Chapter 11

	Once again I had grown weary of the pressure and rigidity of the music scene.  I felt 

the need to connect again with the roots of jazz and the variation found in the general 

population.  I wanted to bring the thrill of improvised music to the uninitiated layperson.  

That meant not much competition.  I had a young cousin who was attending the 

experimental "Pacifica" high school and was invited to give a musical demonstration.  At 

the occasion I met the teacher Fred McPhearson who became an enthusiastic fan of my 

approach.  When I decided to have this session I called Fred, a few other friends, and 

some of my musician buddies, as well as some of my artist friends, and, of course, Pat who 

was with this project from the beginning.  Pat built the "Space Bass" in the small earthen 

square in front of the studio.  When it was done we rolled it into the studio.  We plugged 

it in and with thumb harps, flutes, drums, and the gong we were ready for whatever would 

come.

	I decided to have an open session.  Anyone who wanted to could play.  I chose 

Thursday evening as the time to hold the session.  Thursday wasn't the weekend and it 

was a night not very much else was happening.

	With no more notice than word of mouth, Pat, Fred, and I waited anxiously on the 

first Thursday night.  Soon friends, friends of friends, and strangers began to straggle in.  

It wasn't long before the studio was packed.  I was astonished.  Incense was brought and 

lit.  It mingled with the sweet smell of Pot.  The tape recorder was loaded and set and the 

amps turned on.  There was a pleasant patina of conversational patter.  I cut through it 

with an announcement, something like this.  "I want everybody to be silent for a moment 

so we can all hear the music of the universe that goes on around us all the time."  Of 

course, being right on the bank above the San Lorenzo River, we could all hear the river 

burbling below us.  The sound was perfect.  I continued after a short, impressive pause, 

"Let he who first hears the first note be the first to play it."

	There was a stunned silence and then slowly one by one the thumb harps began to 

enter, then the flutes and drums, and finally the "Space Bass," and then my bass.  The 

song lasted more than an hour.  It had peaks and valleys and a real ending.  After the 

ending I gave a short lesson in calimba playing, "Put it between your knees and play it like 

a typewriter."  I told everyone, "That was perfect.  Let's do it again."  Once more the 

thumb harps started the music.  After another long piece we listened to the tape playback.  

It was hypnotically peaceful.  Everyone was lulled into a dreamlike state as they listened 

to what we had done.  I told them it was perfect.  I said, "There are no wrong notes in 

nature's music.  It is perfect music."

	We had started a little after 8:00 p.m.  It was after midnight when the last notes of 

the recording we had made trailed off.  A few folks left but most were still there in the 

studio laid back, eyes closed, transfixed by the music.  We had a hard time believing we 

had made such involved, lyrical, melodic, emotional music.  After everyone left, Pat, Fred, 

and I congratulated ourselves on pulling it off.  We were ready for sleep.  Fred drove 

away, Pat walked home, and I went up to the house and crawled into bed beside Sharon 

and fell immediately into a deep sleep.

	The next Thursday I didn't even call anybody and it was more crowded than before.  

This time a tall, well built African American conga drummer came.  He was huge.  His name 

was Marcellus.  He brought his dog, a Great Dane, who sang with the Space Bass.  People 

danced and sang.  We had rigged up some blinking colored lights.  It was sensational.  

Afterwards we listened to what we had done, with the same effect.  It was infinitely 

calming, mesmerizing, and produced a trancelike mental state which was humorous, 

peaceful, and refreshing.  This became the pattern.  We played usually just two songs, 

sometimes only one long one and then we would listen to it played back on the tape.

	I always started us off with a moment of silence listening to the sound of nature's 

perfect music.  "Let whoever hears it be the first to play it."

	No matter how crowded or loud the session was there was never any disturbance, 

any fights, any negative behavior.  Not once in twelve years of four Thursdays a month 

was there ever a problem.  Due to the location there was never a complaint from the 

neighbors.  There was never any advertisement, never any public notice, never an empty 

night.  Everybody just showed up every Thursday.  All I had to do was open the studio, 

turn on the lights, the tape recorder, and the amps, and people showed up.  In the winter 

on cold Thursdays I would chop wood in the afternoon and get the potbelly ready to 

light.  Almost always, no always, someone brought weed to smoke.  I kept of pitcher of 

water filled and glasses ready.  The water came from the tap or the garden hose and before 

it got there, from mountain springs.  It was a delicious, slightly sweet and clean tasting 

drink.  I used to say, "Have some sweet mountain water."  Sometimes folks brought wine 

or beer but never anything stronger.  No one ever got drunk, not once in twelve years of 

Thursdays.

	Quite often professional musicians would come for the liberating quality of the 

experience.  It was so rewarding for them to play with people, some of whom had never 

played music before in their lives, rewarding and thrilling for both of them.

	The war in Vietnam was still raging, Johnson was President, and huge public peace 

demonstrations were beginning to happen.  I attended the first large scale protest in 

Berkeley at the University of California Berkeley campus.  I brought my sixteen millimeter 

movie camera and filmed it.  I shot three or four rolls of film.  While there I met another 

cameraman.  His name was Chick Callenbach.  He asked me if I wanted to let him use some 

of my film for a documentary he was making about the massive demonstration.  There were 

many thousands of people attending.  There was one speaker after another all afternoon.  I 

didn't have sound but Chick did and was recording as well as filming.  He asked me if I 

would like to help him edit the film.  I readily agreed.

	We worked in Chick's basement studio in Berkeley.  The film was black and white.  

It was my first time using more or less professional equipment.  Chick and I got along well.  

He was easy to work with.  It took us a couple of months to get the job done.  Chick had a 

pronounced sense of humor.  It showed up in his documentary.  It was not appreciated by 

the folks in the student movement who organized the demonstration.  The movie was 

panned by them and went down in flames.  I thought they were a bit oversensitive.  The 

humor was soft humor, not really making fun of the movement, just showing a lighter side 

of the action from a few brief shots.  For me it was a great learning experience but 

eventually disappointing.  In retrospect I feel the documentary was much too long with 

not enough real up close action.  Filming in a crowd like that, it was difficult if not 

impossible to get up close.  It did give me a lot of good experience which I was able to put 

to use in a later adventure in film making.  That was a documentary I made of a young 

people's collective that had taken up squatter's rights in an abandoned tourist motel on 

the river between Ben Lomond and Felton.

	These were young people, many of whom had been kicked out of their parents' 

homes for wearing their hair long or for smoking pot, or were broke and homeless.  One of 

those residents was a wild looking man calling himself "Wavey Gravey."  Trading on his 

image, he later became famous as a spokesman for the "hippie" movement.  Giving 

credence to his name, Wavey Gravey had long curly red hair and a wiry red beard that 

came half way down his chest.  He was a friendly, good natured, clownish fellow with a 

collection of wry and witty slogans to match any occasion.  Sort of a down and out Will 

Rogers.