"...quite extraordinary, and rather astonishing story..."---Lenny Helsing

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A gripping and humorous autobiographical novel about the early life of Rick Brown, detailing the story of his 1960s era group, the Misunderstood, and their evolution from local garage band heroes to trailblazing psychedelic icons living in the heart of Swinging London. Read how the band's heart was ripped out on the eve of their success when Rick was drafted into the US Army, about his daring desertion from boot camp, his escape to a new life in a primitive ashram in North India, and his subsequent adventures as a hunted fugitive. Befriended by India's elite but forced from sanctuary as US authorities close in, he climbs the Himalayas, taking shelter in a secret ruby mine guarded by 115 year-old Kali Baba. Torn between the love of two competing gurus, as well as Kali Baba and beautiful Tanny, he is driven over the edge into the mysterious Asian underworld. Bummer!

“There's no disputing that it's an extremely entertaining read - and I can't wait to see the promised film.”---Phil McMullen, Terrascope On-line Reviews)
“A most engaging and thoroughly fascinating read. It's edge-of-the-seat stuff in a lot of places, and would certainly make for a thrilling and captivating appearance up on the silver screen.”---Lenny Helsing, Shindig Magazine
Hilarious & Candid Rock & Roll adventure

"Swamiji welcomes me and offers a place to sit. The floor. Mukunda swears on a stack of Gitas that I'm worthy of initiation. I'm thinking, how do you spell ‘enityashun’?

'Rick! Is that you?' Wow! She sounds excited! COOL! I'm glad she didn't forget me! You know, what's-her-name?

It turns into a pre-fight standoff as the 10 rednecks start toward us. Thinking fast, I glance around, spot Aladdin's 'magic lamp' on the street, I quickly pick it up, rub it…make my wish, and… 'Poof!'… In a cloud of smoke twenty black dudes come pouring out of the club and surround everyone. - Ouuuuo! Heavy! 'Bad To The Bone!' Yeah, crank it up!

Tony keeps blasting away, 'We don't do fookin' pop songs or catchy tunes, Nigel!' Yeah, sh*t! I'm thinking. - Look what happened to the Yardbirds! - Mickie Most pounded a "wooden nail" through the heart of "Rockula."

Another reporter asks Steve, 'What about drugs?' Hey, find your own friggen candy man, I immediately think. But Steve replies, 'we don't need drugs to say what we have to say.'

On stage I belt out the lyrics to the dancing old couple, instructing them: 'You gotta shake your moneymaker!' Little did I realize that this song is about a friggen pimp.

'Mukunda said you could guide me!' I say, with THE guilty grin that only a person who looks, tastes, smells, and feels AWOL can possibly muster.

If this is “drugs” then our newspaper headline outta read: ‘Misunderstood BAN Drugs.’ And would you believe, shortly afterwards, that actually happens? Hey, that’s cool, but, like, now where do we score?

When we finally arrive at the huge guilded gate, a guard shakes a club at us and gestures to get away. Jeez! Nice start. We leave and walk to Dhunbad town. At the rich guy’s office we somehow get in to meet him. COOL! Afterwards he invites us to stay at his mansion. So we drive back into the compound in a car with the boss and go right past the startled guard. With my new-found spiritual compassion and forgiveness I smile kindly at the poor guard and think: ‘F**k you, ass hole!'

John grins. ‘I just hope she doesn't find out about the 60 quid. I was going to use that to buy her an anniversary present.’ I’m thinking: Jeez! Sixty quid for a bottle of Hemlock?

As we walk on down the dirt path I can’t help but think that the guy back there, with the pile of rocks, must feel like ONE guilty SOB to be punishing himself so severely. What could he have done to deserve this? Gas six million Nazis!? Na! Couldn’t been that. Otherwise he’d be going around this hill in a friggen Rolls Royce.

Meanwhile, back in the material world, Agent Arnet and his side kick, Scribble, are hot on my trail. Do they know something that I don’t? Have they lost a lead? My folks have lost their only son. My band has lost it’s singer, Dick Leahy has lost his pot of gold, John Peel has lost his younger brother, Suzie has lost her elder brother, and I’m trying not to lose my mind. Jeez! Where’s that magic lamp I used before? Did I “lose” it too?

OK, ‘I am ready to try.’ – all the while I’m thinking, what does an iron girder look like? How about a red stone slab? And some dude’s just gonna give me a fortune? – but yeah! I’m game. It’s not any harder than recording I’m Not Talking (UK Version). I mean, THAT, was a friggen miracle!

But faithless SOB that I am my response (In Bengali) is, ‘Prabhu, ami jani naa amar Vrindavana jit taa haabi (Prabhu, I'm not sure, I better go back and check in Vrindavan). Pavan is adamant, ‘tomar jit ta haabee naa, aekaanaa tagbay! (No You don't have to leave, just stay here). Hey, you think I’m going to trust some friggen caveman? Well, of course! But a voice popped into my brain and said, “stupid! You got bloody rabies! Get to a friggen hospital!” So guess whom I listened to? Ha!! My Mind. Note to Misunderstood fans, past-present-future, HERE is the good time to put on My Mind and turn the knob to 12 (out of 1-10), because I don’t want you to hear me scream as I get injected with prehistoric rabies vaccine via a giant, quarter inch needle into my stomach. Let me tell you about it in two word: F**K THAT!

One morning I’m making the begging rounds with 6 other monks. We walk through the cow-dung encrusted village shouting, ‘Radhe Shyam!!’ Jeez! I’m begging from the poorest people on Earth. A real ego-buster.

Dalmia listens to our plan and shakes his head yes. ‘So now you have got your cement, I will arrange delivery, now are you happy?’ I reply, ‘Dalmiaji’, it is not for my happiness. It is only for the Nandagram people. Already there are about 500 students ready to study.’ But inside I’m thinking, Sure dude! Why wouldn’t I be happy with my OWN friggen cement. Jeez! I’ve been dreaming about cement all my life. Ha! Of course I didn’t say that. I don’t want to insult his lovely cement.

But for Gopesh and I the “grind,” the REAL grind, was just about to start. The final piece of the school puzzle, viz., iron girders. Jeez! What the heck is one of those? Sounds like something that women wore in the middle ages.

580 Pages, beautiful hard-bound. - US$18. plus airmail book post (one kilo) and handling worldwide.

UT Publications
PO Box 4121, La Mesa, CA 91944 USA
Tel: (619) 337-1966. Email: [email protected]