This photo stirred up a fun ruckus between me and the MMFA in the last couple of weeks. The Globe writer, Mark Feeney, reported a metaphoric judgement about us being hippie drug dealers. Now when in god’s creation would a drug dealer pose like a gargoyle, grin like an imp, and fan a wad of bills (one’s undoubtedly) in his belt in front of his own house? Why Herbie Green (The Haight Street Photographer) was there on the street is not clear, but I’m guessing he had ambled up the hill with John Hendricks just to see what he could see. Hendricks, I believe, was divvying up the previous night’s tips from the Matrix (still a famous jazz club). I attended that gig several times, maybe for the peanuts and beer which was their pay along with tips, maybe for something to do, maybe to listen to amazing music–a daily event for me for years. Anyway, we probs left the Matrix on our borrowed Honda Super Hawk 405 (thank you Mr. Jug aka Larry Hanover (RIP). I’m guessing we were in bed from the looks of my attire, and John asked us to come down and talk to Herbie Green. What I do know for sure was that I got a dollar of the take to buy food, and we were not sitting out there dealing drugs in the wee hours of the morning. Nor did any of us deal drugs period. The PH Phactor Jug Band smoked like all good folks did in our circle. John had even changed the lyrics from a well-known Christmas figgy pudding song to “We want some maryjuana, we want some maryjuana, so bring it right here.” And people did! The song always embarrassed me a bit, making us seem like beggars, but John was serious.
I’m hoping the curator will place a modified plaque next to our picture, one that might be less demeaning and dismissive.
and see below, the picture of the plaque in the Massachusetts Museum of Fine Arts.
I’ve asked them to rewrite the part about us–gave several alternatives. One of them to say nothing at all, or else tell who we are and a fair assessment of what we did. I know what I did anyway at that particular juncture–cooked, sewed, followed my BF around–the usual pre-women’s lib behavior that I was taught forever by everyone until the bubble burst. I did earn a little on my portable Singer sewing machine.
Steve? Well, he played music with the PH Phactor. It’s true that Owsley had burst into our house in Berkeley one night (all in my book) and hired me and Steve to cap up his second batch of pure Sandoz–the very psychiatric drug Alpert and Leary were experimenting with on the East Coast. But that was in late 1964, maybe ’65. And we didn’t become dealers. We gave it all away because no one knew what it was. They had to try it before buying it. It was a very short foray into any possibility of making money. We failed; nonetheless, it might have been what Owsley expected. Our Johnny Appleseeding made the drug much more widely known and desirable to those seeking transcendent drug trips. LSD was a serious drug–much stronger than the pot of those days. I’ve heard the opposite is true now, but I am wary of any drug stronger than black tea at this point in my life, and for the last 35 years.
A little research showed me the average year of enforced illegality for LSD was 1970 and later . Unfortunately, research shows also that it can be harmful, most likely when it’s made improperly with impure ingredients, but personally, I never saw that effect. I felt that when it did take hold in San Francisco, specifically at the new rock and roll concerts, it was used for euphoria. The state of California now has the drug pretty tightened down.
Fun to have the ear of these polite gentlemen responsible for the photos and the show. They really are being nice about it. It’s as Herbie Greene explained: “It’s a stereotype; people just assume.” But why not think about it a bit before assuming that all hippies sold drugs? That doesn’t make any sense at all.