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Happy Hippy 1967 - 1973
An Editorially Curated & Annotated Music Playlist
Happy Hippy takes us back to 1967–1973, a period when music seemed capable of changing just about everything.
But those years weren't all peace, love and flowers. There was experimentation, freedom and extraordinary creativity, alongside war, political unrest, anger and disappointment. And the music reflected every side of it.
Across 52 tracks, we travel through psychedelic rock, blues, folk, soul and funk, meeting familiar names and a few unexpected ones along the way.
We've chosen these songs not simply because of when they were recorded, but because of what they meant, the stories behind them and, above all, the way they still make us feel.
Press play. And if something catches your ear, there's a story waiting for you further down the page.
For full playback, open Happy Hippy on Spotify.
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01. Soul Kitchen - The Doors (1967) Before Jim Morrison became one of rock's most notorious frontmen, he was a young man wandering around Venice, California, looking for somewhere to eat, somewhere to sit, and perhaps somewhere he didn't have to leave. One of his favourite places was Olivia's, a small restaurant at the corner of Ocean Park and Main Street, serving soul food — traditional African American cooking with deep roots in the American South. Morrison was apparently so reluctant to leave that closing time became something of a problem. That little piece of everyday life eventually found its way into Soul Kitchen, one of the tracks on The Doors' debut album. It's a wonderful contrast. A song inspired by a modest neighbourhood restaurant becomes this strange, hypnotic piece of rock music, with Ray Manzarek's keyboards, Robby Krieger's guitar and John Densmore's drums creating something you won't easily mistake for anybody else. Why it's here: Because we didn't want to start Happy Hippy with flowers, peace signs and the usual picture of the sixties. We wanted something with a little dirt under its fingernails. The Doors remind us that 1967 wasn't all sunshine and good vibrations. There was darkness in the room, too.
02. White Rabbit - Jefferson Airplane (1967) Here's something worth remembering: White Rabbit didn't begin with Jefferson Airplane. Grace Slick wrote it while she was still singing with The Great Society, drawing on Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, the music of Ravel and Miles Davis, and her own experiences in the changing world of the sixties. But it wasn't simply a song about getting high. Slick has explained that she was also taking a swipe at the older generation. Adults were horrified by young people experimenting with drugs, yet they'd spent years reading children stories full of mysterious drinks, mushrooms and other mind-altering adventures. Make of that what you will. When she joined Jefferson Airplane, the song was transformed into a much tighter recording for Surrealistic Pillow. Jack Casady's bass, the relentless rhythm and Slick's commanding voice build the tension almost without giving you a moment to relax. Why it's here: Because this isn't just one of the sounds of 1967. It's one of the attitudes. Curious, rebellious, slightly dangerous, and absolutely unwilling to behave itself. After the dark streets of Soul Kitchen, the rabbit hole is waiting.
03. Strawberry Fields Forever -The Beatles (1967) Strawberry Field was a real place. A Salvation Army children's home in Liverpool, close to where John Lennon grew up. That childhood memory followed him all the way to Spain, where he began writing the song in 1966 while filming How I Won the War. But what eventually emerged from the studio was nothing like an ordinary nostalgic pop song. The Beatles recorded different arrangements, and Lennon wanted to combine parts of two versions. There was just one small problem: they were in different keys and tempos. George Martin and the recording team found a way to join them through tape manipulation. No computer, no convenient editing software. Just tape, machines and some serious ingenuity. Originally intended for Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, the song was released earlier as a double A-side single with Penny Lane. Why it's here: Because it captures something we love about psychedelic music: the ability to turn a familiar memory into a completely unfamiliar world. It's beautiful, unsettling and a little bit lost. And it shows how far a pop song could travel when musicians stopped accepting the usual rules.
04. Manic Depression - The Jimi Hendrix Experience (1967) Recorded in London in March 1967, Manic Depression is one of those tracks where the whole band seems to be pushing against the limits of the song. Mitch Mitchell's jazz background comes roaring through the drums. The rhythm swings in an unusual three-beat feel, while Hendrix sounds as though he's wrestling with the guitar rather than simply playing it. Even the title deserves a little care: the lyrics are more concerned with emotional and romantic frustration than with describing a medical condition. Hendrix wasn't exactly short of killer tracks in 1967. So why Manic Depression instead of the obvious Purple Haze? Because this one has a different kind of madness. Mitch Mitchell's jazz-influenced drumming, Hendrix's wild guitar playing, and a rhythm that refuses to sit still. It's raw, restless, and bloody brilliant. That's the Hendrix we wanted here. Not just the guitar hero, but the musician who kept pushing things further.
05. San Francisco - Scott McKenzie (1967) Of all the songs associated with the Summer of Love, this might have the most unexpected backstory. San Francisco was written by John Phillips of The Mamas & the Papas and recorded by his old friend Scott McKenzie. It was created to help promote the Monterey International Pop Festival in June 1967. Phillips later recalled that the idea was partly to encourage the crowds arriving in California to behave peacefully. According to his account, he wrote the song in around twenty minutes. So yes, one of the great flower-power anthems began life, at least partly, as festival promotion. Not quite the spontaneous revolution you might imagine! But here's the lovely thing. Whatever the original intention, Scott McKenzie's gentle voice gave the song a life far beyond its purpose. Millions of people heard an invitation to another way of living, whether that dream was realistic or not. Why it's here: Because Happy Hippy wouldn't feel right without this song. But we're not including it simply because it's famous. It represents the dream of 1967, and perhaps the distance between that dream and the complicated world underneath it.
06. Within You Without You - The Beatles (1967) By 1967, George Harrison's interest in Indian music and philosophy had become much more than a passing fascination. Within You Without You, his contribution to Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, was recorded with musicians from London's Indian musical community. The other Beatles didn't play on the track. Alongside Harrison and the Indian musicians, George Martin added an arrangement for Western strings. The result was something genuinely unusual for a major British pop album: a long, reflective composition shaped by Indian musical traditions, questioning the way people live, think and understand one another. And just when things become almost overwhelmingly serious, there's laughter at the end. Harrison deliberately wanted a little relief after such a heavy piece. Fair enough, George. Why it's here: Because the psychedelic era wasn't only about louder guitars, bright colours and strange studio effects. It was also a time when musicians became interested in different cultures, musical traditions and ways of looking at life. This song opens a very different door in our journey.
07. Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Sailor - The Yardbirds (1967) Before Led Zeppelin, Jimmy Page was already looking for ways to make an electric guitar sound like something else entirely. During his time with The Yardbirds, he developed Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Sailor with drummer Jim McCarty. Page later recalled working on the song at home, building it around an electric twelve-string guitar riff. And then there's that remarkable solo. Page used a violin bow on his guitar, an experiment that would become closely associated with his playing in Led Zeppelin. The recording appeared in 1967, during the final chapter of The Yardbirds' career. Their album Little Games may not be their most celebrated record, but this track offers a fascinating glimpse of ideas that were still developing. Why it's here: Because the sixties didn't suddenly stop and turn into the seventies. Musicians were already moving towards heavier, stranger territory. This song lets us hear part of that transition while it was still happening. And frankly, that guitar is reason enough.
08. Lucifer Sam - Pink Floyd (1967) Long before Pink Floyd became famous for enormous productions and elaborate concept albums, there was Syd Barrett and his wonderfully strange imagination. Lucifer Sam, from their debut album The Piper at the Gates of Dawn, takes its title from a mysterious Siamese cat. The music is much more sinister than that simple description suggests. Barrett's descending guitar riff, the echoing sounds and Richard Wright's restless keyboards make the whole thing feel like the soundtrack to a spy film that's gone slightly mad. This was Pink Floyd before the stadiums and the giant stage shows. A young band exploring a peculiar world of childhood imagery, fantasy, humour and unease, with Barrett at its creative centre. Why it's here: Because psychedelic rock should sometimes make you feel a little uncomfortable. We love the oddness of this track, the sharp guitar and its almost mischievous sense of menace. After the Yardbirds, it takes us somewhere even stranger. Just don't trust the cat.
09. Sunshine of Your Love - Cream (1967) Sometimes all it takes to change rock music is one concert and seven notes. In January 1967, Jack Bruce went to see Jimi Hendrix perform at London's Saville Theatre. According to Eric Clapton, Bruce came away so impressed that he created the riff that would become Sunshine of Your Love as a tribute to Hendrix. Bruce also remembered working through the night with lyricist Pete Brown. As morning arrived, the two found themselves with the beginnings of a song inspired by the approaching dawn. Clapton added his own musical ideas, and Ginger Baker brought a drumming style that gave the riff an almost hypnotic weight. Not everybody was convinced. Atlantic Records boss Ahmet Ertegun reportedly dismissed the result as psychedelic nonsense. Fortunately, the band didn't take the hint. Why it's here: Because after the strange world of Syd Barrett's Lucifer Sam, we wanted a riff that grabs you by the collar. Three musicians, one enormous sound, and a reminder that psychedelia could be heavy, bluesy and gloriously uncomplicated when it wanted to be. That guitar and bass riff still sounds bloody fantastic.
10. Alone Again Or - Love (1967) · 2015 Remaster on Spotify For a song that sounds so beautifully effortless, Alone Again Or had quite a complicated journey into the world. It was written by Bryan MacLean, guitarist and singer with Love, and eventually became the opening track of the band's extraordinary 1967 album Forever Changes. MacLean's original composition was closer to folk-rock. Guitarist Johnny Echols introduced Spanish-influenced guitar flourishes, while arranger David Angel added dramatic strings and trumpet. Angel himself described the arrangement as Spanish rather than Mexican mariachi, an important distinction given how often the recording gets labelled that way. And then there were the vocals. MacLean had sung the lead, with Arthur Lee adding another voice. But during mixing, Lee's vocal was brought further forward, changing the balance MacLean had originally intended. Rock bands, eh? Even a song this beautiful couldn't escape a little tension. Why it's here: Because this is one of those recordings where beauty and unease sit together perfectly. The acoustic guitar feels intimate, the trumpet opens up a whole new landscape, and the melody seems to smile while hiding something sad. After the muscular sound of Cream, we wanted that contrast. A little sunlight, a little loneliness, and some wonderful music.
11. Dear Mr. Fantasy - Traffic (1967) This one started with a party, a drawing and a very good night's sleep. During the summer of 1967, Traffic were living together in a cottage in Berkshire, England. One evening, after friends had visited and the party had wound down, drummer Jim Capaldi began sketching a strange little character wearing a pointed hat, with strings hanging from his hands like a puppeteer controlling a guitarist. Under the drawing, Capaldi scribbled the beginnings of what would become Dear Mr. Fantasy. He didn't think much of it and went to bed. When he woke up, Steve Winwood and Chris Wood had turned his words into a song. Not bad for something that began as a doodle. The recording was just as interesting. At Olympic Studios in London, the band initially tried recording in separate booths, but the result lacked the energy they wanted. So they abandoned the booths and played together in the room. Engineer Eddie Kramer even recalled producer Jimmy Miller jumping onto the studio platform with maracas to help drive the performance forward. Why it's here: Because this is psychedelic rock that still has both feet planted firmly in rhythm and blues. Winwood's voice, that guitar, the loose but powerful playing — everything feels alive. And there's something particularly fitting about a song asking a musician to make everybody happy, while quietly admitting that things aren't necessarily so happy underneath.
12. Time of the Season - The Zombies (1968) Here's a wonderful piece of rock history: one of the defining songs of the late sixties became a major hit after the band that recorded it had already broken up. The Zombies recorded Time of the Season in 1967 for their album Odessey and Oracle. Rod Argent wrote the song, with its instantly recognisable bass line, handclaps and breathing sounds creating a rhythm that was unlike almost anything else on the radio. But the recording wasn't exactly peaceful. Singer Colin Blunstone later admitted that he wasn't particularly fond of the song at first. It had been finished shortly before the session, and Argent was insisting that the melody be sung exactly as written. Eventually, the two had a proper argument, with Blunstone suggesting that if Argent knew so much about singing it, perhaps he should do it himself. Somehow, they finished the recording. The Zombies split up before the album was released in 1968. When Time of the Season finally became a major American hit in 1969, its singer had already spent time working in an office, while other members had moved on to new musical projects. Why it's here: Because the song sounds effortlessly cool, which makes its difficult birth even more entertaining. That bass line, the breathing, the organ solo — it's impossible to mistake for anything else. And its strange journey from an unsuccessful final album to an international hit is a reminder that great music doesn't always arrive at the right time.
13. Hurdy Gurdy Man - Donovan (1968) If you still think Donovan was just a gentle folk singer with flowers in his hair, this record has a few things to say about that. He began writing Hurdy Gurdy Man before travelling to India in 1968, where he spent time studying meditation alongside The Beatles. The experience helped shape the song, which he wanted to sound almost like a mantra — a repeated musical phrase capable of drawing you into a different state of mind. But Donovan was also hearing something much louder in his head: distorted electric guitars and powerful drums. He originally wanted Jimi Hendrix to play on the record. Producer Mickie Most had other ideas. The recording eventually featured John Paul Jones on bass and arrangement, Alan Parker on electric guitar and Clem Cattini on drums. For years, stories circulated that Jimmy Page and John Bonham had played on it. Jones himself has disputed that version, and Donovan's more recent account supports the Parker–Cattini lineup. Why it's here: Because it sits in a fascinating place between folk, psychedelic rock and the heavier sounds just beginning to emerge. It's mysterious, repetitive and a little menacing. Exactly the kind of record that makes you realise how much was changing beneath the surface of the sixties.
14. Fire - The Crazy World of Arthur Brown (1968) Some singers walk on stage carrying a guitar. Arthur Brown preferred to arrive with his head on fire. And no, that's not a metaphor. Brown had been fascinated by flames long before recording Fire. He wrote a poem inspired by his reflections on fire, then developed it into a song with organist Vincent Crane. Their musical influences ranged from jazz and classical music to unusual rhythms and theatrical experimentation. The recording was just as adventurous. Tape operator Phill Brown later recalled that the studio team even recorded a bass drum backwards, physically reversing the tape to create an unusual sound. No digital tricks. Just magnetic tape, imagination and a willingness to try something completely different. Then came the stage act. Brown performed wearing a flaming helmet, which looked spectacular but wasn't exactly sensible. He later recalled flames reaching several feet high and even setting his clothing alight during a performance. Why it's here: Because by this point we wanted the playlist to become a little dangerous. Fire is theatrical, ridiculous, frightening and absolutely brilliant. Vincent Crane's organ gives it a strange intensity, while Brown sounds as though he's trying to summon something from another world. Psychedelic rock was never supposed to behave itself, and this certainly doesn't.
15. Born to Be Wild - Steppenwolf (1968) It might be the ultimate motorcycle anthem, but the story behind Born to Be Wild isn't quite what you'd expect. The song was written by Mars Bonfire, born Dennis Edmonton, who had previously played in The Sparrow alongside musicians who would later form Steppenwolf. Bonfire has said that the feeling behind the song came partly from driving his first car, an old Ford Falcon, through the extraordinary landscapes around Los Angeles. Steppenwolf singer John Kay also recalled Bonfire being struck by an image of a motorcycle breaking through the pavement on a poster. Either way, it wasn't originally created as the soundtrack to an army of leather-clad bikers. That association became much stronger when the song appeared in Dennis Hopper's 1969 film Easy Rider, with its motorcycles, open roads and disillusionment with mainstream American society. And then there's the famous phrase heavy metal thunder. It appeared in the lyrics before heavy metal became widely established as the name of a musical genre. That doesn't mean Steppenwolf invented heavy metal, but it certainly gives the song an interesting place in rock history. Why it's here: Because after Fire, there was only one sensible thing to do: hit the road. This is freedom with an engine attached. Loud, rebellious and gloriously direct. And beneath all that familiar biker imagery sits something that belongs right at the heart of Happy Hippy — the desire to get away from the rules and find a life of your own.
16. Remember a Day - Pink Floyd (1968) After all that fire, noise and motorcycle thunder, perhaps it's time to remember something quieter. Remember a Day was written and sung by Pink Floyd's keyboard player Richard Wright. Although it appeared on their second album, A Saucerful of Secrets, in 1968, the recording dates back to 1967. That matters, because Syd Barrett still plays on it. The album was created during one of the most difficult transitions in Pink Floyd's history. David Gilmour joined in early 1968, while Barrett's increasingly troubled situation led to his departure. Yet this particular recording preserves something of the earlier band, with Wright's delicate vocals and keyboards alongside Barrett's guitar. There's another curious detail. Producer Norman Smith ended up playing a drum part on the recording after Nick Mason struggled to find the feel Smith wanted. Not exactly the sort of thing that happens without a little frustration in the studio. But the music itself is gentle, dreamlike and full of longing for childhood and vanished moments. Why it's here: Because Happy Hippy needs room to breathe. Not every song should push harder than the one before it. After the wild energy of Steppenwolf, we wanted to return to something fragile and reflective. And there's something especially moving about hearing Richard Wright and Syd Barrett together on a recording from a band whose world was already changing.
17. Piece of My Heart - Big Brother & The Holding Company · Janis Joplin (1968) Before Janis Joplin tore into Piece of My Heart, another extraordinary woman had already recorded it. Her name was Erma Franklin, Aretha Franklin's older sister. In 1967, she released the original, written by Jerry Ragovoy and Bert Berns. It was a soul recording, full of feeling but delivered with a different kind of control. Then Janis got hold of it. With Big Brother & The Holding Company, she turned the song into an explosive piece of blues-rock for their 1968 album Cheap Thrills. Her voice sounds as though it's being pushed to the edge, while the guitars crash and swirl around her. There's another interesting detail about the album itself. Its original working title was Sex, Dope & Cheap Thrills, but the record company rejected it. The band ended up with Cheap Thrills instead. Apparently, the music was allowed to be outrageous, but the album title had to behave. What's especially interesting, though, is hearing how differently the two women approached the same song. Erma's original and Janis's version both deserve attention. They show how a great composition can travel between musical worlds without losing its emotional power. Why it's here: Because after the dreamy, delicate atmosphere of Remember a Day, we wanted something that would shake the room. And nobody quite delivers emotional chaos like Janis Joplin. It's loud, messy, vulnerable and magnificent. We love the way she sings as though every word costs her something.
18. All Along the Watchtower - The Jimi Hendrix Experience (1968) Some cover versions are so powerful that people almost forget who wrote the original. All Along the Watchtower belongs to Bob Dylan. He released it in 1967 on John Wesley Harding, in a spare, mysterious arrangement that leaves plenty of room for the listener's imagination. Jimi Hendrix heard something very different in it. In January 1968, he began recording his interpretation at Olympic Studios in London. The sessions brought together an interesting collection of musicians. Dave Mason of Traffic played twelve-string acoustic guitar, and Brian Jones of The Rolling Stones contributed percussion. Hendrix also played bass himself. But the real transformation came from the arrangement. Where Dylan had left space and mystery, Hendrix built an approaching storm. Layers of electric guitar, dramatic changes in intensity and one of rock's most recognisable solos turned the song into something almost cinematic. And yet the strange, unsettling world of Dylan's lyrics remained intact. This wasn't simply a guitarist showing off. It was a musician finding an entirely new way to tell somebody else's story. Why it's here: Because we love hearing what happens when a great song meets an artist who refuses to leave it alone. The tension, the guitars, the sense that something enormous is approaching — everything works. After Janis Joplin's emotional explosion, Hendrix takes that intensity and sends it somewhere darker and more mysterious.
19. Going Up the Country - Canned Heat (1968) If there's one song that seems to come with its own sunshine, dusty road and old Volkswagen van, it's probably Going Up the Country. But its roots go much further back than the hippie movement. The melody comes from Bull Doze Blues, recorded in the late 1920s by Henry Thomas, a Black American travelling musician from Texas. Thomas played guitar and an instrument known as quills — a set of small reed pipes, somewhat like panpipes. When Canned Heat developed their 1968 recording, Alan Wilson wrote new lyrics, and session musician Jim Horn played the famous flute part, echoing Thomas's original melody. That flute is one of the things that makes the recording so instantly recognisable. The song became closely associated with Woodstock in 1969, both through the festival and its later film and soundtrack. It seemed to capture the dream of leaving the city behind and finding a simpler, freer life somewhere else. But there's something important beneath all those familiar hippie images: a piece of music rooted in an older Black blues tradition had become one of the defining sounds of a new generation. Why it's here: Because Happy Hippy needs a little fresh air after Hendrix's storm. The rhythm, Alan Wilson's unusual high voice and that wonderful flute make you want to leave everything behind and head for the open road. But we also love the fact that the song connects two very different chapters of American music history.
20. Aquarius / Let the Sunshine In - The 5th Dimension (1969) One of the most recognisable songs of the hippie era apparently owes its existence to a lost wallet. The 5th Dimension were performing in New York when Billy Davis Jr. lost his wallet. The man who found it happened to be connected with the Broadway musical Hair. That unexpected encounter led to the group seeing the show. They fell in love with Aquarius and wanted to record it. Their producer, Bones Howe, wasn't convinced at first. Other recordings of the song had already been released without becoming major hits. But after seeing the musical himself, Howe came up with a new idea: combine Aquarius with the uplifting closing refrain from another Hair song, The Flesh Failures. Two separate compositions became one unforgettable recording. The result was a remarkable blend of pop, soul and gospel-influenced singing. The idea of the Age of Aquarius came from astrology, where it was associated in popular culture with hopes for a new era of peace, understanding and human connection. Interestingly, Florence LaRue of the 5th Dimension later explained that the group hadn't recorded the song because they were especially interested in astrology. They loved its message of hope and harmony. And people certainly responded. The single spent six weeks at number one in America in 1969. Why it's here: Because this is one of the great musical expressions of the dream behind Happy Hippy. It may sound gloriously optimistic, but sometimes that's exactly what a playlist needs. After the escape to the countryside with Canned Heat, we wanted to bring back the idea that perhaps the whole world could change for the better. Whether it ever did is another conversation.
21. Suite: Judy Blue Eyes - Crosby, Stills & Nash (1969) Not every great love song comes from a happy relationship. Stephen Stills wrote Suite: Judy Blue Eyes about singer Judy Collins, with whom he had been romantically involved during the late sixties. Their relationship was coming apart, and Stills found himself turning the experience into music. But he didn't write a conventional three-minute song about a broken heart. Instead, he created a suite — a composition made up of several connected sections, each with its own musical character. The piece moves through changing rhythms, moods and melodies, held together by Stills' acoustic guitar and the remarkable harmonies of David Crosby, Stephen Stills and Graham Nash. By the time it appeared on their debut album in 1969, it sounded unlike much of what was happening in rock music. The three voices were a huge part of the magic. None of the singers had to overpower the others. They created something that depended on the way their individual voices came together. And then there's the ending, when the song suddenly seems to throw open the windows and let the whole world in. Why it's here: Because great music doesn't always need distortion, enormous amplifiers or a drum solo. Sometimes three voices and an acoustic guitar can do the job beautifully. We love how this song keeps changing direction without losing its emotional centre. And after the collective optimism of Aquarius, it brings us back to something much more personal.
22. I Want to Take You Higher - Sly & The Family Stone (1969) Some songs don't need to explain their philosophy. They just play it. By 1969, Sly & The Family Stone had created one of the most exciting sounds in American music, combining funk, soul, rock, gospel and psychedelic influences. The band itself was unusual for its time. Black and white musicians, men and women, performing together as equals in a period when American society was still deeply divided along racial lines. And then there was the music. I Want to Take You Higher, written and produced by Sly Stone, appeared on the 1969 album Stand!. It was built around a rhythm designed to get people moving, with powerful bass, horns, guitars and voices feeding off one another. The song reached another level at Woodstock. Sly & The Family Stone took the stage in the early hours of Sunday morning, around 3:30 a.m., and turned their performance into a huge exchange of energy between band and audience. There's a lovely simplicity to the whole thing. The song isn't offering a complicated political argument. It's about the excitement of music itself and the feeling that, for a few minutes, everyone can share something extraordinary. Why it's here: Because we've spent enough time sitting down. After the beautiful harmonies of Crosby, Stills & Nash, it's time to get up and move. We love the rhythm, the voices, the horns and the sheer joy of it. And there is something genuinely powerful about a band whose very existence challenged the divisions of its time.
23. Soul Sacrifice - Santana (1969) In August 1969, Santana arrived at Woodstock as a band that much of the audience barely knew. Six days before their debut album was released, they delivered one of the most extraordinary performances of the festival. And Soul Sacrifice was at the heart of it. The instrumental had already been recorded for their first album, combining Carlos Santana's electric guitar with Gregg Rolie's organ, Latin American percussion and a rhythm section that could move from a hypnotic groove into an explosion of sound. But the Woodstock performance became legendary, particularly because of drummer Michael Shrieve, who was only twenty years old at the time. His extended solo, surrounded by the band's percussion, helped turn the performance into one of the festival's unforgettable moments. And as if that performance wasn't extraordinary enough, Carlos Santana was having a rather unusual afternoon himself. He later recalled that Jerry Garcia of the Grateful Dead had offered him a psychedelic substance, believing the band wouldn't be playing until much later. But the schedule suddenly changed, and Santana found himself walking onstage while the effects were in full swing. He described the neck of his guitar moving like an electric snake, while he desperately tried to keep his playing in time and in tune. Over the years, he's referred to the substance as LSD or mescaline, so exactly what he took remains uncertain. One of rock's most extraordinary performances, and the man playing that unforgettable guitar was trying to stop it from turning into a snake. You couldn't make this stuff up! What made Santana special wasn't simply having a guitarist who could play extraordinary solos. It was the combination of musical traditions: electric blues and rock meeting Afro-Latin rhythms in a sound that didn't fit neatly into the usual categories. And the really wonderful thing is that Soul Sacrifice doesn't need a single word to tell its story. Why it's here: Because we wanted the playlist to reach a point where the music takes over completely. No lyrics, no explanations, just musicians communicating through rhythm and sound. After Sly & The Family Stone, the energy keeps building, but the musical language changes. It's one of those recordings that reminds us why we fell in love with music in the first place.
24. Fortunate Son - Creedence Clearwater Revival (1969) By the end of the sixties, the dream of peace and freedom was running into some very uncomfortable realities. The Vietnam War was one of them. In 1969, John Fogerty wrote Fortunate Son, a furious little rock song aimed at the inequality he saw in American society. Young men were being sent to war, but not everybody faced the same risk. Those with money, powerful families or political connections often had ways of avoiding military service that weren't available to everyone else. Fogerty knew what military service meant. He had served in the US Army Reserve himself. The song wasn't simply a protest against the war. As the Library of Congress explains, its central target was the unfair system that helped determine who would actually have to fight. And here's a remarkable detail: Fogerty recalled writing the lyrics in about twenty minutes after working on the music with the band. Twenty minutes. Two and a half minutes of music. And a message that has outlived the circumstances in which it was written. Why it's here: Because Happy Hippy cannot be just flowers, sunshine and beautiful dreams. The sixties were also about anger, injustice, protest and people demanding to be heard. After the musical celebration of Santana, this song brings us sharply back to reality. It's short, direct and hits exactly where it should.
25. Memory of a Free Festival - David Bowie (1969) · 2015 Remaster on Spotify Here's a lovely contradiction: David Bowie wrote a song celebrating a free festival that, by his own admission, he hadn't particularly enjoyed. On 16 August 1969, while hundreds of thousands of people were gathering at Woodstock, Bowie and the Beckenham Arts Lab — a local creative collective — organised their own free festival at Croydon Road Recreation Ground in south-east London. It was a much smaller affair, with music, poetry and the sort of communal optimism that seemed capable of changing the world. But Bowie wasn't exactly floating on a cloud of happiness. Years later, he admitted that he'd been grumpy and disappointed by what he saw as people's interest in money. When he came to write Memory of a Free Festival, he chose to celebrate the idea behind the event rather than his actual experience of it. And isn't that interesting? Sometimes the dream is more beautiful than the day itself. The original recording closes Bowie's 1969 album with a long, almost hypnotic communal chorus. He later re-recorded the song as a two-part single in 1970, this time with a more electric arrangement featuring Mick Ronson. Why it's here: Because we love that contradiction. Happy Hippy celebrates the music and dreams of the period, but we don't have to pretend everything was wonderful. Bowie's song captures both the innocence of the ideal and the human messiness behind it. And after the anger of Fortunate Son, it's a beautiful way to bring back a little hope.
26. Volunteers - Jefferson Airplane (1969) One of the great revolutionary songs of the sixties apparently started with a truck outside somebody's house. Marty Balin of Jefferson Airplane was reportedly woken up by a vehicle bearing the name Volunteers of America, a charitable organisation. The words caught his attention, and he developed the song with Paul Kantner. A rather ordinary source of inspiration for something that sounds like a call to revolution. By 1969, Jefferson Airplane had travelled a long way from the dreamy atmosphere of Surrealistic Pillow. Their album Volunteers was much more confrontational, reflecting growing opposition to the Vietnam War and wider political and social unrest. The title track is loud, urgent and deliberately provocative. Marty Balin and Grace Slick deliver the vocals with an intensity that leaves little room for misunderstanding. And yet there's something fascinating about the contrast between its origins and its message. A name associated with charitable work becomes the starting point for a song about a generation demanding change. Why it's here: Because the peaceful dream of the sixties also had an angry side. Not everybody wanted to sit in a field, listen to music and wait for the world to improve. Some wanted to get up and do something about it. After Bowie's idealistic festival memory, Jefferson Airplane remind us that hope could also have teeth.
27. Gimme Shelter - The Rolling Stones (1969) Sometimes a song seems to know exactly what kind of world it's being born into. Keith Richards began writing Gimme Shelter while sitting in a London apartment, watching a violent rainstorm sweep through the streets. People were running for cover, and that image became the starting point for something much darker. The Vietnam War was raging. Political violence and social unrest dominated the news. Mick Jagger later described the song as reflecting a world filled with tension and a sense of approaching danger. But one of its greatest moments came from somebody who wasn't a Rolling Stone. Merry Clayton, an extraordinary American soul and gospel singer, was called into a Los Angeles recording studio late at night to add vocals. She was pregnant and had already gone to bed, but agreed to come in. And then she delivered one of the most unforgettable vocal performances in rock history. At one particularly intense moment, her voice actually cracks. You can hear the strain, the emotion and the extraordinary power of the performance. Clayton later said she hadn't expected it to happen, but was glad the note remained in tune. That little imperfection became part of the magic. Why it's here: Because this is what happens when the optimism of the sixties begins to fall apart. The guitars sound threatening, the rhythm never lets you relax, and Merry Clayton's voice cuts right through everything. We love the sheer drama of it. After the revolutionary excitement of Volunteers, the Rolling Stones show us the darker reality underneath.
28. Woodstock - Joni Mitchell (1970) Here's one of the great ironies of music history: the woman who wrote one of the most famous songs about Woodstock never actually went to Woodstock. Joni Mitchell had been planning to attend the festival in August 1969, but she was also scheduled to appear on The Dick Cavett Show in New York. With the roads around the festival hopelessly congested and travel arrangements uncertain, her management worried that she wouldn't make it back in time for the television appearance. So Crosby, Stills & Nash went to the festival, while Joni stayed behind. She watched the coverage on television, feeling terribly left out. But something remarkable happened. That disappointment gave her a different perspective on the event. Instead of writing about what she'd experienced as a performer, she imagined what Woodstock represented to the people who had gone there. Years later, Mitchell explained that she wasn't sure the song would have existed in the same form if she'd attended the festival. Her own recording, released on Ladies of the Canyon in 1970, is very different from the more famous electric version by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. It's intimate, reflective and almost spiritual. Why it's here: Because we wanted the dream of Woodstock told by someone who was looking at it from the outside. Joni doesn't simply celebrate a music festival. She captures the extraordinary hope people attached to it, alongside the longing for a more peaceful world. And after the darkness of Gimme Shelter, that longing feels even more powerful.
29. Spill the Wine - Eric Burdon & War (1970) Sometimes the best ideas in music come from careful planning. Other times, somebody spills a cheap bottle of wine over the recording console. According to War keyboard player Lonnie Jordan, that's pretty much how Spill the Wine found its name. The band were working at Wally Heider's studio in Los Angeles. The instrumental track was taking shape, but Eric Burdon was still improvising, trying to find a story to go with the music. Meanwhile, Jordan had bought a large bottle of inexpensive Boone's Farm wine. He was watching what was happening in the vocal booth while pouring himself a drink, got distracted and spilled wine straight onto the studio console. The equipment reportedly started smoking. Fortunately, the tape kept rolling. Producer Jerry Goldstein told Burdon what had happened, and the accident suddenly provided the phrase they'd been looking for. Burdon turned it into a wonderfully strange spoken-and-sung fantasy about falling asleep in a field and finding himself inside an increasingly bizarre dream. Musically, it's a gorgeous mixture of funk, Latin rhythms, soul and psychedelic rock. And it's worth remembering that War were not simply a backing band. They were already skilled musicians with their own musical identity, and that extraordinary groove belongs to them. Why it's here: Because after the thoughtful beauty of Joni Mitchell, we wanted something loose, warm and completely unpredictable. The percussion, the bass, the organ and Burdon's half-spoken storytelling work together beautifully. It's weird, funky and impossible not to enjoy. And we have to admit, any song born from wine being spilled all over expensive studio equipment deserves a little respect.
30. War - Edwin Starr (1970) From a band called War to a song called War. But this time, there's absolutely nothing playful about the subject. The song was written by Norman Whitfield and Barrett Strong at Motown, and the first recorded version appeared on The Temptations' 1970 album Psychedelic Shack. But turning it into a single was another matter. The Vietnam War had become one of the most divisive issues in American society. Motown was concerned that releasing such an uncompromising protest song under the name of one of its biggest groups could damage The Temptations' career. Thousands of listeners reportedly wrote to the label asking for the song to be released. Eventually, producer Norman Whitfield recorded a new version with Edwin Starr. And Starr didn't hold anything back. He made the song his own, adding powerful shouted phrases and delivering the lyrics with an intensity that transformed the recording into a furious anti-war anthem. Starr later remembered that the song's political nature made some live appearances difficult, even while it was topping the American charts. Why it's here: Because a playlist about this era cannot avoid the war that shaped so many lives. And because protest music doesn't always need an acoustic guitar and a solemn voice. Sometimes it needs a huge rhythm section, a singer giving everything he's got and a message that leaves no room for excuses. Edwin Starr delivers all three.
31. Ohio - Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young (1970) On 4 May 1970, members of the Ohio National Guard opened fire on unarmed students at Kent State University, during protests against the Vietnam War and the American military expansion into Cambodia. In just thirteen seconds, they fired approximately 67 shots. Four students were killed. Nine others were wounded. The dead were Allison Krause, 19, Jeffrey Miller, 20, Sandra Scheuer, 20, and William Schroeder, 19. Two of them hadn't even been participating in the demonstration. This wasn't simply an unfortunate tragedy. Armed representatives of the state had shot and killed unarmed young people on a university campus. It was an act of deadly state violence, one that could be considered state murder. Even the presidential commission established to investigate campus unrest concluded that the gunfire was unnecessary, unwarranted and inexcusable. When David Crosby showed Neil Young photographs of the killings published in Life magazine, Young responded in the way he knew best. He wrote a song. Ohio was recorded by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young on 21 May 1970, just seventeen days after the killings. The band and their record company moved quickly to get it released while the events were still fresh in the public mind. And you can hear that urgency. There's no elaborate arrangement, no attempt to soften the message, and no comfortable distance from what happened. The guitars are fierce, the voices sound angry and distressed, and the recording feels like a direct response to something that should never have happened. David Crosby's emotional cries near the end make it even harder to listen without thinking about the people who lost their lives. Why it's here: Because this is where the history behind Happy Hippy becomes impossible to separate from the music. Four young people were killed by those entrusted with state authority, and the anger that followed found its way into a recording almost immediately. After Edwin Starr's wider protest against war, Ohio confronts us with the deadly consequences of state violence against its own citizens. These four lives deserve to be remembered, and the responsibility for their deaths must never be hidden behind softer words.
32. Fresh Air - Quicksilver Messenger Service (1970) After all that anger, perhaps we really do need some fresh air. Quicksilver Messenger Service were one of the bands that helped build San Francisco's psychedelic rock scene, alongside groups such as Jefferson Airplane and the Grateful Dead. But by 1970, they were changing. Singer and songwriter Dino Valenti, who had originally been connected with the formation of the band but had spent time in prison on drug charges, finally became a central part of its recorded music. He wrote Fresh Air under the name Jesse Oris Farrow, a pseudonym he used for much of his songwriting. The track appeared on the album Just for Love, recorded during the band's period in Hawaii. Compared with some of Quicksilver's earlier, extended guitar improvisations, it's a more accessible song, but it still has that unmistakable San Francisco sound. The guitars twist around each other, the rhythm rolls along beautifully, and the whole thing has a loose, sunny atmosphere. And that invitation to take another hit of fresh air? Well, this was 1970. You can decide for yourself just how innocent that invitation was supposed to be. Why it's here: Because after War and Ohio, we wanted to let a little light back into the room. Not to forget what came before, but to give the music some breathing space. We love the relaxed groove, the guitars and that unmistakable feeling of the California psychedelic scene. Sometimes a change of mood is exactly what keeps a musical journey alive.
33. Planet Caravan - Black Sabbath (1970) · 2012 Remaster on Spotify If somebody told you Black Sabbath had recorded a gentle, floating little journey through space in 1970, you might think they'd mixed up their records. But there it is, sitting between Paranoid and Iron Man on the band's second album. Planet Caravan is a wonderful reminder that the four young musicians from Birmingham were never quite as one-dimensional as their reputation suggested. Tony Iommi plays soft, jazz-influenced guitar chords, while Geezer Butler's bass and Bill Ward's restrained percussion create a hypnotic atmosphere. And that strange, distant voice? It's Ozzy Osbourne, singing through a Leslie speaker — a rotating loudspeaker originally associated with the Hammond organ, used here to give his vocals that wonderfully otherworldly sound. Bill Ward later explained that the band had always known they were capable of playing softer music. They didn't want to spend their lives doing exactly the same thing. The result is less like a conventional rock song and more like drifting through the universe with absolutely nowhere to be. Why it's here: Because the psychedelic era wasn't only about flowers, folk guitars and sunshine. Black Sabbath came from a much darker musical world, yet here they created something unexpectedly beautiful. We love that contrast. And after the relaxed atmosphere of Fresh Air, why not leave Earth altogether for a few minutes?
34. Garyfalle, Garyfalle - Peloma Bokiou / Γαρύφαλλε, Γαρύφαλλε - Πελόμα Μποκιού (1970–71) Hold on. What's a Greek psychedelic rock band doing in the middle of a playlist filled with British and American artists? Exactly where it belongs. Peloma Bokiou came together in Athens around 1970, during Greece's military dictatorship. Their wonderfully unusual name was assembled from parts of the surnames of the five original members: Daperis, Logothetis, Marinakis, Bonatsos and Kiourktsoglou. And the story behind Garyfalle, Garyfalle is just as unusual. According to an account of the song's creation, guitarist Giannis Kiourktsoglou was asked by the Lyra record company whether he had a rock song with Greek lyrics. He said yes. Small problem. He didn't. With the company expecting a song almost immediately, he went home and wrote one. The name came from a neighbour called Garyfallos, while the lyrics developed into a strange, almost surreal little tale about an eccentric village character, his speeches and his adventures beyond this world. The record company initially passed on it. Later, the song found its way back to Lyra and was recorded by Peloma Bokiou. One detail is worth getting right: although Vlassis Bonatsos became closely associated with the song through live performances, the original recording was sung by Nikos Daperis. The record appeared around 1970–71, at a time when Greek rock musicians were developing their own sound under an authoritarian regime. Why it's here: Because this story didn't happen only in London, San Francisco or Los Angeles. Greece had its own musicians experimenting with electric guitars, psychedelic sounds and Greek lyrics, even under a dictatorship. We love the song's slightly mad imagination and the fact that it refuses to sound like a copy of something imported. Happy Hippy has Greek roots, too. And we're not leaving them out.
35. Truckin’ - Grateful Dead (1970) Most bands write songs about life on the road. The Grateful Dead somehow managed to turn their touring history into a song. Truckin', from the 1970 album American Beauty, is practically a musical scrapbook of places, concerts, strange encounters and trouble with the authorities. Lyricist Robert Hunter drew on the band's experiences as they travelled across America. One of the most famous episodes involved a police raid in New Orleans in January 1970, when members of the band's travelling circle were arrested on drug charges. The incident made its way into the lyrics, alongside references to other cities and events from the Dead's endlessly moving existence. And here's another nice connection. The expression Keep on Truckin' had already been popularised in the counterculture by underground cartoonist Robert Crumb, whose 1968 drawing drew inspiration from an older blues song by Blind Boy Fuller. The Grateful Dead took that familiar language of movement and survival and turned it into their own wandering autobiography. Why it's here: Because after the psychedelic universe of Black Sabbath and the wonderfully strange world of Peloma Bokiou, it's time to get moving again. We love how relaxed and unpolished the Dead can sound, even when they're playing something carefully constructed. And there's something beautifully appropriate about a band whose entire identity was built around travelling, playing and finding its people along the way.
36. Nature’s Way - Spirit (1970) Sometimes the inspiration for a song arrives like a thunderbolt. For Randy California, it arrived as a cloud of pollution. The Spirit guitarist and singer recalled sitting at a hotel overlooking San Francisco Bay when a huge bank of smog drifted into view. The sight disturbed him enough to inspire Nature's Way, one of the early environmental warnings in rock music. California later remembered writing the song during an afternoon in San Francisco, while Spirit were playing at the Fillmore West. The band learned it at soundcheck and performed it that very evening. That's a remarkable turnaround for a song whose message still feels relevant decades later. It appeared on Twelve Dreams of Dr. Sardonicus in 1970, an album that would gradually develop a reputation far beyond its initial commercial reception. And musically, Nature's Way is almost deceptive. Its harmonies are beautiful, its melody gentle and memorable, but there's real unease beneath the surface. This isn't a song about how lovely nature looks on a sunny afternoon. It's a warning that something is going wrong. Why it's here: Because the ideals of the period weren't limited to peace and personal freedom. People were also beginning to question what industrial society was doing to the natural world. We love the contrast between the song's beauty and its uncomfortable message. After the wandering freedom of Truckin', it quietly asks what sort of world we're travelling through.
37. The Changeling - The Doors (1971) The Doors entered the seventies sounding like a band that had stopped worrying about what anyone expected from them. By late 1970, they were recording L.A. Woman, their final studio album with Jim Morrison. Their relationship with longtime producer Paul Rothchild had broken down, so they worked with engineer Bruce Botnick in a makeshift studio built inside their own rehearsal space in Los Angeles. It was a deliberate change. Less studio polish, more musicians playing together and trusting their instincts. And The Changeling, the album's opening track, makes that perfectly clear. Instead of the mysterious, swirling psychedelia of their early recordings, we get something closer to James Brown: a driving funk rhythm, Jerry Scheff's powerful bass, Ray Manzarek's organ and Morrison sounding gloriously rough around the edges. The title comes from an old idea in European folklore. A changeling is a child believed to have been secretly replaced by a supernatural being. It's an appropriate image for a song concerned with change, movement and identity. It also feels strangely fitting for Morrison's final period with the band. But we shouldn't turn every line into a prophecy simply because we know what happened next. Why it's here: Because we began Happy Hippy with The Doors, and we wanted to hear how far they'd travelled by 1971. This is a different band from the one that recorded Soul Kitchen, but that restless spirit is still there. We love the rhythm, Morrison's voice and the feeling of musicians cutting loose without asking anyone's permission.
38. What's Going On - Marvin Gaye (1971) One of the most beautiful songs ever to ask what's wrong with the world began with a man witnessing something deeply ugly. In May 1969, Renaldo "Obie" Benson of the Four Tops saw police violence during protests around People's Park in Berkeley, California. He couldn't understand why people protesting against war were being attacked at home while young Americans were being sent to fight overseas. Benson began working on a song with Motown songwriter Al Cleveland. But the Four Tops weren't interested in recording it. Eventually, the song reached Marvin Gaye. For Gaye, the subject was painfully personal. His brother Frankie had served in Vietnam, and Marvin was increasingly troubled by the war, racism, poverty and the violence he saw in American society. He reshaped the composition and recorded it in 1970. But Motown founder Berry Gordy was initially far from enthusiastic. It was a significant departure from the romantic hit singles that had made Gaye famous. The record was eventually released in January 1971, followed by the extraordinary album of the same name that May. And what a departure it was. Instead of shouting his anger, Gaye sings with tenderness. The layered voices, warm bass, saxophone and almost conversational atmosphere make the recording feel like people coming together to ask a question nobody can afford to ignore. Why it's here: Because after the restless, muscular energy of The Changeling, this song reminds us that protest doesn't always have to sound angry. Sometimes compassion can be just as powerful. Marvin Gaye looks directly at war, racism and injustice without losing sight of the people suffering through them. We wanted that humanity right at the centre of Happy Hippy.
39. The Revolution Will Not Be Televised - Gil Scott-Heron (1970) Long before the internet, smartphones and social media, Gil Scott-Heron was already asking an uncomfortable question: what happens when people become spectators of their own society? He began developing The Revolution Will Not Be Televised while studying at Lincoln University in Pennsylvania. Scott-Heron was influenced by the Black Arts Movement, a cultural movement that placed Black American experience, creativity and political self-determination at the heart of art. He had also encountered The Last Poets, whose powerful performances combined spoken poetry, rhythm and political commentary. The first released recording appeared on his 1970 debut, Small Talk at 125th and Lenox. It was strikingly bare: his spoken words accompanied by percussion. In 1971, he recorded a new, funkier version for Pieces of a Man, supported by accomplished jazz musicians. And the words were anything but polite. Scott-Heron mixed political commentary, satire, television advertising and references to American popular culture, exposing the enormous distance between the world presented on television and the struggles unfolding in the streets. The message wasn't simply that television companies would refuse to show a revolution. It was that meaningful social change couldn't be reduced to entertainment, advertising or something you watched comfortably from your sofa. The recording would later be recognised by the Library of Congress as part of America's cultural sound heritage. Its influence can also be heard in the development of politically conscious hip-hop, although Scott-Heron's work belongs to a much wider tradition of Black poetry and music. Why it's here: Because Happy Hippy isn't a nostalgia trip where everybody wears flowers and nobody asks difficult questions. This song demands attention. After Marvin Gaye's compassion, Gil Scott-Heron brings the confrontation. We love the intelligence, rhythm and sharp humour of it. And we're including it because the culture of the period was also about who had power, whose voices were heard and who was being left out.
40. Imagine - John Lennon (1971) It's probably one of the most famous peace songs ever written. And yet the story behind Imagine is more interesting than simply a man sitting at a piano and wishing everybody would get along. John Lennon recorded the song in May 1971 at Ascot Sound Studios, the home studio he shared with Yoko Ono at Tittenhurst Park in England. Klaus Voormann played bass, Alan White played drums, and strings were added later in New York. But the ideas behind it had been developing for years. Lennon acknowledged that Yoko Ono's 1964 book Grapefruit, a collection of conceptual art instructions inviting readers to imagine and rethink everyday reality, was a major influence. In a 1980 interview, he admitted that Ono had contributed substantially to the song and that he should have shared the writing credit with her from the beginning. In 2017, the National Music Publishers' Association formally recognised her as a co-writer. That's an important part of the story, and one that was overlooked for far too long. There's another detail that makes the recording remarkable. Engineer Phil McDonald recalled that it was one of the easiest songs they recorded, with most of the performance captured live in just a few takes. No enormous production tricks were needed. Just a piano, a voice, a restrained arrangement and some very big questions. Because Imagine isn't merely asking people to be nice to each other. It challenges the divisions created by countries, religion and possessions. Whether you agree with its vision or not, it's a much more radical song than its gentle melody might suggest. Why it's here: Because after Gil Scott-Heron's sharp confrontation with the world, Lennon and Ono ask us to imagine what a different one might look like. We love that contrast. One song challenges us to stop watching and start thinking; the other asks us to question the boundaries we've grown used to. And there's something wonderful about a song with such enormous ambitions sounding so simple.
41. Peace Train - Cat Stevens (1971) Some songs about peace sound like a quiet wish. Cat Stevens decided his needed a train. And there was a reason for that. In a 2019 interview, Stevens — now known as Yusuf — explained that he'd always loved trains. But he had also grown up in a world where another major war never seemed very far away. The Cold War, the Vietnam War and the constant threat of nuclear weapons were part of everyday life. He was also aware of the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament (CND), the British anti-nuclear movement whose emblem became the internationally recognised peace symbol. Somewhere between his love of trains and his desire for a more peaceful world, the idea of Peace Train was born. For Stevens, the train represented humanity travelling together towards a shared destination. People might come from different backgrounds, but they could still want the same basic things: happiness, security and a better future. The song appeared on his 1971 album Teaser and the Firecat. With its acoustic guitars, rolling rhythm and increasingly enthusiastic vocals, it builds from a personal expression of hope into something that feels like a whole crowd joining in. And that's the beauty of it. Nobody needs a ticket, and there's room for everyone. Why it's here: Because after the idealism of Imagine, we wanted to keep that hope alive without simply repeating the same musical idea. Lennon asks us to picture a different world. Cat Stevens invites us to get moving towards it. We love the warmth, the rhythm and the feeling that, despite everything going wrong around us, people might still find a way forward together.
42. Going to California - Led Zeppelin (1971) For a band famous for enormous amplifiers, explosive drums and some of the heaviest riffs in rock history, Led Zeppelin could be surprisingly delicate. Going to California is a perfect example. The song took shape at Headley Grange, an old country house in Hampshire, England, where the band were working on their fourth album. Jimmy Page played acoustic guitar, John Paul Jones added mandolin, and Robert Plant sang about escaping towards the Californian coast. No thunderous John Bonham drums. No wall of electric guitars. Just three musicians creating something quietly beautiful. California had become an almost mythical place for British rock musicians: sunshine, freedom, new ideas and an extraordinary songwriting community around Laurel Canyon in Los Angeles. And there was another influence in that world: Joni Mitchell. Page was an admirer of her songwriting, and the song's imagery has long been understood as a nod to Mitchell and the Californian folk-rock scene. But here's where the story gets particularly good. The song contains imagery of mountains and canyons shaking. Later, while Page was in Los Angeles mixing the album, an actual earthquake struck. He recalled lying in bed as the building shook, immediately thinking about Going to California. He even joked that he was going to leave mixing that particular song until last, just in case. Apparently, even Jimmy Page wasn't prepared to tempt fate twice. Why it's here: Because we wanted to show another side of Led Zeppelin. Their acoustic music can be every bit as powerful as their heaviest recordings, just in a completely different way. After the communal optimism of Peace Train, this feels like a more personal journey towards the unknown. We love the guitars, the mandolin, Plant's voice and that beautiful sense of possibility.
43. Heart of Gold - Neil Young (1972) One of Neil Young's biggest songs came together during a period when he could barely stand comfortably enough to play an electric guitar. Young was suffering from a serious back problem in the early seventies. Playing acoustic guitar while sitting down was easier, and that physical limitation helped shape some of the quieter music he was writing. In February 1971, he travelled to Nashville, Tennessee, where he was due to appear on The Johnny Cash Show. While there, he met producer Elliot Mazer, who had a recording studio called Quadrafonic Sound. What began as an opportunity to record some new material turned into the sessions that helped create Harvest. And the musicians weren't exactly a bad bunch. Young worked with Nashville players including drummer Kenny Buttrey, bassist Tim Drummond and pedal steel guitarist Ben Keith. James Taylor and Linda Ronstadt, who were also in Nashville for the television show, added backing vocals to Heart of Gold. The result was remarkably simple. Acoustic guitars, harmonica, a gentle country-influenced rhythm and Young's unmistakable voice. Released in 1972, Heart of Gold became his only number-one single in the United States. But here's the twist. Young wasn't particularly interested in spending the rest of his career repeating that success. In the notes to his 1977 compilation Decade, he famously described the song as having put him in the middle of the road. He soon became bored with that comfortable position and deliberately headed towards rougher, less commercial musical territory. Not many artists get their biggest hit and then decide they'd rather take the difficult road. Why it's here: Because beneath that beautiful, familiar melody is a very human search for something genuine. We love the harmonica, the warmth of the recording and the way Young can make a simple song feel deeply personal. After the Californian dreams of Led Zeppelin, this brings the journey back to one man, one voice and the things he's still hoping to find.
44. The Four Horsemen - Aphrodite's Child (1972) By the time 666 finally appeared in 1972, Aphrodite's Child had already fallen apart. And this wasn't exactly the kind of record that made record companies comfortable. The Greek band had originally found international success with melodic, psychedelic pop songs. But Vangelis Papathanassiou had much more ambitious ideas for their next album. Working in Paris with Greek filmmaker and lyricist Costas Ferris, he developed a double concept album inspired by the Book of Revelation, the final book of the New Testament, filled with visions of destruction, judgement and the end of the world. Costas Ferris came up with a fascinating idea for the album. Imagine a huge circus putting on a spectacular show based on the Book of Revelation. Inside the tent, the audience watches a performance about the end of the world. But outside, in the fictional world Ferris created, the Apocalypse is actually happening. And here's the twist: the audience has no idea. They see the signs of destruction and assume it's all part of the show. The line between performance and reality disappears. People are watching the end of the world without even realising it. Sound familiar? The Four Horsemen became one of the album's most memorable pieces. Its imagery comes from the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, mysterious riders introduced as the first four seals are opened in the biblical vision, traditionally associated with catastrophe, war, famine and death. The music is extraordinary. Demis Roussos delivers an almost otherworldly vocal, while Vangelis builds an atmosphere that moves from haunting beauty towards a powerful psychedelic rock explosion, with Argyris Koulouris's electric guitar helping drive the intensity. But the album's journey to release was anything but smooth. The record company objected to its experimental and provocative material, especially Infinity, a piece featuring Greek actress Irene Papas. The album was delayed and eventually released through Vertigo in 1972. For the musicians, it was effectively the end of Aphrodite's Child. For Vangelis, it was also a remarkable step towards the musical experimentation that would define much of his later career. Why it's here: Because Greek musicians weren't simply following what was happening in Britain and America. They were creating extraordinary, ambitious music of their own. And The Four Horsemen belongs right alongside the great psychedelic and progressive rock recordings of the period. We love the atmosphere, Demis Roussos's remarkable voice and that moment when the music seems to break free of everything holding it back. After Neil Young's quiet search for a heart of gold, the world suddenly becomes a much stranger place.
45. Vitamin C - CAN (1972) If you're expecting a song about the health benefits of oranges, you're in for a surprise. Vitamin C sounds more like a warning coming from some strange machine that nobody knows how to switch off. And it comes from one of the most extraordinary bands Germany produced in the early seventies. CAN weren't particularly interested in following the usual rules of rock music. Rather than arriving at the studio with every note planned out, they often developed their music by playing together, experimenting with rhythms and sounds, and then shaping their recordings through careful editing. The band brought together musicians with remarkably different backgrounds, including classically trained keyboardist Irmin Schmidt, guitarist Michael Karoli, bassist and tape-editing specialist Holger Czukay, drummer Jaki Liebezeit and Japanese vocalist Damo Suzuki. On Vitamin C, Liebezeit's relentless drums and Czukay's bass create a rhythm that seems impossible to escape. Suzuki delivers his strange, urgent vocals while the other instruments move around him. There's a fascinating story behind the recording, too. When previously unheard CAN recordings were released as The Lost Tapes in 2012, they included a longer experimental piece called Dead Pigeon Suite. Irmin Schmidt explained that this recording contained musical ideas which were still developing into what eventually became Vitamin C. In other words, that incredibly tight, hypnotic track had roots in something much more sprawling and experimental. The finished song appeared on the 1972 album Ege Bamyasi. Even decades later, its rhythm sounds remarkably modern, and its influence can be heard in later electronic music and hip-hop. Why it's here: Because the psychedelic era wasn't limited to the familiar sounds of British and American rock. CAN were exploring an entirely different direction, one built around rhythm, repetition and experimentation. After the grand, apocalyptic drama of The Four Horsemen, Vitamin C brings us sharply back to Earth — although we're not entirely sure which planet we've landed on. We love that. It keeps Happy Hippy unpredictable.
46. Ventura Highway - America (1972) Some songs make you want to get in a car, roll down the windows and drive until you forget what day it is. Ventura Highway is one of them. But here's something you might not expect: Dewey Bunnell began writing this celebration of California while he was living in England. The three members of America — Bunnell, Gerry Beckley and Dan Peek — were American teenagers who'd met in Britain, where their fathers were serving in the US Air Force. Bunnell's inspiration came from a childhood memory. In 1963, his family had been driving along the Californian coast when their car suffered a flat tyre. While his father changed it, young Dewey stood beside the road, looking at the Pacific Ocean and a sign pointing towards Ventura. For some reason, that name stayed with him. So did the clouds above the road. Bunnell later explained that the song's wonderfully strange image of alligator lizards floating through the air came from cloud shapes that reminded him of the reptiles he'd seen as a boy in California. There's another little story hiding in the lyrics. The character Joe, who seems reluctant to leave his familiar surroundings, was partly inspired by an older man Bunnell remembered from his childhood in Mississippi. Suddenly, the song becomes more than a postcard from sunny California. It's a conversation between staying where you are and taking a chance on somewhere new. The finished recording appeared on America's second album, Homecoming, in 1972. Its bright acoustic guitars, memorable guitar interplay and beautiful vocal harmonies made it one of the band's signature songs. And it still sounds like sunshine pouring through the speakers. Why it's here: Because after CAN's restless, almost mechanical rhythm, we wanted to open the windows and let some fresh air in. We love how Ventura Highway captures that feeling of wanting to go somewhere else, even when you're not quite sure where you're heading. The California dream was an important part of the era, and this song expresses it without trying too hard. Sometimes a melody is all you need to get moving.
47. Rocky Mountain High - John Denver (1972) John Denver didn't need to invent a magical place for this song. He'd already found one. It was called Colorado. By the early seventies, Denver had fallen deeply in love with the Rocky Mountains, especially the country around Aspen. The mountains offered him something very different from the endless travelling and pressure of life as a successful musician. And one particular night left a lasting impression. While camping near Aspen, Denver witnessed the Perseid meteor shower. He watched shooting stars streak across the mountain sky, an experience that helped inspire Rocky Mountain High. He wrote the song with guitarist Mike Taylor, and it appeared on the 1972 album of the same name. But despite its peaceful sound, the song had a slightly controversial life of its own. Some listeners assumed the word high referred to drugs. Denver repeatedly explained that he was describing something else entirely: the overwhelming feeling of happiness, freedom and connection with nature that he experienced in the mountains. There's also an environmental message running through the song. Denver wasn't simply admiring a beautiful landscape. He was troubled by the damage caused when people treated the mountains as land to be developed rather than something worth protecting. And here's a lovely piece of recognition. In 2007, Colorado officially adopted Rocky Mountain High as one of its two state songs, alongside the older Where the Columbines Grow. Not bad for a song inspired by a night under the stars. Why it's here: Because the freedom celebrated in Happy Hippy isn't always about escaping society or breaking the rules. Sometimes it's about standing somewhere beautiful and feeling completely connected to the world around you. We love the warmth of Denver's voice and the genuine affection he had for these mountains. After the sunlit coastline of Ventura Highway, we're heading inland, climbing higher and discovering a different kind of freedom.
48. Give Me Love (Give Me Peace on Earth) - George Harrison (1973) By 1973, George Harrison had already experienced more fame than most musicians could imagine. But fame wasn't what he was looking for. After the enormous success of All Things Must Pass and his work organising the Concert for Bangladesh in 1971, Harrison was increasingly occupied with questions about spirituality, suffering and the difference between material success and genuine happiness. Those questions became central to his next album, Living in the Material World. And its opening song, Give Me Love (Give Me Peace on Earth), expressed them with remarkable simplicity. Harrison later explained in his autobiography, I, Me, Mine, that sometimes a song begins when you open your mouth and something unexpected comes out. If you're lucky, that first idea turns into music. He described Give Me Love as a prayer and a deeply personal statement, directed towards God and anyone who connected with it. That distinction matters. This isn't just another musician telling the world that peace would be a nice idea. Harrison is asking for love, understanding and the strength to deal with life's difficulties. And the music is beautiful. His distinctive slide guitar seems to answer his singing, while Nicky Hopkins's piano, Klaus Voormann's bass and Jim Keltner's drums create a warm, flowing arrangement that never overwhelms the song. Released as a single in 1973, it reached number one in the United States, as did the album. But the success feels almost secondary to what Harrison was trying to express. For a man who'd spent years surrounded by the extraordinary machinery of the music industry, this was a surprisingly simple request for something money couldn't buy. Why it's here: Because Happy Hippy has travelled through protest, anger, freedom, experimentation and the beauty of the natural world. George Harrison brings those ideas back to something very personal: the need for love and peace. We love his slide guitar, the tenderness of his voice and the fact that the song asks more questions than it pretends to answer. After John Denver's connection with nature, Harrison turns our attention inward. A beautiful way to approach the final stretch of the journey.
49. Ramblin' Man - The Allman Brothers Band (1973) The Allman Brothers Band weren't entirely convinced that Ramblin' Man sounded like an Allman Brothers song. Their problem? It was a bit too country. Guitarist Dickey Betts had written the song at the band's communal house in Macon, Georgia. His father worked in construction, and the family had moved around Florida while Dickey was growing up. Different towns, different schools, endless bus journeys. As Betts later explained, travelling had been part of his life long before he became a musician. The song also owed something to Hank Williams, whose own Ramblin' Man had been released back in 1951. But the Allmans were known for their extraordinary mixture of blues, jazz improvisation and Southern rock. A straightforward country-flavoured song wasn't exactly what everyone expected. Betts had an idea. What if they gave it a long guitar section, something closer to the way Eric Clapton's Layla developed into an extended instrumental journey? That changed everything. The recording brought together Betts's distinctive guitar playing with the harmonies of guest guitarist Les Dudek. The result had all the warmth of country music, but also the soaring electric-guitar interplay that made the Allman Brothers so special. There's a sad piece of history attached to those sessions. Ramblin' Man was recorded in October 1972 and became one of the last recordings made by bassist Berry Oakley before he died in a motorcycle accident that November. The band had already lost guitarist Duane Allman in another motorcycle accident the previous year. When the song finally appeared on Brothers and Sisters in 1973, it became their biggest American singles hit, reaching number two. A song that some of the band thought was too country ended up introducing them to an enormous new audience. Why it's here: Because freedom has been running through Happy Hippy from the very beginning, and Ramblin' Man captures it in a wonderfully different way. We love those guitars, the easy Southern rhythm and the feeling of a road that keeps stretching towards the horizon. After George Harrison's inward-looking prayer, it's time to head outside again. And there's something moving about hearing so much life and energy from a band that had already experienced such terrible losses.
50. I'm the Slime - Frank Zappa & The Mothers (1973) Leave it to Frank Zappa to write a song about television and make the television itself sound like a thoroughly unpleasant character. And what a character it is. In I'm the Slime, Zappa doesn't simply complain about bad programmes. He imagines television speaking directly to its audience, proudly admitting that it can influence what people think, sell them whatever it likes and keep them watching even when they know better. It's funny, nasty and disturbingly confident. The song appeared on Over-Nite Sensation in 1973, at a point when Zappa had put together a remarkable new version of The Mothers, featuring musicians with backgrounds in jazz, classical music and rock. The result is unmistakably Zappa: a tight, funky rhythm, sudden musical twists, sharp guitar playing and an arrangement that is much more sophisticated than its apparently ridiculous subject might suggest. The album also had some unexpected guests. During the recording sessions at Ike Turner's Bolic Sound studio in California, Tina Turner and the Ikettes contributed backing vocals to the project. Their work went uncredited on the original album. But perhaps the funniest twist came later. In 1976, Zappa performed I'm the Slime on the American television programme Saturday Night Live, with the show's announcer Don Pardo taking part. Yes, he brought his satire about the power of television directly onto national television. That's the sort of joke Zappa would have appreciated. Why it's here: Because we couldn't reach the end of Happy Hippy without a little mischief. We've explored peace, freedom and political protest, but the counterculture also had a wonderfully sharp, sarcastic side. Zappa refuses to let anyone get too comfortable. We love the groove, the musicianship and the way he makes you laugh before you realise how uncomfortable the subject actually is.
51. The Joker - Steve Miller Band (1973) After all the anger, political arguments and complicated ideas we've encountered along the way, sometimes you just need a song that doesn't take itself too seriously. Enter Steve Miller. By 1973, Miller had already spent years exploring psychedelic rock, blues and the San Francisco music scene. But when he recorded The Joker, something rather different happened. The music became simpler, the groove slowed down and Miller seemed to be having an enormous amount of fun. The song is practically a collection of his own musical alter egos. The Space Cowboy and the Gangster of Love had already appeared in his earlier work, while Maurice had been introduced on his 1972 album Recall the Beginning... A Journey from Eden. But what on earth is the pompatus of love? Well, there's a story behind that wonderfully ridiculous expression. Back in 1954, a Los Angeles vocal group called The Medallions recorded a song titled The Letter. Their singer, Vernon Green, had invented an unusual word that sounded something like puppetutes. Years later, Steve Miller remembered the phrase differently. His version became pompatus, and a piece of somebody else's musical imagination found a completely new life. The song also borrowed inspiration from the older rhythm and blues group The Clovers, particularly their 1954 hit Lovey Dovey. And then there's that guitar sound, which seems to whistle playfully back at Miller. In a later interview, he explained that he had developed the song on a twelve-string acoustic guitar. Its laid-back rhythm felt so different from his previous work that he didn't even recognise it as an obvious hit. The album was recorded remarkably quickly in 1973, and The Joker went on to reach number one in the United States in January 1974. Not bad for a song featuring a word that didn't even exist in the dictionary. Why it's here: Because joy, humour and a little harmless nonsense belong in this musical world too. We love the easy rhythm, the playful guitar and Steve Miller's refusal to behave like a terribly serious rock star. After Frank Zappa's rather vicious television satire, this feels like stepping outside, finding the sun again and remembering that music can simply make you smile. One more bit of fun before our final goodbye.
52. Hear My Train A Comin’ (Acoustic) - Jimi Hendrix (1967) After fifty-one songs, countless guitars, protests, festivals, strange ideas and journeys across the world, we're going to finish with something remarkably simple. One man. One guitar. The blues. And that man is Jimi Hendrix. On 19 December 1967, Hendrix was at photographer Bruce Fleming's studio in London, where filmmaker Peter Neal was working on footage for a documentary about the Jimi Hendrix Experience. A twelve-string acoustic guitar made by British instrument maker Tony Zemaitis was available for the session. Hendrix, who played left-handed, picked it up, settled onto a stool and began playing Hear My Train A Comin'. No enormous amplifiers. No distortion pedals. No spectacular stage performance. Just Hendrix, his voice and twelve strings. And what a performance. The music reaches back towards the traditions of country blues, particularly the world of musicians such as Lead Belly, whose powerful acoustic twelve-string playing had helped shape the sound of American folk and blues. Hendrix was famous for pushing the electric guitar into extraordinary new territory, but this recording reminds us how deeply he understood the music that came before him. You can hear the rhythm in his hands, the feeling in his voice and the remarkable control he has over an instrument that sounds completely different from his familiar Fender Stratocaster. The performance was filmed in 1967 and appeared in Peter Neal's documentary, shown in 1968. Its audio later became available on the posthumous compilation Blues, released in 1994. The acoustic recording isn't a 1994 performance; it's a document of Hendrix playing in 1967. And the song itself? Hear My Train A Comin' became an important part of his live repertoire, often developing into long, powerful electric performances. In this acoustic version, though, its blues roots are laid bare. There's something deeply moving about hearing one of the most revolutionary guitarists in rock history playing without any need to demonstrate how revolutionary he was. He just plays. Why it's here: Because this is how we wanted Happy Hippy to end. Not with the loudest guitar solo, the biggest anthem or one final explosion, but with the roots of the music itself. Hendrix has already appeared along our journey in all his electric glory. Here we hear something more intimate, a musician sitting with a guitar and reaching back towards the blues that helped make so much of this music possible. The playlist began in 1967, and now, after travelling all the way to 1973, we return to a moment from that same year. One man, twelve strings and a train somewhere in the distance. We can't think of a better way to say goodbye. Music Makes Sense