Songs I Love, Part III: “Fresh Air” Quicksilver Messenger Service
About the fiftieth severe storm blitzed through the Ohio Valley today. It’s gray for about the third week in a row.
It’s time to disengage.
So I got to thinking about one of my favorite old hippie odes. Yes, it’s a drug song. So, hey, sue me. I’m not holding, so if any of the authorities want to come check, just ring the bell.
Quicksilver Messenger Service was one of those San Francisco bands that always managed to stay away from breaking on through. Like the Airplane did. Like Janis did. Like the Dead did.
Personnel problems. Pharmaceutical problems. Who knows why? Pity.
They did manage to suck one great Bo Diddley song, “Who Do You Love?” into a whole elongated album. But they never really registered on the charts. As if that really matters. The group’s cult following remains strong. I heard a fellow extolling their virtues just the other day on the radio.
Okay, here’s the song. “Fresh Air” I’ll talk more about it on the flip side.
How about that anecdotal psychedelia, eh? Are those tracers I’m seeing?
I once got in an argument with Dan Reed, who used to host the morning show at the public radio station where I do weekly film reviews. For some odd reason, which, frankly may be the result of too much experimentation back you know when, Dan thinks this song is about pot. Silly boy. Dan, dude, listen to the lyrics.
Anyway, those of us who had more than a passing dalliance with the White Lady, know what Dino Valenti is singing about. That gal and I haven’t hooked up for over a quarter century now, so I can listen with a smile on my face.
Quicksilver made several songs with the same kind of soaring, lazy hazy ambiance. “Don’t Cry My Lady Love” “What About Me?” I also love “Edward The Mad Shirt Grinder.” Nicky Hopkins piano solo gets so crazed and out of control, I keep waiting for the LP to flip off the turntable. Even when I listen to it on CD.
Of course, I can’t get outtahere without mentioning John Cippolina, whose guitar licks are one of the group’s signatures.
So, there you have it. Now if only I could have one of them psychedelic flashbacks the authorities warned us we’d be plagued with our whole lives, I’d be a happy camper.
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