I’m headed back to Denver this evening after a a week in the Bay Area that was part business, part pleasure. The highlight of the trip was a free concert in Golden Gate Park on Sunday commemorating the Summer of Love 40 years ago. I lived in San Francisco for more than 20 years until 1999, and both of my sons were born there, but I was 3,000 miles from Haight Street, working as a lifeguard in the Atlantic City area, during the summer that hippiedom was in full flower. The concert brought together some of the local rock superstars of that era, including my favorite, Lydia Pense, the lead singer for Cold Blood. Her blues/funk/gospel-rock style has lost nothing since I last heard her years ago, and the musicians behind her on Sunday sounded even better than they did in the 1970s, when Cold Blood got its start. Some of her side men looked too young to have been around then, but the new guys could have held their own in any stadium, especially the organist, who showed his chops on a Hammond B-3 that was so amped-up that even the seismologists must have known he was in town.

They put up an amazing wall of sound while Lydia shuckled around the stage, all 60 inches of her, loosening her bones. Even for those who have seen her perform, and who know how powerful her voice is, there was a question of whether she could project it past such a high-energy ensemble. But she did, closing the show with the best set of a day that had included Jefferson Starship, Taj Mahal, and quite a few other worthies. Her amazing voice was beautifully preserved, and my guess is that she only takes it out of its jewel box for such special occasions as rock concerts in Golden Gate Park. I was pleasantly surprised that she has pulled together not just a pale imitation of the old Cold Blood, with its big instrumental sound, but the best bunch of rock instrumentalists that I’ve heard since 1969 ‘ my own Summer of Love on the festival circuit.

Panty Raid

Before the concert, I had promised about a dozen friends that I’d get there early enough to stake out a good space for a large group. When I arrived on the scene around 7 a.m., though, there were only a couple of hundred hard-core tie-dye types and about 30 or 40 vendors setting up a Summer of Love flea market. A few of my buddies didn’t get there till late in the afternoon, and our mostly unused second tarp attracted all kinds of traffic during the day. One grinning drunk with horrendous bruises covering the lower half of his body looked like he’d spent the entire night on the receiving end of rough trade at a San Francisco leather bar. Two young lovelies were careful not to tread on our tarp when they danced, but we invited them aboard, telling them we thought they’d bring us good luck. Not quite. The prettier of the two stripped to her underwear and lay down, a sarong draped over her face. Pervs with cameras swarmed us, and although my brother and I initially blocked their photo angles, it eventually occurred to us that perhaps the young lady wanted to see her almost-naked body on the World Wide Web the next day. I’m sure it’s there somewhere.