When I was young, the phrase "Blow your mind on Radio 2" would have been thought ironic. Perhaps it still is. Perhaps it is post-ironic.
Perhaps the once-staid station has just moved with the times, while remaining two generations behind, which makes it the right place now to present The History Of Psychedelia.
Cue excerpt from I Am The Walrus. Nobody was really a walrus, of cours
e, but it was nice to take the imagination for a walk. The tusk ahead of this two-part history was to figure out how we, or at least The Beatles, arrived at such mind-blowing mutation when they’d started out singing: "I want to hold your hand."
David Quantick, the presenter, introduced himself as "Simon Schama on acid", and began with a history of LSD and its influence on American bands like the Grateful Dead, Country Joe and the Fish, Jefferson Airplane and The Doors (of perception; obviously).
Skipping lightly along the Atlantic wavelength, meanwhile, we found a different psychedelic sound emerging. The British sound was less blues or country based, more horticultural and less political, more verbena than Vietnam.
But it had the same effect. As David put it (in tones so ironic the programme often sounded like a spoof): "Everybody sat up and said: ‘My shoes contain the secrets of the universe and a bee.’"
We heard excerpts from Strawberry Fields and Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, which was more Alice than acid (the title came from a school drawing by John Lennon’s child, Julian).
And, of course, we heard Interstellar Overdrive by the original Pink Floyd, at that time favouring whimsy over dark moons, until Syd Barrett stopped playing and stared into space for ever.
From the deeply hidden underground of Edinburgh, too, emerged the plinky-plonk acoustics of the Incredible String Band, described here as "classic Scottish hippies" existing in "a scene probably more advanced than London". Another Scot, Donovan, did his bit, here describing how the harpsichord on one song was inspired by a raindrop falling from a leaf.
Another flower child featured in the first part of Precious Bane, the new classic serial on Radio 4. "Imagine," we were told, "a place that seemed like it was created but an hour ago - but not for us." A place where the trees are "waitin’ and considerin’".
This place was rural Shropshire, where lived Prudence Sarn, a lively innocent living among dark and sullen men. The time was the early 18th century, when there was real excitement at the baking of a cake and the ceiling dripped a little, but only on wet days.
In Mary Webb’s classic tale, Prue has a hare-lip, her "precious bane", and has no chance of marrying, thanks to the cretinous prejudices of the mob, who believe her a witch.
Having lived so apart, she did not realise the world could be so cruel. Gathering flowers by the roadside, a toff on a horse knocks her into the mire. She is shunned at market but, nevertheless, from a distance falls in love with Kester Woodseaves, the weaver, a quiet, muscular man, who has pictures in his Bible and "canna abide bill-baitin’ nor cock-fightin’ nor loose women".
On market day, a little white bull has been tied up for baiting. The bull ring is in a beautiful, sunny meadow by a brook. Says Prue: "I could not believe blood must be shed on such a day."
Kester arrives among the mob and asks them to halt their ghastly "sport". Laughter rings out and Grimble, the chief baiter, says in tones eerily reminiscent of today’s sinister, right-wing Countryside Alliance: "I tell you, there's been bull-baitin’ in Englan’ ever since it was Englan’. Take away the good old sport an’ it wouldn’t be Englan’." The bull, he says, enjoys it. And if it doesn’t, he does, and that’s the main thing.
Kester offers to buy the bull for £25 and adds that, if they still want "sport", he’ll wrestle six of them. The baiting bumpkins don’t fancy this but give him the chance to wrestle the dogs. Kester accepts, if they’ll ban baiting for ten years. The first five dogs know and like Kester. The sixth, Grimble’s newest, grips Kester’s throat. The bumpkins look on impassively, but Prue gets a carving knife and stabs the mutt, to shouts of horror: "She’s killed our dog! You murderess!" And there ended the first enthralling episode.
The tale is fine but disturbing, so I leave you with these healing words from the String Band’s A Very Cellular Song: "May the long-time sun shine upon you, all love surround you, and the pure light within you guide your way on."
The full article contains 837 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
