Seventies Nostalgia
From Meanwhile, back at the ranch...:
I was in first grade in ‘68, so life didn’t really start happening for me until the mid to late 70s.
When I think of that era, the first thing which springs to mind is the original Texas Jam, a cringe-worthy event for which I and twenty or so peers (my friends, then as now, were few) had excitedly spent the night in my parents’ backyard rolling an even hundred joints in preparation for the show. Some of the performers included Head East, Little River Band, Journey, Van Halen and Ted Nugent, none of whom - you’ll be glad to hear - I would walk across the street to hear today.
What I liked about the Seventies is the same thing I hate about it: the reckless self-indulgence which gave us arena rock, cocaine, disco, punk and Ronald Reagan like moldy manna from heaven.
For those of us with a complete and utter abhorrence of fashion - we whose idea of dressing up rarely extended beyond a pair of jeans and a t-shirt - it was an effortless time. But, then, I never understood fashion. The line separating self-expression from social indoctrination is too blurry for me to derive any pleasure from it.
In the Seventies, cops were still cops, but they didn’t operate as paramilitary goons the way they do now. People still had an expectation of privacy, a notion that seems quaint and totally unrealistic in contemporary America. The home was truly sacrosanct, which was a pretty good value to hold dear if you weren’t being victimized by a parent or spouse.
Even late in the decade, we were still seeing the glimmer of generosity and selflessness that infected the Sixties. We shared our weed and pills and blotter, our gasoline and our time. It was still grossly uncool for anyone other than full-time dealers to sell states of mind within one’s social circle. Unlike today, the street pharmacy, much of which was copped directly from Big Pharmacy USA, was both pervasive and impressive.
The cannabis sativa pouring across the Mexican border was incredible and affordable. Acapulco Gold, Panama Red and the exotica of Thai Sticks provided a soundtrack of laughter for much of that aimless, drifting period. Today, pure sativa which rises above the level of ditch weed is nearly non-existent, but we were up to our eyeballs in it throughout the Seventies, and, in keeping with free market principles, it was very affordable. Today’s indica-dominant herb — grown in closets, basements and warehouses across America and the world — is wonderful smoke, strong and flavorful, but often stupefying and ill-suited for socializing. And it’s a far cry from the tropical bliss of high quality, sun-drenched sativa grown throughout Central America during the Sixties and Seventies.
For all its air-headedness, the Seventies was the last decade in which society placed a greater premium on personal experience and social interaction over the poisoned fruits of materialism and isolation. I’m not a person who spends much time looking back, but I do find myself wondering if America will ever rediscover that aspect of the past. I suspect so, but the catalyst for such a shift in our collective conscience probably isn’t something to look forward to.
Now, just for the hell of it, the few visitors I get, I would like to hear a best of and worst of the 70s memories. I hate the 70s and see this AM where someone at Heretik’s comments linked to a site of 70s night life pics NY Studio 54 style. I graduated from high school in 1975 and the world felt like it had all gone to rancid seed. The music, the clothes, everything, awash in slime. I personally remember just wanting to be in any world but that belonging to the late 70s. Tarentino has dressed it up, but there was nothing wonderful about it while it was going on, at least not while I was there. And it’s an unfortunate era I don’t like to revisit. But I imagine there are people with good memories from the 70s.My cross-posted response:
I was in first grade in ‘68, so life didn’t really start happening for me until the mid to late 70s.
When I think of that era, the first thing which springs to mind is the original Texas Jam, a cringe-worthy event for which I and twenty or so peers (my friends, then as now, were few) had excitedly spent the night in my parents’ backyard rolling an even hundred joints in preparation for the show. Some of the performers included Head East, Little River Band, Journey, Van Halen and Ted Nugent, none of whom - you’ll be glad to hear - I would walk across the street to hear today.
What I liked about the Seventies is the same thing I hate about it: the reckless self-indulgence which gave us arena rock, cocaine, disco, punk and Ronald Reagan like moldy manna from heaven.
For those of us with a complete and utter abhorrence of fashion - we whose idea of dressing up rarely extended beyond a pair of jeans and a t-shirt - it was an effortless time. But, then, I never understood fashion. The line separating self-expression from social indoctrination is too blurry for me to derive any pleasure from it.
In the Seventies, cops were still cops, but they didn’t operate as paramilitary goons the way they do now. People still had an expectation of privacy, a notion that seems quaint and totally unrealistic in contemporary America. The home was truly sacrosanct, which was a pretty good value to hold dear if you weren’t being victimized by a parent or spouse.
Even late in the decade, we were still seeing the glimmer of generosity and selflessness that infected the Sixties. We shared our weed and pills and blotter, our gasoline and our time. It was still grossly uncool for anyone other than full-time dealers to sell states of mind within one’s social circle. Unlike today, the street pharmacy, much of which was copped directly from Big Pharmacy USA, was both pervasive and impressive.
The cannabis sativa pouring across the Mexican border was incredible and affordable. Acapulco Gold, Panama Red and the exotica of Thai Sticks provided a soundtrack of laughter for much of that aimless, drifting period. Today, pure sativa which rises above the level of ditch weed is nearly non-existent, but we were up to our eyeballs in it throughout the Seventies, and, in keeping with free market principles, it was very affordable. Today’s indica-dominant herb — grown in closets, basements and warehouses across America and the world — is wonderful smoke, strong and flavorful, but often stupefying and ill-suited for socializing. And it’s a far cry from the tropical bliss of high quality, sun-drenched sativa grown throughout Central America during the Sixties and Seventies.
For all its air-headedness, the Seventies was the last decade in which society placed a greater premium on personal experience and social interaction over the poisoned fruits of materialism and isolation. I’m not a person who spends much time looking back, but I do find myself wondering if America will ever rediscover that aspect of the past. I suspect so, but the catalyst for such a shift in our collective conscience probably isn’t something to look forward to.
posted by Arvin Hill at 7/17/2005 02:15:00 PM
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