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Thus, here in Glastonburywhile the wreckage of the Age of Aquarius was still being picked over by Manson biographers across the pond, the cool kids quietly gathered, by a big pyramid stage, correctly situated along the Stonehenge ley line for maximum magnetic current, at the solstice, between two hills Shot by Roeg as one of his mystical odysseys, the focus is less on the packaging the hits there's only one, at the end, via Traffic, at night, the climax of the movie, with a whole mass of dancers in the crowd, reveling, each with enough space to swing their arms if they choose, Roeg's camera straining to find them in the swirl of night and more on the mystical currents of the landscape, the joining of locals and visitors, the ease and beauty with which it all comes together.

There's little of the Pennebaker's Monterey Pop habit of framing the painted-faces of lovely birds in fringed sashay there's naught but a fewor the acid-drenched face clawers and drunken bikers of Maysles' Speedway. But we feel the solstice, the moon, and mystical movements of planets past the pyramid; these things the camera of Roeg senses and captures, the way the builders of nearby Stonhenge did. Hardly surprising from the man behind Walkabout and Performance, there's a truly mystical power at work here - and the camerawork itself seems tied to the force of love and magnetic waves in electric union.

Roeg films the throngs arriving from low angle gliding shots, the legs of the comers are long, as if he's a child looking up at some kind of ethereal parents, a time when parents were cool, unworried and free, but not dippy - less hedonists wallowing in Roman orgy and more some mass impromptu tribal coven, the druidic roots of Stonehenge breathing through them, the Green Man coming out of a long sleep, shaking off the Roman occupying sloth like a flaky outer crust, and communicating--through the grass and sky and vibrations in the air.

Festival goers form shapes like moving temporary crop circles in some ephemeral alphabet that transcends any one meaning. Similarly, the film offers no words onscreen or introductions to let us know who any of the musicians are; there are no signs and markers we associate with concert festival films--no indication of drugs or overdoses, no backstage chatter, no overloaded bathrooms and crowded freeway helicopter shots.

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If the guy with the stars in his eyes upper left and the world in his beard is the promoter, his talk of getting a vision of his partner, pulling the car over, calling him and hearing "We have the farm" is delightful, his giddy shrooms-and-lovelight laugh, manic yet rooted. We don't need the backstory. The Green Man was at work, sifting the clouds and conjuring images in minds as needed to get this revelry underfoot, putting glowing embers in the minds of initially reluctant farmer neighbors, and this wild eyed bearded guy is in the circuit.

But work it does, the Green Man acts as a reverse gremlin, causing guys to look again after initially passing an un-tightened screw. It's a perfect festival - the right number of people 7,ishthe right weather for Englandthe right acts including lots of insane howling and warbling and babblethe right time solsticealll humming with love and the power of abandonment - like druidic voodoo.

This is where it all gels: The place gets eerie quiet as the sun sets between two hills; the pyramid stands shadowed.

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A small procession of ominous robed figures are silhouetted against the sky. They light three crosses on the side of the hill. We think of Jesus, I guess, and the Romans again - but whatever, like those crop circles that form in the area, it transcends any one meaning. It just is, and Roeg is the right man for the job. As with his Walkabout and Don't Look Now we're so subsumed by the land and sky it's as if we disappear, our illusory ego and locus of perceptual identity within the film unraveled back to basic elements - fire, air, earth As the solstice light disappears behind the hills and the pyramid stage lights up.

The profound feeling you had while breaking lambs bread, sweeping away of the sticks and seeds, in the Houses of the Holy gatefold in high school suddenly makes sense. How'd I miss this guy? I think I mixed him up in my mind with Arthur Lee. I looked him up: A frequent opener and collaborator with Hawkwind, The Who, Hendrix, etc.

I could swear he wasn't there before, I read loads about Hendrix and remember nothing of him. Is he me from the future, who went back in the past to save Jimi Hendrix, but then forgot, and wound up here? Tall, crazy, beautiful in a masculine deep sense, alive with light and lightning.

His Spotify roster is sparse and inelegant, but hey- somehow stayed pure, maybe be avoiding America's obscene corrupting love to borrow a phrase from the great Nanno Jelkes.

I'd never heard of him before, but there he is, somehow seeming to conduct his band and the moon and the crowd and the fire at the same time, ranting and holding wild weird notes. He's what I strived to be in a younger man's dreams and open mics: But the moon and stars judge me not - why should I?.

Ommmm -- A moment I marked down in my first viewing: He's not worrying about if he felt enough in his singing or the is high enough or how he looks, he's not trying to get higher or to recover from a hangover or all the other things that hung up America at the time. He's just in the zone. Another stand-out is the also-better-known-in-Britain folk singer Melanie belowwhose teary, raspy voice and urgent guitar deliver a strong, moving, dynamic tune "Peace Will Come" that seems to encompass everything within the beauty of the oceanic moment tempered with the foreknowledge of its inevitable passing; and yet, with that anticipation of loss that infects the joy of the moment comes another certainty tempering the sadness with joy: Even the sacked-out under blankets nod their heads and smile.

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She made me long for a second chance, to go to Britain inor just 71 AD, for that matter, to find the people that carried the psychedelic torch far past Altamont and Manson and personal level American demons like mineand may have it burning somewhere still.

Melanie, playing back in time, too, seemed to understand my longing, the rasp in her voice cutting through the decades, assuring me as beautifully and strangely as these peaceful moments came before, they'll come again. Trying to stop them only increases the force with which they inevitably erupt into the collective consciousness. My ugly Americanism yielded willingly to the older alchemical ways of a huge bearded Brit with huge hair and a pungency of patchouli, a weird girlfriend, and--most vitally--a vial of pure delicious liquid LSD around his neck, dispensing drops into the eyes of the willing everyone, me included.

It was 'the good stuff,' pure gorgeous chemical perfection sending us all into wild dances that became -- due to surrender to the movements--elaborate ceremonial snowflake Pollack morphings I could never duplicate or probably even notice their magic in a 'down' state.

I left him, and his posse, after coffee on Sunday, the steam from the cups like Monument Valley smoke signals across the vast expanse of the wooden coffee table, as the music of Dennis Wilson's "Pacific Ocean Blue" played on his expensive perfectly modulated stereo system. I would have stayed forever, but the friends I came with had work Monday.

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I drove back home to suburban NJ without a whimper, realizing--as was my kick at the time--that sacrificing great things in the name of love was tragically beautiful. Leaving the best time of your life for another week at the Ortho mailroom was just part of the game. I kept my holy aura for weeks til it faded. I even started going to yoga, which was hard to find in suburban NJ in In short, I kept the flame And when the same solstice party was held again in the spring we were all excited - I went with such high expectations!

Naturally, it turned on me and I had the terrible bad trip. I felt the sort of cursed emptiness, the 'unable to enjoy the party no matter how high and drunk I got' alcoholic depression Jack Kerouac describes so vividly in the second half of Big Sur.

Maybe I didn't bring enough whiskey, nor did I horde what I did bring. For I was sure I wouldn't need it, so free would I feel. My bottle was all gone in minutes, and the stores all closed and far away and me too high to drive.

The weather was vile. But more noticeably, no amount of whiskey, ecstasy, shrooms, acid, and hash brownies could alleviate that terrible want - the expectations of greatness dashed the moment.

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Instead of bringing the party down the hill to the Ortho mailroom, I'd brought the Ortho mailroom to the party. Isn't that what's happening to Filmstruck? The Mailroom --seeing the party as a distraction of its workers -- has squashed it due perhaps to not exceeding high expectations. Here goes my stress again - the rage against the -- Focus back to me, Erich - the Ommmmmm Let the I am become the Aum We see some couples canoodling, but Roeg films them mainly for the the wine class shaped background behind their bobbing profiles.

With an attendance of only 7, it's easy to see Glastonbury as one of those rare parties where just the right amount of folks showed up, all able to move into an eerie group mind perfection and not step on each other's towels, and so--they move beyond. Roeg captures it all, or some of it. It's okay if he misses important stuff.

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He notices the way a simple rhythm brought in to the camp site by a travelin' group of friends on a drum gradually, casually, builds but not ostentatiously into a little scene happening aways in the middle ground. Roeg's camera 6 feels no need to pick up his tripod and get closer - he's no amateur - not about to chase the willow the wisp, as opposed to find the next one, rewarding the patient with a lens flare or bead rattle that comes to him.

Soon a bottomless freak is dancing on stage wailing and screaming, but to a slowly increasing beat, looking out into the crowd their not gawking or video-phoning but clapping along- the rhythm and the spirit overtaking them like a gentle liberation, naked people roll around in the mud in strange childlike joy--as if the adult hang-ups stem from mom stopping us from wallowing in the mud naked as children, and now- we're finally doing it, and there's no mom to shame us, and all hang-ups are liberated.

We crosscut to the black priest visitor who notes he didn't feel awkward at all, or sense anything pornographic or wrong about it "I was amazed at myself," he says. But he could tell, the naked writhing here is beyond the second chakra and all original sin. It is free of charge, so you won't have to pay for anything on this directory! If you are ready to start the fun, go ahead and join the Panda that Loves Porn.

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