Rocket Norton Lost In Space. Rocket Norton
sidewalks pointing up at the mountains. The Fine Arts School itself was highly regarded and well attended.
The student body had heard that we were in the area and wanted us to play at their dance. The board of directors was appalled and refused to allow it. The students had protested by leaving the lights on all night at the dorm or maybe they turned the lights off all night – either way, it was a silly protest.
We drove to Banff to settle the affair.
Jim coerced his way in to see the School Senator, who was also the Head Master. We waited on the lawn outside his office. Jim had him talked into it until the Senator’s wife saw us loafing on the lawn. She was repulsed, Jim was tossed out and we were removed from the campus with a stern warning never to return.
I woke up the next morning under a tree in the Banff campground. A moose was standing just twenty feet away. A herd of elk grazed nearby. It was a beautiful day for a demonstration.
The student council snuck us onto the campus and helped us set up in the school’s auditorium. The Senator found out and was fuming mad. The RCMP was called. The students and the authorities squared off in the street in front of the auditorium. The confrontation could have exploded in violence but, at the last moment, the Senator blinked. He backed down and the dance was allowed to go ahead.
With all of that tension averted, and the victory complete, the students charged into the auditorium overcome with emotion. They were high on freedom, they were stoned on love.
We were inspired by their solidarity. It was magical; we played as if possessed by their spirit. During our first break Jim gathered us in a circle for a pep talk. “These kids laid it on the line for you. They wanted you and they fought for you. They risked everything for you. Make eye contact with each and every one of them. Let them know how much we love them.”
These huddles would become habitual for us. They pumped us up and brought us together.
Our second set was even more ebullient than the first. The students were bewitched by the sheer power of their collective will to make this night happen. We were the consequence of their witchcraft and they were memorized by us. I looked out into the audience, as Jim had instructed, and I looked into their upturned faces. The connection was electrifying.
Before the last set Jim introduced a saying that so eloquently characterized The Seeds of Time, it would become our mantra. He said, “Be fun – not boring. Fun! - not boring!”
Then he went on to direct us in how we would resolve the night.
There was no alcohol and there were no drugs but the vivacity in the room was omniscient, almost hallowed. Each song brought us closer to the climax.
As planned, our last song was Get Together by The Youngbloods. Everyone in the room sang along. Geoff led the last verse like a prayer:
C’mon people now
Smile on your brother
Ev’rybody get together
Try to love one another right now ...
We dropped our instruments, jumped off the stage into the audience, walked right through them and out the front door. For whatever reason, this simple action had the impact of a celestial miracle – Just as Jim had predicted. At that point, we didn’t think we could get much higher. We were wrong.
As coffee was passed around our campsite the next morning, we were approached by a strange older man wearing a brown three-piece suit. When George saw him he bowed his head reverently and went over to him immediately. I watched as they spoke quietly. George looked uneasy. After a long while George came back to us and explained that this was Mr. Brown, the manager of his old band, The Coastmen, and that he had tracked George down with the intent of talking him into returning to the band in Vancouver. It was clear that George had tremendous respect for Mr. Brown, and he did miss his friends, but he told Mr. Brown that he would have to think about it. With that we headed for our next adventure.
We drove down to the Kicking Horse Pass and over the Salmo-Creston Summit, which is the highest highway pass in North America. Howard had developed a habit of calling out each town we came to as if he was a bus driver. He would say, “Kimberly; hiking, fishing, fornicating ... Kimberly!” Or, he would announce the next town, “next piss-stop Cranbrook; Cranbrook!” all in his best bus driver’s voice. This had started on our first day out of Vancouver when we passed by the Sumallo Lodge on the Hope-Princeton Highway near the famous Hope Slide (where, in January of 1965, the side of a mountain slammed onto the road killing four people). As we passed the Sumallo Lodge, Howard cried out as if he were Italian, “What's u-mallo with you?!”
When we came to the small town of Blairmore, nestled on the Alberta side of the Rocky Mountain foothills, we set up camp and put on a dance.
After the gig Geoff spotted the cutest chick in town. He ambled over to her and said, “Wanna ball?”
Only Geoff could be that direct.
She swooned and answered, “fer sure.”
We had to pry her off him when we left the next day.
We continued on to Lethbridge in the southern cattle country of Alberta. We spent a couple of days hanging out. Geoff complained of a minor problem - it hurt when he peed. Jim took him to see a doctor in town and he was diagnosed with gonorrhoea. That chick in Blairmore had given him a present to remember her by.
John observed, “Stud got a dose through moral decay.”
We proceeded with our usual formula of booking the community hall, hanging out at the local coffee shop making psychedelic posters and then playing to a crowd comprised of hippies and curious townsfolk. As we played, Jim noticed the young doctor who had treated Geoff dancing with a girl who had locked her attentions on Geoff as he sang. The good doctor could be seen talking into her ear and gesturing towards Geoff on stage; probably practicing preventative medicine.
The next morning we prepared to make the short trip up to Calgary. Calgary was a real city, a rich oil town, and we were excited.
We pulled into Calgary about noon. It was hot, dry and dusty. It was Sunday and the downtown was deserted. We found a coffee shop that was open. They told us that there was a Be-In in the park. Off we flew like bees to honey. Jim spoke with the organizers and got us a spot. We opened with Donovan's Season of the Witch.
During our set Geoff informed the audience that we had just arrived from the West Coast and asked if anyone had a place for us to crash.
A sun-baked, dirt-caked hippie wearing faded jeans and a ragged vest told us that his folks were away and we could stay at his house. This was not the first time this trip when someone had offered to take us in to their home. It made me think that the world would take care of us wherever we went.
We followed him to a quiet street in the heart of suburbia and a lovely new split-level house. He was a gracious host. He helped us move in lock-stock-and-guitars. He insisted that we indulge in whatever food and booze we could find. There was a large modern double-sided fridge in the kitchen and a deep freeze in the basement chocked full of meat, poultry and fish. His dad kept a fully stocked bar in the den and had cases of beer and wine in the garage. Our host showered us with kindness.
More people arrived and the party escalated. Geoff mixed exotic cocktails at the bar while Steve acted as the zany waiter. They were a hilarious team. John pounded the piano until it smoked and George, on guitar, serenaded a barefooted chick in a corner of the living room. Howard drank his weight in wine while Norm helped in the kitchen. Jim held court in the dining room. Every bed in the house was employed like a by-the-hour two dollar hotel. The pungent smell of sex was thick in the air. I wasn’t in there. I’d given up by then.
Night became morning and the morning melted into the afternoon of the second day. Things were beginning to quiet down. We all dropped acid and the party found a new gear.
I loved LSD. It was like slipping through a portal from reality into the altered state of phantasmagoria. Sight, sound, smell, taste