by Bob Spitz
The article quoted Goldstein as saying that certain members of the staff were setting out to contact the residents of Scotchtown to “reassure them we are doing everything in the right way. We want to be good neighbors . . . not just dump twenty thousand people out here. We will answer any questions about the festival and will do all we can to make sure no one is upset by our festival plans.” Goldstein tried to accrue a little sympathy to offset some of the staff’s anticipation. “It is regrettable,” he went on, “that there are already rumors and fears. We will hire experienced people to direct the festival . . . people who know what they are doing.” He identified the Reverend Don Ganoung, Wes Pomeroy, and Mel Lawrence, giving brief descriptions of their respective qualifications. When asked by the reporter to identify any of the principals from Woodstock Ventures, Goldstein offered only: “Mike Lang of Florida.”
The remainder of the article was devoted to a listing of the acts already committed to appearing on the bill and included heretofore undisclosed names such as the Moody Blues (who had not yet signed a contract), Crosby, Stills and Nash, and the Iron Butterfly.
Goldstein was not completely satisfied with the story’s appearance. While it might serve to pacify some of their opponents, he knew it would undoubtedly aggravate others. That morning, he telephoned Lang and asked him to get Ganoung and Pomeroy up to the site as fast as possible. He considered it of utmost importance that Ganoung slap on his collar, visit with anyone in the community voicing displeasure over their presence, and solicit their advice in lieu of action. Michael informed him that Ganoung was due to arrive in Wallkill within a few days’ time and “not to get uptight about it.” The whole thing, he contended, would blow over in a few days’ time.
A headline, though, in the next edition of the Times Herald Record substantiated Goldstein’s prudent state of alarm. In bold, black screaming letters, the paper announced: WALLKILL FACTION GIRDS TO BLOCK FOLK FESTIVAL. According to the paper’s account, a residents’ group and town officials were joining hands to rewrite the Aquarian Exposition’s horoscope. It included a vague interview with Town Supervisor Jack A. Schlosser, who expressed concern for the safety of town residents and vowed to propose new legislation to protect his constituents from “the various things that might occur” [at the festival].” Some definite action was promised at a town board meeting scheduled for later that evening. “I don’t oppose anything like this in principle,” Schlosser hedged, “if the promoters can meet all safety requirements.” From the administrator’s insinuating tone, it was clear the august town board would see to it that that would be highly unlikely.
If that was not disheartening enough, the article went on to identify the self-appointed spokesman of a “citizens’ ad hoc committee” opposing the festival as Richard Dow, also of Scotchtown. Dow was quoted as saying, “We do not want 20,000 of those hippie-type people in the area. A hippie influx into the city of Boston last summer caused a large increase in hepatitis, venereal disease, and drug abuse.”
Goldstein was flabbergasted. How could anyone attack something they knew absolutely nothing about? he wondered. Stanley read the article to Lang over the phone and told Michael of his plan to represent Woodstock Ventures at the town council meeting later that night. Lang agreed. Goldstein was impressive in front of a crowd. He could deal with all types of people and was eloquent. He could conceivably quench the heated Wallkill temperaments before they erupted. Michael’s appearance there could only produce added stress in a situation that was already coming apart at the seams. “Take along as many blueprints as you can, man. Those cats love people who look official.” Goldstein said he had already borrowed the topographical maps Mel had drawn for his crews and would “wave them around for the politicos.”
“We got a visitor down here this morning who you might also want to take along with you,” Michael said more cheerfully. Don Ganoung had arrived, and not a day too soon.
2
In his mid-forties, Don Ganoung was a hippie lost-child grown-up, an amalgamation of every Damon Runyon character whose life bordered on delinquency but whose salvation was his heart. Ganoung had a heart and wore it proudly on his sleeve. He was an imposing individual, a hulking, six-foot-three-inch titan. His features, however, were softened by pearl-white hair, a dense beard to match, and sad, compassionate eyes. Those who knew him intimately, and even those who were merely introduced, were taken by his graceful, almost poetic approach to life; he could quote from the Scriptures and Dylan in the same sentence and possessed the ability to bore straight through to the emotional source of a man’s soul. But for all his sagelike bearing and being a man of the cloth, Ganoung was a self-confessed rascal like the others.
“A lusty man,” was how Wes Pomeroy described his friend. Pomeroy had first encountered Don Ganoung in San Francisco when the latter was a parole officer in Alameda County, a neighboring district off Pomeroy’s turf. “He had a deep commitment to religion, was one of the most religious men I’ve ever known,” Pomeroy recalled, “but he liked to raise a little hell every now and then, and Don could do that just about as well or better than anyone around.”
Ganoung’s ministry was in San Francisco’s run-down Patrero district where religion had all but disappeared in the early 1960s. Poverty had usurped faith and, in an attempt to keep religious spirit alive in the Patrero, Ganoung combined three failing congregations, took over the Good Samaritan Settlement House on the peninsula, and immediately did away with Sunday services. Don took the practical approach. He organized a get-together at “Good Sam” each Wednesday night and played on the people’s guilt to get them to attend. Wednesday mornings he would buy a few bottles of wine and a loaf of bread for the sacraments, and the people chipped in for food, for they all ate together after a short prayer service.
Ganoung’s intentions went beyond pure religion. Because of his congregation’s low post on the social ladder, he was determined to educate them as to ways of elevating their lives. In the wooden pews, where one expected to find hymnals, Ganoung would place literature on subjects like birth control and social service agencies. He brought in minority leaders from the community to speak about things that affected them directly. Pomeroy remembers first hearing the words “black power” there at a time when racial pride was soft-pedaled as heresy. But the Wednesday night gatherings were far from solemn affairs. After dinner, there was lots of singing. People were encouraged to forget their troubles for an evening and to enjoy the pleasures that were still, and would always be, theirs. Ganoung led the revelry. “He couldn’t sing worth a damn,” Pomeroy said, “but he walked around smiling at his people, bellowing at the top of his voice. He wanted to convince them he was just like every one of them.”
He was, indeed. Don Ganoung, like the blacks, Puerto Ricans, and South Sea Islanders who came to his church, was a mere mortal. When Pomeroy called him to find out about his interest in joining up with Woodstock, Ganoung was having marital difficulties and had only recently licked a drinking problem. In the long run, he, too, would profit from the festival’s doctrine of fellowship, and without hesitation, he told Pomeroy he would arrange for a leave of absence and fly to Wallkill.
On June 12, Goldstein and Ganoung entered the paneled public assembly room of the Wallkill Town Hall a few minutes past seven o’clock and had difficulty finding a pair of seats together. The room was never more than a quarter full for most meetings. Now, it was jammed with people of all ages who had presumably come to express their opinions concerning the coming of the Woodstock Music and Art Fair.
Goldstein had called Town Supervisor Schlosser’s office earlier in the day and, without much difficulty, had his and Ganoung’s names inserted into the evening’s agenda, which provided them with the opportunity to defend themselves against any opposition should that be necessary. As he took his seat near the back of the room, Goldstein had become convinced that his addressing the mob of citizens was inevitable. The agitated crowd was growing more impatient with each passing min
ute, and all because of one threatening word: festival. Their work was cut out for them before they even opened their mouths.
Jack Schlosser, a beefy, tenacious man with a biting disposition, entered the room carrying a manilla ledger a few minutes before the meeting’s seven-thirty starting time. Neither Goldstein nor Ganoung had any idea of what to expect from him, although the supervisor’s obstinacy was no secret. It was said that Schlosser’s manner was curt and his temper equally abrupt; if one wished to make a contradicting point in his presence, it had better be louder and more vehement than his own.
That attitude was, perhaps, what had sustained Schlosser’s appointment as supervisor in an oppositional town for so long a time. He had been elected in 1961, the first Democrat ever to hold that post in a staunch Republican stronghold. His overwhelming victory had come about from the uncovering and exposing of a political favoritism scheme some months before. He ran for election not so much to forge a career in politics as to put up such a good fight that the Republicans would be forced to clean house and put some law-abiding men into office. Within months, though, he found himself occupying a position in need of a strict constitutionalist and a strong arm; he had become, in effect, the presiding official in the town of Wallkill and he intended to exercise his power to bring about change in what had become known as an antiquated New York bedroom community.
Schlosser learned quickly. In his first term of office, he had managed to obtain a half-million dollars in federal aid for construction of Wallkill’s first public sewer system, established a lower tax basis to attract industry, thus lowering unemployment, and reorganized the fire protection services that established Wallkill’s independence from the city of Middletown. Those refinements had not come about without long and drawn-out battles contesting Schlosser’s actions. But they were nothing, he imagined, compared to what this festival business promised to bring him. He was not looking forward to it.
Schlosser’s first order of business that night had to do with the rezoning of certain areas of Wallkill township. After that had been taken care of, he shuffled a few papers and noted the time. “There’s been a lot of jabbering about this rock folk festival that’s supposed to be held up on Howard Mills’s place,” Schlosser announced coolly. Goldstein interpreted his use of the passive supposed as an inauspicious omen. “We’re going to hear from the people who are putting on this thing and then from a few people who aren’t so happy about it. Hopefully, we’ll reach some conclusion about what to do with it.”
“I’ll tell you what to do with it,” one red-cheeked man cried out from the back of the room. “First we oughta shave those hippies’ heads so we can tell whether they’re boys or girls we’re dealing with. Then we ought to rub their noses in the dirt for what they’re doing to this country.” The room broke into strident applause.
Schlosser pounded his gavel on a gnarled block. “I’ll have no more of that,” he ordered, “from anybody. This is a town meeting, and it’s going to be conducted in an orderly fashion. If you’ve got anything to say, you can raise your hand and we’ll get around to calling on you. Now, we’ve got a rough thing on our hands, something that bears a lot of thought and discussion. As some of you already know, a bunch of young people have begun work preparing for a music festival on Howard’s land.”
“You bet we know,” a woman shouted. Schlosser gaveled her down. His face wore the expression of a condemned man realizing there would be no eleventh-hour reprieve from the governor’s office.
He began again. “Tonight we’re going to hear from a representative of Woodstock Ventures, the company promoting it. His name is Mr. Stanley Goldstein, and he’s seated over there.” Three hundred heads turned and glowered in Goldstein’s direction. Schlosser motioned him to the bench. “He’s going to tell us a little about what this group is planning and what we can expect.”
There was a murmur of general disapproval as Goldstein made his way toward the front of the room.
In as controlled and authoritative tone as possible, Stanley laid out the plans for the festival emphasizing the proposed art exhibit, a dance program, the presentation of experimental and underground motion pictures, and repertory theatre. No allusion was made to the Aquarian Exposition being a rock festival. Goldstein stressed that the crowds would be handled by a staff of highly skilled, competent professionals. When he had finished, he smiled at the stony faces and asked if there were any questions he could answer for them. Several people shouted for the right to be heard. Schlosser patted their hands down.
“I have to be honest with you, Mr. Goldstein,” he began. “We’re a small town that has never experienced anything like what you are proposing. It’s not the music or the type of people that we’re worried about . . .”
“Like hell it’s not!” someone screamed.
“. . . it’s the amount of people you’re expecting. We’re just not equipped to handle as many people and cars as you’re predicting will show up. We’re only a small town with limited facilities.” Goldstein assured him that the promoters did not expect more than four thousand cars a day, but Schlosser deferred to his better judgment. “You can’t be sure of that, and besides, with all the work being done on the roads up there, you’d create something of a disaster. No, Mr. Goldstein. I’m going to recommend that the town council pass legislation restricting public assemblies larger than one thousand persons to make sure that does not happen. I’m sorry.”
Goldstein asked him to clarify his statement. What kind of restrictions did he intend to provide for in this so-called ordinance?
“I don’t quite know how the phrasing will read,” he said, “so I’m limited with respect to giving you more information. But I seriously doubt it will read in your favor.”
Schlosser recognized Richard Dow, who was seated in the second row of the audience, and invited him to stand and be heard.
Dow waved a leaf of legal-sized paper in the air and presented the town council with a petition from fifty-five residents of Wallkill who were “violently objecting” to the festival’s being held. “I can’t tell you how much we fear the kind of hippie-yippie crowd this thing’ll attract,” he said to rousing applause. Schlosser allowed it to continue for longer than it should have before pounding his gavel. “We’re forming an ad hoc committee and we’re going to see that something as dangerous as this festival never takes place in our community.”
“We don’t want your kind here! Get out of our town!” someone from behind him shouted at Stanley. A clamor of voices echoed a similar sentiment.
“Look, we’ve got a considerable investment in your community,” Goldstein said in the festival’s defense. “Like any other company that comes here, we’re going to be employing local people, entering into negotiations with Wallkill contractors and developers. We’re going to be bringing business into your community, not taking anything away.”
“Not if we can help it!”
“You goddamn hippies aren’t coming anywhere near our people!”
“I don’t think there’s anything to get this excited about,” he yelled. When people had calmed down, he tried another angle. “We welcome your advice and knowledge.”
“Take some advice and get lost!” Derisive laughter filled the hall for about thirty seconds.
Schlosser put the gavel aside and banged his hands on the table. The meeting was slipping away from his control. “Let’s have some order here. Mr. Goldstein has the floor. I don’t expect another outburst like this one.” He nodded for Stanley to continue.
“Where do you intend to put all these kids who show up here?” someone called from the floor. Stanley was having some trouble seeing where the questions were coming from and began talking to the wrong side of the room. “Over here.”
“Excuse me,” he said, pointing to his glasses and smiling. “They’re not what they used to be.” A few people chuckled sympathetically. At least they’re human, he thought. “They’l
l all be on the festival grounds. Most are planning to camp in an area which will be provided for overnight accommodations there.”
Until this time, no one had seen Howard Mills make his entrance and take a seat in the back of the room. Following Goldstein’s statement about camping, he stood up and attracted the attention of the crowd.
“I don’t know anything about this part of it. I’m telling you right now, there is to be no camping on the property of the proposed site of the Aquarian Music and Art Fair. I won’t allow it.”
An undercurrent of commotion filled the room as though a momentous decision had been made. Goldstein looked soberly at Don Ganoung who squinted his lack of understanding.
“We allegedly had permission to camp on this ground and this information is a new development to me. Therefore this information must be held in question.”
“You want me to explain it to you?” a woman shouted contemptuously. “No camping!” she spat. Again applause and laughter resounded from the crowd. Goldstein ignored her as best he could and launched into an explanation of auxillary accommodations. He said the festival staff had already reserved two hundred motel rooms in the vicinity. “We could accommodate fifty thousand people tomorrow if we had to.”
A resident of Wallkill reservedly inquired about the provisions the festival staff intended to make for dealing with the extraordinary number of people expected to attend the three-day affair. Goldstein said that Don Ganoung would be a better person to explain their security measures and introduced him.
Ganoung’s age and background acted as a buffer to subdue temporarily the distressed townspeople. He walked to the dais slowly, with visible confidence, never allowing the faint din of voices at his back to distract him. Ganoung, poised at the lecturn, delivered a summary of the security program like a sermon, modulating his voice to underscore particular points he wanted brought home. He was magnificent at the lecturn. Even Goldstein momentarily lost vision of Ganoung’s real purpose in being there. Unfortunately, the thought of a hippie congregation only minutes from their homes failed to temper the assembly’s social hatred, and what religion had prevailed in their lives was momentarily extinguished.
