Jeff Kisseloff sits down with Jeff Kisseloff for an interview about his new book.

Thanks for doing this. I'm honored.

Don't be too hard on me. I'm sensitive.

Ok, First, I should say you’re much better looking in person than you are in your picture.

And taller, too.

So how did “Generation on Fire” come about?”

I have no idea. I’ve completely
forgotten its genesis.

I don’t believe you..

It’s true, but let me try and reconstruct it as best I can. When I finished my previous book, which was an oral history of television, I cast around for another topic. I think the first idea I had was an oral history of rock and roll. I even did a few interviews. I spoke to the fellow who played bass on Bill Haley’s “Rock Around the Clock,” which was recorded on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, and another fellow who sang with a doo-wop group. It was great stuff. Then I abandoned the project, but for the life of me, I can’t remember why. I barely remember what I had for breakfast this morning. What did I have for breakfast this morning?

Toast and soy milk.

I vaguely recall that. Anyway, what appealed to me about the story of early rock and roll was that so much of it was about rebellion. People like Chuck Berry and Elvis really had adults worried. Somehow, this led me to examine more deeply what happened in the 60s. At the same time, I started to do prelimiary interviews for an oral history of my home town, East Meadow, which was carved out of potato fields on Long Island in the years after World War II. It was supposed to be this happy suburb, but it wasn’t. There was a lot of hatred in the town, much of it directed at Jews and people perceived as Communists. Actually, some of them were Communists, and they were a pretty interesting bunch. The whole idea was to look at the American dream and see how it meant different things to do different people, and how for so many people it just went poof.

That project stalled, however, but it brought me back to this idea of rebellion when I talked not only to the older folks who inhabited East Meadow and who had tried to make something special happen to the town (and failed, by the way) but also when I reconnected with some of the people from my generation who experienced the tail end of the 60s.

Around then I picked up a book by Ray Mungo, who was a pretty famous '60s radical. The book was called “Famous Long Ago,” and it was about a commune that he and a bunch of friends had formed outside Brattleboro, Vermont. In the book was a photo of the entire bunch, posed on a hillside by their farm sometime in 1968. That’s when I got what I thought was a great idea: to find all the people in that picture and catch up with them, and through their stories, I would tell the story of the 1960s.

Great idea, what did your agent think of it?

She was so unhappy when I told her what I intended to do she said if I insisted on writing the book, she would no longer carry me as a client.

So you abandoned it?

No, I abandoned her. I found another agent, who couldn’t sell it. Then I found two more agents. None of them could scare up any interest. In fact, the idea was met with incredible hostility.

Why?

Good question. I’m still not sure why, but the few people in the picture I had spoken to were not especially apologetic about what they had done back then. In fact, they were still pursuing worthwhile goals and living what they thought were ethical and beneficial lives. I think that rankled a lot of people who would have preferred that the people in the book all ended up as sellouts. That would have made them feel better about their own lives.

So what happened next?

Nothing. I gave up. I cut my hair, joined the Navy and never wrote another word again.

Wow, so who did you pay to put your name on the cover of this one?

Ok, I'm lying. I wrote a couple of books on baseball, but I still hadn't given up on the 60s when I received an email from an editor I had chatted with online. She asked me if I had any ideas for a book that would appeal to a teenage audience. I told her that I did.

She wanted the book about the commune?

No, but when she suggested that I write something for a teenage audience, I thought about it, and again I realized what appealed to me most was the idea of a book celebrating non-conformity and rebellion. We're in a period where all sorts of pressure on people to conform to the rules of behavior, culture and politics. The pressure to be like all other kids is so strong especially among teenagers that I wanted to do a book that encouraged them to think and be different. And, of course, it just so happened that I had already been working on a book that essentially was just about that. But now, instead of concentrating on the commune (although one person from the commune, Verandah Porche, is in “Generation on Fire”) I wanted to find people who represented all the different movements from the 60s and talk to them, find out how they came to do what they did. What I really hoped to find was people who came to their rebellion from places where they were expected to — and really pressured to — conform with the rules. For example, Bob Zellner, who was one of the founders of SNCC, was a white man from a Klan family. That’s a long twisty road from the civil rights movement.

I also wanted to write a book about what really happened in a decade that I think was the most important one of the twentieth century in terms of the longterm changes that it wrought. And this wasn't some kind of a natural process. The establishment fought these courageous people tooth and nail. It took a lot of guts for them to basically stand up and say "No!" In fact, that was the original title of the book.

The book was originally called "That?"

Uh oh, not "That," "No!" I still think it's a good title, but apparently I am the only one.

So hold on a second here. The editor who contacted you didn't work for the University Press of Kentucky. How did the book end up there?

Excellent question. You're sharper than I thought you would be. When I handed the book into the editor, she loved it. She said it was one of the most important books she ever edited, but the marketing department didn't feel the same way. Around this time, Bob Zellner decided to write his memoirs, and I volunteered to help him. I had a pleasant conversation on behalf of Bob's book with Steve Wrinn at Kentucky. When my book came free, I remembered Steve, and fortunately he remembered me. Together, we changed the focus of the book. It's not in any way a book pitched at young teens, although I still hope that young people will learn a lot from it. In that way, having this come out through an academic publisher fulfills the original dream I had for the book — that it might make a difference among young people. At the same time, I'm hoping it will illumuninate what continues to be one of the most controversial periods in our history. It tried to get beyond the stereotypical view of the decade, so people can see what it really was about.

You mean drugs, sex and rock and roll.

And not necessarily in that order. Seriously, for many people that's what it was about, and there's no doubt that all three had an impact on the period — and I'm not going to say negatively. But if anyone thinks that that's what drove those who were serious about change, well they're mistaken.

Getting back to the book, how did people respond when you contacted them?

Most of them couldn’t have been nicer.

Most?

Well, a few people told me to get lost. Others turned me down but at least they were decent about it.

Care to name names?

Hmm, let’s see. Tommie Smith, who led that dramatic protest at the 1968 Olympics, he would only talk to me if I paid him. That was probably the biggest disappointment. John Fogerty couldn’t do it, but his manager, who is his brother, was so cordial about it I didn’t care.

What about the people in the book?

They all agreed to do it.

Duh, but tell me something more about your experience with them.

For the most part they were wonderful, and I was honored that they not only agreed to talk but were so open during the interviews — with a couple of exceptions of course.

Want to say who they were?

Nah.

So tell me about the others.

Many of them were people that I had long admired. Nearly all the interviews were done in person, and what can I say? They were gracious, fun, generous subjects. I spent a lot of time up in Vermont at Verandah Porche’s farmhouse. We became good friends and remain so. The first time I was there, I went out with her to gather wood. We stacked it in a wheelbarrow, and promptly dumped it through a window. Fortunately, she got past it and invited me to the farm again. She put me up a few times. They turned the heat off at night, and this was in the winter, but I remember being so warm under those homespun blankets — and then I had to get out of bed in the morning. I think I set a world record for dressing speed.

I did travel to more hospitable climates. Barry Melton, who was the lead guitarist in Country Joe & the Fish, lives in Davis, California, which is set in beautiful farm country. Barry, unlike nearly every other rock and roll musician has been married to the same woman for more than 30 years. He is proud of his wife and children, and rightly so. He has such a warm loving relationship with his family. It was really a pleasure to experience. From there, I traveled to Oakland and spent the day hanging out in Elsa Marley’s art studio. The thing about Elsa is you can’t believe the life this woman has led. She’s been everywhere and met everyone and yet she is still curious and excited about everything. I had read about her in Peter Coyote’s book and thought she would be a great interview. She certainly didn’t disappoint.

There is that danger, isn’t there?

Oh, sure. A few of them were names I had been familiar with forever, people like Dan Berrigan, Paul Krassner, Lee Weiner and Dave Meggysey. I had no idea what they would be like. It turned out that Lee is hilarious but also a truly warm soul, and Dan and Dave just overwhelm you with their decency. Gloria Dandridge, who had such a fierce reputation in 1963, was like a cuddly grandmother.

Their stories also had an immediacy to them. It was hard to imagine we’re talking more than 40 years ago. For many of them, it still felt like yesterday. I think Marilyn Webb is still bugged about getting tossed out of the Little League.

And David Cline?

David was recommended to me by the Vietnam Veterans Against the War. I drove to his apartment in Jersey City. The place was heated — and not well — by an open stove in his kitchen. David has HIV, but he’s still out there fighting the good fight every day. He’s also a real music lover, and we really connected over that. David came from a family that fought in every American war since the Revolution. Can you imagine what it must have been like for him to come out against Vietnam? Well, what I found was this was one courageous guy in many ways. After all, he was literally on the front lines when the Tet offensive began. I had a friend of mine, a World War II veteran say to me many times, “You don’t know what you’re made of until somebody fires a shot at you in anger.” Well, David’s experiences certainly showed what he was made of.

You start a lot of sentences with "Well."

Well, what's wrong with that?

I bet Paul Krassner was fun.

Fun, but also kind. I think great reporters are almost always terrific interviews. They knew what makes a great story, and they also are invariably sympathetic to the interviewer. Marilyn Webb, who is such a fine writer, was the same way. The thing to remember about Paul is not only is he a brilliant satirist, he’s also a terrific investigative reporter who in addition happens to be hilarious. I was reading his autobiography on the plane out to California, and I was laughing so hard, I was afraid they might call out the marshals to see what the story is with the crazy guy in seat 10c.

C’mon, say something bad about someone.

Well, the worst I can say is that Peter Berg was a challenge. He doesn’t suffer fools easily. I don’t think he really enjoys reliving the past, mostly because he’s so involved with his current environmental work, and rightly so.

Was there one difficult interview?

The hardest, of course, was Doris Krause and Barry Levine. I was really asking them to open a wound that has no way healed after 35 years. I wanted to hear their stories because I thought people would benefit from them, but I could never shake the feeling that I was invading their private pain. I did a lot of interviews with Barry, and I just repeatedly found myself overwhelmed with sadness for him and Doris. On the other hand, Barry is also a Jew from Long Island, so we could speak each other's language.

What about the interviews that were left out of the book?

Grr. It still bothers me. I wish books can be an infinite number of pages. If you get tired of reading them, just put them aside. If you don’t, you can read them until you go blind or die. What’s wrong with that? It’s awful to have to end a story prematurely just because the binding won’t fit or the price may go up.

Every cut interview cost me a night’s sleep. The worst was Marty Jezer. Marty lived on the same commune as Verandah. He was one of the earliest peace activists. He was a real leader in the movement, despite the fact that he had a severe stutter. Marty was also the nicest human being in the world and a terrific storyteller, despite the stutter. I didn’t know how he would respond to being taped, but he was direct about it, saying basically I should do whatever I thought was best. The stutter actually was great for transcribing because it gave my hands a break. Marty was an ex-New Yorker. I would drive up there early with a dozen or so bagels, and we sit down in his cold kitchen and chat over bagels and coffee. Those were some of my favorite times when researching the book. Anyway, because his story repeated some of what Verandah had to say, I cut his interview to save space for others in the book. I think Marty would have appreciated that. I say that in the past tense, because he died last year of cancer. The people who loved him, which is basically everyone who ever came in contact with him, are still grieving.

Who else had to be cut?

The original idea was that I would speak to the children or family of the principal witnesses in the book, but while the interviews were for the most part successful, I had to leave out those interviews. Some of them were incredible, especially Carolyn Goodman and Ben Chaney, whose son and brother respectively were killed along with Mickey Schwerner in Mississippi by the Klan in 1964.

I also very reluctantly cut Jim Fouratt’s chapter from the book. We did two terrific interviews. Jim was one of those people who were active in several worlds. In his case, he was close for a while with Abbie Hoffman and the Yippies, and later on, he was one of the leaders of the Gay Liberation Movement. His was another case where it duplicated to some extent other experiences (although his story about John Lennon is not duplicated anywhere). I had done this wonderful interview by phone with Frank Kameny, whose work for gay rights began in the 1950s and in the end I decided his interview should stand by itself. It was a very painful decision on my part, mostly because again, Jim was so generous with his time.

Can we see those chapters?

Yup, they're posted on the site now, and ironically, they’ll probably get a much bigger audience on the Web.

Most, not all?

Hey, I’m busy, stop being a noodge.

Did anyone ask you to delete their interview?

Yes, one person who I won’t name. It’s too bad, because she was great, but her story was so painful for her — she had gone underground to escape arrest and in the process abandoned her daughter — that she decided in the end that she couldn’t see it in print. I’m hoping she’ll change her mind eventually.

What are the biggest misconceptions about the people you spoke with?

That all they did was smoke pot, wear tie dye and say the word "groovy" a lot. I don’t know if it’s a misconception, but with the way the media portrays the 60s these days, I don’t think people fully appreciate how bright these people were. I found them to be scarily smart, especially when it came to common sense and critical thinking. They are just so on top of things, — then and now. None of them were fools, and not only were they smart, but they were also utterly decent human beings whose commitment to change was, and is, real. I don't think a single one of them told me that their views back then were essentially incorrect.

What about the media portrayal?

Well, it goes back to the '70s. I still remember watching cop shows like Adam 12 when I was a kid, and they were always busting drug addled hippies who turned out to be murderers. I think a lot of people today still think that was what the '60s were all about. And it’s all because of Jack Webb, who probably did think that was what the whole decade was about.

There are quite a few reasons why the '60s have a bad rep. In the case, of TV, it obviously made money for the producers and writers to come up with those kinds of scripts. The news media was a different story. I think mainstream news was pretty much dominant through the '90s, and the mainstream press was hostile to people who really questioned establishment thinking. It was just too threatening. They were insisting on too much change, and it made the press uncomfortable. So the answer was in both the entertainment and journalistic worlds was either to belittle it or put it down, and of course there was another way to de-fuse the movement: co-option. When Bob Hope started growing sideburns and longer hair, it wasn’t a good sign.

So the big question is what do these people have to say to young people today?

A lot. It’s not only about activism, although activism is a big part of it. As far as that goes, I think they show that good things come from activism, especially collective activism, and that if you want good things, you have to go out and get them. We certainly need change. None of these people were superheroes. They were just determined to make a difference, and they did. You don’t have to be a superhero to do that.

But there are so many other messages. Maybe the biggest one is that it’s ok to think differently from others, to appreciate differences and to be different. You may or may not enrich other lives if you do, but you’ll certainly enrich your own life.