At some point during each day of the best rock festival I’ve ever attended, 1991’s International Pop Underground Convention in Olympia, Washington, a guitar player would gaze purposefully at his or her instrument, pluck its six strings in turn — bung, bong, bing, bang, skrknkxgg!!!, bung — and then, satisfied despite the painfully audible evidence, start the next song.
Articles by Ira Robbins
Among cultural historians, it has long been an article of faith that the ’60s dream died in an ugly bar fight at Altamont Speedway in December 1969. Given the evidence, it’s not a bad guess.