Seattle Sun Newspaper - Vol. 7, Issue 7, July 2003
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STAN'S LOOKOUT
Recalling the 'Great Piano Drop' of 1968
By STAN STAPP
(Editor's note: This column originally appeared in the North Central Outlook on May 2, 1968. Stan was about the age the current publishers of the Seattle Sun are now.)
As predicted in the April 25 Helix, last Sunday's Piano Drop proved to be "the singular musical event of the year." A piano drop, in case you haven't learned by now, is when you take a piano up in the sky with a helicopter and drop it to the ground, close enough for people to see and hear it. Great, eh?
Several thousand hippies and their friends journeyed out to Cherry Valley, near Duvall, on the most beautiful day of the year so far, to participate in the affair. This included picnicking, listening to the music of Country Joe and the Fish, responding to calls of nature amongst the trees, and speculating whether the helicopter pilot could hit his target, a pile of dead trees and stumps.
The most obvious reason for holding a piano drop was that it was a gimmick to attract people to an event to raise money for two of my favorite mediums of information and entertainment, KRAB radio station, and Helix, the hippie newspaper. Would that the Outlook could successfully put on such an interesting and original method of raising a few thousand dollars!
But I suspect that the obvious reason was only incidental to the real reason and that just as many would have turned out, benefit or not, to see a piano drop out of the sky and smash to smithereens on the ground. Now my uptight friends can't seem to understand why anyone would want to witness such an event, and I'm at a loss for words to explain it to them. I think that I understand why, and my wife does, and probably my three kids who went with us to Cherry Valley, and so did all of those who went there.
But this is something that if you don't already have an appreciation for, it is pretty hard to teach. Like trying to explain American humor to an Englishman, or brotherly love to a Ku Kluxer. Unless you learned it at your mother's knee, it's too late.
I know I wanted to go as soon as I first heard about the piano drop, because I'd previously attended several similar events none of which had a dull moment. One was also a benefit for KRAB, the first light show I had ever seen. Another was a be-in at Cowen Park, a farewell picnic for Dr. John Spellman, who was kicked out of the University for his outspokenness. And still another was a party to celebrate the opening of a board house.
Perhaps I have taken to these events because at heart I'm a hippie. In fact, Don Page, P-I marine editor, once described me as the "original hippie." But it's not quite that simple.
If at heart I am a hippie, on the outside much of me is still "establishment." I pay taxes, obey the police, meet a payroll, fight competition, live in a nice home, owe money, mostly hang around squares, sport a crew cut, shower daily, wear shoes, rarely use naughty words, and have never smoked pot or touched LSD.
Still I find hippies and their friends relaxing to be around. I add the words friends, for there are many others like me, who are probably not hippies in the stereotyped sense, but underneath identify with them.
Thus Sunday afternoon, as we approached Duvall, population 455, and witnessed probably the town's first major traffic jam, completely blocking the long concrete bridge (the one which has replaced the old plank bridge that for many years sounded like it was falling down behind you as you drove along), I felt part of a friendly caravan of hippies out on a Sunday lark.
Ahead of us was an old truck. When traffic halted on the bridge, a bare-legged flower girl emerged from the cab, and poured herself a cup of coffee from a thermos. She then walked alongside the truck, until suddenly it started moving faster, and she had to run to catch up (her coffee sloshing all over), until it stopped to pick her up again.
About a mile from our destination we had to park, for the road leading to the farm where the piano drop was to take place was filled with cars and people. Mostly they were young people, college age and high school, but there were some children, and a few middle-aged such as my wife and I. But we didn't mind the hike for the day was pleasant, the air fresh, and the people lively and attractive.
As we neared the scene of the day's activities, we could begin to hear the music. In fact it sounded much better than inside a hall, for as you know, if you've heard rock music close up a little further away would be better. Out in the country, it sounded just great.
The overall scene was of several thousand colorfully dressed people, in every conceivable outfit from mini-skirts to Amish hats for the girls, and with men sporting a wide variety of beards, long hair and curly hair. Yet at no time did they comment on each other's dress, as is common at the dress-up affairs and cocktail parties the rest of us regularly attend. There was no snobbishness nor envy evidenced.
They were swarming all around the amphitheater setting. The target for the piano drop was in the center, surrounded by small rolling hills a perfect spot for the main event. On knoll at the highest part, trees lining the background, sat the helicopter. The pilot and his friend were making last minute checks of the chain that girdled an old upright piano, which was flat on its back.
We talked to the pilot. Yes, he said, they had checked this affair out with the authorities, and had their permission. It was all on private property, which made it OK. No, he had never dropped anything like this before "on purpose." But, he added that he had several times delivered pianos to mountain cabins with his helicopter. Yes, he was going to play it very safe, and at no time would be carrying the piano over the crowd.
The piano had been purchased from St. Vincent de Paul's for $25. And this was to be "the first piano drop ever held in the United States." Possibly the world too, I might add.
The drop by some whimsy had been scheduled for 3:12 p.m., but was delayed until 3:30 to allow the late-comers to get into position. This they did, covering the hillside, shinning up trees, climbing on top of cars.
A few minutes before drop time, spectators were cleared from a wide area, dogs were whistled out of the danger zone by the crowd, a few firecrackers and cherry bombs were shot off to heard the great event, and one lone police whistle brought a round of laughter. An American flag fluttered from a 2x4 flag pole. Another flag with a peace symbol was waved by a spectator, the 'copter arose from its pad as a great cheer went up. It did not circle the area, nor climb to 300 feet as advertised, but from about 100 feet above ground, the swaying piano was dropped to the ground, "plomp," with nary a musical note of complaint.
The big event was over suddenly. Like many other such events, perhaps not quite as exciting as the expectations had been. But not one seemed unhappy, nor complained of being gypped. For most of them, I believe, feel like I do. That is, that the most fun in living comes from enjoying life as you go along, and not in being dependent on reaching a nebulous climax in order to feel fulfilled. Thus the success or failure of the piano drop was only a small part of the day of enjoyment, of which the main part was the communal relationship of the group.
This feeling of belonging is something that we all desire, but so often fail to achieve. Outwardly we profess a closeness to one another, in our churches, schools and other organizations, but inwardly we know that the feeling is false, and that competition, social rank and hypocrisy places a tenseness in the way of achieving true brotherhood. In my own case, I felt under no obligation to any of the others, and they unto me, except in the sense of brotherhood. They didn't care about my dress nor length of hair, and I didn't care abut theirs.
All were polite, docile. Though thousands were there, I did not hear one angry word, nor one mother screaming at her child. There were no cars squirreling around, no tires squealing, no blowing of horns, no outward signs of impatience due to the traffic congestion.
If there were any law officers around, I saw none, though several would have been handy at certain traffic intersections. Otherwise none were needed.
As we walked back to our car, we ran across the editor of Helix, Paul Dorpat, curly black hair and beard, and like many others, stripped to the waist. No, he said, they hadn't cleared up all of their debt with this event, but they'd made a big dent in it.
We made it down the mile-long road faster than the cars, noting our relative position to them by the one car that somehow got into line backwards, and went the whole route that way.