This is a 43 year-old song that could have been written 15 minutes ago.
From a truly under-appreciated artist of the 60's, a dear, sweet, kind and gentle man I had the honor of meeting, shaking hands, and sharing a conversation with in 1975, here is........
(1965) (2008)
The Eve of Destruction
by Barry McGuire
The eastern world, it is exploding Violence flarin’, bullets loadin’ You’re old enough to kill, but not for votin’ You don’t believe in war, but what’s that gun you’re totin’ And even the Jordan River has bodies floatin’
But you tell me Over and over and over again, my friend Ah, you don’t believe We’re on the eve Of destruction.
Don’t you understand what I’m tryin’ to say Can’t you feel the fears I’m feelin’ today? If the button is pushed, there’s no runnin’ away There’ll be no one to save, with the world in a grave [Take a look around ya boy, it's bound to scare ya boy]
And you tell me Over and over and over again, my friend Ah, you don’t believe We’re on the eve Of destruction.
Yeah, my blood’s so mad feels like coagulatin’ I’m sitting here just contemplatin’ I can’t twist the truth, it knows no regulation. Handful of senators don’t pass legislation And marches alone can’t bring integration When human respect is disintegratin’ This whole crazy world is just too frustratin’
And you tell me Over and over and over again, my friend Ah, you don’t believe We’re on the eve Of destruction.
Think of all the hate there is in Red China Then take a look around to Selma, Alabama You may leave here for 4 days in space But when you return, it’s the same old place The poundin’ of the drums, the pride and disgrace You can bury your dead, but don’t leave a trace Hate your next-door neighbor, but don’t forget to say grace And… tell me over and over and over and over again, my friend You don’t believe We’re on the eve Of destruction Mm, no no, you don’t believe We’re on the eve Of destruction.
Posted: Tuesday July 1, 2008, 8:25 pm Visibility:
Everyone
Wednesday July 2, 2008, 6:19 pm
I grew up in Metro Los Angeles. In Southern California, there is an organisation called Greater Los Angeles Sunday Schools, known by their initals as "GLASS".
Once every year, GLASS would literally "rent" Disneyland for an evening, and Sunday Schoolers up to the age of 18 were able to buy tickets to attend GLASS Night at Disneyland.
In 1975, I was deeply-involved in my church, which was The Salvation Army. I was, at the time, seriously-considering becoming a minister. I was 14 years old.
I knew that Barry McGuire would be appearing at this particular GLASS Night. He had, a few years previously, converted to Christianity and was recording Contemporary Christian music.
But, at the time, I was still somewhat of a Hippie, so I knew exactly who Barry McGuire was.
That was most of the reason I went to Disneyland that night, just to see him.
Barry finished his set, and I knew he was finishing while he was doing that last song. So, I managed to sneak backstage, and stood beside his dressing room door.
He finished the set, came off the stage, and toward his dressing room. As he approached, I said,
"Excuse me, Mr. McGuire?"
He grinned, and said,
"Hey, man, how ya doin'?!"
He came closer, and put out his right hand. We shook hands, and I said,
"It's an honor to meet you, sir. Could I ask you
for your autograph, please?"
He got a kind of "aw, shucks!" smile on his face, looked down at the ground for a few seconds, then looked back up at me, clearly embarrased, and said,
"Man, I really don't do autographs."
"Well, that's okay", I said. "It's still a
great pleasure to meet you."
"Thanks, I appreciate that....so, what's your
name?....where y'from?", he asked me,
and we proceeded to have a brief conversation that lasted about 10 minutes.
It was an amazing experience for a 14 year old boy who was already a mega-fan of the 60's, to be standing there chatting with a living-legend of the 60's.
Barry really was (and I'm sure still is) a kind, gentle, humble, and very sweet man. Meeting him at Disneyland was my only real brush with fame, and it's something I'll remember forever.
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