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Ticket from the Atlantic City Pop Festival August 1969

The following is a comment I received on my blog of the Atlantic City Pop Festival’s 40th Anniversary. Please read it and pass it on to whomever you can, and maybe, just maybe ‘Sev’ will get to look at the pictures that he had taken 40 years ago. It is occurrences like this that make writing this blog all worthwhile. I hope by some small chance we could make this Vietnam Veteran’s wish come true. (Note: I did clean up the letter’s punctuation and language a little bit to make it clearer) Sev writes: I remember this festival well…. I went AWOL from Ft Dix for the three days and I didn’t care because I was getting ready to be shipped to Vietnam. I arrived while Chicago (Transit Authority) was playing and they were so good that I thought they were playing a record to warm people up but it was them live!! I pitched myself a tent and went wandering around. During my stay, I kept walking backstage and no one stopped me (it was a different world back then). My highlights were meeting Janis, Grace Slick, Tracy Nelson, & Frank Zappa. When I met Janis I handed her a button that said “Kiss me I’m Italian” she said, “You’re Italian? I Like Italians.” Her guitarist behind her laughed and said “ahhhh you like everybody.” She laughed and kissed me on the head, under my eye, on my cheek and near my mouth. It is something I will never forget as long as I live!! Frank Zappa was so nice, he looked at me and then my army haircut and said, “Hey you look like me when I was a kid.” I took so many pictures but unfortunately I took them with me to Nam and the day I got there someone broke into my locker and ripped me off… I swear I am telling the truth… : ( If someone is reading this and knows of someone that has them or does remember having them PLEASE post them and send them to me. I would really like to have them back … They were of Me & Janis, Me & Grace, Me & Frank, & a few of other stars including Grace & Janis together. Thanks for reading

Pasquale Severino

Trenton, New jersey

IF ANYONE OUT THERE CAN HELP.. SEND ‘SEV’ HIS PICTURES TO THE FOLLOWING EMAIL ADDRESS             MysteryLyricfest@aol.com

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acpopfestival
Photo from E-Rock World
BEFORE WOODSTOCK THERE WAS THE ATLANTIC CITY POP FESTIVAL
Here’s a good link for it:  http://www.e-rockworld.com/AtlanticCity.htm

I attended this incredible concert as a young lad and it changed my life for the better. I still have the original mimeographed line-up sheet. My uncle was the Chief of Police for Galloway Township, the place where the show was held, and I had to hear all kinds of shit about “druggie hippies” and the like. Of course, I never did any of those things…I swear (supreme bullshit) Here’s the super line-up courtesy Wikipedia:
American Dream
Aum
Booker T. & The M.G.s
Tim Buckley
Paul Butterfield Blues Band
The Byrds
Canned Heat
The Chambers Brothers
Chicago **Chicago Transit Authority
Joe Cocker
The Crazy World Of Arthur Brown
Credence Clearwater Revival
Dr. John
Cass Elliot
Iron Butterfly
Jefferson Airplane
Janis Joplin
Lighthouse
Little Richard
Lothar and the Hand People
Hugh Masekela
Buddy Miles
Joni Mitchell
Mother Earth
Tracy Nelson
Procol Harum
Buddy Rich
Biff Rose
Santana
Sir Douglas Quintet
Three Dog Night
Edgar Winter
Biff Rose
Frank Zappa

Biff Rose was the MC and filled in for Joni Mitchell when she started to cry and ran off stage in the middle of her 3rd song when the crowd was not paying attention to her performance. It seems she was placed in the rotation directly after Mother Earth featuring Tracy Nelson and the crowd wasn’t ready to hear her mild act.

Crosby, Stills & Nash were originally on the lineup but ended up as a no-show, Nash supposedly had polyps on tonsils (but sang at Woodstock two weeks later). The Chambers Brothers were a last-minute substitute.

gd1

A 1990’s PHOTO. A MOMENT FROZEN IN TIME

The rain wore on day after day and one could only describe the sky as bleak and bursting with moisture. My hopes of bringing my niece to her first experience at a Dead concert, Grateful but for Jerry Garcia, long gone, was dimmed as to her getting the full experience of the last 45 years that started with the hippie tail-gating parties, that were long established before the football game feasts of John Maddenish times. This night was to be special. The Spectrum, home to such legends as Bobby Clarke and Julius Erving was to be torn down soon, but those fellows in this band had played here every decade since the sixties. This was to be their swan song; two nights of one last goodbye and possibly their last tour together as time takes its toll.

Arriving early while it was still raining, we turned into the lot at the Wachovia Center and by the time we got out of the car it not only stopped raining, the sun began to peek through those dark clouds. It actually came out and it was glorious. The tents were up, the illegal vendors of grilled cheese, hamburgers, chicken, Tye-dyed T-shirts and nitrous oxide were out in full force, along with two completely instrumented rock bands playing in full regalia, hippie buses, modern Prevost million-dollar luxurious cross country rigs, women in their forties hawking illegal beer, wine, and mixed drinks, and purveyors of pipes, paraphernalia, and pot were circulating like pasta on a table for an Italian Sunday meal.

Dominque, the namesake of my father’s eyes opened wide and amazed but I knew this was only the preliminary party. The walk up those old worn concrete Spectrum stairs and the entry into this place brought me back to an age of youth years even younger than hers. The high school nights of The Grateful Dead, The Allman Brothers, Yes, The Who, The Rolling Stones, Emerson, Lake, and Palmer, Pink Floyd, and many, many others for a pittance of $8.50 a ticket came back as if it was yesterday. I have seen the Dead countless times across the country in California, Colorado, New York, Maryland, Washington, and so on and had seen them in this building more times than I can remember. Enough to know where to negotiate a great seat for sight lines, sound, and of course for the lack of much younger crazed high screaming, testosterone-laden Dead-Heads that my old frail body could not fit in the mix or blend easily without serious consequences to my health.

It was the same old game that came back to me. The seats half empty predicted a low turnout, but the bustle around the legitimate indoor lobby’s vendor stands was body to body. The lights came down and the first move began by the band to get them to their seats and of course it worked. There was not a seat to be had. One by one each band member gracefully entered; went through their pre-show preparations and people hustled to their seats or to light up leaves of a weed to tune them in, and in this drug-paranoiac age of hysteria, no one would have expected them to do it, but then how can you arrest 15,000 people? And this was the way it always was, and everyone knew it and didn’t care. Obviously no one was stupid enough to stop them. So billows of smoke not tainted by cigarettes floated upwards along with those consciousnesses that inhaled it. And then it began.

Opening with “Playing in the Band,” morphing halfway to a series of unpredictable incredible renditions of old sixties, seventies and eighties lyrical Robert Hunter/Jerry Garcia songs, and then those of Bob Weir, the dose of the Dead’s sound, the interplay of pure improvisation, free-form jazz, spirit, and energy took over; And they were on that locked-in wave, shooting the tube and taking chances like I’ve never heard or seen before. Every note was on-beat, on-tune, on-pitch and Bob Weir didn’t even miss a lyric, as the crowd didn’t either. Every human body was dancing, singing, swaying, whirling like dervishes dancing to the Eternal on top of the world in Nepal. It was an incredible experience of communication between the band, the fans, the place, the space and all cylinders were firing hot, heavy, and hard. Can you imagine 15,000 people all singing every complex lyric to every song and being able to be in the middle of this human verbal “wave” of emotion? I think not unless you were there feeling it run through you. Hearing the earth and stadium tremble at the cheering of every familiar song, bar, and phrase. These were fans that any band would die for and that allegiance was rewarded in kind by those gentle men that gave, received, and gave back those emotions in an endless circle of time for the essence of music, spirit, and the vibratory movement of life.

My niece was in awe of the entire gestalt. And after three and a half hours of precise and precision musicianship, even Phil Lesh, now 70 years-old, played with the abandon of that of a human at 18. It all began with the Grateful Dead, the Further Bus, the Electric Kool-Aid Acid Tests, 420 Time, the audio man/then legal LSD manufacturer Owlsey Stanley, the counter-culture revolution of the Romantic Age of our time. They were the cause and draw of the lore of the Haight-Ashbury summer of love in 1967, while they snuck out of their house in the Haight before the hordes of a lost generation of seekers invaded and destroyed the very thing they were looking for as a Time magazine cover propelled the impetus even further. Ken Kesey, Neal Cassady, Kerouac, Ginsberg, and the beat generation’s finest minds were here this night, wrapped up into an experience of vulnerability and chance mixed in with the old and familiar. It was life imitating art, imitating life.

The best part was that after it was all over, I had previously paid for the CD recording at a vendor’s stand for an official record of what I just heard, and picked it up shortly after the concert. This would prove I wasn’t just breathing the sweet air and exaggerating and misinterpreting the amazement of what I heard emanating from that old familiar stage. This was one of the top five concerts I had ever heard, without any doubt and many smiles and conversation with others confirmed it, as did the CD afterwards. What an initiation this was for my niece.

To describe this communing with this band is rightly impossible to do, however an old cliché’ came to mind and that is, “There Is Nothing Like A Grateful Dead Concert” and whatever name they’ve morphed to, there never will be. I am honored and truly ‘grateful’ to have been there on a night that the band knew was special as well as acknowledged by Phil Lesh saying, “It’s been a long time, we’ve forgotten how intense you all are here in Philly.”

So did I Phil, so did I.

ROUND, ROUND, ROCKIN' ROBIN ROUND

ROUND, ROUND, ROBIN RUN AROUND........... PHOTO BY NICK OLIVA

The wheel is turning and you can’t slow down
You can’t let go and you can’t hold on
You can’t go back and you can’t stand still
If the thunder don’t get you then the lightning will

Won’t you try just a little bit harder
Couldn’t you try just a little bit more
Won’t you try just a little bit harder
Couldn’t you try just a little bit more

Round, round, Robin run around
Gotta get back where you belong
Little bit harder, just a little bit more
Little bit further than you gone before

Small wheel turning by the fire and rod
Big wheel turning by the grace of God
Every time that wheel turn round
Bound to cover just a little more ground

-Robert Hunter

axix

It is the 42nd aniversary of Jimi Hendrix’s American release of ‘Axis: Bold as Love’ recording.  This often overlooked powerful contemporary groundbreaking artistry is unique and shows Hendrix at his best with both the poetry of his lyrics and powerful and emoting guitar antics that made him the innovator that to this day, no one has come close to copying, even with all of the advancement in electronics. He among others such as Jeff Beck, used the natural feedback of overdriven amplifiers to produce harmonic overtones and controlled them to produce sounds unheard of for that time. not to mention playing with his teeth, behind his back and setting his guitar on fire..but when Eric Clapton came to see him in England – (as he wasn’t accepted here in the States in the beginning of his career). Their chance came when Paul McCartney recommended the group to John Phillips of the Mamas and Papas, one of the principal organizers of the Monterey International Pop Festival) – Hendrix asked Clapton to tune his guitar for him, because he always had a hard time doing it himself. Bending those strings so violently would always cause them to go out of tune. Note: In an interview Clapton recalled this incident and was ’embarrassed’ to do so in front of the audience.

 The lyrics reflect emotional ideas in terms of color- Hendrix stated, in explanation of his color-emotion interpretations, “Jealousy is purple; I’m purple with rage…”, paralleling the lyrical reference to the “purple armor” of a personified anger. ‘Little Wing’ is the Indian name of Hendrix’s guardian angel. Jimi himself said that it was his impression of the Monterey Pop Festival put into the form of a girl. It was also one of Hendrix’s most covered songs by other artists such as Eric Clapton, Stevie Ray Vaughn, Phish, Kirk Hammett of Metallica, Skid Row, Sting and the Irish band The Corrs.

Here in full from 1967 are the lyrics to the title song ‘Bold as Love.’

Bold As Love

Anger he smiles, towering in shiny metallic purple armor

Queen jealousy, envy waits behind him

Her fiery green gown sneers at the grassy ground

Blue are the life giving waters taking for granted

They quietly understand.

Once happy Turquoise armies lay opposite ready

But wonder why the fight is on

But they’re all bold as love they’re all bold as love

they’re all bold as love

 Just ask the Axis

My Red is so confident

He flashes trophies of war and ribbons of euphoria

Orange is young, full of daring But very unsteady for the first go round

My Yellow in this case is not so mellow

In fact I’m trying to say that it’s frightened like me

 And all this emotions of mine keep holding me from giving my life to a rainbow like you

 But I’m, yeah, I’m bold as love

Well, I’m bold, bold as love I’m bold as love

Just ask the Axis, he knows everything, yeah, yeah, yeah……….

 and just for the fun of it from the same album ‘If a 6 Was a 9’

If 6 Was 9 If the sun refuse to shine I don’t mind I don’t mind

If the mountains fell in the sea, Let it be It ain’t me

Got my own world to look thru, And I ain’t gonna copy you

Now if 6 turned out to be 9, I don’t mind I don’t mind

If all the hippies cut off all their hair, I don’t care I don’t care

Dig it Got my own world to look thru, And I ain’t gonna copy you

White collared conservative flashing down the street

Pointing their plastic fingers at me

They’re hoping soon my kind will drop and die

But I’m gonna wave my freak flag high, high

Fall mountain, just don’t fall on me Hello, Mr. Businessman, why you ain’t dressed like me?

I’m the one who has to die when it’s time for me to die

So let me live my life the way I want to

Sing on, brother,

Play on, drummer

 

 

vhs

The Fighting Poultry Clan…….

 
 
 

I was thinking about our old high school mascot, a male chicken, and the above image the basis for the name “The Poultry Clan” which was changed to the “The Fighting Clan” after I graduated and people call it “The Clan” for short. The word Clan actually means children in Gaelic. Now back then, no one really fixated on that moniker, as racist as it sounds, because Vineland, New Jersey was the center of the egg business.  The “Egg Auction Building” was a huge edifice on Delsea Drive and eggs were the town’s main export along with farm vegetables for many years.  I used to think about what impression an opposing football team might have taking on a team with a mere male bird of fowl for a mascot, but then Brison Manor (http://www.databasefootball.com/players/playerpage.htm?ilkid=MANORBRI01) came from a neighboring town of Bridgeton, and was a starter for the Denver Broncos for 8 years of a 10 year NFL career, and I faced him head to head, me being the smallest guy on the line.  We won that game, I rest my case.  My mind then began to wander to some memories of high school days and I decided to share a few chuckles and some serious thoughts as well. 

Way back in my freshman year I decided that I needed to take a typing class, never realizing how one day it would allow me to do such incredible things with a blank sheet of paper, to create universes of imagination.  My teacher at that time was very strict but also very pretty and young compared to my youthful age of 13.  I started in Kindergarten at age 4 as my birthday was right on the edge of allowability for that year, and so most everyone I knew was older than myself with a few exceptions.

Our recently married, pretty disciplinarian instructor in her twenties would usually wear mini-skirts and for some strange reason sit right next to me on my desk where our books and papers would normally be for typing exercises, and myself at that time having the Vulcan Dr. Spock’s hormonal equivalent levels of “Pon Farr” (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amok_Time), it was impossible not to look at her legs  as they were inches from my eye level.  She was the ultimate S & M Queen in retrospect, but damn I learned how to type without looking at the keys!

Then my mind drifted forward to another cougarish teacher of English.  She was divorced, a hottie, and had that same type of personality as my typing instructor, only she was a bit mean and now I realize that was an extension of her defensiveness because ever male teacher in that high school must have hit on her.  I saw her many years later as she happened to be a cousin of one of my lifelong friends (I never knew that information at the time in high school) and I attended his summer party family reunion bash.  I saw her and I knew who she was instantly, but she had no idea who I was.  She had filled out from the slender figure of a twenty-something and was now middle-aged but still very attractive.  I bided my time and then confronted her.  It went something like this:

Me: “You don’t remember me do you?”

Her: “I can’t say that I do.”

Me: “I was in your English class my name is Nick Oliva and I have an old grudge to air out with you.”

Her: (Looking shocked and surprised) “Ah, okay let’s hear it.”

Me: “Well, we had to do a report on the Tale of Two Cities and you made us stand in front of the class and orally give that report, and you required us to speak for twenty minutes, which I thought was insane and the cause for many of the reports to be quite boring to say the least.”

Her: “Well, that’s it? That’s your beef?”

Me: “No, this is. When I did my report I reasoned that Madame LaFarge was NOT the evil person portrayed in the novel by Charles Dickens.  She was seeking revenge against the Evrèmondes, for the crimes a prior generation of the Evrèmonde family had committed and that included the deaths of her sister, father, and brother.  She was also a central figure in the support of the French Revolution.  My point was that if your family had atrocities committed against them and you lost your sister, father, and brother, you too would be seeking the same blood lusting revenge for their deaths and how could she be portrayed so evilly if she was a part of the French Revolution that changed the world?”

Her: “Well, that certainly was a good point, what did I say to that?”

Me: “You said, very interesting but it was only half the time you were supposed to speak” and I said to you, “well it was twice as good as any normal book report and you got pissed off.”

Her: “And how did I grade you?”

Me: “You grudgingly gave me a B.”

Her: “At least you got that!”

She then walked away and purposefully avoided me for the rest of the party.

The last story for this blog is a woman named Zoe Pappas.  Mrs. Pappas along with another English teacher Emily Morin) played a huge role in helping me to believe in myself and instilled a sense that my thought processes, though very unconforming, were on the right path.

It was my senior year and my Civics/History teacher, Mrs. Pappas, had an FBI agent come in (this was the fall of 1970) and explain what the FBI did and the history of the organization.  This was probably an attempt at “educating” young students that the FBI was their friend and to counteract their becoming reputation as a “police state” enforcement agency.  At that time the FBI was collecting names of political anti-Nixon citizens for a “blacklist” to try and deport unwanted contemporary thinkers. (Note: In 1972 the FBI attempted to force the deportation of “radical” John Lennon)  I let him drone on and on and then after he wasted 30 minutes of a 45 minute class, he asked if there were any questions.  Big mistake…..I raised my hand and asked, “So why does the FBI keep a list of people who are considered activists and free thinkers, and try to arrest and deport them?  You could hear a pin drop, and see students jaws drop along with the silence.  I thought I really went too far and that I was going to hear holy hell from Mrs. Pappas after he left.  The agent tried to avoid this issue with bullshit about their charter and investigative techniques and never did answer the question, as I expected.  He left and Mrs. Pappas came back to the front of her desk.  I really thought I was going to the principal’s office for this one, not that I cared at that point.  Mrs. Pappas began to speak of the importance of understanding how our government works and how we must be aware of what it does and then raised her arm and pointed her finger at me. I froze completely.  She then said “and Nick, your question was the best one I’ve heard anyone ask. ”

Well, thanks to teachers like her and a few others that encouraged my “twisted thought process” I gained the confidence to “be one traveler “ who took the other road, the long Dharma road that never ends, and now I understand the real difference a teacher with a free mind can make.

 

     After decisively posting successive wins in the primaries, the Democratic candidate Barrack Obama seems to be heading for an inevitable full-steam-ahead showdown with John McCain in the fall.  Hearing his speeches and listening to the debates with Hillary Clinton, I wondered how did this Senator from Illinois get so far, so fast and how is he able to capture the heart and soul of this younger generation?  It seems that his message of hope and change is reaching the ears of those who have not become indifferent to the radical swing of right wing politics that has driven this nation into deep polarization.  The Republican holier-than-thou approach to politics for the last eight years has finally moved those who are not guided by the rate of return on their retirement accounts and upkeep on their vacation condos.  It seems we’ve forgotten those people in the 60s and 70s who saw the likes of former President Richard Nixon and his cronies seemingly destroy the hopes and dreams of their country’s freedom for the opportunity to become great; for the possibilities of great things to be accomplished.  No, I’m not talking about the Nintendo Wii.  Of course, this president makes Nixon look like a rank amateur in comparison.  What seems to be missing from people’s minds are the demonstrations, protests, and general student unrest of those eras.  That spark, that we have long abandoned for mortgages, car payments and our children’s education is alive in those who’ve allowed hope to stay alive.  In today’s younger generation’s uncluttered, less complicated world, the fire is still alive and looking to a reason to make things better.  Obama’s words strike harmony, never mind that they sound too good to be true.  He is appealing and motivating across-the- board to those of diverse backgrounds from black rappers on U Tube, to a supporting concert on February 4th staged by the surviving members of the 43-year-old band, The Grateful Dead.

     Hillary on the other hand, represents a different generation.  She is no longer a part of change but part and parcel of the status quo administration.  Her desperation has her reaching for straws and coming unglued in an attempt to argue petty issues such as plagiarism of Obama’s own campaign manager and a retreat from her own “experience” with her husband’s platform of NAFTA that has now shown itself to be flawed.  You can tell much about a person under pressure and she looks ugly right now, and gaining no headway, being on the attack as a last resort.  I wouldn’t want her as my president showing that type of cannabilistic conduct within her own party.  Had Obama never risen to the forefront she might’ve handily won her party’s nomination and gone on to defeat the Republican candidate in November.  All of this has changed however, and it seems inevitable that it will be an Obama-McCain duel to the death.  The last time I saw this much hopeful emotion involved in politics was the Eugene McCarthy race in the 1968 primary or the election campaign of Jimmy Carter as a backlash to the Nixonian legacy in the seventies.  I sincerely hope that it does not turn out the same way. 

     This supercharged train has left the station and may indeed put Obama in the White House. For those who say it couldn’t be any worse, we will have a nice honeymoon for the first year.  After that we will see what is real and what was rhetoric.  Obviously, he cannot do all that he says he wants to do, no one can.  Some of his plans will end up in a scrapheap.  Some may be good for business, some may be bad.  So, what else is new? Remember Clinton’s Universal Health Plan in 1992?

     Regardless, right now no one is going to stop Casey Jones from driving that train. Hopefully there will be substantial change and as the Chamber’s Brothers sang in the sixties:

Time has come today
Young hearts can go their way
Can’t put it off another day
I don’t care what others say
They say we don’t listen anyway
Time has come today

And hopefully if he does get elected, if our souls become psychedelicized, it will be a good trip for all.

     I received as a Christmas gift a personalized autographed copy of “Wonderful Today.” This is a very good marketing device for a premium price, but worth it for those who value the author’s dedication in their own handwriting.     

     Beatle George Harrison wrote “Something” for her and it remains one of the most covered Beatle songs ever.  Eric Clapton, the guitar hero of the world for over three decades wrote the Derek and the Dominoes 1974 Album “Layla and Other Assorted Love Songs,” that fast and furious super-hot rock and roll epic about his love for this model and former wife of George Harrison and eventually Eric’s-Pattie Boyd. She’s the only woman to have two superstars write songs to her, and in her prime, her intoxicating beauty was that of a sexual siren driving men’s souls to the rocks in pure passion. Her new book “Wonderful Today” is a biography that seems to want to tell all, and indeed sheds light on this wonderful woman who came from an abused childhood to make it as one of the world’s top models.  Ms. Boyd begins in a chronological fashion with pictures of family and tales of Kenya with snakes, tigers, and scary natives.  Quite the childhood, but then when her parents separate she is forced back to England with an abusive and cruel step-father.
     The voice of the book is sweet and innocent, but the sixties flower children go through an innocence of their own and as the drugs they use to free their minds and give them empowerment for hope eventually drive them to pure misery as well.  She became the wife of Mr. Harrison at the end of a fairy-tale courtship, but due to the heavy hand of the Beatle’s Manager Brian Epstein, was denied a proper wedding, as the public was not to know George was “no longer available” in the heady days of Beatlemania.  She and George lived a simple life, in a relatively small house with George off to the studio each day and Pattie embracing the role of wife, lover, cook, and home keeper.  It was all she wanted and needed.  George on the other hand became intensely involved in meditation, ironically because of Pattie’s suggestion, to fill a need for a childhood he never completely experienced, and they all went off to the Yogi Master Maharishi Mahesh in India.
     For those who haven’t read past books on the Beatles, her book is full of references such as their Los Angeles house on “Blue Jay Way” and Prudence Farrow, Mia’s sister, was the “Dear Prudence” who would not leave her house in India with the Maharishi.  Sergeant Pilcher was the British police officer who busted John Lennon, George, and many other rock and rollers of the day for drugs including Mick Jagger. “Jennifer Juniper” was a Donovan song for Pattie’s sister Jennifer who was also Mick Fleetwood’s main squeeze off and on and there are many other tidbits of rock trivia that have their place in history connected to Pattie’s life with George. 
     George eventually became emotionally unattached to her as he began binging on drugs and then meditation trying to find his way through a lost childhood.  Eric Clapton then appears writing her passionate letters and begging her to leave George for a life with him.  At first, she thinks this is all very nice and flattering, but then Eric goes on a heroin binge because of her refusal to give in and be with him much like a spiteful boy.  Eventually George’s lack of attention and Eric’s determined persistence, get the best of Pattie and she leaves George to follow Eric on tour.  Years go by and the addiction to drugs, alcohol, and heroin take their toll on “Slowhand” and he shows no attempt to stay faithful to any one woman.  As much as Pattie wants to understand and deal with the issues of his dalliances and drunkenness, she indeed compromises her own principles in doing so, the relationship grinds to an inevitable crash as Eric “keeps on keepin’ on,” in full persona of what a rock star “is all about-After Midnite”-sex, drugs, and rock and roll.  Pattie was and is only looking for love with someone who can make her laugh, and treat her as an equal.  This book is not a kiss and tell epic, and one would love to hear some of the intense times of emotion and vase throwings I’m sure, but one can sense the immense pain she had in finally putting this to words for all to read without destroying her relationships especially with Clapton. Her only mistake was believing in young men that couldn’t tie their shoes on their own, and needed to grow up and take their marriage seriously.  But now at last she is on her own, enjoying her life without expectations and has accepted her responsibility in enabling these “boys” and being a part of the problem.  She still maintains great beauty within and without and is and will always be the mythical lady immortalized much like Helen of Troy in that Pattie launched a million flickers of light for encores at concerts everywhere in the world.
“Layla, you still got me on my knees…”