Chasing the white rabbit

A psychedelic trip around the world

Warning: this piece contains references to drugs and good music

Music is like pollen, dusting the bumblebee’s haunches; its influence can be felt beyond the flowers of our own fenced gardens. Psychedelic rock was not confined to the fluorescent walls of a Ken Kesey LSD-fuelled house party but was a phenomenon that spread far and wide during the 1960s, flooding the world’s ear canals with its perception-altering sound. From Argentina to Zambia, its impact was felt around the globe. The songs of Jimi Hendrix and The 13th Floor Elevators, for example, were the Médecins Sans Frontières of the music world, providing aural aid to the people who needed it most. Whether embroiled in war or being squashed beneath the heel of dictatorship, the shoots of San Francisco gave the people a voice, a 12-string sword with which to fend off oppression. 

By its very nature, psychedelic rock is anti-oppressive. The music invites you to unscrew the bolts from your mind, to carefully unpack the batteries from your consciousness and let your spirit drift. There are no boundaries, no genre constraints, no written rules. Only interpretation. A deeper understanding of the world around us.

As Kesey once said, “since we don't know where we're going, we have to stick together in case someone gets there.” So join me in my riverboat as we float downstream...

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Psychedelic rock first made its way into Cambodia via the airwaves of US armed forces radios in neighbouring Vietnam. Phnom Penh of the late ’60s was a car mechanic, looking beneath the bonnet of British and American music and replacing the engine with its own unique version of Khmer-chedelia. There’s a reason why Drakkar’s Bang Chhub Thveu Khos Hoeuy has echoes of Donovan’s Season of the Witch. Just as the former wouldn’t quite look out of place on an album by The West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band.

The melodic purr of Cambodian rock comes from the innate musicality of its culture. The chord sequence in Sarawan Chhan Penh Boromei gives the song a distinctly psychedelic lick of paint, though the percussive guitar riff mimics the roneatek (a xylophone) of classical Pin Peat music and the call-and-response vocals are typical of traditional Khmer music. The country has a long history of melody. Centuries before George Harrison had learned to play the sitar, Cambodian music was already heavily influenced by the indigenous tribes of India, China, and the ancient Khmer Empire. Was Cambodia a natural fit for psychedelic rock or vice versa?

Certain grapes have achieved this global spread in a similar way. The likes of Chardonnay and Cabernet Sauvignon - both French in origin - can be found in most wine-producing countries. This has proved somewhat divisive, with indigenous grapes often grubbed up in favour of ‘international’ varietals because they are more commercially viable. Some winemakers argue that if the fit wasn’t right, then the wine wouldn’t work. The United States’ invasion, in both military and musical terms, directly influenced the Phnom Penh pop scene, but the foundations were already in place. The country’s traditions allowed psychedelic rock to make a home out of Cambodia in the same way that climate, soil, and the grape’s natural adaptability allowed Chardonnay to succeed in places like Western Australia. Vine cuttings smuggled in the suitcases of opportunistic migrants thrived in their new surroundings, just as the music did too.

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If Cambodia was a car mechanic, then Brazil was a backstreet surgeon, performing a laparotomy on the belly of psychedelic rock and pop; it would shuffle the organs, haphazardly attach a couple more for good measure, before suturing the incision with a thread of Brazilian culture.

Os Mutantes’ eponymous album of 1968 is the epitome of this ragbag rock. The trio from São Paolo were a key part of Tropicália, an artistic movement that was founded on the belief that Brazil’s greatest strength lay in its ability to ‘cannibalise’ other cultures, as set out in the 1928 Cannibalist Manifesto. In this instance, Os Mutantes stitched together Brazilian and African rhythms, all the while concealing a heart of Anglo-Americanism beneath its patchwork rib cage. Aside from some post-operative bruising, the body of work appears to be that of a classic rock album. There are heavily distorted guitars, ribboned melodies, and carefully considered harmonies. But all is not as it seems. Its innards have been reworked to the point that it’s no longer the same person. Or that it’s still even human.

There are similarities here with Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc. The semi-aromatic grape variety, which has Bordeaux on its birth certificate, forged a new identity on New Zealand’s sun-soaked South Island. It went from awkwardly pretending to look at its phone in the corner to being the life and soul of the party, showing off its tan-lines and new tattoos. Though its heritage remains, just as rock is still the driving force behind Os Mutantes, it has established itself as a style of wine in its own right, as being distinguishable from its parents, while still having its mother’s eyes and its father’s chin.

Outside of Europe, generally speaking, winemaking laws are less restrictive, allowing more creativity and greater freedom of expression. Tropicália sat in the demilitarised zone between the brutal, patriotic military and the hopeless, anti-imperialist bourgeois. Its artists looted any motifs that weren’t nailed down, such as elements of musique concrète to further underline their dissidence.

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Music in all its forms is much like a family recipe. A product of hand-me-down ideas and inventions, which constantly evolve as they are sifted through the fingers of generation after generation. Each first-time cook, each up-and-coming composer adding their own interpretation to create something new - the caterpillars of the past becoming the butterflies of tomorrow.

Wine, too, is made to a recipe. Whether it’s a familial formula or not, winemakers adjust their recipes to suit the climate and the consumer. Adaptation and interpretation are paramount. The best winemakers are never complacent. They don’t have an overdependence on previous processes, but instead ask themselves how can I improve? How can I make this in my own image?

Unfortunately, we’ll never know whether or not the wine industry has taken lessons from psychedelic music. If they haven’t, then they probably should. The musical pathfinders of Benin, Chile, and Turkey, or the innovators of Nigeria, Lebanon, and Yugoslavia all shared the same influences yet they did not stand on ceremony. They weren’t content with simply replicating their fellow British-American musicians, but instead interpreted the music in their own way. That is the essence of psychedelic rock, and it should be the essence of winemaking at its very best.