She was another one whose band wasn’t involved but who coasted around on Purple Haze. Juno didn’t know if Jackson had spotted her or even where he might be. Before she could check she got distracted by the Byrds’ set.

Juno hadn’t seen them play in a while, and hadn’t realized that David sang lead on nearly everything now. Neither had Jim, clearly, and when David just wouldn’t quit sermonizing about JFK’s murder for minutes on end between songs, Juno could almost smell the smoke gathering under Jim’s collar. Chris and Michael didn’t look pleased either, exactly. David in his fur hat, moustache and embroidered gipsy shirt on the other hand put Juno in mind of a buzzing, verbose and real happy Siberian sea lion.

Obviously a huge jam went down that night. At one point David looked as though he were going to suggest for Juno to sing, but just then spied Jim making a beeline for him and scarpered. Meanwhile Jackson spent hours in deep conversation with that zany Barry who’d been present at Juno’s first ever performance and had since styled himself some kind of rock ’n’ roll impresario. Dawn came and nobody noticed.

Jackson tripped Sunday away to the sound of a sitar from the stage. Juno lay beside him drifting in and out of little naps while the beautiful folks around her had the time of their lives. The summer sun was at the zenith of its course.

Juno didn’t fully come around ’til the Springfield took the stage in the evening. Neil was absent. In his place, though a lot closer to Stephen than Neil normally skulked, beamed David, in suit and Borsalino this time. The band weren’t as explosive as they tended to be, but seemed instead to be having a regular blast.

The couple hours after that belonged to acts from across the pond. English guys sure weren’t attached to their guitars much. One of them smashed his to pieces at the end of his band’s set, and the one after that, a sizzling frizz head who’d had the place all lit up anyway, knelt before his and set it on fire. The crowd about blazed.

Everyone chilled again to a spacey band from Frisco called The Grateful Dead. After that, as the closing act, it was the Mamas and Papas’ turn. If you didn’t know they were all like cats and dogs you wouldn’t have guessed, and as their biggest hit’s heavenly harmonies swept up the crowd there wasn’t a soul around who would’ve denied that this flower-swathed, star-spangled midsummer Pacific coastline was the very stuff of dreams.