IVIV page 133

[Robin Landseadel]

On Oct 7, 2009, at 7:31 AM, Michael Bailey wrote:

> (belated reference from page 136:
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tujunga_wash )
>
> The Boards' house has devolved into a Bad Scene.
> Why?  The 60s were going wrong, I guess.
>
>
> It's a decky-dance, a house party like Foppl's but
> Denis, and Doc and Jade, have the good sense to
> get out.   Frater Perdurabo has some words apposite to their plight:
> http://www.sacred-texts.com/oto/lib333.htm
>
>         23
>
>          {Kappa-Epsilon-Phi-Alpha-Lambda-Eta Kappa-Gamma}
>
>                               SKIDOO
>
>   What man is at ease in his Inn?
>   Get out.
>   Wide is the world and cold.
>   Get out.
>   Thou hast become an in-itiate.
>   Get out.
>   But thou canst not get out by the way thou camest
>     in.  The Way out is THE WAY.
>   Get out.
>   For OUT is Love and Wisdom and Power.(12)
>   Get OUT.
>   If thou hast T already, first get UT.(13)
>   Then get O.
>   And so at last get OUT.

The Boards/Byrds/Beach Boys—by 1970 both [real, more or less] bands  
had to mutate into something more 'commercial.' By 1970 the most  
Paranoid of the Byrds is the only one left—romantic, wistful Gene  
Clark, terrified of travel by air, dissipated, Slothrop like, into an  
incoherent, untrackable haze. In the end the author of "You Won't Have  
to Cry"  fell off the map entirely via alcohol poisoning. David  
Crosby's ego bloat got him shoved out of the Byrds into CSN &  
sometimes Y and bigger, better and more paranoid things like "Almost  
Cut My Hair." Chris Hillman & Michael Clarke hooked up with ill-fated  
Gram Parsons forming the the second Flying Burrito Brothers in the  
process.

	I was walking down the street the other day
	and a sight came before my eyes
	it was a little hippie boy, I must have been twice his size
	his appearance typified his strange breed
	gaudy clothes, long stringy hair hanging down
	I'd seen perhaps a thousand in my early trips to town
	as he walked beside me on down the block
	I noticed no unpleasing smell
	he might have been on the weed or even LSD
	but if he was I couldn't tell
	so we walked together that way through this neighborhood
	finally he turned around to me
	and he said friend, you know we're a million miles apart
	but you know something we can enjoy the sunshine and the weather
	so why don't we put our differences aside
	and just talk to each other
	you see this box beneath my arm
	to you it's plain, it has no charm
	but to someone dearest to my heart this box has played a tragic part
	this little one can't tell you himself about his life and how he died
	but if anyone else could speak for him I guess I'm qualified
	this boy was in Chicago, he didn't know why he was there
	he was with his family and friends and he didn't really care
	you might have been one of those
	who saw the struggle there on your television screen
	the tragic thing is so much else happened
	that no one else could have seen
	a stranger handed this boy a dollar to do a simple chore
	to carry a package to a nearby hotel
	and when he returned he'd get two more
	but when he came back he sort of lost his way walking thru the crowd
	one of them things you ask yourself, how the Lord allowed
	but when he was found he was like he is now
	dreaming sweet and still
	and in his little hand was a crumpled dollar bill
	now you can take that dollar
	get four cents on it compound it quarterly at any downtown bank
	so they can back some hot new tank or atom bomb
	well, what I'm going to tell you now, you can stay or you can leave
	you kind of listened to my story so far but just one more thing
	it's the same for any hippie, bum or hillbilly out on the street
	just remember this little boy and never carry more than you can eat
	now could you help us sing this song, please
	there will be peace in the valley for him now we pray
	I will think of the little hippie boy that way

It all ended for Gram Parsons on September 19, 1973:

	The press were told that Parsons had died of natural causes,
	but after performing an autopsy, the coroner listed the cause of
	death as "drug toxicity, days, due to multiple drug use, weeks."*
	A blood test showed a blood alcohol level of 0.21% -- high, but
	nowhere near fatal standing alone. No morphine showed in the
	blood test, though it did turn up in more than trace amounts in
	urine and liver tests. The urinalysis also revealed traces of
	cocaine and barbiturates. Since substances may accumulate in
	the body over a long time, it's unclear from the urine and liver
	tests whether Parsons used morphine, cocaine or barbiturates
	that day.

http://ebni.com/byrds/memgrp6.html

In the end all that's left is Roger McGuinn, still insisting on flying  
eight miles high, still strung out on the Apollonian Dream, still an  
evangelist of the future life we'll all share in outer space.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HKhI09XO5R0&feature=related

Meanwhile, back on the beach, Brian Wilson pretty much goes around the  
bend and the touring group becomes a loose aggregate of original  
members and studio hot-shots. Anyone could be part of the Beach Boys  
touring troupe—say, an undead session sideman:

	"Hey, who's doing drums today, thought it was Hal Blain?"

	"You must be fried or time-traveling, dude, this ain't 1966—it's
	Dennis, man?"

	"No way dude, Dennis is in a deposition involving that
	 Manson shit."

	"Fuck man—maybe Carl can do it, he can count to four and at least he
	won't be toasted.

	"Nah, I'll call the booking agency."

. . . and be as invisible as Coy. One could live in Manhattan Beach  
and environs, taken up by the Surf Scene and bump into the likes of  
Dennis Wilson, the only Beach Boy on a Board. One could become witness  
to Brian Wilson's obvious deterioration/inspiration/time travel/freak- 
out. And who knows what sort of music industry scuttlebutt one would  
hear on the beach circa 1970. Certainly if any figure in Rock Music  
[circa 1970] qualified as a Zombie, it would be burnt-out Beach Boy  
Brian Wilson. In any case, note that Pynchon has long been conscious  
of the surf music scene—strictly from the vantage point of musical  
criticism, his remarks on surf music in Inherent Vice have oodles of  
merit—and had to be [at the very least] aware of the Charles Manson/ 
Dennis Wilson connection back in 1969.

"It kills my soul";

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OcUeSDMll5s

There's a bit of the energy of Joan Didion's "White Album" in TRP's  
depiction of the surf scene of Inherent Vice, the chilling thought  
that you are only a few degrees of separation away from the Manson  
murders. In all of Pynchon's books there's scenes of dialog where the  
characters/mouthpieces/multimedia simulacra toss off a few names  
glibly indicating that the discussion concerns something truly awful,  
the back and forth between Doc and Fritz about Ramo & Woolridge for  
example. This sort of set-piece is always tossed off as a bagatelle.  
Similar things happen when all the lexical arrows point to Manson,  
like the goofy little interchanges where Doc becomes sexier in the  
wake of State's evidence concerning the sexual activities within the  
Manson cult. In all those hot fantasies concerning the equally short  
Charles Manson, we see Doc seeing too many Inherent Vices shared with  
the diminutive mass murderer, with only one degree of separation.