by Bob Spitz
His initial appropriation against that agreement was for $50,000, an amount he considered substantial; by mid-April, however, it had all but run out. John took it as an omen. Woodstock Ventures’ funds had trickled away like liquid mercury, with no end to the spending in sight. If anything, it was clear to him that budgets had been seriously understated, that there would be a wild proliferation of expenditures before next month came screeching to a halt—money spent to protect their already hefty investment. He had observed snowballing before. It was a vicious monetary cancer, which signalled virtual bankruptcy. But it could be controlled if diagnosed soon enough and amended in time. Time was their worst enemy now, and the only method of speeding up the process was to pay through the nose for services. Catch-22. Something was not going according to plan, and John Roberts was distressed.
• • •
John, Joel, and Artie were tactically reduced to curious onlookers regarding Michael’s progress with the entertainment program. When asked whether he had received any firm commitments from top groups to play at the festival, Michael would pat that person reassuringly on the shoulder and say, “I’m working on it, man. Don’t get uptight.” Their reaction at that time was exemplary considering everyone’s livelihood was riding on his booking prowess. Had it been at any other point in contemporary history, he might have been lynched, but the motto of Peace and Love (über alles) was indelibly tattooed on each partner’s psyche and they behaved like a band of brainwashed apostles en route to Hamlin. And nobody smelled a rat. “Right on, Michael,” they’d nod, trustingly; however, as each day passed, the obligatory salaam took on a less loving tone.
Michael’s first big break came in the middle of the second week in April. Hector Morales called to say that for $10,000 he believed Creedence Clearwater Revival could be enticed into being the first group to go to contract with him. Michael was openly relieved. “Do it, man,” he ordered. “For any price. Do it. Just nail ’em down.”
That much money for Creedence was preposterous considering they only had to perform for sixty minutes instead of having to do an entire concert. But the group had been getting between $5,000 and $7,500 for a two-hour show and were selling out wherever they played. Their popularity was unchallenged. Since 1968, when they dusted off a 1950s hit called “Suzie Q” and turned it into a hard-rock smash, they were consistently represented high up on the rock charts. The follow-ups to “Suzie Q”—“Proud Mary” and “Born On The Bayou”—were well on their way to becoming generational standards, and Morales predicted that their soon-to-be-released single, “Bad Moon Rising,” would keep them hot. A sixty-minute term policy for $10,000 cash. Instant credibility. It was what Lang had been waiting for all along.
Hector Morales was also now in possession of that long-awaited lever with which to pry the lock off the tightly bolted record industry door.
“Whaddya mean, you don’t wanna be the only supergroup on the program?” he’d confront a doubtful manager whose obstinancy was practically visible over the long-distance phone lines. “We got Creedence and we got plenty of bread. You wanta hold out? Fine. We got a dozen other acts waiting to approach us. Shit or get off the pot, pal.”
The rock clouds having been seeded with capital, it was not long before the heavens opened up and the gods descended. On April 18, Hector called Lang with a confirmation that he had received a confirmation from folk singer Tim Harden to appear for $2,000. Michael thought Harden a good act for the Friday night show, which would cater to a soft-rock sound. April 21 landed Canned Heat for a whopping $13,000. They were off and running. The week of April 28, however, was his pièce de rèsistance. First, Johnny Winter’s manager, Steve Paul, called to say his artist would perform for $7,500, an act that would draw the hardcore electric blues fanatics. Winter was becoming something of a legend, being the first albino guitarist who sounded black. Then, only hours later, a contract was signed guaranteeing Woodstock the Janis Joplin Show for $15,000. No one except the Beatles, Bob Dylan, and Jimi Hendrix was more controversial and in more demand. The booking of the Jefferson Airplane, perhaps the purveyors of the American culture shock-front, for the same $15,000 was, for the most part, anticlimactic. The tossed coin, having balanced neatly (and dangerously) on its edge for the past two months, had suddenly pitched its fate. For $62,500, Michael Lang had assured himself immortality.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Seed of Commonwealth
The true security is to be found in social solidarity rather than in isolated individual effort.
—Fyodor Dostoyevsky (1880)
I was worried about security from the start, knew that if one thing was going to fuck us it would be everyone’s total disregard for the law. I wanted a heavy cop.
—Michael Lang (1969)
1
Even as Wes Pomeroy cruised past the White House, past the caravan of buses emptying mute demonstrators onto the barricaded esplanade that ordinarily would have solicited his attention, he was raking over the scraps of an earlier conversation. Reevaluating the unfinished thoughts dropped in the course of a three-minute phone call. Qualifying, double- and cross-checking any premise for its underlying implication. Interpreting motives. It was the cop in his blood; after twenty-five years in law enforcement, you always looked for a motive. Only then, when he had ascertained what it really was that someone wanted of him, would he be clearheaded enough to discuss it. And be in total command.
It was a pure May 6 morning. The sun reflected off the gentle Potomac, just within reach of the approach ramp, as Pomeroy edged his car into the outer lane of the parkway for the twenty-minute drive to Dulles. The week before, he had received a phone call from a man identifying himself as Stanley Goldstein, Operations Coordinator for the Woodstock Music and Arts Fair, in New York City. Goldstein told him that his name had been recommended by the International Association of Police Chiefs to head up security for a rock festival he and a group of people were putting on in August. Something about expecting a couple hundred thousand kids to turn out for the weekend and would he be interested in talking about it. What the hell? Pomeroy thought, staying a fraction below the fifty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit. He had been embroiled in one sort of controversy or another throughout his career. He’d be damned if age would soften his curiosity. Sure he’d talk.
At fifty-six, Wes Pomeroy was every inch the gilded rooster he had been as a police cadet. Even in the box-cut, slightly dated blue suit that had recently become his civilian uniform, he represented unmistakable authority. He was a broad man, built like a wrestler, meaty and powerful with a prominent chest that gave more than one associate the impression that he wore a bulletproof vest beneath his shirt. Pomeroy’s physical presence was unquestionably awesome. His intense blue eyes were direct and piercing, yet radiant like sapphire chips. His tobacco-colored flat-top seemed uncompromising for the times. His appearance, however, was a contradiction of the man’s temperament. Totally sympathetic to the problems of youth and their static environment, Pomeroy was a listener whose interpretation of the law was dictated by common sense. No one, it was said, ever crossed Wes Pomeroy’s path with anything but respect.
Pomeroy had enjoyed a long and distinguished career as a civil servant, beginning in the Office of the Sheriff of San Mateo County, California, where he served for sixteen years, eight of them as under sheriff. His treatises on peaceful law enforcement were legendary and, as a result, he was called in to consult on a variety of interrelated activities, most notably the 1964 Republican National Convention in San Francisco, for which he directed outside policing and internal security. Ramsey Clark, then Attorney General of the United States, spotted Pomeroy’s talent there and plucked him out of public service to act as his special assistant in Washington, after which he became associate administrator of the Law Enforcement Assistance Administration at the Department of Justice for the Johnson administration. It was no small wonder that the International Association of Police Chie
fs had singled him out for the Woodstock job.
Pomeroy’s term with the LEAA was nearing its end when Stan Goldstein called. Richard Nixon had been inaugurated as President six months earlier, and it was only a matter of time before he cleaned house of the last vestiges of Democratic rule. Pomeroy, not wishing to be released from his post like an aging ballplayer, had tendered his resignation in March—to take effect June 1, 1969—and was in the process of starting a private consulting business. Woodstock, he decided, could provide him with an interesting transition.
Goldstein’s Eastern Airlines shuttle from New York was right on time. The two men made brief, perfunctory introductions and settled on the airport’s terminal restaurant as the place where they could best confer. Goldstein had worn a navy blue gauzy shirt decorated with white stars over his jeans “to see how it would affect this cop.” It bore a distinct resemblance to a portion of the American flag, and Goldstein predicted that if anything rankled a cop more than long hair, a beard, and blue jeans, it was a hippie draped in the flag. “If he can live with this, I know he’s our man,” Goldstein told a friend on his way to the airport. Pomeroy smiled, shook hands with Goldstein, and didn’t so much as bat an eye over his apparel.
The airport lounge was dark and noisy, but they separated themselves from the rest of the crowd by choosing a small table away from the window overlooking departures. Goldstein didn’t waste precious time reiterating his employer’s undertaking; Pomeroy had already heard it on the phone, and if he was there, he was interested.
“We’ve got a peaceful setting where people can enjoy themselves,” he began. “I think it has the potential to become the first successful, nonviolent festival of its kind. And the largest.”
Pomeroy raised an eyebrow at the last remark.
Goldstein smiled and nodded lazily. “Look, man, I don’t want to bullshit you. It wouldn’t do either of us any good. We’ve got a lot of bread behind us, and we intend to put on the biggest, most complete rock happening ever held.”
“You think you fellas can handle something as ambitious as that?” Pomeroy asked.
Stanley’s smile widened. “Not really. That’s why I’m here talking to you. I’d be a fool to think we could do it ourselves. It’d wind up being the biggest fiasco this side of Vietnam. But one thing we do have is this enormous source of cash, and we don’t intend to skimp. No, let’s put it this way: we can’t afford to skimp on doing it the right way. We’re going to invest the money in getting ourselves the best of everything. Rock groups, traffic controllers, sound engineers, lighting experts—you name it. After seeing you this morning, I have an appointment at the Pentagon to consult with a staff of army engineers about sanitation. The facilities, staff, acts, everything—all the tops in provisions and personnel. I’d like to include your name in our next staff press release.”
“Well, it sounds interesting,” Pomeroy admitted, staring him squarely in the eyes. It was uncomfortable, and Goldstein eventually had to look away. “What would you want me to do?”
“Handle all phases of security, from police coordination right down to crowd control.”
“It sounds like you’re expecting trouble in both those areas.”
“I always expect problems,” Stan said. “Trouble can be avoided.”
This time, it was Pomeroy’s turn to smile.
“Crowd control.” He said it as though jotting down the two words on an index card and filing it away. “Tell me what you mean by that.”
“Okay. We’re gonna have a lot of people up there in Wallkill, and it’s gotta be orderly or else it’s gonna get bloody. Remember—I said no bullshit. All right. It’s up to everyone involved to make absolutely sure that doesn’t happen. We’ve gotta have security, but it’s got to be suggestive, subtle. No uniforms, no weapons, no angry authoritarian faces, no shoving people around. I don’t want anyone in that crowd to be aware of our security, but I want it to be felt.” He looked at Pomeroy for a reaction. The cop was smiling, his eyes alive. “My idea is to promote security from within. Encourage some of the bigger kids to lead the way without being abrasive.”
“Have you been reading my manuals?” Pomeroy asked with a note of sarcasm to his voice. “I’m convinced—always have been—that one cannot preserve order by the use of force. It’s contradictory by definition. If a couple hundred thousand kids see a wall of cops around the grounds, they’ll suffocate. And when they begin to choke, they fight back; it’s their only defense. No, Goldstein, I agree with you on that. But it’s going to take a helluva lot of planning to pull it off. You’re not talking about refereeing a football game.” Pomeroy pulled his chair closer to the table and folded his hands. “Look, there’s one thing I’ve got to get out front right now. I don’t believe that conventional ways of trying to control people’s behavior work anymore. There is one absolute—and on this, I think, we already agree, but I want you to hear it from me—is that nobody, I mean not even the man watching the gate receipts, will have a gun or a weapon. I want that very clear before I even talk to you about coming on staff.”
Goldstein nodded soberly.
“If I get involved,” Pomeroy continued, “it won’t be with the conventional cop security approach.” He related to Goldstein his theory that people are either innately violent or nonviolent, and that crimes are committed because a host of social and tacit contracts that usually regulate human emotions are broken. “This isn’t a whole lot of baloney, believe me. It’s checked out over the years. And it is central to my whole concept of security. Whether or not I’m your man is one thing. But I’ll tell you right now—if you don’t build your security system around that concept, you don’t stand a chance of coming out of this thing alive. You’ve got to build security on the foundation of making everyone who attends feel good about their neighbors.”
“It sounds like common sense,” Goldstein affirmed. “How can I help but like it?”
“It is common sense, but that’s something we seem to be short on these days. Yeah, look—I’m interested, but I’m expensive.”
“That’s a quality no one’s short of these days. How much?”
“Two hundred dollars a day plus expenses and a per diem living allowance. That’s not including a full staff of top advisers who I’m gonna have to bring in on this.”
“Sounds reasonable to me. When can you start?”
“June 1. That’s when I’m done here in Washington.”
Stan shook his head. “No good. I needed you yesterday. There’s too much work to be done and too little time left in which to do it.”
“Goldstein, we’ve got ourselves our first problem,” Pomeroy said. “I have a responsibility to finish my work here, and I’m not about to throw away my reputation for two hundred bucks a day. You got any suggestions?”
Indeed Goldstein did. He wasn’t about to allow this treasure to walk away from him without his first agreeing to join the festival staff. Stan suggested that Pomeroy fly to New York next week, take a look at the site, and meet Michael Lang. “We’ll work out a way to fly you in for a day or two each week until you’re free. Naturally we’ll pick up all costs. Then, it’s full time. How does that sound?”
“Better,” Pomeroy said approvingly. “I could rearrange my schedule now so that my absence in Washington won’t make a difference. Meanwhile, I’ll make a few calls for you and see if I can get another police chief or administrator up there in my place to do some of the initial leg work. You’ll need someone who carries the same weight and outlook as me. I’ll see what I can do.”
The sun was directly overhead as Wes Pomeroy swung the car back onto the parkway toward the distant Capitol Building. The motives had been revealed and had panned out to what he believed were forthright. And exciting. The kids—he could handle the kids and all their idiosyncrasies. He had never let stereotypes influence him or stand in the way of things before. Not even Goldstein and that horrendous shirt he
had on. They seemed to know what they were doing, they were paying their way, and that was all right by him. Their notion of what they were trying to do, Pomeroy thought, was not all that outrageous. Why shouldn’t kids be allowed to congregate on a farm, listen to music, even get high, and expect an Establishment-free weekend? And if he had his way, Wes Pomeroy would be right there in Wallkill to help them bring it into focus.
• • •
Goldstein knew that relying solely on conventional methods of security to carry them through the festival was a sucker’s game; if they, indeed, intended to barrel through the three-day free-for-all without incident, he was going to have to come up with a means of preserving the peace with which the counterculture could directly identify. Curiously, something in the back of his mind told him that this particular task would not be as difficult as he imagined.
Goldstein was searching for an organized group of people—preferably communal—to assist with a variety of security-related measures. He anticipated one hundred thousand kids from the city coming to Wallkill to listen to rock and roll who hadn’t the slightest conception of how to get out of a rainstorm, let alone tend a cut foot. He needed a self-sufficient group used to crowds who knew how to care for people under a variety of situations, who could be “raggedly” disciplined and who knew how to contend with the Establishment forces in residence.
He remembered that Bert Cohen’s partner, Michael Foreman, mentioned something about a group called the Hog Farm of whom Stanley had not heard. They were a core group of fifty men and women, led by ex–Beat poet Hugh Romney, whose communal expeditions in California and New Mexico were based on sharing all worldly possessions with one another and entertaining the public with pranks and carefully staged acts of guerilla theatre. The Hog Farm was an offshoot of Ken Kesey’s Merry Pranksters, with whom Romney had been closely allied in the early sixties, and the Juke Savages, a California commune whose members lived outdoors in Indian-style tepees. Their self-sufficient lifestyle had permitted them, somewhat more easily than better qualified medical practitioners, to become involved with the intricacies of the experimental drug culture and the people who experienced bad acid trips; and they had a thorough understanding of what it took to care for those people.