by Michael Lang
GREIL MARCUS: The kids yelled, “Fuck the rain, fuck the rain,” but it was really just another chance for a new kind of fun. Odd gifts of the elements, our own latter-day saints appeared out of nowhere. In front of the bandstand a black boy and a white boy took off their clothes and danced in the mud and the rain, round and round, in a circle that grew larger as more joined them.
Moonfire, a kindly warlock, preached to a small crowd that gathered under the stage for shelter. A tall man with red-brown hair and shining eyes, barefoot and naked under his robes, he had traveled to the festival with his lover, a sheep…Off in the corner was his staff, topped by a human skull, the pole bearing his message: DON’T EAT ANIMALS/LOVE THEM…Albert Grossman, his pigtail soaking wet, was standing nearby and Moonfire ambled over to lay on his blessing. Grossman dug it. Rain simply meant it was a good time to meet new people.
Ten Years After had arrived in the wee hours that morning and were due to go on after Joe Cocker, who they knew from back home in England. The stage was still wet and I was prepared to put the show on hold until it was safe to repower. But Country Joe and the Fish insisted they could play without electricity. The storm had really put us behind schedule, and there was so much water onstage that we needed more time to clear it. The stagehands tried to discourage the band, saying it was still too dangerous to turn on the power and set up the microphones and amps. But Joe McDonald and Barry Melton wouldn’t take no for an answer. They didn’t need power, they said, they’d play acoustically, with no mics, no amps, no electricity. They had a ukulele, percussion instruments, and some drums.
JOYCE MITCHELL: Country Joe came in, and he said, “I’ve had enough of this. Those kids are out in the rain, they’re out in the mud. We’re playing music for them.” And that’s what they did. To me, he was a big hero. I can’t tell you how impressed I was with the way he did that.
COUNTRY JOE McDONALD: When the electricity went out, the kids were bored. Having played a lot of demonstrations, we knew that people would respond to some kind of nonamplified noisemaking. We wound up banging pots and pans and did a little agitprop drumming. We chanted “No rain” and played cowbells, and the audience picked it up. Then we got the idea to pass out drinks to the audience. And everything was going really well until Barry Melton, who was the lead guitar player of the Fish, brought two cases of beer in aluminum cans and started throwing them into the audience and hitting people in the head. Then they started throwing things back at us.
GREIL MARCUS: The Fish kept on playing and Joe kept on smiling. They reminded me of the brave rodeo clowns that run into the pit when a rider’s hurt and the bull’s ready to trample him.
COUNTRY JOE McDONALD: I felt completely at home, it was really an amazing free space. In 1969 the counterculture was not a secure place to be. A lot of people didn’t like you and would just come up and hit you or arrest you for being a rocker or a hippie. So it was very refreshing to be in a totally free environment where you weren’t going to be trashed for being part of the counterculture. And it became very obvious to me from the word go that this was our turf.
Along with cans of beer, Barry and the band tossed out oranges and bottles of champagne. Finally, at six thirty, the sun actually came back out and we restored power. Some people had left, but those who stayed seemed almost reinvigorated by the storm. Plugged in, the Fish launched into their regular set, reprising their upbeat “Rock and Soul Music.” By the time they finished, it was dusk. Ten Years After was already onstage, waiting for its equipment to be set up. Their guitarist and singer Alvin Lee was revved up and ready to go.
LEO LYONS OF TEN YEARS AFTER: We had come from a gig in St. Louis, Missouri, at 6 A.M. I’d had nothing to eat. I went down to the gig and Pete Townshend came over and said, “Don’t eat or drink anything that’s not in a sealed can because everything is spiked. I ended up on a trip last night, and it’s really, really dodgy stuff.”
We were supposed to go on just after the rain stopped and then Country Joe and the Fish rushed past us and jumped onstage before us. Because we waited so long, we wanted to get on, play, and get the hell out of there. We had tuning problems—we had to stop after the first song and retune, but the audience was great.
Around 8 P.M., Alvin Lee opened with the bluesy “Spoonful,” followed by a lengthy “Good Morning, Little Schoolgirl.” The band ended their two-hour set with a long improvisation, “I’m Goin’ Home,” which referenced several early rock and roll songs and showcased Alvin’s guitar playing. He left the stage lugging a watermelon someone had passed along to him.
Iron Butterfly was booked for Sunday afternoon, but John Morris told me that their agent had called with a last-minute demand for a helicopter to pick them up in New York City. Apparently the agent had a real attitude, and we were up to our eyeballs in problems. So I told John to tell him to forget it, we had more important things to deal with.
LEE DORMAN OF IRON BUTTERFLY: Two or three times we checked out of our hotel and went to the heliport on Thirty-third Street. But the helicopter never came. I guess it had more important things to do, like feed people. It would have been great to play “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” up there.
Next up was the Band. I was really looking forward to their set. I’d become friends with Rick Danko and Richard Manuel. Though Rick had been hanging out for a while, the others arrived right before the thunderstorm. They seemed a bit overwhelmed, and I think they were nervous about the sound not being perfect. They were very fastidious about their production, and this was going to be pretty loose by their standards. But the festival was down the road from their homes, so this was an easy gig for them.
ROBBIE ROBERTSON: There was an area where all kinds of people—the artists, managers, record people, whoever—were mingling. Fellini faces were whipping by—it was like a gypsy caravan, a very colorful sight.
A crowd of musicians gathered onstage and watched intently as they opened with a lively “Chest Fever.” Levon, Rick, and Richard alternated lead vocals as they played tracks from their album Music from Big Pink: “Tears of Rage,” “This Wheel’s on Fire,” “The Weight.” Some of the songs they played wouldn’t come out on vinyl for a few years. I thought they sounded fantastic, but because they were musically subtle and seemed to be playing more for themselves, they didn’t connect so well with the kids in the bowl.
ROBBIE ROBERTSON: After three days of people being hammered by music and weather, it was hard to get a take on the mood. We played a slow, haunting set of mountain music. It seemed kind of appropriate from our point of view. We were thinking, “Those poor suckers have been putting up with a lot of stuff, so maybe we should send out a little spiritual feeling to them.” We did songs like “Long Black Veil” and “The Weight,” and everything had a bit of reverence to it. Even the faster songs sounded almost religious. I thought, “God, I don’t know if this is the right place for this.” I looked out there and it seemed as if the kids were looking at us kinda funny. We were playing the same way we played in our living room. We were like orphans in the storm there.
When the Band finished, we made another complicated set change to get Johnny Winter on. At times like this, we really missed the use of the stage turntable. It was way past midnight and the weather had turned cool. For about an hour, Winter heated things up, playing spectacular slide on a mix of Texas blues, R & B, and early rock and roll, including Chuck Berry’s “Johnny B. Goode” to end his set.
There was another big equipment shift to set up for the next act, Blood, Sweat and Tears, an eight-piece jazz-rock band with a horn section. Driven by drummer Bobby Colomby, they’d recently had back-to-back hits: “You’ve Made Me So Very Happy” and “Spinning Wheel.” A highlight of their set, “And When I Die,” would be their next one.
GREIL MARCUS: The scene onstage Sunday night was a curious one. The groups were hanging out there, performing, setting up, digging the other musicians; the Band; Blood, Sweat and Tears; and Paul Butterfield. Now, no doubt that in terms of prestige, the Band was king t
hat night, to the other musicians if not to the audience. As Helm, Danko, and Robertson sat on amplifiers listening to Johnny Winter, stars of the past and present came over to say hello, to introduce themselves, to pay their artistic respects. David Clayton-Thomas, the young Canadian lead singer for Blood, Sweat and Tears, flashed a big grin and shook hands vigorously—a man on the way up, his group outselling everyone in the country, and impressing the audience far more than the Band did that night but still very much in the shadow of the men from Big Pink who play real music that comes out of real history.
Musicians, journalists, and plenty of others gathered onstage, eagerly anticipating the next group: Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. Neil Young had just joined the band, and they’d played only one concert, the night before in Chicago. We all wanted to hear their debut album performed live.
GRAHAM NASH: When we got out of the helicopter, we were greeted by John Sebastian. We lit one up and had a party in Sebastian’s tent—there was mud halfway up his legs. He told us graphic stories about the rain and mud. Backstage was totally chaotic.
We weren’t afraid of the crowd—we were more concerned with our peers. I think Stephen and I were a little nervous that Hendrix, and the Band, and Blood, Sweat and Tears were there. And I think Neil was nervous about playing with us.
DAVID CROSBY: We were scared. Everyone we respected in the whole goddamn music business was standing in a circle behind us when we went on. Everybody was curious about us. We were the new kid on the block, it was our second public gig, nobody had ever seen us, everybody had heard the record, everybody wondered, “What in the hell are they about?” So when it was rumored that we were about to go on, everybody came, standing in an arc behind us. That was intimidating, to say the least. I’m looking back at Hendrix and Robbie Robertson and Levon Helm and Grace and Paul, everybody that I knew and everybody I didn’t know.
I was also toasted because we had some of that pullover pot, that incredible Colombian gold that a friend of mine named Rocky had brought to the festival.
Around 3:30 A.M., Graham, Stephen, and David stepped onstage and started the set alone. Then Neil, bassist Greg Reeves, and drummer Dallas Taylor joined them. Stills and Young played a breathtaking acoustic version of “Mr. Soul” from their days with Buffalo Springfield. The crowd and everyone backstage were entranced. “Long Time Gone,” another high point, would become the opening track of the film Woodstock.
GREIL MARCUS: Their performance was scary, brilliant proof of the magnificence of music, and I don’t believe it could have happened with such power anywhere else. This was a festival that had triumphed over itself, as Crosby and his band led the way toward the end of it.
GRAHAM NASH: I thought we did a lousy set. When you consider playing acoustic guitars to four hundred thousand people and trying to reach to the back of the crowd with songs like “Guinnevere,” it was absurd. But we certainly gave it our best shot. Sure, the “Suite” was a little out of tune, but so what?
DAVID CROSBY: We were good, thank God. It went down very well. The people who were my close friends—Paul Kantner and Grace Slick, Garcia, and a lot of people—they were all thrilled. They said, “Wow! You tore it up! It worked!” They loved it, everybody loved it. How could you not love it? “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes”—what’s not to like?
Another friend I’d gotten to know in Woodstock, Paul Butterfield, was on next—it must have been 6 A.M. by the time we got his large ensemble set up. Paul was a great harmonica player and vocalist from Chicago, and could vamp on blues for hours: “Born Under a Bad Sign,” “Driftin’ and Driftin’,” “All in a Day.” His hot horn section included saxophonist David Sanborn, and he had Buzzy Feiten on guitar. I recognized several of his band members from town.
By now the crews were fried. But everybody held on and kept going. Out in the bowl, people continued to drift away. That was a big relief, really, because the thought of a half million people trying to leave at once was horrifying. Instead of a finish, everybody was just letting it go. I had a feeling the festival wouldn’t end so much as wind down—like a big sigh.
The band of twelve Columbia students, Sha Na Na, had anxiously been awaiting their turn since Sunday afternoon. They worried they’d never get to do the thirty-minute slot I’d given them. Around 7:30 A.M., they came out in their gold lamé suits and DA haircuts. They breezed through a number of early rock and roll standards like “Get a Job,” “Teen Angel,” and “Duke of Earl.” Their enthusiasm and energy seemed to revive the sleep-deprived. Michael Wadleigh and his crew were preparing to film Hendrix, and quickly managed to capture “At the Hop” and a couple of other numbers.
JOCKO MARCELLINO OF SHA NA NA: In the performers’ pavilion, we talked to all these people. We were the little kids. But they gave us a certain respect. We almost didn’t play. We just snuck in. We were getting pissed. I love Paul Butterfield, but he went on forever. I didn’t like him that day. Finally, we got to play right before Hendrix. By then it was a refugee camp, most of the people were gone. I met a guy, years later, who had been tripping the night before. Fell asleep and woke up when we were playing and had no idea what we were, thought he had gone on a terrific trip.
Jimi Hendrix had arrived Sunday around noon, and I’d met him and Michael Jeffrey backstage. I suggested that Jimi could go on at midnight because we’d been running late all weekend. But Jeffrey said no, he wanted Jimi to close, no matter what time. Jimi’s new band had been together for only a short time. They’d been staying at Jimi’s house in West Shokan and working up material to play at Woodstock.
We had rented a cottage near the backstage area, where I took them to pass the time. Occasionally Jimi would drop by the stage or performers’ pavilion. At one point during the evening, it became clear that the show would not be over until early morning. I checked to see if Jimi would change his mind about the midnight slot. But Jeffrey was still set on closing.
Finally, at 8:30 A.M. on Monday, Hendrix and his band headed to the stage. The fact that only forty thousand people remained didn’t seem to bother him. His set that morning would turn out to be the longest of his career—two hours. He started by introducing his new group: Billy Cox on bass, Juma Sultan and Gerry Velez on percussion, Larry Lee on rhythm guitar, and Mitch Mitchell on drums. “We got tired of the Experience and every once in a while we were blowing our minds too much, so we decided to change the whole thing around and call it Gypsy, Sun, and Rainbows…We only had about two rehearsals, so…nothing but primary-rhythm things, but, I mean, it’s a first ray of the new rising sun, anyway, so we might as well start from the earth, which is rhythm, right?”
After tuning up his white Strat, he launched into “Message to Love,” followed by “Hear My Train a Comin’.” The band seemed suited for improvisation, and songs turned into long jams. Jimi had a serenity about him that morning, even on “Foxey Lady.” Larry Lee took lead vocals on a couple of songs, including Curtis Mayfield’s “Gypsy Woman.” Both Lee and Jimi kept retuning their guitars, and at one point Jimi said, “We’ll just play very quietly and out of tune.”
The massive stage was sparsely populated compared to how packed it had been all weekend with musicians, crew, and friends. Jimi, a red scarf around his head and wearing a white fringed and beaded leather shirt, looked almost like a mystical holy man in meditation. His eyes closed, his head back, he’d merged with his music, his Strat—played upside down since he’s a lefty—his magic wand. Though he was surrounded by his band, he projected the feeling he was all alone.
As he almost reverently started the national anthem, the bedraggled audience, worn out and muddy, moved closer together. Those of us who’d barely slept in three days were awakened, exhilarated by Jimi’s song. One minute he was chording the well-worn melody, the next he was reenacting “bombs bursting in air” with feedback and distortion. It was brilliant. A message of joy and love of country, while at the same time an understanding of all the conflict and turmoil that’s torn America apart.
ROZ PAYNE: I
was working in the bad-trip tent when he started to play it. Everything seemed to stop. Before that, if someone would have played “The Star-Spangled Banner,” we would have booed. After that, it became our song.
TOM LAW OF THE HOG FARM: I was standing right in front of him. Nobody was in the audience hardly. I felt like he was the defining poet of the festival with that piece of music. It was like taking you right into the heart of the beast and nailing it.
GRAHAM NASH: Hendrix was okay. I had heard him better. But “The Star-Spangled Banner” was unreal. As creative a two minutes as you can probably find in rock and roll.
MEL LAWRENCE: I woke up to Jimi Hendrix. I was in my trailer on the hill, and I looked down on this depressing scene of the quarter-filled bowl full of trash and people walking out on Jimi Hendrix. Then I heard “The Star-Spangled Banner” and it gave me chills.
Jimi segued from “The Star-Spangled Banner” into “Purple Haze.” I thought about Miami in May ’68 when Hendrix descended from a helicopter and played that song on the Gulfstream stage. It seemed that day had presaged this one.
On Monday morning, Jimi ended his set with an instrumental piece later named “Woodstock Improvisation,” followed by the haunting “Villanova Junction,” and finally, around 10:30 A.M., “Hey Joe.”
It was over.
What had seemed an eternity now felt like the blink of an eye. Nothing would ever be the same again.