Category Archives: Fashion, music, politics, sports

Politics, music, and fashion

Fashion, music, politics, sports

[December 18, 1969] Everyman's Sports (ski outfits of 1969!)

Leave a comment

Science Fiction Theater Episode #15

Tonight (Dec. 19), tune in at 7pm (Pacific) for our special, Christmas-themed episode!


by Gwyn Conaway

What with the frigid temperatures, tornado gusts, and a decidedly worrisome storm brewing in New England (that may just materialize on Christmas day itself), it seems apropos to find a fashionable silver lining… in ski suits!

Photograph of two women skiing. They're on a snowy landscape, wearing two-piece jumpsuits (one woman wearing all blue, the other all orange) and protective helmets. The woman dressed in blue is standing in the background and looking into the distance. The woman dressed in orange is simulating a falling position with spread arms and legs. There is a tall rocky formation covered in snow farther in the background.
An interpretive fall choreographed by Vogue to express the woes that befall us this blustery, frigid holiday season.

Being from sunny Southern California, I don’t often experience the joy of fresh white powder on the mountains except when I glance up at Mt. San Antonio from my mailbox. For many, however, heading to the slopes is a multigenerational tradition that’s been usurped by the chic upper echelons of the sports world. But while the '60s cemented skiing as a resort hobby for the wealthy, it looks to me like the '70s will usher in a fresh take on athletics as a symbol of the middle class.

This trend perfectly suits sports such as skiing and tennis, which both have a rich history that transcends economic class. Modern tennis is rooted in summertime lawn sports such as the humble handball played by medieval French monks, and skiing has been a means of countryside transportation for thousands of years all over the world.

The Dunlop Volley court sneaker worn by Aussie tennis superstars is emblematic of this cross-class shift back towards accessibility and practicality in these sports. The shoe is “a bit of tent canvas glued to some tyre tread,” as one squash hobbyist put it. It’s lightweight, flexible, and has absolutely no bells or whistles. They’re easily affordable too, which has turned them into an icon of middle class Australia.

A photograph of tennis shoes.
The original Dunlop Volleys from the late 1960s with its simple blue lining and distinctive white tread.

A black-and-white photograph of a man playing tennis.
Rod Laver wearing his volleys on the court in the late 60s.

Ski suits seem to be following a similar trend. Skiing in the sixties was typified by its stretch pants and trapeze coats, both of which were agile but severely lacking insulation. The trend continues this year, combined with classic woolen socks and geometric patterns that are taking the slopes by storm.

A photograph of a woman walking up a mountain slope in skis. She's wearing a protective helmet and goggles and leaning on her ski poles to look toward the left of the image. There's a snowy mountain in the background.
Ernst Haas captures the modern elegance of the slopes in this photoshoot for Sports Illustrated, 1969. Geometric, high contrast patterns have become the rage of high ski fashion this year.

You’ll also find a new idea (perhaps one should say a refreshingly old idea) on those white summits, however. A warmer style that isn’t so demure and slim, designed specifically for resorts in Aspen and Telluride. This new look is made by people that eat, breathe, and sleep snow without the immediate access to fireplaces and hot cocoa. It celebrates athleticism rather than postcard moments, and returns skiing to its roots: exploration, adventure, and conquest.

A photograph of a woman skiing. We see her from a low angle. She's wearing an all-black jacket and pants, black sunglasses, a white wool cap, and a white-and-blue striped scarf.
Ernst Engel designed this safari ski suit, styled with an Abercrombie & Fitch mitts and muffler set. This trend will overwhelm the long willowy lines of stretch pants, no question about it.

You can see this shift already in the November 1969 issue of Vogue, where a shiny chocolate vinyl ski suit is photographed with a hardy wool muffler set. It features an insulated safari jacket cut long with four large patch pockets and a set of military-inspired epaulettes. The look is so reminiscent of the intrepid spirit of the turn of the century that Nelly Bly would have killed to wear it when she circumnavigated the world.

C.B. Vaughan, world-renowned speed skier, has had a hand in this transition too, selling skiwear of his own design to fellow Vermonters and resort-goers from the trunk of his car. His so-called “super pants” are bound to make it big in the coming years. The design is focused on performance with heavy-duty zippers and Velcro to keep the cold at bay while simultaneously discarding the refinery of wealthy plankers that never felt authentic to him.

Two photographs. On the left we see a pair of blue denim pants on a clothes hanger, with a white brick wall and a wooden floor on the background. On the right we see a close-up of the pant cuff.
An example of C.B. Vaughan's earliest super pants with zippers on the center back of each pant leg and a smart leather pant on the inside ankle to protect the leg from a skier's boots as they strafe downhill.

I applaud C.B. Vaughan’s perfect timing and dogged determination! The combination of working-class gumption, resort sports, and industrial materials is bound to inspire a generation angling to influence the world from the streets up. Brands like CB Sports and Volley will certainly shape the pedestrian-chic look of sports in the seventies. With the New Year nearly upon us, I can’t wait to see what’s in store…

Even if I do have to squint to see it from my mailbox.

[New to the Journey?  Read this for a brief introduction!]


Follow on BlueSky

No comments Leave A Comment
Fashion, music, politics, sports, Magazine/Anthology, Science Fiction/Fantasy

[November 14, 1969] To Experiment or Not To Experiment, That is the Question. (The New S. F. & Vision of Tomorrow #2)

Leave a comment


By Mx Kris Vyas-Myall

Among musicians right now, there seems to be a split around whether to look towards an experimental future or an idealized past for their inspiration.

Covers for Blind Faith LP and Single of Je T'Aime, both featuring nudity
Both in pop music and SF, nudity and sex remain sources of controversy.

The most explicit examples of Futurism come from two recent singles, Zager and Evans’ In the Year 2525 and David Bowie’s Space Oddity. But there is also the debut album from King Crimson, featuring the song 21st Century Schizoid Man, The Moody Blues’ space inspired LP, and Pink Floyd performed a new piece recently in honour of the Moon Landing. In addition, the music industry is pushing what is acceptable sexually whether that be in artwork, such as the Blind Faith cover above, or interesting choices of sounds on pop songs.

Cover for Barabajagal by Donovan, featuring an Edwardian style cover, and Unhalfbricking by Fairport Convention, featuring an old couple in front of a garden fence.
Did the Kinks have a point about preserving village greens?

On the other hand, at this time last month 4 of the top 5 singles were all country influenced songs, from Bobbie Gentry, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Johnny Cash and Bob Dylan. Now, there has always been some country influence in the charts (as shown by Jim Reeves having 7 posthumous top 20 singles and counting) but it is certainly reaching a new level when the Beach Boys and Rolling Stones are both trying it out. In addition, folk is also growing, often with a nostalgic edge, in such songs as Fairport Convention’s Who Knows Where the Time Goes or Donovan’s Atlantis.

These differences can also be seen in SF and, perhaps, there is no clearer division than that which can be observed between the two publications I am reviewing today.

The New S.F., ed. by Langdon Jones
The New SF hardback cover 1969.
Cover by Colin Mier

An introduction by Michael Moorcock

Who else would you choose but Moorcock to introduce this selection of New Wave authors? Here he talks about how the “new SF writers” or “New Worlds group” have moved beyond spaceships and monsters to do more person-centric poetic pieces.

Fourteen Stations on the Northern Line by Giles Gordon

Fourteen different men observe an unnamed woman to different degrees of lechery as she walks up a hill. She fails to notice them as she has other things on her mind.

If it was not in this collection, it would probably not be considered SF, more akin to a Joyce than a Gernsback, only approaching the latter with the surrealism of the mind.

Moorcock’s introduction notes this as an example of a “compacted novel”, one that could be extended to a traditional novel but that would blunt the impact significantly. I cannot determine if I wanted this to be longer, shorter or reworked, but something is amiss. The metaphor, though obvious, is a good one (what passenger on a train pays attention to the small commuter stations?) and the difference in the inner lives of the observer and observed make a solid basis. But it left me wanting something better from it.

Three Stars

The Peking Junction by Michael Moorcock

A Jerry Cornelius story from his creator. In this episode, Europe has been devastated by American bombs (of course Europe still supports their allies in this action) and our dandified spy goes to China to deal with a downed American plane. His mission is complicated by the fact that he falls in love with one of the Chinese generals.

One interesting element here is Moorcock explicitly calls out the connection between Cornelius and his other tales:

Having been Elric, Asquiol, Minos, Aquilinus, Clovis Marca, now and forever he was Jerry Cornelius of the noble price, proud prince of ruins, boss of the circuits. Faustaff, Muldoon, the eternal champion…

There was always a suggestion of this previously, and The Blood Red Game (Science Fiction Adventures, 1963) and A Cure for Cancer both feature multiple universes, but I believe this is the first time we get it confirmed that this is not simply a case of repeated motifs.

Looking at it in this manner, we see the biting contemporary satire evolving into a more epic struggle and Moorcock’s other heroes as more than just throwaway fantasy figures. Rather there is a degree of tragedy in them having to deal with these various forces of order and chaos, making horrific choices for, what they hope, is the greater good (which rarely ends well).

A High Four Stars

Fast Car Wash by George MacBeth

A car gets cleaned… that is the entire story.

Moorcock calls this a readymade poem. I am assuming forthcoming are also a transcription of microwave instructions and George MacBeth’s shopping list.

One star

The Anxiety in the Eyes of the Cricket by James Sallis

Another Jerry Cornelius story, who is seemingly becoming to the New Wave what the Cthulhu tales have become to SF horror. This vignette apparently takes place shortly after the end of The Peking Junction (although Moorcock indicates this is better read as an alternative version) as JC returns to England a broken man. He stays in the house of his friend Michael, a man who predicted the apocalyptic future. They spend their time drinking and having sex between watching devastation from their window and discussing the nature of guilt.

A much quieter tale and more introspective than the other Cornelius tales with a good dose of narrative experimentation (if Michael is not surnamed Moorcock, I will eat my hat) added in. It is also incredibly bleak, with cities burning, Britain used as America’s crematorium, and Cornelius a broken man now simply looking for his missing family. But it is all the more powerful for it.

Five Stars

The New Science Fiction: A Conversation between J. G. Ballard & George MacBeth

This is the transcription of part of a discussion on BBC Radio 3 (formerly the Third Programme) last year titled The New Surrealism. In this extract, J. G. Ballard explains why he moved away from linear storytelling.

I missed this on its broadcast and I am very pleased it was reproduced here. Ballard manages to explain eloquently what he is trying to achieve in his stories and it has given me an increased appreciation for his work. Two sections I want to call out here as particularly incisive:

…one has many layers, many levels of experience going on at the same time. On one level might be the world of public events, Cape Kennedy, Vietnam, political life, on another level the immediate personal environment, the rooms we occupy, the postures we assume. On a third level, the inner world of the mind. All these levels are, as far as I can see them, equally fictional, and it is where these levels interact that one gets the only kind of inner reality that in fact exists nowadays.

…Burroughs’s narrative techniques… [are] an immediately recognisable reflection of the way life is actually experienced, that we live in quantified non-linear terms – we switch on television sets, switch them off half an hour later, speak on the telephone, read magazines, dream, and so forth. We don’t live our lives in linear terms in the sense that Victorians did.

Recommended for fans and confused readers alike.

Five Stars

So Far from Prague by Brian W. Aldiss

Another of Aldiss’ tales of Europeans in India. This time Slansky, a Czech filmmaker, is staying in a Das’ hotel outside Delhi when he hears of the Soviet invasion, He wants to get back home to help resist the attack, Das thinks they should be concentrating on their joint film project on the nature of time. Things get even more complicated when Slansky discovers there is a Russian guest in the room below his.

Interestingly, this manages a similar feel to Sallis’ piece even though it is contemporary rather than apocalyptic and could only be considered SFnal in the broadest sense. Here it is an exploration of the age-old argument of whether art can or should be apolitical, with this sense of gloom and despair. An important reminder that worlds are being blown up outside our window, not just in our magazines.

Four Stars

Direction by Charles Platt

An unnamed man has an argument at home. In response he gets drunk in a pub and then wanders around London in an inebriated haze.

Another piece where I am not sure the point of it, nor what it is doing in an SF anthology. There are some interesting writing techniques but that is all I can see to recommend it.

A low two stars

Postatomic by Michael Butterworth

We are told of four impossible beings, who may or may not be the same character across different time periods.

Not sure what its purpose is but it is certainly evocative.

Three Stars

For Thomas Tompion by Michael Moorcock

Moorcock completes his trilogy of entries with a four-line poem, addressed to the father of English clock-making.

Simple but well done for what it is.

Three stars

A Science Fiction Story for Joni Mitchell by Maxim Jakubowski

A science fiction writer has grown dissatisfied with the genre; instead he wants to write neo-psychedelic pop songs and tales of drug journeys. However, he has a deadline to hit, and the adventures of Coit Kid vs. the Subliminal Police don’t write themselves. Anyway, there is no chance of his other ideas intruding on a good old-fashioned science fiction story, is there?

A hilarious take on writing, modern pop music and science fiction cliches. It is done in a series of cut up pieces but logical rather than disparate. The whole exercise is delicious and I am going to be remembering many of the lines for some time.

Five Stars

The Communicants by John Sladek

This novella is a fragmented narrative, telling of a disparate set of people who work at Drum Inc., a technology company which provides a wide variety of services over phone lines and dreams of superseding Bell as the national monopoly.

Members of this organisation include Marilyn, who keeps getting mysterious calls that simply say “Marilyn, he loves you”, Sam Kravon, who is being driven mad by his job in Estimates, Phil Wang, the Art Director who is sure people are questioning his loyalty to the US, Ray, a cripple who is being constantly shuffled between departments, and David, who believes reality is refrangible.

At the same time, there are hints of experiments going on within the company that are of interest to the CIA.

Partially this is an extension of his multiple-choice form tales from New Worlds, with these regularly interrupting the text. And partially this is an experiment of split narratives, with the narrative like a butterfly flitting between different stories with such regularity that I wondered if I could use a flow chart.

Whilst it is an interesting experiment, it goes on for far too long (at almost 70 pages, far longer than anything else in this collection) and the whole is less than the sum of its parts.

Three Stars

Seeking a Suitable Donor by D. M. Thomas

An organ donor before their surgery contemplates his journey to this point.

The strange alignment of the text doesn’t add much to this tale of familiar themes but a perfectly reasonable example.

Three Stars

The Holland of the Mind by Pamela Zoline

Graham, Jessica and their child Rachel take a holiday from the US to Amsterdam in 1963. However, visiting the Venice of the North is not going to help them outrun their problems.

This is a tricky one to review. On the one hand it is beautifully written but shocking look at depression and the breakdown of a marriage, counterpointing the history of the Netherlands with their personal situation.

On the other, it is barely SFnal. There is one moment towards the end which could be taken as such. But it could also be taken as metaphorical and\or natural phenomena. As such I was partially disappointed. It reminded me somewhat of Morris’ travelogue Venice.

However, I adore Morris’ writing. As such I am happy to give it the benefit of the doubt and judge it as a piece of literary short fiction. On those grounds it is brilliant.

Five Stars

Quincunx by Thomas M. Disch

As the name suggests, this is made up of five vignettes:

• Chrysanthemums: Mr. Candolle ponders the meaning of chrysanthemums in hospital rooms
• Representation: The narrator speaks of his lost love Judith
• The Death of Lurleen Wallace: A circular tale of princes, presidential campaigns and books
• Mate: A letter from former lovers which also deals with a correspondence chess match
• The Assumption: Miss Lockesly teaches her class about death

I am not sure though what shape we are meant to form. To some extent they are all about endings in different ways but no consensus is reached nor are they particularly profound.

Two Stars

Thus ends this experiment of a book, one which I have rated all over the place. To change a famous quote, there is a thin line between genius and drivel. This anthology erases it.

Vision of Tomorrow #2
Vision of Tomorrow #2 cover, with a picture illustrating Quarry by E. C. Tubb
Cover Illustration: Gerard Alfo Quinn

Issue #2 has finally arrived. No explanation is given for the delay other than “circumstances beyond our control”.  Whatever the reason, we shall now dive into the contents:

Quarry by E. C. Tubb
Black & White ink drawing of a man lying in the desert with a hot sun beating down on him
Illustrated by Gerard Alfo Quinn

Quelto Daruti is a prisoner of the Federation. he decides to make use of an obscure law. The Quarry-Hunt. He is to be hunted across the harsh landscape of Zen to sanctuary. If he can make it alive, he will be pardoned, but the only person who ever managed it before died of their wounds soon afterwards.

Durati however has two advantages the authorities do not know about. Firstly, he is a telepath. Secondly, the Terran league are very interested in his survival

Yes, it is yet another spin on The Most Dangerous Game, but a pretty good one. Stylistically it can be heavy at times, but this is made up for when it is action packed.

Just sneaks in at four stars.

Strictly Legal by Douglas Fulthorpe
Black and white drawing of the Moon with a giant spider across it
Illustrated by James

The intelligent spider-creatures of Proxima Centauri claim ownership of Earth’s Moon, on the grounds that it detached from one of their planets when it was molten. At first everyone assumes this is a joke. However, it turns out they are in deadly earnest, and the legal implications of the case will have devastating consequences.

This is a slippery slope argument delivered with all the subtlety of a brick through a window. The style is readable enough, but it requires so many “what-ifs” to make the idea work, I am not surprised everyone inside this piece of fiction assumes it is all a joke.

Two Stars

Moonchip by John Rankine

Millenia ago a small piece of metal fell to Earth. It has now been mined and ended up part of a car, one that is involved in a strangely high number of fatal accidents. But that is just coincidence, right?

I found this to be a dull and violent tale with little purpose. Maybe if you enjoy hoary old horror stories or car-based fiction it will appeal to you, but not to me.

One Star

A Judge of Men by Michael G. Coney
Black and white drawing of two men standing in a jungle shaking hands with a creature who resembles an elephant's leg with tentacles attached.
Illustrated by Eddie Jones

Scott travels with the trader Bancroft to the planet Karumba, the only source of Shroom (a kind of puff ball that can be woven) in the galaxy. The Shroom harvest is lessening as the planet gets colder and Karumbans may face extinction. However, having seen how humans treat animals in zoos, they refuse to allow any scientific help from humanity. Bancroft is willing to respect the Kamburans' wishes, the young ambitious Scott, however, is determined to solve the mysteries of this world, no matter what anyone else may think.

This did not go in the direction I expected. This started out seeming like it was merely going to be an experiment in xenobiology and the effects of planetary tilt but it went into much deeper territory around what it means to be a person, respect for native belief systems and the responsibility of ethical science.

My only complaint is it was too short to address all of the areas it touched on properly. I would love to see it expanded into one-half of an Ace Double.

A high four stars

Frozen Assets by Dan Morgan

Larry is a used air-car salesman who, with his fiancée Olivia is determined to find a way to get rich quick according to their realist philosophy. The first scheme involves being married to a wealthy divorcee but it turns out the pre-nuptial agreement states that Olivia won’t get any money from accidental death until after five years.

Larry then discovers there is a cure for cirrhosis of the liver, a condition his rich uncle Frank was cryogenically frozen with. He hopes to revive Frank and take control of his estate, however Frank is not quite as witless as Larry supposes.

This is the kind of story I dislike. It requires the setting up of a series of silly rules people follow, explaining them as they go along. In addition, it wends all over the place, barely sticking in one place for more than a moment.

One star

The Impatient Dreamers 2: Aims and Objects by Walter Gillings
A series of article cut outs with the caption: Headlines from the Ilford Recorder of 1931 proclaimed the 'new literary movement' which aimed to popularize science fiction. A leaflet circulated through remainder magazines on sale here appealed to readers to get in touch with the Science Literary Circle started by Walter Gillings and Len Kippin.

Filling in the gap between installments 1 and 3, we learn of Gillings' efforts to show that there is a strong enough market for science fiction in Britain to support a magazine.

This series continues to be excellent and contains a lot of fascinating details. Such as that Britain at this time didn’t have specialist fiction magazines at all and that Len Kippin just would hand out leaflets wherever he saw SF on sale.

Five Stars

Echo by William F. Temple
A human sits in an advanced room with lizard-like men in spacesuits
Illustrated by B. M. Finch

The Saurian Venusians have taken over the body of Richard Gaunt by use of a temporary echo of the personality of Narvel. They intend to steal the secrets of Organic Materials Inc., however, it turns out that being a human is harder than it seems.

I actually covered this last year in Famous, and I was planning to just reprint my review from there. However, curiosity got the better of me and I decided to look for any changes. I was taken aback that it was almost entirely rewritten. The plot remains identical but the prose is almost a complete overhaul. To compare one of the more similar sections:

Famous version:

Being a mammal, without previous experience, was to me a series of surprises, mostly unpleasant.
Gaunt, I knew, had the social habit of drinking whiskey. I first drank whiskey on the Pacific with a couple of engineers from Minneapolis.
After a while, I remarked with some concern. “Darn, it, the grav-motors are failing.”
This sometimes happened on space trips, and until they were repaired everyone had to endure free fall. I’d felt the beginning of free fall coming on; at least, I felt I was beginning to float. And I said so.
The two men looked at me strangely, then at each other.
“One whiskey on the rocks and he’s floating,” laughed one.

And the Vision version:

I became a Tyro mammal among experienced mammals.
My deficiencies first began to show on the spaceship to Earth. On the passenger list I was Richard Gaunt. I was Gaunt, physically. I did my best to act like him personally.
I knew he had this social habit of drinking whisky. I gave it a whirl at the bar with an engineer from Minneapolis.
After two whiskies, I remarked, ‘What’s gone wrong with the grav-motors?’
My companion looked at me strangely.
‘They seem okay to me. Sure I’s not the whisky hitting you? This special space brew is potent, you know, if you’re not used to it.’

Now, the scene being depicted has the same purpose: Narvel giving an example of not being used to certain human situations with impersonating Gaunt by his lack of familiarity with Whisky causing him to think there is an issue with the grav-motors. But the feel is completely changed. The prior version is concentrating on feelings and giving it a more comedic sense. The new version is more cerebral and philosophical about the nature of identity.

I still have a number of problems with the text but the changes make it clearer to me what he is trying to do. As such it jumps up a little bit in my ratings.

A low three stars

Undercover Weapon by Jack Wodhams
A shocked woman standing in a light beam clutching her clothes as they disintegrate around her.
Illustrated by James

The Fiberphut fabric disintegrator was developed as a means of removing bandages without damaging the skin underneath. When the army look to test its possible military applications, Lt. Cladwell makes his own duplicate model at home. He and his brother-in-law are determined to make a fortune from this device…along with many amorous encounters along the way.

This is the kind of unfunny sex comedy that seem to be growing in popularity at the cinema these days. I don’t like it there and I don’t like it here. I am a little surprised to see this included given last month’s stated “no pornography” policy, but I guess as nothing is described it is considered “good clean fun” by Harbottle. I, on the other hand, find it lecherous and dull.

One Star

Dancing Gerontius by Lee Harding
A collage of ink drawing pictures of a young woman, an old man with a thought bubble, an old man being pushed in a wheelchair, a woman with one leg up and a shadow standing with arms raised
Illustrated by A. Vince

The elderly on welfare are generally kept in a dream-like state in specialist facilities. However, annually they participate in Year Day, where a combination of drugs and advanced machinery allow them to participate in a period of bacchanalian hedonism. We follow Berensen’s experiences as he is crowned King for the day.

An evocative piece that did not go in the direction I expected it to. Quite haunting by the end.

Four Stars

Minos by Maurice Whitta
A black and white ink drawing of a spaceman fighting a minotaur like creature.
Illustrated by Eddie Jones

The final piece is by a new writer to me. The colony-ship Launcelot crash lands on Amor VII, killing almost ¾ of the occupants, including all the women. Another ship primarily composed of women also makes landfall, but contact is lost. From the Guinevere there start emerging minotaur like creatures that attack the men of Launcelot, what could have happened?

This whole piece is kind of a muddle, smelling to me of new author problems. The concepts are good and the point an interesting one. At the same time the action sequences are well written. The problem is structural. For such a small piece too much time is spent in irrelevant sections and the more poignant parts are rushed.

It is not bad though and I hope that Mr. Whitta can sort the issues out in the future.

A low Three Stars

Rating of stories from issue #1: 1. Anchor Man by Wodhams 2. Vault by Broderick 3. When in Doubt - Destroy! by Temple 4. Sixth Sense by Coney 5. Are You There Mr. Jones? by Lem 6. Swords For A Guide by Bulmer 7. Consumer Report by Harding
Story rankings from issue 1, my main surprise is seeing the fascinating Lem below the woeful Coney, but each to their own.

Fantasy Review
Naked Woman from behind standing in front of a river filling from a pipe, raising her arms as a planet and its moon are seen in the sky.
Illustrated by Philip Harbottle

Ken Slater reviews Timepiece by Brian N. Ball (which he did not enjoy) and Harry Harrison’s Deathworld 3 (which he did). We then have a new reviewer, Kathryn Buckley, covering Stand on Zanzibar in a highly complementary manner. Perhaps trying to balance coverage of the New Wave along with the Good Old Stuff?

Best of Both Worlds?
Two spacesuited figures setup a large device whilst a futuristic city glows in the distance.
Additional illustration by Eddie Jones

In both my SF and my music, I am generally drawn towards the future facing experimental works, preferring Colosseum and Chip Delany over The Band and Edgar Rice Burroughs. But I also appreciate both have their advantages and place.

Doing a Sunday afternoon of gardening is wonderful accompanied by some Neil Young or Townes van Zandt. Just as an adventurous tale of daring-do might not be as accomplished as one of Ballard’s cut up stories, it can be a more fun and easy read.

So, whilst neither is perfect, with both the above publications showing successes and failures, I like to think that science fiction is big enough to have both our swashes buckled and our minds expanded.




No comments Leave A Comment
Fashion, music, politics, sports

[November 10, 1969] A Great Miracle Happened There (The Mets and the Orioles at the World Series!)

2 Comments


by Jason Sacks

A miracle happened in New York City this October.

That fact might have escaped the rest of you, especially our international readers. But it began in Queens, New York this summer, and that miracle culminated in the fall.

The New York Mets won the 1969 World Series.

On the surface, it seems normal for a New York team to win the World Series. In fact, New Yorkers might feel jaded by one of the local teams winning the Series. After all, the Yankees won as recently as 1962 and played in the series only five years ago.

The winners of twenty World Series once boasted some of the most famous names in baseball history: you might have heard of legends like Babe Ruth, Joe DiMaggio, Lou Gehrig, Yogi Berra, Mickey Mantle. But it wasn’t the Yankees who won the Fall Classic in ’69. No, the ’69 Yankees finished in 5th place with an 80-81 record—merely mediocre—and a shocking 28.5 games behind the first place Baltimore Orioles (more about the Orioles shortly).

No, the champions of the 1969 World Series boasted players you’ve probably never heard of before the Series began. Who but the most avid baseball fan knew of Cleon Jones, Ron Swoboda, Timmie Agee, Gary Gentry, or Nolan Ryan?

The worlds’ champs are the New York Mets, who once entered the league as the most misbegotten of all teams. In their first year, the ’62 Mets lost more games than any other team in this century and were the laughingstock of the league (and much beloved by sophisticated New Yorkers for their ineptitude after decades of dull but excellent Yankees play). Their manager, the great Casey Stengel, once said about those original Mets, “The Mets have shown me more ways to lose than I even knew existed.”

Those original Mets were so much fun to watch because they played so badly. Their ineptitude knew no bounds. Just as one example, the ’62 Mets played “Marvelous” Marv Throneberry, at first base. He committed an astronomical 17 errors and earned one of the great baseball stories of all time. One day he hit a triple but was called out for failing to touch second base. Manager Casey Stengel went out to argue but the umpire told him, “Don’t bother arguing, Casey…he missed first base too.”

You needed some bromo watching Marv field the ball

The team had a 17-game losing streak in May, lost 11 in a row in July and 13 in August. Their longest winning streak all season was 3 games. But the fans loved them. The Mets were the anti-Yankees. They were anti-corporate. They were the team of Greenwich Village rather than Madison Avenue. They were fun to watch and fun to root for: winning and losing became secondary to pure, sheer fun. This fact appealed especially to younger people looking to separate themselves from their parents’ interests.

The 1962 New York Yankees, with stars like stars like Yogi Berra, Mickey Mantle, Roger Maris and Whitey Ford, won yet another World Series. But the Yanks were serious and stolid, your father’s favorite team. As comedian Joe E. Lewis said in 1958, “Rooting for the Yankees is like rooting for U.S. Steel.” The Mets were terrible that year, but they led the League in having fun.

Things started turning around for the young team in 1967, as the Mets started building a good nucleus of great players. Long gone were the likes of Throneberry, banjo-hitting (unable to hit the long ball) Rod Kanehl, and twenty-game losers Roger Craig and Al Jackson. Instead, Tom Seaver, the Miracle Mets’ ace pitcher, arrived in 1967, won 16 games with a low-low 2.67 Earned Run Average (ERA), and promptly won Rookie of the Year. Seaver’s ERA has decreased (improved) in subsequent years, and he has just won the Cy Young Award, for best National League pitcher of ’69.

Young "Tom Terrific"

Seaver, the cornerstone of an excellent starting pitching staff which boasted the young lefty Jerry Koosman and fine righty Gary Gentry, led the Mets to an amazing 100 wins and first place in the new National League East division. The team started strong and just kept rolling all season long.

Oddly, their main rival for first place in the division was the long-suffering Chicago Cubs, led by their charismatic shortstop Ernie Banks. The Cubbies faded down the stretch, however, and the Mets emerged on top. (It’s often commented how the Cubs started really losing when a black cat ran in front of their dugout during a crucial game – a sign of how the fates hate the Cubbies, I suppose).

A black cat brings the Cubbies bad luck

Meanwhile, in the American League, the mighty Baltimore Orioles emerged on top once again. The O’s are one of the most formidable teams of our time, with a roster which boasts many of baseball’s greatest superstars, household names like Brooks Robinson, Jim Palmer and the incomparable Frank Robinson. The Robinsons, Palmer and most of their compatriots were on the  team which dominated the Dodgers in the ’66 World Series.

Thus the ’69 series could be compared with David’s epic battle with Goliath. The up-and-coming Mets had momentum, but they seemed overmatched in a battle with the best team of our era. Needless to say, the Orioles were prohibitive favorites.

Game One seemed to prove the prognosticators right. Orioles left fielder Don Buford belted Seaver’s second pitch over the fence for a home run, barely eluding Ron Swoboda’s leap. In the fourth inning, Orioles pitcher Mike Cuellar drove in an RBI (his turn at the plate resulted in a score), and the Orioles took the game 4-1. Cuellar was dominant on the mound, and the die seemed to be cast for the end of the Mets’ Cinderella story.

Buford belts his homer

Jerry Koosman took the ball for game two for the Mets against the Orioles’ brilliant Dave McNally. The young Koosman outdueled his counterpart, as Koosman took a no-hitter into the seventh before Brooks Robinson hit a single which drove in Paul Blair (the Mets’ very first draft pick, long a starter on the Orioles). But the Mets rallied back with clutch hitting of their own and took the game 2-1. Clearly these youngsters deserved their place in the Series.

The brilliant Mr Koosman

Mets outfielder Tommie Agee basically won game three on his own. Agee led off the game with a home run off Orioles ace Jim Palmer, then made two amazing outfield catches to save at least five runs on Orioles rallies. Agee’s catches are still the talk of the town, just astounding feats of athleticism.

The first of two amazing Tommie Agee catches.

Two other notable players contributed to the victory. Ed Kranepool, the final member of the original Mets still on the team, hit a crucial homer. Nolan Ryan, the widely praised young flamethrower out of Texas, hurled the final 21⁄3 innings. He’s been touted as an ace of the future, so I hope to see more of him in the ‘70s.

Game four had controversy before it started and more controversy as it ended. October 15, 1969, was Vietnam Moratorium Day, of course, and many New Yorkers called on Major John Lindsay to order flags flown at half-mast at Shea Stadium in Queens to honor those who died in Vietnam. Lindsay agreed, but baseball commissioner Bowie Kuhn overrode Lindsay’s decision and ordered flags to fly at full staff. This caused anger on both sides.

Martin starts his dash up the line

The ending controversy happened on the field. Seaver delivered another excellent game, aided by an outstanding game-saving catch by Ron Swoboda in the ninth. The score was tied 1-1 in the 10th as the Mets hit in the bottom half of the inning. The Mets got men on first and second as pinch-hitter J.C. Martin came up to bat for Seaver. Martin laid down a sacrifice bunt, dashing down the first base line inside of the baseline. Orioles reliever Pete Richert grabbed the ball and hit Martin on the wrist with his throw. The ball went wild, the crowd went wild, and the Mets suddenly found themselves up 3-1 in the Series. After the game, many questioned whether Martin should have been called out for interference, and in fact pre-game co-host Mantle agreed.

Game five had its own controversies with two questionable calls by the umpires. In the sixth inning, Frank Robinson seemed to be hit by a Koosman pitch but the umpire ruled the pitch had hit Robinson’s hand. Therefore the pitch was a foul ball rather than a free trip to first base. Robinson subsequently struck out and a potential rally was quenched.

Hit by pitch or not?

The opposite happened in the bottom half of the sixth when Mets left fielder Cleon Jones claimed he was hit on his foot by a Dave McNally pitch. The umpire initally said the ball bounced in the dirt, but Mets manager Gil Hodges carried the ball out to home plate and showed shoe polish on the ball. The ump awarded Jones first. Conspiracy theories abound about the ball, most claiming the polish was applied after the fact, and there is a lot of evidence which backs up that assertion.

Perhaps that weird moment presaged fate intervening for a Mets win, as in the seventh inning, light-hitting Al Weis delivered his only home run at Shea Stadium. In the eighth inning, the ubiquitous Swoboda drove in the game’s go-ahead run. By the ninth inning, the impossible looked to be happening: the Mets were three outs away from taking the Series.

As Jerry Koosman mowed down the final three outs in the ninth, Shea Stadium seemed ready to explode with pandemonium. The sounds were deafening, even on my console TV, as the third out was recorded, the New York fans flooded the field, and the most improbable event in baseball history was official.

Cinderella kept her shoe, with a bit of shoe polish scuff on it. The New York Mets, once baseball’s laughingstock, are World Series champions for 1969.




2 Comments Leave A Comment
Fashion, music, politics, sports

[October 4, 1969] New kid in town (Strategy and Tactic's wargame, Crete)

2 Comments

photo of a man with glasses and curly, long, brown hair, and a beard and mustache
by Gideon Marcus

For the last decade or so, the term "wargame" has been virtually synonymous with Avalon Hill.  That Maryland game company has come out with one or two new titles every year in this exciting genre (along with a handful of other, more general releases).  But now, there's a new player in town.

Strategy & Tactics was, up to last month, one of many wargame fanzines.  Most such 'zines are devoted to supporting Play-by-Mail games of Diplomacy, but S&T has been more catholic in its coverage, reviewing many games and providing articles of general interest to wargame-lovers.  The magazine even included the occasional wargame, mostly rules for miniatures wargames (a related but different beast from board wargames).


Volume 1, Issue 7 of S&T including rules for the miniatures wargame of modern soldiering, Patrol


Janice and me playing Patrol with toy soldiers

With the latest issue, Volume 3, Issue 2 (#18 total), there is a new editor at the helm: Jim Dunnigan.  Dunnigan's name may be familiar to you as the fellow who developed 1914 and Jutland for Avalon Hill… and also a self-published game on last year's takeover of Columbia University.  He has elected to apply his wargame-creation talents toward designing a brand new board wargame for S&T—Crete.


Cover of the latest issue of S&T


Table of contents of the latest issue of S&T

This fascinating game is a full-fledged simulation, incorporating a number of neat innovations.  It is also a Do-It-Yourself-er: the map and counters (and rules) are just printed in the magazine, which means you either need to cut them out and affix them to pasteboard, or make your own copies from scratch.  Since I have access to a Xerox machine, I was able to have the best of both worlds, photocopying the pieces and playboard, the former on colored construction paper, and the latter tinted with colored pencils.

Lorelei provided the box cover art!

So how does it play?  Read on!

Continue reading [October 4, 1969] New kid in town (Strategy and Tactic's wargame, Crete) →

2 Comments Leave A Comment
Fashion, music, politics, sports

[September 18, 1969] Neo-Rococo Dreaming

Leave a comment


by Gwyn Conaway

The Woodstock Music and Art Fair 1969 will live on in fashion for hundreds of years. Truly, this little festival of love is already making waves within weeks of the event. Like other artist-driven movements before it–the Pre-Raphaelites, Aesthetes, and Primitifs, to name a few–the Hippie Movement will inspire again and again, living on in infamy as the pinnacle of rebellion, freedom, and youth.


Ossie Clark Aeroplane, 1969 by Jim Lee.

Let us then take a moment to appreciate that we are living in a moment of great aesthetic change. If French Rococo had come from the cobblestone streets instead of the marble steps of the palace, this is what it might have felt like. Wondrous, confident, inclusive, worldly… Let us fall into our own naturalistic dream through a cacophony of colors and patterns, divine geometry, and just the exquisite mess of it all.

Without further ado, here are three les créateurs du jour to celebrate and thank for the vibrant fantasy that is 1969.


Ossie Clark has said that this photograph is meant to comment on soldiers that fool around and don’t take the war seriously. Celia Birtwell represents a peasant girl being sexually assaulted by a soldier holding a gun to her thigh while wearing one of Ossie’s floral dresses, 1969.

Ossie Clark is making the biggest splash of his career right now, and for good reason. Photographer Jim Lee helped bring his vision to life for the editorial series entitled 'Vietnam', a brutal commentary on both the realities of the war and his ardent hope for peace. His other photoworks with Jim Lee depict a similar combination of violence and vibrance that feel both glamorous and political. 'Target' uses the same bright, primary palette, but is reminiscent of suicide bombers. Ossie Clark has mentioned that his intent with the photo was to make it appear as if Celia Birtwell had survived a nosedive unscathed.


Celia Birtwell wearing an Ossie kaftan dress in parti color yellow and green. Interestingly, the fourth attempt at this photograph left the detonation expert badly burned.

Ossie Clark would not be complete, however, without his life and design partner, Celia Birtwell. Her Botticelli print has inspired much of Ossie’s fashion this year, making its way onto trousers, peasant tops, kaftans, and gowns. She is the mastermind behind the “floating” textiles that make his designs so bold and nymph-like.


The “Botticelli” print by Celia Birtwell on Ossie Clark’s chiffon and satin trouser suit, 1969.


The “Floating Daisy” and “Poppy” prints by Celia Birtwell on Ossie Clark’s crepe and chiffon evening dress and coat, 1969.

Zandra Rhodes is another exceptional designer with an eye for color that simply glows with life. Her first collection came out this year, titled “The Knitted Circle.” The stand-out piece from her very first collection is the jaw-dropping Butterfly Coat. This coat made of golden wool with a quilted collar that curls away from the neck like butterfly wings, dragged towards the ground with elegant beaded cords. The bodice’s embroidery is a trompe l’oeil print, which keeps its volume and shape from becoming too heavy. And the skirt’s rose and diamond print is reminiscent of gardens and tea in a charming, youthful way.


The Butterfly Coat’s skirt is a full circle gathered into a fitted bust, emblematic of the circular tailoring theme that Rhodes uses across the entire collection, 1969.

Other garments in the collection are ethereal and frothy, following the theme of full circle cutting in the skirts and balloon sleeves. The circular motif is inviting but powerful. When combined with Rhodes’ deft hand at color, it speaks to the energy of young women and their audacity to be happy as themselves.


Detail of the Butterfly Coat by Zandra Rhodes, 1969.

Let us end this little tour with a man of many talents. Giorgio di Sant’Angelo has apprenticed under Pablo Picasso and Walt Disney, worked as a textile designer for furniture, and studied industrial design. His personality is big and his look cherubic. Most stunning, though, is that his work embodies it all.


Sant’Angelo in 1968 photographed with a model draped in his scarves.


The scarf wall at the Phoenix Art Museum.

Sant’Angelo is daring and bold, but there’s an inherent softness to his work. He combines organic subjects with psychedelic color, and geometry with hand-drawn repetition rather than precision. There’s a speculative element to his work that makes one think he wishes to drape you in dreams rather than necessarily create clothing.

Even his heavier textiles maintain the dreamlike crossroads between geometry and mysticism. For his photoshoot with Veruschka for Vogue in 1968, he supposedly took only fabrics and jewelry, draping each frame by hand. The result is a mesmerizing dance of triangles and circles.



The above photographs are from the Vogue desert photoshoot, photographed by Franco Rubartelli.

Enjoy these watershed years, my friends! We are seeing the future being shaped as we live and breathe. What will the Hippie movement lead to next? Fops and dandies? Peasant dresses and pastorales? It will seep into our daily lives, of that there is no question.

No comments Leave A Comment
Fashion, music, politics, sports

[August 26, 1969] A Bumper Crop at the Farm (Woodstock Music & Art Fair)

Leave a comment


by Victoria Silverwolf

A little more than a week ago, something remarkable happened in a small town in the state of New York.  Depending on your point of view, it was either a gathering of joyful people sharing fun and good music, or a mob of filthy hippies stoned out of their minds and destroying their hearing with loud noise.  Let's go back in time a little bit and try to figure out how this all came together.


Poster designed by Arnold Skolnick.

The Woodstock Music and Art Fair took place in Bethel, New York.  That's about forty miles away from the town of Woodstock.  Why the name?  Thereby hangs a tale.

Early this year, some business folks planned to hold a big concert in Woodstock.  They even called their company Woodstock Ventures.  Long story short, local residents rejected the idea.  The people running the thing tried other communities in the area.  The authorities of the towns of Saugerties and Wallkill nixed the idea as well.  What to do?

Enter a fellow named Max Yasgur.  He owns a six hundred acre dairy farm In Bethel.  He agreed to lease the use of his property for the festival in return for something like ten thousand bucks.


Yasgur's farm.

Some local residents were not pleased at all.  (Rumor has it that Yasgur is himself a conservative Republican.  Apparently that didn't prevent him from accepting money from members of the counterculture.)


A sign posted when the deal was announced.

Despite opposition, the authorities granted the necessary permits.  (By the way, the reason the poster shown above mentions White Lake as the scene of the festival is because White Lake is a hamlet within the town of Bethel, and is about three miles from Yasgur's farm.  Don't ask me; I'm only used to hamlet being the title of a famous play.)

It took so long to find a site for the festival that the folks running the thing didn't have time to put up fences or ticket booths.  Heck, they barely had a chance to put up the stage!  They'd already sold 186,000 tickets in advance (despite expecting only about 50,000 people to show up.)


Full admission price to the entire festival.  Expensive!

The big show was going to start in the early evening on Friday, August 15.  By Wednesday, the expected 50,000 folks had already shown up, with no way to find out if they had purchased tickets or not.  A lot more were on their way.  At its peak, the crowd was estimated at 450,000.

Roads leading to the area were jammed with would-be attendees.  Recent rain turned fields into seas of mud.  Lack of facilities — food and water, first aid stations, sanitation — added to the chaos. 

Three people died at the festival.  Two were from drug overdoses.  One teenager was run over by a tractor while he was in his sleeping bag.  Despite these tragedies, and many hundreds of people needing medical attention, one extraordinary fact stands out.  There was not one reported act of deliberate violence at the festival.

Think about that.  Close to half a million people living in close proximity, and in very stressful situations, without violence.  Makes you wonder if these Flower People are doing something right, doesn't it?

Enough background.  What about the music?  Thirty-two acts performed, from early Friday evening to late Monday morning.  Let's go over some highlights.


This advertisement doesn't list all the performers.  There were also changes in the schedule.  Sha-Na-Na didn't perform until Monday morning, and Iron Butterfly got stuck at the airport and didn't show up at all. Jeff Beck wasn't there, either.

Day One: Indian Summer

The opening speech was delivered Friday evening by Swami Satchidananda Saraswati, an Indian guru.  The first day was heavy on folk music performers, including Arlo Guthrie and Joan Baez (who is six months pregnant, by the way.) For me, the outstanding act was Indian sitarist Ravi Shankar.


Shankar performs Evening Raga.

Day Two: The Big Names

Saturday afternoon until Sunday was when a lot of the most famous rock bands showed up.  Santana, Grateful Dead, The Who, Jefferson Airplane, etc., but the electrifying performance of Janis Joplin and the Kozmic Blues Band, in the wee hours of the morning, was the highlight.


Joplin belts out an hour of her hits.

Day Three: Past and Future

More rock music ended the festival, interrupted for about three hours by a thunderstorm.  Monday morning the concert ended with two strongly contrasting acts, one looking backward and one offering hints as to what tomorrow's popular music might be like.

Nostalgia act Sha Na Na brought a chance of pace by performing doo-wop songs from the 1950's.  (It's amazing how much pop music has changed in fifteen years or so!)


Performing oldie Book of Love in gold suits.

The final act was the amazing Jimi Hendrix, said to be the highest-paid rock musician in the world.  His music is so far out, that it seems to be coming from the 21st century.


And yet he paid tribute to the past, with the wildest version of The Star-Spangled Banner you'll ever hear.

Was it worth all the mud and chaos?  Despite the small number of tragic deaths, and hundreds of bad drug trips, most of the folks who were there would probably say it was.  And here are some other eyewitness reports for you.  Over to you, Walter…


Er… you're not Walter…

photo of a man with glasses and curly, long, brown hair, and a beard and mustache
by Gideon Marcus

Woodstock: when it wasn't hot, it was cold.  When you didn't have to pee, you were hungry.  If you were anywhere near the stage (as we were Friday night into Saturday morning), you were elbow to elbow with a hundred thousand other people.  I got less than 10 hours of sleep over the 72 hours of the event, and then I soldiered on to help clean up before crashing in the van.

It was the best weekend of my life.


Aftermath in Paradise

Look—I'm 50 years old.  I've done a lot in my day, but I've never really pushed myself.  I've never done drugs.  I go to sleep by 10pm.  I stay at home, except when I fly to Japan, and then I go first class…planes and hotels

For this adventure, there was none of that.  The biggest concession to comfort is that we drove to the event early, and thereby avoided the worst of the traffic.  And I surrendered my six square feet of ground near the stage to eat and excrete and nap in the comfort of our rented van (though I slogged back during the rainstorm Sunday afternoon and stayed through until the end of the event).  It was a test of physical and emotional fortitude greater than any I'd had before.

What made it all worth it?  The music and the people.  It's all a riot of memories right now, a kaleidoscope that refuses to resolve, probably won't resolve for weeks or months:

  • The sensitive, soulful passion of Richie Havens, strumming powerfully until I felt his fingers must bleed, singing his own songs and those of the Beatles, and finally some sort of ethereal impromptu folks are calling "Freedom".


    A snap from an 8mm I shot of the concert—we were that close on the first day!

  • The bombed out young group that wandered by our van on Saturday evening.  We shared our chicken and rice with them and pointed them in the direction of the main stage.  Did they ever make it back?  We'll never know.

  • The surreality of feeling the Earth's rotation, watching dusk turn to night then to dawn then to day, and then to night again…marked not by the sweep of wristwatch hands but the endless cavalcade of bands: Santana, John Sebastian, Mountain, the Creedence Clearwater Revival…


    Sunset on Day 3

  • The ethereal beauty and surprising charm of Bert Sommer, who bewitched all who espied him.


    Telephoto shot of Sommer

  • The one-two punch of Janis Joplin and Sly and the Family Stone—easily the high-water mark of the event—the former, a goddess; the latter, the Supreme Being.

  • Marla and Tim and their lovely kids, who were our site neighbors, and as luck would have it, are also practically our hometown neighbors.  You can bet we'll keep in touch.

  • The most hilarious retelling of the Book of Exodus, as told by a quite stoned Arlo Guthrie.


  • The soaring harmonies of Crosby, Stills and Nash (and occasionally Young), with counterpoint provided by Amber's snoring…the poor girl had lasted through the endless sets of Ten Years After, Johnny Winter, and Blood, Sweat, and Tears, only to founder at the shores of excellence.

  • The couple that broke up at the beginning of the event only to be compelled back together by the end of it.

  • The turgid endlessness of Canned Heat, the Grateful Dead, and (sadly) Jefferson Airplane.

  • The sublimity of Jimi, pinnacling in his fiery, bomb-laden rendition of the National Anthem.

  • The three demons of Woodstock: the blue acid, the mud, and the scaffold creeps who would not abandon the stage towers despite the constant admonitions of the velvet-voiced EMCEE, "Chip" Monck.

  • The three angels of Woodstock: Max Yazgur, the nice mensch who offered up his farm to host the event so as to bridge the generation gap; the ministering angels who provided food when the concession stands ran out; and the good-natured attendees who, for the most part, offered no hassles or bummers and kept things peaceful and brotherly.


    Max Yazgur prepares to speak

It was an event for the ages, squared, cubed, and beyond for being shared with all of my closest friends.  My life is forever punctuated into two eras: before and after Woodstock.

The papers already seem to be forgetting the festival, the city we built that, for a weekend, contained more people than the whole of Anza Highway corridor back home.  But I'll never forget.  We'll never forget.

We were there.


by Janice L. Newman

Even as we watched the opening acts, more and more and more people were pouring in, young and muddy and hungry. While others were focused on the stage, my mind couldn’t help but be consumed by something else: logistics.

How, I worried, were all these people going to get fed?

Fortunately, others had the same thought. By the time the second day was going strong, the Hog Farm commune, founded by Hugh Romney, Jr. (aka “Wavy Gravy”) had gone into action, requesting money from the concert organizers and using it to purchase thousands of pounds of rolled oats, sliced almonds, apricots, currants, bulgur wheat, wheat germ, and truckloads of fresh vegetables. “There’s plenty of food over at the Hog Farm,” a young woman told the audience. I had to see for myself.

So I left my spot near our van (I’d slept there through the first night, unable to stay awake even with Ravi Shankar and Joan Baez performing) and went to see what it was all about.

I spent the next four days going back and forth between Hog Farm and Woodstock, helping mix and serve muesli out of giant trash cans purchased for the purpose, handing out sandwiches, and watching as people patiently lined up and accepted their share, or stepped forward to volunteer to help, or passed food through the audience to their friends who refused to leave their spot near the stage. The food wasn’t hearty, but supplemented with the milk and yogurt from the dairy farm, it was enough.

I missed out on all the night concerts, even my twin-named Janis Joplin, but I was up early enough to catch The Who. The music was great, but more than that, I enjoyed the chance to be a part of something bigger.


Me at our campsite in the woods

The Age of Aquarius, one of brotherhood, peace, and universal love, has always seemed like a beautiful but naive dream. Yet we saw something like it over the course of four days. Not just in the young people who gathered, but the people who came together to help support, feed, and care for them and for each other. Even the US Army helped out!

Woodstock may not end up being a profitable endeavor after all that happened. It’s already being talked about in the papers as a boondoggle. And yet…it was something special. Something different. Something new.

The people in the audience weren’t just spouting words about peace and brotherhood, they believe it. In the face of such sincerity, cynicism melts away and hope can’t help but take its place.  Who knows? Maybe this generation really will be the one to end war for good

.

by Lorelei Marcus

"How was Woodstock?" A friend asked me recently.

I couldn't reply for a long while, because there is no one answer; there is no one holistic Woodstock experience. Woodstock comprises moments, measured in music acts, naps, and meals. It was a lifestyle, a lifetime balled up into four days. How does one reply when asked "how is living?"

"Good," is all I could reply at the time.

Now I've had a bit longer to reflect. I can say that overall, it was worth it. But what was it like?


Me and mom at the campsite

It was the most humanity I'll ever see in my life. Everything from the funny guy teaching me about mushrooms, to the girl crooning out ballads on her tiny guitar between sets, to the practical feeling of wearing nothing along with everybody else. At some times we were a mass, snoring in the sun, lining up for food, eating, clapping, tripping, slipping on mud. Sometimes I was alone, relishing the quiet moment in the woods while I squatted over a hole, dozing through the first hour of Hendrix's concert, leaning over a pot of oats and stirring until it was warm.

There's a through line that connects these disparate flashes: the music. Some was transcendent, some was boring, and on the drive home I realized what made the difference. There were a lot of jams at this concert, not unusual for the live blues and rock scene, but often I found myself wishing for a song to end rather than enjoying its ride. Some would blame that on the sleep deprivation, but really, it's that long jams are flawed in two big ways.

First, a jam interrupts the flow of the song and diminishes the complexity of the experience. I don't mind the band free styling, but usually to keep together, they have to stay on one chord. This leads to a monotonous meandering of guitar notes and drum fields piled on top of a stagnant melody. The sound and the rhythm quickly lose their way, and any meaning built into the flow and structure of the original song are quickly dispersed.

The second problem is that jamming is a private experience. Songs are a story that reach from the musician to the listener. Jams can be like that if played with intention (Hendrix does this well), but otherwise it's a connection with one's band or even their own instrument. An audience can watch and appreciate technique, but cannot join the musician in their reverie without invitation.

Such is the art of performance, and what made both Janis Joplin and Sly and the Family Stone's shows so powerful. Both performers poured out their energy into the audience, giving themselves and their music to foster a bond. You could feel the passion like electricity in your bones. It multiplied, and you poured it out back to them, only making it stronger, looping until the music isn't just heard, but felt, like it's part of both of you. It creates a togetherness that you can't get anywhere else.


Me and Trini near the stage

Really, that's what Woodstock was all about: being together. Sometimes it was overwhelming, sometimes otherworldly, and mostly it was wet and loud.

But I wouldn't trade it for anything.




No comments Leave A Comment
Fashion, music, politics, sports, Magazine/Anthology, Science Fiction/Fantasy

[August 24, 1969] Flying and dragging (September 1969 Fantasy and Science Fiction)

5 Comments

photo of a man with glasses and curly, long, brown hair, and a beard and mustache
by Gideon Marcus

Flying

By the time this makes press, we'll already (hopefully) be on the flight back to San Diego.  As with most publications, though we try to hit the press as fresh as possible, there is a delay between writing and printing.  This is exceptionally unavoidable this time 'round because…

…we're off to Woodstock!

Specifically, the Woodstock Art & Music Fair, an "Aquarian Exposition" in White Lake, New York.  There's an art show and a craft bazaar and hundreds of acres of sprawl, but the main draw is the music: 27 bands, from Jimi Hendrix to Janis Joplin to Glen Beck to Sweetwater to Ritchie Havens, playing in 12-hour swathes, 1pm to 1am, every day (except the first—then, it's 4pm to 4am, apparently).

Well, we couldn't miss a chance to see something like this, so we booked tickets to Idlewild…er… JFK, chartered a bus, and we're headed for Max Yasgur's farm.  This isn't our first rodeo, so we've taken a few precautions:

1) We left early to avoid the rush.  With more than 100,000 expected to show up for this thing, there's going to be traffic jams;

2) We bought supplies in case we can't get what we want to eat;

3) We brought our own toilets!  A handy trick we developed camping up in Sequoia country: take a bucket, fill it a quarter way with Kitty Litter, and stick a toilet seat on top.  It works as well for people as it does for cats, and you don't have to dig latrines!

So, we're hopeful to get good seats and enjoy, as much as anyone can, three days of fun in the open air.  We'll have a full report when we get back!

Dragging


by Chesley Bonestell

Continue reading [August 24, 1969] Flying and dragging (September 1969 Fantasy and Science Fiction) →

5 Comments Leave A Comment
Fashion, music, politics, sports

[August 6, 1969] Gay Power! (The Stonewall Inn Protests)

2 Comments

[With folks like Chip Delaney and Ursula Le Guin pushing the boundaries of sex and gender, it's important to understand that they don't work in a vacuum.  Everything is contextual.  And late last month, the context lurched forward to catch up with the creative…]


by Erica Frank

A little over a month ago, the police in New York City decided they'd had enough of gay people (and probably hippies and activists too; you know all us freak-types stick together) and raided the Stonewall Inn in Greenwich Village. Stonewall is a gay bar that's been around since the 1930s, originally as a speakeasy. It's technically a private club — since it couldn't get a liquor license — and has faced frequent raids for no reason other than willingly hosting people considered outcasts. The warrants are usually based on "illegal sale of alcohol." But Stonewall is hardly the only establishment that slides past a liquor license; just one that faces frequent raids because the cops know most of the clientele can't fight back.

The raid on June 28th sparked unexpected resistance — and several days of protest, making national news. My local anti-cop paper, the Berkeley Barb, ran an article about it. 


Newspaper clipping of the start of an article about the Stonewall protests, by Leo E. Laurence
The article also has a mention of poet Alan Ginsberg saying, "We are one of the largest minorities in the country, ten per cent you know. It's about time we did something to assert ourselves."

The Village Voice also had some strong words. "Gay Power Comes to Sheridan Square," it announced: "The forces of faggotry, spurred on by a Friday night raid on one of the city's largest, most popular, and longest lived gay bars, the Stonewall Inn, rallied Saturday night in an unprecedented protest against the raid and continued Sunday night to assert presence, possibility, and pride until the early hours of Monday morning."

The raid began small — a few cops, trapping people in the bar and releasing them one at a time, deciding whether they were innocent customers or "instigators" of perverse crimes. The mood was festive and playful ("favorites would emerge from the door, strike a pose, and swish by the detectives") until the paddywagon arrived and arrested three of the queens in drag.

The police have a policy: Men "dressed as men" are released, even if they have heavy makeup; men dressed "partially" as women are sometimes released; men dressed "fully" as women are arrested — after being groped by a police woman to establish their identity. (If they can prove they have had a sex-change operation, they're released.)

At Stonewall, after the first few arrests and the subsequent harassment of a lesbian woman, the mood darkened. The crowd that had been ejected from the bar met with Friday night tourists and party-seekers and turned against the police.

End result: 13 arrests, charges ranging from "assault on an officer" (someone threw something in their direction) to selling alcohol without a license (the bar staff), and two cops injured. Saturday morning, Stonewall put up a sign that said they'd re-open that night — and they did.

The broken windows were boarded up — and covered with activist slogans and signs saying "Support Gay Power." Saturday night had a flamboyant protest in the street, with kissing and posing and chanting slogans. The police sent out their Tactical Patrol Force (TPF) to break up the crowd and keep the protest contained, pushing people around and refusing new entry to the area, until the activity dispersed at around 3 am. (I have to wonder if the cops take credit for that. It's a very rare party, no matter how sparkling, that continues that late.)

Sunday night had fewer chants but more "fag follies," as the Voice calls them. Alan Ginsberg visited, and called the crowd beautiful, and yelled "Defend the fairies!" as he departed.

Following the raid: The Village Voice faced a protest of its own for refusing to publish the word "gay" in an ad, but using the terms "dykes" and "faggots." Some gay men and lesbians proudly declare themselves to be "fags" or "dykes" — but others prefer more respectful terms, and the Voice does not consider their wishes.

An ad for "Cruise by Gay Computer" showing two sexy, naked men (with bent legs covering their private parts) on top of an archway.
This is not the ad the Voice refused to run, but as you can see, the Berkeley Barb has no such prejudice.

Several groups of people found each other or re-connected at the protests — the new Gay Liberation Front held its first march on July 27th but that certainly won't be its last. The GLF name was coined by Marsha P. Johnson, a drag queen formerly of the Daughters of Bilitis. It was designed to be provocative and loud, rather than quietly polite like of some "homophile" groups.


Marsha protesting in front of New York City Hall

The Gay Liberation Front has recently (this last week) published its statement of purpose:

"We are a revolutionary homosexual group of men and women formed with the realization that complete sexual liberation for all people cannot come about unless existing social institutions are abolished. We reject society’s attempt to impose sexual roles and definitions on our nature. We are stepping outside these roles and simplistic myths. We are going to be who we are. At the same time, we are creating new social forms and relations, that is, relations based upon brotherhood, cooperation, human love, and uninhibited sexuality. Babylon has forced us to commit to one thing … revolution."

And may it be a glorious, vibrant, and triumphant revolution, full of kissing in the street and ending with the right to express joyous love and pleasure without fear of violence.




2 Comments Leave A Comment
Fashion, music, politics, sports, Magazine/Anthology, Science Fiction/Fantasy

[July 31, 1969] Stranger than fiction (August 1969 Analog)

2 Comments

photo of a man with glasses and curly, long, brown hair, and a beard and mustache
by Gideon Marcus

Dip in Road

A week has gone by since Mary Jo Kopechne, a 28 year-old worker on Robert F. Kennedy's campaign, lost her life.  Of course you've read the news.  She went to Martha's Vineyard for a reunion with other campaign workers, where she met the last surviving Kennedy brother, Teddy.  According to the Senator, Mary Jo was a bit tipsy, so he offered to drive her home.  His car ended up off a bridge.  He survived; she did not.

A tragedy.  Moreover, it is a far from clear-cut strategy.  Kennedy says he tried to save Kopechne, but that he was too exhausted to succeed—but he failed to call the police, who might have been able to help.  Indeed, he called his lawyer instead.  Last weekend, the Senator pled guilty to leaving the scene of the crime.

It's also unclear just what Kennedy and Kopechne were doing on the deserted dirt road that led to the scene of the accident.  It wasn't on the way home.  Was something clandestine in the works?  Was Teddy also sozzled?

There's a lot of talk about what this incident means for Kennedy's career, how he's not going to be able to run for President in '72, etc.  Perhaps this was all an innocent accident.  Maybe the only lesson we should get from all of this is that it's not smart to drive under the influence.

All we know at this time is that there as many questions as answers, as well as inconsistencies in the Senator's testimony.  I hope, for the Kopechne family's sake, if nothing else, that more is learned in the days to come.

In any event, once again, a Kennedy career has come to a sudden, unexpected halt.

Steady as she goes

If the political news is chaotic, such cannot be said for the latest issue of Analog, mostly composed of the plodding "problem" stories the magazine is known for.  However, amidst the tired tales is one standout that is definitely worth your time.


by Kelly Freas

Continue reading [July 31, 1969] Stranger than fiction (August 1969 Analog) →

2 Comments Leave A Comment
Fashion, music, politics, sports

[July 12, 1969] Paco Rabanne and the Theater of War

1 Comment

Be sure to join us today (July 13) at 9:15 AM PDT (5:15 in London) for BBC's broadcast of the first episode of Star Trek!


by Gwyn Conaway


Paco Rabanne posing with the circular chainmail that has swept Futurist fashion. The style needs no label as it's immediately recognizable as his revolutionary work.

NASA has set its sights on the moon, and their journey is mere days away.

The dead heat of summer has fallen upon us like a humid hug. We fan our sun-kissed skin and drink iced tea from sweating glassware. We crave the artificial breeze of a car ride and press damp rags into our necks. And despite our discomfort, our American breath is frozen in our lungs. Our conversations of anything else have dwindled to distracted murmurs and canceled plans.

I find myself preoccupied with broadcasts and newspapers, my mind muddied with what-ifs and what-thens. It all circles back–one revolution after another–to a single designer and how his first couture line managed to change the course of fashion from the runway to the street. How will he view the coming weeks?

Paco Rabanne.


From Rabanne's "Twelve Unwearable Dresses," 1966.


This first couture collection borrows heavily from the Byzantine period with plate mail and lamellar armor elements, giving his mail dresses an Athenian allure.

Rabanne created his first couture line only three years ago. “Manifesto: Twelve Unwearable Dresses in Contemporary Materials” showed in Paris in 1966, and forever changed the fashion landscape for women. Until that moment on his runway, industrial materials had been relegated to the theatre of war in the forms of chainmail and lamellar armor, among other notable defensive garments.

These days, though, I wonder… Is fashion not also part of the theater of war? Propaganda is considered so, which suggests public perception is a weighty tool of any nation. What better way to proclaim the perfection of one’s ideals than through beauty?


Rabanne designed this in spring of 1969. Note how it mirrors much of the shape language of the height of the Crusades from the 11th to 13th centuries, and Bedouin niqab. This speaks both to the Crusades and the recent Six-Day War in the Middle East.


An example of German hauberk chainmail in the eleventh century.


A Bedouin woman in Sinai, Egypt wearing a niqab adorned with coins sometime between 1900-1920.

Paco Rabanne seems to have reached the same conclusion as me. Though his mother was a chief seamstress for Balenciaga and followed the designer to Paris when he was five, his father was executed during the Spanish Civil War. Of course, I can’t imagine the impact of violence at such a tender age, but politics and doom are common themes of Rabanne’s public statements regarding his own reincarnation and prophecies. Both he and Salvador Dali–who run in the same circles, so I’m told–explore the idea of utter destruction in intimate artistic detail. A political endeavor in and of itself.

So it’s no surprise to me that Paco Rabanne’s construction techniques rely heavily on pliers rather than sewing needles. His unforgiving poeticism armors the modern Cold War woman as if she herself were not just a prize of war, but an active participant.


Francoise Hardy in Rabanne, 1960s. She walks with an air of severity through stately rooms flanked by officers, signaling her authority and power. The untouchable quality of Rabanne's models enhanced their otherworldly power, emulating godly women of history such as Athena, Cleopatra, and Joan of Arc.

Which brings me to one of his most recent masterpieces. Le 69, affectionately known as the Moon Bag, is constructed in the same fashion as his metal and plastic mail dresses with heavy steel. Supposedly inspired by a French butcher’s apron that dates back to the medieval period with a strap made from a toilet-flushing chain, I wonder terribly what his personal feelings are on this accessory. Given our current moment in history, I can’t help but equate it with the covetous nature of the Space Race. Who will get there first? What happens when someone wins the race?

The answer to the first question is imminent. Women will now and for many years carry the “Moon” in their hands as if we have the right to possess it.


Rabanne's "Le 69" Moon Bag.

Paco Rabanne is aware of the inherent violence of his design language. In fact, he has explicitly stated it. “My clothes are like weapons. When they are fastened they make a sound like the trigger of a revolver.” And though many critics cite his architectural background as the reason for his exceptional choices in material and technique, his motivations seem to go deeper than that.

As the Apollo 11 launch approaches, perhaps Rabanne is asking the same questions. What happens when our adversaries see the Moon in our hands?

My only hope is that the doom he feels looming in his prophecies remains there.




1 Comment Leave A Comment