Do The Hippy Shake Baby
A dose of nostalgia, with an eight-ball shot of reality. It’s too much too late. All the useless information jammed into a trivial pursuit overdose of counterculture. Greedy, music industry executives cavorting with drugged-out hipsters. Having naked lunch with Salvador Dalí and Alice Cooper. Kerouac pointing his finger up to the sky asking, why not?
I remember when my little sister danced the Twist to Chubby Checker. I recall watching the Beatles appear for the first time on The Ed Sullivan Show. Hearing the Stones playing “Satisfaction” echo recurring themes. Maybe it was the eight-way Orange Sunshine LSD at age 12? Another flashback. When I was young, it seemed anything was possible. Like Eric Burden and the Animals' hit, “When I Was Young.” But no dice. The music was a great catalyst for the changing culture. Those milestone moments in the memory motel of forgotten rock stars.
There’s a crack in reality’s hard-boiled egg. Seeing the same old everything everywhere recycled in the vintage black and white TV world, only now live in color, speeding on uppers playing with Hot Wheels. Playing doctor under the back porch. Smoke a doobie. Do a bong hit. Rock ‘n roll is the phenomenon that keeps on giving. The old-time dinosaur rockers keep hanging tough. Take a licking with an extended middle finger and keep on ticking. Roll on, dudes and dudettes.
Right on! Kick out the jams! We’re not worthy, motherfuckers! That’s how we got here in the first place the last time. You know that back-to-nature, peace and love, flower-power psychedelic moment really took off like a one-hit wonder with a bullet. But you must know that you can’t get there from here. That was then, and later this is now. The place where even music can play itself to sleep. Some Back to the Future movies with a one-way ticket straight on the highway to hell can’t afford heaven.
From old Bohemian tales to the Beat Generation beyond the hippies, yippies, hobos, tramps, scoundrels, punks, and other troubadour types steeped in the original blues tradition. The Jazzmen, the Diggers, the Heavy Metal Headbangers, Hardcore, the Devil worshippers, the Hells Angels, Merry Pranksters, and Fugs, on the road to the Grateful Dead. There are thousands upon thousands of bands playing in basements, garages, attics, tiny bars, clubs, theaters, pavilions, festivals, auditoriums, stadiums, and everywhere—any place there’s music. From the transistor radio, the record player, jukebox, eight-track, cassette deck, DVD, and CD to the digital Meccas of music’s mayhem everywhere particular people are.
Through the long night of the soul down at the Crossroads, getting ready to get funky with a devil deal all the way to trashing another hotel room, throwing TVs off balconies. The groupies ran off with the roadies. Running amok, naked, down the street. Was that Iggy Pop? People have always expressed their freedom freely. How we arrived here to this state of auto-tuned voice-over synthesized elevator music is a question for the creators. There’s nothing scarier or sadder than a person alone on a dark stage with a guitar. The dead rock gods rule the digital realm. James Brown is alive and well in my ears, and Tina Turner will always be beautiful. Hank Williams is still singing, and Paul Simon is still crazy after all these years. Smoke a joint with Willie Nelson and Snoop Dogg. Have a lost weekend with Ringo, Nilsson, Lennon, and Keith Moon might’ve died. Do a shot with Stan Ridgeway. Look out for Lemmy!
It’s the best of the best. A more sorry bunch of lunatics and outcasts you wished to know. Almost better than hearing the sound of the music. The beatnik, hippie, the freaks and the revolution. The Volunteers of America. Jefferson Airplane is hanging out, the Doors are raging, and the Velvet Underground—so, what's the band name for today? What happened to the revolution? Prince is still jamming, Eno knows. A grudge match between Zappa and Beefheart out in the desert with George Jones singing along with Gram Parsons. Ramblin’ Jack Elliot loves Woody, and Robert Johnson never met the devil? Ask The Rolling Stones. Billie Holiday singing of Strange Fruit. Dylan and Lenny Bruce drinking and smoking in the green room with Tom Waits on piano. It’s a medley of songs for every occasion.
Angel-headed hipsters storming gates of steel. Devo whips it into a whirligig dervish. Dancing in the streets. Led Zeppelin has nothing on Hendrix. Let the kids rock and roll. It’s in them, and it’s got to come out. The best minds of any generation never know which way the wind blows. Wag a tail feather. Flip out. Spin your wigs. Rust never sleeps until the long dirt nap. They say we’re dying out. Phooey! Get it on. Bang a gong. Get up and dance. Shake your hips. If you can’t sing or dance then just keep listening.