As the roaches moulder in the gutters of Haight Ashbury, and the Love generation consider their bank statements, we're left with this legendary piece of trend-setting opportunism to reflect on. The screen shatters into fragments of middle class kids in rags, of super-lays offering their love to millions, of nipples al fresco. Of course there's Hendrix coming orgasmically alive, Richie Havens shot from below and carved from granite, Joe Cocker timelessly manic, Crosby Stills & Nash in some peace-sodden heaven. A time capsule, yes, and a hallowed memory, perhaps. But gimme shelter.