Once upon a time, in a land far away… the land is San Francisco, where I lived at the time. I lived one street down from Haight-Ashbury (if you’re 45 or 50 or over, you’ll have heard of the street) and a 5 minute walk to Golden Gate Park. So one random day, me and my ex went on a walk and ended up on Hippie Hill, where everyone brings drums and gets stoned in the middle of the day (not sure if that still happens now). However, this day, we sat on a lawn full of hippies, more of them than usual, younger than usual… but after a moment, I noticed that these hippies were fake ones. Not dirty, not high, not smiling at nothing, not nodding to some unheard music, not washed out and older, and glaring at us… what the hell? Shiny hippies in spotless rags?
Then we noticed the signs. Something like, “We’re filming a music video here and if you show up, you might be in the video.” Well, okay, then. California is full of that kind of thing, especially the closer to LA you go.
Then FUCKING CARLOS SANTANA comes out onto the lawn, everybody rushes in, and I get a totally uncalled for, random-ass, free Santana mini-concert right then and there. Oh my god, he is good. Almost transcendental. This was witnessed by sooo many people, yet I can’t find that video. It’ll have to live on in my memory.
So that’s how I got introduced to Santana’s music.