Music can recall a whole setting, where I was and what I was doing and feeling, years ago. For me, the most potent musical link to forty-five years ago is Joni Mitchell's Hejira, from 1976. Rasta was a baby and I used to drive from my parents' house in Chappaqua, NY up to my friend Martine's in Woodstock. That was the only music I ever played, over and over until it was embedded in my soul. I knew every song by heart. I still do.
Today I was listening to it on youtube, and the line that popped out was "you just picked up a hitcher, prisoner of the white lines on the freeway..." and immediately I thought of the time CJ and I took a ride into Vermont and didn't agree on whether or not the hitcher got to smoke pot with us.
It was 1974, and I was living in a wild and crazy artist's commune in rural Massachusetts, in the cold and frozen North. CJ lived down in civilized Connecticut, and once in awhile he'd drive up to see me and bring some Thai sticks, which the communards greatly appreciated, and we'd have us a time.
This one time, he wanted to show me Woodstock, VT, the town consistently voted most beautiful in America, partly because all the electric wires in the whole town are underground. A couple of Rockefellers were responsible for that. There were no overhead wires, and until you experience that lack of visual pollution, it's hard to realize what an ugly mess it makes.
It really wasn't far from where I lived, so we cruised around, smoking Thai sticks and laughing and probably listening to music. It wasn't Hejira, not yet, but the world was full of great music those days. Then we picked up a hitchhiker, a nice seeming young kid, and I didn't want to turn him on to this really strong weed, and CJ was all about it.
I don't even remember if we did or didn't, but I'm betting we didn't. After a couple of really unfortunate events getting people high for the first time, I shied away from it. Joni reminded me. We just picked up a hitcher, and he had to stay straight because anything else made me nervous.
Today I was listening to it on youtube, and the line that popped out was "you just picked up a hitcher, prisoner of the white lines on the freeway..." and immediately I thought of the time CJ and I took a ride into Vermont and didn't agree on whether or not the hitcher got to smoke pot with us.
It was 1974, and I was living in a wild and crazy artist's commune in rural Massachusetts, in the cold and frozen North. CJ lived down in civilized Connecticut, and once in awhile he'd drive up to see me and bring some Thai sticks, which the communards greatly appreciated, and we'd have us a time.
This one time, he wanted to show me Woodstock, VT, the town consistently voted most beautiful in America, partly because all the electric wires in the whole town are underground. A couple of Rockefellers were responsible for that. There were no overhead wires, and until you experience that lack of visual pollution, it's hard to realize what an ugly mess it makes.
It really wasn't far from where I lived, so we cruised around, smoking Thai sticks and laughing and probably listening to music. It wasn't Hejira, not yet, but the world was full of great music those days. Then we picked up a hitchhiker, a nice seeming young kid, and I didn't want to turn him on to this really strong weed, and CJ was all about it.
I don't even remember if we did or didn't, but I'm betting we didn't. After a couple of really unfortunate events getting people high for the first time, I shied away from it. Joni reminded me. We just picked up a hitcher, and he had to stay straight because anything else made me nervous.
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