Illegal Foreign Object

If you sit quietly enough, you can still feel the reverberation of the Laurel Canyon sound through the trees. It’s a kite-like sound that floats — formless, timeless — but remains as necessary today as when it blanketed much of the Sixties.

It’s a sound that was born out of late-night listening parties at the houses of Jackson Browne, Mama Cass, or David Crosby (imagine focusing your drug-inhibited gaze and seeing that coked-out walrus head between your legs), mid-morning speed-fueled jam sessions between Brian Wilson and Roger McGuinn, oddball genius hangs between Stephen Stills and Frank Zappa (whose duck pond could be viewed from Joni Mitchell’s home), and hundreds of other entanglements of creative explosiveness. It’s a sound that can take you anywhere you need to go (provided you’re willing to let go of the wheel).

I remember sensing the gentle enormity of it all on my first trip to California in 2000. We drove through the area, stopping in the hills to take in the vibe. The sound was still there, lingering in the breeze and songbirds, bouncing off the concrete and multi-million dollar homes.

In the mid-60s, Laurel Canyon was (according to Jackson Browne) one of the few places left in California that still felt “real”. Artists congregated, writing and recording songs that, in any kind of society worth saving, would have changed the world. Instead, the fandom (and artists) grew up to be greedier versions of their parents.

It happens. 

It happened. 

Nero played the fiddle while Rome burned — all we’re getting is former Laurel Canyon interloper Eric Clapton playing the guitar and glad-handing the lunatic fringe son of a mob antagonist.

No, the “California Sound” born out of that mountainous nexus of counterculture didn’t change the world, but it certainly tried. The efforts (however misguided), spawned a musical movement that lives on today in many artists. You can draw a straight arrow from Stephen Stills to Tom Petty to Beck. You’re just a hop, skip, and a jump from the Eagles to Ned Doheny to Father John Misty, Carole King to Fiona Apple, Jim Morrison to Ian Astbury. Jakob Dylan will be forever compared to his father, but it is an ill-fitting suit. Controversial an opinion it may be, but he’s a vastly superior musician than his father. More “important” depends on whom you ask, but he has a far sturdier musical chain link to Bonnie Raitt or Harry Nilsson than dear old Dad.

I recently rewatched “Echo in the Canyon”. It is a must-see documentary about that short time in history (and the mark it left on all future generations of musicians).

A surprising joy sprung from within while rewatching Regina Spektor, Beck, Jakob Dylan, and Cat Power sit around a table, working out the Byrds’ “Wild Mountain Thyme”. I felt a similar, heart-filling joy seeing Jade Castrinos hop up on stage with Dylan and Co. to belt out Byrds and Mamas & the Papas songs. Good Christ, Jade Castrinos can sing.

There’s just so much beauty in the simplicity of a shared musical experience. The voices, laughter, and openness of their hearts took me back to my years of sitting around a room and jamming out a song with friends in much the same way.

It made me tear up. It also made me a little “homesick” (but in a good way) for a time that is long gone. If you’re able, give the documentary a look. It’s a well-made piece about a musically crucial (politically naive) era, created with all the love and respect in the world.