One of my college roommates was a costume designer; the house was always full of swatches and random trousers that were in fashion as recently as the Interregnum. She had a theory (college is the time when you get all your good theories together) that fashion was the Secret History of the world, which I though was silly.
The reason I thought that was silly is because it takes me a long time to realize when someone who is not me is right.
History is really big. It’s everything that has happened up until now, y’know? You need an entry point, somewhere to anchor the other end of the lever so that you can move the world.
The Dead works, too. The history of the Dead is the history of Post-War America. Is the history of show biz. Is the history of the counter-culture, the drug-culture.
Woodstock? They were there. The Acid Tests? They were the house band. Watergate? Billy was part of the burglary crew; he and G. Gordon Liddy had this routine where Billy would punch G. in the dick and G. would appear not to feel it at all.
Hell, they were even letting hippies on TV back then, albeit the friendly, Sunday School hippies that advocated working within the system and obeisance to tradition.
Sunshine Daydream, the great lost movie from three days ago, forty-one years past might have been the most lasting scrap from that world gone down, but it certainly wasn’t the most seen at the time.
Mama Cass seemed like a lovely woman, so I won’t make the requisite sandwich-related joke. Also, Mickey hit that numerous times.