The Woodstock Experience (1969)
The Woodstock Experience (1969)
You could see them sitting around fires, maybe near a lean-to they had built from leaves and branches or near some crummy outasite truck or next to a big worn green tent. The new family. Tribes sharing their possessions, breaking down the obsolete patterns of race or religion or background. Classless. Barriers broken down by dope and by learning to survive in the death culture. These were the children of the Universe searching for the new city in the midst of the old one, the new people of an electronic age that were breaking down the barriers of a worn-out, wasteful, suicidal, killer world. So much resistance, so much hope, so many symbols stolen and corrupted. Woodstock was the third largest city in New York for three days. Strength came in numbers and in the common experience of 500,000 freaks and potential freaks. The new family. Prisoner on the planet earth, begins to grow and gain strength.
Max Yasgur’s 600 acre dairyfarm is a varied landscape of hills, woods, corn fields and lakes. It was this beautiful country that set the tone for Woodstock. For days before the first band played people started arriving at the farm to set up their camps among the trees and on the hillsides overlooking the music area. The 80 ft. stage was still being built and the fences had hardly been started. It was real country and for those smart enough not to have bought a ticket, it was free.
By Friday, the official opening of the Aquarian Exposition, thousands more than expected had arrived and the media was beaming out a disaster story: thousands of hippies invade Bethel; food and water shortage threatens crowd of 300,000; rain, mud and bad acid create health hazard at Rock Festival.
Friday was a bad day. The local Bethel market sold out of every item in the store except for a solitary cup of Gefillte fish. Water wells dug for the occasion started pumping mud. Water trucks couldn’t get through the jam on 17-B. Helicopters started the process of moving in food, medical supplies and serving as ambulances and transportation for performers. The process didn’t end until Monday. But still there was never a Woodstock disaster.
The various dope freaks, college students, etc. that made up the 500,000 who invaded Bethel spent three days learning to share, relax and face the elements together. Food and dope was passed around freely, there wasn’t a fight or even disagreement and people crammed themselves shoulder to shoulder to listen to the music. When the rains came Sunday, people danced in the downpour or crowded together under plastic sheets or played football in the mud or joined in chants of Ah Shit and Fuck the Rain. This was a real sign of the different culture and everyone felt it. Can you imagine Fuck the Rain at Yankee Stadium? Not yet anyway.
Especially peaceful and productive was Movement City, a city separated by woods from the main music and camping area. The movement had its own music and entertainment and even a puppet show. Political groups ran booths and the underground press and TV freaks were there. Hog Farm, a Santa Fe commune that worked closely with the promoters as an auxiliary police force were centered in the city. The Hog Farmers, using bread sucked out of the promoters served literally thousands of good natural meals at the city. The real problems with movement city, as Ted Granklin mentions in his article, was how separate the city was from the rest of Woodstock and how little effort was made to attract people to the city either by action or signs.
The problems with Hog farms were more primary. The Commune worked hard, but worked very closely with the promoters. Hog Farmers joined the obnoxious announcers on stage in telling people they were on trial. This bullshit only served to obscure what was really on trial at Woodstock: the outside society where three days of relative peace and love were a total abnormality. It was cool that the farmers used the promoters’ profits, but how they used the money was the important thing.
The media started picking up the good vibes from Woodstock by the second day they couldn’t ignore them. By Sunday stories about the festival of peace and cooperation were churning out of TV, radio and newspaper offices. The articles were like those early articles on Haight Street; full of polite adjectives, vivid contrasts and that journalistic distance we have all come to understand and hate. It was as if the media were watching a new breed of animal at the zoo and reacting with surprise at how gentle the animals were.
A new lesson in crowd control was learned by the cops. With white kids not yet completely outside the culture, as many black people are, maybe it was best to cool it on the guns and stocks. At Woodstock, the cops wore bright red jackets with the words love and peace, and a dove printed on them. It was the Age of Aquarian burn in its full glory: cops giving V signs as they quietly took people away. Form without content, the symbols of revolution without change.
The important thing about Woodstock encampment was for the people who participated in it, not for the people who watched it. For many people it was the first taste of a new, non-exploitive culture: it was swimming in the nude, it was tripping, it was sharing and relaxing and surviving without trying to sell something or ripping off a brother. It was working in the hospital talking people off of bad trips; it was meeting new people. It was just the beginning of a new culture, but it was a beginning.
WE WILL NOT BE COOPTED. WE WANT EVERYTHING.
Source: Extra Summer 1969
Woodstock Bus Driver Comments
The New Generation: en masse, is it always a challenge, a threat, or a cause? When the young are doing their thing, does it necessarily get in the way of everybody else’s thing? The Woodstock Rock Festival is mentioned elsewhere in this issue of Colloquy. Here, bus drivers of the Short Line Company, who transported the New Generation to Woodstock, file their reports of the experience.
All I have to say is next year I’ll be the first to sign up to drive them anywhere. A kid with long hair is welcome on my bus. They don’t look at the public the way the public looks at them. They treated me with respect. Even love. They were neat, polite, full of fun and good humor and not a bit of sarcasm.
The most important thing in those kids’ lives was getting to the Festival in time. When I told them we would be several hours late on account of the traffic, they didn’t say boo. I was really impressed with the way they shared everything.
What a wonderful, happy bunch. They never offended me or mistreated me in any way. Once, loading up, I told them there were no more seats. These kids didn’t mind waiting for the next bus. Everybody had a smile. I tried to give them a good ride. They appreciate everything.
I don’t understand why they wear long hair but now I don’t care. It’s a free country. And they’re the most nogriping, no-complaining, patient and generous, respectful bunch of kids I ever met. Come on kids and ride with me. It’s a pleasure driving you.
We were stuck in traffic for three hours up there and the only noise I heard were jokes about the EXPRESS sign on the bus. Their fashion may be a little sloppy, but they were clean and generous. It’s sort of live and let live with them.
There was this little girl who made homemade bread. She was so proud. She insisted I have some. We have a lot to learn from them about getting along together. They can ride with me anytime.
Source:Colloquy March 1970
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