I am, at times, consumed by nostalgia for the mid-to-late 1960s. Not the real 1960s, mind you. I was too young to go out and experience that. (I didn't turn 16 until late 1970.) So, much in the same fashion as Plato's Allegory of the Cave, my perception of that era was as if through a glass and darkly with my nose pressed to it, and provided by the mass media of Television, Movies and Radio.
I was struck by another wave of that nostalgia the other day as I was grocery shopping and the song Lazy Day by Spanky and Our Gang played over the store's sound system. I quietly sang along, and wagered with myself that I was the only one in the store who knew the lyrics. And I wondered where the days of pickin' daisies and lots of red balloons had gone.
My 1960s was filtered through TV shows like The Monkees, Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In, The Man (and Girl) from U.N.C.L.E., Shindig, Hullabaloo, Where The Action Is, Malibu U., The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour, American Bandstand, and the local Los Angeles teen dance TV shows hosted by Lloyd Thaxton and Sam Riddle; through Spy movies and Beach Party movies; and my transistor radio dial seldom strayed from 93 KHJ-AM, "BOSS RADIO"!
It was a groovy period, all bright, glossy, Pop Art, Op Art, Day-Glo colored and costumed by Rudy Gernreich, the soundtrack provided by The Lovin' Spoonful, Spanky and Our Gang, The Association, Tom Jones, The Turtles, Harper's Bizarre, The Strawberry Alarm Clock, Petula Clark, The Mamas and the Papas, Dusty Springfield, and (yes, damn it) The Monkees, while Goldie Hawn bounced her body paint and Candy Johnson Frug-ed her fringe off. Tom Hanks captured the spirit of those heady times brilliantly in his movie That Thing You Do. I escape into that flick frequently.
I guess I cling to that period because it represents the last gasp of my childhood happiness before the shitstorm of being an adult dropped a tsunami of grief on me.
In Pop Culture terms, the 60s lasted until 1972, about the time we all figured out the Age of Aquarius was a crock. (So much for mystic crystal revelations and the mind's true liberation...) Counter Culture had been so co-opted, the sanitized psychedelia of Peter Max had been adopted by 7 Up in their advertising and had filtered into Saturday morning television. One trippy kiddie show was The Bugaloos (from the makers of that other weird trip, H.R. Puffenstuf). I watched the show primarily for leggy Caroline Ellis in her fairy ballerina costume. She was one of four lively young Brits dressed as humanoid fairy insects (BUG-aloos, get it?), and like their TV contemporaries The Archies and The Banana Splits, they sang. Most of their songs were forgetable crap, but one has stayed with me, The Senses of Our World. It doesn't make a ton of sense, and I admit that it is trite and syrupy, but it is simple, and pretty.
I'd hate to think there is no room left in this world for simple, and pretty....
If you listen to the sounds that surround you
You'll discover that you're never quite alone
Hear the earth and the sky say they love you
And they're happy that you're here to share their home
So take the time to taste the honey in a summer breeze
Touch the love song every bird has learned to sing
Smell the sunlight as it warms you on the coolest day
And you'll feel a part of what you're gathering
The senses of our world...
Let your heart see the colors all around you
And the darkness that you fear will dissappear
See the treasures that abound all around you
And believe that Mother Earth is glad you're here
So take the time to taste the honey in a summer breeze
Touch the love song every bird has learned to sing
Smell the sunlight as it warms you on the coolest day
And you'll feel a part of what you're gathering
The senses of our world...
