In the Spring of 1971 the Vietnam war was still in full swing. It was an unsettled time in Berkeley: anti-war protests continued, the public schools were in the contentious process of desegregating and busing children to schools outside of their neighborhoods, UC Berkeley students were demanding ethnic studies be included in the curriculum. Telegraph Avenue remained a hangout for runaways in their teens and hippies who flocked here during the 60s. I was living in my car near Delaware Street, a situation that couldn’t last too much longer.

I’d heard about a house where musicians hung out so, curious, on the day before Easter, I let myself through the wide-open front door of 3005 Fulton Street. No one seemed to be around, so I picked up a yellow Fender Telecaster guitar that was on the couch and started playing a few blues licks. “Hey, you’re pretty good,” commented a man with a pleasant smile coming down the stairs. He told me I could crash on the couch. The following morning, I was offered one of their upstairs rooms for $23.00 a month. That began several years of my co-living with a complex and accommodating mixture of people—money was minimal, there was no organizational structure, and a changing flow of interesting individuals moved in and out.

One day a fellow knocked on the door saying he’d heard we had an empty room and that his brother, Arlo, was going to be performing at the Fillmore. We gave Joady Guthrie the front room and he stayed with us for a while, sharing songs that his father, Woody, hadn’t published. I wish I’d saved the several trade magazines he gave me.

My friend Annie who worked for Rolling Stone Magazine used to drop by and sometimes she got us into a show somewhere. I spent one memorable day in the country with Annie. The next day after breakfast and a few phone calls she disappeared, off to LA or Europe. She didn’t say.

We had no phone or television at 3005 Fulton. Instead, music flowed through the house with an easy and spontaneous life of its’ own. We’d hang out in the dining room, several of us singing one song after the other, acapella, and took turns at the piano in the living room. I made my living playing music on Telegraph Avenue, writing songs and doing some gardening. We were on basic survival mode, but a sense of serenity, harmony and contentment pervaded the house.

Eventually the music group I was in made enough for me to afford a rental down the block on Prince Street. A cousin of mine and his wife stayed in the Fulton Street house for a while in 1974. They planted a small tree in the front yard.