Life in the Elevators
By D. DeWitt Johnston
Book 1, Chapter 29

New beat. Paradiddles, ratamacues, and flams. Space/time continuum. Chronosynclasticinfindibulum. I like being defined by what I create. I contrast what went on before with what I am now which gives me the feeling that I am controlling, no, not controlling, but a feeling of being oriented relative to my own destiny, which I know is a fantasy, but then so is art. New beats give a hint of what is yet to come, though I know it is only an illusion. To create this kind of someplace, you really do have to know what you are doing to get it right. I never choose a beat unless I am prepared to live with it forever. I becomes my good friend. It becomes an enduring part of my repetoire. Everyone has these sort of good friend characteristics in their subconsciousness, don't they at least in their daydreams or nightdreams? Creating music is just like dreaming. It is the artist who is totally unfettered with a pure imagination who will turn an ordinary event into an imaginary concept resulting in an exquisite work of art. It is the artist's way of saying "I am" before being pulverized into cosmic dust.
A good man is hard to find. A good friend is one who has good intent. There are two types of people...nurturers and anihilators. Nurturers will cultivate the essence of your being but anihilators will poison your soul. Tommy Hall is a good man, a nurturer. He, his wife Clementine, and her son Roland moved to Texas from San Franciso after the gigs at the Avalon Ballroom and Philmore Auditorium where the Elevators played with bands like the Jefferson Airplane. There were alot of great musicians living in the Bay Area along with alot of young people who had left the suburbs in search of their destinies. Call them what you may, hippies, beatniks, bohemians, gypsies, or the gathering of the tribe, they were the last of the American dream and a dying breed because they still had hope for a bright future.

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'Chapter 30'