Taking Stock of Woodstock

The 40th anniversary of Woodstock seemed like a good idea until the media got hold of it. As all those images of newly-revealed-but-still-moonwalking-junkie Michael Jackson fade from our collective memory, they've been replaced by scenes of glassy eyed hippies jerking convulsively to the music as the lyrical giants of the 60s propel waves of feedback across Max Yasgur's farm. Unfortunately, I was there ,too, but only after a last minute whim prompted all 5 of us to leave Martha's Vineyard on a perfect August weekend to go to upstate New York for something - I wasn't exactly sure what.


We parked in some nondescript field and joined the hordes wending their way to the main stage. One of the first things I saw was a 7 UP truck that had apparently gotten stuck in a roadside culvert. People were standing atop the soda truck, handing out free 7 UP, a harbinger of the anarchism that pervaded the event, a stirring indictment of capitalism - or something like that. The pretense at crowd control seemed to have been abandoned by the time we reached the famous hill of mud, the fence having been trashed. So there we were, totally clueless that it was an historic event.


The first performer we saw was Melanie, barely visible over the mists of pot smoke, which, of course, gave rise to that famous comment: " Who gives a f___k about Melanie?" Fortunately, we had more than enough weed to make " I got a brand new roller skate" sound almost palatable. She was followed by Tim Hardin, who I had always looked up to, except that he started nodding out, like, during his songs, which gave rise to that other famous remark: "You don't know? Tim Hardin's a junkie, man."


Unfortunately, we seemed to have picked the bargain basement performers hour, but the scene was somewhat enlivened by the entrance of Ravi Shanker, who proceeded to coax cosmic sounds out of the sitar in concert with the hurried pace of the tabla. Just as I thought I could stretch out next to my similarly entranced girlfriend, the skies began belching rain. We pretended it wasn't happening for a few minutes before the lethal mix of upstate New York farm mud with water began to create a distinctive coating. By the time we gave up and staggerred back to the van, it was like cement.


It would have helped when we opened our bleary eyes early the next morning, limbs cramped and filthy from the combination of dirt and trying to stretch out in the narrow van , if someone had reminded us that we were at the pivotal event of the Sixties and that all the memorable performances were yet to come. Unfortunately, it just seemed like mass confusion. We resolved that we needed to leave immediately or face showing up late for work Monday morning. Consequently, we missed all the legendary artists and got drunk in a nearby bar instead, followed by swimming in an adjacent lake.

Fortunately, we made it back to a halfway point in Connecticut in time to see Midnight Cowboy. Jon Voight and Dustine Hoffman had a bigger impact on me than Woodstock at the time. I'm glad that there's so much nostalgia about the event, but most of my memories revolve around the agony as opposed to the ecstasy. So much for making history.