Devils & Blue Dresses: My Wild Ride as a Rock and Roll Legend

had no idea.
    John Sinclair was a believer in revolutionary change. I am convinced of that. Today, as he wanders the world having lost Detroit, having lost New Orleans, and now trustingin Amsterdam, he is a scholar. When he knew me and was my manager, he gave me gifts like
The Little Red Book
that contained Mao Tse-tung’s six essays on military war. This was an account of the Red Chinese army and the campaigns against the Nationalist Chinese army, and the British and the Japanese in their campaigns through Burma and China. I, without John’s knowledge, balanced that against
Stillwell, the American Experience in China
, written by the great American general of the same name in which he described the very same conflict. It was great fun.
    John saw in me what I saw in him. Opportunity. Here was a chance for John to legitimize the political, musical arm of the commune with a genuine American rock ‘n’ roll star. I saw it as a chance to bring credibility to my standing with the “righteous and hip” crowd. It was a monumental blunder. In spite of that, there was an element of danger that was exciting, and everyone I associated with at that time pushed him- or herself toward that danger shielded by their childish and innocent politics.
    The band Detroit, though seriously wounded, was still together and we geared up for the road one more time. Our road crew was from Ann Arbor, and where we used to haul our equipment and stacks of
Creem
magazines, we now hauled our equipment and huge black plastic lawn bags filled with marijuana for sale and distribution.
    I had evolved to a dream-like state where the first thing I did in the morning, before even getting out of bed, was light up a joint. I can’t honestly be certain, but the band Detroit seemed more powerful than ever, and more dangerous. The “What, me worry?” attitude that resulted from the constant pot and heroin use left me inattentive to everything around me. I didn’t care how I looked or even if I had clothes to wear. Whenever the occasional gig appeared we all attacked it with an energy that could only have come from men trying desperately to free themselves from unseen restraints. And, the press no longer gave us the national attention we had become accustomed to with Barry Kramer.
    John suggested that Kim and I move into the carriage house behind the mansion, but I declined when I discovered I would have to contribute twice as much to the commune as I was paying in rent for our apartment.
    John had a great abhorrence of racism and found it difficult to be around certain members of the band Detroit, due to their biased ignorance. John was a self-made, complex man with many conflicting goals, but he was disciplined. I could not tell whether he genuinely liked me or not. It could have simply been my usefulness to his cause. We have in these times today carried on as if we were friends, but in his assessment of his journey and his perception of his reality as a major player in the literary world, he has distanced himself from all references to me.
    In the short year and some months that had transpired while with John, America had come to some conclusions about the “social revolution” and decided that, eventhough it had been a hell of a ride, we wouldn’t be repeating it soon. The war in Vietnam was still going strong, but you could now sense the lack of resolve in the public will to continue. The deadly tragedy at Kent State University, in which students were fired upon and killed by the National Guard, brought a sobering new look to the national angst over the war.
    Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young were the quickest of the musical stars to exploit the dastardly deed for monetary gain. They claimed it was to raise public awareness and bring about political change. I had been completely schooled about music and politics, and it looked to me that maybe they were going to give the profits from the sale of the song “Ohio” to relatives of the dead and wounded students. Or was I wrong?
    The Michigan State Police kept what they called the “Red Files,” red being equated to communism. John was in them, and by association, I was too. Surveillance was pretty much wherever we went but it wasn’t as intense around my activities as it was for the commune. At first I had the romantic notion that being a communist was heroic. I thought it gave just deserts to my country for allowing private industry, in my case the record companies, to rip me off for the