Release date: November 2009
Big Yellow Taxi/Bony Marony Lyrics & More
Cactus Tree Lyrics & More
The Gallery Lyrics & More
Hunter Lyrics & More
My Old Man Lyrics & More
For Free Lyrics & More
Woodstock Lyrics & More
Carey/Mr Tambourine Man Lyrics & More
A Case of You Lyrics & More
The Circle Game Lyrics & MoreTHEN
October 16th, 1970, 8pm. Night has fallen and it's dark outside the Pacific Coliseum, Vancouver's largest concert arena, but inside all is bright and tinged with the adrenaline buzz of ten thousand ticket-holders. A pungent potpourri of patchouli, sandalwood and Acapulco Gold is wafting through the stadium. My mother flanked by my fifteen-year-old brother and me, is sitting in the first row of chairs lined up in front of the stage. Every seat has been taken, and those unwilling to sit in the stands are plunking themselves down in the aisles and on the floor in front of us, with scant resistance from volunteer ushers.
Shortly after eight the house lights dim and a raucous cheer erupts as Terry David Mulligan, dj of local rock station CKVN, saunters onstage. The whole arena is humming, vibrating with anticipation. I slip off my chair and slide into the crush of bodies on the floor. A shiver of expectation shakes my whole body. Can this really, finally, be happening?
When my father said he was going to organize "a rock concert" I thought he'd gone out of his mind. Dad had never organized a concert before, and the thought of my middle-aged father dealing with rock stars was just sad. Besides, it was absurd to think that anyone would play for free for an obscure little group which a local journalist had sniggeringly characterized as a handful of "eco-freaks and beardies".
"I'd like to introduce... Mr. Irving Stowe."
Dad is a big man, nearly six foot, but I don't think I've ever seen him stand so tall. He's wearing a long-sleeved button-down Brooks Brothers shirt left over from his trial lawyer days, which I've tie-dyed. The thick white Egyptian cotton took the blue dye exceptionally well, and the cloth is streaked here and there with pale lines like trailing balloon strings. Shapes reminiscent of clouds hover here and there in clusters. It looks like he is wearing the sky.
"By coming here tonight you are making possible a trip for life, and for peace."
His resonant voice rings out into the cavernous space. "You are supporting the first Greenpeace project: Sending a ship to Amchitka Island to try to stop the testing of hydrogen bombs there or anywhere!" Applause explodes all around me, and I smile up at Dad, knowing he can't see me in the that blaze of light, and then tears blur my vision and I can't see anything anymore. It's the proudest moment of my fourteen-year-old life.
It all started at the end of the summer of '69.
The Sixties were drawing to a close. All over the globe people had taken to the streets, marching against a nuclear arms race that jeopardized the planet, demanding civil rights and repudiating the Vietnam War. Women turned gender roles on their heads and gays burst out of legally enforced closets. Revolution was the order of the day.
In Vancouver, Canada, my idealistic parents stood on the shoulders of Mahatma Gandhi, Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King, dreaming of a world where revolutions were crafted from velvet instead of steel. As members of the 'Society of Friends' (Quakers), a pacifist sect with a long tradition of intense social activism, they progressed from dreaming to action. Among their other causes was an underground railroad which helped Vietnam war resisters find shelter in hippie hangouts on Vancouver's Fourth Avenue, a.k.a Haight Ashbury North.
Teens like me gravitated to 4th Avenue too, peering shyly into head shops, fingering turquoise in the House of Orange bead shop and flipping through stacks of LP's at Rohan's Records. My family downed its first vegetarian curry and drank chai at the Golden Lotus. "Peace", everyone said, flashing "V" signs and radiant smiles. The anthem of the Sixties, the Beatles' song "All You Need is Love," lulled us all into a sleepy euphoria of innocence and hope.
But before the decade ended, the bliss of Woodstock would be shattered by murder at Altamont while the Rolling Stones played on. Casualties in Vietnam would escalate into the hundreds of thousands. And on Amchitka Island, 4,000 kilometers from our hometown, the U.S. Atomic Energy Commission would drill deep into one of the most seismically volatile regions on the planet, preparing for a series of nuclear weapons tests.
My father was incensed when he heard about the atomic experiments on Amchitka Island. Seismologists were warning that any sub-surface blast - nuclear or otherwise - in the tectonically unstable Aleutian Island Chain could initiate earthquakes and tidal waves all over the Pacific Rim. And Amchitka was a dedicated wildlife preserve, world renowned as the site where sea otters - hunted to near extinction by the beginning of the twentieth century - had first begun to recover. When Dad heard that sea otters were washing up dead on the shores of Amchitka with their eardrums split by trial blasts, he exploded in his own carefully controlled way. He grabbed a pen and scrawled a petition to "Stop the Bomb!". Then he stormed downtown to the US Consulate and stood outside in the rain, collecting signatures.
Meanwhile, journalist Bob Hunter was writing in his environmental column in the Vancouver Sun that the U.S. was playing "a game of Russian roulette with a nuclear pistol pressed against the head of the world". On October 1st, 1969, Hunter and my father stood together on a makeshift stage at the Peace Arch border crossing in Blaine, Washington, addressing six thousand angry students, housewives, clergy, anarchists and other disparate groups. By the end of "Operation Borderclose" the crowd had forced all traffic to a standstill, effectively closing the Canada/US border and repudiating the noble sentiment, "Brethren Dwelling Together In Unity" - engraved upon the Peace Arch monument.
Similar, smaller protests erupted at customs checkpoints all across Canada. In vain. Less than twenty-four hours after we hoisted "Don't Make A Wave" signs at the Peace Arch, a 1.2 megaton blast ripped through pristine Amchitka Island. The Atomic Energy Commission promptly declared the experiment a success and scheduled a five megaton test for the fall of 1971, two years hence. Code-named "Cannikin", it would carry more than four hundred times the power of the bomb that leveled Hiroshima.
My father gathered a small but potent group of activists to form the "Don't Make a Wave Committee" (DMAW). The first to join were fellow Quakers and ex-Americans Jim and Marie Bohlen. Jim was a visionary engineer who'd worked on nuclear weapon delivery systems before becoming radicalized and shifting his focus to environmental engineering. His wife Marie was a respected nature illustrator. Both were ardent conservationists, who - like my parents - believed in the Quaker practise of "bearing witness" to wrongdoing. But how could DMAW bear witness to nuclear tests on an island located roughly halfway between Alaska and Russia?
Marie casually came up with the solution one morning over breakfast:
"Why not sail a boat up there?"
No sooner had she spoken then the phone rang. On a slow news day it wasn't unusual for journalists to call local activists, looking for a story. Jim, hearing a reporter on the other end of the line, boldly improvised a plan to sail a boat to Amchitka. The next day the Sun printed the story as if the voyage was a done deal.
Dad called an emergency meeting of DMAW. Everyone approved of the plan, despite the fact that DMAW had no money, no boat, and hardly any of its members had ever sailed before. As the meeting drew to a close, Dad flashed the "V" sign at community activist Bill Darnell as he headed out the door.
"Hey, Bill! Peace!"
Bill was known more for listening than speaking, but tonight he tossed off a spontaneous reply in the deep bass voice I found so incongruous in a twenty-three year old:
"Let's make it a green peace."
The phrase resonated, and not only in the basement of the Unitarian Church. Quiet, thoughtful Bill had captured the zeitgeist in two words. A burgeoning environmental awareness - stoked by Rachel Carson's ecological wake-up call, "Silent Spring" - was seeping into the consciousness of peace activists everywhere, prompting them to consider a larger definition of war. Urbanites who'd never farmed before were going "back to the land". Citizens worldwide were starting to listen to the language of the earth, the sea, and the sky, to pay homage to our singular blue planet.
My father had been writing an environmental column in Vancouver's underground newspaper the Georgia Straight. It was one of his oft-repeated caveats that the "military industrial complex" was destroying the environment as well as people. He called Bill the next day, very excited.
"I can't stop thinking about what you said! Peace... and the environment... this puts it all together."
Everyone in DMAW heard the magic in the phrase.
"That's what we should call the boat, when we get one," Jim declared at the next meeting. "The Green Peace." Marie offered to design a button as a fundraiser. Dad hammered together vending boxes and the next weekend we all went out to stand on street corners and hawk Greenpeace buttons. But at a quarter a pop, by the spring of 1970 we'd raised less than $500 in button sales, and it would take thousands more to charter a boat.
My father had drawn up DMAW's constitution, citing two lofty goals: To stop nuclear testing worldwide; And to preserve the environment. But if DMAW couldn't even raise $18,000 to charter a boat, these visionary ideals would amount to nothing more than a grandiose joke. Reluctantly, the Committee started to take the "f" word - fundraising - more seriously.
DMAW often met at our house, and sometimes, when I came home from ballet, I'd perch at the edge of the living room hugging our black cat and listening to wordsmiths like Dad, Bob Hunter and Ben Metcalfe (a journalist whose radio broadcasts focused on environmental issues). Amid the frustration that sometimes erupted in diatribes, there were also flashes of luminous speech, which lit up the room like lightning crackling through storm clouds. Fundraising ideas, however, were scarce. One afternoon Dad came into the kitchen looking more drawn and haggard than I'd ever seen him before. With jittery hands he scooped beans into the coffee grinder.
"I know how we'll raise the money, Peachy!" he said, using the pet name he'd given me as a child. "We'll have a rock concert!"
There was a false bravado I'd never heard in his voice before. I turned away so he wouldn't see my expression. As if I thought. His colleagues in DMAW had a similar response. My mother and Bill Darnell were the only ones who supported the idea.
"Fine!" Dad bristled. "I'll organize it myself."
In retrospect, putting on a rock concert was perhaps not the most insane idea Dad had ever had. Although I hated to admit it, he was clued-in to the music of the day. His sizable collection of classical and jazz records had expanded within a few years to include a lot of folk and rock. Al Sorenson, the music critic for the Georgia Straight, lent him promo albums, virgin vinyl that hadn't even hit the airwaves yet. Word got around, and when there were no meetings our living room would fill with a combination of DMAW members, Georgia Straight staff and other friends, all listening to the latest Grateful Dead, Laura Nyro, or other offerings.
On those evenings, a reverent silence would reign as Dad slid each LP from an unmarked sleeve and placed it on the turntable. The only light would be a pole lamp beside the stereo system, and Dad would sit there with eyes closed and a blissful expression on his face. My parents didn't smoke (anything) but sometimes a listener would wander onto our sundeck for a toke under the stars. Those evenings were seminal, magic, and the house was filled with an air of hope and awe and wonder. Dad started writing to musicians. One afternoon in late spring, I came home from school and he tossed me an envelope. "Joan Baez!" My fingers were the ones trembling now. "You got an answer from Joan Baez?" "She can't come," he replied calmly. "She has a previous commitment. But she sent this." He handed me a cheque for a thousand dollars.
Soon, the Canadian band Chilliwack - formerly "The Collectors", whose hit single "Lydia Purple" would become an enduring rock classic - signed on.
Political folksinger Phil Ochs, who had a large and loyal following, also agreed to play.
Then Joni Mitchell came through, even donating the cost of renting her grand piano. "Ladies Of The Canyon" had been released in April to acclaim, and 'Melody Maker' would vote her the Top Female Performer of 1970. She was as big a draw as we could possibly hope for.
Suddenly the concert was an actual, happening thing. Our house morphed into DMAW Central as everyone pitched in to get posters made, sell tickets and attend to a ton of details. Dad booked the Coliseum for October 16th. At a modest $3 apiece, tickets moved briskly but there were still some available when the phone rang at dinnertime in the beginning of October.
"Hello?"
My mother, brother and I looked up expectantly from our veggie burgers as Dad put his hand over the mouthpiece. "It's Joni. She wants to know if it's okay to bring James Taylor." Taylor's album "Sweet Baby James" was shooting up the charts and would reach platinum on October 16th. The concert sold out.
But as mid-October loomed, Canada was spiraling into one of the darkest periods of its political history. A cell of the Québec separatiste FLQ escalated terrorist activities from mailbox bombings to the kidnapping of dignitaries, and at four o'clock on the morning of October 16th, Prime Minister Trudeau invoked the War Measures Act. Tanks rolled through the streets of Montréal, civil liberties were curtailed nationwide and all day long we feared the authorities would try to cancel the concert.
Opposition to Amchitka, however, was widespread. Both right and left wing factions had roundly condemned the tests, and even as far back as October of 1969, when the traditionally conservative RCMP stood idly by while students blocked the border at the Peace Arch, it seemed that on this issue our nation stood largely united. Now, as the expected order to call off the concert failed to materialize, the powers-that-be seemed to be turning a blind eye once more.
Canadian author and editor Alan Twigg later opined, rather more cynically, that the reasons the bastions of law and order didn't cancel the concert was because doing so might have instigated a riot. Whatever the reason for the non-action of the authorities, music triumphed over politics on this night. Phil Ochs stood under the hot Coliseum lights in black jeans and a black leather jacket muttering, "not everyday you get to play in a police state" before launching into "Rhythms Of Revolution".
After a vibrant set, a standing ovation and an encore, he ceded the stage to Chilliwack. Bill Henderson and his band worked their magic with electric guitar, flute, sax, violin, keyboard, drums, bass and vocals, and by the time they ended with a transcendent, extended version of "Rain-O", the floor was alive with blissed-out dancing hippie chicks. I was one of them, and as Bill sang: "If there's no audience, there just ain't no show" I turned around to see the whole Coliseum singing and swaying in unison.
Then my father drew the door prize. "Whoever occupies... Seat Number 4, in Row 10, Section F... Will be the free guest of the Committee on the ship to Amchitka!" Thunderous cheers erupted as a roving spotlight swept the hall and came to rest on North Vancouver high school teacher Ron Jones high up in the stands.
It was a dubious door prize. Although no-one in DMAW would say so aloud, the voyage of the Greenpeace looked like a suicide mission. Sailing in the Aleutians was notoriously dangerous, especially in fall, when unpredictable winds known as "williwaws" ripped through the Bering Sea with enough force to rip a steel boat in half. And when the bomb exploded, if the drill cavities were to vent then everyone on board risked being showered with radioactivity. As if that wasn't enough, should the blast trigger a tsunami, the Greenpeace would be right in its path. I wondered how the winner of the door prize felt about martyrdom.
Despite the dangers, it seemed like all of Canada wanted to get on that boat. A halibut trawler going up against the U.S. military was a potent David and Goliath image, and people who'd never protested anything in their lives were sending DMAW letters begging to crew. My father even nudged me to apply. "That boat's going to make history," he predicted. I resisted his entreaties, but the braver part of me sneered silently that I was a coward.
After the prize drawing, Terry David Mulligan brought James Taylor on. In his quietly mesmerizing voice - a combination of Bostonian accent and Southern drawl - Taylor lulled us seemingly effortlessly into a blissful euphoria with songs like "Fire & Rain" and "You Can Close Your Eyes". We were all reluctant to let him go, and it was only by reminding us that Joni was waiting in the wings that he was able to slip away.
The hour was close to midnight when Joni walked on with her long blonde hair cascading over her guitar, and as she soared into "Chelsea Morning", the whole stadium seemed to rise several inches off the ground. Equally at home on guitar, piano and dulcimer, she selected a range of songs from older albums as well as a few from the as-yet-unreleased "Blue". Near the end of her set she called James back to sing a duet of "Mr. Tambourine Man", and then both artists called their managers (Elliot Roberts and Peter Asher), and Terry David, and my father onstage to join them in "Circle Game".
At one am, the house lights finally came back up and we all trooped out of the Coliseum. Together, we'd raised roughly $18,000, just enough to charter the fishing boat of Captain John Cormack, the only man brave enough, crazy enough, and - rumor had it - financially desperate enough to sail to Amchitka.
The Phyllis Cormack, re-christened Greenpeace for the voyage, was readied for the trip and a twelve-man crew was assembled. There were no women, because Captain Cormack wouldn't allow an unmarried female on his boat, and the only married woman short listed - Marie Bohlen - voluntarily gave up her position.
The Bohlens had a teenage son, Lance. I wonder how much it factored into Marie's decision that, should any of the disasters we feared befall the boat, Lance would lose both parents. As we'd find out later, the Bohlens had even more reasons to worry than anyone else. Jim couldn't bring himself to tell the crew but, the night before the boat was to leave, he'd received a disturbing phone call. The caller was a fisherman who said he'd sailed with John Cormack. The Captain was quite competent, he assured Jim, but the Phyllis Cormack had sunk twice before, and he had grave doubts she'd even make it a thousand miles up the BC coastline to Prince Rupert.
It was a bittersweet moment for all of us as we watched the Greenpeace sail away from the False Creek dock on September 15th 1971. A local rock band played as the crew made emotional farewells with their wives, girlfriends and children. We waved goodbye to Jim, Bob, Bill and the others, trying not to trip over the tangled cords of TV cameras as ABC, NBC, CBC and other networks vied for position.
I sensed Dad's despair at not being on the boat, though he tried hard to hide it. Years before, while flying for the US Civil Air Patrol in World War II, he'd contracted a permanent inner ear disorder which gave him such a propensity to motion sickness that even the calmest ocean could make him violently ill. I was conflicted with feelings of relief that none of my family was on board; the desire to stand with those men; and a sinking feeling that none of them were coming back alive.
As the Greenpeace headed for Amchitka, protests escalated throughout the Pacific Rim. My brother Bob led a walkout of 10,000 high school students - the largest demonstration of its kind ever held in Canada - before flying to Ottawa with fellow organizer Peter Lando to present a petition, signed by thousands of teens, to the federal government. In the US a coalition of eight organizations (peace activists, native rights groups and conservationists) launched a Supreme Court action against the blasts. Meanwhile, in Japan, protesters were marching with signs that said: "Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Amchitka!". Amidst all this, dispatches from journalists aboard the Greenpeace prompted an international media furor and ignited such national pride that even Prime Minister Trudeau sent a telegram to the crew, wishing them "Godspeed".
Dorothy Metcalfe, also a journalist, passed her husband Ben's transmissions on to us before feeding them to Canadian and American networks. It was wrenching to sit in our living room, where so many of the crew had met in recent months, hearing reports of the halibut trawler battling twenty foot waves, especially when radio communication failed and days went by with no contact at all.
President Nixon kept delaying the test, and on September 30th, fifteen days after the Greenpeace had set sail from Vancouver, the crew was arrested by the U.S. coastguard. As they fumed in frustration, my father and Jim schemed to charter a second ship. It had taken two years to organize the voyage of the Greenpeace, but support for DMAW was so high now that donations poured in, and within days Dad was able to charter a decommissioned Canadian minesweeper, the Edgewater Fortune. On October 28th 1971, with a crew hastily assembled by skipper Hank Johansen, the 47-metre naval frigate sailed out of Vancouver and surged through stormy seas towards Amchitka.
On the morning of November 6th, 1971, the US Supreme Court ruled - in a tight 4:3 decision - in favor of the test, and shortly after noon that day, President Nixon ordered Cannikin detonated. The bomb exploded before the Edgewater Fortune could reach the island. The whole Pacific Rim was stunned by Nixon's hubris. We tasted the bitter, age old truth: the sword had vanquished the dove.
My father and Jim Bohlen, exhausted, stepped down from the leadership of DMAW and championed Ben Metcalfe to take over the helm. Our family home continued to operate as the Greenpeace office until 1974, when, my father died of cancer at the age of fifty-nine. Two years before his death, however, he was to savor the sweetest moment of his life. In February, 1972, three months after the Greenpeace and the Edgewater Fortune returned to Vancouver, the U.S. Atomic Energy Commission announced that it was canceling the test series "for political and other reasons". Eight test cavities had been drilled on Amchitka Island. Only three of them were ever used.
All songs 3-10 written and performed by Phil Ochs, published by the Universal Music Group, Barricade Music, Inc., adm. by Almo Music Corp. (ASCAP). Words to The Bells by E.A. Poe. All songs 12-18 written and performed by James Taylor, published by EMI Blackwood Music, Inc. (BMI) and EMI April Music Inc. o/b/o Country Road Music (ASCAP) with the exception of Mr. Tambourine Man (disc 2: track 9), written by Bob Dylan, published by Special Rider Music and The Circle Game (disc 2: track 11), written by Joni Mitchell, published by Crazy Crow Music and administered by Sony/ATV Tunes LLC. All songs disc 2: tracks 2-11, written and performed by Joni Mitchell, published by Crazy Crow Music and administered by Sony/ATV Tunes LLC with the exception of Bony Maroney published by Opus 19 o/b/o Arc Music Corp. (BMI) and Larina Music and Mr. Tambourine Man. © 2009 Greenpeace Canada.
Greenpeace was launched by ordinary people: environmentalists and peace activists who converged on Irving Stowe’s Vancouver living room in the early 1970s and argued for change and what it would look like. With one voice they resolved to stand for our right as human beings to line on this beautiful, finite planet without dangerous interference from self-serving interests. Greenpeace has been doing that ever since.
Our founders didn’t set out to make history or launch the world’s most recognized campaigning organization. With day jobs, families to support, rent to pay and meals to cook, they were ordinary people, living ordinary lives. They saw the planet in peril and felt compelled to take the next step and act on their social conscience.
Courage to Change
From its modest beginnings in Canada, Greenpeace has grown into one of the most influential global environment groups in the world. With 2.9 million supporters, Greenpeace operates throughout the Americas, Europe, Southeast Asia and Africa, maintaining offices in over 40 countries including China, India and Russia. Using a potent mix of creative confrontation, science and tenacity, Greenpeace exposes global environmental problems, promotes corresponding solutions and mobilizes public opinion with the goal of making societal change. We proudly speak to people’s hearts when promoting solid, science-based solutions because we want to harness the passion and power of people to make change.
Former UN Secretary-General Kofi Annan perhaps said it best when he asserted, “We need you, Greenpeace, to mobilize public opinion and enable politicians to do the right thing.”
Today, Greenpeace embraces a wide variety of tools in our campaigns. While many people are familiar with a Greenpeace inflatable, or a banner dropped from a building, most don’t see our laboratories at the University of Exeter in the UK; our political unit working the halls of the UN; the technological fixes we have funded or invented, the rafts of research and reports, the meetings with Fortune 500 CEOs or the massive array of creative communication tools we employ to mobilize global action.
Greenpeace campaigns on climate change, forests, oceans, toxics, sustainable agriculture, and disarmament and peace. Our resources are increasingly focused in the developing world, as globalization concentrates capital and services in one world, while exporting our toxics to – and harvesting the resources of – another.
While many of our tactics and tools have changed since that first voyage to Amchitka, we have maintained the spirit and values of the early days. Greenpeace remains fiercely independent – we are politically non-partisan, aligning ourselves with no political party or government. We are one of the only environmental organizations in the world that does not solicit donations form governments or corporations, ensuring that we can operate without fear or favour. And we unflinchingly question not just the legal right of governments or corporations but their moral prerogative as well. Greenpeace embraces peaceful, non-violent civil disobedience – in the vein of Gandhi, Thoreau and Rosa Parks – and deploys non-violent actions not as a final recourse, but as a legitimate part of the public dialogue in a healthy society.
In the coming decades global warming will develop into an environmental crises that will impact every facet of our lives. This is a challenge even now forcing big coal, oil and auto to fight to maintain the status quo in the face of overwhelming scientific evidence. But it is also an opportunity to make fundamental change; to work with governments, corporations and citizens in developing a new normal; to take a greater global view of how we consume and share resources and to retool our economies so that we can live in greater harmony with our natural environment.
The challenge is significant – at times, daunting, even seemingly impossible. Greenpeace draws strength in the knowledge that change is possible when we are willing to stand up for it. It has been done before.
Through hard work, maintaining the integrity of their vision, and with much needed support, the Greenpeace founders were able to make substantial change and improve the world they found.
Today Greenpeace is supported by millions of like-minded people from all walks of life around the world. Many support us as volunteers and activists. More than 4.5 million are cyber activists campaigning on-line. The majority choose to support our aims by giving us the gift of independence with donations, thereby becoming Greenpeace members.
To all our supporters, thank you. To those of you who are thinking about it, we hope you will join us soon.
GREENPEACE
Want to learn more or get involved?
Sign up for Greenpeace e-news – loads of environmental information and on-line actions from around the world. www.greenpeace.org/global-sign-up
Become a Greenpeace supporter – Greenpeace’s financial support and independence comes from individuals – not corporations or governments. Join us. www.greenpeace.org/amchitka
Dedicated to the memory of Irving Stowe, 1915-1974, co-founder of Greenpeace, a music lover, tireless, intelligent, and compassionate, with an unstoppable desire to make the world a better place. Enjoy the music Irving! And thanks for putting the show together.
acknowledgements
Produced by John Timmins
Restored, Edited and Mastered by Peter J. Moore, E Room
Art Direction and Graphic Design by Joseph Montague
Graphic Design by Elysha Poirier, Peachtree Design
Photography © George Kropinski: jacket cover, pages 15 and 25 (bottom)
Robert Keziere: pages 8, 9 and 18 (top); and all color photos by various photographers © Greenpeace Archives
All remaining photos © Alan Katowitz, Alan Katowitz Photography
Project Management by Rebecca Moershel, Greenpeace
A big heartfelt Greenpeace thanks to…
Joni Mitchell, James Taylor and the late Phil Ochs for an unforgettable show that night and for permission to produce this major fundraiser for Greenpeace. We are proud that our story is tied to yours and grateful for the opportunity to retell it with this CD.
Meegan Lee Ochs, the daughter of Phil Ochs, and Michael Ochs, his brother, for being the first to sign on and staying with us.
The family of the late Irving Stowe, his wife Dorothy fir her unceasing support; son Robert who protected and digitized the original recording and brought this project to Greenpeace; daughter Barbara and her husband Joseph Montague whose combined input has been essential to this project.
Bill Darnell, Rex Weyler, Robert Keziere and Zoe Hunter, Greenpeace founders, original members and family for being there (as always) when asked for Douglas Tanton at Greenpeace International who championed this project from the beginning and Julie Verhaar, Steve Erwood, Brian Fitzgerald for moving it along.
Bob Wilson (GP-UK), Pablo Mathiason (GP-US), Mark Smith (GP-US) and Chris Washington (GP- Australia) among the many movers and shakers in our Greenpeace offices across the planet.
Bruce Cox, Spencer Tripp, Anil Kanji, Paul Mero, Larry Brown at Greenpeace Canada with singular attention to Rebecca Moershel whose leadership qualities, including patience, made developing this project a lot easier than it should have been.
Peter J. Moore, E Room Mastering, who has handled a ¼ - inch transfer tape fro, 1970 and gave us back a magnificently restored and edited concert CD. George Kropinski whose camera and eye for detail captures our cover shot. Susan H. Abramovitch and Gowling Lafleur Henderson LLP, for stepping up and offering to take care of business and the fine legal details. Publicists Liz Campanile, Liz Campanile Public Relations; Ken Beattie at killbeat music, Claire Horton at Richard Wootten Publicity and Peter Holmstedt, Hemifrán for their willingness to sign on and run with it. Terry David Mulligan, the MC who moved the show along in 1970, who came back to lend his name and professional profile to this CD.
Cathy Clarke at S.L. Feldman & Associates Macklam Feldman Management for her direction and encouragement and for initially putting us in touch with Joni Mitchell. Jane Tani of Grant, Tani, Barash & Altman who in the 11th hour did not hesitate to jump in. Ellyn S. Kusmin and Dave O’Donnell in the James Taylor camp and Stanley Lim at Gelfand,
Rennert & Feldman LLP, three of the nicest people (the former!) you could have ever wanted to correspond with for close to two years.
The music publishing industry for rallying to our aid. Todd Ellis, Sony/ATV Publishing: Scott Van Dort, Universal Music Publishing Group; Kimberly Vuono, EMI Music Publishing; Kathy Botich-Alatan, Opus 19 Music; Sommer A. Issaq for Latina Music. Callie Gladman, Special Ryder Music. And to SOCAN for recognizing our needs.
Our key suppliers for dealing with an organization not in business of producing CDs. Tara Luft, Maple Music Recordings; Rob Chowhan, Microforum Services Group; Stacey Boardman, Index Studios and Alan Katowitz, Alan Katowitz Photography.
The many individuals (some whose names we have no doubt overlooked) who helped us immeasurably with a word of encouragement, advice, a nod of approval, a signature, a contact, or a boot in the arse. They are Michael Timmins, Richard Flohil, Alan Twigg, Barbara Lynch, Elizabeth M. Montague, Wendy Bond, Bill Henderson, Kenneth Higney, Elliott Roberts, Peter Asher and, of course, the lovely and talented Sarah Ellison.
Greenpeace would also like to recognize the late David Zeffertt for recording the concert and Chilliwack, a BC-based rock band whose performance following Phil Ochs, brilliant by all reports was not included in the tape held by Irving Stowe according to the band’s wishes at that time.
You had the power. You came through for us. We are truly grateful.
For Greenpeace,
John Timmins
Producer
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