East-West
What a time. Turmoil meets love in a crowded hemp-smoke haze of wake up. The college cats in college towns across Uncle Sam's spaces and places spurn the B-Invasion of pimply-primped pop idols. Black meets white in the Aftermath of watching the House Burning Down in Motown. Hell Night!
Free speech ultimately costs taxpayers and a Chancellor plenty. Girls fill with The pill while other mixtures from the chem lab spawn a frenzy of obsession in a fanciful revolution of libertine passion mixed with mescaline. Mr. Folk, some say, he die when roots electrify on some upper crust resort. Sho' nuff.
Colors, repressed for so long, ring out with a Boldness that tilts the Axis of Love on every street. Ties widen, eyes brighten and bras burn, but album covers get the the censors turn while fat joints simmer amid purple and red bell bottoms. Light My Fire!
Can you cop the mood? Would a smoke and cognac brighten the interlude between Now! and Them? Zen! A late decade moment where Dharma sped past Kharma to some secluded celebrity get away and found virtue unmasked by the currency of greed.
The orbs of 1966 dance underneath the paisley muslin blouses. They invite you to stare at them. The word magnificence does not do them justice as the tips protrude as though defying gravity while the pair sway to a shuffle on their own terms. Form stripped bare among piles of flannel bags and thumbs flagging along the highways. Put on Paul Butterfield's East-West and roll those balls. Time never matters in that true zone, and this song always finds the zone.
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