“A Million Grains Of Sand” taken from the LP ‘Psychedelic Psoul’ | (Columbia CS 9456) April 1967
The Freak Scene | A Million Grains Of Sand | Columbia | ’Psychedelic Psoul’ was the fascinating and tripped out work of Rusty Evans who had earlier blew the minds of whoever found the time to listen to his earlier recordings as The Deep.
Before the latter, Rusty released a far-out punked up folk-rocker as Ry Cooper.
’Psychedelic Psoul’ was listed as a new release in Billboard trade magazine during April 1967 but that seems to be about as much exposure as The Freak Scene got despite being on a huge label like Columbia Records.
Even the group members are a mystery, although it is probable that Rusty Evans was aided in the studio by Mark Barkan who is listed on the back of The Deep album.
Mark has been mentioned on my site before when I reviewed ’Wait ’Til Tomorrow’, the baroque sunshine pop 45 by The Banana Splits.
’A Million Grains Of Sand’ is an eastern raga psych mindblower that opens Side One of ’Psychedelic Psoul’ and it’s certainly an acid treat.
Curiously, Rusty Evans re-recorded the song for his 1970 album released as ”Marcus”
”Like a million grains of sand
Through the fingers of my hand.
Falling grains are just like dreams,
I wish I could understand”
The Freak Scene | A Million Grains Of Sand | Columbia
Look at it this way. You are young enough to still be anxiety-ridden and you still have enough life in you to realize that whatever the alternatives are, something’s gotta be better than THIS; then you look around, and you know that millions of guys are getting blown apart; and worse, that thousands of guys who might marry your daughter or your sister are sent out to count the miscellaneous arms, legs and toes lying around the place.
Look around. You’ve got to know that whatever it is we’ve got, it’s the best there is right now. You’ve got to know that there had better be something a whole lot better, because this stinks, O.K.?
I’m sorry. The world that has been left to us (those of us who are left) is unacceptable in its present form. Life is unacceptable in its present form. NO, Dammit, don’t pat me on the head and say it’s all part of growing up.
Napalm-smeared
In my mind it is perfectly clear that there is ridiculously little to do about this smog-covered, fallout-ridden, napalm-smeared, bigoted, smelly, illiterate, ill-fed situation. (Did the man say SITUATION? How quaint.)
What are you going to do? Feed all the poor? Heal all the sick? Stop the Gladiators from their appointed rounds? Vote for the liberals? Hell, no! Here’s what you do. You take hold of your head and just lift it, gently but firmly, out of the morass of Situations, Decisions and Protests that only serve to pile up such a residue of muck that it fills your ears, blinds your eyes and stuffs your mouth so you can’t hear, see or speak anyhow.
Yes. Take your head and get out. I know you can’t believe that you have gone absolutely as far up and out as you ever can, so be Psychedelic—let the confines of your mind be taken down brick by brick. I don’t know what you’ll find, but it really might be better than what you’ve got. It’s got to be. —David Rubinson
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