Acid Dreams: The Complete Social History of LSD (33 page)

In their early days the Beatles had popped uppers and downers to
keep pace with the rigors of the late-night performing circuit in the bars of Hamburg, Germany. They took whatever was around—French blues, purple hearts, and the “yellow submarines” immortalized in their “children’s song” of the same name. It wasn’t until 1964, after they broke through to rock stardom, that they tried marijuana. The Fab Four got their first whiff of the wacky weed when John Lennon smoked a joint with Bob Dylan at London’s Heathrow Airport. It was a happy high, and from then on the Beatles spent much of their time together stoned.

In early 1965 Lennon and his wife, Cynthia, went to dinner with George Harrison at a friend’s. The host slipped a couple of sugar cubes of LSD into their after-dinner coffee, and things got a little barmy when they left. Cynthia remembered it as an ordeal. “John was crying and banging his head against the wall. I tried to make myself sick, and couldn’t. I tried to go to sleep, and couldn’t. It was like a nightmare that wouldn’t stop, whatever you did. None of us got over it for about three days.” For John the experience was equally terrifying. “We didn’t know what was going on,” he recalled. “We were just insane. We were out of our heads.”

Despite his jarring initiation into psychedelia, within a year John Lennon would be dropping acid as casually as he had once smoked a cigarette. But Lennon was hardly in the vanguard of psychedelic use, which had gained a certain currency among British rock bands in the mid-1960s. A number of pop stars, including Donovan Leitch, Keith Richards, and the Yardbirds, had been introduced to LSD via Michael Hollingshead and his short-lived World Psychedelic Center in London. Soon the turned-on message was being broadcast throughout the English-speaking world, and acid became an international phenomenon. The Rolling Stones announced that “Something Happened to Me Yesterday”; Eric Burdon and the Animals crooned a love song to “A Girl Named Sandoz.” Across the ocean in America the Count Five were having a “Psychotic Reaction,” the Electric Prunes had “Too Much to Dream Last Night,” the Amboy Dukes took a “Journey to the Center of My Mind,” and the Byrds flew “Eight Miles High.”
*

LSD influenced much of mid-1960s rock, but it was the Beatles
who most lavishly and accurately captured the psychic landscape of the altered state. Their first acid-tinged songs appeared on
Revolver
(1966). “She Said She Said” was inspired by a conversation in California with Peter Fonda during Lennon’s second LSD trip. Fonda talked about taking acid and experiencing “what it’s like to be dead.” The album also featured Lennon’s “Dr. Robert,” a song about a New York physician who dispensed “vitamin shots” to the rich and famous. On the final track, “Tomorow Never Knows,” Lennon exhorted his listeners to turn off their minds, relax, and float downstream. Originally titled “The Void,” this song was inspired by Leary’s
Tibetan Book of the Dead
manual, which Lennon was then reading while high on acid. On it he used the first of many “backward” tapes while tripping in his studio late one night. He even considered having a thousand monks chant in the background. Although this proved unrealistic, it pointed up Lennon’s growing obsession with musical special effects, which would reach an apotheosis on
Sgt. Pepper
.

By the time
Sgt. Pepper
was recorded, all of the Beatles were getting high on acid. Paul McCartney, the last Beatle to take LSD, made candid admissions to the press about his use of psychedelics, causing an uproar. “It opened my eyes,” he told
Life
magazine. “It made me a better, more honest, more tolerant member of society.” If the leaders of the world’s nations were to take LSD even once, McCartney insisted, they would be ready to “banish war, poverty and famine.”

Teen America got its first look at the psychedelicized Beatles on Dick Clark’s
American Bandstand
, in a film clip accompanying the release of “Strawberry Fields Forever.” Their hair was longer, they had grown moustaches, and they were dressed in scruffy, slightly outlandish clothes. Lennon especially looked like a different person, with his wire-frame glasses, Fu Manchu, and distant gaze. That was how he appeared on the cover of
Sgt. Pepper
, where on close inspection, according to Lennon, “you can see that two of us are flying, and two aren’t.” John and George had taken LSD for the photo session.

Sgt. Pepper
is a concept album structured as a musical “trip.” The Beatles play the part of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, an old-time musical group, that takes its listeners on a sentimental journey through the history of music from ballads and folksongs to dancehall tunes, circus music, and rock and roll. The album includes
at least four cuts with overt drug references, and the entire LP utilizes sound effects in novel ways to evoke unique mental images and create an overall psychedelic aesthetic.

It is difficult to overstate this record’s importance in galvanizing the acid subculture. For the love generation,
Sgt. Pepper
was nothing less than a revelation, a message from on high. Thousands of people can still recall exactly where and when they first heard the magical chords of “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” wafting in the summer breeze. This was the cut on which Lennon celebrated the synesthetic peak of an acid trip. The hallucinatory visions of “tangerine trees,” “marmalade skies,” “newspaper taxis,” and “looking glass ties” mesmerized the multitudes of Beatle fans who listened to
Sgt. Pepper
on pot and acid until the grooves were worn out. Lennon said that the title of the song, rather than standing for LSD, was inspired by his son’s drawings, but his disclaimer had little effect on the general interpretation of the lyrics.

The Blue Meanies immediately denounced the album. The ultra-right-wing John Birch Society charged that
Sgt. Pepper
exhibited “an understanding of the principles of brainwashing” and suggested that the Beatles were part of an “international communist conspiracy.” Spiro Agnew, then governor of Maryland, led a crusade to ban “With a Little Help from My Friends” because it mentioned getting high. And the BBC actually did ban “A Day in the Life,” with Lennon singing “I’d love to turn you on.”

In September 1967 the Beatles went on an adventurous trip modeled after the Merry Pranksters’ odyssey. Loading a large school bus with freaks and friends, they headed for the British countryside. Like the Pranksters, they also made a movie—an ad-lib, spontaneous dream film entitled
Magical Mystery Tour
(with an album of the same name). During this period there was an abundance of LSD in the Beatles family thanks to Owsley, who supplied several pint-sized vials of electric liquid along with a cache of little pink pills. Lennon was at the height of his acid phase. He used to “trip all the time,” as he put it, while living in a country mansion stocked with an extravagant array of tape recorders, video equipment, musical instruments, and whatnot. Since money was no object, he was able to fulfill any LSD-inspired whim at any time of day or night.

By his own estimate Lennon took over one thousand acid trips. His protracted self-investigation with LSD only exacerbated his personal difficulties, as he wrestled with Beatledom and his mounting
differences with Paul over the direction the group should take, or even if they should continue as a group. Unbeknownst to millions of their fans, the Beatles, even at the height of their popularity, were well along the winding road to breakup. That acid was becoming problematic for Lennon was evident on some of his psychedelic songs, such as “I Am the Walrus,” with its repeated, blankly sung admission “I’m crying.”

Eventually the mind-boggled Beatle couldn’t stand it anymore. He got so freaked out that he had to stop using the drug, and it took him a while to get his feet back on the ground. “I got a message on acid that you should destroy your ego,” he later explained, “and I did, you know. I was reading that stupid book of Leary’s [the psychedelic manual based on the
Tibetan Book of the Dead
] and all that shit. We were going through a whole game that everyone went through, and I destroyed myself. . . .I destroyed my ego and I didn’t believe I could do anything.”

Lennon’s obsession with losing his ego typified a certain segment of the acid subculture in the mid- and late 1960s. Those who got heavily into tripping often subscribed to a mythology of ego death that Leary was fond of preaching. The LSD doctor spoke of a chemical doorway through which one could leave the “fake prop-television-set America” and enter the equivalent of the Garden of Eden, a realm of unprogrammed beginnings where there was no distinction between matter and spirit, no individual personality to bear the brunt of life’s flickering sadness. To be gratefully dead, from the standpoint of acid folklore, was not merely a symbolic proposition; the zap of superconsciousness that hit whenever a tab of LSD kicked the slats out of the ego might in certain instances be felt as an actual death and rebirth of the body (as the psychiatric studies of Dr. Stanislav Grof seemed to indicate). Acid could send people spinning on a 360-degree tour through their own senses and rekindle childhood’s lost “tense of presence,” as a Digger broadside stated.

But this experience was fraught with pitfalls, among them a tendency to become attached to the pristine vision, to want to hang on to it for as long as possible. Such an urge presumably could only be satisfied by taking the “utopiate” again and again. But after countless trips and sideshows of the mind one arrived at an impasse: “All right, my mind’s been blown. . . . What’s next?” Little could be gained from prolonged use of the drug, except perhaps the realization that it was necessary to “graduate acid,” as Ken Kesey said. Oftentimes
this meant adopting new methods to approximate or recreate the psychedelic experience without a chemical catalyst—via yoga, meditation, organic foods, martial arts, or any of the so-called natural highs. That was what the Beatles concluded when they jumped off the Magical Mystery Tour for a fling with the Maharishi and Transcendental Meditation. “Acid is not the answer,” said George Harrison. “It’s enabled people to see a bit more, but when you really get hip, you don’t need it.” Ditto for McCartney: “It was an experience we went through. . . . We’re finding new ways of getting there.”

For many who turned on during the 1960s there was a sense that LSD had changed all the rules, that the scales had been lifted from their eyes and they’d never be the same. The drug was thought to provide a shortcut to a higher reality, a special way of knowing. But an acid trip’s “eight-hour dose of wild surmise,” as Charles Perry put it, can have unexpected consequences. People may find themselves straddling the margins of human awareness where all semblance of epistemological decorum vanishes and form and emptiness play tricks on each other. Things are no longer anchored in simple location but rather vibrate in a womb of poetic correspondences. From this vantage point it is tempting to conclude that all worlds are imaginary constructions and that behind the apparent multiplicity of discernible objects there exists a single infinite reality which is consciousness itself. Thus interpreted, consciousness becomes a means mistaken for an end—and without an end or focus it becomes an inversion, giving rise to a specious sort of logic. If the “real war” is strictly an internal affair and each person is responsible for creating the conditions of his own suffering by projecting his skewed egotistical version of reality onto the material plane, does it not follow that the desire to redress social ills is yet another delusion? In this “ultimate” scheme of things all sense of moral obligation and political commitment is rendered absurd by definition.

Herein lay another pitfall of the tripping experience. Even after they stopped taking LSD, many people could still hear the siren song, a vague and muffled invitation to a “higher” calling. Those who responded to that etheric melody were plunged willy-nilly into an abstract vortex of soul-searching, escaping, and “discovering thyself.” Some were intensely sincere, and their quest very often was lonely and confusing. The difficulties they faced stemmed in part from the fact that advanced industrial society does not recognize
ego loss or peak experience as a particularly worthy objective. Thus it is not surprising that large numbers of turned-on youth looked to non-Occidental traditions—Oriental mysticism, European magic and occultism, and primitive shamanism (especially American Indian lore)—in an attempt to conjure up a coherent framework for understanding their private visions.

Quite a few acidheads and acid graduates subscribed to the Eastern belief that reality is an illusion. They were quick to mouth the phrases of enlightenment—karma, maya, nirvana—but in their adaptation these concepts were coarsened and sentimentalized. The hunger for regenerative spirituality was often deflected into a pseudo-Oriental fatalism: “Why fret over the plight of the world when it’s all part of the Divine Dance?” This slipshod philosophy was partially due to the effects of heavy acid tripping—“the haze that blurs the corner of the inner screen,” as David Mairowitz said, “a magic that insinuates itself ‘cosmically,’ establishing spectrum upon confusing spectrum in the broadening of personal horizons. It could cloud up your telescope on the known world and bring on a delirium of vague ‘universal’ thinking.” Or it might just reinforce what poet John Ashbery described as “the pious attitudes of those spiritual bigots whose faces are turned toward eternity and who therefore can see nothing.”

The laissez-faire intellectualism that flourished in the acid subculture was particularly evident in the San Francisco
Oracle
, which by now boasted a nationwide circulation of a hundred thousand. The lingo of pop mysticism was sprinkled throughout the pages of the psychedelic tabloid. Sandwiched between various tidbits on ESP, tarot, witchcraft, numerology and the latest drug gossip were announcements of impending UFO landings. Yet in a sense the
Oracle
was merely echoing a trend that had begun to assert itself in American society as a whole. The appetite for spiritual transcendence, the desire to go beyond “the sweating self,” in Huxley’s words, is an indefatigable urge that assumes many guises—offbeat religious sects, parapsychology, the occult, and so forth. While such phenomena are not necessarily futile diversions, there is an inherent danger in “wanting the ultimate in one leap,” as Nietzsche put it, whether by pill or perfect spiritual master. This desperate yearning makes individuals highly vulnerable to manipulation by totalitarian personalities. It was, after all, Charles Manson who wrote a song called “The Ego Is a Too Much Thing.”