At first, I considered attending the Woodstock Music & Arts Fair for purely practical reasons. $18 for a three-day pass seemed an economical way to not only see some of my current favorite artists of the time–Jefferson Airplane, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young–but also any number of acts I had been reading about but had not listened to closely.
The clincher came when I found out The Jeff Beck Group was playing. Having become an avowed fan of El Becko with 1968’s Truth, I was further enamored of the band via Beck-Ola, so the chance to see this most idiosyncratic of guitarists seemed an opportunity I did not want to pass up.
As it turned out, Jeff dissolved the group right before their scheduled appearance (see the excellent documentary Jeff Beck: Still On The Run for his oh-so-casual account of his decision). But that turned out to be the only disappointment I experienced when it came to this watershed event and, in hindsight, that’s a near-miraculous observation considering how little I prepared for the excursion.
Virtually the only planning was to purchase the ticket(s), then arrange for transportation to upstate New York with a high schoolmate. Never considering inclement weather, lodging and food in the course of the weekend (plus travel), it’s a wonder I enjoyed myself so much in the face of no little adversity. Of course, in the throes of almost non-stop excitement during what was my very first concert, mundane issues like food and shelter ended up being of little concern.
The weekend at Woodstock was life-changing in more ways than one, but most profoundly in terms of my passion for music. With no benchmark at hand for the live music experience–except those on television that were as often as not less than actually ‘live’–the immediacy of my reaction(s) remained unsullied due to the purity of my perceptive abilities.
In the simplest possible terms, I could trust what I saw and heard. Add to that the audience(s) around me, who were as eager as I (if not more so) to witness spontaneous expressions of the artist and no less reticent to embrace the spirit of the moment as it took so many different forms over the course of what turned out to be three-plus days of peace and music.
That said, the impact of the performances waxed and waned over the course of that time. It’s no small irony that hearing the bell-like tones of Joan Baez’ voice during “Joe Hill” may or may not have not penetrated so deeply had I been able to see her solitary figure on stage (as I subsequently did in the film). But my physical distance from the stage–in an awkward position trying to avoid rain by lying under the VW Bug within which I had ridden to Bethel–turned out to be a metaphor for my liking for the woman’s music.
Along the same lines, while I might still have perked up during the performance of Santana from a ways away, it was eye-opening to observe, at fairly close hand in the middle of the Saturday afternoon crowd, how the deeply rhythmic undercurrent of their music moved so much of the audience to dance and clap along with songs like “Jingo,” Little wonder the San Francisco group’s debut LP was the first of more than a few albums I purchased in the weeks subsequent to my return home from Woodstock.
Johnny Winter’s Columbia debut was another such instance. I had a compelling desire to render indelible my memory of his wraith-like figure prowling the stage in front of his two accompanists for songs like “Mean Town Blues” (and brother Edgar who appeared late in the set for “Tobacco Road,” among others). With my affinity for the blues only in its nascent stages at that point–awakened by the homages to the form from Cream and The Doors–it was repeated listening to the albino Texan’s major label output (and subsequent attendance at his shows right up til near his passing) that simultaneously tempered and toned my later appreciation for the genre (including an abiding devotion to the Allman Brothers Band).
But that longstanding loyalty wasn’t just rooted in a fascination with Johnny’s lightning-fast slide guitar work (which eventually gave way to a broader appreciation of the technique within the sound of the aforementioned Southern sextet). Even though I must admit my attention often wandered during their lengthy intervals of improvisation, Winter and company’s predilection to jam planted seeds for my later relish of that approach.
My novice ears were nowhere seasoned enough to absorb the sounds of the Grateful Dead, however. A prolonged “St. Stephen” at the start of their set gave way to the wry comment from someone in the group offering thanks to the crowd for their patience as the band tuned up; given its tongue-in-cheek slant, it was no doubt Bob Weir who thus introduced the psychedelic warriors’ set proper, but, perhaps as evidence of my musical ignorance as much as a bone-deep weariness, I fell asleep moments later.
Upon my awakening just prior to Creedence Clearwater Revival taking the stage, the Woodstock festival effectively began in earnest for me. I do recall the sight of Canned Heat’s Bob ‘Bear’ Hite clearly shaking the stage as he danced to “Woodstock Boogie,” and while the spacious sound and stage presence of Mountain was stirring to a great degree, moments such as Jack Bruce’s “Theme For An Imaginary Western,” served as merely means to an even greater end beyond my growing affinity for the band in ensuing years: looking back, those reactions whetted my appetite for what I ultimately enjoyed the most at Woodstock.
I was familiar with CCR’s music before I saw them based on their perpetual presence on (terrestrial) AM and FM radio over the prior six to eight months. But it was a revelation nonetheless to discover not only how closely they hewed to their recordings during, for instance, “Bad Moon Rising” but how accurately the foursome did so without diminishing the visceral impact of their musicianship.
Such a phenomenon was especially beneficial for ears that hadn’t yet become fine-tuned to the beauty of spontaneity. Yet my listening skills were certainly sufficient to absorb the dual impacts of the edge in John Fogerty’s voice and guitar, especially on the fitting inclusion of “The Night Time Is The Right Time:” his stage leadership allowed room for the insistent rhythmic movement of the other three men in the band.
A somewhat desultory showing from Janis Joplin and the Kozmic Blues Band provided a welcome respite from the intensity I internalized from Creedence. Feeling grounded certainly helped to process the sensory (over?) stimulation from the back-to-back sets by Sly and the Family Stone and the Who: to this day, my acceptance of the invitation to sing, dance and gesture along during the former’s “I Want to Take You Higher” remains my heartiest and most willing acquiescence to any such invitation in the live music setting (and perhaps explains why I demur to this day under similar circumstances).
In retrospect, becoming increasingly awestruck by the Who as they tore through Tommy reminds me how lucky I was to see the original four-man lineup at their pinnacle (five times no less). But it also helps me recall, with no little bemusement, how I laughed to myself the day before when, in conversation with the fellow beside me in the expanding masses, he stated he had come to Woodstock expressly to see the British band because he regarded Pete Townshend as a genius.
At that moment, I kept my derisive reaction to myself—’ The guy who wrote “Magic Bus?” ‘—and looking back, I am glad I did. I was very much in agreement with the guy by the time I heard an instrumental take on “Naked Eye:” My mouth was no doubt agape at the sight of the volatile guitarist leaping into the air with his instrument in the air above his head, outlined by the early dawn.
Because Townshend’s knocking Yippie Abbie Hoffman off the stage was a mystery at that point (the mid-set, on-stage scuffle occurred in total blackness), the now famous incident never crossed my mind as I took a deep breath and collected myself. At the same time, so many people departed from the stage area. Their exit made it all the easier for me to move closer, not just to accentuate my vantage point to the stage but also to find a scrap of tarpaulin on which to curl up and sleep.
Accordingly, it was dream-like indeed to hear the announcement of Jefferson Airplane taking the stage. And all the more so to hear Grace Slick, in her frizzy black hair and white leather outfit, so casually introduce the band as ‘the usual guys’ and then give an off-handed mention of Nicky Hopkins on piano; familiar as I was with this West Coast band, I was also well-aware of the latter’s name if not the elevated keyboard prowess I would come to note in no short order on recordings by the Rolling Stones, the Who and the Airplane itself (that fall’s Volunteers).
One of the longest sets of the festival ensued and thus afforded me plenty of time to reaffirm my genuine appreciation for this band. A wide range of material, including both their hits–“Somebody To Love” and “White Rabbit”–also featured a foreshadowing of Hot Tuna: guitarist Jorma Kaukonen sang “Uncle Sam Blues,” accompanied for all intents and purposes only by bassist Jack Casady and drummer Spencer Dryden.
It was a far cry from the ominous yet uplifting air of JA’s version of “Wooden Ships,” a song with which I was already familiar through its inclusion on the self-titled Crosby Stills and Nash debut I had purchased earlier that summer. It was even further removed from the appearance of the latter trio long after I caught my first glimpse of Joe Cocker, Blood Sweat & Tears, and The Band (whose brief set belied its depth–see the recording on an expanded two-CD package of their eponymous sophomore outing referred to as ‘The Brown Album’).
It was long (years) after that trio welcomed Neil Young to the stage that I realized my admiration of this ‘supergroup’ was rooted in the vacuum left by the dissolution of the Beatles. I was, however, objective enough to bristle at Graham’s overly-effusive introduction of Stephen and Neil as ‘Buffalo Springfield,’ but that moment–and the “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes” opener captured on film–remains my only discernible memory of their acoustic and electric sets (this brain fog no doubt due to weathering one more bout of rain).
As if in a fast-forward, my recollections skip to the Paul Butterfield Blues Band, during whose performance fatigue set into the point, I felt I was pushing myself hard to stay awake and alert. Imagine my surprise, then despair, when I heard Chip Monck’s stentorian voice as they left the stage, announcing the next act to be Sha Na Na; I was certainly aware Jimi Hendrix was the only remaining act to appear, yet I also sensed I couldn’t fully appreciate him in the ragged state I was in both physically and psychically.
So I began the ever-so-weary trudge back to where I thought I had departed the vehicle in which I had arrived with my two companions. I had seen neither of them since moments after arriving, after we patiently crawled along the road, passing long lines of cars parked in some proximity to Max Yasgur’s farm. In reality, I had no idea where I was going, an epiphany that might soon have hit me if I hadn’t all of a sudden heard a voice yelling, ‘Hey Collette!’.
Trundling right along past me in the car, the guys were kind enough to stop and let me jump in, blithely announcing, ‘We didn’t know where you were?’ Little other conversation comes to mind, though, as I slept more than a little soundly on the ride, my eyes opening only at the familiar sight of southern Vermont geography just outside my hometown.
At that point, a deep-seated sense of satisfaction had begun to set in. In retrospect (and hardly surprisingly), it’s much the same exquisite sensation that has arisen from memorable live music experiences ever since. But that gratification is altogether similar to that which I began to derive from writing, a practice that began in earnest during the autumn following the iconic festival.
Much to the regular (and vehement dismay) of my instructor in the college prep high school writing course, I consistently turned to music as the subject of those papers. In the meantime, I turned to composing prose as an abiding avocation, one that continued during my subsequent years at the University of Vermont, where my choices of topics met a more positive response: I vividly recall the A+ I received for a piece over which I had labored greatly (not surprisingly, devoted to the Who in concert at Tanglewood the summer of 1970).
The pair of abiding interest(s) continued to mesh and extend beyond that point. I always found an outlet for my analyses and observations in publications local, regional, and national. In retrospect, over a half-century later, I realize now that I had discovered a creative enterprise in writing that would, in turn, nurture a fully complementary way of appreciating music.
As I discovered with the passage of time, compiling insights and information in print was a pursuit just as self-renewing as following music and musicians the likes of whom I watched and listened to over a few summer days in upstate New York five and a half decades ago. Onward and upward, indeed!
