Remembering Phil Ochs

My friend Phil Ochs would now have turned 65, probably writing a sardonic lyric about Social Security and Medicare. His songs ranged from sharply political ("Love Me, I'm a Liberal") to socially compassionate ("There But For Fortune Go You Or I") to romantic love ("Changes").

In 1967 he observed, "A demonstration should turn you on, not turn you off." Inspired by the sight of Allen Ginsberg wearing an Uncle Sam hat with Gandhi pajamas and declaring the end of the war with a Hindu chant, Ochs wrote "The War Is Over," and helped organize a War Is Over rally in Los Angeles. There was a teach-in at the Park. Muhammad Ali was signing autographs, but only on draft cards. Thousands of us marched to the Century Plaza Hotel where the Supremes were serenading Lyndon Johnson. The protesters sat down in the street facing the hotel. The riot police lived up to their name, using tear gas and billy clubs to chase demonstrators into a grassy field, even beating people in wheelchairs.

At a follow-up rally in New York, we ran through the streets with noisemakers and flags, skittering between cars against the afternoon traffic to make it difficult for the cops trying to follow us. We spread the (fake) news about the end of the war, pouring into office buildings, restaurants and bars, swarming down the aisles of movie houses and "legitimate" theaters. This was Wednesday and the matinee performances were building carefully toward their scheduled dramatic climaxes. "The war is over!" we shouted." "The war is over!" We had brought theater into politics, and now we were bring politics into the theater. Audiences understandably resented this intrusion into their arena, but street theater was becoming the name of the protest game, and countercultural activists had become the players.

A year later, during the counter-convention at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago, there was an Unbirthday Party for President Johnson at the Coliseum, with Ed Sanders serving as emcee. The atmosphere was highly charged with excitement. Dick Gregory recited the Preamble to the Constitution with incredible fervor. Fists were being upraised in the audience as he spoke, and I thrust my own fist into the air for the first time. Ochs sang "I Ain't Marchin' Anymore," and the place went absolutely wild. As individuals in the crowd started burning their draft cards, others joined in this spontaneous combusion. The audience of 5,000 wouldn't stop cheering. The standing ovation was an incredible emotional release. They were still cheering even after Phil left the stage.

As we embraced backstage, he said, "That was the most exciting moment of my career."

When it was my turn to speak, I told the true story of a journalist who had once interviewed LBJ, and after the formal question-and-answer session was over, the president told him, "You know, what the Communists are really saying is, 'Fuck you, Lyndon Johnson,' and nobody says 'Fuck you, Lyndon Johnson,' and gets away with it!" I paused. "Well, when I count three, we're all gonna say it -- and we're gonna get away with it! Are you ready? One...two...three..."

And, from the Yippies and the Mobilization Against the War and the Clean for Genes, it came at me like an audo tidal wave -- thousands of voices shouting in unison, "Fuck you, Lyndon Johnson!" -- a mass catharsis reverberating from the rafters.

I told Phil Ochs, "That was the most exciting moment of my career."