In 1966, it was worthy of the name: few outsiders were even aware of its existence. When it flourished in the spring of 1967, it was seen as a sub-culture of drugs, radical politics and music built around the International Times, Indica bookshop, Oz magazine, UFO, the London Free School, Release, Granny Takes a Trip, the 14-Hour Technicolour Dream and the Arts Lab. To me, the expression referred primarily to the fruits of the energy of one man: John Hopkins. I first met Hoppy in 1964 when, in his photographer guise, he shot the musicians from the Caravan tour for Melody Maker. He looked like the mad ex-scientist he was: wire-thin build, intense brown eyes, unruly dark hair, well-worn jeans and an all-encompassing grin. I got him some tickets for one of our London shows and sealed the friendship by introducing him to a folk club promoter selling a block of very good hashish. Waiting to get back on George Wein’s payroll that summer, I took up residence on Hoppy’s sofa. There I learned about his Cambridge physics degree, his past as a security-cleared technician at the Harwell Atomic Energy lab, his commitment to nuclear disarmament (and the resulting forfeiture of his security clearance), his discovery of Sandoz LSD, and his recent break-up with Gala, London’s most beautiful and wayward model.
