Barefoot in Babylon

by Bob Spitz

  Weingrad proposed an “equitable deal” whereby Food For Love and Woodstock Ventures would become partners. Roberts would sign over to his clients a check for $75,000 that would be used for the purchase of food, soft goods, shipping, and wages. The first $75,000 that came in at the festival would be returned to Woodstock Ventures and everything else would be split fifty-fifty.

  Marshall was “appalled” by the terms of the deal. He thought, “There’s not going to be any food out there.” Moreover, he was concerned that his client was about to embark on a “messy, ugly deal with such horrible people.”

  It was John Roberts, though, who sealed their fate. In a moment of diversion, while Marshall asked Weingrad a few questions, John leaned over to Peter Goodrich and asked: “Do we have any other possibilities open to us?”

  “None, man. These are the only cats. Everyone else has passed.”

  Roberts dejectedly agreed with Weingrad’s proposal. He would advance Food For Love $75,000 and sign a contract with them whereby the festival staff would build the refreshment stands, make certain there was proper plumbing and electricity with which to operate a health department-approved restaurant, and guarantee them a minimum number of customers against fifty percent of the gross. It was a horrible deal for Roberts. For the same money, he could hire himself a competent staff, put them on salary, and pocket one hundred percent of the profits. But he felt as though Woodstock Ventures had “dilly-dallied around on the food” too much, and if he waited any longer, they’d be left without concession stands and without a permit from the town. His back, as so many times before, was up against the wall. An hour later, he signed a contract with the inexperienced firm and gave them a check to cement the deal. Food For Love had become another mouth for him to feed.

  • • •

  The entire production staff had been asked to attend a meeting that night at 9:00 P.M. at the Wallkill site office to go over all progress that had been made since they began. It would also provide them with an opportunity to take stock of their position with the town. A day later, they were scheduled to go before Judge Edward M. O’Gormon in Newburgh, New York, and three days after that, they had to appear before the zoning board of appeals in what would prove to be the determining factor in their application for a permit. It was a wise idea, Lang thought, to discuss thoroughly the plans again so that if any person was called on during these sessions to represent a point, it would, in fact, be the official position of Woodstock Ventures and not merely a personal opinion.

  The meeting might very well have been the first time since groundbreaking that everyone had a chance to get together. John Morris, Peter Goodrich, Chip Monck, Jim Mitchell, Steve Cohen, Joyce Mitchell, and Lang represented the downtown staff; Artie Kornfeld, Roberts, and Rosenman were there from corporate headquarters; and Wes Pomeroy, Mel Lawrence, Don Ganoung, Stanley Goldstein, Penny Stallings, and Lee Mackler carried the weight of production central—the site staff. It remains a wonder that a full-scale war did not break out from those contrasting personalities simply being under the same roof. From the notes of the meeting, however, it appears to have been conducted as a model of decorum, one in which everyone had a chance to learn what was going on in other areas of the production and was allowed to speak his or her piece.

  Mel Lawrence kicked things off by explaining that the ground preparations were well ahead of schedule. Eighty percent of all paths leading from the bowl to the outlying areas of the site had been cleared. The dead apple trees had been cut down, and the remaining part of the orchard had been treated so that kids could pick fruit from the trees during the exposition. Using a map, he showed his colleagues how a fence was to encircle the entire region of Mills Heights with two main entrances positioned somewhere close to the field office. That way they could keep an eye on who came in and out of the performance area from a position in the hayloft. The only thing they had not yet decided was the height of the fences. Someone suggested that it be ten feet to insure fortification from within; however, Lawrence pointed out that if it was six feet or less, no permit was required from the zoning board. Everyone agreed that should bear considerable weight when Security made their final decision.

  Two campsites were being groomed on either side of the bowl, and Lawrence mentioned a larger one on Route 211 that was also available to them if the situation called for more space. Sixty percent of the people attending the festival were expected to stay throughout the three days. With only 3,000 motel rooms in the Wallkill-Middletown area, they were going to have to accommodate everyone without a reservation. It could be a zoo, someone suggested. Lawrence explained that was precisely why they were keeping several adjacent pieces of property in reserve for any last-minute overflow. Additionally, they had planned to make the camping area as amusing as possible with the help of antics from the Hog Farm, the Merry Pranksters, and a few other communal groups. The Wards were taking care of building the playground for the younger kids, which would include swings, sandboxes, and jungle gyms; that was near completion and would be ready in a matter of days.

  Don Ganoung noted that he had entered into a tentative agreement with nine area farmers to lease tracts of land for parking lots, and that it would relieve a great deal of gate pressure during congested hours. The lots were located six and seven miles from the site, which would allow dispatchers to regulate the flow of people on their way into the festival grounds, and were expected to hold up to three thousand cars each. From what he had seen on inspection, there would not be a problem with the amount of cars expected to attend.

  Electricity was to be supplied to all areas of the grounds, a detail that would be farmed out to a local contractor. Chip Monck was making sure that floodlights reached into all nooks and crannies, and a television contractor had agreed to provide three cameras for videotaping the event, which were to be appropriately placed in front of the stage.

  Goldstein reported that approximately one hundred and fifty sanitary units would be installed near the road later on in the week. Some would be placed directly behind the stage for direct access by performers, while the bulk of toilets would be located in back of a wall of hay on the other side of the playground. He had spoken to a fire inspector earlier in the afternoon and was informed that the hay would have to be fireproofed. Jim Mitchell was assigned the task of finding a substance to be sprayed on the hay, which would have to be done before they could hope to pass inspection for a permit.

  Goldstein was not as at ease about the statutory water requirement. The situation, he said, was still a major problem, and could lead to a legal snag lethal enough to halt production. Thus far, ten trucks had been located from as far off as West Virginia, each one capable of transporting 60,000 gallons of water in one trip. The trouble was that they still had nothing to fill the trucks with, nor had they any additional leads. It seemed to him that water would be a last-minute conveyance and that they all ought to keep their fingers crossed that it would elude the town board’s attention. He could provide them with no better solution than fate.

  There were more conclusive provisions made for first aid. They had rented a trailer partitioned into variously sized compartments where doctors and nurses could attend to patients on a twenty-four-hour-a-day basis. Wes Pomeroy had hired a staff of seven doctors and half as many nurses to work in eight-hour shifts and had contracted a local hospital to provide around-the-clock ambulance service. He pointed out that studies of other festivals had prompted him to take into consideration such emergencies as insulin shock, freakouts, and sunstroke, all of which could be anticipated during the course of the Aquarian Exposition. Because of the expected crowds, he had directed Jim Mitchell to double the quantity of medical supplies they had originally called for, and had put out a request for a supplementary first aid staff in case they were inundated with casualties.

  As far as security was concerned, Pomeroy announced that, to date, 240 off-duty New York City cops who applied for a staff position at the festival
had passed through the first phase of screening and would be interviewed by a panel of festival security officers before the month was out. They were still accepting applications in the downtown office and on the site, and he expected to hire a total of 300 men and women to become the Peace Security Corps. They were to be teamed with representatives from the Tri-County Citizens Band Radio Club in what Pomeroy considered to be an invincible peace-keeping influence.

  Steve Cohen briefly described his committee’s plans for the stage, and John Morris closed the meeting with a summary of the accommodations being made for performers and their road crews. A schedule of which acts would perform in what order had not yet been completed as there were still a few outstanding time slots to be filled on the bill; however, with the recent addition of Sly and the Family Stone, they were fairly close to closing the booking. He had hired a helicopter to shuttle the groups from the Holiday Inn in Goshen to one of twelve dressing rooms available for their use off to one side of the stage. He’d send around a memo to all festival employees as soon as he and Michael had worked out a suitable sequence. Like the rest of the committee’s feedback data, everything was beginning to fall neatly into place.

  It was well past midnight when the meeting finally disbanded. One by one, the wearied mythmakers pulled themselves up off the blanket-covered floor and drifted back to where individual sleeping arrangements awaited their return. Tomorrow was their long-awaited day in court when they were certain they’d put an end to the menacing spectre of Cliff Reynolds and be left to see their dream through with rightful peace of mind. No more harassment, no more spiteful demands to be met, no more hatred and bigoted disregard of personal rights. Yes sir—things were falling into their proper place. Nothing could stop them now.

  There were some members of the festival staff, however, who weren’t as freely convinced of their clear sailing. Mel Lawrence, whose perpetually suntanned face was drawn and haggard, showed signs of extreme mental fatigue and uneasiness. Standing beneath the canopy of crusty wooden pillars that supported his office, his expression bore the icy chill of discontent one notices in terminally ill patients. The smile on his face did not register the confidence of the others, the blind trust in Lang’s motto: “I got it covered.” The number of details being left to chance boggled his mind; there were too many “ifs” and not enough easy solutions. Being rid of Reynolds would certainly help their cause, but it wouldn’t lead them to water or devise a fail-safe traffic plan, nor was it likely to induce the Department of Health to give them the white flag. The pressure of fighting back was beginning to take its toll on him.

  Stanley Goldstein was seated across from him on the corner of a secretarial desk trying to place a long-distance phone call to Bonnie Jean Romney in New Mexico. Goldstein’s anguish was unconcealed. He had been under inordinate pressure these last few days to produce a source of water, and his once-solid relationship with Michael Lang had steadily crumbled. Michael had thrown them to the wolves for a stab at celebrity. In what Goldstein viewed as a last-ditch effort to rescue their sinking ship, he had visited Lang at his home in Woodstock and pleaded with the “Kid” to take charge. “It’s slipping away from us, Michael, you’re losing sight of what’s going on and, I can tell you—it’s not good. We’re gonna lose this fight. John and Joel are complete washouts as far as our ticket operation is concerned. They don’t have the slightest idea what they’re doing, and it’s turning into one big mess. The festival checkbook bounces from one hand to another like an abandoned puppy; everyone’s forging the officers’ signatures with alarming regularity. You’re not around; nobody can reach you. What the hell’s going on here?”

  Michael managed to convince Goldstein that things were under control and that he’d make more effort to be involved with the legal fight in Wallkill. But the settling effect he had on Goldstein was only temporary. He tried to convince the others of his alarm but nobody believed him. They were finished, outta there, a festival without a home. Even Bonnie Jean Romney wasn’t at the proper place for their prearranged phone conference. He hung up the phone after the fifteenth ring.

  Then Goldstein swiveled around on the desk and saw Mel Lawrence staring off into space. Lawrence—the most conservative of the bunch, who wanted an impenetrable system of fencing strung around the grounds so that his employers could make back their expenses and, perhaps, hire him again. It was an admirable thought, however altruistic, and would never see the light of day. He knew the inner turmoil Lawrence must be going through, the inability to come to grips with the inexactitude of his detail. As their eyes met, they exchanged a commiserating nod in regard to the job before them. It was at that moment that Goldstein knew that, after the frivolity and carefree spirit had been exorcised from their midst, he was no longer alone.

  7

  Sam Eager’s good news preceded the promoters’ ordeal in the State Supreme Court by a matter of hours and left them feeling the least bit cocky. In a memo to Michael Lang, dated July 10, Eager meticulously outlined their position in each of the upcoming legal contests and suggested the festival had an unexpected ally in their landlord. Or, at least, salvation in light of Howard Mills’s recent declaration of noninvolvement. Eager reported that Mills and his attorney, Herbert F. Fabricant, “take the position that they will neither abet nor hinder you in the injunction.” It was strictly a gratuitous position for Mills to assume considering he had signed what amounted to an ironclad contract with Woodstock Ventures. Mills, however, was a co-defendant in the pending case and, had it benefited him to protect his own interests, he would have been advised by counsel to file a cross-claim against his tenants, thereby safeguarding his being branded an accomplice. By remaining silent, he stood to profit no matter which way the judge saw fit to rule. If an injunction was granted to Reynolds and the rest of the complainants, Mills could pocket the $1,500 deposit he had received from Woodstock Ventures and would most likely sue them to recover any loss he suffered as a result of a broken contract; if the injunction was dismissed, Mills would continue under his present agreement with them and, come September 1969, reap the $15,000 harvest. All he had to do was keep his mouth shut and watch the action. Nonetheless, the promoters heaved a sigh of relief in knowing they would not be challenged by their landlord.

  Eager warned them, though, of putting too much faith in Mills’s generosity. “They suggest there may be no lease because of a lack of description in the written instrument and apparent omissions from the purpose clauses thereof.” Should Mills need a back door to crawl out of during the proceedings, his lawyer would undoubtedly allege that his client had been duped, first by Roberts and Roseman and then by Lang, in their representation of the Aquarian Exposition. It was a possibility that worried Eager since there was no way to reconstruct or prove conversations between the two parties that led to the agreement. It would boil down to Mills’s word against theirs, and that didn’t sit well with him.

  For the time being, neither party was forced into making any hasty allegations. Acting State Supreme Court Justice Edward M. O’Gorman, after hearing remarks from both sides of the dispute, reserved his decision for an injunction against Woodstock Ventures. He was told by Wallkill Town Attorney Joseph Owen, who appeared “amicus curiae” (friend of the court), that “no application has been applied for, and no permit has been issued.” Subsequently, O’Gorman informed Jules Minker that the injunction attempt was “premature,” since the zoning board of appeals had not moved to accept or deny a permit that the promoters would need to construct a stage. He would be glad to entertain a similar motion after the Town of Wallkill handed down its decision, but, at this point, he would not grant the injunction.

  The postponement was Woodstock Ventures’ first taste of victory since migrating into Orange County in early June, yet there was still little cause for celebration. If anything, the temporary delay would afford Reynolds and his committee more time to sharpen their teeth, and there was another predator with whom they had to tangle before
they could rest: the zoning board of appeals. No one was kidding himself. The zoning board had hoped that the Concerned Citizens Committee would do their dirty work for them. As it turned out, they were the last vestige of resistance to the Woodstock Music and Art Fair’s remaining where they were. The irony, of course, is that it was that same civic body that started all the commotion when they first granted approval for the show back in April. Monday, July 14, 1969, was the Town of Wallkill’s last chance to preserve the peace they had known for so long—Armageddon; by Tuesday, it would be history.

  • • •

  A large crowd of residents had gathered outside the town hall assembly room as much as an hour before the start of the public hearing “to get a good seat” (or, as one spectator ingenuously observed, “to get within firing range”). Unlike previous encounters in which a thirst for knowledge had cut through their wrath, the mood this time was strangely quiet—one might even have gone so far as to call it cold fury. Very few words were exchanged among those waiting to get in until the moment when, at approximately 8:15 P.M., the plate glass front doors swung open and Sam Eager led his charges through the corridor and into the boardroom where they monopolized a front row of folding chairs. Then, the crowd’s apathy broke loose. As they scuttled to the remaining seats behind the festival contingent—Eager, Don Ganoung, Mel Lawrence, Michael Lang, Stanley Goldstein, and Joel Rosenman—a volley of tasteless barbs rushed forward to express their abhorrence. The days of restraint were over; Wallkill wanted a divorce.