Archive for the ‘psychedelia’ Category

The Acid: on sustained experiment with lysergic acid diethylamide, or LSD by “Sam”

Tuesday, September 8th, 2009

The author of The Acid (Vision, London 2009) uses the pen name Sam, but is probably better known to most readers of this blog as Chris Gray. For me, and probably for many of you, The Acid reads like a continuation of where Chris left off in the essays he contributed to his English language Situationist anthology Leaving The 20th Century (1974). There he wrote: “What needs understanding is the state of paralysis everyone is in. Certainly all conditioning comes from society but it is anchored in the body and mind of each individual, and this is where it must be dissolved. Ultimately the problem is an emotional, not an intellectual one. All the analyses of reification in the world won’t cause a neurosis to budge an inch…”

In The Acid, Chris says of the counterculture: “Looking back on that time, what seems so incomprehensible is that we never took  LSD more seriously. How was it we failed to grasp its importance? For the concept of de-conditioning was at the heart of the New Left of the time. If any single feature set 60s and 70s radicalism apart from previous insurrectionary politics, it was insistence that individual subjectivity had to be transformed. The political was the personal. Politics were psychopolitics. Our own hearts and minds were precisely where the old order was ingrained – and if we couldn’t change ourselves, then what hope was there we could ever change the world?”

Many of those around Gray, including my mother Julia Callan-Thompson, took acid far more seriously than he did – but this was precisely because in the 1960s they were heads (whose attempts at personal transformation were doomed to failure because there was no accompanying social revolution) and he was a radical.

The Acid begins with a lucid overview of psychedelic literature and an account of Gray’s previous experiences with mind expanding substances. Chris also provides a potted autobiography, so that his readers can understand the material that comes up in the trips he describes. These vary from being joyous to total bummers. He was tripping every two to three weeks for three years as a self-prescribed acid therapy; an attempt to break down personal blockages. He tried different approaches to tripping: initially putting on a blindfold and listening to music in his flat, before moving on to outdoor excursions on Hampstead Heath. These accounts are very informative about ways of understanding and structuring trips, and will provide most readers with new approaches to the subject.

The back cover of the The Acid stresses that the breakthrough insight from these sessions is that the visions are serial. Drawing heavily on Stanislav Grof”s Realms of the Human Unconscious, Chris underlines the need to work through bad trips in order to transform oneself and achieve a sense of wholeness. The thrust of this argument I can run with, although I’m not sympathetic to all the psychoanalytic and religious elements drawn into the narrative. This is partly a generational difference, with the materials Gray used to structure his understanding of his ‘inner experiences’ very much mirroring those adopted by my mother and many of her friends in the 60s and 70s (that said, the psychedelic hermeticism my mother was involved in with Terry Taylor was quite different – and as far as I can tell, superior – to such deployments of Hinduism).

My view is that the varieties of Hinduism drawn upon by both my mother and Chris, and much of their ‘turned on’ generation, are too hierarchical to enable us to rediscover the forms of consciousness that characterised primitive communist societies. By way of contrast, shamanism (particularly in its voodoo and candomblé manifestations) does provide us with pathways to disalienation. LSD is, of course, a fantastic tool for inducing shamanistic experiences.

Mirroring Gray’s activities with King Mob in the 1960s, he draws on Keats and the English romantics as sources for understanding his experiences, whereas when it comes to LSD I would opt more for figures such as William Hope Hodgson (and others whose books currently exist outside the literary canon). This is not a matter of huge importance, and obviously reflects personal tastes and reading experiences. I went through Keats as a teenager and concluded I disliked his poetry.

The Acid is an engaging and thought provoking book, and while it is one man’s trip, it is also intended as a map that will assist any interested party in their own exploration of ‘inner space’. The text works on many levels, most obviously as a piece of writing that is a joy to read. If you have any interest in acid at all, then get your hands on this book!

But let’s give more or less the last word to Chris. He writes the following about his attendance at a San Francisco psychedelic conference in the early part of this millennium: “A well established, even well-heeled, cult I had been expecting; but not one thriving like this. The hall was so packed you could barely move. Of all the revolutionary groups of my youth – the Hippies, the New Left, the students, the blacks, the feminists – it was, however improbably, the druggies and the druggies alone who had made it through  in one piece. And not just survived, but boomed.”

Well, throw in some voodoo or candomblé and I think we have a revolutionary situation!

This book has been republished by Park Street Press as The Acid Diaries by Christopher Gray and is currently fairly easy to obtain. (Note added 15 December 2010).

And while you’re at it don’t forget to check – www.stewarthomesociety.org – you know it makes (no) sense!

India freaks on the hippie trail in the high sixties…

Saturday, July 18th, 2009

Back in the late 1960s my mother Julia Callan-Thompson was  in the countercultural jargon of the time an ‘India freak’; a drop-out obsessed with the ‘mystic east’. Among my mother’s extant papers are a number of letters she sent while out on the hippie trail, and one she received from a woman called Georgian Shaw as she was making her way back to Europe. My favourite among the various surviving missives my mother sent my grandparents over the years is the following, mailed from Kathmandu on 13 June 1969:

“Everest although cold was the most beautiful sight you could see. Yes! we’re the luckiest people alive!!! Just returning from the mountains. Kathmandu seems such a big city now, although in comparison to London it’s just a village. Bruno has fractured his spine, nothing too serious, just that he must not carry anything or exert himself much for six months. We both would like to have a European summer, here the rainy season has started, rains at least 4-5 hours a day and July and August nearly all the day, enough of hot tropical weather. In India 150 degrees Fahrenheit, so we start back to drizzle and lukewarm weather, how we long for those cool English evenings. A friend is driving in about a week to Kabul in Afghanistan, that’s 3,000 miles of the 12,000 miles over to Europe, we should arrive in Kabul about the beginning of July or at the earliest last week in June. Its strange before I used to think that Wales was such a long way from London, now that 150 miles seems like a before breakfast walk.

“We hope to find a place to settle for a while, maybe, God willing, start a family, and live a normal family life. Travelling is one of the most stimulating things I know, but it’s a full time occupation, leaving no time for anything else. Bruno is dreaming of a big studio somewhere (maybe, South of France), where he can paint in peace and not have to leave things behind all the time because there’s too much to carry. It’s also time for us to become responsible citizens not wandering bums. Should see you sometime in August. Bruno wants so much to meet you all and me so proud of being a real countess although most of the time we don’t have two half pennies to rub together. Yes I’m married to the best man in the world. Love compensates for everything. We love you and will see you all soon…”

I guess that by 1969 my grandparents were used to receiving messages like this. It would have been quite something for a docker’s daughter like my mother to have become a countess; but she hadn’t actually married her boyfriend Bruno de Galzain, and he wasn’t a really count (although he delighted in telling people that he was).

As my mother returned west, she stopped off at the British Embassy in Kabul to pick up mail. When she went there she was handed the following missive from Georgina Shaw (which while addressed to her, seems to have been written more with Bruno in mind):

“Rishikesh 6th July 1969. Darlings God bless. Kabul Summer 1969, so glad we are together. I returned to Rishikesh full of thoughts of you which will continue to speed us all on our way and bring more meetings, more love. I wrote Layfayette that everything is fine. It is…

“Rarely can a trip to Delhi have been so miraculously rewarding.

“The spiritual circus continues to amuse in Rishikesh and the Ganges keeps us cool; perhaps we shall meet in a country garden in England.

“Stay wonderful.

“I shall not forget how beautiful Julie looked in the Nepalese gown – playing the one-stringed instrument. Happy days anyway you look at it. I love you. Delhi was peaceful compared with this seething metropolis where there is never a moments peace; Happy days.

“Pray that you are passing lightly through the trip and all is as it should be; as it must be.

“It is a great happiness to have seen you before you left, let me have news soon; I should love to know how Europe seems to be. We can at least be certain that Lucky will remain for a while yet.

“I AM AS HOLY AS POSSIBLE HERE.

“Swimming a good deal.

“How everybody scatters and regroups intricate karmas. Tokyo for Cherry Blossom twice – this year next year sometime…

“Your gift widened horizons in the foothills; I do not completely believe that the encounter between us actually took place, but exhibit A is pretty convincing.

“I think of you as though you were already in England; please write me news as soon as you can.

“Meanwhile Om Shanti. Peace and love and even flowers and incense. Hari Om and mostly Love, Georgina.”

After returning to London, Shaw would share a flat in Islington’s Thornhill Square with Carnaby Street fashion phenomenon Michael Fish, where she’d entertain figures both comic and influential, including seventies pot broker Howard Marks.

And while you’re at it don’t forget to check – www.stewarthomesociety.org – you know it makes (no) sense!

Totally tripped out at Raven Row

Monday, June 22nd, 2009

You don’t necessarily need drugs to get high, as Ann Lislegaard’s art work proves. According to a page that is no longer available on norway.org (a Norwegian government website in various languages): “Bellona, the fictional city of Samuel R. Delany’s 1974 science fiction cult classic Dhalgren is a place beyond reason, where time and space is out of joint and architectural fixtures seem to be in constant flux and transformation. In Lislegaard’s video animation installation, Bellona is a psychological space, in which norms and standards seem to dissolve into a chaos of anti-hierarchical conditions.”

What norway.org has to say is fair enough if you want Lislegaard’s work explained ‘rationally’, but I found it more enjoyable to let the constantly moving images trip me out. Bellona is a psychedelic groove sensation, and for me it worked best at the opening of the current Raven Row show, when the room was very effectively blacked out because it was dark outside. I went to see it again at the weekend but there was a lot of sunlight bleeding through the shutters that covered the windows, and this reduced the intensity of the flashback effects the film delivered. You have to sit and let yourself go with this one, but once you adjust to the pace, the three screen looped projection will give you hours of drug free hallucinations.

Lislegaard’s other film currently on show at Raven Row is based on and named after J. G. Ballard’s sci-fi novel The Crystal World. Simon Sellars on the Ballardian website says: “I fully agree with her (Lislegaard’s) view of the novel: it’s a ‘mental space, a state of mind’, and that is really emphasised by her iterative work, which constantly chases its own tail. It’s shown on two screens, side by side, and takes place inside a modernist hotel which residually succumbs to the crystallising process described in the novel. Scenes loop back and subsequently fade and buckle from screen to screen under supersaturation of light, forcing you to constantly question the veracity of what’s come before, and where you are in the loop. Mirror images from one screen to another split off into parallel worlds/scene..” The Crystal World didn’t do much for me at the Raven Row opening, but going back and seeing it with daylight bleeding into the room, I was getting flashes of colour as I looked at this black and white work. Far out!

Just to clarify, Sellars is mistaken when he describes the building in Lislegaard’s film as a hotel. On the web page I’ve quoted him from, he reproduces the following Murry Guy gallery promotional blurb for the Crystal World film: “Lislegaard’s animation directly references the Brazilian architect Lina Bo Bardi’s 1951 Glass House, and the work of Robert Smithson and Eva Hesse, who investigated crystalline and organic structures as a means of articulating nonlinear time…” Bo Bardi was an important modernist architect, and the Glass House was her home, not a hotel. Esther da Costa Meyer in Harvard Design Magazine (Number 16, Winter/Spring 2002) says of the Glass House: “Though now part of the fashionable suburb of Morumbi, the Glass House once hovered over the remnants of the original rain forest… Suspended high above a sea of green, the building resembles an International Style treehouse. A swaying metal staircase connects the winding path to the living spaces above… Even though the entire area is now built up and the wildcats are long since gone, the lots are large and densely planted, and the Glass House is almost invisible from the road… the contrast between the abstract aesthetic of steel and glass and the lush green of the forest was an important element … For structure, Bo Bardi opted for that of the paradigmatic Dom-Ino house: spindly supports sandwiched daringly between two slabs of concrete. Thin, Corbusian pilotis, set back from the perimeter to permit a free facade, raise the glass box elegantly aloft. Le Corbusier was an obvious point of reference…”

Lislegaard also has an audio installation on at Raven Row, a condensation of the soundtracks to various sci-fi films entitled Science Fiction_3112. Unfortunately I wasn’t able to derive any flashback effects from this piece, and got far less neural stimulation from it than Lislegaard’s film-works. Exhibited alongside Lislegaard are Thomas Bayrle and international audio collective Ultra-Red. The documentation of Ultra-Red’s art activism left me cold. I presume participating in one of their public events is more enthralling. Bayrle’s hybrid minimal-pop sculptures showed the Raven Row space off to fantastic effect; forget the work (I find Bayrle boring), just check out the beautiful architectural achievement it so effectively sets off. The space is very light and airy, and there are many beautiful details; take a close look, for example, at the exquisite handrail on the stairs that take you down to the back gallery in which Bayrle’s work is shown.

Thomas Bayrle, Ann Lislegaard and Ultra-Red are on at Raven Row, 56 Artillery Lane, London E1 7LS, until 2 August 2009.

And while you’re at it don’t forget to check – www.stewarthomesociety.org – you know it makes (no) sense!

Beatnik religious pursuits part 1, Subud

Thursday, June 18th, 2009

Although a number of famous American beatnik writers made Buddhism the focus of their spiritual quests, with Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac being the most notable among them, this certainly wasn’t the only avenue of religious pursuit to be explored by the European-wing of post-war drop-out youth. A good number of European beatniks wanted to come into knowledge of God. As a consequence one of the things that came up in conversation as they sat around getting stoned was Subud, a syncretistic movement that can be traced back to the mystical ecstasies a Javanese man called Muhammad Subuh Sumohadiwidjojo experienced in 1925. After taking on an institutionalised form and acquiring the name Subud around 1947, the movement was brought to Europe in the 1950s. Thus by the 1960s some beatniks – including my mother Julia Callan-Thompson – had involved themselves with Subud.

Regardless of whether or not the word Subud was chosen for its similarity to founder Pak Subuh’s name, it is usually explained by initiates as being derived from the abbreviation of three Sanskrit words: Susila, Budhi, and Dharma. Susila requires that followers lead a life in accord with the Will of God. Budhi represents the inner force to be found within all men and women. Dharma indicates submission and surrender to God. Subud attracted my mother and 1965 marks the onset of her seven year flirtation with the movement. Subud’s proponents claimed it wasn’t a religion but to non-initiates like me it appears to most closely approximate a cross between Islam in its heretical Sufi form and Buddhism in its Zen manifestations. Thus the term Subud is perhaps most easily explained as a contraction of Sufism and Buddhism, even if this definition will be found wanting by converts.

In Subud the specific spiritual practice of its initiates was called the latihan, which entailed spontaneously achieved contact with God. Initially someone who has already established contact with God’s power transmits this experience across to the new human receiver. Experienced devotees are able to do latihan alone, although the number of sessions per week is stringently restricted. Perhaps unconsciously revealing the Islamic roots of Subud, contact with God through latihan is described as an act of submission, which can be halted by human acts of will and volition – but never initiated by such means.

That said, my mother’s circle believed that drugs were of huge assistance in achieving these higher states of consciousness. One of the things my mother liked about Subud was the value it placed on the teachings of all the great world religions. In this Subud, like political doctrines such as Bolshevism, was entrist; but for my mother the opportunism that I might read into a stance of tactical pantheism was of absolutely no significance, since it was a theological position that opened up the beginnings of a rapprochement with a Catholic upbringing from which she felt estranged.

I’m not particularly sympathetic to the ‘new’ religious movements with which my mother involved herself; Subud, followed by seven years of deep immersion in Divine Light Mission activities. However, in a comment appended to an earlier blog on this site, I invoked the famous quote from Marx about religion: “‘Religious distress is at the same time the expression of real distress and the protest against real distress. Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, just as it is the spirit of a spiritless situation. It is the opium of the people. The abolition of religion as the illusory happiness of the people is required for their real happiness. The demand to give up the illusion about its condition is the demand to give up a condition which needs illusions.” Critique of Hegel’s Philosophy of Right.

I went on to say: “Marx is clearly talking about organised religion not other states of consciousness, and mysticism can be about either one of these, or both! But when mystical experiences are enjoyed away from organised religion, they enable us to experience at a higher level the states of consciousness enjoyed by man in primitive communist societies. The idea that mature communism is only going to replicate at a higher level the modes of social organisation found in primitive communism is clearly ludicrous, it must also be about regaining lost states of consciousness. Anything less would be a failure to break with bourgeois modes of thought and shallow rationalism.”

And while you’re at it don’t forget to check – www.stewarthomesociety.org – you know it makes (no) sense!

People let’s freak out!

Tuesday, March 10th, 2009

Saturday night (7 March 2009) in the city of the dead and I’m part of the small team organising Fiona’s Shoe; an evening of music, poetry and film at the South London Gallery. We’d obviously created a buzz coz we’d sold out three days before the event and on the night we were turning people away. Those that got in found themselves in a darkened room with a large DVD projection of a Jud Yalkut snippet. Next up was a 16mm print of Wholly Communion directed by Peter Whitehead, a half-hour documentary about the International Poetry Incarnation at the Albert Hall in 1965.

This was followed by a recreation of John Latham’s Juliet & Romeo, a piece of expanded cinema he’d intended to debut at the International Poetry Incarnation but didn’t because he passed out and missed his cue.  The work takes the form of a battle between two figures, dressed head to toe in books and printed papers, to represent the Apollonian and the Dionysian, the classical and the romantic, hardback and softback books.  The action takes place before a backdrop of two of Latham’s Force Field (1963–1967) – or blind – paintings. It begins with Latham’s film Unedited Material from the Star (1960) projected over the two figures and this backdrop. The work was performed once at the Theatre Royal, Stratford East towards the end of 1965, then twice during the Destruction in Art Symposium of 1966. Its final presentation during Latham’s life was at the Exprmntl 4 festival of expanded cinema in Knokke-Le-Zoute, Belgium, over New Year 1967-8.

Tom Marshman and Clare Thornton took the Apollonian and Dionysian roles at the South London Gallery and the piece still looked fresh and contemporary more than 40 years on from its last public airing. It’s a slow ballet, with each figure stripping the other, resulting in body painted nudity. Under the books, Marshman had been rendered in blue and Thornton red. Finally, Thornton  decapitated Marshman, or at least his hardback headdress.  The two figures then exited the stage and the abstract short Unedited Material from the Star ran again. The event was largely silent except for the rustle of paper, a loud pop when a balloon burst, and at the end some vicious amplified clicks from a pair of scissors. The movements of the figures were exaggeratedly male and female, with a subtle erotic charge between them. Much of the audience was mesmerised, a few seemed unsure what to make of it, and Richard DeDomenici told me he  “was disappointed not to see Tom Marshman’s cock.”

The evening proceeded in an informal manner precisely because I didn’t want Latham’s work to come across as a museum piece. Works were not introduced, they simply unfolded. The audience had notes to assist them identify the pieces, but no running order or schedule. They could come and go but didn’t know what they’d see or miss if they chose to do that. A reading from an abridgement of the 1704 text The Battle of the Books by Jonathan Swift followed Juliet and Romeo. The text is a satire on post-Renaissance disputes about the relative merits of ancient and modern authors. It was read by actress Birgit Ludwig who had difficulty projecting to the large crowd, who nonetheless listened attentively despite the unsuitability of her breathy presentation to the acoustics of the space. I’d asked for a professional actress to read the piece because I’d wanted clarity; and I’d assumed that an actress would adapt what they did to the audience and the night. Ludwig trooped valiantly to the end of the text without altering her unsuitability ethereal approach to the space. It was impossible to follow the satire and many audience members assumed they were being bombarded with thirty minutes of random words as a demonstration of John Latham’s theory that the most basic component of reality is not the particle – as in classical physics – but the least-event.  So although the performance was a failure from the perspective of what I’d wanted, it successfully kept to the spirit of the night.

Towards the end of Ludwig’s reading, free jazz legend Lol Coxhill came in underneath her on saxophone. He continued when she finished. The lights dimmed and Jud Yalkut’s 21 minute 8mm film diary of the Exprmntl 4 festival was screened from DVD. This included footage of a previous performance of Juliet & Romeo in 1967, and various audience members commented that from it they could see that our recreation of the piece was remarkably true to the original; this was down to hard work, with all available photos, film and and text consulted – alongside personal coaching for Thornton and Marshman from Latham’s partner Barbara Steveni, who’d performed the piece in the 60s. Our setting was informal and only a few chairs were scattered about the South London Gallery. To see the Yalkut film diary which was screened on a side wall, many members of the audience had to move from their previous positions. As they did so, some started talking. The intention had been for Coxhill to play throughout the film, and then continue on his own when the lights came up, with Ulli Freer eventually joining him for a combination of sax and poetry. Instead Coxhill announced it was pointless for him to play while people were talking. I was at the other end of the room from Coxhill but could hear him well enough despite the noise, and I wasn’t the only one listening, so it was a shame he stopped.

After the event one audience member emailed the following observation, which is fairly typical of what I heard from others: “really enjoyed last night, despite truncated Lol C set,  was talking on the way home about how unmediated events, i.e. not MC’d, can create really good atmosphere of uncertainty and excitement. It felt very  relevant to these times, nice one. The Whitehead film was beautifully presented with big sound. Maybe Mr Coxhill ain’t hip to his texting acronym type first name: laugh out loud, yeah but not while I’m playing…” That said, Coxhill’s reactions beautifully mirrored poet Harry Fainlight’s difficulties with the crowd at the International Poetry Incarnation as documented in Wholly Communion, so despite the fact he didn’t play for nearly as long as I’d have liked, his decision to throw in the towel did carry with it a sense of repetitive and ontological right-onness.

Coxhill did come back on with Ulli Freer after the Yalkut diary film, playing a few notes but mainly sitting with his sax across his knees. Freer impressed the predominantly art crowd both with both his conviction and the content of his poetry. He understood that to get across in the space he had to be loud and put a lot of work into projecting himself. That said, his use of words is actually very subtle! By this time the free drinks were all gone but we were still giving out free bagels. After Freer, the lights went down and the shorts Towers Open Fire (1963) and The Cut-Ups (1966) directed by Antony Balch and starring beat writer William Burroughs (who’d contributed a tape piece to the International Poetry Incarnation) were screened from DVD.

The last  screening of the night was a 16mm projection of John Latham’s extraordinary coloured-disc animation Speak (1962), which anticipates the psychedelics of the high sixties. It is an 11 minute retinal assault with a circular saw soundtrack. Whenever I’d seen the film projected before the sound had been too low, but we had it jacked right up for maximum effect and the experience of watching it this way was a real groove sensation! The night ended with music from a CD I’d burnt of some of my favourite soul tunes of the 1960s: All Of A Sudden by The Incredibles, So Far Away by Hank Jacobs, New Breed by Ike Turner & His Kings Of Rhythm, At The Woodchoppers Ball by Willie Mitchell, Everybody’s Going To A Love In by Bob Brady & The Conchords, Karate Boogaloo by Jerry O, Think About The Good Times by The Soul Sisters etc. etc.

Aside from the above, there were a few other things going on during the night, like Brion Gysin Dream Machines in a back room for further drugless hallucinogenic highs. So all in all I was extremely pleased with the night. While not everything went as planned, that is in the nature of type of event I’d set out to create, within which discrete pieces also become an integral part of a larger ‘happening’. So to finish off, a big shout out to Elisa Kay and Anne-Sophie Dinant who invited me in to organise the night with them.

And while you’re at it don’t forget to check – www.stewarthomescociety.org – you know it makes (no) sense.

A Technicolor Dream

Tuesday, January 6th, 2009

This 2008 DVD is a TV-style talking head documentary that mainly covers the early years of stadium rock band Pink Floyd, and inadvertently reveals how they used the British counterculture to hitch a ride to success. The Floyd themselves come across like a bunch of talentless drama students in the pathetic promo films that are cut into the main feature. Sound wise they vary from seeming like a pleasant if not entirely convincing imitation of The Who (“Arnold Lane”), all the way down to prefiguring a lot of really bad indie bands (“Scarecrow”). There is also some far more interesting archive material on here, but most of it is rather too familiar. There is the famous footage of Beatle John Lennon walking into the “14 Hour Technicolor Dream” at Alexandra Palace (29 April 1967), which anyone actually interested in this sort of thing will have seen dozens of times.

Likewise, did we really need quite so much recycled footage from “Wholly Communion” directed by Peter Whitehead, when the BFI reissued that on DVD in 2007, and anyone who hasn’t seen it clearly isn’t interested in the British counterculture anyway. There is a very brief piece of footage of The Flies playing at Alexandra Palace, but while the BBC “Man Alive” documentary made at the time showed them throwing flour at the audience and allowed you to hear them rockin’ out, pretty much all you get here is a shot of their drum kit with something else dubbed over the top. This is a shame because The Flies were the business, and self-evidently a lot better than Pink Floyd live; presumably this is why the director Stephen Gammond cut their sound from the audio track, he clearly wants to big up original Floyd frontman Syd Barrett and takes many historical liberties to achieve this. There is some footage of The Pretty Things doing “LSD” here too, but this is cut around talking head shots, so you can’t enjoy the music in all it’s glory. Worse yet, while three really tedious Floyd promo shorts are included in their entirety as bonus features, live footage of The Pretty Things and The Flies isn’t accorded the same treatment.

Among the historical turns, we get far too much of Suzy Creamcheese, less than nothing is all I want of this twerp. Like so much else here that doesn’t come from “Wholly Communion”, the Creamcheese footage is culled from the earlier “Man Alive” documentary, and it is even more irritating on a tenth or eleventh viewing than on the first or second! That said, there is some nice pushin’ and shovin’ with the filth going down in the recycled shots of early sixties CND demos. However, the real highlight begins on the last fraction of a second of this movie’s sixty-second minute. Gammond has included 1.04 seconds of archive footage featuring my mother – Julia Callan-Thompson – blowing bubbles. While there is equally brief footage of her at the UK’s premier hippie happening in the “Man Alive” documentary, it is a different shot to the one used here. My mother, at 23 years of age, is clearly the hottest babe in the place! While this film would be much better if Gammond had devoted more time to footage of my mother, the little you get makes the disk worth buying. You can see a bit more of her in the audience at the Alex Trocchi/William Burroughs 1969 ‘State of Revolt’ Arts Lab event covered in Jamie Wadhawan’s “Cain’s Film” – and, of course, as an extra in various British and Bollywood movies of the sixties.

With the odd exception, the talking heads on Gammond’s documentary are a real snore fest. Tired old stories I’ve heard trotted out dozens of times are aired yet again. This film was obviously made on a shoe-string, there isn’t nearly enough archival footage to break up the tedium of the talking heads, and sometimes in a desperate bid to move things along the director simply cuts to recent footage he’s shot in Portobello Road and Camden. The focus on Pink Floyd and John “Hoppy” Hopkins as central to the counterculture is reductive, and also very boring. If Gammond had instead adopted a scatter-shot approach to the underground, one that pulled in a varied cast of characters, his film would have been both more enjoyable and closer to the psychedelic experience. Regardless, and as I’ve already said, it is still worth seeing just for that 1.04 seconds of my mother blowing bubbles at the “14 Hour Technicolor Dream”.

And while you’re at it don’t forget to check – http://www.stewarthomesociety.org/ – you know it makes (no) sense!

And some more specific links:

Julia Callan-Thompson:
http://www.stewarthomesociety.org/rhhm.htm

The ‘real’ psychedelic scene:
http://www.stewarthomesociety.org/praxis/voices.htm

Wholly Communion etc. review:
http://www.stewarthomesociety.org/film/whitehead.htm

Trocchi/Burroughs State of Revolt:
http://www.stewarthomesociety.org/luv/splinters.htm