On a sparkling 1967 June afternoon on Mount Tamalpias, I went with a college friend to the Fantasy Fair and Magic Mountain Music Festival. The Fair was a prototype for all multi-act outdoor rock and craft festivals that followed, including Woodstock. The headliners at the two-day event were Dionne Warwick, The Doors, Jefferson Airplane, The Byrds with Hugh Masekela, Captain Beefheart & the Magic Band, Tim Buckley, Every Mother’s Son, Steve Miller Blues Band, and Country Joe and the Fish.
My friend’s rowdy 17-year-old younger brother, new to me, showed up with several sinister figures in black—we would soon enough call them Manson types—acting peculiar, stoned on some powerful, unnamed drug. The next day, I got a phone call. I learned to my horror, the brother was dead. There’d been a “bad trip.” It was all very mysterious, and if the police ever asked, he said, I knew nothing. I never spoke to or saw my “friend” again.
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