Woodstock Memories

My attendance at Woodstock in 1969 was quite accidental. A grad-school classmate at the University of Hartford had two $20 tickets to a three-day weekend concert in Bethel, New York, and he offered to drive. With no plans for the weekend and a casual interest in music, I accepted his invitation. As we rode north on the New York State Thruway in his VW Beetle, we could never have anticipated the social impact and historic event that was to unfold.

Arriving in the town nearest the concert venue, we followed a plodding line of cars whose drivers, like us, had no clue how close we could get to the concert nor where to park. Other parked cars and an occasional hand-written sign led us to the conclusion that it would be faster to find an open spot in which to park and continue on foot. We pulled up on the lawn of a modest house with a wrap-around porch and got permission to leave the VW. Assuming we would return that evening, we left our sleeping bags in the car and joined the steady stream of young people on foot who seemed to know where they were headed.

We walked about a half mile or so to a fenced area that surrounded the concert and flashed our tickets for our admission to the bowl-shaped plot of land arranged in a semi-circled around the stage. We sat in an area not far from the gate that we had entered, about half way up the hill on stage right. By mid-afternoon, it still wasn’t overly crowded and the atmosphere was relaxed. The music’s intensity seem to increase instinctively as the crowds thickened. An announcement from the stage declared the concert was now free. In part, this was consistent with the 60’s peace, love and freedom credos; in practical terms it was because hundreds of early evening concert crashers – sans tickets – had pushed down a section of fence and piled into the venue. The announcement brought thunderous applause. I soon got into the spirit of it all after briefly grumbling about the worthlessness of my $20 investment.

Word of the free concert quickly spread far and wide, like a California wildfire – remarkable in an age without the internet and cell phones. I’m guessing that radio stations spread the early news. Interludes of music were interrupted by additional announcements, including estimates of the growing crowd size, which eventually reached half a million. At one point it was broadcast that we had grown to the size of a small city, but without a single reported crime. The crowd roared its approval. We were making history! The uniqueness of the event was becoming apparent to all of us and filled the scene with a joyful enthusiasm like no other I had ever experienced.

The music played on – a montage of who’s who in the folk and rock music scene. I became acquainted with lesser know musicians of the day as well. We shared a space on the ground with friendly strangers, who had brought a large, heavy gauge plastic sheet to sit on. As the late evening rain began to fall Friday night, that plastic sheet served as a giant umbrella for a dozen or more of us. We huddled underneath it, arms holding it overhead as we walked back up the country road toward our cars or more permanent shelters – homes that had become temporary rooming houses. The sight of us young people moving jautily along while singing familiar songs reminds me of the undulating motion of Chinese dragons bobbing and weaving down a parade route.

The rain grew heavier as we drew near the house where the VW bug was parked. We hastily pulled our sleeping bags from the car and made a beeline for the nearby covered side porch. That served as our refuge from the all night downpour, which drummed incessantly on the roof and would soak Max Yasgur’s farm – site of the concert – in an infamous sea of mud.

Countless videos and testimonials attest to the fact that neither the downpour nor the mud-soaked ground dampened the crowd’s spirit. As the music started up again Saturday morning and the audience continued to grow, the combined energy sustained most of us for the next 24 to 48 hours. I don’t recall what food or water we took with us, but we must have been somewhat prepared. And I do remember people freely sharing food with each other. Most documentaries about Woodstock rightly include the generosity of the area’s locals who handed out sandwiches and water along neighborhood routes leading to the concert.

Saturday turned out to be warm and dry. When we awoke that morning on the porch, our friendly (and most likely sympathetic) hosts allowed to use the bathroom. We headed back down that now familiar road and located a spot to sit that was opposite center stage but higher (and dryer) up on the hill. We listened to music and socialized with a small group of “neighbors.” What food was within reach without moving (and where would one go anyway except to a port-o-potty) was generously shared as was the occasional joint, which I chose to just pass on. I had only needed to smoke part of one cigarette as a young teen to decide that anything that makes you cough can’t be good for you. Also, the pot and drug culture had not yet found its way to many rural campuses. The University of Vermont in the mid ’60s was still blissfully hooked on fraternity beer parties and the ice sculptures of our winter carnival. It was only in our senior year that we heard a rumor about a student’s emergency trip to the infirmary for some kind of illegal substance incident. Back in Hartford for grad school, I had more exposure to illegal substances, but I prided myself on being in control of my faculties at all times. So when the opportunities presented themselves to smoke a joint, I politely passed.

As the pungent air cooled that Saturday night, my buddy and I sat with two young ladies whom we’d been chatting with since mid-afternoon and huddled together for warmth. Looking back, I marvel at how out of character it was for me to sleep (clothes on) huddled up in the arms of a complete stranger (aside from those few hours spent together enjoying music and idle conversation). Credit the infectious and communal experience that was Woodstock.

My most vivid memory of the entire concert experience occurred when I awoke to the crisp, fresh air early Sunday morning. Forgoing the trek back down the road, we’d stayed in place on the hill as the music had played well into Saturday night. While thousands of concert goers had been seated in a solid mass between us and the stage, many had retreated overnight to makeshift shelters. That said, a smattering of sleeping bodies dotted the landscape in front of me. I rose ahead of my companions and stretched to uncoil my body and squint at the sunrise. A memorable sound drew me forward. The vacated spaces between lumps of amorphous blanket-covered forms allowed me to move closer to the stage. Grace Slick’s haunting tone seemed to echoed through the Hudson Valley as she started chanting “White Rabbit.” I felt completely alone in that eerie stillness, as if she were singing that strange melody just for me. In that moment, I became a fan, engulfed entirely by the tune, while ignoring the obvious message about drugs.

I don’t recall anything unusual about the rest of our stay, except that we were smart enough to leave before the exiting traffic would become hopelessly immobilized. I do have clear vision of the endless string of cars that lay strewn across the highway shoulders and median. I can only assume that the inhabitants of abandoned cars had hiked to the concert, while I saw those forced to park many miles away had opted to turn up their radios and party in place.

Most remarkable about Woodstock is that, while numerous attempts were made, the experience could never be duplicated again.