Barefoot in Babylon

by Bob Spitz

  Michael then went into detail about an art show that would coincide with the concert to introduce the work of young ghetto artists. A rock manager named Peter Leeds was in the process of assembling the exhibit, and he would announce within the next two weeks the rules governing submission of art. He also described the playground being built by the University of Miami art crew, the free stage where those who came without a ticket or enough money to buy one would be entertained throughout the three days, the puppet theatre (which was still in the discussion stage) and, of course, the concert itself. He gave them a quick update on the most current list of acts and alluded to “a few surprises.”

  Wes Pomeroy took over. He spent several minutes reviewing the festival’s ultraspecialized security program with the temerity of a Supreme Court justice. Pomeroy casually sidestepped the audience’s questions pertaining to the handling of the drug busts. It was a delicate gray area in their security program and he had not figured that one out yet for himself. But, he assured them, they were “taking every precaution to guarantee each and every person who attends their rights under the law as an American citizen.” An undercurrent of hissing followed his patriotic pledge.

  “Some good that’ll do us,” a spectator called out. The rest of the young crowd chimed its displeasure.

  “Look, it certainly won’t be a sanctuary for illegal behavior any more than a city street is,” he said, taking a harder line. It did nothing to improve his position.

  A dissatisfaction with any type of regulation grew in the dimly lit room. A few of the movement leaders who were scattered in the crowd requested permission to speak and were invited up to the podium. They were angry, they said. They felt that they, as well as those for whom they spoke, expressed a valid political philosophy that was being purposefully suffocated by those who held the power. Right now, the promoters of the festival held that power and had turned their back on their own brothers. With respect to the war, their pleas for its immediate end went ignored, their protest fell on deaf ears; their interests as American citizens were being subjugated by “political fools” who refused to honor their rights; they were beaten over the head by cops who clearly exhibited an intense hatred of their individuality; they were thrown in jail by “social alcoholics” for smoking pot; they were forced to accept and defend all this absurdity by consenting to being shipped over to Vietnam with a gun and told to kill an unknown enemy. None of it made any sense to them. They were scared. Now, their own cultural lookalikes were attempting to silence their views at an event where they had the potential to reach several hundred thousand who would listen. It was getting scarier all the time.

  “You talk about fair treatment in the eyes of the law,” accused one young man in a blue and orange tie-dye T-shirt. “Those eyes are blind, man! That’s a lot of fascist bullshit you’re tryin’ to lay on us. You want everybody to come up to Woodstock on your say-so, to listen to the music, turn on to the vibes. Sure, it sounds great, but there’s more to it than that. I’ll tell you what I think; I think that one of us takes a step in the wrong direction and they’re gonna bring those fuckin’ sticks of theirs down on our heads. Where’s that gonna leave us? Nowhere, man! That’s where we are now, and that’s where we’re gonna be up there in the country with all those pigs breathin’ down our necks. A fuckin’ festival isn’t the answer unless it’s gonna help bring about the revolution.”

  Pomeroy looked at Lang with a tightly clenched jaw. He wanted some kind of sign from his young associate to tell him how to proceed. Michael only smiled; he seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself.

  Wes attempted to alleviate a measure of their exasperation by explaining that no member of their security corps would be permitted to bear arms. “The only one you’re going to have to answer to for your actions there is the person sitting next to you.” He stressed that the 300-man team helping him would consist of hand-picked off-duty policemen from the metropolitan force. They would be chosen for their coolness in tight situations and their ability to communicate with hippies. “The Peace Service Corps will not be there to make on-the-spot arrests for the expected pot smoking, fence jumping, nudity, or sex. They will have been instructed only to inform the wrongdoers that such actions are frowned upon by their brothers, that they should be done in a more discreet place, and that the wrongdoer might be liable to arrest.”

  “What about narcs, man?”

  “You’d better expect them to be there, son. In fact, if the narcs are doing their job, they may very well be sitting next to you right now.” A drone of nervous laughter stuttered across the room. Heads comically swiveled to get a better view of their neighbors. “I’ve got no control over federal undercover narcotics agents, but I have it in good faith that no bust will be made on the grounds without my permission—and I don’t think that’s going to be easily had. There’ll be uniformed cops there—state and local cops, you can be sure of that—and they’ll be looking for drugs, but they won’t be permitted inside the festival grounds without a warrant. It’s up to each and every one of us to see we keep things under control so that won’t be necessary.”

  Pomeroy’s speech had a decided effect on those members of the media who were lucky enough to attend the meeting. The promoters could sense a collective sigh of relief from their guests. Rat, perhaps the most radical of the underground papers and certainly one highly suspicious of Woodstock’s cultivated image of peace and brotherhood, would later write of Pomeroy’s words, “Chief Pomeroy knows where it’s at. No redneck this one. No nigger-pinko-jew hater this one. No curl of the upper lip. His middle-aged graying hair sports appropriate but not too long sideburns. His smile is easy, his eyes open and frank. If it ever entered your mind that an officer of the law might be your adversary, chief cop Pomeroy is a worthy one.” Rat did, however, plead with its readership not to be taken in by the promoters’ slick, hip business tactics. “Remember always, a pig is a pig is a pig. As far as cops go, these are the better ones. We salute them. But they are playing a role, they are wearing foreign costumes, they are engaged in theatrics. We will not be fooled.”

  Finally, after four hours of rhetoric when everybody had had his say, after grievances had been aired, philosophies propounded, accusations flung, banners waved, the proposition of suspending politics at the Woodstock music festival was grimly put to a vote. Morally, they all agreed that they had an obligation to keep politics in the forefront of every action they undertook, every event in which they participated, until either the war was ended or the system destroyed (or both). But, they conceded, they were exhausted. The battle they waged was physically taxing and costly. It had been a politically active winter and spring; the sit-ins and activist rallies had proved successful. More and more of the masses had been won over to their side. There was still a lot to be done, much to say that had not already been said. At that point, though, they were under such intense pressure from law enforcement agencies and experiencing such a knot of tension in their personal lives from the struggle that they needed to give themselves a rest. The weekend of August 15–17 was just about as good a time as any, one bearded boy argued. They would come up to the festival, hang out, have a good time, and rest up for the long struggle ahead.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Long Arm of Justice

  They had hoped to find a home, and they found only hatred. Okies—the owners hated them because the owners knew they were soft and the Okies strong, that they were fed and the Okies hungry.

  —John Steinbeck (1939)

  Public opinion’s always in advance of the law.

  —John Galsworthy (1922)

  1

  Miles Lourie called Woodstock Ventures’ uptown offices late that afternoon after word had filtered back to him about the morning’s conference at the Village Gate. In the background, he detected the bustle of celebration and did his best not to sound overly official. The call was, nonetheless, business; it could not wait.

  John
Roberts, who took the lawyer’s call with resignation, informed him that the meeting had gone the way they had hoped it would. It was receiving excellent press and television coverage with most local stations running in-depth interviews with Lang and Pomeroy. “The press,” he said jokingly, “seems to be the only group that doesn’t want to take a bite out of my ass. Thank God for small favors.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way, because I’ve just heard from Sam Eager in Middletown, and he’s just been handed a copy of the proposed legislation the town board’s written to regulate public gatherings.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Miles. Why didn’t you say so?”

  “I wanted to ease into it as much as possible.”

  “Aw, shit. It’s that bad?”

  “Well, let’s put it this way: it’s not exactly what I’d call a key to the city. But it’s not prohibitive.”

  He read the text of it slowly over the phone, stopping every so often to clarify some ponderous legal terminology.

  It was a formal document designed by the town attorney to discourage assemblies of more than five thousand people to be held within the Town of Wallkill. Under the proposed law, a corporation seeking the right to hold an event first had to be granted a permit by the town board twenty days prior to its commencement. The preliminary requirements for such an application were fairly standard: the name of the owner of the property, the expected number of visitors, cars and similar vehicles, the proposed dates and hours of the function, its purpose and admission charge all had to be submitted along with an application fee of one dollar (refundable if the application was turned down) to the town board. Maps had to be included along with that information, clearly denoting any roads, buildings, and property on or adjacent to the site that might be affected by its use. Likewise, plans had to be presented detailing systems of water distribution, sewage disposal, food preparation, parking, and access routes.

  As far as John could tell, they had already provided Town Supervisor Jack Schlosser with all of the above except for conclusive water and concession plans. Goldstein had several water alternatives working, and they were having a meeting concerning the retail sale of food at Paul Marshall’s office in a few days’ time. Roberts surmised, however prematurely, that, so far, the list of requirements (“impositions” was more suitable a word) could be coordinated in record time should the town board put the squeeze on them with a time factor.

  The root of obstruction, however, began to twine tightly around the festival’s already weak heart as Lourie continued his spiritless recitation. Ambiguities, obviously grafted on to conventional statutes as well-timed afterthoughts, provided Wallkill with an airtight alibi should the town want to close down a function on the slightest of whims. Roberts listened mournfully as Lourie repeated a paragraph prohibiting music to be played “in such a manner that the sound . . . shall be audible beyond the property line of the place of assembly nor in a manner which either annoys, disturbs, injures, endangers, or tends to annoy, disturb, injure, or endanger the comfort, repose, health, peace, or safety of other persons or the public.” Not to be misunderstood, the author of the document was quick to point out that the provision included “loud, unnecessary, or unusual noises.”

  “You’ve gotta be kidding!” Roberts was baffled by the extent of the interdiction. Woodstock Ventures could theoretically be run out of town for so much playing a radio too loud in the field office. All a town board member—or any other “concerned” citizen, for that matter—had to do to thwart their endeavors was to get Howard Mills to declare the noise level emanating from the festival was disturbing his family. No formal indictment was necessary. That was all it took.

  But, in fact, there were supplementary regulations, the length of which seemed unending, should the noise deterrent not prove disuasive. The promoters had to promise that “no soot, cinders, smoke, noxious acids, fumes, gasses or disagreeable or unusual odors” would be permitted to emanate from the property “so as to be detrimental to any person or the public.” So much for campfires, food concessions or even automobile exhaust pipes. “In addition, no light on any part of the property of assembly shall be permitted to shine unreasonably beyond the property line of the property,” nor could they permit any “unreasonable glow” to shine beyond the site.

  The proposed law further stated that, before granting a permit to any outside concern petitioning the town board to stage an assembly, the board had the privilege to require the approval of any or all government agencies that had jurisdiction over any phase of the event. Those included the county health inspector, the town sanitary inspector, the town health officer, the state Water Resources Commission, the town building inspector, the county highway department, the state Department of Transportation, the sheriff’s office, the state police, the chief engineer, and the local fire commissioners, the town fire advisory board, the zoning board of appeals, the town police department, and the county fire coordinator. If any of the hundred or so officials who were employed by any one of these august bodies wished to do so, he could sign the festival’s death certificate without entertaining an appeal.

  The barriers seemed insurmountable. Woodstock Ventures could, of course, make a halfhearted show of compliance with these various clauses and hope they could drag legislation through until September before anyone got the better of them, but that was highly unlikely and beyond objective reasoning. A provision setting forth stiff fines for offenders discouraged John from giving it any serious thought. Fines were set at one hundred dollars for each offense and Howard Mills could also receive a concurrent fine for permitting the infraction to take place on his land. If too many citations were issued for the same assembly, the local court reserved the right to impose a jail sentence on said culprits for up to six months.

  John relayed the news to Joel Rosenman who shared his partner’s abject dismay. Their hands were tied, they agreed. They could shut down production and swallow a half-million-dollar loss or, in a moment of daring, challenge the law and elect to pay the fines. Either way, they lost. The decision rested with them; nonetheless, Roberts felt he had to confer with other members of the festival staff before passing a verdict. He tried unsuccessfuly to reach Michael Lang and finally got hold of Sam Eager in his Middletown office.

  “It’s not a law yet, John, just a proposal for an ordinance. For it to become law requires, if my memory serves me correctly, that a public hearing on the matter be held and that two thirds of the town board ratify it. That could take time. And, of course, we’ll oppose it.”

  “What do you think our chances are of stopping its passage?”

  Eager answered characteristically, “I don’t know.”

  The attorney did say, however, that if they were still willing to go on with their plans, an application had to be made to the board no later than July 2. That was the day on which the council convened, the only such meeting scheduled before the festival was to take place. If they were late, and the ordinance was adopted into law, they would most probably forfeit their right to hold the event in Wallkill. Roberts suggested that Eager speak to Mel Lawrence and Stanley Goldstein regarding the feasibility of the field crew meeting the stipulations. He had not yet reached Lang, but Roberts was reasonably certain of what Michael’s position would be. “We’ll fight it,” he told Eager. Too much time and money had already been expended. Besides, they were being railroaded, and that infuriated the hell out of him. War had been declared by the enemy, and John Roberts rose to accept the challenge.

  • • •

  The Times Herald Record also viewed the proposed ordinance as a declaration of war, an action that, it said, was a “monstrous decision . . . a time bomb” so severe that “it is inconceivable to us that [the Aquarian Exposition] would survive even casual court scrutiny.” On June 27, the morning after the text of the law was released to the press, editor Al Romm published an editorial lambasting the action of the board. “The Town of Wallkill has declare
d war on the proposed rock-folk festival August 15–17 on the Howard Mills property in Scotchtown,” he began. “We regard the proposed ordinance as an example of flagrant misuse of governmental power. . . . It is, in our opinion, highly improper to prohibit one event in the guise of regulating it.”

  The editorial cited several “ludicrous” sections of the bill, and raised a question pertaining to its ultimate effect on the community. The Town of Wallkill, Romm pointed out, may have inadvertently given the ax to one of its oldest and most respected traditions: the Orange County Fair. “The Orange County Fair, scheduled in late July, could not possibly meet the light-noise-odor test Supervisor Jack Schlosser and his associates devised. For another, the privately operated stock car races at the fairgrounds, which spread their noise pollution 10 miles away . . . would be out of business. The latter result would be a blessing, but we don’t imagine that the town fathers had it in mind.”

  The promoters regarded the editorial as an encouraging sign that all was not lost. As long as a single Wallkill voice sounded in their behalf, they felt they had “a shot at beating the bad rap.” The Times Herald Record was a very loud voice, indeed. It serviced practically all of Orange County and many cities in neighboring Sullivan County that relied on its insight into and advice on local affairs. Romm would have to be courted for his support.

  While Woodstock Ventures prepared a defense against the proposed ordinance, Mel Lawrence continued primping the grounds as though nothing unusual had occurred. Michael had advised him against putting up any kind of permanent structure; likewise, he told Chip Monck not to pour the concrete for the stage supports. If they were forced “to split,” they would do so with the least amount of inconvenience. Otherwise, they were to proceed as originally planned. “We’re gonna beat this rap,” Lang declared. He asked Lawrence and Monck if they could maintain the crew’s morale through the legal fight. They assured him they could.