Here's another excerpt from my book about growing up in the 60s. It's 1967, the summer of love in Los Angeles.
In the spirit of freedom and “do your own thing” KHJ radio devised an ingenious contest. Listeners were invited to send in original song lyrics and the winning entry would be put to music and appear on the next Buffalo Springfield album. Every hour the Bossjocks read another finalist. Ohmygod, they were terrible! Sophomoric, overwrought, just loaded with pungent imagery that made zero sense. The jocks would read them very straight over sappy music. I would roar with laughter every hour. But what do you expect? These were 13-year-olds composing this stuff. And many followed the current trend of trying to simulate the free association of a drug trip, which I suppose gave them license to abandon coherent thoughts and poetry in favor of Mad Libs.
Micki Callen was the winner with her haunting if not mystifying ballad, “The Hour of Not Quite Rain”.
In the hour of not quite rain
When the fog was fingertip high
The moon hung suspended
In a singular sky
Deeply and beyond seeing
Not wishing to intrude
Bathed in its own reflection
The water mirrored the moon
The tumbling birds have now sobered
From the leaves of their nursery
Like shadowy, quiet children
She beat out 15,000 entries. Micki, if you're out there, I'd love to hear your story on this.
Anyway, here it is. Take some acid and click play.