Barefoot in Babylon

by Bob Spitz

  “This place is a fuckin’ swamp!” Lawrence said, pulling his foot out of a puddle of spongy muck. “Where the hell is this site you’re talking about?”

  “Right through there.” Elliot pointed to an archway that appeared to lead into a jungle of vines and bushy overgrowth.

  “Sure,” Michael said sarcastically. “Are you puttin’ us on?”

  “No, really—it’ll make a great place to hold a festival. You’ll see. There’s a natural bowl and everything!”

  Goldstein, who had walked ahead of the group, suddenly emerged from the entranceway to Elliot Tieber’s supposed fairgrounds, screwing up his face in disgust. “It’s a swamp. You won’t believe it.”

  “Aw shit, Elliot,” Mel barked, “what’s goin’ on here, man?”

  The young innkeeper appeared uncomfortable and embarrassed. “Nothing, man. I’m tellin’ you, it’s got incredible possibilities. You can bulldoze it out and drain the water off in hardly no time.”

  Michael leaned over and looked closely into Elliot’s face. “What did you say?”

  “I said . . .” His face flushed a dark shade of crimson. “Uh—I said you could bulldoze and drain it.”

  Michael shook his head in disbelief. “Sure, man—if we had six months and a twenty-million-dollar grant we might be able to do that.”

  Tieber began to tremble. “I, uh, think you guys oughta take a look at it for yourselves. I’ll meet you back up in the motel.” And, without further ado, he turned and tramped back up the steep slope, leaving them to fend for themselves.

  Lawrence was livid. “Look the fuck what this guy’s making us do, waste our day like this! This place is totally unacceptable.”

  “Not to an alligator,” Goldstein said, smiling. “Hey, look, the guy only wanted to help us out. It’s been a long time since anyone wanted to do much for us.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Michael said. “This place sucks. It really is a fucking swamp. There’s not really any chance of our using it, is there?” he asked Goldstein.

  “Not on your life.”

  “Then let’s get outta here.”

  When they reached the small reception desk, they found Elliot Tieber taking long, nervous drags on a cigarette. “I’m sorry, fellas. I just thought it was better than nothing. You know, we’d sure like to see the festival take place around here. It’d liven up the place a bit.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Lang reassured him. “Listen, Elliot—is there anything else around here we should see—something a little dryer?”

  “Not that I know of, but I have a friend, an older guy, who deals in country real estate. Why don’t you guys hang around for a few minutes, and I’ll give him a call.”

  Elliot picked up a phone and dialed someone he referred to throughout the conversation as Mr. Abraham. He briefly explained the promoters’ plight and handed the receiver over to Michael, who took over from there.

  “Well, I’ll tell you, young fella, I just might be able to work something out to solve your problem if you make it worth my while.” Lang assured Abraham that, if he could produce anywhere near six hundred acres of beautiful pasture that was suitable for a concert, he could name his commission. “Good, good. It just so happens that I know a milk farmer a few miles from where you’re standin’ right now, who, only last year, was willin’ to rent his land to a herd of boy scouts for some kind of jam-bo-ree. Now, if he’s still in the same frame of mind, I think we might have ourselves a deal. Why don’t you boys meet me at the El Monaco tomorrow morning—say about 10:00—and I’ll take you over to meet him.”

  “We’ll be there, Mr. Abraham,” Michael promised, none too excitedly. This guy Abraham sounded as though he was going to hit them for a stiff fee. “Just for the record, though, would you mind telling me his name.”

  “Why, no. Not at all. His name is Max—Max Yasgur.”

  2

  Max Yasgur’s name had always been mentioned in a tone that conveyed something more than respect by the people of Sullivan County—like that of an elder statesman or a community demagogue. And, in fact, Max Yasgur was a bit of both.

  That summer of 1969, as he prepared to purchase still another barn to harbor his expanding herd of black and white Holstein cattle, beaming with pride as children from all neighboring schools and academies were conducted on tours through his processing plants, Max Yasgur was gearing up to celebrate yet another milestone in his illustrious career. He had been born in Maplewood, New York, a small farming community a few miles outside of Monticello, on December 15, 1919, fifty years before Michael Lang set foot in White Lake, and the golden occasion would be commemorated in grand style by a family reunion. Throughout the decades of his prosperity, Max, an outspoken leader, had immersed himself in every local fracas that came his way, choosing to raise a commanding voice above the buzz of dispute when it would have been more convenient to remain quiet. He continuously found himself at the helm of controversy, and if he wasn’t negotiating a zoning regulation, it was a political debate or commercial polemics that caught his attention. But Max wasn’t a fighter, he was a farmer who won the admiration and respect of his neighbors by unselfishly putting them ahead of his own pleasure.

  Everyone within fifty miles of White Lake knew Yasgur’s Dairy. Their children, and their children’s children, had been drinking Yasgur’s Pasteurized Milk since the day they were born, and Max saw to it that they never missed a day. He ran what was practically an around-the-clock operation, getting up well before dawn to be in the fields and taking calls at ungodly hours of the night from his employees to insure that production quotas were met. Many natives of Sullivan County worked at the dairy farm, either tending the milking apparatus or making deliveries throughout the county, and they always returned home talking about Max—never Mr. Yasgur, but Max—like he was one of the family.

  His own parents had migrated to Sullivan County shortly before Max was born and bought a farm on the fringe of the Town of Bethel. His father had been a butcher, but poor health prohibited him from keeping up with the duties of such a rigorous occupation, and so he decided to farm, taking in enough of a crop each year to provide for his modest family. They knew, however, that it was nearly impossible to make a decent living from the farm, so, as most of the townsfolk did in those days, they built a small boardinghouse next to their own home where, during the months of July and August, they took in guests who delighted in the refreshing country air and showed their appreciation of Yasgur’s hospitality by returning year after year.

  Max grew up on that Maplewood farm, and when his father died in 1936, he took over the crops and helped his mother run the boardinghouse. Subsequently, he had little time to cultivate an athletic legacy in high school or as a student at New York University where he studied real estate law, intending to enter a family brokerage. But if physical fitness was the mark of able-bodied gentry, then Max Yasgur was a specimen of unusually sound refinement. The hours spent plowing the fields, bringing in the hay, sowing grain and husking corn added muscle to his tanned physique and enabled him to perform most any feat of strength. Though he was slight of build, he presented a dashing, affable appearance. He had a wide forehead, a statuesque chin, a Semitic nose, and dark, sympathetic eyes which attracted a respectable flock of admirers. Max married one of them, a vivacious girl named Miriam two years younger than he, whose parents had brought her, each summer since she was three years old, to the Yasgurs’ inn at Maplewood.

  They lived on the home farm, as it was called, until 1947, when Max decided that he no longer wished to enlarge the boarding house or go into the hotel business. He loved the farm, he loved the land, and he began looking around for additional property with which to expand his already well-grounded operation.

  Before long, Max purchased a larger farm in Bethel, closed the boardinghouse, and pumped the profit right back into more farmland. He and Miriam ended up with nine different farms that were pre
tty much adjacent to one another. But they were not complete. Their original plan had been to convert the farms into a gigantic processing plant where they would eventually pasteurize and sell “the Cadillac of milks,” as Max liked to call his product, and other dairy produce. It took them nearly ten years, during which time they battled New York State in a grueling act of endurance, until they were finally issued a license to purify and bottle milk—Max’s greatest pride. He enjoyed his work, he loved walking the fields each night at sunset (which, by the time of the festival, had grown to nearly two hundred thousand acres), and he dreamt of the time when he could retire to Florida after having turned his dairy empire over to his two beautiful children.

  The rigorous task of running the farms, however, had taken its toll on Max. By 1968, he had already suffered an inordinate share of heart attacks and never strayed further than ten feet from a jet tank of pure oxygen. Every time he got excited—which occurred at least three or four times a day—Max would excuse himself from any confrontation, lock himself into the nearest private quarters available, and relax under the oxygen tent. That may have been a strong factor in his decision not to rent a portion of his property to outside promoters when Morris Abraham called to inquire about its availability.

  “It could wind up being a substantial rental fee. Are you sure you’re not interested?” Abraham asked.

  “Frankly—no. We’re cutting hay, and we can’t have people tramping around in our fields.” Max thanked him for his interest and said that maybe sometime in the future the situation would be different and he would be more attuned to such a proposal.

  The next day, however, Abraham called back and told Max that the group for whom he was inquiring was made up of those young people he may have been reading about in the newspaper who had been deprived of their site in Wallkill. Abraham explained the extenuating circumstances to Max and asked him if he would reconsider. Without a moment’s hesitation, Max said yes, the sooner the better. If Abraham brought them around to the office, he would see them immediately.

  • • •

  Michael Lang spent the next morning of July 17 navigating the switchbacks around White Lake with reckless bravado. Running the white Porsche quickly through all five gears, he soared over barren stretches of country blacktop, up and down hilly ranges, across cattle paths, the way a child commandeers a penny arcade road game. Once inside the village limits, he sent Ticia Bernuth scrambling from the passenger side of the car to check the names on roadside mailboxes. He needed to be certain that he was not being led down another blind alley like the one Elliot had guided them into yesterday afternoon. What a colossal waste of time wallowing through that marsh had been, Michael thought. Everyone wanted to latch onto a corner of his star—if only for a moment. People offered to help without thinking of the consequences. The only way he could prevent that from happening again was by locating the Yasgur property before the scheduled one o’clock appointment and helping himself to a sneak preview of its untold bounties.

  They combed the area for nearly an hour without much luck. Most of the farms were of a substantial size, and it was difficult to determine who belonged to what piece of property. Houses were set back quite a distance from the main road, which forced them to spend a ponderous amount of time backing the car down narrow driveways only to be greeted by the family German shepherd or some other snapping carnivore. On the verge of returning to Wallkill unrewarded, Ticia suddenly squealed with delight. “Look, Michael, that road.” She pointed to a cutoff obscured by an enormous tree. “It’s called Happy Avenue. Let’s see where it goes.”

  Michael rolled his eyes skyward. Just what he had time for! Snapping dogs in White Lake, ferocious wolves in Wallkill, and she wants to skip down Happy Avenue looking for—what, fairies and elves? “Please?” Ticia asked with big, expectant eyes, knowing it would be impossible for him to refuse her. And she was right. Having passed the intersection during Ticia’s appeal, Michael performed a neat U-turn, retraced the two hundred or so yards to where the tiny sign pointed left, and turned the Porsche into Happy Avenue and points unknown.

  Almost at once, they came upon what they had been searching for all morning. Through a choppy band of hedges that barricaded a patchwork field was a wide, unobstructed meadow with a graceful incline that pitched toward a picturebook red barn. Michael almost plowed his car into a tree while he attempted to see beyond the hedge. He pulled off onto the shoulder of the road and climbed out. “That’s it,” he whispered reverently. “It’s outta sight!”

  Ticia and Lang sauntered over to the hedge and stared off across the field. It was magnificent. For as far as one could see, there was lush, green, virgin field—acres and acres of it—just sitting there, left untended. Oh, it was wonderful, they thought, holding hands and carrying on like children on Christmas Eve. The first hundred acres or so was, to some extent, level and formed a plateau that curved around the outskirts of the site like the upper deck of a baseball stadium. The remainder of the field was uneven, flowing like a sea of tiny moguls on a choppy ski slope. The miniature hills sat one on top of the other overlooking a ravine that appeared to be scooped out of a section of woods. Nothing could have been more perfect for an outdoor concert. There was plenty of room for seating, the stage could be placed at the bottom of the hill, and the trees would act as an acoustical backdrop off which the sound could reverberate. Access was freer than what they had been prepared to contend with at Wallkill; two main roads circled the property and joined larger, better equipped thoroughfares that bypassed the Town of Bethel. If Michael remembered correctly, the Quickway was only a mile or so down the road. Their staff people could more or less meet all incoming cars at the Quickway ramp and herd them toward the festival grounds without causing a traffic tie-up of any proportion.

  “Michael, let’s take a closer look,” Ticia prompted, squeezing his hand in anticipation of their discovery.

  “Unh-uh. Not now. I want to wait until later this afternoon—if this is, in fact, Yasgur’s place. Otherwise, we’ve got two shots at grabbin’ ourselves some land. Let’s get back to Wallkill so I can hook up with Mel and the rest of the guys before we head back up here.”

  They hopped back into the sports car and slowly rolled down the street, never, for a moment, taking their eyes off the field. Ticia kept repeating, “Michael—it’s on Happy Avenue. We’re leaving a town called Wallkill. The signs, look at the signs, man!”

  The signs were, indeed, cosmic. Only yesterday, their fate hinged on a legal technicality and seemed inevitable. Now, at least, Michael knew there was land to be had in the vicinity of their first site. They could move everything from one place to the other in a matter of days and still have time to meet their deadline. It all depended on the disposition of the man who owned it. Max Yasgur, or whoever it was who held the deed on that fantastic Happy Avenue piece of property, was about to come up against a tidal wave of bargaining stamina. He had nothing to lose (it was John Roberts’s money he was spending). All it took was land, and by that evening, a lease would be in his hip pocket. Michael Lang was not to be denied.

  • • •

  Lang, with Mel Lawrence, rode back to White Lake that afternoon in a blinding downpour. Traffic slowed to a crawl on Route 17, the ultrahazardous New York Quickway, and the white Porsche was obliged to take its inescapable place behind a bottleneck of trucks and trailers as they wound through the Catskill Mountain motorgap.

  Elliot and Morris Abraham, whose features were obscured by a superstratum of khaki raingear and a bulky scarf, hurriedly met them in the doorway of the El Monaco Motel. They hastened the Woodstock executives into the back seat of Abraham’s car to carry them comfortably over to Max Yasgur’s farm.

  The rain had just about subsided as the realtor turned into a wide, paved driveway which pointed the way to the farmer’s office (they were to learn later that Yasgur also maintained offices in town and at his home). Michael Lang’s face was a study in di
sappointment. Their terminus was not the same piece of land that he and Ticia had explored earlier that morning, and he was shamelessly crestfallen. What could Yasgur offer them that was even remotely as superb as that field on Happy Avenue? Why hadn’t he had the good sense to hunt out the landlord of that property right then and there and strike a deal? Now, he’d have to waste the rest of the daylight hours sightseeing with a group of money-hungry opportunists and wait until Saturday morning to return to Happy Avenue. It was a pity, considering that time was the biggest factor working against them.

  Max Yasgur met them in front of his processing plant and offered to take them on a walking tour of his property. He was courteous in a business way that precluded intimacy and, without ceremony, marched his visitors off around the corner of the barn to the tract that was up for lease.

  He showed them a parcel of 250 acres that had absolutely no contour whatsoever.

  “This’ll make a great parking lot,” Lawrence quipped, “but don’t you have anything else with some kinda definite form—a few hills, some elevation? This just won’t work for us.”

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, I do have a considerable alfalfa field, but it’s in use. I’ll tell you what—why don’t we drive over there and you can take a look at it anyway.”

  The four men piled back into Abraham’s car, and they cautiously plowed through patches of dense fog on their way to the other location. On the way there, Yasgur told them that he had heard about their trouble in Wallkill, and that he considered it an outrage, flagrant injustice. “I want to help you boys, if I can. You got the raw end of a deal.” He felt that young people, in general, were being prejudged. In his book, everyone, either young or old, had the same rights. That included the right to congregate. If they abused that right, then they could endanger their position later on; however, that remained to be seen. He equated it to a fair trial. “How would it look if a jury had already made their minds up about a certain case before they heard any of the evidence? That’s not what this country’s about.” Max went on and on about the doctrine of equality, but Lang was no longer listening. Something else had caught his attention. He had wiped away a section of condensation on the side window of the car and saw a vision that sent his spirits soaring.