Stacy Sutherland: Down the Rabbit Hole, by Vicki Welch Ayo
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Stacy Sutherland: Down the Rabbit Hole, by Vicki Welch Ayo
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In Texas in the mid sixties some local boys, rock and rollers from rural Kerrville banded together and were joined by some hip Austin music makers to pioneer one of the first psychedelic bands of the day. Thirteenth Floor Elevators led the way in the Haight-Ashbury scene like pied pipers heralding the upcoming summer of love. Stacy Sutherland was one of those legendary boys and this is his story.
Stacy Sutherland: Down the Rabbit Hole, by Vicki Welch Ayo - Amazon Sales Rank: #397025 in Books
- Published on: 2015-09-03
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 9.00" h x .52" w x 6.00" l, .69 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 230 pages
Stacy Sutherland: Down the Rabbit Hole, by Vicki Welch Ayo Review Psych Trail Mix Issue #10 Brent Marley Review of Stacy Sutherland:Down the Rabbit HoleStacy Sutherland was the amazing, unique, psychedelic guitarist from the legendary 13th Floor Elevators. Vicki Welch Ayo has put together an intimate look into Stacy's life through various correspondences from people related to Stacy or involved in his life including; his mother Sybil Sutherland, various acquaintances, and "Bunni," Stacy's wife at the time who fatally shot and killed him at their home back in August of 1978. Some people had complained that this wasn't a "book" on Stacy's life and just correspondences through letters, but I really like it. It's a unique, sort of candid, intimate way to tell the story of Stacy. And the story IS told; Stacy's mother tells of his early life, friends and others tell of his musical legacy, and letters from Bunni give a close look into their life - the good and the bad. I was fascinated about their journeys, foraging to find psychedelic mushrooms - a theory was even put forth how a bad bout of drought made Stacy hit alcohol and harder drugs due to the absence of the shrooms. Dig it!
About the Author Author of the series, Boys From Houston I & II
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2 of 2 people found the following review helpful. A promise kept By Roy Waidler Thirteenth Floor Elevators' Stacy Sutherland Down the Rabbit HoleVicki Welch Ayo 2015Not everyone knows that there were two American wars in the 1960s. Most everyone knows about Vietnam and the little sideshows in Laos that preceded 'Nam; far fewer are aware that a second war was waged on American soil. For our brave troops in Vietnam, the orders they were under were to protect the people there from Communism. Men and women enlisted, or went under General Hershey's aegis, viz. the draft. The second war was for the soul of America. It was waged against the Americans by their own government, which had been bought and sold some time before the assassination of John Fitzgerald Kennedy. The members of the “army” which fought here at home could hardly think of themselves as soldiers. Oh no. Yet it was an army, the likes of which has been witnessed but once in Western history. That army was led by a nineteen-year-old commandant who had no battlefield experience; they fought under a banner which proclaimed, Liberty! Equality! Fraternity! some scant few centuries before the philosophes declared the same. This leader wrote letters which have come down to our day; from them may be gleaned precious information about that war. When historical eye-witness is wanting, historiographers put hope in what ever correspondence may have happened between historical persons. By the way, this brave soul fielding this army had a name: Iehannete d'Domremy d'Arcy; we know her as Joan of Arc.In 1960 were were not a nation of polarized souls. Oh, yeah, sure, we had our differences with our government and – not surprisingly – with each other. But we all of us were Americans. As an example, I had a brief conversation with and FBI agent in 1968; he asked why I wasn't supporting a local Marxist group, despite my well-known ability to quote ole Karl line and verse; my reply was, because I am an American. He nodded in understanding. Some of us went to Vietnam to fight; others of us fought here, again, for the soul of our nation. Too many of us died in both conflicts, too many of us were maimed both physically and psychologically. Unlike la Pucelle's troop, we had no Joan; you cannot count CIA plant Timothy Leary, whom Dr. Hunter S. Thompson fingered before that false piper had laid down his tune. But fight we did. We used music and art and above all, a pure love freely given as our weaponry. Every battle was lost. Today I can say with confidence than we won that war. America has been saved. For those of us who survived either conflict, I say unto you: soldier, go home. For those who lie under the sweet earth, I say: you are not forgotten and your sacrifice was not in vain.One such person is the subject of Vicki Welch Ayo's newest book. His name, Stacy Sutherland, may not be known to everyone but he is known to many, especially to those of us who are still alive.I'm a pre-Leary tripper. My way was the Vedanta-laced way of Aldous Huxley via The Doors of Perception. That stuffy-looking fellow from Harvard, a student of Harry Stack Sullivan, was in the news in 1962 and 1963, talking about a chemical – he didn't at all use the word drug in his presentations – which, he held, had great promise as a psychiatric adjunct for those with schizophrenia. Within two years he traded his Harvard PhD for someone named Tim. Someone sold him a bag of magical beans for the family cow.Here in New Jersey we are and were as culturally different from the good folks in Texas as can be – in some superficial aspects. But deep down? We're all good ole boys, in the sense that that phrase conjured before the PC people got their hands on it and twisted into some miserable form of misogyny. We were and are all sisters and brothers. Americans.One night at 2:00 AM I was driving home and I was listening to my favorite overnight DJ, Alex Bennett. He was going to launch with another episode of Great Bands that the Music Industry Destroyed. No, that's not what he called such broadcasts, but you can bet yer sweet self that that's what these shows were about. He was going on on this night about a band from Texas; I didn't catch the name; but he played one of their songs: Slip Inside this House. I had to pull over. Whoever these people were, they were rhapsodizing about what I little I had come to know about spiritual things. The next day, as I lived about six miles from Manhattan, my girl and I went to our favorite used record shop in the East Village and came home with three of the four LPs that the 13th Floor Elevators had recorded for International Artists of Houston. It was January of 1970; how it was that I'd not heard of them before that I cannot say. By the end of 1971 I had managed to speak with Danny Galindo, traded some letters with him. At the time none of the Elevators were talking publicly about the fate of the band. I didn't know that Roky was in the hospital at Rusk, or that Stacy was looking at prison.In 1978 I resumed my poking about in Texas, albeit by telephone. Along the way I spoke with Gordon Bynum, Esq; Lelan Rogers, John Ike Walton (who told me about a kalimba he had designed and built). I exchanged a couple of letters with Reverend Danny Thomas, then living in the Carolinas. These last made me feel good; I had become a fundamentalist Baptist Sunday School teacher after a leedle too much LSD in 1971. I knew no peace. Without knowing it, I had spoken with Roky's mother Evelyn, and some cheerful woman whose last name was Bunnell. Ms. Bunnell asked if I had ever spoken with Stacy? No, not yet. Lemme give y'all his parent's phone number, they'll relay your message to him. Thank you!Five minutes later I was speaking with Stacy's father, G. C., whose cheerfulness came through the telephone and left me with a warm glow. That's what Texians do, it's in their blood. He told me that Stacy would be home in a day or so and that I should expect his call.I did not expect him to call. Hey, I'm from New Jersey.Two days later was Saturday. Saturday morning. My daughter was playing on her bedroom floor. The phone rang.“Hiya! This is Roy! Can I help you?” “You sure can!,” came a soft friendly male voice, “m'name's Stacy Sutherland and I'm returnin a phone call to you, I guess! How're y'all doin?” I almost blacked out. We talked for better than two hours. We exchanged addresses. My plan then, to write the history of the Elevators. I wrote to him. He wrote to me. His wife Bunni called and we talked also. More than once when I called the ranch in Kerrville, I spoke with his mother, Sybil. She was angelic, there is no other word to describe her. In August there was an envelope from Houston in the mailbox. Racing inside I tore it open and I read Bunni's message: Stacy is dead. It all stopped. I was sitting on a coffee table and I began to cry. My wife wanted to know what was going on; I held the letter out to her; she read it and sat down with me and we held each other in our grief. I couldn't speak. I had one thought. A light has gone out.Over the ensuing three years Sybil Sutherland and I spoke on the phone, we traded letters. Thanks to my own stupidity, life engulfed me for many years. Thinking that I had lost all of the material in my Elevators' archive, in 2006 or so I posted an entry on a LiveJournal blog about them; I had a real go at looking for the stuff but came up empty handed. Vicki Ayo emailed me a few years later about this; I apologized to her for having lost all of those letters.Last year I was going over some boxes of old papers. Cut them open, what eez thees?, thence the recycling can. One such box yielded a stack of letters. Hmm. Dear Mr. Waidler, although I'd rather call you Roy.......I sent all of it to Vicki. She kept a promise to Stacy that I could not keep. That promise unfolds in this book. When I read it with Sarai and Ceannt, we cried. Sitting outside at two in the morning, it was as if he was looking down at us saying, "Hey man! We made it! We won!"In hoc signo transitRoy Waidler
2 of 2 people found the following review helpful. his unfortunate but brilliant life is being discovered by fans across the world By Joseph Compiled mostly from near-lost letters written by Stacy's mother, friends, as well as often chilling accounts from the woman who would take his life in 1978, this is a loving tribute to the late 13th Floor Elevators guitarist. Stacy's story has often been overshadowed by the equally troubled tale of bandmate Roky Erickson, but not any longer. Finally, his unfortunate but brilliant life is being discovered by fans across the world, and thanks to Vicki Welch Ayo, his memory and music will be livin' on for many years to come. Highly recommended.
1 of 1 people found the following review helpful. fun read. mostly correspondence in letters By john beckham fun read. mostly correspondence in letters. and, to the right people. interesting pics. you read the bad and the good about this pioneer guitarist. heck! the whole band were pioneers! nice to see someone take the time to document this event before all involved passed on. in the geocities days, I had a virtual tour of his grave. I had no pinpoint directions how to find the cemetery, just a map to guide me to town, but drove straight up to the monument somehow. took a nap at the grave, heard a squeaky swing set in the distance with kids playing, mockingbirds, grasshoppers. was a peaceful place. the way home was a very strange experience I won't go into.
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