by Bob Spitz
The three of us took refuge in the contemplation of our abundant neuroses. I reflected on the fact that I was more nervous about my father’s reaction to the site than I was about its actual condition, and I decided to have myself committed as soon as the festival was over. Billy reflected on the possibility that he was about to see evidence of incompetence so overwhelming that his refusal to participate would be seen as culpable, and he considered having me committed before the festival got started. My father busied himself trying to adopt an attitude of benign resignation toward the calamities he confidently expected to unfold, and tried to figure out a way of having everyone on the Woodstock staff committed before they could do further harm. It was a rollicking journey.
John nearly fainted from shock as their car turned into Hurd Road and pulled up alongside the Indian artists’ pavilion. “What the hell is going on here!” he shrieked. He stared out at the mass of people swarming around inside the bowl. “They’re not supposed to be inside yet. I’ve got the tickets for the booths with me! This is incredible!” He experienced a tremendous sinking feeling, and slumped down into the seat. “Good Lord—there’s no gates, there’s no gates.”
The ticket booths were in pieces on the ground. John watched in horror as a mob of potential customers filed through the entrance, careful not to trip over the turnstiles.
He looked nervously at his father, prepared to bear the brunt of the elder Roberts’s indignation. His father’s cynicism, however, had been transformed into support. “It’ll work out,” he said. “Just get out there and get those people of yours to build the gates, and I’m sure they’ll be ready in time.”
John leaped out of the car and ran practically headfirst into an exultant Michael Lang who was standing below the unfinished stage. Lang saw him coming and raised his right arm in order to slap John’s palm. The look on Roberts’s face, however, warned him that such a greeting would be in bad taste.
“Hey, far out, man—you made it. It’s outta sight, huh?”
“What’s going on here, Michael? The gates aren’t up, the fences look about as sturdy as tissue paper, thousands of people were let in before we collected their money. I mean, shit—the stage isn’t ready. What’s the meaning of this?”
Lang waved his hands in front of Roberts’s face. “Don’t get excited, man. It’s cool.”
“Of course it isn’t cool, Michael,” he said, still wanting to believe what his easygoing partner pretended would come true. But that was exactly what had gotten him into this situation, and, from what he could see, it was a boldfaced lie. “There just aren’t enough hands and bodies and hammers and nails to get all these things together in time.”
“You worry too much. I’m tellin’ you, man, it’s gonna be cool. Our guys got everything under control. I just talked to Mel, and he . . .”
“I’m going to have a talk with Mel myself. Where is he?”
“I don’t know, man. He’s around here someplace.” Michael shrugged. “The cat’s got a lotta ground to cover. Listen, I just took some wheels around the site, and it looks to me like we’re on the verge of gettin’ it together. Hang loose, man. It’s not worth doin’ a number on yourself. That’d only be self-defeating.” Roberts regarded Michael’s sophistry with sharp-eyed contempt. “I’m tellin’ you, everything’s groovy. You’ll see. By tomorrow, they’ll have the gates up, these cats here’ll be swingin’ from the stage, and we’ll be ready to take on the whole fuckin’ world.”
• • •
Roberts had regained a modest degree of composure by the time his father dropped him off in front of the security building. No one had said more than five words to him in the car, and he had had time to think about the senseless waste of energy that had been invested in this sorry muddle they called a festival. All his and Joel’s hopes of striking out on their own, of making a big killing before slipping into the more structured sanctum of Media Sound—they all seemed to have gone for naught. There were thirty thousand people wandering around that bowl—thirty thousand, practically the entire population of Sullivan County—who not only got in on a full John Roberts scholarship, but now looked to him to sustain their welfare. The biggest irony was that he felt an incredible sense of responsibility to see they got what they expected, to insure them a festive weekend in the country. Was he losing his mind? It really didn’t seem to make that much difference anymore.
And, yet, he was angrier than hell about the impasse they had reached. It wasn’t the money. He’d still have a sizeable nest egg to tide him over the next few years. Nor were Michael and Artie the source of his bitterness. Holding them completely at fault for the corporation’s scandalous mismanagement was like blaming a week-old baby for wetting its diapers. No, it was the generation with which he was at odds. The hippies. He resented their deceitful charade more than anything else, their sleepy-eyed grin, puerile demeanor, always with their heart open and their hand out. They had hoodwinked him into believing all the gibberish about brotherhood and peace when, all the time, they were only interested in self-gratification. Takers. The what’s-in-it-for-me generation. If he hadn’t envied their carefree lifestyle as a way around his own depression, he’d never have gotten himself into this mess. The only thing he could do now was to make the best of it until the weekend was over.
The mood inside the security office wasn’t at all what Roberts had expected. Lee Madder, Wes Pomeroy, John Fabbri (who had returned from San Francisco with Joe Kimble), Jewel Ross, Karen Eager (Sam’s teen-age daughter who helped out answering the phones), and two young people he had never seen before were in the process of celebrating good news. Good news? Roberts asked. What could possibly be good about the farce-in-progress over at Max’s farm? But there was, indeed, something to smile about. Richard Gross, their local attorney, had called a few minutes before John arrived to relay the news that the suit against the festival had been withdrawn. Gross had reached an agreement with the co-owners of that summer home; all Woodstock Ventures had to do was provide them with a few security men to protect their property and they’d back off from a legal action. Wes agreed to assign a squad of the New York City cops to stand guard around their place and keep kids a safe distance away. It was as simple as that.
John drew Pomeroy aside and asked him about securing the entrance to the amphitheatre. “We’ve got to do something quickly, Wes—not just about keeping people out, but we’ve got to figure out some way to empty the bowl so that I can collect their tickets. Maybe we can make an announcement from the stage or something along that order.”
“What do you want, John, a riot? You try pushing thirty thousand people out of there, and that’s exactly what you’re going to have.”
“What about pulling some of the crews off what they’re doing and stationing them around the entrance until we can get the gates up? Or the cops—what about using the Peace Service Corps? They’re obviously acquainted with things of this nature.”
The police, however, were not due in White Lake until Thursday morning, and, according to Pomeroy, even they couldn’t help at a time like this. The crews, he said, were understaffed as it was. “The stage has got to be finished before we can attend to anything else. It doesn’t matter how many kids you have inside or outside of the grounds. If that stage isn’t finished in time, we’ll be. Those kids will be pretty upset that they came all this way and paid a lot of money not to be entertained.” Pomeroy suggested that Roberts forget about the people who were already inside the fences and work on getting the gates up.
He received the same advice from Mel Lawrence. Roberts finally caught up with the director of operations in the command trailer around three o’clock that afternoon and asked him about their chances for success.
“They’re pretty good,” Lawrence offered, “but I’m not sayin’ it’s not gonna be a bitch bringin’ it off.” Lawrence was genuinely distraught over the inadequate condition of the fences but admitted there was nothing to be don
e about it. He had his hands full keeping the kids who were working the heavy assignments alive. “Do you realize that most of them are working on three days without sleep? The trouble is, I can’t let ’em sleep even when they’re done cause I need ’em all the way through the weekend. They’re higher than a kite right now. I just hope they don’t fall on their faces before we lift this thing off the ground.”
Lawrence was also disturbed over the irresponsibility of his stage crew chief. An hour before, one of the younger assistants informed him that the giant crane they were renting at $200 an hour had been permanently built into the scenery. “We can’t get it out without tearing down the stage,” the boy had said. Langhart had built the bridge around it without realizing that the crane had to be first driven out, and now they were stuck.
“This is the kinda shit that I’ve hadda put up with,” he told Roberts. “A lotta these guys stopped thinkin’ when the people started rollin’ in. You wanna hear the kinda nonsense that’s going on with the lights? Well, I’ll tell you. Chip spent a fortune on all those overhead spots, but we’re not gonna be able to use even one of them. The telephone poles holding up the trusses are bending out of shape. I’ve gotta figure out a way to get a roof up there without damaging anything. If we load hundreds of pounds of lighting onto it too, those 800-pound babies are gonna come crashing down on somebody’s head. I mean, that’s it, man. That’s what I’ve been doin’ these last few days and there’s not all that much time left to work it out. Sorry, John. I know how much those fences mean to you, but right now, we’ve gotta worry about the stage.”
Roberts found his way back to the security office about four o’clock and briefed Joel on his discussion with Lawrence. Ten minutes later, Lee Mackler walked over to where they were sitting, her hands noticeably trembling.
“You’re never going to believe this,” she said in a voice barely louder than a whisper. “I just spoke to Joe Fink, and he said we’ve been screwed.”
“What are you talking about, Lee?” Joel asked.
“Screwed, man—we’ve been fucked over by those goddamn pigs. Fink said that the police commissioner withdrew his consent for the cops to work at the festival. We’re gonna have two hundred thousand kids up here without any fucking security.”
“Oh my God!” Roberts screamed, covering his face with his hands. “It can’t be. It just can’t be. Tell me you’re only kidding, Lee.”
“I’m sorry, John. I wish I could.”
The teletype that was sent to every New York City Police Department precinct earlier that afternoon was short and tersely worded:
It has come to the attention of the Department that certain members of the force have been engaged to do various work assignments during the Woodstock Music and Art Fair. . . . The attention of all parties is drawn to the provisions of TOP320 of 1967 which pertains to off-duty employment: . . . this type of employment must first be approved by the Chief of Personnel.
...permission will not be granted for extra employment where, as a condition of employment, the police officer’s uniform, shield, gun or exercise of police authority is not to be used. . . .
The language behind Commissioner Howard Leary’s door had been even stronger. According to a police source, Leary was livid when he learned that three hundred of his men were engaged “to cavort with hippies.” Where there were hippies, he contended, there was certain to be widespread use of drugs and illicit sex. He was supposed to have told his precinct commanders: “If I find out that even one patrolman has participated in this crime, heads are going to roll around here.”
Pomeroy walked into the security office a few minutes later, carrying three cellophane-wrapped sandwiches.
“You’re pretty hungry, huh, Wes?” Lee asked him.
“You bet.”
“Watch how fast your appetite goes away.” She repeated Fink’s message, careful not to leave out a single word.
Pomeroy stood speechless in the middle of the room, his head turning to each staff member present as if to say “Someone tell me this is a joke.” When he realized Mackler was serious, his face flushed with anger. “Jesus Christ!” he exploded. “Let me call Joe.” He lunged at the phone and dialed the ninth precinct.
Everyone respectfully left the room and went outside to wait for his decision. After a five-minute conversation with Fink, Wes told them it was all right if they came back inside.
“Fink knows how to get the cops up here,” he said, still stunned by the news. “He’ll handle it. It’s just going to cost us.”
“How much?” John asked.
“Probably double.”
Pomeroy’s original estimate for security had been $20,750. Roberts did not have to punch it up on the calculator to arrive at their new payroll. “Holy shit! That’s a lot of bread.”
“Is there any way we can conceivably consolidate the amount of men we hire?” Joel asked. “Perhaps pair a volunteer from the crowd with one of the trained patrolmen Fink sends us?”
“With a crowd this size?” Pomeroy’s voice rose an octave. “Not a chance. And once word gets out that we’ve got a security problem, we’re lucky if we don’t have to double—or even triple—our personnel. My God! I can’t believe this has happened so close to the festival. We supposedly had Leary’s word—a cop’s word. In my book, that’s a solemn oath.” He shook his head in disbelief. “You talk about brotherhood.” Wes took in the young faces seated around him. “Well, cops have the same kind of brotherhood, although it’s not as pronounced as what your generation’s preaching. But it’s every ounce as meaningful. For them to do this to us—” He slammed his fist on the table. “Goddammit! He can’t get away with this. Lee—hand me that phone.” Pomeroy dialed long distance. “Commissioner Leary, please. Tell him it’s Wes Pomeroy.” He waited a moment for the response. “What do you mean he cannot be disturbed. We’ve got an emergency on our hands.” He paused again as the secretary on the other end of the line offered a perfunctory excuse. Pomeroy gave her his number in Bethel, said he’d be expecting Leary’s call, and hung up.
He tried Leary’s office twice more in the next hour and finally gave up. The same thing happened when he tried to reach Mayor John Lindsay and Governor Nelson Rockefeller.
“Fink had better deliver,” Pomeroy muttered, looking out of the window as clusters of teen-agers headed toward the site. “Or God help us all.”
• • •
“The pigs have been offed,” a Hog Farmer told Michael Lang as he listened to a sound check that evening.
“What’re you talkin’ about, man?”
“The pigs, man. Like, we don’t have any.”
“You jivin’ me?”
“There’s your old lady,” he said, pointing to Ticia, who was emerging from one of the production trailers. “Check it out, man. I’ll bet she’s got a line on it.”
Ticia confirmed the story.
“I guess it’s time to hold our breath,” Michael said.
“I don’t know. Pomeroy didn’t sound all that uptight when he called,” Ticia reported. “If I were you, Michael, I’d try to catch him over at the security building. He’ll probably want to know what you want him to do.”
Instead, Michael went into his trailer, locked the door behind him, and telephoned a friend of his named Lenny in Woodstock. Lenny had been recruited by Lang some weeks before to organize a group of four powerful-looking men whose job it would be to provide the festival with “heavy security”—Lang’s euphemism for carrying a loaded pistol. The Black Shirts, as they were called because of specially designed T-shirts they wore, were expected to arrive Thursday evening and remain through Monday morning until the banks opened and all the cash was transferred there. For a man who had created a festival based on the ethic of “Love Thy Brother,” Michael Lang didn’t even trust his own shadow.
“Lenny,” he spoke softly into the receiver, “it’s Lang. Look, man, ther
e’s been a slight change of plans. It wouldn’t hurt for you and the guys to make the scene as soon as possible. Yeah—like tonight, man. Make it eight guys instead of four, okay? Things might get a little hairy around here. And Lenny—don’t forget to tell ’em to carry a piece.”
• • •
Jefffrey Joerger harbored the rage of a charging bull as he inspected the half-finished concession stands that were supposed to accommodate his fast-food operation. He had arrived in Bethel late Tuesday afternoon to supervise the hiring of four hundred teen-aged vendors and, instead, found his installations in such a state of disrepair that he was unable to do little more than kick up a row. The Bastard Sons had been pulled off the job to assist an electrical contractor with the performers’ pavilion, leaving Food For Love in the lurch. The interior appliances had not been assembled, counters were piled on the ground waiting to be installed, and tarpaulins still hadn’t been fastened to the roof supports.
“What the fuck am I supposed to do if it rains?” Joerger screamed at Peter Goodrich. “Tell me—huh? What do you expect me to do? I’ve got a hundred grand’s worth of food sitting out in the open that’ll turn to mush if it so much as drizzles.” He kicked a few cans of nails that were lying on the grass. “This is the worst! Somebody’s gonna pay, man. Whoever’s responsible for this is gonna get their ass kicked.”
Goodrich attempted to calm Joerger down by having the Hog Farm put up a tent for the food until the booths were finished, but its effect was temporary. Within hours, Joerger was on the phone with his lawyer, Steven Weingrad, alleging that a conspiracy had been aimed at driving them out of business.
According to Charles Baxter, a Food For Love partner, an acquaintance arrived in Bethel a few hours later “with a case of mace and a trunk full of sidearms.” Joerger and associate Lee Howard claimed to have spotted “known criminals” among the protection agency staff Goodrich had hired to protect the money, and they wanted something with which they could defend themselves in case one of the thugs tried to interfere with business. They were provided with exactly what they asked for.
