‘Echo in the Canyon’

From the Editor, Marty Racine

As one who experienced the ‘60s in real time, I have little use for “classic rock,” retro hippiedom and the mass marketing of so many virtual-reality tribute bands straight out of central casting.

Been there, done that, with the San Francisco bands, the LA cosmic folkies and the Brits – along with the remaining and rediscovered blues legends that influenced more young, white rockers than we can ever realize; to their credit, the rockers freely acknowledged that.

OK, the music was an instant classic. It was also transcendent for an entitled, idealistic generation convinced it was about to change the world before sunrise. We were opening the doors of perception, after all, reordering peace and freedom and universal love as the world had never known.

Later, as the ‘60s darkened, the music was a lifesaver tossed into the roiling currents of Vietnam, Kent State, People’s Park, Watts, Altamont, the Manson murders and the Chicago Democratic Convention.

But don’t tell me a guy like David Crosby wasn’t a pompous narcissist or that the Beach Boys were authentic surfers. Real as the music was, it had its façade.

Indeed, many Laurel Canyon types weren’t even Californians. Clapton, Ringo and Graham Nash, of course, were Brits. Neil Young came from Canada. Tom Petty and Stephen Stills were from Florida. Jon Sebastian matriculated in New York’s Greenwich Village folk/blues scene. In the blink of an era the music industry lured them one-by-one to an idyllic patch of green in the Hollywood hills because like attracts like. After Charlie Manson, the El-Ay music scene died, taking flower power and the Age of Aquarius with it.

But I’m going to go see this movie, anyway, because I can relate, man. Just don’t romanticize it for me and I won’t pretend it was all groovy. There are tribute bands for that.

Marty Racine may be reached at marty@lascrucesbulletin.com.