But that's not the only Steinberg cover for 1967. There are at least 6 more! But don't get distracted. Let's find something to read in the November 11th issue. Ah! A review of "Hair" — page 128 — "a musical comedy about life among the hippies in New York — a mixture of humor and put-on humor and wistfulness and smugness and self-pity and baloney — and life among the hippies can grow awfully tiresome after a while.... 'Hair' simply could not have existed ten years ago and it is conceivable that it could mystify audiences ten years from now, but it does catch, and quite successfully, one of the many moods and aspects of life in this city in 1967." That's Edith Oliver. Her next sentence is "Jean-Paul Sartre's 'No Exit' has never seemed much of a play to me."
Enough of 1967 as seen by The New Yorker.
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43 comments:
Why do you love 1967? I do too, but I'm younger.
The issue cost $0.35 in 1967. Now they want a dollar a week for an online subscription. That's some serious deflation of net value.
It would be a good time for David Remnick to retire.
"Why do you love 1967?"
1. I was 16.
2. The music... Sargent Pepper.
3. The fashion.
4. Summer of Love.
5. TV — The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour, Star Trek
6. Movies — Bonnie and Clyde, The Graduate
Good call, Althouse. The Sergeant Pepper album was definitely a through the Looking-Glass moment
life among the hippies can grow awfully tiresome after a while...
Would a New Yorker writer ever type that about a modern hippie equivalent?
What is that cover? Do I need to be tripping in 1967 to understand?
Last night in my YT feed was a Christmas Laugh-In from 1968. Paul Lynde was bigger and less gay than when he was on Squares…
I couldn't make sense of the cover either.
I graduated from H.S. in 67. I had all of Herman's Hermits albums. Lol!
I had a teacher in college, about your age—maybe a little younger—and from Finland who once asked the class what the best year for music was. I said "Whatever year Sargent Pepper's came out" and he said that was the correct answer. He cited a couple other albums too, though I don't quite remember what. Maybe The Doors? I remembered one as Pet Sounds, but I see that was '66.
There's really only one New Yorker cover ... the one where they show the Hudson River, then the Pacific.
View of the World From 9th Avenue.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/View_of_the_World_from_9th_Avenue
(Forgot to add it's also a Steinberg.)
"The Doors" and "Strange Days" both came out in 1967.
The Red Sox won the pennant. I was 7 years old and it was the greatest thing that ever happened. I can still tell you the starting lineup from memory.
1967. Six seven!
In my mind, 1967 seems an awful lot like 1966 and 1968, but maybe that's just me. (B. 1953)
Narr: "In my mind, 1967 seems an awful lot like 1966 and 1968."
Reminds me of the SNL sketch: "One time we were so busy, I soaked his cork, and he soaked my cork! What year was that, Guido? - I tink sometime between 1968 and 1970. Yes, yes." CC, JSM
1967 was the year we were losing about a hundred guys a week in Viet Nam. Life Magazine did a cover about it. And it was the year I was drafted (I enlisted in the Navy). So you are welcome to 1967.
1967 is the first year I still vividly remember seeing on an instructional calendar that was being held up by my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Dorin.
boatbuilder said...
The Red Sox won the pennant. I was 7 years old and it was the greatest thing that ever happened. I can still tell you the starting lineup from memory.
I was 6, from memory: Elston Howard, George Scott, Mike Andrews, Rico Petrocelli, Joe Foy, Carl Yazstremski, Tony Connigliaro, Jim Lomborg? Who am I missing?
I couldn't tell you the name of one current Red Sox player now.
If you remember 1967 you weren’t really there.
Damn, I forgot Reggie Smith and Ken Harrelson (Conigliaro's replacement after he got hit in the eye).
I'm with Milhouse van Houten.
"I wanted the Carl Yastrzemski with the big sideburns!
Who didn't!
Way back when, in ‘67
I find the New Yorker has ‘a mixture of humor and put-on humor and wistfulness and smugness and self-pity and baloney — and life among New Yorker readers can grow awfully tiresome after a while’
Edith Oliver was born in 1913, so she would have been in her fifties back when age fifty still meant "grown-up."
"She was packaged like the quintessential elderly lady that a Boy Scout would help across the street, except that she drank martinis, smoked cigarettes and could, on occasion, have a mouth like a sailor. She could be tough and would brook no banality, but she truly loved playwrights and loved the theater."
New Yorker writers and journalists in general didn't live their whole lives in bubbles like they do now. They had a lot more interaction with different sorts of people than the current staffers.
According to Sydney Sweeney, the thing about the 67 TikTok trend is that you are not supposed to say it. I'm not current, I don't know what she was talking about.
Edith Oliver wasn't some snooty out-of-touch WASP who didn't like "hair", she was like Pauline Kael. A short, profane, honest, and opinionated Jew. She loved plays with tough characters and that were edgy and different. Her favorite place was Harlem in the 60s.
She was also smart and discerning. And she didn't say bullshit was applesauce.
67 Redsox were before my time. I do remember the 75 Red Sox. IRC, Yastermski was on the team, although the only people I can remember were Fisk and El Tiante the pitcher.
McCullough: Were you the dandy of Gamma Chi? CC, JSM
Wince: would be a better story if your teacher was on the calendar! Kind of like the J Geils song. CC, JSM
I invented the 6-7 thing by accident many years ago. Remember the Jakob Dylan song Sixth Avenue Heartache? I mondegreened it into "Six Seven New Heartaches" - like he's lost count. Years before that, I modified the old phrase "six of one, half dozen of the other" into "six of one, seven or eight of the other" - like there's a difference, but not a really significant one. CC, JSM
"I invented the 6-7 thing by accident many years ago."
Your honesty compels me to admit that am responsible for "23-skidoo."
I am currently reading a novel written in 1967 by Anthony Burgess , Enderby Outside, it’s the follow on of Inside Mr. Enderby, 1964, and I am starting to feel like I am in a play called No Exit, the first one was almost an anti-novel, but this next one seems kinder to the reader. It all started with Tom Stoppard’s 1966 Rizerncrantz and Guilderstern are Dead, maybe I will lighten the mood with an Ian Fleming novel or of the same vintage next, but it was an interesting time.
Read Burgess's Earthly Powers next. I enjoyed the Enderby series myself, but not enough to reread them, as I did this summer with Earthly Powers.
One last attempt squeeze tge last drop of value from the rapidly depleting ranks of the boomer demographic.
I invented 86. - James Comey
67 was the year when our generations Viet Nam War combat really ramped up. The Tet Offensive hit us by January 68. So maybe it was really the Summer of slaughter for my generation.
My biggest memory from 1967 is that Ford gave its gorgeous 1966 Galaxies a very ugly restyling. Each September, I and my Dad would visit the local Ford showroom to check out the new models.
That year, I left feeling that 1967 would be wasted. Even Sgt. Pepper couldn’t console me.
In the summer of 1967 a bus load of us guys from Madison were taken to Milwaukee for our draft physicals. Some of us, including me, figured we wouldn't pass due to one sort of condition or other. But all the examiners were looking for was warm breath, and none of us failed. There were a lot of long faces on the bus back to Madison, and a lot of plans being scuppered.
My favorite thing is that Che Guevara reached Bolivian room temperature in 1967.
I loved the Spencer Davis Group.
Yeah they made that into a bad thing then we supposedly dug him up 30 years later
Supposedly because only felix rodriguez knew where they buried him
The New Yorker cover that made a lasting impression on me was 9/24/2001, for the 9/11 attacks. The digital reproductions don’t really capture it. In print the cover just looked solid black at first; you had to look closely to actually see it. Then, oh!
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