It was to begin, this Woodstook Music and Art Fair, at four PM, Friday, August 15th, outside Bethel (population 2366) in Sullivan County, a Catskills resort area long patronized by the middle-classed and middle-aged of New York City's more threatened neighborhoods. It had first been planned for the village of Woodstock itself, 60 miles to the northeast, and was then moved to Wallkill, 15 miles to the southeast. When the promoters were thwarted there by a zoning challenge, they packed up for Bethel, just short of a month away. 60,000 rock fans were expected.
On the afternoon of August 15th, at the point planned for musical departure, there was a mire of thousands and thousands of automobiles under the sullen sky, stretching two-lanes on a two-lane highway the 12 miles leading to Monticello, the principal town of the area . . . .
Lost in that traffic was the opening act, Sweetwater, and their equipment. A helicopter was commandeered to airlift them out of the stoppage and into the stage area, three miles away. Richie Havens ignited the musical proceedings at 5:07 PM, after workmen finished outfitting the 80-foot-wide stage, and be was followed by Sweetwater; and Bert Sommer, Tim Hardin, Ravi Shankar, Melanie and Arlo Guthrie, and Joan Baez, who rendered a valued "We Shall Overcome" as her closing.
The two ticket gates, each with thirty entrances, had long before been overcome, obliterating the last barriers against this fair actually being a festival . . . . And, by late Friday evening, the crowd had swollen to 200,000 within the grounds. An estimated 100,000 more were reported to be converging on the area, and the crisis reports started chattering out through the channels of the media.
The sanitation facilities (600 portable toilets had been spotted across the farm) were breaking down and overflowing; the water from six wells and parked water tanks were proving to be an inadequate supply for the long lines that were forming, and the above-ground water pipes were being crashed by the humanity; the food concessions were sold out and it was impossible to ferry in any more through the traffic; the chief medical officer declared a "medical crisis" from drug use and subsequent freak-outs; police reported a shortage of ambulances, and those that were available had difficulty getting hack to local hospitals through the metal syrup of the traffic jams.
Approaching midnight, while Ravi Shankar was playing, rain and lightning shot down from the sky, and water collecting in the canopy atop the stage threatened to collapse it. Then were worried mutterings from the festival guards that the stage, built on scaffolding, might be starting to slide in the mud.
But, as the earth dissolved into slime, the crowd burst into a joyous community. In the dawning of the Aquarian age, everyone was in the same puddle . . .
Saturday morning, a steely sun awoke the damp and chilled beautiful people camping in the fields. Those lucky enough found cars to sleep in or had booked rooms weeks in advance. At the Howard Johnson Motel in nearby Liberty, where most of the performers were billeted, a party had been in progress through the night. At one point, Janis Joplin and Country Joe MacDonald wrestled onto a lobby coach and then disappeared . . . .
As dusk, a flouncing and bouncing Canned Heat hit the plywood stage, raising the mud-stained, sweat-splattered mass to its feel for the entire set. Behind them on the stage, Janis Joplin stood tensely motionless, her mouth set hard. Grace Slick, in white that stayed spotless, nodded. The rest of the Airplane and its coterie sat with her, despite requests from the stage managers that they leave, nibbling on delicate grapes, sipping lime juice from Garnier champagne bottles. These were the stars.
But the Star is still missing. There is speculation. He is going to appear. No, he is in Europe. No, he's at home. But he's not going to come because his son is sick. But he could come anyway, couldn't he.
Willingly or not, Bob Dylan was the presence hovering over this three-day jamboree. Aware of it or not, he is the elder of this urban tribe that is fanning away from the amphetamine-streaked cities. If he has not imposed rules, he has offered himself as one, and the tribally tommed-tommed message of WOODSTOCK, Dylan's refuge, WOODSTOCK, Dylan's turf, WOODSTOCK, Dylan's bringing it all back home, was as much responsible for moving this massive surge of humanity onto a 600-acre farm as any advertisements, promotion, publicity . . . .
And as darkness sucked the crowd into a monochrome lump, Canned Heat humped the stage with "On the Road Again," the spotlights buckshotting across the holy fools on their pilgrimage, illuminating waving arms at the distant top of the far hill, as toothpicks against toy trees.
As the night wore on, it was the Battle of the Bands; Grateful Dead, strained after Canned Heat, climbed out onto a limb with hopes that the audience would reach up to them; it didn't. Creedence Clearwater, clear and tight; a static Janis Joplin, cavorting with Snooky Flowers, her back-up band just that; Sly and the Family Stone, apart in their grandeur, won the battle carrying it to their own majestically freaked-out stratosphere.
The Who went on stage after Road Manager John Wolff, taking no chances, collected $11,200 for their upcoming performance. When a movie cameraman moved in on Roger Daltrey, Townshend then kicked that man square in the ass and off the stage. There were no protests either time. Townshend's guitar was intact, however, allowing him to smash it to smithereens as the sun rose behind him. At 8:30, under a bright sky, Jefferson Airplane brought it to happily worn-out close . . . .
GREIL MARCUS
(Excerpted from RS 42, September 20, 1969)