Read Online Somebody to Love? by Grace Slick, Andrea Cagan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Grace Slick, Andrea Cagan
Tags: BIO004000
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cream on my elbows. Stubborn perversity.
Ironically, while I was busy looking for a “real” job, I wrote my first song, without a clue that it was a precursor to my future. Jerry and I both got involved in a project with a mutual friend, Bill Piersol, an aspiring writer who'd written an interesting script treatment for an amateur sixteen-millimeter movie he named
Everybody Hits Their Brother Once
. A satirical comment on violence, Jerry filmed it while he was studying cinematography at San Francisco State, and it subsequently won first prize at the Ann Arbor film festival. I wrote a song for part of the succession of skits that made up that forty-five-minute reel, which was my initial experience at recording my own music—two layers of Spanish-style guitar picking that almost sounded like a cut from a professional soundtrack.
One of the best parts of returning to San Francisco was getting back in circulation with our original group of friends—with a few new additions. Darlene Ermacoff had married a man named Ira Lee, who was literally possessed by a monster IQ. A handsome and eccentric part-time model/full-time student, he'd been a Quiz Kid, a contestant on the forties radio show of the same name. It was Ira who once told me (accurately) that I was an empty-headed WASP, and he proceeded to suggest reading material that might remedy the problem. I learned a great deal from him, not so much because of my thirst for knowledge, but because I was absolutely fascinated by his wild-eyed delivery of arcane details on every subject imaginable. His outbursts of enthusiasm became one-man performances lasting well into the night, and although Darlene was used to them and went to bed more often than not, I needed a tutor and he needed an audience.
Darlene and Ira and Jerry and I used to take road trips to Mexico in an old station wagon, visiting the pristine beaches of Baja and, like all budding hippies, purchasing drugs. In those days, “south of the border” wasn't just a folksy phrase, it was the access route to a state of mind.
14
Use It
I t was 1965, a couple of apartments later and a lot of stupid jobs under the bridge, when Darby, Jerry, and I went to a small nightclub called The Matrix to hear a headlining group called Jefferson Airplane. Marty Balin, one of the two lead singers, had started the club with the help of other band members and some marginal outside backing from a couple of doctors.
As I watched Airplane perform that night (they were an eclectic group that did electric folk-rock, blues, and pop), playing in a band like that seemed like the perfect thing to do. Get paid to make music, write your own songs if you feel like it, work for a couple hours a night, hang out with friends, and take lots of drugs whenever you want. When we got home that night and added up the numbers, we realized that the members of Airplane were making more money in one night than I was making all week at I. Magnin. It didn't take us more than about five minutes to start making plans to form our own band.
Jerry had an old set of drums collecting dust in his parents' garage. Darby already knew how to play the guitar. My untrained voice was at least loud enough to compete with the amplifiers, and a friend, David Minor, could sing and play a few chords. And he was a good-looking front man. Peter van Gelder played sax and Bard Dupont could at best find the notes on a bass guitar.
A name for the group? What about The Acid Fraction?
No.
What about The Great Society? (Making fun of Lyndon Johnson's grandiose moniker for the U.S. population.)
It stuck.
At that time, fortunately for us (and unfortunately for the listening audiences), you didn't have to be very good to get jobs in the local clubs. So once we formed the band, we managed to work on a semiregular basis. Some nights, we'd be playing to three drunks who were too old and wise or too loaded to even bother looking at the stage. Other nights, the clubs would be populated with
Ironically, while I was busy looking for a “real” job, I wrote my first song, without a clue that it was a precursor to my future. Jerry and I both got involved in a project with a mutual friend, Bill Piersol, an aspiring writer who'd written an interesting script treatment for an amateur sixteen-millimeter movie he named
Everybody Hits Their Brother Once
. A satirical comment on violence, Jerry filmed it while he was studying cinematography at San Francisco State, and it subsequently won first prize at the Ann Arbor film festival. I wrote a song for part of the succession of skits that made up that forty-five-minute reel, which was my initial experience at recording my own music—two layers of Spanish-style guitar picking that almost sounded like a cut from a professional soundtrack.
One of the best parts of returning to San Francisco was getting back in circulation with our original group of friends—with a few new additions. Darlene Ermacoff had married a man named Ira Lee, who was literally possessed by a monster IQ. A handsome and eccentric part-time model/full-time student, he'd been a Quiz Kid, a contestant on the forties radio show of the same name. It was Ira who once told me (accurately) that I was an empty-headed WASP, and he proceeded to suggest reading material that might remedy the problem. I learned a great deal from him, not so much because of my thirst for knowledge, but because I was absolutely fascinated by his wild-eyed delivery of arcane details on every subject imaginable. His outbursts of enthusiasm became one-man performances lasting well into the night, and although Darlene was used to them and went to bed more often than not, I needed a tutor and he needed an audience.
Darlene and Ira and Jerry and I used to take road trips to Mexico in an old station wagon, visiting the pristine beaches of Baja and, like all budding hippies, purchasing drugs. In those days, “south of the border” wasn't just a folksy phrase, it was the access route to a state of mind.
14
Use It
I t was 1965, a couple of apartments later and a lot of stupid jobs under the bridge, when Darby, Jerry, and I went to a small nightclub called The Matrix to hear a headlining group called Jefferson Airplane. Marty Balin, one of the two lead singers, had started the club with the help of other band members and some marginal outside backing from a couple of doctors.
As I watched Airplane perform that night (they were an eclectic group that did electric folk-rock, blues, and pop), playing in a band like that seemed like the perfect thing to do. Get paid to make music, write your own songs if you feel like it, work for a couple hours a night, hang out with friends, and take lots of drugs whenever you want. When we got home that night and added up the numbers, we realized that the members of Airplane were making more money in one night than I was making all week at I. Magnin. It didn't take us more than about five minutes to start making plans to form our own band.
Jerry had an old set of drums collecting dust in his parents' garage. Darby already knew how to play the guitar. My untrained voice was at least loud enough to compete with the amplifiers, and a friend, David Minor, could sing and play a few chords. And he was a good-looking front man. Peter van Gelder played sax and Bard Dupont could at best find the notes on a bass guitar.
A name for the group? What about The Acid Fraction?
No.
What about The Great Society? (Making fun of Lyndon Johnson's grandiose moniker for the U.S. population.)
It stuck.
At that time, fortunately for us (and unfortunately for the listening audiences), you didn't have to be very good to get jobs in the local clubs. So once we formed the band, we managed to work on a semiregular basis. Some nights, we'd be playing to three drunks who were too old and wise or too loaded to even bother looking at the stage. Other nights, the clubs would be populated with
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