by Bob Spitz
“You think one man’s gonna be able to control all those wild hippie kids up there?” a man taunted. “You gotta be kidding.”
Ganoung unfolded a piece of paper on which he had written some specific details earlier that afternoon. “You didn’t hear me correctly, sir. I believe I said that Mr. Pomeroy would helm our security force. Let me explain. We intend to employ several hundred men drawn from the existing forces in New York and Washington. Men who have had police experience in crowd control and peace-keeping procedures.”
“You expect the police to cooperate with a buncha hippies?”
“Well, Mr. Pomeroy is not a hippie, although he understands their problems and knows how to deal with them. Neither am I. But to answer your question—yes, I have full trust in Wes Pomeroy’s ability to mobilize a security force, although no contracts have been signed at this time.”
The last part of that sentence appeared to satisfy the Wallkill questioner who sat back in his chair, folded his arms, and smiled smugly.
Goldstein interjected that these same people working on Woodstock had staged similar festivals in Florida and California. “In Fort Lauderdale,” he said, “police called the crowd we assembled larger than the annual influx of riotous college students but better behaved than any group they had ever seen. We are planning this event to be just as orderly.”
“That don’t fool me,” a man halfway back said. “I’ll tell you this: I’m going to be sitting on my front porch with a loaded shotgun, and the first hippie that sets foot on my land—I’m gonna shoot to kill.”
Goldstein and Ganoung exchanged glances of disbelief, not so much on the strength of the threat but on the accord that filtered throughout the hall. Schlosser was equally appalled and savagely pounded his gavel to alleviate his own aggravation as best he could.
“There’ll be no more talk like that, Joe,” he warned.
“A man’s gotta protect his land.”
“You won’t have to worry about that,” Goldstein said, somewhat shaken. “We have more than enough land at our disposal and, according to my information, we are insured up to one million dollars per incident.”
Schlosser asked, “Can you substantiate that?”
“I’m uncertain as to the exact terms of the policy, but I’ve heard such rates quoted.”
“Well, I expect you to present to this board a facsimile of your existing insurance policy so that we might examine the extent of its coverage. I think the zoning board of appeals might have taken better care of this whole matter with a proposal of the existing zoning laws on the issuance of special permits. There should have been a hearing concerning this matter. I don’t know how the hell the zoning board said a special permit wasn’t necessary. Look, as far as I’m concerned, the town board is now ready to entertain a motion limiting assemblage to protect our community rights.”
A flurry of hands fought to be recognized.
“Why don’t you give the kids a chance before you condemn them?” Goldstein pleaded. “Just because they have long hair and are against the war . . .”
Schlosser lost his temper. “I’m upset about public safety, not about the kind of people who will be here,” he shouted. “I’m only interested in insuring public health and safety, something I’m afraid you have not given much thought to.”
Goldstein shook his head in disgust. He had laid out specific measures the festival staff had taken regarding sanitation and medical facilities, but they obviously had not made any impact on the board. And the people were only interested in one thing: that the hippies not be allowed into their town. Until they were assured of that, it was doubtful they would listen to anything he said.
“Hey, Jack,” a man caught Schlosser’s attention, “is there any chance of our breaking this ridiculous lease they have with Howard?”
Goldstein did not give Schlosser a chance to answer. “If you tried to come between us and an existing agreement we have already made with Mr. Mills, we would take that to the highest court in the land because of the large amount of money already invested. That, my friend, you’d better be sure of before you decide to interfere with our plans. Now, we’ve come before the town council to make our position clear and to answer any questions. We’ve let it be known that we look to you of the community for your help and guidance. But we intend to stay here. We intend to have our festival as scheduled. And if you wish to turn it into a battle, then we’re ready to fight you down to the last clause in your town charter.”
To his surprise, a smattering of applause broke out in scattered points around the room.
Schlosser looked at the clock. The meeting had gone on for nearly four hours. Nothing more could be said without first examining certain documents the festival committee claimed to have in their possession so he could determine the town’s degree of commitment.
“The zoning board of appeals is a quasi-officiating group,” he explained, “which interprets already existing zoning laws made by this council. The town board will now take up the question of knowing and voiding the zoning board’s decision with our attorney.”
One rational citizen asked him if it would be possible for the festival principals to meet with both the town board and the zoning board of appeals with finalized plans for the festival.
Goldstein used that as a lever for compromise. “That sounds like a good idea. I think my employers would agree to that. If we do not satisfy the regulations imposed upon us by the Town of Wallkill, we will agree to shut down.”
“Why don’t you do us all a favor,” someone called, “and do it now!”
Schlosser asked that Richard Dow hand him the citizens’ petition, and he gave it to the town clerk. “Mr. Goldstein, I’d like to request that sometime next week, you appear in my office with the proper insurance policies, a copy of your lease—in fact, maybe you could persuade Howard to come along with you—your director of operations, the festival’s principals, and I think it would be to your benefit to have your lawyer in attendance. If there is no further discussion, this meeting stands adjourned.”
3
After listening to Goldstein’s recounting of the events of the previous night’s town council meeting, Michael Lang’s attitude remained doggedly unchanged toward “getting it on” in Wallkill. He called Roberts and Rosenman and, together, they determined it would be to their advantage to continue preparing the site and to slug it out with the town. After all, they had a binding contract with Howard Mills, and the April 14 blessing of the zoning board of appeals was a matter of record. After he presented the staff’s credentials and the board had time to study the facts, they were certain the Wallkill councilmen would see the futility of attempting to bar them from the area. The law was undoubtedly on the festival’s side.
To Goldstein’s astonishment, the local paper had not been too hard on its reporting of the hearing. The Times Herald Record admirably presented both sides of the argument without bias. In a related editorial, they chose to “reserve final judgment” on the matter until they had ample time to conduct an investigation into “the credentials of the promoters and the experience of other communities where such events had taken place.”
Roberts conferred that afternoon with Miles Lourie on their right to remain in Wallkill. The attorney assured him of their compliance with the law; however, he advised John that Woodstock Ventures would do well to retain local Orange County counsel to see them through the remainder of their negotiations with the inhospitable town. “The last thing they want to see is some slick New York City attorney come up there supposedly to outsmart the country farmers. My presence there will only ruffle their feathers, and, anyway, I’m not a real estate lawyer. You need someone more well versed in local law.” Lourie offered to interview several Middletown lawyers by phone to help narrow the choices down to the best man. Roberts gladly accepted. “You also need additional public relations within the community,” Miles advised him. I suggest t
hat you limit Wartoke’s involvement to the rock press and some of the other media and get that guy Ganoung moving up there. Have him set up some meetings with the local press, leading citizens, politicians, and anyone who is opposed to your being there. Let him answer their questions and establish relationships whereby you might pick up a few more champions of your cause.”
Roberts told him he thought it might be a good move to apply some political pressure on the Wallkill councilmen. A friend of his had suggested that they petition the Orange County legislature for an endorsement or, better yet, for that same body to proclaim the festival an official exhibition of the arts. Maybe they could go as far as having the New York State Council on the Arts give it a stamp of approval. That would tie the town’s hands. Miles agreed. A step in that direction, he said, would be an admirable move for them to make.
“How about your dad, Miles?” John asked. Felix Lourie, like his son, was a prominent Manhattan attorney with political influence. “You once told us that he was well connected. Could you get in touch with him for us?”
Miles did not think he would have too much trouble convincing his father to go to bat for them, and he made the call.
Felix Lourie was a patriarchal, white-haired gentleman in his late sixties who, Joel thought, resembled the old man on the Monopoly “Community Chest” cards. Felix told them that Miles had explained their plight and that they should not worry about a thing. He thought he might be able to get them in to see Lieutenant Governor Malcolm Wilson, the second-in-command to Nelson Rockefeller. Wilson had an office close by—on West Fifty-fifth Street in Manhattan—and although he was most certainly a busy man, Felix presumed he might call in a few old favors to help the boys out.
The next morning, Roberts, Rosenman, and the elder Lourie met in the lieutenant governor’s chambers only two blocks from the uptown festival office. A bear-hug greeting between the two older men confirmed that they were, indeed, old friends. However, not even friendship could coerce the state leader into taking a stand for the festival. Wilson arbitrarily explained that the state’s hands were tied as far as its providing financial support. As far as an endorsement was concerned, his office could “under no circumstances fund or endorse a private venture.”
Felix Lourie was undaunted by the setback. Later that afternoon, he called Albany and made an appointment to see one of Governor Rockefeller’s aides at the State Capitol Building to discern whether or not it was worth pursuing at a higher political level. While not completely satisfying, that meeting in Albany between Roberts, Felix, and Rockefeller’s secretary produced an outside chance that they might be extended a letter from Rockefeller himself, “praising artistic endeavors in general and welcoming” the Woodstock Music and Art Fair to the state of New York. It was considerably less potent a document than Roberts had anticipated, but it would give them time until someone came up with an idea to curtail the town council. Roberts knew what they really needed was a top-seeded con man to pull the wool over the eyes of the Wallkill town fathers. And for the first time that month he relaxed. Filling that job would not cost him more than a dime. All he had to do was to call the downtown production office.
• • •
Two days after the town council meeting, John Roberts and Joel Rosenman received a certified letter from Town Attorney Joseph Owen. Owen had not wasted a moment jumping into his newly appointed chair and had conferred upon them, on behalf of the town board, a detailed list of fourteen divisions of production plans that were to be submitted for his obvious dissection. Specifically, he asked for: a map of the area they intended to occupy and a description of what each area would be used for; a statement of purpose; a sanitation facilities blueprint; the parking plan; the food and beverage plan; the water plans; the schematic for electricity and lighting; outdoor public address system diagrams; camping arrangements; medical facilities to be implemented on the premises; the type of entertainment; the security plan; and the festival’s extent of liability to the public and to the town. The task was mindboggling. It would probably take the full seventy days to accumulate the paperwork.
• • •
Monday morning, June 17, Woodstock Ventures issued a statement to the press defending its position in the town, which was buried in the Classified Announcements section of the late edition of that day’s Times Herald Record. It was designed by Stanley Goldstein to explain and expose the external pressures that had been leveled against several members of the festival’s executive staff and Howard Mills, Jr.
The article also made public the incessant harassment to which they had been subjected since arriving in Orange County. This was a dangerous step on Goldstein’s part. By making accusations against “certain members of the community,” they were, in effect, condemning a portion of the town’s residents without identifying anyone in particular, thus alienating and inviting protests from those wrongly accused. Those who had made threats to staff members could use this indiscretion as a weapon in their defense. Goldstein consulted Roberts and Lang on this section of the article, and they decided not only to support it, but to expand it. “These same uninformed persons, who claimed that we did not inform them of our plans made no attempt to gather any information but rather issued . . . statements, made assumptions, twisted and lifted out of context comments made related to our activities, that they have fabricated—for what purpose we do not know—what we can only consider stories designed to intensify the concern of area residents. . . . These persons created an atmosphere that forces officials to worry for their political lives. . . . Certain businessmen in the area have been told that if they cooperate with us in any way, certain people will be aware of it and will do everything within their power to make certain that the impact of their disapproval will be felt in business and personal relationships, and that they will do everything possible to assure that these businessmen will not be able to conduct their normal activities.”
The latter charge was an ex post facto impeachment of local commerce based upon a number of related incidents in which Jean Ward had been involved. Soon after she and Bill had drawn up their equipment list, Jean began scouring the countryside for provisions. Wherever she attempted to make a purchase, she encountered antagonism. The merchants didn’t want to rent to the hippies. Many refused outright to sell to Woodstock Ventures while others soothed their consciences by simply charging her three and four times the regular price of goods. Those in town who treated the crews fairly or sympathized with their right to be in Wallkill were awakened in the middle of the night by anonymous callers and subjected to “questions, slanderous and malicious statements, to vituperative harangues”—all, of which, the article stated, “ain’t being very neighborly!”
What had really incited Goldstein was the story he heard from Howard Mills’s wife, Pat. She told him that a vigilante committee of neighbors and one-time friends took turns calling the Mills residence throughout the daytime warning that if she and Howard did not put an end to the festival, their “house would be burned to the ground with [their] children in it.”
The remainder of the statement was an impassioned declaration of intent and an invitation to “other reasonable and responsible members of the community” to meet with the festival staff to discuss the plans and goals of the Aquarian Exposition. The article was signed by twenty-six of the people employed by Woodstock Ventures. Only the name of Otis Hallendale had been added to the document without the co-signer’s prior consent, and it is doubtful Goldstein would have received it had he asked; Otis Hallendale was Mel Lawrence’s dog.
They couldn’t leave Mills Heights now. Too much had already been accomplished in the short time in which they had occupied the land. Within a week, tractors had cleared and mowed most of the open fields. Paths had been chiseled through the woods. After Lawrence had sufficient time to study the practical effect of the paths on that part of the land, he turned it over to the art crew. They lined the trails with rock fragments and pieces of dark
brown wood. Windchimes were made out of broken glass and clay and hung from the tops of trees. At night, beneath a star-filled sky, the wind would strum through the orchard producing a natural harmony that echoed across the open flatland; it would have a tranquilizing effect on a crowd of one hundred thousand people. Dead trees were hauled out of the marshes, stripped and piled in the stage area to be used for construction. Bill Ward had rented a bulldozer and built an access road for service trucks leading from the barn around to the left of the entrance toward the bowl, up a hill and through the woods to another road that ran behind the site. That way, they would not interfere with local commerce and be conspicuous to Mills’s neighbors. As one observer casually noted, “The preparations were a picture of meticulousness. No one could utter a word against their industry.” That person, unfortunately, could not have been farther from the truth.
• • •
That Sunday morning, June 15, the telephone rattled Jules Minker out of a perfectly satisfying dream. Minker was a young attorney with NBC-TV in New York City, and between the two-hour commute from Wallkill each day and the hammering pressure of his job, he was pretty well worn to a shadow by the time the weekend rolled around. Sunday was his day, the only time he could sleep. But by nine o’clock that morning some message-carrying linebacker had broken through and waited breathlessly on the other end of the wire until Minker put himself in touch with the new day.
“Jules, you gotta make it out to my place as soon as you can,” the voice insisted. It was Dennis Cosgrove, a high school friend of Minker who owned a bar called the Circleville Inn just outside of town. Fearing that his friend was in some kind of trouble with the law, Minker promised he would get dressed and be over within a few minutes.
