Woodstock: The Last Civilization

“History is bunk.” - Henry Ford

Henry Ford would have liked Woodstock, insomuch as it was held on a farm and ’ole Henry was a country boy from way back, having been born and raised on one, and remained a country boy in his heart even after he single-handedly industrialized and modernized the United States during the first half of the 20th century. He loved the old barnyard music and would dance to it any chance he’d get. And like many, I suppose, in that wacky Woodstock crowd, he detested jazz. Also, Henry Ford was a family man, that illegitimate kid aside, and Woodstock began as a communal gathering that evolved into one big happy family.

Lastly, Henry Ford was a believer in progress and wasn’t that what Woodstock all about?

It had been a helluva few years since Jack Kennedy was elected with all that promise of continuing the meek and mild ‘50s. But then we were forced to deal with his murder, that of his brother and Martin Luther King, Jr., plus all that shit over Viet Nam and…and then, Woodstock; proof that the inner strife that can plagued our nation from time to time can be overcome, and we can gather together and co-exist peacefully and…

Oneness. Yeah, Henry Ford would have related to that, too. He felt that a sense of family could cure all of society’s ills, no matter how bad. But enough of Henry Ford; let’s focus on a couple of other larger-than-life characters who also had a somewhat significant impact on the direction of this county in the 1960s, namely, Lyndon Johnson and Richard Nixon, if for no other reason than that it seemed the people of Woodstock may have gathered to give the powers-that-be the collective finger … “we don’t need you; we can have our very own little town right here and live in uninterrupted harmony.”

Amazingly, it WAS a town. From what I now hear, some eight million people were there, at last count. With those kinds of numbers, it could have turned out to be the “Sea of Madness” that Neil Young sang of, but instead was a sea of Mud and Sex and Drugs and Booze. And races. Which makes it all the more incredible that there wasn’t the kind of chaos which would erupt at Altamont five months later. The music was diverse, too – folk, country, blues, rock, soul and funk, all thrown together in a gargantuan, sweltering melting pot. If I’d been there, maybe I could tell you who sounded good and who was less than stellar. But I wasn’t there, and not even listening to the movie soundtrack can help me much except to remind me that Sly and the Family Stone were, and are, probably the most energetic, spiritual and righteous band in rock history.

Five years ago, I was invited to a party to celebrate the 20th Anniversary of Woodstock. I was barely acquainted with the couple hosting the bash, but I knew them as a fairly sedate pair so, just to be ready, I stashed a 12-pack of Old Style and a frozen blue ice block into a nylon satchel. Any fears were put to rest when I arrived to the music of The Doors and five kegs waiting in a backyard full of oddly dressed people of all ages dancing and drinking. There was a lot of beer and wine being spilled, so it was hard to tell if it was sweat or booze or saliva that glistened off the bare skin of so many on this brutally hot and humid August night in Chicago.

A few hours into the evening, I saw a beautiful black woman of great stature and considerable build grab some skinny white kid – barely of drinking age compared to her 40-plus years. For a few minutes, they danced arm in arm to a feverish beat, laughing until she went for him and they began kissing violently as others continued to move furiously around them, unfazed. In a matter of moments, he managed to stoop down and force his head under her oversized, loose fitting tie-dye shirt, pressing his face against her generous, sweating braless breasts. It was good to see that some of the folks were celebrating the 20th Anniversary of the ultimate festival of love in proper fashion.

Meanwhile, I walked around with my cassette recorder dangling around my neck, asking some teenagers in the crowd what “Woodstock” meant to them. To most of them, the essence and the spirit of the thing meant nothing, though the girls were giggling over Jim Morrison and the guys were digging on the Hendrix that was being played, as if both were still alive. Looking back on the party, almost five years later, I guess that’s not so bad. These people will have their own Woodstock to deal with this summer at the very same location. I wish them luck. Just think of the pressure that’s going to be on them to recall something worthwhile about those events in another two decades.

* * * * *

I walked away from the party feeling drunk, tired and unsatisfied. Had the tribute been merely another excuse to drink beer, get stoned for the first time in ten years and listen to the Jefferson Airplane without being embarrassed? Maybe; and since that was most likely the case the first time around, that’s not such a bad thing.

But as I’ve sat here pondering the event known as “Woodstock,” and its vast and curious repercussions, I have tried to achieve the mood, as it were. I walked down the block and bought a case of Schlitz in cans. (Do you know how hard it is to find Schlitz beer these days?) I drank a 12-pack, and then went out to the backyard to roll around naked in the mud – we’ve had a bit of rain lately. I then came in and put on the record – “Woodstock: Original Soundtrack from the Movie,” which I still possess. I imagine I could have smoked some dope, too, but weed was never my thing, so I periodically downed shots of Cuervo instead.

Well, shit. I’m sad to report that I really don’t feel “transposed” back to the place and time, and I can’t even seem to latch on to any sort of peaceful ebb in my own setting. In fact, I feel lousy, what with this Schlitz beer running through my system and David Crosby whining for more (or was it less?) “bottom end,” and the only repercussion I can pinpoint is that the original concert – all three glorious days of it – gave us a reason to have another, 25 years later. Ah, memories…

Here in 1994, I guess I’m not buying all this hype and sentimentality. It was nice enough while it lasted and there was a scant bit of good music there, in between the political and hippie blithering. But Woodstock wasn’t, as many have attempted to deem it, a “new beginning.” It was a crazed and muddy ending to an era during which we thought anything was possible, even the gathering of “a half-million kids for three days of fun and music.”

Little did we know. We thought the ‘60s had been nuts, having no idea how insane the ‘70s would, in retrospect, show us what a bunch of thugs we were. Far above the music and any symbolism, Woodstock was the final chapter in a book about open-mindedness, generosity and acceptance. It really should have happened in 1967, the same year as the Monterey Pop Festival, which any performer who attended and/or played both will tell you and was a far better gig.

But it didn’t.

I think it’s time to put J. Geils' “Blow Your Face Out” on the turntable and mix a margarita.