Scott Adlai Stevenson was born in Hollywood, California in 1954. At the ripe old age of 15 runs away from home finding his way to Maui, where he landed his first job as production assitant on the film "Rainbow Bridge" starring Jimi Hendrix
Here Today, Gone to Maui I flew into Honolulu, then took a connecting flight to Maui. Once I landed, I stepped out into the warm tropical breeze with what little belongings I had under one arm. I landed with $150 in my pocket, plus the 4 ounces of hash and the LSD. My flute case made it easy to transport the stash with its false bottom with ample room for the goodies. It was a foolproof plan back then because there was no such thing as X-raying luggage or TSA security. Nobody was looking through your shit.
Rainbow Bridge, My Summer of Love I still recall the very first time I ever saw Jimi Hendrix. It was at the Newport Pop Festival at Devonshire Downs in Northridge, California, not more than a few miles from my home. It was June 20, 1969, just before I ran away from home. I will never forget that concert. It was a huge three-day event with two stages, the first of its kind to be held in Los Angeles. I was behind the fence because I couldn’t afford the ticket price, since my parents wouldn’t give me the $7 entrance fee required to get in. I found myself outside the fence, just behind the stage, with all these Hells Angels and L.A. street racers who were providing security for t The cops were out in force with their billy clubs and riot gear. As soon as Jimi started playing, they all lined up and started coming at us in their attack formation, pushing us like animals. We all ran in separate directions, and rocks and bottles went flying through the air in the middle of the intersection of Devonshire Boulevard and Zelzah.
Living the Movie Inspired by the sweet confidence of love, I was hit with yet another vision. The idea behind our movie, Holding, was even more ambitious than Medina. It meant obtaining the Spanish government’s approval and cooperation to film drug searches and arrests at their borders. Back then, people were routinely sentenced to six years and a day for even the smallest quantity of drugs, with far more time for larger quantities. We would shoot scenes, panning into various Customs agents uncovering contraband, with actual live shots of smugglers’ faces, as they realized they had just bought themselves long sentences in some horrific prison. We also filmed inside those jails, where young European and American tourists spent years, sometimes entire lives, being caught with little more than a personal stash.
I idolized my oldest brother Ron, and whenever he was around, I begged him to let me hang out with him. He was always smiling, with his characteristic “cat that ate the canary" grin under his blond wavy hair. I could be persistent, and I succeeded in talking my way into rides in his blue Volkswagen van. Ron would stick a Paul Butterfield Blues Band eight-track tape into the player and I was in seventh heaven. I loved the sound of the blues. I would tag along, following him to places like the Mystic Arts World, a metaphysical bookstore, hippie boutique, and head shop on Pacific Coast Highway in Laguna Beach. It was the epicenter of the psychedelic world and one of the first head shops in existence.