Tell It Like It Is
I can’t say as I remember the exact year, but I’m quite sure that the ’67 Summer of Love didn’t arrive in Roanoke, Virginia until sometime around 1970. That’s when, fresh after Woodstock, the enlightened people of this fair city were given the opportunity to experience.
The local AM radio station, WROV, heavily promoted the event of the summer. Playing for one day only was the tribute documentary to The Summer of Love, Monterey Pop. This acclaimed documentary was very simply an archive of a moment in history that flipped the world on its collective arse. It was radical stuff.
The movie, sealed in a 16mm cans, was ushered in to the dark projection room in Roanoke’s state of the art Terrace “Rockin’ Chair” Theater. A throng of screaming teens who were intent on letting their freak flags fly crammed inside. Sickly sweet smells permeated the hazy air inside that packed auditorium. These were high times and this moment was a pinnacle.
I was there. I don’t know what my parents could have possibly been thinking letting me, a mere ten year old child, go to that movie. But there you go. As I recall, my sister wrapped in her bandana, took my brothers and me in our brand new 1970 Jehovah (Nova). We managed to cram inside the packed theater and rocked as the crowd chanted for the movie to start. The scene inside was sweaty and energized, much like the original Monterey Pop Festival was back on June 16, 17, and 18 of 1967.
We roared when the movie started, a bit grainy, but we didn’t care. We were all becoming experienced. Jam after jam played across the psychedelic screen. It was almost as if we were actually in that crowd of 50,000. But right in the middle of our celebration the whole place went suddenly silent. Our movie screen melted away in some kind of seemingly freakishly bad acid trip. It wasn’t bad acid trip either, baby. The movie screen simply melted away. Moments later you could smell the burned film that had affixed itself to the hot projector bulb. Moments turned into minutes and the sweaty, amped crowd grew restless.
Then the chants began, quietly at first… “play the movie, play the movie, play the movie.” Gradually growing louder and louder in a crescendo that would have smoked Hendrix himself. “Play The Movie, Play The Movie, PLAY The Movie, PLAY THE MOVIE, PLAY THE MOVIE!” This went on and on for seemingly hours when finally a tiny man in a suit with a pencil-thin tie popped out from behind the curtain and offered peace to the crowd. Everyone grew quiet to listen to the man.
“The movie broke, and we are trying our best to repair it now. Please be patient.”
B-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-!
Soon though, true to his word, Otis Redding began belting out his soul again for a few moments more before the light bulb performed its duty once more and protected the innocent, sheltered youth of Roanoke, Virginia, USA.
B-o-o-o-o-o-o-!
Popcorn began flying toward to the screen, followed by cups and other debris. There would be no pacifying this crowd. We were only moments away from having Hell’s Angels come down on us, hard.
Patience could not be had this time by the tiny man, so he just gave up. He shouted to us that there’d be refunds at the door. Angry and aroused, we stormed out of that theater, taking moments to reclaim our $0.75. It was sure a strange trip and a bad scene, a real bummer man. I never did finish seeing that movie. I was only ten.
Are you experienced?
The local AM radio station, WROV, heavily promoted the event of the summer. Playing for one day only was the tribute documentary to The Summer of Love, Monterey Pop. This acclaimed documentary was very simply an archive of a moment in history that flipped the world on its collective arse. It was radical stuff.
The movie, sealed in a 16mm cans, was ushered in to the dark projection room in Roanoke’s state of the art Terrace “Rockin’ Chair” Theater. A throng of screaming teens who were intent on letting their freak flags fly crammed inside. Sickly sweet smells permeated the hazy air inside that packed auditorium. These were high times and this moment was a pinnacle.
I was there. I don’t know what my parents could have possibly been thinking letting me, a mere ten year old child, go to that movie. But there you go. As I recall, my sister wrapped in her bandana, took my brothers and me in our brand new 1970 Jehovah (Nova). We managed to cram inside the packed theater and rocked as the crowd chanted for the movie to start. The scene inside was sweaty and energized, much like the original Monterey Pop Festival was back on June 16, 17, and 18 of 1967.
We roared when the movie started, a bit grainy, but we didn’t care. We were all becoming experienced. Jam after jam played across the psychedelic screen. It was almost as if we were actually in that crowd of 50,000. But right in the middle of our celebration the whole place went suddenly silent. Our movie screen melted away in some kind of seemingly freakishly bad acid trip. It wasn’t bad acid trip either, baby. The movie screen simply melted away. Moments later you could smell the burned film that had affixed itself to the hot projector bulb. Moments turned into minutes and the sweaty, amped crowd grew restless.
Then the chants began, quietly at first… “play the movie, play the movie, play the movie.” Gradually growing louder and louder in a crescendo that would have smoked Hendrix himself. “Play The Movie, Play The Movie, PLAY The Movie, PLAY THE MOVIE, PLAY THE MOVIE!” This went on and on for seemingly hours when finally a tiny man in a suit with a pencil-thin tie popped out from behind the curtain and offered peace to the crowd. Everyone grew quiet to listen to the man.
“The movie broke, and we are trying our best to repair it now. Please be patient.”
B-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-!
Soon though, true to his word, Otis Redding began belting out his soul again for a few moments more before the light bulb performed its duty once more and protected the innocent, sheltered youth of Roanoke, Virginia, USA.
B-o-o-o-o-o-o-!
Popcorn began flying toward to the screen, followed by cups and other debris. There would be no pacifying this crowd. We were only moments away from having Hell’s Angels come down on us, hard.
Patience could not be had this time by the tiny man, so he just gave up. He shouted to us that there’d be refunds at the door. Angry and aroused, we stormed out of that theater, taking moments to reclaim our $0.75. It was sure a strange trip and a bad scene, a real bummer man. I never did finish seeing that movie. I was only ten.
Are you experienced?
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