Barefoot in Babylon

by Bob Spitz

  Not knowing what else to do, Ticia started to cry. Wolff pushed her out of his way and stomped off toward the food tent.

  In reality, it had been partly Ticia’s fault that none of the festival’s creditors had been able to get hold of Lang to discuss finances. Michael did not want to hear about money matters as long as there was music on stage, and Ticia spent a lot of time hiding Michael, moving him from trailer to trailer, until the person trying to find him just gave up and went away. This time, however, she thought she should tell him about Wolff’s ultimatum.

  “Fuck it,” he said. “Those guys are gonna play if it’s the last thing they do. All we do is get up and tell everybody that the Who won’t play because they didn’t get paid yet. This place’ll go nuts.” He smirked at Ticia, and leaned back against the stage railing to enjoy one of his favorite bands. It was dusk, and Canned Heat was doing to the crowd what any respectable Los Angeles band would do to a group of 400,000 people on a Saturday night at dusk: they were singing the blues.

  • • •

  Lawrence was in his trailer when Canned Heat launched into an off-key, static version of “On The Road Again.” Bob “The Bear” Hite’s voice sounded strained and lost in the cavernous amphitheatre. Nonetheless, the crowd was on its feet and bouncing up and down in time to the pulsating beat of the bass guitar.

  Peter Goodrich knocked on the door of Lawrence’s trailer and entered, looking very pale and withdrawn. The colonies, once loyal to his burgeoning fast-food empire, had fallen away from him like defensive tackles meeting the unexpected blitz—and in less than seventy-two hours. First, Food For Love had Goodrich deposed as their partner-in-grime, then the employees mess hall was abruptly pulled out from under his control, and he was ultimately relieved of his command in the performers’ pavilion. Now, he had additional woes, and all he felt like doing was lying down on a cot and sinking into sleep.

  “There’s a group holing up in the woods who want to liberate the food,” Goodrich said dejectedly. “What do you want to do about it?”

  “What are you talkin’ about, man? What group and what food? And what the hell does liberation have to do with ten thousand putrid franks and a couple of half-filled cans of Coke?”

  “It’s one of those half-cocked power-to-the-people groups, about fifty troublemakers who are screaming themselves silly about taking back what’s by rights theirs and distributing it among the underprivileged. Are you kidding me?” he scoffed. “Underprivileged—at this bash? That’s a laugh.”

  Lawrence got up from his desk and looked out the window at the concession stands, all of which seemed to be doing brisk business. “I’m not laughing. Go and get Lenny down by the stage, and tell him to get his Black Shirt security guys up here in a jiffy. I don’t want any fucking ‘liberating the food’ going on now. Not after we’ve been this lucky.”

  The group was called the Up-Against-The-Wall Motherfuckers, a collection of mostly apolitical New York hellraisers who got their kicks out of inciting a crowd to riot and picking over the spoils. Word had spread through the staff that a few of them were Hell’s Angels and had come to Bethel that afternoon at the invitation of the Hog Farm, but nobody knew for sure.

  Lawrence, Goodrich, Lenny and his task force of bruisers, and a hand-picked entourage of the more muscular stagehands descended on the Up-Against-The-Wall Motherfuckers’ camp in the woods and confronted the group’s spokesman, a rather meek-looking college type more suited to the SDS than a Harley-Davidson 1000. “We’re gonna liberate the food,” he reaffirmed, looking apprehensively from one festival representative to the next.

  “That’s just peachy,” Lawrence said. “What are you going to do with it once you get it? And whaddya mean you’re going to liberate it?”

  The boy stood his ground. “We’re going to give it out to the people.”

  “I’m gonna punch ’em out, man,” Lenny growled, taking a step toward the leader.

  “Hang on a minute.” Mel restrained the Black Shirt with a gentle, but firm, arm on his cannonball bicep. He turned back to the agitator. “Do you have any idea how many people are out there, man? Give the food to the people—that’s bullshit! What are they going to get? I’ll tell you: nothing. You fuckers want it for yourselves. Now, I’m going to give you a choice. Either you guys lay off and go back to playing revolution, or I’m going to let Lenny and his friends take you apart.”

  Lenny smiled, as if that appealed to him more than a peaceful settlement. “You’d better believe it. You guys—if you ever try something like that, you’re going to be dead men.”

  Fifteen minutes later, after Mel and his own motherfuckers had departed, Abbie Hoffman told Lang and Morris that the group had decided to carry out its original plan and were getting ready to burn down the concession stands and everything in them. “And, oh yeah”—Hoffman fluttered his hands—“you didn’t hear this from me.”

  Lang got on the phone and called Jeffrey Joerger in the concession trailer. “You’d better get your security up,” Lang said.

  “What’re you talkin’ about, man. What security? We don’t have any security here other than a few ticket guards.”

  “Well, man, you better tell the people that are workin’ for you to be careful. There’s somebody comin’ up there to take over the stands.”

  “Aw shit. Then let ’em do it. I give up, anyway. Let ’em take over whatever they want. Whatever they take over, we’ll just eliminate.” Joerger was fed up with all the nonsense he’d been through since he arrived at White Lake. Without waiting to find out what was going to happen, he picked up the phone, called Albany, and requested of Governor Rockefeller’s office that they declare the Woodstock Music Festival a disaster area.

  • • •

  Charles Baxter was the first of Food For Love’s principals to see the detachment of Up-Against-The-Wall Motherfuckers come charging up over the hill, and he knew right away what had to be done. Baxter ran back to the trailers and forced those of his staff who were inside to evacuate at once. “If they start to push over the trailers, then join in and help them. Don’t act like you’re a part of the concession staff. That’s the only way we’re gonna get through this thing without being beaten to a pulp.”

  Stan Goldstein and Hugh Romney came shooting over the rise in a dune buggy as the Motherfuckers reached their destination. Baxter rushed out to meet them, found himself caught between the two factions, and was made to answer for the concessionaires’ “crimes against the people.” The Up-Against-The-Wall Motherfuckers accused Food For Love of everything from selling horsemeat hamburgers at a premium to making a 300-percent profit on a 35-cent hot dog to purposely not paying for fuel so the People would have to eat cold meat.

  Baxter vehemently denied each of the accusations, but suggested to Goldstein that Food For Love would donate a quantity of the food to the group’s cause and the Hog Farm could dispense it as they saw fit.

  Hugh Romney was offended by Baxter’s offer. He gestured with his arm at the mass of people sitting in the bowl and said, “We couldn’t possibly feed your food to these people. They’re all vegetarians.”

  But Goldstein, not wanting to stand by and watch hand-to-hand combat surge across the plateau, talked Romney into accepting the gift. Then he advised the concessionaires to consolidate their holdings into a few booths because, like it or not, the Up-Against-The-Wall Motherfuckers were probably going to set a torch to their stands, and they might as well salvage what they could.

  By 9:30 Saturday night, Food For Love’s sixteen stands were reduced to four, their nonperishable stock was heavily depleted by sales, decay, and charity, and their once-palatial grouping of twelve decorated stands had been burned to the ground.

  • • •

  The following rolled off the Hog Farm mimeograph machine soon after the fire and was distributed to the crowd:

  SURVIVE-SURVIVE—BE HIP SURVIVE-SURVIVE BULLETIN. . . . *** 8 P.
M. Saturday

  Welcome to Hip City, U.S.A. We are now the third largest city in New York, and like New York City basic services are breaking down. Gov. Rockefeller has declared us a disaster area. The situation now: limited food, a great scarcity of water, crowded but improving medical facilities, the N.Y. City press reports hiways will be clogged until Tuesday. Meanwhile everyone is cooperating and our spirits are good. With the mud, traffic and breakdowns we could be here several days.

  The festival promoters have been overwhelmed by their own creation. They’ve created a great free festival, but we can’t remain passive music consumers; we must take care of ourselves. Everything might seem groovy now, but think about tomorrow. Life could get hard. If you’re hip to the facts below, pull together in the spirit of the Catskill mountain guerilla, and share—everything will be cool. We’ve had virtually no cops, and there’s been no violence. We can take care of ourselves. Dig it!

  ACCESS—/// The hiways leading to the festival site are now blocked. Cars are being turned back in an effort to clear hiway 17-B which is now reported moving slowly in both directions. It’s suggested that people head west (right) on 17-B to Rt. 52 and turn right toward Liberty and the Quickway.

  SANITATION—Please stay off the roads. Garbage trucks need clear rights-of-way to pick up trash. Either burn trash or dump it in bags along the road (Use the heavy green bags). We must clear up our own areas or there will be a severe health hazard.

  MEDICAL—There are three medical stations. Minor stuff (cuts and bruises) can be taken care of at the South Station in the Hog Farm, or at the health trailer at the main intersection (behind the stage). A plane load of doctors has been airlifted from New York City. Medical supplies have been flown in and patients are being flown out every fifteen minutes. Serious injuries will be treated at the large red and white tent behind the information booth located at the west corner of the stage area. Drug freakouts will be tended by Hog Farm people (red armbands). Any trained medical personnel should report to the above medical centers. // Many freakouts. Do not take any acid from strangers, and understand that taking strong dop may be a drag when your help is needed. // Don’t run naked in the hot sun for any period of time (do it in the shade). You’re risking water loss and severe blisters. // Cuts on bare feet getting quickly infected if not treated. // People using chronic medications should report to medical centers for refills, but don’t wait.

  WATER—Try to boil all drinking water or use prepared beverages. New mains are being readied. Black and white pipes are water pipes; don’t walk on them, they break easily. The lake is now the main source of water. Swimming will fuck things up. Share and conserve all water.

  FOOD—Food is being airlifted into the festival grounds. Free food in the concession area; and the Hog Farm will continue to serve free meals in South camping area.

  HINTS—Organize your own camping area so that everyone will make it through uncomfortable times ahead. Figure out what you must do and the best way to get it done.

  VOLUNTEERS AND PEOPLE WHO CAN HELP DISTRIBUTE THIS LEAFLET SHOULD COME TO MOVEMENT CITY AREA IN THE SOUTH CAMPGROUND (ACROSS FROM ENTRANCE TO HOG FARM) READ AND PASS ON.

  Saturday night’s audience seemed to be comprised of two very distinct types of people: the healthy and the wounded, and no one was really sure which group was in the majority. The hospital tents averaged a turnover of nearly two hundred bodies every hour (about five percent of whom were airlifted to Sullivan and Orange County hospital facilities better geared for the patient), and the line outside Abruzzi’s trailer resembled one waiting to get into a blockbuster movie in New York City. The demand for free medical care might have put Blue Cross in hock up to their stethoscopes had that company insured the patients. Instead, Woodstock Ventures underwrote the complete cost of treatment on bad checks, sending out regularly for new shipments of supplies to meet the inflated market.

  Abruzzi’s staff had sewn and bandaged close to 2,500 cut feet. Most of the mishaps were attributed to kids running around barefoot in the mud, although those who had slipped on the rocks around the lake were beginning to give the cut feet a good run for their money. Cleaning the wounds was time-consuming but considered absolutely essential to prevent infection resulting from foreign matter mixed in with the mud. If the wound was deep and looked as though it might reopen, the doctors wrapped the patient’s foot in a plastic bag to keep it dirt free. Otherwise gauze and Ace bandages proved satisfactory until the kids returned home and saw their private physicians for a thorough examination. Several cases of insulin shock were treated (it seemed that, for some inexplicable reason, the entire hippie community of diabetics hadn’t considered bringing their medication with them when they left for the weekend away from home), and attacks of bronchial asthma ran high on the “casualty” list, but broken limbs and more serious injuries had diminished since Friday’s medical onslaught occurred.

  The tents—especially those in the campgrounds—had been overrun by kids who were bummed out on trips. The sharp rise in freakouts was due in part to heavy sales competition going on in the woods, which had lowered the prices of psychedelic drugs considerably. A cap of acid or mescaline had dropped from a Thursday afternoon high of six dollars to three or four dollars, depending upon where it was purchased. (Grass, which had been scarce in the United States throughout the summer, remained at fifteen dollars an ounce, and there was plenty of it around for sale.) But as the price of acid dropped, so did its quality. Scores of kids staggered into the tents Saturday night doubled over in pain. Most thought they had been poisoned; others were too scared to venture a guess, especially when it was their own physical conditions on which they were speculating.

  The acid that was supposed to be causing the problems, flat blue tabs, was taken off one of the disabled patients and rushed over to the Hog Farm “laboratory” for a quick analysis. By 9:30, they had arrived at an opinion, and rushed it over to the stage so that a general announcement could be made to the crowd.

  John Morris followed Canned Heat’s performance with the Hog Farm’s authoritative verdict. “You aren’t taking poison acid,” he said, waiting for the applause to subside. “The acid’s not poison. It’s just badly manufactured acid. You are not going to die. We have treated three hundred cases and it’s all just badly manufactured acid. So, if you think you’ve taken poison, you haven’t. But if you’re worried, just take half a tablet.”

  The Hog Farm’s method of treating freakouts was referred to as “body contact”—talking to and holding the victims, assuring them that they were all right until they had come down and realized where they were. It was a practice they used successfully among their own family, and they subsequently taught it to whoever assisted them in the tents.

  A specific case that night involved a young boy who was covered in mud and wandered into Big Pink mumbling, “Miami Beach, 1944 . . . Joyce, Joyce . . .” Hugh Romney snatched him away from a doctor who was frocked in a white coat, shirt, and tie.

  Bending down so that he could look into the boy’s deeply troubled face, Romney pointed to his own forehead. “Think of your third eye, man, just center on your third eye.” He put an arm around the boy’s shoulder and smiled.

  “Miami Beach, 1944 . . . Joyce, Joyce . . .” He seemed locked into a thought pattern from which he couldn’t escape.

  Romney led the boy over to a cot and helped him sit down. “What’s your name, man?”

  “Miami Beach.”

  “No, man. I mean what’s your name? Your real name?”

  The boy stopped to consider the question. “Paul?” he asked, looking at Romney for some sort of confirmation.

  “Hey—Paul! Your name is Paul.” The boy responded with a wide, elastic grin. “Paul what? You’ve gotta have a last name, Paul. Paul what?”

  “Brown,” he mumbled, then let loose with an agreeable endorsement. “Paul Brown! I’m Paul Brown, man.”

  “Where are you from, Paul Brown?”
r />   “New Jersey.”

  Romney stood up, still maintaining “body contact” with the boy’s shoulder. “Your name is Paul Brown and you’re from New Jersey. Outta sight! Guess what, Paul? Well, you just took a little acid, a little LSD, and you know somethin’—it’s gonna wear off. Now, I’m gonna be around here, man, and if you need me for anything, just gimme a call. Why don’t you keep cool, lay down or somethin’ for a while. You’re gonna be all right.”

  When the boy had recovered and prepared to leave the tent, Romney grabbed him and said, “Hold it, man. See that guy comin’ through the door? Well, that was you an hour ago and now you’re the doctor. Take over.” And before long, there was a volunteer staff of former trippers talking their friends down to earth. Occasionally John Sebastian, Rick Danko, or Bobby Neuwirth would stroll through the tent with their guitars, playing for the patients. Abbie Hoffman also rolled up his sleeves and participated in getting kids back on their feet.

  In the other tent just across the road, where the Medical Committee For Human Rights had their field hospital, the doctors were torn between performing medical procedures and patiently sitting with those who were tortured by bad reactions to LSD.

  At one point during the early hours of evening, Don Goldmacher looked up from setting a broken finger on a young girl and was confronted by “a very paranoid guy who looked very near the breaking stage.”

  “I have this knife, man,” he said, opening a Swiss utility knife with a rusted blade, “and they’re after me.”

  Goldmacher moved very slowly toward the boy, careful not to make too sudden a move that might seem menacing to him. “Who’s after you?”

  “Oh shit, they’re all around, man. If you look, man, you’ll see ’em.”

  Goldmacher nodded sympathetically and resumed his approach. He was a certified psychiatrist and this type of psychotic person was his specialty. “Okay. I’ll go look. But tell me—what are they after you about?”