The Arty Psychedelic Concert Ticket circa 1960s

One artifact left behind from the 1960s is the iconic psychedelic concert ticket, exemplified by the the creative output of a handful of artists residing in San Francisco. These small pieces of art that easily fit in the palm of a hand represent not just a visual feast but also what it meant to be a rebel in the late 1960s.

The origin of the collectable psychedelic concert ticket

In pre-hippie days, the San Francisco music scene was populated mainly by jazz and poetry, reflecting the intellectual mindset of the beat generation. Local hipsters could be found in smoky jazz clubs and coffeehouses that dotted North Beach. Beat poets read their work and saxophones wailed. Back then, tickets were typed slips of paper or hand-stamped cards that cost a couple pennies.  Their purpose was simply to provide entry to a night of jazz or folk music.

Fast-forward to the mid-’60s, and suddenly the city was buzzing with electric guitars, patchouli, and a new kind of sound. Promoters like Bill Graham and Chet Helms turned places like Fillmore Auditorium, Winterland and the Avalon Ballroom into temples of rock. You could catch Jefferson Airplane, the Grateful Dead, or Big Brother & the Holding Company and Jimi Hendrix for $2.50, and your ticket wasn’t just a stub—it was a piece of art. Gone was the boring drabness of past eras. These  were handed out at head shops and record stores, designed by artists who saw every show as a happening.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The artists became celebrities in their own right. Among them, Wes Wilson, Victor Moscoso, Stanley Mouse, Alton Kelley, and it’s fair to say they almost single-handedly invented the psychedelic writing style. The posters and tickets for the shows were wild swirls of neon color and melting letters that you had to squint to read. Each one was a visual trip meant to match the music. If you scored a Hendrix or Doors ticket from the Fillmore, you weren’t just getting into a concert, you were taking home a collectible and bragging rights.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

These microcosms of artistic expression became emblems of a bygone day and by the late 1980s vintage tickets and posters were being sold in shops specializing in just these items. I remember passing one such storefront on Columbus Avenue in North Beach, that in in retrospect, I sure wished I ‘d entered.  Today, collectors pay vast sums for an original ticket. Perhaps they had been to the show and lost their original ticket, or maybe they just want to inhale the atmosphere when San Francisco was the center of rock ’n’ roll and innocence was all the rage.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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