Somebody Must Have Slipped Something Into My Drink - ((A sideways vibration through time)) 1976/7ish Long Beach, CA

Quicksilver Messenger Service w The Dogs 1976/7ish Long Beach, CA
Moby Grape w Electric Flag, Santa Monica Civic Center, CA

It was absurd in a way, just the thought of it. What was the purpose of these trips, if any? Was there some hidden meaning I was missing? Or was it just all about having fun? Sure, reliving past events in real time was retro-cool, but was I merely escaping from my future by tripping back into my past over and over again?

These thoughts and others ran through my backbrain as I found myself again tearing off two more tabs from the Wilson Mower Pursuit Grande card. I knew that two would do it. It would work again, I was confident, as time was proving to be my immortal friend. But for what reason did I deserve this friendship? Surely there must be something more to this.

I dropped the two tabs of acid. My journey began simply enough, with the usual floating sensation that I was now accustomed to and rather beginning to savor with increasing delight. However, I soon noticed something peculiar—I appeared to be seeing objects in double vision. This disharmony annoyed me greatly. I knew logically that only one of each set existed, but which one was real, and which wasn't? The one that was phantom only existed in relation to the other, but how could there be any actual relation when one of the objects did not truly exist?

My brain whirled round and round until I found myself staring into a universal void of absolute absurdity, in which I could find no meaning whatsoever in anything. As I struggled to make some sense of it, my mental energies gave way to despair. Had I just been repeating past events, much like the mundane absurdity of watching the same TV rerun over and over again? Was there no meaning to be found in any of these trips? Was there no meaning to be found in anything at all?

I plunged ever further into the dark depths of despair, until eventually I felt and saw nothing, I was lost in “the eternal now.” Two seconds could have passed, or a thousand years—time had ceased to exist. Then the thought—Was I dead?

As my brain attempted an answer, words began to form: Praestet...fides...supplementum.... Was this just a vague remembrance of a parochial teaching? I heard it again! Praestet fides supplementum, sola fides suficit.1

As I began to understand the significance of the words, images began swirling around me: stained glass windows, bending and warping into odd formations; discalced sacred sisters smoking from a waterpipe; carved wooden crucifixes spinning into metallic swastikas....

A loud megaphone-ish voice blarred out: “Il est temps pour vous de voir les choses.” It repeated, over and over, “Il est temps pour vous de voir les choses...Il est temps pour vous de voir les choses.”2

Were these bizarre visions blessed upon me from Heaven above, or were they an evil curse sent by the forces of Hades below? Any thoughts of possible redemption in my situation ushered in waves of confusion.

The images had dissipated into a hazy, opaque mist, through which I could see nothing. I again became aware of the sensation of floating, and then of a gradual decent, as the mist began coalescing into dark, all-enveloping clouds. Farther and farther I descended, until finally the blackness opened up into a stormy night sky.

From far off in the distance, I could hear a bell sounding, resonating in the dreary nighttime air. The sound seemed to be pulling me downward, closer to the earth. Each and every vibration that the bell made seemed to affect my inner being differently than my conscious self. In fact, when I absolutely tried I could hear nothing at all. At first I suspected that my mind was playing tricks on me. Then I recognized my own denial; then I became cautious. Why was I hearing this—was the bell calling to me in some manner or was I just imagining its ring? I slowly managed my own consciousness as the ringing faded into the distance, and realized where I was.

Long Beach, California. I slipped easily into my own body, and knew I was on familiar ground. Our group of four were just entering a very small theatre near the Community College on Carson Street. We were here to see Quicksilver Messenger Service, a 60's psychedelic Bay area band with a mellow groove. We found our seats three rows from the back, and as I settled in for what I knew would be a great performance, I made a conscious decision to set aside the unhinged strangeness of my voyage back to this moment, and just enjoy the show.

Moments after we had taken our seats, I looked to my right and saw a small cadre of individuals walking toward the stage from the front entrance of the theatre. It was a band which happened to be from my hometown of Detroit: The Dogs. They went straight up to the stage as if on a mission, grabbed their instruments and immediately begin banging out a hard and heavy sound reminiscent of the MC5 and Stooges. Few on the West Coast at this time would have recognized this influence, except for some Midwest transplants. The Dogs played as if they were an advance attack force sent out to spread the sound and message of a new power in music.

The small crowd was in for a real treat. The Dogs were red-hot, and tore up the place with their fiery jams. The drummer's manic pounding shook the walls, while the guitarists speed-slammed a merciless barrage of musical mayhem. I wondered how any earthly 45rpm vinyl record, spinning on a turntable, could ever keep up with the rockin' musical pace that this band blasted out, note after note, song after song. The Dogs played extraordinarily well, brilliantly representing fast-action, high energy Motor-City rock. Before the term “punk” had come to define a new musical genre, The Dogs were blasting out the dynamite!

Some in the audience didn't know what to make of the band. The Dogs' hard-driving, discordant exuberance seemed to be lost on them, and I realized that very few people from outside of Detroit would be able to make the transition from hippie to punk. However, since there were so few people in attendance tonight, less than twenty or so, our small group's applause seemed to carry the band and the night.

During the intermission, an attractive girl with sleek raven-black hair sat down next to me. Smartly dressed in a form-fitting black leather outfit, topped with a military-styled cap, she looked quite out of fashion at this event. Had my memory failed me? I had no recollection of her being here originally at all.

I turned to acknowledge her with a polite smile, and she offered me a lemon drop candy. I thanked her and popped it into my mouth, enjoying its succulent taste. It went very well with my codeine and cannabinol high. We introduced ourselves (her name was Darla), and she complimented the Zippie patch I wore on the sleeve of my leather jacket—a marijuana leaf over a red star within a black circle.

Darla and I chatted briefly about grass and music. We both agreed The Dogs were beyond fabulous, and I told her how much I was looking forward to hearing Quicksilver play. I was about to inquire as to where her accent was from (it was hard to place), when she said, “Have another lemon drop—yea're delicious, aren't yeah?”

She was right, the droplets were incredibly scrumptious. I reached out my hand to accept her offer, but to my surprise (and hers), the candy fell right through my outstretched palm. I had begun to physically evaporate! As my body disappeared, the last image I saw was of Darla's face, grimacing with a sinister frown.

I found myself again in a translucent state. From far off in the distance, the ringing of a bell began to vibrate in my mind.... I was floating, lost in thought, attempting to analyze the multitude of musical variations I was hearing in the background, interrupted periodically with the sound of the bell. And then, much like returning from an astral-projection state, I re-entered my body, but at a different concert.

I found myself with the very same friends, but now at the Santa Monica Civic, where we were all fully engrossed with a performance by Skip Spence and Moby Grape. God, this was far-out! It was the first time I had ever revisited two separate events, occurring months apart and in two different places, on the same trip. I wondered for a second if this was a positive evolution of tripping, or perhaps an absurd side-effect of too many journeys. But before I could give this any serious thought, my mind was distracted by the heavy psychedelia emanating from the stage.

Moby Grape was playing as if they were still in the '60s, much to the delight of the crowd. They were remarkable in their psychogenic adhesion to the versatility of mind expansion. The band members were each playing what sounded to be separate individual songs, but they all blended together as one composition. Brilliant!

Skip Spence's fingers manipulated the strings of his guitar like a painter's brushes masterfully caressing the canvas. Graphic musical landscapes materialized right before my eyes—I could see the sound and all the colourful splendor of each and every note. Such was the realistic image of this nirvana, I felt I could have stepped right into it and lived forever.

Reverberation sprang from the stage as the band began the song “Changes,” captivating me as I watched it echo and bounce throughout the center, on and off many a person's head. “Sitting by the Window” flowed out with a warm, gentle sensuality that changed the entire atmosphere, as notes met in the air and made love above us like erotic angels of sweet emotion. “Omaha” was the crowd favorite and had nearly all the hippies and rockers standing in respect and appreciation of its passion, fervor and inspirational hard-rocking guitar attack—a fitting tribute to the Bay scene. At its conclusion, Moby Grape left the stage, but the galvanized crowd took to their feet and demanded more.

After a brief interlude the band returned to the stage, belting out “Mr. Blues” as their encore with such conviction that the audience was more than primed for Moby Grape's tour partner, Electric Flag.

However, before I could realize what was happening—Zap!—I was suddenly back at the first gig. My mind was spinning to such an extent that it was only through my memories of being there previously I was able to stabilize the waves of anxiety sweeping over me. “Holy shit!” I loudly exclaimed, only to have my friends think I was reacting to the band coming onstage. For several seconds I was lost in thought...la vie est pleine d'absurdités qui peuvent avoir l'éffronterie de ne pas paraître vraisemblables,et savez-vous pourquoi? parce que ces absurdités sont vraies!3 So true these absurdities were. I made a fleeting attempt to explain this journey through the void to my friends, but was cut short by the applause of the small crowd as Quicksilver took the stage.

“Pride of Man” came on with such a sense of urgency that I started; its insistent, methodical rhythm stimulated my mind to such a point that it appeared the theatre was opening up into a worldwide landscape. “Turn around go back down, back the way you came.... Turn around go back down....” Again and again the lyrics called out, resonating. My thoughts spun off...mon seul recours pour survivre c'était de me persuader que j'étais en mission. Seulement, pour découvrir sous peu que ça devait en être ainsi.4

Once I realized I was on some sort of mission, I knew that the raven-haired woman in black was somehow connected, yet the purpose of this mission completely eluded me. Oddly, I now realized that she had attempted (and failed) to poison me, but again, I had no clue as to why.

As my realization of this new dimension of my life washed over me, I allowed myself to enjoy the intricate guitar work of “Fresh Air” (“Have another hit”), the strings screeching enticingly. Soon I was enveloped in the primal drums and buzzing, slithering strings of “Mona.” This sexy song flowed outward like a magical, inter-stellar fountain, drowning everyone in an erotic waterfall of sound. In the midst of this electronic symphony, I felt myself floating upward, higher and higher into the starry sky.

I landed again at the Santa Monica Civic gig. It was during the intermission, just prior to Electric Flag's appearance on stage, and just as I was regaining my equilibrium I saw her again. There she was, the raven haired girl from The Dogs concert. But what was she doing here? She looked me in the eye and, smiling, slowly turned her head back towards the stage. My mind began to spin. I flashed back to the other gig, where Quicksilver had been jamming out the marvelous sounds of “Mona.”

Why was I bouncing back and forth from one gig to the other? And what was the connection to this woman in black who I had now seen at both gigs, who had tried to poison me? I began to choke; breathing became difficult. My body ached everywhere. How could this be? After all, were these not just flights of fancy that took place in my brain, only allowing me to relive what had already transpired? No, this was much more, and I was at its threshold, somewhat lost in its quagmire. However, je me suis retrouvéé en me mettant en relation avec moi-même et en ayant la volonté d'être moi-même.5 I could no longer continue under the pleasant illusion that these were all just fun, retro-ish excursions. My insides told me that something about these trips that would eventually unfold, revealing my purpose here on the planet.

My mind circled round with too many questions and not enough answers, only to be interrupted by a loud shouting from the emcee. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Electric Flag!”—and with those words, my mind snapped back to the present moment like a rubber band.

Opening with such freakout sounds, Electric Flag immediately rocked the entire Civic Center. Mike Bloomfield was in peak form and his mastery of the guitar was well beyond anything I knew possible. He twisted out notes that curved in space, forming sounds that utilized every wavelength of vibration in their short life. My eyes and ears were in a state of beautiful bliss while the sounds stroked the creativity and sexuality of my body and soul!

Electric Flag could do no wrong. I realized there was not a musical boundary in existence that could have limited this band in any way, shape or form. “Drinking Wine” and “Killing Floor” were masterpieces; notes collided with notes mid-air, creating new sounds that could never be reproduced on any recording. The music was stunning, from the lead vocalist to the drumming of Buddy Miles, and combined with Bloomfield, who was beyond earthly, on this night the band was easily above their own game.

During the finale, Buddy slammed the toms and an electric flag sprang upward jubilantly from the kit. All the while Bloomfield was leaning over his guitar like an angelical messenger, sending each string into a land of melodic heaven—he made every note cry, sing, weep and laugh with a mastery I have rarely witnessed. I knew I was blessed, bearing testimony to his performance, hearing and feeling this musical magic bestowed on us by a high priest of heavenly sonic sound, a guitar god in his own right.

When the night was all said and done, I was physically and mentally exhausted. There was no question as to the power of the California sound, but the presence of The Dogs ushered in new thoughts on familiar hometown sounds. As both The MC5 and Stooges had disbanded, were The Dogs the echo of an older wave, or the messengers of a sound that was yet to gain its rightful appreciation? I knew in my heart The Dogs were the avant-garde of a new tide of music that was going to become much more influential as time went on.

As the LSD effects diminished and I found myself traveling back into my present, I was keenly aware that perception is 90% of everything, therefore, the remaining 10%—reality, but who could really say what that is? But one thing I knew: “...plutôt que de solliciter de l'aide,je préfèrerait être moi-même avec toutes les tortures de l'enfer, si c'est ainsi qu'il faut être.”6

And with this, the answer to life opened up to me; pain or no pain, the threat of death or poison would not detract me in my quest. I was more than willing to sacrifice myself for the enrichment of my very soul in this journey into and towards an unknown. And all I had to go by at this time was a mere glimpse into the holy grail of timeless perception.

I realized that perhaps there was meaning after all in this meaningless world. Could it be that the past could actually be altered? If so, I now saw history as an untapped playground, the present ridiculous and the future as a twisted abstract.

My adventures tonight had taught me that the answer was not in the future, but had always existed to be discovered in the past. For to have the ability to control the past, you would surely by default control the future. Smiling to myself, I now recognized the important significance of my journeys.

1. “What our senses fail to fathom, let us grasp through faith's consent.” From Pange lingua gloriosi, “Praise we Christ's immortal body.”

2. It is time for you to read the signs.

3. "Life is full of absurdities which may have the gall not to appear plausible, and do you know why?Because these absurdities are true!" ~ Luigi Pirandello – L 'Esclusa (The Excluded Woman)

4. “My only recourse to survive was to persuade myself that I was on a mission. Only to discover soon that it must be.” ~ Soren Kierkegaard, Sickness Unto Death

5. “I found myself by relating to myself, and by willing to be myself” ~ Albert Camus

6. “...rather than seek help I would prefer to be myself – with all the tortures of hell, if so it must be.” ~ Soren Kierkegaard

Special Note: A most gracious thank you to Soren Absurde of Tunisia for his highly valued collaboration on this project.

"Somebody Must've Slipped Something In My Drink" is an excerpt from The Incredible Adventures of Mischa, by Michele Saint Thomas.