Despite his obvious fondness for it, Wellington does not whitewash a decade that ultimately saw that spirit of collectivism give way to greed and egocentricity in the ’70s, and that was capped by violence and self-indulgence before its end. Putting the terrifying calamity of Vietnam to one side, the violence included race-hate crimes, assassinations of Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King jnr, the Manson murders and the debacle that was the Altamont Speedway Free Festival trying to replicate Woodstock. The indulgence included drug use coming to be an end in itself rather than a purported agent of change, and musical creativity losing a little of its regenerative power.

Wellington essentially confines his political and sociological observations to Australia, the US, Britain and Vietnam. Culturally, he restricts himself to populist forms: primarily rock music and its cousins, with forays into folk, film and literature as suits his purpose of tracing intersecting areas of catalysis. Jazz – undergoing its own drastic revolution in the ’60s and, closely associated with the civil rights movement – lies outside his purview.

Of course, the decade has been exhaustively covered before, so Wellington makes no pretence at uncovering radically new information. Rather, the book rides buoyantly along on his illumination and interpretation of the facts and anecdotes he selects, the connections he makes, and the quality of his critical judgment.

In contextualising an album or even just a line of a lyric, he often manages to shine fresh light on it, and – the best outcome of all – incline one to engage with the music again (or discover it). He catches afresh the sheer excitement and chaos of The Beatles’ 1964 Australian tour and provides highly perceptive critical commentary on such works as Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and The Graduate.

The other strength comes when the assorted strands of interest are most tightly intertwined. But even when they aren’t, one acclimatises to the leaps between politics, sociology and culture, and becomes confident that, with a little patience, another knot will soon be tied in the interrelationships.

Wellington’s tone is generally wry and genial while still being authoritative. He has a keen eye for the snippet that constitutes a telling snapshot of an era or episode, and relies on longer quotes (as from Beatles producer George Martin) only when they accelerate rather than slow the narrative momentum.

Near the end, he quotes the always erudite and perspicacious Joan Baez, who was definitely there (and still remembers the fact), and who aptly describes the decade as “that outrageous, longed for, romanticised, lusted after, tragic, insane, bearded and bejewelled epoch. It is over and will never return. I do not miss it.”

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