"Gimme an F" (From Warrington Guardian)

"Gimme an F"

Those who think I am referring to a particularly fractious game of Scrabble, could take a look at the Woodstock movie where they will see the great Berkley psychedelic band Country Joe and the Fish demanding an 'F' and three other letters before launching into the ferocious anti Vietnam war chant, 'Feel Like I'm Fixin' to Die'. It was a moment that politicised a generation of young Americans. Country Joe MacDonald was a young eloquent and symbolised the kind of radical thinking that wouldn't go amiss with the young Americans of today,

On Friday, I found myself in the unlikely company of Country Joe and three original Fish, backstage at Manchester Academy. It was unlikely too, not least because they haven't played together for more than 35 years and seemed unsure exactly who would wish to see them live in 2004. It was unsettling to see these people, whose album, Electric Music for the Mind and Body was the omnipresent sound of Berkley Campus during the tumultuous mid sixties ... and who appeared at Woodstock with petals painted on their cheeks, now looking more like four guys about to discuss the merits of caravanning ... in Mablethorpe.

However, once past the pleasantries I was pleased to discover that the radicalism remained intelligently intact. Both Joe and guitarist launched into an unsettling rant against the antics of 'Dubya' and, onstage, they even unleashed an anthemic newie, Cakewalk to Baghdad.

Joe told me of his fond memories of performing Feel Like I'm Fixin' to Die three times in the rain at the Bickershaw Festival, Wigan, in 1971 before, on Friday, he and the guys took to the stage to unleash two hour-long sets of swirling, evocative psychedelia capped by a viciously poignant run through of that Woodstock favourite. In the company of Manchester studenthood at least, the entire affair held a gloriously contemporary feel.

There is nothing on earth quite like pyschedelia. Although competition is fierce, that is possibly the most stupid line I have ever written. Pyschedelia, of course, has few earthly qualities and, at its best, offers a glimpse into another dimension or, if you prefer, a heady push through the doors of perception.

When I was in the throes of teenage brain dead-ness -which lasted well into my twenties - I used to believe that the secret of pyschedelia lay beyond the cellar doors at the Mersey Tavern in Stockport, a place from which the sound of Hawkwind and Gong would always appear to drift ... along with all manner of exotic smoke. It was only later, when I summoned up the courage to walk straight in, that I came to realise that the said room was occupied only by two dumpy old soaks named Brian and Dave whose conversations rarely ventured out of Star Trek and Doctor Who while puffing on Old Holborn.

It kind of killed my naivet and it was only later, when I first stared at my record player in utter disbelief after slapping on Captain Beefheart's Trout Mask Replica for the first time, that I came to realise that there is a world beyond our vision ... and that Captain Beefheart was most definitely in it.

I still like to believe this. At its most basic, music is a method of taking to a different frequency and one doesn't need to indulge in dubious chunks of brown substances procured from someone called Gordon round the back of the Dog and Duck to attain this state.

Anybody who has made it to the end of a John Coltrane album will understand this. Apart from being deserving of my heartfelt congratulations, they will also be aware that, if the listener is prepared to relax and go with the flow, then something curious does begin to happen.

When pyschedelia seeps into popular culture, things do tend to get interesting. Oldies tend to fondly recall that twist towards the end of the sixties when everything, from Beatles to Motown, suddenly became embedded in swirly day-glo.

(Note to those over 45. Next time you complain about the artless cacophony of modern music and the appalling way young people dress, just think back to that King Crimson album you owned when you were young and garbed in pink velvet loon pants).

In many respects, the effects of psychedelia have never been more profound than right now. In a world where rock has reclaimed the central ground from the dance music of the nineties, it's no accident that the summer diary is filled with bigger, better festivals offering all genres of music and varieties of badly printed t-shirts while scores of young British bands, from The Coral to The Stands have gleefully picked up the psychedelia mantle.

As for Country Joe and the Fish, they flew back to California on Sunday in a state of some amazement, I sense, in the realisation that their music has dripped so effectively down the generations.