Le Vent Souffle Ou Il Veut (The wind blows where it may) Part 2 Blue Oyster Cult w Special Guest – T.Rex October 12, 1974

 

I was spinning some vinyl on my small close-and-play turntable. Don’t laugh, as the sound to me was spectacular—after all, my simple system had detachable speakers! What more could a young lass want? A small pile of 45s lay spread around the floor about me. The UnderDogs’ “Love's Gone Bad,” lots of Ronettes, the Flirtations, and my dancin’ and jumpin’ fav, Los Bravos’ “Bring A Little Loving,” which had me, along with the record from its continuous plays, feeling the heat. I was teetering in emotional extremes, and while I was delicately placing the needle on the beginning grooves of the Unrelated Segments’ “Where You Gonna Go,” the kitchen phone rang.

 

My sister Betty, excitement in her voice, was calling to say that our Aunt Margret, who worked at a travel agency, had just scored some round-trip airline tickets to California. She would not be able to fly there at this time and since everyone in the family knew of my wanderlust, they were being offered to me.

 

‟Right on! How freekin’ far out is this! Tell Auntie Margret thank you, thank you!” I screamed joyfully into the phone receiver. As my grades in school were exemplary, my family saw nothing wrong with my using the tickets for the upcoming Thursday night flight and red-eye return on Sunday.I could fly in, stay with relatives, visit with family and do whatever else I wished to, and still be back in time to catch a few hours sleep before school the next day. Even though I had a phobia of flying, I usually put up with this fear for the sake of travel expediency.

 

I was primarily a weekend traveler (with the exception of summers), and was accustomed to Friday departs with late night Sunday returns. As such, this occasional schedule had not effected my grades (and with my traveling experiences some areas had even improved, especially in the social sciences), not to mention a positive development in my ever-amiable disposition.

 

I went to the library thevery next day to search in the national newspaper entertainmentsections in the Long Beach area of Los Angeles, which was where mycousins lived. My gosh, I could barely believe my good fortune: thenewly built Long Beach Arena had an advertisement for their upcomingshows, and who would be there on the very Saturday that I would be intown but Blue Oyster Cult, with T-Rex as support!

 

Wow, wow, wow.... These were unquestionably two fav acts of mine, having every album by BOC and most of the T-Rex vinyl releases in my collection.

 

I nonchalantly ran my pencil around the periphery of the news article a few times and it quietly separated from the page. I then slid it within my books before I gleefully stepped out the library doors.

 

At home, I immediately set myself to packing. It was only Tuesday, but I was excited to began these arrangements for my trip. Let’s see...leather boots—okay, groovy; pair of sandals—I can put them in my shoulder-strapped bag.Clean undergarments, make-up, rolling papers, pot, two light blouses,one pair of extra slacks, gum, toothbrush, hair brush, hair clips,sun-glasses. I’d pick up some cigs on the way to the airport.Goody-goody, I was finished and ready. Except for some cash.... Ummm, I know, I said to myself.I would ask my sister and her husband Phil for some extra financial resources, and pay them back when I returned and had time for the bank. That, along with my cash on hand, put me over one-hundred fifty—more than enough, I thought.

 

I soon finished my reading assignment in history. Being very content with my advanced pre-flight organization, I was still undecided as to what book to bring as a reading companion. A bit too drowsy to settle on a title this late at night, I decided to go to bed for a well-deserved night’s slumber.

 

The next two days passed in a flash, and in seemingly no time at all I was being driven to Metro Airport by my sister for the Thursday night red-eye to LAX. As she dropped me off at the airport entrance we said our goodbyes. As she knew of my deep emotional fear of flying, she gingerly wished me a safe journey.

 

‟Keep in mind Mischa, it is much safer to fly than drive.”

 

‟Yes, I know,” I softly replied.

 

‟Try to relax and youshould be able to enjoy your flight,” she stated in a most caringtone. We kissed goodbye, and off I went into the airport terminal.

 

Oh, the trepidation I felt with each and every step I took through the long tunnel-like hallway.For in addition to my aforementioned fear of flying, I was extremely claustrophobic as well (and still am to this day). It seemed to me as though the terminal was closing in on me, more so and more so, until I was overwhelmed with a sense of imminent suffocation.

 

With a huge relief, I arrived at my departure point. In no more than a few minutes I, along with the other passengers, was crossing the tarmac and then ascending the stairs leading into the plane.

 

I entered the elongated aircraft with a dichotomy of feelings: delightful elation mixed with foreboding trepidation. Gee, I thought to myself, this is getting to be much more frightening each time I fly, and more so than I ever imagined it could be.

 

I uneasily settled into my seat. Trying my hardest to relax, I open my bag and took out my reading companion: a short collection of the writings of Edgar A.Poe. I began with The Oblong Box.My mind, so very visually imaginative, took just a split second to relate The Oblong Box to the passenger area of the aircraft. This imagery had me feeling queasy, to say the least.

 

I was feeling vibes of impending destruction and just knew we would crash, even before the doors closed. Now is the time to make a quick exit, I thought to myself. But I sat motionless, unable to move. In the dark crevices of my mind, thoughts of terror enveloped me.

 

I continued in my reading, trying like hell to get my mind off the inevitable disaster that would soon befall us all. I was jolted back into the moment by the sound of the plane doors closing. Desperately trying to block out the thoughts of doom, I carried on with my reading. The plane began to taxi towards the runway, I read on, but in my mind I was already making a mad dash toward the plane exit shouting, ‟We’re gonna crash! We’re gonna crash! We are all going to die!”

 

However, steadfast I remained and move I did not, except for the turning of the page. The plane thrust forward and left the ground. Everything outside my oval window soon became smaller and smaller, the night sky enveloping us.I, along with the damned crew and passengers, were helplessly encapsulated within our large oblong flying coffin. Much to my dismay, the story I was reading only fueled my already hyperactive mind toward imaginings of imminent disaster.

 

I now envisioned the plane losing altitude, passengers screaming, and the panic that would ensue. Then, the horrific crash, mutilated bodies looking every bit the part of medieval torture victims: limbs severed, bodies twisted and mangled beyond recognition. These gruesome images and more haunted me.

 

My imagination ran full tilt. In some moments there was a dreaded ghostly silence; then, sobs and screams, barely audible at first, but increasing to such an intensity I felt trapped in an insufferable feverish nightmare.

 

I was sure that the pilot had lost control of the craft.

 

We flew into a series of cloud storm factories. It was a complete bevy of maniacal updrafts and downdrafts creating ultra violent turbulence. Whether it was lateral or longitudinal imbalance, or just the cursed winds of Hades, it did not matter: the flight was doomed!

 

With no thread of hope to cling to, my sanity was rapidly vanishing.... Then, just as the darkness was threatening to completely engulf me, miraculously, it was at this instant that I began to come on to the LSD. (Oh, perhaps I should have mentioned that I had dropped two hits of blotter prior to boarding, as I had thought that psychedelic therapy could cure my fear of flying.) Slowly the plane, myself and everyone on board began emulating colours from the darkness of this previously doomed flight;my ever so vivid perceptions of doom were now gloriously transforming into a dreamland of wonderment and beauty.

 

The ambiance of the passenger cabin magnificently melding into the sights and sounds of pleasure and joyful discourse among the passengers.

 

Even when our plane began experiencing heavy turbulence, all I did was laugh, and my caviler attitude seemed to inspire a frightened and crying child into joining me in my mirth. ‟This is like a roller-coaster ride!” I exclaimed in merriment. The child’s eyes joyfully gleamed, and he began to giggle, so much so that eventually all the other passengers were mellowed. Touche pour moi!

 

An older guy seated across the isle from me obtained my attention by some statement or another,and before I knew it I was trapped by his periphrastic ramble. Perhaps my ear to ear smile, courtesy of LSD, was sending him the wrong message. I lit up a cigarette,took a heavy drag, and tried in vain to ignore him.

 

The aircraft was now gently gliding through a smooth current, yet my aisle friend’s banter was not letting up. He was putting a real damper on my cool groove. I needed to shut him up, and fast, and spare my ears the drudgery of his irritating piffle.

 

I had an idea to get me politely out of this situation. I offered him a drag of my cigarette (which, I should mention, I had laced very generously with cocaine just prior to boarding), and within moments it had done the trick—he had mellowed out and bothered me no more.

 

This flight was just getting better and better. I was floating on top of the world! Damn, was this heaven or what....

 

I looked out at the stars,which were connecting like a gigantic connect-the-dots page from one of my childhood Highlights magazines. Each line, from dot to dot, star to star, was drawn with a different coloured crayon. I began to see the constellations and their formations as the ancients had—as tributes to the Hellenic Gods.

 

I was flying with the Gods,connected to everything, at one with the universe. I gazed in wonderment at the cosmos outside of my window, and marveled at our planet’s place in the heavens. My imagination gave birth to a multi-verse of ideas that I had never realized before. The darkness of the night opened my soul to new dimensions in time. I saw the world as I had never known possible.

 

I stared into the infinity of time and space; from the darkness, beacons lightened in my psychedelized brain. (I have to interject here, dear reader, and state emphatically that if you never have before, you should definitely drop some LSD on your next flight, especially if it’s at night!).

 

Needless to say, my flight turned out to be beautiful and was just the cure I needed.It was as if my spiritual self communicated to and soothed my physical being. Ever since that night, I have never had any fear at all of flying. In fact, even the worst turbulence only brings out a smile in me.

 

Yessenia, my Aunt Margret’s sister, and her husband Jack were at the airport terminal to greet me. It was so nice to see them, as up to that point I had only known them through phone conversations and Christmas and birthday cards. We drove to their place in Long Beach, engaged in conversation about the family. All during the drive, I kept noticing the initials ‟BOC” spray painted in blue—on overpasses, the sides of buildings, just about everywhere I looked.

 

Arriving at their house, we continued our conversation over a well-appreciated breakfast, and I was soon fast sleep on the guest room bed.

 

After I awoke, I spent the rest of the day relaxing, helping my aunt with dinner and getting acquainted with her side of the family. I retired to bed early, reading a little more Poe before falling into a quiet slumber.

 

The next day I had the place to myself, as Yessenia accompanied Jack to a work-related banquet of some kind or another. As their home in Naples was on the water front,I was able to enjoy the outside view of the boats on the water.

 

I spent the following day engrossed in an H.P. Lovecraft story, ‟The Haunter of the Dark,” which I had discovered on Yessenia’s bookshelf. The Viscounts’‟Harlem Nocturne” and ‟Night Train” were spinning on the console, over and over, as I had left the auto-changer open. My attention was captured completely by the story and the background music, and I did not even look at the clock until I had finish the final page.

 

One particular quote caused my mind to ponder: ‟Excessive imagination and neurotic unbalance on Blake’s part, aggravated by knowledge of the evil bygone cult whose startling traces he had uncovered, form the dominant interpretation given those final frenzied jottings.” (1) I continued in a trace-like state, trying to decipher the entries that were a puzzlement at story’s end, when I noticed the time.

 

Eek! It was getting late....The time was fast approaching for Blue Oyster Cult; it had completely crept up on me. I hurriedly put on my make-up, grabbed my purse, and ran out the door. I started my venture toward downtown Long Beach byway of Ocean Boulevard. After a fast-paced jaunt, I eventually putout my thumb, and almost instantaneously obtained a lift to Ocean and Pacific. The blue spray painted signs of the faithful BOC harbingers were periodically visible the entire way to the venue. Gee, this is getting real good, I thought to myself.

 

I exited the ride less than a block away from the arena. When I got near the parking lot of the venue, I reached behind my ear for the joint that I was carrying as a warm-up for the show. Not there—shit! I must have lost it in the car or during my walk. I decided to retrace my steps, and less than 20 paces back, there it was, the white Bambu rolling paper kinda glowing on the dark sidewalk. Groovy, I thought, and lit it right up.

 

I was arriving a shade late with only a few stragglers ahead of me. When I purchased my ticket,the box office girl mentioned that T. Rex was not to be performing. I replied that it didn't matter, just as the couple in front of me had.I really loved T. Rex and thought that the night would be much better with them here. But there was nothing I could do. So I, like many others, handed the concierge my ticket and went inside to see the band that was here for those of us in attendance to rock out to: Blue Oyster Cult.

 

‟Rock out to” was an understatement, as the music of BOC was akin to a religious testimony of what the power and strength of music could be.

 

I walked through the lobby and into the arena. Blue Oyster Cult had just been announced moments ago, and were now slamming out their set with an intensity I have rarely seen in live performances. The music was more than hypnotizing.... It was magical, kinda dark in an exciting way.

 

The band blasted out ‟Stairway To The Stars.” Now this was a cult worthy of being part of! They were nothing short of phenomenal, so much so that I felt as if my very soul was on an excursion throughout the heavens. I fired up another joint, content with myself for having a little smoke to toast such a fantastic sound. Each level of my pot-induced high took me on a magical ride from song to song. Everyone was on their feet—even though this was festival seating, not a soul was seated.

 

There was no letup in the band’s musical onslaught. A moment that really stood out was when two of the band members slid the necks of their guitars together, stringed side, creating a screeching intertwining of notes that sent the spaciest of cosmic reverberations throughout the arena. I kid you not when I say you could feel the glorious sound of the band’s music vibrating your physical being, and on ‟Seven Screaming Diz-Busters” the sound penetrated right through my body.

 

‟Cities on Flame” had the audience in a frenzy. Many of the concertgoers were shouting the lyrics so loudly it had an a delectably evil quality. ‟Hot Rails to Hell” (the devil is in the details) had such an air of reckless abandonment that I really believed that all in attendance would gladly have followed the band anywhere, even through the gates of hell itself!

 

When lead singer Eric Bloom announced that the recording tracks were rolling, and would be part of the band’s next album, I swear the tumultuous roar of approval that went up nearly blew the roof off the arena.

 

After a sonic barrage of sound that converted all in attendance, the band’s final number had a gigantic mirrored ball rotating high above the crowd. As if by a quirk of fate, this dazzling effect found me dead center underneath this spinning orb. It slowly lowered to about 50 feet above me, giving the impression of an interstellar encounter. What a jolt to my already high state of mind. Like Wow! This was way, way cool! (Very much a redemption from my misfortune in missing the band play at the NOLA concert.) With the reflecting light orbiting all around me, I felt like a demigod!

 

The band left the stage and not a person moved except to applaud, and applaud they did. Louder,and louder, chants went up until the band returned for an encore, and then another. ‟Born To Be Wild”

was slammed out with all the energy, debauchery, and wickedness that it stands for, and in my mind it remains the finest rendition of the song I have ever heard!

 

I was stoned by the BOC sound well beyond my marijuana-induced high. I enthusiastically gave myself over to the effects that brought my rock-n-roll soul to this point in time, and rose up to new heights by an induction into the ranks of the intoxicating seduction of sound and mystery that is...Blue Oyster Cult!