Before Janis Joplin became a big hit in San Francisco, before the Vulcan Gas Company put Austin rock into the limelight, before Clifford Antone's blues clubs, before the Armadillo World Headquarters, long before Austentatious and East 6th Street and Austin City Limits and Willie Nelson, The Thirteenth Floor Elevators, a ragtag combination of teenagers, college students, and country boys with a wanderlust put Austin music on the map. The band had few public performances before heading for Houston and a recording date with International Artists, a small time label searching for a hit. They got it. It was called "You're Gonna Miss Me" and it sailed up the charts. The album which soon followed contained liner notes not typically seen on rock releases: "Since Aristotle, man has organized his knowledge vertically in separate and unrelated groups--Science, Religion, Sex, Relaxation, Work, etc. The main emphasis in his language, his system of sharing knowledge, has been on the identification of objects rather than on the relationships between objects. He is now forced to use his tools of reasoning separately and for one situation at a time. Had men been able to see past this hypnotic way of thinking, to distrust it (as Einstein did), and to resystemize his knowledge so that it would all be related horizontally, he would now enjoy the perfect sanity which comes from being able to deal with his life in its entirety." "Recently, it has become possible for man to chemically alter his mental state and thus alter his point of view (that is, his own basic relation with the outside world which determines how he stores his information). He then can restructure his thinking and change his language so that his thoughts bear more relation to his life and his problems, therefore approaching them more sanely." "It is this quest for pure sanity that forms the basis of the songs on this album." Do you think Dick Clark was hip to this? Remember, this was nearly three years before Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, before the Grateful Dead had recorded, before most people had even heard of the revolution, before rock had become intellectualized. Yes, the Elevators were way out front. Most people in Austin were not aware of the scene emerging in San Francisco's Haight Ashbury. They certainly were not aware of a scene in their own back yard. The band lasted less than two years, put out two complete albums on the International Artists label, were never showcased properly in their hometown, competed in both the world of pop music typified American Bandstand and the one emerging in San Francisco, and left behind more questions than answers. They did have some successful tours and were idolized by fans in San Francisco. Scores of young Texans would follow them as if they deities of a new order. After a marijuana bust in 1966 they were outlawed and ostracized in some circles and sanctified in others. Their star performer, Rocky (later changed to "Roky") Erickson never made the cover of Rolling Stone, inspired no movies, and was hardly known outside the cult that adopted the band. Like Janis, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison and other contemporaries of his, his story is a tragic one. Unlike them, however, he did not meet with an early death. He met with early insanity.

In their heyday The Elevators' extended family included various friends, relatives, management types, hangers-on, roadies, and groupies who flocked around the flame of their success, confusing them with adulation and dependency. The band was hardly prepared for all this attention. They did not prosper with fame. In fact, it destroyed them as a band. It also destroyed some of them as individuals. They had the misfortune of being on the leading edge of the new order, a time when the old rules were being discarded but the new rules had not yet been formed. Lord knows, they had trouble with rules. You might say that they were forced to write their own, a heady task for boys in their early twenties. Of course, drugs were a major reason for their collapse. Remember, in 1966 LSD and its cousins were still not illegal and the long term mental and physical effects of mixing various powerful chemicals were unknown. The Elevators were like a combination of scientific researchers and laboratory mice. They tried everything in the way of conscious expanding agents and reported on the results in the lyrics of their songs. In these lyrics one can find a constant message, "Tune in (try drugs) and you will be transformed into an all-knowing, superior, spiritual person." For some, it worked. For most it did not. Certainly it was a gamble, a fact that they did not report. Few experimenters partook in the variety and volume of chemicals that were available to the band. One of the first victims of this message carried to extremes was none other than Roky Erickson. By the time the band was ready to capitalize on its fame he had serious mental problems, frequent catatonia being the most serious. What was the cause? What turned this beautiful, talented young man into a zombie? Take your choice: amphetamine injections, DMT, LSD, etc. At their final engagements he could not and would not perform without being threatened with grave consequences for failure to do so. Finally, noteven this would work. He would spend much of the next several years in and out of the state mental hospital in Austin (from which he was often kidnapped by "friends" who whisked him from coast to coast, hiding him in hippy pads while trying to "save" him from the "pigs" and his family). It was not until he was locked away in a secure mental facility in Rusk, Texas that this cycle was broken and he began to function again. Roky would make numerous musical comeback attempts over the next twenty years but never regain the magic that he had with the Elevators. Instead of a headliner, he would become an oddity with a past that few could appreciate. His songs of love would turn into strange tomes like "Two-Headed Dog", and his sidemen would wear white clinical frocks and call themselves "aliens". The Elevators appeared without him, but they were not much of a band sans their star. New personnel were tried but there were no more Rokys waiting in the wings. Finally, they gave up. By that time they were all in bad shape. Sutherland would be arrested again and finally do time on drug charges before dying tragically. Hall would move to San Francisco and become a recluse in the Haight-Ashbury. Walton would pop up again in Austin in the '70's but never hook up with a good band. Thurman would survive by escaping from the rock scene and laying low in his home town, Austin.

What is the legacy of the band? Depends on your point of view. Some of the people around them would continue in the rock and roll business, work with other bands, manage clubs, raise families. One thing is for sure, the Elevators showed that it could be done, that small-time Texas kids could become leaders of the pop culture. That's the spirit that still pervades Austin. Of course that's not the only perception to be gleaned from their experience. One might also ask, "At what cost?" In the winter and spring of 1966, the 13th Floor Elevators played on Saturday nights at a spot on Red River Street called The New Orleans Club. The main building of this entertainment center, located just north of the Symphony Square complex, held about 100 people comfortably. There was a semi-enclosed patio above and behind the main building which held another 250. These Saturday night gigs were mobbed by the faithful fans of this decidedly different rock group. 1,000 paid admissions was not an uncommon count on a Saturday night, using only the small room. The music was ungodly loud and customers often left after a short but intense exposure. The band was far and away the most popular group in town. This marked the first major gatherings of longish-haired students and dropouts who were the vanguard of the unstoppable social change taking place in Austin. The problem facing the band (and other long-haired performers) was a large hall in which to perform. In Austin in those days there simply was no such place with the right specs available. One attempt was made at the Doris Miller Auditorium in East Austin but this did not work out for a myriad of reasons. The jazz group playing at The New Orleans on Sunday evenings had previously rented the Austin Civic Theater for concert promotions. They were a racially mixed quartet called The Blue Crew. The cancellation of their agreement with the ACT had racial overtones. These shows were among the earliest to draw racially mixed audiences to performances by local musicians. This policy was looked upon with great suspicion by various law enforcement and civil authorities. Their fears, however, were unjustified as racial confrontations among jazz fans were simply non-existent. In fact these shows promoted racial harmony by attracting both races to social gatherings on the west side of the interstate. The patio was their favored location in the old club and they drew capacity crowds-but nowhere near the 1,000 paid admissions common for appearances of the Elevators.

Lending creditability to the jazz scene was the sudden appearance in town of George Wein, promoter of the famous Newport Jazz Festivals. Wein was in cahoots with one Rod Kennedy, a young radio executive who wanted to get into concert promotions. The two of them collaborated in producing the first Longhorn Jazz Festival, held at the original Disch Field, the old baseball stadium located on what is today called Town Lake Shores. This event put Austin in the jazz spotlight. It included the finest array of jazz talent ever the grace the stage in the capitol: Miles Davis Quintet, Dave Brubeck Quartet, Stan Getz Quartet, Gerry Mulligan, Teddy Wilson, Kenny Dorham, Coleman Hawkins, and The Newport Allstars. Local favorites The Blue Crew opened this rare event which jazz fans throughout Texas flocked to see. Personnel of The Crew were: leader Gerry Storm on drums, Bob Bruno on bass, James Polk arranger and pianist, and the famous David "Fathead" Newman on saxophones. (Newman was actually a resident of Dallas at the time but he came to Austin on Sundays to play with The Crew at the New Orleans Club.) This event was repeated the following year, this time at Municipal Auditorium. These were first rate jazz productions and they drew well. But Kennedy had decided to cast his lot with folk music. Years later this paid off for him as he became the impresario of the Kerrville Folk Festivals. Thus ended Austin's early fame as a jazz center. It would be another 8 years before pianist Polk revived the scene in the mid '70's.

Two interesting groups emerged from The Library/Fred in 1966. One never played there as a group but achieved national fame. It was called Circus Maximus. Personnel for the group included three of the regulars at the folk sings at the small club: a tall, skinny kid from New York state, transient folk singer, named Jerry Jeff Walker, Bob Bruno, jazz bassist extraordinaire, who had decided to cast his lot with the burgeoning folk rock movement ("It's the music of my generation…"), and Pete Troutner. They quickly found a sponsor and moved away to Houston for rehearsals with a band that also included Gary Wright, an Austin native on electric bass. Within months they had moved to New York City and landed a recording contract on the Vanguard label and a steady job at a club called (what else?) The Circus Maximus. The other group was called St. John and the Conqueroo. This group featured star folk singer Powell St. John in his debut with an electric band. The band was organized by Charlie Pritchard who played lead guitar. Pritchard too was making his electric debut, having previously established a reputation as one who had mastered acoustic blues styles. There would be numerous personnel connected with this group over the next two years and they would eventually emerge as the most famous and representative underground musical (longhair) organization to emerge in Austin since the 13th Floor Elevators. The first big personnel event occurred when St. John departed for San Francisco. He and many of the family from the Ghetto were drawn by both the opportunities on the west coast and the fear of staying in Austin. The Elevators had been busted and this event reverberated throughout the underground community, causing great concern. As it turned out, this concern was justified. At that time the Ghetto and who knows what all else was under investigation and surveillance of not only local but federal authorities. Austin was a hot place to be a longhair. The band St. John had fronted shortened its name to The Conqueroo and stayed in town.

The first "Love-Ins" occurred in Austin in 1966. They were held both at Wooldridge Park across from the Austin Public Library and the Travis County Courthouse and on the main lawn on the U. of Texas campus. These gatherings were quasi-political and quasi-religious. Their aim was to promote peace in Viet Nam and all the over the planet. Folk performers and The Conqueroo both played at Love-Ins. Initially, these events did not attract large crowds, but they were heavily attended by law enforcement officers. By the summer of 1967 there had been a major awareness check by the younger generation. Now virtually everyone had a friend or relative who had been killed or seriously injured in Viet Nam. The Anti-War Movement was growing rapidly. This summer was later tagged the "Summer of Love". In San Francisco, tens of thousands of young people gathered to participate in Love-Ins, experiment with drugs and free love, and learn the credo of peace. Many of the Austin underground visited or moved to "The City" during this incredible season of change. Back in Austin it had become clear that a hall or similar off campus gathering place was needed to feature underground acts and provide a hangout for the scene. The musical establishment would not book longhair bands. By this time radically long hair and costumery from San Francisco were present in the capitol. Janis and St. John had connected with groups and recorded in SF. A group calling themselves The Jomo Disaster Light Show was exploring this new medium at selected events in Austin, particularly at a tiny east side dive where the underground acts sometimes played, The IL Club. The Beatles' "Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" had been released that summer and drawn a large audience toward the musical underground. Marijuana use was now common among college students throughout the country. At a back-to-school Love-In in Zilker Park that September, a large turnout of longhairs gathered to hear local bands and spread the vibes. The Peace Movement had arrived in Austin in a major way. The number of longhairs on campus and in town had at least quadrupled from the previous year. At this event, it was announced that a new club featuring local talent would be opening soon on Congress Avenue. What was to follow would forever change the image of sleepy old "River City". It was about to become the San Francisco of Texas, the state capitol for not only the government but the new generation of seekers called "Hippies". It was about to become a free oasis in the conservative desert of Texas.

History of Austin Music 65-69 {part 2} © Gerry Storm 2000