The Road to Woodstock (6 page)

I spent more and more time in the city with Artie and his wife, Linda, hanging out at their apartment on Fifty-sixth Street, off Sutton Place, shooting pool, smoking pot, and talking into the wee hours. It seemed as if Artie and I had known each other all our lives. He and Linda were soul mates—they lived in one of the newer, very posh high-rises with their little girl, Jamie. Eventually he would lend me his company car, a Buick, to more easily make trips back and forth to Woodstock. Sonya didn’t like the city, so I always came down by myself and returned home every night. Later, as I became completely wrapped up in the festival planning and production, Sonya and I gradually drifted apart.

I told Artie about the Soundouts in Woodstock and my festival in Miami. For weeks we talked about creating a version of the Soundouts as a summer concert series. Then during one of our midnight musings, the concept of a Woodstock festival evolved: “Let’s really do something big! Let’s invite everyone and put it all together out in the country where people can camp!” Artie’s excitement propelled the idea forward. We also discussed the possibility of a studio/retreat at the Tapooz property on Yerry Hill Road, and he loved the idea. We decided to pursue both projects.

My friend who ran the Juggler, Jim Young, was involved in real estate, so in December we started looking together for possible festival sites. I paid him a small retainer to help me find a spot, and we visited several properties in Ulster County. There was a seventy-acre open field down on Route 212, east of Woodstock, which at one time was going to become a golf course. In an area called Krumville we found an old racetrack for midget cars and go-carts, which was pretty cool. But I realized these sites were too small and inaccessible for a festival.

Then, soon after New Year’s, close to Saugerties, we chanced upon the Winston Farm. It was perfect—over seven hundred acres, rolling hills, and right off the New York State Thruway. It was owned by a Mr. Schaller, the kingpin of Schaller & Weber meats, famous for their German sausages. Schaller used the land only for hunting and the occasional weekend retreat. After we spoke several times to his caretaker, it seemed Schaller might be open to renting the property. When I told Artie about it, he agreed that it sounded ideal. All we needed now was an investor. Artie put out feelers to various record-company execs.

I’d recently met an entertainment attorney, Miles Lourie, and told him our ideas. He was intrigued by the festival and studio, and he
knew a couple of young venture capitalists, John Roberts and Joel Rosenman, who were financing a new recording studio in Manhattan. Maybe they’d back the studio in Woodstock. He set up a meeting for an early February afternoon at the guys’ apartment on the Upper East Side. About our age, they were roommates, and their East Eighty-fifth Street bachelor pad doubled as their office.

Upon meeting them, we realized we were from completely different worlds. A trust-fund kid, John Roberts, at twenty-one, had inherited a million dollars from his late mother’s estate, part of a pharmaceutical empire, and would be collecting more. Joel, the son of a Long Island orthodontist, was a recent Yale Law School graduate. They had formed an entrepreneurial partnership called Challenge International Ltd. Their first big project, Media Sound, was under construction on Fifty-seventh Street. With an open and relaxed demeanor, John had me from hello. He was a forthright, down-to-earth guy, completely without guile. Joel seemed more what I expected from suits. He was somehow less accessible, while at the same time trying very hard to be charming. I wasn’t at all sure about him, but both he and John had great senses of humor, and Joel had a good and open laugh. That put me at ease.

In their 1979 book,
Young Men with Unlimited Capital,
Joel and John recalled their impressions of us at our first meeting:

I didn’t say much. My father once told me: “If you’re talking, you’re not learning.” Artie expertly handled the meeting, enthusiastically articulating our concept of the Woodstock studio. We hadn’t intended to discuss the festival in detail, but Artie mentioned it in passing. Once in a while, John and Joel would glance over at me, and I’d smile while Artie made the presentation. Our future partners did not seem too interested in the idea of a studio in the country.

Of course Joel’s experts didn’t know that a studio where successful albums are recorded will garner a steady flow of business among artists who hope to capture their own lightning in a bottle—as we later saw at the Bearsville Studio. In late 1970, Albert Grossman would open that facility less than a mile from the Tapooz property. One of the
country’s most sought-out independent studios for thirty years, Bearsville Studio was the origin of albums by the Rolling Stones, Foreigner, Bonnie Raitt, R.E.M., Patti Smith, Jeff Buckley, Van Morrison, the Band, Dave Matthews, Phish, and dozens of other major artists.

But on this day in February 1969, John and Joel primarily wanted to know more about the festival—though I thought that the studio idea had begun to grow on John. They asked about the festival’s size and location, ticket prices, and the overall budget. We said we were not prepared to discuss the festival. John and Joel seemed an unlikely pairing as festival partners, but more suited for the studio project. They were smart and had a great staff in place to design and set up a studio operation. Artie and I could provide the right aesthetic and ambience. Artie told them, “We’re already pretty far along with some other people on the festival, but okay, we’ll come back and bring the budget.”

Artie and I had been discussing a possible festival partnership with both Alan Livingston, who brought him to Capitol Records, and Larry Uttall, head of Bell Records. A couple of days after our meeting at Challenge, Larry called Artie to say he wanted to meet to discuss Bell’s involvement in the festival. We were thrilled by the news, and Artie contacted John and Joel to let them know what was up. “We’re already set with the festival,” he told them, “but we’d still like to follow up on the studio.”

John and Joel were bitterly disappointed—from our brief description, they’d been bitten by the whole idea. I believe they were viewing it as a somewhat unconventional but lucrative investment possibility—and one that might be fun. “Every time we find a project we like, some big corporation comes along and grabs it out from under us,” Joel told Artie. Artie and I talked it over and decided to go back and see them again before making a final decision. We both liked them, and the thought of working with a couple of guys our age appealed to us. If they would agree to both projects, we’d consider going with them.

As we were still in the early stages of planning, I had not put together final numbers for a festival. Extrapolating from the Miami budget, I had figured a total cost of about $500,000. I drew up a rough plan requiring a cash investment of $250,000. The balance would come from advance ticket sales. I figured $100,000 for talent deposits and $150,000 for pre-event staff, legal, office, site leasing, site prep, and production. I hoped to rent the Winston Farm for $5,000, but that was still up in the air. As a model, we figured 100,000 people attending a two-day festival at $5 or $6 a ticket per day. We could have our dream and make a profit. (Of course, this would all change as the concept evolved and the festival went to three days with an estimated audience of 200,000 per day.) After a few additional meetings, John agreed to finance the festival and the studio. We would become partners, and because the projects were based in Woodstock, we decided to call our company Woodstock Ventures.

The contract was drawn up, and it began:

The contract called for an investment of $200,000 plus a 10 percent contingency fee for the production of the festival and $275,000 plus 10 percent for the creation of the studio. The company would issue 200 shares. As it was his money, John would receive 60 shares, Joel 40, and Artie and I would receive 50 each. I was to provide a life in
surance policy on myself worth $500,000 with Woodstock Ventures the beneficiary, and it was my responsibility to acquire any additional funds if the agreed-upon cash commitment was not sufficient to finance either the festival or the studio. Based on the Winston Farm property that Jim Young and I had found, I had to warrant that the festival would be located in upstate New York. I would be personally responsible for any loss or expenditure by Woodstock Ventures or Challenge if the site or permits could not be obtained. Up through the festival, I would receive a salary of $400 per week.

Because he was under an exclusive two-year contract with Capitol, Artie couldn’t sign a partnership agreement, but we agreed I’d hold his share until he could legally participate. On February 28, 1969, the contract was signed.

Joel worried that since Artie and I had clear-cut roles and the expertise to put on the festival, that John wouldn’t need him as a partner.

John took me aside and asked if I could find a role for Joel. I was impressed by his concern and more than happy to have Joel’s involvement. There was certainly going to be enough work to go around. With the paperwork signed, we divided up the responsibilities. Artie was in charge of publicity and advertising. John and Joel would be handling the business administration and ticket distribution. My job was to be the hands-on producer of the festival, book the talent, design and prepare the site, and put together the production team. My first thought for the studio was Stan Goldstein. It occurred to me that he could also be of help in fleshing out plans for the festival.

Our number one priority: Nail down the festival location and get it ready in six months’ time. That seemed like a piece of cake. We were
off and running.

“Is that ‘Miss Lang’ or ‘Mr. Lang,’ a girl or a boy?” I hear people snickering as I walk toward the dais. Amid catcalls and whistles, I focus on the task at hand: convincing the people of Wallkill to let us keep our festival in their township and show them there is nothing to worry about. The Wallkill Town Hall meeting room is packed, standing room only. Emotions run high. Middle-aged housewives, small-town businessmen, and weather-beaten farmers are trading horror stories about hippies. There’s a real fear that they’re going to be overrun and molested by hordes of long-haired freaks. Wallkill town supervisor Jack Schlosser raps his gavel on the table, where he sits among six town board members. “Let Mr. Lang have his say.”

On this balmy night in mid-June, I’m here to present our festival plans, accompanied by my ace production team. While I’m prepared for a bit of push-back, I’m surprised by the depth of their concern.

“Look,” I tell them, “we’re here to bring something to Wallkill that will be good for everyone. We’re not aliens and we’re not drug addicts and we do know what we’re doing. We are professionals in our fields.” They act a bit surprised that I can speak an English they understand, and begrudgingly they begin to lose some of the hostility.

It quiets down in the room as I explain our plans in a down-to-earth way. “We’re going to have music and art, food and fun. We’re going to camp out in the country—the kind of thing you did when you were kids. We’ve hired the best professionals in the business to make sure the event is
safe and that the community is inconvenienced as little as possible. It will be no more intrusive than the Orange County Fair that comes to town every year.”

While I continue my talk, the temperature in the room lowers. Calm is overtaking agitation, and I figure I’d better quit while I’m ahead. I wrap it up. “Are there any questions?”

“Yeah!” says a guy who looks like he could be a high school football coach. “You’ve told us about these famous musicians who are going to be performing up here. But what about all those people who are coming to see these musicians? What kind of people are they?”

“They’re like your own kids,” I answer without hesitation. “They’re music lovers.” The younger members of the audience applaud and even some of the suits laugh.

Our intention is to stay here—no matter what—and put on the festival in two months’ time. I’m optimistic that the opposition can be overcome.

A
s for Woodstock Ventures, during the early weeks of our partnership, Joel, John, Artie, and I developed an uneasy rapport. One night we all met at Artie’s apartment. We sat on the floor, passing a joint and discussing our plans. I couldn’t help thinking how interesting this partnership was—what they wanted from us and what we wanted from them. John and I got into a discussion about “vibes.” I could tell he was out of his comfort zone, but the joint softened the edges and we had a good laugh. They seemed intrigued by this world we were opening up to them, yet our experiences and approaches to life were entirely different. I relied on intuition and instinct, and they relied on experts, surveys, and marketing tools—proven business techniques in their world. Artie was talented in songwriting and music promotion and fit somewhere in between.

I knew if Woodstock was to succeed it had to be authentic from top to bottom. We were setting out to create a new paradigm in festival events, while attempting to bring together various factions of the counterculture community. Overall, I envisioned the festival as a gathering of the tribes, a haven for like-minded people, where experimental new lifestyles would be respected and accommodated. I knew flexibility and adaptability were key to creating this never-before-seen commingling of art and commerce. John and Joel were too conservative to make my idea into a reality.

Since the Woodstock concept was proving to be a developing blueprint in my head, I found it difficult to collaborate. I could close my eyes and see the festival’s components, then keep them juggling in the air until they were formulated to the extent that I could assign their execution to team members. Other than an initial organizational chart I had drawn up showing various functions and positions to fill, we made it up as we went along.

We settled on calling our creation “An Aquarian Exposition: The Woodstock Music and Art Fair.” That name “Woodstock” symbolized the rural, natural setting I envisioned. I suggested “Aquarian Exposition” to encompass all the arts, not only music but crafts, painting, sculpture, dance, theater—like a 1969 version of the old Maverick festivals. And I wanted to reference the Aquarian age, an era of great harmony predicted by astrologers to coincide with the late twentieth century, a time when stars and planets would align to allow for more understanding, sympathy, and trust in the world. Our festival would be that place for people to come together to celebrate the coming of a new age.

There had been so much conflict over the past year, with violent confrontations occurring on college campuses, in urban ghettos, and at demonstrations across the country. At Woodstock we would focus our energy on peace, setting aside the onstage discussion of political
issues to just groove on what might be possible. It was a chance to see if we could create the kind of world for which we’d been striving throughout the sixties: That would be our political statement—proving that peace and understanding were possible and creating a testament to the value of the counterculture.

It would be three days of peace and music.

To determine the possible size of the audience, we started researching the major population centers of the northeastern corridor—New York, New Jersey, Connecticut, Massachusetts. When we did the math, we realized we could have as many as two hundred thousand people. The number seemed almost inconceivable for a concert: Attendance records had been broken at Shea Stadium when the Beatles played there in 1965 and ’66 to some fifty-five thousand people. In ’67, between twenty-five thousand and thirty thousand attended Monterey Pop for each of its three days—but no one stayed overnight at the Monterey Fairgrounds where it was held.

In early March, I contacted a real estate agent about the Winston Farm property. He spoke to Schaller, the owner, and seemed encouraging about our leasing it for a music-and-art festival. He quoted $40,000 for a twelve-week rental—much more than we’d budgeted—and passed along the contact info for Schaller’s Manhattan attorney. In the meantime, word got out in Woodstock that I was thinking of having a festival in the area. Soon, I was hearing from the town supervisor, Bill Ward, and an official from the county health department, who made it clear they did not want a large outdoor event to occur in the town of Woodstock. Suddenly, Schaller’s real estate agent stopped returning my calls. John and Joel contacted Schaller’s attorney and set up a meeting for the last week in March.

At least we had the location for the Woodstock recording studio. On April 17, we’d put down $4,500 as a deposit on the Tapooz property, which we’d negotiated to purchase for $55,000. We determined the scope of the facility, the description of which would run in an ar
ticle in
Billboard
: “A recording center is being established [in Woodstock] by Woodstock Ventures, which has just purchased a 30-acre site near the Woodstock Music and Art Fair—a 16-track studio and hotel complex…Joel Rosenman said the Woodstock Sound Studios will allow producers and artists to create in a pleasant atmosphere where adequate recording time is easy to secure. The studio will provide housing, rehearsal studios, a 24-hour kitchen, and recreational facilities, including a swimming pool and tennis court. Stan Goldstein, formerly of Criteria Studio in Miami, is consulting on construction of the studio and will be an engineer there.”

Though the festival site wasn’t nailed down, we chose the weekend of August 15 as the festival date. I needed to get things moving and sign bands before they were booked elsewhere. From the concerts I’d promoted and organized in Miami, I’d learned a lot about staging, what worked for audiences and what didn’t. At Miami Pop, we experimented with different kinds of music—blues, classic rock and roll, acid rock, pop, folk—and I found that the audience got into all of it. The kids of the counterculture were not pigeonholed in their musical tastes. So I decided on an eclectic group of artists and made up a wish list that ran the gamut from Jimi Hendrix to Johnny Cash.

I started spending time with Hector Morales, at William Morris, again. When he’d helped me with the Miami festival, we’d become good friends. He let me hang out in his office from morning until night learning to book talent. Hector’s assistance would be invaluable throughout the project. I soon realized that to create credibility for our show, I had to immediately sign a few of the bigger acts by offering them a fee that would ensure their acceptance. For example, if an act was getting $7,500, I’d offer $10,000. Once two or three big names were signed up, I’d find myself being taken seriously by artists’ agents and managers, and fees would become more reasonable. Jefferson Airplane, Creedence Clearwater Revival, and Canned Heat were the first artists to accept. We got the Airplane and Creedence for $10,000 each.

Canned Heat had scored two major hits since appearing at Monterey, “On the Road Again” and “Going Up the Country,” so their fee was $12,500.

I booked Crosby, Stills and Nash before their debut album was released. Their manager, David Geffen, came into Hector’s office one day, clutching a test pressing of their just-completed recording. “Wait till you hear this!” he gloated. We were knocked out. The Buffalo Springfield and the Byrds had been two of my all-time favorite groups, and CSN took their music to a new level. The vocal harmonies were fantastic on “Helplessly Hoping” and “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes.” And I loved the guitar and organ interplay on “Wooden Ships,” which I later discovered was inspired by Crosby’s adventures in the Grove. I knew “Marrakesh Express” would be a hit.

Geffen was looking for the right venue to kick off the band’s first tour, and we all agreed Woodstock should be it. I booked them on the spot, paying his asking price of $10,000. We did a lot of interesting booking that way—signing new acts like Joe Cocker and Mountain to be introduced to our peers at Woodstock.

Even by late March, buzz began circulating about the festival. One night Garland Jeffreys and I went to see Van Morrison perform in New York at Steve Paul’s Scene, a very cool club owned by Johnny Winter’s manager. We chatted about the festival to Steve and others, and by the next day, I heard from someone in Los Angeles who called to say he wanted his band to play. Artie began calling his friends at radio stations and got them to mention Woodstock on air.

My philosophy in all areas of festival staffing was to get the very best people available on our team. I looked for those with the most expertise in their field and, whenever possible, people who understood what we were trying to do. When I contacted Stan Goldstein in Miami to see if he was available, I learned he’d left Criteria and happened to be in New York. He was working as a sound engineer (his first love) at the Hit Factory but was about to leave for a job in Los
Angeles. I met with him in New York and I hired him for a salary of $500 a week, $100 more than I was making.

Unlike the enclosed location at Gulfstream Race Track, for this festival we needed to build a city, a place where people didn’t depart at day’s end, where they would want to camp overnight and have a longer experience. Stan and I immediately started researching the logistics for accommodating two hundred thousand people spending three days at the site. As there was no precedent for what we were plan
ning—outside the military—we began to develop strategies to determine what we’d need on-site and how much it would cost. For example, to estimate how many Porta-Potties we would need, we’d time people going in and out of bathrooms at public facilities.

We thought that the U.S. Army would have information on setting up temporary “cities,” for troop deployments overseas or in rural locations. Stan made arrangements to go to the Pentagon, but his appointments were canceled. The army was unwilling to divulge information about field sanitation.

When John and Joel met with Schaller’s attorney in late March, the meeting did not go well. They were informed that Schaller had decided not to rent the property to us after all. We started to get concerned. We had booked talent, we were hiring staff, and we had no place for the festival. We began searching areas farther afield from Woodstock, surveying properties via helicopter, and driving to check out possible sites. There was still snow on the ground, so an accurate assessment of potential sites meant a lot of walking. It was on one of these site walks that I became acquainted with Tom Rounds, Tom Driscoll, and Mel Lawrence, from Arena Associates, based in L.A. Taking advantage of my groundwork, they had produced the second Miami Pop Festival at Gulfstream Race Track in December ’68, after I’d moved to Woodstock. I’d heard good things about the festival from Stan, who’d recorded some of the acts. I invited them east to meet and
discuss our Aquarian Exposition. Rounds’s background was radio, Driscoll controlled a strawberry empire in California, and Mel was the operations guy. Lacking experience running a huge operation, I was considering hiring a line producer, someone skilled in production as well as in conducting a business with hundreds of employees. Arena Associates wanted $50,000 for each partner, plus a percentage of the gate, for the physical production. That was too much money. “Thanks for coming out,” I told them, “but I think I’ll do it myself.”