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Tag: Dana Cook (page 1 of 2)

John Phillips – Remembers Ravi…

John Phillips, Rock Musician remembers Ravi’s sense of simple joy in 1967

“The afternoon concert [at Monterey Pop Festival] belonged largely to Ravi Shankar and his hypnotic, meditative ragas. …
Ravi gave one of the most remarkable performances I have ever witnessed. Within the past year, the exotic sitar sound had wafted into the mainstream of rock. I had visited Ravi at his family’s home in L.A. and discussed paying him for his music school in Delhi. I met his wife, his sisters, and their children. They were the most gentle people. We ate curried dishes with our fingers. Incense burned throughout the simple, modest house in the Hollywood Flat. It was unpretentious and suburban and about fourteen people lived in it.
When Ravi visited 783 [Bel Air Road], we stayed up and cut some demos of us jamming together. Ravi exuded a simple joy when playing and he seemed blessed by supernatural stamina and discipline.”

from Papa John: A Music Legend’s Shattering Journey Through Sex, Drugs, and Rock ‘n’ Roll, by John Phillips (Dolphin Books/Doubleday, 1986)
Provided by Dana Cook, Contributor to the Los Angeles Free Press.
RW Klarins’ ‘Remembrance’ of Ravi is Ravi Shankar’s Magic Carpet of Passion and Youth

Ravi -Shankar, 7 April 1920 – 11 December 2012

David Anderle – Remembering Morrison

Elektra Records exec. sees a Physical Metamorphosis

     we went to Casa Cugat. We had dinner and he started drinking beer and a little tequila, and he started changing a little bit. Then he said, Let’s go to Whisky.

     …all of a sudden he is, like gone. He is standing on the table and yelling, Niggers! Fucking niggers can’t sing! I can sing the blues better than you!Thank God the music is loud. I grab him by the pants to try to get him seated, and I look up, and he’s looking down at me, and it’s the first time I ever encountered a schizophrenic, where a person’s face actually physically transformed. Jim as a guy was so calm and soft-speaking, very gentle deep voice, beautiful eyes, very sweet face. But this was the Devil. Chiseled face, maddened eyes. Just hate coming out of that face, hatred. He resembled physically no one that I knew. I had no idea who that person was, and he had no idea who I was. In the truest sense, this was not just a guy who’s blind drunk, but a person who actually went through a physical metamorphosis and became someone else. (Los Angeles, 1969)


     from Follow the Music: The Life and Times of Elektra Records in the Great Years of American Pop Culture, by Jac Holzman and Gavin Davis (FirstMedia, 1998)

Provided by Dana Cook, Contributor to the Los Angeles Free Press.)


Charles (Tex) Watson, Manson Family Member – On Meeting Manson…

Pacific Palisades, CA, 1968. It was all about acceptance and love.

“Rolling up the long driveway to what had once been Will Rogers’s mansion, I played with the idea of what it would be like to tell my brother about the time one of the Beach Boys had me in for coffee…
The first thing I saw when we came into the kitchen was a heavyset, bald-headed man with a big gray beard pouring down his chest, sitting at the table with a few girls. He introduced himself as Dean Morehouse…
There he was—surrounded by five or six girls—on the floor next to the huge coffee table with a guitar in his hands. He looked up, and the first thing I felt was a sort of gentleness, an embracing kind of acceptance and love.
“This is Charlie,” Dean said. “Charlie Manson.”
There was a large ashtray full of Lebanese hash sitting in the middle of the coffee table, and pretty soon Charlie and Dean and Dennis [Wilson] and I were lounging back on the oversize sofas, smoking. Nobody said much. As we got stoned, Charlie started playing his music, softly, almost to himself.
Here I was, accepted in a world I’d never even dreamed about, mellow and at my ease. Charlie murmured in the background, something about love, finding love, letting yourself love. I suddenly realized that this was what I was looking for: love…
…He was short—five-foot-two—with a strangely high voice. He was, as some of the girls put it, always changing. One moment his movements would be slow, almost trancelike, and then the next he could be exploding with a violent energy that shook off him to set everything around him on fire. He changed his hair and beard constantly, and with each change he could be born anew—Hollywood slicker, jail tough, rock star, guru, child, tramp, angel, devil, son of God. He was a magician; he charmed—in the original sense of the word—and he had an uncanny ability to meet a person and immediately psyche him out, understand his deepest fears and hang-ups, his vulnerabilities. It was as though he could see through you with the all-encompassing eye of God.
from Will You Die for Me?, by Charles (Tex) Watson, as told to Ray Hoekstra (Fleming H. Revell Company, 1978)
Provided by Dana Cook, Contributor to the Los Angeles Free Press.

David Crosby – Remembering Morrison

Last week was Jim’s Birthday and, as always, we celebrated it with unusual posts and positivity. This post is a bit different… We’ll look for your reactions and comments to see if we should include these kinds of observations and memories in our remembrances.

So… No question that you know David Crosby… singer-songwriter (Byrds, C,S & N) – his thought was that Jim had a sublimated masochism. Your thought?

“I had dropped acid with a guy who had worked for the Byrds as our equipment tech. The two of us drove down to the Strip in his VW van because we thought it was a good idea to go see some live music at the Whisky. Jim Morrison was there and Morrison, as far as I could tell, had a masochistic bent; he sublimated it. He’d go out and get monumentally trashed—and pick a fight with someone who would beat him up. He did it repeatedly…I’m wearing sunglasses because I’m thoroughly dosed and the lights of the clubs on the Strip need deamplification before they hit my retina. Morrison comes over to where I’m standing in the back. He attacks us, actually jumps at us, saying to me as he does, “You can’t hide behind those shades.”…

from Long Time Gone: The Autobiography of David Crosby, by David Crosby with Carl Gottlieb (Doubleday, 1988)
Provided by Dana Cook, Contributor to the Los Angeles Free Press.

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