The first time I ever took magic mushrooms was a cataclysmic experience on all fronts. I was in
Snavv’s house in Speke. I was sixteen years old. I’d taken them, of course, with no idea what was
going to happen. I’d been led on by the words of older boys who told me that they made you piss
yourself laughing and see colourful shapes. That was all the endorsement I needed. Where do I sign
up? I have no idea how many I took – it could have been twenty, could have been twenty thousand.
The foul earthy smell and taste and bits of grass made me balk like hell. I can smell and taste it now.
But I persisted – nothing was created without a struggle and I was convinced I was doing something
for the overall benefit of society. Yuk! It was gross. As the psilocybin began doing its thang, I sat in
expectation as the chemicals swirled around my stomach and gave me a feeling I didn’t understand
and slight nausea. This was ok, so far so good. We were watching the telly, the Old Grey Whistle Test
was just starting. It was our weekly dose of the only music that was on tv that wasn’t on Top Of The
Pops. Even if you thought everything on it was shit, you still watched it religiously. I can’t remember
who was on the early bit because the mushrooms were beginning to kick in and there seemed to be
a whole new adventure within the paintwork and the wallpaper. Different things, things I never
realised were in my peripheral vision, all happily co-existing with me and Snavv in his living room.
Sometime into the trip – it could have been twenty minutes, it could have been twenty thousand years – it dawned on me, in my new found psychedelic haze, that I should be in school in the morning. This aroused an idea in me. This idea was, you should go home. Without further ado, I stood up, blurted out my intentions and made for the door. The journey back home was less than
five minutes, door to door. Of course, this seemed to last an eternity. The outside world was Speke,
Tuesday night, dark and foreboding. A teenage sky pilot on the loose, on his own. No direction home. The endless journey gave way to endless thoughts. Impossible improbables racing through every last corner of my mind. I thought I could see someone in the distance, walking along Damwood Road in the same direction. I thought it would be best if I let this “person” disappear from view before I proceeded further. Just in case, y’know? I stood and looked where the garages were, down the back of Snavv’s house, while the ground undulated and the back wall came out to meet me, only to recede back into its position as quickly as it came. This seemed to take forever. It
probably lasted moments. By the time I got home, I was flying, man. When I got in, everybody was in bed. I switched on the tv and the Old Grey Whistle Test was still on. The Average White Band were
on playing their unique brand of Caledonian funk, which didn’t sound too unpleasant. It did however
sound incredibly loud, so I turned it down. Then again and again, till it was barely audible. There was
an interview with a young Scotsman with bright red hair and beard. Even through the barely audible
telly, I couldn’t understand what he was saying. Didn’t have a clue what language he was speaking,
let alone what he was talking about. In the confusion, I switched off the telly and went into the
kitchen and tripped out. It was bliss street. It was deathly silent. The absolute familiarity of my own
home had been shredded and reassembled as a Moroccan caravan, an Indian temple, a trillion exotic
things and places and spaces replaced the room I knew so well. When I turned out the light and lit
the ring on the gas cooker, the illumination was too much. It was one of the most beautiful things I
have ever experienced. Harry Nilsson came into the picture when I thought I needed sound. Back in the prehistoric world of 1978, the only source of musical entertainment after midnight was 1! 9! 4! Radio Ci-ty! and the Johnny Jason show. Johnny did The Peaceful Hour 12-1am, whereby love lorn teenagers and the girlfriends of the guests at HMP Walton would send in requests to express their undying love in musical form. At that time it was usually “Wishing On A Star” by Rose Royce or “Baby Come Back” by Player. The following hour, he would play odd shit – “new wave” things like Ian Dury and oddly Buzzcocks’ “What Do I Get?”. In among all this and inside my tripping head, he dropped
“All I Think About Is You” – it was like a deadpan angel reading the contents of his soul to me. And the sound was like nothing else on earth at that time. It was serene, gorgeous and utterly captivating. Music like I’d never experienced before. Where and how did this incredible item of profound beauty enter my life? This wasn’t supposed to be, I was sixteen years old and had surrendered myself to the void of punk. “Shite” like this was supposedly anathema. Was it the drugs doing this? And what would Joe Strummer say if he found out? My newly forming mind was awash
with more questions than I had answers to. And all the while, Harry is still bearing his soul, telling me
about the pain of life I wasn’t supposed to give two fucks about. This was quite possibly the biggest
conundrum of my life to date. What would happen if the mushrooms wore off, I went to bed and woke up immersed in soft rock and FM radio slush? The consequences would and could be disastrous. As the trip wore off and the colours flew away from me, I decided – it being late and all – I should go to bed. At the time, I shared a bedroom with my elder brother. He was in bed, asleep and snoring. I laid in bed and watched as the last vestiges of my profound experience ebbed away into the night. It had been an incredible few hours, in which a door to somewhere else had been opened and I realised that everything I knew was wrong. Of course. As for Harry, he would come back in later life, with a different tale to tell. “All I Think About Is You” is still beautiful and serene. It may not
be the greatest record ever made, it probably wasn’t even the best record I’d heard that week in 1978, but it has a place as one of those profound, touching moments in life that is etched into the soul and never, ever goes away. Thanks to Snavv, Johnny and Harry for a wondrous moment from my teenage years. X
Nilsson – All I Think About Is You. (from) Knnillssonn. RCA Victor AFL1-2276. June 1977.
bernie@happening-things.com 