For those who don’t know, I’ve been working with the California Historical Society (CHS) for the past six months or so creating and curating digital content for a Summer of Love 50th anniversary that is now upon us. CHS is working with SF Travel to coordinate a statewide commemoration with international reach, and partner organizations such as my beloved Western Neighborhoods Project will have programming and exhibitions throughout the year that showcase San Francisco and California in 1967.
To whet your palate, I’ve curated a playlist of songs and speeches from 1967. All from 1967.
Turn on, tune in, and drop out of 2017…my little time travelers. Nostos Nic Loves You.
My intent was to feature the song “When You Go”, off Rose’s album I Will Not Be Afraid; BUT, that wasn’t readily available for publication and I’m not that kind of blogger, so here you have “America Religious” from her album by the same name. Everything about this video feels right to me: scattered ephemera and composition notebooks, horses and oversized sweaters, bars, sunsets, art and the artful–America as some of us see it set to clever lyrics snuck into a catchy, driving song. Love it, and love her. Love, love, lovelovelove.
Was anyone sober in the 1960s? You know what, it doesn’t matter because this is amazing.
Ginger Baker is a crazy person :: Eric Clapton is a glorious human being. Don’t believe me? Watch Beware of Mr. Baker immediately.
We are consumed by a treasure hunt of unparalleled proportions on an island that has no name. This is the search for meaning, the journey towards a definition. This is life. The little things, the tragic things.
The sticker on the corner of a medicine cabinet mirror, left there by the daughter of a previous occupant and now a part of your morning narrative. The glasses worn by a woman of Italian heritage, removed from the bridge of her nose by death and sold for a pittance from her garage, now worn proudly by a young man more than half her age to that indie show headlined by that band (you know, the one with the lithe bearded gent at the helm) in a small basement around the corner from a former firehouse. The piano, a wedding present to that bride who secretly despised her groom, now spreading the gospel of tolerance and devotion to hundreds of bodies placed piously in their pews.
These are lives overlapping. The past marking the present as it gets passed by for the future. Nothing without meaning, even if the words have not been said and understood. Every anomaly not really out of place, but merely misunderstood. Layers are interwoven atop foundations poured by people framed in frozen photographs hidden in a drawer. Or maybe, if they’re lucky, gathering dust near the edge of a nightstand. Still remembered, still present.
This is history. Not an archaic subject caked in dust and mummified by dates to be memorized, unanalyzed. History is the story of people chasing dreams, or of dreams chasing people; of stickers, glasses, and pianos; of ephemera, sights and sounds.
History is meaningful. History is you and me, and all the other things I see. History Is.