Barefoot in Babylon

by Bob Spitz

  By May 28, Lawrence had developed a rough first draft of his checklist. It ran nearly four typewritten pages in length and was limited to generalized headings that would have to be broken down further into specific assignments. That would come with time, after he and Lang had had a chance to assess each major division of their crew, after theories had been tested and retested. But for now, just seeing the outlined scope of his mission on paper was enough to jolt Lawrence’s presence of mind. Coming into this project, Mel had allowed himself to become imbued with the festival spirit, assuming responsibility with a capricious, offhand enthusiasm. It was the attitude of the hour. Everyone shared it. The checklist, though, provided a mild sedative to the fun. It resembled a complicated city planning brief and, in a funny way, it frightened him. He, like the rest of the executive staff, was an optimist when it came to putting together a show, but the checklist—its depth was awesome. It extended far beyond the limits of a music spectacle, beyond show business itself. They were implementing plans for an entire life support system capable of servicing hundreds of thousands of kids.

  The checklist defined what Mel had dubbed the Designation of Area Responsibilities—a written treaty of sorts that divided operational responsibilities between him and John Morris. Lawrence would have overall control of the festival grounds; Morris would handle functions pertaining to the area immediately around the stage: performer and production facilities, personnel to operate transportation for performers between the hotels and the site, backstage security (to be coordinated with whomever Stan Goldstein eventually selected for that position), and the construction, materials, method, and crew for the building of the stage.

  Lawrence’s first concern had to do with finding accommodations for performers and staff. Performers were Lang and Morris’s worry; his more immediate problem was where to quarter several dozen crew members due to be hired and to begin work in a week’s time for a period of two months. Hotels were scratched as being too expensive, and no one wanted to be the one to tell a squadron of tired, sweaty workers that they had to camp out in tents after completing a ten-hour shift of heavy labor. Luckily, as a teen-ager, Mel had spent his summers working as a busboy in the Catskills resort hotels; the area surrounding Wallkill was like a second home to him. From what he remembered, the countryside was also cluttered with family-run bungalow colonies—smaller, less luxurious inns that catered to middle-class Jewish families on a budget. Most of them had died out in the early sixties, a consequence of the shift to the nuclear family. The ones that survived were half filled and starving for business. With a little imagination, those very colonies could provide an answer to his housing problem. He made a notation on the checklist to have Penny Stallings ride around the Catskills scouting bungalow colonies that would not be averse to a hippie work force mingling with its guests. Beneath that, he jotted down: (a) staff trailers, (b) food, (c) laundry, (d) housekeeping, (e) transportation. It was Lawrence’s idea to organize a self-contained staff operation in order that site construction would be everyone’s primary interest once the move north was made.

  Transportation, being the second area of concern on the checklist, was subdivided into: commercial vehicles, buses, trains, and airplanes. Lawrence knew from experience that the situation demanded several types of vehicles to be on hand at the site. They would need to rent pickup trucks for transporting raw materials and supplies, station wagons as escort vehicles to take performers to and from hotels. One patch of land near where he intended to erect the stage was marshy and called for a road to be built through the bog, in which case they would need a swamp buggy. He added that to the list and put question marks in front of “horses” and “Hondas”; they were just “far-out thoughts,” but he had made up his mind to check into rental costs anyway. The only other vehicles he thought they would need were approximately twenty courtesy cars for the staff and hired escorts, which they could probably rent in some kind of package deal from Hertz or Avis.

  Bus and train scheduling was no problem once he was in possession of the schedules, but air transportation was tricky because it meant obtaining permits from the Federal Aviation Agency if they wished to use private planes for importing performers. There was a small airfield just outside of Middletown, and Mel decided to check with officials to determine the feasibility of landing planes there from Philadelphia, Boston, Chicago, and Los Angeles. There were also certain restrictions governing the landing of helicopters, a number of which he planned to have on hand in case of emergencies. He didn’t think it would be too much trouble bringing helicopters into the Middletown airport; however, he also wanted to ascertain the laws regarding the building of a heliport right there on the Mills site. He made a note of that, and added a reminder to get “information on gliders and balloons”; this was going to be a festival, and the very definition of the word called for special effects to put the audience in the right mood. When he found time, he would look into the mechanics for assembling a tremendous helium-filled balloon to hover over the crowd.

  Sanitation, in Lawrence’s words, was “going to be a bitch.” It represented the lengthiest and most complex section of his checklist and had to be strictly adhered to lest “it turn the site into a stinking sewer.” Beneath its heading, the first item on the agenda—and perhaps to become his biggest headache—was the boldface caption: Health Department. Lawrence had worked with health department officials at his previous festivals and found them to be either excruciatingly difficult nit-pickers whose white glove inspections could unnecessarily delay the show, or men who, for the right price, looked the other way when it came to infractions. There was such a conglomeration of health-related details that any single minuscule item could put a stop to the show’s ever being held. So, right up front, Lawrence knew that he and the county inspector would be dealing in trivialities and would have to reach some kind of agreement on how they would compromise. Each side would relinquish certain elements in its specifications to gain an advantage in others. It was an annoying game in which he wished he didn’t have to participate. First things first, though; he would have to get a copy of the Orange County Health Code so they could conform as much as time permitted to the local ordinances while preparing for the show.

  He knew that the amount of health precautions they’d have to take into consideration would be as boundless as the sea. A hundred thousand kids sitting on a field for three days—“it could turn into a fuckin’ mess,” he told Lang. There would have to be an unlimited abundance of food and toilets as well as an enormous supply of water, all of which were vulnerable to disease-producing organisms. “We’re gonna have to think of everything to combat those problems, and it’s gonna take a small fortune to do it. No fuckin’ around where that’s concerned. We can’t take any chances.” Lang reassured him the money was available and told him to get anything he needed to do the job effectively.

  Lawrence made subheadings under “Sanitation.” The first, “Performance Area,” included having Goldstein check with the Pentagon in Washington, D.C., to observe how the U.S. Army handled waste and portable toilets when they were on field maneuvers. If they were lucky, the army would convey to him a list of distributors from whom they could rent a huge quantity of portable facilities for the festival. If not, Lawrence made a note to look into building their own and, beneath that, left a reminder to have someone check into costs for the construction of latrine-type wooden bathroom frames and the price of chemicals necessary for waste decomposition. They would need the same for the campgrounds, so it had to be a solid, effective method of disposal which could be transported into a wooded area.

  “Sanitation” also included “Clean-Up.” He’d designate someone on the staff, probably Goldstein again, to put out feelers for a carting concern to come in after the event and get rid of the inevitable mountain of garbage. That included the wood from the frame of the disassembled stage, lighting towers, and concession booths. Before that, they would have to provide recepticles for policing the
area before and during the shows. At other shows he had done, they used fifty-five-gallon cans and upright trash containers with PUSH swinging lids. But those overflowed as quickly as they were moved into position. They’d have to find someone in the upstate New York area who had enough on hand to get them through the weekend or else they’d run into trouble early. Either way, it had to be done. And he’d have to hire a proportionate number of trucks to pick them up, empty them, and compact the trash intermittently throughout the weekend.

  Concessions had always been the primary source of filth at Lawrence’s other promotions; spoiled food and wrappers were strewn across the grounds without regard for health ordinances or announcements from the stage. It was an uncomfortable kind of mess and, he knew, by the third day the discarded waste would become rancid, especially if it was a warm weekend. This time, he’d attempt to alleviate some of his staff’s responsibility by having Miles Lourie include a clause in the contract with a food emporium that legally required them to keep the area tidy. There were other points he knew he’d come across for inclusion on his “Sanitation” file but, for now, the only other thing he jotted down was a reminder to check with the health department for standards pertaining to water storage and drainage. All he needed to find out after the festival was that they had polluted the county’s streams! That was one disaster he wanted to avoid from the very start.

  The notes under the heading “Construction” were few and consisted mainly of names. Mel had reached an agreement with Bill and Jean Ward, from the art department of the University of Miami, to supervise ground clearing and beautifying the land. He’d also asked Bill Ward to assume the job of construction foreman. The young husband and wife team would be bringing a small crew of art students along with them and were scheduled to arrive during the first week of June. Lawrence had also met a man at the Miami Pop Festival named John Levitt and asked him to form a work crew to assist the Wards; when Levitt responded affirmatively, Lawrence added his name to the list. He also penciled in the name of Boyd Elder. Mel had met Elder in California and thought him to be one of the finest sculptors he had ever seen. He convinced Elder to fly out and to create giant sculptures along the paths and also to supervise the building of a playground from fallen trees taken from Mills’s orchard that was to include swings, see-saws, monkey-bars, and environmental rides. Elder would be designated in charge of environment.

  The field area would need a considerable amount of electrical primping, which Lawrence grouped under the heading “Electricity.” The first thing he noted there was to have Chip Monck mimeograph some forms to simplify requests for power. They would be distributed to everyone involved with the festival requiring electricity for their area of concentration, and that way Mel would know exactly how much power was required and where to bring in lines when he hired an outside contractor to do the job. They’d need juice going to the stage area for sound, lights, and backstage accoutrements (such as a self-service elevator to lift the performers and crew onto the stage). They’d also need power for lights on the perimeter fences, on trees, and on poles to define access and area. The campground was totally unimproved land, and it needed a primary source tapped in, as did the designated parking lots. Because the festival would continue throughout the night, alternate lighting would be required in every feasible sector where kids might wander.

  Parking had a separate heading all its own. It was not complete, as Lawrence still didn’t have a plan worked out to his satisfaction on how to get a hundred thousand kids a day onto and off the site. He did know, however, that he’d need machinery for grading, rolling, and leveling the parking lots. He’d also have to mark parking spaces with a device similar to the one used to line football fields—a machine on wheels that releases lime every few feet. The only additional notation under “Parking” was a reminder for someone to price stanchions and rope enough to block off specific areas so that people wouldn’t drive into the parking lot from different angles.

  Concession stands weren’t an immediate problem inasmuch as Lawrence would eventually contract a professional to bring in a seasoned operation—someone like Howard Johnson’s or Nathan’s—and the layout would be up to their discretion. Lang had flown in a friend from Florida named Peter Goodrich to look into concessions, and he was presently screening those corporations with fast-food divisions about taking on the account. But Lawrence would ultimately have to make sure that booths were built and ample power was brought into that area for cooking and refrigeration. The arts and crafts exhibits also came under “Concessions” and here Lawrence’s only note was to have Miles Lourie draw up a set of rules for exhibitors that gave quality control to the festival staff. One thing he wanted to be absolutely sure of was that they would not be exhibiting a lot of amateur junk.

  This version of the checklist was still a long way from being complete. Aside from reminders to check on available water lines with Howard Mills and to call the telephone company regarding the installation of equipment so they would have public and staff service at various points in the field, Lawrence was convinced that a lot of pertinent information had been overlooked. He would add pages to the dossier as time progressed and, by the time the show began, his checklist would resemble the Middletown telephone directory.

  • • •

  That afternoon, after running off several copies of his budget and distributing them to the rest of the production office staff for analysis, Mel met with Lang in a coffee shop below the office to review the estimates.

  “It’s pretty steep,” he warned Michael, spreading out the outline on the counter amidst coffee and rolls. “I’d say judging from what I’ve got on these pages and enough to cover us for additional expenses that’re bound to crop up—roughly six hundred grand.”

  Lang arched his eyebrows and blew out a noiseless whistle.

  “That much, huh?”

  “At least. I’ve really gotta see what it looks like when I get up there. We might find out that it’s gonna take a lot more than what we thought to get that place into shape. From what I remember about it, Mills has really dug it up to shit. We may hafta put in a road or two, which’ll push the budget up another hundred thou’ or so. I’m not sure.” He looked at Lang’s surprised reaction. “You want me to see if we can trim it, cut a few corners?”

  “Nope. If it takes six hundred big ones, well—just get it on. I don’t want to cut corners. Not now. Hell, we got the land, the staff, and we’re well on our way to getting the acts. Then, none of this’ll matter. You’ve got my okay. Just get it on.”

  5

  Getting it on was, indeed, becoming a basis for some concern. The month of May was rapidly drawing to a close. At the most, not taking into consideration rain days and other unavoidable delays, they had two and a half months left to complete preparations and to work everything into a semblance of reasonable decorum. At that rate, there wasn’t a moment to waste.

  On May 27, Lang confirmed with the festival’s new public relations firm, the Wartoke Concern, a press release stating that the production staff for the Woodstock Music and Art Fair was now completed. In two-sentence paragraphs, it said that “Chris Langhart, Keith O’Connor, Stanley Goldstein, and Jerry Pompili (another Fillmore worker brought in at the last minute to help Chip) completed the staff of production executives . . . for the two-day contemporary music and arts festival being held in Wallkill, New York, on August 16 and 17 [they had decided to spring the third day on the unsuspecting public in a future press release to maximize their domination of available space]. Heading the production staff for Woodstock Ventures, Inc., under the direction of Executive Producer Michael Lang, are Production Coordinator John Morris; Production Manager Chip Monck; and Head of Operations [a title formerly used to describe Goldstein] Mel Lawrence.” Michael had approved the release by scrawling his name across the top of the original document. No mention was made of John, Joel or Artie.

  • • •

  The next afternoon,
May 28, Lang called Kornfeld at the uptown office to tell him that he had snagged the Incredible String Band and Indian sitarist Ravi Shankar for $4,500 each.

  “Far out!” Artie sang into the receiver. “They’ll be dynamite to open the evening’s shows, soft, moody. Yeah, man! It’s really shapin’ up, huh?”

  Michael laughed. “Yup. It’s outta sight, baby. Really outta sight. It’s a fuckin’ groove. We got enough top acts to keep the place shakin’ for a good two days, and I think I’m starin’ a couple of the biggies right in the face. There’s a pretty good chance of grabbin’ the Who, and some dude says he can get me in to see Dylan.”

  “Holy shit! Can you imagine havin’ Dylan? Oh man!”

  “He’s in Middletown campin’ out at his doctor’s.” Lang was referring to Dr. Ed Thayler who had been nursing Dylan back to health after a motorcycle accident a few months earlier in Nashville. “And I’m still workin’ on Hendrix, BS&T, and the Moodies. Even fuckin’ Joan Baez. Manny Greenhill’s playin’ hard mother for her and Arlo, but he’ll come around. We got a ways to go yet, and I got my fingers crossed for a few more groups to fall. No sweat our fillin’ three days.”

  “You’re too much, baby.”

  “Thanks. How you doin’ on seein’ about a film deal? Any luck?”

  “Nothin’ yet, but I’m workin’ on it.”

  Artie had been given the assignment of negotiating subsidiary rights deals with record and film companies. Lang was convinced that once such arrangements were made and they had tangible advances from the respective companies, Roberts and Rosenman would sleep a lot easier knowing their investment was being recouped. And more important, they would stay off his back.