Read The Road to Woodstock Online
Authors: Michael Lang
The Road to Woodstock
Michael Lang with Holly George-Warren
For my wife Tamara and my children, LariAnn, Shala,
Molly, Harry, and Laszlo, who fill my life with love.
And for my parents, Harry and Sylvia.
From a certain point onward there
is no longer any turning back.
That is the point that must be reached.
—KAFKA
One
Brooklyn
Two
The Grove
Three
Woodstock, New York
Four
Wallkill
Five
New York City
Six
Downtown
Seven
Yasgur’s Farm
Eight
Bethel
Nine
August 13–14, 1969
Ten
August 15, 1969
Eleven
August 16, 1969
Twelve
August 17, 1969
Thirteen
The Aftermath
I
t’s 10
A.M.
, Monday, August 18, 1969: Jimi Hendrix is playing to a crowd of forty thousand. Another half million or so have left during the night. Many had to be at work; others had to return to worried families who’d heard conflicting reports about the chaos at Woodstock. As I watch from the stage, I see more and more people wandering away. Jimi notices too, and says, “You can leave if you want to. We’re just jamming, that’s all. You can leave, or you can clap.” He looks up at the streaks of sun pouring through the clouds—some of the first rays we’ve seen in a while. “The sky church is still here, as you can see,” he murmurs.
Those of us gathered around the perimeter of the stage are trans-fixed by Jimi and his band of gypsies. They’ve been up all night, or maybe longer—like many of us, who haven’t slept more than a few hours in days. Jimi, dirt under his fingernails, still looking regal in his white fringed leather shirt. Teenaged percussionist Gerry Velez,
dripping in sweat, thrashing the congas in a frenzy. Juma Sultan, shaking maracas and pounding out percussion with mallets, a dervish in purple. Jimi’s old army buddies: guitarist Larry Lee, wearing a green fringed scarf as a headdress that covers his eyes, and Billy Cox, Jimi’s steadfast anchor on bass, his head swathed in a multicolored turban. And the phenomenal Experience drummer Mitch Mitchell, in nearly constant motion.
Jimi apologizes for stopping to tune between songs: “Only cowboys stay in tune,” he says with a laugh. One minute Jimi’s joking with the audience, calling out to a “girl in yellow underpants” whom he tangled with the night before; next he’s directing the band with a glance, an expression, a wave of the hand; then he’s lost in the riff—his guitar taking him to places unknown. Back again, focusing on the small but enthusiastic crowd, Jimi addresses us with empathy and appreciation: “Y’all’ve got a lot of patience—three days’ worth! You have proven to the world what can happen with a little bit of love and understanding and
sounds
!”
We are about to be “experienced” in something that will be unique in our lifetime: from “Voodoo Child” he veers into the melody of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Billy Cox and Larry Lee stand erect, as if at attention. As Jimi builds the song, adding feedback and distortion, I am carried away just as is everyone around me. I realize the national anthem will never be the same. Jimi has plugged into our collective experience: all the emotional turmoil and confusion we have felt as young Americans growing up in the sixties pours from the sound towers. His song takes us to the battlefield, where we feel the rockets and bombs exploding around us; to demonstrations and marches, confronting police and angry citizens. It’s a powerful rebuke of the war, of racial and social inequity, and a wake-up call to fix the things that are broken in our society.
Listening to Jimi takes me back to a tiny nightclub in Manhattan’s East Village where, as a sixteen-year-old Brooklyn kid, I watched John Coltrane play his horn. He took me on a trip, and like Hendrix, he was a revelation.
This whole journey—the festival and the road to it—has been marked by moments like these. What feels like a lifetime of near misses, small victories powered by an engine of committed and tireless individuals, serious optimism, and amazing ideas culminated in three days unlike any the world has seen before. I flash on Joan Baez standing in the rain, pregnant, just enjoying the moment; Jerry Garcia, hanging out at the free stage, sharing a joint with kids he’s never met before; the lightning that split the skies at night; the Hog Farm passing out cups of granola to the folks entrenched at the foot of the stage, unwilling to leave their spots; Crosby, Stills and Nash harmonizing at 3:30
A.M.
on “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes,” the song that floored me months earlier and led me to book the then-unknown band; Pete Townshend knocking Abbie Hoffman in the head with his guitar; Sly Stone and his Family leading the entire congregation in an amazing call and response that left everyone higher.
Looking out at what’s left of the audience, I see a lot of tired faces, the hard-core fans and those who just don’t want to leave, ever.
I cross the stage and go over the footbridge to our trailer compound. I want a few minutes alone before dealing with the aftermath of this incredible weekend. I’ve slept a total of about six hours over the last four days and I’m starting to feel it.
My partners, John Roberts, Joel Rosenman, and Artie Kornfeld, have left for the city. I realize I have not seen and barely heard from Joel and John all weekend and wonder how things were for them. I know how things went for Artie. When he realized there was no way to keep an ocean of people from washing over the fences, that the tens of thousands coming to our little party were not going to buy tickets, Artie experienced a moment of panic. But he soon recovered, and
between getting dosed with LSD, escorting artists onstage, and trying to convince them to be filmed, Artie had the time of his life.
It was the time of all our lives.
For me, Woodstock was a test of whether people of our generation really believed in one another and the world we were struggling to create. How would we do when we were in charge? Could we live as the peaceful community we envisioned? I’d hoped we could. From the beginning, I believed that if we did our job right and from the heart, prepared the ground and set the right tone, people would reveal their higher selves and create something amazing.
Woodstock came to symbolize our solidarity. That’s what meant the most to me—the connection to one another felt by all of us who worked on the festival, all those who came to it, and the millions who couldn’t be there but were touched by it. Over that August weekend, during a very tumultuous time in our country, we showed the best of ourselves, and in the process created the kind of society we all aspired to, even if only for a brief moment. The time was right, the place was right, the spirit was right, and we were right. What resulted was a celebration and confirmation of our humanity—one of the few instances in history, to my knowledge, when joy became big news.
On Max Yasgur’s six hundred acres, everyone dropped their defenses and became a huge extended family. Joining together, getting into the music and each other, being part of so many people when calamity struck—the traffic jams, the rainstorms—was a life-changing experience. None of the problems damaged our spirit. In fact, they drew us closer. We recognized one another for what we were at the core, as brothers and sisters, and we embraced one another in that knowledge. We shared everything, we applauded everyone, we survived together.
Jimi finishes his set, and I leave my trailer and get on my bike to ride to the top of the bowl. It’s a BSA Victor, notoriously difficult to start, but this morning it fires up on the first crank. As I ride through what has become a sea of mud, the smell of the recently deserted “city” rises up strong and fetid. When I crest the hill, I can see the crew clearing Jimi’s gear and hundreds of people beginning to clean the devastated field of debris. The stage, where the beyond-exhausted crew is coiling cords and packing equipment, stands against a background of mottled brown. A huge expanse of white canvas flies above it in the wind, like some great sail ripped from its mast. It reminds me of the ship to never-never land. It has carried all of us through the greatest adventures and safely home again. Off in the distance, the lake that has been the source of most of our drinking water is visibly lower. Farther back on the surrounding hills, streams of people are leaving the campgrounds and moving toward their journey’s end. Behind me, the concession stands are abandoned and stripped bare. Sanitation trucks and honeywagons are making their way up the now-passable roads, beginning to approach the site. The woods off to my left across Hurd Road still flash with colorful bits of cloth and paint from the markets that sprang up there.
I kill the engine and park myself in the remnants of a shredded lawn chair, surrounded by a muddied bedroll, a broken sandal, and a squashed canteen. Thinking back over the long weekend, I understand that we have all been tested, and we were not found wanting.
It was a strange, sometimes magical trip that led us here. Hundreds of people joined me on this odyssey and worked tirelessly, moving forward against what at times seemed like impossible odds.
I’m not sure where we will go from here. There will be financial problems and the fractured partnership of Woodstock Ventures needs attention—but for now, it’s enough that Woodstock has happened.
Looking down the hill, I remember the moment on Friday when Richie Havens, a beacon of strength in his orange dashiki, hit the stage. He was the first act, simply because he and his band were there and ready. As we were coming over the bridge, there was a look of amazement and then a flash of fear in his eyes as he took in the unbelievably immense crowd—what looked like miles and miles of people.
“We’re just coming home,” I said.
Woodstock was an opportunity, a moment, a home we had all been waiting for and working toward. When Richie started singing, rhythmically attacking his acoustic guitar like it was a talking drum, I knew for the first time that we were going to be okay. The show was on and we were off and running. Everything we had been through for the past ten months had led to that moment, and I was overcome with joy.
Suddenly someone pulls up behind me in a pickup truck and I snap out of my reverie. “Michael! Artie just called and they need you down at Wall Street—
pronto!
”