The hippies were responsible for an awful lot of old bollocks but arguably their worst ever idea was the tragic belief that the cheesecloth shirt and dope could somehow coexist harmoniously.

What the fuck was cheesecloth anyway? I mean, it smelled pretty ripe, especially after wearing it for four months' straight in a squat, but was it really clothing made out of cheese? And if so, er, why? Perhaps we will never know. But certainly, Jah never meant for that fragile, gossamer-like material to come anywhere close to a big ol' doobie on the verge of falling apart, with a bright red cone of hot ash dangling precariously from the end. Unfortunately, that was pretty much the standard uniform of the day – shirt made of cheddar, joint made of skins, everything else optional – and when the two came into contact, as they inevitably did, the effects could be spectacular. Not to mention incendiary.
One second, our serene bearded friend would be toking deeply on the international herb; the next a strange expression of bewilderment would take over his face; and then, without any further warning, he would suddenly begin leaping around and shrieking, as a lick of flame shot up from his midriff and smoke began pouring out of his armpits.
Why do you think so many of the crowd at Woodstock ended up naked in the water?
Yeah, it was a fantastic scene alright, the old hippie self-immolation, and about as close as we used to get to a decent light show back in the early days of the rock festival.

Gushing Piece

This unaccustomed bout of nostalgia was brought on by reading a piece in one of the Saturday supplements about the rash – whoops, more memories! – of rock festivals set to break out this summer in our little, green isle. "You've never had it so good," was the subtext of an all too gushing piece which made bold to claim that it had all begun with Slane way back in the mists of time. Or 1981, if you prefer. Well, frankly, Sam snorted at this. Truth is that yours truly can recall being at a proper rock festival in the Phoenix Park in Dublin at least six years earlier. There must have been literally tens of people there and the headline act – now that I think about it, the only act – were northern prog rockers Fruup. Or was it Frupp? No, it was Fruup alright. You don't forget a great name like that.
I well recall too that the Irish Independent carried a nice little colour piece on the event the next day, in which the uninitiatecould learn that one of the musicians in Fruup was very proficient on "teaboards". Well, shit, yes – if his shirt was made out of cheese, I suppose there's no reason why he shouldn't have been able to pour his instrument out of a pot. So let's see – six years before 1981 gives us 1975. That's right. Patti Smith was dreaming up Horses, the Ramones were backing out of the garage, the New York Dolls were already old hat and Handsome Dick Manitoba and his fabulous Dictators were about to be loosed upon the world. Or, at least, the Bowery.
And here in Ireland we were sitting cross-legged in the open air listening to Fruup, and thinking about setting ourselves on fire, if only to stay awake. But then, as my old mucker Bill Graham used to say, the sixties only happened in Ireland in the seventies, so that might also explain why one of the star attractions at the nation's first real proper rock fest – in Macroom in 1977 – was a band called Nutz.
Yeah, Nutz. England had The Sex Pistols, The Clash, The Buzzcocks, The Jam and The Damned and, here at home, we were sitting cross-legged in a field checking out Nutz.

Unstoppable Inferno

On the upside, the headline act that day was Rory Gallagher, a man who could eat punk rockers for breakfast, and then pick through the bones with his old mucker – and mine - Muddy Waters. Of course, Rory favoured the heavy-duty lumberjack shirt over the wimpy cheesecloth variety, which was just as well since one or two licks from his axe would have been enough to set off an unstoppable inferno had it come in contact with something suitably inflammable.
As it was, those up near the front were happy enough to escape with singed eyebrows. Yeah, Rory was the man, alright, and Macroom was the real root point for all the fab gigs that will sprout up around the countryside like magic mushrooms this summer.
Oh, but you'll all have a great time. You'll have your perfect sound systems. Your special bus service. Your sunscreen and folding chairs. Your vast video screens. Your 57 varieties of laminates. Your range of exotic beers. Your colour-schemed leggy lovelies leaping out of funky SUV's to promote the wonders of KissAss FM. You'll have all that and more but, as long as you live, you will never ever know the experience of having your ears bled raw by Nutz while your eyes witness the incredible sight of a thin, hairy, naked man running for the nearest river with tongues of flame protruding from the top of his head.
God, but you're fucking lucky.