by Bob Spitz
“Look, Artie, it’s real fuckin’ important that we ice this shit quickly. How about Miles? Have you talked to him about his contacts?”
“Nah,” Artie whined. “He’s too fuckin’ soft when it comes to makin’ deals, man. I’m seein’ Paul Marshall about it tomorrow.” Marshall was Kornfeld’s personal attorney. “He’s a deal maker, a real son of a bitch. Fuck Miles.”
“Okay. Just get it movin’. And, Artie—don’t say too much to our other friends. You know those guys. They don’t know what the hell is goin’ down and are forever fuckin’ things up. I don’t need that right now. So keep it cool, okay?”
“You got it, m’man. Just between brothers.”
“Between brothers.”
• • •
The budget, by this time, had crept well beyond the $500,000 figure originally predicted by Michael and Artie back in February. Taking into consideration Mel Lawrence’s $600,000 operations estimate (which had since been pared to a more reasonable, although equally inaccurate, $175,000), a talent expenditure that had already exceeded $93,000 and was rising every time Lang picked up the phone, land transactions, money spent on lawyers, public relations, the dormant management of Train, offices and existing contracts with ten executives, a more realistic statement might well have put Woodstock Ventures Incorporated over the $1,200,000 mark in cash outlay.
Somewhere along the way, Roberts and Rosenman had lost touch—or were cunningly being prevented from remaining in touch—with their company’s transactions. The Woodstock Music and Art Fair grew up and around them and expanded into a financial monster that, all of a sudden, began squeezing the life out of their venture from all sides.
Roberts vacillated on a day-to-day basis between pulling the plug on the financial drain to consolidate his losses and giving the staff a vote of confidence by reinforcing the dwindling bank account with another generous advance from the Bank of North America. It was a decision that had to be made soon but was delayed by the realization that either way he approached this mess, he was bound to lose. And that was only the beginning of the nightmare from which he awoke each night twisted with anxiety. Artie and Michael were holding him securely by the shoulders as the Bank of North America burned to the ground. They were laughing hysterically, and as he tore loose and ran toward the inferno, he caught sight of a neon sign blinking in the building’s fiery glare; what remained of the sign said: WOODST.
6
Joel’s relationship with Michael and Artie was rapidly deteriorating. What had begun four months earlier as an uncomfortable, although promising, merger of dipolar attitudes had dwindled to impassive tolerance between them, severely hindering their once fluent channel of communications. Michael went out of his way to avoid putting in an appearance at the uptown office; the less he saw of his nemesis the better. Artie, for a while, just seemed to have evaporated into thin air. He, too, stopped coming into the office on a daily basis. It was assumed that Artie was scouting potential movie and record deals, but no apparent progress was being made in either direction and his absence aroused suspicion.
None of this was lost on Joel. He sensed their contempt and grew inhibited when they eventually came around. If he entered into a discussion with them, his words and thoughts became confused, never making their intended impact. He lost his former confidence, electing to feel that they had a clearly developed philosophy that elevated them to an ethereal understanding of what was and was not important in society; and every time Joel opened his mouth, he felt he was betraying himself as a person who was concerned only with petty issues.
He discussed this insecurity with John, who did everything in his power to allay his friend’s complex. “Why do you bother?” he asked Joel. “We’re mixed up with a bunch of bumbling children who just happened to get their hands on our money.”
But as the days passed, their displeasure with their associates was further provoked by stories that came filtering back to them through Stanley Goldstein, John Morris, and other downtowners: Lang was imparting specific orders to his staff that were contrary to their mutual business interests. Expense money was being squandered, often falling into the hands of people who had nothing at all to do with the festival, or was being used for the purchasing of pot and acid. Trips were being taken in limousines and helicopters as a means of entertainment or to impress those who hung out in the downtown office. One of the publicity firms handling the festival called John Roberts and requested that he “not make Kornfeld responsible for any press deadlines or, for that matter, anything. He is so spaced out, he has no idea what’s going on around him.”
Joel also began noticing changes in the way festival publicity was being released to the press. He and John had put Burrelle’s press clipping service on retainer. Each morning, an envelope would arrive from Burrelle’s containing the previous day’s clippings, and Joel would begin his morning reading them over coffee and danish. Pretty soon, he found that his and John’s names were being left completely off all press releases.
“Hey, get a load of this,” he called to John one morning while sorting through the envelope from Burrelle’s. He held up a mimeographed piece of paper and began reading. “ ‘The Woodstock Music and Art Fair has found a home this coming August 15, 16, and 17 in Wallkill, New York. Co-promoters Mike Lang and Artie Kornfeld announced today that . . .’ They’re all like that,” he said, paging through the packet on his lap. “‘Mike Lang and Artie Kornfeld, the festival’s producers announced . . .’ Looks like you and I have been ditched.”
“It’s probably just a mistake, Joel.”
“Not a chance, pal. It’s the same thing in each article and there are papers here from all over the country. ‘Mike Lang and Artie Kornfeld; Mike Lang and Artie Kornfeld . . .’ Someone’s pulling the ol’ behind-the-back switcheroo, and I’ll lay five to one with you that I know who’s behind it.”
John went through the remainder of the clippings and became as upset as his partner. “I don’t know what the hell they could gain from this. It’s like they think we’re fools, we won’t notice or something.”
Joel called Miles Lourie who cautiously warned them that after the festival was over, the show’s producers could write their own ticket for just about anything they wished. The fewer the producers, the fewer ways to slice up the post-performance rewards. But, he told them, the entire incident might be traced elsewhere, perhaps to publicity firms handling the Woodstock account who didn’t know any better. “You’d better check there first,” he advised.
A hasty call to Wartoke and Dick Gersh’s company confirmed Joel’s worst suspicions. He was told that two weeks before, Artie had called with instructions to delete Roberts and Rosenman’s names from further releases. According to Artie, the four partners agreed that it was in the festival’s best interests that the moneymen’s names not tarnish the festival’s unmaterialistic doctrine. No Establishment connections. “Michael told us that from now on only he or Artie was to approve each release before it was issued.”
Roberts and Rosenman were furious. “We must look like a buncha schmucks,” John said. “We’ve been bustin’ our humps to establish credibility as businessmen, telling each account we set up about our involvement with the festival, and the fucking New York Times carries a column announcing to the whole world that it’s Michael and Artie’s personal show. Christ, am I pissed off.”
Roberts telephoned Arnold Koppelson, the Challenge International lawyer who had done their work on Media Sound, and Koppelson said, “Fuck ’em, kill the deal.” He hadn’t trusted their association with Lang and Kornfeld from the very beginning. But Rosenman and Roberts thought about it, and decided that splitting up was too harsh a conclusion. They wanted to resolve the situation, not dissolve it.
By June 1, though, the very thought of Lang and Kornfeld working out of their sight was driving Roberts and Rosenman mad with suspicion.
At eleven o’clock that evening, John telephon
ed Michael and asked if he and Joel might meet with him to go over some mutual problems that needed their immediate attention. It was decided that they would get together around midnight at the Excellent Restaurant on Lexington Avenue, downstairs from their apartment.
Michael was half an hour late for the appointment, alluding to a traffic backup from Thirty-fourth Street down to the Village. He appeared relaxed; his eyes were limpid and guileless, and when he dropped into his seat, he seemed to curl up like a contented cat. Even while they sat there and watched Michael surrender to their soft impeachment, John and Joel knew they were defending a lost cause. Michael, merely by showing up, was in complete control of the mood; it was his masterful forte.
“How’s it goin’, guys?” he asked in a high-pitched, casual tone.
John folded his hands formally on the table and regarded Lang the way a personnel director interviews a prospective job applicant. “That’s what we’ve come to ask you, Mike.”
“Far out!” He seemed amused. “Well, shoot.”
Joel had something along that line in his mind.
John cleared his throat nervously. All of a sudden, he felt foolish. Especially glancing over at Lang’s expression of patience. Michael had succeeded in reducing the climate of the meeting to a fraternal get-together. “We, uh, seem to be seeing less of you lately,” he began.
Michael smiled. “Been busy.”
“Yeah, well, we’ve all been busy, Michael,” Joel said, “but it’s not that at all. What’s going on? You’ve got this downtown office and everything. You never come around to our place anymore. It’s like we don’t exist as a team.”
“That’s not true, man. We’re like the Four Musketeers, you, me, Joel, and Artie. We just gotta keep movin’ forward. Make the scene beautiful.”
Joel looked away. He saw Michael setting up his smokescreen and wondered how he was going to hold back his temper.
John tried to maintain their original direction. “Speaking of Artie, what’s he been up to lately? Has he been downtown with you?”
“Hey look, guys,” Michael said, waving his hands in front of his face, “my major problem is Artie.” John and Joel did a double take and fastened their stares directly on Michael. They were both stunned by his statement. “That’s why I took the downtown office in the first place—to get away from him. He fucks up everything he comes into contact with. I just can’t be around him.”
John felt his heart slip into his lap. They had suspected all along that Artie Kornfeld was incapable of handling responsibility but that Michael exercised some mystical power over him that brought about positive results and kept Artie in check. Either that, or Michael covered for him. Now, Michael was confirming their worst fears.
“Look, I love Artie like a brother, man. I owe him; he’s the dude who taught me all about the record business and gave my band a contract when I knew he never liked them. We hung out and had great times. But I’ve always known he was totally out of it when it came to gettin’ things done. You gotta do me a favor and keep him away from me.”
“What do you want us to do?” Joel asked sternly.
“I don’t know, man. Take the responsibility away from him. That way he’ll be harmless. If he gets involved, he’s sure to fuck everything up. You guys are gonna hafta handle it. I can’t deal with it. Whatever you decide to do is fine.”
“Maybe we should all sit down and talk things over with him,” John suggested.
“Oh no, man. I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t get through it. It’d kill Artie, too. You gotta understand, he’s like my brother.” Michael almost sounded convinced of it. “Just do me a favor and keep him away from me.”
“Well, it seems to me we’ve got to have a talk with Artie about his attitude and draw the line on his involvement,” Joel said. “It can’t go on like this; we’ve got too much at stake.”
John agreed. “Whaddya think, Mike? Should we approach him directly and say these things to him?”
“No, we couldn’t do that,” Lang protested. He seemed genuinely concerned for the first time that evening. “It’ll kill Artie, man. It’ll show him that we’ve lost confidence in him, and he’ll go to pieces.”
“That’s tough shit,” Joel said. “If we don’t talk to him, then the festival and all our other plans will go to pieces. We can’t allow Artie’s feelings to shoot that all to hell.”
“That’s right,” John said. “Someone’s gotta talk to him. How about it, Mike? Will you do it?”
“No, I told you, man. I couldn’t get through it. It looks like you guys’ll have to take care of it.”
The next afternoon, around 2:00, Joel observed Artie stealing into the office and caught up with him halfway down the hall.
“Hey Artie, got a minute?”
“Sure, baby, for you?—always. What’s shakin’?”
“Uh, why don’t we go into your office,” Joel offered. This promised to be difficult enough for him. He didn’t want to humiliate Artie by reprimanding him in front of the employees.
Inside Artie’s rainbow-colored domain, the two boys made themselves comfortable in the conference pit. Artie turned on the stereo and offered Joel a joint, which he waved off.
Joel proceeded to tell him about the conference with Michael and John the night before: They were unanimously agreed that Artie wasn’t performing his responsibilities up to par. The problem had to be reconciled before too much damage was done.
Artie’s face wilted as he listened. Later, he would tell a friend, “A piece of me died right then and there. I just couldn’t believe it.”
“I’m just the spokesman for the three of us, Artie,” Joel continued, “but I feel that way, too. It’s not a hopeless cause or anything. If you start coming into the office and doing your job, we can pull off the festival the way we originally planned it to be. Together. I’m sure it’s all going to work out.”
“I can’t believe it. I can’t fuckin’ believe my ears,” Artie moaned. “I always assumed I had it together. But what really gets me is that Michael said those things. Are you sure, man?”
Joel nodded.
“Wow, man, like—you know, we always had decent communications, him and me. I’d do anything for him. I thought that went both ways. But I’ll tell you the truth. I don’t think we can take any of this too seriously.”
“Whaddya mean?”
“What I mean is that Michael’s been dealin’ me the same story about you guys.”
“What?” Joel was startled.
“He told me to keep you guys out of his way. Dig it, man. He said, ‘If any of my cats gets a look at Joel and John, they’ll freak right out. They’re so fuckin’ unhip about everything. They just can’t get anything together.’ You know, something like that.”
“That son of a bitch!”
“Yeah. He’s doin’ a number on all of us, man.” Artie stood up. “We gotta stick together to make this thing work. Look, I want you to know that I can dig how hard it was for you to stroll in here and give it to me straight. You were the only dude with enough nerve to talk to both sides.” Artie put his arms around Joel and gave him a hug.
Joel stumbled out of Kornfeld’s office dumbfounded. He had gone into that meeting hoping to put Artie in his place once and for all. In fact, there had been a point in the proceedings the night before when he was relieved about what Michael told them; finally, he surmised, he could bank on his instincts with those two and not feel like he was out of touch with the culture. But now he saw the con game for what it was, with him, Artie, and John as the pieces to be moved in and out of place at Lang’s will.
“He’s more clever than I thought,” Joel brooded. “Now the game’s being played on a level on which I can participate as an equal.”
Later that afternoon, Joel relayed the minutes of his meeting with Artie to John who was no less thunderstruck by Michael’s audacity.
Another two hours passed before Lang strolled in humming. John cornered him in the reception area, immediately divulging the news that the Musketeers had compared notes and were beginning to doubt strongly the fourth’s loyalty to the cause.
Michael played dumb. He feigned not having the slightest idea what they were talking about. “I just want to get the gig done,” he offered.
John asked him to “define exactly what the fuck” he meant by that. Up until now, he had been fairly tolerant of Michael’s shifty tactics; there were times when they even amused him. This, however, was not one of them. He was not about to stand there and be lied to when everyone present (Artie and Joel had wandered into the room) knew the truth.
“It means I just want to get the gig done,” he echoed. John could sense he was getting nowhere, and only succeeding in raising his own blood pressure. “What’s the problem, man?”
The problem, he explained at the top of his voice, was that Michael’s juvenile games and office politics were destroying their trust in him. If he continued in the same way they would never “get the gig” or anything else done.
To everyone’s surprise, Artie interceded on Michael’s behalf. “Wait, man. I don’t think we’re being entirely fair to Michael. Seriously, I can dig what he’s saying.”
