Atlanta Pop Festival — Forty Years Gone, But Not Forgot
Captain Canada and The Mailman.
It’s forty years gone this weekend since those nicknames were bestowed upon my pal Stephen and me at the Atlanta Pop Festival.
Many if not most of the memories of that magical interlude have long been lost in the daze of time. But this I can say for sure. We came upon those identities honestly.
As for the rest of that Fourth of July weekend outside Byron, Georgia, the tales told here may be true or not. Only the synapses of my cerebrum know for sure. And they’ve long since lost most if not all connection to that time and place.
Stephen was The Mailman; I, Captain Canada. The sordid details:
We knew there was going to be triple digit Fahrenheit at the festival. So the day before we left, we purchased pith helmets. If such a chapeau provided protection for long lost Stanley Livingston in deepest, darkest Africa, we presumed one would work for us.
I went with basic khaki.
Stephen opted for that light grayish blue with maroon straps that we’ve come to associate with the United States Postal Service.
So hot was it that the very first day down there, we, along with our traveling companions Don and Merrily, sought respite in the nearest body of water. Which lake or river or pond — frankly I can’t recall — we found by following the gaggle of hippies on hoods of cars all headed, they said, as if guided by a stoned Trip Tik in that direction.
When Stephen jumped in, pith helmet firmly in place, one bleary-eyed bather adroitly observed, “It’s the Mailman.”
Firmer monikers have been borne of lesser tales.
The origin of Captain Canada is somewhat more convoluted. The statute of limitations having lapsed, the story can be revealed. With haste and for the last time, so we can move on.
The day before we departed Louisville, our friend Becker needed help moving from one furn apt. to another. Among the items he intended to discard was a flag of Canada. Which artifact I commandeered, immediately tying about my neck like a cape.
That’s only the germination of the nickname.
Which flowered fully on the first night of music at the festival. (Caveat: The imagery that might manifest from the description of the following interlude is not for the faint of heart, grannie or youths under the age of majority.)
That weekend marked my first experimentation with psychedelics. When the mescaline kicked in, it started to rain. At which point it seemed eminently logical to my then “experienced” mind to fully disrobe. No matter that we were sitting in throng of several hundred thousand. It seemed the natural thing to do.
Besides, I didn’t want my clothes to get wet. I had hand fashioned with a magic marker a “Who is Ron Dante?” t-shirt which I thought too clever and pithy to not be able to wear again once the showers had abated.
From such reasoning, wackier tales have been told.
The inclemency didn’t however prevent me from wearing my Canadian flag cape. From which point on, and for several years thereafter, I was known to a few as Captain Canada.
Enough of that.
Admittedly I am finding it difficult to accurately describe how wonderful and fun that weekend was. The experience is proving sensible description.
When I’ve attempted to do so through the decades, I have reverted to this. That weekend is something outside the timeline of my life. It is as if it was all a dream, so fantastic, so unreal, so joyous was the moment.
The performers included the following whose music I do recall if only to a limited extent. Jimi Hendrix, who played with fireworks filling the sky behind him at midnight on the 4th of July. The Allman Brothers Band, including a jam with Johnny Winter. The Chambers Brothers. (For which set, I stood directly in front of the speakers, as a result of which stupidity, my hearing has never fully recovered.) BB King. Grand Funk Railroad. Hampton Grease Band. Ten Years After.
Among the groups that I have no or only vague recollection hearing: Procol Harum. Poco. Terry Reid. Ravi Shankar. John Sebastian. Mountain. Spirit. Ginger Baker. Chakra. Cactus. Gypsy. Bloodrock. Captain Beefheart.
I know a number of folks who attended. I have read remembrances of the festival online. What fascinates me is how few speak of the musical moments.
The sounds were more a nucleus around which this grand, garish carnival evolved, an excuse for the gathering of southern tribes.
Considering the entire experience, I do have an acute feeling of personal evolution. I had taken the bar exam the weekend before the festival, didn’t think I’d pass it since I hadn’t studied much. And hadn’t a clue what was in store for the rest of my life.
It was your classic pivotal moment at the onslaught of adulthood.
So, hey, let’s go get stoned and rock.
I’d lived at home with my parents until my senior year in law school. My growth had thus been stunted. So my socialization abilities were still in their early stages.
Hey. let’s mingle en masse and talk jabberwok.
So, without getting too awfully philosophical, I’ll just offer that this eminently eye-opening weekend fostered a sense of freedom and wonder and creative possibility which I hadn’t previously conceptualized. Mostly it was just a load of fun.
As for specifics, there are but a few I remember.
An interlude where I handed a merchant enough Uniform Commercial Code razzmatazz in the middle of the night that he cashed a personal check for some biker dude. Which black leathered hulk expressed his appreciation by telling me he had my back in case I needed something taken care of during the festival.
Not wanting one blistering afternoon to walk all the way to the water spigot a mile away, I, much to the chagrin of Don and Merrily, filled our thermos with $3 worth of Pepsi.
Through my own personal haze, trundling back to our campsite on the final morning, while Richie Havens sang “Here Comes The Sun” at sunrise.
Camped next to us was a group, which included a gal who wore a wig the whole weekend in that awful heat, because she didn’t like the color of her hair after dyeing it. How antithetical to the whole counter culture ethos, I thought at the time.
A couple having sex the next blanket over, with the girl shouting in ecstasy “Ooooooooh, the stars!” While her head was resting on my lap. Trust me, it felt as odd at the time as it sounds now.
The pathway from our camping spot to the stage, lined with hundreds and hundreds of people selling drugs.
Laughter. Early. Often.
Juicy peaches bigger than my fist for a nickel.
The Heat. And I’m talking Fahrenheit not cops, which were essentially nowhere to be seen.
The Chambers Brothers doing “People Get Ready.”
Hendrix playing the “Star Spangled Banner” at midnight on the Fourth.
The Allman Brothers Band, whom I’d never heard before. Specifically, “Every Hungry Woman,” during which I was drawn closer to the stage as if it were a siren call.
The Hampton Grease Band.
Frankly, sadly, that’s about it for the music.
It’s not like I/ we weren’t paying attention to the sounds. It’s just that the entire experience was so overwhelming, that there was so much sensory input, so many diffused interactions that the music was but one element. An important one, but just one of many nonetheless.
I guess it’s fair to ask, beyond the fact that it was a super time, if there were any cultural imperatives to be learned from Atlanta Pop?
Well, yes. One, there is power in numbers.
Law enforcement was basically non existent. Byron had a couple of part time cops. A number of state troopers were sent to the scene. I’ve read that nobody was arrested, despite the drugs and nudity. There were just way more of us than them that weekend. Besides it was a ferociously peaceful gathering. (Apparently there was a brouhaha about opening the gates and freeing up the festival. It passed me by. We actually bought tickets in advance. $14 for the weekend.)
Pepsi doesn’t quench thirst like H2O.
Nobody had a clue who Ron Dante was? Nor much cared. (FYI, he was the studio guy responsible for The Archies. That’s right, “Sugar, Sugar.”)
Pith helmets are an effective way of protection from the sun.
Jimi Hendrix and Duane Allman — both of whom died within months of the festival — were the best. I’m grateful that I heard them live when they were still around. That I remember at least some of their playing there.
And that I can now, forty years after the fact, lord it over today’s guitar fawning youngsters.
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Moody Blues. I distinctly remember the Moody Blues. And a jet airplane buzzing us and we all fell over backwards as it zoomed seemingly feet above our heads with a ferocious deafening mind bending roar. Captain Canada. Now that was a vision to rememeber.
each and every time I pass through Geirgia onI75 on the way to Florida the signs for Byron which has become a thriving suburb of Macon with excellent R&B on FM radio, I regale my family with tales of once spending a magical weekend with friends camping in the pecan groves of the Mid-South Speedway while Hendrix did his last national anthem on a 4th of July and I witnessed the peaceful coexistence of curious rural Georgians gawking at curious adolescent and young adult Southern visitors who gawked back in a sweltering purple haze . I should close with Bob Hope singing a verse….
I hear you, CD. I was there as well with raybo, ritchie and garvis. I guess it was 40 years ago and, as you say, very hot and very low key with the locals. First time I ever heard the ABB and I was hooked. Pulled out Sat before Hendrix and have always regretted it. Going deep in the memory banks.