Barefoot in Babylon

by Bob Spitz

  The meeting, subsequently, lasted eight hours. Lang and Mel Lawrence, as one eyewitness noted, “gave the performance of their careers” as they were unmercifully battered by a landslide of procedural questions. The state health inspector repeatedly badgered them for more conclusive information, which they rattled off with knowledgeable versatility. (“Did you expect otherwise?” Mel later asked an onlooker who marveled at the production chief’s deftness. “We’ve had a lot of practice at this sort of thing.”) They also permitted themselves to be cross-examined, at times almost too obligingly, by members of the residents’ council. Again and again they refused to participate in a public hearing, explaining that there wasn’t sufficient time for them to do that and still finish the groundwork. “We are going ahead with our plans,” Lawrence said, if not a bit too defiantly. “Our time is too short.”

  That same night, they got a shot in the arm from an unexpected ally. The ninety-member Bethel Businessman’s Association, converging on the Kenmore Hotel to assess the effect the festival would have on their establishments, voted to throw their weight behind the festival and its activities on Max’s farm.

  “This is the greatest thing that ever happened to Sullivan County,” acclaimed Ken Van Loan, the merchants’ wiry spokesman, “and it just fell into our lap. Besides, the festival will be a cloudburst and a great thing for the area’s young people since they’re always complaining that they have nothing to do.” If the inquiries made that afternoon resulted in the board’s ordering a public hearing, Van Loan pledged to use the association’s influence to back the promoters to the limit. “The festival will boost money spent in Bethel for lodging, food, and auto maintenance [the latter being Van Loan’s forte]. We want these people to be well received so they will make this an annual event.”

  Van Loan’s tribute, while a welcome and timely endorsement, was, nevertheless, impulsive and excluded several regional enterprises whose stock would not be enhanced by the festival’s attraction of tourists.

  The next afternoon, Woodstock Ventures was served with papers to appear before Judge George L. Cobb, in the Village of Catskill, in reference to an action brought against the promoters by the owners of four area summer camps—Camp Chipinaw, Camp Ranger, the Hillel School, and Camp Ma-Ho-Ge—who charged that their businesses would be overrun by hippies. Not more than an hour later, another process server appeared in a production trailer toting a second summons, this one sworn out by four co-owners of a summer home adjacent to the festival site.

  Paul Marshall advised his clients not to worry—that court actions took time and that it was doubtful any case would come before a justice of the peace before the festival was over and long gone from the Town of Bethel. Just to be on the safe side, though, Marshall requested show-cause orders in both of the outstanding actions.

  When the plaintiffs arrived in Catskill, Marshall walked up to one of the camp owners, vigorously pumped his hand, and said, “Hi, Uncle Davy, don’t you remember me? I’m Paulie Marshall. I used to be a regular at your camp—let’s see now, it was practically thirty years ago. You look great, Uncle Davy.” Much to his embarrassment, the owner admitted that he hadn’t recognized Paul under “all that white hair,” and asked the attorney if he would mind not referring to him as Uncle Davy in front of the judge, which is exactly what Marshall did.

  “Your Honor, I’d like to ask Uncle Davy why he hadn’t contacted us before this?”

  “Your Honor, would you please instruct Uncle Davy to answer the question.”

  For three hours Marshall directed questions at the camp directors and finally agreed upon an out of court settlement with them for an undisclosed sum.

  The homeowners refused to be bought off. They wanted the festival moved out of the area on the grounds that Yasgur’s farm was not properly zoned for commercial use. Claiming inadequate police protection, insufficient accommodations, and poor sanitary facilities, they asked the court to grant them an injunction restraining Woodstock Ventures from going ahead with the exposition.

  It was a difficult decision, the judge said, considering that the promoters would suffer irreparable damage if their event was postponed. By now the festival’s principals had laid out approximately $1.4 million on developing their site and promoting the rock shows. But if they were in violation of a zoning statute, then a motion would be granted. The law, contrary to popular belief, was not made to be broken.

  Judge Cobb announced that he would reserve decision on the motion before him, pending further investigation of Bethel’s intricate zoning regulations. That would require some time, he noted—reviewing, interpreting, coming to an equitable conclusion; it was a painstaking process for one man to preside over. He would most likely hand down a ruling two Thursdays hence.

  Paul Marshall consulted a calendar and felt his pulse skate ahead, like the rush of adrenelin he experienced each time a verdict was about to be delivered. That date, circled in his appointment book as a reminder for him to leave New York, was August 14.

  3

  On August 5, 1969, less than twenty-four hours after Don Ganoung presented the Bethel Medical Center with the festival’s check for $10,000, officers of the Peace Service Corps moved into their new headquarters, the recently vacated New York Telephone building on Lake Street in the center of Bethel. A crew of volunteers had spent four days refurbishing its corroded interior—chipping caked paint off the windowpanes, repainting the walls, rewiring the fixtures, installing desks and accessories—until, by Tuesday morning, it resembled a fairly accurate replica of a police station minus the harsh realities. That afternoon, Wes Pomeroy, Don Ganoung, Lee Mackler, and Joel Rosenman each claimed a desk there and began sorting out the last-minute appurtenances necessary to round out the program.

  Pomeroy was exceptionally pleased with the new site in White Lake and considered it to be instrumental to the success of his security plan, Max’s farm was decidedly more rustic than Mills Heights, a factor Wes thought would “help to create a relaxed atmosphere and elicit better vibes between the kids.” The long extended entrance to the site off Hurd Road gave ticket holders a leisurely walk from remote drop-off points to the ticket booths, and then another similar distance to the amphitheatre, which would serve to temper their restlessness and allow Pomeroy’s staff to weed out potential troublemakers before they got inside the gates. The site contained more ground than in Wallkill so there would be less need for kids to crowd one another, the campgrounds were more comfortable, the natural boundaries were more confining, the scenery more pleasant, the facilities more abundant. All in all, he could not have asked for a more adequate, practical, accommodating place to carry out his assignment.

  Pomeroy had been inundated with applications from New York Police Department officers interested in working at the festival and notified the production office to stop accepting any more as, at last count, there were over 1,400 names from which to select. At his request, Lee Mackler rented a Manhattan assembly hall from City College for two days, and, with Joe Fink, Ralph Cohen, Don Ganoung and Jewell Ross (who had finally arrived from San Francisco to help organize the team), he spent a total of twenty hours interviewing candidates for the job.

  The screening process took place over a weekend in late July, and the policemen arrived in droves, “like it was a casting call for the battle scenes in Ben-Hur.” They sat around long lunch tables, drinking coffee until their names were called, at which time they were led away in groups of twenty-five to be briefed and observed by the festival staff.

  At the beginning of each day, Pomeroy lectured the men on procedure. A number of cops walked out in a huff after Pomeroy’s opening remarks, almost always the older men who resented anyone who wore his hair long or spoke out against the war in Vietnam. They had come out of curiosity, not really having any idea what to expect other than their getting a glimpse of the great Wes Pomeroy in action. Hippies disgusted them. They blamed America’s youth for the alarming rise in armed ro
bbery and rape, accused them of being traitors to their country, disrespectful to their parents, iconoclasts who personified all that was sick in contemporary society. They had no intention of babysitting 100,000 of these hippies while the kids made a mockery of the law. What kind of cop was this Pomeroy? they asked themselves. How could he be a party to an orgy, a gathering of young criminals?

  The younger cops, however, were willing to abide by Pomeroy’s orders, and remained behind to audition for one of the representatives from Woodstock Ventures. Seated behind card tables, Mackler, Ganoung, Fink, Cohen, and Ross called them one at a time and asked them their views on hippies, drugs, sex, and any other sensitive topic that came to mind.

  “Tell me, Officer F—, what would you do if a bearded kid walked up to you carrying a lighted joint, called you a pig, and blew smoke in your face?”

  “I’d bust his fuckin’ head is what I’d do!”

  “Thank you. Next.”

  Or: “What are your views on premarital sex, and what would you do if you saw two hippies fornicating in public?”

  If their answer was, “I’d hang ’em by the balls from the nearest tree,” they were asked to leave, and the application was thrown out. Otherwise, the men were rated on a numerical system and filed according to facial reactions.

  By the weekend, they had narrowed the applicants down to 325 men. Fink was asked to hire those who had made the cut, and Lee Mackler took down pertinent information such as their precincts, social security numbers, and clothing sizes, as they would be issued jeans and T-shirts for the duration of their employment by Woodstock Ventures.

  Pomeroy made sure that each policeman hired was aware that he was to leave all weapons at home. “If I see any guns, or sticks, or anything that even suggests violence—well, I promise you I’ll make it damned tough on you when you get back to the city.”

  They were to check in at the telephone building in Bethel—Command Central—on August 14 for orientation. Shifts would be reasonably interspaced to give them plenty of time to rest up and call their families. The entire security force would be lodged at a dude ranch outside of Middletown, where facilities included use of both indoor and outdoor swimming pools, tennis courts, and rifle and trapshooting ranges.

  “I think you men will enjoy this experience,” Pomeroy said. “We’re all looking forward to a peaceful weekend in the mountains, and I’m particularly pleased to be represented by such a fine group of men from NYPD. I’m sure you’ll all make me extremely proud of our job in White Lake and of the time we spend together.”

  That night, Wes Pomeroy returned to White Lake alone. Now he could pull back a bit and give his full attention to working out the ever-present traffic problem. Aside from that, he couldn’t foresee anything standing in the way of a successful festival. Nor did he ever dream he’d be betrayed by the one group whose integrity he had long ceased to question.

  • • •

  Don Ganoung’s area of concentration had also shifted since the festival moved to White Lake, more drastically so than that of any of his companions. Formerly the director of community relations, Don’s curious distinction was now mutated to that of supervisor of parking lots-medical, a concoction some thought only made possible through the auspices of LSD. The truth behind the interchange was that Joel Rosenman had grown disenchanted with what he believed was the minister’s ineffectiveness as a troubleshooter for a company that seemed only to invite trouble. Ganoung had failed to persuade the good folks in Wallkill of the entertainment’s merit, and the corporation’s investers were worried that history might heartlessly repeat itself if Don was not removed posthaste.

  Ganoung was prudently reassigned to the security unit and instructed to pick up where he left off in Wallkill with the shuttling operation. During his absence from the project, Intermedia Systems had designed a somewhat methodical concept for activating the ground arrangements and set about the preliminary steps for its effectuation. Several adjoining properties (as well as some heretofore undeclared tracts of Yasgur’s land) were rented as parking lots at premiums unheard of on the open market. Acreage that had been selling for $15,000 only a week before the production staff moved into town was rented to Woodstock Ventures on a short-term lease for twice the price. But there had been no time to negotiate respectable terms. The areas expressly defined for parking had to be appropriated before Pomeroy could take his traffic itinerary before the Bethel Town Board and the New York Department of Transportation, which left them with a little under three weeks for everything to be approved. By August 18, there would be more than enough in the till to compensate their loss.

  Ganoung discussed the setup with Stu Vidockler, Intermedia’s chief consultant, and approximated that the cost of the satellite shuttling service would come in at roughly $82,000. For $82,000, it was conceivable one could start one’s own nationwide auto-supply distributorship.

  Ganoung supported Intermedia’s theories. In a memorandum to Wes Pomeroy, he concluded, “I feel that while this is an extremely large expense, the urgency of securing this transportation system now belies the possibility of seeking alternative bus contractors.” Pomeroy evidently agreed with him, as the next day, a map was commissioned by the chief of security displaying ten parking lots in juxtaposition to Yasgur’s farm—one for buses, one to accommodate campers, another for motorcycles, and seven lots for cars.

  By August 6, Pomeroy had stockpiled a surfeit of material that enabled him to present his conclusions to the town board of Bethel for their approval.

  His requests were concise and well supported by logic. He argued that, because the surrounding roads were narrow and poorly kept, the flow of traffic would be severely impeded if they remained two-way. Pending the board’s concurrence, he wanted the authority to change eight thoroughfares, leading and contingent to the site, to one-way, with the exception of Hurd Road between Route 17-M (off the Quickway) and West Shore Road. Pomeroy contended that the modification would practically guarantee quicker access to the exposition parking lots and keep the roads open for emergency vehicles.

  His other wish was to limit access to the roads to residents who lived in the area, as well as to festival employees, shuttle buses, emergency vehicles, entertainers, and “various categories of people to whom passes are issued, including, but not limited to: doctors, nurses, reporters, displaying artists, and security and communications personnel.” Wes pledged to man roadblocks at these intersections with off-duty New York City policemen experienced in this type of detail on a twenty-four-hour-a-day basis. Hurd Road, south of West Shore Road, would be cordoned off completely for exclusive use as a service road (primarily for concession service vehicles, water trucks, and trucks servicing the portable toilets). “By allowing Hurd Road to be used in this way,” he reasoned, “the . . . vehicles in the categories enumerated above (many of them making several round trips daily) will be ‘siphoned off’ from other access roads and will thus reduce congestion on them.”

  The town authorities were sympathetic to Pomeroy’s wishes. Their subsequent stance regarding traffic control was formulated on the notion that, since they had already sanctioned the festival’s presence within their boundaries, it was useless to foil its smooth operation by withholding their consent. As long as he filed a prospectus with the New York State Department of Transportation, Pomeroy could proceed as requested.

  Wes was pleased, although he was by no means content that these directional safeguards would forestall the stoppage of traffic. As a precautionary measure in case of their inability to get an ambulance or a fire engine through to the site while the festival was in progress, he instructed Ganoung to locate a helicopter service for standby emergency situations.

  Don, sensing the necessity, had already contacted an aviation company in nearby Spring Valley, a small suburban community on the New York–New Jersey border, and suggested the pilot keep the August weekend free and clear for the festival’s needs. The propose
d cost for the use of a Bell 47G helicopter, including flight and ground personnel, was $45 an hour for daylight flights, and $55 during the evenings (evenings being defined as one hour after sunset to one hour before sunrise). And, of course, Woodstock Ventures would provide them with a heliport. Of course.

  Ganoung spent no less than three days pleading with a neighbor of Max’s, who owned the land directly behind the stage, to lease the negligible, unused portion of his property to them for a heliport. It was not until Don marched up to the man’s house with a contract permitting Woodstock Ventures access to that fragment of land in exchange for $4,500 that the man was brought to his senses. The term of the contract was a pitiful four days in length. Any extension thereof violated the written instrument and, as Ganoung was reminded time and again, infractions would be settled in court.

  The task of constructing the heliport was delegated to Chris Langhart, who knew nothing of aeronautics and hadn’t the vaguest idea how to go about installing an air base in a farmer’s pasture. Nor was there time for him to study the syntax of an existing operation at Kennedy, LaGuardia, or even the primitive airport in Westchester County. As with everything else that was growing up around him, Langhart was forced to improvise with the hope that his errors would be minimal and easily adjusted.