“If my thought-dreams could be seen, they’d probably put my head in a guillotine.” – Bob Dylan
We once submitted to play at a “psychedelic festival.” A festival of psychedelic bands. We were rejected for not being psychedelic enough.
What is psychedelic? “A mental state characterized by a profound sense of intensified sensory perception, sometimes accompanied by severe perceptual distortion and hallucinations and by extreme feelings of either euphoria or despair.“
Shite, man. Extreme feelings of euphoria or despair? That’s a typical day around here! I mean, I get it. Maybe when some folks listen to our music they don’t quite hear it. They don’t exactly get what we all embody. In order to protect the innocent and the guilty, I refuse to name names, but our “psychedelic” bone fides are pretty impressive…
One of us used to drop acid and scale mountains just for kicks.
One of us drank psilocybin mushroom tea in Jamaica and saw God. It turns out God is an androgynous, multi-sexual, jet-black, dread-locked, being with a shimmery, rainbow body of dancing colors.
One of us chilled out with and smoked primo-weed (at different times), with both Abbie Hoffman and JFK Jr.
One of us, as a young student in Mexico City, hung out with the great “Illuminatus Trilogy” author Robert Anton Wilson, and dropped LSD with Timothy Leary who at time was a fugitive, on the lam, from the FBI.
Do you hear any of that in our grooves?
I mean, it’s just life. Life-events. Things we did. Life and life only. But you know, everything counts. What we do is embedded in our bodies. What we do. Who we are. Anyway, probably psychedelic enough… – Jammer