Barry Miles was one of the leading lights in the 1960s counterculture (or underground or alternative society - take your pick; it went by several names, none of them entirely accurate). He was the proprietor of Indica Books, an independent bookshop which specialised in the works of the Beat Generation writers, and co-founder of IT (International Times), the underground’s parish magazine.
As this memoir makes clear he knew everyone and was present at pretty much all the now fabled events and happenings of the era. He was one of the organisers of the Royal Albert Hall poetry reading in 1965. Attended by 7,000 people - and climaxed or anti-climaxed by a drunken Allen Ginsberg - this seems to have been more of a party than a reading; what was happening in the private boxes of the venue was clearly more entertaining than most of the poetry. Miles was also involved in the quintessential underground club UFO - where Pink Floyd made their early reputation - and a happening called the 14-Hour Technicolour Dream at Alexandra Palace in April 1967: ten thousand people, a fairground helter-skelter, a fibre-glass igloo for the smoking of banana skins, psychedelic light shows, and Pink Floyd playing Interstellar Overdrive ‘as the first fingers of dawn entered through the enormous rose window’.
Miles was a close friend of the Beatles, particularly Paul McCartney who designed the wrapping paper for Indica and helped to paint the walls and put up the shelves. McCartney turns up frequently in these pages, usually generously dipping into his finances to bail out IT and Indica yet again. IT was often in trouble with the authorities and running an alternative bookshop in the 1960s wasn’t easy either. Indica was once raided by the police in search of ‘obscene’ books - they didn’t find any - and more regularly by hippies who would grab a handful of books, shout ‘Books should be free, man!’, and then run off with them. Miles says that the theft of stock, by those who believed that property was theft, was the main reason the shop eventually went out of business.
In his introduction he provides a short and factual account of how regimented, illiberal, oppressive and just plain dreary British society was at the start of the ‘60s. He writes: ‘We wanted to change all that. We wanted the Church and state to have no part in personal relations. And once we had got rid of them, then would come the great experiment of deciding how to live’. This is about as much as you get in the way of exposition of the philosophy of the counterculture. In the Sixties is strong on anecdotes but almost entirely free of analysis or even opinion. At various points he makes a striking observation in passing - there were a lot of upper class and even aristocratic types involved, or the rock groups associated with the counterculture didn’t necessarily share its values - which begs further examination. Miles, however, just moves on to his next anecdote about the Beatles or UFO. Similarly, he reminisces about his friendships with writers like Allen Ginsberg, William Burroughs and Charles Olson, without ever actually discussing their writing. The libertarian ethos, and the rejection of the idea that there is only one valid way to live your life, was certainly the most valuable aspect of the ‘60s counterculture, and its most enduring legacy, but Miles seems to find everything equally interesting - including those poor befuddled souls who believed that King Arthur was hovering above Glastonbury Tor in a UFO.
The book is based on journals he kept and is essentially a diary of his life in the ‘60s. As such it is vivid, comprehensive, informative and entertaining; even if it did tend to confirm my belief that the ‘Swinging Sixties’ was really just a few hundred people having a great time in London. Jonathon Green’s oral history, Days in the Life, is, in my view, the definitive work on the counterculture, but this is also well worth reading, not least because it has some very funny stories. My favourite concerns a trendy antiques dealer who lived in a grand seventeenth-century house in Chelsea. He lent the house to some friends visiting from New York. When he returned everything was fine, except he couldn’t find his 3,000-year-old mummified Egyptian shrew mouse. His guests, thinking it was a block of hash, had smoked it.