Years ago I sat down, pre-Google or Wikipedia, and attempted to find all the acid-related casualties from the ‘60s that had been popular musicians, a harrowing pursuit that ended when I go to around ten or so lost souls: Syd Barrett, Brian Wilson, Roky Erickson, Peter Green, Brian Jones, Arthur Lee, Tawl Ross, etc… One of the lesser-known figures, outside of heady music circles anyways, was the sad tale of Skip Spence, one-time drummer for the Jefferson Airplane (only on their first album) and guitarist & founder of the biggest “should have been huge” psych rock crew from the ‘60s: Moby Grape. He spent a good majority of his adult life either being involuntarily committed to mental hospitals or existing in a drug-induced stupor (often both I’d assume), yet he was considered by many notable peers to have been one of the most talented prodigies around, previous to his breakdown anyways. One has to wonder, given what we now know about the “care” individuals received in such institutions back then, if Skip was merely on a heavy bummer before being locked up, but after enough Thorazine and electric shock treatments the guy was blown for good---and how many others perished to similar fates, kids who may very well have just needed some time & care to help them come back down to Earth. Who can say though, I suppose the guy could’ve truly gotten stuck in some sort of psychic feedback loop, “…what a difference a day has made, what a difference a day has made; what a difference, and more of the same…is it forever ever, that’s the part that blows my mind…try some today now baby, try some now…” Skip’s approach to the guitar, and pop music in general, remains just as fresh and original today, shining beams of light cast before the long dark night.
