by Michael Lang
He agreed and we headed back up to the stage to sit with musicians from various groups who’d gathered to watch. Abbie kept fidgeting next to me. He couldn’t stop talking. “I’ve really gotta say something about John Sinclair! He’s rotting in prison for smoking a joint!” Sinclair, the manager of the radical Detroit rock band the MC5 and the founder of the White Panther Party, was set up by the cops and sentenced to ten years in prison for the possession of two joints.
“Okay, Abbie,” I tried to reason with him, “there will be a chance later on, between sets or something.”
But he persisted. “No, I really gotta say something! Now!”
“Abbie, the Who is on,” I reminded him—they were about halfway through performing Tommy in its entirety, so I don’t know how he failed to notice. “You can’t make a speech in the middle of their set—let them finish! Chill out!”
Just after “Pinball Wizard,” Abbie leaped up before I could grab him and rushed to Townshend’s mic, while Pete had his back turned and was adjusting his amp. Abbie started earnestly beseeching the audience to think about John Sinclair, who needed our help. He was in his element, berating everyone for having a good time. “Hey, all you people out there having fun while John Sinclair is being held a political prisoner…” WHAM! Townshend, turning back to the audience and seeing Abbie at his mic, whacked him in the head with his guitar.
Abbie stumbled, then jumped to the photographer’s pit, dashed over the fence, and vanished into the crowd below. A pretty dramatic exit. That was the last I saw of him that weekend.
HENRY DILTZ: I was right in front of the Who, on the lip of the stage. There was Roger Daltrey, with his fringes flying. Abbie Hoffman ran onto the stage and Pete Townshend took his guitar and held it straight out, perfectly, with the neck toward the guy, just like a bayonet, and went klunk. I thought he killed him.
Early in the set, Townshend had already kicked Michael Wadleigh in the chest while the director crouched in front of him with his camera. Now Townshend was over the top with fury. “The next fucking person who walks across this stage is going to get fucking killed!” he yelled as he retuned his Gibson SG. The audience at first thought he was joking and started laughing and clapping. “You can laugh,” he said coldly, “but I mean it!”
PETE TOWNSHEND: My response was reflexive rather than considered. What Abbie was saying was politically correct in many ways. The people at Woodstock really were a bunch of hypocrites claiming a cosmic revolution simply because they took over a field, broke down some fences, imbibed bad acid, and then tried to run out without paying the bands. All while John Sinclair rotted in jail after a trumped-up drug bust.
The Who continued with their exhilarating performance of Tommy, and just as the sun rose, they played raucous rock and roll classics from their days as mods: “Summertime Blues,” “Shakin’ All Over,” and “My Generation.” They were astonishing. Later, I couldn’t believe the band thought they were subpar and that the audience didn’t get into Tommy.
PETE TOWNSHEND: Tommy wasn’t getting to anyone. By [the end of the set], I was about awake, we were just listening to the music when all of a sudden, bang! The fucking sun comes up! It was just incredible. I really felt we didn’t deserve it, in a way. We put out such bad vibes—and as we finished it was daytime. We walked off, got in the car, and went back to the hotel. It was fucking fantastic.
BILL GRAHAM: The Who were brilliant. Townshend is like a locomotive when he gets going. He’s like a naked black stallion. When he starts, look out.
ROGER DALTREY: We did a two-and-a-half-hour set…It made our career. We were a huge cult band, but Woodstock cemented us to the historical map of rock and roll.
The Jefferson Airplane did their best to follow the Who, but anything after that would have been anticlimactic. The sun was shining, though, and the Airplane, who’d been partying for twenty-four hours, made the most of it. Joining them on keyboards was Nicky Hopkins, who’d played with the Stones and had been slated to play Woodstock with the Jeff Beck Group. “You’ve heard the heavy groups,” Grace Slick said from the stage, “now welcome to Morning Maniac Music.” Grace’s beauty took my breath away. She, Marty Balin, Jorma Kaukonen, and Paul Kantner alternated lead vocals. “Somebody to Love,” “Volunteers,” “White Rabbit”—they did their big hits and also longer, psychedelic jams.
GRACE SLICK: We’d been up all night and I sang the goddamned songs with my eyes closed, sort of half asleep and half singing. We probably could have played better if we’d been more awake, but part of the charm of rock and roll is that sometimes you’re ragged.
They were exhausted, as were we all. Our newly created city was cast off into some crazy dreams by their trippy morning lullaby.
The perfect way to begin to day three.
twelve
AUGUST 17, 1969
It’s four thirty on Sunday, and the first act of the day—Joe Cocker and the Grease Band—have just finished their set. There’s a storm coming and it’s going to be a lollapalooza. I haven’t seen the wind kick up like this since a tropical storm blew through Coconut Grove in 1966. The stage crew is racing around to cover all the equipment with the last of the plastic and tarps before the rains come. After three days of this, we’ve run through miles of plastic sheeting. Booming thunder and jagged streaks of lightning seem to be Nature’s way of saying it can produce fireworks far beyond the sonics blasting from our stage.
Some of the stagehands point to previously buried cables, becoming noticeably more visible as the earth has turned to mud over the past day. These cables carry electrical wire from under the stage to the towers. One of the stage electricians is convinced the cables’ outer shell is wearing away, exposing hot wire. Chip says he’ll check them out but that these “horse dong” cables are impenetrable, that stomping feet can’t break through the shell. They are mining cables and have a solid copper casing under the outer rubber. But while we are powwowing, someone panics and calls over to the telephone building and gets Wes’s security ally John Fabbri all freaked out. He says we should shut down, and he and Joel argue over which would be worse: a violent riot or mass electrocution. I ask someone to call back and tell them we’ll make sure neither happens. The cables are safe, but the stage power can’t be used during the thunderstorm—we’ll have to shut down for a while anyway.
I’m used to the rain. More troubling are the sixty-foot towers. On top of those towers are the massive Super Trouper lights weighing hundreds of pounds apiece. If one shakes loose, it could be disastrous. The forty-mile-an-hour winds are making the towers sway, which is a frightening sight, especially since kids are perched on the scaffolding—thousands more packed around the towers’ bases. Chip sends some of the riggers to the top of the towers to lay the lights on their sides and tie them down. The towers are engineered to withstand high winds, but this storm is pushing their limits, especially with the kids’ added weight. We’ve got to get people off them and away without causing panic. The wind is fierce—gusts are blowing rain like wet bullets, drenching everything.
John Morris reacts quickly: He grabs the mic to let the audience know what we’re going to do and what they should do. “Please, get down from those towers! Move back away from the towers! Clear away before someone gets hurt! Keep your eyes on those towers.” He stands alone onstage as the crew, musicians, and bystanders seek cover. Though the mic is hot, he has to get the message out before power is cut.
After two days of onstage announcing and not much sleep, John’s voice is shot. I watch him give his all to help keep people safe. He’s holding what could be a lightning rod in his hand, but he doesn’t flinch. “Wrap yourself up, gang—looks like we’ve got to ride this out!” John tells the crowd we have to shut down until the storm passes, but we are here with them and they are with each other and together we will get through this. It is a heroic moment for John.
Photographic Insert III
Copping
© BARON WOLMAN
A clothing boutique in the
woods
© BARON WOLMAN
Watermelon stand
© KEN REGAN
Fresh milk
© BARON WOLMAN
A photographer getting his feet wet
© BARON WOLMAN
© HENRY DILTZ
Penny taking a break at the side stage
Filmmakers Michael Wadleigh and Bob Maurice
© HENRY DILTZ
© KEN REGAN
Animal rights at Woodstock
Me with Joyce Mitchell and Ticia on the phone.
© BARON WOLMAN
Me and Bill Graham
© JIM MARSHALL
Artie with Albert Grossman
© HENRY DILTZ
Checking on Tim Hardin
© HENRY DILTZ
Joan Baez with Joe Cocker’s manager Dee Anthony and Joe’s producer Denny Cordell
© HENRY DILTZ
Jorma Kaukonen and friend
© JIM MARSHALL
Jerry Garcia
© JIM MARSHALL
Hugh Romney and Chip Monck making announcements, Saturday morning, August 16
© HENRY DILTZ
Janis Joplin and Grace Slick
© HENRY DILTZ
John and Yoko making an appearance
© BARON WOLMAN
Richie Havens starts the show
© HENRY DILTZ
Swami Satchidananda and his followers arrive, August 15
© HENRY DILTZ
Country Joe McDonald getting ready to go on, August 16
© JIM MARSHALL
Santana
© JIM MARSHALL
Sly Stone
© LEE MARSHALL
Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young
© HENRY DILTZ
The Grateful Dead
© KEN REGAN
Janis Joplin and Snooky Flowers
© HENRY DILTZ
The Band
© HENRY DILTZ
The Who
© HENRY DILTZ
August 17
© HENRY DILTZ
Geraldo Velez and Juma Sultan on percussion, Larry Lee on rhythm guitar, and Billy Cox on bass with Jimi Hendrix
© HENRY DILTZ
Max and Miriam survey the festival site
© BILL EPPRIDGE
The morning had started under sunny skies. People woke to the sound of Hugh Romney’s hoarse voice: “What we have in mind is breakfast in bed for four hundred thousand! Now it’s gonna be good food and we’re going to get it to you. We’re all feedin’ each other.”
Stan and Hugh had worked out a plan to distribute thousands of cups of granola to the stage area. Some people who didn’t want to lose their spots had not been eating.
STAN GOLDSTEIN: There were people sitting right in front of the stage dead center who wouldn’t give up their piece of ground to get a sandwich, to have a vegetable, to go to the toilet. They were there and they weren’t moving. Now, if a reporter walked up to them and said, “How are you doing?” “Oh, man, I’m doing all right.” “How long have you been here?” “Oh, I’ve been here for two days, I guess.” “Have you gone off and gotten some food?” “Oh no, man, I’m really, really hungry.” “You haven’t eaten anything in two days?” “No, man, I haven’t eaten anything, I’m really hungry.” And then the reporter goes away and reports that these kids are starving in front of the stage. The fact is, you couldn’t have moved that kid ten feet to get some food.
The Hog Farmers loaded an open-bed truck with garbage cans lined with plastic and filled with granola. Once ready, they guided the truck through the crowd. “Excuse me, please, truck coming through—please, would you move to the side of the road, we’re bringing a truck through with food?”
STAN GOLDSTEIN: I talked to the concessionaires who were out of food and got them to help us load all their unused paper goods to take to the free kitchen. I got another 150,000 or so potential servings’ worth of paper goods as a donation from the concessionaires.
There were two fewer Food for Love stands on Sunday than there had been the day before. Angry kids and members of the Motherfuckers, fed up by the prices and the wait, burned them down Saturday night. The Hog Farmers tried to defuse the situation and at least controlled the blaze to just the two. Hugh even enlisted help from the kids when he spoke Sunday morning: “There’s a guy up there—some hamburger guy—that had his stand burned down last night. But he’s still got a little stuff left, and for you people that still believe capitalism isn’t that weird, you might help him out and buy a couple hamburgers.”
By Sunday, Woodstock now seemed like a way of life. I was almost used to it—expecting to see the things I was seeing; even the faces in the crowd became familiar. Kind of like seeing people in the neighborhood where you grew up. I guess your mind adapts to anything after a while.
Everybody had settled in, and we’d figured out how to cope with the most pressing problems, and crises like food shortages and sanitation were nearly in hand. We’d gotten into a routine of sending people out to fix the pipes to keep the water flowing—and figured out how to get trucks in and out when necessary.
To start the day’s activities, someone onstage played an out-of-tune “Reveille” on the bugle. The highlight of the morning was the appearance of Max Yasgur. I’d been over to his house a few times through the weekend and Max was having a tough time, enduring several angina attacks. When Mel and I saw him approaching us backstage, we thought, “Uh-oh, problem.” But as soon as we saw the broad smile flash across his gaunt face, we knew all was well.
MIRIAM YASGUR: He went over to see what was happening. He wanted to express his thanks and let them know he appreciated the way they were acting. Max came back and said, “You really can’t believe what it looks like from up there!”
I asked Max to come onstage and say a few words to the audience, that they’d love to meet the man who gave them and us his land for this wonderful weekend. He seemed a bit shy about it at first, but it didn’t take long to talk him into it. Chip escorted him up to the microphone and Max began: “I’m a farmer…,” and the people cheered. “I don’t know how to speak to twenty people at one time, let alone a crowd like this.” Max went on clearly and slowly, peering through his glasses at the multitudes stretching as far as the eye could see. “This is the largest group of people ever assembled in one place, but I think you people have proven something to the world: that a half a million kids can get together and have three days of fun and music—and have nothing but fun and music! And I God bless you for it!”
It was incredibly moving to see Max up there, overcome with emotion. Watching him address this historic gathering, I was again humbled by the miraculous course of events that had brought us to this moment.
Max was with us all the way. When he found out that a few people were selling tap water to festivalgoers, he hung a huge sign on his barn that said FREE WATER. He gave away water, milk, cheese, and butter—and asked a relative to donate bread to go with it. His daughter, a nurse, volunteered in the medical tent, and his son, Sam, helped direct traffic. “If the generation gap is to be closed,” he told a reporter, “the older people have to do more than we’ve done.”
It was time to start the music, and around 2 P.M., Joe Cocker went on. Another unknown was about to become a star. Backed by the Grease Band, he stunned the audience with his soulful vocals—and his unique stage moves. I guess you could say Joe kind of invented air guitar that day—or at least popularized it. The Grease Band had a loose approach and opened their set with a blues jam without Joe before launching into their repertoire when Cocker hit the stage. Joe took all kinds of covers and made them his own: “Dear Landlord,” “Feelin’ Alright,” “Just Like a Woman,” “I Don’t Need No Doctor,” “I Shall Be Released.” He turned Ashford and Simpson’s “Let’s Go Get Stoned” into an anthem, ad-libbing a bit about his stay in New York. For the finale, he did what became his signature, “With a Little Help from My Friends.” That song perfectly described the weekend and everybody k
new it. His howling, expressive take transformed the Beatles hit into a Joe Cocker song. Just as they were finishing, the sky darkened. Then all hell began to break loose.
JOE COCKER: I was the only guy in the band that didn’t drop acid that day and I regretted [it] to some degree…I didn’t feel that for this mass of people I was getting through until we did “Let’s Go Get Stoned,” which got all of them up because most of them were. When we got into “With a Little Help from My Friends,” I felt as we got toward the end of that tune that we’d caught the massive consciousness. I suddenly felt I’d got them to accept what we were doing. It was a powerful feeling for me. And then it was shattered when somebody yelled to me, “Joe, look over your shoulder!” I looked and saw massive clouds coming in. I just thought, Oh dear, had we done this?
Twenty minutes after we cut power, the worst of the storm passed. But rain continued to fall and we had to keep the concert shut down. I’d planned a surprise for the audience, and as Artie and I stood onstage watching a plane fly overhead, thousands of flowers cascaded from the sky.
BILL WARD: It was still cloudy and dark but it had stopped raining, and a little airplane flew over and flowers came floating down. Thousands of people stood there and looked up at the sky. They were just standing there with their mouths open. They were all wet, the place was full of mud, and they were entertaining themselves by sliding in the mud. There was a hilly pasture there, and some people had clothes on and some didn’t, and they’d get a running start and flop down on their butts and slide along in the mud.