The Road to Woodstock

by Michael Lang

  Our victory celebration was short-lived, though. The next day we were twice served with papers to appear before Judge George Cobb in Catskill; actions had been brought against us by a group of four summer camps who claimed we were disrupting their business, and another injunction was filed by summer-home owners with properties next to Max’s.

  “The apparent bed of roses into which Woodstock Ventures’ Aquarian Exposition nestled last week has turned into a briar patch,” is how the Times Herald-Record put it. I couldn’t have agreed more.

  eight

  BETHEL

  “What would you do if a kid with long hair handed you a joint?”

  “I’d arrest him!”

  “Sorry, we can’t use you.”

  In a room above Ratner’s, next door to the Fillmore East, I’m watching the screening process for our Peace Service Corps. Wes; Lee; Joe Fink, chief of the ninth precinct in the East Village; and John Fabbri, a former chief of police of South San Francisco, are interviewing hundreds of New York City cops. About five hundred have made the first cut—and we’re making sure they have the right attitude to work at Woodstock. I don’t think I’ve been surrounded by so many police officers since the would-be busts in Coconut Grove. Only this time, most of the cops are on our side.

  We’re spending $100,000 on security, including the salaries for John Fabbri, Wes Pomeroy, Don Ganoung, and Jewell Ross, a retired captain of the Berkeley police. These are enlightened guys who don’t lose their cool when dealing with large crowds of kids—like those who packed Golden Gate Park during the early be-ins. Joe Fink has been a huge help as well.

  Wes hired Jewell Ross to write a procedural manual, and he came up with the Peace Service Corps. Wes also got permission from New York City police commissioner Howard Leary to put notices in all the precincts, advertising for police to come and work for us.

  All the candidates had to fill out a questionnaire, and those whose answers showed they thought along the lines of what we wanted were called into this screening process.

  Wes addresses the assembled: “We want you to work a rock festival upstate, where thousands of kids will be relaxed and easygoing and dressed in lots of different ways. You have to be comfortable with that. No weapons of any kind will be allowed—no guns or nightsticks. Your role is going to be to help people—it’s what you do most of the time, anyway, as a police officer. And if the kids need to know how to get help, you help them. We don’t expect there to be any violence, but there might be people who become ill or disoriented, and we want you to take care of them like a cop would on the streets of New York. It’s really a piece of cake to go up there and not have to worry about enforcing the law, okay? Just be nice—and we’ll pay you fifty dollars a day for being nice.”

  A few cops get up and leave. But finally around 350 think this is a great way to earn some extra money and spend a day in the country. Lee takes down their sizes for their “uniforms,” which will be bell-bottom jeans and a red T-shirt with PEACE on the front and our dove and guitar logo on the back, a windbreaker, and a pith helmet.

  I hired a company called Intermedia Systems, headed by Gerd Stern, to help Wes and Don Ganoung design parking and do camping logistics. I’d first met Gerd in 1966, when he supplied some of the black-light posters, fractals, and other items that I bought to stock the shop in Florida. Based in Boston, his company had expanded, and he and his staff were also producing all the signage we’d need. We figured on about two thousand signs to be placed throughout the festival site to guide people to various areas and provide information. Intermedia had hired Alton Kelley, the Family Dog poster artist from San Francisco, to supervise the design and production of the signs at the site. He set up a little silk-screen printing shop and was soon creating signs like: PLEASE LET MAX’S COWS MOO IN PEACE and GROOVY WAY. Intermedia’s coordinators helped us figure out how much space we’d need for camping, determined by the number of tickets sales—and our land needs kept growing.

  We signed a contract with an aviation company to supply helicopters and pilots to be on call through the festival weekend. We rented more land behind the stage from Max’s neighbor to construct a heliport, which Chris Langhart designed. Miles of Christmas lights supplied lighting there and in the camping areas.

  Our increased attendance projections had greatly impacted the number of food concessions we needed. After the Wallkill debacle, Nathan’s had dropped out, and Peter Goodrich’s candidate of last resort was a makeshift company called Food for Love.

  Peter had met Charles Baxter, Jeffrey Joerger, and Lee Howard in the Village; unfortunately, they didn’t have much experience in the food business: Joerger sold antiques, Howard ran a rehearsal studio, and Baxter organized the three of them into the catering outfit for Woodstock. Their attorney helped them set up a lopsided deal with us. They’d order enough food for 150,000 to 200,000 people, but we had to front them the $75,000 to cover the cost of food, supplies, and wages. They would reimburse Woodstock Ventures with their concession income, then we’d split profits fifty-fifty. None of us liked this arrangement, but we were pretty much stuck.

  JOHN ROBERTS: Only one of them had some kind of food-catering experience. Peter Goodrich basically said, “They’re the only game in town. They’ve already made inquiries about hot-dog buns and Coca-Colas and equipping themselves. I don’t think anyone else can come in here in two weeks and do it. They can do the job—it’s no food or them.”

  Booking the catering for the performers proved an easier task. One morning, from out of the blue, a limo arrived at El Monaco and Barry Imhoff stepped out. A big guy, about five ten and three hundred pounds, Barry had catered events for Bill Graham. He’d driven up from New York to show me his wares. At this time of day, there were maybe a hundred kids milling around the parking lot, looking for work or just hanging out. It was a very funky scene. Barry was clutching a suitcase and said, “Guess what I’ve brought you? Come on out to the car!”

  People gathered around the limo, and Barry propped the case on the hood, opened it, and showed me the first portable telephone I’d ever seen. “If anyone on the planet needs this right now, it’s you!” he said. It was almost like science fiction.

  I realized Barry was warming me up for the real reason for his visit—catering. I was already uncomfortable with the whole limousine thing—very uncounterculture-like—when he popped the trunk and, as if uncorking a genie from a bottle, lifted a huge silver tureen cover to reveal a monstrous bloody roast steaming on a silver platter. The kids crowded around as Barry sliced off huge chunks of beef and handed them out to the throng, soliciting their endorsements. That telephone would definitely come in handy—but, in the end, Barry’s brisket lost out to omelets from David Potbelly (Levine), known for his restaurant across from the Fillmore. Though Barry didn’t get to cater the artists’ pavilion, Bill Graham would ask him to stock his trailer at Woodstock with a fridge full of steaks.

  On August 7, eighty-five members of the Hog Farm, including seven babies, plus fifteen Hopi artists flew from Albuquerque on American Airlines flight number 281 into JFK airport. Wartoke turned their arrival via our chartered jet into a major photo op. Reporters packed the place—and Hugh Romney proved to be a spokesman with star quality.

  HUGH ROMNEY: We had no concept of the magnitude of things until we got to the airport and there was just all this world press—a wall of it. They’re asking me if we’re doing security and I thought, “Oh my god—we’re the cops! I can’t believe it!” And off the top of my head, I said, “Well, do you feel secure?” And he said, “Well, sure.” And I said, “Well, it’s working, then!” Another guy asked, “What are you going to use for crowd control?” And I said, “Cream pies and seltzer bottles!” I noticed they were all writing it down. God knows what else was discussed.

  The whole idea of the Hog Farm handling security came about through an innocent remark Mel had made to the press a week before. We had never asked them to do this and it was just as much a surprise to Hugh Romney when asked
by the journalist. We always thought that they’d help get things together in the camping area as keepers of the peace—but that the off-duty cops would handle security. Nonetheless, a couple of photos of the Hog Farm’s arrival ran in the New York Post with the caption: “They will act as an auxiliary security force, assisting 346 vacationing New York City cops being paid $50 a day plus room and board to keep order at the festival, expected to attract 100,000 persons a night.” That caption would soon come back to haunt us.

  John Morris, always stylish, booked limos to transport the Hopis up to Bethel, and we chartered a Trailways bus for the Hog Farm. In Bethel, the dozen earlier arrivals who’d driven out from New Mexico had already set up tents, tepees, lean-tos, and psychedelic buses in the camping area. They’d been joined by twenty or so Merry Pranksters, including Ken Babbs, who’d driven Furthur, their legendary bus, from Oregon. We’d paid their travel expenses after a fee was negotiated with Ken Kesey (who at the last minute decided not to come). Members of the Ohayo Mountain Commune in Woodstock and people from other groups showed up as well. It quickly turned into a huge scene, and they’d hang out around a kitchen they set up in a wooden geodesic dome. They would all gather in the morning for yoga before breakfast, then Stan would divide them up into different crews, according to what their abilities were—from digging fire pits, to clearing trails through the woods, to stacking wood, to building the free stage. The only problem we had was when pest-control people showed up to spray DDT to get rid of all the mosquitoes. The Hog Farm was hip to the ill effects of pesticides long before the general public knew anything about it. They threatened to leave over that, and we stopped the spraying.

  One of the Pranksters, Paul Foster, devised a special Hog Farm logo—a flying pig with wings—which Alton Kelley silk-screened onto red strips of fabric. These were handed out as armbands to the communal members and their ever-growing group of volunteers. In the evening, they’d all gather around the campfire. Sometimes Wes Pomeroy and his wife and daughters would join them, and Stan spent a lot of time there.

  STAN GOLDSTEIN: The Hog Farm had swelled to many hundreds of people. The word went out, and we welcomed a commune from here, a group from there who came a week or two before the event—unofficially unsolicited—to join us. The Orson Welles Theater, which was a communal theater group out of Boston, showed up in buses and brought motion-picture projectors and screens to show movies on the campgrounds. They were a very capable and well-organized group of people. We got this force of people who were of the festival, but not employed by the festival, who by this time knew what we were doing and had a pretty good idea of how dedicated we were to taking care of the people who showed up. So there was this reservoir of people to address problems and assist people. Once these groups came in and got oriented, we all ate as a group at the Hog Farm kitchen. We had meetings every day, with work assignments and discussions of how things needed to be done and what the problems were.

  In an effort to prepare the grounds for novice campers, we got the Hog Farm to blaze the trail. Stan, Hugh, and Hog Farmer Tom Law, who also taught yoga, showed other early arrivals how to set up camp. Then those people would, in turn, set up camp in a different area—so when others began to arrive, there would be a campground operation already in place with community fire pits and cords of wood in each area. This unofficial organization was happening continuously all over the property. Just about anywhere folks went, they’d find someone who had an idea of how to set up camp and how to get anything they needed.

  WES POMEROY: The [Hog Farm] said, “We’re all equals, there is nobody in charge, and no one speaks for everybody else.” Except obviously, there were some who were leaders. They always had some kind of yoga in the morning and I’d get up there and sit on the ground and I was just there. Somebody would blow on the conch shell and people would come wandering over, and we’d all just talk.

  They were very effective and good, and I’m glad they were there. Their roles were clear, but their parameters were ambiguous, and trying to structure it any more would have been just a useless piece of work. So when I did want to talk to them, I’d just go up there and wander around—sort of hang out and shoot the shit. We got along fine, and Hugh Romney is a very good friend. Stan was really the guy who interacted with them the closest. He knew them best, but we all got along very comfortably. We all lived together, and they knew who my daughters were, so I had no worries about my daughters—they were safer there than any other place I knew. I found out a long time ago that kids are going to do what they want to do anyway, so why make a damn fool of yourself?

  HUGH ROMNEY: About a thousand people came in and were on the various crews. We were supplying people, as they rolled in, with plastic to make their little shelters with. Stan and the promoters were extraordinary to be able to look beyond the Day-Glo to see what we could actually do.

  We set up a campfire, and it was so large, I said, “We need a giant marshmallow!” We drove around for twenty miles and bought all the marshmallows out of every store, and squished them together and made a giant marshmallow on a pitchfork at the campfire that night.

  The humor was the bond. I put together a bulletin board, and one of my fortes is that I’m very quick with a staple gun and paper, and we cut a hole in the side of the bulletin board so you could stick your head through it and make 4-and 5-D announcements. One day, as I stuck my head through to make an announcement, there was Max Yasgur and his whole family. The grass-roots human revelation that came to Max Yasgur from that really opened him up. It was a real “just folks” kind of a vibe that he locked into.

  The Hog Farm set a tone that was passed from person to person, like a joint, welcoming everyone. Soon we were all welcoming each other. Hog Farmer Lisa Law (who was then married to Tom Law) took charge of stocking the free kitchens they would organize to feed people who were without means or supplies. She and Peter Whiterabbit traveled to the city to buy supplies: something like 160,000 paper plates, 1,500 pounds of bulgur wheat, 1,500 pounds of rolled oats, 225 pounds of currants, and lots of nuts and dried fruit. We gave her $3,000 to cover the first batch of supplies, which also included knives and stainless-steel cooking pots, since she was opposed to using aluminum. She ran out of money and went to the Village office, and Joyce gave her another $3,000 to finish the shopping.

  LISA LAW: They just handed it to me. There wasn’t any problem at all. I used the money frugally. My job was to make it as easy as possible for the people in the kitchen so they could produce the biggest amount of food. And Yasgur kept us supplied with yogurt, milk, and eggs. We’d get these flats of eggs every day. We were purchasing them from him, but it was right there from his dairy farm, so it was really nice. Right away the campers were arriving, so we were cooking continuously and trying to get our act together for what we were going to do.

  I still hoped to add a few more surprises to the show, particularly some artists living in Woodstock. Paul Butterfield agreed to perform with his Blues Band on Sunday night. Fred Neil had moved up from Coconut Grove. His song “Everybody’s Talkin’” was the theme song for Midnight Cowboy (and would soon become a huge hit for Nilsson). This made him even more reclusive than he already was, but he said he’d play Friday night. We added him to the press release listing the lineup. Then, a couple of days before the show, he called and said he wasn’t going to make it.

  Bob Dacy—whom I’d known in the Grove and now ran Woodstock’s Sled Hill Café—arranged a meeting for me with Bob Dylan at his home. Dylan’s songs were important in my life, as they were in the lives of countless others. I just thought I’d tell him that we’d all love to see him there, unannounced, of course. His wife, Sara, made lunch and we all talked about what I had planned. I explained the reasons why I hadn’t made an offer to have him officially on the show. I knew he was uncomfortable with the mantle of “prophet” that he’d been tagged with by the press. He’d rarely played in public since 1966. Bob was the most important artist of our generation, and because of my respect for h
is artistry, I underestimated the side of him that is about business. Maybe if I’d offered his booking agent a large enough fee, he’d have played—like he would at the Isle of Wight festival not long after Woodstock. In any case, during the two hours we hung out, he was cordial and said that maybe he’d stop by.

  Later that week, Al Aronowitz wrote in the New York Post:

  The day before, it had rained so hard the mud was deep enough to give you a good headstart to China…The owners of the Woodstock Music and Art Fair were busy acting like people who had half a million dollars to spend. Meanwhile an hour and a half away, where Woodstock really is, Bob Dylan was coping with rumors that he was going to make a surprise appearance at the festival. “I may if I feel like it,” he said. “I’ve been invited, so I know it’ll be okay to show up…My opinion of that festival is not any different from anyone else’s. I think everyone is probably going to have a good time, but I wouldn’t blame them if they didn’t.”

  A few days after the festival, I was crossing Tinker Street in Woodstock and happened upon Bob, riding in an open Jeep with Bernard Paturel from Café Espresso. As they drove by, I waved and gave a sort of “sorry you didn’t make it” shrug. With a grin, Bob tipped his hat and nodded back with what I took as a “me too.” (Twenty-five years later, Bob would finally take the Woodstock stage.)