The Road to Woodstock

The Road to Woodstock (continued)

I remember turning around and looking behind me and being blown away by the sights and sounds that assaulted my senses. Christ! What a mass of humanity! Yet it wasn’t just the sight of the crowd that struck me – it was this electrically-charged awareness that we were connected as one, through an overwhelming sense of love and acceptance. I’d never felt anything like that before – or since.

I watched a guy not far from us try to get something out of his army-issue-type jacket pocket. He was so out-of-it that he couldn’t undo the zipper. I felt sorry for him because he kept fussing with the zipper until tense tears begin to flow. His buddy finally put his arm around his friend, retrieved what the guy needed from his pocket, and made the world right again. I watched people taking care of other people all around me throughout the event – doing little things to make each other comfortable or sharing food or belongings. This event wasn’t just another concert. It was a celebration. We were stardust, we were golden, if only for a few days.

Friday afternoon the music began very close to the 4 p.m. scheduled time. Richie Havens strolled out, left of center stage, sat down and began strumming the one-chord crescendos that lead into his soulful, moaning singing style. Richie Havens was the perfect opening act – he poured his heart and soul out in his music and caught us all up into the moment, blending us into the sound. It was the ideal segue from the people experience to the music experience. Richie walked off stage and returned six times. I couldn’t figure out why. Later I heard he had to keep coming back to fill in for musicians who hadn’t shown up yet.

Later, a pregnant Joan Baez's rendering of "Joe Hill" really moved me, my heart aligned with the beautiful ballad. I had never cared much for Joan Baez, but man, that day she sang like a soaring angel. Her voice soared above us. We were devout. We were pious. We were holy.

Arlo Guthrie strutted up next, looking like he wasn't quite ready – almost like a deer caught in the headlights. To our chagrin he didn’t sing Alice's Restaurant. I had imagined he’d try to get us singing along, but he seemed to be preoccupied and couldn’t connect. He soon swaggered off – probably to his next gig.

The music settled down and the crowd quieted as people started to fall asleep. You might think it was difficult to sleep out in the open, among 500,000 people, but in fact, sleep came easily to me. Maybe it was the realization that we had reached our destination, or maybe it was the peacefulness of this group, but I slept like a baby.

Saturday began with Wavy Gravy announcing "Good Morning, what we have in mind is breakfast for 400,000!” Many announcements followed: We learned that the New York Thruway was closed due to traffic headed to our event; there were new drug alerts; lost friends and families seeking to reunite, etc.

Mostly news/media helicopters filled Friday afternoon, Saturday many were used to bring the performers; it was the only method possible to get people in.

Then there was the mud. It seemed as if most images from the press showed people soaked to the skin, full of mud, and gleefully sliding through it. Sorry, I missed most of that. Rain was a Bummer, and for awhile seriously threatened the whole event with implosion. The chants of "No Rain, No Rain" just seemed to irritate the sky causing more rain to pour down. But, like the lack of food, inadequate Porta-Potties, we got through it. For us, it didn't seem that bad.

I would be lying if I said I could remember all the performers; forty years does that to a person. I do remember those musicians whose music stood out in the way they played, or the way they seem to connect with this very special audience.

Canned Heat nearly tore my head off with the force of their music. When “Rolling and a Tumbling” came rolling full force across that field, no one slept any longer. Canned Heat's drummer “Bear” scared the damn rain away -- just by his overwhelming presence. He was a huge man and the way he moved with the music made him seem even larger.

Mountain and Leslie West was even louder and close in its force to Canned Heat, but in my assessment, seeing such a huge crowd, may have tried too hard. They were so loud they hurt my ears. Louder seem to be better then. I can admit now it was too much for me.

Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young did one of the finest versions of Suite: Judy Blue Eyes I’ve ever heard. Their voices seemed in perfect harmony and the chords in perfect time. There was something really special about their voices and instruments tuned in precise harmony. I had seen them perform earlier in San Francisco as Buffalo Springfield before the reincarnation, but now their riffs and harmonies flowed superior. Stephen Stills led, but I noticed Neil Young stayed far left unless he joined in on a vocal. They sang perfectly; I sensed a distance Neil gave of, but then he's one of those musical masters that you'll never really know everything about.

The best music I heard at Woodstock was late that Saturday night. The Who, and Peter Townshend, were absolutely amazing. Townshend was as focused as a champion Formula One race car driver. There was no let-up in their music. The crescendo just kept building until that muddy hillside moved in undulating patterns.

There was a brief interruption in the performance when Townshend had his back turned. Some guy, from way over stage left, managed to work his way to center stage and tried to grab a microphone. He was muttering something about a “Sinclair.” But before we could figure out what was happening, Townshend abruptly pushed him off stage with his guitar. We later learned that the party-crasher was loudmouth Yippie Abbie Hoffman, trying to make a political speech about John Sinclair – who had been imprisoned for marijuana possession. Hoffman later admitted to tripping on LSD and apologized for the whole event..

During the last day of the performance, I was absolutely dead tired, and kept trying to lean back. Suddenly I felt two hands caressing my neck, then gently easing my head into her lap. Christ! Now that wasn’t something that ever happened to me, and I was scared shitless that I was being accosted by some guy tripping on something weird! Turning slowly around, I discovered my fears were unfounded. A pretty girl with long dark wet hair looked soulfully up into my eyes. Neither of us spoke. I think I managed to utter something meaningful like, “Don't stop." She scooted up close to me and we just looked at each other and gently touched (which very was very good). We communicated through electrical impulses from that time on, grounding each other like lightening rods in our own magical electrical storm.

It felt so damn good that soon I fell asleep, as she gently cradled my head in her lap. I thought this must all be a dream or some cosmic hallucination – cause things like that just didn’t happen to me. But when I awoke, she was still there shielding me from the dark, and the rain and the lightening.

It was time to go. Tim and I began to get our things together to leave. "Not so fast,” she said. I turned, and we embraced, and with one quick kiss she was gone. I never knew her name, nor she mine. We just shared that special moment in time, as did thousands of others at this event.

Tim and I made our way through and out of the crowd, in the early rays of the dawn. We found our car, with no trouble at all. We moved on to the next phase of our lives, changed forever, but still not fully aware of what we had been a part of.

-- George Thoren,
August, 2009

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The Road to Woodstock (continued)