John Ebert
From Minnewiki
Biography
John acquired the pseudonyms of "Johnny Electric" and "Knobs" for his work with This Oneness electrics and sound equipment. John's inspiration for electronic studies stemmed from his placing a low value resistor across a 9 volt battery wondering what would happen. He was impressed when it quickly heated up, turning to smoke and exploding pieces of hot carbon into his face. It was at this time he realized the power of electrons! He later went on to acquire an Associates of Applied Science, Electronics.
== 1967 == 1967 found John over at Fane Opperman's basement with The Greenlight band formed of high school friends that played in the St. Paul, MN area.
- The West Bank, Cedar-Riverside, Dania Hall, 7 Corners Era
John's time between bands occurred in 1968-1969 during the post- "Summer of Love, 1967" era of baby-doll dresses, headbands, face-paint, "Twiggy", profuse amounts of incense, and cooking oil mixed with food coloring heating up on top of overhead projector light shows by either "Community News Light Show" or "The Magic Lantern Show" (this needs clarification on the actual participants) pulsing to The Paisleys on the stage in the old 1886 "Dania Hall" theater with balconies above Richter's Drug Store historic site of "Old" West Bank before it caught on fire many years later, taking whatever "ghosts" lingered there with it, and no doubt there are still many a person's memories of this place and moment in American history. I always loved climbing the steep front entrance's skinny and creaky wooden stairs to the hall, the old steps were shoe worn to the point of having the look of curved boards with the harder grain resisting erosion. Imagine the numbers of feet passed over them in over one-hundred years! One could also take the metal fire-escape in the back alley up to the emergency exit door on the second floor, and then up the back stairs to the third floor balcony where the light shows were projected from. An obscure band of the era that played that stage was "Poison Bird Pie" (some-one can add names here if they can recall them, was one of them called "Animal"?) It could be considered something of a Liverpool "Cavern" of the Minneapolis music scene at that time and provided a great entertainment anchor for the dropped-out, partially lost but "passionate and very lively" kids of the 60s scene below in the streets, hanging out on the railing on the west side or inside Richter's getting a soda or bite to eat, or waiting for "the clap truck" to come haul them away to the health center for "medical screening" like so many cows on the way somewhere in a stake-truck mooing and cheering and laughing about it all, kids growing up on Jefferson Airplane, Procol Harum, Jimi Hendrix, and Janis Joplin before the heroin end. The book "West Bank Boogie" offers additional detailed historical coverage of the 60s West Bank times and some significant music roots that were forged in that community.
Other local celebrities of the 5th and Cedar scene ran with names such as "Ack", "Skip Jesus", "Heavy", "Screaming Jerry", "Sunshine", "Freaky Paul", and "Rags". There were many more unnamed but just as colorful and I will try to think of some more of them over time, and ask friends of the era for their help. Ack turned out to be an enforcer of justice against hostile citizens that occasionally threatened the hippie street kids of 1967-1968 with violence. One day two guys under the influence of a lot of alcohol from the 400 club started taunting me and crossed the street to Richter's west-side to try and pick a fight. Just then Ack rolled up on his Harley scooter per-chance and saw the bad scene going down. Ack is the personification of the big boned giant Viking with long blond hair, a square jaw, and fists that each seemed to be the size of grapefruits that you did not want to mess with. He kicked the scooter stand down and swung a leg over, and as he made long slow strides over to us, slowly but intensely pulling his black leather gloves without fingers on. When he arrived to our sides, he softly and solidly asked the gentlemen "if they would like to pick on someone more their own size", and suddenly it was over, as they quickly departed. This section on 5th and Cedar probably has many similar stories yet to be told by our Twin Cities citizens if they dare share it with us. I am certain much of the history of the times will never be written for personal or professional reasons.
The Cream (1968)
The St. Louis Park Historical Society has some good music history pages. According to the article they carry on the Cream, they "performed at the New City Opera House on May 5, 1968. The show was fraught with problems – the band was late, the equipment didn’t work, the show was less than an hour, and the musicians made out like they were doing the audience a big favor – but the music was superb. One reviewer said the show was “worth the agony: the ecstasy was delicious.” They may have jammed at Magoo's after the show." I can add that did indeed happen, I was on Nicollet Avenue near Lake Street and went into a club just by chance (it must have been Magoo's)
The Canned Heat and The Bear at a St.Paul concert (update: estimated 1971 now after some discussions with close friends, instead of '70 as before)
John was backstage at a St.Paul, Minnesota concert supporting Joe Scanlon and Rick Youngberg's "Karma" group opening for "Canned Heat". I am having a difficult time locating reference material on just when this happened, any research is welcome, all I can say is it happened and I was there (posted John Ebert, Mar. 24th, 2007). They were in the region at Met Sports Center May 3rd, 1970 and also the May 30, 1970 Kickapoo Creek Rock Festival, Heyworth, IL but I cannot pin down the show date at St. Paul (in the old Auditorium?). My impression is that it took place as an impromptu event with little or very short notice billing as a supplemental show added while they were in town for another show, with only enough audience to fill the floor section attending. The Canned Heat band had such a good time in the dressing room before the show, that they had to take the stage without The Bear (too many festivities for the moment, the room was a party disaster area). Well, they were opening the first song without him and I grabbed a wet towel and a cold ice-water, and gave him a pep talk while he quaffed down some H2O goodness, and I was yelling "Hey Bear! Bear! Wake Up! Bear! Whats the concert gonna be without you, come on! Open your eyes, we gotta go!" He rallied, and I went with him as far as the top of the stage stairs to be safe for him, and he pulled out his harmonica and got out there and joined in the opening few measures just in time to play this: On The Road Again
Infiltrating The Who Security
One day The Who were coming to play at the Met Sports Center in Bloomington (same place I saw The Rolling Stones the first time). I did not have the sense to buy a ticket for the concert in time, so I decided I had to schmooze my way into the show. I got up early that day and headed across town to the arena early, not "too" early. I imagined myself to be a V.I.P. and walked up to the west security door above the vehicle access drive-in and assumed and projected the persona I felt was needed to sell some snake-oil. In appearance, I had long hair to the shoulders, a crisp white dress shirt under a British style black sport coat, faded jeans, my black "Beatle Boots" on, and my roadie attache case with tour stickers pasted all over it. In the CIA, they call that the "litter" that sells the story. I met resistance from the guard, but I persisted, and kept glancing at my wrist-watch, getting all the more impatient as the concert time approached, getting almost frantic and feverish in my behavior with the guard as "I have papers for the concert for the band to sign before they can play!!" and "I have to be waiting in the dressing room with them ready when they arrive or its not going to happen" sort of hype. At the time I felt fairly sorry for the fellow as I could see him starting to sweat and freak out and my intimidation was working, and when I knew one more push might do it but I was running out of momentum, the radio chimed in that the WHO limo was rolling up to the EAST entrance way far away (my good fortune I felt), I said, "Well, look, now its about over here isn't it, and you'll be the one everyone will be looking at, won't you!" and he broke. He said "OK, follow me, quickly!", and I was escorted down to the west dressing room. When we arrived I said, "Thank-you, this will do" and he said "OK, they'll be here in about a minute", and he left in a panic. I was somewhat terrified at this point as well, as I was certain Roger Daltrey and Pete Townshend and company were about to walk in and freak out their "WHO-NESS" on me which was the last thing I wanted. I "quick-timed" out of there as soon as the guard was out of sight. I was a sight, peeking around the corner, listening to the seconds tick off like slow motion klaxons in my head as he left. Being in the basement of the arena, I knew I could find my way into the front row center press area right by the west-side stage, no-one would challenge my credentials as I was already inside. I found and scooted into the press area upstairs, and not too soon, in a few minutes they appeared to the roar of the crowd and opened with the most popular teen tune of all time "My Generation" and later smashed some poor senseless guitar to pieces in a finale. It was over the top and well done, and it was a good day to be me. They have a new album here.
"Wild Wild West" Outdoor Music Festivals
Another part of regional music history revolves around outdoor festivals. I was at the Stevens Point Festival in Wisconsin where, just as the sun was rising, 80,000 hungry people awoke to the Minneapolis band's energy and drive, "White Lightning" (but did not know Bernie Pershey the drummer yet). I had arrived in Wym Willows "choo us" school bus along with a food bin of nuts, raisins, dried bananas and assorted goodies along with about a dozen other mid-western versions of Ken Keseys merry-pranksters. The bus, our base of operations and psychological security blanket, was named "choo us" because the "s" and "l" in "school" and the "b" in "bus" had mysteriously faded out of recognition across the top above the front windows. It was at this festival just before the music, and everyone was just awakening that a simmering free-for-all broke out between righteously outraged hippies and the Chicago Hell's Angels for allegedly violating several sunshine children's human rights the night before. I think it was probably true, certainly a lot of other people present thought so, but that could have also been the way a mob devolves. Truth be known or not, the morning of some kind of judgment and justice began being served up hot with an effective barrage and hail of bottles and rocks from the high ground. The signal was instinctual, no commander ruled the day, the signal to begin was simply "a happening" when a Chicago Hell's Angel flipped-off the assembled young men on the hill. The response was swift and decisive. It was an observers opinion after the fact that the Angels were very, very fortunate to escape with their lives that morning minus the total loss of one hapless motorcycle. That scooter never made it home because the engine would not fire-up in time before the wave of "festers" followed up their blizzard of bottles and rocks by running as a herd down the hill into the waiting wall of Angels with rotating chains, guns and glass bottles. I saw one shot fired and miss, and one rotating heavy link chain find it's hippie, but that was the last lick they got in, the rage exploded, and hand to hand combat ensued, and then Angels began falling. The Angels repulsed the charge fearlessly, but outnumbered by the crush of that human wave, 3 and 4 or more per Angel like very angry bees on some bears. At one point, fear that an Angel was about to die from drowning in a mud puddle there resulted in the intervention on his behalf by other festers as he had completely stopped moving with his face down in the water blowing bubbles until there were no more bubbles left to blow. I was quite fearful for him at that point, and was about to run to his rescue but others nearby also saw the problem and dragged him out of the water. When he regained consciousness, he began crawling in the dirt toward the departing club members. His abandoned motorcycle became a crispy charred bent and twisted chunk of metal when the people were finished with it, it's mud covered owner finally managed to his feet and ran to catch up and jump a ride on the tail of the last scooter in a long line of scooters popping and snarling down the dirt road toward Chicago, with the mob in pursuit a dozen feet behind. The energy of the day at that point had the rarified sense of being the kind any Worf type Klingon would have wanted to be present for. Once the scooters hit the pavement, the captains and their queens put their hammers down hard and opened the throttles wide, and great gaps of distance and thunder suddenly poured out behind and between each of them as they dumped loads of gas into the cylinders, departing quite decisively in a show of mass raw scooter power. The words Rolling Thunder come to mind. Then the day's music started, and the festers retired to lick their wounds and have breakfast, and a few got some victory kisses from their sweeties.
At the 1971 Poynette Rock Festival in Wisconsin, the bands never showed up except The Big Daddy Band, and the people were so pissed that they burned the stage to the ground along with a few semi-trucks and trailers and about a million hot dogs weenies inside one of them, along with all the porta-sans. It may have been an unofficial world record weenie roast. It looked like hell with pillars of smoke rising up all around as the anarchists in the crowd, which seemed like the majority, howled like invisible canine packs hidden in the nearby wooded hills before they struck with fire yet another time, definitely a very, very weird night and day ruled by anarchists and fire-bugs. The equally dumbfounded and amazed State Highway Patrol stood outside the perimeter wondering what to make of it all and finally just waited for it to end. The Big Daddy web-page states the Wisconsin State Police had something to do with the bands not being allowed into the festival, so go figure as to why they would be surprised people who paid for tickets would be upset. The next morning I awoke with pneumonia and a 106 degree fever resulting in a quick trip to the hospital in Madison for help and then 18 hours of fevered perspiring delirium alternating with sudden chills and shaking in a strangers bed kindly surrendered in my time of need.
On a better day, a very good friend and I headed for "Mad Town" or "The People's Republic of Madison" and the "Smoke-In" with Youth International Party co-founder Jerry Rubin in the park by the lake, and little bit of brutal crushing "Earth Ball" (something like this only bigger) with over-zealous stoner long-hairs, later to find and meet old blind musician "Moondog" on State Street, hitch-hiking across America asking for some "bread" donations to help out along the way. Check out the unique minimalist-percussionist-composer Moondog, you have never met anyone like him!
Under the Stars With The Chambers Brothers Band
Other outdoor festivals came and went, but there was a special one that I hitch-hiked to from Minneapolis to Wadena, Iowa standing in the rain 4 hours before I got a ride at one point. It got so heavy I found an abandoned shed and found out the rattlesnakes under the floorboards didn't want to share it with me. I decided it was more enjoyable standing in the rain along the highway. I arrived in time to help build the stage and put out porta-sans from semi-truck flatbeds. Some "buff and cut" young green-beret thought he was God of the Fest, lording it over everyone on how to do this and how to do that and "do it" now, so I conspired with his beret buddy to lovingly capture him for his own good, and so we double team surprised him and tied him up, and stuffed him in his sleeping bag and tent for an hour or so, taking care to ensure he was at all times safe, until he promised to behave normal-like and be one of the people. Once we settled that he'd "been owned", he was a fine fellow from then on and joined the ranks of the peaceable and happy music-festers. He is the only special forces green beret I have ever captured.
Johnny Winter played that August 1970 night along with The Chambers Brothers performing "Time Has Come Today". You can listen to them here or here. That evening I was about to explode from joy when they launched into the Time Has Come Today echo part, it was oh sooo good rolling off the hills and forests in the starlight night concert, I felt it as a glorious moment to be alive and present, worth every rattlesnake, raindrop, and green beret to be there. They recorded an 11-minute psychedelic version of the song, the version they played at the festival. Some radio stations played the shorter 5 minute version but 37 years later on June 26th, 2007, I actually heard the long version played on New York internet station http://wfmu.org! Other websites record The Flying Burrito Brothers, Big Mike, The Everly Brothers, Sons of Champlin, Joan Baez, REO Speedwagon, White Lightning, POCO, and Siegal-Schwall performing there as well.
A Memorable Peaceful Anti-War Music Fest in the Twin Cities
In counter-point, a kite-flying summer day in the sun was held sometime that year or so in the adjoining Minneapolis Sculpture Garden park lands just north of the "Old" Guthrie Theater in Minneapolis, and the chance to hear Richie Havens belt out "Freedom" on his acoustic guitar. I can still hear his raspy but passionate voice singing "Motherless Child" and "Freedom" in the breezy sunshine, and the audience spiritual cheers. Richie has a website where musicians can try out his tuning and guitar tabulature to Freedom. You can actually see him use his unique "thumb-fret" technique in his Woodstock performance. I ruefully missed too many other concerts at the Minneapolis Labor Temple and elsewhere in town, especially the Jimi Hendrix shows.
Two People Highlighted
I was an occasional hang-out friend of Bill Strandlof of The Litter at some practice sessions and at his home. Bill was a gracious, happy, and somewhat soft-spoken person and is missed by his fans and friends. John's neighbor in Roseville, MN was Tim Kehr of Columbia Records and "Kehr Records"
"How I Became Involved in Music"
In August 1968, at the age of 16 going on 17, having just read On The Road and The Dharma Bums earlier in the summer by Jack Kerouac, also "in search of a life worth living", I stuck my thumb out and hitch-hiked to the west coast of America, departing from Dania Hall on 5th and Cedar Avenue with a back pack and two other hipsters (both lost on the road, skinny short "Freaky Paul" to the Lincoln Nebraska turn-off, and the other (name forgotten) lost somewhere along the way somehow, with some foggy notion and no particular plan, but "pointing in the direction of San Francisco", ended up in Sacramento after rides with farmers "like dogs in the wind in the back of their pickups" down to Austin Minnesota, a 2AM ride with 2 outlaw car thieves from Chicago at a sustained 120 mph for hours in the full moon starlight night sky of Nebraska on I-80 (we really covered the miles that night and it was a strangely warming and peaceful womb-like wrap-up in the back seat of that old Mercury thundering across the great plains and the smell of damp night grass in the air) including a freeway-side pee break complete with crickets and starry-blue stars above which are really great balls of fire ever so far-away, where an abandoned, emaciated, and lonely but sweet waggly-tailed basset hound came out of the dark roadside shadows to us. We adopted and loaded him into the Mercury too, headed for a freeway MckeeD's for a sack of burgers and "a better life" with Freaky Paul who loved animals enough to keep him in kindness. After that shadowy night ride and a few hours sleep under an overpass joust north of town (Lincoln, NE), I was awakened by a semi-truck thundering over the concrete bridge above. A quick brush-off of the nights dust and hasty roll-up of my gear to get under way found me in a breathless run west to catch a blue and white VW microbus that could not stop for a quarter mile as it packed to the gills with "love generation" space and time travelers and clouds of cannabis smoke and kind people, strangely followed by a ride with a man and his 45 caliber pistol in a beige Cadillac in the deserts of Utah who claimed he was a policeman but turned out to be a perceived cowardly lying pedophile who claimed he was a cop faced with a nervy kid who would not cave in to his psychological intimidation and implied threats, even more curiously followed up by a friendly ride up the I-5 freeway out of Sacremento, CA with a blonde (male) taking San Francisco 1968 edition white Owsley Acid to Portland, Oregon (In late 1967 Owsley's Orinda lab was raided by police), where some local Diggers found me in the west coast rain and took me in for one night of sleep in a real bed and some hot food where I had the thought I should find out just who the heck this "Owsley" guy was anyway, while they went out for the evening to a 1968 concert in "stump town". With a gap in this story here of a few days, I later arrived back home on my birthday and the opening of the Minnesota State Fair via long haul truck drivers of America over I-94, a happy and changed survivor with a dime in his pocket and a smile on his face about 2000 light years later, and found my folks had bought me a brand new red pearl Rogers drum set from B# Music on Central Avenue, and I then began planning and purchasing my own sound systems to do live production sound work for bands. My folks were sort of sorry for that drum kit for many years to come, as were my neighbors. Thats all for now, but I have a gaps to fill in here from time to time. Peace....Out.
Bands
(aka Goldstreet)
Left to right Back Row: Bernie Pershey, Doug Nelson, Dale Strength. Front Row: cat, Gregg Inhofer, Robyn Lee
