There were other incidents carrying more gravity going on in Berzerkeley around the same time. Another one happened at a school auditorium on Russell Street that shook me and reminded me of the murderous chaos of Altamont. It occurred at what was supposed to be a free concert with several bands playing for a coalition of anti-war groups… or something like that. I didn’t want to have anything to do with a free concert but I went just to see what was going on. The crowd there was so dense you couldn’t dance or move to the music much at all. There was a set of three double doors that opened into the auditorium. Something, a movement at the doors, caught my eye. I was already headed for the doors when a commotion broke out at the entrance. I could barely make out through the crowd what was happening. Then I saw it: Two cadres of very black men dressed in black turtlenecks, black slacks tucked in their boots like paratroopers and black berets, filed in the doors on the right and left. They had night sticks or saps and were wading into the crowd swinging their batons ruthlessly and indiscriminately (boys, girls, old, young) at anyone in front of them. Then, as though on a signal, they yelled out in unison, “Black Power!” and exited as suddenly as they appeared… a black phantom of sorts.
I got out of the auditorium and hit Telegraph Avenue. I’d heard that Kubrick’s Spartacus was playing at the Student Union Building and I wanted to catch it… perhaps have a safe few hours to nap. On the way, as I approached Durant, the sidewalk was covered with a sticky red substance. Some spots had Panther posters soaked in blood covering it. My eyes were so focused on the sidewalk I hadn’t seen a row of young black men in black turtlenecks, black slacks tucked into their boots like paratroopers and black berets, standing in military parade rest along side with their backs to the store-fronts as I passed by. I stopped a second to ask the nearest one what had happened but my eyes met a cold steel glare. I had no desire to question what went down. One man at the far end of the file broke ranks and said, loud enough for me to hear; “Another hippy drug dealer is off our streets.”
I got out of the auditorium and hit Telegraph Avenue. I’d heard that Kubrick’s Spartacus was playing at the Student Union Building and I wanted to catch it… perhaps have a safe few hours to nap. On the way, as I approached Durant, the sidewalk was covered with a sticky red substance. Some spots had Panther posters soaked in blood covering it. My eyes were so focused on the sidewalk I hadn’t seen a row of young black men in black turtlenecks, black slacks tucked into their boots like paratroopers and black berets, standing in military parade rest along side with their backs to the store-fronts as I passed by. I stopped a second to ask the nearest one what had happened but my eyes met a cold steel glare. I had no desire to question what went down. One man at the far end of the file broke ranks and said, loud enough for me to hear; “Another hippy drug dealer is off our streets.”
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