Truckin'...

"...Sometimes the light's all shining on me. Other times I can barely see. Lately it occurs to me - what a long [hold the word on and on], strange trip it's been."

Sound familiar?

Well, if either you're an unreconstructed - and what other kind is there? - Deadhead, or if you were listening to the 6 o'clock news on the BBC Home Service just now, you would have recognised not only that particular renowned Grateful Dead song, but also the wondrous opening bars of the anthem of all Sixties anthems 'Dark Star'.

Something about a sale of memorabilia of the period. But who cares why the music was played. I just love the notion that some ageing hippie BBC producer decided that what the world needs now is not 'love sweet love' - to coin the cliche - but a dose of GD at their finest. And how right he - or [are you listening H] she - was.

Many years ago, in one's fevered youth, one attended what was advertised as a 'free' music festival in a woodland location not far from either London or indeed one of Her Majesty's more elegant Palaces.

'Twas a fine gathering. It rained of course. No one seemed to know what was happening or when, naturally. And every third person one met claimed to be the bass player for Hawkwind. Which they probably were.

As one sat in the gathering gloom, from through the mist emerged what would now be known as something like a humvee - enormous great beast of a truck and clearly American. Two solemn men emerged, opened the back of the truck and took out two gigantic speakers which they set upon the grass.

Silence for a moment, then a rendition of 'Dark Star' filled the universe. Stunned and blissful nirvanic state for all. Song over, without a word these two same solemn men loaded their speakers back into the truck and vanished into the night.

Men on a mission clearly. Go somewhere, play 'Dark Star', then leave. God, I hope they're still out there tonight. Grey-haired pensioners more or less by now, still spreading the gospel of peace.

Old hippies never die - or if they do they don't notice the change - they become Anglican vicars or Harley Street surgeons. (Fact - my own surgeon was a Deadhead, which is when I knew I was in good hands.)

Peace man. [And yes, H, peace woman.] Keep on truckin'!