Woodstock Day Four
Woodstock
Day Four
Illuminated by a blue cast from the spotlights atop the towers, three handsome faces appeared onstage.
Even from where I stood toward the back of the bowl, I knew exactly who they were.
Shouts and applause loud enough to silence a hurricane exploded from the audience while I stood there, alone, watching the band I’d looked forward to hearing the most.
Once the trio had taken their seats atop wooden stools, Stephen Stills leaned down toward his microphone.
“Hey, man, I just gotta say that you people have gotta be the strongest bunch of people I ever saw. Three days, man. Three days! We just love ya. We just love ya.” He looked over to David. “Tell ’em who we are.”
“Just sayin’ hello. Test. Forty-nine. Sixty-five. Hi,” said David Crosby, right before the magical guitar chords from “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes” filled the night sky.
Chip’s offstage voice could be heard underneath Stephen’s guitar. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome with us Crosby, Stills & Nash. And Young.”
I didn’t know why he announced Neil Young. He wasn’t onstage.
Although their harmonies delighted my ears, I couldn’t barricade the pain.
It felt like a knife had ripped a gaping hole in my heart.
I had never once considered Leon wouldn’t answer his page, even if he had decided to stay with Shelly.
I thought he was a much nicer person than that.
I considered the possibility that he may have left when the storm blew in.
Either way, I couldn’t stop the heartache. Or the regret.
When the final note from “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes” faded, the crowd cheered madly. And Stephen Stills spoke again. “Thank you. We needed that.”
“This is our second gig,” David Crosby said. “This is the second time we’ve ever played in front of people. We’re scared shitless.”
I was the one scared shitless. I didn’t even know where I would sleep that night. Or the next.
After they finished a beautiful version of the Beatles’ “Blackbird,” Graham Nash spoke to the audience in his lovely British accent. “Let’s do a Stephen Stills song. I think one of the best ever written. It’s called ‘Helplessly Hoping.’”
I couldn’t have agreed more. While their angelic, unmistakable harmonies wafted through the pasture, I listened closely.
“Helplessly Hoping” was a poem about two people who love each other but must say goodbye, for a reason unknown.
I hadn’t understood the song when I first heard it in my closet, but after meeting Leon, its meaning crystallized.
While Stephen sang about the empty place inside, I knew what he meant.
The poet was lost, helplessly in love. He was wondering if he would ever have another love to fill the void she had left.
As their three-part harmony faded, and one of the prettiest tunes I’d ever heard came to a close, I grew not only weary but sick and tired of sadness. Sick and tired of tears.
Stop obsessing over someone you can’t have.
Stop it right now! What are you going to do, cry for the rest of your life?
Of course you’ll love again. For God’s sake, girl, don’t let this moment pass you by.
You are at Woodstock. This is your once-in-a-lifetime concert! Go down front and enjoy the rest of it.
While David Crosby sang lead vocals on “Guinnevere,” I shimmied through the crowd in a hurry, squeezing between hundreds of people, determined to get as close as I could.
I finally made it to the front, then nudged my way in between two guys who smiled at me, glad I was there.
One passed me a joint, but I declined. I wanted to be as clearheaded as a child while watching my new favorite band.
Wrapped up in Brady’s Indian blanket, with my bare feet sunken in the cold mud, I allowed their melodies to once again lift me high in the air.
I felt my confidence rising. And my resolve taking root.
One day I’d get a record deal too. As soon as Ron got back, we’d be that family duo he always talked about.
We’d play at the Whisky a Go Go to a sellout crowd.
I just knew it.