Shrine Auditorium packed to overflow � oozing, man, oozing acid, mescaline � potsmoke rolling like the fucking place smoulders beneath a stack of burning rubber. Martha and I stumble across undulating oceans of stoned bods: up on the mezzanine. We need a sense of the band through a haze and from a distance. Had we been straight when we arrived we could easily contact a buzz just from lingering in this huge whale�s belly of glazed hippies here to worship the Iron Butterfly � to trance out on their lofty long-drawn-out mega-hit �In A Gadda Da Vidda.�

But we are here on assignment: Shooting album photos, not tripping.

On stage, my job is to facilitate Martha with whichever piece of camera equipment she needs. At the snap of a finger. Uhhh�hell, I hardly know where I am: suddenly feel I�m floating � smack in the middle of wild-ass music men, sound level one trillion, engulfed by the glare of bright lights, more like I�m not here at all, yet wandering around like my bod just landed on unknown space � NO gravity. Just a fucking spaceman and these guys�I can touch them, I am touching them: smelling body heat; they have not a clue I exist. And I�m beginning to wonder. But I�ve got a job to do�

So Martha shoots, shoots, shoots, shoves expended rolls into my bag; I'm doing my best to hang onto my head � then WHAM! Her tired old 35mm Nikon shutter hangs up. I�m pissed she chose this stupid fucking dinosaur.

She yanks my arm: We split through the back stage door.

I�ve left the top down on the Porsche: too gung-ho and high to believe anyone in this hippie congregation might abuse it.

Each of us plays cowboy as we leap the doors.

Still pounding from the boom of level-trillion speakers, wind fights my eardrums, stings my face, blasts through my unruly beard as we burn out and speed away, Martha�s long hair and mine, like seaweed battered in a bumptious wave, down the freeway to the all night pro camera shop in Hollywood to rent replacement equipment.

We squeal and scream like our hearts are on fire: Recklessly head back into the frenzied madness�drown ourselves.

Onstage.

In A Gadda Da Vidda.

I am the drum.

© 2006 Laura Hird All rights reserved.