LSD-flashbacks can sometimes appear days after you’ve come down from a trip. They can last for hours at a time. Very powerful acid can sometimes induce vivid flashbacks a month later ... flashbacks disorder time …
Travelling out with the old crew on a hot Saturday afternoon on our way to Reading. Eric, Tom, Carole Bishop, the young guitarist, Sleepy-Head Steve, and a fresh newcomer, American Arlene, on her second day out. She is twenty, dark-haired, with a beautiful complexion. Attractive in that bossy manner that some American women possess. The attraction has paled when she asks Scott her hundredth question of him in just one day. She claims to be from Mystic in Connecticut, right on the border with Rhode Island …
It’s very hot and stuffy in the Cortina. All the car windows have been wound down. One of those summer days in England where you need a crackling electric thunderstorm to clear the air ... Sleepy-Head Steve and Arlene are giggling. Sat up tight together on the backseat with the breeze blowing in. This Saturday is the day of what used to be the Reading Jazz & Blues Festival, but it has widened its market of late, it's now the Reading Music Festival. Sleepy-Head Steve and Arlene have dropped tabs of acid together. They must have taken them before the crew set off from the Hollywood Road office. Before long, to Scott’s consternation, the rest of the crew have been persuaded to join them and have all taken a tab each.
“It’s the Reading Festival!”, young Steve keeps proclaiming. As if everybody connected with the Festival will be tripping out on acid. Scott has no choice in the matter. Here goes. In for a penny, in for a pound, even with this new decimalization.
Arlene, of the perfect complection and Mystic accent, declares that this acid the whole crew have taken is pure California Sunshine. The very best you can get ... Who knows if Arlene’s telling the truth. Could be in for a hell of a day. Scott didn’t look at the tab to see Owsley’s moniker. Different types of acid have unicorns, horses, monkeys, eagles, dolphins, all kinds of picture symbols. Arlene claims she was given ten tabs of this acid on vacation in Los Angeles two years ago. She’s been saving them all this time in a fridge in Mystic by the sea. Waiting for the right occasion. A special day and this is it. Hang on to your hats, folks, they could soon reappear as flying saucers ... The problem after a while for Scott is to somehow concentrate on the driving. There is just so much going on between his eyeballs and the inside of the Cortina windscreen. It takes a huge effort of concentration to focus on the road ahead. The fallabout activity amongst the crew in the car can also be very distracting. Everybody starts talking at once like in the Tower of Babel, then complete silence a minute later. Fortunately, Scott usually performs tasks very well on drugs. He is careful to avoid heroin and all kinds of amphetamines. Sometimes Wears a yellow badge with the black lettering ‘Speed Kills’. A long ago present from that extraordinary lady, Caroline Coon - she is the public face of ‘Release’, a charity that does tremendous work helping heroin addicts. Also, Scott avoids alcohol where possible, it doesn’t seem to agree with him, unless it’s a glass of dry white wine with a meal. But with acid you can never be sure. No two trips are the same. You can take bad acid and have a bummer of a trip. Feel like you’ve died and gone straight to hell ... a strong suicidal vibe and the constant temptation to want to jump from high buildings. To see if you can really fly. You’re flying so high you can nearly touch the clear, blue sky ... The sheer mass of particles and interactions. A whole world of activity before your very eyes that you just never notice on a daily basis. If the atavistic forebears of the human race ever possessed synthetic LSD they never would have come down from the trees ... the atmosphere in the Paris green Cortina has become one of complete abandonment. Eric giggling, Arlene cooing, Tom chortling, young Steve sniggering, Carole Bishop collapsing into shrieks of laughter. Scott fighting very hard for control and somehow managing to keep to chuckling. Laughter is infectious. Scott looking at the crew who are all now helpless, possessed of a fit of the giggles. Tears streaming down their faces in the rear-view mirror …
Scott, driving at a steady forty-miles-per-infinite-hour, reasons it's the best way forward. The band Crazy World of Arthur Brown is headlining the Festival. Osibisa are also due to appear ... the time is two o’clock ... the roads are packed. Scott, being ultra-careful, feels like the Cortina could be ambushed by other cars. Memories of Jean-Luc Godard’s brilliant film, Weekend, flash across his mind: Everybody going haywire in one long, continuous traffic jam …
All Scott can hear in his head right now is Fire ... we’ve got to burn ... Fire ... we’ve got to burn, burn, burn…. Shrill. Screaming ... the song, Fire by Arthur Brown and his artschool weirdos, just won’t leave Scott alone. It's all he can hear …
After an eternity of crawling bumper to bumper, they finally see the signs for the Festival. The milling crowds, a multitude of bodies, all moving with purpose in one direction gives the game away ... Scott gets as close as he can to the main entrance. Not that easy. There is a police presence in evidence. Young Steve and Arlene have begged and pleaded with Scott to take them to the Reading Festival. Why not! The state they’re in they won’t sell anything. Let them go and enjoy themselves. Arranging to pick them up outside the main entrance at eight o’clock this evening. Arlene kissing Scott and young Steve hugging him. Scott gets out of the car with them to make sure they can cope with the thronging mass. He need not have worried on that score. Everybody looks completely out of their heads. Slipping a ten-pound note into young Steve’s hand. None of the more recent music festivals are free. You have to pay to get in. It may be the New Age with revolution in the air, but it's still profit as usual. Scott’s just pleased that the other three crew members haven’t taken it into their heads to go with them. Eric complained that music festivals give him a headache. Tom’s not interested in the least. Carole Bishop seems so far out of it she may be unable to get out of the car. Scott did ponder the bright idea that maybe young Steve and Arlene should take their red and black-edged art folders with them into the Festival. They could pass through the gathered masses, estimated to be close to a hundred thousand, and sell George Harrison or Charles Manson. The Mask of Apollo and Shredded Time would go down well. But heh, he thought better of it. The two of them left clinging to each other’s arms and looked as if they could just about make it through the main entrance to the festival. The art folders stay in the trunk of the Cortina …
No point in travelling any distance given the state the remnants of the crew are in. Scott finding some likely looking prop on the edge of town. Already the live music from the Reading Festival is deafening, pounding the brickwork of the old parts of the town. Arthur Brown and his Crazy World aren’t even on stage yet. Scott can see his face which seems to be alive in the sky, above the town of Reading. Arthur Brown blazing away against a fiery sun …
The River Thames flows on past Reading, it has seen it all ... Scott breaking a hard and fast rule and not checking the prop. Eric, Tom and Carole Bishop all seem slightly dishevelled and distanced. Scott gives them all the choice of staying in the Paris green Cortina while he gets out to go and sell. Eric and Tom choose to go out to experience what it’s like to try and sell velvet paintings while you’re tripping. Carole Bishop on the other hand seems freaked out and paranoid. So strong this California Sunshine, it will probably keep hitting in waves ...Scott aiming to be very clear about the pick-up point. Just drop Eric and Tom on back-to-back streets so they can come together if either of their trips turn bad. Carole Bishop has had her problems and they are showing through right now. Tom is still only nineteen. A fresh, red-haired, clean-cut, farm boy. He may well get a shock. Eric can't stop smiling. Now, that is a good sign. He will probably start communicating with the ghost of Henri Matisse …
Dropping Eric and Tom off strategically. There's a small green at the end of their streets. If fazed and unable to sell, they can lay on the grass or sit on a wooden bench. You have to take care of people when they are tripping. It can all turn so nasty in a flash if you’re not especially careful ... A corner shop still open. It’s three o’clock now. Where has the time flown to? Can still hear the music blasting out from the Festival. Buying Eric and Tom some bars of chocolate, Fry's Peppermint Cream and Cadbury’s Dairy Milk. They both have bottles of lemonade if they get very thirsty. Sending them on their reluctant ways. Scott has to keep reminding himself that they want to do this ... Back with the Cortina, always the base of operations. One large bottle of Coca-Cola as requested by Carole Bishop. She has two large Toblerones plus a super-sized packet of chocolate-coated Brazil Nuts.
Small problems can take on huge significance when you’re tripping. It’s the same in normal time, but people have a habit of pushing difficulties into the background in order to carry out their daily tasks. Right now, Scott is trying desperately hard to change the song pounding away inside his brain. Fire, we’re gonna burn...Fire … Thinking of favourite songs and attempting to sing them. Supplant the Crazy World of Arthur Brown with some Beatles favourites. I’m Only Sleeping, Girl, ...Strawberry Fields Forever ... No dice. What about the Rolling Stones … Down Home Girl, It’s All Over Now, Mother’s Little Helper ... It's no good! Let’s go classical … Gnossienne Number Two by the amazing Eric Satie. Greensleeves, Vaughan Williams. Ride of the Valkyries, Richard Wagner. These three are worse than useless for Scott's particular task, let's see if Bob Dylan can save us. Surely! It's All Over Now, Baby Blue, As I Went Out One Morning, All Along the Watchtower. Nothing will put out the Fire. Nothing for it, but to go to Jim. Help Scott out here, Jim Morrison! Hello, I Love You, Five To One, I Can’t See Your Face in My Mind. Even the Doors can’t shut out Arthur Brown and his infernal Fire. Nothing can shift it. Just having to give in to it. Let the song entirely consume the mind and body …
Finding a street that seems quiet and sleepy in this sultry heat. The music from the Festival is not quite so loud out here ...Carole Bishop refuses to get out of the car. It’s the only place where she is safe ... Parking in a careful spot. Under a sycamore tree. The name of the street is Rosewood Avenue which seems to have a magical feel about it. On acid everything, perceived or imagined, can possess magical influence ... Carole Bishop is highly agitated. The Cortina is parked at the end of Rosewood Avenue so as not to draw stares from residents. The shade of the sycamore tree should be a friendly presence. Scott having to lock all of the doors of the Cortina from the inside. Doing this in an exaggerated manner for Carole Bishop’s benefit. Repeating over and over again slowly in a calming voice.
“No harm can come to you in our lovely Cortina car. You are safe here. All the doors are locked. No one can get in except me when I unlock the driver’s door. No one can harm you. Look at this latest copy of Rolling Stone magazine. Lie down. You have the cushion. Here are two readymade spliffs. Remember to drink the Coca-Cola. You don't want to dehydrate. I shan’t be that long” ... The idea of time seems meaningless …
‘You will be okay, Carole, I promise you. I love you as a brother. Now try and stay calm and think of beautiful moments in your life …” Scott can do no more. He has to go and sell. Otherwise, the terrible gnawing away at his very soul will never leave him ... The music from the Festival is getting louder and louder out here. But it doesn't matter who's on or what they’re playing, it’s still Fire, fire, boring away inside the brain ... Walking down Rosewood Avenue on the outskirts of Reading. A quiet residential street on a Saturday afternoon in June in the sweltering heat. Aware of Carole Bishops’ eyes focused on Scott. Willing him to return to the Paris green Cortina and save her from the demons bedevilling her ... Reading feels on fire in this flaming June scorcher of a day. A hundred thousand young souls stripping off right now. Consuming large quantities of drugs, food and liquor. Rocking to the music booming out. Reading, a town awash with long-haired visitors and scantily clad girls …
A man is cutting a tall hedge in his front garden on Rosewood Avenue. A huge, towering oak tree on his front garden lawn looks ageless to Scott. The man, in an open-necked blue shirt, stops his hedge clipping, looks straight at Scott and half smiles. Asks him if he’s going to the Festival to sell his wares. Scott has never heard the paintings on velvet referred to as wares before ... Scott is suddenly laughing. He can feel the trickle of tears of laughter running down his cheeks. The next thing he knows he’s sat with George drinking a cup of tea on top of a small wall running along the driveway. George seems very pleasant and accommodating, though he's nobody’s fool. Maybe in his mid-forties. He’s happy now; he’s found an audience and there is no stopping him. George doesn’t seem to suspect for one minute that Scott is tripping out of his head ... Finding it very hard to react in the normal way that we all do in polite conversation. Yes, no, of course, I understand, do you think so? Constant eye contact at the important moments. The mmm, a yes, and you could well be right. The soft murmur of approval. Nodding. Smiling. Pulling a face. Shaking one’s head in shared agreement. The actions that we all assimilate as young children to sustain a communication from the school playground onward ... George is warming to his task on a blisteringly hot day. He’s seated on a wooden stool right under the enormous old oak tree. He reckons it’s well over a hundred years old. The oak tree was there way before this house. It was cleverly incorporated in the environs of the house, sparing it from the woodcutter and his chainsaw. George’s shears lay on the grass lawn near the garden hedge ...Scott, just about managing to keep it together, drinking plenty of tea from a bone China cup. He’s on his third one. It’s the concentration that’s so hard. You can look at those shears on the grass and they seem to be moving of their own accord. All inanimate objects can seem alive. The wall is a buzzing hive of activity. It's so hard to follow and focus …
According to George, our society is one large tree like the towering oak in the middle of his front lawn. A flurry of cultured words spring forth. Expressing in detail a range of facts and opinions as truths. Difficult to grasp. Scott thinks George said he's a solicitor, not entirely sure. Hard to catch all the explanations. The only sure-fire thing right now is the persistent beat of the Crazy World of Arthur Brown thrumming around inside Scott’s head. They are not due on stage at the Festival until this evening. Hell, Scott doesn’t even like them that much … Focus, listen, drink more tea. Support George. Feel the world slipping away from under their feet. Dangling legs and shoes on the wall. They don’t seem like his. The brown, shiny brogues are familiar, but they belong to another person … George is on fire. He’s pointing into the towering old oak. This tree is a representation of British society for this afternoon. Maybe for always. George counts off all the children, students, unemployed, old-aged pensioners, layabouts, people on sick leave, mental patients, housewives, hospital patients. He’s nearly run out of fingers. Becoming agitated. As if he's left out important sections of society sponging off the rest … you want to tell him to let it all go. He’s carrying it all around with him like a monkey on his back. When George becomes so impassioned, Scott swears he can see a hump growing on George’s shoulders with the face of a chimpanzee on it. Scott fighting to fix on the main thrust of George’s diatribe, for that is what it seems to have become. The old oak tree is unmoved. The work, effort, expertise, commitment and virtue of the forty or so percent of society who make up this tree are supporting all the rest. They are feeding the tree all the time. Pouring in money with their effort and sweat. Maintaining what we, pointing at Scott, all take for granted. The maintenance and support of all aspects and functions of the country we live in. Everybody else is living off this self-sacrificing group. They are the main body of the tree. Without them the tree would shrivel up and die … Scott decides to nod ... go with the flow. The last cup of tea tasted foul. Drawn from the bottom of the teapot ... Of course, a million answers and explanations to George’s lamentation on the plight of the working man, flash into Scott’s brain and are gone in a second. Seeing it all. The children as the workers. The aged who have done their time. The outsiders who create the ideas to colour the leaves on the tree. The sick and the withering who can stand for us all. The travelling wastrel on the road to Damascus who can achieve sainthood before reaching the oldest city in all the world ...
Can’t drink anymore of this tea, though some kind of ancient knowledge tells Scott that on acid it’s imperative to keep drinking plenty of liquid. Keep saying the same words again and again to try and hold together. Seem to be coming apart at the seams. Slowly disintegrating. Scott wants to strip off all of his clothes, but George might freak out. Perhaps interpret it as some kind of massive come on ... Scott’s drunk three and a half cups from the brown pot sat on a tray along the top of the garden wall. The teapot seems quite alive and a party to his master’s ideas and themes...The arrival of all the crowds of young people to the Reading Music Festival must have provoked something in George. Some deep-seated resentment probably felt by the normally-silent majority of the population. How come all these young freaks, long haired hippies and barely dressed girls can just seemingly wander around having fun? Listening to music all of the time. Painting their faces in garish colours. Preaching political revolution, liberation for women, freedom for the workers, racial equality. How do they survive? Who supports them? What about responsibility? Accepting the values of the society that has raised and educated you. Allowed you to protest and dance on the graves of your grandparents. Staring as you’ve marched on the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square. Protesting at the continuance of American involvement in the Vietnam War. Shrugged shoulders as the French riot police attack student barricades in the Latin Quarter in Paris. Watch horrified as American police kill students and demonstrators at the Kent State University demonstration …
Just how long Scott has been here sat on this wall he doesn’t rightly know. He could easily have fallen off like Humpty Dumpty. Every time he looks at his watch the minute hand keeps whizzing around faster and faster to the sound of Fire, we’re gonna burn. Living in a great big world …
George has left his seat under the old oak tree and is walking towards Scott. The blue of his shirt against the green of the grass and the tree. He's smiling. He’s relieved himself of nagging tensions playing around inside of him. The trunk of the tree supporting all the rest of society. All the branches, stems, and leaves. The sense of purpose. Striving. And all the while, the music coming from the Reading Festival thunders out across the town. Thousands upon thousands of New Age youth sprawled in the powerful sunshine, listening to music, taking drugs, making love in the open air, and the police watch on from the fringes …
George has picked up Scott’s art folder from the lawn and is opening it.
“What is this art about then? Do you follow any particular school?” You notice on acid that large parts of the world seem to be made up of continual questions. Always having to answer and explain. In the act of replying, another part of your life slips by. Time irredeemably lost in the constant thirst of questions and answers ... Scott having to fight to compose himself and come up with a satisfactory response. It seems like a huge time-lapse between George’s question and Scott’s dry voice mustering up what it can ...
“Well, George, excuse me …” cough-cough, cough-cough … ‘That’s better, very dry ... I suppose to investigate the secrets of nature through the medium of art.” George raises an eyebrow. He’s holding up The Mask of Apollo against the scorching sun for inspection. Very apt. Obviously, he has never read in-depth about the Impressionists.
“I’m hungry for art, George. We all are.”
“Very few artists ever make a living at it. Maybe one in a hundred if you’re lucky. Just the same with actors, poets, playwrights, musicians, writers, only the merest few break through. The rest of them rely on the generosity of friends, family, the state, the Arts Councils …”
“The tree again, George.”
“Yes, it is. But at least you are creating. And some of these are quite good.” Scott is too dry in the mouth. Struggling right now just to keep sitting on this driveway wall. Far too gone to be ironic or sarcastic to those last few remarks. No snakes in the head …
George has had his entertainment for a hot Saturday afternoon. He selects two paintings without even asking their titles. Shredded Time and The Peasant Girl, abruptly closes Scott’s red and black-edged art folder, even flicks the elasticized strapping over on the corners. Carefully places the folder back on the lawn and proceeds to march off into his house whistling, with the two paintings under his arm …
Scott making a huge effort and getting down off the wall. It felt like he was going to spend the rest of his life just sat staring at that old oak tree. Stuck forever contemplating George’s theory on society. A butterfly drone in need of constant support and encouragement. Well, here comes some right now. George reappears carrying a glass of water he hands to a thirsty Scott. Wishes him well and sends him on his way with a twenty-pound note for the paintings on velvet.
Scott wanders off, clutching his art folder. Half-walking then stopping. No sense of direction or surroundings. George went back inside his house so at least he’s not observing Scott’s unsteady progress. Don’t look back. Might be turned into a pillar of salt. Nearly stumbling at the thought. Have to try and find the car. No idea where he's parked the Cortina ... That whole sequence with George back there was dream-like, surreal, chimerical, quite out of body ... Scott being able to watch himself and solicitor George, bless him, so caught up in his tree theory, that the thought that his young visitor, Scott, might be tripping on LSD never even crossed his mind …
At last, finding the car. Eric and Tom found the Cortina by themselves and are stood across the way. Carole Bishop seems reluctant to open the car doors. Either won’t or can’t. Much the same. Scott has no idea of the time. No mishaps to report. Eric and Tom desperately seeking the sanctuary of the Cortina ... Would you Adam and Eve it! Tom sold a large and a small. There is just no stopping this red-freckled, farm boy. That means seven points sold today, blowing the crew over ninety points for the week yet again. Scott regaining some semblance of control and a sense of equilibrium now that he’s back with the crew. He likes these three people. Carole Bishop was so relieved to see him she started crying and stroking his hand like an affectionate dog ...Tom getting very stiffly into the Cortina; as if his limbs weigh very heavy ... Starting the engine is a wholly new experience, the very real impression that the Paris green Cortina is driving itself. Negotiating them through the torrid, early evening traffic of Reading and parking them opposite the Reading Festival main entrance ...
Scott forcing himself to get out of the car and walk around. Eric, Tom and Carole Bishop won’t budge. It’s taken on the appearance of a marketplace outside the main entrance. Scott looking at small stalls selling posters, jewellery, trinkets, books on astrology, magic, yoga, mysticism. Clothes. An attractive young woman is offering Scott the chance to have his face painted. A large scrawl of black writing scribbled as graffiti along a wall by the entrance reads 'Hashish should be eaten not smoked.' Some stalls are selling appetising looking food. Including hash brownies. The police seem totally unaware and/or oblivious. Still trying to come to terms with the lack of violence and aggression in the air. They are probably more comfortable policing a football match with gangs of skinhead hooligans smashing up the streets ... No sign of young Steve or Arlene, the girl from Mystic ... At last Scott can make out the time on his wristwatch. It’s now gone seven o’clock, they can’t wait around any longer ... The Crazy World of Arthur Brown has been playing inside Scott’s head for an eternity. He has to leave to get away from this music. It's his responsibility to get the others back home safely …
Driving away from Reading in the early evening sunshine. Fireworks are being let off into the sun-drenched sky ... Once they are well clear of Reading, the infernalFire of the Crazy World of Arthur Brown stops pounding inside Scott’s brain at last. And, blessed be, is replaced by the strains of the Sugar Plum Fairy. So soft and musical it makes Scott want to cry. Driving the Cortina extra carefully and wiping tears away from his eyes. He doesn’t know why. The others are so spaced out they don’t even notice …
That was really the end of the old crew that day. They never, ever saw young Sleepy-Head, guitarist Steve, or Arlene from Mystic again. They vanished into the Reading Festival and the flame-spouting mouth of Arthur Brown. What was left of the old crew still continued for another couple of weeks, but the energy was gone. Floundered on the roads around the Reading Music Festival and the tabs of California Sunshine. It's possible to guess what happened to Eric, Tom and Carole Bishop. They maybe have all individually come to some kind of decision over that weekend. Drug-induced realizations. Scott still ponders the true meaning of George’s tree theory and whether it ever happened ... One way or another, they were all consumed by the infernal fire …