by Bob Spitz
Goldstein reported back to Lang that he wasn’t quite sure how they were going to go about securing enough portable johns for a three-day event but, if it meant his digging a trench and covering it over with topsoil when it was full, Michael could count on his providing an adequate lavatory system. He also gave Lang a thumbnail sketch of his activities concerning sound and lighting and suggested to Michael that he hire someone to put all this information he was gathering to good use.
The problem of finding an operations chief had been Lang’s most immediate order of business. The candidate had to be familiar with the fundamentals of grand-scale concert production and able to commandeer the crew’s technical reins at the site; he also had to possess enough common sense and perspicacity to keep the locals at arm’s length. Lang had envisioned a concert tour manager filling the gap, but most, he found, had already committed themselves to tours extending through Labor Day or were vacationing and could not be reached. He had even toyed with the idea of dropping the entire predicament into Goldstein’s lap in the same manner one disposes of an unwanted child on a doorstep. He realized, however, that by doing so, he would only succeed in strangling his lifeline to the festival’s already heavily mortgaged heart. Lately, Michael had been experiencing pangs of doubt with regard to Goldstein’s ability to function smoothly under the gun. Stanley was the ideal “people-finder,” but when faced with a number of overlapping responsibilities, all of which were complex and laborious, Michael watched him “go off the wall, seeming only to be able to work in desperate situations.” Overloading Goldstein now was a serious mistake. Lang determined he would need at least one, if not two, other supervisors to assume the task, especially since time was becoming an important factor.
A few people had already put in their bids to control the show, including a jack-of-all-trades named Bert Cohen, who had worked on Michael’s Miami show to less than overwhelming reaction. Cohen told Lang that his firm, Concert Hall Publications, would gladly handle the staging, publicity, public relations, concessions, anything he wished; Lang was pretty sure that, for a price, Cohen would have also performed with a rock band as their talent as well as hung the wallpaper in the festival production office. But Lang was more interested in a specialist and informed Bert that there would be more than enough for his company to do in the near future without taking on such a load. In fact, Lang had been mulling over a suggestion of Goldstein’s that a friend of Stan’s named Mel Lawrence be considered for the omnipotent position. Lawrence had worked on several other festivals, had designed the grounds and supervised the building of those facilities, and proved himself an able administrator in all those capacities.
At the age of thirty-three, already extending well beyond the over-thirty demarcation that separated the Love Generation from those not to be trusted, Mel Lawrence was considered a “brother.” He carried himself with the ambiguity of a tireless revolutionary student able to communicate with faculty as well as the masses. Those who knew him well still found it difficult to believe Mel was a day over twenty-seven: trim, golden-brown from working under the western sun, and so easygoing. Mel, it was rumored, knew how to “hang out” better than kids half his age.
Mel Lawrence was, in fact, born Melvin Bernard Lachs in 1936, the son of a window-cleaning operator, who grew up in the Bay Parkway section of Brooklyn. After graduating from Lafayette High School in 1952, Lawrence attended Brooklyn College for a short time, electing speech therapy as his major area of concentration.
Six months later, though, he was back on the street with a diploma from the Church of Scientology. He had become a church auditor, assisting individual parishioners in locating their areas of spiritual distress and cleansing them. Armed with a Hubbard Electrometer—a little wooden box with two tin cans attached to either end by wires—he practiced “clearing” subjects by holding the tin cans to the person being purged of sins and repeating over and over again something as mundane as: “What did you do today?” When the needle on the e-meter finally registered no reading, it meant the subject was telling the truth, the person had been “cleared” of evil spirits.
Lawrence became one of church founder L. Ron Hubbard’s favorite disciples and, together, they explored the latter’s theory of dianetics, which dealt with the study of psychosomatic illnesses resulting from the “reactive mind.” However, in 1966, Hubbard resigned from his position as head of the church and, by that time, Lawrence found his best interests leading him elsewhere.
His destination, this time, was Hawaii. There Lawrence honed in on the first tremors of cultural faddism, and this time it appeared he had latched on to a winner. Joining a friend named Tom Rounds, Mel began doing radio work, progressive rock broadcasting, and in a relatively short period of time, he, Rounds, and two other associates became the sole rock and roll promoters in Honolulu, importing top attractions from the mainland.
In early June 1967, Lawrence and Rounds were hired to organize a spectacular radio promotion in the San Francisco area—a large outdoor concert designed to combine rock and roll with the Bay Area’s psychedelic ambience. “Intertwine all the colors of the culture into the show,” they were advised by their employers, “to represent what’s taking place with the kids today. Make them feel at home, as if the show belongs to them.” Called the Fantasy Fair and Magic Mountain Music Festival, it was put on as a benefit for the black community at Hunter’s Point for a nominal contribution of two dollars per person. Amazingly, and quite unexpectedly, forty-five thousand people stormed the gates to see an eclectic roster of bands including the Jefferson Airplane, Dionne Warwick, the Fifth Dimension, and the Grateful Dead. Musical lines had not yet been drawn between progressive and pop sounds, and a number of styles blended harmoniously in the spirit that carried this first rock and roll festival.
The word “festival” soon began cropping up in every active promoter’s vocabulary. Festivals were loosely defined as venues held in stadiums or racetracks; some of the more adventurous showmen were even considering beach shows where capacity was, for all intents and purposes, unlimited. By clustering several popular acts on the bill, a festival could send the box office profits soaring beyond anyone’s wildest expectations. The industry joke was that some ambitious promoter should negotiate for the right to rope off the state of Maine or, better yet, to fly a group over the United States and to charge an entertainment tax to anyone who looked up at the sky. The market was an agent’s dream.
Monterey Pop, Atlanta, Atlantic City—the festival sites became overnight bywords of nirvana for the hippie masses. And Lawrence and Rounds were on hand for most of the big ones.
In the fall of 1968, having moved their base of operations to Los Angeles, Rounds and Lawrence were contacted by radio station mogul Bill Drake to produce a pop festival at the Gulfstream Racetrack in Miami.
Practically every rock act with a gold record was signed to appear there: the Grateful Dead, Iron Butterfly, Canned Heat, the Turtles, Richie Havens, Chuck Berry, Joni Mitchell, Marvin Gaye, Steppenwolf, Paul Butterfield, Flatt and Scruggs, Country Joe and the Fish, Buffy Sainte-Marie, Fleetwood Mac, John Mayall, Jose Feliciano, and fourteen others with burgeoning reputations. It was to be held on three successive days—December 28, 29, and 30, 1968, when the Florida beaches were teeming with college vacationers—and forecast phenomenal wealth for the promoters.
With only two months to go, however, Drake pulled out, citing the rising $280,000 production cost as an omen of runaway escalation. Not having that kind of money in their possession and thinking $280,000 just about all the money there was in the world, they called a stockbroker acquaintance in San Francisco in the hope that he might know where some money was just lying around collecting dust.
“Who is your funkiest, hippest, craziest client whom you think would be willing to risk about three hundred grand on a rock festival about to take place in two months’ time?” Rounds asked. Without hesitation, the stockbroker replied, “Tom Driscoll,” and a shidduc
h was made. Driscoll backed them with unconditional support.
Miami Pop, as their festival came to be known, was somewhat less than spectacular. The college kids, they found, could not be pried away from the beaches as they had hoped, and they were only moderately supported by the small youth population that remained in Miami during the height of the tourist season. Instead of taking a purse of $750,000 back to Los Angeles to wave in Bill Drake’s face as they had hoped, they were fortunate to break even.
Tom Rounds thought they were lucky enough to escape Miami with their heads intact. From the very start, he and Lawrence had been apprehensive about security measures. The producers were afraid that a police presence would ignite an already explosive situation. But Miami insisted: no cops, no concert—it was as simple as that. Driscoll, the newest partner, was referred to Chief of Police George Emerick of the Hallendale Police Department to resolve the matter, although nothing moved quite as expeditiously as they wished. Emerick himself was under indictment at the time, and getting him to devote his time exclusively to a rock festival was something of a joke. As the festival drew dangerously close, Emerick finally consented to provide two hundred uniformed men to police the three-day event, and it all went down without incident. But battle lines had been drawn between the kids and the police, and more than a few times an hour, either Rounds or Lawrence had overheard a cop elucidate his wish to “break a few of those long-haired hippie skulls.” The cops were merely waiting for their first available opportunity to step into the fray.
They got their chance soon enough—although it came to them in a somewhat more civilized and subdued manner than they had hoped. After Miami Pop, the promoters applied for another license to hold a concert at Gulfstream and were granted one by the Hallendale city government. A few days later, though, on March 2, 1969, Jim Morrison of the Doors was arrested for indecent exposure on a Miami stage. The Miami Herald picked up the story and sent it out on the wire services, crusading against the “dangers” instilled in contemporary youth by rock music, lambasting rock concerts, which exposed kids to drugs and sex, and making a strong plea that it should never be allowed to happen again in Miami. The city government sympathized with the Herald’s hysteria and revoked Lawrence, Round, and Driscoll’s license for their repeat performance. Pretty soon, the city’s “dignitaries” jumped on the bandwagon. On March 23, 1969, Jackie Gleason and Anita Bryant staged a Rally For Decency at the Orange Bowl sponsored by the Greater Miami Youths For Christ. Thirty thousand people, half of them adults, turned out in support and heard a teen-ager read from the stage a letter of support from President Richard Nixon who professed that “This is a very positive approach . . .” But the promoters were one step ahead of the fanatics. In a moment of divine wisdom, they had allied themselves with the Greater Miami Youths For Christ as their front for “musical piety.” With that group’s aid, they picketed the Hallendale City Hall, asking for restoration of their license, and it was granted. But the three men, while exulting over their victory, pledged to be mindful of their public image in the community’s reproachful eye. To that end, they milked any available publicity, including commendations they had received for the architectural aesthetics of the festival site.
While in preproduction for Miami Pop, Mel Lawrence had fashioned an artistic environmental concept to suit the natural lines of the land. He had hired a crew of students and teachers from the University of Miami’s art department to produce natural stone formation sculpture and to construct playgrounds from wood debris found in the area. It enhanced the festival atmosphere immensely and was written up in several periodicals, one, in particular, congratulating the promoters for “their daring architectural concepts and life-sized sculptures that dressed the grounds with more care than most of those in attendance showed toward attiring themselves.”
One such person impressed by Lawrence’s festival design was the bearded sound engineer from nearby Criteria Sound Studios, who had been dispatched to the site to record the show. Stanley Goldstein observed Mel Lawrence’s performance at Miami Pop with the same outward admiration he expressed for the other coming-of-age professionals who worked there—like Bert Cohen and Chip Monck, the stage and lighting consultants. He recognized that the demand for such expertise in the rock concert market was greater than it had ever been before and knew it would only be a matter of time before they all worked together again on a related project with more encouraging results.
• • •
Lawrence needed little prodding from Michael Lang to bring his partners to New York City to look over the Woodstock Music and Art Festival plans. Lang had hinted at the possibility of making the show a joint effort between Woodstock Ventures and Lawrence’s production firm. It sounded to Lawrence to be “one helluva undertaking” that he “couldn’t afford to pass up if Lang’s hype was on the level.” He had been told that the festival budget would adequately compensate them for their expenses and, he explained to his partners, they might even walk away holding on to the deed of what appeared to be the largest festival yet. It had been four months since Miami Pop, and he thought they could stand a little excitement for the coming summer months. Lawrence phoned Lang back and said they would arrive in New York during the second week in April.
They disembarked at Kennedy International Airport on April 12.
The next morning, in surging rain, a caravan of limousines left the Plaza Hotel and transported Tom Rounds, Mel Lawrence, Tom Driscoll, Bill Hanley, Goldstein, and Lang north along the deserted Palisades Parkway toward Orange County.
On the way over, Tom Rounds asked Michael how many people he was preparing for. Without batting an eyelid, Lang replied, “Half a mill’—at least.”
“It’ll never work at that size, Mike,” Rounds objected. “You cannot possibly entertain that many people at one time even if you squeeze them all in. The crowd scale is too big for a festival to be effective. I don’t think you’re being reasonable.”
“It’ll work, man,” Lang insisted, smiling. “I got it all worked out. You’ll see.”
By the time they had arrived, Rounds’s enthusiasm for getting involved with Woodstock Ventures and its proposed festival in August had waned considerably. He was not too keen on Lang’s concept of responsibility and saw a major conflict looming in the distance over that very point. Michael’s intentions were clear to Rounds; he wished to create a colossal happening regardless of the practicality or business advantages. Either way, Lang would profit, and that was not Rounds’s cup of tea.
Lawrence immediately liked the way the site looked. He didn’t allow himself to get overly excited in front of the others, but as they walked over the property, he pointed out that “the land was manageable despite the roads being in only fairly good condition. If the state moved its ass and got the bridge and repair work [that was in progress] completed in time, we can get trucks in to deliver the necessary materials for putting this thing together.”
Back in New York, the California Connection approached Lang with their proposal. They needed insurance. Rounds and Driscoll asserted that the likelihood of the festival ever coming off was slim from what they had seen. Michael was going to have to make it worth their while for them to chance coming in with him. A figure had been decided upon, Rounds said. They wanted a nonrefundable guarantee of fifty thousand dollars apiece up front as a consulting fee and an additional five percent of the box office gross.
Michael drew out a breath, smiled and shook his head. “No way,” he said softly. “You guys aren’t even in the ballpark.”
Toward the end of the day, Michael cornered Mel in his hotel room with a definite proposition. “Unload these dudes and come to work for me. They’re not happenin’, man, and you know it. You can do a lot of small-time Miami Pop shows, but mine’s gonna make history. I got the bread, and I’ll make it worth your while.”
“I’d like to,” Mel confessed, “but Driscoll and Rounds . . . we’ve been through a lot together.”
“Time to move on.”
“Yeah, I know, man. It sounds like an incredible thing, Woodstock. But I’ll feel like a schmuck deserting them.” Mel looked Michael in the eye. “How much you offerin’?”
Michael smiled. “How does seven grand sound for three months’ work?”
“Make it eight and you got a deal.”
They shook hands. Michael had his chief of operations.
6
Miles Lourie had been nagging both Roberts and Rosenman to cement their relationship with the Town of Wallkill if they indeed intended putting the festival on the Mills property. He suggested that they approach the town council with a formal application to hold a public gathering within the town’s limits as soon as possible. “Just get it over with so we can all breathe a little easier,” Miles advised. Granted it might very well open a can of worms, but it would make it a lot easier on everyone concerned with the festival if they knew where they stood with the town now rather than to have to contend with difficulties as the date closed in.
Through a Middletown attorney they had placed on retainer to represent them locally, John and Joel made an appointment to confront the Wallkill Zoning Board of Appeals on Friday afternoon, April 18, at four o’clock. After a brief debate between their consciences and their best interests, they chose to make the trip without Michael and Artie.
• • •
Until 1966, the Wallkill Zoning Board of Appeals and the town council held their monthly meetings in the town’s small battery of firehouses. These were more akin to gatherings of friends and family than political meetings. Because of the growth that was providing towns and villages with metropolitan-sized headaches, firehouse caucuses rapidly became history. They could no longer accommodate the growing population and its corresponding problems, and Wallkill was no exception. The town was booming and it needed room to move.
