Woodstock Day One
Woodstock
Day One
A few minutes after five, a man dressed in white pants and a long orange tunic strolled out from behind the stage. Richie Havens, an extremely tall fellow, settled down on a wooden stool, propping his acoustic guitar atop his thigh. “Hello!” he bellowed into the mic. “Can you hear?”
As a loud chorus of yeses rose from the field, Leon turned toward me with an animated grin.
“Groovy. Okay. Wow,” said Richie. “It’s really beautiful to see so many people together.” He had a gentle presence about him, and I found his voice soothing. Without another word, he started in with a haunting number about a man in prison.
Prison. Had I actually broken out of mine? Or had I stepped into a fantastical dream? It seemed impossible to imagine my courage, but when I eyed Richie on the massive stage in front of me and pinched a hunk of skin on my arm, I knew this was no dream.
After several more unfamiliar songs, Richie took things up a notch when he played a tune I knew.
Livy and I had heard the Beatles’ version of “With a Little Help from My Friends” while listening to Sgt.
Pepper’s in the car. Richie told the crowd he hadn’t learned it yet and asked us to fill in the words.
I found that strange. Why would he even play it if he didn’t know the lyrics? Especially at Woodstock.
I looked curiously at Leon.
He laid a hand on my thigh. “He’s stalling.”
“How do you know that?” I asked, far more interested in his hand than Richie’s song choice.
“Look at the road.” He removed his hand, unfortunately, to point behind the stage. No cars or trucks were moving. Total gridlock.
A tap on my shoulder interrupted our conversation. I whipped around to find Livy, shoulders slumped, wearing a sullen expression. Despite the low-hanging brim of her hat, I could tell she’d been crying. Johnny stood with her, but no one else was there.
I leaped up, wrapped my arms around her. “No Nick?”
With a shake of her head, she confirmed her worst fear. She could hardly speak. “We waited over an hour. Other people found their lost loved ones, but he never showed up.”
“I’m sorry, Liv,” I said, tightening my grip.
Johnny slid his arm comfortably around her waist, as if it wasn’t the first time. “We’ll page him again, love. Let’s just chill here awhile. It’ll do you good to sit down and listen to music.”
“He’s stuck in traffic.” I pointed to the road behind the stage. “Just like we were.”
“I hope so,” she said in a weak voice.
I stroked her hair. “He’ll be here soon. Give him more time, okay?”
She squeezed her eyes shut, managing a slight nod.
Despite the anger I’d felt earlier, my heart ached for Livy. Just being at Woodstock was groovy enough for me, but for her, it seemed our epic escapade was more about Nick.
Slim, the greasy-haired brother, patted the ground next to him, all the while flashing a snaggletoothed smile at Livy. Johnny sat there instead, and Livy sat down beside him, with me on her other side.
The music paused, and Richie spoke to the crowd. “You know, we’ve finally made it! We did it this time. They’ll never be able to hide us again!”
With his words, an infectious energy took over. Over the cheers and whistles, Leon told me that Johnny had recently seen Richie play in a Greenwich Village coffee shop. It made me fantasize about singing in a coffee shop. With Leon in the front row.
As soon as Richie strummed the opening chords of his next song, Leon and Johnny eyed one another with knowing smiles and fist pumps. Livy smiled too. It was good to see. She moved her head to the beat like she knew the song, while the guys sang every word.
I listened closely to the lyrics. The song was about a guy named Handsome Johnny, fighting each of the wars in which America had been involved.
Depending on the war, Johnny was holding a different gun.
Ron creeping through rice paddies, holding an M16, was the last thing I wanted to think about while at Woodstock.
After Richie played the final note, I leaned toward Leon, having to shout over the applause. “This might be a dumb question, but did Johnny get his name from that song?”
Leon pressed his lips together. “You guessed it.”
“But the Johnny in the song goes to war, and your Johnny said he’ll never go to war.”
Jutting a thumb toward his cousin, he said, “My Handsome Johnny got drafted when he dropped out of college. Been living underground ever since he burned his draft card.” He leaned across Livy and me to touch Johnny’s knee.
“Hey, man, Suzannah wants to know why we call you Handsome Johnny if you aren’t going to war? ”
Johnny shot us a rueful grin. “I’m a conscientious objector, man.”
Livy gave Johnny an enthusiastic thumbs-up. I wanted to ask him to please define conscientious objector. But I didn’t.
A half hour later, completely drenched in sweat, Richie Havens shocked the audience by starting yet another song.
With nimble fingers tuning his guitar, he scanned the massive crowd.
“Freedom is what we’re all talking about getting.
It’s what we’ve been looking for. I think this is it.
” It seemed Richie, strumming with a palpable urgency, was singing for everyone there.
“Freedom. Freedom. Freedom. Sometimes I feel like a motherless child.”
Johnny leaned forward to get Leon’s attention. “He’s out of songs, man.”
“Right on,” said Leon. “Sounds like he’s making this one up.”
I agreed.
“Clap your hands!” Richie yelled. “Clap your hands.”
Most folks did as he asked, in turn standing to show their support.
Electricity was in the air. Everyone could feel it.
A girl a couple of rows in front ripped off her shirt.
She ripped off her shirt! Dancing, swaying, bending like a wild woman, she turned around to face the crowd and thrust her arms in the air, flashing her bare-naked breasts for the whole world to see.
I elbowed Livy. “Can you believe that girl?”
She shrugged. “What can I say? She feels free.”
“Maybe so, but you couldn’t pay me a million dollars to do that! Would you do it?”
With a faraway stare, she answered, “I’m so upset, there’s no telling what I’d do.”
Although the concert had just started, one thing about Woodstock was abundantly clear.
People from every walk of life—no matter the color of their skin, or their gender—were free to do whatever they wanted.
Free to smoke pot. Free to have long hair.
Free to wear whatever wild clothing they wished.
The girls were even free to take off their shirts!
Everyone seemed to be claiming the right to live life on their own terms, amid one diverse, like-minded community.
Everyone seemed to be filled with the same spirit of love. And of peace. And of hope.
If only for the weekend.
As the percussionist tapped out the beat to “Freedom,” I sensed a release of my own. I stood straight up, holding my arms high in the air. Yes, Richie Havens, this is it. I, too, am free. At last.
Once Richie had left the stage for good, the announcer returned. “We apologize for the noise of the choppity-choppity. But, uh, it seems there are a few cars blocking the road. So we’re flying everybody in. I almost made the worst pun in the world about high musicians, but we’ll skip that.”
5:50 p.m.
Ten minutes later, a very old Middle Eastern man, with long curly salt-and-pepper hair and a bushy white beard, walked onto the stage wearing a bright-orange robe.
He was flanked by two American men in white robes who helped him up to a small platform, where he sat cross-legged on top of a decorative Indian blanket.
Several others in long robes knelt on either side of him, like he was a god or someone worthy of worship.
The old man put his hands together in prayer, bowing toward the audience. “My beloved brothers and sisters, I am overwhelmed with joy to see the entire youth of America gathered here in the name of the fine art of music.”
He was a gentle, soft-spoken man who squeaked his words.
“Through that sacred art of music, let us find peace that will pervade all over the world. The entire world is going to watch this. The entire world is going to know what American youth can do for humanity. So every one of you should be responsible for the success of this festival.”
The audience stood and cheered.
“Before I conclude my talk, I would like you all to join me and our group here in repeating a very simple chant . . . We are going to use three seed words, or the mystic words, to formulate the chants. And if you all join wholeheartedly, after the chant we are going to have at least one whole minute of absolute silence. Not even the cameras will click at that time. And in that silent period, that one minute of silence, you are going to feel the great, great power of that sound and the wonderful peace that it can bring in you and into the whole world. Let us have a sample of that now. Hari is one word. Om is another word. The first chant will have these two words, Hari Om . . . The second line will be ‘Hari Om, Hari Om, Hari Hari Om.’”
It seemed like the whole Woodstock Nation chanted the “Hari Om” together. And a surprising minute of silence followed.
I leaned into Livy. “That was different.”
“Maybe for you, but so calming for me. Especially with my boyfriend missing.” She sat up straight, crossing her legs like the worshippers who had just left the stage.
She stretched her arms out to the side, flat palms facing skyward.
Her thumbs and pointers formed a circle.
Eyes closed. Chin lifted. She looked ridiculous.
“He was utterly wonderful. Don’t you think? ”
I thought he was utterly weird. He’d given the strangest speech I’d ever heard. But I still said, “Utterly wonderful.”
Maybe it was my tone of voice, but Livy dropped her hands into her lap and glared at me. “Suzannah. He’s the guru. He’s blessing us.”
“I know that, Olivia.”
Instead of returning to her guru pose, she reached for her purse.
“I’m getting high,” she said, sliding out a joint.
Johnny had pulled a lighter out of his pocket before the thing ever reached her lips.
She took two long puffs, then handed it to him.
After two puffs of his own, he offered it to Leon, who took one long puff, then passed it to Slim, who passed it to Dave.
Pretty soon the joint disappeared down the row, never to return. I sort of wished Livy had passed it to me. After hearing Richie Havens sing about freedom, my inhibitions were thawing.
6:10 p.m.
Chip Monck appeared at the lip of the stage with an important announcement.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if you please. There are a number of reasons that we’ve run down, I think, why we’ve requested you not be on the scaffolding.
Can we please have your cooperation and ask you to get down?
The fact that people behind you also wish to see is, I think, perhaps a point of major consideration. ”
All heads turned.
It was his next announcement that gave me a thunderous jolt.
“To get back to the warning that I’ve received—you may take it with however many grains of salt you wish—that the brown acid that is circulating around us is not specifically too good.
It is suggested that you do stay away from that.
It’s your own trip, so be my guest. But please be advised that there is a warning on that one. Okay?”
“O-kay,” I muttered, feeling my muscles leap underneath my skin. Within seconds I conjured up a ghastly image of Ron using LSD. Could Livy be right? It seemed like he would have told me he was using it in one of his letters. Before he slept with that girl, he told me everything.