I was 21, about to be a junior at the University of Wisconsin, and living at home near Cleveland in the summer of 1969. I was bored out of my mind, couldn't stand being at home. I saw an article in the Cleveland Plain Dealer about two music festivals. One was the Atlantic City Pop Festival at the Atlantic City Race Course, with Janis Joplin and a lot of other bands, and another festival a few weeks later with all these great bands at Woodstock. I said, "Wow, I gotta go see that." So I called my friend Vicky Cross, who went to Wisconsin with me, and said, "Let's go." Fortunately, our parents were loosey-goosey enough — or benignly neglectful enough — to let us drive halfway across the country.
We went to the Atlantic City Race Course concert. Janis Joplin was fantastic, although as I recall she had a sax player or someone who was trying hard to upstage her. And then we drove up to Woodstock, just me and my friend. We even picked up two hitchhikers, one blond guy and one guy with a black Afro. They were really nice. One was on his way to India. His dad was a professor at the University of Maine. He was a free spirit traveling the world.
We were all set to see this festival in New York state. But about 10 miles from Bethel [N.Y.] you couldn't get near it. We had no idea it was going to be what it was. You had to park your car miles away and walk to Max Yasgur's farm, and that's when we realized it was going to be this monumental gathering of thousands and thousands of people, unlike anything ever before. By the time I got there, we were way in the back, far from the stage. But the sound system was huge and you could hear the music fine.
We'd brought a tent with us, which was a good thing because it rained and it was really muddy. It went on for three days, and it was nonstop. I loved Santana, and Mountain. I was a huge Crosby, Stills and Nash fan, and Neil Young had just joined them. I thought they were great. And Joe Cocker. I remember getting close to the stage for his set and seeing his hands, when he played air guitar. I don't know if he invented that, but it was the first time I'd ever seen it, and it really excited the crowd.
Everyone was amazing, all the bands, the most amazing compilation of great muisic and great musicians, all the top groups. That's why I went. I was not a hippie. I wasn't into drugs or free sex. I was there for the music.
After Woodstock, I went back to school, but in August of the next year, there was the [Sterling Hall] bombing on campus [in which a physics researcher was killed], and National Guardsmen on campus. When I walked up the hill to classes, you had to walk between two lines of National Guardsmen with rifles. And I hated Vietnam and what was going on in society, and I said, "I can't go to school with all this war going on."
Was Woodstock involved in my thinking? Woodstock was a manifestation of the way people were thinking then. A lot of the music was about changing the world, about how the times were changing. That was the mood: "We're going to change the world with love." A lot of the lyrics were against the establishment. You had people like CSN, Country Joe, and Jimi Hendrix at Woodstock, all singing songs like that.
No one was ever able to replicate the feeling of that festival. There was no violence, just peace, love, music, and mud.
James and Joanne Mitchell, both 61
Doylestown
James: I was taking two summer semester courses at NYU and pushing hand trucks in the Garment District. I traveled from my sublet apartment in Manhattan's Lower East Side to Bethel, N.Y., with three girls I had met through a classmate. I don't remember their names. I do remember the old Rambler that belonged to one. We slept in a tent and the Rambler. On the Friday night, by the time we got to Woodstock (I think Joni Mitchell said that), we found the edge of a field near some woods and parked about a half mile, or maybe more, away from the stage.
As night fell, it was raining softly, and my most distinct memory is the sound of Joan Baez singing ("Joe Hill," I think) in the distance. Very clear and nice. A moment to treasure!
On Saturday, I was to meet up with Josie, my girlfriend. We had met the summer before. She was traveling from Boston with other people. We couldn't find each other (half a million people/no cell phones) that weekend, but ultimately we found each other, and we've now been married (to each other) almost 35 years.
I don't remember what I ate or drank, but we must have brought some provisions because I don't recall being hungry or thirsty. I do remember being WET. The bathrooms were BAD. I remember John Sebastian. And Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young were great! Santana was new and sensational! They tore the place up. I have an image in my head of Janis Joplin in a big, billowing purple outfit walking overhead from the waiting area to the stage. I had wandered up quite close to the stage at this point, but I don't recall her performance.
I saw no nudity. I saw little alcohol. Some drug use. I recall feeling awed by the massive crowd and empowered by the feeling of solidarity. We were a part of something much bigger than a rock concert, and most of us knew it. A mystical dream of peace on earth?
On the Sunday we actually left before it was over because, in spite of our place in history, we were wet and tired. Triumphantly, the old Rambler was the first car able to make it up onto the road from our field. Several prior attempts had left cars hopelessly stuck in the mud.
I still have my tickets, and I saved the patched fringed blue jeans I wore at Woodstock. We were stardust. We were golden. (Again, Joni Mitchell.)
Nathan Gorenstein, 56
Inquirer Staff Writer
I was 16 and, as other people of that age, heavy, heavy into rock music. (Can I slink back into '60s slang?) I had a summer job feeding damp bedsheets into a living-room sized roller press at an industrial laundry. So my mother went and bought Woodstock tickets. Yes, tickets. Yes, my mother. She stood in line with the hippies.
I took a commercial bus from Boston, which, of course, got stuck in the massive incoming traffic jam. We all got off, slogged a couple of miles to the site, and I set up camp on the lip of what was a grassy, natural stage. Music started that evening, as did the hash pipe passed around by the people to the right. I wandered around all night, using as a landmark a supersized cloth butterfly someone had erected on a pole near my sleeping bag. Later, we all got rained on. I had no food, and was wet, and was 16, and the next evening I hitchhiked home. Some months later, I was given the Woodstock album Music from the Original Soundtrack and More: Woodstock as a present, and idly looking at cover one day, I realized: "Hey, that's me in the photograph!" There was my butterfly, and there I was, in fatigue jacket and my felt hat, pulling my sleeping bag off the wet earth. Except you'll have to take this on faith, because you can't see my face. But I'm pretty darn sure. I still have the tickets, and offer them as proof.
Jonathan Storm, 62
Inquirer Television Critic
I left early.
Always prepared, though I never made it out of Cub Scouts, I got two tickets to Woodstock early in the summer — unlike the hundreds of thousands who got in free when they showed up at the last minute. I also bought a big, used canvas tent.
Tents have come a long way in 40 years. There was no way my girlfriend and I could lug this monstrosity a mile or more up the little road where we parked, as close to the concert site as possible, early Friday afternoon.
Maybe we could hook up with a bunch of my classmates — we had all just graduated in June — who had acquired an old school bus that summer and were using it as home base.
Nope. The huge crowd made my girlfriend nervous. She nagged. We split. We stayed Friday night in a nearby Holiday Inn, where the helicopter ferrying musicians to the stage shook the walls most of the night.
It took at least 20 years for me to admit the shame of ditching the high point of my generation's cultural journey. It took less than a year for my girlfriend and me to break up.
San Diego
I was 18. I lived in Wayne Pa. but had a summer home in Stone Harbor NJ, when it was still a sleepy beach town. My friend and I heard the ad on the radio about all these great groups that were going to all play in the same weekend in New York state. I mean, the best of the best in one place. We took off early and drove up on Thursday and, as luck would have it, beat the crowd. I now live in California and still beat crowds by going early, maybe because of that lesson.
We parked in a big field and didn't see the car again until Monday morning. I remember walking a long way to get to where the music was that day. The music was unbelievable. I saw Joan Baez when she talked about Gov. Reagan — "Ronald Ray-gun's zap." She spoke about her husband, [David Harris,] who was in jail, I think, for resisting the draft. I remember seeing Creedence Clearwater Revival, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young; Ten Years After, Janis Joplin, Country Joe and the Fish, Sha Na Na, Richie Havens, Sly and the Family Stone, and many more.
My memory is foggy, but I do remember sleeping in the rain. My buddy and I had NOTHING. No tent, no food, no clean clothes and certainly no ticket. We slept basically on the grass, wet and muddy, but the music was so fantastic and since I was young it really wasn't bad.
I remember going to town on Saturday, and there was just a sea of people and cars, total gridlock on the little farm road that led from town to the site. They talk about the free love and drugs. Well, I missed that. I looked for it, but back then 18 was still considered young, and most of the older people were reluctant to share with a youngster. I know that sounds crazy, but I was sober the whole time!!!
We left Monday. I missed Hendrix but saw him at a great show that same year, I think, or soon after, at the Spectrum. By Monday we were more than ready to get a hot shower, real food and a bed.
I am really amazed about how cool Woodstock has become. Even my kids think I'm so cool for having been there. My response: The musical lineup was really the greatest part. I don't think that can ever be done again.
I was 20 years old and attended Woodstock with a close friend (Dan) and my sister (Sue). The experience was not only memorable but rewarding in ways I had not expected. It was a triumph of the human spirit, showing how well people — despite not knowing one another — could coexist for three days in cold and rain with little food or decent shelter in friendship and cooperation.
Four memorable highlights:
Woodstock stew:
We came somewhat prepared with a Coleman stove, pans, food, blankets, etc. But heavy rains overnight on Friday night and Saturday morning left everything we had soaking wet, and our food (canned goods) was mostly washed away. I walked around and found a number of the cans with the labels washed off. So we just opened them and poured them into a large pot. We found we had three ingredients: tomato soup, baked beans, and ravioli. It was tasty and filling. We then filled some empty cans and walked around the crowd feeding countless hungry people.
People's expressions when offered a hot and tasty meal, and after eating it, made us feel good and realize that when a group faces adversity, everyone is in ittogether and together they must work to make it through.
Saturday afternoon:
After more rain had fallen and fallen, we were living in a sea of mud. The music helped keep us focused elsewhere. The U.S. Army Reserve (or was it the National Guard?) had set up a mobile medical center to help the much-larger-than-expected crowd with first aid, treatments for weather-related sickness, etc. They used helicopters to bring in supplies. Late in the afternoon (as I recall), after the rain had finally stopped, helicopters were flying directly over the crowd, and the soldiers dropped flowers (and other items) on us, in support of what was going on. It was hard to believe they were doing this at a time when few in attendance were fans of the establishment, let alone the military (Vietnam was causing a divide in our country). But it was really happening. Soldiers flashed the peace sign, and the crowd reacted positively. It was the flowers that really showed we are all brothers and sisters under the same sky on the same planet.
Early Monday, Pre-Dawn and Dawn:
Much of the crowd had left on Sunday, and by around 3:304 a.m. or so Monday morning, even though we were close to the stage, it was almost impossible to see, due to the mist from the humid, wet conditions.
That's when Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young began to play. Their amazing harmonies cut through the mist, and time and place were suspended as everyone became mesmerized by their voices. No one had ever heard such beautiful and penetrating voicessinging songs that were just perfect. We all rode the "Marakesh Express" together.
At around 8:30 a.m., shortly after the sun had risen, Jimi Hendrix began his extraordinary guitar work. I especially remember his version of "The Star-Spangled Banner," in a set that brought three days of peace and music to their rightful conclusion.
Getting Home:
Many of us parked our cars (on Friday) in the middle of fields, not knowing how far we still had to go to reach the festival grounds. Once one car pulled into a field, everyone followed. We did the same, maneuvering our maroon '64 Chevy Impala into the midst of a large field. As it turned out, we were about three to four miles from the festival.
On Saturday, I walked back to the car to move it closer — only to find it sunk in the mud in the middle of the field.
Monday morning, we had no idea how we were going to get it unstuck. My friend Dan went to the car to check it out, while I was a mile or so away trying to find help. The few policemen around laughed at the idea of tow trucks.
All of a sudden — there it came, our maroon '64 Chevy Impala, down the road with Dan behind the wheel. What happened?
A local farmer on a tractor was using a chain to help kids get their cars unstuck and on the road. He only wanted to help out. Dan told me the farmer hadn't asked for money — but Dan put a $5 bill in his pocket anyway. The farmer's kindness was a fitting conclusion to the weekend, showing how well we all can work together and get along.
I still have my unused ticket. Dan, entrusted with the tickets, forgot to bring them to Woodstock. No matter: By the time we arrived Friday, just as Richie Havens was opening the festival, tickets were no longer being collected.
In June or July of 1969 I saw a small ad in the Philadelphia Bulletin advertising an outdoor rock concert that would be taking place in upstate New York in August. Since we had never been to an outdoor rock concert (we were 29 and 26, respectively) and had been planning a vacation in Maine in August anyway — and since we were both turned on by the line-up of rock stars mentioned in the ad — I decided to send for tickets. I'm pretty sure the tickets were $14 apiece. I mailed a check and received the tickets about 10 days later, along with directions from Philadelphia.
I later read short newspaper items indicating that the organizers of the concert in a town called Woodstock expected a crowd of 50,000 or fewer, and that there would be enough food, water, parking, Port-O-Potties, etc., for that many.
When we got to about one or two miles from the concert site on mid-Friday afternoon, of course, the word crawl does not begin to describe the stationary line of cars. Eventually, we pulled off the road, "parked" the car and began to walk — and walk and walk. In my arms was our 8-year-old black cat, Blackie, who had been declawed and had not been out of our 11th-floor Germantown two-room apartment in six years. (We thought he was also entitled to a vacation.)
To make a long story relatively short, that night we walked and walked and walked, following a mammoth crowd, to where we heard the rock stars would be performing. After trudging in the rain and mud (with a black cat) for what seemed like forever and hearing no music, we gave up, turned around and went back to the field where we had originally planted ourselves. I'd love to say we saw Janis Joplin, The Who, and all the other rock legends, but it would be a lie. We did not see or hear any of them. To this day I am skeptical about whether or not there really was a rock concert there.
That night Blackie disappeared. The following morning we asked a zillion people if they had seen a black cat with a red collar. Eventually we found a couple playing with Blackie, so we figured we better cut our losses. We'd had no food or water or rock music for about 16 hours — and no prospect of getting any. We were dirty, hungry, thirsty, tired and frustrated, so we took Blackie and walked the long road back to our car, which, thankfully, was still there.
There were so many others trying to leave (as well as zillions more still arriving) that it was another achingly slow slog in the rain, but we eventually made it out of Woodstock without being able to boast about seeing Janis Joplin (with whom my wife went to high school in Port Arthur, Texas). We drove to Maine, got lost big-time on the way to the cabin we had rented and again lost Blackie, who jumped out of the car late at night when I got out to look at a road sign. But that's another story, which could easily use up another 1,000 words.
Editor's note: Blackie's adventures continued. He did, indeed, escape Len Lear somewhere in Maine. Lear asked a cabin manager in Maine to call him if he ever saw a black cat. They left Maine in August. In December, Lear, then back in Germantown, got a call from the man in Maine. Despite being declawed and not being out of the apartment in six years, Blackie survived in the woods. Lear arranged for the cat to be put on a plane at the Bangor airport and flown back to Philadelphia. "He leaped on the pillow when he arrived back home," Lear says, "and he would not stir for three days."
Woodstock was what my best friends and I were obsessed with in the spring and summer of 1969. Sure, there was the moon landing; 2001: A Space Odyssey and Rosemary's Baby were the movies to see; and the Phillies were on their way to a fifth-place finish and playing in their final years at Connie Mack Stadium. But getting tickets for, going to, and finding out who we were going to see and hear at Woodstock were all we talked about.
A buddy and I, both 18, both from Mt. Airy, were finally going to get our chance to prove that we too could be "hippies" (albeit weekend versions). We first heard about the festival on WIBG, then read about it in the newspaper. We sent away for three two-day passes ($6 each) rather than three-day passes, since we were going to be driving up on Friday and knew we couldn't get there in time for Friday night's performances. We just hoped no one would take our seats!
I was the designated driver; my buddy was the navigator. We drove (learning at the last minute that the festival locale had moved from Woodstock to Bethel, N.Y.), along with my Gladwyne girlfriend, whose name slips my mind, in her father's station wagon. She also brought plenty of food for the weekend; she didn't want to have to eat junk, she said.
We left midafternoon, and even though it was raining like a monsoon all day, we drove, in that tank-like vehicle, past all the other cars pulled over to the side of the road, waiting for what proved to be an all-day torrent to subside. We drove straight through, making it to Bethel just after dark. We found a parking place within faint listening distance of the festival and slept in the car Friday night.
Early Saturday morning it was sunny, and we packed our backpacks and sleeping bags, and a bag of food, and followed the crowd to the festival grounds. No need to show anyone our tickets — there were no ticket takers (I still have my tickets!). We found a place to sit in "right field" about 400 feet from the stage. The first act I remember listening to was Santana. I also remember Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. I liked Jefferson Airplane the most by far.
I also remember when the rain started again. We thought it was fun — until it started to thunder, with lightning and hard rain. I also remember being covered with mud, showering in outdoor showers, and being amazed at how uninhibited other people were … until I realized I was doing the same thing. Perhaps our reduced levels of fear and inhibition had something to do with the "delicacies" we sampled for the first time, sharing them with the generous people sitting around us whom we'd just met! (I didn't inhale!) We shared our goodies; and when they ran out, we ate the granola the festival folks handed out. We also drank water from water trucks that the festival set up for us. We were in heaven!
I also remember standing in line to call my parents on Sunday evening from a pay phone in downtown Bethel after the show. I wanted to tell them we were not going to be home until late on Monday. My mother's first words were, "Thank God you're alive! The TV says there's a half a million kids at Woodstock, running around naked, thirsty and starving, and several have even died." It was then we first learned we had been a part of history.
Joni Mitchell (who wasn't at Woodstock but wrote the best song about it) is now nearing 66, and David Crosby 68. No matter; they're still cool. Now that I'm nearly 60, and a suburban, short-haired, pinstripe-suited corporate lawyer, I amaze people when I tell them I was "there." They may not think I'm cool, but they're still amazed, and that's not bad when you think about it.
Yes, I was there. I was part of a Germantown commune. We applied for and were given some type of permit to enter the area early and get to a camp site. We had hand silkscreened T-shirts and hand strung beads (and maybe other items I don't remember) to sell. So we didn't sit in the ridiculously long traffic jam getting there.
Some of us traveled in a Ford Bronco and spent a fair amount of time towing cars out of the mud when we left.
We ended up bartering or just giving away most of our "goods." Speaking of goods, I am proudly wearing and thoroughly enjoying a T-shirt I recently purchased at Target. It has a picture of the Woodstock crowd on the front and the quote from Wavy Gravy of the Hog Farm on the back: "What we have in mind is breakfast in bed for 400,000." I remember when that announcement came over the loudspeaker.
I personally listened to most of the musicians from our camping area because the sound was terrific. I went near the stage only to see Janis Joplin; I am so glad I did, as she didn't live that much longer.
I remember a lot of really happy (with some assistance from varying sources) people having a great time. Announcements about the acid being bad and where to go if you were having a bad trip never scared me. It helped to be with people about whom I cared a lot — and, of course, it helped to be 22.
I don't know what we expected when we went. I am pretty sure 500,000 camping in mud wasn't an expectation. Now that I am 62, the thought of being with 500, or 5,000 in many situations would terrify me. I do still go to large concerts and hope I'll always be able to do so.
I'm glad the 40th anniversary of this momentuous event is getting publicity.
Audi (Henshaw) Flanagan, 58
Secane
I had a place in North Wildwood that summer with three other girlfriends and originally had no intention of going. I was living in Colwyn at the time, and my friend Linda Casey was from Chester.
Linda and I had driven down to the shore Friday after work, but we found that a lot of our friends had left already for the festival. Around midnight, after our friend, Rick Thomas, who was from Southwest Philly, got off work, we decided, "What the hell? Who's up for a troad trip?" And we started out along with a couple other friends, Ed Piciotti and Karen Gallen (both from the Ridley area, I think) in my little yellow Maverick with flowers on the outside. We took the Jersey Turnpike to the New York Thruway and on to the festival. No shoes, no food and practically no money. We were stopped at the exit by the police, who wouldn't open it till morning.
So we pulled to the side of the road, drove in the next morning as far as we were able, and just parked and walked the rest of the way. We could hear the music as we walked toward it, and I remember the rain and the mud and the hordes of people. All kinds of people. People from all over the states. Friendly people and helpful people, respectful and sharing people. Happy people — everyone was happy to be there. They shared their food and drink and anything they had.
We weren't able to get very close to the music, but we could hear it, oh, could we hear it. Santana, the Dead, Creedence Clearwater (one of my favorites), Sly and the Family Stone, Janis Joplin (Linda's favorite), Jefferson Airplane, Joe Cocker, Country Joe and The Fish, and on and on. I think we left after Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young the next day. I know we missed Jimi Hendrix.
I don't remember sleeping or eating. We didn't care that we were dirty and muddy. I just remember the music and a genuine feeling of peacefulness. There was no fighting, no yelling, no bigotry, no violence. Linda and I still talk about it once in a while, usually when someone asks us, and we smile and say we don't remember much. It's unexplainable and unbelieveable. It was just one of the most incredible events to occur in anyone's lifetime and probably will never happen again. It was an honor to be there and to experience it with my friends and so many other people.
I currently live in Secane, Linda in Springfield, Rick in Bethel, and I'm not sure about Ed and Karen.
Ken Bielen, 59
Marion, Indiana
I grew up in Woodbridge, N.J. I was a Rutgers junior at the time of Woodstock, which I attended with my hometown buddies, Dave Springer and Bruce Harkey.
Finally, it was a couple of days before the trip. My parents were leaving for a vacation. My dad started lecturing. He asked who was going to be there. I mentioned Joan Baez. He said, "Her? She brings all these radicals with her. If there is any trouble, you come home." So I said OK, I'd come home if there was any trouble. My Mom worried about whether there was a Catholic church in the area because the festival was falling on a Holy Day of Obligation and a Sunday.
I walked through darkness, past parked cars and people sitting on the grass berm along the side of the road. I kept hearing the question, "Any surplus drugs, man?" I continued on my journey hoping to find where the traffic jam ended. But all I saw were sloping hills covered with trails of red lights. When I turned and looked back, I saw one long beam of white light that stretched farther than I could see. I gave my scouting report to Bruce and Dave: "There are a whole bunch of people out there, and we're gonna get lousy seats." We hadn't moved for two hours.
Wake up! Wake up!" cried the voice of an older woman. I ignored the command. I felt as though I hadn't slept all night. We were on the dewy grass berm along the country road. Off to the right a guy and a gal were sharing a sleeping bag. I was in a sleepy trance. I turned over and saw a big woman with a stick in her hand. The lady was upset because cars were blocking the driveway. Her husband was the local milkman and had to make his deliveries. She told us to be quick about getting up — we could camp on the other side of the roadway across from the dairy farm. We regretted not setting up our tent the night before, when we could have chosen any part of that field. But when we pulled off the road earlier in the morning, we were so tired and it was dark, and we couldn't light the Coleman lantern. So our first thought was to sleep in the car, which was ridiculous because it is impossible to sleep sitting in a Corvair car seat.
Campers were lighting fires and saying, "Hi" even though we were all strangers. It looked like it was going to be a nice day weather-wise. It was 6:30 a.m. We decided to go check where everything was happening and walked to the concert site. We took our tickets and some food. Most people were heading back in the direction from which we arrived the night before. The traffic on the road was moving, but it was slow. We could have hopped on the trunk of somebody's car, but it was faster to walk. Cops flew by in helicopters.
The advertisement said the show would start at one in the afternoon, so we imagined we'd have to be there a little early to get a good spot on the lawn. It seemed we walked for miles and miles. Then, we passed a place that had some food stands and even a Ferris wheel. Suddenly, we were upon a huge, natural amphitheater. We watched a work crew still building the stage. I could hear hammers and saws. I watched cranes lifting huge speakers onto pedestals. Since the stage wasn't finished yet, I said, "This'll never start." Construction workers put up cyclone fencing.
There were crabby guys in red jackets with the famous Woodstock symbol on the back. They yelled at girls who accidentally trudged on the grass. At this juncture the organizers were still planning on collecting tickets. Overall, there was an air of peacefulness. People walked slowly but steadily toward the grass-covered bowl before the stage. No one was protesting the fact that this was a pay-to-watch concert. There was no clamor to get in for free. So I was somewhat surprised later when an announcement came from the stage that it was going to be a free concert. It did not become a free concert because of an underground threat precipitated by Abbie Hoffman. Rather, it was a simple case of not being logistically prepared in time to collect admission tickets.
After another ballad, Richie Havens performed "With A Little Help from My Friends," the Beatles' tune from Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. Introducing the song, he admitted that he had not learned the words yet. He spoke of how relevant the song was to this gathering. People were going to have to take care of each other to make the festival a harmonious gathering. With wordless vocals, the singer-guitarist made his way through the song.
I bumped into Havens at the end of the summer of 2006 at a local outdoor arts festival where I lived in Ohio. I said to him, "You've probably heard this before a million times, but I saw you at Woodstock in 1969. Really." He smiled and responded, "Ahh, an alumni."
Listening to the field recordings I made at Woodstock (I brought a portable reel-to-reel tape recorder with me to the site), it is surprising to hear constant conversation in the crowd while the artists were performing. This took place during most of the acoustic acts Friday and even during the electric acts Saturday. For many, the performances on stage were little more than background music to discussions among friends. As it got later in the evening, people tired of chatting and listened to the music.
Before singing the apocalyptic spiritual "Mary, Don't You Weep," Arlo Guthrie started strumming his guitar and asked us to sing the song with him. He said he usually did the song at the piano, but the piano was wet. Actually, the piano wasn't wet, but the piano stool was. He confessed, "Didn't want to get my ass wet." He paused and continued, "You get rich, and you don't want to get your ass wet."
For the second day of the festival, we brought our sleeping bags to the hillside so we wouldn't have to leave in the midst of a performance, as we had during Joan Baez's set. Early in the day, we could still move around. As we walked back toward the food stands for hamburgers, the stage announcer made a surprise introduction of John Sebastian. We made a U-turn. The short set by the former leader of the Lovin' Spoonful was a soothing balm for bleary-eyed young people who were sleep-deprived.
The afternoon became hot. The Incredible String Band provided directionless musical noodling. Unprotected, my skin burned from the sun while the British folk group performed. A gal I did not know offered me a shirt to cover my face and a sweater to use as a pillow.
The sound system at Woodstock was as good as any I have ever heard for a concert. The topography of the hillside rising up from the stage provided excellent acoustics. The audio was clear and crisp.
It was during the hot Saturday afternoon that people shed their clothes and went skinny-dipping. From where we were located, away from the stage, caught in a large crowd and ignorant of the existence of a large pond, we were unaware of any nudity at Woodstock. There were no stage announcements to the effect that there was a nude beach out back from the stage. There was very little mobility as the crowd grew and grew on Saturday. The audience packed together, tighter and tighter. It was a hassle to move from your little patch the size of a sleeping bag. Audience members did not pass along news of nudity at a pond behind the stage. Even if we had heard of these goings-on, it would not have been worth the trouble to check it out.
It would not be till the post-mortem news reports that I would learn of nudity at Woodstock. It seems the out-of-the-ordinary activities took place where the media happened to be. There were no cameras where I was sitting, and nothing more outrageous than some of the audience smoking marijuana took place in our surroundings on the hillside.
I liked the Who the most. I'd seen them play two years previously at a Murray the K review in Manhattan, where they did a two-song set, and they had come out with Tommy, and I was excited about them. Their performance was a capstone for that Saturday night. And the work-up to the Who — Sly and the Family Stone was amazing. After the Who, when the sun rose on the Jefferson Airplane, I was tired and spent. Grace Slick called what they were doing "morning maniac music."
Saturday's schedule was complete. We hadn't moved since the previous afternoon. In the daylight of Sunday morning, there was no place to go. I fell asleep until noon or one. As we woke up, the announcers on stage eased us back into consciousness. We were going to get breakfast in bed: granola and oats. A fellow nearby offered me a cup of coffee, a roll, and a peach. While we ate, an announcer read a piece from The New York Times. We were a media event. Again, the show did not start per the published schedule. If a performer had gone out on stage at one in the afternoon, it would have been way out of synch with the rhythm of the audience.
While waiting for the stage change, I looked left and saw the largest dark cloud I'd ever witnessed in my life. I sighed, "Oh, no." We covered ourselves with plastic sheeting, but it was impossible to stay dry on the hillside. When the rain subsided, we were surrounded by mud. The mud-sliding ponds that appeared in the film were up front where the cameras were rolling. Further back, where I was, there was no air of celebration. Sleeping bags and ground covers were soaked from the rain. There was no way to get dry. The soaked audience shivered.
Still, I was not prepared when Dave said we were leaving. Bruce, who drove us from New Jersey, was sick and, according to Dave's prognosis, could get worse. I felt as if I had been punched in the stomach and had the wind knocked out of me. My favorite acts were coming up. I wanted to see the Band in the hills of their home region. I wanted to see Stephen Stills and Neil Young, the driving forces behind my beloved Buffalo Springfield. I could not believe we were leaving this dream come true for a nineteen-year-old rock music lover. In the past couple of days, I realized something like this was never going to happen again. There was no way so many could gather together under such peaceful circumstances. How could we just get up and leave this event?
Later, I wondered why I didn't stay. I could have taken a Trailways bus home. I could have helped with the cleanup. But I followed my friends, who remarked that it would probably rain again anyway and the rest of the show would be canceled.
We walked back to the farm field and discovered our tent strewn about by the force of the storm that had blown through. We had not seen the tent since Saturday afternoon. Stakes and lines spread out away from the tent. We packed the car, and headed north, around the traffic jams, before turning south towards New Jersey. We arrived home in two and a half hours. It was still daylight.
While I was at Woodstock, my parents were away at a World War II infantry division reunion with my younger sisters. They had missed the news of the weekend and had not had time to worry. As I approached the screen door at the front of the house, I could tell they were worrying. I overheard my visiting Uncle Paul telling them that hepatitis was running rampant over the festival grounds. Even when I told him he was wrong, he stubbornly insisted he was right.
There are a number of ways to view Woodstock. It can be seen as just another stop on the artists' tours. I remember before we left for the concert hearing that Arlo Guthrie was going to be at a college in Long Island the night after his performance at the festival. Most of the musicians did not come to commune with their peers or the audience. Their road managers had to get them somewhere else the next day.
But Woodstock was also a coming of age. It was the first time many teenagers had to take care of themselves and each other. Of course, it was not a community that could go on forever. Many paid no admission and were fed for free. But something made Woodstock different from Altamont, the free concert organized by the Rolling Stones in northern California four months later. Unlike the festival in New York, Altamont was a witness to violence and murder.
When the producers of Woodstock saw the vast crowd on Friday, they realized the scene was something bigger than they had expected. They appealed to the crowd to be cool, to be good neighbors, and the 400,000 or so assembled on that hillside did, not via pacifying drugs or even the music, but rather the shared notion that the large group had a chance to prove that it could stay together as a family for three days. And it happened.
I wrote the following shortly after the festival:
Dig this: Sunday afternoon: People are packing up for the exodus away from the farm. A car goes down the road (every car seems to have at least a dozen people hanging on). The car has California plates. It passes a kid. He says, "Hey, are you from California?"
"Yeah, are you?"
"Yeah."
"Do you need a ride?"
"Sure, thanks."
In the fall of 1998 I returned to the site of Woodstock for the first time since that muddy Sunday afternoon 29 years earlier. I wanted to see the site before it was permanently built up. I'd heard rumors and reports of entertainment facilities or condominiums being planned for the site. I wanted to see the hillside the way I remembered it.
On a blustery and sunny October morning I drove the two and a half hours to Bethel. I stopped at the Sullivan County office building for a street map and directions. Driving up Hurd Road, I recognized it. Dave, Bruce and I had walked up the road from our camp to the natural amphitheater three decades earlier.
I pulled into a small parking lot adjacent to a monument erected 15 years after the festival. Two fellows from my generation were walking along the hillside when I arrived. One told me he was Iggy Pop's manager. The other worked in health care in the Midwest. I told them I had been at the festival, and Iggy's manager said, "You were at the show!" Funny, I'd never thought of Woodstock as a "show." We took photos of each other and exchanged addresses to share the photos. Later, when Art Collins passed away, I learned that not only was he Iggy Pop's manager, but he also had been the first president of the Rolling Stones' Rolling Stones Records label. I tried to share some of my enthusiasm about my Woodstock experience with the two of them, explaining where I camped and where I sat back in 1969. But I felt self-conscious; I thought they were skeptical of my story of witnessing the event, just as my colleagues at work were skeptical when I told them I met Iggy Pop's manager.
After they left, I had the grassy hill to myself. After all these years, I was back at a place of dreams fulfilled and dreams lost. I walked to the stage area and looked up the hillside. I trekked up and sat down where I remembered we sat years earlier. It seemed not as far to the stage as I recollected. Maybe because no one else was there, I could not get a sense of scale.
I drove over to the pond behind the stage where the skinny-dipping took place on a warm August Saturday in 1969. Back at the concert site, I found a totem pole planted on the hillside. Carved in wood were the faces of three departed musicians who played at Woodstock: Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix and Jerry Garcia. I grabbed a clump of wildflowers off the hillside and pressed them in a book. I finally closed out an adventure that had been interrupted all those years ago.
Marshall Sikowitz, 59
Cambridge, Mass. (Mt. Airy in 1969)
I was a sophomore in college. My college buddy Joel Bloch from NYU was a huge music fan. So we planned to go to Woodstock together. He was crazy about music. The night of the moon landing, he actually called me up to plan the trip. I swear that Neil Armstrong either was about to walk on the moon or had just walked on the moon or was thinking about walking on the moon when the phone rang, and it was Joel saying, "Marshall! When do you ant me to pick you up?" and I was saying, "Man, they're walking on the moon."
Joel lived in Cincinnati, and he drove all the way to Mt. Airy to pick me up, and then north to Woodstock. That's not out of the way, is it?
We got to Woodstock on Friday without a problem, hardly any traffic, and other than parking farther away than we anticipated, it was a breeze. Other than having tickets, we were totally unprepared, no food or tents, just sleeping bags. Once we were there, we just about froze and starved to death, but we got to see everyone, including Jimi Hendrix on Monday a.m. from about 10 feet away.
By the second or third day, there was very little food around, so the people from the Hog Farm came around with paper cups full of oats. I think that was the first thing I'd eaten for about 24 hours. Also, this guy who was leaving Woodstock gave us a whole bunch of tickets for food, and we stood in water almost up to our knees to wait in line and the food tent.
I remember when Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young were playing, Joel was a huge CSNY fan and knew the words to all their songs. So he was singing along to every song, and someone in the crowd turned around and told him to shut up.
Jimi Hendrix doing "The Star-Spangled Banner" is what I remember most. By Monday morning, the place looked like a Civil War battlefield, and a lot of people had left, so we were able to get close.
Best story: Joel dropped me off back in Mt. Airy at my parents' house. There were four of us by then, all scruffy, long-haired and filthy. My Mom made us enter through the basement, and we sat down there, and she brought us Tastykakes and milk.
The other three left for Ohio. My parents never once asked me what I did up there.
Robert A. Cohen, 55
Bryn Mawr (Wyndmoor in 1969)
I was 15 in the summer of '69, couldn't even drive a car. But I had a good friend, Paul Milstein, with whom I was hanging that summer. And Paul had three things that guaranteed we'd be part of history: a family home in Margate, N.J.; his Pennsylvania driver's license; and a silver 1964 Corvette Stingray that his brother Charlie had given to him that spring.
We had heard about a rock concert happening at the Atlantic City Race Course in late July, and since we were staying at the shore in Margate, we decided to buy tickets and go. This event was like nothing we had ever experienced before: a huge crowd of marijuana-smoking young people who wanted to listen to great music and party.
While at the A.C. concert, we saw advertised another rock concert, to be held in a small upstate New York town named Bethel. this concert was promoted as a three-day "Aquarian Exposition" called Woodstock and featuring the greatest bands in the United States and beyond. We were psyched. Paul and I immediately decided to go, but the journey had to be cleared with our parents first.
To my surprise, after considerable discussion we were given the OK to go. Wow! First thing I did was to buy two full sets of tickets via the phone. I think the cost was about $90 for the two of us, not cheap in '69. Second thing was to get directions to Bethel … got a AAA Trip tick from the Cheltenham branch office.
Then where were we going to stay? Not in a two-seater Corvette, that was for sure. I decided to buy a tent at I. Goldberg's Army Navy store on Chestnut Street. Someone drove me into town, where I purchased a simple two-man tent for Paul and me.
Several weeks later, everything in hand, we packed, and off we went with the cold chicken and other foodstuffs my mother prepared for us, on our way to Woodstock. Yes!
The concert was scheduled to start on Friday, Aug. 15, and end Sunday the 17th, but Paul and I decided to start our road trip early on Wednesday, not because we feared traffic or crowds — we were just anxious to get going.
Pa. Turnpike to N.J. Turnpike to N.Y. Thruway, etc. We arrived at the concert site around 6:30 p.m. We encountered very little traffic and heard nothing extraordinary about the event on the radio. The trip took about three and a half hours from Philadelphia to the farm. To our surprise there were few people there, the stage was still being erected, and there was mud everywhere. Think of a huge, hilly farm with few, if any, paved roads and grass that hadn't been cut in weeks. It was wet, muddy and slippery. The site did not drain well after days of soaking rain. We scouted the property for a good spot to park and camp. Our low-clearance 'Vette got stuck in the mud … for the next five days. We were about 150 yards away from the rear of the stage, but this was home. "I'm a little hungry … where's that chicken my mother forced us to take along with us?"
By now it was dusk, so we decided to make camp and pitch the tent. We removed the tent from its box and set it up … hmm, no attached bottom … good thing I brought along a ground tarp. We walked around and met our neighbors, some of whom were also stuck in the mud. Night fell, and Paul and I, tired from all the day's excitement and partying, decided to hit the sack in our new two- man tent.
We crawled in and got on our backs looking up at the center pole, realizing then that the tent was a little small for two growing, young guys. We were shoulder to shoulder, and I think our feet may have stuck out of the tent. Got comfortable, no moving around though … not so bad. Wrong. Immediately after we got into the tent, the weather turned sour. It started to drizzle, then turned to harder rain. No problem at first. Lying there we looked at each other, shoulder to shoulder, as the water slowly started to soak then saturate the canvas. The water started to drip … not so slowly … until we both at the same time decided to head for the 'Vette.
We were soaked … and we thought the tent was confining!
In the a.m. I got out of the car, picked up the soggy box the tent was packaged in, and noticed in large letters "FAIR WEATHER TENT." I was 15! What did I know?
Near our campsite was a large, beautiful tent which could sleep six. This tent had zippered screen doors and windows, and had a floor. You could even stand in this tent. I introduced myself to the residents and went inside. Wow! The Taj Mahal of tents, would they sell it I thought?
As it turned out, the tent owners — as I recall — were reporters from a San Francisco newspaper called a Different Drummer. For some odd reason they were getting into their VW bus and leaving for the West Coast later that day before the concert even began. I never could figure out why they left, but I was now the proud owner of the Taj for $150. Maybe it was B.S., them being reporters, but I owned the tent now. We were movin' on up. We partied like it was 1999 (which wasn't even written yet). Many slept in the tent out of the rain at Woodstock.
It's now Thursday evening, and we're running a little low on consumables like water and food, but no worries; we're thinking there must be a grocery store in town somewhere nearby. The property is beginning to get crowded and the weather is still hot, muggy and rainy. Hmm, where are the bathrooms and the showers?
Well, there were no showers, but there was a pond where, for the first time in my life, I saw both sexes washing au naturel, so I joined in. No apprehension at all — plus I had the foresight to bring my own soap with me to Woodstock. Priorities. Fortunately, near our campsite closer to the stage was a row of temporary green on-the-spot bathrooms … interesting: you could hear the concert performance while on the crapper … I think I heard Grace Slick and the Jefferson Airplane from there.
I brought along a Super 8 movie camera with me to Woodstock, but over the years have lost those precious films. I do remember, as if it were yesterday, filming the guy in his green uniform suit who cleaned the bathrooms, along with his tanker truck. If you remember the movie Woodstock, it was the same exact guy. Although that was it for my film-making career.
Now the place was getting really crowded, but you never felt in a crush of people until we tried to get into the concert. The stage and the ground seating area were in a large open field encircled by an eight-foot, poorly built chainlink fence. In fact, I do not remember a specific entrance to the viewing area where a ticket could be collected, but I had them in my pocket just in case. While we were walking to the viewing area to properly give up our tickets, the fence was pushed over and people started to just walk in. I still have my ticket stubs, so they must have been collected at some point. Perhaps on the first day they collected all the tickets at once. I cannot recall. I'm sure that the majority of attendees at Woodstock did not buy tickets for their entrance. It was a free-for-all.
The music and performances by the artists are legendary. I highly recommend buying the Rhino four-disk CD collection. It is a classic and includes in the background the public address system notices we all remember so well. There were rumors that The Beatles and the Rolling Stones were going to show up and perform. Of course, that never happened, but we thought at the time it was possible. We were hopeful.
I remember the music and the emotion quite vividly -- Janis Joplin, Grace Slick and the Jefferson Airplane, Richie Havens, Sly and the Family Stone, Joe Cocker, Sha Na Na, John Sebastian, Santana, Joan Baez, Country Joe and the Fish, the Creedence Clearwater Revival, Jimi Hendrix, and the Who. But my two favorites were Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young "The Marrakesh Express") and Canned Heat ("Going up the Country").
I don't think the music played 24/7 at first, but when the promoters realized how far behind schedule they were, for a variety of reasons not limited to weather and logistics, the artists did play around the clock. I remember clearly helicopters flying the groups and the needy in and out of the area. In our area a large tanker truck of potable water was brought in for drinking and cooking. Everyone took his or her turn at the spigot in an orderly and friendly manner.
And, yes, drugs were openly sold and consumed at Woodstock. And there were New York State Police at Woodstock who did nothing at all about the drugs. And, yes, some people were walking around totally nude at Woodstock. But nobody seemed to care or be bothered by any of this.
By now, our chicken was gone and we were hungry, so we hitched a ride to Bethel on the back of a pickup and were able to buy some supplies and sodas. All was OK.
The next couple of days went along uneventfully. We just listened to the groups and enjoyed the event.
We left Woodstock on Monday, Aug. 18. Listening to the radio, we now realized the impact this event had on the entire upstate New York area. We'd had no idea from the inside what havoc had occurred.
When we got home, we found our parents at my home in Wyndmoor, together lamenting that we were never coming home, thinking we were lost, because they had not heard a word from us. After a little yelling and screaming, everyone settled down, and our parents were more than happy to see us alive and well.
The legend of Woodstock has taken on greater meaning as time has passed. My daughter, now 24, wrote a paper on Woodstock while she was in high school in 2000. The main feature of her paper was an interview … with me, her dad, about my experience at the age of 15 at Woodstock.
When Paul and I returned from our journey' he became very interested in camping, hiking and the outdoors. Our relationship waned when he borrowed the Taj from me in 1970 and never returned it.
Sam Mild, 58
Norriton (lived in Rosemont in 1969)
My brother and I drove there in his small Triumph TR-3. We passed miles of vehicles parked on country roads and people walking. In trying to get as close to the stage as possible, we came to an intersection where we saw a state trooper turn away all of the cars but let a motorcycle through. After a silent appeal from us, he let our small car through, and we parked on a hill about a half mile from the stage.
As we walked along the road to the stage, people who had already discovered that their tickets weren't being collected came walking back to sell them to unsuspecting people who had no tickets.
At one point, an old station wagon with about 20 people riding inside and on top and on the hood came flying down the hill amid shouts of "No brakes!"
The first day was sunny, and we sat with the throng in a natural amphitheater with the stage below us. There was a constant flow of helicopters taking off and landing across the street behind the stage.
There were frequent announcements about bad acid going around, warning people not to eat it, or to come up to the hospitality tent if they had.
We saw Creedence Clearwater Revival, Janis Joplin and Country Joe. Late, late, we went back to the car and slept under a makeshift tent of plastic and heard Jimi Hendrix in the distance.
David Chrisman, 57
Reading (then and now)
I and with my friends were in a Volkswagen van headed north, enjoying the peace, and the fact that so many people were making a pilgrimage to see all the great acts, in a time of war, and hatred — all for bringing more peace to a turbulent time. I remember liking Joe Cocker and the Who and also the Jimi Hendrix Experience.
It was just a very awe-inspiring experience, where people went there basically just to have fun. There was a very relaxed atmosphere, no violence, no stabbing or shootings, just a very peaceful setting. It was a very good time, one I look back on and cherish. It was so grooovvvvvvy, man. Peace and love to all.
Douglas Phinney, 61
Maple Shade
I'd been badly injured in Vietnam. I had a grenade literally blow my head apart and was lucky to live. I'd spent a lot of time at Valley Forge Medical Hospital, and much of my last months in the service was spent with a lot of next-to-free time on my hands. So that's how I got to Woodstock. Paralysis of the left arm forced me to buy a "necker's knob" for my just-purchased 1960 Ford Galaxy so I could drive there. I was still in Army. But I made it to Woodstock anyway, maybe the only one there with short hair. Parked close. It didn't rain at first, and while it stayed relatively dry, it was nice. But for months I'd been living and sleeping in the rain & mud back in Vietnam, so once it started raining at Woodstock, I left after day 2. Particularly I remember Melanie, of all people. The reason is that it was the first night, and the layout of Woodstock was pretty much a natural amphitheater, and that night was so still, and the way her voice floated out over the whole crowd was beautiful, and everyone lit matches, lighters, and candles, and all that was going on while she was singing. It really did something to me. I also remember Arlo Guthrie well. The musical highpoint for me was the anti-war "I-Feel-Like-I'm-Fixin'-to-Die Rag, by Country Joe and the Fish.
I loved Woodstock. I needed Woodstock. Woodstock was my homecoming.