Pizza! Pizza! Pizza! Yep, Pizza! is the subject of The Halli Casser-Jayne Show Wednesday, August 8, 3 pm ET and Thursday, August 9, 9 pm ET. Pizza recipes, homemade pizza, pizza recipes gourmet, pizza dough recipes…we’re leaving no pizza stone unturned. We’ve got quite the guest line-up for you as we travel around the country in search of the most delicious, delectable and divine pizzas. We’ll talk to Mike of Mike’s Road Trip dot com; renowned cookbook author Diane Morgan; Food & Wine magazine editor, Tina Ujlaki; Ryan Hays – The “Ultimate” Pizza Fan. We are even going to introduce you to The Big Green Truck Company, a catering service with a fleet of antique trucks fitted with wood-fired brick ovens whose pizza is out-of-this-world. The Halli Casser-Jayne Show is Talk Radio for Fine Minds and palates.
I hope that you’ll tune into The Halli Casser-Jayne Show tonight at 9 pm when you can hear my interview with the former star of Dynasty, Linda Evans. (You can listen right here!) As an interviewer, I can tell you that not all interviewees are the same. There are some who come on shows simply to sell their name or their product and don’t give much more than that. There are others who just love to talk about themselves and do so without much thought behind what they say. Sometimes, people have a bad day and they don’t feel much like talking. I can tell you, conducting an interview with someone like that, aargh! I’ve run across many who think they are simply better than everyone else and therefore have a chip on their shoulder and come across as arrogant. I’ll never understand why some people even bother consenting to an interview. Anyway, there are a thousand variations on the theme, but I can tell you that for the most part, doing what I do is a gift, while often it’s a challenge. But then there is that every once in a while when I run across that rare soul who gives the audience what they want…a great deal of their heart and soul and even a bit more. Such a person is Linda Evans who opened herself up for all of us to take a good look in during the recording of our interview. I won’t tell you why, you’ll have to listen for yourselves, but at one point Linda choked up with tears and was barely able to speak. Linda Evans: beautiful on the outside, and gorgeous on the inside. Let me know what you think.
At 3 pm today, join me on The Halli Casser-Jayne Show, Talk Radio for Fine Minds. The topic today: Second Acts. My guests: the delectable Linda Evans of Dynasty fame, the talented four-time Oscar nominee and two-time Golden Globe winner Marsha Mason, and former Los Angeles County District Attorney, Gil Garcetti who oversaw high profile prosecutions such as the Menendez brothers and O.J. Simpson cases. Now Mr. Garcetti is considered one of our nation’s premier photographers. Gil has had numerous solo exhibitions including at the United Nations in New York and the Smithsonian in Washington, DC. Here are two of his images, reprinted with Mr. Garcetti’s permission. What a talent!
Along with the delightful Marsha Mason and the unstoppable Gil Garcetti, tomorrow, August 1, 3 pm ET, I’ll be interviewing the darling Linda Evans on The Halli Casser-Jayne Show. This week’s topic: Second Acts. All three of my guests reached the pinnacle of success in their respective fields. All three of my guests, for different reasons, went onto Second Acts. I’ll be exploring with each what prompted their life change. Below, with Miss Evans’ permission, is an excerpt from her insightful book, Recipes for Life. The book is a great read and I personally recommend it, if for nothing else than the fabulous recipes Linda includes in her book, cooking being her great passion.
A Time for Change
FOR SEVERAL REASONS, I began questioning everything in my life around the end of the 1980s. Dynasty had given me tremendous gifts on every level, and I was grateful for each and every one of them. I had everything you can have thatpeople think will make you happy. But I wasn’t. Something was still missing. There were answers to things I wanted to know, but I couldn’t find them. It was amazing: I had fame, fortune, and the love of people all around the world, and yet, I was unfulfilled.
I remember at the height of the success of Dynasty reflecting on my life as I sat in the back of a limo holding my fifth People’s Choice award. I was accomplishing my goal, which was to have a career and to be self-sufficient. I thought, “Take a moment to bask in the sweetness of it.” That moment was followed by a louder voice in my head. “Is this all there is?”
One of the wonderful things about getting your dream is you can finally let go of it for something new.
By the ninth year of Dynasty, in spite of all its blessings, I longed to be a regular person again. I wanted to take out the trash, go to the supermarket, and walk along the beach without being recognized. I didn’t want to have to live up to people’s expectations of me. I wasn’t one of the ten most beautiful women in the world, like Harper’s Bazaar said year after year. I was just fortunate enough to have a team of talented people assisting me with that image every day.
I made the decision to leave the show. Esther and Richard Shapiro, the creators of Dynasty, and Aaron Spelling gave me their blessings. I was an emotional mess my last day of filming. My makeup man had to use all of his Kleenex and get more. I couldn’t stop crying. I would miss my Dynasty family, but it was time to go.
Hard changes were everywhere. Everyone I knew agreed that Richard was the greatest guy I’d ever known. So why didn’t I want to settle down with him and live happily ever after? Even I thought I was crazy to be thinking about giving him up. I kept trying to figure out what was wrong with me. Then one day I realized I loved Richard with all my heart, but, cliché as it might sound, I wasn’t in love. It was hard to explain why being in love, not just loving, was so important to me. It was an outrageous dilemma. But once I understood it, I couldn’t stay with him.
So one day, Nena and the cats and I moved back home to my old house in Beverly Hills. For a very long time I wondered if I’d made the biggest mistake of my life. But then one day, I opened the door to find true love staring me in the face and God, was I happy to be free to embrace it.
Excerpt from Recipes for Life © 2011 by Linda Evans Published by Vanguard Press A Member of the Perseus Books Group, Reprinted with permission of the author.
I thought you might like to see the view from my window. Here’s my Maxfield Parrish world. Living on the water is like watching frames of a movie. The scenery is ever-changing, second by second. The joke around here (Central Florida) is if you don’t like the weather, blink your eyes. It’ll change that fast. Mother Nature is a fickle friend. Enjoy the view.
It’s a gorgeous day here in Florida. I’m looking out at the Indian River Lagoon and there’s hardly a ripple on the water. It’s a busy day today, prepping for next week’s show: SECOND ACTS, with my guests the gorgeous actress who performed in one of my favorite all-time shows, Dynasty, Linda Evans; the adorable Marsha Mason star of one of my favorite all-time films, The Goodbye Girl; and the intrepid Gil Garcetti who prosecuted the notorious O.J. Simpson. All three have gone from fame and fortune to Second Acts, and what Second Acts they are! I can’t wait for you to hear their stories. But for now, the river beckons, and I’m off for a brief run with my kayak. Maybe I’ll have more here later today! Come back and see.
(Note: Author Sheila Weller is a guest on my show GIRLS LIKE US, Women Who Rock, along with the great Darlene (He’s a Rebel) Love and others. Sheila is the author of GIRLS LIKE US, Carole King, Joni Mitchell, Carly Simon and the Journey of a Generation. The following piece is in the July issue of Vanity Fair, and it is reprinted here with Ms. Weller’s permission. It is a wonderful companion piece to our talk on The Halli Casser-Jayne Show. You can listen to that show tonight at 9 p.m. EST here via our radio player or tune in here: DARLENE LOVE, SHEILA WELLER & WOMEN WHO ROCK)
1967 THE SUMMER OF LOVE
In a 25-square-block area of San Francisco, in the summer of 1967, an ecstatic, Dionysian mini-world sprang up like a mushroom, dividing American culture into a Before and After unparalleled since World War II. If you were between 15 and 30 that year, it was almost impossible to resist the lure of that transcendent, peer-driven season of glamour, ecstasy, and Utopianism. It was billed as the Summer of Love, and its creators did not employ a single publicist or craft a media plan. Yet the phenomenon washed over America like a tidal wave, erasing the last dregs of the martini-sipping Mad Men era and ushering in a series of liberations and awakenings that irreversibly changed our way of life.
The Summer of Love also thrust a new kind of music—acid rock—across the airwaves, nearly put barbers out of business, traded clothes for costumes, turned psychedelic drugs into sacred door keys, and revived the outdoor gatherings of the Messianic Age, making everyone an acolyte and a priest. It turned sex with strangers into a mode of generosity, made “uptight” an epithet on a par with “racist,” refashioned the notion of earnest Peace Corps idealism into a bacchanalian rhapsody, and set that favorite American adjective, “free,” on a fresh altar.
“It was this magical moment … this liberation movement, a time of sharing that was very special,” with “a lot of trust going around,” says Carolyn “Mountain Girl” Garcia, who had a baby with Ken Kesey, the man who helped kick off that season, and who then married Jerry Garcia, the man who epitomized its fruition. “The Summer of Love became the template: the Arab Spring is related to the Summer of Love; Occupy Wall Street is related to the Summer of Love,” says Joe McDonald, the creator and lead singer of Country Joe and the Fish and a boyfriend of one of that summer’s two queens, Janis Joplin. “And it became the new status quo,” he continues. “The Aquarian Age! They all want sex. They all want to have fun. Everyone wants hope. We opened the door, and everybody went through it, and everything changed after that. Sir Edward Cook, the biographer of Florence Nightingale, said that when the success of an idea of past generations is ingrained in the public and taken for granted the source is forgotten.”
Well, here is that source, according to the people who lived it.
Certain places, for unknowable reasons, become socio-cultural petri dishes, and between 1960 and 1964 the area of Northern California extending from San Francisco to Palo Alto was one of them.
San Francisco’s official bohemia was North Beach, where the Beats hung out at Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s City Lights bookstore, and where espresso was sipped, jazz was worshipped, and hipsters did not dance. North Beach was not unique, however; it had strong counterparts, for example, in New York’s Greenwich Village, L.A.’s Venice Beach and Sunset Strip, and Cambridge, Massachusetts.What was unique was happening across town, where a group of young artists, musicians, and San Francisco State College students became besotted with the city’s past. “There was a huge romanticism around the idea of the Barbary Coast, about San Francisco as a lawless, vigilante, late-19th-century town,” says Rock Scully, one of those who rented cheap Victorian houses in a run-down neighborhood called Haight-Ashbury. They dressed, he says, “in old, stiff-collared shirts with pins, and riding coats and long jackets.”
“Old-timey” became the shibboleth. Guys wore their hair long under Western-style hats, and young people decorated their apartments in old-fashioned castoffs. Scully recalls, “Michael Ferguson [an S.F. State art student] was wearing and living Victoriana in 1963”—a year before the Beatles came to America, and before costuming-as-rebellion existed in England. They were not aping the British. “We were Americans!,” insists musician Michael Wilhelm. Architecture student George Hunter was yet another in the crowd, and then there were the artists Wes Wilson and Alton Kelley, the latter an émigré from New England who frequently wore a top hat. “Kelley wanted to be freeze-dried and set on his Victorian couch behind glass,” says his friend Luria Castell (now Luria Dickson), a politically active S.F. State student and the daughter of a waitress. Castell and her friends wore long velvet gowns and lace-up boots—a far cry from the Beatnik outfits of the early 60s.
Chet Helms, a University of Texas at Austin dropout who had hitchhiked to San Francisco, also joined the group and dressed old-timey. He had come to San Francisco with a friend, a nice, middle-class girl who had been a member of her high school’s Slide Rule Club and who had also left the university, hoping to become a singer. Her name was Janis Joplin.
Helms, Castell, Scully, Kelley, and a few others lived semi-communally. “We were purists,” says Castell, “snooty” about their left-wing politics and esoteric aesthetic. All their houses had dogs, so they called themselves the Family Dog. As for Wilhelm, Hunter, Ferguson, and their friends Dan Hicks and Richie Olsen, they took up instruments that most of them could barely play and formed the Charlatans, which became the first San Francisco band of the era. Wes Wilson, distinct for keeping his hair short, became the eventual scene’s first poster artist, creating a style that would be epoch-defining.
Soon they came to share something else: LSD. It had been more than a decade since Sandoz Laboratories made the first batches of lysergic acid diethylamide, the high-octane synthetic version of two natural consciousness-altering compounds, psilocybin and mescaline, when, in 1961, the Harvard psychology professor Timothy Leary had his life-changing experience with psilocybin mushrooms, in Mexico. Leary, a charismatic womanizer, and Richard Alpert, a colleague at Harvard and a closeted bisexual, would invite friends and a few grad students to drop acid with them off campus, and they endeavored to apply scholarly methodology to the sense-enhancing, cosmic-love-stimulating, and sometimes psychosis-abetting properties of LSD.
While Leary and Alpert were raising consciousness in their way on the East Coast, Ken Kesey, a young Oregonian, was doing it on the peninsula south of San Francisco far more outrageously—by buying a school bus, painting it in jubilant graffiti, and driving around in it, stoned, with a group he called the Merry Pranksters. In 1959, Kesey had been a volunteer in a C.I.A.-sponsored LSD experiment at the Veterans Administration Hospital in Menlo Park. His 1962 novel, One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest, was the result of his work there. In 1963 he assembled the Pranksters, including Stewart Brand, later famous as the author of the Whole Earth Catalog, and Neal Cassady, Jack Kerouac’s best friend and the model for Dean Moriarty in On the Road.
At the same time, the Peninsula was incubating a music scene. In 1962 a young guitarist named Jorma Kaukonen, the son of a State Department official from Washington, D.C., went to a hootenanny (a sing-along folk event) and met another young guitarist, a music teacher who had been named after the composer Jerome Kern. Open-faced with wild hair, Jerry Garcia led a jug band, and Kaukonen recalls him as “absolutely the big dog on the scene: he had a huge following, was very outgoing and articulate. People gravitated to him.”
The same weekend Kaukonen met Garcia, he says, he met Janis Joplin, “who was in her folky stage.” Later, after amphetamine addiction made her return to Texas to straighten out, “she would be R&B Janis, peerless as Bessie Smith and Memphis Minnie,” Kaukonen recalls. But that night she was singing her Texas heart out on folk classics.
Two years later, a flirtatious Neal Cassady picked up Carolyn Adams near her cabin in the hills above Palo Alto, and they drove to Kesey’s house. Adams, who came from a good Poughkeepsie family and had been kicked out of a private high school, would soon be known as Mountain Girl because she lived in the woods and rode a motorcycle. “I was frolicking about,” she says. That night, she recalls, “I saw the bus and fell in love.” She found Kesey to be “this Promethean figure, [who] saw psychedelics as a gift to mankind.”
Carolyn Adams became a Prankster, and she and Kesey, who was married, became lovers. Their group soon initiated the Acid Tests, “happenings around the Bay Area,” she says, where “we were creating a safe place for people to get high.” They’d put a “low dose” of acid “in a big picnic cooler or garbage can, something that would hold 10 or 12 gallons,” often diluted in “Kool-Aid or a big bucket of water…. It was a voyage,” she says, adding, “At a ‘graduation,’ [we] gave out diplomas to people who passed the test. Ken was wearing the silver lamé space suit I made for him.”
These were parties without alcohol. The drug engendered a hyper-reflective state of mind and languid, sensual body movement, both very new at the time. Even the usually gimlet-eyed Tom Wolfe, whose The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test was a dispatch from that front, recently admitted having “felt like I had been in on something very spiritual” during his “all-night sessions with Kesey and the Pranksters.”
Carolyn Adams and Jerry Garcia became a couple in the late 60s, had two daughters, and married in 1981. (They divorced in 1993.) Today she says of Garcia when they met, “He was brilliant. He read omnivorously. He was obsessed with music I think he had synesthesia, which is the professional word for when you [hear a sound and it causes you to] see color and sculpture.”
Soon Jerry Garcia ditched his jug band and formed the Warlocks, made up of young men who had mostly never left Northern California—Bob Weir, Phil Lesh, Ron “Pigpen” McKernan, and Bill Kreutzmann. The Warlocks became the Acid Tests’ resident band, and Rock Scully became the Warlocks’ manager. Scully and Garcia were brought together by Owsley Stanley, a young Berkeley chemist who was said to make the purest acid on earth. The scion of a prominent Kentucky political family, Owsley, as he was always called—as was his product—was a true believer. He once said, about the first time he took acid, “I walked outside and the cars were kissing the parking meters.”
Responding to a high whistle audible only to hidden soulmates, seekers in their 20s started moving to San Francisco. A random slew came from Brooklyn, including a schoolteacher turned poet named Allen Cohen, who eventually started The San Francisco Oracle, the newspaper that would define the new Zeitgeist, and two artists, Dave Getz and Victor Moscoso, both lured by the suddenly popular San Francisco Art Institute, which Jerry Garcia had briefly attended. Getz would become a drummer for Big Brother and the Holding Company (all the new acid bands had wildly esoteric names), and Moscoso would turn out to be one of the scene’s poster artists. Heading for the Bay Area “was like a calling; it was very strong,” says Stanley Mouse, a shy, rebellious painter of hot rods from Detroit. As he was crossing the Golden Gate Bridge, a friend with him asked, “How long you staying?” Mouse answered, “Forever.”
The Family Dog and the Charlatans spent the summer of 1965 in Virginia City, Nevada, an old mining town. The Charlatans played in the Red Dog Saloon, which was run by hipsters like them, who romanticized the days of the Gold Rush. Their acid-dosed friends moved and swayed to their music in improvised, communal, free-form dancing. Dancing to pop music until this time mostly meant doing prescribed steps, in male-female pairs, to three-minute Top 40 hits, which, whether they were very bad (“Wooly Bully”), very good (“[I Can’t Get No] Satisfaction”), or sublime (“My Girl”), still had a danceable arc. But the combination of this fantasy venue and the riffy, amateur music stoked abandon and in-group narcissism. And so psychedelic dancing, which would become the new dancing, was launched in an old-timey saloon, where one of the country’s first light shows threw liquid globs of color on the walls.
Once they were back in San Francisco, the Family Dog couldn’t wait to replicate the experience. As Luria Castell Dickson says, “With LSD, we experienced what it took Tibetan monks 20 years to obtain, yet we got there in 20 minutes.”
On October 16, 1965, the Family Dog rented the Longshoremen’s Hall, near Fisherman’s Wharf, for the first of their bacchanals. “About 400 or 500 people showed up—it was such a revelation,” Alton Kelley recalled a few years before his death, in 2008. “Everybody was walking around with their mouths open, going, ‘Where did all these freaks come from? I thought my friends were the only guys around!’ ” People were dressed in “kind of crazy Edwardian clothes,” says Stanley Mouse. But they were “also, now, getting more ecstatically dressed,” says composer Ramon Sender, who’d witnessed the scene grow more rapturous since the Acid Test he had participated in. The Family Dog then had more parties, each with a sly wink of a name. Victor Moscoso remembers seeing a poster, made by Kelley and Mouse, for “A Tribute to Ming the Merciless.” Moscoso says, “I thought, like Bob Dylan, Something is happening, but you don’t know what it is, do you, Mr. Jones?” Moscoso did know, though. They all knew.
In January 1966, the Pranksters held the Trips Festival, also at the Longshoremen’s Hall. Stewart Brand set up a tepee. Ramon Sender provided synthesizer music. LSD was in the ice cream that time, and it was not one but “three nights of craziness,” Carolyn Garcia remembers. “That’s the first time any of us met Bill Graham,” she says. Graham was the manager of the San Francisco Mime Troupe, a radical theater organization. Rescued, as a child, from the Nazis, Graham had later earned a Bronze Star in the Korean War. Watching this new scene, says Carolyn Garcia, “Graham decided that he could take everything he saw here and make a fortune.”
From then on, two shuttered San Francisco halls—the Avalon Ballroom and the Fillmore Auditorium—sprang to life as venues for the ongoing music and dance parties. Chet Helms ran the Avalon; Bill Graham ran the Fillmore. A growing group of bands—Jefferson Airplane, the Grateful Dead, Quicksilver Messenger Service, Sopwith Camel—played both halls. The clothes on the dancers got so wild it was like “seven different centuries thrown together in one room,” an insider noted. “They were only ‘costumes’ to the straight people,” says Rock Scully. Richard Alpert, who had traveled to India that year and had been renamed Ram Dass, visited and announced that the acid sybaritism in San Francisco trumped anything on the East Coast.
The parties were advertised by posters on every lamppost and coffeehouse wall in the Bay Area. The artists included Mouse, Kelley, and Moscoso—who all say they felt like Toulouse-Lautrec in 1890s Montmartre—but Wes Wilson was the pioneer. He’d seen a gallery brochure for the Austrian Art Deco painter Alfred Roller and was taken by Roller’s Viennese Secessionist typeface—thick, with heavy horizontals, lighter verticals, and rounded serif edges. Wilson filled every inch of his posters with the boxy typeface and sensuous illustrations. Moscoso says, “Wes freed us! It clicked: Reverse everything I have ever learned! A poster should transmit its message quickly and simply? No! Our posters were taking as long as they could to be read, and were hanging up the viewer!” All four (and the late Rick Griffin) churned out flyers for the Fillmore and Avalon that people had to work to comprehend. “You’d see crowds standing there, grooving on them,” Mouse recalls.
The star band called itself Jefferson Airplane. Jorma Kaukonen and his D.C. friend Jack Casady joined folksinger Marty Balin, local boy Paul Kantner, and Spencer Dryden, a nephew of Charlie Chaplin’s, and labeled their sound “fo-jazz,” for folk-jazz. Signe Anderson, the wife of one of the Pranksters, was the Airplane’s female vocalist.
Anderson was a folksinger, as most of the girls on the scene were. But the lead singer of another group, the Great Society, was notably different. Grace Slick “was not a Beatnik girl,” says Kaukonen. “She washed her hair every day.” The self-assured beauty with the thick black hair, piercing blue eyes, and fiercely enunciated alto had an air of high society about her. Slick had attended Finch, the now defunct college for debutantes in New York City, and had, at 20, married the son of friends of her parents’ in a lavish wedding in San Francisco’s Grace Cathedral. But she and her crowd were soon into smoking grass. As she says, “Forget that Leave It to Beaver shit—I wanted Paris in the 20s.” She was modeling $20,000 couture gowns at I. Magnin when she walked into the Matrix club—of which Marty Balin was part owner—one night and heard Jefferson Airplane. “I said to myself, This looks better than what I’m doing. Modeling was a pain in the ass.” But the blasé attitude masked real talent. “Grace had one of the great voices of all time,” says Kaukonen. Casady adds, “Very few women back then walked to the edge of the stage like a guy and sang right into the eyes of the audience.”
One night, listening to Miles Davis’s Sketches of Spain when she was stoned, Slick thought of the sly drug references in Alice in Wonderland and composed, of all things, a bolero. She took the song to Jefferson Airplane when she replaced Signe Anderson. Called “White Rabbit,” it began, “One pill makes you larger and one pill makes you small,” and it would become the anthem of the coming summer.
Needy Janis Joplin was the opposite of cool Grace Slick. Chet Helms lured Joplin back to the Bay Area in 1966 to audition for Big Brother and the Holding Company. “Janis was not attractive—she had bad skin and was wearing funky sandals and cutoffs,” Dave Getz recalls. But her singing, he continues, “knocked us out, instantaneously.” Getz perceived what audiences would love about Joplin: “Janis was one of the most vulnerable people I have ever met. She’d been voted Ugliest Man on Campus—not even Ugliest Woman!—by a bunch of fraternity boys, and that had really hurt.” She was a drinker, not a psychedelics user, though “there was really no place she wouldn’t go; she was gonna knock on every door.” Her bisexuality and her roiling emotions could be excruciating for her. One night she bolted out of a club because, as she wailed to Getz when he ran after her, “that black chick in there—she turns me on too much.” She soon became involved with Joe McDonald, from whose perspective (his parents were Communists) she was a “politically naïve, intelligent, hardworking” girl. She was always primed for rejection. “One day she went running down Haight Street, crying, ‘Joe stood me up!’ ” when he was only late, according to her eventual lover Peggy Caserta.
Joplin’s creative epiphany occurred after a friend of Getz’s gave her acid for the first time—slipping it into her cold duck—and they went to the Fillmore to hear Otis Redding. “Janis told me she invented the ‘buh-buh-buh-ba-by … ’ after seeing him,” says Joe McDonald. “She wanted to be Otis Redding.” Grace Slick salutes her 1967 co-queen (who died of a drug overdose in 1970), her soul sister in prodigious “swearing and drinking,” by saying, “She had the balls to do her thing by herself. A white girl from Texas, singing the blues? What gumption, what spirit! I don’t think I had that fearlessness.” Slick sadly regrets, “I was so Episcopalian that when I saw a certain sadness in Janis’s eyes I felt it was none of my business.” If she could turn back the clock, she says, she would have tried to help her.
Victor Moscoso says that 1966 was “when it worked. You’d walk down Haight and nod to another longhair and it meant something.” Rock Scully adds, “We painted our houses bright colors. We swept the streets.” The Grateful Dead all crammed into a house at 710 Ashbury; so did Carolyn Garcia, with Sunshine, her baby daughter with Kesey. Barely 20, Carolyn cooked every meal for that “boisterous, wonderful” band, and she saw how “competitive to a fault” Jerry was. “He would rehearse and rehearse and rehearse, and with these intricate fingerings—always wanting to excel, to be the best” at the acid-fueled improvisations he now played, which he described as “something like ordered chaos.” (Garcia died of heart failure in 1995.)
Kelley and Mouse made their posters at 715 Ashbury, across the street; Janis Joplin was down the block, often calling out to the others from her window. The poet Allen Cohen and his live-in girlfriend, Laurie, hosted “soirées for everyone who was anything on the scene,” says Laurie Sarlat Coe today. “Drugs were a sacrament. Everything was spiritual. Everyone read The Tibetan Book of the Dead.” The brothers Ron and Jay Thelin opened what was likely the country’s first head shop, the Psychedelic Shop, devoted so much more to peace than profit that they wound up giving everything away.
Allen Cohen’s psychedelic newspaper, The San Francisco Oracle, gave readers Eastern-religion-tinged illustrations and Founding-Fathers-on-acid declarations: “When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for people to cease [obeying] obsolete social patterns which have isolated man from his consciousness … we the citizens of the earth declare our love and compassion for all hate-carrying men and women.” Peggy Caserta’s boutique, Mnasidika, was where “Wes and Mouse and Marty and Janis and Jerry and Bobby [Weir] and Phil [Lesh] hung out. We felt we’d achieved Nirvana, a Utopian society,” she says. “If you extended your hand, 10 hands would come back.” Herb Caen, the San Francisco Chronicle’s columnist, strolled into Mnasidika one day and was struck by these unique new bohemians. They needed a name, and Caen supplied it. He took a little-known slang term and launched it into perpetuity: “hippies.”
More and more young people were flooding the Haight, including four beautiful girls from Antioch College, in Ohio. A sexy anarchist movement, the Diggers, had sprung up, and the girls joined in. One day two of them, Cindy Read and Phyllis Wilner, “were walking down Haight Street,” Cindy recalls, “and Phyllis said, ‘Isn’t this how you thought the world would be, except it wasn’t? But now, for us, it is!’ ”
Inventing a Culture from Scratch
It was an extraordinary moment in history. The Vietnam War was raging, anti-war protests were surging, civil rights had morphed into Black Power, the Beatles and Bob Dylan were voicing a cultural revolution on FM airwaves. Second-tier Haights were soon popping up in every American city. In New York’s East Village, James Rado and Gerome Ragni were writing the musical that would limn the era: Hair. The somewhat startled media were using the word “youth” for the postwar baby-boomers, whose demographic bulge they’d just discovered, and whose females had reached maturity just as the Pill had become available. Newsweeklies added “youth beats.” Youth was leading the way.
This hubristic brio was rich soil for the Diggers. Taking their name in part from a group of 17th-century English anarchists, they aimed to “invent a new culture from scratch,” says Peter Coyote, who was born Cohon, the son of a New York investment banker. “I was interested in two things: overthrowing the government and fucking. They went together seamlessly.” He and the actor-director Peter Berg helped lead the San Francisco Mime Troupe: “doing street theater, touring the country, getting arrested, and pulling in girls like mad.”
Berg and Coyote had just won an Off Broadway Obie Award for their play Olive Pits when into the Mime Troupe one day stormed “a guy you couldn’t take your eyes off of. He was dangerous, he was compelling, he was funny,” says Coyote. He was Emmett Grogan, a Brooklyn Catholic-school boy turned actor-anarchist. “Emmett would be in a room, on his knee, with all these strangers surrounding him, telling them things they’d never think of on their own,” says the most beautiful of the Antioch girls, Suzanne Carlton (now Siena Riffia), who became his girlfriend. Coyote recalls Grogan’s buddy, the far less flamboyant Billy Murcott, who made complex charts “of the relationship between persona, wealth, and status.” With Murcott as his brain, Grogan dared Coyote and Berg to take Berg’s concept of “life acting” into the streets: Remake yourself as you want to be, now! Remake society as you want it to be, now! Assume freedom! Putting “free” before any word—“food,” “store,” “love,” “human being”—changed everything, Berg argued. Coyote and Berg left the San Francisco Mime Troupe, and the Diggers—“Dig this!,” Murcott would shout—were born. A burgeoning group, the Diggers were passionately leaderless. Every member, Coyote insists, was “a magical autonomous being. There were no followers.” Caen’s “hippies” now had not only their music, drugs, spirituality, and art but also a political philosophy.
The Diggers wore animal masks and held up traffic in down-with-money demonstrations. They drove a flatbed truck of belly dancers and conga drummers into the financial district and passed out joints to the crowd. They dispensed fake dollar bills printed with winged penises. They cadged day-old food from markets and fresh food from farmers and turned them into Digger Stew. (Joe McDonald was in a Digger kitchen one day, he says, “and the women were saying, ‘They’re out fighting the fucking revolution? And we’re making goddamn dinner again?’ ” Siena Riffia, who later became a lawyer and a single mother of twins fathered by blues singer Taj Mahal, concurs: “Yep, it was a man’s world.”) The Diggers ladled out their stew in Golden Gate Park while Joplin sang or the Grateful Dead played. The music was as free as the food. Stanley Mouse says, “With the Diggers, the Haight became a city within a city—a real community.”
Collecting everything from machinery to clothes, the Diggers opened the Free Store. All the merchandise was gratis, which frustrated shoplifters and made some neighboring merchants “quite nuts” and “pretty defensive,” Digger Judy Goldhaft once recalled. (Goldhaft and the late Peter Berg subsequently founded the ecological organization Planet Drum.) At one point, one of those merchants actually volunteered to pay the Free Store’s rent, probably out of admiration of the Diggers’ idealism and their nerve. Another of the Diggers’ patrons, the socialite Paula McCoy (“always naked under her mink coat,” Coyote recalls), opened her Haight apartment to them and laid out lines of cocaine for their pals the Hells Angels.
Coyote and Grogan once hitchhiked to L.A. and swaggered into the Bel Air homes of young producers, where their defiant eschewal of money actually made them seem glamorous. “I never made more than $2,500 a year from 1966 to 1975,” brags Coyote, who today is a successful actor and a familiar voice on commercials. (Grogan died of a suspected overdose on a New York subway in 1978.) The Diggers created the poverty-is-sexy ideology for young panhandlers. They also purportedly coined the motto “Today is the first day of the rest of your life.” They tutored the then unknown Abbie Hoffman. “Abbie literally sat at our feet,” says David Simpson, who, like many ex-Diggers, has been for decades an ecology activist in Northern California. Digger ideas were later introduced to America under Hoffman’s Yippie movement. “The Diggers, in a way, were like a street gang,” says Simpson. “We really believed the socio-economic structure of America was completely unsustainable. We were trying to build a new, free society in the shell of the old.”
This “new, free society” required public celebrations—and its citizens lobbied the city to be able to hold them. In late September 1966, a Haight coalition that included the Oracle staff wrote letters to the city fathers about an October “love-pageant rally” for which they were seeking a permit. Then, after that gathering (which protested LSD’s becoming illegal), on January 12, 1967, a similar collection of activists issued a press release for a “Gathering of the Tribes for a Human Be-In” to be held two days later. “[A] new nation has grown inside the robot flesh of the old,” it began. It ended, “Hang your fear at the door and join the future. If you do not believe, please wipe your eyes and see.”
The Human Be-In drew about 20,000 people to Golden Gate Park. Costumes, music, incense, and marijuana abounded. (“There was so much dope rising in the air,” Rock Scully recalls, “Jerry and I thought we’d walked into a geodesic dome.”) Allen Ginsberg was on hand, leading a massive om chant. Timothy Leary, then 46, premiered his mantra, “Turn on, tune in, drop out.” A consequential witness was the Chronicle’s revered jazz critic, Ralph J. Gleason. “No drunks,” a stunned Gleason wrote in his column. The event was “an affirmation, not a protest … a promise of good, not evil This is truly something new.” He described it as “an asking for a new dimension to peace … for the reality of love and a great Nest for all humans.”
As news of the Be-In trickled out, media coverage increased. In early spring, a group of Haight insiders held a homespun version of a press conference, welcoming the youth of America to San Francisco to experience the magic for themselves, as soon as school let out. The Diggers braced to house and feed the hordes. And hordes there would be, given the seductive name coined for the beckoning season. The proposed gathering would be called “the Summer of Love.”
“Wear Some Flowers in Your Hair”
They came even before school let out, by VW, by Greyhound bus, by thumb. Siena Riffia remembers that some charitable individuals rented cheap apartments and transferred the leases to the Diggers so that young visitors could flood into them. Jane Lapiner (another former Digger who is now an environmental activist) recalls that somehow those kids found them. “I started waking up every morning with 10 or 12 people I didn’t know sleeping on my floor.” In June, San Francisco’s public-health director, Dr. Ellis D. Sox (inevitably nicknamed LSD Sox), complained that there were already 10,000 hippies in the city and warned that by summer the cost of fighting hippie diseases would skyrocket.
Lou Adler, the producer of the Mamas and the Papas, the premier hip L.A. group, brought out a song written by Papa John Phillips and recorded by Scott McKenzie: “San Francisco (Be Sure to Wear Some Flowers in Your Hair).” Adler and Phillips saw the fetching anthem through their “commercial minds,” Adler admits, but it was also a flat-out exhortation for kids to come flocking in. It became an immediate hit, which pissed off the Grateful Dead. “We were the total opposite of Haight-Ashbury,” says Adler. “We were Bel Air, we were slick.” Rock Scully scoffs, “ ‘Put a flower in your hair.’ It didn’t say, ‘Bring a blanket and some money; tell your parents where you’re going.’ There were no redeeming features to that song.”
Spurred by that song, however, and by the success of Jefferson Airplane’s first album, as well as the swelling underground buzz about Janis Joplin, kids from all over the country flooded the Haight. One estimate put the summerlong number at 75,000. Digger happenings got bigger, with giant puppets, paper tunnels for people to tumble through, and girls in silver hot pants and tie-dyed tops reciting poems from Lenore Kandel’s The Love Book, which had been seized by the police and deemed obscene. The Dead stopped traffic when about 25,000 people jammed a mile of Haight Street to groove while they played. “Every day it was a parade, a procession,” says Stanley Mouse.
Harry Reasoner, of CBS, arrived with a camera crew. Look magazine rushed its youngest writer, William Hedgepeth, who was living with his wife and child in Westport, Connecticut, to go underground at the scene. “I hopped out of the cab and was shocked that people’s hair was longer than the Beatles’,” he recalls. He met some kids from the suburbs doing their best to be veteran hippies, shared their pad for weeks, jotted notes on the sly, and was sorely tempted by all the sex. Hedgepeth then flew back to New York and wrote his cover story. “I never wore a suit and tie again,” he says today. “Consciousness is irreversible. It changed my life.”
The Diggers broached the idea of a free clinic to two doctors, and Dr. David E. Smith, who had lived in the Haight for years, volunteered. He signed a $300-a-month lease for a suite at Haight and Ashbury, rounded up volunteers who utilized all the samples of penicillin, tranquilizers, and other supplies from the hospitals at which they interned, and started a clinic to treat patients suffering from bad acid trips or venereal disease—all with no malpractice insurance, “which was totally insane,” says Smith today. On June 7, 1967, the Haight Ashbury Free Medical Clinic opened for business with “a line around the block,” according to Smith. After the doctor learned that the D.E.A. was doing surveillance—“They said, ‘David, your patients are dealing in your waiting room, and if you don’t stop it we’re going to close you down’ ”—he put up a sign on the door: no holding. no dealing. we love you. As the summer wore on, Smith served 250 young people a day, seven days a week. “We met a lot of people at the clinic,” says Rock Scully. “A joke I made, but it was true, was: You want to meet girls? Go down to the clinic.” He says that the Grateful Dead so disliked one arrogant national reporter, “who was always pushing us to fix him up with hippie chicks, that we fixed him up with a girl we knew had the clap. We never heard from him again.”
Some of the older reporters were not amused. Nicholas von Hoffman, of The Washington Post, who covered the Haight in a suit and tie, was, he says now, “appalled” by what he saw. It wasn’t that he didn’t like a lot of the people—he was fond of Joplin, for one—or wasn’t impressed by the numbers. In fact, this was, he says, “the same tactic that Gandhi used; he had 100 million people with no money, no guns, no nothing—these were his troops.” The Haight troops were, likewise, “this mass of young people who had no political knowledge, were not particularly well educated, but the thing you could get them to do was sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll,” and that bait, von Hoffman felt, was enough to achieve “enormously political” ends.
The overnight change in the attitude toward drugs was what alarmed von Hoffman. “A generation and a half before, you could back a dump truck full of cocaine into a Jesuit schoolyard and none of those boys would get near it.” Now, suddenly, he continues, “middle- and working-class kids were doing ‘vice tours,’ like American businessmen in Thailand: coming to the Haight for a few weeks, then, when the dirt between their toes got too encrusted, going home. This was when American blue-collar and middle-class kids became drug users. This was the beginning of the Rust Belt rusting.”
When two Russian diplomats requested a personal tour of the Haight, von Hoffman obliged them. (They ran into his son, who’d grown his hair and joined in the merriment.) Then von Hoffman persuaded Ben Bradlee, the Post’s managing editor, to come to San Francisco and see “all the shit that’s happening” for himself. By that time, recalls Stanley Mouse, “if a tour bus’s air-conditioning broke down, the tourists would be afraid to get out, even in 95-degree heat.” Von Hoffman ended Bradlee’s tour by taking him to a drug lab. “Then Ben flew back in a state of shock,” says von Hoffman, who, soon after, fled back east himself.
The summer’s three-day crescendo started on June 16, and John Phillips and Lou Adler organized it. The idea was to produce a grand event that would give rock, pop, and soul music the respectable status of jazz. Soon the Monterey International Pop Festival’s board of governors (including Paul McCartney, Donovan, Mick Jagger, Paul Simon, and Smokey Robinson) was lining up acts, among them a black Seattle guitar wunderkind, formerly a 101st Airborne paratrooper, who had just become a sensation in Britain though no one in the U.S. had heard of him: Jimi Hendrix.
“But we needed the San Francisco groups,” says Adler. “Haight- Ashbury was becoming known all over the world.” The Airplane were willing, but Big Brother, Dave Getz says, was “infused with the Diggers’ mentality”—no stardom, no profit, everybody equal, “including Janis.” The Grateful Dead, whom Adler traveled north to see, were vehemently against it. Adler recalls his conversations with Rock Scully and co-manager Danny Rifkin as “heated. ‘Why are you guys here? What do you want? Why should we do it?’ Heated!” It was Ralph J. Gleason, whom the groups trusted, Adler says, whom they had to convince. “Gleason asked very tough questions: Where was the money going? [To various drug and music charities.] How is San Francisco going to be presented? And we had the right answers.”
The Monterey Pop Festival—more than 30 acts, sublime weather, 90,000 attendees—was magical. “And, as hard as it is to believe now, most of these stars had never met one another,” says Adler. “I had never seen Jimi Hendrix live,” says Grace Slick. “I’d never seen the Mamas and the Papas [or] the Who live [or] Ravi Shankar. It was stunning for us.”
Director D. A. Pennebaker filmed the event, creating the movie Monterey Pop. The Grateful Dead refused to be filmed. (Their hardcore-hippie integrity would eventually help make them America’s most venerated and enduring rock group.) Big Brother refused, too, but Joplin’s delivery of “Ball and Chain” was such a showstopper that when she heard that it hadn’t been captured on film she was devastated. Albert Grossman, Dylan’s manager, talked Janis into persuading her group to be filmed. Adler had them perform a second time. The camera was only on Joplin, and a star was born. Thus the precious egalitarianism of the Haight bubble was pierced by the real world. Even Jerry Garcia had pedestrian ego issues. He and his band were, according to his wife, Carolyn, chagrined that, “after Otis Redding put on the show of a lifetime, they did not play a great show. Jerry was scowling horribly…. They felt like nobody even noticed them.”
That October, the Diggers and the Thelin brothers led a “Death of the Hippie” march, complete with coffin, down Haight Street. Then everyone moved away, the musicians and artists to Marin County, the Diggers to a series of communes stretching up to the Oregon border. The lessons of that summer—from the cautionary (you can’t build a social movement on drugs) to the positive (love and liberation should be core principles of life)—are still with us. Joe McDonald sums it up: “We discovered there was a 10 on the knob. Everybody else was saying, ‘Don’t turn it up to 10! It will blow up!’ ”
Well, the people who created the Summer of Love dared to turn the knob up to 10, and, miraculously—in that long-ago ecstatic and prosperous time—it did not blow up.
Sheila Weller is the author of numerous books including the New York Times bestseller GIRLS LIKE US: Carole King, Joni Mitchell, Carly Simon — and The Journey of a Generation. She is part of a two-writer family, the wife of eminent historian John Kelly whose new book THE GRAVES ARE WALKING is receiving rave reviews.
Nothing seems to be the message of our times. Nothing matters…elections…relationships…friendship…our word…anybody else…love…honor…valor…N-O-T-H-I-N-G!
We’re living in a time of spoken clichés…nothing ventured nothing gained, nothing up anyone’s sleeve, a fistful of nothing, next to nothing, nothing between her legs (See: Below!), little or nothing, which all amount to…N-O-T-H-I-N-G!
Let me explain: There is no venture capitalism from which to gain; everyone’s got something up their sleeve these days so we are in a period of null and void (a euphemism for N-O-T-H-I-N-G). A fistful of nothing is what most of us have, except the banks and rich Republicans; ditto, we all have little or nothing…
…as I said: this is a country about N-O-T-H-I-N-G. Thank you Jerry Seinfeld, who himself got rich off of N-O-T-H-I-N-G!
William Shakespeare must be doing nothing in his grave, but L-A-U-G-H-I-N-G as we as a
nation have devolved into a nation that is much ado about N-O-T-H-I-N-G!
America has become a play on Shakespeare’s words. It’s just as the title says it is: Much To Do about Nothing. As the title’s meaning implies: a great fuss about very little — in this case a country that had been made of something but which is quickly becoming N-O-T-H-I-N-G!
Here are a few examples of how we have become nothing because we seem hell-bent on making much ado about nothing. Consider that because President Obama’s middle name is Hussein, there are those who insist that The President of the United States, Barack Obama is therefore a Muslim (and that would somehow make him a threat); Mitt Romney ran Bain Capital even when he didn’t run Bain Capital, therefore he’s not suitable for anything, most of all being President of the United States; Barack Obama is a Socialist because he enacted The Affordable Care Act as originally created by the Republicans, specifically Mitt Romney, who therefore – I digress into nothing — must be a Socialist, too.
Oh, and by the way, let’s bring into the discussion vaginas, about which there’s been much ado about nothing this election cycle. Why? Because the Republicans, who have built the Romney campaign on a lot of NOTHING, have focused on their most favorite topic of nothing – vaginas – and who shall own them: Roe (Obama) or Wade (Romney), truly a discussion of nothing since Roe beat Wade a long time ago, although according to Republicans, there’s nothing in that truth.
Which takes me back to William Shakespeare and Much Ado About Nothing…I’ll bet you didn’t know that “Nothing” was Elizabethan slang for “vagina”, apparently derived from the pun of a woman having “nothing” between her legs.
Proving that in the world of Nothing…nothing is as it seems, because if there is one thing women have…it is indeed, something between their legs, even in a country about N-O-T-H-I-N-G!
This Sunday’s issue (7/15/12) of PARADE magazine features an exclusive interview with former president George H. W. Bush, 88 and his wife, Barbara, 87, where they share with presidential historian Mark Updegrove their extraordinary journey and their take on today’s politics. We were fortunate enough to receive a preview of the interview. and we’re sharing it with you. You can follow the link to the full interview here: http://www.parade.com/bush.
Here are some highlights from the PARADE interview with the Bushes:
ON PRESIDENT BUSH’S ACCOMPLISHMENTS
What is your proudest accomplishment in public life, Mr. President?
GB: I think we had an honorable administration. We were relatively scandal-free and blessed by good people. Something I guess I’d throw in there is the liberation of Kuwait.
BB: The coalition was huge. He was at the UN and in China—I don’t think any president’s ever had the background he had. I’m prejudiced, I admit. And 40 million people now have jobs they can get to because of the Americans with Disabilities Act. You can’t not count that.
THOUGHTS ON THE “NO NEW TAX” PLEDGE FROM GROVER NORQUIST
During your presidency you gave in on your “no new taxes” pledge. You’ve been vindicated in many respects for that decision. I wonder how you view the “no new tax” pledge from Grover Norquist that seems to be requisite for GOP political candidates.
GB: The rigidity of those pledges is something I don’t like. The circumstances change and you can’t be wedded to some formula by Grover Norquist. It’s—who the hell is Grover Norquist, anyway?
BB: I think he ought to go back to Alaska. [laughs] Don’t quote me! [A reference to a comment Mrs. Bush made about Sarah Palin in a 2010 interview, in which she said, “I think she’s very happy in Alaska—and I hope she’ll stay there.”]
THE BUSHES ON THEIR SON, GEORGE W. BUSH
The media often characterized your relationship as one president advising another. …
GB: We didn’t counsel on various issues. It was more just about father and son—family. For me, anyway. I think he’d say the same thing.
BB: He may have talked to you about things, but you never advised.
GB: Oh, yeah, we’d talk about things. He never said the “Dad, what do I do now?” kind of thing.
BB: Nor was there any competition. People always said, “I read that George was just doing this because he wanted to beat his father.”
GB: Yeah, there were a lot of those stories …
BB: … and they were stupid. It wasn’t true. There was no competition at all.
Did his presidency have a high point for you?
BB: Every day we were proud of him. Of course, 9/11 … I think George’s [leadership after] 9/11 was brilliant. I think it was a high point, just as the day the war started when you were president, trying to liberateKuwait—that first day was a high point. There were not many civilians hurt, which was very important.
ON REAGAN, CLINTON, AND REPAIRING THE BITTER REPUBLICAN DIVIDE
You served two terms as vice president under Ronald Reagan. What did you learn from him?
GB: Decency, honor, and kindness. He was a remarkable man and a kind guy—and generous. He didn’t care about the day-to-day legislation and amending the previous motion and all that kind of stuff. He was broad-gauged.
What should Republicans do to repair the bitter divide earlier this year over the nomination?
BB: I think they’ve started. [Mitt Romney has] been endorsed by the other candidates. That’s ever thus. I mean, you’re not very pleased with people who whip you verbally for months and then you turn around and you’re friends. But that’s the way it goes in both parties.
Which brings to mind your friendship with Bill Clinton. What most surprised you about him?
GB: Well, he knows a lot about everything. He’s a very knowledgeable, bright man. He sat out here one time, and we talked about every possible [subject]—one after another.
BB: But he never said a mean word about anyone. “[My] brother by another mother,” the boys call him. But he’s very nice—I think he thinks of George as the father he never had. Truthfully. I mean that as a compliment.He’s been very thoughtful about calling and he’s a good fellow.
On next week’s The Halli Casser-Jayne Show, get ready to put another dime in the jukebox, baby. That’s right: on July 18th at 3 p.m. EST and July 19th at 9 p.m. EST, we’ll be bringing you GIRLS LIKE US…Women Who Have Rocked the Music World. The show is centered around the NY Times Bestseller GIRLS LIKE US, Carole King, Joni Mitchell, Carly Simon by award-winning journalist Sheila Weller. Ms. Weller will talk about her epic work, and the music of her generation.
Also joining the show will be Kathyrn Wat, Chief Curator of the National Museum of Women in the Arts, who’ll talk about their upcoming exhibit on loan from the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum: Women Who Rock: Vision, Passion, Power. The exhibit highlights the flashpoints, the firsts, the best, the celebrated — and sometimes the lesser-known — women who moved rock and roll music and American culture forward.
Next up is Dr. Jeannie Poole, who will be discussing her documentary PEGGY GILBERT AND HER ALL-GIRL BAND. As a performer on saxophones, clarinet, violin, and vibes, as well as a singer, arranger, and contractor for women musicians, Peggy Gilbert had been a one-woman support network and staunch advocate for women since the 1920s. A professional tenor saxophonist for more than 80 years (she recently passed away at 102), she had been an inspiration for several generations of musicians. Dr. Poole herself is a force to be reckoned with: since 1980, she has organized many conferences and concerts, including International Congresses on Women in Music in New York, Los Angeles and Mexico City. She has produced LP, CD and cassette recordings for Cambria Master Recordings, an independent label in California which specializes in contemporary American music, and serves as an Advisor to the Board of the International Alliance for Women in Music, which she helped to establish. In 1995 she was honored by the National Association of Composers, USA (NACUSA) for her work to promote American composers and music, and served as Chair and Secretary of their National Board of Directors. She currently serves on the Board of the American Society of Music Arrangers and Composers (ASMAC).
Finally, we will talk with music legend Darlene Love, whose number one single “He’s A Rebel,” topped the charts in 1962 and is still beloved today. Ms. Love has played with such greats as Sam Cooke, Dionne Warwick, The Beach Boys, Elvis Presley, Tom Jones and Sonny and Cher; she’s also had a long and rich Broadway career, including a stunning portrayal of herself in the Tony Award-nominated jukebox musical Leader of the Pack. It’s going to be a show you won’t want to miss–join us on the 18th at 3 PM ET and find out for yourself!
The Halli Casser-Jayne Show is Talk Radio for Fine Minds.