Morning Teleportation: Spacey, Psychedelic Music for Your Inner Circus PerformerRead More
by Amanda Pampuro
Love road trips? Try being on tour. After a few hours sleep in LA, the members of Morning Teleportation hightailed it to the next stop on their summer tour with Modest Mouse — Denver, Colorado. At dusk, hustlers outside the Fillmore on Colfax set the price on the last tickets to the sold out show as fans lined up around the block.
After sound check, Tiger Merritt sucked his cigarettes down to the filter, while keyboardist Travis Goodwin, drummer Joseph Jones, and bassist Tyler Osmond finalized the guest list. Security had just kicked out their old touring-buddy Brage, and Travis was trying to remember his real name.
“It’s Tony,” Tiger offered.
“Can’t we just put Tony Brage?”
After spending the last year in Isaac Brock’s Studio 360 in Portland, Oregon, the guys are stoked to be back on the road with “Salivating for Symbiosis,” a ten-track slice of the rock quad’s wide repertoire. With a sound that is as full as it is full of surprises, Morning Teleportation shifts from galactic, spacey orchestrations to the light whimsical sounds of a circus sideshow. Linked by the echo of electronica and Merritt’s metaphors, the album contains a wide spectrum of psychedelic-indy, beginning with the folksy picking of “Rise and Fall,” building up to the epic arena noise of “Rocks Gears Desert Trucking,” and settling back into the jazzy and melodic instrumental “A Cell Divides.”
Instead of saying “baby, don’t go,” on “Escalate,” Merritt calls out over a bubbly orchestra of echoing synthesizer and ghostly steel drum, “I don’t want you to evaporate.”
While some songs take as long to play as they do to write, Merritt and Goodwin estimate they have been writing “Escalate” for the last seven years.
“That idea had been floating around for a while. Every now and then we’d go back to it,” Merritt said. “The guitar part traveled a lot through the years and it wound up as a track; it’s kind of like whatever sticks in the brain like that and stays for a second, you revisit it. Some melodies will stay around for a little bit.”
“We had so many versions of that,” Goodwin reminisced. “We had this really cool version, that I remember was my favorite besides the record version: My dad’s old drum machine is called Ernie Yokomoto, and me and Tiger worked on it in my brother’s room one night. My dad used this analog drum machine probably for 25 years in the lounge sets that he does.”
Travis Goodwin’s brother Aaron also tours with the group. “He’s the fifth member of the band. The lights are his instrument,” said Travis.
Much of the time, when Merritt is writing music, he said he compiles together various sounds with memories. While he estimates three-quarters of the song writing process is done under the creative influence of cannabis, he doesn’t quite know which parts.
“Different sections of lyrics represent to me different moments of time, and each line kind of triggers a memory. So each section of a song triggers memories of something else. Some of those moments are stoned moments,” he said. “Sometimes smoking helps with focus, sometimes it doesn’t, but it just puts me in a better place.”
After the tour, Merritt will return to the studio he built in Franklin, Kentucky. A former rubber band factory, surrounded by cornfields, he calls the place “The Country.” In addition to Morning Teleportation, the studio is frequented by members of Cage the Elephant as well as Waylon Baxter and Buddy Ray.
Asked about where he wants to be, Merritt said without pause, “Right here’s good. Hanging with these guys, being on the road, getting to play music and putting on some great shows.” ♦
TUMBLIN’ DOWN: The weed-scented history of Colorado’s obscure, early-’70s record label, Tumbleweed RecordsRead More
By Gregory Daurer
The Denver record label that hardly anyone remembers – or has ever even heard of – is getting some love.
A Tumbleweed Records compilation called “Sing It High, Sing It Low” has been released by the noted reissue label, Light In The Attic Records. Mojo – the elegant and tasteful music magazine out of England – gave the project its top rating of four stars. The new album/CD/digital download has shined a spotlight onto a forgotten musical history.
The story of Tumbleweed Records involves a multi-million dollar record deal, one of the most respected names in music production in the ‘70s (who would go on to produce the Eagles’ multi-platinum selling album “Hotel California”), and an eclectic roster of musicians playing everything from quasi-jazz and country rock to psychedelic folk and R&B. Nine albums were released by the label, which only existed from 1971-1973. According to some, it wasn’t so much the-record-label-that-couldn’t as the-record-label-that-wasn’t-allowed-to by its parent company overseers.
But now, thanks to Light In The Attic’s compilation, artists who were overlooked when their music was first released are being re-evaluated – and their highs (some very cannabis-accented ones, at that) and lows are being sung.
“So sing it high, sing it low/Which way would you like to go?...High, low, high...” – “Sunday Sherry” by Arthur Gee.
Tumbleweed Records began in 1971, after two record music vets Larry Ray, 31, and Bill Szymczyk, 28, arrived in Denver. The region had been gaining an increasing reputation as a place for musicians to relocate to. Szymczyk says “the vibe was very, very open” in the city back then, noting the area’s “undercurrent of musicality” – which some have likened to a pared-down version of L.A.’s Laurel Canyon scene.
Ray, who had spent time in Denver growing up, was burning to base a brand-new venture there, likely desiring his own hits with Tumbleweed like his previous employers, Elektra and A&M, had achieved with The Doors, Joe Cocker, and Cat Stevens.
But Szymczyk – who’d had some success producing B.B. King’s hit “The Thrill Is Gone” and the James Gang (featuring guitarist Joe Walsh, who would become a longtime collaborator) – ultimately had a terrifying wake-up call which caused him to join Ray in Denver: the deadly San Fernando Valley earthquake in California, in February 1971, scared him into moving his family out of harm’s way.
Through entrepreneurial hustle, Ray negotiated a multi-million dollar deal with Gulf + Western – one of the largest entertainment conglomerates in the world, and the owners of Paramount Pictures – and Tumbleweed Records was soon in business. Things were looking up for the brand-new label, which featured the image of a tumbleweed on its records (a tumblin’ tumbleweed, in fact, when spinning on a turntable).
For their offices, they rented a house at 1368 Gilpin Street (a fact noted on the back of each release) situated near Cheesman Park. Robb Kunkel, who brought several acts to Ray and Szymczyk’s attention before eventually recording his own album “Abyss” for the label, lived upstairs; Kunkel sometimes wheeled his upright piano out onto the deck situated above the house’s porch, filling Gilpin Street with song.
Commander-in-chief Ray had his own office there. So did the label’s radio man, Bob Ruttenberg, doing the all-important promotional outreach to the era’s still-revolutionary band of FM DJs. Tumbleweed had two secretaries and an art department in the basement. Soon enough, the label had a string of albums ready to be released – most of which were recorded elsewhere, often in Los Angeles.
According to promo man Ruttenberg, the Tumbleweed Records crew was considered “radical hippies” by the industry – and not just because of their toking, but also due to their approach to business. Ray has said that Tumbleweed Records set out to equitably share royalties with its acts; not keeping two sets of accounting books like other labels did to screw over their musicians. (Never mind that ultimately there was very little in royalties to ever share.)
Tumbleweed’s label-mates shared their weed as well. “Everyone was smoking,” recalls the intelligently-quirky songwriter Pete McCabe, who would show up at the Gilpin Street house to pick up an advance check for his upcoming album and then spend part of it on that week’s blonde hash. Once, McCabe was visiting Arthur Gee, a Canadian who was Tumbleweed’s resident hippie/cosmic cowboy. Gee told McCabe, “I’m out of pot, but I did spill some hash oil on this sweatshirt.” They cut up that sticky part of Gee’s shirt and began smoking it, according to McCabe.
Ruttenberg also shared his weed with radio DJs. It was a way of seeking airplay, as much as it was a fun way to travel and hang out. Ruttenberg says, “All the FM DJs loved getting stoned – and I loved getting them stoned. And that’s one of the ways I presented myself: as Tumbleweed’s stoner... Let’s get stoned and listen to the new Michael Stanley record. Let’s get stoned and listen to Albert Collins and Dewey Terry.”
Notoriously, Ruttenberg was arrested in Seattle with six ounces in his possession after having to unexpectedly pass through an airport metal detector (which perhaps came into greater use as a result of D.B. Cooper hijacking a plane in the Pacific Northwest in 1971). The metal-detector alerted authorities due to the recording equipment Ruttenberg was carrying, and his contraband was quickly discovered.
Ruttenberg told airport security, “Listen, man. This is my personal stash. It means nothing to you. It’s not going to hurt anybody. I’m just going around the country, taking care of business. Why don’t you put the bag back in the suitcase and let me go Eugene, Oregon to see my friend who’s waiting for me at the gate?”
After a short spell in jail and ultimately five thousand dollars in legal fees, charges were dismissed due to an improper search and Ruttenberg was a free man.
But even though its promo man was able to get out of jail, the label couldn’t achieve breakout success.
Tumbleweed’s highest charting record was a single by Danny Holien called “Colorado.” It hit number 66 on Billboard Magazine’s charts in October 1972. Whereas John Denver’s 1972 single “Rocky Mountain High” (released after Holien’s) celebrated the natural wonder of the state, Holien’s song explored a dystopian vision, an early take on the “Californication” of Colorado. It has a martial, fife and drum-like quality to it, a deeply-expressed passion for how wilderness would be overrun by development one day.
“Colorado, Colorado, beautiful place that you are/Feel the sorrow of tomorrow, before you go very far/Listen to the calling of the wilderness crying for a human soul to feel.” – “Colorado” by Danny Holien.
The song incorporates what Pulitzer Prize-winning zen Beat poet Gary Snyder has termed a “moral sense of the nonhuman world.” In other words, given its subject matter and keen production, it’s a stunning-sounding bummer.
Holien wasn’t the only act brought to Tumbleweed by Kunkel. Also brought into the fold was Dewey Terry, who had been recording music since the 1950s as part of the soul and doo-wop act Don and Dewey. With his partner Don “Sugarcane” Harris, Terry had written and recorded seriously-grooving songs like “Big Boy Pete” and “Farmer John” (which has been covered, over the years, by The Premieres, Neil Young, and The White Stripes). Don and Dewey toured alongside Little Richard (featuring Jimi Hendrix) and even met the Beatles.
“He was one of the funkiest dudes ever,” Szymczyk says of Terry.
Terry’s howling vocals on the song “Do On My Feet (What I Did On The Street)” call to mind the Don and Dewey ‘50s raver “Justine.” It’s Tumbleweed’s funkiest, James Brown-like moment. Then, on “Sweet as Spring,” Terry delivers a tender, country-esque, string-accented number. The two songs, which sound as if they had been recorded by totally separate acts, both appear on 2017’s Light In The Attic release, as well as Terry’s Tumbleweed record “Chief.” Holien and Kunkel were both a part of Terry’s backup band, the Rocky Mountain Rhythm Kings – as all-white as a snow-capped Colorado peak. (Kunkel has written about how, prior to Tumbleweed starting, he was dragged to Denver’s Five Points neighborhood by Terry so he could share his Thai-stick weed with a fellow soul brother at the “Bucket of Blood” bar and demanded that Kunkel take to the stage and jam on guitar for the all-black audience.)
Kunkel also heard brilliance in Denver native Pete McCabe, who rightly calls some of the lyrics on his recording “The Man Who Ate The Plant” “fantastical.” In McCabe’s song “Magic Box,” a seemingly whimsical story about a drunken magician turns into a tale of existential horror: in his act, the magician really does make volunteers from the audience disappear forever, and he laments over how so many people are eager not to exist. To close its reissue disc, Light In The Attic includes McCabe’s “Late Letter” – an ode to movie star Marilyn Monroe told by an admirer whose needy fan letter belatedly arrives after the late Monroe has already taken too many sleeping pills. Szymczyk remembers McCabe as an “eccentric singer-songwriter” and says, “I also always loved the Pete McCabe [record], because that is such an oddball.”
During the recording of “The Man Who Ate the Plant,” Szymczyk says it was “cool as hell” to put the anxious, tenor banjo-plunking McCabe – who’d only played solo before – in a room with 20 accomplished musicians. As for the studio environment itself, McCabe recalls, “Bill told me, ‘Okay, when these string players come in, we put the pot away. But for the horn players, it’s okay, we can smoke.’”
Szymczyk also produced bluesman Albert Collins for Tumbleweed. Collins’ guitar-string bends can wrench one’s guts, while the backing horns add their own “Yeah, ain’t life a bitch?” emphasis. (Collins’ song “There’s Gotta Be A Change” – the title of his Tumbleweed album – is included on his “Best Of” album, but not on Light In The Attic’s compilation, due to issues with acquiring the rights.)
However, if Collins had been hoping to have a hit like Szymczyk had crafted for B.B. King with “The Thrill is Gone”(which reached the 15 spot on the Billboard Hot 100 in 1970), the lack of chart success was something that Collins could have written a blues song about. Regardless, the Texan is remembered as a powerful performer by Gee: “He played his guitar and he’d walk into the crowd. That was one of his signatures. He was a fabulous blues guitar player. Very creative.”
Besides producing Collins, Szymczyk also brought Michael Stanley to Tumbleweed. The Colorado Music Hall of Fame presently cites Stanley’s woeful “Denver Rain” as one of the greatest songs ever written about Colorado.
“Maybe it’s back to the mountains/Back to my place in the hills/Hoping that maybe she’ll tell me/Denver rain never will.” – “Denver Rain” by Michael Stanley.
Stanley came to Szymczyk’s attention when he was playing in a Cleveland band called Silk, back when Stanley was still known by his original last name, Gee. That surname proved problematic when he was about to be signed to Tumbleweed. Szymczyk told Cleveland’s The Plain Dealer newspaper, “When I finished Michael’s album we played it for Larry [Ray], surrounded by a cloud of fine Colorado weed, (mostly mine).” Ray was “floored” by the music – which included musicians like Todd Rundgren and Joe Walsh – but there was a problem: the label already had a Gee –
Arthur Gee – as part of its roster. In that shroud of cannabis smoke, Michael Gee ultimately changed out his last name for his middle name, Stanley.
The other Gee – Arthur – was the only Tumbleweed artist to have two albums released by the label. Gee comes off as a troubadour of inner-space and outer-geographies, doing what he’s called his “hippie, wandering-minstrel type thing.” While his first album was released under his own name, his second included a band which Tumbleweed took the liberty of naming the Arthur Gee-Whizz Band. “I was sort of shaking my head about that for a while,” says Gee, who ultimately rolled with the decision.
Gee recalls of the era, “It was an exciting time musically, because there was a lot of experimenting going on, back then, with music and electronic instruments and stuff like that.”
Although the music was sometimes experimental, the Tumbleweed business experiment didn’t prove sustainable in the long run. There were constant rifts between Tumbleweed and its parent entities – Gulf + Western and its music distributor, Famous Music – which controlled the label’s destiny. Szymczyk and Ruttenberg both maintain that Tumbleweed’s records received decent airplay, but weren’t given proper distribution in retail stores for stoned heads to buy. “In retrospect, we were nothing but a tax write-off,” says Szymczyk. Ruttenberg adds, “We were up against a brick wall with Famous Music. They didn’t do shit for us...We were like a bunch of freaks to them. We were hippies in Colorado, trying to make something happen.”
Until the label wasn’t happening anymore, at all, that is.
Gee, just back from a tour in 1973, discovered that Tumbleweed Records had ended when he paid a call to the label’s office. It had been abandoned. “That’s how I found out,” says Gee. “Nobody called me.”
About two and a half years ago, Light In The Attic Records phoned Gee to tell him they wanted to use his songs for a compilation of Tumbleweed Records material. Light In The Attic had been working on the project for a few years already and had just located him in British Columbia. Gee learned they were going to name the project after a line from one of his songs. “At first, I was a little shocked,” he says.
Despite a quibble or two over song choices, Gee, now 73, says about “Sing It High, Sing It Low,” “I think it’s an excellent package.”
Gee’s greatest commercial success had come in the late ‘60s when his song “Sunspots” was covered by Canadian vocalist Anne Murray on an album that included her best-selling hit “Snowbird.” In the late ‘70s, he formed a punk-inspired band based in San Francisco and Portland. Over the years, he’s played fiddle for a Celtic group, and as a country-inspired artist. He also recorded an intriguing collection of songs called “The Dark Monkey is Laughing” with Jeff Bird, a musician known for his work with The Cowboy Junkies.
Gee’s fellow label-mate Pete McCabe, who lives in Venice, California, recalls his own Tumbleweed Record days as “a fabulous time...To be able to make a record and have the production I got is pretty amazing.” Employed over the years as a graphic designer and teacher’s aide, McCabe, 68, just started recording music again over the past decade, and his Tumbleweed record “The Man Who Ate The Plant” has become a cult favorite. In fact, it’s drawn musicians anew to him, assisting him with his recordings. He released a new disc, “I Forgot,” this year.
McCabe says of his late friend, Robb Kunkel, “I’m just eternally grateful for him for kind of discovering me and bringing me to Tumbleweed.” McCabe calls that period in the early ‘70s “a magical time for both of us.”
In 2009, Kunkel discussed by email his Tumbleweed album, “Abyss,” which has achieved its own cult following for its somber, jazz-accented stylings: “I was 21 and stoned to the hilt making ‘Abyss’ and, at the time, I knew there was not one commercial track on it – but, hey, I had 56,000 bucks to make it and more cocaine than Sly Stone...The company looked at me with suspicion, but [they] were too busy getting stoned to pay attention.”
Due to the label’s problems, Tumbleweed “backfired—but spectacularly,” says Sarah Sweeney, who wrote the liner notes to “Sing It High, Sing It Low.” Ultimately, it’s most noted for having served as a stepping stone for Szymczyk’s subsequent career, allowing him to “hone his chops.” Sweeney says, “[Tumbleweed] really launched Bill Szymczyk into the stratosphere.”
Szymczyk went on to produce popular records for the J. Geils Band, Rick Derringer (“Rock and Roll, Hoochie Koo”), Bob Seger, The Who, Joe Walsh (including the song “Rocky Mountain Way”), and the Eagles.
As for his time with Tumbleweed Records, which ended in 1972, Szymczyk says, “I would consider that definitely my grad school work, if you will.”
Szymczyk, 74, still considers the Tumbleweed album he made for Michael Stanley one of the highlights of his career, and he remains one of Stanley’s biggest admirers. In fact, Szymczyk was preparing to travel from his home in North Carolina to visit Stanley and assist the Ohioan with a new album. “As he’s gotten older his songwriting has become incredible,” says Szymczyk. “It’s always done from a perspective of intelligence.”
Recognizing Szymczyk’s achievements, the Colorado Music Hall of Fame will be honoring him with an “Award of Excellence” on August 13 at Fiddler’s Green Amphitheatre. The Hall of Fame’s Director, G. Brown, says of Szymczyk, “There were only a handful of people that created the classic rock sound of the ‘70s – and Bill was one of them.” Szymczyk’s Tumbleweed days (as well as his more prominent recordings done at Nederland’s Caribou Ranch) will be cited at the ceremony, and Brown is particularly impressed with Light In The Attic’s recent reissue: “That was a forgotten bit of Colorado music history, until they addressed it. I’m not sure who would have.”
In 2019, the History Colorado Center will be including Szymczyk and Tumbleweed Records in an exhibition called “Colorado Sound: Homegrown Music from Folk to Rock.” Curator Megan K. Friedel says of Tumbleweed, “It’s part of that early 1970s story of what’s happening with the music scene here: that suddenly people from outside of the state are discovering Colorado as a place to come and make music, [a place] that’s particularly conducive to inspiring music that’s not necessarily of the mainstream.”
And given that Tumbleweed Records was known for gifting people stone-engraved roach clips in the early ‘70s, it’s fitting that Light In The Attic’s deluxe packaging of Tumbleweed’s music includes a packet of rolling papers. Arthur Gee – who G. Brown says offered him his first hit of weed back when Brown was a teenage rock journalist – agrees: “I think it’s totally appropriate,” says Gee, who says he’s been smoking cannabis for over 50 years and has recently been using a regimen of CBD oil to combat his cancer and rheumatoid arthritis. “Everyone was smoking pot back then.”
In other words, once upon a time in Denver in the early ‘70s, there was plenty of weed at a storied music label called Tumbleweed Records.
Cannabis CultureRead More
by THC staff - Contributors to this article include, in order, Skyler Cannabaceae, Rick Macey, Scott Rappold, and DJ Reetz.
When people think about the 1920s and 30s, they tend to think of their grandparents living through the Great Depression, and alcohol prohibition. It was also the start of the war against cannabis.
This was the calm before a storm calling itself the “Drug War.” States passed their own laws banning the substance. By the end of the 1930s, alcohol was once again legal, and the journey of cannabis culture in America had been born with the Harlem jazz scene.
Louis Armstrong rose to popularity and crossed over at a time when race was an issue. Jazz musicians, especially Armstrong, were known for their love of cannabis, which would not only relax them, but enhance their creativity.
Armstrong made no effort to hide his love of cannabis, even after being arrested for possession outside the Cotton Club in Culver City, CA in 1930, the same year that the Federal Bureau of Narcotics (FBN) was created. “Pops,” as Armstrong was affectionately known, was known to smoke cannabis before performing.
“It makes you feel good, man.” Armstrong said. “It relaxes you, makes you forget all the bad things that happen to a Negro. It makes you feel wanted, and when you’re with another tea smoker it makes you feel a special kinship.”
Twenty years later, Armstrong made similar arguments to then president Dwight Eisenhower in an open letter.
Armstrong and other members of the jazz scene enjoyed using cannabis during the ‘20s for their creative process or just to relax. Many other regular citizens, not only fans of jazz, consumed as well. This new culture precipitated a federal intervention, which grossly distorted the danger of marijuana while creating the life-destroying disease of cannabis prohibition.
Harry Anslinger was the first head of the Federal Bureau of Narcotics and an ambitious politician. He made a name for himself by demonizing marijuana with a lot of support from xenophobic people who did not like the influx of Mexican immigrants.
Cannabis culture in the ‘20s and ‘30s was mostly confined to jazz and other artists’ scenes in big cities. Anslinger and his FBN played on - and created - the fears of rural Americans.
The FBN produced materials showing how harmful marijuana was to the masses. After the over-the-top propaganda film “Reefer Madness” came out in 1936, “The Marihuana Tax Act” was passed, requiring a stamp for production or sale. The government refused to provide the stamp.
So the new cannabis culture was driven underground, supported by great music, but lacking a voice in American society.
The marijuana-fueled beatniks of the 1950s started out as a post-war New York City phenomenon before the movement put down its intellectual roots in San Francisco at Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s City Lights, the nation’s first all paper-bound bookstore.
Bohemian, counter culture, and rather narcissistic, beatniks shunned mainstream America while not quite disavowing its benefits and potential. Beatniks influenced our culture by making it a point to disapprove of it.
Think of beatniks and the names Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg usually surface. In this writer’s opinion, that’s cool, but there’s an intellectual entrepreneur of free thought who towers above those guys.
Ferlinghetti is best known for standing trial on obscenity charges for publishing “Howl” by Allen Ginsberg in 1956. However, his own poetry, especially the books “Pictures of a Gone World,” and my favorite, “A Coney Island of the Mind,” are without equal in literary circles influenced by cannabis.
So let’s get to it and publish some quotes:
“I Am Waiting” - A Coney Island of the Mind
“I am waiting for the war to be fought which will make the world safe for anarchy”
“I am awaiting perpetually and forever a renaissance of wonder”
Also from that book:
“In the true mad north of introspection, where ‘falcons of the inner eye’ dive and die, glimpsing in their dying fall, all life’s memory of existence.”
Ferlinghetti was influenced by Henry Miller. Intimate relationships, often coarse and sometimes meaningful.
From “Pictures of a Gone World”
“It was a face which darkness could kill
in an instant
a face as easily hurt
by laughter or light
‘We think differently at night’
she told me once
lying back languidly
And she would quote Cocteau
‘I feel there is an angel in me’ she’d say
‘whom I am constantly shocking’
Then she would smile and look away
light a cigarette for me
sigh and rise
her sweet anatomy
let fall a stocking”
Finally, but not least is Ferlinghetti’s insight into politics:
“Pity the nation whose people are sheep,
and whose shepherds mislead them.
Pity the nation whose leaders are liars, whose sages are silenced,
and whose bigots haunt the airwaves.
Pity the nation that raises not its voice,
except to praise conquerors and acclaim the bully as hero
and aims to rule the world with force and by torture.
Pity the nation that knows no other language but its own
and no other culture but its own.
Pity the nation whose breath is money
and sleeps the sleep of the too well fed.
Pity the nation — oh, pity the people who allow their rights to erode
and their freedoms to be washed away.
My country, tears of thee, sweet land of liberty.”
Hunter S. Thompson said, “San Francisco in the middle ‘60s was a very special time and place to be a part of. Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run, but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world.”
How to sum up the hippie era, the 1960s and early 1970s, when marijuana finally went mainstream? How does one explain how cannabis culture became popular culture, how this forbidden weed helped to energize an entire generation to embrace peace, free love, political action and rock and roll?
I turn to my inspiration to become a journalist, The Good Doctor, Colorado’s own Hunter S. Thompson.
Many writers have tried, then and now, to explain what it all meant, when a generation rose up against the old ways, when marijuana use and support for legalization reached a zenith not matched until, well, now.
Thompson, who committed suicide at his home near Aspen in 2005, was there when it began, an observer and active participant in the marijuana- and LSD-fueled counterculture explosion that spread from San Francisco to the entire country.
Marijuana was not the impetus. But it found a receptive audience among a listless generation, fed up with straight-laced society, outraged over the war in Vietnam and racial injustice in the South.
People were in search of a new way of thinking, and getting high, the euphoria, camaraderie and empathy for others, provided that. In his literary masterpiece, “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,” memories of the ‘60s are intertwined with a bawdy tale of drug-addled misadventures in Las Vegas. Recalled Thompson, “No matter which way I went I would come to a place where people were just as high and wild as I was.”
But I quote Thompson not just because he was there for this magical time, when “there was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning.” He, more so than any other writer, also chronicled its downfall, when the movement collapsed under its own excesses.
He wrote of “all those pathetically eager acid freaks who thought they could buy Peace and Understanding for three bucks a hit.” The war dragged on. San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury, ground zero of the movement, became a dangerous ghetto. Street kids who had started on marijuana were hooked on heroin. “’Consciousness expansion’ went out with LBJ … and it is worth noting, historically, that downers came in with Nixon,” he wrote.
In the 1970s, popular culture adopted the style and music of the hippies, but not the peace and love. It also adopted the marijuana. According to Gallup, 12 percent of Americans reported having tried marijuana in 1973. The number was doubled by 1977. President Jimmy Carter even spoke out in favor of legalization.
Thompson, meanwhile, became a counter-culture icon of his own, running unsuccessfully for Pitkin County sheriff in 1970 on the “Freak Power” ticket. He remained a prolific writer – and consumer of substances of all sorts – for decades.
I smile when I imagine what he would think of Colorado today, with marijuana stores lining city streets, selling the most potent buds known to man.
Despite his cynicism about the ‘60s, he remained a fan of the plant that helped inspire it all.
“I have always loved marijuana. It has been a source of joy and comfort to me for many years. And I still think of it as a basic staple of life, along with beer and ice and grapefruits - and millions of Americans agree with me.”
The next decade saw the Drug War get into high gear.
The ‘80s was a particularly rough time for cannabis, and drug culture in general. Following the crackdown of the Nixon years, marijuana had gained a bit of a bad rap and the scheduling to go along with it. The decade saw the rise of the hard-lined attitudes of neoconservatives in the form of Ronald Reagan, most assuredly a reaction to the perceived (if somewhat unfair) lackadaisicalness of the Carter administration.
But the resurgence of good ol’ American values wasn’t the only thing rising in the ‘80s. Among other things, the decade saw two other important cultural developments; the rise of crack cocaine, and the emergence of hip hop and rap music into the commercial arena.
Where is cannabis in this equation?
This confluence of factors, the rise of a drug epidemic, the will of conservatives to push back, and a genre of music that was rooted in the communities that were feeling the greatest burden, meant that marijuana’s place in music was tenuous. Unfortunately, cannabis was often lumped into the same bulk category as crack and rolled into the collective terror.
Much of the emerging music fluctuated between light-hearted party anthems and bleak portraits of life in the ghetto. The increasingly desolate urban landscape was working its way into more and more of rap music, moving the genre from the disco-inspired acts of the late ‘70s like Sugar Hill Gang to the more hard-edged acts like Grand Master Flash and the Furious Five. With some exceptions, the mentions of drugs were mostly directed at cocaine and crack.
But that changed in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s with the emergence of gangsta rap as a subgenre. Rap pioneers N.W.A. punched America in the face with their “just don’t give a f*ck” attitude, an attitude that included openly admitting to use of marijuana. This culminated in the release of Dr. Dre’s 1992 solo debut “The Chronic.” This album may be the single most important moment in the fusion between rap music and marijuana, featuring cover art modeled after a Zig-Zag package and the first notable appearance of Snoop Dogg, who has since gone on to be one of hip hop’s most visible weed smokers.
With these developments, marijuana became indelibly tied to the outlaw culture of rap music, a trend that continues. Legends like Tupac, Biggie Smalls, Bone Thugz n Harmony, and many others spoke openly about their use of marijuana in lyrics and in interviews, all paving the way for a genre-wide acceptance and even promotion of marijuana in hip hop.
From the Jazz Era to Beat to hippie to rap, marijuana culture is woven in threads, and together, we’re still making the fabric.