Soft Machine

Picture yourself in, of all places, Flint, Michigan, about a year ago, in a big smelly auditorium, sitting, with a few thousand other people, at a Jimi Hendrix concert. You’ve just endured a couple of local groups, and you’re waiting for the next band to start, some English group you’ve never heard of called the Soft Machine. Somebody’s been reading William Burroughs, you think. How underground. Well, the curtain opens, and there are three people sitting motionless. Just sitting. You notice the drummer first, blond, and looking really stoned, or perhaps merely insane. The organist is wearing an odd hat and seems quite evil. And the bass player just sits there.

All of a sudden there’s a loud deep drone and some high whining voice with a million unearthly overtones, and then things start crashing and pounding and pulsating and throbbing, and by the time you become conscious again, Hendrix’s bellydancing and contortions are rather dull, and you realize that the Soft Machine is the most exciting group you’ve ever heard.