The Road to Woodstock (12 page)

Artie continued running ads on FM radio stations and in underground newspapers, from Atlanta’s
Great Speckled Bird
to Kalamazoo’s
Western Activist,
Minneapolis’s
Hair
to San Diego’s
Door,
nearly forty
in all. After the confrontation with Joel and John, Artie focused more in this area.

The coupon ad listed the same description of the festival site that appeared on the Skolnick poster:

By the end of June, daily newspapers across the nation were running articles on the festival, including a lengthy syndicated feature with the headline
ROCK RUMBLING INTO RIP VAN WINKLE COUNTRY
. This one detailed the problems we were having in Wallkill and the local efforts to stop the festival.

Surrender was not part of our vocabulary, and our crews had been working steadily on-site. Our numbers there had grown to about seventy-five. We moved into a larger motel called Round Top and hired a couple of women to prepare meals for all the workers.

Wallkill’s proposed ordinance—with its list of insurmountable obstacles—loomed over us. In addition to all the paperwork we had to submit to the town board, we had to obtain approvals from the county health department, the town sanitary inspector, the town health officer, the State Water Resources Commission, the town building inspector, the county highway department, the state department of transportation, the sheriff’s office, the state police, the chief engineer, the local fire commissioners, the town fire advisory board, the zoning board of appeals, the town police, and the county fire coordinator. The conditions would be impossible for anyone to meet. An editorial saying as much ran in the Middletown
Times Herald-Record
:

A vote on the ordinance by the town board—which we knew would pass—was to take place on July 2. Stan told the
Poughkeepsie Journal,
“Those areas of the ordinance that are just and righteous will be complied with in the fullest, just as we have always intended. But those areas of the ordinance that are unreasonable and impossible, we are going to fight.”

Unlike the battles I’d been through over the past month, I had a bad feeling about this one.

“I hesitate to think what will happen if the forty thousand people who’ve already bought tickets to our festival come to Wallkill and there is no event!”

“Is that a veiled threat?” comes a loud voice from the back of the packed room.

“There’s nothing veiled about it!” I answer. “That’s a problem that concerns all of us!”

Once again, I’m addressing a group of hostile Wallkillers. It’s July 14, and I want them to know that there might be consequences for them, as well as for us, if the festival is canceled. The anger in the room is so palpable I can’t help but think back to what happened last month at the Denver Pop Festival when the cops and kids clashed. Like Denver, communications have broken down completely. I try to understand how we got here—how does fear become so entrenched that it squeezes out all possibility of discourse, logic, and fair play?

Two weeks earlier, on July 2, after five hours of debate, the town
board approved the new ten-page law regulating assemblies of more than five thousand by a vote of 5–0. Slight modifications have been made, including lowering our newly required insurance bond from one million dollars to half a million dollars—and exempting the Orange County Fairgrounds (with its county fair and drag racing) from complying with the regulations.

We’re appearing before the town Zoning Board of Appeals (ZBA) and making our case for the festival, after having been denied a building permit for the site. This is the same room where exactly three months earlier John and Joel got the green light from the ZBA when they first proposed holding a music-and-arts fair at the Mills Industrial Park.

I’ve choreographed the presentation to impress the community with our competence and comprehensive planning. Mel, Stan, and Don make articulate and convincing arguments. Stan reads a statement characterizing our festival as “a cultural event of major magnitude involving artists of all kinds, including painters, sculptors, filmmakers, and theatrical groups as well as musicians.” He also states that we are committed “to preserve and enhance the pastoral atmosphere of the festival site.”

Mel, armed with detailed maps, diagrams, and charts, explains that the site will be enclosed by chain-link and concrete-reinforced fencing, that an intricate system of roads and pathways is being prepared, and that in addition to the music, fine-arts exhibits, and crafts booths, there will be food concessions, medical facilities, campgrounds, portable toilets, and many of the things you might find at the county fair.

Don Ganoung goes into more detail about our security and traffic plans. He says that we’re hiring more than four hundred security personnel, sixty mobile radio units, and parking lot and stage security guards. Parking facilities, he explains, will be located throughout adjoining areas where we’ve rented more land, and two hundred buses will transport concertgoers to the festival from the lots. “There will also be a screening process for troublemakers since no one will be allowed to drive to the festival
grounds,” Mel adds. “Some of our people will be stationed at the bus pickup stations to screen those who may be looking for trouble.”

Then it’s my turn. “We’ve already put more than five hundred thousand into this project,” I tell them. “We cannot get that money back. We are moving forward with this festival. Our work has been slowed by the circumstances of the past few weeks, but that’s about to change. We are totally committed to the event, to the plans, and to the site.”

My words are met with a loud and angry uproar. Being caught between two drawn pistols at Miami Pop comes to mind. I think to myself, It’s definitely time to ramp up the effort to find another site.

The mood lightens in the room when the ZBA makes an announcement: Our field office—the barn next to the Mills property—is in violation of town zoning laws because we are operating a business in an area zoned residential. We have to shut down the office immediately. Following a big round of applause from the townspeople, the next announcement is just as bad. The ZBA will make its decision on our permit within forty-eight hours.

We’re one month away from the festival, and we’ve ridden our horses into an ambush from which there is no escape. It’s time to get the hell out of Dodge.

T
he next day, the Middletown
Times Herald-Record
, continuing its detailed coverage of the whole saga, reports:

We really didn’t hold out much hope that we’d get the building permit, especially considering the string of setbacks that had occurred since July 2. On July 8, the Middletown Fire Department had unanimously turned down a proposal to supply personnel to run Nathan’s food concessions. The fire companies’ membership objected to the long hours Nathan’s had required (6:30
P.M.
to 4:30
A.M.
) of their workers and the low wages they offered ($1.75 per hour). Nathan’s needed three hundred workers to staff their concessions, and talks between the hot-dog company and Peter Goodrich were beginning to break down. With our location now in jeopardy, Nathan’s was threatening to pull out of the deal.

On July 11, the same day Mel and Rona conducted a press tour of the festival site, a hearing was held regarding the injunction brought against us by the CCC. Acting state supreme court justice Edward M. O’Gorman of Monroe refused to issue a decision in the case, stating that the injunction was premature since the zoning board at that point had not yet accepted or denied our construction permit. In other words, if the ZBA didn’t stop us, then he’d look at the case.

Two days later, Ulster County assemblyman Clark Bell, a Republican from Woodstock, released a statement to the press about a letter he’d just sent to Governor Rockefeller requesting the appointment of a coordinator to oversee the festival. Bell’s statement said, “The National Guard should be alerted,” and he went on to say that state police and the Ulster County Sheriff’s Department had been making preparations to handle masses of people mistakenly arriving in Woodstock looking for the festival. He accused us of “romanticizing
Woodstock. They made it known that Bobby Dylan lives in Woodstock and that the Beatles vacationed in Woodstock a few years ago.” (In reality, during the weekend of August 15–17, the town of Woodstock would be a ghost town.) We also received complaints from the Ulster County hamlet of Wallkill, which prospective concertgoers were confusing with the township of Wallkill—in Orange County—our site’s location. Apparently, the wrong Wallkill was getting overwhelmed with queries about the festival.

D-day arrived on Tuesday, July 15: With none of us present, the ZBA released a four-page decision, REJECTING our application for a permit. The ruling stated: “Generally the plans submitted are indefinite, vague, and uncertain. Furthermore, the estimated number of persons attending has been too indefinite and uncertain, and based upon the amount and type of advertising, the venture would be contrary to the intent of the Zoning Ordinance. Problems of fire, police protection, and health would be contrary to the health and safety of the public.”

Disbelief, shock, anger, frustration. From our field office, where he was packing boxes, Stan told a journalist: “There’s a field out there, and come August fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen, there are going to be people out there listening to some boss sounds. If you ask me how we’re going to do it, I don’t know. But we’re going to do it.”

I too knew we were going to do it, but
not
in Wallkill, and I was strangely relieved. Wallkill had not felt right to me from the beginning and things had only gotten worse. I spoke to John and could sense he and Joel were crushed. They also knew that we would not recover in Wallkill. I tried to reassure them we’d find a new site, but they had grown weary of my saying, “It’s
covered
!” and felt that this was the final blow.

Calling Artie next, I had a similar conversation except that—as always—he was energized by my optimism and I was energized by
his belief in me. I had a talk with the rest of the team and told them, “Don’t worry, I’ve got this covered. This
is
going to happen. Just get ready to move.”

We could appeal the ZBA decision, but we knew that would take longer than the month until the festival date. John immediately issued a press release stating that we had been unjustly kicked off the site and that we were going to sue those responsible:

We had to find a new location for the festival—and fast. I knew morale would go down the tubes if I didn’t refocus everyone into action immediately. I put anyone who was not packing up the site or office onto the phones to talk to press, local radio stations, Realtors, and others who might help us find a new home.

All the ensuing radio coverage resulted in several phone calls coming in from people suggesting locations. Some were crackpots, but we checked out everything. The day after the verdict, on July 15, Ticia got a call in our Village office from a guy who said he had a place in Sullivan County that would be perfect for the festival.

As soon as I heard from Ticia, I called Mel and Stanley and told them to meet me at the address Ticia had been given for the El Monaco Motel in White Lake. My one perk from Woodstock Ventures—a ’69 Porsche 912 I’d rented for the duration of the project—could make it to the location in about ninety minutes. Ticia and I zipped up the New York State Thruway to Route 17, followed it to Route 17B and County Road 52. Our Catskills destination—the Sullivan County township of Bethel—brought back memories of family vacations there when I was a kid.

Following Elliot’s directions, we pulled up to one of the sorriest-looking motels I’ve ever seen. The sagging sign said
EL MONACO
, so we knew we were at the right place. A chubby guy in his early thirties bounded out to greet us, introducing himself as Elliot Tiber. I discovered that his real name is actually Eliyahu Teichberg and he grew up in Bensonhurst, right around the corner from me. He told us the motel belonged to his parents and that only a couple of its eighty rooms were occupied.

At one point, a seemingly crazed Jewish lady with a thick Russian accent rushed outside, and she and Elliot started screaming at each other. She turned out to be his mother. Despite her bossing him around, Elliot remained cheery and upbeat. It was obvious that this kind of thing went on all the time between them. Elliot seemed overjoyed to see us and determined to somehow involve himself in our festival. He started talking about a theater he’d built in a barn on the property. “I put on a theater festival every summer,” Elliot told us, “and I already have a permit for this year’s production—so you’ve got your permit!” An off-off-off-Broadway troupe, the Earthlight Theatre, was there for two months, crashing in a dilapidated rooming house on
the property. We decided to wait for Mel and Stan, who were driving the thirty-five miles from Wallkill to meet us, before seeing the site.