to perform like wild zoo-children, while spectators snapped photos with their little Kodaks, safe behind tempered glass.
The youthquake of 1967 was a short-lived diversion from the troubles of the day. It wouldn’t be long before 1968 ushered in some of the worst tragedies of the decade: the mayhem at the Democratic National Convention, student-cop clashes on campuses, mounting Vietnam War horrors, and the assassinations of two leaders who offered us hope: Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King, Jr. “Blood on the streets runs a river of sadness,” sang Jim Morrison.
Here’s the original Scott McKenzie song that set the mood for 1967. “If you’re going to San Francisco, be sure to wear some flowers in your hair.”
Nearly a year after first publishing this article, I was thrilled to receive an email from the beautiful young lady in the photo at the top of this post. Her name is Kathy Aydelotte Castro, and she was only 16 when photographer Robert W. Klein took this picture of her during a Summer Solstice gathering in San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park in 1967. He took the photo for the Associated Press; it was later published in various newspapers and magazines. Klein may or may not have asked for her written permission to publish this photo. Nevertheless, the name “Judy Smith” became attached to it. She’s never received any type of recognition for the picture, so I hope to correct that now! Thanks, Kathy, for finding my blog and contacting me. It’s great to connect with someone whose photo I chose from the dozens I screened for this article. (Apologies to Mr. Klein for using the photo without his permission.)
© Dana Spiardi, May 6, 2014
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The affable Ringo forfeited his choices to the others, who came up with a diverse assortment of characters: Shirley Temple, Carl Jung, Mae West, Edgar Allan Poe, Sonny Liston, Tyrone Power, and Lenny Bruce, to name just a few of the more than 70 people represented. The Beatles’ record company EMI was careful to obtain permission from every living person before reproducing their likeness on the cover. The ever sardonic John Lennon suggested two historical figures bound to cause controversy: Jesus Christ and Adolf Hitler. Excluding JC from the cover was a no-brainer: John’s 1966 “Beatles are bigger than Christ” remark had already caused enough of a brouhaha. But convincing him to forgo Hitler took some persuading.
The designers went so far as to create and place a cardboard model of the Nazi leader on the set. A picture from a March 30, 1967, photo session clearly shows a non-uniformed Hitler standing to the right of hand-waving writer Stephen Crane. In fact, Der Führer remained in the final shot, unseen, hidden behind Tarzan actor Johnny Weissmuller, who stands directly behind Ringo.
What was John thinking? Sure, he loved black humor, but this clearly pushed the boundaries of satire. I guess the bigger question is: Why have so many British artists had a fascination with Hitler, with Nazi fashion and, in some cases, with fascist philosophy? It’s intrigued me for years. In my two-part article “Heil, Heil Rock-n-Roll. What’s with Brit Rockers and the Reich?” I attempt to provide some insight — hopefully, without appearing to excuse, justify or make light of truly bad behavior. Click the links below or in the right column to read on.
Heil, Heil, Rock and Roll. What’s with Brit Rockers and the Third Reich? Part one
Heil, Heil, Rock and Roll. What’s with Brit Rockers and the Third Reich? Part two
Click the image below to see the cast of characters on the “Sgt. Pepper” LP.
© Dana Spiardi, March 30, 2015
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Now, if you’re old enough to get that Bugs-Daffy cartoon reference, you’re no doubt old enough to remember a song that today would be considered a “women’s power” anthem: Nancy Sinatra’s “These Boots are Made for Walkin’, which hit the #1 spot on the Billboard charts in January1966. With it’s slinky guitar strut and finger-pointing tough girl lyrics, it quickly became a favorite among my growing collection of 45s. What a way for a six-year-old to learn the fine art of insult and accusation!
You keep lying, when you oughta be truthin’.
And you keep losin’, when you oughta not bet.
You keep samin’, when you oughta be a-changin’.
Now what’s right is right, but you ain’t been right yet.
These boots are made for walkin’. And that’s just what they’ll do.
One of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you.
As I sat in my room, watching the record player’s needle skate so nicely along the grooves of the little vinyl disc, I wondered: “Would I ever be angry enough at a boy to tell him off like this?” “Would I ever have the occasion to use such interesting language?” All in due time, all in due time.
And would I ever be mature enough to wear boots like the red ones Nancy wore on the cover of the record sleeve? No, I would never reach an adequate level of maturity. But that didn’t stop my fab mom from buying me my first pair of white mini go-gos soon after the song’s release kicked-off a national boot craze. First-graders in go-go boots? Well, it was the swinging ’60s after all. (A year later Mrs. Lore sent me to the principal’s office for wearing lilac-colored fishnet stockings to school. Hey, could I help it if Mommy followed Chrissie Shrimpton and Twiggy?)
For a few years in the psychedelic ’60s, Nancy Sinatra was as fab as her famous father Frank was considered square by the hippies. She released a string of hit records, appeared in TV shows and starred with Elvis in one of his silly formula movies, “Speedway.” Even the young Material Girl was a Nancy fan. “Nancy Sinatra was a huge influence on me,” said Madonna. “I wanted to put on my go-go boots and walk all over someone.” (And she’s done just THAT, alright!)
Nancy’s classic put-down song was written by Lee Hazlewood, who penned many of her hits, produced her records and occasionally sang with her, duet-style. It was recorded using the top studio musicians of the day: legendary “Wrecking Crew” members Hal Blaine on drums; Al Casey, Tommy Tedesco, and Billy Strange on guitars; Ollie Mitchell, Roy Caton and Lew McCreary on horns; and Carol Kaye on electric bass. The defining funky bass line was the work of Chuck Berghofer. “Boots” sold over a million copies and was nominated for three Grammy awards. It’s been covered by Geri Halliwell, Megadeth, Jessica Simpson, Lil’ Kim, Billy Ray Cyrus, Faster Pussycat, and The Supremes.
By the mid-1970s Nancy Sinatra would nearly disappear from the music scene, as singers like Laura Nyro, Joni Mitchell, Carly Simon, and Carole King gained fame for their songwriting skills and earthier material. But she’ll always occupy a special place in my pantheon of girl rockers. Her music entertained me at a time when I was too green for Grace Slick and too cool for Connie Francis. And thanks to her cry-tough song, I’ve spent my life knee-deep in a boot bonanza.
Oh, how I wanted to use “Little Boots” as my nom de plume, but some British poptart had already taken it as her stage name. Maybe it’s just as well. It is, after all, the English translation of Caligula, the nickname of Rome’s most monstrous emperor, Gaius. Oh, we excitable Italians and our footwear!
Here’s Nancy struttin’ her stuff. To me at age 6, this TV clip was the height of groovy. Ooh, I just found me a brand new box of matches!
© Dana Spiardi, Jan 28, 2012 (original publication date)
Some critics panned his depiction of the pop artist; Examiner art critic David Bonetti wrote, “[the film’s] most notable failure is David Bowie’s Warhol.” But many who knew the pop artist intimately hailed Bowie’s interpretative work. Paul Morrissey, who directed many of Warhol’s films, said, “You come away from Basquiat thinking Andy was comical and amusing, not a pretentious, phony piece of shit, which is how [other actors] show him.” Bob Colacello, who edited Warhol’s Interview magazine in the 70s and early 80s, also compared various actors’ portrayals, saying, “[Crispin] Glover walked the most like [the real] Andy, [Jared] Harris talked the most like Andy, and Bowie looked the most like Andy. When I first saw Bowie on the set, it was like Andy had been resurrected.” (The Andy Warhol Museum in Pittsburgh loaned Andy’s actual wig, glasses and jacket to Bowie to wear during filming.)
Bowie must have relished that film role. His fascination with the pop art provocateur began at an early age — back when he was David Jones, growing up in South London. In 1971, the Man Who Would Be Ziggy wrote a rather abstruse song, “Andy Warhol,” in tribute to the artist.
Andy Warhol looks a scream
Hang him on my wall
Andy Warhol, Silver Screen
Can’t tell them apart at all
He dreamed of one day performing the tune live for Andy, and was about to get his chance in September 1971 when he and his former wife Angie came to New York to sign a record deal with RCA. His tour manager Tony Zanetta took him to Warhol’s “Factory” and introduced the two unconventional characters to one another. In a January 11, 2016, column for the online magazine Bedford+Bowery, Zanetta recalled the encounter:
“The meeting was kind of tense because Warhol was not a great talker, you had to talk and entertain Andy, and David really wasn’t a great talker either. Nobody was really taking this conversation and running with it. So they were circling each other and then David gave him a copy of “Hunky Dory,” on which was his ode to Andy Warhol, the song ‘Andy Warhol.’ We probably played it, I can’t remember. Warhol didn’t say anything but absolutely hated it. Which didn’t help the meeting. Remember, David Bowie was not a big star. He was just some guy off the street as far as Andy Warhol was concerned. They found a common ground in David’s shoes. David was wearing yellow Mary Janes and Andy had been a shoe illustrator, which David knew so they began talking about shoes. Otherwise it was not the greatest meeting [laughs].”
Writer Glenn O’Brien offered his own recollection of the encounter in a January 11, 2016, column for Out. He describes a long-haired Bowie in baggy trousers and a floppy hat performing a strange pantomime before presenting his ode to Andy (some who were present that day said he sang the song, others claim he played the record instead).
O’Brien wrote, “I don’t think Andy could tell whether it was an homage or a send-up, with its rather ambiguous lyrics, but everyone was very nice and polite…I don’t know what Andy thought of that day — probably not much, but he had that sense of judging a person’s self-esteem, and I think Bowie passed on that count.”
Bowie’s obituary in The Telegraph recounted the mood following his performance: “Warhol was upset by the lines: He’ll think about paint and he’ll think about glue / What a jolly boring thing to do – and left the room, returning only to kneel and take a photograph of Bowie’s yellow shoes. Bowie never again penetrated the inner circle.”
True. Unlike his contemporaries Lou Reed and Mick Jagger, the Thin White Duke would never end up sharing intimate conversations with Andy at Max’s Kansas City or Studio 54. (I couldn’t even find a photo of Andy and David together, and you know how much Andy liked being photographed with the rich and famous.) Anyway, Warhol no doubt came to appreciate Bowie’s brilliance through the years. And there’s no denying Bowie’s adoration for the painter. When Basquiat writer-director Julian Schnabel (himself a painter) chose the singer to play the part of Warhol in the film, he was understandably thrilled.
Here are some scenes of Bowie as Andy. Enjoy!
This clip features Bowie, along with Jeffrey Wright as Basquiat, Dennis Hopper as art dealer Bruno Bischofberger, and the wonderfully quirky Benicio del Toro as Basquiat’s friend Benny.
The first scene of this clip features all the main characters, plus Parker Posey as gallery owner Mary Boone (sitting next to Basquiat) and Michael Wincott as party-crashing art dealer Rene Ricard. In the second scene we see how Andy created his famous oxidation paintings, also known as “piss paintings.” The clip ends with a scene of a disillusioned Basquiat, spending an afternoon in New York with his mentor, Andy.
Here’s a look at a Basquiat/Warhol collaborative session. You can see many of their joint projects on display at the fabulous Andy Warhol Museum in Pittsburgh.
Finally, here’s some rare film footage of David Bowie taken during his visit to Warhol’s factory in 1971. His pantomime performance is cut to the song “Andy Warhol” from the “Hunky Dory” LP.
© Dana Spiardi, Jan 11, 2016
The title of this article was inspired by my friend George Heidekat.
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Born Haroldo Santiago Franceschi Rodriguez Danhakl, Ms. Woodlawn died of cancer on December 5, at age 69. Click here to read her obit in the New York Times. It quotes Holly in a 2007 article in The Guardian: “I felt like Elizabeth Taylor. Little did I realize that not only would there be no money, but that your star would flicker for two seconds and that was it. But it was worth it, the drugs, the parties; it was fabulous.”
She’s now in Warhol Superstar Heaven with Candy Darling (James Lawrence Slattery), Jackie Curtis (John Curtis Holder, Jr.), Ultra Violet (Isabelle Collin Dufresne), Cyrinda Foxe, Ingrid Superstar (Ingrid von Schefflin), Nico, and my favorite, Edie Sedgwick. Candy and Jackie are also portrayed in Lou’s “Walk on the Wild Side” (along with “Little Joe” Dallesandro and Joe Campbell, aka “Sugar Plum Fairy”).
In 1991, Holly wrote the brilliantly-titled memoir “A Low Life in High Heels,” co-written with Jeff Copeland. It’s high time I read it.
Here’s a video excerpt from “Cabaret in the Sky: An Evening with Holly Woodlawn and Jackie Curtis.” It features some nice photos of Holly in her prime.
© Dana Spiardi, Dec 9, 2015
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